Petit Pois

Le Square Trousseau

2009-10-20T13:30:00.002Z

Just down the road, at the edge of large, elegant square, is a turn of the century cafe/bistro so perfectly preserved that it has featured in movies and photo shoots. Inside the L-shaped room, the walls are sepia-toned and lined with leather banquettes and mirrors reflect the light from tulip-shaped chandelier bulbs. On the pavement, small tables and rattan chairs are arrayed so as to best take in the sun, trees and passers-by. No detail is missing: gleaming, zinc-topped bar, waitresses in long, white aprons, even the resident dog.

A bit more polished and expensive than its competitors, Le Square Trousseau nonetheless remains a locals’ joint. I could imagine putting on heels and crimson lipstick and having a decadent dinner there. But its timeless quality might be best appreciated with a coffee in the off-hours. Spring afternoons on the sidewalk-cum-terrace are predictably glorious, angling for the sun on my shoulders, watching after school errands segue into pre-dinner drinks. But I’ve begun to prefer indoors, where the gentle bustle of the square is replaced with old jazz standards and the whir of the coffee machine.

One day last week I arrived late, 11 am or so. The kitchen emitted smells of stew and chocolate cake, and the waitresses were preparing for lunch. On each table they set out a square of brown paper, a pepper grinder, wine glasses, flatware and white linen napkins. Two enormous loaves of bread arrived, a round of cheese was whisked off to a serving table, wobbly tables were righted with the help of lozenge-shaped metal disks.

Seated further down the banquette was the only other customer, a middle-aged woman reading the Sunday magazine supplement. The dog, a white and black Jack Russell, perched on the banquette between us, his posture perfectly erect. As the French would say, tous comme il fait (everything as it should be).

Le Square Trousseau
1 rue Antoine Vollon 75012
01-4343-0066
Open daily from early to late, limited café seats during peak eating hours

Bánh mì

2009-09-30T19:29:00.010Z

Reading through Gourmet’s recent reports on the best street food worldwide, I thought about tacos and why Paris didn’t merit mention. It was, to be fair, hardly an egregious oversight. There are half a dozen falafel stands in the historic Jewish heartland of the Marais (most famous is the Lenny-Kravitz-approved L’As du Felafel), serviceable crepe stands in parks and tourist areas and forgettable filled baguettes on nearly every commercial strip. This limited quality and variety reflects a culture which is still adapting to changing eating habits. While the midday three-courses with wine is increasingly giving way to lighter and faster fare, excellence at lunchtime is somehow not altogether expected. And consuming a meal while standing up, walking down the street or riding public transport remains suspect.

But in the city’s outer arrondissments there’s an authentic quick eat with great potential to go mainstream. It’s even served on a baguette.

Bánh mì (literally sandwich on French bread) originated mid-century in Vietnam, then under French colonial rule. At first, it was a luxurious foreign import, a baguette lined with cured meats, butter and cornichons. But after France’s ignominious retreat post ‘54 it was transformed into a thoroughly local, immensely popular, cheap meal. Baguettes had remained, and the local paté was not a huge departure from the original. The Vietnamese touches came through in the garnishes—pickled vegetables (carrot and daikon) and fresh herbs—and the inclusion of some chili heat.

Still served at street-side stalls and mobile restaurants throughout southern Vietnam, the bánh mì also migrated west during the 1960s and 1970s, providing a taste of home (and entrepreneurial opportunities) for refugees resettled in southern California, Paris or Virginia. Here, it has undergone another series of adaptations, spurred by ingredient availability and acculturation. As well as the classic paté, fillings now include Chinese-style roasted pork, chicken, meatballs, even sometimes tofu. And some are experimenting with upmarket or avant-garde treatments. But whether in Belleville or Brooklyn, the bánh mì remains the quintessential lunch on the go: available for a handful of change in a fluorescent-lit setting ill-suited to lingering.

Real estate may be the only thing preventing the bánh mì from dominating lunchtime trade. Here in Paris, it can just be found in the two “Chinatowns”, each a good 20 minute journey from the city’s commercial heart. The physical proximity of Manhattan’s Chinatown to downtown offices makes the bánh mì more accessible to New Yorkers, though I’ve never seen one above 14^th Street. And in London, the search for a bánh mì would likely extend until afternoon tea.

For now the answer—which also conveniently resolves any qualms about eating super-cheap meat—is to make it at home. But should anyone be looking for a new business partner, remember who gave you the idea.

Bánh mì

Outside of Vietnamese population centres, it’s almost impossible to find made-for-purpose baguettes: slim, light and constructed partially with rice flour. Here, though, otherwise inferior fluffy baguettes come into their fore. If necessary, crisp them before serving and/or remove a bit of the interior. And while I’ve only encountered chicken bánh mì with plain steamed meat, the marinade ingredients are all used in other Vietnamese poultry dishes.

Adapted from Food Woolf and The Traveler’s Lunchbox
Serves 2
Total time: 2-4 hours; Active time: 30 minutes
Special equipment: mortar and pestle

Chicken
2 chicken breasts
1/3 star anise flower
1 large clove garlic
1 small finger ginger
Pinch 5 spice powder
Chili (dried or fresh, to taste)
1 heaping tbsp brown sugar
2 tbsp fish sauce (nam pla)
Splash rice vinegar

Sandwich and Filling
2 small carrots
1/8 cup rice vinegar
1 tbsp brown sugar
1/2 cucumber
1 baguette
Mayonnaise (to taste)
Sricha chili sauce (to taste)
Small handful cilantro (coriander)
Lime juice

In advance:
Rinse chicken breasts, remove any skin and/or fat and place on a large plate or shallow dish.

Using the mortar and pestle, grind the star anise finely. Peel the ginger and garlic and chop the ginger coarsely. Add and grind. (You may find that coarse salt helps the mixture to coalesce) Mix in a pinch of five spice powder. If using dried chili, add to paste and grind. Fresh chili can be chopped finely and then combined. Stir in brown sugar, fish sauce and rice vinegar. Taste for a sweet-salty-sour balance.

Pour marinade over chicken, turning to coat. Cover and refrigerate.

Grate the carrot coarsely using a grater or food processor. Combine rice vinegar and sugar in a large bowl, adding about ½ cup body-temperature tap water. Stir to dissolve. Add carrots, stir and refrigerate.

Just before eating:
Heat grill or grill pan on a medium-high heat. Remove chicken from marinade and cook, turning when firm and cooked. Remove from heat and let rest for at least 5 minutes. Slice into cubes or strips.

Cut cucumber into long, thin strips. Slice baguette in half, opening up to make 2 sandwiches. Place desired quantity of mayonnaise in a small bowl. Season with Sricha and spread on bread. Drain carrots and add to sandwich, along with sliced cucumber. Tear or cut coriander into small sprigs, discarding stalks. Add chicken to the sandwich. Finish with coriander and a good squeeze of lime juice.

Dijon et Poireaux Vinaigrette

2009-09-11T14:45:00.014Z

“We lived for almost three years in Dijon, which the Burgundians called without any quibble and only half-hearted contradictions ‘the gastronomic capital of the world.’ We were lucky to… be within ourselves eager, interested, and above all husky-gutted. Most of our orgies were voluntary, but even so I doubt if more jaded livers than ours could have stood the thousand bilious blows we dealt them.” MFK Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

In the world’s northernmost fine wine region, Burgundy’s vineyard owners play an annual game of chance with the weather, hoping that limited sun and heat will produce wines which are delicate, rarified and aromatic, rather than thin and mean. As if to compensate for this, the food is rich and abundant, reliant on butter, meat and wine-enriched sauces. The eponymous boeuf bourguignon is only the most famous of a local repertory which includes coq au vin (with chicken usually taking the place of the traditional rooster), ouefs en meurette (eggs poached in a sauce of butter, red wine, mushrooms and bacon), jambon persillade (a gelee-topped coarse pork paté) and snails with garlic butter (escargot).

Ignoring the atypically hot August weather, I managed a fair sampling of typical Burgundian dishes during a recent visit to Dijon and its environs. At a stylish bistro just across from the Eiffel-design central market, where the waitress sported henna tattoos and Gaultier leggings and the patrons were well-fed and equally well-coiffed, I began with a slice of the local paté. It was true to what I’ve seen at charcuteries across Paris, the only concession to fashion being a green, mousse-like top layer of parsley, instead of finely-chopped leaves throughout. Bouef bourgignon provided a satisfying first impression of the dish, the rich, glossy gravy soaking perfectly into the pommes purees. To finish, a sharp, boozy sorbet made with cassis (blackcurrants) and the local liqueur, crème de cassis.

There was a repeat of the bouef bourgignon the next day, the 12 hours of cooking rendering the beef so soft as to require only a spoon. I was delighted by the presentation in an individual Staub casserole, though mashed potatoes were sorely missed. Here the highlights were a poached egg in a cream of summer truffles, the cheese plate, featuring Epoisses from a producer only 10 minutes up the road and the bucolic setting in the centre of the blink-and-you-miss-it wine town of Gevrey-Chambertin. Eating such a meal—complete with matching glasses of wine at each course—was perhaps ill-advised on a day when I still had some 20 kilometres to cycle in hot sun. But both the scenery and the menu were too good to justify compromise.

Once cold temperatures and company coincide, I hope to pull out my own Staub and attempt Julia Child’s iconic recipe. For now, though, I’m concentrating my efforts on slightly lighter fare.

Poireaux vinaigrette is another Burgundian classic, combining leeks (usually poached or boiled) with a dressing made from local Dijon mustard. Tangy and full-flavoured, it would provide an excellent lead-in to a rich, winey stew. Less traditional, but also less stultifying, would be to make a few more leeks, buy a baguette and follow with some good cheese. Let your liver guide you.

Poireaux Vinaigrette

It’s rare that I gravitate towards more complicated versions of simple recipes. But here the extra steps yield real improvements: tying the leeks with a twist of their greens keeps them intact through two stages of cooking. Likewise, replacing boiling with sautéing and braising dramatically deepens flavor and eliminates any potential stringiness. The sauce’s acidity makes this a poor match for more serious wine; pair with a simple, not-too-austere Chardonnay (like a Macon-Villages)

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma French
Serves 2*
Total time: 35 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

4 slender leeks
Olive oil
3/4 cups chicken stock
1 scant tablespoon grain or Dijon mustard**
Lemon juice or wine vinegar
Salt and pepper
Special equipment: large frying pan; tongs

Trim leeks, retaining the green ends, and split along length. (If they are too long to fit across the base of your largest frying pan, split once across width.) Rinse each under the tap, lifting the layers to remove dirt, but being careful to keep intact. Using a thin length peeled from the trimmings, tie each leek around its middle.

