David Lebovitz Archives: November 2005 Archives

Upon arrival at Paris' Roissy airport, I notice that lots of people seem to be smiling and no one is trying to cut in front of me in line and many of the people are toting self-help bestsellers with semi-bald men grinning on the glossy front jackets.
Yes, I'm on my way back to the United States of America.

I got upgraded, which is like winning the lottery. I don't know if those people at the airline check-in know how just tapping one extra key during their flurry of keystrokes can make my entire journey so much more pleasant, but there's nothing better than sitting up in the front in the plane (instead of walking by, ruefully, on my slouch to economy). I'm able to stretch my long legs and have the possibility of a few treasured moments of real sleep (sans Ambien) before I arrive.

So here I sit, in United's Red Carpet Club and I'm looking at a copy of USA Today. The headline reads, "Holiday sale dip, then they dazzle". The International Herald Tribune, the paper of Europe, has the headline, "EU Warns Members of CIA Terror Camps".
Inside USA Today, they've requested readers write about what they're thankful for, and a woman writes, "....while I deeply resent the unchecked and increasing numbers of illegal immigrants streaming across our porous borders, I am thankful to live in a land of opportunity so sought after by those who don't live in such a country."

Note to Doris: Perhaps you might give thanks that you don't live in a country where you live in fear for your life on a daily basis, where there's plenty of food to go around, and you have a roof over your head, rather than using it as an opportunity to complain about immigration (something I'm sure her grandparents, like most of ours, benefited from.)

Since I wasn't sure of my euphoria-inducing upgraded status, I packed a nifty lunch of two hard-boiled eggs from my local fromagerie, French yogurt (which I'll dearly miss), salade de carrotte rapée (grated carrots with lemon juice, which is the national salad of France), and a split baguette smeared with butter and slices of silky jambon de Bayonne. I'm also fortified with a small packet of chocolate-covered coffee beans from Slitti, one of my favorite chocolate shops in Italy, which do double-duty for chocolate or coffee related urgencies.

On the plane, I flip through the airline magazine, which highlights some of Todays Hottest Young Chefs! Several of them have devised ways of using chemicals and stabilizers to create a celebrated new genre of cuisine.
Huh? Didn't most of us spend the last few years trying to get people to stop adding chemicals and stabilizers to food?

So last week I had a final Paris food blow-out when my pal DL 2 came from Switzerland. We took the opportunity to visit one of my favorite traditional restaurants in Paris: A la Biche Au Bois. I've been eating there for years and it's a favorite, with a well priced menu for only 23 euros and lively dining room that offers a wonderful tour de force of rustic French cooking.

I began with the salade Perigordine; a memorable slab of foie gras with a big pile of haricots vertes (freshly cooked and still a bit crispy, trés americaine). I almost couldn't make it through the whole slice. As you can see, it's was e-n-o-r-m-o-u-s....

I figured since was restaurant titled after la biche herself (deer), I should sample the namesake; tonight she's offered in a casserole as a long-simmered stew with a dark, rich sauce. Alongside comes a smooth and excellent purée of celery root. My meal was excellent and hearty and I make a mental note to eat here more often.

Distractingly, our waiter kept passing the table with platters heaped with homemade, and remarkable-looking, crispy French fries. They were deep-golden brown, with wisps of steam rising, served on metal platters. So naturally I wanted to get a plate, but in Paris when you become a waiter, they implant special lenses in your eyes that allow you to only look forward and block out customers who might make special requests...so we didn't get any.

No matter.
The service was cheerful and accommodating and we drank a nice bottle of Burgundian Pinot Noir. I finished my meal with one of my favorite desserts: a towering mound of snow-white Ile Flottante, baked and caramelized meringue floating in icy cold creme Anglaise and a drizzle of dark caramel.
A complimentary glass of warming Armagnac was offered to fend off the frozen evening chill outside, and we made our way home.

The next day, we made a pilgrimage to Pierre Hermé, this time his large boutique on the rue de Vaugirard, which is less-hectic than the location on rue Bonaparte and has a tad more breathing room.

Pierre Hermé's newest 'collection' was on full display and we first chose a few macarons Plénitude, a mélange of chocolate ganache and caramel with fleur de sel fused together with disks of almondy meringue cookies.

I've been looking for the opportunity to try Emotion Mahogany, but was scared of carrying the fragile little glass across Paris via the Metro (as regular readers to my blog know, I've had too many unfortunate experiences trying to navigate Paris, and Parisians in a hurry, while carrying a cake.)

As you can see, I need not have worried. I guess the folks at Pierre Hermé are used to customers having to deal with Parisians walking right into them carrying a fragile cake or dessert.

At the bottom of the glass were of coarsely chopped litchees. On top of that was a smooth layer of mango compote, then a bit of caramel mousse and topped with tender, tiny coconut marshmallows.

You're meant to dig your spoon deep down into the glass and get a layer of each flavor in every mouthful, which is impossible without all the marshmallows tumbling off. (So don't try to eat this on a park bench. The marshmallows are the best part!)
It was tasty, but I would have liked something a bit tangy to brighten the flavors. Perhaps a layer of dark rum or very dark caramel or citrusy lime mousse.

The other dessert we tried was a masterpiece of engineering. Le Instant, a bittersweet chocolate shell enrobing chocolate mousse and a nugget of Earl Grey tea gelés buried within. While tasty, it was awfully sweet and after so much eating (we'd had fabulously filling savory and sweet crepes for lunch and dessert at my favorite creperie in Paris, near the Gare Montparnasse) neither one of us showed much interest in it Pierre Hermé doesn't like very bitter chocolate desserts...but I do. So we the rest was, unfortunately, left.

The worst thing about the pâtisserie of Arnaud Larher is that it's too damn far away from where I live.
Located on the northern fringes of Montmarte, it takes me 3 different métros to get there, and even then, it's a hike from the métro station (which is buried very, very deep underground, since that quartier of Paris is mostly soft limestone, aka plaster of Paris, and building the métro stations at Montmarte required extremely deep digging into the earth to reach solid ground.)

The best thing, though, is once I arrive, I forget the arduous journey when I see all the terrific cakes and candies and treats waiting for me...

