A Comparative Visual

Back in Paris after a month in the US. My brain, and my stomach - are completely jetlagged. I thought I'd give you the comparative visual.

Exhibit A. My parent's fridge in the US - stocked to brusting with every salad dressing known to man, three containers of cream cheese, but little actual food. (If there was one aisle that I could banish from the supermarket forever - it would be the salad dressing. Out, out, damn Fat Free Blue Cheese. Ranch, be gone!Exhibit B. My fridge in France - cleaned by G. and awaiting my arrival and a trip to the Saturday market. G basically lives off pasta, onion and lardons (slab bacon) when I'm not around. One red bell pepper and two carrots could last him three weeks. I'm dreaming the bouquet of fresh herbs (flat leaf parsley, dill, mint and coriander) that usually lives in a mug of water on the door...

I'm doing a reading at WHSmith in Paris next Thursday, March 11th at 7pm. My desk is a catastrophe. I know there's a game plan under here somewhere, darned if I can locate it just at the moment...

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!

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

Homesick Maple Muffins and Sausage Toes

Sorry for the hiatus – it’s been a heavy week, literally. Here I was – all proud of myself for being “pregnant like a French woman” with a basketball under my shirt. Then I discover at my appointment yesterday that I’ve gained 11 pounds in 10 days – most of it, it seems, in my toes. With two weeks to go, I am filling up with water like a fish tank.

My family has very long skinny toes – but now, they look like little sausages. Pigs without their blankets. It’s depressing and uncomfortable. I shudder to think of the opinion of a certain foot fetishist I dated after college. He would flee in horror.

It’s been quite a “French week” – by which I mean a week where I find out something stupid and ridiculous about this country that I must learn to accept. It’s about my family name. I am an only child – the last one to carry the Bard name, and I feel strongly that I’d like to pass it on to my child.

Apparently, in France, it is illegal to use the mother’s maiden name as a middle name. Even more bizarre, there is a new law that if you want to hyphenate with your husband’s last name, you have to use a double hyphen (- -), which pretty much guarantees mistakes and administrative woe for the rest of the kid’s life. I’m trying to be philosophical. Some days I succeed, some days I don’t.

During these French weeks – I often get homesick for American style food. I start reading The Joy of Cooking in bed and thinking a lot about cream cheese frosting. I was flipping though my copy of Maple Syrup Recipes by Ken Haedrich, where I found these Maple Oat Muffins. They are made with oats and buttermilk, which seemed like a wholesome way to deal with mid-morning carb cravings.

I had a pint of raspberries from the lone vendor still left at our Sunday market. Perfect. And a dead banana in the fridge. In it went.


For the sake of freshness – and portion control – I tend to freeze my muffins and bake them individually when I’m in the mood. With a sprinkle of brown sugar on top, they made my “French” week a little sweeter.


Homesick Maple Banana Muffins with Fresh Raspberries

1 ¼ cup old-fashioned oats
1 cup whole wheat flour
½ cup unbleached or all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1 cup buttermilk
½ cup maple syrup
¼ cup vegetable oil
1 dead (overripe) banana
1 cup fresh raspberries
Light brown sugar (or raw sugar) for the tops

Preheat the oven to 400°. Line a 12 cup muffin tray tin with paper (or foil) liners and set aside.

Measure out the oats; crush between your fingers until you have a mixture of oats and “oat flour”. Add the other dry ingredients. Toss to combine.

In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs. Then blend in the buttermilk, maple syrup and oil. Mush up the dead banana and whisk to combine.

Make a well in the dry ingredients, pour in the egg mixture and stir just to combine.

Fill your muffin cups halfway. Add one or two raspberries. Cover with additional batter and top with two or three raspberries. Add a sprinkle of brown sugar and bake for 20-25 minutes, until toothpick comes out clean. Serve hot from the oven.

I freeze my muffins and bake them direct from the freezer. If you decide to do the same, add the sugar just before you put them in the oven. Bake for 30-35 minutes.

Makes 12 muffins.

