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David Lebovitz Archives: February 2006
« January 2006 February 28, 2006 |
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Four Jobs I've Had: 1. Restocking the salad bar at The Vineyard restaurant. You wouldn't eat the hard-boiled eggs at a salad bar if you saw where they come from. And I don't mean the chickens.
We would wait for certain customers to drop off their film. Some were famous. At least amongst us. Especially Mr. Sabatini.
My first job. The waitresses wore naugahyde mini-skirts and the cooks wore leather-like aprons. Reminiscent of a bar in San Francisco that I used to visit. Except the women weren't really women. At least I don't think so. I loved the Texas Toast at Bonanza the most: A huge, thick slab of white bread, drenched with a melted butter-like-substitute, then char-broiled over the open fire until crispy. If caught using real butter, the manager would throw a fit and threaten to fire us. Gee, I wonder what he's doing now? I live in Paris.
We were famous for giving HUGE scoops, really huge, of ice cream. Some jerk would invariably come in and say, "I want just one scoop, but one really, really HUGE scoop of cream!" We perfected making that one HUGE scoop...one that was hollow inside. The moment they got outside and took their first lick, the ball of ice cream would flop over onto the sidewalk. People never learn: Don't mess with people serving you food. Sometimes you can even see it.
1. Freeway
1. Ithaca, New York (Ok, I only dream about living in Hawaii.)
1. The Sopranos
1. West Wing (Ok, I confess. I did watch the last one.
1. Bangkok Four of My Favorite Dishes: 1. Fried Chicken, without gravy
1. The New York Times Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now: 1. On a warm beach in Hawaii Four Bloggers I am Tagging: Hehehe....You Know Who You Are and You Can't Escape...
February 28, 2006 |
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February 27, 2006 |
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Click my Flickr.
February 26, 2006 |
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I'm very lucky that I live just one block from the biggest outdoor market in Paris, the Richard Lenoir Market. Beginning at the Place de la Bastille and radiating northward, Sunday is a particularly lively day, since almost all other shops are closed in Paris on Sunday. I guess the alternative, going to church, is a less-popular option here, even in this predominantly Catholic country. If God is everywhere, I suppose, he'll find the heathen at the market, lugging around our loaves and fishes. You can find just about anything at the Richard Lenoir market. (In fact, I found packaging tape this morning. I did look for thermometer batteries, but no luck.) I always set out with an empty basket with the intention of buying a few vegetables and maybe a slab of fish. But by the time I'm done, I've almost dislocated my shoulder hauling my market basket home. It's obligatory for me, and just about everyone else shopping the market, to stop at the stand of Jackie Lorenzo, one of the best fishmongers in Paris. His stand is always a buzz of activity and you need to push your way to the front to get help. I've nudged little old ladies out of the way in order to get served (and they're not so kindly here, and are far tougher than they look; I've come home with bruises!) Being the resourceful American that has to use his God-given talents to good use to get what he wants around this city, I've been known to ply the young men and women who work for M. Lorenzo with chocolate chip cookies on select occassions in the past, so l'americain sometimes gets priority placement in line. Consider it a job perk. The young men and women who work there are always friendly and willing to give advice about preparation too, as is the person behind you (...unless it's madame that you shoved out of the way. Then it's best to slide away without making eye contact.)
 It's scallop season, or as they're called, les coquilles St. Jacques. At the stand today they were piled high, almost up to the top of my head! They're normally sold in their shells with their orange 'foot' attached in France. and I bought four live 'uns, which cost around 4 euros. For lunch, I pried them open with my oyster knife, removed all the gooey stuff, and sautéed them briefly with garlic and butter.
 Monkfish is very popular in France, often referred to in America as "Poor Man's Lobster". It's common for fish merchants in France to leave the heads on fish to prove they're fresh (the eyes should always be clear). But monkfish are so ugly, they lop off the tête. I've never bought one. They scare me, even without their heads.
 I don't know if anyone purposely displays their dry sausages like a cobra, but that's what they look like to me. One confusing thing for us non-native French speakers is the difference is the words for saucisson, which is a dry-cured sausage, and saucisse, the fresh sausage. Invariably I screw it up and they give me funny looks (another thing I've gotten used to around here.)
 Since sunday is so busy, often the butchers will just put out some slices of...ok, quick!...it is saucisse or saucisson?...
 When I began cooking at Chez Panisse in the early 80's, we would buy imported blood oranges from Italy and diners invariably would ask, "How do you get the oranges that color?". If I was in a particular mood, I'd make up a good story. People would also ask if the goat cheese was tofu. Nowadays, I presume, goat cheese is more common than tofu in America. Even (or especially) in Berkeley.
