Dinner: One Cricket, One Kir
03.31.2012 
I followed the thread of the labyrinth for years, until I knew its winding loops and pattern as if they were my own soul.
I still trace its pattern and colors daily, a record, a map of my days.
Out of the labyrinth now, I’m fascinated by the threads that link me to others, to kindred spirits, other worlds.
Kindred spirit: Susan. Met in Berkeley at a screening of my cousin Mark’s film about the ecology movement, “A Fierce Green Fire.” Instant love.
Kindred spirit: Edith. Met in Paris at Connie’s house when she told us stories of artists she’s known that kept us all spell-bound. Instant love.
Kindred spirit: Judithe, a friend of Susan’s and Edith’s and Connie’s, who also lives in Paris. Judithe invited me to a gathering of writers and bande dessinée (comic strip) artists who write for and illustrate a French magazine called Soldes. It was inspired by a countercultural magazine Actuel, that Judithe and her ex-husband created in the late ‘60s.
I am to meet her at her home. She comes to the door in goat leather jacket, serpent pants, with a Jeanne Moreau mouth.
Rez de chaussée (the ground floor), a large living-dining room that opens onto a deep garden, rare in Paris and enchanting. Persian rugs. Fine paintings on the walls. A photograph of an African king.
A chunky Welsh corgi on the floor.
A tricycle in the foyer.
Judithe is learning how to make an e-book. She’s a diver who photographs underwater worlds. She’s modest about her photography skills, but a friend in NYC insists that she must make an e-book with her photos of underwater creatures, and he will help with text and publication.
She shows me how she plugs in text and photos in the e-book program on her MacBook. It looks so easy!
Her black Smart car is parked on the curve of the boulevard. It’s impossibly small, like a toy car. But it carries us comfortably and smoothly through Paris to the Canal St. Martin. We cover deep-sea diving, American politics, whether Obama will be re-elected (yes, I think he will), French politics (the choice between Sarkozy and Hollande, and who should win), UNESCO, the counterculture, children, people we know and love in common, Berkeley, the Berkeley Barb, R. Crumb, who was friends with Judithe and her husband and did cartoons for Actuel.
We park just off the Quai de Valmy in a tiny space that no other car could maneuver into.
It’s not at all clear where this warehouse is. Judithe pops into the post office, and asks a group of Arab men. The entrance is around the corner, says one. She is gay and charming, and he is happy to help.
Canal St. Martin is lined with young picnickers and drinkers, a hip and happening part of town. The warehouse is marked by familiar graffiti—I’ve seen it before in a photo of Richard’s.
The high-ceilinged room is filled with artsy-looking youngsters in their 20s through 60s. (Artists and revolutionaries are closer to their childhood selves, and while not always the most mature of citizens, carry youthful spirits well into old age.) The first thing that strikes the eye is a giant cartoon on the wall.
“Richard would love this!” I exclaim.
“Call him and tell him to join us,” says Judithe. But he is at a photography event.
Judithe introduces me to a man about our age, an elegant French artist, who is one of the founders of Soldes. I can’t make out his words above the rock music, and ask him to speak more slowly, thinking I might read his lips. But he and Judithe think I mean I don’t understand French, and switch to English. But I do! Chat, chat.
We make our way through the crowd in front of the bar. Judithe orders a serious drink. I settle for Kir.
Back into the main room. An array of insects is artfully arranged in mandala form on plates. The hors d'oeuvres.
I am mesmerized. Scorpions, bees, grasshoppers, crickets and worms. We’re supposed to eat them. They’re certainly beautiful, but no one is rushing up for a sample. I take a few photos to show Richard.
Two young men with microphones are seated on the lip of a stage. On a big screen behind them are photos and diagrams of places in Africa and Asia where insects are a primary source of protein in the diets of humans.
One of the men discourses in that serious French fashion, as if this is a lecture at the Sorbonne. Now he is deconstructing cultural attitudes towards eating insects.
Insects were once eaten in Europe, the lecturer tells us. The only thing that prevents us from eating them today is disgust. (Disgust! That little piffle.) I was raised in a state where scorpions abound, and avoiding them always seemed like a good idea.
Judithe and I take seats on folding chairs near the projector. We glance over at the hors d’oeuvres table. No one has touched the snacks. In spite of the cogent analysis, cultural disgust is intact.
“Why are there no spiders?” asks a young woman.
“Spiders aren’t insects,” the speaker says.
Oh good. No black widows. No rattlesnakes.
“But aren’t some insects poisonous?” someone asks.
“Insects are just like mushrooms. You have to know which ones are edible, which are toxic,” the lecturer says.
