Other towns and cities

Those of you who read my last post will know that I'm looking for a place of my own. It seems the right time then to tell you all about my first experience living in a shared flat. At the end of 2004, unsure of my direction in life, I took a job in an international school as an Economics teacher in Aix-en-Provence, regardless of the fact that it only involved seven hours of work a week and was far away from anyone I knew in France. Arriving at the futuristic TGV station, still bleary eyed from the early morning train ride, I caught sight of the majestic Mont St. Victoire rising up on the horizon as I travelled into the centre on the shuttle bus. Aix is extremely pretty with little parks dotted all around where old men play boules and sit on park benches accompanied by the delicate song of fountains. In spite of that, I failed to appreciate my time there because I felt so absolutely alone. Although I'd managed to convince the directrice of the school that I was more than qualified to teach economics, having done it as one of my A levels, I was well aware of being embaressingly hopeless when it came to my classes. Basically, anything with numbers or equations makes me want to run away screaming and just the whole concept of elasticity was enough to make me feel like bursting into tears. Things might not have seemed so bad if I'd had somewhere permanent to live. Every day I'd spend hours in Internet cafés looking for a place but it didn't work out so I ended up staying in hotels. One was rather seedy on the other side of town and the other was close to the centre, nicer and with a friendly receptionist who advised me to try temping agencies like she had done to get more experience. To pass the time in Aix, I would drown my sorrows in a large bol of café au lait and eat several cakes at an exquisite patisserie close to the main square.

I'm the kind of person who suddenly has completely crazy ideas which I'm convinced are brilliant, like the time when I decided I could carry a table back from Ikea but that's another story. Sitting at the internet café one evening, I imagined how wonderful it'd be to get a place in Lyon, work there for three days, then commute to Aix for the other two. My eyes lit up when I saw the long list of rooms advertised in Lyon; I had heard someone say that the première arrondissement was the coolest so naturally, I looked there first, called a number and fixed an appointment for the coming Sunday morning. I remember it was the first weekend of the New Year, it was impossible to get a seat on the train so I paid a huge amount of money for a chance to sit on a strapontin, or pull out seat, in first class. The flat turned out to be on the slopes above the city in the middle of a leafy square. Nervously, I rang the bell and marched up several flights of stairs to the fourth floor where a blonde girl opened the door. She was S., a Berliner working as an assistante for a few months in one of the lycées. I was ushered into the flat, shown briefly round the kitchen and introduced to E. who was to decide upon the new colocataire or flatmate. He was tall, lean and seemed a little sarcastic but friendly enough. We all drank coffee in the huge living room with its high ceiling and wooden beams. There were windows on all sides and one could look across not only to the Fourvière church perched high up over the city, but also to the Crayon (pencil) building and beyond that sometimes to the Mont Blanc on clear days. Sitting at that table, I longed to be accepted, to wake up each morning in that apartment and share everything with my two flatmates. I need never be lonely again. When the time finally came for me to leave, I had all my hopes pinned on that one place and if it fell through, I honestly didn't know what I'd do.

Luckily, the call from E. came that same evening when I was in the TGV on my way back to Aix. My new flatmates would wait to eat with me the night of my arrival and there was an enormous sense of relief that I finally belonged somewhere. Sadly it wasn't to be; that first evening that I'd been so looking forward to actually decided my fate. E. asked me if I wanted soup and I made the mistake of asking what kind it was and then when he asked me if I wanted it mixte ou pas mixte (blended or unblended), he looked horrified when I said pas mixte. At least I imagine that was my gaffe because from that moment on, he hated me with a burning, silent passion. Whereas with S. and other friends, he could be charming and funny, with me there was the barely exchanged "Salut" in the morning and a sulky grimace. He occupied a room next to the kitchen where he would sit from the moment he came in from work until the early hours of the morning, working on his computer but also observing the comings and goings in the apartment. The living room became the cemetary for old computers which he'd pile up to repair and copies of the Chef d'Entreprise magazine covered his desk. He obviously liked to think of himself as the boss.