 If you don't feel like cooking, you can buy long-simmered boeuf Bourguignon already made. Since the weather's been especially cold here in Paris, you can see it's rather popular.
 Another take-out item, stuffed cabbage. I see bacon peeking out...
 Leeks are very popular in France and almost everyone's shopping basket has a plume of green leaves poking out. Leeks are gets par-boiled, cooled to room temperature, then doused in vinaigrette. I also crumble hard-cooked eggs over the top, or mash some good anchovies into the dressing.
 I know this isn't good for me, but I can't resist bringing home a perhaps not-too-healthy slab of terrine Gascogne. The butchers grind together long-simmered pork confit with savory bits of duck liver and duck confit, packed in it's own fat. It's one of the best things I've ever tasted and they always sell me too much. When they hover the knife over the terrine, so I can tell them where to slice, they invariably move the knife in the opposite direction that I tell them. I am sure they do it on purpose but when I get home and take my first bite from the rich slab, I know it will be gone within a few days so I'm happy to have it all.
February 23, 2006 |
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When I used to get sick in America, I would get congested, a sore throat, sometimes a runny nose, and a fever. In France, whenever I get sick, it bypasses every other organ and heads straight to my stomach. I don't know if it's the rich foods, the dubious rules of storage, or a new set of germs as foreign to me as the 14 different tenses of French verbs. Yes, even though some people think I'm too careful about hygiene than I should be (and no, I don't scrape up chocolate off the floor and re-use it either), I suppose it's just a matter of taking chances before all those unrefrigerated dairy products, rosy-pink, barely-singed beef and pork, eating an unusually large amount of raw cookie dough, and touching the petrie dish-like metal handrails on the mètro, would eventually catch up with me.
 The changing face of French hygiene?
By the middle of the movie, I was fighting the urge to race to the bathroom. The movie was so good and I didn't want to miss the last part, where Reese Witherspoon had her hair all teased-up in the front, real pretty and all. Luckily I made it through, but I got home and was shaky, feverish, and ready to hit the bedroom.
But while you're lying in bed, semi-delirious, mustering all your energy to lift the remote control, all you want is a bowl of nice, hot chicken soup. Unless if you're Jewish. Since at the same time you're imagining that you're certain to be remembered as the first person in France to fall victim to the Avian Flu.
 Is that me, on the right?
(The other dilemma is bacon at half-price.) So I got into bed with my laptop, the modern equivalent of the teddy bear, armed with the remote control, to watch the Olympics. A bit too much gyrating, sequins, and glitter...would I later suffer from Post-Glitter Disorder, like Mariah Carey, I imagined? All those twirling, glittery dudes gliding across the rink. (Is there anyone in the universe, outside the skating world, or a few Eastern European countries, that finds those men's outfits even remotely attractive or flattering? And why do the men have more glitter than the woman? And since I'm asking questions, can someone should ask those men who speed skate to slow down a bit as a courtesy to viewers trying to get a closer look?) The beauty of France is that if you need any medication, there's at least one (usually more) pharmacie on your block and they're ready to send you home armed with as many as you can carry. And the doctors here still make house calls. Gladly, I might add. The bad thing is if you need something simple like a battery for your thermometer, you need to mètro across Paris to the special shop that sells batteries for thermometers. When you get there, they're invariably closed that particular afternoon. They're open from 9:45am to 11:15am, Monday through Tuesday, and from 2:45pm to 4:15pm on Wednesday. Except in February, when they're open on Thursday, instead of Wednesday. Unless the people who sell batteries for thermometers are on strike. In my stupor, I wondered if the few 'comfort foods' (a word I hate, but it's appropriate here, I think) that I depend on in these rare hours-of-need are available here. If I manage to drag myself to the supermarket, will I find Canada Dry Ginger Ale? (yes) or Campbell's Chunky Chicken Soup? (no). (I did have one dream-like vision over and over, in my delirious haze. It was the Most Fabulous-Looking Chicken Soup Ever. I swear I had a dream about that soup. Would they send me some? Could I call Germany? How many numbers do I need to dial? Will they think I'm insane? How far is Munich? Do they deliver? Did they really somehow manage to link Bob Ross with food?) But unless I had some chicken stock in the deep- freeze, chicken soup wasn't gonna happen chez David. The idea of being vertical for longer than 10 seconds was impossible to imagine, let alone buying and eviscerating a chicken, then simmering and straining the stock. And yes, I know all you Americans sitting there all smug with your freezers are loaded up with chicken stock. I hope it's all freezer-burned next time you need it. Ha! That'll teach you to be prepared when I'm not. Ok, that doesn't make any sense and was kinda mean. I'm still delirious, so at least I have an excuse. (But did you see what Mariah Carey wore at the Grammy Awards? What's her excuse? Is she the only person in the world who can wear couture and make it look like she's getting ready for a gynecological exam?) The first thing you do when you're better is go to the refrigerator and toss out anything that you ate within the last few hours, before you first got sick. Even if it wasn't the culprit, out it goes. I was more than happy to toss the rest of the leftover rotisserie chicken, or as CNN would have politely said, "He culled his roast chicken." Most Americans who move to France wonder, "Where can I get canned chicken stock?" For some, canned chicken stock is the magic ingredient in the pantry, able to turn a plate of rice into risotto, or pilaf with the turn of a Swing-A-Way™. Last minute batch of jook? No problem. When I moved to France and couldn't find it, that surprised me. The land of great cuisine, and no ready-to-pop stock. So I began making my own. And what did I learn? Homemade chicken stock makes everything taste so much better. And from then on, I vowed I would never use the canned stuff again. So on the mend, I trekked out to one of my new favorite food shops, where I bought the chocolate bars with quinoa a few weeks ago, called Markethic. They have lots of unusual things from all over the world, mostly organic, and I seem to always find something to bring home, from tamarind pâte de fruit to fragrant shards of brilliant-red mace. Then I saw them up.