Judithe asks another question. But this is one too many interruptions for the lecturer. They will take questions at the end.
“This is so French,” Judithe mumbles,“the serious sermon.”
We meander around. I strike up a conversation with a man who is drawing bright beautiful cartoon figures in the front of the latest edition of Soldes. He introduces me to his wife, Ariane.
She is Swiss. He is French. They lived in NYC for a while and now are back in Paris. I ask her if she knows the myth about her namesake, Ariadne.
No, she doesn’t. What is it?
I tell the story of the Cretan princess and the labyrinth and the Minotaur.
“Oh!” she says, “The goddess with the thread? That’s funny. My husband’s name is Phil and you know the French word for thread is fil. And he’s a Taurus, a bull.”
“So is mine!” I say. “And our myth is Ariadne and the Minotaur. In the later part of the story, Ariadne marries Dionysus. One of the shapes he takes is a bull.”
We talk about the Native American custom of going on a vision quest, which is a variation on the descent into the labyrinth.
I join Judithe outside on the bank of the Canal St. Martin. All around us people stand talking, drinking, smoking, cell phoning.
Back inside Judithe introduces me to a cartoonist who reminds me just a bit of Robert Crumb. A young Asian man extends a tray of insects to me.
“Why thank you. I believe I’ll try this cricket on his little wheat-colored bed,” I say. “Oh crispy! Delicious!”
Judithe and I are ready to go at the same moment. I buy a Soldes and ask Phil (Fil) to sign it to Richard and me. It’s as beautiful as an art book, and costs 17 euros.
We return in Judithe’s Smart car, and talk of Amin Maalouf’s book, The Crusades through Arab Eyes, the Lebanese, my cousin Mark’s “Fierce Green Fire,” Vassar, Sarah Lawrence, Cannes, diving in the Mediterranean sea, sky diving, a friend who killed herself in spite of great brilliance and beauty, French lessons.
A pleasurable evening of many threads. Dinner: one cricket, one kir. And a new friend, with many links between us.
Ariadne, Dionysus, Minotaur, art, food, friendship, insects in Paris Life
Reader Comments (24)
Jimminy Cricket, what a blast!
<;-)
Joanne
They serve such "delights" up the hill at Typhoon at the Santa Monica. Haven't tried them .... yet.
Amazing synchronicity. Just as I began to type an ant showed up on my keyboard! Had to literally blow it (her, him?) off. I take this as a sign. I love this piece! You capture so much, so well, and make it look effortless. Hope to be there soon with all of you.
bises.
Ps I would have chosen the cricket too. Signs of good fortune in Provence.
oh you are so brave to eat a cricket -not sure I could have done that
Somehow, Joanne, I am sure you will have a cricket or grasshopper dinner. Let's compare tastes. Salty, crispy, a little like chicken--that's what this cricket tasted like. I"m not sure what that bed he was on was made of but it tasted like crispy noodles. Let us know...
XOXO,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Ah, Susan, your generous capacity for friendship and the linking of friends is responsible for this new friendship. Thank you! I had such a good time with Judithe, and we talked about you and your upcoming visit to Paris.
I chose the cricket because it sings! Glad to hear that they're good luck in Provence. That ant chose you, so perhaps you will want to try one next time you're in an Asian restaurant or hanging out in Hanoi.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Betsy,
I only ate that cricket because I was so hungry. Your turn: I know you can find some scrumptious looking scorpions in Arizona. Serve 'em up to your family for breakfast, and blow their minds.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
When I was young, my father had a photography studio in Old Town, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was behind the La Placita restaurant, next to the Spice Spot, a store that sold eclectic candy such as chocolate-covered ants, bees, crickets, grass hoppers and such. Never was brave enough to try them, but I've often thought, Why is it in the realm of possibilities to eat crickets tastily prepared, but not cockroaches?
I love to hear about all the connections. As far as insects, I have often seen insects for sale as a common staple in marketplaces throughout Southeast Asia and Indonesia. Recently in Laos, in a rural marketplace, they were selling some eggs out of which were crawling some kind of wriggling larva. I asked how they ate them and they said they boiled them as a special treat. Well, à chacun son goût. A fried cricket I might eat if I wasn't a vegetarian --- especially so artistically arranged with French flair. And your photographs are beautiful. You must have a photography guru near by.
Hi Stuart,
So you and I have Southwest roots in common. I like the verbal snapshot of your childhood. And I forgot to include the question someone asked during the lecture, "Why don't we eat cockroaches?" A shudder of revulsion (experiential, NOT culturally programmed) prevented me from hearing the answer, but I think he said they're not sanitary. I couldn't have left the event without at least trying one. Now real courage would have been to go for the scorpion.