He detested the fact that I used to bake cakes which he considered strange because they weren't French, made fun of my cooking, although he had a point when he complained that boiled vegetables were tasteless and the cliché anglais, even though he himself typically ate pasta with ketchup. Maybe he didn't like me because he felt threatened by someone intelligent or because I wasn't one of those blonde German girls he seemed to prefer. Overhearing his conversations with S. on the sofa, I felt excluded and didn't know why. S. told me one evening that she didn't understand why E. and I hated each other but was sure it simply a misunderstanding. The low point came though when she returned to Berlin for the winter holidays, leaving me alone in the flat with him. At that time, I barely knew anyone in Lyon and had very little money so couldn't go out anywhere. After spending a few days with him, I remembered an autobiographical story by Albert Camus where he described the unbearable loneliness that overcame him with the realisation that he hadn't talked to anyone in days. My only comforts were learning German with a book about a French businessman who goes to Cologne, cycling through the city and trips to the Part Dieu library where I spent hours reading books about mountains with the somewhat ridiculous ambition of making it to the top of the Meije one day. I'd get up at regular intervals to drink coffee from the machine in the break room and eat a Twix. The thought of the combined tastes of synthetic capuccino with that biscuit and caramel horrifies me now but at least it was chance to chat to some of the other people.

When S. returned to Berlin definitively, she was replaced by B. who had been studying in Finland. I'd hoped that being the only girl in the flat would improve but I was an outsider from the others who had known each other from school. With E., things deteriorated even more and he simply sent B. as a messenger to inform me when we'd do the cleaning or ask me to contribute to the purchase of the washing machine. His presence around me made me feel nervous and uneasy; once I was asked to prepare a dessert, decided upon a chocolate cake which went disastrously wrong when I used too much butter and ended up with a dark, greasy mess. E. looked disgusted when I served it, even more so when a friend of his raved over the fact that it managed to be crispy on the outside and squidgy in the middle.

On the day I moved out before leaving for Alsace, we said our farewells. I don't remember whether we kissed each other on the cheek, but only that he sent B. one last time to check that I didn't forget to leave the keys in the mailbox! Occasionally I wonder what became of him. Someone told me they saw a child's seat in the back of his car recently and I hope things worked out for him, irrespective of our differences. Yet most of all, I'm glad not to share a flat with him anymore.

Last Sunday was a special day for me because I finally got a chance to try the new camera out. It's still early days and I have a lot more to learn before I feel 100% confident but already I have the impression there are some good times ahead of us.

Rainy days

At the freshly re-opened Neues Museum

This statue reminds me of the smile that so fascinated Jules et Jim in Truffaut's film

Marzipan and chocolate torte at the museum café

Pour Rose - unfortunately, the special edition costs €750 so I can't send it to you.

Evening falls on Savignyplatz

Regular readers of this blog will already be aware of my love for all things with lemon. I even managed to pick up a bottle of limoncello liqueur at my local store so now there's no excuse for not making a torta al limone. In the meantime though, I tried out another Nigel Slater recipe, with lemons of course!

Brown sugar lemon cake (from Nigels Slater's The Kitchen Diaries)

Ingredients

125g butter

125g brown sugar

200g plain flour

100g ground almonds

1 heaped teaspoon baking powder

a large organic unwaxed lemon

4 large eggs

For the topping

an organic unwaxed lemon

2 heaped tbsp brown sugar

4 tbsp water

For the syrup

2 generous tablespoons brown sugar

the juice of a large lemon

1. Pre-heat the oven to 170°C and grease and line a loaf tin. Begin by making the topping; slice the lemon as thinly as possibly and place in a small pan with the sugar and water. Bring it to the boil and let it simmer for around 5 minutes or until the water has almost evaporated and the lemon alices are sticky. Remove from the heat and set aside.

2. Beat the butter and brown sugar together until fluffy (this may take a little longer than with caster sugar but don't lose hope!).

3. Measure out the flour, baking powder and almonds and mix them together in a large bowl. Grate in the zest of the lemon.

4. Break the eggs into another bowl then mix them together with a fork and add them to the butter and sugar a little at a time. The mixture might curdle a bit but don't worry! With a metal spoon, fold in the dry ingredients gradually, taking care not to overblend. Pour the mixture into the prepared loaf tin and arrange the lemon slices on top, overlapping them in the middle. Bake for around 30-40 minutes or until golden brown and a cake tester comes out clean.

5. For the syrup, stir the brown sugar into the lemon juice; it won't dissolve completely. Using a fork, make small holes along the top on the cake surface and pour the syrup over it. Leave to cool. Best served with crème fraîche or thick Greek yoghurt.

What to do when life gives you lemons

On rainy afternoons or nights when I can’t sleep, I often think about the people that I used to teach but that have somehow drifted out of my life. Some were good friends I saw in my free time while with others I was only part of their lives for a couple of hours a week. Yet with all of them I went into their offices or homes and talked about their lives and interests in a language which was not their own. It sometimes seems a little surreal to me. Of course, there were some that I’d rather forget and that I was pleased to get rid of but the majority were friendly and interesting. Perhaps the best thing that strikes me is that I encountered people I’d never have met otherwise.

