They say that you know you're holding a glass of wine from Cahors if you can't see your fingers on the other side of the glass through the wine. Which is why the malbec wine from Cahors is nicknamed "black wine".

Peer into a glass of it, and it's easy to see (or should I say 'not see') why.

I didn't know much about the wine, or the region, before my recent visit. I just knew there were allegedly a lot of truffles, foie gras, and duck dishes cooked up in the Lot. So when I was asked by some folks who were shooting a film about the regional specialties if I wanted to tag along with them, I happily accepted.

(In addition to shooting the grapes, and getting a truffle or two ready for its close up, we made a video of me, too. Which, if I don't come off as too much of a dork, you'll see on the site when it's finished.)

For the first five years in Paris, I wouldn't go to Scoop. I'd walk by, scan the selections of hamburgers and "les wraps", and keep going. Even though I was intrigued with the list of house-made ice creams, I'd always reason to myself, "I didn't move to Paris to eat a hamburger."

I was reading recently about a site called My American Market that carries American foods, mostly targeted at expats living in France. There's some hard-to-find baking products, like unsweetened chocolate and molasses, but there's also plenty of goofy stuff, like muffin mixes, trail bars, and something called Molly McButter.

Believe it or not, there's been a spate of cupcake places opening in...of all places—Paris.

I haven't been in to any of them, but I should probably go at some point since I'm not sure if it's just a fad that's going to end soon, or something that might be here to stay. Parisians aren't especially fond of cakes with thick layers of frosting or blue icing, and sugary roses don't have quite the same nostalgic effect here as they do in America.

A lot of people come to Paris and ask me what they can bring. I've kind of had to stop mentioning things when I ramble on here, because if I casually mention that I would kill for a box of thin mints, every guest that comes to visit for the next three years arrives with a dozen boxes of thin mints. So please, don't bring me any thin mints. Except those After Eight mints. As evidenced by the empty brown, envelope-style wrappers littering my apartment, I love those. (Oh, and I like Planter's Peanut Blocks, too.)

Since I got in trouble recently for using...shall we say, a less-than nutritionally correct ingredient, on my last trip to San Francisco, folks will be happy to hear that I discovered fresh, wholesome pecans for sale at Costco.

Here's some of the frequently asked questions people have about cocoa powder, and its use in recipes:

What's the difference between Dutch-process and natural cocoa powder?

Dutch-process cocoa powder is made from cocoa (cacao) beans that have been washed with a potassium solution, to neutralize their acidity. Natural cocoa powder is made from cocoa beans that are simply roasted, then pulverized into a fine powder.

What does Dutching do?

Aside from neutralizing the acidity, Dutching cocoa powder makes it darker (see photo below, right) and can help mellow the flavor of the beans. Some artisan companies in the United States don't Dutch-process their cocoa as they claim their cocoa beans don't need to be acid-neutralized. Most supermarket brands of cocoa powder in America, such as Hershey's and Nestlé, are natural cocoa powders.

Can I use Dutch-process and natural cocoa powder interchangeably in recipes?

Dinner at Hidden Kitchen

On May 13, I'll be hosting a dinner at the always-booked Hidden Kitchen in association with the folks at Context Travel. Local food gem Meg Zimbeck will join me, and aside from a super dinner, guests will also get a copy of my upcoming book, Ready For Dessert.

There's just a few spaces left, It's now sold out, so if you've been dying to try Hidden Kitchen, or would like to get a closer look at that worrisome bald spot that appears to be growing on the backside of my head, you can e-mail your name to be on the waiting list.

Last time I was in the states, because I had a few hours to spend strapped in a seat (on an airplane, folks—it wasn't Folsom Street Fair weekend), a friend gave me a stack of magazines which track the comings and going of various celebrities. I know they were meant to be entertaining, but I must've been away too long, because I had no idea who about eighty percent of the people in the magazine were and if Suri Cruise or Ke$ha was strapped in next to me, I wouldn't have any clue to how blessed I was to be in their celestial presence.

There were a lot of women with names like Trista, Jilly, and Bethany, who wanted to win husbands on television programs and were wearing turquoise dresses with remarkably sturdy-looking tetons and well-toned arms, which presumably meant they were ready for battle. I even learned of a crafty woman who was using her uterus to pick up a little extra spending money, even though from the looks of things, she had plenty of other things to already keep her pretty well occupied already.

When I was in Cahors, I had dinner with a French woman who teaches English. She told me one of the biggest differences between English and French is that in English, we often use a lot of words to mean one thing. And not all of them make sense. I've never really thought about it all that much, but she was right; we do tend to use a lot of expressions and words where one, or a few, might suffice.

"Hang a left", "Hide the sausage", and "Beat the rap" are a few phrases that come to mind because another day during my trip, someone was giving driving directions to a French driver, and he didn't understand why one would "hang" a turn. (The other two phrases didn't come up during the week, which was both good and unfortunate. And not necessarily in that order.)

But we Anglophones do have to use quite a few words to mean one thing. "That wooden tool that you use to spread crêpe batter on a griddle" is called, simply, a "râteau".

For those of you who have The Perfect Scoop, you may already be familiar with my friend Heather Stimmler-Hall, who writes the popular website, Secrets of Paris. She's the one who attempted to seduce her Parisian neighbor with a batch of my ice cream. Not that she needs my assistance (I didn't ask her how it turned out since I'm such a gentleman, and she's the model of discretion). But for the rest of us, I tend to take help whenever—and wherever, I can get it.

