Recently in Candy & Sweets Category

For my birthday, back in December, Romain presented me with a Kalouga bar from Bernachon, handwrapped personally for me by Denise Acabo of A l'Etoile d'Or, one the best, and wackiest, candy and chocolate shops anywhere in the world.

I've been afraid to open it since I know what'll happen once I do. So I've been saving it for a special occasion, or a WTF moment. And yes, I'm aware that it's a long time, but I guess things have been going pretty well lately.

Well, that is until a recent trip to my bank to simply change the status of my account since I found out I was being overcharged up the wazoo for services I didn't understand or use. (Like, even though she insisted I did, do I really need two free money orders a month? I think the last time I used a money order was in 1998. But I've learned that not speaking picture-perfect French can easily tack on 20-30% to the cost of things.)

The banquière hefted a thick dossier of paperwork so voluminous, it made the Sunday New York Times look like a pin-up flyer for a lost cat. It took my breath away, and I spent an hour and a half going through it and just to get out of there, I signed away whatever it was they wanted me to sign away.

When I got home, that bar was certainly tempting me. And I held off.

But I don't need to hold off any further.

Askinosie White Chocolate

There's nothing odder to me than people who say, "I don't like white chocolate...because it's not chocolate!" Which is like saying, "I don't like white wine...because it's not Champagne!"

In each case, both are similar, but entirely different creatures and to compare them is kinda silly. I used the scoff at the losers who liked milk chocolate, until I started appreciating it for what it really was (not dark chocolate), and I joined the ranks and became a loser myself. (Although depending on who you talk you, it started sometime before that.)

Because I was recently scheduled to speak about white chocolate with the Evan Kleiman (who is anything but a loser) on her radio program Good Food, I asked Shawn Askinosie if he'd send me a few bars, via a friend who was en route to Paris, of his new bean-to-bar white chocolate, so I could sample them.

You could've knocked me over with a cocoa leaf when I slipped the bars out of their packages, as I wasn't prepared for them to be so gently coffee-colored; one studded with salted pistachios the other with nibs.

(I've been working on updating some of the Recipes in my archives, which I carried over from my old site. For this one, I thought it'd be best to go right to the source, and I asked Giovanna Zivny, who originally provided the recipe, to update it and include her photos. We both worked for many years together at Chez Panisse, her in the office and I, alongside her mom, Lindsey Shere, who was the pastry chef and co-owner of the restaurant. -David)

I was always interested in eating candy. A childhood infatuation with California's See's Candies was probably responsible--their spiffy black and white shops were a calm oasis in 1970s Berkeley. Stepping into the store was like going through a time warp. Outside the streets were full of hippies in bellbottoms; the scent of patchouli, meant to mask certain other scents, wafted through the air. Inside See's a woman in her white dress and black bow tie presided over the neatly displayed plates of chocolates. She still wore her hair in a beehive.

Some people, when they travel, they look for hotels with amenities like spas or room service. Others look for hotels near restaurants or local attractions. Me? I look for ones near supermarkets. And on my recent trip through the states, my traveling companion was shocked that I'd managed to pack 3 empty suitcase into one larger one, the limit of our collective baggage allowance.

Not to mention our two carry-ons—"someone" was ready for some serious shopping...

I've been dying to make a batch of Scotcheroos for a long time and although I've become pretty adept at finding substitutions for American ingredients here in Paris, butterscotch chips had me scratching me head.

The "Toffee Buzz" Clif bar that I picked up in the states (as a travel emergency ration) versus Salted Butter Caramels from Jacques Genin that my houseguest left for me.

I don't think I need to tell you which one won.

But if Jacques is willing to add a salted butter caramel energy bar to his list, I'm going to stock up on those instead, before my next trip.

Or even before.

If there's anyone out there who likes homemade candy more than I do, I would like to meet that person. I used to have a dream about opening a shop that sold nothing but confections made by my own two hands: chocolate-covered marshmallows, twisty peppermint sticks, naturally-flavored lollypops, sugary orange slices (god, I love those...), and chewy red licorice whips.

I even went so far as to go to take courses in candymaking, which was a lot of fun. But ultimately I decided that candy was too finicky, and that not only would few people buy it, but with my luck, I'd probably get picketed by the local dentists for making all that chewy stuff.

Yet another friend is moving back to the states (woosies!) and she had a going away party last night on one of the bridges over the Seine. Since I'd stashed a few clandestine bags of marshmallows, which were getting a little long in the tooth, I thought it time to use 'em or lose 'em. In fact, they were a prominent staple on my Too Good to Use shelf and they were just languishing there, waiting for the right moment to rip open that bag.

Romain was very surprised when I told him that you can't even buy a bag of marshmallows or a box of Rice Krispies in America without some version of this recipe appearing on it.

New chocolate-makers are springing up across America, in the most unlikeliest of places. Like Missouri.

Who'd a thunk it?

Using good 'ol American ingenuity, a little over a year ago, Alan McClure started grinding up beans and molding them into lithe bars of very dark, and very sleek, bittersweet chocolate.

His company, Patric chocolate, makes bars that are "micro-produced," and he's got two in his line-up, both using cacao from Madagascar.

When I asked Alan what attracted him to the cacao from that region, he said "Since the bars are made from cacao that come from one single estate, and since the family there has owned it for quite some time, they really have been able to exert an extremely high level of control on the quality and consistency of the fermentation and drying, which is actually quite rare in the cacao world."

