I am ecstatic for owners Braden Perkins and Laura Adrian (American) who have braved the Parisian red tape and opened their very own stunning restaurant in the prestigious Palais-Royal quartier of Paris.

This ex-pat couple delivers the French dining experience that so many of us want to believe still exists. And it is popular with both the French and ex-pat community alike. I’m telling you the American’s in Paris are doing some great food (Daniel Rose – need I say more?)

Perhaps you remember Hidden Kitchen. It was written up in Bon Appetit, Gourmet, and a plethora of travel sites? Braden and Laura used to hold underground 12 course tasting menus in their adorable Parisian apartment. These dinners were so incredible that the food glitterati declared it a ‘must’ while visiting Paris. Braden would concoct clean, stylized, tasty plates while Laura would host/sous chef and attend to the wine selection. Quite the dynamic duo.

They realized their dream this year with the opening of Verjus in the prestigious cobblestoned quartier, Palais Royal. And excuse my French here, but they have totally knocked it out the park. I’m not just saying that because I know them and find them to be an extremely talented couple. I’m saying that because it’s true.

I always feel special when I see them – but they make everyone feel special.

Self-taught Chef Braden holds court upstairs and continues to serve a beautiful and seasonal tasting menu that changes more frequently than any restaurant I know of in Paris. He draws upon world flavors (especially Asian) to bring French ingredients and traditional dishes to new heights. And he’s not afraid of flavor. I like his riffs on American classics too like the spicy popcorn chicken pictured second that is served in the wine bar. I ate two orders back to back.

French cuisine is often too subtle and sometimes too balanced in the flavor department, Braden brings excitement by introducing new flavors, spices, and unusual combinations. His presentation is clean but organic and not overly micro-managed. That’s not to say that his attention to detail is remiss – he is a perfectionist – but his plates are not fussy and they have a masculine flare. By the way, order anything that comes with dan-dan sauce. Man, that stuff is delicious.

Downstairs, in the cobblestone cave (it’s street level, but still has that secret hideaway feel) Laura commands the wine bar. I like to sit at the bar and drink whatever she feels is perfect for the moment and order off the bar bite menu. And I love to watch her switch effortlessly between French and English, smoothly acknowledging newcomers and tending to the rest of us in need of food and libation. Laura knows wine. She has an interesting and well-priced list and she always introduces me to something new.

Most people don’t realize how difficult it is for small business owners in Paris. Not to mention ex-pat small business owners. I won’t bore you with the laborious insane process of just getting the doors open, but it’s not easy. Even for the French, running a restaurant with all the taxes and red tape make it hard to succeed. And this is probably why Paris restaurants are a mixed bag. It’s hard to make a profit and corners are cut, frozen replaces fresh, and restaurants get run down. It is NOT because the French don’t know how to cook well.

Verjus is special. The love and hard work that Braden and Laura have put into this beautiful restaurant has not gone unnoticed. If you don’t believe me then take Saveur’s word for it or Paris By Mouth.

Or better yet, take my friend Meg Zimbeck’s relaxed and peaceful expression as testament.

This is my top choice in Paris and I hope you will give it a try and say ‘hi’ for me!

The post Farewell Hidden Kitchen, Hello Verjus! first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Yes…yes…YES!!! (oui…oui…OUI!!!)

How they make this magical thick hot chocolate is a mystery to me. There’s controversy in chocolate land on whether or not milk should be used, or cream, or a combination and whether powdered chocolate is prefered over melted. And yes, I have asked on several occasions what the secret is. And no, I never get a response – just a reminder that the hot chocolate is for sale in the lobby in a powdered version that I can make at home that doesn’t taste anything like what they serve in the restaurant. (It’s still good, just not as good).

Thankfully this is not my world or expertise, and I just know that I like coming here.

What’s not so sexy  about this grand institution is that fact that the building is slowly crumbling and if you look close at the ceiling you will see paint peeling and water damage. The lighting is wannabe natural with an enormous florescent lit ceiling and some actual daylight that streams through the front window displays. I could do without the greenish glow – it makes me feel like I’m back in high school – and that’s a bad thing.

Despite the wear and tear and a few annoying 1970’s attempts at modernization, this place has held it’s ground on Rue Rivoli since 1903 and the gold gilt still covers the walls with a nod to a more opulent era. Opened by a Hungarian couple this cafe was once known as Rumplemayors. Famous people have long visited for the African hot chocolate (with not too sweet whipped cream served on the side – yum) including Audrey Hepburn, Coco Chanel, and maybe even YOU! They do serve a nice breakfast and an okay traditional French bistro fare lunch – I opt for the salads.

The waiters deliver excellent timely, friendly, and professional service and speak English. I enjoy the front of house hustle and bustle here. And the line that is toujours a mile long to get a table, moves fast. The hostess is on her game at all times and I have always been greeted and seated with courtesy.

The pastries are gorgeous and sometimes tasty. Yes, I really just said that. It’s so easy to be a critic isn’t it? When in fact each little dessert is a plethora of French pastry techniques requiring so much work and skill. Angelina’s pastry shop is very good but, but when you are living in Paris (or any city) you get to know certain places for certain things.

For me, there is something romantic about spending the day leisurely strolling through Jardin de Tuileries and taking in an exhibit at Le Louvre and then resting my weary feet in front of a heart warming, soul soothing cup of thick chocolat chaud.

Rain or shine, Angelina’s is legendary and Le chocolat Africain is divine.

For more recommendations on Angelina’s check out Paris by Mouth

The post Angelina’s in Paris first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

And only from this particular shop in Paris, in the heart of the Marais, on Rue de Rosiers.

I am not the first to write about this place. But after 8 years of eating here, the experience never ceases to amaze me. And therefore I feel compelled to add my review to the long list of fanatical followers.

When I cooked in Paris this was my Sunday go-to because not a lot else was open and it was a healthy  and affordable place to grab lunch. L’As du Fallafel is closed on Saturday to observe the Sabbath but they serve up tasty food all afternoon on Sunday. In America restaurants are rarely closed on Sunday but not so in France. Although this is beginning to change, it can be a real drag when the last thing you want to do on your day off from cooking 14 hours a day is cook.

L’As du Fallafel is kosher. It is affordable. And it is always great. I love the fact that after years of eating here it is still reliable. The service is: friendly, English speaking, and high energy (I like that.) And the team in back of house and front remains the same – always a good sign.

Although L’As du Fallafel has a restaurant,  I go to the street food window where the line extends for at least a block (but moves fast, so don’t worry). You can get fries on top and extra sauce, but that’s sort of a teenage thing to do – or a very drunk thing to do. Piling on fried salty food with extra hot sauce always sounds better when intoxicated.