Last first dates and wild strawberry sorbet

On the balmy evening before Bastille Day, G. and I went down to the Ile Saint Louis for wild strawberry sorbet. The kids on our street had already acquired their firecrackers - and were squealing with delight as they set them off underneath our windows.

This feels like a special time. Without thinking, G. and I seem to be retracing our steps - visiting our old haunts, craving familiar tastes. We are doing a bit of reliving, turning back the clock to ten years ago, when G. walked me around Paris for the first time.

Our friends are away, our August vacation plans long canceled because of the arrival of the baby. So we are on our own again, like the bubble we lived in those first months together, before I could speak French, when we couldn't get ourselves out of bed before noon, and every tarte au citron and sprinkle of fleur de sel felt like a revelation.

The only ice-cream in Paris worth eating is made by Berthillon. In the true measure of French success, the original Maison Berthillon is closed from mid-July until the end of August - but they sell their wares to restaurants and tearooms throughout Paris, with a cluster of stands on the Ile Saint Louis, the tiny Island of aristocratic mansions and beamed ceilings in the middle of the Seine. We usually go to Pom' Cannelle, which has a strong selection of flavors and is as far as you can get from the tourists flowing out of Notre Dame. The ice-cream is dense and creamy - served in golf-ball sized scoops. You have to be a real purist to order a 'simple' (pronounced samp-le), I usually order a 'double' (doob-le). Menthe (fresh mint), Creole (Rum Raisin) and Nougat Miel (Honey-Nougat) are at the top of my list.


As good as the ice-cream is, it's the sorbets that are Berthillon's real stand-outs. Creature of habit that I am, I almost always order cacao amer - a bitter chocolate sorbet so dark it's closing in on black. My second scoop depends on mood and whimsy: poire (pear), melon, rhubarbe or framboise à la rose (raspberry with a hint of rose). But again, habit often sets in and I go back to my old favorite: fraise des bois (wild strawberry). These gem-like fruits are tiny strawberry grenades - releasing a tart, concentrated flavor that downgrades every other strawberry I've tasted to the level of Bubblicious.

We took our cones, wrapped in a single paper napkin, and walked down the narrow stone steps to the quai - just a few meters above the Seine. We stepped over boys with bongos, waved at the passing Bateaux Mouches. We sat down on the tip of island, our feet dangling over the water. This precious month before the baby is born feels like a 'last first date'. We will never again be entirely alone in the world.

There's a different kind of romance beginning. I know I've been younger, and lighter, and having to pee 26 times a day is no picnic - but I've never been happier.

A silent Saturday, some seaweed (and a hot bath)

Paris was deserted this morning. Not a person in sight, not a car on the street…the whole country is headed South to the sunshine – the radio just announced 600 kilometers of bumper to bumper traffic throughout France today. Paris is back to its usual gray, temperate self – which this pregnant lady appreciates!

I was enjoying the silence until I got to the door of our local boulangerie and found the sign above. They too are somewhere in the great national traffic jam. Thus we are doomed to eat mediocre croissants till the 2nd of August…sigh.

The Saturday market was equally devoid of shoppers, some regulars were already on holiday – their spots taken by knick-knack vendors.

Thank goodness there were still some fruits and vegetables in residence. I picked up some beefsteak tomatoes and sweetpeas, apricots and white nectarines. I shelled the peas at my desk, watching reruns of The West Wing - and there were a few escapees. I can't crouch down under the desk anymore, so G. went in (above and beyond the call of duty).

If we are dining a deux on Saturday evening, I often buy fish – today the fishmonger had some very shiny sea bass, and a summer rarity – salicorn, a crunchy, almost coral-like seaweed. Sautéed with a bit of garlic and some black pepper, it tastes like a beach holiday.

We spent a quiet afternoon looking at a book of baby names.

No, the pots you see above are not an early dinner – that’s G. (wherever did I find this man?) heating water for my bath. It’s getting downright 19th century around here. Our hot water heater has been out for 3 weeks. I’ll give you the very short version of my French customer service rant (no Paris blog would be complete without one). Suffice it to say that when the second repairman came in (we are now on #3), he looked at the heater, looked at me and said: “Il faut pas installer de la merde, Madame.” You shouldn’t have installed a piece of shit. As in so many customer service situations in France: when in doubt, blame the client.

