As far back as anyone in my family can remember, my mom made turkey cutout sugar cookies for Thanksgiving.
As I have mentioned on my blog many times, my brother Marty (may his soul rest in peace)
would snap the heads off the turkey cookies before the Thanksgiving meal started, it became part of the family lore.
My mother puts on the Thanksgiving meal. She is a creature of organization and getting things done; this year, as she is getting older and the dinner is as big as ever, she made the turkey cutout cookies in advance and froze them. In the freezer is a cookie tin with my mother's homemade cookies; it is never empty, and everyone knows the cookies are there for the taking.
Two days ago, my brother Mat opened the freezer to snatch a cookie from the infamous tin, and in doing so, he knocked over a black tin that crashed to the floor. In the near distance, my mom asked, "What happened?" My brother replied that he had knocked over a black tin. My mother moaned, "Oh no, the Thanksgiving turkey cookies are in that tin."
(This pile of broken bits of Turkey cookies is for my brother Mat.)
Yesterday, she set the table, which she does with flare. She opened the black tin box to put a turkey cookie at each place. However, when she opened the black tin box, she saw the cookies cracked or shattered. She told me she wouldn't make any more of them as they are too time-consuming...
“I am going to serve them as is... I think Marty had a hand in this.
(Photos via my nieces Molly and Kate who helped my mom with Thanksgiving preparation.)
Driving around the Italian countryside, our stomachs begged us to stop to dine somewhere. Given it was Sunday and way past lunchtime, I had doubts we would find anything open; this is Italy, for God's sake.
At a few stops, we were greeted with a closed sign or someone to point us to a possibility on the other side of the mountain. An hour or so later, we drove up to Villa Inglese. The door was open, but the waiter told us they were closed. Looking at her watch and then at us, we got the subtle hint: we are not rule followers.
But, after a polite conversation, with Laurie who never meets a stranger, the waiter told us a simple pasta could be made and a bottle of wine served. Little did we know that we had stumbled upon a Michelin-worthy restaurant that wasn't fussy or fancy.
A simple pasta that is putting it lightly, a beet salad, cheese, homemade bread, and a deconstructed tarte Tatin in five bites but packed with flavor that each bite was worth ten.
I would drive over that mountain again and again.
But above all was the owner and chef Ben, a charming, easy laugh, fantastic storyteller, rich vocabulary, wine connoisseur, local folklore, and food enthusiast, he was the cherry on the cake!
...
In his kitchen, not far away from his garden and local producers,
Ben gathered these flavorful ingredients:
Finely sliced beets, like shards of amethyst marinated in
Red wine reduced to a shimmering syrup
Chestnuts, cut as thin as parchment scrolls
Pomegranate seeds, crimson gems glistening
Roquefort sheep cheese crumbled like fallen meteorites
My friend Frances and I went to the Bar de la Marine in Cassis for lunch. The first time we went, I did not indulge in the Pavlova as I didn't pace myself for dessert. However, I never made that mistake twice. Some lessons are easy to understand. Dining is about pacing, it is about enjoying the experience, it is about savoring, and certainly, it is not just feeding an empty stomach.
However, most French women would forego dessert and smoke instead. I have always wondered why inhaling nicotine is better than dessert—lungs or Stomach, which neither need unhealthy choices. But dessert isn't throughout the day. Supposedly, a spoonful of sweets, as they do, suffices their tastebuds, and dragging on a cigarette is part of the French persona.
How often have I had a French woman stare at me while I am having dessert, with an oink disdain?
My friend Jean from New Zealand, who used to live in France, introduced us to Pavlova; it was the best Pavlova I have ever had in my life. I have her recipe, but it’s a secret; the trick is to have a chewy inside and crackly but not hard exterior.
I’ll share another recipe instead, which is delicious.
Other fruits, such as raspberries, blueberries… and passion fruit, can be added.
New York Times Recipe
For The Meringue:
Four egg whites
Pinch of salt
1¼ cups superfine sugar
Two teaspoons cornstarch
One teaspoon of white-wine vinegar
A few drops of vanilla extract
For The Topping:
1 pound strawberries, hulled and halved or quartered
(Passion fruit was also in mine.)
½ teaspoon high-quality vanilla extract
One teaspoon of high-quality balsamic vinegar
Two teaspoons of superfine sugar
2 cups heavy cream
Step 1
To prepare meringue, heat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper, and draw a circle on the paper using an 8- or 9-inch cake pan as a guide. Flip the parchment over so the pencil marking is facing down (this ensures that the pencil won't transfer to the meringue). In a bowl of an electric mixer, combine egg whites and salt. Begin beating at low speed, slowly increasing to high. Continue until satiny peaks form; slowly destroy in sugar a tablespoon until the meringue is stiff and shiny.
Step 2
Sprinkle in cornstarch, white-wine vinegar, and vanilla, and fold in gently. Mound onto parchment within the circle and shape into a disk, flattening the top and smoothing sides. Place in oven, and immediately reduce heat to 300 degrees. Bake 1 hour 15 minutes. Turn off the heat, and allow the meringue to cool completely in the oven.
Step 3
To prepare the top, combine strawberries, vanilla, balsamic vinegar, and sugar in a mixing bowl. Cover with plastic wrap. Let sit at room temperature for at least 15 minutes and up to 2 hours.
Step 4
To serve, carefully peel off parchment and place meringue on a platter or cake stand. Gently crack the top with the back of a soup spoon to make a shallow nest for the whipped cream and berries. Whip cream until thick enough to hold peaks, and spoon it evenly over the meringue. Cover the cream with strawberries, allowing a small amount of their liquid to dribble onto the cream. Serve immediately.
Years ago, my friend Annie talked about a salad she had as if it were her new best friend. She described it in detail: the crunch of its voice, its tangy personality, its unexpected freshness, how curious it was like one has when one is first in love: She wondered what other flavors it might have if mixed with an added ingredient.
One lazy late afternoon, I stopped by Annie's to say hi as I did every day; I barely came into her kitchen whenAnnie pulled me to her fridge and said, "Corey, I made the Orange Onion Salad; you gotta taste it!"
Now, that might not sound unusual, offering a taste of an Orange Onion Salad at five in the afternoon but let me tell you, in France, that is as rare as Martians coming over to visit. I knew at that moment that this salad had to have a real pull on Annie's French heartstrings.
Annie brought out the Orange Salad and handed me a spoon, not bothering to give me a plate. Love does that. It makes you do things you would never think to do. I hesitated, doubting briefly the goodness of oranges with onions. The thought made me pucker my lips, and though Annie's enthusiasm reassured me, I scooped a mouthful. The moment the Orange/Onion combo hit my tastebuds, I was smitten. "Who knew!" I exclaimed.
Orange Onion Salad:
One large sweet white onion, thinly sliced. Marinate it with two or three tablespoons of olive oil,
one or two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, and black pepper with a hint of nutmeg.
While this sets aside doing its thing,
Peel and skin three large oranges peeled, then cut in thirds,
Mix the two.
Serve as is, over rice or on an avocado.
(Endless possibilities: add pistachios or red onions with raspberry vinaigrette instead.)
Have you had Orange Onion Salad or a variation of it?
PS
I have added a new category to my blog: "Annie" for those who want to reread stories about my friend. I will add a few at a time as I have to dig through my archives to find them all.
If you want to be traditional or old fashion spread, take out your mortar and pestle; even though I love old things, as you know I do, this is where my faithful twenty-seven-year-old Moulinex comes gliding in to be my sous chef.
Put into a food processor the following:
Cooked fresh chickpeas
Garlic
Lemon juice (a little at a time)
Curry (optional)
Olive oil (a little at a time)
Water (add a little at a time)
Salt (to taste)
Fresh Mint
Blend until creamy but not runny.