I made my first trip 'up the mountain' a few years back to check out his Croq-Télé, round buttery cookies with roasted hazelnuts and a nice amount of salt, meant to be consumed while watching television. His macarons are a tad dense for my taste, but the chocolate-covered guimauve, or French marshmallows, are yummy. And although they're hard to spot tucked in between the riot of chocolates and bonbons tied in neat little bags on the shelves, the Pavés de Montmarte, golden squares of almond cake wrapped in a sheath of almond paste then briefly cooked, augmenting the almondy richness, are one of the most singularly (and simply) stunning cakes in Paris.
No small feat, in a city with no lack of stunning desserts.

Recently I've been thinking a bit about pistachios for a couple of reasons.
Pistachios are wonderful and tasty nuts that not so long ago were considered unusual and exotic. Now they've become rather common and are easily available. When I was a little boy, my Syrian grandfather used to always have on hand big 5-poundsacks of pistachio nuts, sometimes vividly-colored red (am I the only one who remembers those?) They were the best and I ate so many I'm surprised that my fingers aren't permanently stained.

Then during the 1980's, products from Iran were banned from being exported into the US for political reasons and my beloved pistachios disappeared. Eventually some crafty Californians came along (like the ones who decided that kiwis were going to be the Next Big Thing and planted rows and rows of them) and American-grown pistachios are the result; now pistachios are relatively cheap and plentiful. But here in Paris, I prowl the Arabic markets in neighborhoods off-the-beaten-path, and often come across Iranian pistachios which are delicious; the split shells easily snap off, and I pop the plump, lightly-salted nut kernels into my mouth. Before I know it, I've consumed a good half a kilo and want more.

I was lucky to get a wonderful gift from my friend Anne of some chocolate treats from a recent trip to Caffé dell' Arte in Sicily. If you didn't know it, Sicily is famous, mostly amongst pastry chefs who seek these pistachios which are brilliant green and sans the grey, papery and unattractive husk that covers the nut. Sicilian pistachios are wonderful for decorating since the color is indeed magnificent. (In spite of what recipes tell you, I don't advise toasting normal pistachio nuts since they tend to lose any of their green hue, and they've likely been roasted before packaging.)

Anne advised that the aroma of pistachios was the first thing she noticed when she opened her bar, and sure enough, when I slipped mine out of the wrapper, the delicious nutty scent of fresh nuts filled the air, along with the aroma of deep, dark chocolate.
And the taste...Wow!

This was one of the best bars of chocolate I've ever had.
The chocolate was smooth and dark, rich and roasted like a sweet Italian espresso, with a lingering bitterness tempered with a perfectly balanced amount of sugar. Just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to be sweet: truly a fine balance of flavors. And the crispy, Sicilian pistachio nuts were whole, brilliant-green, and full of the flavor, reminiscent of a sunny and earthy Mediterranean climate.

Another treat were these thick slices of candied citron dipped in pure dark chocolate. Hardly anyone knows what citrons are anymore and they're rarely found (the ones below that I saw in Italy at a villa and the owners insisted that they were "strange lemons, but with no pulp!"...)

Unless you're lucky enough to know someone with a tree, citrons are a rarity in produce markets. They're notable for their musky, aromatic smell and barely any pulp. But the beauty of a citron is in the noble, aromatic peel and rind, which is candied in halves or big slices, then chopped into Italian fruitcakes like pan forte or pan pepato, its spicier cousin. Of course, many American use them when baking their holiday fruitcakes as well, commonly referred to as "those icky green things", an unfortunate designation, since as you can see, they're lovely and delicious, especially coated with Sicilian chocolate!

Perhaps it's wrong to blame the cheese.
But cheese doesn't have any feelings, it's just exists for our pleasure.
So for once I don't have to worry about offending anyone on my blog. Now that's a relief.

A friend of mine came for dinner the other night who's on le regime, a diet. While shopping at the supermarket I spotted this reduced-fat cheese, checked out the short list of ingredients on the reverse (which listed no icky ingredients), so I tossed it in my handbasket and headed to the checkout.

I got home, unwrapped it and immediately my apartment smelled rather, um, funky.
And not like that good-funky that a fabulously-ripe camembert or brie smells like, but a vaguely familiar funky, with a smell that I couldn't put my finger on it. When my friend arrived a bit later (who's quite refined and sophisticated, and lives in the swank Place des Vosges), she removed her Hermès jacket and scarf, took a whiff then looked at the sorry specimen, screwed up her face, and said, "Ugh. That smells like a fart."

And before you pooh-pooh low-fat, there's a long list of low- or non-fat items that rock our world: pink marshmallow Peeps, dried sour cherries, gumdrops, Berthillon's bitter chocolate sorbet, prunes, candy corn, rice, meringue, pasta, cranberry sauce, matzoh, Cracker Jack's, dark brown sugar, Jewish rye bread, dried-out leftover turkey breast meat, sushi, and orange-flavored Chuckles.)

But this cheese was indeed the worst cheese I've ever come across.
It had absolutely no flavor. But still, I kept it on my kitchen counter for a few days pondering another use for it. Perhaps macaroni and cheese? Melting it for a sandwich?
I hate throwing anything away, especially food...after all, I am my mother's son.

That was my first and last experince with fromage allegé. Finally after a few aromatic days I suffered in my apartment, I tossed it. I'm sticking with the real thing. If you're going to live in France, why bother with anything else?

One of my favorite lunch treats is from Au Levain du Marais, their warm Anchovy Tart with soft-baked tomatoes and oil-cured olives, all baked in a buttery puff-pastry crust.

I try to stop in at least once a week for a quick bite, and if I'm lucky, I get to the bakery just when they're fresh from the oven.
A perfect lunch!

But the only visible signs of excitement here are from Americans making their scavenger hunt across Paris in preparation for the Big Feast. Everyone's rushing around gathering provisions like cranberries, corn syrup, molasses, and, of course, a jumbo turkey. And like most Americans, Thanksgiving is perhaps my favorite holiday since it involves lots of baking projects and overeating.

But how do you explain the appeal of Thanksgiving to someone who isn't American?
Do most Americans even know or remember what Thanksgiving is all about?

