Thursday, November 26, 2009

Thanksgiving at Tiffany’s

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.

When I need a fix I go to Thanksgiving. This shop in the Marais sells outrageously priced American imports to homesick ex-pats. An 8oz. package of Philadelphia cream cheese is $6. (Apologies for the lack of original photography below, but the shots I found on paris.unlike seemed to frame the Fruitloops much better than mine.)


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When you enter Thanksgiving, there’s always greeting in French and English, along with rows of familiar boxes. I'm like Audrey Hepburn in Tiffany's, running my hands along the shelves of Poptarts and Raspberry Fluff. I stop to read the ingredients - something I never do in the States - drinking in the comforting, possibly carcinogenic, polysyllabic beauty of it all.

Strangely enough, I’ve never bought a can of icing in Paris. It would be like eating Pho in Minsk – ne’er the twain shall meet. There are too many wonderful things to eat in Paris to get stuck in my childhood obsession with partially hydrogenated soybean oil.


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.


It’s always odd to wake up on the morning of an important American holiday in Paris – and find it’s just business as usual. G. goes to work, and there’s radio silence on my email from New York. So a girl has time to think. For me, 2009 has been a year full of things to be thankful for. I have a happy, healthy baby boy, a husband I love more every day, a family who cheers me on in my crazy life projects, friends who challenge and comfort me, and a professional project that makes me pinch myself. I’m also thankful for being in Paris – because it’s Paris that taught me how to appreciate all this. Raised as a type-A control freak American, it was my reflex – and I fight it still – to quickly abandon all pleasures, all accomplishments in favor of the road ahead – the next item on my interminable to-do list. Paris has taught me how to take a moment. Even if it’s not a day off here, I now know how to pause and be grateful for what I have. It’s only when I moved to Paris that I truly learned how to celebrate Thanksgiving.

Happy Holiday Everyone!


Sunday, November 22, 2009

Daily Flâneur: No Bling, No Fling


In honor of those fleeting Paris images and amusing factoids that just beg to be shared, I'm starting a new category of posts - The Daily Flâneur.

Here's a tidbit about the Lapérouse restaurant from this Sunday's NY Times:
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.

Ah, those savvy courtesans...

The photo is the upstairs hallway - le couloir des salons prives. That a restaurant should have its own private brothel is no news to the French. As G. said: bien, oui - tu manges, tu montes.

Liberty, Equality, Gastronomy: Paris via a 19th-Century Guide
By TONY PERROTTET
A food-obsessed traveler uses the Zagat guide of the Napoleonic era to explore the culinary wonders of this city in the 21st century.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Pomegranate Mini-Break



Sometimes the winter market can feel a little bare. Monochrome. The riotous colors of summer are gone – and we are left with knobbly roots – the subtle grays and golds of mushrooms and the tapered parsnips. If it weren’t for the electric orange of the pumpkins and the Mon Cheri celemtines from Spain – I’d have to get myself one of those happy lamps.



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.



In other news, we have two contenders for personal geo-political disaster of the week. I was on the metro the other day when a man sat down next to me. Not too close, of course, as the seats in the Paris metros are calibrated so that no one can stretch across them to sleep.


“You are French?”, he said, leaning over.
“No, I’m American.”
“Hi,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m your occupation.”
I blinked. How did he know I was a writer? Did I have long forgotten press pass around my neck? Maybe it was a translation problem. “Excuse me?” I blinked again.
“I’m from Iraq. I’m your occupation,” he smiled, his hand still dangling between us.
What to say? If that’s a pick-up line, it (like our foreign policy) needs some work.

But first prize goes to G, who was in Warsaw this past weekend for a conference. He listened to a perky young blond explain how her region could apply for European Union funding to help equip digital cinema screens: “They put aside money to help develop regional tourism.” she said with a big PR smile, “We have a salt mine, and Auschwitz."