Serve with toasted bread, raw vegetables, bread sticks, or the under-bed for salads.
(I have also used broad beans, black beans, and roasted tofu, using the same base ingredients (olive oil, garlic, water, salt), changing the seasoning, and adding other vegetables such as dried tomatoes, green onions, and roasted red pepper...
Do you have a favorite dip or spread? If so, please add it to the comment section.
"Hummus is a Levantine dip or spread made from cooked, mashed chickpeas or other beans, blended with tahini, olive oil, lemon juice, salt, and garlic. Hummus is popular throughout the Middle East and in Middle Eastern cuisine around the globe." via Wiki.
"Niçoise salad is a traditional French salad that typically includes ingredients like tuna, hard-boiled eggs, olives, anchovies, tomatoes, and green beans. It's known for its vibrant colors and Mediterranean flavors."
"Like many other French dishes, the Niçoise salad was inspired by the readily available ingredients of the chef who invented it. The dish's history is clouded by legend, but it's commonly thought to have been created by a chef in Nice, France, named Bigot. Some sources say Jean Bigot made the dish in 1860; others say it was Andre Bigot in 1903. Still, others believe Carles invented the dish at the Hotel de Paris in Monaco. The salad's name comes from Nice because when it first appeared on menus in both Nice and Paris, it was called Salade Niçoise (the French word for "Niçoise"). "
Via Mon Panier.
In France, lettuce is called "Salade" (pronounced: Salad).
And a dinner salad is called "Salade" in French too.
Garlic is "Ail" in French. Pronounced, "I." You can say, "Aie! Aie! Aie!" when you are hurt because "Aie" (pronounced "I" as well) also means "Ouch."
Arnelle's Nicoise Salad
Ingredients:
Mixed salad greens (like lettuce, arugula, or spinach) or oak leaf salad.
Fresh green beans, chilled and trimmed,
Ripe garden tomatoes, quartered,
Chilled hard-boiled eggs, quartered,
Black Greek olives with their pits,
Tuna, drained and flaked,
Anchovy fillets (optional for me),
Radishes,
Baby-boiled potatoes coated in salt, olive oil, and melted butter. Then quartered and added to the salad at room temperature,
Diced red onions, and garlic, mixed with rouille, olive oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper, to taste.
Arrange the salad on a platter with the greens layered first.
Pizza in Italy deserves the world's attention and blessings.
It is a league of its own: the crust, the fresh ingredients, the local farm cheese, the lack of hoopla, and over-seasoned handfuls, it is and has been simple perfection.
I don't think I have ever had a pizza anywhere in Italy that wasn't a crowning moment for my tastebuds.
Now if only it could be delivered daily (not counting reality or calories) morning, noon, and night,
to my home just like this: The charm of details pizza delivered on a moped in a basket.
"Shortcake, strawberries, and whipped cream!" We agree simple is the best. Allowing the strawberries to flaunt their deliciousness without being crowded by extras.
"Dip the strawberry in sour cream, then brown sugar." wrote Judy Wilcox. I must admit that French strawberries do not need sugar, but sour cream does sound like a favorable mix.
Then Mary Ann said the same thing! It is a thing! "A bowl of fresh strawberries…washed & hulled…served with a large dollop of a sour cream & brown sugar mixture! 😋"
Linda sent me this must-try recipe; I like how she added you need to make two pies!
LINDA’S STRAWBERRY PIE
I doubled the Whipped Cream Frosting recipe below. I bought a quart of Heavy Whipping Cream and used it all for the two pies.
I sliced the strawberries because it is easier to cut the pie.
Ingredients for 2 pies (one is just not enough): 1 – quart of Heaving Whipping Cream 2 – pints of fresh strawberries
2 – 8-ounce packages of cream cheese at room temperature (YOU CANNOT USE THE FAT FREE, SO DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!)
1/2 – Cup of Sugar (add more sugar if you want it sweeter)
2 – Teaspoons of Vanilla
2 – Graham Cracker, Chocolate, Oreo Cookie, or Shortbread pie crusts
I rub a whole lot of cinnamon into the entire pie crust, including the sides.
Whipped Cream Frosting
2 – cups heavy whipping cream 1/2 – cup sugar, powdered 10x 1 – teaspoon of Vanilla
Place mixing bowl and balloon whisk in freezer for 10 minutes. Combine cream and sugar in the chilled bowl fitted with the balloon whisk. Whisk on medium until stiff peaks form, about 3 minutes. Be careful not to over-whisk the cream, or you may make sweetened butter.
You must make the whipping cream first.
Add the cream cheese, sugar, and vanilla to the whipping cream. Blend until smooth.
Clean the strawberries and drain them on paper towels until dry. Slice and place them in the pie crust. Then fill the pie crust with the whipped cream cheese filling and place the pies in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours or longer, and your pies are ready to serve.
Gabriel a few moments in time ago.
Vicki shared a sweet strawberry memory,
Lemon mascarpone single-crust pie with fresh strawberries or raspberries. Although I was a kid picking strawberries for 25 cents a crate, mom packed vanilla cream cookies, which we would twist open and lay a big, juicy strawberry in the middle, put the top back on, and eat out sweet treat “sandwich.”
My friend Mo who create the most beautiful pottery, simply adds into a bowl.
I enjoy cooking and recently have started to redo my cookbook of thirty-five years because the binding split and the pages were falling out.
Baking is further down the list of things I like to do. Don't get me wrong, I want to bake, but baking is more like rocket science. On the other hand, cooking is more my speed... seat of the pant style... like race car driving in the desert. I have always wanted to be a race car driver spinning in the sand with a direction off in the horizon, racing with the aim as it comes.
Nevertheless, one of my favorite things to do is to read cookbooks. Though I rarely follow a recipe. Reading cookbooks is a pleasure; there is always a happy ending. Cookbooks inspire me to set off in my own direction. The mingling of spices and the concoctions of grains tingle my taste buds, an inspiration that, in a sense, rattles my bones, charging me to jump up and create. It is best if I do not read cookbooks before going to bed... though on occasion, I do.
Sweet dreams follow.
I have been craving lemon tarts. My mother tells a story of when she was first married, and my father asked for a lemon pie. When my father saw that she used packaged pudding, he said (one of the worse things a husband can say to his wife,) "My mother never used packaged pudding; she made everything from scratch."
My mother called her mother-in-law for the lemon pie recipe--
Only to hear the key ingredient was in the form of packaged pudding.
My father never heard the end of it and ate his words with packaged pudding ever after.
My son Sacha is accurate with details; years ago, I roped him into cutting the lemon rind into paper-thin zest strips. All the while, he was inventing lemon zest tools in his head. I didn't want to spoil his fun and tell him I had two... One in the drawer and one in front of my eyes. The zest-er (is there such a word?) in the kitchen drawer could never replace watching Sacha's artwork.
At one point, Sacha said, "Look, Mom, the USA with an extra large Florida. The two other specks are Hawaii and Alaska."
Extra large Florida-made lovely, long lemon zest strips.
All this is to say, packaged lemon pudding is not something you can find in the French grocery store (Or at least not in my little village,) and I was craving a lemon tart. ( The French grocery store might not have packaged lemon pudding, but a two-minute walk from my front door, there is a pastry shop, and lemon tarts are ready-made.
Call me crazy. The crazy girl wanted to make her own and satisfy her lemon craving. She wanted them to be extra tart in taste and from scratch.
After reading a few recipes for lemon tarts: I closed the books, grabbed a bowl, shunned the cornstarch and milk ingredient, and roped Sacha into zesting the lemons.