Alan proclaims that this isn't pure "criollo" chocolate, a much-touted term for a varietal that almost all chocolate experts say no longer exists in its pure form. (Some chocolate-makers are claiming to the contrary.) Right now, the all the beans for Patric's bars are from a plantation in the Sambirano Valley.

I've been a little lax in my duties around here reporting on chocolate. In my defense, I've been sidetracked by bacon, seaweed, and kimchi. But man cannot live by chocolate alone.

Even in Paris.

Speaking of chocolate, when I was doing research for my chocolate book, it was challenging to find people to talk about what they do. I met with one representative from a big chocolate company who said he would only talk to me, and let me visit, if I only wrote about their company in the book. (Uh...sure!)

When I was writing my ice cream book, I called a gelato chain here in Paris, asking if I could come in and see how they make their ice cream to include them in the book. After much hemming and hawing, I never heard back.

It's always after the book comes out, you become a popular fellow. I seem to be always behind the curve on these things.

Seriously my friends, is there anything better than chocolate and toffee together?

Especially when the toffee has a brown sugar-flavored buttery snap and luscious chocolate is smeared over the top so it hardens and melds with the crackly caramelized matzoh underneath. When a marriage is this good, a picture can only do partial justice to the love that exists between the happy couple.

Living in a foreign country, as an outsider, you tend to notice lots of contradictions. If you try to learn the native language, like I am, you'll notice there's all sorts of curiosities specifically designed to trip your up. When people ask me what I do all day, they don't realize that just to do something as basic as write a check, I often have to pull out the dictionary. (Although I've seen French people consult theirs almost as frequently.)

But English ain't no walk in le parc either...we've got where, we're, wear, ware...that all sound exactly the same but mean pretty different things.

One of the things you learn when speaking a new language is that there are lots of rules...and seemingly just as many exceptions. Sometimes they're things not taught in classes but you just need to learn by osmosis.

For example, Paris is generally pronounced Par-EE, without saying the final 'S'.

But if you say the name Régis, you say Rey-GeeSS you certainly do pronounce the final 'S'.

Similarly, if you mention the 16th arrondissement, most Parisians who don't live there (or is that 'their'?) will sneer and say, "Oh, they are all snobs over there" or "I don't like those people there, they're not very nice."

So imagine me being pleasantly surprised when I went to visit REGIS chocolatier in the heart of enemy territory.

One of my favorite things to do in Paris is just wander around, often in neighborhoods that aren't really known for anything special. There's always something interesting to find; shops specializing in vintage hairbrushes and combs, a locksmith for doors installed only during the reign of Napolean III, or the recently-departed Reptiles World (sic), which was one of my favorite places to pass the time while waiting for a train at the nearby Gare du Nord.

And of course, I'm usually on the lookout for food, and am especially keen when I come across a shop specializing in candymaking or chocolate. If I get lucky, I discover some little treasure, often in the most unlikeliest of places.

Le Furet Tanrade was opened in 1728, and it's still one of the sweetest little chocolate shops I've found in Paris.

Sure, their chocolates aren't nearly as sleek or refined as their Left Bank counterparts, but I appreciated their handmade charm all the same. Especially the petits dark squares filled with a crisp morsel of mint fondant cloaked in brusque, dark chocolate. And the chocolates filled with caramel and feuilleté were certainly as delicious as those found in swankier boutiques.

One chocolate that piqued my curiosity was flavored with chanvre, a word I wasn't familiar with. Although I've been previously familiar with the green leaf embedded atop the chocolate in my younger days, she offered a sample since she was having difficulty explaining exactly what was inside. (The French word for what I thought it was is a four-letter word in English...madame might not have appreciated my translation.)

But then, in that little shop, I learned my Word-For-The-Day: the ganache was infused with hemp.

(For the record, I'd advise against overseas shipping.)

But should you find yourself near the Gare du Nord or Gare d'Est, and need to pass a bit of time (or want try to get a bit of a buzz)...or if you just want to take a journey to a less-visited quartier of Paris, Le Furet Tanrade certainly makes a tasty stopping point.

Le Furet Tanrade
63, rue de Chabrol (10th)
Tél: 01 47 70 48 34
Métro: Poissonière

One of the hardest things about writing about food is coming up with that killer opening sentence. It should start with something that grabs your attention right away, tickles your curiosity, then encourages the reader (which would be you) to follow the writer (which, or course, would be me) deeper into the story. Thankfully when writing about chocolate, I can include pictures to help me get going, so most of the work is already done.

The other difficult thing when writing about chocolate is that there's only so many superlatives you can use to describe it, and words like: dark, unctuous, bittersweet, delicious, seductive, etc...don't really seem to pinpoint that feeling that you get when you walk into a pristine chocolate shop and are completely overwhelmed by the heady experience, inhaling that sweet, unmistakable scent of chocolate that permeates the air and overtakes you. There's that quiet moment, when you step into a special place full of chocolate, where you briefly forget all that's going on outside.

I'm fortunate to live a city where there's an unusually large amount of very good chocolate shops, and all-too-often one needs a refuge from the fast-pace of the streets and sprawling avenues. Here in Paris, I have my favorites, and one of them is John-Charles Rochoux. His petit shop is located just off the bustling rue de Rennes. It's not just a refuge from one of Paris' busy boulevards, but a step back to another era. In his shop, chocolate is both an edible obsession and an object of sculptural craftsmanship, and you'll find many intricate, precious little chocolate sculptures, as well as a rather serious selection of bonbons from one of Paris' top chocolatiers.

