I don’t mind spending part of my winter this year in New York. Even though it was one of the coldest winters in history, and on the first day of spring, we had a snowstorm, the beautiful snow blanketed everything in a thick white layer, which reflects the light and kept my mood cheery and optimistic. It rarely snows in Paris and la grisaille (the gray skies, sans la neige — or without snow), can augment the sullen mood around town. And the only people who you’ll see braving the cold are the hardy smokers, God love ‘em, clustered in the doorways of buildings and businesses, trying to get as many puffs in as possible before they can’t take it anymore and head back inside to the cozy warmth, with the rest of us.
Results tagged lime juice from David Lebovitz
A few years ago, I had a major emergency. To you it might not seem like one, but it was springtime and I was finishing a book and needed to retest the recipe for Persimmon Cake because I wanted to give it one last go before it went to the printer. Persimmons are fall fruits and it’s impossible to find them outside of their season. And as much as I searched and searched and searched, there were none to be found.
So I started keeping an emergency bag of persimmon puree in my freezer at all times. I don’t know why, because I haven’t had a persimmon emergency since them (but heck, ya never know!) But when I pulled open my freezer lately and saw that it had become a frightening mélange of plastic bags whose labels had fallen off, ice cubes that had landed in the back of the shelves (with some misc. crumbs) – and – of course – just out of arms reach, scraps of things like tomato paste and bacon cubes, bits and pieces of cakes (I think) and pâté (I think), and bread ends, (probably) I decided to put an end to the madness once and for all, and do a massive clean-out.
I know tequila fans like to have their say about what tequila is best for margaritas. But as I’ve learned with just about everything, the buck stops here. Ok, just kidding. (Actually, I’m happy to let it stop somewhere else.) But I was having drinks made by a well-known bartender a while back and a few people pointed out online that I wasn’t drinking a margarita, which was a surprise to me because that’s what the bartender told me it was. And one thing I’ve learned is never to argue with someone serving you drinks. Or food, for that matter. So I decided to let the buck stop with him – and if anyone wants to argue with a Parisian barman (or anyone in Paris, for that matter), you have bigger couilles than I.
(And if you fit that bill, please be in touch because I have a couple of other things that I could use some help with around here.)
I recently went to a tequila tasting of a top-quality tequilas made by a Frenchman who told me of his uphill battle in France was convincing people that tequila could be a liquor worthy of serious consideration. Helping to overcome that image, I went to a tequila tasting at the Mexican Cultural Institute in Paris where there were many varieties of tequilas to taste and compare. Unfortunately the downside of a tequila tasting is that you don’t remember what you had, especially when the tasting is followed by an open bar. (Which might lead some to conclude that some of us aren’t doing much to help the image of tequila.) But all the drinks were excellent – whatever you call them – and I’m more and more inclined to drink a little more tequila these days, namely in margaritas.
Okay, show of hands – who likes guacamole more than I do? Okay… Now that that’s settled, who was more thrilled that I was to score a batch of freshly fried tortilla chips and a big bag of just-about ripe Haas avocados this week?
I’m not asking any more questions, I promise. Because the answers were right here in my kitchen. Although what some people might not know if that the French like guacamole (and chips) as much as I do. So much so that a local Mexican restaurant named after the famed dip had to add an accent on the final é so people would pronounce the entire word (the last part of French words usually aren’t pronounced), rather than say guac-a-mole, which sounds more like a Mexican carnival game than the most delicious thing you can dip a chip into.
One of the great things about France is that people spend a lot of time talking to each other. True, it’s not so great when you’re behind someone in line and they’re carrying on a conversation with the sales clerk at the bakery as if they have all the time on the planet, when you’re hopping up and down behind them (and there are people doing the same thing behind you) because you just want to get your baguette for dinner. But if you take the time, it’s nice the enjoy the jovial nature of the French and slow down for a bit. As someone who is normally hyperactive, it’s a lesson in patience that I’ve had to learn, which I practice on a daily basis.
Many visitors forget that and don’t always have great experiences because they’re in a hurry to do so much on their trip, or try to tick off the restaurants written up in the travel section of newspapers or magazines from back home. I always tell people to take a day off, and stroll a market or just sit in cafés for a while. Or find a restaurant off-the-beaten path for dinner, taking the métro into one of the outer neighborhoods.