 Les cubes...
But after I got home and opened it up, I sadly looked at the pathetic, dry little square, and tossed it in the back of a drawer where I would most likely never see it again... ...and entered the Munich telephone code into my speed dial.
American Baking in Paris and in France February 21, 2006 |
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Although we can't expect things to be like 'back home', many of us do miss certain things and for us bakers, it's often a challenge to adapt to new ingredients or ones that behave differently than what we're used to. I've spent a fair amount of time answering messages from Americans searching for ingredients (if someone had told me Ikea was the only place to get mineral oil, that would have saved me three long, difficult, frustrating weeks of searching) so I've been working on this list. So here's what I've learning living, and baking, in Paris....
 Mineral Oil The only place that sells it near Paris is Ikea. Really. I asked at every restaurant-supply shop, specialty paint shop, even my trusty pharmacy, where it seems you can find the most unlikely things. If you need to season a new cutting board, you need mineral oil (any other oil will eventually get rancid, in spite of what they might tell you.) The BHV sells an oil specifically for cutting boards...it's 25 euros a tiny tin.
 Brown Sugar Cassonade sugar is one of the world's great foods. It's pure, natural sugar that's unrefined, with the slightly-sticky cane syrup still clinging to the crystals. It has quite a strong flavor that I love. You can use it for brown sugar, or you can buy the large crystals of light cassonade crystals. Vergeoise sugar is like some types of American brown sugar; it's white, refined beet sugar sprayed with caramel and molasses syrup after processing, and often blonde has added vanilla flavoring. It can be used in recipes like brown sugar, but definitely isn't nearly as good as cassonade and I rarely use it.
 Flour Because flour is a plant (which some people don't realize), the species varies from country-to-country. French 'all-purpose' flour is closer to American cake flour: it's milled very finely and has less-protein and strength. In most cases, you can't just substitute French all-purpose flour in American recipes like cookies and cakes. I know too many Americans who opened the oven door and found all their carefully rolled-out chocolate chip cookies, melded into once, giant blob. If you're interested in the composition of both, you can read about it here.  Look for Type 65, which you can find in natural food stores like Naturalia. I buy the organic flour at Monoprix, which is Type 65.
 Molasses You can buy mélasse at natural food stores, but it's sulphured, unrefined, and very strongly-flavored. When using it in recipes, I cut it with some mild-flavored honey. Otherwise it can overwhelm all other flavors in whatever you're baking. (Unless you like that strong, molasses flavor...then go for it.) Treacle, available in British stores, is a close substitute, too.
Many grocery stores sell lait ribot, fermented milk from Brittany which we drink with crêpes. Arabic markets also sell fermented milk as well. In a pinch, dilute some plain yogurt with milk, about half-and-half and let it sit for 10 minutes before using.
 Yeast You can ask your local boulanger if they'll sell you some yeast, or it's available in supermarkets (not in the refrigerated section, like in America.) You can also buy it in small tins in Arab markets, under the SAF brand. Since yeast is a living organism, the yeast in Europe behaves a bit different than American yeast, but I've had no problems.
 Corn syrup The best substitute is glucose another invert sugar that aids in the prevention of crystallization. It's slightly more viscous and sweeter, but it's fine to substitute. Glucose is available at G. Detou (58, rue Tinquetonne) You can also find light corn syrup (and rice syrup) very cheaply in Korean markets, such as Ace Mart on rue St. Anne and Tang Frères in the 13th.