Although there's several chocolate shops across the city that are terrific, at Jean-Charles Rochoux you'll find lots of little wonders here to keep you enchanted, including the amazing chocolate sculptures that M. Rochoux creates in his small, pristine workshop just beneath the tidy boutique. This kind of craftsmanship is rarely found anymore, even in a chocolate-obsessed city like Paris.

I was fortunate enough to take some time from my busy schedule to pose for Monsieur Rochoux, so he could create one of the most iconic pieces in the shop: Le torse.

Although most of the comments and messages I get are friendly and kind, a few do slip through that are less-than-complimentary. A majority of them illuminate the errors of my ways by pointing out the faults in my cross-cultural observations. So I was delighted when I found Socio-Site Scan v1.01, some brand-new software which allows me to simply input all my blog entries, and tells me what percentage of my posts are which are complimentary to one culture, and what percentage isn't.

So what did I find?

Roughly 67.8% are complimentary to the French, while only 65.3% of what I write was pro-American.
But a whopping 47% were anti-French, followed closely by 45.2% of swipes at my compatriots in the states.

Since this is the beginning of the holiday season, one full of global good cheer (real or imagined), I decided that since our politicians have been messing it up a bit too long, at least 6 years too long (oops...gonna have to give the site a second run-through), I decided that today I'm calling a holiday truce.

Since there's no time like the present, I'm happy to start right now promoting international understanding by sharing these divinely delicious dates from Iran, which are perhaps the best dates I've ever had. (Insert your own joke here.) They certainly rival the Medjool dates from California, which are excellent as well, although they're far pricier. Hmm, perhaps I might suggest America trade dates for oil? It certainly would be a tasty trade-off that might make everyone a little less combative.

The hardest of all foods to photograph, I've learned, are chocolate-covered marshmallows.

The bright, fluffy, vanilla-flecked cubes of sweet, airy marshmallow in contrast to the thin, intensely-flavored coating of bittersweet chocolate certainly presents a challenge.

I futzed around a bit, trying to figure out how to show the lofty-white cubes in juxtaposition to the coating of pure, dark chocolate. They're such diverse colors and textures that I tried several variations and lighting situations, until I decided that they'd looked best with a piece broked off.

So I took a bite out of one.

Then I took another bite.

And then, I stopped shooting...

...and ate the whole pack.

Sorry.

Pierre Marcolini
89 Rue de Seine
Paris
Tél: 01 44 07 39 07

I'd like to introduce you to Henri Le Roux.

If you don't know who Henri Le Roux is, it's time that you did.

There's a lot of very talented chocolatiers and pastry chefs in France. Some are quite famous, and some just go to work everyday and do their jobs well. A few have rather large egos, others are more humble, preferring the lights of the kitchen to the ones in the television studio. (I was at a recent event with another food blogger who correctly noted that all the famous chefs mostly talk about is one thing: Themselves!) But if you mention the name 'Henri Le Roux' to any chocolatier or confiseur in France, they stand silent for a moment. Then nod agreeably. He is perhaps the most respected and admired pastry chef and candy maker I know.

I first met Monsieur Le Roux when I went to the Salon du Chocolat in Paris with my Thierry Lallet, who has an excellent (and highly-recommended) chocolate shop in Bordeaux, Saunion, one of the best in France.

Before that day, I thought that caramels were caramels, and until that point, I'd tasted so many things in my life that there was little left that would deeply impress me. M. Le Roux is a very kind man, who basically changed the way pastry chefs, glaciers, and bakers everywhere think about caramel: he created caramel-buerre-salé (caramel-salt-butter), which he simply calls C.B.S.
And they are truly divine.

Henri Le Roux, whose Breton father was a pastry chef (and lived in New York for 5 years, cooking at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel) started making caramels in the seaside town of Quiberon in 1976, located at the tip of a dramatic peninsula in the south of Brittany, where the best butter in the world is found (the first chapter in his book, is called "Le Rideau de Beurre", or "The Curtain of Butter". He decided to open there, selling cakes, candies, and ice creams. But like warm, buttery caramel, word of his candies spread and he stopped making cakes and tartes to concentrate all his energy on candymaking. Just 3 years later, in 1908, M. Le Roux won the award for the best candy in France, Le Meilleur Bonbon de France at the Salon International de la Confiserie in Paris.

M. Le Roux was kind enough to let me explore his workshop with him when I paid a visit during my August vacation in Brittany. As he raced from room to room, he flipped open bins of almonds from Provence or hazelnuts from Turkey to give me a sample, later showing me how he grinds his own fresh nut pastes in his broyeuse with massive granite rollers which keep cool, while metal rollers would heat the nuts too much, losing some of the flavor. And a rarity in the pastry field nowadays, M. Le Roux uses true bitter almonds in his almond paste, which he sources from the Mediterranean. Almond extract is made from bitter almonds, even in America, but they're hardly used anymore since they're difficult to find (and those pesky toxicity issues.) But in the land sans lawsuits, M. Le Roux makes that effort and blends a few into his freshly-pressed almond paste which tastes like none other I've tasted in France.

I like to ask chocolatiers which chocolate they use.
Most are secretive, but M. Le Roux led me into a cool room packed floor to ceiling with boxes of various chocolates he gets from all over France and Belgium. He tore into them, breaking off chunks for me to taste and explaining how he uses some of each, blending them as he wishes to get the desired tastes he's after. Valrhona and Barry-Callebaut are used, but he also sources chocolate from François Pralus, an artisan chocolate-maker located in Roanne, just outside of Lyon, who specializes in single-origin chocolates, as well.

