Quick Reminder! Reading at WHSmith in Paris - 1 week from today!

Calling all Parisians! I'm doing a reading/signing at WHSmith in Paris - one week from today! Please join us: Thursday, March 11th, 7pm. RSVP to books@whsmith.fr with "Elizabeth Bard Event RSVP" as the subject. See you there! E x

Australia on my mind...

I’ve just eaten my way through an entire continent.

My trip to Australia began on a culinary high-note. Barely over the jet lag – I threw on a black dress for dinner with my Australian editor at Vue de Monde. (The chef, Shannon Bennett, and I had a session together at the Writers at the Convent festival later that week. What a girl won’t do in the name of research!)

Our tasting menu began with kangaroo tartare on a slice of crisp green apple, presented on a slice of polished wood. The experience was more theatre than dinner. Shannon’s cuisine is not about comfort food or grandma’s cooking – the thrill is precisely that you could never do this at home.

My favorite course was a rather unlikely salad of cauliflower mousse, a few leaves of kale and some neatly curled daikon, topped with scattered pearls of ruby tapioca, which had been pickled in cassis. The sauce – brought to the table in a chemistry lab beaker – was a mixture of cucumber water and dill oil. It was a marvelous ensemble of flavors and textures; together they were as refreshing as a mid-meal sorbet.

We ended with a deconstructed cheese-cake with raspberry bubbles. I repeat, raspberry bubbles. The most exciting part of dinner, however, was when Shannon stopped the table, said he was going to the farmer’s market on Saturday and did I want to tag along? Mais, oui!

Being the enfant terrible of Australian cuisine (and a former model) – Shannon has groupies. (I was told I could sell the velvet backed card with his cell phone number on ebay for a foodie fortune.) We met several fellow chefs wandering around the market, but the real purpose of our trip was to locate an elusive organic carrot man who is harder to get hold of than your average celebrity. The carrot guy took us round back to examine a crate of Easter-egg colored turnips and baby carrots. Shannon was looking for white carrots – with the snap and mild flavor of baby parsnips. The carrot connoisseur told us that carrots started out purple (he thought in Afghanistan) – and the orange ones we eat everyday were bred by the Dutch – perhaps to honor the royal family of William of Orange. That’s a bit of vegetable folklore I hadn’t heard before. If I can ever figure out how to use my Bluetooth – I’ll post some photos…

It is high summer in Australia at the moment, so the farmer’s market was full of rhubarb and heirloom tomatoes. How weird and wonderful – to experience the seasons twice in one year

The Writers at the Convent festival was great fun – Shannon and I talked about our love of Paris, and I had a session on my own on Sunday (which, rather appropriately for Lunch in Paris, was Valentine’s Day). The Australians are so passionate about travel. They love to discuss journeys – real and imagined. During the week, I did a ton of radio and print interviews – and met with many independent booksellers (who, gloriously, still hold huge sway in Australia). Frankly, I was feeling euphoric – being out there talking to readers. Back in front of my computer in Paris, I sometime forget how much I enjoy talking to actual people.

I did have a bit of downtime in Sydney – which I spent eating a great lunch (and getting a wicked sunburn) at the local fish market.

It was the week of Chinese New Year –so we had to fight our way past large families eating 10 lb lobsters and crabs as big as your family cat. The Australians are blessed with an incredible variety of seafood – oysters by the bucket, gorgeous iridescent blue crabs and tough-guy mud crabs. We choose our rock lobster, then took it over to the grill and ten minutes later – voila! We made a valiant effort with plastic knives and forks for about ten minutes – then gave up and dug in with our hands. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

An existential question nagged at me all week: Is it wrong that while I’m missing my husband and my son to pieces – I’m really loving the hotel bathtub?

Only one regret - I found neither a lamington (traditional Aussie dessert of sponge cake, chocolate syrup and coconut), nor a pumpkin scone. Does anyone have grandma's recipe that they would care to share?

Off to the farmer’s market in San Francisco tomorrow morning – one of my favorite spots on earth.

On the Road: Homecoming Spareribs and Raw Cheesecake

Hello from Teaneck and New York! Oh, it's so good to be home. Back. Home. Whatever. New York for me is like plugging in - I get a unique jolt of energy, recharge my batteries. I suddenly feel like doing five things at once. I talk faster. Lunch in Paris is officially on the road for the next month - New York, Melbourne, Sydney, San Francisco - so instead of trips to my Parisian butcher, I'll be scooping up carrot cake with cream cheese frosting at the Magnolia Bakery and a super drippy hamburger with fried onions at Five Napkin Burger.