On a medium-high flame, heat just enough oil to film pan. When hot add as many leeks as will fit in one layer. Season with salt and pepper. Turn occasionally until both sides are golden and have spots of deeper caramelisation, about 8-10 minutes. If required, remove to plate and repeat with remaining leeks.

Return all leeks to the pan. Add chicken stock and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook until the leeks are very tender and most of the liquid has evaporated, 10-15 minutes. While they cook, make the dressing, mixing the mustard with just enough olive oil and lemon juice to make a sharp, very thick sauce.

Pour over leeks and check seasoning. Serve immediately or at room temperature.

* While the recipe can easily be doubled, it becomes time-consuming without access to several large frying pans.

** I particularly like this one. The only brand still made with locally-grown seeds, it has an elegant, sprightly flavor. Whatever you use, make sure your mustard is fresh.

Pan Bagnat

2009-09-07T16:58:00.009Z

John Ash tells of being invited for lunch by the great food writer MFK Fisher. As they chatted, she prepared a large sandwich, wrapped it tightly and handed it to him with instructions to sit upon it until it was time to eat. After an hour or so it was retrieved from its resting place and served in thin, neat slices with cornichons and Californian Pinot Noir.

According to Ash, lunch that day was a ham and cheese sandwich, bound together with a tangy mix of mayonnaise and mustard. But it seems likely that Fisher, who spent many years living in the south of France, borrowed the melding technique from the classic Nicoise sandwich, pan bagnat. Best translated as "bathed bread", a pan bagnat sandwiches tinned fish, hard-boiled egg, tomato and condiments in a large roll, using weights, time and good amount of olive oil to turn the whole into a deliciously marinated mess.

Sturdy and able to keep, pan bagnat makes perfect picnic food. So when the idea emerged to spend an afternoon cycling in the parks surrounding the Chateau de Versailles, I knew exactly what we'd be having for lunch. By chance, the one local bakery selling ciabatta had reopened the previous day, and we had discovered a particularly tasty brand of oil-packed anchovies. I made the sandwiches early in the morning, layering on the tuna and anchovies, egg and sliced tomato and seasoning with herbes de provence, the remaining oil and a splash of lemon juice. Double-wrapped, the sandwiches went into my backpack under 4 bottles of water and other paraphernalia. By the time we had dragged the bikes out to Versailles and found a sunny spot facing the Chateau, they were nicely squashed and moist throughout.

I was distracted from taking photos by the swarm of alcoholic wasps who also attended our picnic, eventually meeting their demise in a half-bottle of Saumur Rouge. But the sandwiches, along with what wine we could retrieve and a bag of Reine Claudes, provided sufficient ballast for several hours of charging through the woods and gaping at the grandeur.

Pan Bagnat
Adapted from the New York Times
Serves 2
Active time: 30 minutes; Total time 3-10 hours

2 portion-sized or 1 large ciabatta, either olive or plain (substitute a small white country loaf)
1 medium-size tin tuna packed in olive oil
1 small or medium tin of anchovies packed in olive oil
1 tomato
Small handful olives (optional)
Basil leaves or a small handful of rocket (optional)
Herbes de provence
Lemon juice
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Hard-boil eggs according to preferred method. Split the ciabatta, removing a bit of the interior if desired. Open the cans of fish. Spoon a bit of the residual oil onto the bread. Add the tuna, followed by the anchovies. Slice the tomato and place on top. Stone the olives, cut in half and add.

Once sufficiently cool, peel eggs, slice and add to fish and tomato. Top with leaves. Season to taste with herbes de provence, lemon juice, olive oil and salt and pepper.

Wrap sandwiches in a double layer of foil, place on a plate and refrigerate, using a heavy pan or some canned goods to compress. Bring to room temperature before serving. Sandwiches will keep for at least a few hours outside the refrigerator.

Chez Moi

2009-09-04T14:46:00.014Z

With too much time on my hands these days, it is tempting to explore making more things from scratch. I heard recently that canning is achieving new-found popularity. Why not make some jams and chutneys with the last of the summer produce? Or yogurt—homemade is meant to be excellent, and cheap too. Ice cream and bread are out due to lack of equipment, but many of the things on my fridge door—ketchup, curry paste, tapenade—could be attempted.

Yet while my homemade jam is perfectly nice, it falls short of even good-quality supermarket brands. Tapenade prepared in my mortar and pestle boasts an appealingly rustic texture, but it’s expensive, messy and has a shorter shelf-life. As for yogurt, I don’t share the French passion for eating it multiple times a day, which would seem necessary to make it worthwhile. Ketchup is only called into service for steak tartare; Heinz works just fine there, additives be damned.

Undoubtedly, a more skilled jam-maker or a larger household might reach different conclusions. But for me, these types of projects seem justified only if undertaken for the pleasure of the process; good results are strictly a bonus.

Boredom may yield some additions to last year’s stash of homemade plum chutney (a bit too sharp, and less versatile than I imagined). At least I’ve found one made-from-scratch project which is impressively simple, cost-efficient and tasty:

Homemade gravadlax involves nothing more than topping a salmon fillet with some greenery and seasoning, then weighting it down in the fridge for a few days. Given the length of the lines at my local supermarket, the initial preparation takes less time than visiting the chilled fish aisle, plus I’m able to buy two or three times the quantity of fresh fish for the cost of a small packet of cured. After two or three days in the fridge, homemade gravadlax has a brighter, fresher taste than its commercial counterpart. It is also easy scalable; anything from a 200 gram (1/2 pound) fillet to a whole side of salmon can be cured.

Sliced into strips, piled onto blini or thin toast and topped with sour cream, the gravadlax makes an elegant starter. Though its texture is less dense and oily, it can also stand in anywhere smoked salmon is used: eggs, salads, sandwiches. Most recently, we served it whole as a main course, accompanied by potato salad.

So, at the risk of sounding like one of missionary types who wants you make your own jam, I can only say: buy the salmon. It’s worth it. And have I mentioned that it’s easy?

Gravadlax
adapted from Cooking for Engineers
Serves 4 as a starter or 2 as a main (can be easily doubled or tripled)
Active time: 10 minutes; Total time: 2-3 days
Special equipment: mortar and pestle

1 salmon fillet, about 200 grams (try to find one of equal thickness throughout)
1 scant tablespoon coarse sea salt
1 heaping tablespoon granulated sugar (I used light brown)
1 heaping teaspoon black peppercorns
1 heaping teaspoon juniper berries (optional but recommended)
Handful fresh dill

If possible, peel or cut skin from salmon fillet. Examine for pin-bones by draping over hand, removing any with fingers or thin tweezers. Place fish in the center of a double layer of foil.

Measure salt and sugar in a small bowl. Grind peppercorns and juniper berries coarsely in a mortar and pestle and add to sugar-salt mixture. Stir to combine. Spoon mixture over both sides of fish, pressing gently into flesh.

Place dill fronds under and on fish fillet, snapping off protruding stems. Wrap fish into a tight package with the first layer of foil. Repeat packaging with second piece of foil. Place in a shallow dish and weight down evenly with cans and/or a heavy pan.

Turn 2 times/day, leaving package wrapped. After two or three days, unwrap package, brush or rinse off any excess cure and serve. Unused fish will keep covered for another week or so.

Cafe dei Cioppi

2009-09-03T15:32:00.020Z

In stark contrast to Londoners and New Yorkers, Parisians are not in thrall to either a real or imagined dolce vita. At the simplest level, many believe that France contains the ne plus ultra of all that is significant: culture, history, language, cuisine and natural beauty. Accordingly, Parisians are far more likely to take their holidays domestically: in Brittany, the Dordogne or on their own (sizeable) Mediterranean coastline. Even with a long shared border, spanning from the Alps south to the Riviera, Italian cultural permeation is limited.

Add to this the absence of any significant Italian immigration to the French capital, and it is perhaps unsurprising that even the simplest red-sauce restaurants tend to disappoint. I was therefore dubious when a shoebox of an Italian cafe opened down the street a few months back. What were the chances that a kitchen smaller than mine would be turning out anything more than mediocre, overpriced pasta?

A few glowing, big-gun reviews were necessary before I realised that I was, quite possibly, entirely wrong, a fact which has been subsequently—and joyfully—confirmed over three of the best restaurant meals I’ve eaten in Paris. The kitchen has a talent for making the most unassuming dishes on the seasonal, pared-down menu—a cold courgette and mint soup, or pasta puttanesca—not only worthwhile to order, but befuddlingly delicious. Lasagne is another unlikely star; last week’s pumpkin and sausage rendition was rich with béchamel and lustily seasoned, the Platonic ideal of a season-shifting dish.

A simple salad of burrata, vegetables and leaves shows off good sourcing, and someone in the operation has an eye for unusual wines (all available by the glass). Even desserts, rarely a high point of Italian meals, are near-perfect. A dollop of mascarpone would have been lovely with the fig and ricotta cake, though you can see we had no difficulty in going without.

On our first visit, an outside table was occupied by some larger-than-life artist and designer types, with the leader of the pack, a Christian Louboutin look-alike, sporting a T-shirt that matched his saffron-rich risotto. None have been so obviously colourful since, but the close quarters, the alley-way full of hanging vines and bicycles and Franco-Italian mix of staff and customers all yield an unselfconsciously cosmopolitan atmosphere.

My living room, though a mere 150 metres away, is probably a bit too far for overflow seating. But I wonder whether they might be amenable to a dishwashing-lasagne exchange. Best reason I can think of to work on that glass-polishing...

159 rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine 75011
01-43-46-10-14
Monday-Friday lunch; Wednesday-Friday dinner
Metro: Ledru-Rollin

Courgettes et Fleurs de Courgettes (Zucchini + Zucchini Blossoms)

2009-08-12T21:12:00.009Z

If the courgettes in your corner of the world have grown huge and out of control, this recipe will have to wait until next year. But here in Paris, I’m still coming home from the market with relatively lilliputian ones. With thin skins and a refined flavour, these require nothing more than a quick softening in olive oil before tossing with fresh herbs and cheese, or combining with eggs. Using mandolin-fine slices, the cooking can be skipped altogether.

