David Lebovitz Archives: October 2005 Archives

Since we're on the subject of chocolate macarons, I stopped today at Ladurée, after the end of a long week: I renewed my Carte de Sejour, braved the hectic but incredibleMarché St. Pierre at the foot of Montmarte...and tried to get an answer about why after 10 days, I still don't have internet access or cable tv.
But the icing-on-the-cake stunning success and terrific responses from Prune Blogging Thursday and going through entries from Iceland to Iran was quite something.
Prunes...who'd a thunk it?

With all that stress, I felt it was an absolute necessity to visit Ladurée twice this week, especially since all my homemade chocolate macarons got wolfed down at my friend Heather's wild birthday party and I forgot to stash away a few for myself. I needed to get my fix...and I needed it fast.
(Help! I'm a macaron-junkie!)

I was, frankly, a bit surprised that anyone but me participated...but most of the prune-skeptics out there seem to have been won over. Participants were from all over the world: Italy, Estonia, France, Scotland, Spain, Germany, Canada, and the United States. Thanks to everyone for sending me your entries and I encourage readers out there to visit their web sites to read about their prune-alicious adventures.

(And of course, being France, just when I need it most, my internet connection was down all week long. Luckily when I called customer service, I got someone helpful, friendly, and efficient on the phone...not! And they have the nerve to charge 35 centimes per minute to wait on hold for half an hour for the priviledge of speaking to someone who doesn't want to help you, if you manage to eventually get through.)

Anyhow, in spite what I now see as a highly-organized, internationally-recognized conspiracy against prunes, here are entries from all over the world.
Hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

The divine Judy of Over a Tuscan Stove has a savory and amazing recipe for Cinghiale in Dolce Forte, adapted from an ancient recipe. Her wild boar stew has nice plump prunes...along with a suspicion of chocolate!

The zesty red-headed Laura of Cucina Testa Rossa began a torrid love affair with, what she writes, "the most expensive prunes in the world", the famed Stuffed Prunes from Agen. Then she went on to make a creamy Glace de Pruneaux d'Agen et Armagnac, Prune & Armagnac ice cream, making full use of her new ice cream freezer.

Fellow Parisian Christine who resides at Chez Christine presents a stunning Terrine de Canard aux Pruneaux et a l'Armagnac (Duck Terrine with Prunes and Armagnac) along with the recipe, which sounds worth tackling for the holidays.
Or perhaps she's taking orders?

Zorra, from Andalucia, Spain, made some fabulous tapas of Sherry-Soaked Prunes in Bacon, a variation of the delicious bacon-wrapped dates which I've had grilled and served in many tapas bars. I can't wait to try it with prunes and it's simple enough for anyone to make...no matter where you live.

My gal Alicat slinks in with two original tarts; Apricot & Prune Tart, and Dark Chocolate, Pecan, & Prune Tart. Both tarts look terrific and she and I did a mind-meld and were the only ones who combined chocolate with prunes in our desserts.

Peter at Tea Leaves found his own translation for pruneaux d'Agen. And even if a scholar of the French language might take exception to his method, his entry How To Eat Prunes had me eying my prized bottle of Armagnac in anticipation of making his boozy infusion.

I was almost afraid to open Lindy's post at Toast since it was titled "Nightingale with Prunes". But instead of something 'fowl', I found a delicate and delicious prune-presentation inspired by a recipe from pastry hero Pierre Hermé.

Pille, an Estonian living in Scotland, who's captivating blog presents an I Am So Good For You Prune Cake called hapukoorekook kuivatatud ploomidega, (although she slipped once and called it 'plum juice' when she meant 'prune juice'). In spite of the, er, high-fiber benefits of prunes, her recipe packs in some extra wheat bran!

My Amateur Gourmet Survivor, Melissa, survived her search for two prune recipes and discovered an Iranian Prune Stew and a 'Plumb' Cake that I could almost smell just looking at the pictures.
Merci Melissa!

Marc gave prunes, what he calls, "some X-appeal", and he re-created my pal and baking guru Nick Malgieri's X-Cookies, using a gift from his ex. Hmmm...he looks like he's become an X-pert in cookie-making.

Ulrike made a stunning Couscous Tabbouleh with Glazed Prunes, a trans-Atlantic combination of organic California Prunes cooked up in Germany. (Check out the swirly Apfelrezepte carving off to the side of the blog too!) Ulrike wasn't the only one who looked to the Middle East for inspiration...

Another Scottish import (seems like a trend, Scottish food bloggers!), Iain, presents a Beef in Beer with Guiness-Soaked Prunes that looks like just the thing for that blustery winter coming soon to Scotland.

Over in LA, Rachel makes one of my favorite snacks, Dried Plum Financiers and offers an explanation of their mysterious journey from 'prunes' to 'dried plums'.

Sarah Lou from Canada made a flaky Moroccan Basteeya Pie, which is one of my all-time favorite dishes; layers of filo dough brushed with butter then filled with shredded chicken, cinnamon, and a touch of sweetness.

Michele said I gave her the courage to tackle prunes in a Lamb Tagine with Prunes. While I appreciate her kinds words, I think comparing me to her grandmother in her post means I deserve some delicious gift, don't you?
Perhaps some salted-butter caramels Michele?

And Melissa said , "Okay, David, you've won. Then she came out with a lovely Whiskied Prune and Custard Tart that features a juicy prune filling spilling out from a flaky tart filling. She did mention she still felt unease when cooking with prunes (wait 'til tomorrow if you want to feel uneasy, Melissa...)