In a saucepan, melt three tablespoons of butter, four heaping tablespoons of sugar, and three tablespoons of finely chopped lemon zest. Melt slowly over low heat, often stirring, until creamy and pulling away from the sides of the pan.
Set the mixture aside to cool off. While it is cooling, whip until frothy two egg whites.
Add two egg yolks to the cooled-off butter-sugar mixture, and stir until smooth and creamy. Then add the juice of two lemons (A cup's worth at least.) and often stir over low heat. Add the egg whites, and keep stirring over low heat. Do not boil.
At the last minute, I added a few tablespoons of cream. Eventually, the lemon mixture thickens and seems to double in size. Turn off the heat.
I used puff pastry dough because the French grocery stores have the best selection of ready-made pie doughs... and they are flaky perfection without the stress.
Cut the puff pastry into small rounds; I used a juice glass. Then, I put parchment paper in a cupcake pan and pressed the round puff pastry dough into place. Next, I added a heaping tablespoon of lemon mixture to each round. (Makes 12 Lemon Tarts.)
Bake in a preheated oven at 350 for five minutes.
Note: Maybe cupcake papers would work just the same. But I did not, and my grocery store certainly does not have cupcake papers. It is amazing what one can do when one has a craving... Hence, parchment papers in a cupcake pan worked for my lemon tarts.
Small tart tins are ideal. I have them... but that is another story.
Add lovely-long-Florida-strips of lemon zest and sprinkle with powdered sugar.
Note: If you leave the lovely-long-Florida-strips of lemon zest out to dry, they curl stylishly and render a perfect texture. (Unfortunately, I forgot to photograph the tarts with dried lemon zest curls!)
What do you have a craving for? Maybe I can make it?
Grabbing the plastic bag I had prepared the night before, I left early in the morning for my friend Annie's house. (Annie is my friend who is 89, though she says she is 90 because she is closer to 90 than 89.) Annie told me to come early and what to bring to make Bugnes. Bugnes, like oreillettes, are similar to beignets or dough-nuts, though without yeast or self-rising agents... other than eggs.
Annie is an excellent cook, as Sacha has reminded me many times over, "...People Annie's age knows how to cook. Honestly, Mom, they can take a plain head of lettuce, put it on a plate, and it tastes like a million bucks." After a conversation like that, I always feel reassured about my cooking skills. Once, he went on and on about how Annie's "green beans" were the best he had ever had. I asked him if they were so different from the ones I made. But before he could answer, I said, "...shhhhhh, forget about it; I don't want to know."
I put the plastic bag full of flour, sugar, eggs, and oil on Annie's table. She had her apron on and handed me one. Annie placed a big bowl on the table, opened the flour sack, pouring half of it into the mixing bowl. Quickly her hands moved at lightning speed as she whipped the other ingredients into the bowl.
Clearing my throat, I said, "Annie, Annie remember I want to LEARN how to make Bugnes. Can you tell me your recipe first?" She pointed, then wiggled her floured finger toward the kitchen drawer, "There! Over there... yes, that drawer, see it?"
Looking through her stack of neatly printed scratch pieces of paper, I found it.
500 grams of flour
a Pinch of salt
Two soup spoons of sugar
Two soup spoons of Rum
Two eggs
100 ml of oil (and a bottle of oil for deep frying.)
50 ml of milk
Glancing at the list of ingredients and looking at what she was mixing in the bowl, I said, "Annie, it says here, Two soup spoons of sugar..." but before I could finish my sentence, she added, "Yes, I know, but my way is better." Annie knew the recipe by heart... had twink-ed it by heart too, and knew it well. I grabbed a pen and started to scribble down what she was doing:
Pour half a bag of flour into a large bowl
a teaspoon of salt
stir with a fork to blend.
In a pan, melt 50 grams of butter, and add 100 ml of fresh cream, do not boil; melt slowly.
Take it off the burner, add two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and pour it over the pan; if another spoonful is worth running over the spoon, that is okay too.
Stir until creamy.
Add two, or three, or four soup spoons of COGNAC (at this point, I said, "Hey Annie, that isn't Rum, it's Cognac. I thought at the bakery they used Orange blossom water?" Annie didn't even bat an eye. She kept at her task. She said between spoonfuls, "Orange water is cheaper than alcohol. That is why the bakery uses it. Cognac has better flavor than Rum."
Lick the spoon before putting it into the sink.
Crack the two eggs into the flour. Stir it, then add the butter/cream sugar mixture into the bowl.
Mix with a spoon and eventually use your hand to combine.
Knead the mixture until it bounces back with elasticity.
Form it into a ball.
Let it set for two hours.
I kneaded the dough. While it was rising, she talked about what it was like living in France during WWII. I love her stories about her past. Two hours later, the dough was double in size.
Annie handed me an empty wine bottle. "Inventive rolling pin, isn't it?" I rolled out the dough, as thin as paper.
Annie used to be a hatmaker with a good eye for detail. She sliced the rolled-out dough into a perfect rectangle. Then Annie cut long strips down the rectangle, two inches wide. She then cut each ribbon into diamond-like shapes and slit each diamond shape down the middle. (Why, oh why didn't I take my camera, it would have been so easy to show you instead of trying to describe it!) Then she tucked the top of the diamond into the slit and pulled it through.
Annie made four to my one. Then she stopped and said, "Okay, you need to learn; go ahead and do the rest." She watched me with an eagle eye. Letting me pretend I could do it as well as she did. Though after making several of them, I did get the swing of it.
We deep-fried the Bugnes (they fry quickly, several seconds on each side.) Then we let them drain on a paper towel and sprinkled powdered sugar.
Photos: Bugnes: A French classic during February. In memory of Annie, I post this every year.
In 2008, I wrote this post about my future son-in-law, Martin, and why I called him Mr. Espresso on my blog.
The Theme: A Mother/Daughter Moment Shared.
The Stage: Daughter's (Chelsea) studio.
First Scene: The Coffee Machine.
The daughter shows Mother, her new coffee maker. The mother does not like coffee but drinks it to be with her daughter, who does.
A conversation full and delicious.
The daughter tells her Mother about how she received the coffee machine.
Second Scene: Conversation and Coffee
Daughter: Tells Mother how she got the coffee machine and about the friend who gave it to her: Daughter chatters about the coffee machine, then comes back to the original subject matter, "...Even though he doesn't drink coffee, he knows I do and thought I would enjoy it. Isn't thatsweet?"
Mother: Zeros in on one word and one word only, "He." But replies, Yes, Sweet.
Scene Three:
Mother: Who is wide-eyed, curious, and with an agenda, wants to know more about that one word, "He."
Mother's First Line: "I'll have one spoon of sugar please, and (as the Mother stirs the sugar into her coffee) is the friend who gave you the coffee machine a Boyfriend, or just a boy who is a friend?"
Daughter: (Who drinks her coffee straight black) says a boy who is a friend.
Mother: Really?
Final Scene:
Daughter: Tells Mother that the boy and she are very best friends. How they study together. He helps her since he is brilliant in math, and she helps him with his English.
Daughter continues, voice softens: "One evening while we were doing homework," she tells her Mother, "We both looked up at the same time, our faces were this close (daughter puts her face right up to her Mother's face...Mother wants to grab her daughter and kiss her like a baby and never let her go... but Mother resists and tries not to cry.) we leaned into kiss but pulled back instantly."
Mother is surprised and gasps, "Why? Why didn't you kiss each other?"
Daughter: Explains to Mother that it would change everything and that they value their friendship too much to risk losing it over being boyfriend and girlfriend with each other.
Mother: Scratches head, though understands and drinks the coffee that isn't that bad after all.
...
Hence several years later, the two are still together. Mr.Espresso does not drink coffee.
Saute the quinoa until golden brown, then add boiling water (two parts to one) and cover, allowing it time for it to become one.