Although I grew up in New England, mere minutes from Plymouth Rock, I just have a vague recollection of uptight pilgrims wearing funny shoes and hats who made a lot of food to celebrate displacing the Indians (oops, I mean Native Americans) who'd been there before them.

But the concept of an overabundance of food is something that's acutely American...and it doesn't necessarily translate. Let's face it, some of the food is a little weird (ie: jellied cranberries sauce).
I love watching the faces of Parisians when I describe Sweet Potato Puree; sweet potatoes, or patates doux, are rarely available, ("We feed those to the pigs!", I've heard) although I do manage to find them in ethnic neighborhoods, at least the ones who haven't been torched.

I describe how we dot the top of the casserole with marshmallows and bake it until it's all nice and crusty and golden-brown.
At that point, most French people (or anyone who isn't American) is begging me to stop. A Dutch acquantance told me she tried it once and was physically ill afterwards.

An American friend thinks that it's not worth inviting French people over for Thanksgiving since they don't really 'get it' and the whole thing is wasted on them. I mean, the food's not really exceptional (unlike American bar-b-q, which French people adore) and no one here has the day off from work to devote the day to eating.
So what's the point? Why waste the your hard-found (and expensive) fresh cranberries, unsulphured molasses and precious Campfire™ marshmallows?

But one thing that does seem to cross international lines successfully is baking.
I never visit a country without sampling their baking. I visit bakeries and want to try everything, from Mexico's delicious tortillas served warm with butter, to Indian naan breads just from a tandoori oven. Here in France during the winter, the windows of pastry shops are lined with all sizes of Galettes de Rois, disks of caramelized puff pastry filled with almond paste. Alsation bakers offer sweet, doughyGugelhofs with plumped raisins and toasted almonds with freshly-grated citrus peel. And even though the world is mired in cultural misunderstandings, wars, and hostility, perhaps the United Nations might consider sending an International Baking Brigade around the world to promote cross-cultural baking traditionals.

So while that ain't likely to happen in my lifetime, I was thrilled to receive a new book from Nick Malgieri of baking recipes from around the world. I was fortunate to meet Nick years ago when I was starting my career writing cookbooks and he was overtly generous giving me advice about writing and publishing. Fortunately for bakers everywhere, Nick shares his vast knowledge of baking in his many well-written books. He perhaps knows more about baking than anyone I've ever met and is one of my heros.

His latest cookbook, A Baker's Tour, is a terrific and comprehensive overview of the world's most delicious baked goods....

So when last week I trekked out to Vandermeersch for their amazing Kugelhof, I was distressed to learn they're only available on weekends. (Of course, being in France, if I had gone out, say...Thursday, I would have discovered, "Desolé Monsieur, We make kugelhofs every day...except Thursday.")

I was delighted to find a recipe in Nick's book and decided to bake a yeasty Kugelhof myself. It also gave me also the opportunity to use the beautiful ceramic Alsatian Kugelhof mold that I found while pickling through some neglected boxes at a vide grenier, a neighborhood flea market, a few weeks ago in Paris.

Nick calls this a Gugelhof, which is the Austrian name for this cake. He advises to measure flour by spooning it into a graduated measuring cup, then leveling it off. I made an orange flower water syrup to soak the cake, an inspiration from Vandermeersch bakery, as suggested in Dorie Greenspan's book, Paris Sweets.

½ cup milk
2 ½ teaspoons active dry yeast (not instant)
2/3 cup all-purpose flour

Dough
½ cup raisins
1 tablespoon dark rum
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
3 tablespoons sugar
½ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons lemon zest
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 large egg yolks
1 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup whole blanched almonds, toasted and coarsely chopped (see note below)
½ cup sliced almonds, for lining the cake pan

1. Maker the sponge by warming the milk over low heat in a small saucepan until it's tepid. Pour into a bowl, and mix in the yeast then the flour. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise until bubbly, about 20 minutes.

3. In a standing electric mixer, beat the butter with the sugar and salt with the paddle attachment until soft and light, about 3 minutes. Beat in the lemon zest and vanilla.

4. Beat in the egg yolks until smooth. Scrape down the sides of the mixer bowl, then beat another minute.

5. Drain the raisins then beat the rum into the dough, then beat in the flour. Beat on low speed for 2 minutes and let rest for 10 minutes.

8. Scrape the dough into a butter bowl and turn it so the top is buttered. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise until the dough just begins to puff, about 20 minutes.

9. Butter the kugelhof mold well the scatter the sliced almonds over the inside of the mold, turning to coat it evenly.

10. Scrape the dough into the kugelhof mold and cover with a towel or buttered plastic wrap.

11. About 15 minutes before the dough is fully risen, preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Bake the kugelhof until it's well-risen, and deep golden, about 40-45 minutes.

To make a nice, moist syrupy glaze; bring 1/3 cup of water and 1/3 cup of sugar to a boil. Remove from heat once the sugar is dissolved and add 1 ½ teaspoons orange flower water and 2 tablespoons finely ground almonds (optional, but good).
Liberally brush the syrup all over, on top of, and around the cake.

Note: To peel your own almonds, bring a small saucepan of water to a boil. Add the untoasted almonds and let cook for about 30 seconds. Remove from heat and drain. Once the almonds are cool enough to handle, the skins will slip right off.

Toast the almonds until golden brown for best flavor before using. I snap one in half to make sure they're crispy all the way through.

It's my almost-empty peanut butter jar, which means I'm just about due for a trip back to the United States of America...I'll be on The Book Tour!
The good part of The Book Tour is that I get to meet lots of people who bake from my books and read my blog.

5. Get out of bed and mentally think about trying to find a place nearby for breakfast that won't set me back $37.85 (ie: the overpriced hotel dining room) for two eggs, imitation-butter-slathered toast, soggy home fries with lots of freaky-colored paprika added for no reason but to try to make them look more 'gourmet' but in fact they look scary and gross, and watery orange juice. Bottomless cup of coffee is $4.75 extra...since they know you're going to order it anyways...why not overcharge?
Thankfully it's bottomless, since you need to drink four cups before you feel anything resembling a caffeine jolt. And it comes with those little plastic containers of half-and-half that have the consistency of house paint. (Isn't it cheaper, and better, to give you fresh milk? And who the hell uses half-and-half anymore?)