The lamb schwerma is excellent, but sometimes it just feels good to pig out on a crazy delicious vegetarian meal. How often does that happen right? (Joking here, joking…)

So just what makes this kosher vegetarian falafel so crazy good that it literally attracts people from all the world? Is it the super fresh made-right-before-your-eyes chickpea fritters? Or the warm squishy homemade pita bread? Or the juicy cucumber, shredded cabbage, roasted eggplant, tomato, parsley, and spicy harissa sauce or rich tahini? Or what? What is it?

I don’t know. I wish I did. I wanted to recreate this sandwich so badly at Citizen Cake. I spent weeks trying to perfect it. I soaked dried chickpeas for days. I shredded vegetables. I made humous. I made harrissa.  And it was good, but it just wasn’t this. (No shame in trying.)

It might sound bizarre to be highly recommending a visit to L’As du Fallafel on your next trip to Paris given the amount of Michelin Starred restaurants, but you must. It’s one of those things that can’t  be explained but must be experienced for oneself.

And besides, walking around in the Marais – the incredible Jewish and Gay quarter filled with history & modern trendy-chic fashion and culture – falafel in hand, window shopping and munching on a deliciously sloppy sandwich on a beautiful Sunday afternoon is not a bad way to spend the day.

Address: 

Telephone: +33.01.48.87.63.60

The post L’As du Fallafel first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Why the big opinion? Because I cooked for Guy Savoy in Paris and Le Bernardin in NYC and I always relate everything back to that level of quality. And I know and love French Cuisine. And I know a lot of food is plain mediocre in Paris right now.

I booked my reservation for Septime two months in advance for lunch. FOR LUNCH! I told my husband that I was not going to drag him to 3-Michelin star restaurants but instead to the restaurants where new young chefs were touting Michelin-star pedigree with a Michelin star quality dining experience for a fair price in a more casual trendy-chic environment.

I arrive at Septime – for lunch– in the 11th on rue Charonne which is becoming more upscale by the day but it still manages to retain its artisan eclectic funky past. My husband and I are greeted at the door by the Maître D with a genuine smile rarely given over so easily in Paris. We relax. We feel like we’re in a San Francisco restaurant because the design is sleek with an industrial edge and open kitchen.

We are seated at a table that faces the kitchen. And my chair directly faces the Chef. I like that. Hey, that’s why I came – I wanted to see the kitchen and the new chef who is changing the stuffy old regime. But perhaps this was not a good idea because I am totally engrossed in everything happening. And the fact that the Garde Manger Chef de Partie is continuously biting her nails in between plating dishes is driving me absolutely crazy.

She catches my eye, drops her hand immediately, then puts it back in her mouth again biting furiously, until I catch her eye again. I get the feeling she is amped on adrenaline and new to the profession. But it’s an open kitchen…

Whatever. Let it go. You came here to enjoy…

The Sommelier comes to our table and his air of hospitality is praise worthy. We have decided upon the Chef’s tasting menu (well priced – a bargain actually) and we would like wines to match but not for every course because we don’t want to leave drunk. It’s lunchtime afterall. The sommelier brings new glasses of wine only after we finish the previous. It’s casual. His suggestions are new to me, excellently priced, and pair flawlessy with the dishes.

The food is very French. Meaning: delicate and organic in presentation and artfully layered & earthy in flavor. Suprisingly, the first course is a disaster. I find a very alive worm in my fresh bacalao fish starter. I alert the server. I explain that I understand this happens to her in French, but please, take it away.

I cooked fish at Le Bernardin. We would go through over 800 pounds of fish a day. I have had the opportunity to work with many, many different sea creatures. I know mistakes happen, but this one was one that should have been caught.

The server brings it to the chef and I am watching this conversation between the two from my chair. The server returns to me and attempts to try and explain why this was no big deal. I’m shocked. How do you not find a 3-inch wriggling roundworm in a hand flaked piece of lightly cooked cod that is no bigger than 1/2-inch in thickness? I found it because I saw the large brown dot in the center of the fish flake that always signals a worm is there.

If the Garde Manger Chef de Partie was paying more attention to her dishes than to her fingernails, perhaps this mistake might have been avoided.

There is no reason why I should have to give up my credentials in order to get a simple apology and move on with the meal. Just because I’m American doesn’t mean I’m stupid. The correct response to a customer, no matter what the country, is not to tell them the mistsake is ‘okay’ or ‘normal’ and then argue with them over whether it is or isn’t. The correct response is to remove the offending dish. Apologize. Bring out the next dish. Apologize again. Bring out extra wine. Comp the meal. And hope that they don’t write about it like I’m dong right now.

I’m upset. My husband grabs my hand and asks if I want to go. I pull myself together. I have been looking forward to this meal for months – everyone said it was a fantastic restaurant. But I wasn’t expecting to have an argument over something so ridiculously not okay and then have a server attempt to tell me that I’m pretty much an idiot. I’m insulted. It’s not about the worm – that’s a natural occurance and a trained eye knows what to look for – but I’m furious over the server’s response to my complaint.

The Maître D takes over our table for the rest of the meal which is a relief. The kitchen sends out a free dish that is tasty and beautiful to replace the last one. The Sommelier brings out new pairings. Septime is rebounding well.

We quickly get over the first course and move on to the next which is a divine plate of fat sweet & juicy white asparagus cooked perfectly. I could eat this all day. Pretty little leaves of mizuna decorate the dish and the garnishes are seemingly simple but I know otherwise…

The next course is a perfectly poached farm fresh egg set in a shitake mushroom broth. Earthy and delicious. Simple and satiating…

The main course is lamb cooked three ways. The dish is successful. The lamb parts are prepared using different techniques: sous vide, braised, cured. Again, the chef has proven his skill. He does not draw attention to the effort involved, instead the plate feels organic as a whole and nicely decorated with baby root vegetables and more mizuna leaves. (Okay, what’s with all the mizuna?) No part of the dish outshines the other. It’s harmonious.

My favorite dish of the tasting menu is the dessert. This is often the case for me because by the time I get to the last course I’m pretty soused and the only parts to the meal I can recall the next day are all the mistakes that were made and the last dish. I like dessert so I often leave feeling that everything was great!

It’s unusual to find English style crumbles in Paris but that’s just what this is, an apple-rhubarb crumble with a perfectly coiffed scoop of the most amazing ‘hay’ flavored vanilla ice cream. I love the dairy products in France – they are sooo good. This hay flavor is unusual and a great balance to the crumble and the tart-sweetness of the apple & rhubarb combo.