Tasty, easy and cheap, variations on courgette frittatas and salads are in frequent rotation right now. But good as they can be, none have approached the practically sublime pasta dish I made recently with sautéed courgette, basil and courgette blossoms. The vegetable base got an extra layer of flavour from chicken stock (obvious, perhaps, though I rarely use it in quick dishes), while the julienned basil and blossoms were thrown in just at the end, allowing them to retain a bit of texture and, more importantly, distinct flavours. Tossed with thin pasta and finished with fresh Parmesan, it was rich and fragrant, the kind of dish that warrants total attention while eating.

Served with an acidic, lightly floral Italian white wine (perhaps a Vermentino or Falanghina), it would make an elegant dinner for two. Yet even without someone present whom I could impress or seduce, it more than justified the (relatively modest) cost and time required. One for the files.

Pasta with Courgettes and Blossoms
adapted from a Chez Panisse recipe by David Tanis
Serves 2
Total time: 30 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

Tanis’ original recipe used corn kernels and scallions. As both of those are hard to find in Paris, I substituted onion and upped the quantity of courgettes. In order to avoid overwhelming the delicate flavour of the blossoms, be sure to use courgettes which are small, firm and virtually seedless. Also, as the flowers will wilt quickly, this is a recipe to make on the same day as your market visit.

1-2 tbsp olive oil
3-4 slim, very small yellow or green courgettes (if your blossoms have tiny courgettes attached, use those in part)*
1 small onion
100-125 ml stock, preferably chicken
300-400 grams dried fettuccine or linguine (I like De Cecco brand)
4-6 courgette blossoms
Small handful fresh basil
Parmesan

Begin heating up the water for pasta. Dice the courgettes (it shouldn’t be necessary to peel them) and onion. Warm the olive oil in a large, heavy sauté pan over medium heat. Add the vegetables, season and sauté, stirring regularly to avoid sticking or excessive browning. When they are soft—up to ten minutes—add a good splash of stock and continue to cook, lowering the heat slightly. Put the pasta on to boil.

Allow the stock to reduce by ½ and the flavours to combine, another 5 minutes. Remove the stems and stamens from the courgette blossoms and julienne. Tear or cut the basil.

Add both to the sauce and toss to wilt. Drain the pasta and add to the sauce mixture, stirring well to combine and coat. Remove from the heat, adjust seasoning and serve immediately with grated Parmesan.

*A wide variety—along with the blossoms—can currently be found at Joel Thiebault’s market stall.

So English!

2009-08-07T12:00:00.003Z

Surfing the website of Elle à Table recently, I was amused to discover articles entitled “Cheese Party” and “Notre Best-Of Des Recettes du Pasta”. This month’s Vogue Paris is equally generous with Anglicisms, referencing “globetrotter”, “top model”, “easy attitude”, “jet-set” and “world class.” Even my gym instructor peppers her instructions with exhortations of “let’s go” and “extra-slow.”

The pollution of French language and culture is a favourite topic of columnists and TV pundits. But whether it’s the glowing reviews for restaurants opened by foreigners (most notably Paris’ Spring) or the current trend for cupcakes, the culinary battle-lines may have softened somewhat. Even the gastronomic reputation of France’s closest Anglophone neighbour seem to have increased of late, a claim given some weight by the new Fortnum & Mason concession at Bon Marché food hall, the proliferation of books devoted to crumble and the extraordinary popularity of Paris’ Rose Bakery, a high-end café serving scones, Neals Yard cheese, even Marmite.

While I’ve bought enough British meat, cheese and produce to know that it can be the equal of its French counterpart (I actually prefer British beef, which tends to be longer-aged, though France’s cheese selection is unsurpassed), the meals I produce in London still tend to reflect a Franco-Mediterranean sensibility. And yet on a recent weekend, in between the Alsace wine and goose rillettes, and the herbes de provence-roasted lamb and Minervois, we enjoyed an accidental assemblage of thoroughly British food as good as anything Continental.

My morning trip to Borough Market had begun with a visit to its most-renowned butcher, The Ginger Pig. Waiting in line to purchase a leg of lamb, I found myself quite unexpectedly drawn to an enormous savoury pie filled with chicken, tarragon and chervil. And while pies are generally something I associate with bad pub or service station food, I knew that one here—with proper lard or butter pastry, and high-quality filling—would be an excellent introduction to the genre.

Lunch evolved from there: a side of watercress salad and glasses of Sam Smith’s ale, the preferred drink of my second-favourite literary detective, Inspector Morse. To finish, a few dregs of beer accompanied Welsh Caerphilly cheese and some thin Scottish oatcakes.

For dessert the following night, we made a retro summer classic: Eton mess. Nothing more than semi-crushed strawberries combined with whipped cream and bits of meringue, it had my ever-so-proper (and astonishingly slender) friend licking the bowl. I did sneak in a splash of crème de cassis to the macerating berries. But I think the real credit is due to the ever-reliable Delia (whose cultural significance in the UK is somewhere between that of Julia Child and Martha Stewart) and to middle England’s favourite grocer, Marks & Spencers, who supplied Kentish strawberries, double cream and irreproachable meringues.

There may have even been some cricket, though I will only admit to intermittent pauses in front of the TV. Some joys remain to be discovered...

Tagine aux Sardines

2009-08-02T12:11:00.009Z

Were I to tell my tomato and herb vendors that I hadn’t yet developed a taste for North African pastries, it’s likely that they would leave their stands in the care of underlings, escort me to any one of a number of local shops and present me with a plate of assorted sweetmeats. Yet if I were to mention that I had developed a method for fish tagine* that might yield better results than those their mother or grandmother used, I doubt that I would be invited into their kitchens for a demonstration.

Taste memory is unassailable, so too authenticity. And while it may have suffered from the ubiquity of time-saving ingredients—instant couscous, bouillon cubes and premade spice mixes—traditional North African food is something that, for much of Paris’ population, is as familiar and evocative as Friday night challah is to me. And so just as I’m dismissive of every loaf which isn’t my mother’s, I can understand why my tagine, though avoiding the common problem of overcooked fish and undercooked onions, would not past muster at the market. In the interest of ensuring my supply chain for tomato and basil salads, I’ll therefore be keeping this more or less to myself.

Sardine Tagine

Serves 2; can easily be doubled or tripled
Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 15-20 minutes

Unlike traditional tagines, in which all of the ingredients are cooked together for the same length of time, this vegetable and herb base is virtually ready by the time the fish is added. This allows the fish to retain structural integrity and the spice rub to be fresh and unmuddied . Sardines are delicious and inexpensive, but their high oil content means they spoil quickly. If you can’t access good ones, try this with mackerel fillets or a full-flavoured white fish, perhaps mullet or bream. Either add to the fish’s cooking time or cut the fillets into large bite-size pieces.

Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 small bulb fennel
2 small tomatoes
Large handful coriander
Large handful parsley
2 cloves garlic
A few slices lemon peel
Harissa (substitute hot paprika or red pepper flakes)
400 grams sardine fillets (from 600-700 grams whole fish)
Large pinch each cumin, coriander and fennel seed
Lemon juice

Over a low heat, warm enough olive oil to just cover the surface of a heavy, lidded pan. Slice the onion and fennel bulb thinly, add, season and fry gently until just soft, 5-8 minutes. While these cook, chop tomato and herbs coarsely. Add all the tomato and half the herbs to the pan. Pour in a few tablespoons of water and cook the mixture until the tomato begins to break down and the other vegetables are fully softened, another 10 minutes or so. Slice or chop garlic and add once the mixture is nearly cooked. Add lemon peel and harissa to taste. Take off heat and set aside.

Rinse the filets and place flesh side up on a large plate. Grind the cumin, coriander and fennel seeds in a mortar and pestle or spice grinder. Using a teaspoon, distribute the ground spices evenly over the fish.

Warm the sauce over a low heat. Sandwich the fish fillets (spice-side in) and distribute over the sauce. If the mixture looks dry, add another splash or two of water. Cover and cook on a gentle heat until the fish is just cooked through (as little as 5 minutes depending on the size/thickness of the fillets). Add lemon juice, adjust seasoning and serve warm or at room temperature with remaining herbs, couscous or flatbread.

* This Arabic word describes both a conical, earthenware pot and any meat, fish or vegetable dish cooked in it.

The Skinniest Month

2009-08-01T20:43:00.003Z

Sainte Maure du Touraine

2009-07-21T18:32:00.006Z

Well before my cheese suppliers go on summer vacation, my purchases undergo a seasonal shift. Blue cheese is banished until the pears appear in late September, anything too oozy or with a washed rind takes a hiatus and even favourites like Comte only emerge to finish off a bottle of chunky, spicy red wine. On regular rotation are feta, which I mash into a chunky dip with yogurt, cucumber, dill and mint, mozzarella, which appears predictably with tomatoes, roasted peppers and pesto and lots of different types of goats cheese.

I’m happy to eat goats cheese year round, but there are a few reasons why it’s almost always in my fridge these days. Goats cheese tends to go well with summery wine, particularly rosé from Provence or the Loire and, classically, sauvignon blanc. It’s even a decent match with lighter-weight reds, particularly slightly-chilled cabernet franc, also from the Loire. Even with creamier styles, its characteristic “twang”, or acidity, makes goats cheese feel and taste a bit lighter. And it’s a natural match with seasonal produce—from peas and fava beans to tomatoes, courgettes and all sorts of salad greens. Fresh, un-aged goats cheese even makes a delicious dessert, either plain with peaches, berries and a bit of honey, or in a pannacotta or mousse. Finally, all but the most delicate varieties can withstand a few hours out of the fridge without melting, stinking or becoming greasy.

My regular cheesemonger sells upwards of fifty French goats cheeses. Among the most striking are the pyramidal, ash-coated Valencay and the Banon, dipped in eau-de-vie and aged in chestnut leaves. The Bouton d’Oc makes a bite sized appetizer, while servings of aged goats cheeses from either the Alps or Pyrenees* are sliced off a 3 kg wheel. Texture is dependent on style, aging and season, with the myriad of possibilities captured on the scale from moelleux (creamy, moist, also soft) to sec (dry, most likely also firm).

