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.

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.

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.

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.

The other night I was sitting at Le Garde Robe, minding my own business, trying to get down a glass of natural wine. Being seven o'clock, naturally, in addition to being thirsty, I was starving, too.

And the lack of food (and sulfides) must have started affecting my brain because I started thinking about how I often hear tales from visitors, such as when they told a Parisian waiter they didn't eat meat and shortly afterward, were presented with a plate of lamb. Or they ordered a salad, that was supposed to come with the sandwich, and was actually just a single leaf of lettuce. Hoo-boy, and yes, I've made a few gaffes of my own, too: I once ordered a glass of Lillet (pronounced le lait, which isn't well-known around Paris) and the perplexed café waiter brought me out a long, slender glass of le lait (milk), presented with great panache, on a silver dish with a nice doily. Of course, everyone was staring at the grown man who ordered a tall glass of milk. And I don't think it was because of the starched doily.

Anyhow, I was scanning the chalkboard at Le Garde Robe, looking at the various charcuterie and cheese on offer, and noticed filet mignon, and thought, "A steak is a funny thing for a wine bar to serve, especially one that doesn't serve hot food." Until I remembered what it is in French. And if everyone wasn't already staring at the idiot at the wine bar, nursing a stemmed glass of milk, I would've kicked myself for thinking that's a big, juicy steak. Which it's not, in France.

1. Mixing Up the Mignons

Mignon in French means "cute". And to my pork-loving friends and readers, that can only mean one thing: pigs. French people think cows are attractive.

Recently I ate at one of those small neighborhood restaurants whose fame spreads beyond the quartier and people come from other neighborhoods, as well as from other countries, to eat at because it is très reputé.

Le Repaire de Cartouche (99 rue Amelot) is one of those restaurants in Paris. It's known for very good food and an especially compelling wine list. The prices aren't too high (although not too low, either) and you can eat very well without spending the equivalent of a three-star restaurant.

Almost immediately after we sat done, something seemed up. Within moments of handing us our menus, the waiter asked if we were ready to order. I was with Maria Helm Sinskey, a well-regarded chef from the Bay Area and co-owner of a vineyard, with her husband. I'd chosen the restaurant because they're known for excellent game dishes and I figured it was something she couldn't easily get back in the states.

As she pondered the wine list, the waiter told us we had to order our meal before we could order wine. When we said we needed a moment to scan the interesting wine list, he quickly turned and scampered away in a huff.

Doing a culinary tour in Paris is always fun, because not only do I get to meet some new people and make new friends (important...since the old ones keep deserting me), but I get to revisit my favorite places in Paris. And this week, we made a detour in Lyon as well. So there was a lot more to see, and eat...

Lyon is a wonderful city. Kind of a miniature version of Paris, but younger, more spacious, and more relaxed. The people are plus cool, and in less of a rush—perhaps because they are so busy digesting all that rich food down there.

I've written about Bernachon before, and this trip, we had an especially warm greeting in their adjacent café, starting with puffy brioche and warmed pitchers of hot chocolate, made with the famed bean-to-bar chocolate that's fabricated just a few doors away.

It's no secret that I love Bernachon chocolate.

Alec Lobrano has been writing about the food in Paris for over two decades, and was the Paris correspondent for Gourmet magazine. When his book, Hungry for Paris came out, I immediately opened to page one and read it cover-to-cover. He's one of the best food writers of our generation and each chapter tells the story of one of his favorite restaurants in Paris. And now, as a result, whenever someone suggests a restaurant for dinner, I'll pull my copy of his book from my shelf and see what Alec has to say before I confirm.

We recently dined together on steak frites and I was thrilled when he agreed to write up a guest post with his favorite places for steak and French fries in Paris to share with you. He not only did that graciously, but included notes about what cuts of meat to expect in a French restaurant, which many visitors will certainly appreciate. And for vegetarians out there, he listed a healthy alternative, too!

You can read more of Alec's Paris restaurant reviews and recommendations at his site and blog, AlexanderLobrano.com, which I read religiously. Not only is Alec a wonderful writer, he's a terrific guy, and I hope you enjoy his company as much as I do...-David

In Paris, Where's Le Bœuf?

According to one of the cordial waiters at Au Bœuf Couronée, one of the last old-fashioned steakhouses in the Paris's old slaughterhouse neighborhood La Vilette in the 19th arrondissement, they haven't been so busy in years.

Pour quoi? It seems that these trying times have a lot of people craving meat and potatoes, or as the French would have it, steak frites, that infinitely Gallic and profoundly consoling combo of steak with fries or some other form of spuds.

If you're one of them, I'm happy to share my favorite steak frites addresses in Paris (vegetarians please skip to the last paragraph), but first a couple of pointers.

How does Cognac get to this...

...from this?

I didn't know, but I was determined to taste as many glasses as I could to find out.

The first thing I was asked before heading down into my first Cognac cellar during my recent visit was, "Are you afraid of spiders?"

Earlier this week, I woke up in a small town, smelling of something. It wasn't anything bad. In fact, it was pretty good: sweet, caramel-like, and roasted, with a vague, but lingering aftermath of alcohol following it. It wasn't something I was used to, but I'd tasted so many Cognacs this week in the town of Cognac, that it was literally wafting out my pores. And I'm not complaining.

Three days in the region is barely enough time to scratch the surface of this well-known brandy, which honestly, I didn't know all that much about when I was invited to the annual Cognac auction, where bottles worth thousand of euros are bid on by a few lucky (and loaded) individuals.

But the first thing I learned about Cognac, is that it all starts in the barrels at the tonnellerie, or cooperage, where the barrels are made. As I touched on in my post about fresh shelling beans, and several people left their own thoughts in the comments, we're often unaware of what actually goes in to producing the food—and beverages, that we feed ourselves.

For example, I had no idea that it takes three years, minimum, just to make each barrel that's used for aging.

There is a French term, un glaneur, which describes a person who who glanes. If you don't have any idea what that means, you're not alone. I had to look it up in my French dictionary and there it was, just above the word glander, which they translated as, "to fart around."

There's a heckuva lot of French verbs out there, and I've been trying to learn them as fast as my little brain can absorb them, but that was a new one on me. Would one say, "Je vous glande", or "I fart around you?" I hope not. (At least not around me.)

A glaneur (or glaneuse), is someone who picks or forages for fruits and vegetables. And in fact, there was a well-known film called Les glaneurs et la glaneuse about French people who hunt for food.

When we were recently driving around the Seine-et-Marne, a bucolic region just an hour or so outside of Paris, where we were spending the waning days of summer, we rang the bell of a friend of ours, who unfortunately wasn't in. Yet being the eagle-eyed forager that I am, I fortunately noticed a whole bank of trees across the street, each heavy with branches bearing a multicolored line-up of itty-bitty wild plums that were ripe 'n ready.

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.

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.

When I heard there was going to be an inaugural voyage for the recently refubished Club Med 2 sailboat, I was so excited to go, that I actually invited myself to come along. Since the trip was a press preview, with a sprinkling of the rich and perhaps famous to rub elbows with, and since I lived so close, I saw no reason why I shouldn't be able to easily race down to catch some sunshine, and participate in the buzz—cruising past St. Tropez, Cannes, Nice, and Portofino.

So after spending a few days on land in Provence, I was ready to set sail and meet my travel mates. Having not gone on many press trips, I wasn't sure what to expect and happily, our rag-tag group was from all over the map: Japan, the United States, Switzerland, Canada, Australia, Italy, and, of course, France. We boarded boat and set sail eastward.

I'd been on one boat before, a medium-sized cruise liner, and was less-than-impressed with that one. It was freezing cold from the boat being severely overly air-conditioned, so I was wearing sweaters indoors, while sunny Mexico was right outside. Not only was it cold physically, it was also uninspiring and I felt like I was on a floating hotel, it was so big and impersonal.

But this was a small vessel, a 5-masted sailboat, with less than two hundred rooms and sure enough, it was just the right size and pace for cruising the Côte d'Azur.

Just announced—an all-new tour this fall! For one delicious week we'll be feasting and tasting the best of France.

From extraordinary chocolate shops, to magnificent fromageries and bustling bouchons, this one-week adventure will be unforgettable! The itinerary is different than my Paris Chocolate Tours, so those of you who've traveled with me before, if you're interested in coming along, we'd love to have you.

For this trip, we'll be focusing on some of the other tasty aspects of Paris, including...

...visiting the best candy and pastry kitchens, and watch them dipping chocolates, piping macarons, and swirling sugar into edible confections.

When people come to Paris, they often ask me where they can find good bouillabaisse. And when I tell them, "You can't", they're always very surprised.

"Well, isn't it French?" they'll reply.

Yes, it is. But to get many of the regional specialties in France, you need to go to the region. Hence my frequent visits to Nice, to get socca at the fiery source.

And although you can make it at home, making it in a home oven is like baking off a batch of S'Mores in there: it's close, but not exactly the real thing. You really do need a wood-fire to get that blistered crust. Still, after much experimentation, I got it close in my home oven and I now make it all the time to serve with an apéritif before dinner.

Socca is basically street food, intended to be eaten off napkins to blot up all the excess olive oil, with plastic cups of frosty-cool rosé.

Three of the hottest, most sought-after tables in Paris are lorded over by les américains. A few are part of the "underground" dining scene, which seems to be a global phenomenon, another is a one-man show (for now), and the forth is a cozy little resto located in a back alley where a French chef, who trained mostly in America, is combining the best of both cultures.

Hidden Kitchen

When two young cooks moved to Paris from Seattle, they began hosting dinner parties in their apartment, which was stark and nowhere near as sumptuous as their current digs. I can't tell you where it is, but once you reserve, you'll be in the know soon enough.

Hidden Kitchen is now in a more luxe location and the open kitchen overlooks the dining table where a multi-course dinner is served, and ten courses isn't unusual. The chefs head to the market beforehand to scope out what's fresh, so you won't know what's on the all-inclusive menu until you arrive.

But the courses are small, impeccably fresh, and inventive. So you won't leave feeling overstuffed. And multiple wines are poured to compliment the food. They're booked months in advance, naturally, but you can also follow them on Twitter, where they post last-minute cancellations, if you want to be in-the-know.

Chien Lunatique

One of my most frequently asked questions is: "Hey David, do you know those two guys from Chez Panisse who...." and I cut them off right about there and finish the sentence for them, since I know what's coming.

Proving that just because you have good ingredients, doesn't necessarily mean you can make them good. True, it's harder to go wrong with stellar vegetables, seafood, and meat, but a recent dinner at L'Assiette proved that a little finesse, and seasoning, can transform decent ingredients into something pretty good. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case on a recent visit.

For many years, L'Assiette was the "go to" restaurant in Paris. When I worked at Chez Panisse, every cook who came here simply had to eat the cuisine of Lulu Rousseau, the beret-wearing woman who cooked simple food, and did it very well. The food came with a slightly hefty price tag which was mitigated by the good food on the plate. She sold the restaurant and I recently went back for a visit. The prices remain high, but what's on the plate doesn't exactly justify them

If you're into staying in odd hotels, the most unusual one in Paris is part of Hôtel Dieu, called Hospitel. Occupying the top floor of Paris' enormous public hospital, the hotel is adjacent to Notre Dame and features one of the most beautiful hotel lobbies in the world: a sumptuous, verdant courtyard framed by a sprawl of archways.

The location of the Hôtel Dieu was apparently chosen due to its proximity to Notre Dame. (Hôtel in French can mean a large mansion-like building, not necessarily as hotel as we know it.) It was thought that people leaving a house of worship might be more charitable on the way out. Eventually rooms were rented out on the top floor for people visiting patients in the hotel, and thereafter, the hospital opened them up to the public. For those of you that are concerned about noise, I doubt you'll find anywhere that's quieter than a hospital.