The Maître D brings our check. They have taken off my meal which is the right thing to do. He clearly has a degree in hospitality and I appreciate his demeanor. He bends over to me and whispers: with your background you know better, that should not have happened, we are very sorry and hope that you will join us again.

We leave a generous tip covering the amount of the tasting menu anyways. Mistakes happen. Wrongs are righted. The food was beautiful, healthful, organic, and with the exception of one dish prepared by one very new cook – harmonious and excellently executed.

Food is a natural product bound to have imperfections. If it doesn’t then it’s genetically engineered, right? And we are only human. What separates good restaurants from bad is not necessarily the food itself but the experience as a whole.

We’ll be back!

Restaurant Septime

The post Septime in Paris first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Catapulted into the next city by train. Watching the Tuscan country side glide by through my cabin window in long blurred brush strokes of green, mustard yellow, papovero poppy red –  as if a painter took his big thumb to a wet oil canvas depicting vineyards and 14th century castles and smeared them all together into one fat horizontal smudge. The cloudless blue sky stays ever motionless. The train silently pushes on. I sip my warm, flat, first class Prosecco, munch on salted peanuts, and contemplate why train travel makes for better writing.

Is it the motion of going forward that allows one’s mind to stop and focus? The temporary vulnerability/insanity of handing over one’s inertia and life to an unknown conductor that aids in the journey inward?

This story is long (and I will break into installments) with new revelations about the French and Italians – brand spanking never been heard before commentary on them thar Euro-peans!  In this epic adventure there are: good times, rain, good food, shitty food (lots of it), sun, total exhaustion, too many churches, too many cities, sudden death (and that’s not meant to be funny), exciting wines, renewed love, stolen bags, and plenty of gained weight…

I arrive in Paris the end of April From San Francisco.

The rain in SF ends and a heat wave arrives – the first in years. The heat wave in Paris ends and wind, freezing temperatures, and rain that falls hard & sideways takes over the entire country. Fun! I am so happy I packed summer dresses, sandals, sexy stilettos, and slinky dresses. Let the honeymoon begin! And please God, let this not be a sign. Who wants to start out on this note?

I lived here for five years through some of the hottest summers and darkest coldest winters in France’s history and now I’m reliving it again. Yay for me. What was wrong with a vacation in Belize or Hawaii? I can’t remember my rationale…

There will be no picnics on Pont Neuf or in Tuileries, no jogging along the Seine or in the Bois de Boulogne.

There will be a lot of cafe sitting, croissant munching, deustation menu taking, and champagne popping, and dragging my new husband from museum to museum – he’ll just love that – he’s such an art buff. (sarcasm here, just a little bit) And he just loves to sit and people watch too and take super long meals that absorb the whole day. (a little more sarcasm here, just a tad).

Oh who cares, it’s our honeymoon. Isn’t that the time where you pull up the sheets and order room service and stay in bed? And we’re in Paris the most romantic city in the world! Let it rain! Let them eat cake! I don’t care!

Touching down in Charles de Gaulle is always a pleasure. This airport , if you’ve never had the good fortune of visiting, is like a hamster cage on steroids. I’m talking about the type of rodent habitat  that has all those plastic connecting tubes, wheels, and balls. The only difference – besides scale – between this French monstrosity and my niece’s pet project is that the former is partly flocked with an interesting texturized cement that looks like asbestos. It probably is asbestos.

It’s France after all which is a little like America in the early ’80’s – and remember that the ’80’s heavily idolized the ’50’s with just a bit more color and geometric glam. This is not necessarily a put down, many Americans liked the ’80’s and neon is definitely making a come back this year in America and so is Marilyn Monroe for that matter.

Neither of these two have left Paris since I’ve been gone, but more on that later. Asbestos is still not a class action suit here in Paris – that is what I’m really trying to say.

My new husband stares in disbelief as we drag our way too heavy luggage along the human conveyor belt.  He laughs and blurts out: “You were right. It is exactly like a hamster cage. Even the people look rather hamsterish.” Ah jet lag, it makes every thing look distorted. “Yes,” I reply “The French are much smaller boned than us. We, as Americans, are porky pig-ish. Perhaps SFO looks like a feeding trough to them.”

I hustle my Hubby past the new arrivals that are looking up and down and all around and trying to figure out where to go. I know this airport way better than I’d like to. I will admit that the Hamster Staff have added a plethora of new signage in French and English which is quite the pièce de résistance when you think about it (and I mean ‘piece of resistance’ here). Nonetheless, most people are lost, and we are the first to make the taxi line. Why? Because it’s at the opposite end from where international travelers are let out and only a few people know that. Superb design. Just like a hamster cage. We hop into a nice big taxi and shove our two big bags (a total of 100 pounds) in the backseat along with two carry ons (50 pounds each), 2 laptop carry ons (2 X 25 pounds), and my big black purse (oh, at least 5 pounds, I have everything in there). That’s a total of 255 pounds of luggage. Luckily for me my husband is really strong. And luckily for him, I’ll let him prove just how strong he is.

The journey from the Hamsterhoff to our hotel takes no time. We have chosen a hotel close to the l’Arc de Triumph for the first few days. It’s a so-called boutique hotel just off the famous (yet not so pretty) Avenue de la Grande Armée. I lived in this neighborhood not so long ago and know all the great little markets and restaurants in this little uppercrust quartier. Oh and my old place of work, Guy Savoy, is just around the corner.

The reason we check in here at Mon Hotel, and yes that’s really the name of the hotel – it’s not my hotel per se – is that the Ritz is closed for renovations. No. That’s a joke. Well it is and it isn’t. They are closed for reconstruction. And so are our bank accounts for that kind of expenditure. But the real reason is that my husband must spend the first two days of our honeymoon doing some work in Italy so I figure it will be easier for him to get back and forth to CDG aka the Hamsterhaven.

We yank our luggage out of the taxi and you’ll never guess who greets us at the door. Yes! Marilyn Monroe! She is everywhere! The hotel has been given a trendy chic overhaul which in Paris always looks a little like Z-Gallery in the 80’s meets Ikea of the 90’s meets a True Blood vampire den with some crazy expensive 17th century Murano Glass chandeliers thrown in to really confuse the matter. Photos of Marilyn are tastefully framed and hung all around. Some lava lamps would really get the party started. Nonetheless, the receptionist is super friendly. She is young, pretty, Parisian, nice, and she answers my rusty French with perfect English without trying to suck my blood. The service here definitely makes up for the vampish décor.