I wanted to describe each and every chocolate in the box, but decided that that would constitute cruel and unusual punishment. (Actually, I ate them all and didn't feel like writing down what tasted as I was eating as I went. As mentioned, I'm a lousy blogger.) But I remember Harem, a filling of green tea and fresh mint, Sarrasine, infused with blé noir (buckwheat), and Yannick, blended dark cane sugar, salted butter and ground crêpes dentelle, hyper-thin, crackly lace cookies ground to a crunchy paste.

Oh yes, there's C.B.S. too, nutty salted-butter caramel enrobed in dark chocolate as well, which was my favorite.

Le Roux
18, rue de Pont Maria
56170 Quiberon, France

(Will ship internationally.)

Henri Le Roux's caramels and chocolates are available in Paris at:

A l'Etoile d'Or
30, rue Fontaine
Tél: 01 48 74 59 55
M: Blanche

This was an easy post!

If you'd like to know what it's like to visit Jean-Charles Rochoux with me, one of my favorite chocolatiers in Paris, go visit Too Many Chefs for Meg's write-up of our visit.

Update! You can read about my visit to Jean-Charles Rochoux, and see his staggeringly-beautiful chocolate creations.

Jean-Charles Rochoux
16, rue d'Assas (6th)
Paris
Tél: 01 42 84 29 45

Summer is here in Paris. It arrived without warning last week and was brutal. It was hot, and it hit around 31°(about 88°) and so humid, I faced a real-meltdown of chocolate. And just about everything else around here, including me, suffered the same fate. Just when no one couldn't bear it anymore, it stopped. Then we had rain and cool weather. It's so other-worldly (hey...am I back in San Francisco?), but summer arriving means a lot less clothes, and since I'm now European, it's obligatory that they're much, much tighter. Damn Europeans and their fine-tailoring. So that means it's time to pay for the last 8 months of eating too many pastries, tasting too many chocolates, snacking on too many macarons, and drinking perhaps a bit too much vin rouge. I don't know if I can hold my stomach in consecutively for the next three months, but I'm going to try. I've unpacked my shorts for summer and they definitely are un peu serré.

Speaking of tightening ye olde belt, last week I got to spend the morning at my favorite place in Paris, getting rid of a few excess US dollars I had lying around. My favorite place isn't the Eiffel Tower nor the Louvre (they don't take dollars), nor was it the Museé d'Orsay or the Jardin du Luxembourg. Yes, I got to go to the American Embassy, my favorite place in Paris! I like hanging out there, since everyone there understands me, unconditionally, and without judgment. There's no raised eyebrows or startled expressions, like last week when I recently ordered 'Big Turd Jam' (confiture des grosse selles), when I meant red currant (confiture des groseilles). Luckily they were out of the first one.

But the American Embassy is great: I can argue back with impunity and get huffy with them. Hey, why not? I'm on equal turf, and I'm an American and my English is just as good as theirs.
And I can argue with anyone all I want and make perfectly-formed sentances with correctly-placed pronouns and not worry if this verb is masculine to I need to match the adjective to the gender as well, or decide if I need to decide which of the gazillion French verbs I need to conjugate correctly, unlike I have to do at the Préfécture.
What are they going to do if I screw it up my English at the US Embassy? Kick me out? Or in?

So there I was, on the rue St. Florentin, where I waited, stood in line, got scanned, went through the metal detector, then had my water bottle confiscated (I guess it's a threat to national security), then headed to the IRS office. Being a foreign resident you get an automatic extension for paying your taxes, which comes in handy when the mail isn't very reliable. I guess somehow they caught on and give us expats a break.

So in my bid to help fight the war on terror and make the world a safer place (though things don't quite appear to be quite heading in that direction) I sat under the over-sized, overly-glossy, and over-polished pictures of George and Dick (whose has a rather curious smirk on his face for an 'official' portrait), and the Only Uptight Black Woman In The World, and wrote my checks.

And prayed things wouldn't get any worse.
And in fact, for me, they were about to get better.

A whole lot better.

Since I was in the neighborhood (well, not really, but since I left my neighborhood, I'm gonna stretch it), I decided to visit chocolatier Jacques Genin. A lot of people talk about M. Genin with a hushed reverence and most of it is directed at his terrific chocolates. But one bite of his Passion Fruit Caramels and I'm singing a different tune. And you'll be too.

I had stopped at a bakery down the street for bread and noticed les palets Breton, delicate buttery cookies made from salted butter, so I bought a stack. Four was the minimum for some reason... this from the country where you can buy half a baguette for 42 centimes, and when madame wants to buy one fig, madame will be given the same courtesy and service (and take as much time) as, say, an American pastry chef trying to race through the market buying a flat of figs or a few kilos of nectarines to test recipes.

So I bought four, but M. Genin was happy to relieve me of half of them. In exchange, he swooped his hands into the tray he was wrapping of caramels and stuffed them in my bag (and those caramels are as precious as gold, since you can't buy them in stores.) As you can see, each caramel is buttery, tender, and keeps its shape just long enough to get it into your mouth, where it dissolves into an explosion of creamy-smooth sweet goo, slightly tangy from the passion fruit, with exactly enough of the tropical pulp to offset the restrained sweetness of the caramel.

So I can't say I'm going to get any thinner, or my shorts will soon fit better, or when I hit the beach in August, I'll be turning any heads. But when you have a guy like Jacques Genin feeding you chocolates and handing you caramels, who cares if your belt needs to be loosened out a notch.