Many of you will soon be descending into the button-busting, fight about the lumps in the gravy, who absconded with the electric knife weekend known as Thanksgiving. We are having our Thanksgiving Dinner on Saturday, I’m off to ask the butcher today to see if he will roast my Turkey for me with the daily chickens…no room in my teeny Parisian oven…


Fennel and Octopus Salad with Pomegranate and Fresh Dill

1/2 pound octopus in oil, drained
1 bulb of fennel, coarsely chopped
1 handful pomegranate seeds, about half a pomegranate
1 small handful of fresh dill, chopped
1 avocado (optional)
1 can of red kidney beans (optional)
Drizzle of good olive oil
Splash of sherry vinegar
Coarse sea salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste

Place the fennel, octopus, dill, pomegranate seeds (and beans, if using) in a large bowl. Drizzle with olive oil, a splash of vinegar and add salt and pepper to taste. Toss to combine. If you want to make the dish slightly more substantial, add the sliced avocado on top.

Serves 2

Shirley Temple

Ice cubes
3 oz lime soda
3 oz ginger ale
Dash of grenadine
Maraschino cherry for garnish

Pour lime soda and ginger ale over ice in a Collins glass. Add a dash of grenadine, stir, and top with a maraschino cherry. Hand to a little girl. But only if she is wearing a velvet dress, and preferably, a tiara. (Too much information?)

Serves
1

Thursday, November 19, 2009

I'll take the X-Small


Is it me, or does Konstantin Slawinski’s SL 14 S-XL CAKE pan, which outlines slices in several sizes, seem tailor-made for judgment and humiliation? Go ahead, take the piece that’s the size of a throw pillow, I dare you. The French are very good at this kind of foodie peer pressure – and to be fair, it produces excellent results. Moderation is king – so nobody wants to take the last bite, or the biggest. Bien sur, nobody should deny themselves the pleasure of dessert, but just un tout petit peu.


French eating habits are all about balance. If you never go overboard, you never have to swim your way back. As an American who grew up with her anchor firmly planted in a jar of Pillsbury vanilla frosting, it takes time to learn. But it does work.

Monday, November 16, 2009

A Crispy Day

I had a great day. An unequivocal, smell the roses, totally without irony great day. (If you're not nauseous already, read on.)

The next book proposal is in, I have some instructions (thank you, nettap) on how to add widgets etc. to this site (coming soon), and Augustin’s thank you notes are ready to go into the mail, thus saving the honor of our family. There was nothing on my desk that couldn’t wait. It was such a perfect, mild, bright fall day. Crispy leaves kept falling into Augustin’s stroller.


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.)

The hospital also houses one of my favorite museums – open by appointment only. In my days as an art critic, I took the liberty of getting myself in. There’s a huge wood-paneled lecture hall with a balcony – displaying hundreds of plaster models of skin diseases. (Again, that probably doesn’t sound like fun to anyone but me.) But hey, who can resist a museum with a sign that says Syphilis, right this way. (Thank you Adam of Invisible Paris, for the fab photo...)


I was having such a nice day, I decided to cancel the babysitter. G. was away on business, so Augustin and I have been together 24/7. When we got home, Augustin had his bottle and I had leftover daube (that’s French for very fine pot roast) for dinner with a handful of penne. Then I watched the last episode of Band of Brothers on YouTube (in honor of recent Veteran’s Day), and the baby went to sleep - and stayed asleep - till 8 the next morning. All in all, a marvelous day.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Comfort Food - Past, Present and Future

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.

We were down in Provence again. Dear reader, are you sensing a theme? Am I, like Bullwinkle, hatching a plan?

