There's no question who wears the pantalons in the Chirac famille

So Jacques Chirac, former French president and famed ladies man, has been finally busted by his long-suffering spouse, Bernadette.
As widely publicised in the media today, the old Casanova, famed almost as much for his extra-marital romantic liaisons when in office as for his political achievements, was caught out by his wife yesterday during a public engagement in Correze.
Pants-Man Chirac is seen in this YouTube clip to be openly flirting with a younger blonde woman while his wife performs the public speaking duties at the rostrum barely four feet away.
Bernadette's withering look, mid-speech, appears to stun the former Prez back into line, giving perhaps a moment's insight into exactly who wears the pantalons in the Chirac household.
And yet what amazes me - as it has done for the entire ten years I have been living here in France - is the fact that Chirac's infidelity is widely celebrated in France, where infidelity is still practiced as a national sport.
Chirac himself has made no secret of his infidelity, admitting publicly that he has loved "many women" in his life "as discreetly as possible".
And while I would never seek to make a moral judgement on the way people choose to live their lives and the manner in which they choose to conduct their marriages (each to their own, I say), it's nontheless curious to see what some might consider one of the worst French stereotypes (all French men cheat on their wives) being reinforced and celebrated with such nudge-nudge, wink-wink gusto.
My own personal experience is that, as with every country, marriages come in all different shapes and sizes here in France. There's probably no more infidelity here than in any other country in the world. The French just care less about hiding it. And maybe that's healthier. But I can't help but think French women are the losers in all of this. Stoic, long-suffering, but ultimately cheated. My only hope is that Bernadette has been busy with a few extra-marital adventures of her own.

Who doesn't like a bit of street grit with their poulet?

The world is understandably fascinated with French cuisine. It sits right up there at the top of the world's gastronomy ladder as one of the most refined, accomplished, complex and proud culinary traditions. And for good reason. For centuries, French chefs have been setting the pace in international cooking circles, and while new world competition has emerged - and is fierce - French cuisine still manages to serve as a benchmark in cooking excellence.
More than just technical competence with the blending of foodstuffs and flavours, the French food dominance stems from the national obsession that is eating in France. Your average French person, be they a good cook or not, will go into raptures about a steak they had the other night or the texture of a comte cheese they consumed after dinner. Food occupies a central part of all French peoples' lives, to the extent that living is just the stuff they do to kill time between meals. And it makes for one of the great joys of living here.
The French relationship with food is such a tactile and intimate one. You'll see customers at the butcher's feeling a cut of beef for tenderness or old ladies in line at the market fondling a salmon steak or squeezing a goat's cheese to check it for "ripeness". It's also a relationship that is delightfully devoid of the the kind of borderline anal, hermetically-sealed, health-and-hygeine approach that we have to food in countries like the US, UK and my homeland, Australia. At home, all foodstuffs are packaged in styrofoam and plastic wrap, kept in spotless supermarket freezers or served by vendors wearing gloves, hair nets and using tongs, as if the food they are serving is somehow toxic and untouchable. And while there is certainly some comfort to be drawn from the fact the food you are buying at least APPEARS to have been hygienically prepared and handled, there's something earthy and honest about the French approach.

Take for example the chicken rotisserie at the butcher's shop on my rue. It sits there on the footpath, day-in, day-out, with plump chickens turning slowly, sending a heavenly aroma up the street. Cars, buses and motorscotters fly by on the busy thoroughfare that is Rue Oberkampf, kicking up all manner of dust from the street. Pedestrians scoot by, pushing prams with wailing babies, coughing, talking, laughing and sneezing. And still the chickens turn, separated from all of this by two flimsy glass doors. At the base of the rotisserie, and basting in the fat of the chickens above, sits a pile of new potatoes, bubbling away. During winter, it's the job of the chicken lady to ward off the more enterprising members of the homeless contingent who live down on the boulevard Richard Lenoir and make occasional raids on the rotisserie, scooping out as many potatoes as they can before they are chased off by a carving knife-wielding butcher.

