August 2009 Archives

I'm sure I've caused more than my share of near automobile accidents when I see a signpost by the edge of a road pointing towards a brocante or Depot Vente. After slamming on the brakes, I do a San Francisco-style U-turn, backing up to head into the parking lot.

(The week I moved to San Francisco, my roommates, who were natives, told me; "Whenever you see a parking space, no matter what you have to do to get it—do it.")

Aside from parking spots, I can't pass by a promising antique store without stopping everything. And there's plenty of them dotted throughout France. Not all of them are great, but once you're out of Paris, the prices drop by at least half, and once safely parked, I race inside in search of bargains.

If you go to La Chiffonière, near Coulommiers, don't expect to buy those four blue café au lait bowls, because they're sitting in my kitchen cabinet.

A lot of out-of-towners who visit France are always surprised to wake up in the morning and find themselves with a few pieces of baguette or a single croissant for breakfast. Our breakfasts can be groaning-board sized, featuring some—or in more extreme cases, all of the following: eggs, sausages, pancakes, bacon, oatmeal, cereal, toast, orange juice, and waffles.

Tartines are the popular breakfast in France, a word which comes from the verb tartiner—"to spread". So along with the basket of bread offered, there'll be lots of butter (which is one of the few times you'll see most French people spreading that on their bread) and generally some sort of confiture in a pot alongside.

Instead of deciding between fluffy cheese-and-spinach stuffed omelettes with a side of smoked bacon strips, a New York bagel piled with cream cheese, lox, capers, and thinly-sliced red onions, char-broiled steak with three fried eggs and golden hash browns, a big stack of hot bluberry flapjacks flowing with maple syrup and dripping with melted butter, spicy huevos rancheros, or a mound of crisp-fried corned beef hash (hmmm...can someone remind me why I threw away that return ticket?) the choice in the morning here boils down to which flavor of jam to offer.

France is supposedly all about liberté, but in fact, everyone is really judged, and categorized, by one thing: the number on their license plate.

Paris is number 75, and if you drive anywhere else in France, aside from your black clothing, the chain-smoking, and the mad tapping on your iPhone, you're pegged as a Parisian if your license plate ends with the oft-feared soixante-quinze.

Parisians have a bit of a reputation in les autres départements and as we drove home from dinner one night when I was in the Poitou-Charente on vacation, a typical French family attempting to cross the street retracted when they saw our car approaching; "Il n'a rien vu les autres, le Parisien!" ("He doesn't see others, the Parisian!") shouted the father, frantically pushing his beloved a safe distance from les soixante-quinzes.

This place has it all: location, fresh seafood, and best of all, beaucoup de frites. After visiting the fantastic market in La Tremblade, we drove out to the where the boats bring in the oysters, and settled in to our table at La Bonne Renommée.

Since my friends were regulars, they knew exactly what they wanted and barely glanced at the menus. But I was intrigued by the fireplace that we walked past on the way in, which was filled with dried seaweed and set ablaze to cook each order of fire-roasted Eclade de moules.

It's funny, because some people get the impression that I don't like where I live. Which is kind of strange, because I don't understand why anyone would think that I'd live somewhere where there was a dearth of clothes dryers if I didn't like it. And if you saw the paperwork that I have to fill out just to stay here, well, let's just say that one really has to want to live here to plow through it all.

I've read a lot of books extolling what a glorious place Paris is, with tales of skipping along Left Bank streets, happily shopping for new shoes whenever the mood strikes, and resting in one of those cafés on the boulevard St. Germain sipping a $7 coffee.

They certainly paint a rosy view of the city. But then I realized something: The authors of those books no longer live here.

Like all cities, Paris is a real place. A lot of people understandably come here looking for old bistros and quaint cafés, often to find those kinds of place disappearing, or disappointing. Then they'll step into La Maison du Chocolate, take a bite of a Rigoletto Noir, filled with caramelized butter mousse, and realize that life doesn't get any better than that.

Sometimes I'll be riding my bike around at night by the Seine, under the softly-glowing lights. I'll look around, and think, "Paris is breaktakingly beautiful." Other times, I'll scratch my head when the bank tells me they have no change that day. Or stare at the pile of paperwork that's arrived in the mail, filled with endless forms that need to be filled out, and think, "Can someone remind me why I moved here?"