Though I try to experiment, I’ve developed some firm favourites, including Sainte Maure du Touraine. Taking its name from the ancient province of Touraine (now the departement of Indre-et-Loire) and a local martyr, Sainte Maure is made from raw goats cheese, formed into a 5 inch log and dipped into ground ash before being ripened from anywhere from 10 days to 6 weeks. Its texture is dense and almost fudgy, going creamy around the edges as it gets older. It is often described as having a mildly nutty aroma, a lemon-tinged lightness on the tongue, particularly when younger, and a mouth-filling, though not aggressively, “goaty” taste. Perhaps its most distinguishing physical feature is a narrow straw running inside the length of the cheese, once used to help aging but now purely decorative.

There’s certainly no reason why Sainte Maure couldn’t be used in a savoury tart or salad, though the ash-coating is less attractive when sliced and strewn. I serve it with nothing more than some good bread, sauvignon blanc and, if being fancy, a not-too-sweet jam, particularly one made with gooseberries, white figs or green tomato. With a plate of tomatoes to start and perhaps some raspberries or peaches to finish, it is supper enough on a hot, still evening like this one.

* French mountain cheeses are collectively referred to as tomme and can be made from cows, goats and/or sheeps milk.

La Graineterie du Marché

2009-07-10T06:48:00.008Z

Though I’ve been shopping at La Graineterie du Marché for well over two years now, I’m still not quite sure how to describe it. Perhaps the best thing I can do is to provide a partial list of things I’ve bought there in recent months: brown-paper sacks of basmati rice, polenta and mojettes (a dried white bean similar to cannellini); green tea with dried fruits and flowers, perfect for drinking iced; gloriously aromatic ras el hanout, dotted with dried rose petals; pine nuts, walnuts and almonds; candied orange peel.

Before learning his name, I used to refer to the proprietor, José Madani, as the hippy bird guy. It wasn’t meant to be unkind: José sports longish, graying hair, has a tweeting bird by the front door of the shop and sells many health food staples: grains and pulses from bulk bins and a wide variety of nuts and seeds. There’s even a sign requesting customers to use their own bags. But a few things make the store very different.

Firstly, despite a more-than-superficial resemblance to the health food stores that began to open in the 1960s and 1970s, Jose’s shop is part of an older tradition: the graineterie and epicerie. Akin to the general or dry goods store, it aimed to provide the full complement of dried and preserved foods, along with some household products. The graineterie at the Marché d’Aligre has been in continuous operation since 1895, making it the oldest of its kind in Paris. And while the current shop is not fully comprehensive in its stock, bird feed, seeds, gardening equipment and enameled picnic ware are all available in the back room, and at least a dozen varieties of herb plants for sale on the pavement.

A second distinction comes from an unusual attention to provenance and quality: the nut oils come from an old, family-owned business, the pain d’epices (gingerbread) from Dijon’s most renowned supplier, the jams from an excellent, small-batch producer, also from Burgundy. Each bin is labeled with its place of origin and cooking direction, from the humble (couscous) to the expensive (tarbais beans) and the exotic (sticky black rice). The nuts and seeds are always fresh, a sure sign of high turnover and quality control.

Finally, there is a strong aesthetic sensibility, building both on original features such as a terracotta tiled floor and the colours and patterns of the wares. Pretty china saucers act as signs in the bean bins, shelves devoted to jam are a spectrum of oranges, reds and pinks, even simple sacks of tisanes and flour draw in the eye. The effect is a pleasant middle-ground—very rarely found—between the disorderly visual feast provided by ethnic groceries and the studied minimalism of so-called “gourmet” groceries.

Should you need any further enticement, he is also a huge fan of New York City, which he describes as "fantastique!"

La Graineterie du Marché
8 place d'Aligre 75012
Tuesday-Saturday 9-1, 4-7; Sunday 9-1:30
Metro: Ledru Rollin or Bastille

Le Rostand (et autres addresses sur le 6th)

2009-06-29T18:44:00.006Z

Situated in a privileged position across from the Jardin du Luxembourg, Le Rostand oozes money, though in a respectful, understated way. The café’s interior is grand yet slightly faded, its clientele genteel, but rarely ostentatious. On a visit this past winter, I saw women of a certain age wearing their fur coats indoors, Bonpoint-attired children sharing cake with their equally well-dressed parents, a few professorial types holding court and some students (the Sorbonne is not far away) buying 3 euro espressos, thus earning a table for the afternoon.

The cafe takes its name from Edmond de Rostand, author of Cyrano de Bergerac. While this was likely not an intentional homage (rather governed by the fact that the cafe sits on a square dedicated to the writer), the association is nonetheless a fortuitous one, as both the café and the neighbourhood like to trade on their intellectual heritage. All but the most successful writers and artists have long since decamped to the city’s cheaper northeastern arrondissements. Yet the lure—for visitors and, to some degree, the French themselves—of St Germain’s mythical past remains, even as the quartier is becoming better known for luxury clothing boutiques than for philosophical debates.

Le Rostand’s food is serviceable but expensive, the coffee better than average, the gentlemen’s loos (I’ve been told) still Turkish-style and the maître d’ one of the grumpiest I’ve encountered. The terrace is a sun-trap, though given over to smokers, and the people-watching is arguably better inside. If you were planning to go to de Flore, come here instead.

Le Rostand
6 place Edmond Rostand 75006
Daily, 8 am-2 am
Metro: RER Luxembourg or Odéon

Other local stand-outs:

Gerard Mulot

Their macarons, while credible, are not a match to those of Pierre Herme, located just a few minutes’ walk away. But a slice or two of their wobbly, delicate quiche—favourites include wild mushroom and smoked duck breast—and a bruleé-topped tarte orange will make an ideal alfresco lunch. Pack some wine, and bring your beautifully-wrapped packages to the nearby Jardin du Luxembourg. Just don’t sit on the grass.

76 rue de Seine
Closed Wednesdays
Metro: Mabillon

Mariage Frères

Hidden on a tiny street near the Seine, this branch of the famed tea shop and salon is nearly as charming as the Marais original and far less crowded. Spend a few minutes looking at the tea memorabilia in the basement.

13 rue des Grands-Augustins
Daily, 10:30am-7:30pm
Metro: Odéon or St Michel

Grom

I’ve written about this gelato shop before, but I should note that the special for this past month was an extraordinarily creamy granita made with wild strawberries. The rest of summer promises other limited-edition fruit sorbettos.

81 rue de Seine
Daily, late morning-midnight
Metro: Odéon or Mabillon

Fish for Tennis

2009-06-28T13:19:00.009Z

The installation of a roof on Centre Court at Wimbledon seems to have resulted in the balmiest June in recent memory. These days, English strawberries—not to mention Spanish or Chilean ones—arrive on the supermarket shelves well before the opening match, regardless of climatic variation. But it is doubtless true that summer traditions such as Pimms cup, Jersey Royal potatoes and Eton mess are more enjoyable when they don’t provide the only reminder of summer’s putative existence.

Perhaps because I spent my childhood elsewhere, I have little sentimentality for England’s variable but occasionally glorious summers. Given the choice, I would rather spend mine in a place where it’s regularly hot enough to require a cool drink, and where climate, architecture and culture all conspire to encourage time spent outdoors. (France has mastered the latter, though its northern reaches often leave something to be desired on the temperature front.) I can therefore only attribute my tangent into English summer cooking to the tennis.

Without the over-abundance of good, cheap fruit that comes from a garden or country farm stand, I’ve never really been tempted to make dessert classics such as summer pudding, preferring to eat my berries straight-up. The only exception I make is for gooseberries, whose mouth-puckering sharpness only softens with a judicious application of sugar and heat.

The gooseberries got no further adornment before being puddled next to a freshly-grilled mackerel, the classic perfection of the combination hinted at by the French word for the fruit: groseille à maquereau. And when I could find no more gooseberries, I moved on to a variation on another English summer classic, salmon and mayonnaise. Guided by Nigel Slater, I made fishcakes from salmon (and an equal quantity of smoked trout), boiled new potatoes, and generous handful of tarragon, dill and parsley, and served them with a punched-up mayonnaise full of the same herbs, lemon juice and chopped-up capers.

The tennis is only on for another week. But I suspect these dishes will be on regular rotation for at least another two months.

Mackerel with Gooseberry Sauce

Because of its high oil content, mackerel is only appealing when it’s very fresh. (If it’s unavailable, salmon fillets or steaks could be substituted.) We ended up with whole, cleaned fish, though fillets would make for neater serving. A sauvignon blanc (I like these moderately priced ones) will pick up the grassy, gooseberry flavours of the sauce and cut through the fish’s richness.

Serves 2
Total time: 30 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

1 small basket gooseberries
Sugar to taste
Very fresh mackerel, either whole or filleted, with skin on (at least 200 grams per person after wastage)
Lemon

Rinse the berries, trim both ends and place in a small saucepan. Add a tablespoon or two of water, and a tablespoon of sugar. (You may want to increase this at the end.) Place on a low heat, stirring occasionally until the gooseberries are soft and collapse under the weight of a spoon. Crush gently with a fork or potato masher, adjust sugar and set aside.

If using whole fish, heat grill (broiler), rinse fish and season. Grill on foil, turning as necessary. Fillet on a separate plate, then add the gooseberry alongside. You may want lemon, though the sauce likely adds sufficient acidity.

If starting with fillets, heat a teaspoon or two of olive or neutral oil in a non-stick pan. Start the fish skin-side down, turning with a thin, flat spatula when it has browned. Season the skinless side and cook for about ½ the time as the first side. Remove to a plate, adjust seasoning and serve with sauce.

Fishcakes with Tartar Sauce

Fishcakes can, when made small and spicy enough, be delicate nibbles. In truly tropical conditions, I’d opt for those, though the following recipe will be perfect for 99% of English summer evenings. The recipe is not particularly prescriptive: salmon can be substituted with a white fish, smoked (or unsmoked) salmon can easily replace the smoked trout and while aniseedy herbs such as tarragon and dill flatter both, the proportions can be adapted. Extra fishcakes can also be prepared up to 2 days in advance. Follow instructions through flouring the fishcakes, then cover and refrigerate until needed.