Dice red, green, and yellow pepper and saute them with olive oil and garlic.
When the stiff peppers have surrendered to softness, add chopped almonds and saute until they change color.
In a blender, blend a clove of garlic, a handful of dried tomatoes, and parsley (or coriander). Add a small amount of olive oil to help it become creamy.
When the grains of quinoa are softened, toss the ingredients together with a fork, lightly fluff, then delicately mix the dried tomato cream, sauteed peppers, and almonds.
Setting the table has been something I have enjoyed doing since I was a little girl.
The fork is on the left, and the knife is to the right, with the cutting part of the blade towards the plate.
As I place the silverware alongside the plate, I imagine those who will sit around the table and dine.
They are hoping their stories will easily unfold like napkins, that their laughter will be tossed about like a green salad. I smile, anticipating stories that will be swallowed whole and digested later. (A dinner is a mixture of hot and cold, tender morsels, bites to chew, and just a hint of sweet and spicy.)
The meal is
A sure thing in France.
The daily event.
The time is taken.
Dining in France is like breathing.
A given.
They are rarely taken alone unless you are alone.
More often than not, sitting at a table, one does not grab a bite to eat on the go.
"I have become French," I say to myself as I set the table, "Or maybe I was always French? Nah, I was too picky of an eater to have been French."
After dinner routine:
Clear the table.
Put the dishes in soapy water.
Washed away the day as the flavor of it seeps in.
Stack the dishes in the drainer, drain the sink, wipe off the counters, and hang the towel.
I met Cynthia years ago in Paris. We were Americans living abroad; she had a bakery close to my apartment where she whipped up American favorites. Cynthia was a rising star in the pastry world, and I was her official taster (Well, that is the title I would rather have than a Piglet. With the number of desserts I ate in her shop, I wonder if I didn't give birth to a cheesecake. Well, Chelsea did weigh ten pounds at birth.)
Cynthia made her famous cheesecake for our friends one evening. It was a hit.
Notes of chocolate and raspberry added to the flavor of the cheesecake.
After all, I wanted the guests to sing, and they certainly did sing praises to Cynthia, which had high notes and memorable lyrics.
French Husband loveD Cynthia's cakes and desserts.
After eating his second piece of cheesecake, he teasingly added, "The cheesecake has the taste of....." he looked up as if thinking what the missing flavor might be; Cynthia and French Husband shared a knowing glance, I snorted a giggle, and then he looked at Cynthia and said, "...the taste of not enough." He had yet another piece.
And the memory of our past lived on in every bite.
The cheesecake is a top-secret recipe (though I have Cynthia's recipe. That is another story.)
It has two layers: the crust is chocolate and is laced with raspberry and melted chocolate.
While Cynthia was with us, I was in hog heaven.
___
Cynthia's story should be made into a movie.
A sweet comedy about a young woman in Paris in 1985; she knew not a soul, didn't speak a word of French, had no money, and was very tall, which made her stand out, but no internet. Yet, she took Paris by storm with chocolate; she had a severe allergic reaction to salt and sugar (yeah, she was a baker, the first woman and American to be in Gault Millau...
In general French people eat baguettes and not sliced bread. A freshly baked baguette is a daily part of life in France. Compared to the States, 1.50 sounds inexpensive.
“The French law states that traditional baguettes must be made on the premises they're sold and can only be made with four ingredients: wheat flour, water, salt, and yeast. They can't be frozen at any stage or contain additives or preservatives, which also means they go stale within 24 hours.
In France, a baker who makes good baguettes pays careful attention to where their flour is made and which grains are used in the milling process. The result is usually softer, heartier, and tastier bread than in other parts of the world. French flour tends to be made with a lower ash content than flour from other countries.
The French slather butter is on the bread only at breakfast. They do not dip their croissant in their cafe au last, nor their chocolat chaud.
“The French just don't do it except at breakfast, and then they slather it on,” says Herrmann Loomis. “But the French don't serve butter with meals, so don't expect any.” And don't put any on your croissant, either. It's made of butter.” via Google.
“The savoring of baguettes is serious business in France – shortages stirred the famous revolution, and there’s even a French bread law. With ten million baguettes sold in France every year, they worship sticks of flour.
Baguettes are everywhere, always.
With 26,000 boulangeries dotted across France, there’s practically one on every corner. So if you’re stuck for ideas on what to eat, you’re sure to be able to grab a baguette (a stick of bread).
Only recently, a boulangerie law, which had been reigning for 225 years, was scrapped in 2015. The law, implemented in 1790, required all boulangeries to report to the authorities when they planned to shut their doors and stop serving bread, even if it was just for a family holiday. The aim was to ensure baguette-hungry locals could always get their eager hands on a slender loaf of fresh bread. A long-term bread shortage was one of the factors that led to the famous 1789 French revolution.“ Via Culture Trip
When the three family-owned bakeries in our town shut their doors without warning, it was like a page straight out of Marcel Pagnol's playbook. The village went into constant chatter! What an upheaval we had to buy our baguettes at the town grocer or the grocery store. What a scandal. Since then, two new bakeries have opened up, and everyone is relieved.
Very few this year, I stead of stained hands from blackberry juice I had more scratches than berries, and those I did pick were not plump. The handful above is after a mile of walking along dried-up berry bushes, the vegetation aching for water.
Nevertheless, I am determined to find some more to make at least one pot of jam.
In August our friends Denise and Vlad are coming back to visit! It has been a long time since Covid restrictions prevented all of us from traveling for a couple of years! Tourism has exploded in France. The saying holds, "Everyone and their dog" is here.
Denise is an excellent cook, and I can hardly wait to sit at her table again and again and again.
What is one of your favorite summer recipes? Please share it with me and a photo, if possible, so I might post it to my blog and share it with everyone.
During the French la Vie retreats, we do more than just go to brocantes…
Not only do we fill our suitcases, boxes, and whatever else we can stuff antiques into, we dine, oh boy, do we dine! France has an abundance of everything and delicious food culture, but you know that.
Grand Marnier soufflé, chocolate eclairs, tarte Tatin, brioche, Opéra, Paris-Brest, macarons, pain perdu, apricot tartlette, mousse au chocolat…
One sweet thing after another.
Most of the time, the groups who come would rather shop than eat; I kid you not. Sometimes, going to a restaurant, which is planned, is changed by a group vote to grab a bite and go on to the next brocante.
How many brocantes can we stuff in one day?
How many delicious meals can we forego to do so?
None. We do it all.
Drinking rose while at the brocante.
When we grab something to eat, trust me when I say it is still delicious, remarkable, and worth every single little bit, even when it’s just pizza freshly made out of a pizza truck with a wood-burning stove.
The cafe scene is a must. Seriously, how can you come to France and not sit at a café? But there are cafés, and then there are cafés, and when you live here, you know which ones to go to. I like the ones that still have tablecloths on their tables and have that old romantic atmosphere or the straightforward, untouched ones that make you feel like you’ve gone back in time.
Yes, that is one of the most beautiful champagne buckets I have ever seen, filled with glass wine stoppers that look like ice cubes. So original.
The food culture in France doesn’t just stop with the food. It includes all the elements that go along with dining. The tablecloth, the grand serviettes, the faïence dishes, silverware, tabletop decor… The list goes on and on. The tabletop decor can be found at the brocante, just as I have said about the beaucoup, beaucoup French antique linens that could cover the planet if laid out. In France, it is not unusual to have an apéritif dish and entrée dish, dinner dish, a salad dish, a cheese dish, and a dessert dish, and that is for one meal. Then times that amount of dishes by centuries of French cuisine: Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If laid out, antique French dishes could cover the solar system.
French antique blue confit pot.
