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David Lebovitz Archives: David's Favorite Posts

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What's "a handful"?

I recently read The Pedant in the Kitchen, which Michael Ruhlman also wrote up, and while I found it an enjoyable rant, one vexing thought that stuck in the author's craw was recipe instructions that call for "a handful" of something. He didn't know what that meant and wondered why recipes couldn't be more precise.

Writing a recipe that's acceptable to absolutely everyone can be daunting, if not impossible. The purpose of any recipe is the guide the cook through the process; too much explanation and overtly-long recipes turn readers off, while short recipes often get accused of not giving enough information. How much is enough, and how little is not enough?

I once saw a three page recipe for chocolate brownies from a famed pastry chef.

Continue reading "What's "a handful"?" »

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Meribel

For the holidays this year, I decided to take up a friends offer to visit their family in Méribel, a village way high up in the French alps. As you can see, it's a spectacular place. And I'm not just talking 'gorgeous sunsets' or 'charmingly quaint' spectacular. I mean, Méribel was mind-blowingly, insanely hallucinante.

Seriously, I wasn't prepared for the awesome beauty of it all. Although I haven't strapped on a pair of skis in over thirty years, there I stood, at the top of the mountain on my first day on skis in decades, ready to slide down.

Let me tell you—skiing isn't one of those things that you get more comfortable with as you get older. *sigh* Especially when you're with a group of skiers that include some crazy teenagers who, at the top of a particularly steep run, simply point their skis in the straight-down position, and shove off with their poles and a banchee-like "On y va, Daveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!"

And off they'd go...

Continue reading "Meribel" »

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The Not-So-Sweet Smell of Excess

Something around here stinks.
And it's not just my neighbor.

When I moved to Paris, I remember my first load of laundry that I proudly pulled out of my little machine tucked in the corner.

After I figured out the seven different dials and nine different buttons on the machine (actually, I've still only managed to figure out what about a third of them do), I remember extracting my clothes from the machine and hanging them all out to dry on my shiny new rack that took me a few hours to buy at the BHV. In Paris, few people have dryers since it's verboten to cut holes in buildings to vent to the outside. And even though each load of laundry takes me the better part of 3 days instead of...say, an hour...I'm happy to report I've reduced my carbon footprint.

And I've also reduced my productivity at doing anything else.

Continue reading "The Not-So-Sweet Smell of Excess" »

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Shopping Like A Parisian in New York City (A video!)

Who says New Yorkers are pushy?

Although I couldn't convince him to cut in line, watch me teach Adam Roberts how to Shop Like A Parisian in New York City.

(And yes, the camera does add 10 pounds...either that, or I seem to be sporting a Pinkberry-Belly.)

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The Man-Purse

A French friend asked me recently, "David, do I look gay?"

Without a second of hesitation, I replied, "Yes, absolutely."

"Why?" he said.

"Well, for one thing," I told him, "You're French—which makes you suspect. Another is that you're wearing a pink polo shirt. You also answer your emails quickly and you spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about your hair."

"And you have a nice butt," I added for good measure, perhaps because he's a rugby player.

So how does one tell the difference between a man who's European or one who's gay?

Continue reading "The Man-Purse" »

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Can't...No...Won't Touch This

What are the absolute last words you want to hear when invited to someone's home for a meal?

Well, how about...

"We had some fish that was about to go bad, so we're having it for dinner."

Welcome to my world. A world you thought was all baguettes and chocolate.

Well it now includes dubious fish too.

The rules for hygiene are a little different here than in America. I was pretty shocked to see on my trip to the US in June, little bottles of hand-sanitizer dangling from people's belts and fanny packs, as well as available in supermarkets with towelettes to wipe down the handles on shopping carts. But I'm equally shocked that people think it's okay to leave stock-based preparations on the counter for a day or so, then consume then. (They use stock in science labs to grow bacteria since it's such an inviting medium. Just so you know.)

Although Dorie Greenspan thinks we might need those little bottles of sanitizer around here pretty soon for Vélib' hands, after riding around town for a few weeks, I'm almost inclined to agree with her after riding around for the past few weeks.

Although I've been certified in food sanitation, sometimes I just need to suspend logic around here and just go with the flow. The fish, though, I pushed aside. I'm thrilled to be accepted by the locals, but let's not take this "I'm so French" thing too far...

Continue reading "Can't...No...Won't Touch This" »

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salade nicoise

Ah, la salade niçoise...

One of the classics of French cooking and one of my favorite things to dig into sitting on the terrace of a café, dreaming idling away the afternoon by the sparkling Mediterranean. But really, who wouldn't want to dig into a big, fresh salad bursting forth with the flavors of the sunny French Riviera, no matter where you live?

There's always much controversy about the salade niçoise regarding what's authentic and what's not.

Does one use fresh or canned tuna?

Is there a bed of lettuce underneath or does one leave it out?

Are there olives in it?

Boiled potatoes or rice?

Should it be mixed or composed?

And although I'm not convinced about artichokes, there's folks out there who swear by them.