The rooms are serviceable (think of an Ikea-decorated college dorm room), but hospital-clean without a lot of extraneous decoration.

A number of folks consult the site for information about Paris, but it's always best to get some second opinions. So I asked a few friends and in-the-know colleagues about their favorite places around the city, and I'm happy to share them with you.

Included are links, when available, for complete addresses and additional contact information. Hours change and places close in Paris without notice so it's best to call first before visiting. For restaurants and wine bars where food is served, reservations are strongly advised.

If there any Paris favorites that you'd like to share, please feel free to do so in the comments. I'd love to hear about them.

Favorite Outdoor Market

"Paris markets are one of my favorite subjects. I can go to the same market every day of the year and still always find something new. I regularly visit the boulevard Raspail market, a "regular" market Tuesday and Friday, organic (and expensive!) on Sunday. The fish merchants there are incredible on all days, and I adore the poultry people at the Tuesday and Friday market. I love testing one fish market or cheese stand against the other, grading them on each purchase. For 20 years I lived near the rue Poncelet market and still have a soft spot there, especially for Alléosse cheese and coffee beans from Brûlerie des Ternes."

"When I have time, I also love the President Wilson market on Wednesday and Saturday, where of course one finds the famed produce from Joël Thiebault but also wonderful fish, fresh crêpes, and Lebanese specialties. The market is near my dentist's office so I always schedule a Wednesday morning appointment."

Patricia Wells, of Patricia Wells.com
(Author: Bistro Cooking and The Paris Cookbook)

Favorite Steak Tartare

"As an American in France, getting into the French staple of steak tartare means getting past it's resemblance to an uncooked hamburger patty. At Les Fines Gueules (2, rue la Vrillière, 1st) near place des Victoires they have cap-and-gowned the French standard by hand chopping Limousin beef (the best in France) and tossing the raw meat with white truffle oil, parmesan and sun dried tomatoes. Certainly not a traditional preparation, but an unbelievably delicious part of this American's weekly diet."

Braden, of Hidden Kitchen

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.

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.

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.

On her last visit to Paris, I introduced my cousin who's a Franco-phile, to confit de canard, knowing that she'd love it. When I saw the rapture that took over when she put that first forkful in her mouth, I could see that she was hooked as I am.

I'd taken her to Chez Dumonet, which is reliably excellent. This time, though, I'd like to take her somewhere else. A lot of restaurants offer duck confit, occasionally, but it doesn't reliably appear on menus.

You notice I don't do standard restaurant "reviews" on the site. I think dining is a personal experience and while one person might find a dish excellent, it might not be to another person's liking. Some folks like loud, hip places, and I'm more inclined to hit the classics. Another thing is that when I go out, I don't always tote my camera or want to have to remember and recount every single thing I ate, or recall every vintage I sipped during the evening.

What I like to do is to point you in the direction of places that I think you might like here in Paris.

Les Cocottes often gets described as a local version of an American-style diner. I don't know if that's true. For one thing, everyone speaks French. And for another, there were no snappy apron-clad waitresses pouring bottomless cups of coffee, no trucks parked outside, and no plumber-cracks hanging over the backside of the stools. After all, this is Paris, ya' know.

In fact, Les Cocottes sits on a pretty prestigious piece of land, in the seventh arrondissement, not known for good-value restaurants, or truckers. But Les Cocottes is a good value, and what makes it even better, the food is worth every centime.

Quite a few of you were interested in what happened around here on Thanksgiving. Even though my internet service is on it's second week of vexing me, and I'd just assume go on strike like everyone else around here, in protest, I don't think I'd get much sympathy, so I thought I'd better get my Thanksgiving post up.

I just saw a report on CNN that of all the countries around the world, the people in Israel eat the most amount of turkey, per capita, than anyone else. There are les dindes in France, but it's almost impossible to find a whole bird, and one usually needs to be ordered in advance.

A few weeks ago, I went to hear Alec Lobrano speak and read from his terrific book, Hungry for Paris, and someone asked if there were ethnic restaurants listed in the book. He replied that he didn't include them, because most visitors coming to Paris probably are looking for French food, so that's what he concentrated on.

He's right, of course. Lots of visitors do come here specifically to dine on classic French fare, but I also know that there are a certain number of visitors that eventually tire of so much meat and rich food, and are willing to explore some of the more unusual and diverse food available in a multi-cultural city like Paris. I also think that Americans (at least this one) are hard-wired to eat ethnic foods, namely anything Asian. Living in California, sushi, Korean bbq, and bun bo are pretty much a part of my normal dietary fare.

Since I arrived in Paris, I've noticed a strong uptick in the quality of Asian restaurants here. And I've also noticed there's much more of an appreciation of them, too.

In my quest for a good burger in Paris, I was enthralled that many of you wrote with so many suggestions. I once took a course in food writing and the teacher told us not to use words like "enthralled" and "opt" because people don't use them in everyday speech.

When I opt to look out my window, I'm enthralled at the view of Paris.

So there.

Anyhow, thanks to my vigilant readers, I'm now armed with a comprehensive list—and so are you, of places to find a decent burger here.

And to the person who wrote on an online bulletin board that they didn't feel sorry for me, well, I ask you, where is the love, folks? This isn't supposed to be the RNC.

Let's just say I believe that it's every American's constitutional right to have access to a great burger no matter where they are in the world, and leave it at that.

I am so glad I'm not on a low-carb diet. If I was, I'd have to move.

Seriously—if I couldn't eat bread, I would shrive up and die. The only thing keeping me from doing that is constant hydrating myself with wine. Luckily, that's another one of the other things around here that I don't need to avoid.

Yet.

When I told Romain's mom that we didn't have bakeries in the US like they have in France, she couldn't believe it.

"Ooohh?..." she wondered aloud, "So where does everyone get their bread every day?"

One of the first places I went to in Paris when I was setting up house, was Goumanyat. My friend David Tanis took me there, who is a chef and lives in Paris part-time. And as I roamed through the neat shop, poked in the wooden drawers and sniffed in the jars, I was thrilled to find such a treasure trove of spices and comestibles to stock my petit placard.

Yet the real star of the show at Goumanyat is saffron, which they stock in every conceivable fashion. Of course, there's a huge glass urn of wispy saffron threads, which one can use to flavor a tagine or even a batch of ice cream. But saffron also shows up in many other guises here, sometimes in places where you'd least expect it.

For those of you who don't live here, you're probably scratching your heads as who in their right minds would want a hamburger in Paris. If you're a visitor, you probably don't come to Paris in search of a burger (unless you've got kids in tow). But Parisians, as well as the rest of us, often get the craving for a nice, juicy patty on a big, fluffy bun, and I'm happy to help in our quest to find the best of the lot.

Here's a list of the places that were suggested by helpful readers in the comments of my post on the burgers at Hippopotamus. I was pretty bowled over with the choices out there and look forward to trying some, or all, of them out.

Please note that I haven't been to most of these places (yet), and I can't personally vouch for them.

Hence I'm trusting you guys on these...so they'd better be good! : )

I've been craving a big, fat, piled-high juicy hamburger for the last few weeks. I don't know why. Romain told me, "C'est normal et culturel, Daveed." I'm not entirely sure about that since I've never been a big beef eater. But lately, just the idea of lifting a hefty, rosy, big mess-of-a-patty of seared meat wedged between two fluffy, lightly-grilled cushions of bread with plenty of fixin's, has been first and foremost in my little mind.

While l'hamburger is available at more and more cafés and restaurants in Paris nowadays, too often the dried-out burger is paltry, the bun is lame, and the much-anticipated le hamburger that arrives is wildly overpriced and nothing more than a glorified, microwaved sandwich.

Since the last post (#3) focused on something so beautiful, and so perfect; an exquisite cup of gelato, I thought it'd be okay to spring the Musée Fragonard on you now.

Located in on the eastern fringe of Paris, the Musée Fragonard d'Alfort is part of the Alfort Veterinary School, founded in 1766, which is one of the oldest veterinary colleges in the world. Lest you think I've got a thing for cadavers of malformed animals and tumorous cow spleens, you're wrong.

But what I do have is a thing for are very unique places in Paris.

I recently received a desperate message from a reader, whose subject line read "Coffee Emergency!!"

She and her husband were in Paris, desperate for a good cup of coffee. Feeling her pain, I compiled this short-list of places where one can be pretty much assured of having a properly-made café express.

A few tips:

• Check and see if the place uses an Italian brand of coffee. This isn't always the most reliable trick, but is an indication they're not just pulling coffee from the easiest-available (and cheapest) brands.
• Look and see if they're grinding the beans fresh, firmly packing the coffee into the tamper, and keeping the filter holder in place when the machine isn't being use to hold in the heat. Those are indications they're somewhat interested in doing things correctly
• Peer into some of the cups that are being passed over the bar before ordering. A real espresso should be about a tablespoon of coffee with a layer of lighter froth floating on top.
• If you want the closest approximation of a true espresso, ask for café serré, a "tight" coffee. The French normally drink their café express with more water than a customary espresso.
• It's hard to avoid, but most cafés use sterilized, ultra-pasteurized milk in milk-based drinks, which tastes horrible and will ruin even a decent cup.
• When in doubt, such as on the autoroute or train, resign yourself to ordering a café noisette; an express marked with a bit of steamed milk, which'll tame any bitter or acrid flavors.

Clotilde Dusoulier is the ultimate Parisian insider, one shares her tasty tales of life in Paris on her blog, Chocolate and Zucchini. In this very handy guide, a native Parisian happily leads us around Paris, taking us from little-known specialty food shops and classic bistros to authentic Japanese noodle bars and wine tasting venues.

One of my favorite parts of Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris are tips on how restaurants and food shops work here. For example, knowing that you're not a "customer" but a "guest" explains a lot of things to foreigners, who are used to the Customer is King attitude.

Other cultural tips, like keeping your hands on the table while you're eating and not resting your bread on the edge of your plate, are explained so you can avoid making a faux pas, as I did shortly after I arrived in Paris and was scolded for my bread infraction by the host at a dinner party.

And I always thought it was rude to scold guests! Who knew?

My favorite travel tip that I rarely advertise is to tell people I'm leaving a day prior to my actual departure.

And tell them I'm coming back a day after I actually return. That way, I avoid all those last-minute crises as well as returning home and being slammed by a few weeks of backed-up panicky messages on my machine.

I think everyone's figured it out by now and after getting in late last night, today is my day to put out the fires that erupted while I was gone, so to speak. But first, while it's all fresh, here's some of the high points of my trip to Nice and the Côte d'Azur:

"Sun-drenched" is a cliché that's often applied to the food of the region, and at the cours Saleya market in Vieux Nice, as well as others, you can see that it applies decidely well.

"The great thing about socca," Rosa Jackson told me, as we ripped into our second double order of the giant chickpea crêpe between us, "is that even if you're not hungry, you can still eat it."

A few days later, while standing on the square in Vence, waiting while a young man poured chickpea batter onto a very hot oiled griddle, a timid young American woman asked him for a crêpe. He explained, in fractured English, that he only made socca, and she started to walk away.

If there's anything nicer than taking a break and heading to the south of France, I can't imagine what it could be right now. My first day in Nice, we ran from socca stand to socca stand, tasting as many as we could. Fortified, we hit the wonderful market in the old part of town to select our fixings for a lovely dinner.

The way of life down here, and the cooking, are a world away from Paris. Generous bunches of basil find their way into pistou, which we pounded in the mortar and pestle until almost smooth.