Or two.

Jacques Genin
18 rue St. Charles
Tel: 01 45 74 68 92

(Not a store. Call before visiting...and pray he's available.)

Want to know what's it like to visit one of Paris' finest chocolate shops?

Read along here as Meg and I sample and learn about Richart chocolate, from the master of les petites Richart himself.

Richart Chocolate
258, blvd St. Germain
Paris
Tél: 01 45 55 66 00

When I decided to move from San Francisco, the two places I narrowed it down to were Honolulu or Paris. The beauty of living in Hawaii is...well, the beauty of Hawaii. Lots of warm beaches and surfing, alarmingly-fresh sushi, tropical fruits galore in your backyard, and an accumulation of frequent-flyer miles from trips to the mainland.

Paris, on the one hand, was France.

So I moved to France.
Here I am, going about my everyday life: in line at the boulangerie waiting for my baguette, negotiating with the fromager for the most interesting cheese of the season, and sitting in cafés all afternoon reading Kant and Kafka.

So this year I won a blog award, and was thrilled that my prize was being donated by 'Ono Kine Grindz from Honolulu. The prize turned out to be two oversized, heavy cookbooks on Hawaiian cuisine. So instead of the books (one of which I had), Reid offered to send me a selection of tasty Hawaiian products instead.
"Awesome", I thought, "I can't wait."

But wait I did.
And wait some more, did I.

Then then I waited some more.

I know it's kinda rude to ask, but I finally shot him an email asking him if he had indeed sent it, which he had way back when.
Now I don't know if it's La Poste or the US Post, but living in the US I always received packages, most arriving relatively quickly. But in just a few short years in Paris, the arrival rate for packages is hovering at about 26.4%. I mean, where are they going? Are they sitting in some warehouse? Are they being pilfered or stolen? Do packages just simply vanish?

(Note: If any French people have anti-US Postal service stories, post the link to your blog entry in the comments section. Similarly, if anyone works for La Poste and would like to anonymously give some clues as to the whereabouts of my other packages...no questions will be asked. And I promise never to write anymore about lost or stolen packages.)

So even though I didn't move to the island of Honolulu, I realize that I'm living on an island right here. One that is impenetrable when it comes to deliveries.

Anyhow...so my second package from Reid managed to arrive this week, and I was so happy when I unwrapped all the fabulous things:

Loose-leaf Pacific Place Tea, which I am busy brewing. This dark, long-leaf tea is beautiful, scattered with colorful little petals of marigold and cornflowers, with tropical fruit aromas as well. I hope it's not sacrilegious, but I'm brewing up some iced tea with it.

A sack of real Kona Coffee! Most of the time if you go to Hawaii you'll get served something called 'Kona' coffee, but if you look at the percentage of real Kona coffee in it, you'll find it's blended and the actual amount of Kona beans in it is around 10% (my delivery rate is better than that!) I was at Peet's coffee once and was served true, 100% Kona coffee. And it was amazing and well worth the lofty price tag.
And mine was a gift!

I screwed open the jar of Kiawe White Honey and stuck my finger in the blank-colored, crystallized honey. Boy, was that good! This very rich organic honey is made from the flowers of the kiawe tree which grows from the volcanic soil of Mauna Kea.

Poha Berry Jam. Poha berries are related to what are called physalis in France and Cape Gooseberries (or Ground Cherries) in America. Poha Berries resemble tomatillos with their papery leaves hiding the dull-orange fruit inside. At the market recently, a Frenchwoman told me they were called, "les feuilles d'amour", the leaves of love, in French.

I remember reading about Lilikoi Curd from Planted by the river from Heidi. I adore anything with passion fruit in it, one of my favorite fruits ever. This jar of curd has li hing mui, dried salted plums added. I'm thinking of making Heidi's Lilikoi Passion Fruit Curd Cake but I fear I'm going to eat it all for breakfast instead. (In fact, I'm certain I will.)

Being a baker, I am avidly interested in vanilla and always looking for unusual pods to sniff and bake with. Vanilla beans are the most labor-intensive crop in the world, hence their price and scarcity. In 1998, Hawaiian Vanilla began planting vanilla orchids in Hilo, and now they sell vanilla beans and extracts, all cultivated and made in Hawaii. When I pulled the pod out of the glass tube and gave it a sniff, it was sweet and fragrant, one of the best-smelling vanilla beans I've had. I'm going to use it to make some Vanilla Ice Cream, plain and simple.

Mahalo to Reid at 'Ono Kine Grindz. Go visit his site.

I make this every year for Passover. It's not that I'm all that religious (for some reason I seem to celebrate only the holidays where there's lots of eating, drinking...and presents, of course.) But I always pick up a box or two of matzoh, which is stacked high in supermarkets this month, plus I love the sweet-crunch of this toffee-like confection.
The only problem is that I haven't figured out how to adapt it for Easter.
Perhaps you can cut it into ovals with a cookie cutter and try to pull one over on your family.

The recipe is loosely-adapted from baker and cookbook author Marcy Goldman. Marcy's run a web site devoted to the art of baking since 1997, called Betterbaking.com. In addition, she's authored a cookbook of the same name with recipes and ideas and funny stories she's gathered along her life as a mother, professional baker, and consultant.

You don't have to be Jewish to like or make this (just like you don't need to be Christian to like Christmas presents) but it's delicious and super-easy to make...you can keep the candy thermometer in the drawer as well!

