I'm a big fan of any recipe that uses minimal ingredients—but has maximum impact.

And I especially warm up to a recipe that's also easy to make. I like this idea so much that I wished I'd come up with the idea before the minimalistic Mark Bittman did. Because if I did, perhaps I'd be writing for the New York Times and Mr. Bittman would be sitting here pondering whether his socks were goofy or not.

But sour grapes do not make a good sorbet, although tart vinegar does makes for great pickled onions. And like any good minimalistic recipe, this is super-simple and anyone can feel like a pro-pickler in less than cinq minutes.

Prior to my trip back to the states this week, I just put in my order for some new cookbooks to schlep back with me. Because of limited space chez David, I have to be somewhat selective about which books I get, since there's only so many things I can squeeze in around here.

These are the six that made the cut, although I'll probably see a few more that I can't resist.

God help the baggage handlers, if I do.

1. This is the book that so many, including me, have been waiting for: A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes, the new book by David Tanis. For those of you who don't know him, David was and is a chef at Chez Panisse, and was there when I started way-back-when.

Americans have a funny relationship with honey. To many of us, it's that sweet syrup in the jar with the feather-topped woman, or the gloopy stuff stuck inside the crevasses of a plastic bear.

In France, honey is a Big Deal and there's boutiques like Maison du Miel, and vendors at the outdoor markets, which sell nothing but honey and honey-related products. (And believe me, you'd be surprised how many there are.)

Various types of honeys are said to have healing properties, although I don't eat them for my health: I've learned to enjoy the many different varieties available in France, and I switch them around and use a particular kind, depending on what I'm baking or simply for eating.

In Paris, there's a few ruchiers (beehives) in the city, the most well-known being in the Jardin du Luxembourg, whose honey is available sporadically. But few folks know that in our National Veterinary Museum, there are hives as well. And the good news is it's almost in the middle of Paris.

Although I've often been critical of the French trend towards putting food in silly little glasses, called verrines, once again, I find myself eating my words around here.

On a recent trip to Ikea (I know...I know what I said...) I saw these great little glass candle holders and thought they'd be perfect for servings of something...like, say...individual portions of Tiramisu. Which are great for those of you, if you're anything like me, who will forage around their apartment all all hours, desperately searching for something to eat. I am like an aspirateur for food and will eat anything, but have a strong preference lately for this chocolate spread I bought in Nice with bits of caramelized pears in it, crunchy organic peanut butter, and Chex party mix.

(Oh great, another thing I need to add to my ever-expanding shopping list for my trip to the states next week...)

But if something is individually-portioned, it keeps how much I'm going to eat in check.

The other great thing about individual portions is that there are no serving "issues".

Looking down at my feet the other day, as I sat in the Palais Royal, I came to the realization that I'm almost a Frenchman. At least according to my socks.

Then again, the dorky shoes probably negate them.

The first time I ever really tasted chocolate, it was from a man I'd met in a dark alley. Actually, it wasn't really a dark alley, but in a barren parking lot in a scruffy section of San Francisco.

I had taken a tour of an industrial bakery with a group of local baking enthusiasts, and afterward, a strange man sided up to me, pulled a wad of crumpled up foil out of his jacket pocket, and asked me if I wanted a taste.

Recoiling a bit, when he opened the crinkly foil, in the middle was a small nugget of something dark, sticky, and melted. When I stuck my finger in, then put it in my mouth, there was an explosion of flavor: dark and roasty, only slightly sweet, and very rich. It was pure chocolate, but unlike any other that I'd tasted before. I thought it was delicious.

He told me that he was going to start a chocolate company and make chocolate like this in small batches.

I thought he was insane.

This Sunday in Paris

Since I'm determined to master all those numbers in French (...like what is up with that 20 x 4 + 10 + 9 = 99?), I'll be helping my friend Régis this Sunday morning, September 21, at the Bastille market from 10am to Noon. He specializes in hand-harvested salts from his family's marshes in Brittany, and you're welcome to stop by and say hi, and help me untangle some of those digits...

It's true that the French have a thing for singers in pain. But Americans aren't really all that different. They had Jacques Brel and Edith Piaf.

And Barbara and Dalida.

Bonus points are given if one is so triste that they commit suicide. Which makes Britney Spears ineligible, but we Americans do have Judy Garland.

Being French, naturally, Romain worships Judy Garland.