Augustin only threw up twice on the plane. The first time, he hit the lovely gay guy with a camel colored ascot and a monogram on the cuff of his shirt. I'm sure this gentlemen would have preferred to sit next to the hot fashion guy with the director's cut glasses across the aisle. Instead he was stuck next to me, and Mr. Vomit.

Homecoming dinner - as usual - was spareribs and chow fun from Empire Hunan. They are on my parent's speed dial. Into the city yesterday for lunch with my agent and a meeting with my publisher. NY makes me feel like such a working girl - break out the shoulder pads. The reviews of the book are starting to come in, even thought Lunch in Paris doesn't hit the stores till next week. It's not quite real yet. From conception to dust jacket, it represents three industrious (and charmed) years of my life. Here's the latest review from USA Today. You'll be able to follow the reviews, events and updates as they come in on the Facebook page - stop by and become a fan.

New York makes me hungry. I'm always walking by something I haven't eaten in a long time - like one of those street cart sausage and pepper sandwiches that sends a cloud of luscious greasy perfume 30 feet in all directions.Last night I had dinner with a dear friend, an editor at ArtNews magazine. She and her boyfriend have been following a mostly raw food diet - and as I'm game for anything, foodwise - I couldn't wait to hear all about it. As soon as I got there she pulled out a Ziploc bag of the most fabulous homemade granola, made with millet, groats (wonderful word, groats), sunflower and pumpkin seeds and grated apple - all stuck under the dehydrating machine, which looks like a larger version of my childhood Easybake oven.
We were going to make the Chicken Tagine with Two Kinds of Lemons from the book - but the pull of NY takeout culture and the lure of a fridge full of fresh veggies steered us toward a big spinach salad instead. My friend did make a raw dessert - the most luscious looking chocolate "cheesecake". The filling is made with soaked nuts and cocoa, ground and whipped to such a fine consistency that it resembles cream cheese. It was the crust that truly wowed me - a moist crumbly mixture of raw cocoa nibs, raisins and nuts that had a more satisfying bite than any Oreo cookie crust I've ever tasted. I could only finish half a piece - the nutty richness was palpable in every bite - but if this is fad diet food - sign me up.

This Little Piggie Went to Facebook...

As I was walking by the butcher today, I took my nose out of my scarf long enough to notice an unusual number of whole piglets. Yes, piglets. Piglets roasting, piglets dangling. Piglets, piglets everywhere. When I asked why, the butcher told me that tomorrow is Noel Orthodox – Christmas in the Orthodox Church. Good to know.

While I was snapping my little photo, Madame behind the counter asked what it was for. Turns out she loves to read in English and took the blog address. This seemed like a good time to mention that I had a book coming out in which their shop plays a significant role. Learning to hold your own at the butcher is a Parisian rite of passage. “Deboning” was not part of the standard vocab in my highschool French class. One of the butchers bears a striking resemblance to Matt Dillon. Yum.

In honor of my recent flying leap into the 21st century, you can now become a fan of Lunch in Paris on Facebook. The page will list events (Brooklyn Kitchen on Feb 6th, anyone?), and even as we speak, there is a fascinating discussion on the virtues of ugly vegetables.You can also follow along on Twitter, because I’m sure at least some of you think about food as often as I do…

The World's Most Decadent Leftovers...

Foie gras and fig jam with whisky on toasted rye nut bread...Vive la France!

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...

Fig Fest 2009

Every year around this time I stage my own mini Figapalooza. I don’t know why I feel my private fruit festival should be named after the kind of musical event I never even close to attended. (I once took a Megadeath loving boyfriend to see Boris Godunov, and in college I drank little bottles of gold-flecked Jägermeister instead of beer at a Phish concert, which I think tells you something about my knowledge of rock concert etiquette.)

Back to my figs. Truly, I have never found anything more perfect to do with a fresh fig than eat it straight out of the paper bag on the way back from the market. But they can’t all go that way. So they end up gracing salads, garnishing deserts, placed on coffee saucers like bon bons – anywhere I can stick a fig – a fig is stuck.

This kind of raw consumption is handy for the quickie lunches I’ve been making lately – particularly autumn salads. While juggling baby, visiting parents, marketing brainstorms and a new book proposal, I’m trying desperately to preserve the French tradition of eating real meals. A big beautiful salad is my best solution. This month, heads of red Bibb lettuce, tart apples, pine nuts, goat cheese toasts, hard boiled eggs, pesto chicken breast, and dill-tossed avocados have all made their way into the shallow, bone china bowl I prefer. I keep meaning to buy chicken livers (figs and liver, yum). All to be topped, bien sur with slices of deep purple fig. It’s sometimes the only civilized thing I manage to do for myself all day. (That, and a quick sneak into the bathtub while Augustin is napping.

