After so many years of dreaming, drooling, eating, dreaming and drooling over the artichoke pizza at Pizza Chic, I finally branched out last week and ordered something else. This caprese pizza piled tomatoes, basil, and fresh mozzarella on a warm, chewy-crisp crust, a marvel of simple, perfect ingredients drizzled with fine olive oil. Ladies and gentlemen, I am in love.

Pizza Chic
13 rue de Mézières, 6e
tel: 01 45 48 30 38

Related posts:

Artichoke pizza in all Her glory

Herself, recreated

Pizza Chic seduces Lost in Cheeseland

Pizza Chic, official website

I grew up eating round, heavy globe artichokes, dipping the leaves in mayonnaise and scraping the flesh off with my front teeth. The center never cooled fast enough, and one of my first food memories is the sting of burning choke and thistle against my fingertips as I clawed my way to the meaty heart. (Surely that must be a metaphor for something.) Have you ever noticed that whatever you eat after eating artichokes tastes sweet? I remember the glasses of milk I gulped down afterwards, cool and honeyed.

The slender bunches of artichokes I’d bought at the market that morning were not globes, but a pretty, purple, baby variety called poivrade. And it was a good thing it was a bank holiday, because I’d completely forgotten how long they take to prepare.

First you snap off all the tough leaves — careful not to prick yourself, artichokes have thorns — and throw them away. Keep snapping until you reveal the tender, delicate, yellow leaves underneath, as in the photo above. Unlike their protective outer siblings, this hidden layer is supple and edible.

The first time I ever prepared baby artichokes was in Bologna, Italy. I didn’t know that artichokes stained almost everything they touch. Soon, my cutting board, apron, and white t-shirt were all smudged black. My fingertips looked like they’d been booked and printed at the local precinct.

Once you’ve stripped your artichoke to its silky underwear, slice off the stem and the top two-thirds of the leaves, as in the photo above.

With a vegetable peeler, pare off the bumpy, fibrous bits of the stem-end, then rub a lemon over the cut surfaces. This supposedly prevents the artichokes from oxidizing and blackening — as does the bowl of acidulated water in which the cleaned chokes rest — but in reality there’s no stopping Mother Nature. Despite my best efforts, my hearts always darken.

Slice the artichoke in half. Aren’t they pretty? I love that soft fuzzy center, the colors of creamy pale yellow, and secret flash of violet. In a (mostly futile) effort to maintain the color, I usually rub more lemon over all the cut surfaces.

Now, take a small spoon and dig at the fuzzy thistle in the center of the halved artichoke. Scrape it all out, using a bit of firm pressure.

Et, voila — a cleaned artichoke heart!

Quickly, drop it into a bowl of acidulated water, where it will bob as you finish preparing the others. And when all the hearts are clean…

Slice them finely for braising (as in the recipe below), or eat them raw in a salad with arugula and shaved parmesan, or use them as a pizza topping, or, or, or…

Artichokes + chili + mint

10 baby artichokes (called poivrade)
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 cloves garlic, peeled and finely sliced
1/2 teaspoon crushed chili flakes (or more to taste)
1 cup water
Large handful fresh mint leaves, chopped

Clean and prepare the artichokes, as illustrated above. Slice them finely. Warm the olive oil in a sauté pan over medium heat. When it shimmers, add the garlic and sauté for a minute, to release its scent. Add the crushed chili and sliced artichokes, stirring to coat them with oil. Add the water and mint, bring to a boil and lower heat to a simmer. Cover and cook gently, until the artichokes are soft and very tender, about 15 minutes. Add a dash or two of more water if the pan seems dry. Season to taste.

I like to toss the cooked artichokes with 250 grams (half pound) of penne, adding dashes of pasta cooking water to keep everything fluid. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve with a healthy sprinkle of parmesan cheese.

Here in France, there is a new president elect. But I’ve been wondering, if Victor Hugo was alive, who would he have supported in the election — Sarkozy, Hollande… or exile?

You see, last summer, I was lucky enough to visit the Channel Island of Guernsey, where Hugo, a fierce critic of the Second Empire, spent over 15 years. And, last Sunday — election day in France — I was so chuffed that my article about retracing the writer’s footsteps appeared in the New York Times!

As I wrote in the article, Hugo spent his exile in Guernsey unleashing a prolific outpouring of writing, as well as decorating his home, Hauteville House (photo above). He had an imaginative eye, combing the island’s junk shops for ordinary items, which he repurposed into ornamental elements. But he didn’t decorate alone. By his side was his faithful mistress of fifty years, Juliette Drouet, who had accompanied Hugo to Guernsey (along with his wife, children, and small band of followers).

On the island, Juliette lived in a series of rented rooms and houses. Among her first stops was this pub and boarding house, the Ship & Crown.