Here's a list of some restaurants in Paris that are open on Sunday. Note that some are quite basic while others may fall into the slightly touristy category. Nevertheless, I still think they're worthy of a visit. All but the most basic restaurants prefer that diners make reservations.

Another Sunday dining option is to visit one of the outdoor markets and make up a picnic. Markets open on Sunday morning (9am-2pm) include Richard Lenoir (M: Bastille), Aligre (M: Ledru-Rollin), Raspail (M: Sèvres-Babylon), and Place Monge (M: Place Monge).

Feel free to add any favorites restaurants of yours in the comments.

Breizh Café
109, rue Vieille du Temple (3rd)
01 42 72 13 77

Excellent buckwheat crêpes served in a casual, yet sparse setting. Especially busy at prime lunch hours.

Chez Paul
13, rue de Charonne (11th)
01 47 00 34 57

This traditional French bistro flies under the radar of many but is a great choice for Sunday lunch, especially after a visit to the nearby Richard Lenoir market. Hearty fare.

Alain Ducasse recently took over la direction of Le Jules Verne, the high-end restaurant in the Eiffel Tower that had lost its reputation and luster as a fine dining destination during the past several years. I hadn't ever eaten there, since its reputation had preceded it. But this week, I finally got my chance to dine there.

We waited patiently for the private elevator of the Tour Eiffel to lift us up to mid-tower, over four hundred feet in the air, above Paris.

We're mid-week into our Paris Chocolate Tour here and we're having a great time. Everyone's enjoying the unusually fine weather, and of course, the chocolate.

I wanted to post a few shots and notes in my spare seven minutes—it's 5:34am so forgive any typos or missed links. I'll catch 'em later...in my free time ; )

Cheerful, and the amazingly-talented, Jean-Charles Rochoux shows us a chocolate replica of his arm in his laboratory. He made it for a Halloween display at a Parisian department store. The scoop of passionfruit sorbet is from Le Bac à Glaces, an ice cream shop just a few blocks away, where we stopped to cool down.

At M. Rochoux's swanky boutique, his assistant Murielle, packs up a box of chocolate. Check out the sexy glove. Oh la la! I may need even more sorbet to cool down...

If you do stop in, be sure to get a tablet of his chocolate from Peru. This is one of my favorite chocolates in his shop, along with the tablets of caramelized hazelnuts from Piedmont enrobed in chocolate as well as his latest; a bar of chocolate with a unctuous layer of creamy caramel oozing out.

A light French salad: la salade parisienne. Yes, there is some lettuce tucked under that mountain of ham, but I was more focused on the yummy house-made fries at Le Nemrod that I dove on as soon as they landed. Unfortunately, being the consummate host, I did share a few with my table mates. But not before grabbing all the crispiest specimens. Since my salad was so light, my guests knew I needed the extra nourishment to make it through the afternoon.

Did I mention how light it was? Just checking...

Of course, it's not lunch in Paris without un peu de rosé. I had a little pitcher, which was just enough to carry me through the afternoon. Well, at least until dinner.

If the above salad looked too light for you, the salad with soft-cooked egg melting over a huge mound of crispy bacon and studly croutons, may be more suitable to carry someone through a week of tasting chocolates. They also make a letter-perfect croque monsieur (and madame), if you're in the neighborhood.

I've been reading through a nifty, new guidebook to the bakeries, chocolate shops, and tea salons, called The Pâtisseries of Paris. This handy little book is full of great addresses and tips, and is just small enough to slip in your shoulder bag when hitting the streets of Paris, should you come to Paris on a mission for sweets.

I was surprised at how in-depth this guide takes you. Naturally, the usual suspects, like Ladurée and Stohrer, are in there. And chocolatiers like Jean-Charles Rochoux and Patrick Roger are always a stop whenever I'm on the Left Bank, so I was happy to see the nods toward them.

There's few places that aren't worth the trip. Such as Au Panetier bakery, where the dry cookies don't make up for the glorious art nouveau tilework.

This guest entry is from my friend Gideon Ben-Ami, who graciously stepped in and wrote this post about vegetarian dining options in Paris..Enjoy...dl

A you can imagine, being a vegetarian in Paris can be a challenge. During my 5 years in Paris I've witnessed many die hard veggies succumbing to the sins of the flesh. The usual excuse is that it's just too hard (or the temptations too great) in the self-proclaimed food capital of the world. "I never ate meat till I tried the duck," one friend told me while another announced, "Technically I'm still a vegetarian, though sometimes I do eat steak."

If you're dining at a neighbourhood bistro, you'll probably get by okay if you eat fish. But if you're vegan, then you might need to smuggle in a nut cutlet or two under your raincoat as you'll soon get tired of munching on side salads. Unlike many other European capitals, restaurants here don't necessarily have a vegetarian option on the menu.

Paris does, however, have its fair share of vegetarian restaurants.
Are they any good?

I don't know where they get these, and I don't really care. But if you stop in da rosa and don't pick up a bag of them, you're making a terrible mistake.

These little dusty ovals of chocolate enrobe a Marcona almond tucked in the middle and there's just a touch for the smoky taste of pimente d'Espelette, the bright-red Basque chili powder that I like to sprinkle over everything from pumpkin purée to chocolate-peanut bark. Once I open the bag of Pimandes, it's assured that the rest will soon be history.

To be honest, I wanted to show you the inside of one.

Really I did.

When a British travel writer asked if I'd like to meet for brunch last week, he also asked if I could suggest a reasonable place for the article he was doing. So I put on my thinking cap, kicked off my slippers, tossed my funky pajamas in the laundry bin, showered and...get this...shaved!...and actually took a break from my project and got a few breaths of fresh air.

Imagine that!
(This is getting to be a habit around here...)

Le Brunch is indeed available at some places in Paris, but je deteste being around people first thing in the morning—and I'm not so fond of Le Brunch either. So we compromised on the more civilized hour of 1pm. Not much is open in Paris on Sunday, which our President is fixing to change, so I suggested Breizh Café a tidy corner spot specializing in galettes de blé noir, commonly known as buckwheat crêpes.

This sparsely-finished restaurant is in the heart of 'bobo' (bourgeois bohemians) land, so there's no shortage of strollers or hipsters hanging out in this part of the Marais on Sunday. Once you get by all the posers skulking on the sidewalks peering in gallery windows, cigarettes perched in the corners of their mouth and the obligatory Sunday am dark glasses...(who unlike me, couldn't bother to shave)...it's a relief to find an inexpensive place to eat where the food is anything but trendy.

Because owner Bertrand Larcher is a true Breton, the Breizh Café focuses on the quality of the products and lets them shine, rather than trying to mess with the originals: there's no red pepper dust on the corner of the plate or twirls of squiggly sauces that have no business being there.

When I was in Méribel avoiding the steep slopes waiting in line at the cheese coopérative, I wasn't alone: the joint was seeing more action than all those gasp-inducing ski runs.

And just about every person ordered a nice hunk of Beaufort. And since they were in front of me in line, being France, of course each person had to have a 5 minute conference with the saleswoman about how to cut it, where they wanted it cut, exactly how much to lop off, if the other hunk on the shelf was better than the one they were getting, did they have another one in the back?...etc...etc...

The person in front of me scared me a bit when he requested a chunk that were as huge as a baseball mitt. It barely fit on the scale!

Naturally when it was my turn, it took me all of 1.3 seconds to tell her what I wanted and I ended up with a nice-sized piece as well—albeit of a more modest size—and could barely wait until I got home and dug into my chunk.

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...

Most people when they think of France, they think of only two places: Paris and Provence. While I'll admit both are lovely spots for a visit (or in the case of Paris, to live in), there's a lot more to this country than those two destinations. I suppose the romance of lavender in everything and hoards of tourists does have its appeal, but to me, Gascony is one of my favorite destinations in France.

And during my recent trip to Kate's kitchen, near Agen, we spent last weekend cooking up cassoulet of all sorts, tasting local products, and drinking Armagnac with great restraint (that stuff is st-rong!) There was lots of choose from, but to keep our wits about us, our primary fuel was the darkest vin rouge in France: Cahors, often called 'black wine', made from just up to the north of us, from the canal and boat I called home for the weekend.

(Note: This post contains photos of animals used for cooking, some resembling their natural state. It's part of life in the French countryside where that's part of their way of life. Just a mention in case you're sensitive to seeing things like that.)

For those who need to avoid gluten, France may present more of a challenge than other countries, which was confirmed when I tried to find some tips online for gluten-free dining in France and turned up little information.

So here are a few helpful hints that will help you navigate French restaurants and dining, how to deal with waiters, and where you can find gluten-free products and foods in Paris, including a gluten-free restaurant and take-away shop.

Located a few blocks north of the historic place des Vosges, steps away from the hubbub of tourists clogging the sidewalks, is Café des Musées, a terrific restaurant in Paris.

Chef François Chenel makes his own pâtés and smokes his own organic salmon, which arrives with a spoonful of crème fraîche, chives, and toasted levain bread. Both are also available to take home, including pre-cooked lobes of foie gras, even if you're not dining here.

We split an order of grouse. One of the great things about France is that in the winter, restaurants will feature game like partridge, wild pigeon, and other specialties that are hard to find elsewhere. The grouse was dark and meaty-red, just as ordered. Alongside were triangles of braised celery root, a pile of dressed watercress and quetsches, Italian prune plums, cooked until jam-like. Although as unctuous and sweet as I would have liked, a shot of port in the deglazing would've sealed the deal.

Other menu options are a pretty well-crusted entrecôte steak, served with real French fries, which are unfortunately rare nowadays in Paris. Cochon noir de Bigorre (which looks like a licorice pig) is always great here, a neatly-classic steak tartare, and for those looking for a vegetarian option, a cocotte of seasonal vegetables comes in a casserole, bathed in olive oil. (A friend who ordered this pronounced it "boring", so perhaps that's not the best choice.)

For dessert, we shared a raspberry Dacquoise; a slightly-crisp almond meringue which had a nice cake-like chew. It was served with excellent, dark cherry-red raspberries which were so sweet they were syrupy.

For those on a budget, at both lunch and dinner, on offer is a prix-fixe option. One recent fixed-price menu was vichyssoise and foie de veau, veal liver, with dessert for just 19€. Another time it was a poached egg in red wine with a lamb shank following up for the main course, with dessert being rhubarb crisp.

The service is a bit scattered, but that to me is the charm of eating in a neighborhood-type restaurant where people just go for good food but are welcome to linger. It's the kind of place where the tables are pushed close together so you're rubbing shoulders with your neighbors and perhaps sharing a basket of good bread. That's one of the pleasures of dining in lesser-known Parisian restaurants and cafés.

My friends and I shared a bottle—ok, two bottles—of fruity gamay from the Touraine which went very nicely with everything from the charcuterie to the game and through the dessert. And afterward as well.

Café des Musées
49, rue de Turenne (3rd)
Tél: 01 42 72 96 17
(Map)

Related Posts and Links

Eating & Drinking Guide for Paris

Two French Dining Guides

Marling Menu-Master for France

10 Insanely Delicious Things You Shouldn't Miss in Paris

Gluten-Free Eating & Dining in Paris

Paris Favorites: Eating, Drinking and Shopping

Tips for Vegetarian Dining in Paris

Here's my address book for the most popular, and my favorite places for ice cream in Paris.

In addition to these glaciers, some of the pâtisseries make their own exceptionally-good ice cream which they'll scoop up from freezers parked on the sidewalks outside during the summer. Some of the best include Kayser, La Maison du Chocolat, and A La Mère de Famille.

