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Foodies worldwide are most surely going to be scratching their heads trying to grasp the linkage between church and food. Well besides the obvious that both are good for the soul and more, this piece is something that I have been meaning to write about for a while for a few reasons the most important one, of course, is that I was baptized at the American Cathedral of the Holy Trinity in Paris (The American Cathedral) located at 23, avenue George V in the 8th arrondissement of Paris. So therefore, everything else must flow from that important marker. You may still be wondering what this topic has to do with my rattling around in the kitchen, pouring through cookbooks at all hours of the night, whipping up cream sauces, serving the dog, pouring wine and then some more, or going above and beyond the call of duty by personally trying out little bistros in Paris. I must say I do suffer the burden of being your loyal culinary scapegoat.
So my advice is to stick with me on this little nostalgic pelerinage and the answers to your questions shall be revealed. First, a little background. The American Cathedral has a rich history, consecrated on Thanksgiving Day in 1886 but with deeper roots than that having served the American community in Paris since the 1830’s. The present site was purchased on the Avenue George V (at that time it was called Avenue d’Alma) from the estate of the Duc de Morny, half-brother of Emperor Napoléon III, and the church was built in less than four years; the plans submitted by the English architect George Edmund Street were approved by the vestry in October, 1882 and the first services held in September, 1886. What I find very nice is that American decorative touches can be found throughout the cathedral, including needlepoint kneelers depicting the 50 state flowers and the 50 state flags which are displayed in the nave. It makes quite an impression! In fact, when I re-visited the Church, my daughter insisted on having her picture taken underneath the flag of the State of Maryland. Interestingly enough, during the German occupation of France (1940-44), the cathedral was taken over by the German military chaplaincy.
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The cathedral appears in a wonderful painting Après l’Office à l’Église de la Sainte-Trinité, Noël 1890 (“After the Service at Holy Trinity Church, Christmas 1890”) by Jean Béraud. The original painting is on loan to the Musée Carnavalet in the 3d arrondissement of Paris. It’s a beautiful painting and I missed seeing it in its place at the cathedral. Some years ago I stopped in at the Cathedral, after an absence of many years and inquired if there would be a way to obtain a copy of my baptismal record. A very kind attendant returned with an over sized leather bound ledger “The Register of Baptism 1912 – 1958” then proudly flourished a photocopy of the page with my baptismal record. Our address at that time was listed on the Avenue Victor Hugo, Paris 16e. All this was conducted in French and we parted the best of friends. Madame had clearly understood what this simple piece of paper meant to me.
Reflections on my years growing up in Paris as a young boy inevitably includes the church services at the American Cathedral. Before moving to Neuilly, we lived as I noted earlier, on the Avenue Victor Hugo not that far from the Avenue George V and the cathedral. I imagine my grandparents when they were in Paris in the late ’20’s -early ’30 living on the Boulevard Suchet (16e) were most likely faithful attendees as well. Every Sunday, religiously, so to speak, we were rounded up from our various hiding places and packed into the old Peugeot 403 leaving my sister behind with the nanny; out we drove up the Avenue du Roule onto the Avenue de la Grande Armée, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées then finally turning on the Avenue George V. More than once, before church services, the then Reverent Dean Riddle – a veritable fixture in the church in those days- would ask my father to read a selection of psalms. It was always impressive for me to see him standing before the congregation in his dark blue pinstripe suit, knit tie with the ever present gold tie bar reading from that impressive lectern with the large gold colored bald eagle. The Christmas season brought the inevitable question I had hoped and planned on dodging: Was I going to join my brothers and be a good shepherd this year for the pageant? In other words was I going to wear my dressing gown, a towel over my head, slippers and a staff that looked remarkably like a broom? Not on your life! Of course as it turned out, I reluctantly took my place in line dressing gown, bedroom slippers and all and walked before the entire congregation towards the manger along with the rest of the good shepherds.
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Driving back to Neuilly after church service would witness the usual squabbling of three brothers crammed in the backseat of the car with yours truly relegated to the middle and each one of us determined to get the other two in trouble, hopefully with my father who had a remarkably short fuse. It was a high-stakes game where anyone at any moment could be fingered as the guilty party and then look out! Stopping at our neighborhood bakery on the rue de Chezy just a block from where we lived, meant there was going to a real desert, i.e., the kind we would buy in a bakery, in our very near future if we behaved; the threat of any one of us being deprived of a real desert from the bakery was almost too much to bear. One of us would go in with either parent as one always stayed to monitor the other two little angels. From the moment the door was pushed open and first step taken inside, it was my definition of heaven, clearly and unequivocally. Anyone who knows French bakeries will understand. My nose would press against the glass case trying to get as close as possible to my version of heaven, eyeing the Babar au rum, the Mille Feuilles or Napoleons, the chocolate Éclairs, Profiterole with cream popping out everywhere, Chausson aux Pommes – delicious oversize apple turnovers, Palmiers -layers of them all calling out to me, and fruit tarts little ones and big ones as far as the eye could see. With any luck we would leave with a couple of baguettes and a box of pastries, the contents of which would be revealed only if we finished all our Sunday lunch and if we behaved at the table and if we started on our homework and if we promised to take our baths without a fuss and if we promised not to fight with each other. Such a deal, well all nodded our heads solemnly in the affirmative. How could anyone not agree to those terms?
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All I can say is that my mother never once failed to put on a Sunday meal that was anything less than spectacular. It could have been a pork roast, a rare side of beef, leg of lamb, veal or pork chops, scalloped potatoes or a gratin variety, baby red potatoes, creamed onions, fresh vegetables, endive salad and a wonderful selection of cheese. And of course we had our regimen of a little bit of wine mixed with water, it was Sunday after all. And there was desert which I thought would never ever arrive. This time it was not floating island or lady fingers smothered in sweet cream and liquor or a crème brûlée (oh not again!) or chocolate mousse, this time it was the long awaited box of pastries. We were indeed thankful.
As my father would state time and time again, taping his finder of dining room table for emphasis, no one cooks better than your Mother and I would dare say, he added, it’s a darn sight better than what you will find at any one of the finest restaurants in Paris. He would know.
Now you can truly see the linkage between Sunday church and food.