FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Taken at the bed and breakfast in Italy.

SmartFrench CD-ROM --"the smart way to learn French"

acceuillant,e (listen to the sound clip, below) adjective
  welcoming, friendly

Le véritable poète a pour vocation d'accueillir en lui la splendeur du monde. The true poet's vocation is to welcome within himself the world's splendor. --Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

                                                            
My high heels scraped over the jagged cobblestones and I linked my arm through Jean-Marc's for balance, stopping to throw my head back for a view of the hilltop castle beside which we now stood. Large spotlights, fitted into the ground between the old stones, lit the medieval walls which disappeared into the black Piedmontese sky.

Jean-Marc and I continued down a winding path in Castiglione Falletto in search of pasta. When the first restaurant was full, we shrugged our shoulders and headed toward the brightly lit sign that read "BAR". From the bar's terrace we approached a window and peered in. The place was empty but for an older woman and two men who sat playing cards. The woman made eye contact and motioned for us to come in. When we hesitated, she opened the door and came out to greet us.

"We just want a plate of pasta," Jean-Marc explained, not yet recovered from his truffle and cream lunch in Alba. "No pasta," the woman apologized. Then, as if an Italian light bulb went off in her head, she chirped "Risotto!"

We took a cushioned seat at the back of the bar, just beneath a strip of fluorescent lights and next to a blaring TV. Noticing the program "A Prendre Ou A Laisser" (Take It Or Leave It), Jean-Marc remarked about how the Italians had adapted the French game show. "How do you know the show didn't originate here?" I argued, this to a man who still believes Barolo could be a French wine (given the Piedmont winemaking region used to be part of France).

When Jean-Marc asked our doting hostess about the wine menu, I shot him a look that said that THIS was no place to be a wine snob, we were in a BAR after all--not a wine bar but a European snack bar.

"This will be good," I assured Jean-Marc. "Pull your chair over next to mine." He did, only to begin swatting at fruit flies which collected above his wine glass. His arms fell to the table after I shot him another look, not wanting the sweet lady who had given us such a warm welcome to worry about a few flies.

The woman, who called herself "Renza,"* brought out a platter of thinly sliced cold cuts, delivered with a smile, followed by a look of uncertainty. I nodded enthusiastically while elbowing Jean-Marc. "MmmMmm, this is very good!" he assured her. And it was.

As we ate the first course, I could hear Renza chopping away in the kitchen. Minutes later we would be drooling over her celery, walnut and gorgonzola salad, pulling the lemon pips from our olive stained lips.

When Renza tried to enlighten us on bagna cauda,* the third course just before the risotto, we couldn't understand an Italian word she said. Undeterred, she pointed to the roasted yellow peppers, the halved onions, and the "hot bath" they found themselves in. "B-a-g-n-a c-a-u-d-a!" she repeated.

The final dish was rice. Just rice. (And who'd have thought that Just Rice could be this good?) We pushed aside the leftover risotto, too full to finish, and watched wide-eyed as Renza returned with a wicker basket full of sliced Italian cake, or "panettone," unshelled peanuts, clementines and a sprinkling of wrapped Italian caramels.

When the bill came I thought Jean-Marc might start dancing, just like those fruit flies above his wine glass: only nine euros for his five-course meal (and the wine, only two-fifty per glass)! Jean-Marc pulled out a twenty and fished around for another ten. Renza accepted the twenty and pushed his wallet closed, sealing the transaction with a smile as warm as b-a-g-n-a c-a-u-d-a.

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left, Renza and me.
References: Renza (recipes and more about Renza in this book); bagna cauda = a warm sauce (anchovies, olive oil, and garlic) for bread and boiled/roasted vegetables
*To find Renza, just look for "La Terrezza Bar Da Renza" when in Castiglione Falletto.



Hear French:
Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce today's word and quote: Download accueillant.wav

Accueillant/accueillante.
Le véritable poète a pour vocation d'accueillir en lui la splendeur du monde.

In Gifts & Books:
Le Creuset risotto pot made of enameled cast iron for even heat distribution

Christmas Napoli Panettone Cake - Traditional Italian Dessert

Not far from Ventimiglia, is the quiet village of Coldirodi.