Serves 2
Total time: 1 hour; Active time: 20-30 minutes (depending on fish preparation)

Adapted from Nigel Slater's Appetite

Fishcake ingredients and initial prep
250 grams potatoes
250 grams fish (I used 1 small can of wild salmon and the same quantity of smoked trout)
Good handful herbs—a mixture of parsley, dill and tarragon works well
Flour
Neutral oil for frying

Peel the potatoes, cube or slice, and place in a pan of boiling, salted water. Cook on a medium-high heat until very soft.

While the potatoes are cooking, prepare the fish. Drain canned fish and chop smoked fish finely, placing both in a mixing bowl. If using fresh fish, poach in a shallow pan until just cooked, then cool and flake fish from skin, adding to the mixing bowl. Chop herbs finely and add to fish.

Drain potatoes. If still a bit wet, steam off excess water by placing the covered pan over low heat for several minutes. Mash with a fork or potato masher and, when cooled somewhat, add to fish mixture. Mix and adjust seasoning.

Sauce ingredients and prep
1 tbsp capers, preferably preserved in salt
Good handful herbs—a mixture of parsley, dill and tarragon works well
Mayonnaise (homemade or quality store-bought), 1- 2 tablespoons per person
Lemon juice
Cornichons (optional)

Soak capers in water to remove salt (or vinegar). Chop herbs finely and add to a small mixing bowl. Add mayonnaise to taste, aiming for something in-between a herb-flecked sauce and herbs just held together by mayonnaise. Remove capers from water, chop and add. Chop and add cornichons, if using. Add a squeeze of lemon juice and adjust seasoning.

Frying
Heat a neutral oil in a heavy-bottomed frying pan until hot but not smoking. Unless your pan is non-stick, you’ll want enough oil to coat the bottom of the pan. Put several tablespoons of flour on a flat plate and flour hands lightly. Form fishcakes about 3-4 inches in diameter, flatten slightly and dredge in flour. As each is ready, place gently in the oil. Fry each fishcake until it is crisp and golden on the bottom, then turn carefully with a flat spatula. Remove to a plate lined with paper towels and serve with sauce and freshly-steamed peas and/or asparagus.

Du Pain et des Ideés

2009-06-25T14:18:00.010Z

A number of Paris’ 20 arrondissements are defined by a single core neighbourhood, architectural style and/or population. The 4^th, for instance, is known for its beautiful 16^th and 17^th century hotel particuliers, and for its upmarket array of shops, galleries and bars. Though it has grown too expensive in recent years for any but the most successful artists or writers, the 6^th remains identified with its grand cafes, De Flore and Deux Magots, and their onetime habitués, Sartre, Gertrude Stein and Hemingway. Further south, the 15^th is solidly residential and respectably bourgeois.

Others are more difficult to characterise. Though physically compact, the 2^nd arrondissement incorporates the Bourse (stock exchange), a red light district, hundreds of clothing wholesalers, an enclave of Japanese noodle shops and groceries and the city’s premier art auction house. The 10^th is similarly eclectic. It contains the western reaches of Belleville—a polyglot immigrant neighbourhood of North African Jews and Muslims, Chinese and Vietnamese—and the eastern and southern boundaries of the Goutte d’Or, historic home of the city’s substantial sub-Saharan African populations. Two major train stations, the Gare du Nord and Gare d’Est, connect the city not only to French cities such as Lille and Strasbourg, but to Belgium, the Netherlands, Switzerland , Germany and the UK. And past another cut-rate clothing district lies the Canal St Martin, an increasingly popular destination for young, artsy types (known somewhat derisively as bobos, bourgeois bohemians), the better-off of whom are buying canal-side apartments and studios, while the rest make do with cafe-side tables for bio (organic) Sunday brunches.

Moored on an innocuous corner halfway in-between the cheap shoe-sellers and the Canal, the ornate, old-fashioned frontage of Du Pain et des Ideés seems a bit out of place. Inside, the bakery retains its original mirrors and display cases. This, along with its unusually small selection (just a few kinds of bread, rolls with unusual sweet and savoury toppings and a handful of fruit tarts) give it an atmosphere which is almost—though not quite—mannered. Add in slightly above-average prices, organic credentials and the collection of antique bread-baking kit in the window, and it could easily be dismissed as a stylised sop to the neighborhood’s new monied class.

But the bread is both delicious and distinctive, particularly the Pain des Amis. Sliced in flat slabs from a huge, foccaccia-like loaf, the crust yields up an aroma of toasted nuts, and the moist crumb is perfect for breakfast (I had it with greengage jam and very fresh goats cheese) and with all kinds of cheese. The bread rolls are, for once, not an afterthought, stuffed with combinations like blue cheese and apricot, green olive and herbs and chocolate and raspberry. And I’ve been told that the chausson aux pommes is even better than the one at Au Levain du Marais.

NB: Lest you think I discovered it, the bakery has received its fair share of acccolades. Gault Millau named it the city’s best bakery in 2008, Gourmet mentioned in its most recent Paris issue and David Lebovitz thinks it worth a detour.

Du Pain et des Ideés
34 rue Yves Toudic 75010
M-F 6:45am-8pm
Metros: Republique or Jacques Bonsergent

Other notable stops in the 10th:

Sarl Velan Stores

Turn off the Boulevard de Strasbourg, full of nail salons, beauty supply shops and fast-food restaurants, into the Passage Brady, lined with a certain globally-recognisable type of Indian restaurant: gaudy decor, laminated menus and desperate waiters. Passing perhaps half a dozen of these, you’ll come to a shop displaying crates of aubergines, curry leaves and, in season, Alfonse mangoes. Inside, you’ll find sacks of rice, every conceivable type of legume and spice, and, in a nod to India’s colonial past, jars of marmalade and boxes containing several years’ supply of PG Tips.

87 passage Brady
M-S 10am-8:30pm
Metro: Chateau d’Eau

Chez Jeannette

This eccentric bar-cafe boasts elegant high ceilings, mural-covered walls and leatherette booths and is the kind of place where it seems right to have a glass of wine at 11 in the morning. The clientele, most of whom don't seem to have office jobs, may stay long enough to require food, though for that I'd recommend stomach-lining at the tiny Turkish soup place, on the same side of the road heading back towards the arch.

47 Rue du Faubourg St. Denis
M-S early morning until late at night
Metro: Chateau d’Eau

Poireaux aux moutarde et crème fraiche (Leeks with mustard and crème fraiche)

2009-05-31T20:34:00.009Z

Acculturation happens in subtle, often unnoticeable, ways. But it’s still rare that more than a few days go by without a deep-seated recognition that the country in which I live remains, in ways both superficial and profound, deeply foreign. More than two years have passed, and I am no wiser as to why so many people at my gym can be found outside, smoking cigarettes, immediately after a workout, how even the simplest, most transactional conversation, can shift into the realm of philosophical abstraction or why Parisians see nothing odd about parking on the sidewalk.

When it comes to food, however, the barriers to entry are somewhat lower. I’ve acquired a Parisian’s snobbery regarding pastry, learned how to enjoy steak tartare with élan and made at least a tentative peace with butter and cream.

In my kitchen, olive oil is still the usual fat of choice. And in the last few weeks, as summer approaches, I am even more likely to return home from the market with a bag full of Mediterranean produce: peppers, olives, goat’s cheese and rosé. Yet several days ago, as I stood in line at my regular vegetable stand, shifting to get the warm sun on my shoulders, I could not resist grabbing a bunch of the most quintessential northern French vegetable—leeks.

Though grown year-round, leeks are traditionally used in hearty winter soups and stews, from pot au feu to potage bonne femme. Steamed and served at room temperature with a sharp, mustardy vinaigrette, they could almost pass as a warm-weather starter. But in late May a slow sauté, followed by a dousing of crème fraiche, certainly violates most dictums of seasonality. Yet while I couldn’t recommend it for a genuinely steamy climate, this dish is—and I don’t say this lightly—worth putting aside the tomatoes for one evening.

Poireaux aux moutarde et crème fraiche (Leeks with mustard and crème fraiche)
Serves 2 (can easily be doubled or tripled)
Total time: 35 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

It doesn’t look like much, and I’m sure the key ingredients have been combined with more finesse elsewhere. But for a simple accompaniment to roast chicken, steak or even a fat filet of white fish, I’ve found little to equal it. With so few ingredients, fresh mustard (Dijon, grain or a mixture) and full-fat crème fraiche are essential. Depending on your mood and palate, the dish can either be smooth and almost sloppy, with just a faint bite of mustard, or more aggressive in flavour, with a teaspoon or two of cream to bind. And while the cooking time given can be shortened somewhat, I find that allowing the leeks to soften gently adds significantly to the flavour of the dish.

4-5 medium leeks
1 tbsp butter
1 tbsp Dijon and/or grain mustard, possibly more to taste
Up to 2 tbsp crème fraiche
Salt and pepper

Slice the tops and base of the leeks, cut in half lengthwise and clean under running water. Slice into thin half-moons. In a large frying pan, melt the butter on a low heat. Add the leeks, season with salt and pepper and allow to cook gently for at least 20 minutes. In order to get the leeks to achieve a melting texture and avoid sticking or burning, you may need to add a tablespoon or so of water to the pan at regular intervals. When the leeks are very soft, take them off the heat. Add crème fraiche and mustard to taste, adjusting seasoning as necessary. Serve hot.

I’ve written up this dish for “Waiter, there’s something in my...”, a bistro blogging event being hosted this month by The Passionate Cook. Check back there in several days time for prettier, more elegant and altogether more skilled entries.

Compote d’Abricots á la Lavande (Apricot and Lavender Compote)

2009-05-29T19:59:00.014Z

Even a mediocre peach is worth eating out of hand, so too a bowlful of less than perfectly sweet cherries. But an underripe apricot—dry, wooly-textured, with almost a tannic bite—has few redeeming virtues. Despite this, impatience and whiff of honeyed perfume have seduced me more than once, only to discover, once home, that the abricots’ rosy-tinged shoulders are only slightly more tender than my own laptop-wrecked ones.

Were it not for the fact that Michelin-class patisserie is available just down the road, I might have attempted a tart. Jam was likewise eliminated, as I doubt I could improve on that supermarket standard, Bon Maman. After a few days on the counter, by which time the apricots were infinitesimally rosier but no softer, I settled on a lavender-scented compote, courtesy of Clotilde Dusoulier’s Chocolate and Zucchini.