In my home country, this butcher shop would be closed down. A phalanx of clipboard-carrying Public Health And Safety officials would descend on the butchery and slap a condemned sticker on the old rotisserie, labelling it a grave threat to public health.
And maybe it's not the cleanest, most hygienic way to prepare roast chicken. But I challenge you to find a more tasty poulet anywhere in the world.

Anne Frank The Musical: Fun for all the family

Every now and then, whilst wandering the streets of Pareee, I come across something so mind-bogglingly hilarious I can scarcely believe it's real.
Take, for example, Anne Frank: The Musical.
Now, I should preface this blog entry by stating up front that I haven't seen this production, and hence, am not in a position to give an opinion one way or the other on whether it makes for a rollicking good night at the theatre. I should also state up front that I am among that minority of the population who read her diary and found Anne Frank plain annoying. While I would never seek to belittle or diminish her plight - or that of the Jewish people more generally during WWII - I found it hard to get past Ms Frank's whiney teenage tone. Important contribution to history and the literary canon: yes. Enjoyable read: not so much.
So to then discover that some enterprising Parisian theatrical impresario has concocted a musical based on the Diaries of Anne Frank just leaves me scratching my head.
Quite apart from the fact that there cannot be much in the way of scene changes (they lived in a hermetically-sealed one room apartment for God's sake), I can't begin to imagine how you fashion a musical number out of the Frank family experience.
Are audiences leaving the theatre humming the tune to that show-stopper "Sssh! The Germans Are Coming!"? Or are they being moved by the pre-interval power balled "Not Beans For Dinner Again!"?
We can only hope it has Mel Brooks' paws all over it. His "Springtime For Hitler" musical-within-a-musical in the hit Broadway show and film, The Producers, set a new standard for Nazi-inspired musical theatre. And as a genre, it has been sorely underserviced ever since...

Introducing les NoPos ... Les Nouveaux Pauvres

If you've lived in Paris for any period of time, you've probably come across "les bobos" - that peculiar breed of Parisian who, despite their bourgeois background make an active effort to live as bohemians. Hence the moniker 'bobo' - les bourgeois bohemes.

These are people who have had an excellent education, a comfortable upbringing and hold down good jobs with respectable salaries yet who prefer to cloak themselves in a veneer of bohemia to improve their street cred. There's nothing cool or even remotely artistically credible about having parents in the 16th arrondissement and a family holiday home in Cap Ferret. And so they slum it in ateliers and lofts in the 10th and 11th arrondissements, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and wearing designer trainers with their H&M jeans.

For as long as there will be aristocrats in France (and let's face it, despite a big-ass revolution back in 1789 and a concerted campaign of head lopping, the aristos are alive and well in la belle France), there will be "bobos". But since the global financial meltdown, a new subset in French society has emerged. A subset of which I am proud to be a member.

They're called "les nopos", or les nouveaux pauvres (the new poor). Unlike les bobos, whose down-at-heel lifestyles are a denial of their healthy bank accounts, les nopos lead lives of indulgence they simply cannot afford. Their bank managers may be phoning every other day, their credit cards may have been cancelled and their daily lives may be a tightrope walk across the abyss of bankruptcy, but they continue to lead lives of relative excess, working on the theory they may be dead tomorrow.

Les nopos as a social construct were first brought to my attention by my good friend, the ever stylish Esther Loonen. As well as being one of Paris' most celebrated new children's fashion designers (Lili And The Funky Boys), Esther and her hubby, Jules are the Showgirl's and mine partners in newly impoverished Parisian crime. Despite the ever present spectre of financial disaster, we forge ahead, eating at a restaurant here, organising a modest little European mini-break there. It's not exactly Marie-Antoinette, let-them-eat-cake excess (that's the exclusive preserve of people who actually do have money to fall back on, and besides, our deeply instilled Protestant work ethic would never allow for that kind of completely irresponsible behaviour), but there is a certain cavalier fatalism to it all.

Sure, the pile of available euros seems to dwindle with every passing day. Yes, unemployment in the Euro zone has climbed to an historic high. Of course, working as a writer in one of the world's most expensive cities while supporting a wife and child is akin to madness. But what are you going to do? Sit around at home eating lentils? Spend the day nervously watching movement of the global stock markets? Life is short. If you're going to take time each day to count anything at all, it should be your blessings, not your savings.