You might think I’m exaggerating, but I think the tabletop decor and France could cover the universe. At least the Brocantes are loaded with dishes, glassware, silverware, and everything else that involves dining.
Food lovers in France go way back.
And stemware, I have to say something about French antique stemware…
At the Brocante, if you took all the stemware lined up, there might not be a wave left in the oceans.
And we won’t even talk about French wine.
We are fortunate to dine in private homes during the French la Vie. When I travel, I always wonder what is behind the door, if only I could go into someone’s house and see how they live —well, during the French la Vie, that comes true. Everyone who comes finds a highlight: To go into people's homes and share life, even if it’s just for a little bit with the French.
Yesterday, my friend Arnelle and I picked cherries as I started to make the jam I remembered a post I wrote about making cherry jam years ago, 12 years ago to be exact! Oh, man. Do any of you remember this post?
Wish me luck.
Photo and True story by: Corey Amaro
How to Make Burnt Cherry Jam:
Pick 25 pounds of cherries from your neighbor's tree.
Buy 15 pounds of sugar, and carry it home for the exercise.
Sterilize fifty-plus jars with their matching lids,
Let them air dry on crisp clean linens on the kitchen counter.
Pit the cherries, don't worry about your cherry-stained hands and nails (lemon juice and nail polish will correct the mess.)
Do not use pectin- Cook the jam slowly, stirring now and then for several hours.
In the middle of cherry, jam-making decide to go to the market to buy fresh produce for dinner.
Ask a seventeen-year-old son, who knows diddly-squat about making jam, to turn it every five minutes or so. Don't hear him say he is studying and cannot be sure to turn the cherry jam.
Trust him, even though he is telling you not to.
Go to the market.
An hour and a half later, call home to check on the cherry jam...
Listen to your son tell you that it is sticking to the bottom, and smells like it is burnt.
Have your mouth hit the ground alongside your shopping bags? Cry, "WHAT?"
Come home to a perfumed kitchen.
Look in the two large pots and notice the burgundy red cherries are now black.
Grab a wooden spoon, and stir the jam: Feel that the bottom of the pan as if it were competing with rough pavement.
Cry.
Cry again! Then get mad at your son,even though you are mad at yourself.
Put some cherry jam in a bowl, and run over to Annie's house. Have her taste the jam.
Watch your friend lie between her teeth.
Listen to her idea, "Don't throw it away. Bake something with it, it might surprise you."
Go home and bake a cake, add burnt cherry jam as the filling.
My cousin Judy made the best Nicoise salad I have ever had without anchovies and used smoked tuna.
Each savored bite was better than the first. I did not want it to end.
My cousin Judy has a way of doing things, everything actually, with charm and pizzazz, be it styling her home, creating a play area, cooking a meal, wrapping a gift, writing a letter... she is the artist of her daily life and everyone who meets her benefits from her generous heart.
Why I didn't take a photo of the salad, or her gorgeous table makes me shake my head. All I can say is I was in the moment and took it all in.
The salad started with lettuce freshly picked from her garden.
This was the recipe she used.
But it was her touch that certainly added the extra +++
We have friends who moved to Cassis a few years ago from the States. Their home is a stone's throw away. If I needed anything while I was in Cassis, I could lean out my window, give a holler, and Laurie-Annya could toss whatever I needed to me, that is, how close we live from each other. Though I am a terrible catch. Whenever we are in Cassis we see each other, and since we are there sporadically, Laurie-Annya and Ian have us over most of the time.
The other day Yann had a meeting in Cassis; he is involved with the port and the old boats that are docked there. The oldest boat in Cassis is called, "Antoinette", it dates back to the 1900s. Yann and Ian spent a great deal of time restoring it with the rest of the club members. As Yann went to the meeting, I popped over to Laurie-Annya's home.
Not surprisingly, mouth-watering goodness filled the air. Laurie-Annya made an apple rum with raisins bundt cake. I ate two large pieces, I could have eaten the entire cake, but I refrained, though I do not know how it was hot from the oven!
Below is the recipe. Instead of a round cake pan, a small iron bundt pan was used.
Also, Laurie-Annya added about half of a cup of my cognac-soaked raisins that I had given her the other day.
"The Paris of 1900, lively and rustling. Coal and lemonade. This is what we found at 13 Rue de Charonne rocked by the accordion notes that accompanied the laughter and counter tours after the coal tour.
Hospitality and sharing are the values that Mr. and Mrs. Paul wanted to transmit and offer to visitors when they inherited the place in the late 1940s. Friends or families, artists or anonymous, loyal or passing customers, from here or elsewhere: a table was always available for them.
Chez Paul: it’s a little bit of each other. A story of meetings and friendships, a mosaic of captured moments mixed with emotions, scents and flavours. Moreover, all you have to do is walk through one of the 4 rooms to be – in your turn – caught up in these testimonies of yesterday and today that this atypical setting has to offer.
As a successor to Mrs. Thiebaud, the Karrenbauer family has been carrying on this tradition since 1998, with this twist that characterizes it so well." Via Chez Paul
“A break in a hurried daily life, a comforting cuisine that is the heir to our French history and our land. We pay tribute to our culinary classics whose recipes are too often lost. A real wink to our grandmothers who, simmering good little dishes, always took care of the well-being of our gourmets and gourmet stomachs." via Pierre R., Head of emotion and delicacy.
FRENCH BREAD. The endless world of French bread. Baguettes... God, after thirty-some years in France you would think I could walk into a bakery and not drool on myself.
At the market a woman walked by carrying three baguettes, they looked the same at a glance, but look at the ends-
Each one has a slightly different end... Different endings though the taste is the same. With that said I prefer the one on the left, a ficelle it is long and narrow, more chewy crust per bite. Good for dips and spreads.
The square-ended one is called a pain de Campagne, it has some rye or whole wheat flour, last longer than a day.
The one in the middle is a batard, Shorter, half the size and thicker than a baguette. Sounds like body types don't they? The whole body that is. Batard means 'bast-rd" in English. When the baker comes to the end of the dough, and there isn't enough for a baguette he uses the leftover bit to make a batard.
Anyway bread, cheese, wine, some fruit... the daily feast.
The last supper, my favorite supper. Oh, these French classic basics. Give or take a beret, Soccer, and cigarettes.
Thick edible crusty goat cheese, Valencay is covered in charcoal. Direct from the farm. Soft center.
The name of these cracks me up...
Bouton de Culotte - Underwear Buttons. Also a goat cheese. Can you imagine asking you guests if they would like some more "Underwear Buttons and a Bast-rd piece of bread?
Lovely.
The French know how to add humor to their daily rituals. They know how to hide a smile. They know how to beat the system. They know that life is not that serious even if they get caught up with how to cut the cheese.
Goat cheese is my favorite
(no it doesn't smell like goat urine, any more than cow cheese does.)
This one is a soft cheese with rosemary.
Add some tomato chutney, a bit of this cheese, and a glass of Medoc.
Sechons, or dried hard like a rock, tough as brick, break your teeth goat cheese.
I think if you take fresh goat cheese (above photo) and let it dry for ten years and a day, without counting you would have Sechons. Doesn't that sound yummy? They are, but they are not my favorite. Honestly hard as a rock cheese, why?
My theory is leftover cheese that didn't fly off the shelf. Re-brand it. Call it Sechons.
Marketing baby.
(Actually, these can be grated, and or soaked in olive oil, garlic, and herbs.)
Bleu d'Avergne, Gorgonzola, Roquefort.... love it.
Desserts disguised as mushrooms. Mushrooms lined in a row, straight from a fairytale. White chocolate coats filled with vanilla mousse and red fruits. I saw these darlings at the train station. Hidden wonders! I never would have guessed that the train station in Paris' main temptation was dessert.