Our new friend Amanda came for dinner on Sunday night. Whenever she visits from NY, she is my junk food fairy - this trip, she came bearing candy dots - the tiny kind stuck to the paper strip. My mother once sent me a care package at boarding school with a whole roll of these. My RA was impressed. My mother must be very cool to send candy laced with LSD. (How was I to know? My knowledge of drug etiquette is right up there with the rock concerts).

When Augustin was born, Amanda sent over an Obama onesie. Fist raised, he is clearly a supporter. We waited until just before she arrived to put it on - enough people having been shitting on the president this month, no reason for our son to add to the pile.

I made rabbit with hard cider and honey and a celery root mash. For dessert, slices of fresh figs dressed up these spicy chocolate pots. I used my basic chocolate custard (a riff on Nigella Lawson - my favorite high sass/low maintenance hausfrau), but I wanted a bit of a kick, so I infused the milk with a teaspoon of Raz el Hanout - a melange of spices used in North African cooking. The result was a rich chocolate cream with a hint of pepper, cardamon and clove. Served in espresso cups with tiny silver spoons (thank you, mother), it was an elegant dessert with a minimum of fuss.

The Basics of Fig Fest Autumn Salad

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 ½ teaspoons balsamic vinegar
Good pinch of coarse sea salt

2 good handfuls of red Bibb lettuce, washed and dried
1 or 2 fresh figs, skin on, cut into quarters or eights

Add the ingredients for the vinaigrette to the bottom of a large salad bowl. Whisk together with a fork. Toss the salad to coat. Transfer the dressed salad to a clean plate or shallow bowl. (Do yourself a favor, don’t get lazy and eat out of the mixing bowl. You are not a piglet, you are a person – and pretty presentation will make your day better.) Top with a layer of fresh figs and any of the ingredients below. Enjoy!

1 avocado, sliced and tossed with fresh dill and a bit more balsamic vinegar
1 chicken breast, tossed with good quality pesto sauce, a sprinkle of pine nuts and slices of tart apple
Slices of soft goat cheese (on their own or laid on a thin piece of sourdough bread and grilled under the broiler)
2 hard boiled eggs, sliced, topped with fresh dill or chervil
3-4 chicken livers, quickly seared in olive oil (I know this kills the no dirty pots idea – but it’s only one tiny frying pan…)

Serves 1

Spicy Chocolate Pots with Fresh Figs

6 oz. best quality dark chocolate (70% - I use Valrhona or Green & Black’s), chopped
½ cup heavy cream
½ cup whole milk
1 teaspoon best quality raz el hanout (available in specialty shops and Middle Eastern groceries)
1 coffee filter
1 egg

1 or 2 fresh figs, quartered

Put the raz el hanout in a coffee filter and staple it shut. Heat the milk, cream and raz-el-hanout to just below boiling, then turn off the heat an leave to infuse for a few minutes. Remove the coffee filter, reheat the milk to just below boiling; add the chocolate, stir to combine.

In a small bowl, lightly beat the egg with a fork. Pour into the chocolate mixture and whisk immediately until combined. Fill 6 espresso cups, chill for a few hours of overnight. Remove from the fridge 10 or 15 minutes before serving. Serve with a tiny silver spoon and a few slices of fresh figs on the saucer.

Serves 6

Pastry on the Brain

It’s been a doughy two weeks in Paris – much pastry, French and Algerian, professional and homemade.

I made my first without-baby outing when Augustin was 3 weeks old (forgot the pictures – bad mommy), to go to, of all things, a board meeting of the Cornell Club of Paris. As luck would have it, I was sitting next to a new arrival – a tall, blond, half-Swedish pastry chef (sorry gents, she’s engaged to a lovely Frenchman). She is working at Dessirier, a brasserie in the 17th. She began describing their Baba au Rhum, served with poached dried fruit – which sounds worth a trip in itself. She sounded slightly frustrated by having to make French classics all day, but I’m hoping to scam a lesson in how to make proper crème patissiere.

My next post baby outing was to meet Bob, fellow foodie and blogger (Bobby Jay on Food)– at Le Bague de Kenza, the best Algerian bakery in Paris. (The pyramids of pastries and marizpan above are their creations. Bob arrived with a doudou (that’s French for baby blankie) for Augustin, and an exquisite little sachet of pates de fruits for me. I am still shocked when I eat these delicate candies - they taste like (and are made with) actual fruit. I grew up as a sincere lover of Chuckles, Sunkist fruit gels, fruit rollups and Jujubees; who can resist a new friend bearing classy fruit chews?