I must confess to being a bit jealous of Clotilde’s fame. But it’s undeniable that her recipes not only work, but tend to offer a creative twist on the simple, market-driven French food I like most. The compote is a perfect example: judiciously used, the lavender adds sophistication and complexity, while an intelligent use of heat (and butter) creates an unctuous glaze for the fruit without turning it into mush.

The recipe suggests serving this alongside butter cookies. I usually have it alone or over yogurt, but it could easily dress up some good vanilla ice cream or buttery cake. And should unsprayed lavender be hard to find, either dried verveine (lemon verbena) or even a bit of fresh thyme might make interesting substitutions.

Compote d’Abricots á la Lavande (adapted from Chocolate and Zucchini)

Serves 2-3

Total time: about 20 minutes: Active time: 10 minutes

1 tbsp unsalted butter

1/8 cup granulated sugar

Small pinch sugar

Just over a pound of apricots, stoned and halved

1 tsp dried unsprayed lavender flowers

Gently melt the butter in a frying pan big enough to fit the apricots in a single layer. Add the sugar and allow to melt without stirring for 3-5 minutes, by which time it should be lightly caramelised. Add the salt and abricots and stir to coat. Cover and cook on a low to medium heat until the fruit is just tender, about 8 minutes.

Remove the fruit with a slotted spoon and set aside. Sprinkle the lavender over the remaining pan juices, turn up the heat to medium-high and cook uncovered until thick and syrupy, about 4 minutes. Lower the heat and return the apricots to the pan, stirring gently to coat. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Les Bon Addresses

2009-05-19T17:34:00.010Z

Parisian women are said to have a closely-guarded list of bon addresses, the trusted suppliers of everything from the smoothest blowdry to the tastiest profiterole. With just two years in Paris, I haven't developed a full complement of resources. But I can boast of a few noteworthy finds which, unlike the natives, I'm happy to share.

Breakfast
Parisians may be willing to travel across town for a box of macarons. But come breakfast, excellence must be found in a smaller catchment zone. For those within a 15-minute walk of Bastille or the Place du Vosges, the best pastries can be found at Au Levain du Marais. The croissant is textbook-perfect, the chausson aux pommes (a triangle of puff-pastry encasing a not-too-sweet apple compote) a messy delight.

Booze
Finishing a meal with a sip of Armagnac always makes me feel terribly sophisticated. And buying it from Ryst Dupeyron, where the shelves are lined with wax-sealed bottles dating back to World War I and the monetary transaction is conducted ever-so-discreetly, just adds to the feeling of glamour. Prices are not nearly as ruinous as the setting might suggest, with a 70 cl bottle of the Napoleon blend (aged for a minimum of 6 years) costing just 36EU.

Browsing
There's no better way to understand the city's relationship with food than to visit one of its 75 markets. And few better combine quality, variety and atmosphere than my local, the Marche d'Aligre. At the entrance is a raucous strip of fruit and vegetable stands, where the vendors try to outshout one another in a mix of French and Arabic. The square holds a more serene (and expensive) market, in which dowagers line up to buy well-aged cheese or meat for a pot au feu. Surrounding it all are pavement cafes, including a particularly popular wine (and in season) oyster bar, Le Baron Bouge.

Bonbons
For years, the artisanal truffles and sweets made by Jacques Genin were only available to restaurants and hotels. But now, the likes of passion fruit caramels and chocolates flavoured with pu er tea are on offer to anyone able to find his elegant, minimalist shop, located in a nondescript strip of clothing wholesalers in the northern Marais. The adjoining cafe serves an unctuous hot chocolate and provides mignardaise with every hot drink.

Au Levain du Marais
28, blvd. Beaumarchais 75011
M; Th-Su

Ryst Dupeyron
79, rue du Bac 75007
M-S

Marche d'Aligre
place du Aligre 75012
T-Su
(Both parts of the market are open from breakfast until lunch; the covered market reopens around 4 pm.)

La Chocolaterie
133, rue du Turenne 75003
M-Su

Gâteau Rhubarbe et Polenta (Rhubarb-Cornmeal Cake)

2009-05-09T21:55:00.023Z

When asked where I live, I often respond that I spend 85% of my time in Paris, 10% in London and the remaining 5% on the Eurostar. While I have been known to board the train without my computer adaptor, cell phone or British credit card, I rarely travel without at least one bottle of inky, spicy southern French wine, a few jars of tapenade and a sack of cheese which grows ever-stinkier as London draws near.* Good wine and cheese can certainly be found in London, if not with comparable ease. But I’ve come to enjoy the pre-travel ritual of rounding up treats in my local shops and the post-travel one of a picnic-like Friday night dinner, together, watching some silly TV.

A few weeks ago, having made the wine and cheese rounds, I stopped in at a local pastry shop to buy dessert for that evening’s meal. I selected what I thought to be a sturdy tarte aux poires and asked the saleswoman to package it for a train trip. To my surprise, she asked how long the journey was and whether I planned to eat the tarte in transit. When I explained that I was taking the Eurostar to London, she shook her head firmly and explained that the item would not be at its best after 3 hours. I tried again with a tarte citron, but this too was rejected. Finally, we agreed that I would be allowed to purchase a sack of financiers, unadorned, ingot-shaped cakes tasting of almonds and very good butter.

While the proprietor was undoubtedly a bit overprotective of her wares, in this season of picnics and "staycations", it is perhaps worth considering a few other cakes able to make it to their destinations intact. One obvious candidate is gâteau au yaourt. Often the first cake a French child learns how to make, it gets its name from the glass pot of yogurt which moistens the batter and provides a handy measuring cup for the other ingredients. Not too sweet, it could be eaten any time of day and takes easily both to adornments like coulis or whipped cream, as well as nuts, fruit or bits of chocolate.

Nigella Lawson’s rhubarb cornmeal cake, which was eaten far too quickly last weekend to be road-tested, is in fact an Anglo-Italian variation on this classic. Cornmeal or polenta, substituted for half the volume of flour, provides crunch and heft, while small chunks of rhubarb add hits of sweet-sour tang. The most significant variation—in structural terms at least—is in creaming soft butter with eggs, rather than using liquid fat. (Vegetable oil is traditional in the French recipe, most likely because it is easier and less messy than melting butter.)

Perfect just as it is, the recipe could certainly be adapted to other ingredients: creme fraiche (thinned with a bit of milk), sour cream or buttermilk in place of the yogurt, other seasonal fruits and more prominent seasoning instead of, or in addition to, the vanilla. Come September, plum-hazelnut cake with a bit of nutmeg would be wonderful. But for now, I’m just hoping that the rhubarb sticks around until that next Eurostar journey, at the end of which is a functioning oven and someone who, despite his protestations, appears to enjoy a good piece of cake.

Rhubarb Cornmeal Cake (adapted from Nigella Lawson’s “How To Be A Domestic Goddess)

Serves 8
Total time: 1 hour 20 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes

While I’ve left the original proportions below, I adapted this to fit an 18 cm (7 inch) pan, cutting everything in half except the bicarbonate and salt. It took about 50 minutes to bake.

500g rhubarb (these should ideally be even-sized, not too thick stalks; the cake will be prettier if they are more pink than green)
300g caster sugar
150g plain flour
155g fine polenta or cornmeal (I used instant polenta without any problem)
1tsp bicarbonate of soda
¼ tsp salt
2 large eggs
125g unsalted butter, room temperature
1 tsp vanilla extract OR ½ a vanilla pod
250g plain yogurt, either full fat or lowfat
Special equipment: 23cm springform cake tin, greased with butter and base lined

Preheat the oven to 180C. Trim the rhubarb and cut into 1/2cm slices. Macerate in a bowl with 100g of the sugar while preparing the other ingredients. Mix the dry ingredients (flour, cornmeal, bicarb, salt). Place the butter and sugar into a large bowl. With either a wooden spoon or a hand mixer, cream the mixture until light and fluffy. Crack in the eggs one at a time, mixing gently. Add vanilla extract, if using.

Add the dry ingredients and yogurt to the butter-sugar-egg mixture in alternating batches, mixing as little as necessary to combine. If using the vanilla pod, scrape in the seeds. Fold in the rhubarb and any juices that accumulated in the bowl.

Pour into the greased tin and put in preheated oven. Bake for approximately one hour or until the top is springy and a skewer comes out almost clean. You may need to cover the cake after 40 minutes. Let it cool, in the tin, on a wire rack. Due to its high moisture content, the cake should keep well-covered for several days.

* I used to bring bread as well. But the loaves being baked at this local Brixton deli are as good as anything I can buy in Paris.

Riz au Lait (Rice Pudding)

2009-04-30T10:48:00.006Z

For a nation which stakes such pride in its butter and cheese, the French take a strangely indifferent attitude towards milk. The supermarkets ostensibly offer some choice, but sterilized UHT* milk, stacked in six-pack cartons alongside the bottled water, makes up 95.5% of total consumption, both domestic and commercial. Although long-life milk is cheaper and more readily available than fresh, it’s not marketed as an economy product and is as likely to top-up the coffee served at the chic Cafe Beaubourg as one in the grungy bar next to my apartment.

Nor do the French see milk as a marginal part of their daily diets. While they may have less of a breakfast cereal culture than either Americans or Brits, I would guess that in a great many households a bowl of muesli—or even corn flakes—with milk has overtaken the croissant. In the mornings, at least, a cafe crème (like a cappuccino) or cafe au lait is very popular. And béchamel (white) sauce is a staple ingredient in filled crepes, gratins, and the ubiquitous cheese and ham sandwich, croque monsieur.

Though my one-time status as a skim milk-user probably undermines my credibility, I nonetheless find UHT milk bland and a bit off-putting. But as the only milk available in small quantities, it’s what I usually bring home when the (rare) need arises—usually for hot chocolate. So when I happened to come across not just farm-fresh, but raw, unpasteurised milk, this past weekend, I was excited in principle, but dubious as to whether I’d either be able to finish it or to appreciate it fully. I briefly considered butter-making, but couldn’t justify it as anything more than an experiment. (After all, Bordier, reputedly the best butter in France, is available just down the road.) The same was true of crème fraiche. Cottage cheese was another option, but eating it has always felt like a chore. I eventually settled on rice pudding (riz au lait), something I’ve loved ever since I ate it at a New Jersey diner in the early 80s.

It can be found dressed-up with all sorts of flavourings and toppings, but riz au lait is generally considered to be a homely, grandmotherly sort of dish, one which old-fashioned bistros serve out of a big bowl, sometimes with a bit of jam or compote. I retained tradition by using a vanilla bean, currants and a big bowl—just for me.

