Only in a place like the French Rivvie can you see your boyfriend’s fifty-nine year old mother walking around topless. Priscilla, that’s her name, would whip off her bikini top on the beach, by the pool, or lounging on the bow of the sailboat reading an art magazine.  She’d go topless in front her son, her son’s friends, and even her own father.  They all seemed perfect nonchalant about it, but I was in shock.

Sure she was in great shape, very sexy in fact, and I admired both her body and her bravery. Feeling prudish, I dared myself to whisk off my bikini top at least once before the end of my stay but I just couldn’t get my head, or my chest, around it.

Just as memorable as Priscilla’s melons were the actual melons. In France the melons are different than the ones in Canada. Also known as “Charentais,” they’re sort of like cantaloupes, but more fragrant and sweet, with a unique green-viened outer skin.  They were plentiful in all the markets we visited.  We ate them as a snack, sidedish, for dessert, in picnics on the sailboat, and even as an elegant dinner party appetizer. 

Priscilla reads art magazine on boat, melons concealed by hat. Jerome lounges nearby, completed unfazed (but he was there a long time..?)

Check Out Those Melons Appetizer

Melons were the perfect appetizer for a summer dinner on the terrace in the Cote d' Azur.

Here’s a recipe I enjoyed at a dinner party on the terrace of my boyfriend’s grandparents villa in the French Rivvie.  It was served as an opener for a Chicken Tajine. Simple, sexy and impressive. This is also great for large parties because portioning is so simple.

Ingredients

2 Charentais or Cantaloupe melon, halved, and seeded with a spoon.

8 tablespoons of Port

Directions

Place on serving plate and fill each with 2 tablespoons of Port.  Serves 4.

I’ve now had over ten days to study and observe French culture and one thing is becoming shockingly clear. There’s so many nice cute French boys looking for a serious relationship and so few nice cute French girls who want the same. According to the FC’s friends, Jerome and Maxime, it’s a serious crisis. Almost as serious as my ever-widening thighs.

It’s Day 11 in France and the carbs just keep on coming. Baguettes, croissants, waffles: If I wasn’t bikini-ready before I left Canada, I’m even more blubbery now. But the food here is so delicious I can’t resist trying everything, especially now that the FC is back in Canada (his vacation time was limited) and eating is my only comfort. 

This morning in Paris, Jerome took me to a pattisserie across the street from his apartment on rue Emile Zola in the 15th Quarter. (I wonder if there’s a rue Jean Paul Sartre?) Jerome buys some croissants, bread, and his favourite pistachio macarons. He refuses to let me pay.  I am  “une invitee,” he says (Jerome also let me crash at his place the previous night.)

Generous, funny and cute-- Is it just my impression, or do all French Cocks rock? I strongly recommend getting one for yourself. This one is available.

Of all the baked goods, baguettes are particularly important in France, much moreso than in Montreal. They’re a daily French ritual, as vital to a good life as finding the right girl, and for French boys like Max and Jerome, this is a much-discussed quest. I’m always amazed how earnestly and urgently they discuss their hearts. Unlike so many Canadian guys, French boys here don’t want to play the field, continuously chasing the high of falling in love; they want a companion, marriage. Max wants someone exotic and international (ie, not a French girl) so they can travel the world and Jerome wants the basic “funny, smart and cute” combo, also adding “someone my age or younger.” (This last point stings, but I’m sure he’s more flexible than he thinks.)

Fortunately, finding the perfect baguette is much easier than finding a life partner. It’s in a small boulangerie called The Retrodor in Bois D’Arc, the Paris suburb where I’m currently staying with Patrick, yet another awesome friend of the FC. Patrick lives in a house right next to his parents’ in the same neighborhood he grew up in. In a weird way, it resembles a Toronto suburb– but with prettier houses and much better bakeries.

Patrick’s parents are very passionate about their baguettes, so much so that their local boulangerie makes a special customized batch just for them (3 per day). And I can see why.  Shorter than a normal baguette, and super slim,  weighing 200 grams vs the usual 300 grams, this bread boasts a perfect combination of crustiness and chewiness. (Bigger baguettes tend to be doughier and less cooked.) Barely two hours after polishing off my rich patisserie breakfast, I was devouring this baguette. Even without butter or jam, it was divine.

See the perfect grain of this bread? Crusty chewy perfection.

Also important to note: surplus fresh baguettes are put whole in the freezer, unwrapped and lightly toasted afterwards with no loss of texture (if only that worked for women.)  I’m also going to consider opening up a match-making agency for frustrated Canadian girls to meet adorable pro-marriage French guys. I think this would solve both country’s romantic problems. (It certainly solved mine.)

With the FC back in Canada, at least I have my baguette to snuggle with.

Girl burns off morning baguette riding bike in Paris.

Max treated me to a waffle with creme de maroon at a cafe in the park by the Tour Eifel. Chivalrous, romantic, ambitious in his job, and always very entertaining, Max is a great catch. (He'll be Bachelor #1 in my new French Boy Match-Making Agency.)

In Giens, my favourite FC fetches fresh baguettes for our breakfast. He's not available.