If a hobby is an activity pursued for pleasure or relaxation then, clearly, I have a new hobby -- one spawned through the chance purchase of a household appliance. Not just any appliance, but a magnificent iron elegantly named Astoria fer
à repasser. (Note: Those of you less inclined toward OCD, should just do yourself a favor and skip the rest of this post.)
The Astoria is no humble iron, but the powerful, exquisitely designed answer to a domestic mystery. If you've ever wandered through the antiques markets here, or stayed in a luxury chambre d'hote or hotel, then you've experienced the soft, smooth, snowy confections of sheets, pillow cases, tablecloths, handkerchiefs, nightgowns, often antique, always perfect, that French women routinely turn out. And, like me, you may have wondered, how the heck do they do THAT? How can anything be so perfectly smooth? Whither such perfection? The answer: Astoria.
The purchase of this iron has done more than give me beautiful linens, it has provided a new past time. Having ironed all the sheets and pillow cases in the house, I've now taken to ironing the tea towels from the kitchen. Earlier this week, I caught myself ironing my underwear until I stopped and poured a Pastis to catch my breath. There's just no denying the thrill of driving the Astoria across the ironing board, shifting effortlessly into steam, speeding across wrinkles and watching them disappear under the shiny chrome point. This highly controlled hot steam is the answer to how French linens look so perfect. Wrinkles just melt. These are moments of instant gratification, repeated with each new tablecloth or napkin. Supple, flawless, renewed.
This particular iron is like a middle age French woman, graceful, powerful and extremely good looking for its age. I bought it in April at a vides grenier, one of those irresistible village-wide flea markets where you can find fabulous treasures for centimes on the euro. This iron was in mint condition -- "nickel" as they say here about something in perfect shape -- in its original box with the purchase receipt from 1987. Then, it cost 100 euros. Today,
Astoria irons cost up to 300 euros ($425 U.S.). I paid 20 euros ($28) and thought I noted a twinge of regret from the blonde, bourgeois housewife who sold it to me.
My Astoria has a large chrome tank for distilled water, set at an angle that reflects carefully considered ergonomic design. The firm black hose hanging from a stem connects to the iron which sits between use on a spikey, non-slip silicon pad. A caramel-colored cork handle protects your hand from the heat and is springy to the touch. The iron itself weighs just a few ounces although the entire apparatus weighs as much as my Miata. On the front of the chrome tank are switches for heat and the steam, and a guage for the water pressure that reminds me of a Porsche dashboard. (Or at least it does when shrouded in hot mist.)
Like any hobby, there are unanticipated expenses and many things to learn. My Astoria has highlighted the inadequacy of my ironing board so I must now find something broad, grand, and worthy. And seeing my new iron, my French girlfriends have generously mentored this beginner in how to fold items in half to iron them more quickly, how to efficiently press borders and which products give finished linens the scent of a lavender field. I really must stop at some point and go outside -- but first I have a few bath towels to iron.