Many of the places keep curious hours, some of which I've noted. Most don't open until mid-morning, and one, Deliziefollie, simply closed for the winter while Berthillon closes mid-July for the summer. I've listed phone numbers so you can call in advance.

Berthillon

Little needs to be said about Berthillion that hasn't already been said. This most-famous of all Parisian glaciers makes what many consider the best ice cream in the world. Go see for yourself! I was a fan of their glace chocolat until I saw the light and switched to the chocolat amer sorbet, which has the deep intensity of chocolate but without the distraction of cream. Their Caramel Ice Cream is excellent, but I think the Caramel-Buerre-Salé doesn't measure up to it. The fruit sorbets are excellent and the one made with tiny wild strawberries, fraises des bois, is worth the supplement.

Berthillon is served at many cafés in Paris, and other locations near the original also scoop it up, which is helpful when they're closed. Beware of other storefronts nearby which some people confusing think serve glace Berthillon as well. (They'll always display a Berthillon logo if they do.)

Berthillon
31, rue Saint-Louis-en-l'Ile (4th)
Tél: 01 43 54 31 61
Métro: Pont Marie or Sully-Morland
(Closed Mondays and Tuesdays, the second half of July and all of August.)

Amorino

Popular with tourists and locals, Amorino does quite the business, making delicate 'flowers' of gelato on cones. I'm not a huge fan (one of my Italian readers called it "...an insult to Italians everywhere."), but that doesn't stop folks from lining up day and night. Interesting flavors include Bacio, the Italian-style 'kiss' of hazelnuts and chocolate and Amarena, candied sour cherries embedded in vanilla custard. Those of you who are lactose-intolerant can find digestive comfort in Amoriso which they say is made with rice and rice milk. Twelve boutiques in Paris.

Amorino
31, rue Vieille du Temple (4th)
Tél: 01 42 78 07 75
Métro: St. Paul or Hôtel de Ville

Pozzetto

More often than not, you'll find me at Pozzetto, waiting from my scoop of sticky gelato in a cone being handed through the window to me.

Taillevant & Le Cave Taillevant

Last month I had a fabulous lunch at Taillevent, the recently-demoted three-star restaurant, courtesy of some good friends from the states. But if our lunch was any indication, I don't know who's plucking the stars. And at 70€ it's the deal of the decade: Three courses and lots of little extras. Plus they were very pleased to substitute any of the desserts which didn't appear on the fixed menu for the selection offered. And to make the lunch even more special, another recent guest kindly bought me a bottle of lovely champagne...what's not to get all starry-eyed over?

But whether or not you can make it to Taillevent, the restaurant, you should definitely visit their wine shop in the main Printemps department store. Run by Alison Vollenwider, with the help of Stéphanie (aka la petite), this wine cave is one of the most interesting in Paris.

Alison trained as a sommelier at Windows On The World with famed wine expert Andrea Immer, then worked in Bordeaux as a sommelier before settling here in Paris. Stop by and say hi—you'll find plenty of reasonably-priced wines, starting at less than 10€, and lots of good advice from Alison. She's friendly and knowledgeable...what more could you want from a caviste?

What's that? You do want more?
Then visit Alison's blog on the Taillevent web site.

Illy

Ever since I got my new espresso machine, I've been trying to learn as much about the complex art of making espresso as possible.

I got a very cute message lately from a couple who had come to Paris and followed some of my restaurant suggestions. But it got to the point one evening here they were undecided where to go one night, and her husband said, "I don't care. Let's just go anywhere that chocolate-guy says to go!"

I was glad to be of service, but I like being known as 'that chocolate-guy' just as much.

But frankly, I don't go out as much as most folks imagine. I love going to my market, talking to the vendors, and coming home with something new that I've never tried before, like the chervil roots I bought the other day, which involved a rather detailed, lengthy conversation with the vendor.

I mostly cooking all the fine things I find here and learn about. So when I do go out, I want it to be good...no, I want it to be great...and I find the best food in Paris is classic French cuisine; confit de canard, steak frites, and coq au vin. When you find a good version, I don't think there's anything more satisfying. Especially if it's accompanied by good friends.

And, of course, a few obligatory glasses of vin rouge.

So here's a round-up of places I've eaten lately.
There's a few you might to want to bookmark for your next visit, as well as one or two you might want to avoid.

Since man, and woman, cannot live by chocolate alone (although wouldn't it be nice if we could?), our group spent the rest of our time slaving away putting together sumptuous meals, and learning about wine the hard way: by tasting it.

One of my favorite snacks of the class On Rue Tatin turned out to be these golden-brown, eggy gougères enriched with gruyère cheese and a dusting of freshly-toasted, fragrant cumin powder.

While it was a bit chilly to sit out in the garden overlooking the cathedral, enjoying our apéritifs and goûtes, we had plenty things to cook up indoors...

What do you get when you take eight dedicated bakers, put them in a country kitchen (one that's professionally equipped), and put them to work for three days of cooking and baking with chocolate?

You get a whole lotta chocolate!

If you didn't come along on my three-day cooking class with Susan Loomis at her home On Rue Tatin, here's a run-down of our week...

After spending years learning the language, I'm pretty comfortable with menus in French and I'm rarely in for any unpleasant surprises when waiters bring me food anymore. But on my trip to Italy, I was completely baffled when handed an Italian menu, scarcely knowing stinco from souris d'agneau. Stinco I Iearned the hard way: a Fred Flintstone-sized hunk of roasted veal knuckle was plunked down in front of me, after a hearty pasta course, and there was no chance of leaving until I finished it off. All of it. And you might want to be careful ordering souris d'agneau in France, since a 'souris' is a mouse, which doesn't sound as appetizing as lamb shank, which is actually what you'd be ordering.

So I carried along Andy Herbach and Michael Dillon's Eating and Drinking in Italy on my trip. Although I need little help deciding what to drink, many times I was stumped when presented with a menu. Luckily I had slipped this slender guide into my pocket, which is one of the most appealing features of these guides, so one could discretely refer to them without looking like a total rube.

These guides are inexpensive too, and the Paris menu translator has everything from pibales (small eels...ew) to pithiviers (puff pastry filled with ground almonds and cream...yum).

It's rather difficult to find a good, comprehensive, and compact menu translator, so most people resort to tearing pages out of their guidebooks, which are rather broad-based don't get into the nitty-gritty of the difference between congre (big eel) and colin (hake). Then they end up facing a heaping platter of something they'd prefer not to encounter either on sea or shore. Another bonus is both books also have loads of information about European dining customs, like never filling a wine glass more than halfway full in Paris, as well as restaurant suggestions and the Italian guide has brief descriptions of the regions of Italy, and what to order when you're there.

Both are highly recommended, so much so that I plan to take their Berlin Made Easy guide with me on my trip this winter, so I end up with gegrillt jakobsmuscheln instead of gekockten aal.

Eating & Drinking in Paris (Menu Translation Guide)

Eatingi & Drinking in Italy (Menu Translation Guide)

Although not Michelin-starred, one of my favorite restaurants in Paris is Les Papilles. I have to admit that I rarely go there, since it's equally far from any métro station, and I don't make it over to that part of town very often. But when a friend called me about having a leisurely saturday lunch, I jumped at the oppoprtunity to revisit the restaurant.

A few people commented when I first wrote about Les Papilles a few months back, and I mentioned the "Small portions". Well, I guess I had been there on a day when they handed out menus (it was a weekday), when I had ordered a tartine, an open-faced sandwich that I recall as being not-too-filling for my American-sized appetite.

When I returned for lunch on a saturday, they were offering one menu, which looked great (and since we had no choice), sat in anticipation of a great meal.

This first thing you notice about Les Papilles is the wine, and the place does double-duty as a wine bar. The window has boxes and boxes of bottles of wine stacked neatly, and as you walk in, one side of the restaurant is entirely devoted to wine and a few choice food products, like smoky pimente d'Espillete, chocolate sauce with sour cherries, and chocolate-dipped almonds, that are definately worth trying to pilfer...just kidding, no need to take the risk since they offer a small bowl of them with coffee.

Before you start, the waiter suggests ou choose your own bottle of wine, which arranged by region, and the staff are happy to help. Since it was sunny and brisk outside, and the menu was decidely autumnal, I picked a 2005 Sancerre from Domaine des Quarternons, which was crisp and full-flavored, with a hint of cassonade, or cane sugar. I knew it would be good with our first course, and I wasn't wrong. (It's hard to go wrong with white Sancerre, anyways.)

We started with a velouté of carrots, served with coriander seeds, a creamy quenelle sweetened with honey, and crisp hunks of smoked bacon, which came alongside in an oversized white soup plate. Aside from the slightly-annoying bits of coriander and cumin dust on the side of the plate (why do places that serve nice wine use cumin with such recklessness?) the soup was lovely, and we were able to ladle out ourselves from the tureen the waiter left on our table.

Our main course was a poitrine of pork, a centimeter-thick slab of braised then sautéed pork belly served in a copper casserole in a rich broth with young potatoes, mushrooms, black olives, and dried tomatoes. Off to the side was a brilliant-green dish of pistou, which had the intended effect of lightening up the whole dish, a wise counterpoint to the hearty pork and potatoes.

Afterwards, a small, blue-veined wedge of artisanal Fourme d'Ambert cheese from the Auvergne was brought to the table with a poached prune and a swirl of red wine reduction on the plate, followed by dessert; a glass of panna cotta with Reine Claude plum puree on top, that we both licked clean.

Completely sated, we left Les Papilles completely happy, with the rest of our Sancerre in tow, which the waiter gladly re-corked for us before sending us on our way.

Les Papilles
30, rue Gay-Lassac
RER: Luxembourg
Tél: 01 43 25 20 79

When I take folks into épiceries in Paris, I invariably drag them to the honey aisle. I start explaining how the French love honey, and buy it based on what varietal it is...rather than just stopping in the supermarket and picking up a jar of that vaguely interesting looking syrup that you know is going to leave an annoying sticky ring from the bottom of the jar in your kitchen cabinet that you're going to have to get a damp sponge and clean up, and then when you start cleaning that up you're going to notice that maybe you haven't cleaned your cabinets in a while, and since you have the sponge already in your hand, you start emptying out the cabinet, pulling everything out jars and bottles of everything, etc...etc...(then there goes your morning).

Still, I hope to engage them, get them as excited as I am for honey. But mostly they respond with a somewhat glazed-over look, similar to the look that perhaps I had when I tried to read the road signs to the Miellerie de la Côte des Légendes, in Brittany.

But I love honey and it's become my habit to enjoy a slick spoonful on my morning toast, which I saturated with beurre au sel de mer, or butter with crunchy grains of sea salt, that I buy from the big, golden mound at my cheese shop. So now my job is to convince at least a few of you to give honey another look.

I've fallen so much in love with honey, that I've become a bit of a collector and when I travel, I try to scope out unusual flavors of honey, like Marshall's Pumpkin Blossom honey, collected from hives in the San Francisco Bay Area. When I go to Italy, I bring back jars of tiglio, made from linden flowers. But my absolute favorite honey in the world is collected at the Miellerie de la Côte des Légendes, on the north coast of Brittany.

Last summer I met Martine Prigent, who sells her honey at various outdoor markets in the region and has quite a following. At least at my breakfast table, she does. When we visited for the first time, my friend was raving about her honey, and we made a beeline for her stand. I tasted a few of them, asked a lot of questions in between contented lick-smacking, and bought as many jars as I could schlep (and afford). But they're definitely worth their higher price and when I went back this year, I bought a whole lot more. Enough to get me through to next summer.