However mod Mon Hotel (I’ve linked here to the hotel for your enjoyment) is trying to look the elevator gives away its true age and identity. We squeeze ourselves into it and laugh nervously as the accordion door seals our fate. I push the button for level four and the lift kicks into gear with a worrisome up and down motion before slowly taking us up, up, and away.  The hotel reeks of fruity floral air freshener and the smell, for unknown reasons, is concentrated in the elevator. Oh well, at this close proximity, it’s probably for the better. We have both sat on a plane for 14 hours after all.

Our bags are waiting for us in our room. How did they do that? Perhaps the bell boy flew them up with his bat-like wings? The hotel room is very small. Much smaller than the photos advertised, but it’s nicely furnished and the bed is comfy. Another picture of Marilyn holding her skirts down over a cool vent is framed on the bedroom wall and yet another lesser known print hangs in the bathroom. I find the odoriferous air freshener culprit – ten perfume sticks in a vase –  and hide them under the bathroom counter. These must be everywhere in the hotel. Why? Hasn’t anyone complained of an allergic reaction yet? And if not, can I be the first?

I would like perfume sticks to be added to the list along with asbestos of things France doesn’t know is not en vogue anymore. Oh please, cigarettes would be too obvious…

We were promised a terrace and what an interesting twist on the concept it is. Probably in a former decade this top hotel room in this Haussmann building was one of the maids quarters. In those days, without air conditioning (ahem, France still has no air conditioning), the top floors would be the hottest during the sweltering summers and also the toughest to get to without the aid of an elevator – which was a later addition to most buildings and a reason why they are normally ill constructed.

The ceilings in our chambre are vaulted but still hang lower than the two floors beneath where the bourgeois probably lounged around at one time. Nowadays these tops floors go for serious euros – more than the floors below. I have no idea why. Our window is tiny and the recent addition of a little patio only allows for one very small table and one very small chair. We can take turns sipping our morning coffees assuming we can actually squeeze through the window to get out there. The room does come equipped with a Nespresso maker and I like this gadget.

We skip the shower and hit the streets. I briefly debate whether using the perfume sticks like deodorant would be a wise choice but my husband thinks this might cause skin cancer.  We head out on Avenue de le Grande Armée in search of a light bite. The triumphant L’Arc de Triumph sits like an imposing luxury cruise liner in the midst of turbulent waters. It’s not going anywhere fast. Rain starts to pour and I just changed into sandals. Damn. We duck into an upscale brasserie called (here’s a shocker) Le Grande Armée, that is just a block away from the sainted Arc and the craziness of Étoille:  the voiture merry-go-round that whips around the Arc de Triumph morning, noon, and night.

I know this restaurant. It has always been expensive but never touristy. Foreigners usually don’t make it to this side of the Étoile. And, by the way, ‘étoile’ means ‘star’ and if you look down upon the L’Arc de Triumph from an aerial perspective you will see that there are five roads that dead end into it, each one named after something Napoleonic, and a circle (the car merry-go-round) that protects anyone from trying to capture and run away with the enormous monument. It looks like a really big star from up above or so I’m told. The opposite street from the unimpressive Avenue de la Grande Armée (named for Napoleon’s sometimes victorious army) is the very impressive and upscale Champs Élysées.

We are seated at this resto. The table cloths are starched white and all the French business guests are wearing suit and ties. My, this place has certainly grown up in the last four years. The menu is traditional. Traditionally bad. But the china they are serving it on has much improved. We sit and my head starts to swim from the jet lag. I feel terribly American and very conspicuous. The server comes to take our order and I have just completely hit the wall. I can’t remember for the life of me how to order a diet coke. Coca Light! Je vais prendre un Coca Light! (Whew…)

I order a Cesear salad with chicken that has absolutely no flavor and my husband orders steak tartar that also has no flavor or special acctrouments to make it better. It is simply a disgusting enormous huge portion of chopped meat that is neither seasoned properly nor presented elegantly in the center of his plate. There is no cute little quails egg floating atop. There are no swoops of Violette mustard strewn across the plate. No sea salt or freshly ground pepper dusting the edges. No capers. No onions. Rein de tout – lame!

I forgot about this side to Paris. I did try to warm my hubby but he didn’t believe me at first. Gone are the Julia Child days when France was a gastronomical paradise. Don’t get me wrong I cooked here, I studied here, I love French cuisine. But this new energetic foodie movement that is supposedly taking over needs to hurry up a little bit. The number of bad restaurants far out numbers the good. And the ones that are good are normally VERY expensive. If they are good but not expensive, they are impossible to get a reservation at. However, the French do some things better than anyone, and I will come to that later.

We pay our check of 75 euros, that’s around 100 dollars for a salad, steak tartare, and two cokes. We leave. Wow. That was not the type of French experience I wanted my husband to have for his first meal in Paris. That was not the kind of meal I wanted to have in Paris. But you know, the French, they love it. So what can you do? The two French business men sitting just next to us had ordered entrecôte (steak) and that was the only thing on their plates. Two big steaks both cooked bloody – or bleu as they call it. (Cold in the middle. This temperature should not be confused with saignant with mean ‘rare’ and should be raw but warm in the middle). The french fries were in a separate bowl untouched.

(Our French fries were left untouched too because they were cooked about 7 hours ago, if not the day before, and probably recooked about 3 hours before we sat down. Harumph!)

Disappointed we go back to the bat cave and pass out. My husband has to wake up at 3AM anyway to go back to CDG and fly out to Italy for business. I fall asleep quickly and have crazy emotionally charged dreams. I left Paris the last time a much different person than when I first arrived. And not necessarily for the better. I left Paris embodying the ugliness of:  blinding ambition, divorce, guilt, serious physical exhaustion, health issues, and a torn apart life mostly self-inflicted. I was hoping this time to rewrite those pages. But now I wonder if the rain is trying to wash me out….

The alarm clock goes off and it feels like we just shut our eyes. I’m happy to be awake instead of furiously slaving over the stove of hell’s kitchen in my dreams yelling and being yelled at by French Chefs. My husband has not slept as soundly  but I know he will be okay on no sleep. He catches a taxi and I go back to bed.

At 12PM I get up and it is bright and sunny! Ha! Maybe the rain cloud is following him and not me!

I pull on my running gear and head for the Bois de Boulogne which was once the hunting grounds for Henry II and Henry III. This is the real reason I chose this hotel. It’s not too far from this magnificent park which is sort of like NYC’s Central Park (just not central and 2.5 times bigger). The “Bois” which is partly manicured and partly wild wood, was my therapy for five years. It was the only place I could run and sweat and not feel ridiculous. Now running in Paris is trendy but four years ago it was a laughably very American thing to do. I’ve always enjoyed running along the Seine too, but the Bois is peaceful if you don’t mind the random transvestite prostitutes that linger in off-road places waiting for their usuals.