In A Paris Moment by Meredith Mullins "... makes us want to rush out and look at the world, not just Paris, but all the world." --Mary Pope Osborne

une contrefaçon (kontr-fah-sahn) noun, feminine
  1. imitation, counterfeit, counterfeiting
  2. forging, forgery, fabrication, infringement
  3. pirating

Contrefaçon comes from the verb "contrefaire" which means to imitate, to falsify, to mimic, to disguise, to infringe, to feign or to distort.

La politesse n'est en elle-même qu'une ingénieuse contrefaçon de la bonté.
Politeness in itself is only an ingenious disguise of goodness. --Alexandre Vinet

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

The drive from our medieval village in France to the seaport town of Ventimiglia, Italy takes only an hour and a half. It is a breathtaking ride most of the way, with the glimmering Mediterranean sea below and, east of Nice, hills peppered with villas, the colorful facades showing a charming patina from age and the salty sea breeze.

In Ventimiglia there is a jewellery shop on every street and perhaps as many liquor stores. Shop windows are gushing with bottles of Ricard* and Italian grappa, and for those who like l'or* Ventimiglia has gold à gogo.* Perhaps the idea is to put a little wind in your sweetheart's sails* before venturing in to purchase that ring or collier?*

On many a street corner you'll see a man dressed in a flowing boubou,* Louis Vuitton handbags dangling from each arm and more monogrammed purses bursting from a duffle bag... all knock-offs. While Ventimiglia is known for its smoking deals on jewelry and alcohol (due to a lower liquor and jewellery tax) and for having one of the largest outdoor markets in Italy, it also seems to be the capital of...

"Contrefaçon," my husband says, filling my coffee cup with steamed milk.
"What is contrefaçon?" I ask, passing the breakfast muffins.
"You know, FAKES."
"Si, si," says Sonia, the innkeeper. "But if you want a Louis Vuitton, one that even the boutique sales people can't tell is faux, see Fernando next to the fish stall, just past the flowers. He has the season's new collection before the real line hits the shops! You cannot tell the difference!"

We are not in Ventimiglia for LV purses, alcohol or flowers, but to celebrate our wedding anniversary. The Italian Riviera is a good choice for its proximity to chez nous,* for its gastronomy, for its seaside allure and for an exotic change of scenery. (Exotic because we can't speak Italian and such foreignness has a way of throwing a warm pink hue on everything.)

"Ventimiglia is known for la joaillerie* and alcohol," Sonia confirms. "But also for its beauty!" she says, waving her arm out to the turquoise blue Ligurian sea. We are seated on the terrace at the most eclectic lodge I have ever seen. Jean-Marc found the secluded B&B via an internet search and made reservations illico.* The former convent is practically perched over the sea and overrun by purple vine flowers, fig trees, lavender, blackberries and bamboo.

The stairs inside the house have no edges but are worn and sloping from eight hundred years of being tread upon. The white-limed halls are covered with black and white photos of Hollywood stars. In our room's library, I find an odd assortment of books including a thick volume of the collected stories of Jane Austin, a book titled "Psychopathia Sexualis" and a "Dictionary of Marine Insurance Terms".

The breakfast Sonia has made us is as eclectic as the convent itself. We begin with dessert: crème caramel and a peach yogurt. Next, there is a tray of cantaloupe and Italian ham followed by a deep-fried omelet with sliced hot dog. Sonia then brings out an apple cake and a plate of fruit which resembles lychee but smells like a rose. "From my garden," she says.

I notice Jean-Marc isn't eating the hot dog omelet or the apple cake and I end up eating it all, not wanting to hurt our hostess's feelings. On I went, feigning hunger or, to get a little more kilométrage* out of today's word: "en contrefaisant la faim."

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For past chapters in this story, visit:

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French Pronunciation
Listen to Jean-Marc recite today's quote:
La politesse n'est en elle-même qu'une ingénieuse contrefaçon de la bonté.
Politeness in itself is only an ingenious disguise of goodness. --A. Vinet
Download contrefacon.wav

Expressions:
contrefaçon littéraire = an infringement of copyright
contrefaire une signature = to forge a signature
contrefaire sa voix = to disguise one's voice
saisir des contrefaçons = to confiscate counterfeit (objects)
.

