Having just finished reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, I could not ignore this wonderful news from Our Family in Paris.
“Tres bien fait, President Sarkozy! Genetically Modified Organisms (GMO’s) are no longer welcome in France. The U.S. may file a suit with the World Trade Organization or heavily tax French imports as a retaliative measure.”
Read more about this development here.
Need an escape from your cubicle existence or bland lunch from the local “deli”? Journey with npr.org to Paris’s oldest brasserie and transport yourself from a sneezing/coughing, entry level member of the working force to a diner at the elegant and unpretentious Bofinger.
Bofinger — 7, rue de la Bastille in Paris’ 11th arrondissement. Metro Bastille. Telephone: 33 (0) 1 42 72 87 82. Web site: http://www.bofingerparis.com/.
A high-end restaurant will be opening this weekend on the second story–a treat for anyone who has ever longed to have a delectable French dining experience with the city of Paris providing the romantic table lighting.
From the AFP article:
But what the diners might like to know is that the kitchen — ovens, sinks and all — had to be squeezed up a tiny service lift in bits and then welded together again…
To begin with, the old Jules Verne had to be picked apart and every piece weighed before being carted down the four-metre-square (43 square feet) service lift clattering up and down the iron-laced tower.
“They were not allowed to add any weight to the existing structure in order to safeguard it,” said an official for the monument’s managers, the SETE. “They had to take into account the weight of partition walls, the fake ceilings, the chairs, the carpet, everything.”
Then the new bits and pieces too had to be weighed and sized up before being squeezed into the tiny service lift, sometimes in bits, and put back together again like Lego toys.
“Ducasse’s restaurant finally turned out to be even lighter, weighing in at 40 kilos (88 pounds) less,” said the official, who asked not to be named.
Then to save kitchen space, some of the total 47 cooks working for the new restaurant were relegated to a large underground centre built in 1908 and located right under the gardens that surround the historical monument.
“Advertisers love Paris, but Paris doesn’t like them… Today, the Paris council decided to reduce by 1/3 the amount of advertising space in the city. This will impact not only the space in general but also the size of posters. Thus the 1,000+ 4 x 3 meters (13 x 10 feet) billboards will soon be banned and so will the 6,000 smaller ones that are on display in the windows of shopkeepers and cafés. It will also be forbidden to advertise within 50 meters (164 feet) of a school, on the embankment, in Montmartre, etc. Needless to say that this measure is pretty controversial…”
“Bûche de Noël is a traditional French dessert served during Christmas holidays. It is usually decorated like a log in the forest and ready for the fire. They are usually made from sponge cake and frosted with chocolate buttercream and decorated with sugar, meringue, and marzipan to resemble snow, tree bark, fresh berries, and forest mushrooms.” (The link also includes recipe recommendations for the more ambitious kitchen folks.)
I just got hit with a strong craving for a Napolean. What can I say? I’m female. These moments happen and are most often inexplicable. Anyway, I thought it might be fun to put together a post about this lovely pastry as I don’t have one handy to snack on at the moment.
I’ve had the pleasure of eating both American-made and French-made Napoleans. And I feel the first thing I should point out (which my French teacher failed to point out to me) is that the French do not call them Napoleans. In Paris, struck with this craving, I would want to order a mille-feuille (literally, a thousand sheets). If you ask for a Napolean, you may very well get a funny look. Believe me. I know. Then again, that could also just be my classically poor accent.
A bit of an etymology lesson straight from the Wiki Wizards:
The name appears to come from napolitain, the French adjective for the Italian city of Naples, but altered by association with the name of Emperor Napolean I of France. There is no evidence to connect the pastry to the emperor himself.
In France, a Napoléon is a kind of mille-feuille filled with almond paste.
Turns out, in actuality, the standard chocolate/vanilla Napoleans that always leap into my mind are only the tip of the iceberg. On NPR, Clotilde of Chocolate & Zucchini shared her recipe for artichoke and goat cheese mille-feuille. If you’re like me and prefer your French food in pastry form and want to test out your French culinary skills, the closest recipe I could find using American measurements was at allrecipes.com for French Vanilla Slices. You know, in case you need a challenge other than another batch of Christmas cookies.
If store-bought is more your speed, in DC, you can find them (among other places, no doubt) at the bakery in Eastern Market. They are currently all rockin’ some green icing in a rather festive manner.
It has been a week of discoveries. Today’s: DavidLebovitz.com a.k.a. “David Lebovitz… Living the Sweet Life in Paris.”