French Husband loves to eat. I was taught that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. It stands to reason that we'd make a good team. Except he eats so fast. His plate is cleared-off before I've taken my first bite. Honestly, he shatters the French image of proper dining etiquette. He borderlines abnormal in this department. I've often wondered why he doesn't enter a food eating contest.
To slow down his rapid hand-to-mouth feeding, I ask him simple non-threatening questions. (Non-threatening because he could blow food chunks.) Questions such as, "What are you eating?"
Last night was no exception. I made curry lentils in a coconut sauce. I asked French Husband if he could define the flavors he was inhaling? Barely coming up for air he answered, "Brown and good!"
"Really," I continued, "I haven't seen brown and good in the market place. Seriously, Honey what is the flavor of brown and good?"
He guessed cinnamon.
French Husband knew if he wanted seconds he had to appease the cook. He said the dinner tasted like bananas mixed with little grainy things and chopped white stuff. Adding there were hints of chocolate, eggs, and tomatoes. He almost described a cake until he said tomatoes.
I gave him enough clues that the fish in the pond could've given me the answer.
I said, "It is white." French Husband chipped in with, "White Chocolate!" Not acknowledging that response I continued, "It grows on a tree." he said, "Mais oui, bananas!"
You're probably thinking he is being funny, that he's pretending to be food illiterate. Trust me he is not kidding. He claimed to our baker friend that mustard would be a sweet flavor to add to brownies.
Looking at him I shook my head, "Remember your children are listening."
One last clue. "It starts with the letter "C" and it is hard."
French Husband didn't miss a beat. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. I smirked, "Don't even say it, or you will be eating rocks tomorrow for dinner."
French Husband does love my cooking. Actually that doesn't sound like a compliment anymore.
"Buche de Noel is my favorite cake!" Bright-eyed and hopeful was the response eagerly given by my French Husband, the newlywed. The flavor was a known fac; spread chocolate on anything and it was labeled Yann's.
My mother had made jelly-roll cakes for my brothers and me when we were younger, was that the same thing as Buche de Noel? The only difference between the two cakes as I could see was that we could have a jelly cake any time of the year and in France during Christmas as it is a traditional Christmas dessert. Kind of like candy canes, you can eat them any time of the year but usually, they are out of sight until December.
30 some years ago, before the Internet and ex-pats were easy to find in France, anything in English was reduced to one word, "Hello." Peter Mayle was probably writing, "A Year in Provence," while I was struggling in Paris with only three words of French in my pocket of vocabulary. How was I going to find the recipe? Calling my Mom in California was out of the question given the ridiculous cost five dollars a minute plus the surcharge and tax. Which meant fast talk and no umm, let's see, I think it takes, oh no, just a minute, let me go check.
To make a French Christmas cake, a Buche de Noel was going to be a challenge equal to anything Napoleon had to do. Napoleon is believed to have said, "The man who never makes mistakes never makes a war." Couldn't Yann have said brownies? His expectations were high as he asked me to make a Buche de Noel for his birthday which is in September, "Imagine a Buche de Noel in September!" Yann said like a child at Christmas. With Napoleon on my mind, I decided chocolate anything, even chocolate batter would be a hit.
Down to the metro, direction Rue de Rivoli, destination: Brentano's, the bookshop in Paris (since 1895) with a large English section. Certainly, they would have a cookbook in English.
On entering Brentano's in Paris there stood an American the size of a fortress. With a can of Coke in hand, he was carrying on like his world was coming to an end, demanding the saleslady, "... Don't you understand, E-N-G-L-I-S-H! I want a map of Paris IN English! I want a map that says, "Big White Church on top of the Hill," none of this rue crap, you understand! Why tell me why can't you folks just print a map that says street instead of rue?!" he was the ultimate tourist with his camera around his neck and coke-a-cola in one hand he continued, "I don't want any of this rue shit on my map." The petite saleslady looked bewildered as she tried to explain. I left the bookshop, to embarrass to request a French cookbook in English.
Up above the markets of Les Halles, battling in our kitchen the size of a nutshell, mustering up memories of my Mother making jelly-roll cakes, gathering allies in chocolate, sugar, eggs, and flour I conquered my Waterloo. We "ate cake" that night Buche de Noel in September.
The differences between France and America are subtle. Take Mums and pumpkins for example.
Mums are an Autumn flower that arrives in force in October. They spill out from the floral shops onto the streets creating a parade of magnificent color. Just as pumpkins shout out Autumn in America, mums are the flower that says Autumn in France. Pumpkins are food in France, were in the States pumpkins are more for decoration.
A neighbor brought us three beautiful pumpkins I put them on the table for display, do you want to guess how many French friends asked me, "What are you doing with the pumpkins?"
When invited to a dinner party it is a thoughtful gesture to bring something to the hostess. Candy, wine, or flowers is the typical avenue. (FLASHBACK 1988 - Why not bring a Mum plant I thought and bought one that seemed to be a perfect ball of gold. When I came home French Husband told me it was a plant that symbolized All Soul's Day. "It is the flower we take to the graveside of those we love who have gone before us."
Oh! scratch that flower off the list. Paperwhites, can I bring them instead? Do they have anything marked on them as unusual or special?
Mums are not a flower to give to "the living" in France.
Any flower will do, I like them all don't you? I wonder if I brought a pumpkin as a hostess gift if the French would find that insulting? Most likely just odd.
Pumpkin on Penne Pasta
Cut the pumpkin into cubes and steam until nearly cooked, firm but tender.
Slice and saute (in olive oil) three or four cloves of garlic, add pine nuts and saute until lightly golden brown.
Blend (do not puree) the sauteed garlic, pine nuts with Parmesan cheese and fresh cilantro.
In the same pan that you sauteed the garlic, saute until tender the steam pumpkin (add olive oil if needed.)
Turn the burner off, then add the garlic pine nut mixture to the pumpkin. Stir until well mixed.
Last night Sacha's Italian Girfriend from Verona made her Nona's gnocchi recipe. they were light as air. Amazing. Sacha made a Roquefort and walnut sauce.
I was happy to set the table!
Sacha's Italian Girlfriend's Nona's Recipe
One big dark-skinned potato peeled one potato per person
Boil the potatoes in salted water until tender
Mash the potatoes until they are smooth, creamy, luscious wonder
Then put the creamy luscious wonder on a floured cloth and knead
and knead,
with more sifted flour and salt,
and knead, and knead and knead until the dough bounces back.
Nothing more than potatoes, flour, and salt
and a ton of kneading.
Take a handful of dough and roll it into a long snake on the floured cloth
Cover the snake roll with a cloth and roll another until all the dough is rolled into snakes.
Then cut the dough with a knife into bite-size pieces.
With a fork roll forward and back to make soft ridges in the dough.
Cover the bite-size gnocchi "pillows" with a floured cloth.
Yes, you will have plenty of clothes to wash afterward.
Then gently put some of the gnocchi in boiling salted water when they float to the top take them out with a slotted spoon and add more gnocchi to boil in the pan.
Homemade tomato sauce is what you do after you have eaten enough tomatoes to make ketchup go out of business. Annie always added hand-picked then dried Marjolaine to her homemade tomato sauce. She spoiled me by giving me a jar of her own dried Marjolaine each summer. Now I am on my own which means I am probably eating weeds. Honestly, I could eat it by the spoonful on a salad or mozzarella. It is deliciously sweet. French Husband is the one who makes the tomato sauce. He follows Annie's recipe. I boil pasta, sliced buffalo mozzarella, pour wine, turn on the music and put my feet on the table (wishful thinking about the feet part... usually I prepare the jars.)