Feel free to substitute milk chocolate or white chocolate, and instead of the crushed almonds, to play around with toasted shredded coconut or other kinds of nuts. As I type, I'm thinking wouldn't pistacios and white chocolate be nice together on top?
Maybe next year...

I spent this morning at my market handing little sacks of this to my favorite vendors (and a few I'm trying to win over.) So if you're out at a market in Paris this morning and see the lots of butchers, fishmongers, fromagers, and olive merchants snacking on something, you'll know what it is.

Caramelized Matzoh Crunch with Chocolate

4 to 6 sheets of matzoh
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted or salted butter, cut into chunks
1 cup (firmly-packed) light brown sugar
optional: fleur de sel, or coarse sea salt
1 cup semisweet or bittersweet chocolate chips, or coarsely chopped bittersweet chocolate
1 cup sliced almonds, toasted and coarsely chopped

Line a 11" x 17" baking sheet completely with foil (making sure it goes up the sides) and preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Line the bottom of the sheet completely with matzoh, breaking extra pieces as necessary to fill in any spaces.

In a medium-sized heavy duty saucepan, combine the butter and brown sugar and cook over medium heat until the butter begins to boil. Boil for 3 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Remove from heat and pour over matzoh, spreading with a heatproof utensil.

Put the baking sheet in the oven and bake for 15-20 minutes, until the syrup darkens and gets thick. (While it's baking, make sure it's not burning. If so, reduce the heat to 325 degrees.)

Remove from oven and immediately cover with chocolate chips or chunks. Let stand 5 minutes, then spread smooth with an offset spatula.

Sprinkle with a flurry of fleur de sel or coarse salt, then scatter the toasted almonds over the top and press them into the chocolate.

Let cool completely (you may need to chill it in the refrigerator), then break into pieces and store in an airtight container until ready to hand out to anyone you feel worthy.
Or trying to win over.

...mazel tov!

Garrett's caramel corn for breakfast...

Last year I read about a pastry chef-turned-candymaker in Los Angeles. She was becoming known around those parts for her tender caramels, blended with sel de mer, (oh...well, gotta get some French in here somehow...), or le sea salt.

Inspired by the amazing CBS, caramel-beurre-salé caramels produced by the master himself, Henri LeRoux, Catherine Moore's caramels are indeed the best I've had in the US.

A friend drove me out to the Silverlake region of Los Angeles. It's a rather funky area, full of shoe shops, stores with second-hand clothing racks on sidewalks, just-opened bakeries, and a music studio that Flea (from the Red Hot Chili Peppers) opened for the young folks of the neighborhood.

And there's the The Cheesestore of Silverlake, a small shop with wheels of cheese piled high on the counter, and a carefully chosen selection of 'gourmet' foods...although I hate to use that word, which seems so pretentious, and this shop is anything but. They're incredibly friendly (and yes, I seem to be the only one who truly likes LA...) and we spoke a bit about what they carry, their cheese and wine selection, and, of course, the creamy caramels.

Although a few might consider them too salty for their taste (I love them), The Little Candy Company's caramels were cooked to just the right temperature...not too tough, not too sticky and meltingly-soft cooked just enough to that chewy stage to give them some 'bite'. As we ripped open the package, unwrapped a few tender morsels and popped them in our mouths, we did concede that it was impossible to reproduce the French ("there he goes again...") caramels since, we said in unison, "It's the butter."

French butter, that is. But boy, those caramels sure were good. No matter where they're made.

Sea Salt Caramels from The Little Flower Candy Company can be ordered by calling or visiting their website.

(If website is down, they may take telephone orders.)

Something in Paris has turned horribly wrong...

It's called the weather, or to be more specific...winter has arrived.

Which means it's gotten really cold, grey, and dreary.
In fact, it's so cold that I refuse to go outside until spring.
Believe me, all those romantic photos of Paris you see are taken during the spring and fall. Very deceptive.
These days, it would take a mighty big levier (crowbar) to get me outdoors.

So when to do when you're stuck indoors for three or four months?

Make candy!

If you've never made candy, this one is really simple and incredibly delicious so there's no reason not to try a batch.
(And truthfully, doesn't it make you feel happier just looking at it?)

My recipe for Chocolate-Almond Buttercrunch Toffee is easy: You chop nuts, you make a syrup, and then you pour the syrup over the nuts. Sprinkle some chocolate over it, spread it out, and finish it with more nuts. That's it.
There's no fancy techniques and the only special equipment you'll need is a candy thermometer; they're easily found in most supermarkets. (Yes, really. Take it from someone who lurks in supermarkets, searching for things like candy thermometers, late at night.)

I like to add a sprinkle of fleur de sel, French salt, which gives it a pleasant salty edge which is divine with the dark chocolate and toasty nuts (any coarse salt can be used, but I like fleur de sel best.) A few cocoa nibs, available from ScharffenBerger and Dagoba, are really good too. They add a good crackly crunch of chocolate.

When making candy, here's a few tips that'll help:

• Read the recipe thoroughly before proceeding and have everything ready.

• Make sure your thermometer is accurate. If you're not sure, bring a pot of water to a boil. It should read 212 degrees if you live at sea level. I use a glass candy thermometer, although the digital ones work as well. (Avoid the Polder thermometers with the cable, they're not intended for candymaking in spite of the packaging which reads to the contrary. If you do, they won't replace it. Trust me on that one too. Even if you tell them you write cookbooks and give cooking equipment recommendations for a living.)