Proving that eating fresh, flavorful, sustainable food doesn't have to be expensive, time consuming, or elitist, I walked to my local market this morning and bought these two sardines.

I decided a few months ago to try and limit my fish-eating to sustainable species, which meant bypassing my formerly-beloved tuna steaks and forgoing sushi, in favor of critters like these slender sardines.

This morning, passing by the poissonière, I picked up these lovely little fellas, shiny and bright-eyed, resting on a pile of ice. Unfortunately, the ice probably isn't all that sustainable—but I'll take a bit of global-warming in lieu of stinky fish.

It seems like there’s a wave of macaron questions that are sweeping my way. Unlike les brownies or le gâteau weekend (poundcake), successful macarons are more the result of the technique, rather than following a mere recipe. There’s lots of tips and tricks around the web that will help you out with these little devils, including some interesting recipes, too.

You can find my chocolate macaron recipe on the site, but here are a few links and places for further reading that I think are particularly helpful and insightful.

I'm really fortunate to have two friends, Mort and Jeanette, who live on a boat in the Seine.

When Paris gets crazy, as it does in September when everyone returns from their vacations, it's a lovely respite to have a glass or wine on the deck and watch the world leisurely float by.

(Along with a few other things bobbing around in the mix of the river...)

But it's a great escape from a bit of the madness of la rentrée, when everyone's come back to Paris and although they're initially in a good mood, as their tans fade, they slip back into the big-city mode.

And soon, I'm back to cursing the motor-scooters who cut me off—on the sidewalk, I'm making appointments with the kinotherapist to re-align my back after losing too many games of "chicken" with Parisians on the sidewalk, and I need to keep myself from throttling those people who sit in front of me at the movies and spent their time texting their friends on their flashing, illuminated cell phones.

And, worst of all, I'm coming to the realization that the stinky guy has returned, and is probably never, ever going to move.

When I did my post about the opening of Grom gelateria here in Paris, they weren't open when I put it up, so I was unable to provide a photo that I took. And I used one I swiped from their website. (With permission, bien sûr.)

In the interest of fairness to my readers, just for you, mind you, I went back.

(Which is the understatement of the year...)

You see, unfortunately the opening day it was pouring rain, and I left my clicky-thing at home. And I felt so bad that I had to go back several times, mind you, to shoot some original photos. Which coincidentally, was when the gelato-makers and owners, Guido and Federico, were in town as well.

In my quest for a good burger in Paris, I was enthralled that many of you wrote with so many suggestions. I once took a course in food writing and the teacher told us not to use words like "enthralled" and "opt" because people don't use them in everyday speech.

When I opt to look out my window, I'm enthralled at the view of Paris.

So there.

Anyhow, thanks to my vigilant readers, I'm now armed with a comprehensive list—and so are you, of places to find a decent burger here.

And to the person who wrote on an online bulletin board that they didn't feel sorry for me, well, I ask you, where is the love, folks? This isn't supposed to be the RNC.

Let's just say I believe that it's every American's constitutional right to have access to a great burger no matter where they are in the world, and leave it at that.

As many readers know, I often did posts which included links to blogs and other places around the web that I found interesting and worth sharing.

I now share those links on my Facebook page since I have just too many things to share here on the blog—like all-important stories about Paris bakeries, Italian gents with fabulous hair who scoop gelato, and my ill-fated search for a great hamburger in Paris.

I am so glad I'm not on a low-carb diet. If I was, I'd have to move.

Seriously—if I couldn't eat bread, I would shrive up and die. The only thing keeping me from doing that is constant hydrating myself with wine. Luckily, that's another one of the other things around here that I don't need to avoid.

Yet.

When I told Romain's mom that we didn't have bakeries in the US like they have in France, she couldn't believe it.

"Ooohh?..." she wondered aloud, "So where does everyone get their bread every day?"

I'm now used to sitting down for dinner at 8 or 8:30pm...or 9...or 9:30pm...or 10:30pm...or whenever...but when I first moved to Paris, those first few months were a bit rough and I wasn't quite sure me, or my stomach, would be able to adjust.

My tummy would start a-grumblin' around 5 o'clock and I'd start wandering around my apartment, lopping of pieces of bread and cheese, gnawing on radishes, or raiding the chocolate bin—which usually I started in on a bit earlier, I'll confess, than the other choices.

I am always hungry and the interminable wait between lunch and dinner spans a terrifying seven-plus hours here.