On the trail of ''Chou''

The first time I heard a mother call her child mon petit chou, which means ''my little cabbage,'' (or ''my little pastry puff,'' depending on how you free-associate) I did a double take. I was of course intrigued by this expression because I am obsessed with the cabbage family. It is no surprise, then, (well, actually, yes it was a surprise) that my mother recently greeted me at the airport with a bouquet of green kale. My restrained smile in the photo to the right belies my immense excitement at being reunited with my beloved leafy green.

When people ask me if I miss the US, I say, ''I miss people. Friends. Family. And kale.'' I also miss buying hydrogen peroxide at CVS for under a dollar; a small bottle here costs over 5 euros.   

Some friends have encouraged me to try planting kale, to go to Belgium, Italy, Germany, or England to buy it, or to simply look more carefully at the markets scattered across town, insisting that it must be here. I looked at what famed Paris foodie and blogger David Lebovitz had to say about it. When you google ''kale'' on his blog, there are over 40 posts or user comments, often discussing how he can't find it here, either.

Not far from Orly airport, there is the Marché de Rungis. Last year I visited Rungis with a food purveyor who scours the market daily between 3 and 10 am, and sends top products across the Channel. He offered to take me on a visit, though was smart enough to delay our rendez-vous until 6 am. The market is a huge complex (234 hectares of facilities, or roughly 234 baseball fields), includes two disco clubs, and lots of cafes and bars where you can start drinking wine as early as you want. Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations had an episode that included a visit to the marché as well. Imagine all the wholesale food that gets bought and sold throughout Europe, and then put it one place for redistribution, and there you have Rungis.

Sadly, during my visit, I was unable to spot any kale. But when I got back to my apartment, I called their main information line and was given a few potential suppliers. No luck. Then I remembered I had a packet of kale seeds sitting on my desk. I took the seeds to the new organic food store around the corner, and asked for the produce manager. Jérémie was very polite, and knew about kale. I showed him the photo on the seed packet, just to be sure, and he took my name and number, promising to try to locate it. Three weeks later, I received a phone call that they were stocking kale! In my excitement, I rushed to the store and bought nearly the entire supply. Then I came home and emailed Mr. Lebovitz, asking him to keep the news on the down-low, but welcoming him to enjoy the bounty with me. Known for being a Right-Banker, he cheekily asked if my Left Bank store would deliver.

For the next few months, I bought kale nearly once a day. In kind support, my roommate started buying kale too. I was eating more of it than I'd ever eaten before. ''Don't overdo it,'' friends warned, but I was afraid of losing my supplier, so I kept buying. I often thought of Lucille Ball in the chocolate factory, and ended up throwing some out after it developed yellow spots in my fridge. To compound the challenge, my cousin, who had generously been supplying me with kale whenever she went to London on business, started increasing the number of bags she brought back. There was room for little else in the refrigerator, even though it was, atypically, American-sized. I started offering kale to my anglophone friends, I brought raw kale salad to dinner parties, and eventually began to grow weary of it altogether. 

Since then, I moved across town. My move happened to coincide with the coldest three weeks in Paris this winter (and when Paris gets below 32 degrees F, it is a situation). Trips to that health food store dwindled to zero, my cousin stopped going to London, and my kale supply quickly disappeared.

Except.
 

A few weeks ago I was stretching on a hilltop perch in the Buttes Chaumont Park, overlooking a massive green lawn. My eyes bulged forward when I spotted a familiar green leaf in a newly-planted flower bed!

Dinosaur Kale! Buttes Chaumont August 4, 2012

I tried to collect myself as I lowered my leg and approached the nearby gardeners. My excitement mounted as I pulled off one headphone earbud, and then the other. ''Excusez-moi,'' I started. ''Je peux vous poser une question?'' I did the silly ritual of asking permission to ask a question. Most of the gardeners ignored me, or looked at me quizzically, but a few looked on.

 ''I'm wondering about that green plant,'' I began, my words tripping over one another as if I'd just met someone famous. ''I'm from the USA. We eat that. It's called kale (I said something like kay-uhl to give it the proper French accent), but I don't think there's a French word. It's like blette (swiss chard), but the leaves are thicker, like chou (cabbage).  But I can't find it here...'' I noticed that my audience was shrinking, and that the two men who were still listening had their eyebrows deeply furrowed. ''I mean, I saw a similar plant at the Jardin des Plantes, and the animals had eaten it -- it's...it's full of vitamins and so good for you!'' I gushed. At this point, my audience was down to one, quiet, gentle gardener. He politely allowed me to continue, before confirming something I've never heard a French person say: ''yes, madame, you can eat that.''

He led me to a sign and pointed to the words brassica oleracea. I grew quiet, almost frightened as I pictured myself sneaking back at night to clip a few stalks. ''D-do you know where I can GET that?'' I asked. He suggest I try  the flower market on the Quai de la Corse, along the Seine here in Paris. My heart sank, knowing that I'd scoured that market at least a dozen times and had never seen kale. ''Or,'' he added, ''you can go to flower shops in the suburbs.''

The following weekend, I was in the countryside and visited a few greenhouses with my cousin. I bought some more kale seeds and a flowering pot of kale (a kind that I'd never seen before, more round than leafy). My cousin's neighbor is graciously planting that for me, though he says he only feeds that variety to his rabbits. I consoled myself by saying, ''yes, but rabbits also eat carrots.''

Knowing how trendy kale is in the US, I feel pretty confident that it will one day catch on here, too. After all, Paris has recently seen a few food trucks appear (including the very first ice cream truck), so following American food trends is not hors question.

Speaking of American food, until yesterday, I'd never heard ''Chick-Fil-A'' pronounced aloud, so I'd been saying, ''Chick-Filla,'' whenever I came across a headline. It sounded gangster and I wondered what that funny name was all about. Oops.

By the way, if you're coming to Paris anytime soon, slip a few tubs of kale chips in your suitcase: once I'm done eating them, I'll take you on a lovely tour of the city.

Oh, and for a little more fun, here's a list of other terms of endearment in French.