Fortunately, we have a farmer in our village who sells his homegrown vegetables. We are regular customers. French Husband has even gone out and helped him pick. Though I don't think that is advantageous to the farmer. French Husband eats more than he picks. I have seen him: Knife in his back pocket, a baguette and a bottle of wine under his arm, a chunk of cheese under his hat, garlic in his breast pocket- tomatoes on the vine, the cicadas singing, the blue provencal sky as a blanket.
He knows a good thing about summertime.
In a large pan saute a couple of yellow onions and cloves of garlic in olive oil.
Add a ton of chopped tomatoes, some salt, a handful of Marjolaine and some white wine.
Slowly cook for half a century.
Go out and enjoy the day, let the tomato sauce reduce, then blend to the consistency you like.
Cook some pasta, drain it, then pour in the homemade tomato sauce. Wrap it up in a blanket, carry it to the garden, spread out the blanket, put down some plates, take out the knife in your back pocket, tear off a chunk of baguette, uncork a bottle of red wine, grate some cheese, take off your hat, listen to the cicadas under the evening sky, while you twirl some pasta around your fork.
Tarte Tatin is one of my favorite French desserts, it is a classic down to earth recipe when it comes to the array of French desserts, it is not the Marie Antoinette of pastries, instead, it is a French Country type that I can imagine having at a long farm table by an open fire.
The other day I had every intention to make a Tarte Tatin, but time was not on my side and guests where around the corner. So I had to improvise that is what I do since I usually have too many grand ideas and little time to put them in place. Or you can say I am scattered, or as my mother says, "... too many irons in the fire." Personally, I like working under pressure, I like the creative response it musters up in me.
Hence, Mini Tarte Tatin was born.
What you will need:
Apples
Sugar
Vanilla
Butter
Puff pastry
Cupcake tin.
Peel, core, and chop four Golden Delicious apples.
Sautee with a fourth of a cup of butter, a third of a cup of sugar and 1 tsp of vanilla (more or less since I never measure and I am guess-estimating.)
Sautee until the apples are golden and the sugar is caramelized.
Cut rounds of puff pastry dough, large enough to cover each cupcake tin space.
I made twelve. "As any grocery store has excellent puff pastry dough for under two dollars," as Annie use to say, "it is not worth making it from scratch." Which fits right into Corey Amaro's by the sit of the pants cooking style.
When the apples are ready add them to the pre-buttered tin.
Of course, you can add cinnamon, walnuts, raisins... but then that is not the classic Tarte Tatin recipe.
Then cover them with the puff pastry rounds, tucking the ends in a bit.
Bake at 350 degrees until the tops are golden.
When they are ready, take them out of the oven and flip them over onto a large platter.
Or gently scoop and flip each one over.
For added delight and that wow effect, you can drizzle caramel sauce and serve with ice cream.
Two of my favorite brocante dealers came over for lunch. Before they arrived I looked around my house and declared that they were going to find the things I sold to them, I should play a game I thought like "Find fifteen things that you sold me?" Actually, they would find more than that without even trying. I made lunch and was so excited to see Christophe and Philippe.
The market in Cassis is every Wednesday and Friday, this morning I walked to the market, filled my basket with fresh seasonal produce, farm eggs, flowers, cheese, wine, olives, and bread from local producers and artisans. The sun promised another spectacular day, waving in the Provencal blue while dancing in the gentle breeze it felt like a weekend in June and not a weekday in February.
Menu
Pizza with seasonal vegetables stacked high fresh mozzarella,
Roasted beets, avocadoes, and stuffed ravioli wrapped around green beans.
Christophe and Philipe the perfect French gentlemen brought over a bouquet of flowers, desserts, and a gift darlingly wrapped with a French ribbon sash.
Inside there was an antique box, a seashell box to hold a rosary and inside the seashell box a multi-ribbon bookmark that was used for a Mass book. Religious gifts since they know I tend to buy things for my church, I mean home, well it is the same sort of place, isn't it?
Homemade vegetable pesto soup. Oh isn't soup the best on a cold day? Especially a freezing day like today. Of course in the summer I will sing the praises of chilled soup, but for now...
Shallots, leeks, carrot, celery, potato, green beans and vegetable broth with pesto added at the end, then blended.
Setting the table has been something I enjoy doing since I was a little girl.
The fork on the left, the knife to the right with its cutting part of the blade towards the plate.
As I place the silverware alongside the plate, I imagine those who will sit around the table and dine.
Hoping their stories will easily unfold like napkins, that their laughter will be tossed about like a green salad. I smile anticipating stories that will be swallowed whole and digested later. (A dinner is a mixture of hot and cold, tender morsels, bites to chew, and just a hint of sweet and spicy.)
The meal is
a sure thing in France.
The daily event.
The time is taken.
Dining in France is like breathing.
A given.
Rarely taken alone, unless you are alone.
More often than not sitting at a table, one does not grab a bite to eat on the go.
"I have become French," I say to myself as I set the table, "Or maybe I was always French? Nah, I was too picky of an eater to have been French."
After dinner routine:
Clear the table.
Put the dishes in the soapy water.
Washed away the day as the flavor of it seeps in.
Stack the dishes in the drainer, drained the sink, wiped off the counters, hang the towel.
Walk straight to the counter, when the bartender looks at you, nod your head, point your pointer finger up, and at the same time mouth whisper, "Espresso please". Grab a croissant off the platter, pinch off a bit (do not bite into the croissant) and pop it into your mouth, when the espresso comes, down it in two gulps, do not wince if it is hot, glance at your phone, leave the amount on the tag. Say, Merci, Ciao, and leave.
Doing the French Bistro is not an art, but it looks like it when you see the French doing it.
It is such a part of their culture that they do it as easily as they smoke a cigarette without concern or shame.
Having a dog tag along adds to the look.
Sunglasses a must, the bigger the better.
Take your napkin to your lap the moment the waiter serves your meal.
Doing the French Bistro is not just about having a drink, whether you are alone or not, doing the Bistro is also about people watching. Any time of the day. Giving the one over, or being looked at up and down, is not uncommon, the French check out everyone as if they are on a runway.
French Bistro, Afternoon:
After breakfast and the morning espresso/croissant scene, lunch comes into play. If you walk into a cafe after 11:30 am and see some tables set up that means they are setting up for lunch. If you want a cafe either go to the counter or sit at one of the tables that are not set up.
12:30 is the beginning of lunch. Lunch is served until 2:30.
At the Bistro choose a ‘plat du jour’ from the chalkboard menu, or at the counter, you can order a sandwich, a classic baguette sandwich is sliced down the center with butter, cheese, and ham, or butter and cheese.
Soda is not a common drink amongst adults. Though if you want a drink order an Orangina.
If you want water you will need to ask for it- "Une carafe d'eau, si vous plait."
Paris has changed, lunch is served nearly throughout the afternoon... but Paris is not France. Most of France adheres to tradition, lunch 12:30 to 2:30. How dare those Parisians breaking the rules, especially after I left and move to the south.
French Bistro, After Two:
French people meet after two for a coffee if they haven't had one after lunch.
It is not uncommon to meet after two for a coffee and chat.
Alcoholic drinks do not usually appear until after four, though usually after six.
Around four in the afternoon, a little snack from the pastry shop, a tea or hot chocolate is acceptable.
Yes, in France there is an hour for every single thing you pop into your mouth.
Photo via google
When in France savour every bite.
Tips are not expected as they are already added to your bill. Though it is a nice gesture to leave a Euro or two.
When at a French Bistro, after your order has been served, the waiter will not approach you again, unless you make a signal that you want something. When you are ready to leave you must make eye contact with your waiter and raise your pointer finger again. Often tourists think the French waiter is ignoring them, but that is not true. In France when you sit at a cafe or at a restaurant your time is private, and the waiter is trained not to invade your private space unless you need them.