Curiously, she offered me a sample of something I'd never had before: honey made from bees which buzzed around the wild thyme flowers in the nearby dunes of Keremma, an ocean-front site under national protection. This particular honey has an unusual graham cracker-y, buttery-nutty quality and one little taste was so scrumptious that she had to close the container to prevent me from double-dipping (je suis très americain!) But boy, was that good, and I'd never had any honey with such a deep, complex, curious flavor, and a few jars went into my shopping basket tout de suite.

Having a particular affinity for very dark, flavorful honey, I gravitate towards flavors like sarrasin (buckwheat) and châtaigner (chestnut). But lest you think all honey's are created equal, I, being hopelessly frugal, picked up a jar of buckwheat honey elsewhere that was super-dark, but less expensive, which I thought would be delicious. But instead, when I opened it, I was hit was a smell that was dank and funky, like the smell of a pair of undies after a rush hour ride in the Paris métro.

And who's into that?

(Well, maybe if they belong to a young page racing through the corridors of congress and you're a Republican congressman from Florida, you might be into that. Then, I guess, it's okay to be into that...as long as you mysteriously check yourself into rehab afterwards, and get the House Speaker to cover for you.)

Can you can see the difference between the two?
The two honeys, I mean.
(Not the difference between the two jars of honey and two back-slapping congressmen). The honey in the back is the ordinaire buckwheat honey, and the one in the front is the superb honey from Martine. Quelle difference! I also like very much châtaigner honey which is so bitter than many people can't eat it plain. I couldn't the first time I sampled it. But drizzle chestnut honey over buttered-toast, or plain yogurt, or vanilla ice cream, and it's instantly palatable. I also like bourdain honey too, which is called 'black alder' to us Anglophones. I'm still not sure what 'black alder' is, but perhaps there's some connection between Anthony Bourdain and something sweet and delicious.
Or something thick and rich. Like Bobby Flay?

Um. Where was I?
Oh yes, here in France, honey is not just eaten for flavor but each variety of honey is reputed to have specific health-giving properties for what ails you. For example, bruyère (heather) honey is said to be good for your urinary tract (no, I'm not obsessed...), lavender honey is taken for respiratory ailments, and chestnut honey is taken to improve circulation. And in case you're a House Speaker making a lot of apologies, sapin, fir-tree honey, is said to be good for your throat, and aubépine is a relaxant.
Just in case any House Speakers happen to be reading this.

(Though I don't know any honey that cures congressmen from lying.)

And what can you do with honey?
Try puddling a bit of it on a creamy, pungent wedge of Roquefort as a sweet counterpoint, or atop a round of fresh goat cheese with some dried fruit or pomegranite seeds. I spoon honey over fruit that destined for the oven. When baked, the honey forms a lovely, syrupy glaze for the warm, delicate fruit. Swirl honey over hot oatmeal and add a bit to a glaze for roast pork. I also like to poach dried apricots in a honey syrup, adding a splash of sweet dessert wine, such as Sauternes or late-harvest Riesling. I serve the honey-rich apricots with my favorite Almond Cake.

So if you happen to find yourself in Brittany near the north coast...and can read a Breton road sign while your French-speaking partner tries to make sense of you frantically try to give directions and mangle incomprehensible Breton words with lots of z's and pl's, like Trégarantec and Plounénour-Trez, it's certainly worth a visit to Martine and her husband, Pascal. They offer weekly tours of their miellerie, just 200 meters from the ocean, which are quite popular (call for availability in off-season). Inhaling the odor of the fresh, breezy, salty air, you can watch them demonstrate collecting honey; scraping the thick beeswax from the hives then separating the delicious syrup from the chunky wax. There's an amazing boutique with floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with all kinds of honeys and locally-baked spice bread, known as pain d'épice, dark brown and fragrant with various spices and a good dose of honey.

So instead of buying bland honey at the supermarket, why not start trying some of the locally-produced honeys collected in your area?
And believe it or not, I recently discovered that there's even honey collected right here in Paris.

No lie.

Miellerie de la Côte des Légendes
Prat Bian
Plouescat
Tél/Fax: 02 98 69 88 93
(Offers weekly tours on Fridays, and will ship internationally)

Their honey is available at the outdoor markets in Lesneven, Saint-Pol, Saint-Renan, and in season at Roscoff, Plouguerneau, and Plouescat.

You can find a limited selection of honey from the Miellerie de la Côte des Légendes in Paris at:
La Campanella
36, bis rue de Dunkerque
Tél: 01 45 96 08 92

(Update: This honey has become quite pricey in this shop. It's very good honey, but be aware of a recent price spike.)

Locally-collected honey in Paris:
Union Nationale de l'Apiculture Francaise
26, rue des Tournelles
Tél: 01 48 87 47 15

In the San Francisco Bay Area, visit Marshall's Honey, which is sold at the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market, and is collected from bees buzzing around unusual places in the region.

To learn more about honey, two of my friends have written books on the sticky stuff: Covered In Honey by Mani Niall, and Honey: From Flower to Table by Stephanie Rosenbaum, aka the Pie Queen.

I'll soon be joining my friend Susan Loomis in her spectacular kitchen in Normandy, one hour from Paris, for a series of cooking classes November 5th-8th, from her home, On Rue Tatin...

We'll learn cooking tips and techniques from Susan in our hands-on classes and I'll be leading seminars focusing on all aspects of chocolate during special tastings and hands-on demonstrations: you'll learn everything from candymaking to making breakfast treats, and other ways to bake with chocolate in every way imaginable!

Susan is the author of On Rue Tatin, which chronicled her life moving to a village in France, restoring an ancient convent to become her cozy family home. Her other books include The French Farmhouse Cookbook (one of my French cooking bibles), and her latest, Cooking At Home On Rue Tatin.

You'll learn the secrets and techniques of French country cooking in Susan's stunning, professionally-equipped kitchen. Afterwards, we'll gather to dine by the fireplace with wines chosen from Susan's antique cave, and have a chance to savor a selection of Normandy cheeses, considered the finest in the world.

One evening our special guest will be Hervé Lestage, of Feuille de Vigne in Honfleur, who will lead us through a wine tasting, teaching you a new way to taste wine. My first tasting with Hervé changed everything I knew or thought about wine. Hervé is one of the most intriguing people I've met in France and we'll taste amazing wines from his cave which he'll specially select just for us.

As a grand finale to this culinary adventure, you'll have the option to spend a day and me and Susan exploring the gastronomic delights of Paris. We'll begin at an outdoor market, where you'll find an outstanding selection of Provencal olives, hearth-baked breads, artisan salt, raw-milk cheeses, luscious fruits, and sparkling-fresh seafood.
We'll dine in one of our most beloved Parisian bistros...but be sure to save room for all the chocolates we'll sample when we visit my favorite chocolate shops, bakeries and pastry shops in Paris afterwards!

Special Note: For this extra day on November 8th, we've made available 3 spaces available for people who aren't on our tour to join us, so if you live in Paris, or plan to be visiting then, you're welcome to come along! The price for the full-day gastronomic adventure, including lunch with wine, is just 225€. Contact me to reserve a space, using the email link on left.

You can read more about this Three-Day Chocolate Indulgence and at Susan's site, On Rue Tatin.

In my previous post, a reader commented on the picture of a restaurant that I used, which obviously wasn't the restaurant that I visited (which would be both cool, but very Twilight Zone.) Still, you can't argue with a depiction of a restaurant where every table has a bottle of red wine on it and the parents are blowing cigarette smoke in their kids faces. The picture is called a carte scolaire and they're used in French classrooms to teach les enfants about life in France. The red wine I guess is there to get 'em started early and the kids seem oblivious to their parents puffing away.

How could I resist.

When I was on vacation in August, the weather was decidedly not too fabulous. You know that expression, "Everyone complains about the weather, but no one does anything about it."...well, we all complained about the heat wave, so something was done about it--August was cold and wet. And to top it off, I was on vacation along with the rest of Paris. So what do you do when the weather stinks and you're out in the countryside?

You visit the flea markets.
There's lots of brocantes in France, but the best bargains are when you find a vide grenier, which literally means 'empty attic', and that's what people do. While they hold them in Paris, the ones in the distant countryside, far from the scavenging Parisian antiquaires, are where you can get some good finds.

I like the pick through boxes of things, since they can yield unexpected treasures like old gratin dishes and terrines, but unfortunately, I've yet to come across any old Charo or Barry Manilow records. Have these people no taste?

Fotunately there are reassuring signs of the invasion of American pop culture, and this home-version of The Price Is Right caught my eye, but I eventually passed since "David Lebovitz...Come on down!" somehow sounds more fun than "Allez-y, Monsieur Lebovitz!"

Les brocanteurs (and brocanteuses?) here drive a very hard bargain and it's tough negotiating...especially when they get a whiff of my American accent. So I try to be discreet and just hold up an object nonchalantly, trying not to smile. My rack of gleaming-white American teeth and upbeat enthusiasm are always a dead give-away. Sometimes I try to get my French dude to ask the price, but he always winds up talking to the seller for 20 minutes, and I just want to cut my losses and run, thinking I'm missing out on the elusive Saarinen table basse at the next stand that I've been searching for, or some really cool antique chocolate molds that I'll buy in anticipation of using, but which will eventually get rusty sitting on the shelf, and I'll eventually sell myself at a future vide grenier.

Curiously if you decide you don't want something, each and every time you put it back down, the vendor will respond 100% of the time with, "C'est pas cher!", or "It's not expensive!" For some reason, it's difficult for them to fathom the connection between the fact you're not buying it with the fact that, yes, it is indeed trop cher.

Whenever I vacation in Brittany, I always end up eating way too many buckwheat galettes and crêpes, drinking too many bowls of cider, and eating way, way too many of those buttery Breton pastries (which I plan a round-up of in the near future.) Luckily there was only one sunny day that I had to don the 'ol Speed-o (thank God...) for a dip in the Atlantic, but I did find a diet book to help me shed those unwanted kilos.

Aside from all the plastic children's toys (a hazard of any vide grenier or tag sale), the most appealing things I found were these cartes scolaires, with depictions of of everyday scenarios in French life...

Here you can see the salt marshes where fleur de sel is harvested from the nearby Guérande...

.

You can find a comprehesive list of all brocantes across France in the monthly magazine Aladin, available at well-stocked newstands across France. The best way to find out when vide greniersand braderies are is to ask the locals or check for signs, which tend to get plastered everywhere about a week before.
And If you see a Knoll coffee table, or say, a Barry Manilow record, would you mind leaving them for me?

Especially if they're "pas trop cher".

There's lots of good food in Paris, but sometimes you have to travel to the outer neighborhoods to find the gems. And while the 14th arrondissement isn't all that far, it's worth the trek for the excellent meal at Le Severo with some other friends at a little petit coin of a restaurant, a schlep from wherever you are in Paris. There's only 10 or so simple tables and a lone cook in the open kitchen who presides over the dining room. An old zinc bar acts as a catch-all for bottles of water, wine carafes, and a big container of fleur de sel...which was a good omen.

One entire wall of Le Severo is a chalk-written wine list and menu. Notice I said 'wine list' first. That's because three-and-a half lengthy columns are up there, listing all sorts of wine, heavy on the reds. Somewhere in the midst of it all lurks a terse menu, and it's almost all about beef: steaks, Côte de Boeuf, Lyonnais Sausages, and Foie de Veau. First courses range from a salade Caprese, (a dish you shouldn't order outside of Italy) and a salad with goat cheese. But the real star here is le meat, so we started with a platter of glistening slices of cured jambon artisanal, which isn't really beef but I'm too revved up to go back and change that, and it came with a too-huge slab of yellow, ultra-buttery butter (which is the only way I could describe it...it was really, really buttery...I don't want to change that either) which we slathered on the bread, from the organic bakery, Moisan, then draped our slices with the ham. We then gobbled 'em down.
Delicious.