I easily found another of her rented residences, Hauteville Fairy, pictured above, a modest building located down the street from Hugo’s home. But another, La Fallue, seemed to have disappeared without a trace.

During my sojourn on the island, it sometimes felt like I was retracing Juliette’s foosteps, as well as Victor Hugo’s. I kept asking about La Fallue, but no one knew anything about it. But then I queried my guide, Gill Girard, and her response sent chills down my spine.

You see, the hotel where I was staying, The Pandora — located a few doors down from Hugo’s Hauteville House — had been created in the 1970s or ’80s from a cluster of old houses, now connected by rambling, wonky hallways into a sprawling hotel slightly reminiscent of Fawlty Towers. Gill told me that La Fallue, Juliette’s home, had been one of the original houses, and, as she described it, I realized it currently formed the part of the hotel where I was staying.

From the window of my room, number 14, I could see a glass conservatory — Hugo’s third-floor office and bedroom, which he called “the lookout” (photo above). According to the Victor Hugo biography by Graham Robb, every morning the writer would signal from his eyrie to Juliette, tying a white handkerchief  – a “torchon radieux” — to the railings to indicate he was awake. Is it possible that my room in The Pandora had been part of Juliette’s house?

I can only say that I slept like the dead in that room, unusually well for someone who is a bit of a nervous traveler. Perhaps it was the ghost of Juliette, Victor Hugo, or both, who ensured my rest.

Read the full article in the New York Times, and check out the accompanying slideshow of beautiful photographs.

Last week an afternoon stroll brought me to the Musée Rodin where, for the price of one Euro, I entered to flâner in the garden. For a little while, I enjoyed the sunshine, statues, and peonies.

And then…

I cowered under the awning of the café for at least twenty minutes, watching the rain and hail pummel the ground. Occasionally a fat, icy drop fell on my head. It was a beautiful, messy, inconvenient, spectacular interlude. Eventually, the rain lightened enough for us to dash out and buy an umbrella. By the time we had finished our transaction, it had stopped. Isn’t that always the way?

After I wrote about Kunitoraya a few months ago — a Japanese noodle bar in the 1e that is the solitary luncher’s haven — a friend told me about another shop, newly opened. “It’s the best udon in Paris,” she said.

Because said friend is A) Japanese, and B) a food lover, I took her suggestion very, very seriously. However, locked in a battle of epic proportions with my manuscript, I didn’t have time to visit Sanukiya until two weeks ago. Now, I’ve already been back a second time.

The setup is familiar: A long counter that runs along the edges of the room. A small team of cooks catching fat noodles in a fishing net. A steamy atmosphere scented with mirin, and seaweed, and a light undertone of fryer oil. On my first visit, I had the tempura udon (15€) a bowl of noodles in a clear broth crowned with two gorgeous fried shrimp. The soup lapped at the crisp coating of the tempura, softening some bits into a delightful contrast of crunch and sog.

At lunchtime, five extra Euros turns any order of noodles into a lunch set. You get the friture of the day — in my case, some toothsome nuggets of fried chicken — a crisp little salad of shredded cabbage, two slices of tamagoyaki, the lightly sweet Japanese omelette, and a small bowl of toki-gobogohan (which is really fun to say), rice steamed with mushrooms and bits of chicken — a few heavenly mouthfuls of Japanese comfort food.

On my second visit, I splurged on the tenzaru-udon (18€), a swirl of fat, chilled noodles that you dip into a salty broth of dashi, mirin, and soy sauce, before slurping them up strand by strand. Eaten cold, you can better appreciate the toothy bite of the house-made udon. A dish of vegetable and prawn tempura gets splashed in the same sauce; I loved the selection of lotus root, eggplant, pumpkin, and not just one but two jumbo shrimp, but found the batter a bit too heavy, slightly greasy and thick.

It would be easy to choose Kunitoraya for tempura, and Sanukiya for noodles, but that would ignore the menu’s wide selection of pork and miso-enhanced variations, its garnishes of fried burdock root, or crunchy bits of tempura batter, designed to contrast with the squidgy pasta, or to coat the noodles in a unctuous, salty glaze. I hope to return to try them all, one by one.

Sanukiya
9 rue d’Argenteuil, 1e
tel: 01 42 60 52 61

Bonjour, mes amis! The month of April means more than just strawberries, asparagus, and torrential showers spiked with hail (seriously, Paris, what is up with the weather this year?). It’s also time for another edition of my newsletter, which I just sent! You can find it here, and subscribe here. I share a few stories, offer a few addresses for new gastronomic discoveries in Paris and Toulouse, and provide a recipe for the photo above. Enjoy!

The past few weeks have been a peculiar period, equal parts self-indulgent and diligent. Never have I spent so many hours on end inside my apartment, not even when I had the great gastro of 2009 and could only eat liquids for three weeks. My husband took over the cooking and grocery shopping — turns out he makes a pretty mean meatloaf. I stopped exercising, reading for pleasure, and seeing friends. I hoarded dirty dishes in the sink because it turns out that if my brain is stuck, washing a pile of them helps get the gears moving again.

