P.S. - That paper peeking out from under the coffe table - that's the actual cover of Lunch in Paris: A Love Story with Recipes - Little Brown sent it last week. The book comes out on Feb 1st, so this is getting real. Soon I'm going to start putting annoying little links at the end of each post reminding you to pre-order. No reason for faithful blog followers to pay full price...
You know it’s Christmas in Paris when the refrigerator looks like this: the fruit drawer is full of cheese, the cheese drawer is full of foie gras, the four bottles of water on the door have been replaced with champagne and the lettuce (wrapped loosely in a dishtowel) is wedged in over two broad, beady-eyed live crabs (nicknamed Gerard and Gaston). G. forgot they were in there. When he opened the door they started rustling - he thought it was a poltergeist.
Since G.’s family is from Brittany, on the Channel coast, Christmas dinner chez nous is usually fish, and fruits de mer (shellfish). My mother-in-law is very particular about her oysters. Only those from the seaside town of Cancale will do. They are hard to find in Paris, so ixnay on the oysters. The still-squirming langoustines were 79 Euros a kilo, which seemed excessive, even for Christmas. That’s how I ended up with Gerard and Gaston. I will boil them alive tomorrow, and let them hang out on the windowsill until fully cooled. My neighbors across the way hang socks. I hang crab.
Pot au Feu
3 large beef cheeks (about 4 pounds of meat) – you can use a mix of meats – traditionally different cuts of beef – sometimes I add a large veal shank (it’s nice to have something with a bone)
Sea salt
1 onion
5 cloves
20 whole peppercorns (black or mixed)
A small bundle of fresh thyme
A bundle of parsley (on the stem)
2 bay leaves
8 carrots (what my mom calls “dirty carrots” – they’ve been harvested and buried in sand – so they are mature and extra sweet)
8 golden turnips
1 large bulb fennel
12 small potatoes, peeled
3 leeks, trimmed and cut into 4-5 inch lengths
To garnish: mini cornichon pickles, chopped flat leaf parsley, dijon mustard, coarse sea salt
Place the meat in your largest stockpot and cover with cold water, add some salt, the onion pricked with the 5 cloves, and the rest of the spices. Bring to a boil, skim the foamy fat, and simmer, covered, for 3-4 hours. Beef cheeks have a lot of gelatin that needs to dissolve – so as long as you cook them at a slow simmer, there’s not much risk of drying out.
Add the veggies, and cook until tender but not falling apart. If you don’t have a seriously large pot, you’ll have to do this in stages, for example – add the turnips, fennel and carrots, wait until they are cooked through, then fish them out. Add the potatoes and cook through. The leeks take the least amount of time. If you do the vegetables in stages, you can add everything back to the pot to heat up just before serving. You might want to season the bouillon with more salt as you go along – up to you.
Serve the meat and veggies on a platter. Pass the pickles, parsley, mustard and additional coarse sea salt. Serve the steaming bouillon in bowls on the side.
Serves 6-8
I can cook myself out of a funk. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. Last week I was thanking the world for all its riches, this week I’m having trouble dragging myself out of bed and I can’t seem to dig a path toward the surface of my desk.Part of this, I think, has to do with child care – we have not yet availed ourselves of the many fabulous options for French day care – not even sure what we could get into at this point. Not sure why the new parent exhaustion has decided to hit me now – but here it is, and it feels like a sledgehammer.
I was on the phone with my mother last night trying to put together documents for Augustin’s American citizenship appointment next week. They need proof that I actually lived on US soil for 5 years. I have my college transcript of course, and Paul found some electric bills and old pay stubs from my job at the American Craft Museum. But my childhood, it seems, has been all but erased. Mom called back later, just for fun, to tell me she’d been to the vault and found my 1st grade report card from Ms. Lydia Becker, saying, in so many words: “Elizabeth is very creative, but doesn’t quite have her shit together.” What else is new? I’m working on it.
The apartment, it has to be said, is a disaster at the moment – if we were trying to adopt a child, we would never pass inspection. Somehow half the contents of the linen closet ended up in the bathtub – and what came out simply won’t go back in. I tried to remedy the situation by throwing out a shoebox of old make-up – the lipstick from my wedding (was it really that brownish?) and some Annick Goutal perfume samples that I couldn’t bear to toss because I love the name – Ce Soir ou Jamais (tonight or never), but hate the smell.