At night they line the streets that bi-sect the park more prominently, but not during the day. They often park their vans close to where they wait for customers so they can take their “work”  back to the car if the park isn’t providing enough cover. It doesn’t really bother me – at least I don’t feel threatened by it – and I don’t think anybody else feels endangered either.

You know Parisians are funny about what they consider their private life. They don’t butt their heads into other people’s business the way we do in America and they fully resent it when other people attempt to pry open their lids. It’s very much a ‘live’ and ‘let live’ city. And if it’s not hurting anyone – well then – who cares? Sadly I’m sure the prostitution in the park isn’t so innocent and I know there have been several attempts to clean it up, but from what I can tell none have been successful.

I often wonder if this idea of  ‘private life’ is left over from WWII when people had to be private – really private – about everything. And I often wonder if that is why they are not always so welcoming up front because they are truly lovely people once you get to know them. And once you are accepted into a French social circle then you are easily adopted and befriended by others. It must be because of the war. I’m quite certain about it.

My run is refreshing and cleansing and even though the Bois is huge with many undocumented trails, my legs instinctively find my favorite off-road paths before my head even has time to think about it.

Today is going to be fun because I am going to see MEG ZIMBECK, one of my favorite people in Paris (and in the world for that matter). Meg and I met as two ex-pat bloggers slightly enamored with each other’s French perspective and writing styles many years ago. I was working as one of the only employed American female 3-Michelin star cook in Paris at Guy Savoy and she was working for the World Woman’s fund documenting women’s issues by day and at night  shedding light on the Parisian music scene, the food movement, and French culture. She is a fantastic writer. And she is the owner of Paris by Mouth which has the BEST restaurant rec’s in Paris and also the best tours. She’s been reviewed by all the big U.S. newspapers and Ruth Reichl (the former editor of Gourmet Magazine and also author of several food memoirs) just took one of her food tours of Les Halles.

In order to see Meg, I have to take her Paris By Mouth tour of Les Halles, because she is handing the ropes over to a new guide and wants to follow along. This is more than fine by me. I know Les Halles well and the history, but I love to hear it all again. You do know what and where Les Halles is right? And it’s significance?

This is Emile Zola’s Ventre de Paris or “Belly of Paris”! And it was at one time the biggest wholesale markets in the world. This market dates back to 1183. Over  800 years the market thrived and expanded. It was at one time inclosed with a beautiful wrought iron and glass structure that finally began to collapse in the 1970’s so it was destroyed and replaced with a park (not so pretty) and a bizarre underground shopping mall that has become a haven for teens and drug addicts.

The wholesale market is outside the city now in its own city called Rungis (it’s so big it even has its own barber shop, bank, and transit system but you can’t enter without a special permit) and it is still today the largest wholesale market in the world. The remains of the original Les Halles can be seen with a guide who knows how to peel back the layers and make it come alive. Most of what’s left  today is on rue Montorgueil where you can find bouloungeries, patisserries, fromageries, butcheries, poissoneries, and resaurants that date back to the 17th century.

There’s so much more to this area and the life that surrounded it, but I will have to come back to this in a later post…

The new tour guide for Paris by Mouth is French and she knows her stuff. She brings an architectural background to the experience which makes the history of the area come alive. Her English is much better than mine and so is her French. I’m jealous. Meg and I had intended to hang back and catch up during the tour but we are both heavily engrossed in the experience. The tour ends at Spring’s wine shop (owned by American expat Daniel Rose who started Restarunt Spring in this same location before expanding at a new venue down the street) with ex-pat Josh Adler (who also worked at Bi-Rite in San Francisco) tasting the cheeses we have purchased along the way and sipping wines that Josh chooses to accompany them . Slightly intoxicated we leave the wine shop for another ex-pat friend’s new restaurant: Verjus.

I have been dying to check out Verjus and I know this is going to make up for my lame lunch yesterday. Shit, was that the last time I ate? No wonder I’m slurring my words. Meg and I saunter down the cobblestone streets arms linked happily talking about ex-pat gossip and catching up on each other’s lives until we reach the 1st arroindissment.

I’m going to let you in on a secret and it’s probably going to send up a lot of red flares, and lots of huffing and puffing and blowing out through the lips and all those little idiosyncrasies the French do when they are really upset. The Expat restaurants are kicking major boo-tay in Paris. Why? Because these places are bringing great service, fresh ingredients, reasonable prices, and cross-culturally inspired tasty beautifully presented food to the table. Boo-yeah! And here’s one more secret: many of the new trendy happening restaurants owned by French chefs have trained or cut their teeth in America. Yup. That’s right. No joke. Have you heard of Frenchies in Paris?!?  NO?!?! Well have you heard of Gramercy Tavern in NYC? Same chef.

And one more interesting note before I dive into a bottle of burgundy at restaurant Verjus – recently an older French friend of mine who, at one time, used to dine only in Michelin star restaurants said to me, “If you want to know where the really good places are to eat and drink in Paris, follow the Americans.”

I’m doing my victory dance right now, you just can’t see it. It’s sort of combination of the sprinkler dance (one elbow behind head the other arm outstretched notching its way around the lawn) meets the mashed potato (if you don’t know this one then ask some one older about it).

Now that I’ve let the cat out of the bag I of course have cover my tracks a little. Because I am the product of one of Paris’s most loved 3-Michelin star restaurants and I did do my training at the prestigious Le Cordon Bleu. There is nothing in the world like a French 3-Michelin star restaurant experience. Nothing. It is something to experience at least once in a lifetime. American 3-Michelin star restaurants are also great, but the French take it to an unearthly level. Here’s why: the servers have degrees in serving you. That is what they have trained to do at a prestigious university for four years including a lengthy apprenticeship after graduation. And after receiving so much hostile service in Paris when you actually walk into a restaurant and they treat you like royalty it’s sort of shock – a memorable shock. Seriously, the service is incredible.

And, from a food standpoint, some poor kid in the kitchen will likely end up on the daily specials if he or she messes up your dish and I’ve seen it happen in ways Gordon Ramsay wouldn’t even dare to copy. Sidenote: Gordon Ramsay did cook at Guy Savoy when he was a lot younger and  Thomas Keller did an apprenticeship there. Both have been quoted as saying it was the toughest restaurant ever. You can quote me saying the same. Pixar spent four years in the kitchen documenting how it all works and you’ve seen that movie.  And, on a serious note, most of these outstanding 3-Michelin star chefs started apprenticing when they were only fifteen years old. The experience and lifetime devoted to discovering and building upon French cuisine with their own personal artistic perspective and appreciation is unparalleled.

