February 2009 Archives

A lot of people love to travel. I am not one of them.

Sure I love wandering through exotic markets, exploring restaurants in new cities, and sitting under an umbrella on the beach. But the hard part for me to deal with is getting there. I know that travel used to be romantic and fun, but it's not anymore. And people like the whiny woman sitting across the aisle from me who just couldn't believe that her enormous suitcase won't fit in the overhead bin just above her seat and was refusing to put it elsewhere, doesn't add to the allure.

The main thing I don't like about travel is this: I don't like being uncomfortable. I don't like being trapped in a plane, unable to move (even when seated), I never sleep well unless I'm in my own bed, and call me crazy, but I like the option of going to the bathroom when I need to go to the bathroom. I'd make a horrible prisoner. And after fifteen minutes trapped in my seat, one can only read about electric butter slicers, portable water washers, and the latest in nose-hair removal technology so many times in the Sky Mall catalog.

We're packin' up our Euro-skivvies and hitting the beach! I'm heading off on a much-needed vacation, a sunny escape from the mid-winter morosité. I'll be checking in here from temps en temps and perhaps posting some photos of my fun in the sun, so don't stray too far.

In the meanwhile, here's a couple of things to keep you occupied...

The Times has come up with a list of the 50 of the World's Best Food Blogs, and somewhere on that list, I'm on it.

I've hesitated about sharing this place with you, but have finally succumbed. After all, everyone has a right to find a great roast chicken place. Especially one that's incredibly affordable. And pretty delicious.

Churrasqueira Galo is a dive, a place where there's a always a lively cross section of residents of this transitioning quartier, including families out with the kids, drag queens, Portuguese soccer players, and assorted dubious characters (like me) looking for a good, inexpensive meal.

And beware of going during the full-blast heat of the summer: last year we had to leave mid-meal because it was so stifling hot. When I asked the sweating owner, who was manning the fiery rôtisserie, why they didn't get a fan, he told me: "They're so expensive! A fan cost the same as a day's earnings in Portugal."

I didn't want to point out that A) We're not in Portugal, we're in Paris, and B) A cheap fan costs about €20. No one asked me, but I think twenty euros is a pretty good investment if your customers are leaving.

I've been a tad remiss in doing a write-up about one of the newest American chocolate-makers: Askinosie. When I heard about them, I couldn't wait to get my hands on some bars of their bars. The only problem was that I wolfed them down too-quickly, before I could even write 'em up.

Then I'd heard in the news (the chocolate news, which I read rabidly...is there any kind of news?) that they've been making a white chocolate bar that's made from non-deodorized cocoa butter and goat's milk, instead of the traditional cows milk. As someone who likes white chocolate, and enjoys the tang of goat milk, this sounds like heaven to me.

In my 89 Random Things About Me, #3 was that I thought small-batch chocolate makers summed up all of the best qualities of America, most notably the eagerness to do something different and improve something, making it even better than before.

When I moved to France from San Francisco, I worried about what every San Franciscan worries about— "What am I going to do without burritos?"

For those who aren't familiar with San Francisco-style burritos, these bullet-shaped tummy-torpedoes are rice, beans, salsa, and meat all rolled up in a giant flour tortilla and eaten steaming hot. I don't want to antagonize the burrito folks, but being a purist, I never, ever get cheese, sour cream, guacamole, or the worst offender—lettuce, all of which make a burrito about as appealing as a rolled-up newspaper left out for a week in the rain.

When you make desserts in a restaurant, the most important thing you can do is to smell anything made of plastic before you put anything in it. I remember someone made a big batch of crème anglaise one morning...and that evening, when I went to serve it, I opened the lid and the overpowering smell of garlic blasted forth, rendering the whole batch useless.

A few years Iater I worked as a pastry chef at a southeast Asian restaurant, which was great: I never had to sniff anything since I was using the same ingredients—ginger, chiles, galengal, and spices—as the regular cooks.

I've raved and raved about Pierre Hermé's macarons, and once ranted about one.

Everyone should gave a great recipe for Vanilla Ice Cream in their repertoire. Here's my favorite, which you can serve with anything, from a freshly-baked fruit pie, a warm berry crisp, or simply smothered with dark chocolate sauce or caramel sauce and toasted nuts.

It's said that vanilla is the most popular flavor of ice cream. But most people don't know that vanilla is also the most labor-intensive of all crops. Because of that, vanilla beans and pure extract are costly. Thankfully, a little vanilla goes a long way. I use both a bean and vanilla extract in my ice cream since I find they're slightly different flavors and each compliments the other.

When I was in the states last year, I was in a coffee shop and for some reason, the conversation with the folks turned to what I was doing in their city. I'm not sure how they knew I wasn't from around there, but I can only assume it was my startlingly-good French accent, which is always a sure give-away. I mentioned I was a cook and was taping a television segment.

Right then, stopping the conversation, the woman who owned the shop asked me, "Are you the David Lieberman?"