• Be careful dealing with hot syrups. A good precaution is to have a large bowl of iced water handy. If you spill syrup on your hand, plunge it immediately into the water to stop the burn.

• The best way to clean a caramelized pan is to fill it with water and bring it to a boil. Let stand until the syrup melts away.

• Every once in a while, candy doesn't work. Sometimes it's too humid, or the sugar decides to crystallize (don't encourage it by overstirring), or the planets aren't aligned. Don't get discouraged; it happens even to professionals.
  

Chocolate-Almond Buttercrunch Toffee

2 cups (8 ounces) toasted almonds or hazelnuts, chopped between 'fine' and 'coarse'
2 tablespoons water
1/2 cup (1 stick) salted or unsalted butter, cut into pieces
a nice, big pinch of salt
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
5 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped, or 1 cup chocolate chips

optional: Ground cocoa nibs and fleur de sel

1. Lightly oil a baking sheet with an unflavored vegetable oil.
2. Sprinkle half the nuts into a rectangle about 8' x 10" on the baking sheet.
3. In a medium heavy-duty saucepan fitted with a candy thermometer, heat the water, butter, salt, and both sugars. Cook, stirring as little as possible, until the thermometer reads 300 F degrees. Have the vanilla and baking soda handy.
4. Immediately remove from heat and stir in the baking soda and vanilla.
5. Quickly pour the mixture over the nuts on the baking sheet. Try to pour the mixture so it forms a relatively even layer. (If necessary, gently but quickly spread with a spatula, but don't overwork it.)
5. Strew the chocolate pieces over the top and let stand 2 minutes, then spread in an even layer.

If using, sprinkle with a small handful of cocoa nibs and a flurry of fleur des sel.
Sprinkle the remaining nuts over the chocolate and gently press them in with your hands.

Cool completely and break into pieces to serve. Store in an airtight container, for up to ten days.

(As if it will last that long.)

I like the word 'addictive'.
I use it when it refers to something I like a lot and can't stop eating.
So instead of implying a substance abuse problem (the jury's still out around here whether or not chocolate is an abusable substance), the word has positive connotations for me. But I tend to use the word a lot, so much so that I fear that using the word addictive has become another addiction to me.

My friend Joanne recently came to visit me in Paris after a trip through Piedmont, the region of Italy famous for white truffles, hazelnuts, and chocolate (for some reason, though, she didn't bring me any fresh white truffles.) But she did bring me a lovely box of something dark and chocolaty:
...Baci Cherasco.

Perhaps you're familiar with Baci or Bacio di Dama, the little blue & silver foil-wrapped circle of Italian milk chocolate with a nice crisp hazelnut in the middle. Baci di Dama translates to kiss of a woman.

So I'm now in the possession of a very big bag (another reason I love Italy...big portions!) of Baci Cherasco; sinful little buttons of dark chocolate with crushed roasted hazelnuts.

The tasty Baci Cherasco were invented in 1881 when the confectioner, Marco Barbero, had make some a batch torrone and had some leftover hazelnuts bits left over...

Thinking quickly, Signor Barbero gathered up the remaining hazelnuts and had the good sense to coat them in bittersweet chocolate and made little 'kisses' from them.
Nowadays the hazelnuts are hand-crushed with rolling pins to assure they're still in irregular chunks before dipping.

(Whenever I have any remaining tempered chocolate, I scramble through my kitchen cupboards to see what else I can dip. I've enrobed coffee beans, pretzels, honeycomb, prunes...you name it, I've dipped it.)

Baci Cherasco are suspiciously simple...just two ingredients: dark chocolate and crunchy hazelnuts. They're delectable and truly addictive; the hazelnuts are perfectly roasted (always toast nuts, folks...) and the chocolate used is some of the best I've ever tasted.

Consequently, I've become addicted to the little dark nuggets with the powerful aroma of Piedmontese hazelnuts and bittersweet chocolate. So much so, I almost ate the entire bag of chocolates as if it were a sack of popcorn.

Barbero
Via Vittorio Amanuele, 74
Cherasco, Italy
Tel/Fax: 0172-488373

Many people want to know;"How do you temper chocolate and why do you do it?"

Homemade Rocky Road, from The Great Book of Chocolate, Enrobed in Tempered Chocolate

The short answer is that chemically, chocolate is composed of lots of different little crystals (six to be exact) but the desirable ones are called beta crystals. The development and formation of these beta crystals are what makes well-tempered chocolate.

If the cocoa butter rises to the surface, some people commonly think their chocolate's gotten moldy and toss it out. If you've done that, you've tossed out perfectly good, but unattractive, chocolate.

As you can see, there is a dull white sheen on the surface of this piece of chocolate.

So that's what happens to chocolate that's not properly tempered: the cocoa fat rises to the surface and "blooms", making it unappealing and unattractive. When you buy chocolate, like a candy bar, the chocolate's been tempered and it should be nice and shiny and snap when you break it. If you leave your candy bar in a warm car and later open it up, often it'll become white and gray. The heat caused your chocolate to lose it's temper. When you buy chocolate for baking, it should arrive well-tempered. But once you chop it up and melt it, the beta crystals change, the chocolate loses its temper, and you'll need to re-temper it again if you plan to use it as a coating. If you're going to cook with it, just use it in your recipe, as indicated.

Pages and volumes of technical research have been written about tempering chocolate, but here are the main reasons for all you home cooks out there:

• To avoid fat (and sugar) bloom, characterized by unappealing white streaks or blotches on the surface.
  