And yesterday — yesterday — I turned in the manuscript for the book. After more than a year of research and writing, it is done! Finished! I can scarcely believe it. Also, I think I have empty nest syndrome. I’ve spent the past 24 hours wandering in a haze, picking up things and putting them back down. I keep feel like I’m missing something, and then I realize, Oh, it’s the book. And it’s done! Hurray! And… sob! I’m both relieved and sorrowful at the same time. And, yes, I recognize that’s probably a sign of bipolar disorder.

To distract myself, I’ve nosed back into the kitchen and composed a little spring salad of bright cherry tomatoes and strawberries, perfumed with basil leaves. Pairing fruit and tomatoes is not a new idea — in the summer, I make a similar salad with peaches or nectarines, tomatoes, slivered red onions, and a pinch of dried chili — but I like the basil-enhanced fragrance of these two together. Also, it’s a good way to use early, not-very-fragrant strawberries.

A couple of suggestions: to make up for young berries, I recommend using cherry tomatoes, the sweet, ripe kind that are sold attached to the vine. I also recommend serving the salad at room temperature — the refrigerator will only chill the flavor out of the fruit. It’s gorgeous paired with burrata as the cheese’s luscious interior combines with the fruit for a modern, decadent, salty-sweet interpretation of strawberries and cream. (And if you’ve ever wondered “what is burrata?” here is a beautiful explanation.) Just make sure your cheese is room temperature (and not chilled) when you serve it. The salad is also wonderful with macadamia-crusted chicken.

As for me, well, 24 hours later and I already have my fingers in about a dozen new pies. You know me, mes amis, I just can’t stop myself. I’ll be sending out another edition of my quarterly newsletter later this week — please sign up here! — and I’ve begun an author page on Facebook and I would be thrilled if you stopped by and liked me. I also have all sorts of plans for lunches, walks, exhibitions, flea-marketing, and just plain enjoying life in Paris again, one bite at at time. Because that, surely, is the true art of French eating, n’est-ce pas?

See you again, very soon. xoxo

Strawberries + tomatoes + basil

1/2 lb cherry or grape tomatoes
1/2 lb strawberries
3-4 basil leaves
1/2 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
Black pepper

Cut the tomatoes into quarters and place them in a small bowl. Hull the strawberries, slice them into quarters, and add them to the tomatoes. Slice the basil leaves into thin strips, called a chiffonade, and add to the bowl. Stir in the vinegar, olive oil, and several grinds of fresh pepper. Taste adding more pepper if necessary. Serve immediately with burrata, fresh mozzarella, or plain.

There are lovely violet artichokes whose tender little hearts I dream of eating raw with a bright burst of lemon juice.

There are fat, juicy, grassy stalks of white asparagus, which I peeled, steamed, and drizzled with my lighter version of hollandaise.

There are fragrant strawberries — I’ve even found the Gariguette variety, from Brittany — which make a lovely breakfast when combined with Greek yogurt and a drizzle of honey. Or, there’s my new favorite lunch — half a ball of fresh mozzarella and a simple salad of quartered cherry tomatoes, quartered strawberries, torn basil leaves, olive oil, balsamic, and pepper.

There is plump young garlic, so much juicier and crunchier than its dried counterpart. If I were a preserving  kind of gal, I bet these fat cloves would make delicious, crisp pickles.

And there was my birthday cake, specifically the Montebello from Pierre Hermé: Dacquoise biscuit, pistachio cream, and strawberries (note how they only used the larger center slices of the berry). If one must celebrate another year, I couldn’t think of a better way.

Happy spring!

I first read about Le Select in The Dud Avocado. Like so many other details of Elaine Dundy’s comic novel, I thought it was exaggerated or invented. Not so. Le Select exists, as it has for decades, on the boulevard du Montparnasse, a glass-terraced café with rattan chairs and grumpy waiters. The former Hemingway watering hole (but weren’t they all?) is now the favorite hangout of French Green Party presidential candidate Eva Joly.

Across the street is another famous Hemingway café, La Coupole, and around the corner another, La Rotonde, and down the block still another, La Dôme. But Le Select is still Le Select.

Good for a croque monsieur (12.50€)…

A salade chèvre chaud (13€)…

And a coffee (2.80€).

Because it’s always lunchtime somewhere, n’est-ce pas?

Sipped on the beautiful terrasse of the Café Select.

P.S. Posts have recently been light because I am working frantically on finishing my new book, which is due in less than two weeks (insert quiet freak out). I’ll be back soon.

P.P.S. I’m very excited that said book will be a hot title at the London book fair. Here’s a lovely mention in Publishers Weekly!