Anyhow, I still live here and accept that like anywhere, Paris is a real city with its flaws and its fabulousness.

I don't think I've ever made a savory tart, until now, which marks the mid-point in my life. And after this one, I'm wondering-what took me so long? I also sometimes lie awake at night and wonder if this really is the mid-point in my life. But that's a whole nother post because it has nothing to do with baking. (Although that hasn't stopped me before...)

Neuroses aside, this tart may look fancy, but it's one of the simplest thing to make that you could imagine. True, it does require a bit of chopping and cooking, but there's no mountains of long-cooked onions like pissaladière, it doesn't call for an artery-busting even-handed pour of cream, and it's wonderful served warm or at room temperature. And it's even better the next day, when the top gets crusty-brown during reheating. What's not to like?

I made this tart on the spur of the moment after leafing through the excellent book, Local Flavors by Deborah Madison, which explores all of the magnificent produce from the diverse greenmarkets and small-scale farms spread out across America.

When I gave the terrific recipe for the Caramelized White Chocolate, which I learned to make at Valrhona's chocolate school, I'd hoped that many of you would use it to create your own concoctions. While no one came up with my favorite (stirred into oatmeal!), there was a lot of creativity put forth as people made everything from Caramelized White Chocolate Bars to a spread for a buttery, flaky croissant.

I've listed the ones I found at the end of the post, but I wanted to give the ice cream recipe I've been making this summer.

One of the main differences between American and French food magazines, and recipes in general, is the level of detail provided in the instructions. For example, if you were to publish a recipe in America that called for a cuillère à café (coffee-spoon) of baking powder, folks would go apoplectic. "How much is a coffee spoon?"

Then there was the infamous question a copyeditor queried me about. I wrote instructions to butter a cake pan, but apparently I wasn't clear enough.

"Do they butter the inside or the outside of the pan?"

Another difference is the laissez-faire instructions for assembly: I've seen French recipes for puff pastry that simply say, "Roll the pastry six times, folding it between each turn."

But people here seem to have no problems with that and I'm not quite sure what it means.

I once asked a restaurateur, who owns restaurants in European and in America, what he thought was the main difference between the food in American and the food in Europe.

"Everything's very sweet," he replied, right away.

I thought about it for a moment, and considering everyone's got their panties in a knot about all the sweeteners that are dumped into everything from tomato sauce, bottled salad dressings, to supermarket bread, he's got a point. A lot of stuff that doesn't need to be sweetened, is. But one thing that we Americans do like is tart citrus desserts. The tangier, the more mouth-puckering, the better.

Backing up his claim, though, we do tend to pile ours up to the moon with whipped cream or sweet meringue. So he does have a point.

I had a terrific time with fuzzy-faced food editor Joe Yonan when he came to Paris recently, and he was such a super dude, that I took him to my favorite market to meet some of my friends and vendors.

You can read the story, American Blogger in Paris in today's Washington Post.

I'm not much for trendy restaurants. And I don't really care for chefs that are trying to show-off, especially when they don't have les bourses to pull it off. I recall a particularly alarming meal...and the bill, at the end of it...at a very, very expensive restaurant where I was presented with half of a caramelized shallot which arrived in front of me with a blitz of fanfare, on a plate the size of a hula-hoop.

I took a bite and it was good, but for what it cost, I wanted at least the other half. And look, I worked at a restaurant where nothing was held in higher esteem than a perfect, unblemished peach, so I don't think it's wrong to present food or ingredients simply. I just have a hard time swallowing a €55 bowl of tomato soup.

I have two bits of good news that are going to make you very, very happy. Okay, they make me happy. You, on the other hand, might not give a rat's derrière.

One is that the bakery that makes the sesame baguette is going to stay open for an indeterminate amount of time. That means that I won't be cut off from my Crack Baguette. What that does mean is that I'm going to delete the post where I gave out the address and I want all of you out there to clear out your cache, trash your bookmarks, then delete your hard drive, and forget you ever heard of the place. Thanks.

Another tranche of good news is that I recently revisited a bakery that's really out of the way, which I never would have found had it not been for a tip-off by Clotilde. Good, sturdy grainy breads aren't as common here as baguettes and other crusty loaves.