When I'm not using his blog for my socio-political rants, fish-headed Brett stewed up a lovely melagne of Masala Chai Poached Prunes which combines sublime Indian spices with smoky Assam tea, creating a nice warm bath for his prunes from Casa Gispert in Barcelona, one of my favorite food places in the world.

I will forgive Fatemeh for calling me neurotic (after all, Woody Allen's made a career out of it...why can't I?) Especially since she's driving me across the Bay Area soon in our pursuit of the best Chinese dim sum soon. So I was afraid she might make Prune dim sum, but instead found inspiration in a recipe from her childhood, which Prune Blogging Thursday happily rekindled: Toss Kabak, a savory Meat and Prune Stew with the addition of quince.

Molly of Orangette, I thought, would dip her prunes in delicious dark chocolate, but instead stewed up a storm with Stewed Prunes with Cinnamon and Citrus, which she's going to "stew us into submission" with. Glad she overcame her friend's giggling fits when she told them about prunes. I mean, when her friend gets old and wrinkly, I hope no one's giggling at her!

Cathy sent in her recipe and photos for Prune Bread from her blog at My Little Kitchen.

Spicy Prune Mole from Jocelyn at Brownie Points using Dagoba organic chocolate, which is one of my favorite chocolates.

Ok...and finally...
Prune Blogging Thursday gave me the courage to perfect my recipe for making chocolate French-style Macarons with your choice of a creamy chocolate ganache filling, or an Armagnac-scented prune filling.

Whew!
Thanks again to everyone for participating in the first, the original, (and the only) Prune Blogging Thursday.

(PS: All my chocolate macarons are gone! They were quickly wiped out at my friend Heather's 30th birthday party this weekend. Thanks for asking.)

One of the most vexing tasks I've ever come across was making the perfect macarons, those ethereal little domes of almond meringue seen all over Paris, often filled with buttercream, ganache, or a fruity filling of jam (although the original macaron didn't have filling, but were simply fused together while warm.)

So for Prune Blogging Thursday, I decided to create a recipe for chocolate macarons with an Armagnac-scented prune filling, along with the a dark chocolate filling for you non-believers; curiously, my French-bred tasters all preferred the prune filling.

Tender, picture-perfect macarons are not easy to make. Les Macarons are all about technique, rather than about just following a recipe. (Armed with a good recipe, almost anyone can make a decent brownie. You just mix, pour, and bake.)
I'm also a firm believer in cultural divides; there are some foods from other cultures are best left to their home turf. I've never had a good Madeleine in America and if you've ever had a 'croissan-wich' in the US, you know what I mean.

Using my anti-globalization stance as an excuse (well-put-me-in-a-bow-tie-and-call-me-Tucker-Carlson)...

But here I am. And I have no excuse.
(Although Tucker seems to have plenty of them...)

When I was in pastry school at Lenôtre, we made macarons aplenty and my chef-instructor confided in me the secret of the famed macarons from Laduree...but I'd be a traitor if I divulged it here so I didn't incorporate it into the recipe (and no one would want to make them that way anyways. Trust me.)

I phoned my friend Rob who worked with the chef from Fauchon, and he warned that the batter for perfect macarons needs to be folded just-so.
One extra fold, and it's all over.
Not enough, and you won't get that little foot.
And he also advised that the chocolate macarons were the most difficult of all to get right.

My first batch tasted great, but was missing that frilly 'foot' that French macarons have. The little bubbly ruffle that forms around the base as they bake. So put-me-in-a-bow-tie-and-call-me-Chris-Kimball...

...I was determined to get them right, no matter how many batches I had to make.

So I adapted my large-scale recipe for the home kitchen, adding a bit more sugar and swapping some granulated sugar (since powdered sugar has cornstarch added, I thought that would make the batter too stiff). I also cut back on the almonds and whizzed everything all up in a blender (French sugar crystals are much finer).

Curiously, many recipes warn to let the piped cookies sit for two hours before baking to develop a shell. Testing that theory, I baked one tray right away which rose nicely but didn't have the perfect 'foot'. Two hours later, I baked the second baking sheet, the same mixture, the only difference was letting it sit. The second batch rose and had a nice little 'foot' around each.

I again spoke with my Fauchon-trained friend and he said, "Let them sit for a few hours? No way, we just popped those suckers in the oven right away."
So I tried another batch, baking them off as soon as I piped them out. This time the first batch had the perfect 'foot' and the second batch didn't.

So I tried another batch, where I tried rapping the baking sheet hard on the countertop to flatten the batter before baking, and that first batch looked great with little 'feet' but the second batch I baked later formed little domes. Grrr.

Determined another batch followed. I took the advisement of Pierre Hermé who says to begin baking macarons at a very high temperature, then turn it down quickly. That caused all the macarons to crack (ouch!) which I knew could be alleviated by using double-baking sheets but I didn't feel like trying it again and washing all those dishes.

Anyhow, to make a long story short(er), here's the recipe I came up with after seven tries. It didn't seem to matter if you let them sit before baking, as that didn't seem to have any effect whatsoever, but do be sure to give them a good rap on the countertop prior to baking them. You can pretend it's Tucker Carlson's head if that will make you feel better.

Macaron Batter
1 cup (100 gr) powdered sugar
½ cup powdered almonds (about 2 ounces , 50 gr, sliced almonds, pulverized)
3 tablespoons (25 gr) unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
2 large egg whites, at room temperature
5 tablespoons (65 gr) granulated sugar

Chocolate Filling
½ cup (125 ml) heavy cream
2 teaspoons light corn syrup
4 ounces (120 gr) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, finely chopped
1 tablespoon (15 gr) butter, cut into small pieces

Prune Filling
15 medium prunes (pitted), about 5 ounces (150 gr) prunes
2½ ounces (70 gr) best-quality milk chocolate, finely chopped
2 tablespoons Armagnac

Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and have a pastry bag with a plain tip (about 1/2-inch, 2 cm) ready.