The other thing the French have going for them are all the artisanal products that we are now striving to copy and surpass but somehow can’t. I’ll come back to that and I’m sure there are readers out there already whose blood I’m boiling. Yes, SF makes great bread, Okay?!?! And great sausage. We have amazing cheese. And great cupcakes too. And we definitely kick ass when it comes to the Whoopie pies that many Paris Patisseries are trying to recreate. However, yogurt we will never get right. And this little pasteurized dilemma/issue we have got to get over…

Meg and I saunter (stumble) into Verjus like we own the place. And this is such a cute restaurant – very 16th century. The wine bar is on the ground floor with cobblestone walls & wood beams. The restaurant on the upper floor is elegant surrounded by beautiful old glass windows, white clothed tables, and sparkling crystal glasses. We slide into the bar, plop our purses on the floor, and start chatting a mile a minute with Laura who is the beautiful owner along with her husband Braden who is also the chef. We love them. We have known them since they started Hidden Kitchen which was a long-standing 12-course pop up dinner. It was pop-ular. Very popular!

I’m starving so Meg, who eats there regularly, starts ordering off the menu. Upstairs Braden, who I must admit sometimes reminds me of a debonair scientist with his wavy dark blond hair and thick black rimmed chemist glasses, does a beautiful tasting menu crafting Japanese flavors with French. And as earthy as this might sound Chef Braden has somehow figured how to add something the French are normally scared of: FLAVOR! Come on, let’s admit it, French food is about subtly and layering of flavor and I love and appreciate that. But sometimes don’t you want something that’s like: POW?!? Braden sneaks this smoking gun element in to every dish with a sophistication I think many guests aren’t quite used to. Sure shot. I love it. And apparently Saveur magazine does too! Waaaay to go Verjus!!!

Downstairs you can order tasting dishes à la carte and share. We decide to start with a bar bite of fried chicken and it is absolutely delicious. A grown up version of spicy popcorn chicken. Next we take the fat Spring asparagus starter cooked two ways: grilled & tempura battered served with a beet-soyu sauce for dipping. We finish up with meatballs that melt in our mouths. Then we reorder these same three dishes plus a few more like dumplings with tam tam sauce and pork belly with I can’t-remember-what-but-it-rocked.

Laura, is chatting with us like we are the only ones in the place while at the same time managing to keep several other groups wine glasses filled. She’s a pro. With one eye on us, she never for a second lets the rest of the intimate space be ignored. I love her for this. It’s a rare gift.  She pairs our dishes with outstanding wines by the glass and I am by this point inebriated and totally jet lagged so my memory is swiss cheese when it comes to remembering the wines. The pictures I take of the wine bottles come out blurred. Oh well, what a great excuse to come back with my husband.

The empty bar stools fill up with solo expats and Meg and I are starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. We came here to catch up and chat with Laura and eat good food and drink good wine, but Meg being the ex-pat celeb that she is, is now having to deal with an onslaught of questions from all sides. She politely asks one acquaintance to” table the tour guide discussion” for another time. Many expats do tours in Paris, but not many are as good, and I can sense her growing uncomfortable. Meg, for all intents and purposes, has crossed to the other side and become French and I know she values her private life (although I’m exposing it here) and we are trying to squeeze four years worth of crazy adventures and stories into one evening. The French are very serious about manners. And I like that. Business talk happens only after the meal is finished and ours is still going strong.

Laura is expertly keeping the expats and the French groups happy. She chats as easily in French as she does in English. This is a place where anyone can come and enjoy good food and wine. The smiles abound. The joie de vivre reverberates off the cobblestone in a unselfconcious tone. This is rare for Paris. For a country that prides itself on being au naturel, it is often an excruciatingly tense and overly conspicuous experience to dine out.

We bid our farewells. Meg is leaving for a short but much needed vacation the next day and I await my husband who has hopefully solved the world’s problems in Italy. I miss him already…

I hop on the metro and make my way back to Étoile, the shining star of Paris. Marilyn greets me at my hotel with skirts a-blazing, the elevator performs it’s turn of the century magic trick taking me vertical in no particular hurry, and the perfume sticks in my room knock me out cold. It’s been a beautiful mostly sunny day with great friends and fantastic food and wine and cheese.

This is only the beginning. The best and rest is yet to come…

The post Paris, Ma Maîtresse first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

In fact I’m drinking American Champagne from California that I have had shipped over. It’s J Champagne from Healdsburg – special stuff. At this rate I’m the only one who’s going to find it special.

This is my first American feast that I am hosting for a large group of ex-pats. My husband is travelling and will be home any minute from Germany. For the first time in our marriage I get to cook Thanksgiving dinner without begrudgingly turning it over to one of our families. We all want turkey more than anything in the world because it symbolizes America. Where once this holiday was just an excuse to get stuffed and wasted and pass out on the couch, now it has meaning: We Are Americans & We Must Eat Turkey & Have Pumpkin Pie or Die!

Seriously, lives depend on it. And specifically mine because the thought of letting down a hungry pack of ex-pats salivating at the bit for some good ol’ fashioned American grub is like telling French peasants to eat cake or brioche or whatever Marie Antoinette said to get her head cut off.

And, I’m attending Le Cordon Bleu so the bar is high and so is the talk around town – if you know what I mean? Expats gossip shamelessly.

Now that I have a French food vocabulary from my prestigious Le Cordon Bleu education I can tell the butcher what I would like and I can actually read his sign outside asking Les Americains to order their dinde (turkey) early this year. I live in the 17th arroindissment about three blocks from L’Arc de Triumph and Les Champ-Élysées and there are many American dignitaries and political people in this area. Shop keepers have caught on to zheez crahzy Americain ‘oliday, ‘ow do you say eet? Tanx-gee-veeng?!?

The French hardly eat turkey. A year later when I start cooking at Guy Savoy, I serve it weekly for family meal. Family meal mostly consists of offal and butcher cuts that are cheap: lamb brains, boudin noir, tongue, etc. so one can see where dinde falls in the French meat hierarchy.

Just to be safe, I order my turkey three weeks in advance.

The week beforehand is spent running around Paris in search of American products. In the Marais, the orthodox Jewish and gay quartier (where else can you get the most amazing falafel ever, then drink champagne under the rainbow flag, then shop in cutting edge designer stores? Love it!) I find the Thanksgiving store. Yes, it is really named the Thanksgiving Store, and it is a total ripoff. But when you’re in the eye of the storm, price is no object.