Mediterranean Women Stay Slim, Too: Eating to Be Sexy, Fit, and Fabulous!

In My Italian Sketchbook, 30-year-old artist Florine Asch follows the tradition of the 18th century Grand Tour, when writers, architects and members of European high-society embarked on long journeys around Italy, taking in key cultural sites, often sketching as they went.

Photo taken in 2004, on our 10-year anniversary.

dépayser (day-pay-ee-zay) verb
  1. to disorientate, to disorient
  2. to give a change of scenery to; to give a welcome change of surroundings to

Also:
dépaysant,e = exotic
dépaysé = out of one's element
un dépaysement = a disorientation

Expressions:
sentir dépaysé = to feel like a fish out of water; to not feel at home

Citation du Jour

Les passions s'étiolent quand on les dépayse.
Passions wilt when we disorient them. --Gustave Flaubert

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

We are sitting in Il Ponte restaurant in a little Italian village called "Badalucco". Sonia, our hostess at the B&B, recommended we visit the arrière pays for a change from the Italian Riviera. "There's this wonderful restaurant," she says, kissing her fingertips, "Bene!"

"Tell them Sonia from Latte sent you! 'Latte,' like milk!"

Badalucco is an artists' village in the Argentine Valley. Faïence is scattered throughout the modest ruelles. On at least one miniscule winding village street, a painted ceramic plate announces each residence (one plate per door) and around every corner, a fresco. My favorite image is of a cat sitting next to a story. The words to the story are painted on the village wall, on a blue background.

Just like in a postcard image, the elderly Badalucchesi are seated in front of their homes, shucking beans and chatting with their neighbors. They stop from time to time to rinse their hands in the neighborhood fountain.

At the River Argentina we crossed the pont to access the family owned 'Il Ponte' restaurant. We weren't offered a menu; instead the waiter appears with a ceramic plate of fried zucchini, Italian cold cuts and some sort of fresh white cheese. Olive oil is drizzled over le tout.

Jean-Marc is trying to order Italian wine as they have offered only French. I tell him to stop fussing over the wine menu, "Just look at this! Will you just look at this! How do you say 'heaven' in Italian? In French, it is "le paradis." In a little lost village in the hinterland of the Ligurian coast, we have stumbled upon Le paradis du palais.

My husband says he would like to live in Italy. I guess Ligurian food does that to you. But still, it seems strange for a Frenchman (un Marseillais de coeur!) to admit that.

"They're so nice here," he says, as the waiter walks off humming in Italian. I'm wondering if it's the wine. Has it gotten to him? I understand his desire to move to San Francisco--but Italy?! Strangely, I've never known a Frenchman who moved to Italy. A French woman, oui, but not a French man. Don't get me wrong, the French love to visit Italy--but to s'expatrier there--c'est autre chose!

"J'aimerais bien vivre en Italie un jour."
"Sans déconner?" I say, teasing him in his native Marseilles' tongue.

It must be the rolling hills, or the Barolo wine. Or the fresh spinach linguini or the gambas. "You can eat the shells they're so good!" It could have been la baignade in the warm Ligurian sea after the meal at Marco Polo.

For me it is those little funky trucks on three wheels, the Vespa scooters, the pomodoro sauce the village lady was making as I passed by her front door. It is the language--the sound--of Italians speaking.

It is the Italian people. They have real joie de vivre mixed with a sincere generosity. It drips from their pores when they wave their arms high and low to tell you that you must, must visit the arrière pays. Try that restaurant. Savor this fruit. Eat. Enjoy. See. Come back!

A little dépaysement, ça fait du bien pour l'âme.

French Vocabulary
l'arrière pays (m) = the countryside inland from the riviera; une ruelle (f) = an alley, lane; la faïence (f) = earthenware; le pont (m) = the bridge; le tout (m) = everything; le palais (m) = the palate; un marseillais de coeur = one who is Marseillais in his/her heart, though not born there; oui = yes; s'expatrier = to expatriate oneself; c'est autre chose = that's another thing; J'aimerais bien vivre en Italie un jour = I would like to live in Italy one day; sans déconner? = are you kidding?; les gambas (fpl) = Mediterranean prawns; la baignade (f) = the swim; une joie de vivre = a joy of life; ça fait du bien pour l'âme = that does the soul good