Grind together the powdered sugar with the almond powder and cocoa so there are no lumps; use a blender or food processor since almond meal that you buy isn't quite fine enough.

In the bowl of a standing electric mixer, beat the egg whites until they begin to rise and hold their shape. While whipping, beat in the granulated sugar until very stiff and firm, about 2 minutes.

Carefully fold the dry ingredients, in two batches, into the beaten egg whites with a flexible rubber spatula. When the mixture is just smooth and there are no streaks of egg white, stop folding and scrape the batter into the pastry bag (standing the bag in a tall glass helps if you're alone).

Pipe the batter on the parchment-lined baking sheets in 1-inch (3 cm) circles (about 1 tablespoon each of batter), evenly spaced one-inch (3 cm) apart.

Rap the baking sheet a few times firmly on the countertop to flatten the macarons, then bake them for 15-18 minutes. Let cool completely then remove from baking sheet.

Cut the prunes into quarters and pour boiling water over them. Cover and let stand until the prunes are soft. Drain.

Squeeze most of the excess water from prunes and pass through a food mill or food processor.

Melt the milk chocolate and the Armagnac in a double boiler or microwave, stirring until smooth. Stir into the prune puree.
Cool completely to room temperature (it will thicken when cool.)

Heat the cream in a small saucepan with the corn syrup. When the cream just begins to boil at the edges, remove from heat and add the chopped chocolate. Let sit one minute, then stir until smooth. Stir in the pieces of butter. Let cool completely before using.

Spread a bit of batter on the inside of the macarons then sandwich them together. (You can pipe the filling it, but I prefer to spread it by hand; it's more fun, I think.)
I also tend to overfill them so you may or may not use all the filling.

Store in an airtight container for up to 5 days, or freeze. If you freeze them, defrost them in the unopened container, to avoid condensation which will make the macarons soggy.

Pick up the November 2005 issue of Bon Appétit magazine, which features some of my absolute favorite new dessert recipes...

If you have a prune recipe or entry on your blog or web site, don't forget to email me the link for posting.

...if you buy a wine from Burgundy, 97% of the red wines are made from Pinot Noir grapes and most of the white wines are made from Chardonnay?

...that many of the French winemakes use American oak since it leaves a less-oaky flavor in the wine, but American winemakers usually import French oak, which imparts that heavy woody taste common in American wines?

...that only about 50% of French wines contain sulfides, yet almost all American wines do? (The French don't list it, but the Americans wines are required to.)

...that Petit Chablis isn't the wine that comes in big glass jug from the supermarket and cost $2.99?

...wine can reveal it's age by it's meniscus, apparent from just from a simple glance in the glass?

Olivier Magny, the sommelier of O-Château, speaks perfect English (better than me) and is a gracious host to wine enthusiasts in his hip, Parisian loft. This sparse, contemporary surrounding is conducive for focusing your attention solely on the wine tasting (although some also find it thrilling to be invited into the loft of a handsome Parisian...)

For the next few hours, Olivier's your expert guide to the world of French wines answering all your questions with approachable style, wit, and knowledge. His family owns the Domaine du Crêt Gonin, a beautiful, approachable red wine, which if you're lucky, you'll get to taste as well.

I attended The Grand 7, which he generously pours seven different styles of wine over a leisurely two hours to an enthusiastic group of Parisians, visitors, and residents like me. The tasting's are designed to represent a cross-section of French winemaking styles and Olivier discusses the differences and uniqueness of all seven, including descriptions of the French winemaking regions, how grapes are grown, common terminology (bringing 'wine-talk' down to earth for you and me), climates and terroirs which affect the grape harvest and wine production, and (at last!) how to properly taste wine and evaluate it with an attack on la bouche...the tasting!
.
Olivier also does shorter, three-wine evaluations, (Wine, Two, Three!) and afternoon Wine & Cheese-Tasting Lunches where you're welcomed into his loft with a nice, chilled glass of Champagne, followed by four wines for tasting, discussion, and evaluation.

O-Château
100, rue de la Folie Méricourt
(reserve in advance)
Tel: 01 44 73 97 80

I was recently given the gift of a jar of extraordinary foie gras with summer truffles...

The foie gras was mi-cuit, meaning it was just partially cooked (to between 175°F and 200°F, or 80°C to 90°C), which is considered the best way to preserve foie gras, so only the finest quality livers are used. Once sealed in jars, the foie gras needs to be eaten within a few weeks, it's so fresh and delicate.

This was a very special jar of foie gras indeed, and perhaps the best in the world.
It was preserved by Monsieur Pebeyre, a forth-generation truffle hunter in the Dordogne (we used to have him ship black truffles to us at Chez Panisse). As you can see, he generously overloaded it with fragrant and elusive black summer truffle slices that he hunted and bits of tasty, yellow-gold duck fat.

I didn't hesitate a moment to decide that this was the special occasion I'd been waiting for and popped open a special bottle of wine that I had been saving from California; a Navarro Late-Harvest Gewürtztraminer (from one of my favorite California winemakers)...spicy, fruity, and complex. Served very cold, it was the ideal companion to the rich duck liver, which we simply spread on toasted baguette slices, sprinkled with a few flecks of fleur de sel, and savored as an accompaniment to the nectar-like wine, which we enjoyed as an apéritif.

"Paris. The most gorgeous place in the world. The CIty of Light. Romantic and sexy, Paris beckons people from all over the world to bask in it's splendor. But scratch beneath the surface..."

