The Biennale Internationale Design (and a valuable lesson in moderation)

A few weeks ago, Saint-Etienne held the 2008 International Design Biennial, intended to "make design more accessible by bringing about meetings, exchanges of ideas and discussions between audiences of all kinds." Knowing little about design myself (but having numerous design-inclined friends for whom I am writing this post), and enticed by the prospect of "interacting" with design, I headed to the Biennale during its last weekend, Kim and Corinne in tow.

We hit up the Crousty Sandwicherie (or "sandwich hole," as I accidentally called it) on our way to the expo. The Crousty is a a metal shack in Place Jean Jaures, situated practically on top of the Tram road. It's always crowded, with people descending from the Tram and elbowing each other to get their hands on any number of different sandwich permutations, crêpes, and galettes (savory crêpes).

So, why the Crousty? For starters, it's on the route that I tend to run around Saint-Etienne, which has given me the opportunity to scope the place out. And every time I pass it, I observe the same phenomenon: a throng of customers, and the almost unbearably sweet and warm smell of fresh made crêpes (when I run on cold nights, I summon my deepest reserves of inner strength in order not to cave to the smell, order a crêpe, and take the Tram back home). I'd finally tried a Crousty crêpe a few days before the Biennale. As I had waited there, holding my breath and biting my lip, I observed the sandwich that would haunt me for the next few days until I had the chance to return and sample it for myself.

The Crousty man, wearing a smudged white apron, tossed what looked like close to half a kilo of Emmenthal cheese straight onto the hot plate. That is, the hot plate which is typically used to prepare crêpes. I watched the Emmenthal melt and crisp, breathing it in, before he tossed on another half kilo of sliced chicken. The cheese and the chicken merged into a solid block that could well have been eaten as a sandwich sans bread. But he quickly transferred the mixture into a pre-sliced baguette, slathered on some mustard, and placed the sandwich onto a panini press. Five minutes later, he slid the flattened sandwich into a a flute-shaped paper bag and handed it off to one happy looking customer.

Emmenthal and chicken. Emmenthal and steak. Emmenthal, steak, and egg. Le Parisien. Le Lyonnais. Le Roma. L'Allemand. Le Volcan. Le Campagnard. Each sandwich featuring a variation on cheese (Emmenthal, Provolone, Mozzarella), meat (ham, steak, salami, tuna, egg, pâté), and miscellaneous items (tomatoes, cornichons, anchovies). Etcetera.

All for the bargain price of under 5 euro.

"You guys, you guys! We HAVE GOT to eat at the Crousty!"

Which we did. Very enthusiastically. Until we made it through a little over half of our sandwiches. In our hungry and excited state, we'd failed to process a rather challenging problem with the Crousty sandwiches. They are, in fact, served in a baguette. Not a part of a baguette. Not a half-baguette, or a flute. A whole, Crousty baguette.

I am a champion eater. I have an iron stomach. I can eat an entire bar of Lindt milk chocolate and still have room for dinner.

But I'd never eaten this much cheese and bread in one sitting before. Not even on fondue nights back home.

We rallied, bursting at the seams, but determined to make our way to the Biennale.

This is the first exhibit we flocked to. The City Eco-Lab, which seeks to explore and (potentially) answer the following series of questions:

1. What would life be like in a sustainable city? How can design help us to achieve this?

2. What kinds of sustainable food flows can we achieve?

3. How can we achieve sustainable mobility in an urban environment? What means of transport - whether existing or requiring improvements - can we use to bring about truly intermodal uses and services?

4. How can we suggest the presence of water in the city? What new (and less new) practices should we be moving towards?

The Eco-Lab was, hands down, my favorite part of the expo. Of particular note were its interactive components: a Germoir, or Seed Tray, and the "Tool Shed," in which all visitors could reference and contribute to books, maps, cards, films, high environmental performance materials, regional know-how, and a choice of software platforms and matrices for new economic models.

"La cantine moins de 80 km de City Eco Lab:"

City Eco Lab's cafeteria, serving strictly local food and drinks.

Big and meaty mushrooms growing in the Germoir.

As I strolled around the Eco-Lab, taking in exhibit after exhibit on moderation and sustainability, I considered the growing pangs in my stomach. In fact, after about 20 minutes, the pangs were all I could think about.

I would love to report back on the details of the many, fascinating projects on display, and how they made me reflect on my carbon footprint, etc.

Instead, I reflected on how foolish I'd been to consume all of that cheese and bread. I contemplated how my stomach was struggling to digest about a kilo of cheese and chicken, and an entire baguette. And I meditated on how likely it was that I would be able to lie down somewhere, anywhere, in the near future.

The remainder of the expo was a blur of furniture and random objects whose purpose was all too often unclear. I managed to sneak a nap on a comfortable but lumpy sofa (not pictured here, because frankly, I don't need another photo of me passed out in an unfamiliar place).

Sexy design chairs.

This reminds me of Ikea.

Lego chair! I used to have a Lego phone!! Remember, Zac?

In conclusion, this post was really much more to do with my overly ambitious feasting than the Biennale. But maybe you'll be happy to know (although you probably won't give a shit) that when I run by the Crousty now, I feel nothing.

Wait, actually no. That's a lie, and it plays down the roller coaster emotions that the Crousty and I shared.

Perhaps it would be more fair to say that I feel a slight temptation, inevitably followed by a twinge of nausea.