I'm not really sure if there's a definitive answer as to what's correct.

But I'm pretty sure about one thing.

This ain't it...

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Tuesdays With Dorie

First I came up with the title for this post, since I thought it would be a fun jeu de mots. But then I realized I had to figure out what the heck I was going write about. So I put on my long-neglected thinking cap, scrolled through the email addresses of my last few remaining friends, and scanned my agenda, desperately searching for inspiration.
Then it hit me.

And then I thought, "Hey, what don't I give Dorie Greenspan a call?"

Thankfully Madame Greenspan agreed to go along on this ruse with me so I could get this post up and running. But there was also the promise of something buttery and sweet, rubber-clad fish boys, just-roasted coffee, prowling through my favorite Arab épicerie with floor-to-ceiling dried fruits and nuts, and finishing it up with verrines at a trendy restaurant. How could she refuse?

And refuse she did not.
So off we went.

Our first stop last Tuesday was blé sucré, en route to the Marche d'Aligre.

Continue reading "Tuesdays With Dorie" »

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I Saw Breasts

One of the biggest cultural differences between the French and Americans is the acceptance of public nudity.

I don't think I need to tell you which side I'm on: I'm a big proponent of it.

As long is I get to keep my clothes on in public.
But for others? Allez-y, mes amis!

In spite of their alleged laissez-faire, free-wheelin' attitudes, San Franciscans are not quite the wild-and-crazy bunch you might think. Like...yes, you have the right to be nude, but I have the right not to see it. So as long as your right doesn't infringe on my right, then you have the right to do it. Of course if you want the right to do it, we can have a public referendum on it or introduce an initiative so the supervisors can debate and vote on it. The it becomes a question of: do we have the right to be nude and is that right greater than your right but do they have the right to tell me what to do either? And shouldn't my right to express myself be greater than your right not to have to look at me? Then it goes on to, well...what about all those naked dogs running around town? Do they have the right to be...etc...etc...

Oy.

Anyhow, on my trip back last month, I went to a yoga class.
In the communal changing area, I innocently slipped off my trousers and slid on my shorts. It wasn't a big deal and took me perhaps all of three quick seconds. I was wearing my euro-skivvies, which are about as modest as a Speedo, and you can't really see anything (because of the light, not for other reasons...) unless you're really, really trying to get a look. It was a simple, economical 'off-on' motion and if it excited anyone, I'd be very surprised. (Although I'm sure there are pictures floating around on the internet somewhere. Let me know if you find any.)

"Excuse me!" this woman huffs nearby. "You know, there's a changing area behind that curtain!"

I look around, and yes, there is an lonely, tiny curtained-off section in the corner. But yikes, I lived in San Francisco for almost twenty years and I've seen far, far greater displays of flesh on the streets (and on the streetcars) that I had shown in those few not-very-revealing moments. It wasn't like I was trying to put on a public show or anything and at my age, I can't believe anyone's actually looking either. I'm thrilled if they are—believe me.

But I was simply changing and it seemed fine, in a PG-13 kind of way. After all, we're all adults and there was nothing you can't see in a Beyoncé video on MTV (and if I have to hear her once more going on about how she's so 'conflicted' having this sexy imagine with her religious beliefs...I mean, it's not like she's being forced to wear those ugly outfits with her girl-things spilling out, is she?)

But let's contrast my San Francisco experience to that at my yoga class back in Paris.

Our communal changing room is about the size of a Hummer and we're packed in there tight, commes les anchois. I mean, when you pull up your trousers, your elbows are bound to bump someone where you don't intend to bump 'em. But what's even more shocking, if you're so inclined to be shocked, is that the women take everything off. All off. Everything. And yes, I mean, yes, everything.

Continue reading "I Saw Breasts" »

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Definitely Back In America...

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The Sales

There are two periods during the year when stores are allowed to have Les Soldes, or The Sales. They occur once in the winter, beginning shortly after New Years Day, while the summer soldes start in late June. Although Americans think its odd, the government's official explanation is that les soldes give stores a chance to blow-out all last seasons merchandise quickly by creating a little frenzy. But I think another reason is to give the little stores a break, since as we've seen in America, often the smaller merchants get squeezed out by the big guys offering lower prices on things by holding sales all the time.

So onward to the BHV. What is the BHV, you ask?
Imagine someone scouring the every corner of the world, looking for the least-helpful people on the planet. Then they hire them and put them in one enormous department store that's impossible to navigate but full of everything imaginable and necessary for daily life in Paris, so you really have no choice but to shop there.

And those are the people in charge of helping you.

And now, you get the idea of the BHV.

So today is the first day of les soldes and I would say to anyone who has fantasies that Parisians are polite, classy, and sophisticated, hasn't been elbowed out of the way in front of the bins at the BHV department store, strong-arming anyone who might get between them and something they want.
Or don't want.

It doesn't really matter.