No, global economic crisis or not, I refuse to be bowed. I reject the recession. I am a proud, card-carrying member of les nouveaux pauvres. Vive les nopos!

Now, where did I put that Greek Island travel brochure?

The Sweet Life In Paris -- live it vicariously

When living in Paris is your day-to-day reality, it’s sometimes easy to take the place for granted. The out-and-out physical beauty of the city, the centuries of history and culture, the amazing food, the wonderful quality of life – it can all too easily be forgotten under the pile of gas bills, the fight you had yesterday with the cable guy or the bad taste left in your mouth after yet another old biddy pushed her way in front of you in the supermarket queue.
Because that’s the thing about living in another city for a long period of time. After a while, it stops being so intoxicatingly exotic and teeters dangerously on the brink of becoming pedestrian.
Which is why it is important to be reminded now and again of the good fortune I have to be living it large in the City of Light. And for exactly that reason, I feel compelled to issue un grand merci to my neighbour and fellow Paris-based scribe David Lebovitz for his excellent new book The Sweet Life In Paris.
If you’re a fan of Paris, a fan of witty anecdotes, a fan of good writing and most importantly, a fan of food, you won’t find a more satisfying read this (northern-hemisphere) summer.
Though he’s usually to be found edifying the faithful thousands who read his blog each week (www.davidlebovitz.com) with tales of gastronomic adventures in the world capital of food, David uses this book to reflect on the journey he has taken since moving to Paris six years ago.
Where other Paris memoirs ricochet from one well-worn cliché to the next, David’s keen eye, sustained presence among the French and determination to get under the skin of the city sets this book apart. We follow him as he volunteers at a local fish shop, works behind the counter of a chocolate boutique and infiltrates Paris’s usualy cloistered culinary community.
It’s a book, moreover, that shows the author’s deep affection for his adopted hometown. Sure, it rails against pushy Parisian grannies, perma-striking workers, awful French coffee and general aversion to customer service, but most of all this book is an ode to a city, a country and a culture that the world – like David - is unusually fascinated with.
It also happens to be one of the most mouth-watering reading experiences I have ever had. Packed with recipes and with entire chapters given over to the sensual description of French foodstuffs, The Sweet Life In Paris makes you hungry just reading it.
In the interests of disclosure, I should probably note that I’ve had the pleasure of breaking bread with David on several occasions. I’ve enjoyed his company at cafes and chocolate shops. I’ve even escorted the man backstage at the Lido and watched as he donned a series of showgirl feathered hats (in which he didn’t look too bad, it has to be said). He’s a lovely guy whose tiny kitchen down the rue from where we live seems to be constantly churning out freshly baked delicacies that he is only too happy to off-load onto the Showgirl and I. And so yes, I am a little bit biased.
But if you’re looking for a great read about this fascinating city we call Pareeee, then look no further. Bravo David!
(now where is that batch of cookies you promised me?)

Paris bars - for the young, and young at heart

Summer must be just around the corner. Do you know how I can tell? Because suddenly I am receiving emails from left, right and centre from friends, acquaintances and people who once sat on a bus next to someone who might have known me, asking for travel tips for their upcoming visit to Paris.

Where's a good place to stay? Any tips for restaurants? How can I get off the well-trodden tourist trail and experience the real Paris?

One email from a friend this week was on behalf of her sixteen year old niece, who will be travelling to Paris in a month's time. She wanted to know the coolest bars and nightclubs in Paris - the places where the cool kids hang.

Now it must be said that given that I am hurtling towards 40 (which I am reliably informed is the new 30), and given that I recently became a daddy and hence my days of staying out until sunrise have been seriously curtailed, I still have a VAGUE idea of what the kids get up to around here.

So I threw together a list for my friend's niece, and figured I would share it with you all.