2. Could there possibly be any light more unflattering than the lighting on the Paris métro?

Yes, much of the coffee in America is horrid and/or disgusting, but at least the possibility exists of finding decent coffee in America.

5. Parisians will just walk right into you. Even if you're on a deserted sidewalk, they'll veer away, then curve around, and bam!...walk straight into you.

"Remember what happened the last time I tried to walk around Paris minding my own business...taking great care with my freshly-baked cake?"

I don't mean hookers, I mean those mean women of a certain age who wield their shopping chariots and expect you to move outta their way. You can easily spot them; they wear squared-off wire-rimmed glasses and are proudly bundled up in overcoats, and cut in line pretending not to see you. Then when it's their turn, they spend 5 minutes arguing with the vendor over the price of one fig or a slice of cheese (and then take forever trying to count out the centimes to pay, acting like it's a big surprise and inconvenience when they have to fork over the cash.

Le Creuset cookware, made in France, is cheaper in America than in France. My Delonghi heater (Italian) was 3 times the price it is in the US... and why is a Phillips Sonicare (Dutch) toothbrush twice the price?
Can't they just truck stuff across the EU border?

8. Dog crap is everywhere...and it's disgusting. Even most French people think so.

"Ah Paris, isn't it beautiful? Yes, I think I'll just step over here and admire the view of...hey...oh my God...what-the-f%$k!...what did I just step in? That is, jeez, like so gross. Oh man!"

If you have a dog, pick up after it. I had a dog. I picked up after it. It's part of ownership. If you have kids, you clean up after them. It's a unknown concept called "responsibility".

(Although I should let you know that with all the dog poo here, the last time I stepped in some was in, of all places, San Antonio.)

An organic bakery I visit often, Moisan, is lovely. Everything is picture-perfect. Glistening, caramelized fruit tarts, rustic hearth-baked breads, golden croissants, and little savory pizzas bubbling with melted cheese and fragrant with fresh herbs. I go in there all the time and the saleswomen could not be nicer.

Last time I went in, there was a lovely tray of fresh-baked Madeleines; deep-golden, buttery, and still warm from the oven. And they were picture-perfect.
So I complimented them, "Ce sont très jolie, madame." ("Those are very beautiful.")

The saleswoman, who's always been so very nice to me, snapped back, "Ce ne sont pas jolie, Monseiur. Ce sont delicieux!" ("They're not beautiful, they're delicious!")

And with that one little interchange, she will no longer wait on me or speak to me. If she happens to get me in line, she ignores me.
Salope

NEWS FLASH: At a dinner party tonight, I asked some French friends about this. They said if you use the word jolie (beautiful) to describe something, it's rather pejorative. Like saying it's 'cute', in a trés-Disney kind of way.
Who knew? (see #9)

11. The French don't seem to be as interested in coming to conclusions, instead preferring to discuss things forever without resolution. Everything takes a lo-o-o-o-ong time.

You also realize that it's not about helping the customer, but about employing as many people as possible to keep them working (25% of the people in France work for the government.)

Last week, for example, I needed shoelaces.
Simple task. Right?
The enormous BHV department store has everything.
Sure enough there's a wall of shoelaces...every variety, material, width, brand, color, and size imaginable.
Except, or course, the one I needed.

(And forget asking for help; it's non-existent. Their normal tactic is to send you to another floor just to get rid of you. Now I'm on to that ruse and don't fall for it.)

12. Why does it take 2½ hours to wash your clothes in a French washing machine?

(See previous entry. Perhaps the washing machines are also more interested in the "process", rather than the "results".)

And good luck finding unscented laundry detergent. I took me months and months to finally find some. The smell of the normal laundry detergent was so strong and fragrant that I couldn't sleep in the same room with my freshly-laundered clothes.

13. Charles de Gaulle Airport is consistently rated the worst airport in the world. It's a major embarrassment that one of the world's greatest cities has an airport that would rival one in a third-world country. Gee, I wonder why?

For two years, all the bathrooms were broken in the Terminal #1 Arrivals terminal, where you pick up your luggage. After sitting on a plane all night, you gotta go.

Last time I arrived, each and every elevator in the terminal was hors service (broken). People in wheelchairs and those with luggage carts were scratching their heads figuring out how to get downstairs.

And once you check in and go through security in Terminal #1, there's no bathroom. Since you need to check in two hours in advance, you have to leave the waiting area and re-go-through security.

(I am sure the Olympics organizers who arrived at the primitive and crumbling Charles de Gaulle were as shocked as most visitors, and it sealed the fate for Paris hosting the games.)

France has the greatest cheeses in the world. Walk into any cheese shop, or even a supermarket, and you'll find a bounty of delicious products from dairies and cheesemakers across France.

So why do the supermarkets stock some of the worst cheeses in the world right alongside the good stuff?

Because people buy them. They're vile, rubbery, flavorless cheeses with little resemblance to the real thing. It can't be the price difference, since they're roughly equivalent or a few centimes more.

I don't mind cigarette smoke. Really I don't. I'm used to it. But recently, the past few times I've been out for dinner, the people next to me as soon as they sit down they drop their packs of cigarettes on the table and chain smoke the entire night. I don't mean one to two cigarettes, I mean lots of cigarettes. The other night the woman next to me had six cigarettes during the course of her meal.

I'm not on an anti-smoking crusade, but how many cigarettes does one person need to smoke during a dinner out?

And did you know that one-third of all people in France smoke, and 50% of all teenagers between the ages of 15-24 years old smoke too?