A bag of pecans for 6 euros? Great. I’ll take 4 please. The euros is trading 1:2 or there abouts at this time. I think $48 is a steal for 4 bags of nuts. I pick up Libby’s pumpkin pack, condensed milk, Marshmello cream just because they have it, cranberry jelly, and Peppridge Farm bread crumbs for stuffing mix. Oh, and a pie pan because pumpkin tart is not the same as pumpkin pie. In just the same way that pumpkin cheesecake will never truly sub out pumpkin pie. It just doesn’t cut it. No matter what, it just doesn’t.

I make my way back on le Metro to my rather conservative quartier and climb the five split level flights of stairs to my gorgeous bourgeois apartment. The days of driving to and from a supermarket and shlepping groceries easily across the threshold to my kitchen counter as opposed to up a 16th century skyscraper are long gone but my calves are looking good and I’m beginning to understand how French women stay toned.

Finally turkey day is here! I am psyched! I have my pecans, my pumpkin pack, my cranberry jelly (yuck but whatevs I can’t find the fresh berries), my pie pan, various winter veggies, and all I need now is to pick up my turkey. But before I can saunter down my two hundred stair steps, I get a call from a classmate:

“Amy, some one said that you have pecans. Do you? Do you have extra? Can I buy some from you? I just need enough for one pie…”

Seriously, I’m like a drug dealer now.

“Yeah, I got some. I can give you one bag.” I say recluctantly because pecan pie can be finicky to make and I really like it and only eat it on Tanx-geev-eeng.

“I’ll pay you double, I just have these ex-pats coming over for dinner and…”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I got you covered.”

“I promise I’ll get you back.”

We make the exchange at my apartment within the hour and I can see her expression of desire mixed with jealousy as she glances over my assortment of American canned products and various American wines. And make no mistsake about it, Thanksgiving in Paris is big business and all the ex-pat stores sell out of the Americana foods quickly. I have also set the table with American linens from Williams-Sonoma and this adds to her contained resentment. Feeling guilty in my pilgrim decadence I fork over another bag of pecans.

When I do Thanksgiving, I do thankgiving. I don’t care what country I’m in and I have spent one third of my life living outside America. I’ve lived in London, Ireland, India and now Paris and I know darn well Thanksgiving is one of the hardest holidays to not celebrate. Christmas or Hannukka you can do just about anywhere – even India – but not Thanksgiving. I brought these linens with me when I first arrived in Paris and the wine too and my good old out of print edition of Joy of Cooking for authentic holiday recipes.

I walk my classmate out the door and make a dash for the butcher shoppe and my turkey. My butcher pulls out a bird wrapped in paper and my mouth drops. You call this is a turkey?

C’est quoi, monsieur? Mon dinde? (What’s that, my turkey?)

Buh qui cherie, tu es Americain non? (Yes dear, you’re American no?)

Qui, mais il est trop petit! Les dinde Americain sont gros! (Yes, but it is too small! The American turkeys are big!)

The butcher laughs and tells me how he has heard about these huge American birds. He reminds me that I wouldn’t be able to fit a bird that size in my oven. Most French ovens are small because most French kitchens are tiny. Yet French men and women cook up miraculous meals without the gargantuan kitchens we find so necessary in the States.

Deflated, I take my bird home. How is this tiny poor thing going to feed everybody? I should have bought two. I didn’t even ask what size the bird was because I was just happy to be able to get one and no one asked me – for that matter – what size I wanted or how many people I was cooking for!

It is 2P.M and guests are arriving in 2 hours. We have planned an early dinner just like in the States. The eating and drinking will go on all night without a doubt. I have pecan and pumpkin pies cooling on the counter, yams cooking on the stove top, brussel sprouts ready to roast, turkey stock reducing for extra turkey gravy, bird roasting, stuffing waiting to be baked after bird because there’s no room in the oven, potatoes boiling, carrots simmering in tarragon butter, heater going strong because it’s freezing cold outside…

…and the electricty dies.

It just cuts out. I flip back on the circuits and they flip back off. I pop open a bottle of J Champagne and start drinking. Liquid courage. What am I going to do? I call my French girlfriend Marine who will be joining us for dinner. “Amy, c’est normal, you have too many burners on, you cannot use all that electricity in a Parisian kitchen. Can you cook the turkey at your neighbor’s house?”

I knock on my neighbor’s door and they are mysteriously silent even though I can see lights on. Perhaps they have a six sense about this Holiday? And then the inspiration dawns on me: take the turkey back to the butcher and see if he will stick it on his enormous floor to ceiling rotisserie.

My butcher is confused at first when I try to explain what I want him to do. He thinks I am trying to return the turkey after I have already started to cook it. My French fails to transcend language and culture boundaries. So I do what any self respecting American would: I motion for him to follow me to the rotisserie and I mime bird on skewer turning around and around. The butcher laughs. I knew those years of acting school would pay off somehow.

He puts it on the skewer and asks if I want farce inside the bird. This is stuffing. I tell him no thank you but register the idea for next year. I’m not a big fan of the French version of stuffing, it’s too dense with too many unidentifiable mixed meats, like ham and sausage. And it tends to come out of the bird like an unbreakable football. I think this is because Americans normally toast the breadcrumbs first or dry them out and they don’t.

I run back through the snow that is now falling heavily but soft and silent and sprint up to my apartment. My breath is cold and steams the air as I leap stairs two at a time. My apartment is still blistering hot and I tear off my hat, gloves, and jacket that are now wet from snowflakes melting.

Et voilà, my electricity decides it wants to come back on and stay on once I flip the switches. I pop the stuffing in the oven, and then brussel sprouts, mash the potatoes, candy the yams, reduce the turkey stock. But wait! What will I do about the gravy? Zoot Alors (shit!)! That’s my favorite part! You can’t have turkey without gravy!

Guests arrive, the remainder of the champagne is poured, and I pop open oysters on the half shell for hors d’oeuvres and pass smoked salmon & caviar on blinis. Putting my wet winter gear back on I race – a little tipsy – down the stairs and up the street to my butcher.

Wow, my turkey is sexy. Especially compared with the small little poulets next to it. It’s perfectly cooked and glistening a warm reddish chestnut brown color that only turkey’s can when roasted. He packages it for me, and sends me home with two huge jars of jus.

How did he know I would need that so badly for my gravy? And why even bother with the gravy when there is rich salty jus from the forty birds he’s been rotissering. I love, love, love that drain tray that catches all the good stuff.

I race back with my bird, this time taking the stairs more cautiously with my precious cargo underarm, and serve up the most amazing turkey I’ve ever had. Forget the brine, or the deep fryer, or the barbecue; turkey on the rotisserie is succulent with crispy skin and breast meat that doesn’t taste like sawdust.

And size does matter. The smaller the better. Next year I will order two turkeys.