We ordered a sampling of pastries and went through two pots of sweet mint tea – enough sugar for a diabetic coma. La Bague de Kenza has a cookbook – we sampled the pastry on the cover – called a Bourse de Kenza, which looks like a little sack of gold, tied with a string and stuffed with honey soaked almonds with a touch of orange flower water.
I was editing the galleys for my book this week, so this is my last chance to tweak any recipes before Lunch in Paris is published in February 2010. I’ve been retesting my chouquettes; the simple things are always the trickiest to transcribe. Chouquettes – essentially empty cream-puffs sprinkled with small pebbles of white sugar – were my first and most beloved Parisian breakfast. When I started coming to Paris for the weekend (10 years ago, OMG) G. would go hunting in the morning, while I was still face down on the pillow. He would return with a small wax paper bag, crimped at the edges. Inside were perfectly puffed chouquettes – chewy on the outside, hollow in the center – like biting into a sweet breeze. I’ve been playing with the salt in my recipe. I’m having trouble with the conversion between coarse and fine grain sea salt. I think it’s perfect now. At least for my palette.


My third pastry encounter this past week was slightly more disconcerting. Let me say this: I’m never wearing an Empire waist dress ever again. I was walking down the street and a homeless man called me fat. That’s right. Up til now, I’ve been feeling pretty good about the post-natal pounds. I’m back in my regular jeans (not my tiniest pair, but hey, it’s only been 5 weeks). The dress in question is not even a maternity dress, just a DKNY black wool number that gathers under the bust. When you are twenty, this sort of outfit makes look like you are filming a Jane Austin movie, at 35, apparently, all it says is “soon-to-be-breastfeeding”.

It happened like this: It was 6:30 pm, I was on my way to a meeting, and I hadn’t eaten all day, so I grabbed something from the boulangerie and ate it right out of the little square of paper while I was walking down to the metro at Republique. As I was crossing the street, the homeless man who stands by the bank machine muttered “Attention aux kilos” – Pay attention to your pounds. I turned around in disbelief (I could have gotten hit by a car, by the way), and there he was on the curb, shaking his finger at me. Maybe I was asking for it, as the French never eat and walk at the same time, and it was 6:30pm, so clearly I was spoiling the sacred French ritual of dinner with my forbidden pastry. But only in Paris do people feel morally obliged to mention this stuff to you on the street.

When I got to the party, three well-meaning older women asked me if I was pregnant. The dress is going in the garbage.

My Beloved Chouquettes

Adapted from LeNôtre: Faîtes votre pâtisserie (Flammarion, 1975)

Chouquettes in Paris are dotted with small pebbles of white sugar called sucre perlé; you can get the same effect at home with a last minute dusting of powdered sugar.

½ cup whole milk
½ cup water
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, diced
¾ teaspoon coarse sea salt (or 1 scant teaspoon fine sea salt)
1 ¼ teaspoon sugar
1 cup flour
4 eggs (total weight of approximately 250 grams or 9 oz.)
¼ cup powdered sugar

Additional powered sugar for decoration

Preheat the oven to 425 °F.

In a heavy bottomed saucepan, over low heat, combine milk, water, butter, sugar and salt. Bring just to a boil, turn off the heat and add the flour while stirring continuously, until flour is incorporated and the dough comes away from the sides of the pan. It will look like a lump of marzipan.

Quickly add two eggs and stir to incorporate.

Quickly incorporate the remaining 2 eggs, stir until smooth. The batter will be thick and sticky. It can be refrigerated for up to a day.

Line 2 large baking sheets with parchment paper. Using two teaspoons, dole out heaping dollops of batter, widely spaced. You should have about 24. (If you have space in your freezer, you can freeze the individual puffs at this point. I wouldn’t recommend freezing and thawing a big lump of batter.)

Bake one sheet at a time. Before you put them in the oven, sprinkle each puff generously with powdered sugar. No need to break up the lumps in the sugar, it's actually better if some of it doesn't melt.

If baking immediately: Bake for 12 minutes at 425°F. Then turn down the heat to 400, and bake for 12 minutes more with oven door slightly ajar (I stick a wooden spoon in the door to hold it open just a crack.)

If baking straight from the fridge: 15 minutes at 425°F, 12 minutes at 400°F with door ajar.

If baking from the freezer: 17 minutes at 425°F, 12 minutes at 400°F with door ajar.

You’ll want to watch them the first time, every oven is different. Grab one out of the oven to taste if you like (I always do). They should be fully puffed and highly colored – don’t worry if the sugar caramelizes on top or underneath.

Eat right out of the oven or cool on a wire rack. If you like, dust with powdered sugar just before serving.

Makes approximately 24 chouquettes