There was Monsieur M., a psychotherapist with a salt and pepper moustache. We used to meet at his practice and often I would first go into the empty waiting room until he had finished with a patient. In the summer, the windows were open and the white net curtains swayed in the gentle breeze. The floor was marbled and cream and in the corners stood little tables stacked with magazines. Everything there made me feel so calm and as the tension faded away, I could imagine myself opening up and telling him everything but of course I wasn’t there to do that. On the walls of his consulting room were paintings by Miro and photos of an art foundation in the South of France where he spent his holidays. Once a year I still write him an email to wish him happy birthday; apparently he found me irreplaceable and has never wanted a new teacher.

Then there was S. a guitar teacher also in Lyon. I’ve never forgotten one particular visit when I knocked at the door as usual on Friday morning; “Oh merde, c’est toi, j’avais complètement oublié le cours d’anglais. Bon, tu peux entrer mais c’est un super bordel!” He used to make me a diabolo menthe, tell me stories about communism and introduced me to the books of Thomas Bernhard. Sometimes we would read Alice Through the Looking Glass together which made us laugh out loud. I often ran into him in the Part Dieu library where I used to spend the afternoons but since I left, we’ve lost touch. There are so many images that flood my mind when I think of all those I’ve met in just a few years; books they were reading, their kitchens and all the wonderful stories they told me like another S. who had worked at Gallimard and told me how difficult Claude Lanzmann is. I often wonder what became of them; did their projects work out? Do they still learn English? Do they ever think about the little time we spent together? Sometimes I think about writing to them all but somehow feel afraid; it’s all in the past, perhaps there's simply too much distance between us and perhaps there’s nothing more to say.

As I’m writing this, it’s the start of another cold, rainy day in Berlin. I can stay inside my room with my books for most of it but know how much I won’t want to leave it later on. I thought about recipes to help for these times or on days when nothing goes your way. What I came up with involves a lot of lemons; firstly because I bought too many and when you have ten lemons in your fridge you can use them, give or throw them away (not an option) or do what Susan Sarandon did with them in Atlantic City, but I wouldn't advise it; secondly and most importantly because I have a lemon obsession. Some readers like Julie and also friends have already noticed this and now I have added to my reputation of being the girl who always wears black to also being a lemon fanatic, but I don’t care. Both recipes are comforting and incredibly easy to make.

Lemon and lime curd (adapted from from Delia Smith). Makes three jars.

Grated zest and juice of 3 large lemons and 2 limes

250g sugar

200g unsalted soft butter in small pieces

4 large eggs

1 tablespoon cornflour.

3 sterilised jars – I usually wash mine first in hot soapy water then place them in an oven at about 130° until the curd is ready so they stay warm and clean.

1. Take a medium sized saucepan and beat the eggs with a balloon whisk until light and foamy. Then add all the other ingredients and place the pan over a medium heat. Keep beating continuously until the mixture thickens. It should take about 7-8 minutes.
2. Pour the curd into the warm, sterilised jars and cover the top with a piece of greaseproof paper and seal. When the curd has cooled, keep in the fridge for up to a couple of weeks

Lemon volcano cake

Ingredients

For the cake

Grated zest and juice of 2 large lemons

125g sugar

3 large eggs

125g butter, grated

200g flour

1 sachet of baking powder

1 small pot of crème fraîche

Pre-heat the oven to 180°

For the icing

Juice of 2 large lemons

Approx. 150g icing sugar, sifted, plus more if needed

1. Begin by creaming the grated butter and sugar together until pale and creamy. Then using an electric hand mixer (or by hand if you want to improve your arm muscles), add all ingredients except the crème fraîche and blend until smooth. Then pour in the crème fraîche and mix well.
2. Pour into a greased baking tin and place in the oven for 30-40 mins. Inside, it should still be a little damp. Leave aside to cool.
3. When the cake is cool, you can make the icing. To do this, take the lemon juice and stir in the sifted icing sugar until you have the consistency you want. I like my icing a bit thicker but it’s up to you. Pour oven the cake, letting it run down the sides to create a lava effect.