 Malt Powder & Peanut Butter Like malted milk? So do Indians! Venture up to the area behind the Gare du Nord. At G & Co. (72, rue Louis Blanc) you can find Horlick's malt powder, as well as a host of other familiar and unusual spices and condiments. A fun place to explore, and there's another large grocer on the rue Cail nearby. African Indian, and Asian markets are good places to find peanut butter, and many supermarkets, although I've yet to find a 'natural-style' brand. I've found brands without sugar, but all have added hydrogenated fats added.
 Cream Cheese I've had several French friends say to me, "J'adore le Philadelphia", and I'd think, "Uh, you love the city of Philadelphia?", a bit incredulous that a small, decent American city would cause such rapture. Then I realized they were talking about the cream cheese. Yes, even in the land of the World's Greatest Cheeses, they love cream cheese (...think about it, cream cheese is rather delicious, isn't it?) Desperate Americans housewives often resort to unwrapping the little foil-wrapped packets of Kiri, available at supermarkets, or paying premium prices for European-made Philadelphia cream cheese. However reasonably-priced cream cheese can be found in the Jewish grocer Cash Cacher Naouri (1, rue des Hospitalières Saint-Gervais). St. Môret is a brand of cream cheese that's inexpensive, and available in supermarkets. And some Franprix supermarkets sell a house-brand as well. Look for the familiar bar-shape. For Sour Cream, I use Bridelice, available in any supermarket. Buy the 15% which is closest to US-style sour cream. Or use the 20% fromage blanc. Others cooks use crème fraîche, which is much richer.
 Corn Meal French people haven't embraced American's interest in cornmeal much. Sure there's polenta, but it's nearly impossible find regular polenta; most of what's available at supermarkets is 'instant' polenta. The health-food store chain Natralia has lots of cornmeal, including various grinds. You can also find it by searching the Arabic food shops along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, a wonderful (albeit a tad dicey) street to poke around in the shops and markets. Indian markets also carry it as well.
 Bar-B-Q Sauce Monoprix!
 Baking Powder Europeans buy baking powder is small sachets, where it's called levure chimique. The main difference is it's 'single-acting', which means it starts working right away when mixed with wet ingredients so get whatever you're baking right into the oven. Most American brands are 'double-acting', and contain aluminum, so I bring back Rumford brand, which you can buy here at the Grand Epicerie of the Bon Marché. Baking Soda Baking soda isn't widely used by Europeans for baking, since it's a rather old-fashioned leavening agent, and most Americans use it for Gingerbreads, Devil's Food Cake, and Chocolate Chip Cookies (did you know that baking soda helps things brown?) It used to be that you had to ask the pharmacist. Yet nowadays most supermarkets do carry baking soda, near the salt. I buy it at Indian markets as well. If you're cooking dried beans here in Paris, it helps to add a pinch of baking soda to the water. Since the water is full of mineral, the soda neutralizes much of the acid so the beans will be tender.
 Cocoa Powder All cocoa powder available in Europe is Dutch-processed. If you want to be sure, check the ingredients. Usually a régulateur d'acidité is listed, an acid neutralizer. If you have an American recipe that specifically calls for 'natural' cocoa powder, or non-Dutched, most likely baking soda is called for. You can fudge around that by adding a large pinch of baking powder to your recipe.
February 20, 2006 |
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We've been tinkering with the web site and blog here for the past few weeks, making some changes and adding some features based on some of your feed back. As the blog continues to evolve, I realized that it had quickly outgrown some of the previous formats so I've been working with my long-standing (and long-suffering) web master to improve the site
Wondering where you can find these Orangettes from Jean-Charles Rochoux here in Paris? Try the new search feature.
We've added a search engine to this site so you will be able to search for whatever you'd like. You probably won't find it here. But If you're looking for advice about chocolate shops, my favorite wine bars, recipes, great bakeries I visit, knowing the maximum prison term for punching out a Parisian, and restaurants that I recommend, use the search feature to find whatever information you're looking for. Test it out and let us know what you think.
Due to the unrelenting amount of spam, I've turned off comments in posts that are archived. While I'm sure that many of you might be interested in increasing the size of your private parts to gargantuan dimensions, or watching videos of sorority girls doing what we all suspected they do when they're having slumber parties, or helping the Royal Family of Ugibanzubia recover their family fortunes during the horrible revolution of 1998, it was taking too much of my time deleting the spam flooding in so I closed the comments in archived entries. All comments submitted to the site may be edited and are subject to approval for posting. If readers have any concerns with that, visit here or here, for further information.
