In France, the ambrosial fruit known as coing, or quince, is usually transformed into jelly or fruit paste. But getting at that wonderful taste takes a little work, and sometimes just finding quinces can be a challenge. But in the French countryside, quinces are there for the taking. Or are they ?

Have you ever met the kind of person who says things were better “before” ? Before what ? Even though I feel passionate about the history of Paris, and especially eastern Paris, I’m not nostalgic by any means. Why is it that I keep running into people who say C’était mieux avant ?

Paris in summer is a ghost town. Even though the juillettistes are back (those vacationers who leave in juillet or July), the aoûtiens (“Augusters”) are away for at least another week. In just a few days, I’ll also be joining the ranks of aoûtiens who have left the city in favor of sunnier climes. And one of the first things I’ll do when I get to my destination – the Var – is to pick up a Tarte Tropézienne.

Ah, almost summer ! As the days here in Paris finally begin stretching out easily to ten p.m., on the sunniest early evenings, people everywhere are lounging on outdoor café patios or terrasses. In my ‘hood, we’re catching up on local gossip news, and just watching people go by as they leave the Père Lachaise cemetery. But some of us are taking advantage of what used to be called l’heure verte, or the green hour.

Have you ever wondered why the rooster is the national emblem of France ? The word Gallic comes from Gaul, the name of France before it was France – back when Vercingetorix was kicking some Roman ass. But the Latin word gallus also means rooster. In French cooking, we talk about gallinaceous birds, otherwise known as poultry. But the real reason ? For some French people, it has to do with singing.

If you’ve spent enough time in Paris, you know that surrendering to the peaceful exploration that Parisians call flânerie is a perfect way to re-discover the city in autumn. Noticing everyone’s new fall styles boots, uncovering an area of the city under a rain of golden leaves fluttering to the sidewalk, or even stopping in a pop-up, or temporary, exhibit, are all part of the experience.

When Jasmine Vegas steps onto the stage in Paris, she’s almost always armed with her shiny “suspender piano” (accordion), vintage cat-eye glasses, and maybe even a black panty-liner to match her black dress, as she once told a surprised audience when this short-lived feminine protection was first introduced onto the market. Just who is this provocative “Dada diva” ?

Get out your wicker basket and gingham blanket : it’s picnic season ! Pâté, hard-boiled eggs, ham, and fruit salad or a full-fledged fruit tart – whatever you can dream up to put in your basket is perfect, but don’t forget the corkscrew and a bottle of rosé. And of course, the condiments. The most important one is a jar of small French pickles or cornichons.

What’s more important : how your food looks, or how it tastes ? Any professional chef, myself included, will tell you that both are essential. What your dish looks like whets your appetite, and makes you want to take that first bite. But how food tastes is the most important, and it’s what keeps you going back for more. Or is it ?

Who hasn’t ever dreamed of living in a penthouse apartment ? For the views alone, a flat on the top floor of a city building is tempting, even if the price is far less so. Penthouses are also known for their luxury appliances and frequently large outdoor terraces. But whoever invented the penthouse clearly never visited Paris, where life at the top takes on a whole different meaning.

Many books have been written about how to dress like a Parisian. When I first moved to Paris, I thought I would just naturally soak up the local style, through fashion osmosis. In my mind, the process also included a fairy-like personal shopper, who would actually go into stores for me and do the dirty work. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person who doesn’t like shopping, right ?

Chicken and sausage gumbo

Have you ever been insatiably curious about someone you see regularly in your neighborhood ? It happened to me last summer. I kept seeing a tall, beautiful, and muscular woman, who ran. And ran. (Apparently, she loved running.) She had a large unmistakable tattoo covering her thigh : the colored interlocking rings of the Olympic Games. What was this champion runner doing right in my neighborhood ?

The first time I was faced with a mound of black figs, I have to admit I felt a bit half-hearted, and even a little anxious : a well-meaning friend had brought me a whole basket of the fruit from her parents’ house in the Parisian suburbs. Sure, I’d seen figs a few times at the local market, and I thought they looked good, but I’d felt too intimidated to buy any. Now that they were in my hands, what in the world was I going to do with all these figs ?