Riz au lait (adapted from Cooks’ Illustrated)

The ever-fastidious CI recommends using medium-grain rice, starting the rice cooking in water and then, when it’s mostly absorbed, adding a mixture of cream and milk. I made the pudding with a medium-grain paella rice and started it off in water, but ignored the cream recommendation. The result was just rich and thick enough, and had the extra benefit of not being too sweet. All the better for breakfast.

Total time: 1 hour-1 hour 15 minutes
Active time: just a few minutes, though be nearby for regular stirring
Serves 3-4

½ cup medium grain rice
pinch salt
2 ½ cups whole milk, plus a bit more for reheating
1/3 cup sugar (though they recommended white, I used granulated light brown, the only thing I had)
½ vanilla pod
small handful moist currants or raisins

Bring 1 cup water to boil in large, heavy pot. Stir in rice. Add salt. Cover and simmer over low heat, stirring once or twice until water is almost fully absorbed, 15 to 20 minutes. Add milk, sugar, vanilla and currants. Raise heat to return to a simmer, then reduce to medium-low. Cook uncovered, stirring frequently, until mixture starts to thicken, about 30 minutes. Reduce heat to low and continue to cook, stirring every couple of minutes to prevent sticking and scorching, until a spoon is just able to stand up in the pudding, about 15 minutes longer.

*Ultra high temperature or ultra heat treated

Les Meilleurs Legumes du Paris (The Best Vegetables in Paris)

2009-04-20T11:42:00.006Z

Sometimes I get a bit tired of visitors to Paris waxing rhapsodic about the fruits and vegetables found in the city’s markets. True, at nearly every one (and there are upwards of 75 held each week), good—even spectacular produce—is easy to find. And there’s little doubt that even the most rumpled vendors often possess a decorator’s gift for arrangement. Excepting such seasonal specialities as white asparagus or morels, prices are often very low too.

What can be disappointing is the conformity. Even the appealingly dirt-speckled carrots at my favourite stand are bought wholesale from the Rungis market, just like their counterparts all over town. And while heritage varietals of tomatoes and potatoes have become increasingly commonplace at British and American farmers’ markets, the supply system for Paris’ markets ensures high standards but (relatively limited) selection. Only two markets—both organic and high-end—have from-the-farm producers, known as “maraichers” or “producteurs.”

Perhaps Parisians get their fill of field-to-table food during their long summer holidays in the countryside. Or maybe, despite the obvious discernment of many market customers, they don’t attach the same importance as their food-conscious Anglophone counterparts to cutting out the middleman, or to meeting the person who harvested their food. It could even be—and here I tread very carefully into the realm of total bullshit—that contemporary French identity has retained some kind of cultural connection with the land (terroir), thus obviating the necessity of “reclaiming” it through a middle-class affectation for expensive, wormy apples.

I suspect that Rungis, the heir to the historic central market at Les Halles, will continue to be the “stomach of Paris” for many years to come. But Joël Thiébault’s produce, grown just 7 kilometres from the Eiffel Tower and sold weekly to some of the city’s best restaurants, has developed the same kind of cult status as Anne-Marie Cantin’s unpasteurised cheese, or Hugo Desnoyer’s meat. And in a city like Paris, that’s not faint praise.

A third-generation farmer, Thiébault reputedly cultivates up to 1500 varieties of vegetables and herbs (a bit of fruit is grown in high summer). About 100 of them are sold at his weekly market stand in the tony 16th arrondissment. Arriving mid-morning this past Saturday my choices including flowering chives, five varieties of carrots and three of beets, heaps of compact lettuces and herbs which I could not identify by sight or smell. Prices are curiously low. At 70 centimes apiece, salads cost no more than the half-rotten ones sold at the far end of my market; choosing with care, it’s possible to assemble a week’s worth of vegetables for about 10 euros.

It was only by exercising extreme restraint that I managed to come home with just two varieties of herbs, a head of lettuce, bunches of golf ball-sized new onions and radishes, waxy salad potatoes, a multicolour array of carrots and an enormous candy-striped beet. In the past 36 hours, the carrots and radishes have been eaten as crudités, with the remainder of the carrots braised with some of the onions and herbs. More of the herbs were chopped into an egg salad, and the lettuce, tossed with a simple vinaigrette, anchored a oozing disk of milky goats cheese.

I have some work to do in perfecting the salad du chevre chaud, but the other dishes—while both exceptionally simple—are ready to be shared. And while great produce will make these simple preparations shine, a trip to Paris is not required. (Though it may be for some of Cantin’s legendary unpasteurised cheese.)

Herbed Egg Salad (adapted from Amanda Hesser)

In this recipe from her first book, The Cook and the Gardener, Hesser deconstructs the classic egg salad, serving it over greens dressed with heavy cream, mustard, tarragon, chervil and chives. I put the dish back together again, substituting good store-bought mayonnaise for the cream, omitting the mustard (which appears in small quantities in French mayonnaise) and using good quantities of fresh chervil and thyme. Served slightly warm, alongside a hunk of coarse bread and some peppery radishes, it was both rich and sprightly.

Total time 15 minutes; Active time 5 minutes
Serves 2

4 eggs
1 tablespoon or more good mayonnaise
At least 5 healthy sprigs chervil
1-2 sprigs fresh, leafy thyme (don’t use it if it has begun to dry out or become gritty)

Boil the eggs until they are moulleux (creamy in the centre, but no longer oozing). Chop the herbs finely. Peel the eggs and crush coarsely, mixing through the mayonnaise. Add the herbs and season well with salt and pepper.

Braised Young Carrots and Onions (adapted from Mark Bittman)

New York Times food writer Mark Bittman is currently spending a few months here in Paris. Last week he wrote about braising some carrots purchased at his local market with shallots, tarragon and a bit of butter. It was, he concluded, “an amazing dish, almost but not quite too sweet, simple, easy, and honest.” I swapped the shallots for new onions and the tarragon for chervil (which subtly echoes tarragon’s aniseed notes). Since I had some mild, homemade chicken stock, I used that instead of water.

Bittman’s original post didn’t include a precise recipe. Saturday night I made the dish just for myself and drank wine instead of watching the clock. So please take quantities and timing as approximate only. But while I like the vegetables soft, the one really important thing is to get the liquid to reduce into a sweet glaze.

Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

Serves 2

Tasty carrots, enough to feed two amply
About 2/3 the quantity of new onions
A generous sprinkling of chervil
1 tbsp of butter
A few tablespoons of gentle stock (or water)

Cut the carrots into bite-sized batons. If any of the onions are bigger than a golf ball, cut them in half. Place the vegetables in a heavy-bottomed pot or lidded sauté pan, add the butter and a bit of liquid. If you’d like, include some of the chervil now. Season, cover and cook on a gentle heat, checking liquid levels occasionally, until the vegetables are soft (particularly the onions), but not falling apart. If needed, you can add extra liquid in very small quantities. If there is extra stock in the pan at the end of cooking, reduce it for several minutes on a medium heat, or until the vegetables are lightly glazed. Adjust seasoning, add the reserved chervil and serve warm, perhaps alongside roasted chicken.

Things I Miss

2009-04-15T15:38:00.006Z

Inspired by Alex Lobrano’s blog about New York food he craves when he’s in Paris, I thought I’d put together my own—considerably more lowbrow—list of the ingredients, dishes and restaurants I miss from the 3 cities where I’ve lived as an adult: New York, Oxford and London. For while Paris is a great eating city, sometimes I just want what I can’t have. Specifically:

-the exceptional pizza pies served here and here, and the perfectly serviceable pizza-by-the-slice sold in dozens of Manhattan joints (often named Joe’s). Hazardous to eat while walking, but otherwise the ultimate street food.
-Moro: My special-occasion restaurant of choice for 10 years now, it has stupendous bread, meat and fish from a wood-burning oven, a friendly waitress who always recognizes me and a bar where a glass of salty-dry sherry, free refills of that amazing bread, and some slabs of tortilla española make a cheap and wonderful treat, no birthday or anniversary required.
-Montgomery’s Cheddar: As English cheese prices have risen sharply in recent months, I’ve experimented with some cheaper alternatives. But nothing comes close, and I’m yet to find a French cheese which combines sharpness with sweet and salty notes.
-New York’s Greek diners: not for the coffee, which is almost uniformly weak and acrid, or the eponymous salad, usually spoiled by sharp dressing and indifferent olives, but for the pancakes, round-the-clock hours and wise-alecky service.
-Lunchtime in Oxford’s covered market. Whether a ciabatta lined with cheese, pesto and marinated veg from Fasta Pasta, or the ultra-healthy but delicious salad served by the hippy-dippy staff at Alpha Bar, lunch hasn’t been as good—or as cheap—since.
-It’s certainly not true that all New Yorkers use their ovens only for storing shoes. But I’m yet to meet one who doesn’t know which Chinese restaurant in their local delivery radius not only does the best version of their favourite dish (i.e., tofu and broccoli with spicy garlic sauce) but throws in free beer too.
-I know that people make a big deal over fleur de sel, but I prefer Maldon every time. Although I do store it in a French jam jar…
-Celeste: Because it’s infinitely useful to have a local Italian restaurant whose pasta dishes are much, much better than you could ever make at home, but where dinner doesn’t cost that much more than a takeaway.
-Bagels: Ideally from the bakery on 107th and Broadway in Manhattan. (Damn those university friends who have an apartment upstairs and three small children occupying their former guest room.) In truth, I’d happily settle for H+H, or even the little ones sold at the far end of London’s Brick Lane, because while baguettes and croissants make great breakfast food, they fall short as an accompaniment to the weekend New York Times. (Note: I have no similar attachments to Philadelphia cream cheese. Bring on the chevre.)
-The bhel puri, a sweet-tart, crunchy mix of chickpeas, potatoes, chutneys and little fried things served by all of the vegetarian South Indian restaurants on Drummond St, near Euston Station, or their less convenient, but more authentic, counterparts in Tooting.

Les Radis

2009-03-29T12:26:00.011Z

Both my heating bill and the new lines on my face are testament to the fact that it’s been a long, hard winter. But spring is beginning to make its annual appearance, as evidenced by the weather—which can shift from warm sun to cold rain to hail and back again several times a day—and the market, where spring greens, rhubarb and radishes have claimed places alongside the remaining root vegetables.