The Paris Chocolate Exploration Tour is now sold-out with Mort Rosenblum in May. My Chocolate Classes at On Rue Tatin with Susan Loomis in November of 2006 still has spaces available, for a limited time. We'll be doing a series of hands-on cooking classes at Susan's fabulous professionally-equipped kitchen at her home in Normandy, one-hour from Paris, as well as offering an extra day exploring Paris' outdoor markets, chocolate shops, and bakeries with us.
Enter your email address in the field to the right and I'll add you to my mailing list and you'll get timely and special news from me about new chocolate discoveries, upcoming tours, my next cookbook, and more.
I'll be appearing at the KitchenAid Experience in Greenville, Ohio at noon on March 27th, for a free demonstration on making chocolate desserts. Come visit, have some chocolate, and get your book signed! The week of April 4-8, I'll be teaching a series of chocolate classes at Central Market stores in Texas, one of my favorite markets in the world. Their classes are great fun, the staff does a terrific job, and there'll be plenty of chocolate desserts to sample...I can't wait to return for a big Texas welcome (and some Texas B-B-Q!) You can find the exact dates on my Schedule Page and sign up by clicking on the links there.
February 18, 2006 |
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You won't often find much in the way of vegetables on the menus of many cafés in Paris. I don't mean the over-hyped restaurants with the fancy chef names attached that the slick food magazines tend to worship. There you might find a coin of grilled zucchini, a dot of sauce, and perhaps a leaf of parsley as a carefully-draped garnish. But most of the time, those places are filled with Americans with Zagat guides sticking out of their pockets. What I mean are the places where most Parisians actually eat lunch.
(Sidenote: Having worked in restaurants all my life, I was once at a dinner party and mentioned that I never had a job where I got a true a break. All conversation stopped, forks in mid-air, and everyone turned and looked at me in disbelief. When I left the restaurant business I vowed I would never eat standing up again. And I haven't!) What that also means is that the food must be quick and relatively easy to prepare. Menus offer steaks or long-cooked stews, and perhaps a sauteed piece of fish. But since vegetables require washing, peeling, slicing, pre-cooking, and a bit of finesse, it's quite difficult to find freshly-cooked vegetables on menus of ordinary restaurants. The most popular side dish is les frites; all that's needed is a quick drop-in-the-deep-fryer, and they're done. Sadly, most of the time, they're the pre-frozen frites, which arrive undercooked and insipid. I make it a point to find restaurants with real, honest French fries. Even ratatouille, that famous vegetable dish from Provence is just a big bowl of overcooked, soft vegetables. And please don't tell me that I haven't had a good version of ratatouille...I have, and I still don't like it.
Corn is always served spooned right from the can onto a salad, or worse, on pizza (with a sunny-side up egg cooked in the middle.) Tiny haricots verts are always cooked until tender. And the little pointed end of the green bean is always removed...and I've heard various compelling arguements why. But my favorite reason, "That's where all the radiation concentrates." ...um, okay...so now like a good Parisian I remove the end of the green bean, or the "boot", as it's called. Anyhow...les carottes rapées is simply grated carrots tossed in fresh lemon juice, a bit of salt, and sometimes a little olive oil. If you want to get fancy, you can add a bit of chopped flat-leaf parsley. But it's one of those things, the simpler the better. Simple restaurants like Chartier just toss a plate of carrots at you with a wedge of lemon. Other places arrange les carottes rapées on a plate with tangy celery rémoulade and beets. I make it often when I'm home by myself, since it's nice to have something easy to prepare and fresh, and I always seem to have carrots around. I make a plate of carottes rapées, and eat it with a few chunks of Tradigrains baguette from my local boulanger, a nice wedge of soft, fresh, ooaing cheese like a ripe brie de Meaux or a goaty Selles-Sur-Cher, and perhaps a slice of pâte from my local charcuterie.