Okay, before you get your panties in a knot, in my defense, I've had my name butchered to death on more than on occasion and we both cook and write cookbooks.

So I said, "Yes, that's me. Nice to meet you."

The next day when I stopped in again for my coffee, the same woman ran up to me, excitedly, "Oooh David, my friends were so excited that I met David Lieberman!" While I was thrilled to have someone happy to meet me, I'd never had someone that excited.

Turn on the television any night in France and chances are excellent that you'll land on a program, held in a brightly-lit studio, where celebrities, authors, and other French luminaries mingle, chat, and talk about issues—or whatever they feel like.

For some reason, though, they don't run a banner at the bottom while the person is talking, like they do incessantly on American television. And because of that, I usually have no idea who all those overly-made up people are.

So I'll ask—"Romain...who is that?"

He'll be surprised, really surprised..."You mean you don't know who Valérie Lemercier is? She is a very big star. Très, très connu!" I always hate bursting bubbles, so I'll nod kind of half-heartedly, although I'm not so good at keeping a poker face and hiding my feelings.

Or I guess I should say—what in the sea?

I recently came across this cake pan online, a unique piece of baking equipment that effectively combines my most favorite thing in the world (cake) with my least favorite thing: heinous beasts from the deep with tentacles.

Look. I can understand making a cake that looks like a castle, a clown, or a toy car. Barbie is cool, and so is Winnie the Pooh. Or even a turkey with red lipstick. (Er, sorry Noodlr, I take it back about the turkey with lipstick.) But I don't understand what kind of event where a cake in the shape of an octopus would be appropriate.

There's a lively debate about Molecular Gastronomy in the culinary community. For the most part, from what I've heard, it's all rather derisive. Just like Matisse was widely-panned for painting a woman's face with a green stripe down the middle, I think we're going to have to let time tell us if this is just a passing fancy or if it's something that's here to stay.

I've been sharing my apartment for the past few months with the Alinea cookbook. We haven't socialized much, but we've been circling each other, warily.

My first though when I opened the book was to scratch my head, and think, "What the heck am I going to make from this?"

I was having dinner at Racines a few weeks ago, and excused myself during the meal to run upstairs and use the facilities. While up there, I had a few minutes to stare at the wall in front of me, which was covered with pictures and pages of text from various books. One page stopped me mid-moment, it was are recipe for something called Gâteau Zoë.

It was a pretty simple-looking recipe and when I finished up and went back downstairs, I noticed it on the menu, so we ordered it. And it was delicious! Because I'm a terrible journalist and never seem to carry either at the same time—and obviously, inspiration can strike in the most unlikeliest of places...at the most unlikeliest of times—I ran back up to the bathroom to jot it down.

Today is World Nutella Day, and I'm caught with my trousers down. I prepared a dish (well..sort of) but didn't get around to writing up something unusually profound to say, so a picture of it is going to have to do for now.

I got sidetracked by a whole bunch of stuff, and had a lot of things I was going to post about this week, then along came 89 other things, plus an appointment with the podologue, so I've been washing my feet like mad, I mean, scrubbing them really, really well before my rendez-vous. Seriously, I think I spent the better part of the week washing them.

Anyhow, here's a shot of Nutella, in a slightly different form than you might be used to seeing it in.

Over on Facebook, there's been a thing going around called 25 random things about me. Inspired by Pim posting hers, I thought I'd do the same.

Except I got carried away, editing and adding a few more.

1. When I started my blog, I wished I have done it anonymously so I could really say what I wanted to say. Now I'm glad I didn't, because I can actually say what I want to say, and stand behind it, too.

2. Whenever someone who smokes shrugs and says to me, "I don't care. When it's time for me to die, it's time for me to die", I wonder if they'll say the same thing when their larynx is removed and they'll have to say that through a hole in their throat.

3. I am very proud of all the Americans who started small-batch chocolate companies. I think it's one of our proudest achievements and sums up the best qualities of America.

4. When people ask me how do I stay so thin, it seems like common sense that the answer is because I do the opposite of what people do who become fat.

5. If I have cookies around, I will eat at least one first thing in the morning, before breakfast.

6. I think Flickr is the best-conceived, and best-used, site on the internet. I hope it never changes.

7. I hate being served breakfast. Especially in fancy hotels. I'd rather stay in a dump than face a lavish hotel breakfast and fawning waiters in the morning.

It'll be a sad day in Paris if Chartier ever shuts its doors. True, the food isn't exceptional. But it's cheap and people seem to flock here in droves. And the interior? I don't think you'll find a more perfectly-preserved relic of an old Paris, with glass-globe fixtures, tables jammed together, coat racks high above the tables, and a menu that hasn't made a single concession to any of the culinary advancements of at least the last three or four decades.

Chartier takes no reservations and if there's a big line when you turn off the busy boulevard and step into the courtyard, don't worry. It's here you'll see living proof that refutes any notion that the French are inefficient. The host moves folks through the old revolving door and to their table at a shocking rate of speed.