And Parisians tend to go a little wild here, since in general, things like clothing and housewares are pretty expensive. I happened to be heading to the BHV this morning, since last night I switched on my desk lamp and blew out some fuses in my apartment. Although I was determined not to get involved in the hubbub, once inside I got caught up in the madness and thought, "Well, I guess I could use a new pair of jeans." Last week I discovered a bare spot forming in a place where not a lot of people get a close look at, thinking their days are numbered.

To make a long story short, I never made it to the hardware department, but instead got taken in by the stacks and stacks of jeans that were all 30% off. Since you can't get away with wearing American-style baggy-assed jeans in Paris, you need to wear pants that are well-fitted, snug-tight up against your rear end (no matter what you weigh.)

Our unless you're under the age of 21. Then you wear jeans hanging halfway down your butt, but only as long as you're wearing boxer shorts underneath rather than those Euro-sling undies and swimsuits that some men in my age (well above the age of 22) like to wear here.

Not finding what I liked, I left empty-handed. But with my adrenalin (or was it my morning cáfe au lait?) pumping, I raced to the Levi Store in the Bastille. Not quite busy yet (aha!, I beat those young folks wasting their lives away in school), the young salesmen were instantly drawn to me, amazed at the Levis that I was wearing, which were made with a special cut and fabric that I bought in San Francisco. So there I find mself, surrounded by handsome, unshaven, young French men, all oohing and aahing while staring at my butt and crotch, reaching over feeling the fabric, and closing in all around me. I don't know if it was me, or the summer heat has finally arrived once and for all, but it was surely getting much warmer in there. And naturally, I decided right away that I needed a new pair of Levis, and this was the place I must get them.

Helping me find a style I liked, one of the friendly young men, wearing a well-fitted t-shirt (was it Levis? If so, I want one too.) He kept calling me jeaune homme (young man), while asking me what I thought about the style that he was wearing by running his hands up and down his thighs to emphasize and make sure I understood how good they fit (yes, I did.) So he hands me a few pairs of the same jeans to try on, and transfixed, I head to the dressing room.

Since we're in France, there's no need to be shy and he pops right in soon afterwards and starts surveying the fit by yanking and patting and making sure all button-fly's buttons were laying properly, exclaiming how well they fit. Yes, they're supposed to be that tight, he told me. And for additional emphasis, in case I didn't quite get it (yes, I did) he makes doubly-sure with his hands that I know there's little room in there for anything besides maybe a Euro-sling, and perhaps a few centimes or fuses (...fuses? What fuses?...) But certainly not much else.

Soon all the other boys, er, I mean jeaunes homes, came by and made sure I'm getting properly fitted, admiring my choice in jeans. When I questioned whether I might need a larger size, one turned to show me how his fit him, sliding precariously down his backside, and he asked me if I wanted to same. (Yes, I did.)

But instead I went home with the jeans I had on, at 20% off, back to my darker apartment, thinking I'll go back first thing tomorrow and get fuses.

But perhaps if the BHV took a cue from Levis and hired a few of these helpful young men as salespeople, customers like me might leave their store happily with something more than just a fuse in their pocket.

Levis
47, Faubourg St. Antoine
Tél: 01 44 87 03 06

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Ode To A Powerball™

Ode To A Powerball™

By David Lebovitz


I think that I shall never see,
A Powerball™ as lovely as ici.

The rosy ball ensures success
Against my dishes, which entered a mess.

Inside the dishwasher, so full it is scary,
But I just press the button! Could I be more merry?

A sudsy froth, I'm sure it will yield,
Behind the closed door, its fate has been sealed.

An unequaled tablet, whose gift is released,
Round and round goes each cycle, until all has ceased.

Without it I know that my life would be worse,
Washing dishes by hand is indeed quite a curse.

A mess is made daily by fools just like me,
So I give thanks to Calgon, for they make what you see.


(...with apologies to Joyce Kilmer, 1886-1918)

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Favorite Posts of 2005

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Is It Just Me?

I've been thinking about this for quite a while, and figured I'd ask "Is it just me?...What would you do?"

Let's say you've been invited to someone's house for dinner. Yum.

You arrive and they're preparing the food. There's piles of fresh produce and meat on the counter, ready to be whipped up into something magical and tasty. Vibrant tomatoes, leafy greens, juicy meat ready to be roasted....hmmmm.
Can you practically taste it?

As you sip your glass of red wine, you watch and chat with your host as they prepare dinner.
They wash the raw chicken or pork under running water in the kitchen sink. Afterwards a quick wipe their hands (uh oh, you begin to think...no soap!...not to mention they're going to use that kitchen towel again and again and again...).
Then they fill the sink with water to wash the lettuce...without cleaning it out!

Ick!

Or what if they're making a salad, and take the knife they've just used to cut up the uncooked pork sausage?
Without wiping the knife, they begin slicing the cucumbers and tomatoes for the salad, tossing it all together, then triumphantly setting it down on the table.
I mean, Hello?

Since you're a extremely polite and gracious guest, like I am, (and believe me, no one's allergic to lettuce or cucumbers...so forget that one.)
I mean, it's not like you can just eat around the salmonella, can you?

...what do you do?

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Pocket Coffee™ Haiku

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