We stayed at La Belle Cour again – Augustin was quite happy to revisit his bed in the dresser drawer. On Friday evening, Angela announced that she was roasting a chicken for dinner. Her husband Rod immediately piped up: “with egg sauce?” - his eyes as wide as any 9 year-old asking for another dip into the bag of Halloween candy. Apparently, whenever his mum, Diana, roasted a chicken, she made a side of white sauce draped over a layer of hard-boiled eggs. Angela remained unconvinced. A few weeks earlier, she had served us a scrumptuous roast leg of lamb with traditional English mint sauce. I love mint sauce, but the French tend to wrinkle their noses. Perhaps fearing for the health of the culinary detente cordiale, Angela thought that egg sauce might be a step too far. But after some further pleading from Rod – and a gentle nudge from me – (I’m always keen to try someone else’s family heirloom), it was decided: roast chicken with egg sauce.

I wish I could say the egg sauce was a revelation –it was a bit like roast chicken with a side of egg salad - but it was enough to see the contented look on Rod’s face. And It did turn the discussion to old family recipes. "I wonder what foods Augustin will remember fondly from his childhood?" I thought to myself. What I actually said aloud (according to G) was “I wonder what recipe can I invent that Augustin will annoy his future wife with 30 years from now.” Apparently (also according to G.) this is not at all the same thing. I don’t see it. Goes to show you, the kid’s not even three months old, and already my objectivity on the subject is shot to hell.



Though Augustin is not yet old enough to hold a spoon – he’s not even found his thumb - I’ve decided that one of his favorite foods should be rice pudding – because it’s one of my favorite foods. (Oops. There’s that objectivity buzzer going off again.) Side-stepping the psychoanalytic implications of my choosing my son's favorite dish – I do think of rice pudding as highly recommended comfort food: sweet, creamy, and overwhelmingly beige. (I guess I should apologize for the quality of the pictures in this post – comfort food is almost never photogenic.)


Instead of my standard recipe, I decided to try one with soy milk that I found in Food & Wine magazine. It was from an article about Joe Bastianich, a restaurateur (and Batali wingman) who runs marathons. This is his morning carb/protein fix. I don’t run marathons (I don’t run anywhere), so perhaps I should eat this less often that he does…but it turned out so well that it might become a hard habit to break. Bastianich poaches fresh figs in his recipe – I used dried, soaked in Calvados for an extra kick.




If I were making this for dinner guests, I think I’d use the creamier Arborio rice – but for breakfast or a midnight snack – my favorite rice pudding moments – I think I’d use the heartier brown rice. I’ve never cooked with soy milk before – I was expecting something a bit sour – too hippy happy granola crunchy to be really good – but I was surprised at the extra depth it gave the pudding. A perfect set up for the bass note of the marinated figs.

When Augustin gets off the all milk diet, he can pick his own favorite food. For now, this is at the top of my/his/our list.


Soy Milk Rice Pudding with Drunken Figs

(adapted from Food and Wine, October 2009 - here's the original recipe)

1 cup boiling water
Pinch of sea salt
½ cup Arborio rice (or if you are feeling granola crunchy hippy happy, use round brown rice – to be found at a health food store)
2 cups plain soy milk
3 tablespoons Demerara or Turbinado sugar
8 small dried figs, quartered
2 tablespoons of Calvados (or Applejack)

In a small saucepan, bring water to a boil, add rice, lower heat, and simmer over until most of the water has been absorbed (about 10-12 minutes). In the meantime, combine figs, sugar and Calvados in a small bowl, set aside.

Keeping the heat low, add 1/3 cup soy milk, stir constantly until almost absorbed. Continue adding the soy milk, 1/3 cup at a time, and stirring constantly until it is absorbed between additions. This is basically a risotto technique – be prepared for a half hour of constant stirring. I find it very zen-like. Relaxing. Add the fig mixture at the 20 minute mark. The pudding is done when the rice is tender and you still have a very loose but creamy liquid in the pot (if you let too much milk evaporate, the pudding will dry out when cooled.)

Spoon into 4 small ovenproof ramekins and serve hot or cold. I like my rice pudding from the fridge – but no matter what you do, an ugly skin forms on top. My solution – add an extra sprinkle of Demerara sugar to the top, and broil it for a minute like a crème brulée – you get a great contrast between creamy cold and crackling hot!

Makes 4 very polite portions – or 3 heartier ones