The other starter was a Terrine de pot au feu. Pot au feu is the French equivalent of a boiled-beef supper, complete with vegetables and broth. When done right, it's excellent, and at Le Severo, my hunch paid off. The terrine featured cubed, boiled beef parts, tender and neatly diced, loosely held in place with a light, jellied beef broth.

Since it's rather warm and humid here in Paris right now, I chose a bottle of Fleurie, which was an overwhelming task considering the size and scope of the wine list. But the prices were gentle enough to encourage experimentation and the list is full of curious wines, so I think whatever you chose would be the right choice. The Fleurie was light, upbeat, and fruity...yet sturdy enough to stand up to a slab of beef.

Anyhow, our steaks arrived flawlessly cooked.
The French love their beef bleu, practically raw. But I like mine rare to medium-rare, or saignant. The chef-jacketed owner William Bernet, who is the singular server, assured me I'd be happy with saignant, and when he brought my faux filet, the rosy, juicy slices were indeed cooked just to the lower edge of my desired point of tenderness. To the side, my steak was accompanied by very, very good house-made French Fries.

My only fault was that the fries could have spent an extra 48 seconds in the deep-fryer to get that deep-golden crust that everyone loves but cooks seem to have trouble attaining around here, a fault I find in too many restos in France. Does anyone really like undercooked French fries? But I didn't need to reach for that container of fleur de sel at all during dinner; everything was salted just-right. That to me, is the sign of a great cook, and a great restaurant. If you can't salt food properly, you should find another line of work.

I was able to talk my companions, who just moved here from Rome and were delighted to chow down on good, honest French cooking, into splitting a cushiony-round disk of St. Marcellin cheese, which was roll-you-eyes-back-in-your-head amazing. I had a simple Creme Caramel, which arrived properly ice-cold and floating in a slick of dreamy burnt sugar sauce.

And because they were eating cheese, I didn't have to share one bite of it (Ha! My strategy worked.) My friends then had a Mousse au Chocolat, which they liked, but they were not as conniving as me and shared a bit, but I felt it could've used a wallop of more chocolate flavor, but that's how I am about chocolate desserts. The espresso served after dinner was quite good, and living in France, I've gained a new appreciation for Illy café, which is all but impossible to ruin.

First courses at Le Severo are in the 10€ range, while main courses were priced 15 to 25€. The hefty Côte de Boeuf, which they'll prepare for 2 or 3 people, is 30€ per person and I'm going to have it on my next visit.

On the métro home after dinner, it suddenly dawned on my that my dining companions were macrobiotic. So if macrobiotic people can enjoy a beef restaurant like Le Severo, you can imagine how happy it makes us carnivores.

Le Severo
8, rue des Plantes
M: Mouton Duvernet
Tél: 01 45 40 40 91

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

There's been a lot of discussion about what is the best salt in the world. There's lots of opinions, tastings, and scientific studies floating around.

But I'm here to tell you, my absolute favorite salt is Fleur de sel de Guérande. I think there's no finer salt available anywhere.

When I was invited to visit the salt marshes and learn to rake the highly-prized, precious crystals of fleur de sel, I decided that the Guérande, in Brittany, would make the perfect place to begin my August vacation. Brittany is a rugged part of France that faces the Atlantic and is unspoiled by tourists. The coastline is gorgeous: large rock formations are piled everywhere, giving one many opportunities to ascend the boulders and enjoy the magnificent views in all directions. The ocean was a bit too cold for me to swim in, but Bretons have no trouble diving right in.

(Trust me, it's freezing cold, which meant no swimming at the beach for me...especially the naturist beaches!)

But there's also lots of buckwheat crêpes and sparkling apple cider to keep your spirits up as well, just in case you get stuck in one of the rainstorms, as I often did. And although the Guérande lies in the south of the region, and in spite of Breton flags everywhere, I was curiously told by the locals that the Guérande was actually part of the Loire-Atlantique, not Brittany.
Like the numbered roadway signs that lead to nowhere (locals told us not to follow the signs since they're wrong), and in spite of the magnificent Michelin maps, driving in France provides its fair-share of frustrations.

Still, we managed to make it, and by the time we arrived I was ready to throttle someone. Yet looking out over the marshes did indeed have a calming effect—perhaps they can build a salt marsh in Paris, visible from my apartment?

These are the salt marshes of the Guérande, les œillets.
They're so prominent, that they're visible on the Michelin maps of France, although when I got home and tried to look on Google maps, viewing the region was prohibited. Perhaps there's a military installation nearby, since it's on the coast. The exceptional salt from the Guérande is justifiably famous since it tastes like no other salt in the world. Although the words 'fleur de sel' have been bantered around and used as marketing tools for many salts being promoted (nowadays you find salts labeled as such from Portugal, Italy, and elsewhere) nowhere else on earth does the salt have the same fine flavor and delicate crystals of Fleur de Sel de Guérande.

Paris is always full of little surprises, like any major city. It's always fun to poke around and find something new and unusual. And there's plenty of the unusual in a big city like Paris, as I often report. I think of Paris as a big village, full of colorful characters with lots of stories to tell and unusual offerings. And getting the know the people in your neighborhood, especially the vendors selling fine foods and drink, can be especially rewarding since often if you stay for a while and talk to them, there's always something fascinating to learn.

...and, of course, taste!

I've been meaning to take you to visit one on my favorite shops in Paris for quite a while: Vert d'Absinthe. This little shop is located in the Marais, but a bit removed from the busy tourist streets, just off the Place St. Catherine. Owner Luc-Santiago Rodriguez tells me his shop was the first boutique anywhere dedicated just for the purpose of selling absinthe, that wickedly suspicious elixir that's recently been getting a lot of attention lately.

Although the drink was originally produced as a cure-all medical tonic in 1792, Absinthe became a rather popular drink amongst Parisians in the late 1800's, mainly with hedonists living in Montmarte who would sip it in cafés and clubs, like Le Moulin Rouge, before it was ultimately banned by the French government in 1915.

Although experts are as unclear as a cloudy glass of absinthe on exactly why it was banned, the most colorful theory was that people went mad drinking absinthe due to the rotten wormwood used to make the drink. It was dubbed le fé'e verte or 'the green fairy', since it was said to inspire hallucinations as well.

(Absinthe was banned in the US in 1912, and so far, it's still technically illegal to import into the US.)

But nowadays, most people, including Luc-Santiago, agree that the powerful French wine industry at the time was upset that people, especially the artsy bohemians who lived in the north of Paris, were drinking cheap, hi-test absinthe (at 70% alcohol) instead of pricey wine (around 12% alcohol), in an attempt to get a better buzz for their buck. Since the French wine industry had suffered a severe set-back from the phylloxera infestation which killed most of the grapevines in France, the price of wine had gone up enormously. So it's thought that the wine industry pressured the French government to put the kabosh on absinthe production.
And that was that.

In 1988 absinthe made a comeback and the French government once again made it legal to sell and drink the anise-scented exilir, absinthe attaining a bit of a cult status in the process. With all the ceremony of pouring something previously forbidden in a fancy glass, pouring water over a sugar cube to make it cloudy (called louching), then slowly sipping it while staring into space in a deserted café...how could anyone not be entranced by the romance of absinthe?

If you come to France and want to try or purchase absinthe, be aware that not all drinks that look and sound like absinthe are indeed absinthe. You'll come across 'absente' (missing the 'h'), which has a bleary picture of Van Gogh on the packaging (it was said he went mad drinking absinthe and cut off his ear because of it, which to me is a rather iffy marketing move), but these impostors use a wormwood that's different than the variety of wormwood (artemisia absinthium) used in true absinthe.

The wormwood used to make true absinthe contains thujone, the most important compound in real absinthe.

Anyone interested in absinthe should make the trip to visit Luc-Santiago's little shop Vert d'Absinthe, where 25 different kinds of absinthe are stocked. All are French except for one, which is made in Switzerland, and most of the French absinthe varieties are made near the Swiss border. Monsieur Rodriguez stocks all the proper paraphernalia for properly preparing and drinking a glass of absinthe, from vintage to contemporary; spoons, glasses, fontaines, and, of course, the bottles themselves.

And perhaps you'll get a demonstration and a taste-test. Although drinking absinthe French-style means louching the drink by pouring water over a sugar cube through the special spoon before it clouds up the absinthe, the more flamboyant Czech-style method involves lighting the cube of sugar dramatically on fire, which I've yet to see him do.

Vert d'Absinthe
11 rue d'Ormesson
Paris
Tél: 01 42 71 69 73
Open daily, from 11am to 8pm (closed Monday)

(Although absinthe is technically illegal in the United States, a source for online ordering is eAbsinthe, who ships internationally.)

Heather at Secrets of Paris notes a few unusual places for les amis of absinthe in, or near, Paris:

"The Hotel Royal Fromentin (11 rue Fromentin, Paris, tel. 01 42 81 02 33) serves absinthe at their historic bar, a former cabaret at the foot of Montmartre. Visit in the evening for a presentation by the staff of the history of Absinthe.

The Musée de l'Absinthe (44 rue Alphonse Calle, 95430 Auvers-sur-Oise, tel. 01 30 36 83 26, about fifteen minutes outside Paris) is open on the weekends and holidays and sports all sorts of memorabilia and paraphernalia from absinthe's heyday. Take the train from the Gare du Nord."

For more information about absinthe on the web, here are some interesting articles and sites to read and learn more:

Matt Bites: Here's Your Bottle

Absinthe Online: Liquors de France

Chubby Hubby: The Green Fairy

Accidental Hedonist: Of Poets, Absinthe and Coffee

In Absinthia

The Wormwood Society

La Fée Verte

Absinthe: The Myth and The Reality

Cantada: One of the few bars in Paris to serve a wide selection of absinthes.

Coming Soon: A dessert with absinthe?...

I am a bad food blogger.
I mean, who would post a picture like this?

The most successful and popular food blogs start with a clever idea or beautiful image, and generally follow it with a witty or an emotionally-involving story behind it all.

Instead I'm posting this picture of the room where was to spend the entire weekend locked inside, which was to be my private retreat. Think Edvard Munch and The Scream, and I think you get the idea of my internal torment.

Last week I had left Paris to work on my next book, since it's impossible to get anything done around here with all the caramels, chocolates, and glasses of red wine interrupting all the time. So off I went to the countryside for the weekend, armed with my laptop, some paperwork, too-little chocolate (which I later discovered, in a panic) and a good book.

So I arrive, start unpacking, and Merde!, I forgot my powercord! No electricity, except for the few hours on my battery, which luckily was new enough to get my through the first day. Since I'm two hours from anywhere civilized, and the hope of finding an Apple retailer is undeniably nil (although there is a nice egg farm & retailer next door) I was stuck doing nothing but reading and baking all weekend. So when you buy my next book, and find the last third of it blank, you'll know why.

But all was not lost, since the house was surrounded by red currant bushes and the branches were loaded with tiny red berries, I spent a good portion of the weekend picking the little red orbs, relieving the branches of the tiny clusters of gorgeous little fruits.

And as I greedily filling my mouth with the puckery berries, I was overcome with a feeling of having to bake something. So all was not lost, and bake something I did!