Thank god, cleaning out the cupboards in the kitchen is a lot more satisfying than the bathroom. I have a city kitchen – so there is not much room for stock, but I do have my staples. No matter what else is out of whack, I can usually count on having a box of Puy lentils and a can of tomatoes on hand.
The French are very attached to lentils; they are sensible unpertenious year-round fare - served cold and al dente in summer salads or warm and spiced under a piece of pan roasted salmon for a dinner party. Lentils are yet another example of what Americans might eat only as diet or health food that the French eat just because they're really good.
Often I just simmer my lentils as a vegetarian dish – onions, a can of tomatoes, some broth cubes, lots of chopped parsley a bit of white wine. But this week required a little extra omph, so I added a cured ham hock – which gave the whole pot a wonderful smoky sit-by-the-fire-and-put-your-feet-up flavor.
When I de-boned the pork and spooned some lentils into shallow bowls – it looked rather put together, like something you might see in a trendy “comfort food” bistro of the moment. Not bad for the back of the cupboard. I figure, if I can still put together a presentable dinner, it’s possible that I’m not quite as strung out as I feel…
Stewed Lentils with Smoked Pork
1 smoked ham hock
500 grams (2 ½ cups) dried Puy lentils
2 tbsp. oil olive
1 medium red onion, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
A few sprigs of fresh thyme
1 28 ounce can of whole tomatoes (with their juice), chopped
1 cup of dry white wine
6 cups of water or broth
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
To serve: chopped fresh coriander, sour cream or cream fraiche, fresh lime
Heat the oil over a medium heat in a large stockpot. Add the onion and carrot, sauté for 5-10 minutes, until the onion is translucent.
Add the lentils and stir to coat with oil. Add the wine, broth, chopped tomatoes, parsley and bay leaf and a good grinding of pepper. Place the ham hock in the center. Leave to simmer over a low heat with cover ajar until the lentils are tender and most of the liquid has been absorbed, about 1 hour.
Debone the pork. Serve lentils in a shallow bowl topped with chunks of meat – I like to serve with a slice of lemon or lime and some fresh coriander on top. There will be enough meat for two. Enough leftover lentils to get serve another 3 or 4. The leftovers make excellent soup – try stirring in a little cumin when you reheat. Then serve the lentils, steaming hot, with a dab of fresh plain yogurt or sour cream – squeeze over the lime and a add some chopped fresh coriander.
Serves 2 the first time around with meat, enough lentils for 6
As I might have mentioned in an earlier post, Pillsbury Vanilla Frosting was the sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll of my adolescence. Never having smoked a cigarette, dropped acid or overturned a golf cart, my feeble attempt at teenage rebellion was to study for my pre-calculus finals hopped up on icing mainlined with a plastic spoon.
.
That being said, I do occasionally indulge in cupcake porn – the oogling of icing online. Surely this picture of a “frosting shot” (God Bless America) should come with a rating of some kind. Thank you to Cupcakes Takes the Cake for, well...being, and to The Girl Who Ate Everything for the oh so delectable photo.
In 1840, this former wine shop and bar was taken over as a restaurant by Jules Lapérouse, who had the brilliant idea of maintaining private rooms upstairs for married gentlemen to discreetly entertain the courtesans of Paris with Champagne, delicacies and expensive gifts. After an excellent, over-the-top lunch, ask the waiter to visit those notorious chambres particuliers, which still survive in the attic. They are suitably cozy, and the antique mirrors are covered with etched marks, made, according to tradition, when the astute filles de joie tested the authenticity of their diamonds by scratching on the glass.
Like Bridget Jones, I believe in the mini-break. I found some inspiration when I passed by a small Turkish shop in our neighborhood – they had three crates of pomegranates just in. I’m a sucker for food you have to dissect, so pomegranates are a favorite winter dessert of mine. I suspect it has something to do with the number of Shirley Temples I consumed as a child. (I know I’m taking my life into my hands, but I love a good maraschino cherry.) I first tasted a fresh pomegranate in India; we massaged the fruit like Nigella rubbing garlic into a leg of lamb, to crush the seeds, then cut a tiny X in the skin and drank it like a juice box (Thank you, Azar).