I’ve been feeling the uncontrollable urge to clean – which, if the folklore is correct, means the baby will come within a few days. That would be 5 weeks early, and perfectly fine with me. I've also been practicing my "15 minute meals" - because as much as I love to putter around the kitchen, my time there is likely to be reduced in the coming months (I would hate to fall asleep standing up at the stove).

Personally, I love dinner that stares back. Gutting my first fish was an initiation rite on par with losing my virginity – who knew there was such a dangerous, ravenous individual hiding behind the prim and proper Miss.

Whole fish doesn't sound like fast food, but it is. You put in the time later, boning at the table (better for digestion and conversation). I know most Americans don’t like to work for their food, but unpacking a whole fish is one of my favorite culinary activities. It looks so decedent on the plate – you feel you are playing a game (Operation comes to mind), rather than just eating a virtuous fillet. The protective skin makes quick methods like broiling a real option – there’s no risk of dry, charred flesh. The eyeball is basically like one of those Purdue self-timers – when it pops, chances are it’s done.

‘15 minute’ sea bass and salicorn for 2

2 whole sea bass (8-10 oz. each) rinsed and gutted
Extra virgin olive oil
Coarse sea salt
1 lemon, cut into wedges

Preheat the broiler. Place the fish on a baking sheet lined with aluminum foil. Drizzle with olive oil and add a pinch of salt. Broil five minutes on each side (not too, too close to the flame). Check whole fish the same way you would a fillet – it should be firm, opaque all the way through, and come easily off the bone. Serve whole with lemon wedges.

If you are not having the Queen of England over for dinner, you might include a poubelle de table – literally a ‘garbage plate’ for the bones. (I just push my fish skeleton to one side - because you never really know when the Queen of England is going to stop by for dinner…)

½ pound of salicorn, picked over for weeds
1 clove of wet garlic, sliced
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Freshly ground black pepper

Heat olive oil in a medium saucepan, add garlic and stir for 30 seconds. Add salicorn, sauté for 3-4 minutes, until heated through. Finish with a good grinding of black pepper. NO extra salt – the seaweed is plenty salty all on its own.

An almost ratatouille sandwich

I bought a whole bunch of summer vegetables a few days ago to make ratatouille – and never quite got around to it. So before the tomatoes go off and the eggplant gets mushy, I’ve decided to roast the whole lot.



I’m thinking roasted vegetable sandwiches for dinner. Why? Because I met a friend for coffee this morning not far from Du Pain et Des Idées, a wonderful (if pretentiously named) boulangerie on rue de Marseille, just off the Canal St Martin. It is run by former sales exec turned ardent baker, Christophe Vasseur. He gave up his blue suit and shiny shoes for an apron and an apprenticeship in 1999; in 2008 he received the prestigious Gault & Millau award for best boulanger in Paris. He makes a truly sublime, flatish, almost foccacia-like bread called Pain des Amis, which you can buy by in hunks or take home a whole gargantuan loaf. It has a tough medieval looking crust – like you could eat a pheasant off it – and the most perfect air pockets, not too large, not to small.




All I needed was a ball of buffalo mozzarella, easily acquired at the local Franprix supermarket. The line at the authentic Italian co-operative was just too long, even for the patient Parisienne I’ve become. I’ll take you there another day.

I have a good bottle of olive oil lying around – from February’s outing to the Salon d’Agriculture. (You can read about my first time with the cows on The Huffington Post). I like to toss my veggies with the oil by hand. I used to wash it off, but now I am conscious that all the expensive bath products I use contain the very same olive or almond oil I’m using in my kitchen – so I just rub it in. More effective than a bottle of moisturizer by the sink…

I’m fond of food that resembles an arts-and-crafts project – where you get points for prettiness as well as for taste.

It’s not hard to be painterly with layers of summer vegetables; the vivid green, flaming reds and oranges and deep royal purple are exactly the colors I would have chosen in finger-painting.