The French parliament is taking up the no-smoking ban in restaurants this fall, as they've done in Italy and Ireland. I think it'll pass.

What are the French going to do? Take to the streets and go on strike in support of smokers?

2. If introduced as a pastry chef and cookbook author, I hear oh-la-la la's instead of a litany of complaints about everyone's diet.

3. The chocolate popsicles you buy at the supermarket are studded with real cocoa nibs.

4. Teenagers have three-course meals with their friends in restaurants. With wine.

7. I can go to Laduree for a dark chocolate macaron, Berthillon for a superb scoop of their new salted butter-caramel ice cream, Pierre Hermé for an Ispahan fix, Poilâne for just-baked, crusty levain bread, and Jean-Charles Rochoux for chocolate pavés...whenever I want.

8. You can talk pharmacists into giving you cool prescription drugs if you have a good story.
(I don't personally know if this is true, but I've, um...heard it is.)

9. I can buy a mind-altering selection of cheeses from my fromagerie for way less than the equivalent of $10.

I like the word 'addictive'.
I use it when it refers to something I like a lot and can't stop eating.
So instead of implying a substance abuse problem (the jury's still out around here whether or not chocolate is an abusable substance), the word has positive connotations for me. But I tend to use the word a lot, so much so that I fear that using the word addictive has become another addiction to me.

My friend Joanne recently came to visit me in Paris after a trip through Piedmont, the region of Italy famous for white truffles, hazelnuts, and chocolate (for some reason, though, she didn't bring me any fresh white truffles.) But she did bring me a lovely box of something dark and chocolaty:
...Baci Cherasco.

Perhaps you're familiar with Baci or Bacio di Dama, the little blue & silver foil-wrapped circle of Italian milk chocolate with a nice crisp hazelnut in the middle. Baci di Dama translates to kiss of a woman.

So I'm now in the possession of a very big bag (another reason I love Italy...big portions!) of Baci Cherasco; sinful little buttons of dark chocolate with crushed roasted hazelnuts.

The tasty Baci Cherasco were invented in 1881 when the confectioner, Marco Barbero, had make some a batch torrone and had some leftover hazelnuts bits left over...

Thinking quickly, Signor Barbero gathered up the remaining hazelnuts and had the good sense to coat them in bittersweet chocolate and made little 'kisses' from them.
Nowadays the hazelnuts are hand-crushed with rolling pins to assure they're still in irregular chunks before dipping.

(Whenever I have any remaining tempered chocolate, I scramble through my kitchen cupboards to see what else I can dip. I've enrobed coffee beans, pretzels, honeycomb, prunes...you name it, I've dipped it.)

Baci Cherasco are suspiciously simple...just two ingredients: dark chocolate and crunchy hazelnuts. They're delectable and truly addictive; the hazelnuts are perfectly roasted (always toast nuts, folks...) and the chocolate used is some of the best I've ever tasted.

Consequently, I've become addicted to the little dark nuggets with the powerful aroma of Piedmontese hazelnuts and bittersweet chocolate. So much so, I almost ate the entire bag of chocolates as if it were a sack of popcorn.

This week Meg and I went to the Salon Fermiers here in Paris. Similar to a trade show, the exhibition hall was filled with food producers selling everything from chestnut honey, fleur de sel, foie gras, artisan goat cheeses, and wines from various regions close to Paris.

But what we loved most was the prunes.
When I tell visitors to France that they must try the pruneaux de Agen (prunes from Agen) they snicker. Why do prunes have such a bad rap? Prunes are very good for your health; they're high in iron, with no added sugar but lots of fiber...and yes, they keep you, um, 'regular'.

These prunes from Agen were amazing and I was later sorry I only bought one bag. They were moist, plump, and super sweet, with hints of chocolate and spices. We both later wondered how we could get more for this particular producer.

There are close to 3 million plum trees in the southwest region of France, known as Gascony. The finest plum for drying is called the prune d'Ente, a variety that's better dried than fresh. The first time I had pruneaux d'Agen was when I visited my friend Kate, who happens to live adjacent to Agen, the veritable kingdom of prunes, where prune-lovers from 'round the world congregate to enjoy the world's best prunes.

The French adore prunes and in fact, after California, France holds the second spot in world prune production. When I visited Gascony Kate, we went to a Prune Museum...and I say "a"(meaning not singular) museum, as there's more than one in Agen.
One even had a gift shop featuring a comic book super-hero who was prune-fueled!

Prunes have borne the long-suffering brunt of poopy jokes in addition to the recent humiliation of being re-named dried plums, vexing recipe writers everywhere.
You tell me, does dried plum juice sound as appetizing as prune juice?
And how many times have you heard the integrity of prunes denigrated as a snickering joke?

With a nod of inspiration to Wine-Blogging Wednesdays, let's devote a day to prunes...the moist, wrinkled little nubbins deserve another glorious day in the sun.

Mash some prunes into ice cream, bake prunes in a savory tagine, poach 'em with some kumquats, or chop them up and beat them into a chocolate chip cookie batter. Stew them with Armagnac, toss them in a seasonal autumn salad with crisp Fuyu persimmons, or make prune enchiladas (...er, on second thought...)
Use your imagination to create something prune-tacular!

Email me a link to your entry on your blog featuring a prune recipe, or your idea of something delicious to do with prunes, by Wednesday, October 26th.

I'll collect them and present them on Thursday October 27th for Prune Blogging Thursday.

After all the poached quince slices were eaten (at about the same rate as the batch of homemade vanilla ice cream which I made to go alongside), I reduced the delicious syrup on the stovetop until it was thick and the bubbles became large. Once removed from the heat, as the syrup cooled, the pectin in the fruit encouraged the liquid to be transformed into a lovely quince jelly riddled with dark and aromatic vanilla seeds.