6. Reconsider staying in my hotel room and making coffee in the provided coffee-maker adding powdered-milk substitute.

7. Find nearby Starbucks. Figure out their stupid size-system that makesabsolutely no sense and just sounds pretentious and I can't bring myself to ask for something vente when I just want a medium-sized coffee with a bit of milk. Grab a puffy, super-sized Apple-Blueberry-Cranberry Streusel Bagel and bottle of icky-green Odwalla Power Juice intended for menstruating women and head back to the room to watch Diane Sawyer interview some actress who shaved her head for a movie role.

8. Eat breakfast and switch channel to Good Morning, Springfield. Weathergal Jenni Johnanssen is interviewing a 107-year old grandma about her needlepoint fetish. Some vitally important news about Katie Holmes baby, which everyone still assumes is a product of Tom Cruise. Change channels to QVC. At least they're honest about what they're selling.

9. Shower and shave. Pack up clothes from night before. Smell socks and decide to throw them away. Briefly feel bad for the housekeeper, leave her $3, and wheel my luggage out the door.

10. Get down to desk and realize I forgot my shirt hanging in closet. Go back up to the now-smelly room, find out room key needs to be re-set and I need to go back downstairs to the desk and there's now a line. Of course the person in front of me is having a problem with his credit card while simultaneously carrying on a cell phone conversation with a business associate who is probably in the next room.

11. Explain to the bellhop that I don't need help (ie: $3) with my little carry-on suitcase.

12. Try to get someone to explain how to get to airport.
No one knows.
No one even seems to know how to get around the city they live in. Much disagreement at the hotel front desk about how to get to the airport but after a little conference amongst them, they draw me a rudimentary map
(Don't people ask them that all the time? Why don't they just have a photocopied map with directions?)
Go outside but can't figure out which rental car in the parking lot is mine since they all look exactly alike. Eventually find mine, distinguishable by the York Peppermint Patty wrappers on the floor. Discover Palm Pilot is frozen and fused to the vinyl front seat.

As I'm turning onto the highway, realize I left my only razor in the bathroom and I forgot to shave.

13. Drive to airport in morning rush hour listening to Howard Stern interview identical-twin lesbians about their silicone implants which their stepfather bought them for their 16th birthdays.
Get stuck in traffic and realize that I have no idea where I'm going but it doesn't really matter since I can't move anyways. Watch drivers applying make-up, reading newspapers, picking their noses (they stop immediately when they see I'm looking and pretend they're scratching their noses), and eating KFC breakfast burritos.

14. See sign for airport, find a gas station to fill up the car, and pray I don't get shot. Drop off rental car, answer lots of stupid questions intended to try to get me to pay more money.

18. Check-in, find gate and wait while some idiot yells on his cell phone to his business associate. Change seats and sit next to woman wearing a good bottle-and-a-half of horrid perfume, reading Real Simple magazine and dog-earing pages. I read a USA Today that someone left behind.
Not much news, but there sure are a lot of pretty colors.

19. Get on plane, decline the vile coffee, and fly to next city. Eat the apple that's fallen to the bottom of my shoulder bag, resting in the detritus at the bottom along with an uncapped Sharpie and find my last, long-lost Ambien.

20. Pick up rental car. Listen while they try to talk me into all sorts of things that triple the price. I decline. Grave predictions are made by the rental car rep.
Feel guilty. Buy insurance.

21. Drive around new city in Chevy Cavalier ("Would anyone really buy this model of car?", I think to myself.) Find hotel. (Getting better at this. I only got lost twice.) Fend off bell-hop that wants to help me with my little carry-on (ie: $3). Desk clerk tells me there's no reservation under my name. Call cooking school. Tell desk clerk to re-check. Desk clerk finds reservation. Room isn't ready. Won't be ready until 3 pm. It's now 10:30am and I'm in a strange city in the middle of nowhere.
Look for bathroom, sit in stall.

22. Ask at front desk about a good restaurant nearby for lunch. They suggest TGIFridays, Bennigans, Cracker Barrel, or Paneria. (My cunning strategy of asking, "Where can I get something fresh for lunch?" invariably makes them draw a blank.)

23. Eat The World's Largest Chicken Salad with Country Ranch Dressing (on the side) served on a pile of deep-fried noodles which I intend to pick away (but actually they taste pretty good even though I know they're really bad for you) accompanied by The World's Largest Glass of Iced Tea in a glass with more ice than Antarctica. There's barely room for tea.

I drink my iced tea shivering, wondering why in the middle of December the air-conditioning seems to be operating at full blast.

Waitress asks me at minimum of three times, "How is everything?"
I want to answer, "Please leave me alone.", but I'm too polite and I know she's just doing her job, so I say, "Fine, thanks..." (...but please stop pouring more ice tea whenever I take a sip from my glass!)

24. Go to room, which smells like pine deodorizer. Unpack fresh socks and undershorts. Realize I don't have any more fresh undershorts. Decide to multitask: take warm bubble bath while washing undies. Listen to television "news" about Maddox Jolie's hair and complaints about how expensive gas is in America.
No one mentions the war.

Stop at Walgreen's to get new razor. Am transfixed by the shampoo aisle. What does someone do when faced with a choice of 87 different kinds of shampoo? I am paralyzed with indecision and wonder at Walgreen's, and leave with my razor and two York Peppermint Patties.
And Teen People magazine.

25. Find cooking school and meet the assistants who are lots of fun and enthusiastic. I suggest they wear nametags since within seconds after they tell me their names, I've forgotten them, and from then on have to pretend I remember their names.
I barely remember mine at this point.

26. Set up for class. Guests arrive. Teach a fun Chocolate Class. Great class and only one person tells me they're allergic to chocolate. No one asks "How do you stay so thin? or "Why do you live in France?" (er"...watch the news lately?) or "What do you think about low-carb chocolate?" (See previous question, Why I Live in France...there's no such thing as low-carb chocolate!) or "Are French people really rude?" (Um, yes some of them are, but I guess since no one is rude in America it's quite a shock.)