February 15, 2006 |
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When I was a kid, it seems like everyone was wearing Lacoste polo shirts (they were also called Izod shirts back then). The shirt was introduced in 1933 and named for French tennis star René Lacoste who was nicknamed "the alligator" after winning a game bet, the prize being an alligator suitcase. The shirts came in a riot of colors during the 60's and 70's, and it was the fashion at the time to dress in the casual, but dressy Lacoste polo, accenting your outfit with something outrageous and in-your-face (but still acceptable at the country club.) Soon others designers catered to people who wished to be 'preppy' by advertising a genteel lifestyle, featuring people turning up their collars. I dubbed it "The Vulcan Effect", since most of the people looked rather stupid with the tip of the stiff color scraping their ears with a Star-Trek like rigidity, rather than the "I-don't-care-this-is-how-I-put-my-
I had lots of Lacoste shirts during my childhood. Except there was one demon that I had to exorcise from my past: The alligator. I was terrified of the little blue devil. Baring sharp teeth, his menacing red tongue licking his chops, and a sharp, whip-like tail...it was all too frightening for me to deal with on my little chest, and I was scared. So I did what every healthy, red-blooded American boy would do: I snipped them off with a scissors, leaving a gaping hole in my shirts. (I also used to wear my Fruit-Of-The-Loom briefs backwards, since I liked pulling out the waistband several times a day and looking down at the colorful fruits lined up on the label.) I did manage to find a vintage Lacoste shirt that for some reason has escaped my snipping. The fit was still fabulous and the color, Bordeaux, was a deep, wine-like red, still rich and robust after all these years. Wearing it was like finding that perfect partner who you can take shopping at a nice boutique or to a decent restaurant, but comfortable enough for lounging around with in your flannel pajama bottoms. So I went to the Lacoste store in Paris and bought another new polo shirt last year. Last week I made even more progress in getting over my fear of the Alligator and bought two more shirts. The Lacoste shop near the Bastille was having a liquidation avant traveaux (before the construction), and selling off all their stock at a rather nice discount, something you don't see too often in pricey Paris. The salesperson loaded me up with a stack of polo shirts, pointed me towards le cabine d'essayage, and before I knew it I was standing at the register with a stack of neatly-folded shirts, in insanely over-the-top colors like Bonbon, Framboise, and Tomate. I shouldn't be too hard to spot on the streets of Paris, come this spring. I'll be the one swarmed by flies.
February 14, 2006 |
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One of the nice things about working at Chez Panisse for so long was that I got to meet a lots of famous and important chefs and cooks. James Beard would walk through the kitchen and say hi, Richard Olney brought bottles of Y'quem for us to taste, and Danny Kaye grabbed the whisk out of my hands while I was making soufflés to show me the correct way to beat egg whites into a meringue. Not all were wonderful. (Obviously.)
Standing next to him, wearing a colorful shawl was Miss Lewis. Scott, the ever-polite southern gentleman and her best friend, always called her 'Miss Lewis'. Edna Lewis offered her fragile, delicate hand to me. It was bony and rough, signs of a life spent in a kitchen; years of chopping, measuring, mixing, and carving. In a tiny voice that was barely audible, she introduced herself. And like a fragile scoop of vanilla ice cream uncontrolably melting on a slice of warm apple pie, Miss Lewis' voice and manner had a way that would just make you melt. A tiny woman, she wrote the book, (several books, in fact), on real, down-home southern cooking. Not "Y'all take a tub of Cool Whip, stir in some of this here possum-fat...", but she taught true southern cooking and was the last of the well-respected authors and cooks to write about the subject she loved so dearly, alongside Scott. My favorite story that she told me was the difficulty she faced when she wrote her first cookbook. She'd always cooked using coins for measuring dry ingredients like baking powder, salt, and the like. She learned to bake that way, scooping up a quarters-worth of baking powder and tossing that with a few handfuls of flour for making her feathery-light biscuits.
February 12, 2006 |
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With the Winter Olympics taking place in the city of Torino (Turin), the world is discovering that the city is one of the great centers of chocolate production. In the early part of 1500, a Italian named Emmanuel Philibert served hot chocolate to celebrate a victory over the French at Saint-Quentin. And in 1763, Al Bicerin opened it's doors and began making a coffee-and-chocolate drink called il bavareisa. The hot drink was a soothing mixture of locally-produced chocolate, strong Italian coffee, and topped with a froth of whipped cream.
The Piedmontese region is famous for a few other things than just chocolate and hazelnuts, most notably white truffles, but also for their exceptionally delicious hazelnuts. Back in those days, cacao beans were very expensive and rare, so a local chocolatier named Michel Prochet began blending hazelnuts into the chocolate to extend it, inventing gianduja (gee-an-DOO-ya) and is now perhaps most famously consumed as Nutella, which has become the most popular samdwich spread in the world. But even now, every afternoon you'll find the locals stand in one of the city's historic caffès, sipping a hot bicerin from a small, stemmed glass. Or sitting at a marble-topped table and letting one of the waiters present them with your bicerin, savoring the atmosphere.
It's important to use a clear glass; you need to be able to see all three layers. To make a bicerin, warm one cup (250 ml) whole milk in a medium-sized saucepan with 3 ounces (90 gr) of chopped bittersweet or semisweet chocolate. Whisk the mixture until it begins to boil, then let it boil for 1 minute, whisking constantly (the chocolate mixture will foam up a bit.) Fill the bottom third of a clear, heat-proof glass with the warm chocolate mixture. Pour in some coffee or espresso. (If you want to help it create a definite layer, pour it over the back of a spoon, into the glass.) Top with a nice swirl of sweetened, freshly-whipped cream.