When I’m looking for a bit of summer on a gray day I often crave grilled sardines, or octopus – thoughts of a secret seaside village in Crete that G and I have been frequenting for the past few years. This year, instead of eating my yogurt and honey in a bikini with a view of the sea, I was sweating it out in a Paris delivery room with no AC. (I love my son, but next time, I want to get pregnant on the vacation, not instead of the vacation.)
I don’t have a rock to smack my octopus on, like the Greeks do (apparently it tenderizes), but octopus preserved in oil is available year round from our Sunday fishmonger. I chopped a bulb of fennel that had been hanging around the fridge waiting for an suitable dance partner. I added a small handful of fresh dill and sprinkled on the pomegranate seeds, like tiny rubies, for color. A dribble of olive oil and a splash of sherry vinegar completed the dish. It’s hardly a substitute for a Greek Island, but followed by a bubblebath, it did add a ray of sunshine to my day.
I had a great day. An unequivocal, smell the roses, totally without irony great day. (If you're not nauseous already, read on.)
I walked down to Goumanyat & Son Royaume, my favorite spice shop (see, I did take you). The picture up top is the sun shining through the jars of honey in their window (oh vomit, says Beanie). They are just setting up for Christmas, so I’ll wait on the saffron chocolates till December.
I did pick up a bottle of Tasmanian pepper syrup for cocktails. (Mayur, there's a bottle in my suitcase for the first guy to come up with a Thanksgiving aperitif recipe.) I also bought some stone ground polenta; I’m looking for a corn soufflé that’s equal to or better than the one on the back of the Jiffy corn muffin mix...
My big purchase was a bottle of poivre long, whole Java peppercorns, which look like miniature bunches of shriveled grapes. It has this musty medieval monkey smell - clearly meant to be stuffed into the cavity of a recently killed pheasant (I’ll let you know). It reminded me of a Chaucer class I took my sophomore year in college. The professor was British, a former opera singer with a big booming voice. He invited us to his house for a medieval feast, game in wine and honey etc – which we had to eat off of big flat circles of bread with just a knife. After dinner, we all sat around in a circle on the floor and read The Canterbury Tales aloud, late into the night. (I guess that probably doesn’t sound like fun to anyone but me.) He said we were less fun than his students in England, because we weren’t old enough to drink.
On the way home I made a decision. I decided that my own acid trip back to the 80s (fashion does seem to insist that I have one this year), should involve a nod to the Solid Gold Dancers. (Don’t deny it. If I remember, so do you.) So I went into this Brazilian fitness shop on the Boulevard Richard Lenoir and bought myself a pair of solid gold sneaks to go with Augustin’s new orange polyester play mat, which he adores. I hope this doesn’t say anything too long term about our taste as a family.
Then Augustin and I walked to the garden of the Hôpital Saint Louis. There’s not a lot of green space in our corner of Paris, and this really feels like a secret garden. It’s the interior courtyard of a 17th century hospital, built by Henri IV to control outbreaks of infectious disease. (In the early 17th century our neighborhood was still well outside the city limits.)
What is that? you ask. And I don't blame you. It's Diana Heath's egg sauce - straight from a time honored family recipe. More to follow.
Soy Milk Rice Pudding with Drunken Figs
It won’t be long until this year’s Beaujolais Nouveau is ready for sipping. As a sort of fruity post-it note on my mental fridge, for the past few weeks the market has been brimming with gorgeous bunches of table grapes. They are mostly of the Muscat variety, some purple, almost black, some translucent green, like glass marbles. The flavor is very concentrated – as the weeks go by, they get plumper and sweeter – soaking up those extra rays of sunshine.
When I’m making up a recipe from scratch, I tend to keep it simple – fear of, as my grandmother would say, “gilding the lily”. I browned the meat, added a mixture of butter and oil to the pot, and sautéed an onion. My only touch of whimsy was from the spice rack. I wanted the warmth of cinnamon and clove, but also a little heat to balance out the sweetness of the grapes. My current obsession in a bottle is a blend of spices called Mille et Une Nuits (1001 Nights). It could be called 1001 ingredients – as my 30 gram jar contains a heady mélange of coriander, cumin, curcuma, cinnamon, ginger, clove, rose petals, tarragon, garlic, bay, nutmeg, celery, and salt. I found it at Goumanyat & Son Royaume, my favorite Paris spice boutique – which I’ll take you to at some point. (Note to self: Do a shopping post – between Goumanyat and Cisternino, the Italian cooperative – I keep promising to take to yummy places – I’d better follow up!) I found the brand, Thiercelin, online, but they sell only to chefs - I’m thinking seriously of making up a restaurant (and a VAT number) – so I can buy my safran sugar and black pepper syrup direct.