People laugh at my jokes and like everything I make.
Sign books and chat with guests.
Buy a few things at the store before I leave.

27. Go back to my hotel. Realize I'm starving and haven't had anything to eat since lunch eleven hours ago. Ask at front desk where I can get something to eat. They recommend TGIFridays, Bennigans, Cracker Barrel, or Paneria. (I give up asking for fresh. Too optimistic.) And I'm too cheap to order the room service soggy club sandwich for $23 and the glass of wine for $12 (I'll need at least 2), plus 20% service charge and the $3 room delivery fee and $5 tip they'll inevitably linger around waiting for.

28, Take a hot shower in a bathroom with the World's Greatest Water Pressure. God I love America.
I vow never to return to Paris.

29. Peel off poly-fiber bed covering and slide in bed. Prop myself up with every pillow available in the room, including cushions from the sofa. Turn to HBO and find a late-night show about strippers in the San Fernando Valley. More than one looks like Mariah Carey. Oh wait, that is a Mariah Carey video. Brief and miscellaneous skin shots keep me from flipping channels until I can't take it anymore and turn it off.

Realize I have a plane to catch at 9:15 am and I have no idea where I am.
See socks lying on floor by television and spilled bottle of Excedrin PM.

When the winter chill comes to Paris, one of the great pleasures is sipping a cup of rich hot chocolate, le chocolat chaud, in a cozy café.

Contrary to popular belief, most versions of Parisian hot chocolate are made with milk rather than cream, and get their luxurious richness from lots of top-quality chocolate. This cup of chocolat chaud is deeply-flavorful, but not over-the-top rich...so there's no need to feel guilty indulging in a nice, warm cup whenever you feel the need.

2 cups (60 cl) whole milk
5 ounces (130 gr) bittersweet chocolate, (with at least 70% cacao solids), finely chopped
optional: 2 tablespoons light brown sugar

Once the milk is warm, whisk in the chocolate, stirring until melted and steaming hot. For a thick hot chocolate, cook at a very low boil for about 3 minutes, whisking frequently. (Be careful and keep an eye on the mixture, as it may boil up a bit during the first moments.)

Note: This hot chocolate improves if made ahead and allowed to sit for a few hours. Rewarm before serving. I also like to add a few flecks of fleur de sel, the very good sea salt from Brittany.

It's the background flavor to just about everything I make, and I invariably cheat and add a few drops of pure vanilla extract to whatever I'm baking...even if a recipe doesn't call for it.

And with holiday baking season in full-throttle around here, I'm reaching for that little bottle of vanilla just about every day. Another favorite products is Vanilla Sugar; natural, unrefined cane sugar that's blended with dried pods of vanilla. It's a wonderful way to sweeten and flavor holiday crisps, cobblers, and pies.

Vanilla is reputedly the world's most popular flavor (hey...what about chocolate?...no one asked me!) but many of us who use it know little about it, except that it smells and tastes great, and sometimes seems outrageously expensive for such a tiny bottle.

Here's the answers to some of the questions that you might have about vanilla...

Bourbon: This doesn't mean the vanilla contains whisky, it refers to the I'le de Bourbon, now known as Réunion. Most Bourbon vanilla is now grown on the island of Madagascar, the largest vanilla-producing region on the world. Bourbon vanilla is the strongest and most full-flavored of all the vanillas and give you the most 'bang-for-your-buck'. I use Bourbon vanilla for baking, since it's assertive flavor doesn't lose potency when cooked.

Tahiti: Tahitian vanilla gained popularity a decade ago; it's shockingly-high cost perhaps fanned it's fame. Tahitian vanilla has a more delicate flavor; very floral and tropical. I use it in fruit salads or scenting tropical fruit desserts since baking with it seems a waste of it's subtle flavor. Tahitian vanilla used to be far more expensive than Bourbon, but recent socio-political and economic events equalized the prices somewhat. Tahitian vanilla beans are plumper than others, although that doesn't necessarily mean they have more flavor or are a better value. They're just naturally moister.

Mexico: If you think that quart bottle you bought in Mexico for $1 was a great bargain, think again (then dump it down the drain.) Real Mexican vanilla is perhaps the best in the world, and the price of pure Mexican vanilla is similar to other pure vanilla extracts. Labeling laws in Mexico differ than those in other countries, so that jumbo bottle of 'Real Mexican Vanilla' you bought at the tourist shop is likely a synthetic and contains coumarin, a substance banned in the United States by the FDA since it's considered toxic (some chocolatiers in France and Belgium are flavoring chocolates with woodsy Tonka beans, the source of coumarin). I love pure Mexican extract, it's sweet-spicy scent reminds me of just-churned vanilla ice cream and is versatile for every baking and cooking application.

Other vanilla growing regions include Bali, Sumatra, Java, China, and Indonesia. Often in some of these countries, vanilla beans are dried over fires to speed up the process, giving the vanilla beans a smoky aroma. I sniff the vanilla before buying (if I can) when it's been produced in any of these countries but in general, I avoid vanilla from these regions. The prices are generally lower but the quality is often inferior.

Why is vanilla so expensive?
You may have noticed wild fluctuations in vanilla prices over the last several years. Political unrest and commercial reliance on pure vanilla (such as Vanilla Coke) increased demand and raised the prices worldwide. Vanilla cultivation is also the most labor-intensive of all food crops. Each orchid stalk can take a two to three years to produce it's first flower then each flower needs to be hand-pollinated. Then the beans are branded (to prevent theft), harvested, cured and air-dried for up to one month (during that time they're rolled up and stored away each evening to prevent condensation and theft.)
Vanilla cultivation is also dangerous business. Because this valuable crop is cultivated in impoverished countries, looting, theft and violence are unfortunately common.
Considering how little vanilla is used in baking, I don't mind buy top-quality vanilla, which costs little more than commercial varieties but is infinitely better.

What is single-fold and double-fold vanilla?
Vanilla extract is made by soaking vanilla beans in alcohol. Commercially-available extract has a very high ratio of beans-to-alcohol, and
Single-fold vanilla as 12 ounces of vanilla beans (about 100 beans) per gallon of alcohol. Double-fold has twice as many and is mostly used for professional applications.