Now, in the interests of keeping this blog family friendly, I will say that sixteen is kind of young to be going to bars. And in the interests of 'keeping it real' and appearing to be 'down with the kids', I will add that of course we were ALL sneaking off to bars at the age of 16, trying out our fake IDs. Ah, those were the days...

And so, movers and groovers, allow me to present my guide to Paris's grooviest bars and clubs. For the young, and young at heart, amongst you ...

BARS
'Experimental Cocktail Club' -- Rue St Saveur, 2nd arr. Groovy cocktail bar with DJ. Small
but but perfectly formed, and always packed with cool kids.

Cafe Etienne Marcel - crnr Rue Etienne Marcel and Rue Montmartre in the 2nd
- dead groovy bar where the beautiful young Parisians have their apero (aperitif).

La Perle - crner Rue du Vieille du Temple & Rue de la Perle - in the 3rd. Frequented nightly by a so-hip-it-hurts fashion crowd - lots of young kids with assymetrical hair-dos. You can imagine I blend in, chameleon-like.... La Perle is very down at heel and casual - but in a fiercely fashionable way. On weekends, there's barely elbow room.

Chez Jeannette - crnr Rue Elzivir and Rue Faubourg St Denis in the 10th -
the natural successor to La Perle. As La Perle starts to become yesterday's bar du jour, Chez Jeanette is emerging as the next drinking destination du choix among the Parisian kids. It's a groovier than thou old skool Paris bar
that has mysteriously become the most fashionably drinking hole in Paris for
the 18-25 trendsetter set. The neighbourhood is borderline grotty, and hardly the most salubrious spot after dark - but the drinks are cheap, the fashion is hot and the crowd is ineffably cool. Of course, I always feel like someone's father whenever I go there ... hang on, I am someone's father...

CLUBS

It must be said at this point that the last time I went to a club Depeche Mode were on high rotation (well, not really, but you get my drift ...). That said, I have it on reliable authority that the following clubs are the perfect spots to techno, emo or rock the night away (see that seamless, effortless use of the kiddie lingo?)

"Showcase" - under the bridge at Pont Alexandre III on the Seine (near
Invalides/Grand Palais) - top DJs, great location, open late.

'Social Club' - rue Montmartre, 2nd - THE club for the young 'uns -- techno heaven, emos and goths
and fashion plates all come together in an orgy of post-pubescent hormones.

'Alimentation Generale', rue Jean Pierre Timbaud, near Ave Parmentier, 11th - noisy, rowdy, heaving bar, often with live bands - always packed.

Am I in touch with the kids or what?

Eating and sleeping: French national sports

Stop the presses, hold the front page! The French eat and sleep more than any other nation in the developed world. At least that's the word out of the OECD (Organisation of Economic Cooperation and Development) today.
Following a survey of 18 countries in Europe, Asia and the Americas, the OECD discovered that the average French person sleeps 8.8 hours every night - enjoying more time dans leurs lits than Americans and Spaniards.
And - surprise, surprise - the French take much longer lunches than any of their counterparts in other countries, dedicating double the amount of time to le dejeuner than Americans, Britons or Mexicans (a fact that is especially not surprising in the case of the Mexicans - have you ever tried to eat a full meal through an anti-swine flu face mask? It's a bitch).
So what does this OECD survey tell us about the French? That they have a great work-life balance? That insead of scoffing a sandwich at their desk they value the importance of sitting down, making conversation and breaking bread? That they place enormous emphasis on the art of eating, the quality of foodstuffs they ingest and time spent recharging their Gallic batteries? Or does this OECD report simply highglight the fact that the French are a bunch of food-obsessed, narcoleptic work-phobes?
There's no doubt that the quality of life on offer in Paris is especially high. And I'm not talking the types of dwellings or relative incomes. I'm talking about the French art de vivre - their inimitable way of making the otherwise occasionally pedestrian business of existing into a stylish art form. It's in the frenzy they whip themselves into over a cut of meat, or a glass of wine or a slice of foie gras. It's in the care they take with their appearance, the borderline haughtiness with which they carry themselves and the infuriating smugness with which they consider themselves superior to every other country in the world.
With all of that in your corner, you'd sleep well too.