One question remains: will we eat our open-face sandwiches with our hands, à l’americaine, or with a knife and fork, like civilized French people?
G., gentleman that he is, immediately went for the knife and fork. I started out that way, but my roots soon got the better of me. About halfway through, I picked up the sandwich and took a big colorful bite, the garlicky tomato juice dripping down my fingers like a rare burger from a Jersey diner.

Almost ratatouille sandwiches for 2:

2 slices of focaccia (mine were about 6 inches square)
3 ripe tomatoes, cut into thirds
3 cloves of garlic, sliced
1 zucchini, thickly sliced
1 red pepper, sliced
1 orange or yellow pepper, sliced
1 small eggplant, whole
1 red onion, sliced
Extra virgin olive oil
Coarse sea salt
1 buffalo mozzarella, sliced

Preheat the oven to 450°F. Arrange the veggies on a large baking sheet lined with foil. Sprinkle the garlic on top of the tomatoes. Drizzle generously with olive, toss to coat. Bake for 45 minutes, until veggies are tender and beginning to caramelize. Remove from the oven and sprinkle with coarse sea salt. Slice the eggplant and drain slightly.

Layer the warm vegetables onto your bread: tomatoes and garlic on the bottom, then eggplant, zucchini, peppers, and finally red onion. Top with sliced mozzarella and a spoonful of olive oil from the pan.

Return to the oven for 10 minutes, plus a minute under the broiler (not too close to the heat) for a nice bubbly finish.

The world through rose-tinted champagne

I was awaked at 5:14 on Sunday morning (the morning of my 6th wedding anniversary) by a young women being murdered in our Parisian courtyard – except instead of screaming Nooooooooonnn, she was cooing: AH oui, ah oui, ah ouiii, at the top of her lungs. Paris is going through a bit of a heat wave at the moment, and since an air-conditioned apartment in the City of Light is as rare as a possum in pearls, everyone sleeps with their windows open. Naturally, you are sometimes awakened by a chorus of happy couples. What’s more, it’s contagious. Much like the cut-glass dish of Hersey’s Kisses on my grandmother’s coffee table – up till that moment, you didn't know you wanted one; but once you’ve spotted the shiny foil wrappers, thoughts form: “Why yes, don’t mind if I do.”

To escape the heat, G. and I went to see Ice Age 3 on Saturday night – large movie theatres being one of the only reliably air-conditioned spaces in all of Paris. Like Queen Latifah (in the guise of a foxy woolly mammoth) – I’m 8 ½ months pregnant at the moment. I went to my first pre-natal class this week, and learned that the delivery rooms of the Hôpital Franco-Britannique – where I am registered for the big event – are very much NOT air-conditioned (apparently, you can bring your own fan). All things considered, I’d rather give birth in a multiplex, watching the new Woody Allen movie “Whatever Works”.

To celebrate our anniversary G. and I went on picnic in the Buttes Chaumont in the 19th arrondissement, my favorite park in Paris. It was built up from the ruins of one of Napoleon III quarries – and following the picturesque fashion of German Romanticism, it sports a fake waterfall, a(n even faker) Grecian temple, and the requisite black swan. Aside from the theatrical setting, Les Buttes has another advantage over the more formal parks in Paris – you can sit on the grass. Don’t you dare try that in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

I’m not usually one to buy things strictly for the kitsch value, but in honor of the occasion I couldn’t pass up a tiny bottle of pink champagne: Moët & Chandon Rosé Impérial. The baby-to-be had a sip; may as well start them on the good stuff early…

Some of my pet foods are back at the market this month – including pêche plate – perfectly ripe white peaches that look like they’ve been squashed flat by a hippo. I looked them up on Wikipedia recently; they are originally from China – where the name translates to paradise peach. The English name – doughnut peach – lacks a certain poetry.

But the real reason to go on a picnic is Paris was concealed in a small square of red-checkered wax paper - rillettes de canard - shredded duck cooked in its own fat until it spreads like butter. Up to a certain point, the heat is quite friendly toward rillettes – to truly experience the taste and texture, it’s not the kind of thing you want to eat cold from the fridge.

After a nap and an article on the Iranian elections, the sky was just beginning to cloud over; we rolled up our old mustard-colored duvet cover to catch the bus for home.