How do you store vanilla extract?
Vanilla extracts are generally packed in amber-colored bottles, since light and heat are the biggest enemies of extracts. Store then in a dark place (not the refrigerator, since condensation can cause them to spoil.) Most extracts will retain their potency for a year.
Buy pure vanilla extracts from sources that sell lots of extract, since stock rotates frequently.
Vanilla beans should be moist, never brittle, when you buy them.

To keep vanilla beans moist and plump, store them in airtight bags in a cool, dark place (not the refrigerator, since moisture can cause them to mold.)
Once used, you can rinse and dry vanilla beans and re-use them for infusing, as they still contain lots of precious flavor. Well-dried vanilla beans can also be buried and stored in a container of sugar for a few weeks to make vanilla sugar.

Why is there alcohol in vanilla?
Alcohol is an excellent base for infusing and for preserving, and it doesn't spoil. Most vanilla extracts are in an base of about 35% alcohol. There are vanilla extracts without alcohol for those wishing to avoid it (most does cook out during baking, but trace amounts do remain.)
Remarkably, alcohol also changes the way your senses 'taste' flavors, so I add a bit of vanilla extract to recipes even if I've infused them with vanilla beans.

...where you'll find historical and cultural information in this useful volume, from my guru on all-things vanilla, the knowledgable Patricia Rain.

Many of you have asked me about culinary classes in Paris so I've compiled a list of cooking programs offered around town. Some are professional-level classes lasting a week or several months, while others are for dedicated home cooks where you can prepare a meal with a local cook in their Parisian kitchen. Click on the links to find their scheduled classes and what language they're taught in.

You should be able to find something whether you're a dedicated professional or just a visitor seeking tips from a knowledgeable French cuisinière!

Le macaron truffle blanche; The White truffle Macaron from Pierre Hermé, part of his fall collection of désires.

The first bite of this little cookie of almond-enriched meringue reveals sweet and reassuring buttercream...then the disconcerting jolt of musky, earthy white truffles. Nestled inside is a dry-roasted nugget of crunchy Piedmontese hazelnut, whose flavor provokes you into realizing that this combination of sweet and savory is surely the work of brilliance.

Available seasonally at Pierre Hermé.
72, rue Bonaparte
and
185, rue de Vaugirard

Grown in Brittany, one of the weirdest vegetables found in France is Romanesco, a relative of broccoli. It's cooked the same way, a la vapeur, simply steamed and tossed with a pad of rich French butter.

Sand-grown carrots are sweeter (and dirtier) than ordinary carrots.

French (and American) cooks can find lots of thyme at the markets, which is much stronger than the thyme I'm used to. When I moved to France, I'd add big handfuls of thyme to everything I could since it's so abundant and fragrant. It's my favorite herb. Eventually a regular dinner guest bluntly told me I put too much thyme in things. (French people believe they're doing you a favor when they criticize you, and I've had to explain to a few of them that Americans are a bit more subtle in our approach.)

The wonderful, sparkling-fresh seafood at the markets is something I've always stop and take a good look at. I'm always fascinated (and sometimes a bit freaked out) by bizarre sea life; slithery eels, shark meat displayed alongside the toothy shark head, bulots or little sea whelks that you pop from the shells with a pin, octopus (which some day I will work up the nerve to try...or perhaps not), and tiny grey shrimp, known as grises that are simply boiled in aromatic fish stock known as court bouillon then eaten cold, like popcorn. I really admire the fish people I shop from at the market, since I think their job is the most difficult and gruesome (although last week I saw an enormous wild boar, larger than I was, hanging upside down at the boucherie, which was soon to be evicerated for Civet de Sanglier, a long-cooked savory stew of wild boar, the sauce thickened with red wine and blood.)

Come Christmas the fish mongers are especially busy folks, since French people are insane for fresh oysters and buy them by the crate. Almost all the oysters come from Brittany, and before motorized transportation, horses would gallop wildly towards Paris from the coastal regions until they collapsed from exhaustion. Then there'd be another horse along the route to take over from there. This ensured that the briny oysters made it to Paris fresh and cold. My favorite oysters are the flat Belons, which I like with a bit of shallot-vinegar sauce wiht a few grinds of black pepper, sauce mignonette, along with a well-chilled glass, or two, of Sancerre and tangy rye bread smeared with lots of salted butter. It makes the cold, grey winter that's quickly approaching us here in Paris bearable.

There's a difference between being 'frugal' and being 'cheap'. For example, I'm frugal (which I learned from my mother, who was kind enough to will me her treasured box of coupons.)

Being 'frugal' is being prudent with your money.
The prudent person moves to France to have immediate access to top-quality inexpensive cheese and breads. The frugal person watches what he spends his rapidly-dwindling cash on. The frugal person stays home eating chocolate and French pastries instead of doing something productive with his life.
The frugal person may need help.
Soon.

Yes, I am frugal.
...Am I not my mother's son?
But, sorry mom, today I spent 200€ ($240) on lunch.
And I don't regret it (gulp) at all.

A briefly-cooked mackerel with lots of little garnishes; pickled cauliflower with beets, radish seed-sprouts, wilted peppers, wild mushrooms, braised artichokes, and a tender little plaintain leaf.

Yet this same day, my local Pressing, where I bring my sumptuous linen sheets to be cleaned (which I bought by being cheap, and bargained for at a flea market), mistakenly overcharged me 60 centimes, which I didn't discover until I got home.
That 60 centimes will keep me awake tonight rather than the 200€ lunch at Astrance.

An assortment of treats for dessert at Astrance, including fresh fruits, little chestnut-honey Madeleines, and egg shells filled with a froth of jasmine milk.

But mostly my frugality means that if I have just a tiny bit of something leftover, like a tablespoon of buttermilk, I'll make a batch of Buttermilk Pound Cakes. Or if I toast too many nuts and have a handful leftover, I'll make a batch of biscotti.