The Long Goodbye and Tarte au Citron

This is the title of a classic Altman film which my Dad used to watch obsessively but which I somehow never saw. I can still hear the dialogue between my parents and my mother asking impatiently “Are you watching that film again?” Important scenes were of course described to me, particularly the bit where Elliott Gould tries to fool his picky cat into eating an inferior kind of food by putting it into another tin (no kitty I’ve ever met would fall for that one!). The title is also somehow appropriate for me because I’ve always dreaded having to say goodbye. When I was a child, I couldn’t bear being sent off to bed and whenever we had visitors, I used to cling to them and tearfully beg them to stay. Of course, things have improved since then but I still get that awful feeling whenever a trip or visit is coming to an end and I know we won’t see each other again for a while. Why is it always Sunday evening? Where did all that time go? Whenever J. comes to visit me in Berlin, he takes the night train from Munich. The nice thing about that is that we can breakfast together and we really do have the whole day ahead of us. The disadvantage though is that he has to return late on Sunday evening. In fact, it’s incredibly difficult after watching a Melville film and eating spaghetti aglio olio where it’s warm and cosy to then set out for the train station when you’re already feeling sleepy.

When J was here in Febraury, it had been snowing steadily all day and the soft new flakes muffled our steps as we made our way to the S-Bahn. We walked down to water’s edge at Wannsee to see its frozen surface and enjoyed those last precious moments together in that silent landscape. Last weekend though couldn’t have been more different. Our two days mainly consisted of cooking, watching films and exploring new areas in Berlin. Yesterday morning we looked at Andreas Feininger’s photos of Manhattan in the 50s and imagined how wonderful it would be to soak up the noise and energy of New York. Afterwards, J. took me to the famous Café Einstein for pear tart and a jug of hot chocolate with lashings of cream. I had often heard about it as it’s one of the oldest cafés in Berlin but was surprised to find it so discreetly tucked away in a quiet street. Unlike most customers we sat inside on the red leather banquettes in a high ceiled room with deep wooden panels, mirrors and low hanging lightshades like globes. Opposite some Spanish people were savouring their étagère brunch of pastries and blueberries with fromage blanc. Late afternoon, we strolled down to my favourite Indian restaurant in Goethestraße for Alu Gobi and Bhatura bread that burns your fingers.

When it was time to leave, the air was still sticky but with a soft breeze and the streetlamps burned like fireflies in the night to guide us. The lake glimmered with the reflections of the boats while further on the horizon, you could still see a lighter patch of sky. Towards the East there were flashes of lightning and we knew that the storm would come soon, even though everything around us made it seem so impossible. I watched J’s train pull off into the night and then was left to journey back alone. The streets seemed so much emptier and the raindrops began to fall.

This morning when I woke up, it was still raining and I knew that the only way to cheer up was to have some serious comfort food. One of my favourite recipes is tarte au citron or lemon tarte. I love its tangy creaminess and light but crisp pastry and it has never failed to lighten my mood, even on the darkest days.

Lemon Tarte

For the pastry

200g flour

50g sugar

100g cold butter

1 egg

½ egg yolk

For the filling

Juice and zest of 4 lemons, plus some longer strips

3 eggs

100g sugar

125g cream

Some icing sugar to decorate

1. Sift the flour into a mixing bowl with the sugar. Cut the butter into small pieces, then finely grate the lemon peel and add to the bowl along with the egg.
   
2. Wash your hands with cold water to keep the pastry cool and mix together by hand until it forms a smooth ball which is neither too sticky nor too dry .Add more flour or water if you need to.
3. Wrap the pastry in clingfilm and place in the fridge for an hour. Remove 15 mins before you want to roll it out.
4. Pre-heat the oven to 180°C and begin rolling the pastry out. Dust the work surface and rolling pin generously with flour and roll out until it’s not too thick or too thin (it shouldn’t fall apart) and roughly the size of your pie dish. Gently pick it up and mould it so that the pastry comes up high round the sides (it will probably shrink). Prick it all over with a fork so that you won’t get air pockets in the oven.
5. Place a layer of greaseproof paper over it and use dried beans or lentils to weight it down. Bake it blind in the oven for 10 mins then remove and brush the base with a thin layer of egg yolk (a brilliant tip I stole from the wonderful Patoumi). Bake for a further five minutes.
6. To make the filling, squeeze the juice from the lemons and grate the zest, using the peel of one half for some longer strips to decorate. Use a hand held mixer to beat the eggs and sugar until they are extremely frothy and leave ribbons when you lift up the beaters. This might take a moment so be patient. Add the lemon zest and juice to the cream and beat until thick. Mix into the sugar and eggs until smooth.
7. Pour the filling onto the pastry and bake at 170° for about 30-40 mins until the lemon cream is firm on top. Leave to cool before dusting with icing sugar and serving with a cup of tea or coffee.

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