I found a beautiful and tangy bleu cheese at my favorite fromagerie; it's a perfect pairing.

Next month, beginning in late November though December, I'm embarking on a cross-country tour of the US teaching my Holiday Chocolate Class from coast-to-coast. Come join me as I demonstrate my favorite chocolate holiday desserts...everything from savory appetizers to delectable chocolate candies and chocolate cakes...rich, French-inspired treats.

You can view the class description and menus at Sur La Table's Culinary Program pages.

And be sure to check out my schedule page for other dates and locations if you're city isn't listed there.

My classes are always great fun and they'll be be your opportunity to add some terrific new chocolate desserts (like a fabulous chocolate cake I've just come up with) to your holiday repertoire. It's also your chance to get a personally signed copy of one of my books in person! And speaking of shopping, many stores will be giving out discount certificates for holiday shopping on most cookware throughout their stores. (Ask when you register.)

Several of the classes are either sold-out, or almost sold-out: additional dates will be added to my schedule page in the next few weeks.

Oprah gave us all the okay to return to Hermès.
She said it was all a misunderstanding and because one particular Parisian salesperson who was "rude and rigid"

If that one experience has been her only encounter with a rude salesperson in Paris...that's a subject that deserves an entire episode! I've come across more than one or two Parisian salespeople I'd like to trap in a room for a good Dr. Phil-style slap-down...and I'd buy the DVD just to watch it over and over and over.

So anyways, she kissed and made up with Hermès and a rush of relief was visible in the studio audience when she told everyone to that they should rush off to Hermés to buy a Kelly bag. Since there's an 18-month waiting list for the more-expensive and elusive Birkin bag, I didn't want to waste another minute of time in getting on that list.

( I had a brief flashback of Martha toting a Hermès bag during her trial, which many felt didn't do her much good. Carrying a pricey Kelly bag many felt sealed her fate since it made her look 'elitist'. So if you see a made-for-tv movie about my life starring Cybil Shepard, blame Oprah.)

So I polished my shoes, paid off my Visa bill, and took the Métro to the fashionable rue du Faubourg St. Honoré to worship at the temple of sublime French style, Hermès.

Located just off the place Madeleine, the windows of Hermès were filled with all sorts of handbags, the featured ones were indeed the Kelly bags (who says the French have no idea who Oprah is? They put those pricey bags on display to torture all those women from Iowa who watch Oprah.) There was a pink ostrich one (10,000 euros) and an alligator model whose price made the ostrich one look like a beach tote from K-Mart.

Since I dressed-for-success, I didn't hesitate to go inside. I pulled open the door and was warmly welcomed because I was white (...just kidding!) As the cool wave of American-style air conditioning swept over me, I pondered what I'd purchase.

I walked softly over the inlaid vintage tile floor as I passed shoppers rushing to try on Hermès scarves; knots and leafy wisps of silk softly trailing in every direction. The leather handbags were safely guarded within glass showcases and lots of them were being packed up in chic orange boxes.

No one (except me) seemed too interested in the horse saddles which were just hanging off the wall unattended (I guess shoplifters aren't interested in leather horse saddles.) I paused in front of a tray of slender strips of leather meant to be worn around your wrist, which looked remarkably similar to the ones they sell at H & M for 5 euros. But who says the Kelly bag is all that rare? Aside from the models in the window, I passed by a Kelly bag with a diamond-encrusted Hermès "H". I considered the purchase, but declined. Not because it was 100,400 euros, but simply I felt it was a bit over-the-top and I couldn't imagine who I would give it to. Imagine toting that through the Métro?
So unlike everyone else that likes to follow her advice, Oprah would be so upset with me. I left without buying anything.
Do you think perhaps that's why I never got on her show?

Dejected I left.
But not before checking out the colorful beach towels. Sadly, as the saying goes, "If you have to ask the price, you can't afford it". So of course I asked.
One Hermès beach towel: 320 euros.

I was prompted to visit Hermés since I had a fabulous Thai dinner at the home of a friend whos family oversees much of Hermés production and even has their own special mark on several choice leather pieces (And no, I didn't ask about a staff discount. That would be tacky...er, wouldn't it?)
I was stunned to have an excellent Thai dinner she had cooked, although not surprising since she lived in Japan for 12 years and in Thailand as well. Soon she is moving to Laos, and is trying to learn the Laotian language. She spoke French, Italian, Thai, Japanese, and perfect English. So today I figured I should go see what she did for a living since I'm so nosy.

(And speaking of nosy, this morning I actually explained who Gladys Kravitz is...in French. Then I had to explain the double-entendre of the title, 'Bewitched' as well. That was a real test of my French proficiency, I tell you.)

Anyhow...
With my empty credit card burning a hole in my pocket, I found salvation nearby with a petit sac of chocolate macarons from Jean-Paul Hévin, a chocolatier whose macaron au chocolat won the title of the Le Meilleur Macaron de Paris in Paris this year.

In there are six luscious chocolat, chocolat-praline, and chocolat-caramel macarons.
Price?
Just under 6 euros.

I strolled over to my favorite wine bar in Paris just down the street, located near a cramped, little oyster bar that I once had the nerve to send chef Thomas Keller to, which luckily he loved (whew!... otherwise that would have shot down my Paris cred big-time.)

I had two nice glasses of Chinon, a fruity red wine from the Loire Valley, served slightly chilled.
Price?
2.6 euros per glass.

