In French, instead of sweetie, you might call someone mon chou.
I appreciate the double meaning. Le chou is both my cabbage and my sweet. But all cabbages are not created equal. It’s kale that’s my drug of choice.
Looking for a light read in the ‘American Expats in France’ genre, I recently read a memoir entitled Bonjour Kale. It was fun to find out that the kale I enjoyed for dinner tonight, last night, and pretty much every night I cook for myself, is largely thanks to fellow American Kristen Beddard, a New Yorker who found herself a bit lost in Paris, lacking a day job and lamenting the absence of her favorite vegetable.
Five years ago, kale was the superfood and comfort food du jour for foodies around the US, but in France ce n’existait pas. Sure, you might be able to find a row in someone’s personal garden, but certainly not on a commercial scale. Stores didn’t carry it and market vendors and farmers hadn’t heard of it. There wasn’t even a consensus on what to call this neglected vegetable. There was, however, a term describing its sad state. Kale was a légume oublié–a forgotten vegetable–one that had fallen out of favor. One theory goes that kale was a hearty “poor man’s food” that reminded people too much of their lean days during World War II.
Beddard wanted to change this if she could. There could be such a thing as celebratory kale. Glamorous, chic (and full of antioxidants). Kale’s image needed a makeover and Beddard, with a background in marketing, felt she was the woman for the job.
First, she started a blog intended to detail the progress of “The Kale Project.”
Next she went to the market, gathering the courage to ask local farmers, in her beginner’s French, if they would be interested in growing le chou kale. She would provide the seeds. She made her case: healthy, delicious, and here’s proof it will sell…
A few said yes.
As it grew, Beddard made kale connections, identifying expats and restaurant owners ready to buy in case of a supply.
She visited the farms to see the progress, once carting back two full trash bags of kale on a three-hour train ride.
She promoted the vegetable at a Yelp event, a winter foods festival in Paris where she served pesto and smoothies and talked about her project. It was a hit.
As the supply of kale increased, so did its value in the public eye. Beddard’s website included a map, “Kale Spotted,” that let followers know exactly where they could find this vegetable, forgotten no longer.
She was interviewed by various media outlets and even got to help decide what to officially christen this revitalized veggie: le chou kale (sounds like kahl) it would be.
And there it was. Beddard said she was never in it for a profit. Bringing kale to Paris was its own reward. (Though you might also count as reward the kale-based tasting menu she was personally served by Alain Passard.)
I appreciate the book most as a business story: a great example of how to identify a need and meet it. A Humanities alum like me could use the lesson. “Make your passion your paycheck,” that’s the goal. As for the book’s subtitle: “a memoir of Paris, love, and recipes,” I’m less convinced. While the recipes are great (I’ve tried two), and it’s fun to learn of each one’s diverse origins (from the author’s mother to Passard), I don’t think the story quite covers “Paris” and “love” effectively. This title oversells the product–or perhaps represents a different product entirely. When I think of Bonjour Kale, I think of…kale.
I would have called this book something like: Légume Oublié: One Woman’s Quest to Bring Kale to France.
The ‘American expat stumbling around France’ thing has been done before. I think there is room to do it again: but the writing should be really sharp, the observations astute. Foreign words should be included effortlessly, with grace (don’t define for readers un petit peu or mon Dieu!: instead, simply provide a bit of context). The author should have something original to say.
Beddard has that something (how many other Americans have started a transatlantic initiative for a beloved vegetable?) but her true story gets a bit lost when trying to keep up with the other players in the memoir market.
Still, I have Beddard to thank for helping me get my daily greens. I buy my kale at Marché Forville in Cannes. Or at the chain Grand Frais if I’m feeling more commercial.
It is still largely unknown. Little old ladies in line at the market might ask me: “now what are you planning on doing with that?” Cashiers inputting the code eye the kale suspiciously. “Ça c’est le chou kale?”
Thanks to Beddard, I know to respond with a confident oui.