• To raise the melting temperature of finished chocolate so it doesn't melt on contact with your fingers.
  
• To preserve the keeping quality of chocolate by stratifying the fat.
  
• To cool chocolate quickly. Tempered chocolate cools fast, within 5 minutes.
  
• To give chocolate a glossy, shiny appearance, and a crisp, clean snap when you break it.
  

As I've said, you don't need to temper chocolate is you're going to bake a chocolate cake or make chocolate ice cream. The only time you need to temper chocolate is when you need an attractive, shiny coating for candies that will sit at room temperature. You can get around tempering by dipping chocolates in melted, untempered chocolate and storing them in the refrigerator. Just remove them from the refrigerator a few minutes prior to serving them. The coolness of the refrigerator will stratify the cocoa fat and it's won't bloom.

Tablets of Well-Tempered Domori Chocolate

There's many different methods for tempering chocolate.
Some are really complicated, and some are really messy, especially for home cooks.

Many professional pastry chefs and chocolatiers can instinctively tell when chocolate is perfectly tempered by looking at it or touching a smidge it to their lip. However a few years ago I was doing a demonstration tempering a brand-new chocolate and it just didn't temper. I kept stirring and stirring, but I could visually tell those stubborn crystals wouldn't cooperate. So now I rely on a thermometer, which is foolproof.

After I studied chocolate-making and learning from the masters at Callebaut in Belgium and at L'école du Grand Chocolat Valrhona in France, I developed a simple 3-step method that's a snap for home cooks. All you need is an accurate chocolate thermometer, although a good digital thermometer will work. I bought one of those laser-thermometers just for fun, but there's a too-large margin-of-error and it only measures surface temperature, so mine's been retired to my kitchen cabinet.

Tempering Chocolate

1. The first step is melting the chocolate in a clean, dry bowl set over simmering water, to about 115° F.

2. The second step it to let it cool to the low 80°s F. I drop a good-sized chunk of solid (and tempered) chocolate in, which provides insurance by 'seeding' the melted chocolate with good beta crystals. While cooling, stir frequently. Motion equals good crystallization, aka, tempering.

3. The last step is the most important.

It's bringing the chocolate up to the perfect temperature, where it's chock-full of those great beta crystals. This occurs in most dark chocolates between 88° and 91° F. (Check with manufacturer if unsure about your particular chocolate.)

4. Remove what's left of the chunk of 'seed' chocolate, and your chocolate is dip-worthy: you can dip all the chocolates you want and all will be perfectly tempered. Don't let it get above 91° F or you'll have to begin the process all over again. If it drops below the temperatures, rewarm it gently to bring it back up.

For more chocolate tips, recipes, and information, check out The Great Book of Chocolate

Related Posts and Links

Chocolate FAQs

Chocolate Thermometers

Agave-Sweetened Chocolate Ice Cream (Recipe)

Chocolate-Covered Caramelized Matzoh Crunch (Recipe)

Chocolate-Covered Salted Peanut Caramel Cups(Recipe)

The Easiest Chocolate Ice Cream Ever! (Recipe)

Forget Catherine Deneuve and Carole Bouquet.

The most photographed and revered woman in Paris is Denise Acabo. With her braided pig-tails, necktie, and crisply-pleated kilt, Denise is the sweetest woman in Paris.

Her shop, A l'Etoile d'Or, has an ethereal selection of artisan confections and chocolates from France and whenever I go, I invariably find something new to try, something tasty, something that is so amazing, that I'm compelled to go back for more. What's a guy to do?

I give myself at least one hour to shop. Minimum. Words fly out of her mouth in rapid-fire French. She'll often use the tu word, instead of the formal vous, which suggests immediately comradery.

Don't understand a word of French?
That's ok, Just nod. She'll keep going.

One of the great places for lunch in Paris is Cuisine au Bar (8, Rue du Cherche-Midi), which has been touted as the French version of the sushi bar. The servers are welcoming and generous, and the tartines (open-faced sandwiches) are the most inventive and marvelous in all of Paris. A dedicated friend of mine lunches there every day.

I met Pim for lunch, of Chez Pim, and we both ordered the same thing: the chicken sandwich, a toasted slice of Poilâne levain bread (the bakery's just next door) moistened with homemade mayonnaise, slices of plump chicken, filets of anchovies and a scattering of capers, which kept rolling off. We both systematically added flecks of coarse sea salt, then consumed. Delicious. Pim, being far more polite than I am, ate her sandwich perfectly reasonably with a knife and fork. I wolfed my down, polishing it off in record time, licking my fingers afterwards.

After braving La Poste together afterwards, we parted, making plans for eating Thai food with other Paris bloggers in June. However after we parted, I noticed she made a beeline to Pierre Hermé's astonishing pastry shop on the Rue Bonaparte. So a few days later, I returned as well, and tasted one of the most stunning pastries of my life, his Arabesque macaron, which Pim had rhapsodized over earlier in the week.

Normally a classicist, I prefer my macarons with chocolate, coffee, or pistachio. But this was an amazing creation. Delicate, crackly pistachio-dusted meringue cookies flavored with apricot. The filling was a melange of apricot cream and caramelized nut praline. Each season, M. Hermé introduces new flavors of macarons, some successful (olive oil-vanilla, rose-lychee, and caramel-beurre-salé) and some less so (his white truffle and catsup come to mind.) However Arabesque was perfection and I was sorry that I only bought one.
I will be going back tomorrow for another.