French Bistro, After Siix:
Bring on the cocktail hour(s)
Known as the "Aperitif".
Drinks before dinner, not at dinner. Wine at dinner. Drinks after dinner. Coffee before four or after dinner, but not during dinner.
Confusing?
You see why cafes are so important? Drinking hours really means drinking hours.
French Bistro: After Hours,
Linger.
The most important rule of all if you do not want to look like a tourist... talk softly, not because your accented voice will give you away, but because the French usually do not speak loudly in public places.
Usually.
"...Of Russian origin: Bistro. It is well known that a small restaurant or café in France where you can have a quick and simple meal is called a bistro. However, there are still debates over the etymology of this word. The most popular version maintains that the term originated during the Russian Occupation of Paris in 1915." via World Wise Words
"Like the Eiffel Tower and the winding Seine, bistros are an iconic part of the Parisian landscape. From morning till night, hungry patrons flock to these casual eateries to chow down on hearty comfort foods and people-watch from tables on outdoor terraces. But as Ciara Nugent reports for TIME, the classic French bistro is in trouble—and one proprietor is leading a campaign to save them.
Alain Fontaine, who owns Le Mesturet in central Paris, is at the helm of a movement to secure Unesco “intangible cultural heritage status” for Parisian bistros. The designation recognizes “traditions or living expressions inherited from our ancestors and passed on to our descendants,” according to Unesco’s website. Receiving intangible cultural heritage status can have monetary benefits—Unesco funds efforts to safeguard certain practices—and it also brings much-needed awareness to cherished traditions. It is little surprise, then, that the status has become a key target for bistro advocates like Fontaine.
In recent years, money woes and a changing food culture have pushed the classic eateries to the wayside. Steep rents in Paris have forced some bistros to close, and bistro proprietors have found it difficult to compete with the low prices of imported American chains like Starbucks and Chipotle. Eating habits are also evolving; in place of drawn-out midday meals on bistro terraces, residents are opting to eat speedy lunches at their desks. Nugent reports that the France’s National Statistics Office has calculated that at least 300 Paris bistros closed between 2014 and 2018—around a quarter of what the city had to offer.
What makes a bistro a bistro? “By Fontaine’s definition, an authentic bistro is an eatery that’s open continuously morning to night, serves French comfort foods at moderate prices, and houses an active bar where locals can gather for a drink and some lively conversation,” writes Vivian Song of the BBC. (Heaven forbid you should confuse bistros with brasseries, larger establishments with more expensive menus.)
Bistros are said to have come to Paris in the 19th century, as migrants from south-central France flocked to the capital in search of work during the Industrial Revolution. Some new arrivals, according to Song, opened up cafés. While the husbands delivered coal, wives would serve up drinks and home-cooked dishes in these establishments at prices that laborers could afford. Fittingly, these eateries were distinguished by their signs that read “Vins et charbons” (Wines and coal).
While bistros of later decades became cultural and intellectual hubs—Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir were among the famous fixtures of several establishments in Paris—today’s bistros continue to be defined by their affordability and welcoming atmosphere.
“We have everyone here, blue collar workers, professionals, families, students, tourists,” Fontaine tells Nugent. “They can meet, share, argue.”
In the wake of the 2015 terror attack that killed at least 130 people in Paris and wounded hundreds more, bistros also became a symbol of resilience. According to Claire Mufson of the New York Times, Parisians shared photos of themselves on bistro terraces with the hashtag #tousaubistrot —“Everyone to the bistro”—as a sign that they would not be cowed by acts of violence.
For Fontaine’s campaign to be successful, it will need to be approved by France’s culture ministry, which will then recommend it to Unesco. The proposal will be submitted in September, but French bistros are already facing competition from other cultural staples. Parisian “bouquinistes,” or open-air booksellers, are also campaigning for Unesco status, as are the roofers and zinc workers who install the gray rooftops that cover many of the city’s buildings.
In Fontaine’s eyes, Paris’ bistros are as worthy of preservation as any of the city’s other rich cultural offerings.
“A bistro isn’t just some place for a quick bite to eat,” he tells Nugent. “It’s the home of the Parisian art de vivre [art of living]—that’s what we’re losing if these places die out: our way of life.”
Claire who spent a few nights with us made Fruit Rouge Mousse for dessert last night.
It was well worth the six bowls used to make it.
Happy guests indeed considering I am not a dessert maker. I know how to but it isn't my favorite thing to do for a dinner party and not my favorite part of a meal, (unless of course, it is as delicious as homemade by someone) so often I just buy something at the bakery. But since our three bakeries closed down, for no apparent reason and put the town into a pickle, not having a bakery in any French town is almost taboo, a scandal and has had our village a buzz for over a month. No bakery in town reminds me of a Marcel Pagnol movie of Manon of the Source, though instead of no water, there isn't bread... and in my world cakes. Nothing as tragic as Manon of the Source, but has the village wondering where they will have their croissant, and more so our daily bread.
Luckily Claire filled in and saved the evening.
The chocolate lovers did not complain and licked their dishes clean.
In the land of baguettes, where a bakery is on every corner and bread is baked in a wood oven once and sometimes twice a day, where buying a baguette daily is as natural as breathing, having a day-old baguette around is expected.
Hence French Toast, or as they say in France, "Pain Perdu," a direct translation is "Lost Bread,"
was created as a dessert,
not for breakfast.
We live in a small town where the only fast food is the bakery and take-out pizza. To say I cook often is an understatement. Sure, there are a few restaurants in town, and I don't like to say it, but a food snob. I appreciate going to a restaurant if they can cook better than I can. Don't get me wrong, cooking better than me isn't hard to do, what I mean is if I am going to go to a restaurant I expect it to be good, which isn't hard to do in France but in our town that isn't the case.
With that said, when a baguette is sitting on my kitchen counter feeling sorry for itself because it can be used as a hammer, a tomato salad comes to the rescue instead of smeared with cheese.
The Recipe:
Chop half of a bowl full of fresh garden tomatoes.
Fill the other half with a dried hard baguette in bite-size pieces.
Add a few crushed garlic,
Two handfuls of fresh basil,
Two fresh balls of buffalo Mozzarella chopped,
Olive oil (about half a cup or more),
salt to taste,
and toss gently until good mix.
Cover and set aside.
This salad is at its best if it sets for about an hour; tossing it occasionally helps saturate the bread and flavors.
It can be kept in the refrigerator overnight and tossed before serving.
Fresh, wholesome ingredients, including a "sorry for itself" baguette, is simple fare.
A glass of rose adds the voila to the meal.
What is your favorite summer salad? And do you like to cook?
Alys and Hilde asked if I would like to join them at the La Brasserie du Corton in Cassis, friends, Cassis, lunch with a view how could I refuse such a gift?
Two kir royals, a divine lunch, incredible manioc bread, followed by dessert. Diet took a back seat with glee.
Then I walked home trying to lose my guilt, and yet skipped with delicious delight. When I arrived home French Husband brought me a scoop of ice cream (from the new ice cream shop owned and by Le Grande Bleu) made with fig and ricotta the best ever, and ice cream is not my fav. I ate every single bit of it.
One would think a workout would follow, instead I took a nap.
Glorious.
Tomorrow if you the earth shakes that is just me on the scale.
French la Vie Creative Journeys in France. Please join me in 2023 to learn more click here
French La Vie started in 2005. I have the "Brocante Bug," which means antiquing is my cure; France can do me no wrong when it comes to treatment ° 35 years living in France with my French Husband, whom I met while dancing in San Francisco ° Two children, now in their early thirties, amour et joie ° Come join our journey either vicariously through my blog or on a French La Vie Week Retreat in Provence °