So instead of being in the hole for 100,400 euros, I had spent just 10 euros and had a wonderful Parisian afternoon. And no one was rude to me! Maybe Oprah ought to give me a call next time she's in town and I'll show her a good time and perhaps she'll buy me one of those nice leather Hermès bracelets as gratitude...although with my luck, it'll be the saddle.

One of my responses to the frequently-asked question, "Why do you live in Paris?"

Je presente Le caramel au Beurre Salé...dark, bittersweet chocolate surrounding a pocket of sweet-salty oozing caramel, flecked with grains of fleur de sel de Guérande.

And thanks to Aude, I've added a new French word to my vocabulary: Nounours, or, Teddy Bear (ours means 'bear'.)
Brian thought they were the French version of Mallomars™and he shares my passion for the little dome-like marshmallow mounds resting on a disk of graham crackers finished with an über-thin dark chocolate coating.

Luckyguess perhaps mockingly thought they were breasts, but if breasts were indeed available in a chocolate-coated variety, I suspect they'd be a lot more popular than they already are. And Pru fell for the oldest trick in the book, the 'slide-your-cursor-over-the-blog-photo', which effectively threw her off-track completely.

They're chocolate-coated candies with a marshmallow filling, and a nubbin of hazelnut paste (a word that may send Aude to the French dictionary, as Nounours sent me to mine), all enrobed in a thin shell of delicously-dark chocolate. Each candy perfectly resembles a canellé, those little cakes from Bordeaux, baked in copper molds coated with beeswax, creating a dark, crusty shell around the eggy cake batter.
Canellés became all the rage amongst American bakers a few years back, but they're difficult to bake correctly (...and before you get your panties in a knot about how I've spelled canellés, there's a few different ways to spell them.)

When you find one, a good canellé will be very good indeed...but a well-made one is indeed rarly encountered (there's a kiosk in the gare Montparnasse in Paris which sells terrific canellés direct from Bordeaux). The best have a hard, tough outer-coating, yielding to a soft, rich, vanilla-scented center that's eggy and pillow-soft.

When I spotted these in the confectionary shop, the proprietor excited told me all about them...but in such rapid-fire French, that although her enthusiam had become contageous, I could only comprehend about one-third of what she was saying. When I detected the word guimauve (marshmallow) jumbled in her exhaltations, I had to try them.

I was never a big fan of milk chocolate.
It was always too sweet, too bland, and never gave me that same chocolate rush of pleasure that a nice chunk of dark, bittersweet chocolate did. When I wrote my chocolate book, I heard from more than a few people, sheepishly, that they preferred milk chocolate. So I wanted to find out why a chocolate-lover would prefer milk chocolate over dark chocolate.

Even pastry chef Pierre Hermé in Paris prefers milk chocolate in most of his desserts, including his famous towering 70€ Chocolate Cherry Cake:

After much thought (yes, I think about these things all the time) I came to the conclusion that the problem is when you compare milk chocolate to dark chocolate. One is not necessarily better than another. They're both two different things. I think of milk chocolate as a 'confection' made of chocolate with a bit of milk added. Eating milk chocolate isn't like eating bittersweet chocolate just like eating red licorice (yum) should not be compared to black licorice (ick).

It's similar to comparing a Vodka & Tonic to a shot of vodka.
Both are drinks that people drink, and both use vodka as a base, but they're entirely different and don't warrant comparison. Sometimes you want a Vodka & Tonic, and other times you want, or in some cases need, a neat, icy shot of vodka.

Remember the 80's when people drank spritzers? (weren't we cool when we ordered one...)
That infamous concoction of white wine topped off with sparkling club soda. It wasn't a glass of white wine anymore, but something different, but it was made with white wine. And they weren't bad, although I wonder what react I'd get here in Paris if I asked the waiter for a glass of white wine with some fizzy water added?

So chocolate-makers are trying to convert us dark chocolate lovers with new milk chocolate bars, which contain anywhere from 40%-65% cacao solids (the amount of cacao beans used to formulate the bar.) Milk chocolate must be at least 10% cacao solids to legally be called milk chocolate.

So in my quest to appreciate milk chocolate, one favorite is Domori's Latte Sal. It's a bar of cioccolato al latte made with 44% cacao solids and a clever touch of fleur de sel. That little pinch of fine sea salt from the Guérande takes the sweetness off the chocolate and adds a nice, curious counterpoint.

Domori's Latte Sal milk chocolate bar is available from Chocosphere in the United States.

I pass this café often when strolling up the rue de Chemin Vert, in the 11th arrondissement. Someday I'll stop in at the bar for a café express since I've always loved the lettering out front.

My local La Poste, a streamlined Art Deco masterpiece built in 1935, meant to suggest the speed and futuristic-optimism of the industrial revolution. Some would argue La Poste is anything but speedy and optimistic, but I've found the French postal system generally dependable and remarkably efficient. Located at 35, rue de Castex, in the lower Marais.

Paris is full of small, cozy neighborhood restaurants that serve very decent food at reasonable prices, usually enjoyed with a hearty carafe of vin rouge maison. They're not meant to 'wow' you will culinary feats; thankfully you'll find no dried porcini powder rimming your plate or desserts scented with basil.

The welcoming façade of Aux Pyrénées at 25, rue Beautrellis, certainly is inviting and has plenty of charm.

In this month's Hemispheres Magazine, the magazine of United Airlines, you'll find my article about exploring the chocolate shops of Paris. I talk about many of my favorite places, why I like them...and what I recommend you get while you're there!

Although the article is only available on United Airlines flights in October (so book your flight to Paris today!) you'll find a special 'Cyber Sidebar' at their web site of great addresses for le chocolat chaud, the famed ultra-thick and rich Parisian hot chocolate.