For dessert the first night, I made a terrific Rhubarb and Red Currant Crisp with Polenta Topping. I sliced rhubarb into little pieces (about 8 cups), tossed it with some sugar (about 1/2 cup), some flour (about 3 tablespoons), a vanilla bean, and a few big handfuls of freshly-picked red currants, and voila, we had dessert practically right from the garden. Except for the sugar and vanilla and flour, although the house was surrounded by wheat fields, which was too green to pick and mill into flour. And besides, I'm not thatcrazy. Although I did go picked some wheat and cracked it open, but it was too fresh and I'll sadly have to wait a few more weeks.

Aside from red currants, there were black currants (cassis) too, but they weren't quite ripe. But the white currants were sweet and lovely but too precious to cook with, so I enjoyed them right off the branches. And next time you, or anyone around you, complains about the price of a basket of berries, go outside and pick a few hundred red currants and tell me what you think each basket is worth.
There's a few running debates about the price of locally-produced, hand-picked berries, but you're welcome to post comments here. And if you feel like picking any red and black currants, we're heading back in a few weeks and could use a few extra hands.
(Warning: The pay stinks, but the rewards are delicious.)

Oddly enough, last year I saw a few baskets of white currants in my local convenience store. (You know, the kind of place where you can buy milk or butter or wine on dimanche if you urgently run out.) In their tiny, miserable produce section, just next to the shriveled carrots and brown, wilted lettuce (who buys that?), there were three baskets of plump white currants, so I made a mental note that if it's ever a Sunday and I need some white currants in an emergency, I'd know exactly where I could get some. But finding a powercord in an emergency?...c'est pas possible.

No, the grapes weren't quite ripe for picking yet...

But the egg farm nearby had lots of fresh eggs, so I made a Tortilla Española with bacon, and pomme de ratte potatoes, which everyone tries to tell me are called 'fingerling' potatoes in America, but I don't think they're the same thing, since I've never tasted any potatoes in the states that were as good as these. But if anyone out there can define what exactly is a fingerling potato, please let me know. Is it just any tiny potato?

So since this is summer, I'm becoming obsessed with making a lot of fruit crisps (instead of earning a living). One of my favorite ways to top them, and to ensure they live up to their crispy moniker, is to make a topping with polenta, coarsely-ground cornmeal. It can be difficult to find in Paris, and although instant-polenta is available, I bought it once...and that was one time too many. (C'mon folks, we're friggin' right next door to Italy!) But I was happy a few years back to find a good source for coarse polenta at the Arab markets that I like to prowl through, which they stock in abundance.

Fruit crisps are perhaps the best and easiest of desserts to make during the summer, when all the great fruits and berries are at their peak. They're incredibly easy to put together if you're anything like me and keep a bag of Polenta Crisp Topping in the freezer, so you can make one at a moment's notice. In general, I find that 2 to 4 tablespoons of sugar, and 1 tablespoon of flour, plus a dash of vanilla is just about right for almost any mix of fruits and berries. Mix it all together and put it in a 2-quart baking dish. Cover with crisp topping and bake in a moderate oven until the fruit is bubbling and the top is crispy and nicely-browned.

If using plums or apricots, double the amount of sugar, since they get rather tangy once baked. Although I used rhubarb and red currants in mine, you can use any mixture of peaches, nectarines, apricots, cherries, and plums. Add a few raspberries or blackberries as well. Although I wouldn't necessarily use white currants, you're certainly welcome to. But if it's Sunday and you're fresh out, go check at your corner store to see if they have any in stock.
There's something nice about living in a country where it's impossible to find a powercord in an emergency, but white currants are available whenever you need them. Talk about priorities!

(More pictures from the country are on my Flickr page.)

Polenta Crisp Topping

Enough for about 8 cups of fruit filling

3/4 cup (105 g) flour
2/3 cup (90 g) polenta
1/2 cup (55 g) almonds or walnuts, lightly toasted
1/2 cup (110 g) firmly packed light brown or cassonade sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
8 tablespoons (115 g) salted butter (chilled), cut into 1/2-inch pieces

Put the flour, polenta, almonds or walnuts, brown sugar, and cinnamon in the bowl of a food processor. Pulse a couple of times to mix everything together.

Add the chilled butter pieces and pulse until the butter is finely broken up. Continue to pulse until the crispy topping no longer looks sandy is just beginning to hold together.

If you don't have a food processor, chop the nuts finely with a chef's knife then work the butter in with your hands or use a pastry blender.

Storage: Topping can be made in advance and stored in the refrigerator for up to 5 days. Can also be frozen in a zip-top bag for up to one month.

Recipe Adapted From: Ripe For Dessert.

"Can I bring it back?"

Answering many of the questions visitors have about what's allowable to be brought back into the United States (legally), here's an excellent article from Janet Fletcher in the San Francisco Chronicle with the facts that tell you what foods can, and can't, be brought back home from your trip abroad.

For more tips and news, Think Twice Before Stuffing Your Suitcase, which offers additional information.

Good reading before your next trip!

Here are some of my favorite places to eat in Paris. This is not an exhaustive list, and I've mentioned many of my other top picks here on the site, so you can use the search engine to find them. And there's others on My Paris page here as well.

Several of these are also not fancy places. Sure, many people come to Paris for fine-dining, and you can find many of those addresses floating around guidebooks and online. But sometimes you just want a big plate of vegetable salads instead of half a carrot garnished by a shredded basil leaf with a dot of saffron sauce. I've included a few stand-by, reliably decent restaurants in case you happen to be in Paris on a Sunday, when many places are closed.

If you have some favorite places that you'd like to share, I'd love to hear about them since I'm always looking for new places to try and I'm sure others would too.
Feel free to leave your dining suggestions in the Comment area.

Before you start, here's a few tips when dining in Paris:

• It's always a good idea to reserve a table. Even if you arrive and the place is virtually empty, they like to know you're coming and you'll get a warmer welcome. Unlike the US, often you can call most restaurants that afternoon and get in easily. Hot restaurants, or ones that are fancier, you should call about a week in advance, or longer. Don't bother using email links on most restaurant's websites here since you're unlikely to get a response.

• Don't be embarrased to order wine or water by the carafe. You probably think you'll feel like a cheapskate...but get over it. If you look around, most of the Parisians are doing the same thing. And yes, the water is safe to drink in Paris. Why do people keep asking that?

• Adding a tip is not required, but in spite of what you hear, most people leave a little extra for good service. If the check is 28€, you could leave 30€ if you were pleased. Or if your meal is 95€, you could leave 100€. But remember that it's not required and if they don't bring you back your change, request it. I've had a few places pull that one (in Paris and in the US.) It's rude and presumptuous.

• LIke anywhere in France, always say Bonjour or Bonsoir when entering a restaurant, and when you leave, say Merci. Preferably add a Monseiur or Madame along with it.

• Many restaurants have 'deals' at lunch, or fix-price menus that are often a bargain. Some have them at dinner as well, and they're generally a good value.

• Please, do not bring out your hand sanitizer at the table. Do your grooming in the bathroom.

• No one has doggie bags, so don't even ask. (Although a friend of mine showed some cleavage and got one. Once.)

• No one has ice, so don't even ask. (Ok, well, you might get one or two. Wear something low-cut if you plan to ask.)

Rôtisserie Beaujolais 19 quai des Tournelles, tel 01 43 54 17 47. Grilled and spit roasted meats, and typical French fare. In the 5th. Avoid seats just next to the opening to the oven...it's très hot and they like to stick out-of-towners there, who they think won't complain. But I do since they invariably lead me to it. Open Sunday night.

Chez René 14, blvd St. Germain. Tel 01 43 54 30 23. Great French classics. The best Coq au Vin in town, with a sauce as smooth as velvet. If you don't order the fix-priced menu, be prepared for a lot of food. It's quite an experience and the cheese plate(s) is/are insane. Dinner menu, approximately 40€. In the 5th. You didn't hear it from me, but there's a clear brandy digestive hidden behind the bar...with a snake in it! I haven't been since there was a recent change of ownership, but I hear the food is still very good.

Cuisine de Bar 8, rue Cherche-Midi (M: Sevres-Babylon), tel 01 45 48 45 69, in the 6th. Open-faced tartines, or sandwiches, served on pain Poilâne, the famed bakery next door. Order the 12€ formule with a salad, tartine (I like the one with sardines and flakes of sea salt, or poulet with anchovies), a glass of wine or bottle of water, café and a spiced cookie. Very casual yet chic. And friendly. No reservations...lunch only. If the wait it long, they'll often pour you a welcome glass of wine.

L'As du Falafel On 34, rue des Rosiers in the Marais (M: St. Paul), closed Friday night and Saturday for the Jewish holidays. The best falafel anywhere! Join the crowd clamoring at the window. A dive & definitely a must...decent frites as well. One dining room is non-smoking. No reservations.

For something vegetable-oriented, Chez Marianne in the Marais at 2, rue des Hospitalieres St. Gervais, tel 01 42 72 18 86. Come here for decent Mediterranean salads. You choose a combination plate of 4, 5, or 6 salads. This is a good address to know about if you're craving something without a lot of meat. Perfect with a bottle of house rosé. Approximately 20€. Reserve, or wait for eternity. Open every day and night, but be aware of the often abrupt servers.

Chez Omar is one of my favorite restaurants in town. Specialties are couscous and they have excellent steak and French fries as well, but I always have the roasted lamb, or méchoui d'agneau. Very lively, no reservations. Open daily for lunch and dinner, as well as Sundays. If you go for dinner, be prepared for a wait after 8:30pm. Don't let any Parisians cut in front of you! A simple shove with your shoulder, followed by a very apologetic "Oops! Pardon" is usually all it take to get them to recede. Do it firm enough and you'll only need to do it once. Trust me. Moderate prices, which do seem to keep climbing each time I go. In the 3rd, at 47 rue de Bretagne. (M: Temple or Arts and Metiers)

Another couscous place that's less-hectic is L'Atlas, with fine Moroccan food. Feathery light couscous and savory tagines. Skip the first courses. Not fancy nor too pricey considering the fine food and gracious service. Dine in the lovely tiled dining room, or outside in fine weather. Located at 12, St. Germaine des Pres. Vegetarians will appreciate the large selection of seafood tagines. Tel 01 44 07 23 66 (M: Maubert-Mutualité), in the 5th.

Bistrot Paul Bert 18, rue Paul Bert, tel 01 43 72 24 01 (M: Faidherbe-Chaligny) Out of the way, but definitely worth going to. I love this restaurant. Some of the best desserts in Paris too. Offers a 3-course fixed menu for 32€. In the 12th.

Les Papilles 30 rue Gay-Lussac, tel 01 43 25 20 79. Wine bar and light, 'market-fresh' food. Menu approximately 30€. In the 5th. Nice portions, and cheerful staff.

UPDATE: Please note that this post was written in 2006 and not updated regularly. You can follow along at my Paris Restaurant Archives for more suggestions, as well on the My Paris page.

Of all the regions in France, one of the most peculiar is Brittany. The cuisine is hearty, earthy, and dynamic...like the terrain...

The coastline is a virtual lunar landscape of jutting rock formations, with pristine beaches tucked in between. Consequently, Upper Brittany is somewhat remote and not a popular tourist destination. Most of my days began at a almost-deserted beach with a dip in a frigid, but clear water, and finished at a lively crêperie, picking through a mound of moules frites, aromatic mussels simmered with white wine and local shallots, served with a overly-generous pile of frites that I thought I'd never be able to finish (but of course, I always did...mustn't be rude!)

Ah, summer vacation in Brittany.
There's not much to do here except swim in the chilly water, and eat seafood, red onions (more about them in a later post), and...salted butter.