A. Giordano Al Bicerin Baratti & Milano Caffè Torino Gobino Confetteria Avvignano Peyrano Platti
February 10, 2006 |
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Have you ever tasted passion fruit?
There's many different kinds of passion fruit. If you live in Hawaii, you'll find brilliant-yellow lilikoi which grow prolifically everywhere, and in the southern hemisphere, there's maricuja, which are large, russet-colored passion fruits. But most of the time you see Passiflora edulis, dark violet fruits, and the best tasting of them all. When sliced open, they reveal crunchy seeds and thick, luscious, fragrant pulp. But just in case you think this fruit was given the name 'passion' because of the lovely flavor, the name actually refers to the flower of the vine, which is said to tell the story of the Passion Play with it's multiple tendrils and stamens.
 Spoon passion fruit over icy-cold slices of blood oranges for an instant, and beautiful, dessert
Don't be put off by punky-looking fruits. Lots of wrinkles means they're very ripe and at their peak. (I've found perfectly wonderful passion fruits in produce bargain bins, since people pass them over.) Signs of mold, however, usually means they're too far gone and I'd take a pass on 'em too. If you're making a beverage and wish to use just the pulp, slice your passion fruits in half and spoon the pulp into a non-reactive strainer set over a bowl. Use a flexible rubber spatula to force the pulp through the strainer, then discard the seeds. With a little searching, you can find pure frozen passion fruit pulp if you search though Asian markets or places that specialize in tropical products.
Use whatever combination of tropical fruits you like or follow my suggestions. This is a fun chance to visit your nearest ethnic market and experiment with any unusual fruit you might find there. Don't be put off if the soup base tastes strangely spicy by itself. Combined with the tropical fruits, the flavors work. Chill the serving bowls in advance so everything stays refreshingly icy-cold. The soup base: The assembly: 1. To make the soup base, bring the water and sugar to a boil. Coarsely crush the cinnamon, star anise, cloves, and black peppercorns in a mortar, or put them in a plastic bag and crush them with a rolling pin or a hammer. Add the spices to the water then add the vanilla bean, orange zest, lemongrass, and ginger. Cover the pan, and steep for 1 hour.
February 8, 2006 |
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As the shops re-do their store windows after les soldes, in their half-finished state, there's always a little note (usually hand-written), saying something along the lines of, "Please excuse us, the window display is in the midst of réalisation" An elderly couple, parents of a friend who live across the street, invited me for dinner last night. Both are in their early 80's and their apartment is filled with years and years of memories adn relics of a lifetime in Paris. The walls in the apartment are filled with paintings done by their children (who are artists in Paris), shelves have weathered religious figures and peculiar sculptures. Most of the lampshades were so old, the shades were parchment-like, and a giant model of an ancient sailing vessel rests on the wall. The flickering candles dripped copious amounts of wax, spilling over the candleholders, forming little pools on the crisp, French linen tablecloth. We ate off dinnerware centuries old. My plate had a tableau of some peasants with large blades eviscerating a small cow that hung limply from a tree. Everything else was a hodgepodge of mismatched forks and knives as well as chipped or cracked stemware that had been gathered during decades of accumulating. All evidence of a stubborn refusal to part with a past, I suppose. They'd been avant-garde window designers in Paris, during the middle of the last century, starting in the 1950's. And after dinner, the scrapbooks came out (at my urging) as we looked at some of their designs. Then, I turned the page and saw her...
"Mais oui", they explained, "...she came to model for the display that we had created for a shop that was opening, and our friend took that picture while she posed for us." (If you look behind her, to the right, you can see the crowd gathering outside the window.) Oh-la-la!...très sexy!
Le Petit Dejeuner of Champions February 6, 2006 |
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Garrett's caramel corn for breakfast...
Is that wrong?
(Merci Louisa!)
February 5, 2006 |
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Some people love it, and others leave it. It's White Chocolate, that controversial melange of cocoa butter, sugar, and milk (more on that later). Often there's vanilla, or vanillin (a synthetic vanilla-like substance) added as well.
Well, yes it is. It's just different. A different kind of chocolate. And I like it. Dark, or bittersweet chocolate, contains cacao mass (the ground beans), sugar, cocoa butter, and sometimes vanilla and lecithin. Cocoa butter is derived from the chocolate-making process, or more specifically, when cocoa powder is made. To make cocoa powder, roastedcacao beans are ground into a paste, known as chocolate liquor, then the paste is pressed through a powerful hydraulic press, which separates the cocoa mass from the cocoa butter. The cocoa mass comes out as a solid block, which is grated into cocoa powder (which is why cocoa powder is always unsweetened and relatively low-fat) and the soft, rich cocoa butter is extracted. I've been to factories and watched the process, and the smell of warm, fat-rich cocoa butter is intoxicating. The valuable cocoa butter is often sold to the cosmetic and pharmaceutical industry, since it has the perfect melting point for things like lipstick...and why chocolate melts and releases its complex flavors like nothing else when you pop a piece in your mouth. But it's also that reason that true white chocolate tastes so good and is loved by many pastry chefs.