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Varya,
You have covered more miles of this globe than anyone I know. And to be PAID to do so: what a lucky life. I remember now in Vietnam seeing insects for sale in bowls or barrels on the street. I hesitated to try them, not knowing how safe they were to eat. I described that cricket as tasting like chicken, but it's more that it tasted like the outer crispy layer of fried chicken. It was so small, you didn't have the sense of eating meat at all. But good for you that you don't make the smallest exceptions.
My photos are accidents. All I did was snap a fine mandala. Richard's the photographer, thank the gods, it's too much technology for me.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
You have an adventure because, by nature, you speak to strangers at galleries. That is how we met. What a blessing that proves to us all. Paris Play is a gallery, and although you know us now, you still speak to us. What a blessing that proves to us all.
Love ya,
Bruce
Dear Bruce,
What a lovely thing to say!
Gratitude and love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
John the Baptist subsisted in the desert on locust and wild honey.
Prophets take a bite of the lowly to talk about the exalted.
You wove it all together ("fil") for a damned good story.
Anna!
Thank you for bringing in the spiritual/historical dimension and your exalted perspective.
You would have been so at home at this event. Wish you were here. And thank you!
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
P.S. Richard seems to recall that somewhere in Christian history, there was a Diet of Worms...?
Hi Kaaren,
I don't post much but I'm a faithful reader. That plate of hors-d'oeuvre was really a shocker! I too applaud your sense of culinary adventure for tasting that crispy cricket. Can't help but say "Yuk!" or "Beurk" as you prefer...
Dear Joan,
I gather "Beurk" means "Yuk" in French? Oh how I admire you Americans who've been in France long enough to know all the slang. I mean to catch up one day. Let me know when you're free of child-caring one of these days, and we'll pop into a Vietnamese restaurant and dare each other to eat stranger and stranger bugs. Okay?
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Kaaren,
I was thinking about my vegan diet as I read One Cricket and was picturing how micro small some insects are. As I play in my organic garden, I always eat while I harvest. When the tat-tsoi or spoon mustard is mature I can hardly get it to the kitchen without eating most of what I pick. I am sure there are so many tiny creatures feasting on the underside of those dark green leaves that my efforts to remain vegan are deeply dashed. I am smiling at the thought of ever becoming a strict vegan though scoff at avoiding honey since I was a beekeeper as a pre-teen. Honey has always been a gift of the gods in my mind. I now wonder if the microscopic critters that fall to the garden as I push greens past my mustache to my mouth ever tell the crickets and hoppers that my vegan diet is a sham. I suspect they do while dancing their way through another delicious day in paradise. Love you two.
Jny
Jonny-Jonny!
I remember all your bee hives out behind the house when we were kids, and your moon-walking outfits. Honey and bees are associated with Aphrodite in ancient Greek myth, so they certainly are the goddess's gift. Maybe there should be a new category for vegetarians who eat insects with their tat tsoi; insecto-vegetarians?
Oh how I wish we had a garden here. How delicious to eat the greens you've grown.
Much love to you, Leatrice and Lisanne,
Kaaren & Richard
Your article takes me back, happily, to the 1980s in Berkeley when proto foodies met at a restaurant on Telegraph Ave called Agustas for meals prepared from a book called "Unmentionable Cuisine" by a UC Davis professor named Calvin Schwabe. We tasted everything from insects to parts of animals you don't want to know about. Then, I reviewed a book for Mother Jones magazine during this same period of Berkeley's culinary explosion called "Butterflies in my Stomach," an insect cookbook. But with all this exposure to the delights and perils of adventurous eating, you would think that insects would have earned a regular place on my domestic menu. You'd be wrong. As you have expressed it so well, one cricket and one kir. Period! Of course chocolate covered ants is another story. Love bites from Berkeley.
Kaaren,
You, woman of daring. Woman of adventure. Eat that crispy cricket! I'm enjoying this morsel vicariously, Kaaren. Very vicariously, as part of me remains culturally disgusted. When the old reality show "Fear Factor" was on TV, they dared contestents to eat bugs, or lie down in a bed of them. And you did it as a culinary exploration. Bravo!
Yet, I must admit you got maximum synchronicity and connection around the little critters, with your friend and newly met friends. And that's the most important part of the story for me. I might eat more bugs for increasing those beautiful life synchros.
Woman of daring. Woman of adventure, that I am, I am now going to jump between my flannel sheets to explore the california milky way. Nappy time.
Love you,
Marguerite