5 dried ancho dried chiles
1/3 cup sliced almonds
1 small onion, chopped
1-2 tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped
½ cup chocolate prune macaron filling, or 1/4 cup raisins or diced prunes
1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds
1 cloves garlic, chopped
¼ teaspoon each: cinnamon, ground cloves, dried oregano, powdered cumin, ground coriander, ground anise seeds
3/4t salt, or to taste
freshly ground pepper
1 cup water (or more, as needed)
1 oz unsweetened chocolate, melted (omit if using leftover chocolate prune macaron filling, although I am so sure you don't have any leftover in your refrigerator...or do you?)

Soak chiles in very hot water until soft, about 30 minutes or so. (Make sure they're submerged by setting a lightweight bowl on top of the chiles.)

In a small skillet, sauté onion in vegetable oil until soft and translucent. Add garlic and sauté another minute. Add spices and herbs and cook, stirring constantly, for about 30 seconds, being careful not to let them burn.

In a blender, grind together the almonds, cooked onions and spices, chocolate prune macaron filling (or raisins and melted chocolate), sesame seeds, salt, pepper, and water. Puree until smooth.

Remove seeds and stems from the chiles and puree very finely, passing the chiles through a food mill. (If you don't have a food mill, press the puree through a mesh strainer to make remove any skins. Some people just puree them in, but they can be tough.) Blend the chile paste into the mole and add additional water, as necessary, until the consistency is the consistency of Silly Sand™.

To make Chicken with Mole Sauce:
Brown poultry pieces quite well in a large casserole in vegetable oil. Once nice and brown, remove the chicken pieces from the pan and saute one chopped onion in the casserole and cook until translucent. Deglaze the casserole with some wine or stock, and scrape in any browned bits from the bottom with a flat wooden spatula.
Add the chicken back to the casserole along with a cinnamon stick or two, and add enough chicken stock, water, or white wine to cover chicken pieces. Cover the casserole, and gently simmer chicken until tender throughout.
Once cooked, remove chicken pieces from the liquid and arrange them in a shallow baking dish. Smear chicken pieces generously with mole and bake in a moderate oven, turning once or twice during baking, for about 30 minutes.
Serve with a sprinkling of toasted sesame seeds.

The first time I had Dulce de Leche I began spooning it directly from the jar and into my mouth and before I knew it, I had made it almost all the way through the jar.
It was that good!

I scraped it off the spoon with my teeth, savoring every sticky, sugary mouthful. The jar of Dulce de Leche I was given had a picture of a goat on the label and was called Cajeta. I had developed a fondness for goat milk since I lived very near a goat dairy in upstate New York, and while perhaps not to everyone's taste, the farmhouse tang of it I found very appealling.

Once in a while they'd invite me over for some homemade goat milk ice cream which was so delicious that any ice cream I ate with cow's milk after that seemed bland and one-dimensional. Since I also love anything caramelized, coupled with the barnyardy taste of goat milk, I'd found heaven in this sweet-silky paste...conveniently packed in a nice glass jar from our friends south-of-the-border.

Eventually the rest of the world discovered Dulce de Leche and now there's scores of Dulce de Leche (or is that Dulces des Leches?) on the market...although nowadays most of what's available is made from the more public-friendly cow's milk.
If you do come across some made from goat milk, I urge you to try it: it's incredible!

We have a winner!
Everyone did their best, and most of you got the 3. Fruitcakes and 4. Tube of Sweetened Condensed Milk correct, but only one could figure out one of the other two.
So after much guessing about the items, here are the answers for the Culinary Contest...

1. Le farz.
This is a linen sack specifically made for making Kig ha Farz, a buckwheat dumpling from Brittany that's simmered for an hour, then rolled to make little couscous-like nuggets. Although the bag doesn't look very pretty simmering away, I've added a new of starch to my repertoire!
You can view my previous entry here for Kig ha Farz, and I use the recipe from Susan Loomis' excellent book, The French Farmhouse Cookbook.

This is orzo, deep, dark-roasted barley powder that's becoming widely known in Italy (of all places), as a coffee substitute. It's brewed like espresso and I bought this sack from Slitti, a great chocolate-maker in Tuscany. Orzo is becoming common in caffès and restaurants since some Italians are concerned about the amount of coffee they're drinking...if you can believe it. I guess if I lived in Italy and had unlimited access to that extraordinary espresso each and every day, I'd get a bit concerned as well.

3. Date, Candied Ginger, and Pineapple Fruitcakes.
Since both my internet AND cable television have been down for over two long weeks although they finally gave me an appointment...in three weeks, at the end of November! You may now stop sending me comments like, "You're so lucky to live in France!")
So consequently, I've had lots and lots and lots of time on my hands and, like, what am I gonna do, read a book and get all literate? Well, okay, I did go to the Musee de Picasso yesterday in the Marais which was amazing...and I read a great book, yes a real book, The Confessions of Max Tivoli, which I loved, and started another book about a hermaphrodite that everyone tells me is great, and got a new baking book in the mail from Nick Malgieri, and I was going to see A History of Violence today but thought it might freak me out, and I've been so out-of-sorts not having any connection to the outside world.
What riots?
Who's been indicted?
Who's Jennifer Aniston dating?
Can Madonna's career be resuscitated?

Anyhow...so I've been baking up a storm: Persimmon Breads, Apple and Cranberry Crisp with Polenta Topping, Dulce de Leche Ice Cream (two times), and Vanilla-Buttermilk Pound Cakes...plus I made Kig ha Farz...two more times.
And I decided to make a bakery-sized batch of the Date, Candied Ginger, and Pineapple Fruitcake from Ripe For Dessert.

Cheesecloth, as I know it, doesn't exist in Paris (like customer service from your internet provider.)
But I found the French version in the fabulous fabric market of the Marché St. Pierre at the foot of Montmarte...étamine, a lovely, gauze-like cotton cloth that makes a far more beautiful wrapper for holiday cake gift-giving. I soaked the étamine in lots of whisky and wrapped the cakes and now they're happily resting on shelves all around my apartment, soaking in their boozy blankets.
I have a feeling around Christmas, I'm going to have a lot of very happy friends...if the cakes stick around that long.