It’s worth a visit just to scroll through his posts on Paris food markets. You can see how this might appeal to my ongoing weakness for all things of the French and foodie cultures (even if I am just an outside observer of both).
For a little background on Lebovitz here are some highlights from Lebovitz’s bio:
What’s not to love? Enjoy and bon apetite!
As if the strike wasn’t enough. It’s a bit like adding insult to injury this week in Paris. According to The Canadian Press (as well as other sources): ”Tokyo has unseated Paris as the world’s culinary capital.”
That’s according to Michelin Guides, the French bible of gastronomy, which announced a Tokyo edition Monday – its first outside Europe and the United States. Michelin’s Tokyo guide awarded 191 stars to 150 restaurants in the Japanese capital, the most number of stars awarded in any city. Previously, Paris had the most stars, at 65.
Eight restaurants in Tokyo, including two sushi eateries, received Michelin’s highest three-star rating. But Paris can still claim to have the most top-rated restaurants, with 10.
Click here to read more.
It’s not uncommon to come across a book by a food writer that at least mentions Paris. In fact, I think you would be hard pressed to come across a book about food that didn’t pay homage to the city where food and eating are counted as art nearly equal to that of any ouvre in the Louvre. But what is rare is to discover a food writer who can effectively sweep you away to the city, reach out from the pages to grab your hand, and in a few short paragraphs transport you from a $50 couch in Washington, DC, to a world of romance and new-ness, showing you a Paris that is as different from your Paris as apples from oranges and yet still so familiar. That is the sort of writer that Ruth Reichl is. And this is her Paris:
My Paris was uncomfortable pensions on the outskirts of town, cheap meals that started with watery soup and ended with watery flan. It was always being cold. It was hours peering through the gloom of the badly lighted Louvre.
Colman’s Paris was not mine.
He liked to start the day by strolling through the flower market and listening to the birds. Every morning he woke me with fresh flowers. Then he took me to Lauduree for coffee and croissants and we sat there, beneath the ancient paintings of nymphs and angels, bantering with the waitresses in their black dresses and white aprons. After three days we were regulars, and they didn’t even ask what we wanted, but simply put out the pots of coffee and hot milk, and the plates of croissants.
He showed me streets I had never seen before and small, out-of-the-way museums. He took me to the cemetery and we danced around Proust’s tomb, and afterward we went to Le Petit Zinc and ate platters of claires and speciales washed down with a cold, crisp Sancerre. We walked along the Seine in the damp November air. . .
(From Reichl, Ruth (2001). Comfort Me with Apples. New York: Random House.)
Not only is this simply a series of lovely images, but it demonstrates one of most remarkable aspects of Paris–every true lover of Paris has a Paris that is all their own. One you can hold close to your breast, knowing that while people from around the world visit the city each day, your Paris is yours to keep to yourself or choose to share with a lover or an old friend or a complete stranger. Reading about the city constantly invites us to see, taste, and experience a new Paris
For the quickest, most satisfying Paris fix, I’ve learned to Clotilde Dusoulier. Clotilde is the lovely face behind the brilliant blog Chocolate & Zucchini. A Parisian who loves the market and the food she can create from it, I go to her blog for the smiles it provides and the glimpses of Paris it offers more often than I do for a recipe.
Excerpts from her latest post titled “Epaule d’Agneau Frottée au Romarin, Anchois et Zeste de Citron”:
I say, one can never have too many recipes for lamb shoulder. . . .
A few Saturdays ago, I was waiting in line before my organic butcher’s stall. Immediately ahead of me was a stocky little lady, whose many years of experience had taught her how to maximize the annoyance of the person behind her, i.e. me, through the cunning use of her shopping trolley.
Her technique was this: when the line moved forward, she followed, but neglected, for as long as she could possibly hold fort, to pull her trolley along with her, thus blocking the progress of the other customers, and preventing them from getting a comfortable look at the day’s offerings — a dire handicap on a busy market morning, when one is required to place one’s order with great velocity.
Never one to let a stocky little lady defeat me — she was half my height after all, though she could prove quite the cannonball in a fight — I outmaneuvered her by gliding her trolley forward with my right foot, slowly but surely, every time her back was turned.
And yet the final victory, it pains me to admit, was hers.
Perfect for a Saturday or Sunday when you wish you were rolling out of bed, into the Paris sun, and headed to the market for fresh flowers, a baguette, and seasonal legumes. . . or maybe a bit of lamb shoulder.