My favourite are the radishes, whose candy like colours bely their sharp, peppery bite. The French traditionally eat them on thin slices of buttered bread, sprinkled with a few grains of fleur de sel. Not being much of a butter eater myself, I prefer them plain, piled up in a bowl to munch alongside a pre-dinner sherry or white wine, occasionally with a bit of good mayonnaise.

I’ve only ever tried one way of cooking them—a quick braise with a bit of butter, sugar and water—but it’s good enough that I’ve felt no need to search further. The basic idea came from Molly Steven’s All About Braising, but variants—swapping white wine for water, throwing in some sorrel at the end, or adding bacon and balsamic vinegar for a sweet-savoury twist—seem to abound.

As they cook, the radishes leach out some colour and lose their aggressive edge, ending up a softer, gentler version of their raw selves. Just like, one can only hope, spring.

Butter-Braised Radishes with Mint

Serves 2

Total time 30 minutes; Active time 5 minutes

1 bunch small round or elongated radishes

1 tbsp unsalted butter

50 ml water or chicken stock

small pinch of sugar

salt and pepper

small handful mint

Top and tail the raishes, cutting any which are more than 1 cm in diameter in half. Place them in a skillet or lidded frying pan able to hold them in a single layer. Add the butter, water or stock, sugar, salt and pepper and bring to a simmer over a medium heat. Cover, reduce the heat and braise at a low simmer until a fork easily pierces the radish, between 20 and 25 minutes.

Remove the lid, shake the pan to coat the radishes in the liquid, and keep simmering until the liquid reduces to a slightly sticky glaze. Adjust seasoning, scatter with mint and serve.

Kefta Marocains (Moroccan Meatballs)

2009-03-04T22:31:00.007Z

In a review of her Mediterranean Grains and Greens, Nicolas Lemann describes legendary cookbook author Paula Wolfert “as having mastered a technique that a few other food writers practice but which none equals: the fierce anthropological/reportorial quest for folkish recipes that are hiding in out-of-the-way, premodern places. In her cookbooks Wolfert is always traipsing up to some unelectrified mountain encampment and finding an old woman dressed all in black who has spent a lifetime perfecting one master dish whose ingredients she communicates to Wolfert using sign language.”

Years ago, when I was in the depths of my history doctorate and flirting with the idea of starting a blog, I expected that any food writing I might someday do would be at least a pale imitation of Wolfert’s trademark style, adapted to personal predilection and budget by its reliance on books and the internet rather than my physical presence in someone else’s kitchen. After all, my favourite cookbook to read—which I bought the day my first fellowship check arrived and which, in another lifetime, I’d like to believe I could have written—was Claudia Roden’s Book of Jewish Food, a meticulously researched yet compulsively engaging Jewish culinary history, complete with recipes.

But while I’ve enjoyed the scattershot research requirements posed by a generalist food blog, I’ve struggled to find a style which can integrate etymology, history and the odd bit of trivia with the lightness of touch which in some sense best suits the genre. Yet if I have not yet succeeded in this regard, at the very least I can pay some homage to Paula Wolfert, whose books are peerless, and who also, if the recipe below is any indication, makes a damn fine meatball.

And if someone should hear that Claudia Roden is looking for a (unilingual) research assistant for the re-release of her tome, please do pass on my details.

Kefta Marocains

I’m not sure I’ve ever had an ephemeral meatball, made practically weightless with the addition of copious quantities of cheese, breadcrumbs or milk. But these are certainty not of that school. Whether you choose to offset a loss in authenticity with a slightly lighter texture I leave up to you (options below). Wolfert’s original recipe also called for poaching eggs on the surface of the tomato sauce just before serving. While I imagine this would be delicious, I’ve always found that the meatballs, accompanied by nothing more than flatbread or rice and some equally rustic red wine, make for a very hearty meal.

Serves 4
Total time: 1 hour 15 minutes; Active time: 30 minutes

Meatballs
1 pound ground lamb, not extra-lean (you could also use beef)
1 onion, finely diced
2 tbsp finely chopped parsley
2 tbsp finely chopped coriander (cilantro)
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground coriander
½ cup-1 cup fine bread crumbs (optional)
Olive oil

Sauce
2 medium onions, chopped
2 cans tinned tomatoes (either pre-chopped or broken up as they go into the pan)
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground cinnamon
1 medium bunch parsley, chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped
Harissa to taste

Combine the ground meat, onion, herbs, spices and breadcrumbs (if using) in a bowl, mixing well. Add a good pinch of salt and several grinds of black pepper. Heat a very thin film of olive oil on a medium heat in a heavy, wide-bottomed skillet or casserole. Form the meat into 1-inch balls and fry until well-browned on all sides. Depending on the size of your pan, you may need to do this in batches to avoid overcrowding. Be sure to leave at least a few minutes each time before turning, to allow a crust to form, and try not to over-handle. When finished, remove to a plate.

If you have time while the meatballs are frying, chop the onions, garlic and parsley for the sauce. Add them into the pan, along with a bit more oil if the meat was particularly lean. Pour in the tinned tomato, measure in the spices and add a small spoonful of harissa, along with salt and pepper. Cover the pan and turn down the heat to a light simmer. Cook the sauce until it is well thickened, between 20 and 30 minutes.

Add the meatballs back to the sauce and simmer for 10-15 minutes, checking after the shorter amount of time whether the meat is cooked through. Check the seasoning.

The meatballs can be served immediately, though their flavor becomes more complex if they sit for a few hours or overnight.

Les Meilleures Addresses de Budapest et une recette pour poulet aux paprikas

2009-03-03T21:54:00.007Z

It took several visits before Budapest began to turn my head. Elements of it are undeniably striking—the Castle Bridge lit up at night, the opulent Turkish baths, the immense Dohany Synagogue. And the cobbled streets and pastel-painted buildings of Buda’s Old Town give it an almost village-like quality. But the overwhelming impression can be of old Communist-era greyness bumping up against generic, sometimes gaudy, new wealth.

My first impressions of the food were equally mixed. While I adored the atmosphere of high-ceilinged, plush cafes like the Central, and the coffee served on little silver trays, the cakes didn’t match the lofty setting. It took a few mediocre goulashes before I hit pay dirt in a nightcap of Tokay. As I took in the (surprisingly unsung) splendour of the Callas Cafe, tiny glass in hand, I realized that I had been trying a bit too hard to tick boxes. And I had foolishly neglected to make use of the local knowledge of my Hungarian colleagues.

On a tip from the founder-owner of Siraly, a charmingly tumbledown café and Jewish arts space, I went for dinner the next night at M, where the walls were covered with whimsical line drawings, the roast goose and cabbage more than satisfied and the waitress’ obvious pride in the desserts made it seem churlish to refuse. I returned the next night too and passed the evening talking to a Dutch teacher, the sister of another staff member, relishing both the surprisingly spicy Hungarian red and the (undeserved) feeling of being a regular.

The next trip was less scripted than its predecessors and either because or despite this, provided the most satisfying eating experiences. Ducking into Gerbaud late on a sub-zero afternoon, I couldn’t remember why I had snubbed it in favour of supposedly more authentic cafes. The hot chocolate was perfectly unctuous and semi-sweet, the clientele a lively mix of dowagers, young couples and tourists, and the atmosphere delightfully rococo. For dinner, one of the survey researchers directed me to a restaurant whose seemingly pedestrian online menu had led me to dismiss it. But the chicken paprikas with homemade noodles was even better than she promised, and the goose crackling starter astounding if somewhat terrifying, and explained only by the favourable forint-euro exchange rate, or, more likely, a bit too much time in the hotel sauna.

Another trip to Budapest is likely sometime this spring. But while the city's grand cafe culture can’t really be matched in Paris, at least some of the food can. I’ve tracked down an authentic paprikas recipe from a colleague’s mother, bought Hungarian-style dumplings from the supermarket (actually German spaetzle) and started to perfect my cucumber salad. Now if only I could overcome a lifetime’s fear of sour cream.

Poulet aux Paprikas (adapted from Ildiko Barna’s mother)

Serves 2
Total time: 1 hour; Active time: 20 minutes

2 chicken legs (can joint if desired)
1 medium onion
2 cloves garlic (optional)
vegetable or olive oil
1/4-1/3 small can whole tomatoes, drained
2 tbsp sweet Hungarian paprika*
Vegetable or chicken stock (I used chicken stock)
Creme fraiche or sour cream to taste

Heat a teaspoon of oil in a cast-iron casserole pot or other heavy pan. When oil is hot but not smoking, add the chicken legs, one at a time if necessary to avoid overcrowding. Season with salt and pepper. Brown well on all sides, being careful not to turn the chicken until it releases naturally. While the chicken browns, chop the onion finely.Remove the chicken from the pot and add the onion, turning to coat with the chicken fat. Turn down the heat to medium-low and cook the onions until soft and translucent. If using garlic, chop and add 1-2 minutes before the onions are finished.

When the onions are finished, take the pan off the heat to add the paprika. Stir it through and add 2 tomatoes from the can; the liquid and remaining tomatoes can be used for another recipe. Put back on a medium-low heat, add just enough enough liquid to cover, and simmer gently for 10 minutes to form a sauce. Put the chicken pieces back in, adding a few more tablespoons of liquid if necessary, cover, and turn to the lowest heat. (Use a flame reducer if your gas burner is too high.) Check the chicken after 30-35 minutes by cutting to the bone; depending on the size of the legs and whether they were jointed, they could take another 10-15 minutes.

When the chicken is cooked through, remove it from the pan and turn off the heat. Add anywhere from 2 tablespoons to ½ cup of creme fraiche or sour cream to the pot; using the larger amount will not only generate a creamier sauce but mute the heat of the paprika. Stir though, replace the chicken and bring to serving temperature.

Serve over spaetzle, dilled egg noodles or, in a pinch, gnocchi. While Hungarian wine—with the exception of Tokay—isn’t exported in large quantities, you could try this with either a zesty, aromatic white (perhaps an Alsace-style Pinot Gris), a medium-bodied red (my local wine merchant sold me an inexpensive Bordeaux), or, for something entirely different, a Zinfandel.

* My Austrian friend has made the unorthodox but quite clever suggestion of augmenting this with a good pinch of Spanish smoked paprika.