4. Nestlé Sweetened Condensed Milk
Even though France is justly famous for the most amazing dairy products on earth, for some reason, the milk selection is sorely lacking. More often than not, you'll find ultra-sterilized (UHT) milk and cream, as well as an assortment of other Franken-dairy products, with happy names like Gloria™, a canned sweetened milk intended for coffee, as well as little packets of maybe-once-upon-a-dairy products that make Kraft Singles™ look like triple-crème Brie de Meaux.

But I was intrigued by this tube of sweetened condensed milk and wondered why anyone would put it in a tube? So I flipped it over, and there was a serving suggestion, a picture of someone squeezing it directly into their mouths. Ick! Would someone really do that?
(Ok, I did...hey, hmm, hey not too bad....)

So our lucky winner will get a personalized copy of The Great Book of Chocolate as a holiday gift.
The rest of you may just have to gift yourself a copy!...

Like most Americans, I've discovered that French people also aren't so familiar with persimmons either. They see them at the market, but don't stop to buy any. Or if they do, they take them home, bite into an unripe one, make a face, and toss 'em out.

In my former life as a Californian (...although my French friends tell me I'm definately Parisian since I've become a râleur, or complainer), one of my friends living north of San Francisco in Sonoma County had a enormous persimmon tree. Each fall, the leaves would drift off the tree, leaving bright orange globes of fruit dangling off the sparse branches. The beautiful, gnarled wood was quite a contrast to the smooth, brilliantly-colored orbs of fruit. (The wood of the persimmon tree is not just beautiful but it's prized by makers of many of the finest golf clubs in the world and is considered superior to most others woods or man-made materials.)

The most common persimmon you're likely to find is the Hachiya, a slightly elongated fruit that tapers to a point. They're incredibly tannic and astringent when not ripe and need to be squishy-soft and feel like a full water-balloon before using, or you'll be sorry. Once ripe, the sweet jelly-like pulp can be spooned out and pureed through a blender, food processor, or food mill, although some folks like to eat it as is or frozen. The pulp freezes beautifully, and in fact, I'll often freeze some for mid-winter use (you can also freeze the entire ripe fruit as well just as it is, but they tend to roll out of the freezer and land on your foot which kind of hurts...so I don't recommend it.)

To ripen a Hachiya persimmon, simply let it sit on your countertop until supersoft. You can hasten the process by putting persimmons in a well-sealed container; adding an apple, which give off a lot of ethyline gas, will speed things up.

The other common persimmon is the Fuyu, which is more squat than the Hachiya and matte-orange. Unlike the Hachiya, the Fuyu is meant to be eaten hard and is delightfully crunchy. I peel them, then mix pieces into an autumnal fruit salad along with dates, slices of Comice pears, pomegranate seeds and yes...even some bits of prunes!

If you're lucky, you might come across a variety called a Chocolate persimmon, which has deep-brown skin and russet-like flesh. I've only seen them at Monterey Market in Berkeley.

Finding recipes for using persimmons can be difficult.
I invented a recipe for a quick Persimmon Cake for my book Room For Dessert, which I make often for Thanksgiving. And I also like James Beard's Persimmon Bread, a nifty recipe from his classic book on breadmaking, Beard on Bread, published over 30 years ago.

I was fortunate to meet James Beard several times when he came to dinner at Chez Panisse. In the years after he passed away, we'd get all sorts of celebrity chefs breezing through our kitchen. Many of them were hyped, media-created hotshot superchefs who i never found as interesting as people like James Beard, Jane Grigson, and Richard Olney, who were really wonderful writers (who actually wrote their own books!) Nowadays none of them would have a successful culinary career; none had a nice rack, or teams of PR reps in tow.

The most charming thing about this Persimmon Bread recipe is that Beard gives bakers an inexact amount of an ingredient: sugar.
Of course, no cookbook author could get away with that today. Home cooks are used to Martha -style perfection and terrified they're going to screw things up if they improvise.
So go ahead just this one time to improvise a little, use diced apricots instead of raisins, why not some hazelnuts instead of walnuts? Although I recommend using the higher amount of sugar, feel free to use whichever quantity you'd like...after all, you have permission from the granddaddy of all cooks, James Beard himself.

Using the higher amount of sugar will produce a moister and, of course, sweeter bread.

3½ cups sifted flour
1½ teaspoons salt
2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 to 2½ cups sugar
1 cup melted unsalted butter and cooled to room temperature
4 large eggs, at room temperature, lightly beaten
2/3 cup cognac, bourbon or whisky
2 cups persimmon puree (from about 4 squishy-soft Hachiya persimmons)
2 cups walnuts or pecans, toasted and chopped
2 cups raisins, or diced dried fruits (I used some apricots and dates too)

Butter 2 loaf pans. Line the bottoms with a piece of parchment paper or dust with flour and tap out any excess.

Make a well in the center then stir in the butter, eggs, liquor, persimmon puree then the nuts and raisins.

It's pretty unusual to find anything in Paris at a discount, so imagine my surprise when I came upon this rarity:

When I got to the place, however, that a cone of ice cream was 5€ ($6).
Gulp! I guess the concept of le discount isn't quite yet fully-understood in Paris...spoilsports!

So I decided it's time for a contest around here.
Yes, the winner will get a free, personally-autographed copy of The Great Book of Chocolate.

These are 4 culinary-related items.
The first person who can correctly name at least 3 of them, will win a copy of The Great Book of Chocolate.

Leave entries under 'Comments'...contest ends November 15th, 2005.
Bonne chance!

And I know I'm not alone. I ran into a famous chocolatier from the neighborhood during my last visit, who was picking up his goûter, or afternoon snack, as they call it in Paris. We recognized each other and he smiled at me while choosing a Thé Vert Napolean; layers of vivid green tea pastry cream stacked between dark-golden puff pastry. A wise choice since Sadaharu Aoki is widely-regarded as the master of puff pastry.

It was a long and difficult decision, but I chose this perfect Chocolate and Salted Butter-Caramel Tart for my goûter.

It was extraordinarily good.
Buttery-crisp pâte sucée filled with rich and salty caramel that oozed out when I attacked it with my fork. On top sat a spiral of milk chocolate mousse, so soft and so creamy.

Pâtisserie Sadaharu Aoki
35, rue de Vaugirard
and
56, Boulevard Port Royal
Paris