Heather is the author of Naughty Paris, a guide to the sexiest and most romantic things to do in Paris. Because so many people come to Paris looking for a little romance, on our recent dessert date, I asked Heather for a list of her favorite, most sensual things to do in the city...just in time for Valentine's Day. So here is Heather's list of Ten Romantic (and Sexy) Things to Do in Paris. Merci ma chèrie! -David

A lot of people ask me advice on romantic things to do in Paris, and if they're visitors, I usually reply, "It's Paris, what's not romantic about it?" After all, you've got a gorgeous setting of historic monuments and scenic bridges over the Seine, a fashionably-dressed cast of Parisians sans baseball hats and "Who dat?" emblazoned sweatshirts, and some of the most mouth-watering cuisine on the planet.

Well, that is if you know where to go.

I can already hear the locals and Paris habitués groaning that they've already done all of the Valentine's Day clichés: a show at the Moulin Rouge, a cruise on the Seine, dinner on the Eiffel Tower, macarons at Ladurée...and I think everyone should try all of those things at least once in a lifetime (okay, once a week for the macarons). But then what?

Then you ask me, the woman who wrote Naughty Paris, for a few ideas—of course! Some of these are obvious, others less so, but all are perfect for a romantic rendez-vous when you're hungering for more than just a kiss. ; )

1. Oysters and Wine at Le Baron Rouge

Candlelight, soft music and a quiet table in the corner? Please. There's nothing more intimate than being crammed against each other in a cozy wine bar, jostling with the friendly locals and market stall-holders from the neighboring Marché d'Aligre for a glass of Burgundy and a platter of cheese and charcuterie.

I'm always a little late to the party. For example, last week, the Super Bowl festivities took place. But honestly, I have an excuse. Actually I have a few. Since I don't live in America, there isn't much enthusiasm for American football around here. When I tried to explain the concept of the grandeur of Super Bowl Sunday to Romain, he gave me that typically blank stare which is sort of a signal to not even bother with an explanation, because it made my head hurt thinking about it.

Equally unexplainable, he asked; "Do you understand American football?" and it took me about one second to respond, "Non". But truthfully, who on earth does? All I know is that those games seem to go on and on and on forever. One team runs a few yards and knocks down someone. Then they all take a break, walk around, talk to each other, pat a few behinds, the cameras scan the crowd, then they do it again. After a few more tackles, breaks, and changes of direction, there's ten minutes of shaving commercials before the non-action resumes.

Because I'm the jealous type, when I read about the ActiFry on Alec Lobrano's blog, a machine that uses new cooking technology to create crisp fries and other foods with virtually no oil, I immediately wanted one, too.

Normally I'm not one to hop on the bandwagon and rush out and get a new gadget, especially when my apartment is bursting at the seams and if I put one more thing on my kitchen counter, I'm going to wind up cooking on the floor.

(Or worse, in another room, which a commenter wrote "grossed her out". So I'd better not do anything in that room, except what nature intended. Or not.)

So I sent a message to a friend who works with the company and she arranged to have an ActiFry machine sent to me, not expecting or in exchange for a review, but because I'm a wonderful person worthy of low-fat frites.

Even though we live in a globalized world, I'm always surprised by how many people want to make or eat anything, and everything, no matter where they live. Whether or not it makes sense.

Take Parisian macarons. In the last year or so, they've become the new cupcake and not a week goes by when I don't get a message about someone freaking out and wondering why the top of someone's batch of macarons cracked, or where someone can get real, honest-to-goodness French macarons in Podunk.

Like a Parisian baguette or a croissant, if you want any of those things, you should just come to Paris and have it. If you want Texas chili, you should go to Texas. If you're craving Kentucky fried chicken, well, then you should go to Kentucky.

I'm probably not the sharpest knife in the drawer, because about a decade ago, I met two guys who were planning to start a bean-to-bar chocolate company in America. And I remember thinking, "Hoo-boy, are these nut-jobs going to lose their shirts! Who in America cares that much about chocolate?"

Fast-forward to a few years later, and Scharffen Berger chocolate became a huge hit, challenging, and changing the way Americans thought about chocolate. It was eventually sold for a substantial sum of money, and the rest is history.

And I'm living in a drafty, two room rooftop apartment where getting hot water is a miracle that might happen weekly. If at all. So who's the nut-job now?

It's not all fun and frolic—and chocolate—around here. Aside from dealing with banks that limit access to your own money, or scratching your head when the France Telecom representative tells you that it's going to cost you a mere €465 to keep your mobile number if you change to another one of their other phone plans (although it was a stretch to even get there; his first response was, "Yes. It is not possible"), believe it or not, there are some less-than-pastoral things about life here.

One of them is not Tuber melanosporum, or black truffles, which as far as I'm concerned more than makes up for anything else. (Well, I would like a new phone...)

Sure, various black truffles are found in Spain, Italy, China, Croatia, and even in the United States of America. But none that I've smelled compare to the famed black truffles unearthed from woods and forests of southwest France. Rien du tout.

When I worked in the restaurant business, we'd often get knobbly black truffles sent to us, which were shaved over simple dishes like pasta, potatoes, and risottos; anything more complicated competes with their funky, pungent, but highly-prized aroma. People go ga-ga over truffles, but I never caught the truffle bug, which was excellent news for my wallet.

On my recent trip to Cahors, we went for a walk in the forest with a truffle hunter—and his boisterous pig, in search of black truffles. And it was there I learned how they work together to find these elusive tubers.