To read the bonus Cyber Sidebar on their web site, click on the bottom link-bar, the 'Cyber Sidebar'.

It's my carnet of hot chocolate addresses in Paris, some are justifyably famous and well-known, and there's a few secret new addresses that you probably don't know about, but should.

I acted on "insider information" from a few Parisians; at one very famous hot chocolate emporium, the saleswoman pulled me aside and secretly scribbled down a few of her personal favorites and handed it off to me...for research!

Next month, I'll post the Parisian hot chocolate recipe given to me by a well-known pastry chef and served in his chic salon, which I've adapted for home cooks...you'll be sipping le chocolat chaud all winter long.

What do you do with a fruit who's flesh is gritty and rock-hard, inedibly astringent when raw, and as vexing to slice through as a tough ol' catcher's mitt?

No one seems to know what to do when they happen upon some quince at the market. The gnarly-looking fruits seem as if they've just been plucked from a medieval centerpiece, surrounding by medlars and split-open pomegranates, mounded alongside sugary dates and clusters of grapes cascading over the sides of the oversized platter of fruit, waiting to be served with perhaps a chalice of wine.

Quince should be yellow-ripe when you buy them. If bought green, quince should be allowed to ripen at room temperature for a few days until yellow and fragrant. My favorite varieties are Smyrna and Pineapple, but often you just have to pick from what's offered.
Quince are usually covered with a grey layer of lint-like fuzz, which can be easily washed off. It's a task I find as satisfying as cleaning the lint filter from the dryer.
(That is, when I had a dryer to clean the lint from.)

The most splendid thing you'll discover about quince, however, will be the day after you bring them home: your kitchen will be filled with the most marvelous rose-and-violet-like aroma imaginable. I like the frangrance so much that I always left one on the dashboard of my car during quince season.
(That is, when I had a car to drive around with my quince.)
In Paris, I think I'd get some rather peculiar looks if I tried balancing a quince anywhere level on the métro.

Since quince have lots of tannins they're impossible to eat raw. Don't believe me? Try a slice, and I guarantee you'll be unable to produce saliva for a week afterwards. But you can simply grate raw quince into a bowl of sliced apples destined for an Apple and Quince Crisp, or follow my simple recipe for Quince Marmalade from Ripe For Dessert which calls for several quince to be grated and cooked with sugar and jam, until the tender bits of rosy quince are suspended in a quivering, softy-gelled syrup.

Fully cooked, however, quinces reveal their most beautiful side and turn a rosy-red hue. The stunning quince slices can be served warm or room temperature with some of the cooking liquid, perhaps with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or creme fraiche, or mixed with other poached dried fruits, such as prunes, apricots, sour cherries, or cranberries.

I'll sometimes alternate quince slices with apples when making a caramelized tarte Tatin...

And the highly-scented cooking liquid becomes even more lovely when reduced to a thick syrup, then drizzled over the tart. Or just pool some of the thick syrup on a plate alongside some slices of sharp cheddar, Roquefort, or sheep's milk cheese with a handful of dates or some ripe figs.

3 quince (about 2 pounds)
1 ½ cups sugar
4 ½ cups water
1/2 vanilla bean, split and the seeds scraped into the syrup

One caveat: Please don't cut yourself when slicing or peeling quince. They're tough little suckers. Tougher than you are. They'll turn a lovely shade of red on their own without you cutting yourself while slicing them.

1. In a large non-reactive saucepan, bring the sugar, water, and the vanilla bean pod and seeds, to a boil.

2. Peel and quarter the quince using a chef's knife.
With a paring knife, cut out the tough core and any bits of hard matter surrounding it. Take care, as the flesh is very hard (some people suggest poaching the quince with the cores, then remove them later, but I remove them).
Cut the quince quarters in half or thirds, making 1-inch slices.

3. Reduce heat to a simmer and add the quince slices to the syrup (they'll begin to brown quickly once cut, so submerge them into the syrup as they're sliced). Cover with a round of parchment paper, and simmer gently for about 1 ½ hours, or until they're rosy and tender (poke them with a paring knife if you need to check.)

Once poached, the quince in their liquid will keep in the refrigerator for at least 5 days.

I am often asked the difficult-to-answer question, "Who is the best chocolatier in Paris?"

There are very few parts of Paris where you can't find something delicious made of chocolate. From my apartment, I'm one block from Dalloyau and two blocks from Lenôtre. Walk out my front door, cross the street, and there's Joséphine Vannier near the Place des Vosges, a small chocolate shop which I've never even been into (the selection in the window seems to delight the tourists, but belies the more serious chocolates inside.) And I'm only two blocks from A la Petite Fabrique, but the saleswoman is so rude that I refuse to shop there (...since she refuses to wait on me, I guess we're even).

Last December, Patrick Roger decided to open a boutique in Paris (his workshop is in Sceaux, in the suburbs of Paris). Instead of setting up in a super-chic arrondissement, his shop is close to the bustling Boulevard St. Michel. Each time I pass by, there's always people pressed hard against the tinted glass (which is to protect the chocolates from the sun), peering in to catch a glimpse of Roger's stunning bonbons and whimsical chocolate and marzipan confections.

When it comes to chocolate, my philosophy is 'Simple is Best'.
The finest chocolate bonbons allow the flavor of the chocolate to come through without interference from the other flavors and ingredients. The zippy notes of fresh lime juice enlivens a cushion of ganache, a hit of Sichuan pepper, smoky Earl Grey tea, and meltingly tender rum raisin-filled nuggets: all are examples of the masterful balance of flavors that compliment dark chocolate, not compete with it.