Widely available brands of top-quality white chocolate include Callebaut, El Rey, E. Guittard, and Lindt. You'll find some links here.
Organic and Fair Trade Chocolates February 3, 2006 |
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I ain't Mr. Organic. I'm one of those people where "local-trumps-organic". That's what I like about daily life in Paris, those things are still important. You need to know the boulanger, the butcher, the fromager, the waiter at your local café, and, of course, the most important person in France: The Pharmacist. In many cities in America, organic has become all the rage.
On more than one occasion, their response was, "Er...um, really?", I think to myself. I'm not an agronomist, but I've been told the opposite. And just like anywhere else in the world, including the US, I am sure that most commercially-grown fruits and vegetables are sprayed with something or other to make them as perfect and blemish-free as possible. But eventually I realized that organic here is associated with bourgeouis or upscale. Most organic products are more expensive, and of the two organic markets in Paris, the one on the Boulevard Raspail is full of snobbish clients, pushing you aside with their strollers while they reach for their precious organic turnips (like the SUV-driving folks who run stop signs racing to get to yoga, shoving you aside in the aisles of Whole Foods while they chat on their cell phones, drinking their chai lattes, oblivious to anyone around them.)
I found inside a small, but rather interesting array of chocolates on offer and I am always looking for new and unusual chocolates. So I picked up a few bars while the owners offered me strips of delicious dried mangoes. Organic Chocolate However I've been told by one of my most reliable sources for all things chocolate, that most cacao is not sprayed with chemicals and is, for the most part, organic. (In many places 'organic' is a term that can only be used if the products are certified and tested, which often requires a hefty fee to be paid. Hence, farmers will often choose to label their products as 'transitional' or 'unsprayed' even if they are indeed organic.) But what I like about these organic or Fair Trade chocolates is that the labels are chock-full of information; the region where the chocolate's grown, the climate, how it's harvested, what the growers had for dinner last night, how often they go to the bathroom, etc...
The Oxfam chocolate bar is made in Belgium. It has 48% cacao mass and it was a bit sweet, but had a nice fruity aftertaste and it would be great for baking. The chocolate is from Ghana (hence the black woman).
Still, what a wacky thing to find: chocolate with puffed quinoa!
Dagoba organic chocolate from the United States. Green and Black's Organic Chocolate, made in England, available worldwide. Max Havelaar chocolates and other Fair Trade products online. Some of the chocolates shown, such as the bar with quinoa, are available here.
February 2, 2006 |
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A baker takes advantage of the sub-zero temperature of Paris...
...where rooftops multi-task as cooling racks!
February 1, 2006 |
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Cheese experts (and me) agree that Roquefort is one of the top, all-time-greatest cheeses in the world.
Roquefort is a raw-milk cheese, aged between 3 to 9 months in caves. It gets its unique flavor and mold as a result of some very old rye bread; jumbo-sized loaves are baked, then left to sit for two months, during which time they become encrusted with mold. The mold is scraped, then introduced into the caves, where the cheese becomes encrusted by the greenish powder, then inoculated with the spores (called penicillium roqueforti) by resting the wheels of cheese on spikes. That's why often you see 'lines' of mold in Roquefort, as in many other bleu cheeses. But unlike other bleu cheeses, Roquefort has a very special, sweet and tangy flavor that lingers and excites. Roquefort goes very well with winter foods, such as pears, dates, oranges, toasted nuts like walnuts and pecans, sweet Sauternes, or with bitter seasonal greens like frisée, radicchio, or escarole. A simple winter salad can be made with chunks of Roquefort, slices of ripe Comice pears, leaves of Belgian endive, and a drizzle of good walnut oil. But sometimes Roquefort's best enjoyed just smeared on a piece of hearty levain bread...and that's lunch.
Here in France, there's almost too many brands to choose from when you visit your fromager. There's the omnipresent Société (who produce more than half of all Roquefort made) and my favorite, Le Papillon. But I don't think I've ever had a Roquefort that was not wonderful, so it's hard to go wrong when buying from a reputable cheese vendor. Here's a recipe of mine that will surprise you: Roquefort and Honey Ice Cream.
6 tablespoons honey 1. In a small saucepan warm the honey, then set aside.
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