Oh, did I mention Breton butter before?
Unlike the rest of France, the Bretons don't eat much cheese...in fact, there's no cheese that I can think of is produced there and I didn't see one fromagerie in 10 days. But they make up for it by consuming lots of butter, which they're justifiably famous for.
When you compliment a local pastry shop or restaurant on their cuisine, they will invariably respond proudly, "C'est la buerre de Bretagne!"

There's also not as much wine wine consumed either, since the locals drink plenty of sparkling, lightly-alcoholic apple cider. A fizzy bottle is popped open before each meal and served in a traditional bolées, similar to a squat, wide coffee cup with a handle.

But back the butter; it'sthe best I've ever tasted.
Breton butter is notable since it's almost always flecked with large, coarse grains of salt that crunch when you bite into them. I spread some on my toast each morning before drizzling it with bitter chestnut honey. Much of the salt used is harvested on ponds and marshes in the Guérande, where the famed fleur de sel is harvested as well.
And unlike the rest of the country, Bretons often butter their bread, which is never done elsewhere in France except with oysters, which are customarily served with buttered rye bread, pain de seigle. (So next time you're in Paris and that waiter gives you a funny sneer when you ask for butter, tell him you're from Brittany.)

Naturally much of this butter makes it's way into buckwheat crêpes, or galettes de ble noir (when made with buckwheat flour, or ble noir, they're normally called galettes rather than crêpes,
In fact, you can buy crêpes at most of the local pastry shops, and if you're lucky, they're still warm.

One night I picked up a stack and for simple dessert, I heated a bottle of hard apple cider in a skillet, added a handful of dark, moist unrefined cassonade sugar, a modest knob of Breton salted butter and some delicious prunes from Gascony. Once the cider was sweet and syrupy, I added some folded crêpes, a pour of Calvados, and voila!

Perhaps the most famous dessert of the region is the Far Breton. Far is the Breton word for 'custard', and the Far Breton is remarkably similar to a custard tart sans the crust. Like everything, there are good versions, and not-so-good versions (like pretzels on the streets of Manhattan). You'll find Far Breton everywhere in Brittany; in supermarkets, outdoor markets, restaurants, and pastry shops. Like flan in Paris (which is a wedge of custard tart, and not the inverted caramel custard that many of us are used to,) a slab of Far Breton with prunes is often a mid-afternoons snack, or le goûter for hungry folks.

Although I find most of them rather dense and heavy, I knew that if I tried as many as possible like Goldilock's, I would certainaly find the version that was "just right". And sure enough, the best was from a pastry shop in Lesnevin called Labbé, a few steps off the main square.

Another extraordinary treat is the Kouign Amann, which is pronounced many different ways, depending on your accent. I learned to say it by rhyming Kouign with the word schwing!, from Wayne's World...which I've tried to explain with a sharp thrust of my hips to French people but it doesn't seem to translate very well, and people were looking at me funny, so I gave up.

A friend who visited Brittany once wrote me and said, "A stick of butter would seem light in comparison!.." when describing his first encounter withKouign Amann. And indeed, the word amann is the Breton word for butter.

I had to try one from several bakeries, since it's once of my favorite desserts: layers of flaky pastry baked with plenty of salted butter and sugar, until it's all dark, crisp, and caramelized. Sometimes they'll sell it by the slab at outdoor markets, and they slice off a hunk for you and sell it by the kilo.
I don't think I've ever met a Kouign Amann I didn't like.
What's not to like?

After I posted about Kouign Amann before, I decided that in a few weeks I would try to make one or two, and I'll post my results here when I get it just right.

But the best thing I ate all week was...

Ok, I know what you're thinking.
Here I was surrounded by fabulous buttery creations, but then I discovered strawberries from Plougastel.

Oh My God!
These were the best strawberries I've ever had. Although usually I judge fruit based on it's aroma before I buy (and these had little smell), these looked so ruby-red and glistening, that I just had to try them. Each one was sweet-sweet-sweet!
Each was juicy with flavor, like a soft piece of sugary-sweet strawberry candy and deep red all the way through. I've never had strawberries like that before, although I've seen them in the markets in Paris, they never looked so appealing as they did at that village fruit market in Brittany.

In summertime, I follow Parisians who're making a mass exodus from the city. We scurry from the city, jamming crowded autoroutes and packing the train stations. The city offers few trees or shade, and the sunlight reflecting off the white buildings means little respite from the withering heat no matter how hard you look-and there's only so much icy-cold rosé that I can drink!

So I often make weekend trips to the village of Coulommiers, where there's a lively outdoor market selling the most famous cheese in the world: Brie.
Brie is not a town, but a region to the east about one hour away by car or train. The sunday market in Coulommiers is one of my favorites because no where else in the world will you find so many cheese vendors selling all kinds of Brie, many unavailable anywhere else.

There are two true Brie cheeses. The classic is Brie de Meaux (Bree-du-Mohw), about 14-inches across, each disk weighing approximately 5 pounds. Brie de Melun (Brie-du-Meh-Lahn) is slightly smaller, a tad higher, and doesn't ripen all the way to make a creamy pâte, like Brie de Meaux. Often you'll cut open Brie de Melun and discover a drier layer of underripe cheese in the middle (at left). These cheeses have the most superb flavor in the late spring-to-early summer, when the cows feast on mustard blossoms, giving the cheese a musty, complex flavor and slight golden tinge.

Brie de Melun is aged longer than Brie de Meaux. It has a firmer texture and many aficionados prefer it because of it's stronger and more aggressive flavor. Both cheeses can be made with raw or pasteurized milk, although I prefer the raw versions, which are rarely available in the United States due to regulations in the US (where you're allowed to drive at high-speeds on freeways while talking on a cell phone and drinking a giant latté, but prohibited from eating cheese that has been prepared the same way for centuries.)

These two Brie cheeses are AOC (Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée) as of 1990, a product designation given by the French authorities, which states that these specific cheeses meet certain criterion for heating, coagulating, and salting the milk, the subsequent ripening, as well as being fabricated within the specific region. Most cheeses you'll find labeled Brie are not a true Brie unless the AOC label is affixed to the exterior. In the US, you'll only find it at a specialty cheese store...if you're lucky to find it at all. In France, a notable exception is Brie de Nangis, which is a young, milder Brie from the region but does not carry the AOC label, but it's good. The AOC designation has also been given to 34 cheeses as well as other products like the tasty green lentils from Puy, Haricot Tarbais (the dried beans used to make cassoulet), and the free-range Poulet de Bresse.

Although AOC is often a sign of quality, other products don't carry the appellation, since they may be made in a neighboring region, or a slightly larger size, or stirred a few more times than the regulations allow during production. So as with anything, let your nose and the taste be your guide. No matter where you live, always seek out a good cheese shop and ask the fromager for advice: they're a wealth of knowledge and should be proud of their cheeses and happy to help you.

Coulommiers is another excellent cheese from the region, and not AOC. It's a smaller round, about 6-inches in diameter, and not widely known outside of France. Coulommiers has the same barnyard-like smell that is delectably appetizing in Camembert and indicative of a truly ripe Brie, but is a bit more pungent.

Locals in Brie are perhaps the only ones who have developed an appreciation for Brie Noir. Normally Brie cheeses are ripened for between one and two months. Brie Noir is ripened much longer, often 8 to 10 months. It's such a regional specialty, and only appreciated by people of the region, that you're likely never to see it anywhere else.

As you can see, Brie Noir is dark, brown, and crumbly. It's covered with dusty powder and it tastes, well...horrid. After my first eaglerly-anticipated bite, I could not get the vile taste out of my mouth. It's bitter and acidic. A friend from Coulommiers suggested I dip it into my café au lait at breakfast, which I suspiciously tried, which actually moderated the flavor and made it more palatable. Who knew?

Brie Q & A's

But my supermarket cheese says Brie...isn't that Brie?

Real Brie is almost always Brie de Melun or Brie de Meaux. Most of the other cheeses labeled 'Brie' are not true Brie. They often won't ripen properly and taste worlds apart from real Brie.

Should you eat the rind?

The general rule for eating the rind of any cheese is that you may eat it as long as it won't interfere with the taste or experience of the cheese. For example, something with a lot of mold growth obviously wouldn't taste very good. A tough rind, like the rind of Parmesan, you wouldn't want to eat either.

How do I cut Brie?

Think of any round wheel of cheese like a pie or cake. You should slice a triangular wedge out, so that you have a nice portion of cheese.
When presented with a full cheese plate to serve yourself, never cut the 'nose' off the cheese, the pointy end: It's very bad manners!

Can I bring back raw milk cheese into the US?

That depends. Most of the time, I've found Customs Officers (oops...I mean 'Department of Homeland Security') officers will look the other way as long as you're bringing in cheese that's for personal consumption. Obviously if you have 60 wheels of Brie, you will likely get busted. Many fromageries in France will Cryo-vac (sous vide) cheese for transport to contain the fragrance, which I recommend. I once traveled with cheese in zip-top bags and by the end of the flight, the overhead bin totally reeked of cheese.
Luckily the other passengers were French...and for some reason, the US officials quickly waved me through customs.

If you plan on eating at Le Verre Volé (The Stolen Glass) be sure to call first and reserve a spot. It's located just next to the Canal St. Martin, a trendy quarter of Paris, and there's only seats for about 18 people or so. But unlike New York or San Francisco or Los Angeles, you could call that afternoon and likely get a spot. During dinner I told my dining companion that if this was in New York, there would be a line out the door...and around the corner.

I began the complex task of choosing from one of the wines from the shelves. Each has the price written across the neck of the bottle since Le Verre Volé doubles as a retail establishment. To drink it there, they add a modest 7€. I scanned the shelves and chose a red Mazel from the Ardeches (18€) that was very light and fruity. A bit 'fresh' when first opened—once it sat, it gained complexity. I was happy that it was the perfect choice for the warm evening and hearty food. During the evening, practically every three minutes, someone would roar up on their scooter, disembark, and rush in to buy a bottle of wine for dinner.

We shared a jellied terrine of oxtails (5€). The finely shredded meat was gently molded with some spring asparagus and peas, all barely held together with jellied beef stock that was light. It was served with pickled, vinegary capers on their stems and dressed salad greens.

All the main courses were meaty: blood sausage with roasted apples and potatoes, andouillettes de Troyes, and veal Marengo. Not being much of a fan of 'variety meats' (as they're politely called in America), I chose the caillettes ardechoise (10€), a patty of well-seasoned pork ground-up with tasty and still-chewy beet greens and spinach. It was roasted until searingly-crisp on the outside, and when I split it open, a moist cloud of steam erupted revealing fork-tender meat within.

One could also make up a meal composed of lots of the appetizers, like the roasted eggplant caviar, salt cod-stuffed peppers, or platters of various meats and cheeses.

The genial young men who run the place managed to keep the small crowd happy. One took orders and opened wine, while the other stood behind the tiny bar and dished up salads and roasted meats and sausages in the small ovens. Behind the bar is a glass door leading to an air-conditioned room, a jumble of boxes and bottles of wine.

I'll see you there.

Le Verre Volé
67, rue de Lancry
tel: 01 48 03 17 34
Métro: Jacques Bonsergent

A favorite quick-bite on the streets of Paris, at L'As du Fallafel.

L'As du Fallafel is one of the few places where Parisians chow down on the street. Beginning with a fork, dig into warm pita bread stuffed with marinated crunchy cabbage, silky eggplant, sesame hoummous, and boules of chick-pea paste, crisp-fried falafel. Spice it up with a dab of searingly-hot sauce piquante.

L'As du Fallafel: 34, rue de Rosiers, in the Marais. Open every day, except closed friday beginning at sundown, reopening for lunch sunday.