Barring that, I think I found an online shop that will sell to us plebs.
For me, the high point of an afternoon of slow cooking is bring the finished product to an expectant table. As you can see, Augustin has taken to sitting with us during dinner in his baby seat, a bit like Louis XIV presiding over dinner with his courtiers. By the by, the gorgeous blond at the end of the table - with the off the shoulder black top - that’s my sixty year old mother-in-law, which gives you some idea of the Parisian peer pressure to lose those last post-pregnancy pounds and buy some hot new clothes in the January sales. If I’m going to look like Nicole when I’m sixty, I have some catching up (or rather, down) to do.
Garnished with the fresh grapes, the veal roast looked spectacular (If I do say so myself). The sauce, mellowed by the meat juices, was not overly sweet. If I were allowed to play with my food at the table (alas, Grandma is always watching), I would have made a well in the center of my mashed potatoes and poured the sauce straight in...
Braised Veal Shank with Fresh Muscat Grapes
3 lb bone-in veal shank
Coarse sea salt
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon Mille et Une Nuits seasoning (or a mix of coriander, cumin, curcuma, cinnamon, ginger with a pinch of clove and nutmeg)
2 cups of white wine
2 lbs Muscat grapes (Concord grapes would also work nicely, I think)
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.
In a Dutch oven, brown the veal shank on all sides. Season with salt. Remove the veal shank to a plate. Add the butter, oil, onions and spices to the pot – sauté until golden.
Add the veal shank and any meat juices back to the pot. Add white wine and surround the roast with most of the grapes (reserve a few small bunches for garnish). Bring to a boil. Cover and put in the oven for 3 hours, until meat is falling from the bone.
Remove meat from the pot and reduce sauce slightly if necessary. Serve meat covered with sauce and garnished with fresh grapes. Mashed potatoes (even if you can't play with them) are great for soaking up the gravy.
Serves 4
Back from a windy and wonderful week in Provence with my parents. We stayed with our friends Angela and Rod at La Belle Cour – their lovely bed and breakfast in the village of Cereste. Augustin camped out in a dresser drawer…which he seemed to enjoy. I’m still waiting for the American mommy police to arrest me for not buying a baby travel bed.
Saturday morning we went to the outdoor food market in Apt – it takes over the entire town, basically my idea of shopping nirvana. My mother and I parked the boys at a cafe. Now there are officially three generations of bored gentlemen waiting to carry our shopping bags.
Among the olives, boar sausages, and enormous tomes of cheese, I found a stand where you could taste the jams and chutneys…a tiny plastic spoon in every jar. I walked away with a jar of compote de fenouil (fennel chutney) and some melon preserves.
Saturday evening we celebrated birthdays, arrivals and just general well being at La Manade, an intimate restaurant in Apt with only 8 tables. Their menu is limited (in a good way) and grounded in seasonal products. It is mushroom hunting time in the region – so I had the silky mixed mushroom soup to start, topped with a dollop of foie gras whipped cream (file that under terribly good idea). My main course was a local daube made with taureau (native black bull) and topped with candied orange peel. Below is a photo G’s dessert – a sable cookie topped with chocolate ganache topped with pistachio custard (oh, how I love all things pistachio). 
And below that, the wall of glasses (mean, mean man) that he constructed to block my incoming arm. 
G. knows that being married to me involves a curious second spoon in anything he orders. He is normally very good-natured about ceding half his dinner - but every once and while he gets surly and defends his territory. I admit, it’s a slippery slope. As soon as Augustin learns to use a fork, there’s a very good chance G. will be eating sloppy thirds, instead of sloppy seconds.
Tuesday night was my night to cook, and Angela liked the idea of my rabbit with Pastis (from a post in July). Of course, I was late getting started (cocktail hour run long…) – by the time I entered the kitchen I found Angela over the computer, Rod over the pot, my mother over a wine glass and Paul over his iphone, recording the whole thing.