In my family we have a tradition that before we feast upon the foods we take hands and say one thing we are thankful for. I am still relatively new to Paris and not missing home just yet, but I am grateful for my family and friends and especially for my butcher. My ex-pat friends who have been living in Paris, some for over ten years, choke up during their turn to share what they are grateful for. When you are living far from home, the thoughts of what it means to be American come flooding back unexpectedly with a wave of patriotism not previously unearthed.

We dig in, drink heartily, pig out on pie, and retire to the living room for after diner drinks, music, laughter, and dancing.

Next year my butcher places a sign outside his shop reminding Americans to order turkeys early and advertising that he will rotisserie the birds for a small extra charge. Yes, some things I am very thankful for.

The post A Parisian Thanksgiving first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Eric and I pull into a small town called Falkville in Alabama not too far from Birmingham after a seven-hour drive from Charlotte, North Carolina. “My Aunt lives out here… somewhere…” I think out loud as we drive through land that looks uninteresting and rural in every direction.

Grey, everything looks grey. The blue sky is smoky and dusty orange from a controlled burn, the land has yet to spring into green, the trees thin, twiggy, and barren.

We pass countless little churches with spiky white steeples pointing rigid and straight up to the heavens. The signs outside quote and paraphrase various bible scripture that do more to scare people into prayer than welcome with open arm: “When you die, you will meet God” and “Heaven or Hell, you choose.”

Eric and I come up with our own versions, the best being: “Admit mistakes and get good returns.”

And in between these small simple white country parishes are supersized churches. Religious compounds. They look powerful. A twenty-foot banner hangs from the side of one Baptist mega church like an advertisement for a new movie: The hammer, the steeple, the body…

This church looks like a business not a humble place of worship and I can’t help but to wonder if there are actually enough people in this sparse county to fill an auditorium that no doubt seats 2000 people or more. And I wonder if the little parishes are even full on Sunday.

This part of Alabama is a dry county. And there is something about this that irks me.  Well anyone trying to tame my bottomless wine addiction puts me on the defense.

The people that I meet at the truck stops and along the way to ask for directions, because my GPS is lost once again searching for signal, are warm and gracious. They are friendly in earnest wanting to help and chat about where we are coming from and where we are going to. They are as curious about us as we are about them.

Why here? Why would my Aunt want to live here? This is some lonely living. No movie theaters, no bustling down town. The closest center of action, besides the supersized Babtist churches, is a Wal Mart Mega store where you can pick up groceries, clothes, jewelry, electronics, and more.  No beer though. You cannot pick up beer. No ma’am.

We peel off Highway 31 onto Old Highway 31 and my GPS is telling me my Aunt lives on the left but there is nothing but hay bails on the left for miles.

We look right and see a long gravel driveway leading up to a gracious old brick house. I see my Aunt’s P.T. Cruiser parked outside and know this must be the Tune Farm: Annie Tune’s Certified Organic farm.

We pull the Budget truck slowly up to the back porch where a harem of multi colored cats are lounging lazily and looking distrustful of our presence through bright yellow and green eyes. A fuzzy grey jezabel walks to my feet and curls her bushy tail around my ankles attempting to inlisit a back scratch.

I knock on the door and nobody answers. God, I hope we’re at the right place! We walk in and I know we’ve hit the mark from the mix-matched antiques that have a certain country comfort kind of feel. It’s like an Anthropologie home store, feminine and rustic.

I call through the house for Annie and no one answers. I run up the stairs searching the five bedrooms for signs of life but find nothing but space heaters buzzing room to room.

The only sign of life besides the cats are a pair of peacocks that make the most God awful squawking noises.

The sun is setting and the temperature drops drastically. I thought Alabama was supposed to be warm but it is freezing cold. Much colder than New York. Eric is still in shorts and doesn’t seem to mind the frostbite nipping at his heels.

We search the tool shed, the old animal barn, the back forty my teeth chattering uncontrollably and come up empty handed. Then we find the greenhouse.

“Lordy, lordy! It’s Missy Glaze!” My Aunt calls, dropping her hand shovel and coming up to me with wide stretched arms. “I jus can’t believe you’re here!”

She gives me a big hug, grabs my chattering jaw with her warm hands and says, “We better get you inside! You’re freezin’ to death!”

  This is a big farm for one lone farmer and Annie has through a stroke of luck or genious or both found two young farmers recently graduated from UC Berkeley to intern for a year.

They come sauntering up to the greenhouse weapons of mass destruction in hand (pitchfork and shovel) and greet us with big hugs. They are, with no condescension implied, adorable. Their worn-in overalls covered in dirt, layers of flannel soft with use, mud caked work boots, and generous smiles impress me.

 Suzie and Oliver are doing what they want to be doing: farming the land and making it grow. Inspired by the prospect of forming their own CSA they have been steadily preparing the farm for Spring. And they are bubbling with ideas, fresh with inspiration, and loving every minute of having a big ol’ farm to call their own and make of it what they want.

Suzie is a kindred spirit and earth mother. She likes to grow things. In the kitchen she has glass jars filled with different fermenting concoctions. Her latest fascination being homemade Kombucha. She grows fermented chains called ‘mothers’ and places them in various sweetened teas to create vinegary refreshing cold drinks.

And she bakes bread. God does she bake some mean bread. We’re talking whole wheat soft loaves stuffed with cheddar cheese & jalapenos and dill & garlic. Bread to break and sustain the heartiest appetites slathered with homemade butter.

To add to the fermented list is sauerkraut pickled with cranberry juice and carroway (a throw back to her Polish ancestry) and hard apple cider, a prisoner’s desperate and delightful deliverance. I eye the Happy Jack wondering if she’ll miss a gallon of it if it magically disappears.

In the vein of true Southern hospitality Annie and I hit the road to find alcohol. A little time alone with my Aunt is just fine by me and we throw the PT Cruiser into drive and speed down the Old Highway to the next county of Decator which promises some cheap whiskey, wine, and beer.

“Don’t get caught!” Oliver calls to us through the kitchen doorway laughing at two old women in need of drink. We buy our bottled sins and make a quick trip to a BBQ house to pick up a gallon of Brunswick stew and a coconut cream pie to take home.

“You can buy a gallon of stew here? I don’t know why, but that just sounds wrong.”

“Oh yeah, you can get a big ol’ gallon jar of it. Suzie loves the glass jars anyways. She makes her Kombucha in them.” Annie and I drive and drive and pull up the gravel driveway to her cozy farmhouse. We enter to the smell of fresh baked bread…

  and a wonderful cumin and blackeyed pea stew with wilted arugula from the garden and a little bacon grease for flavor. A tossed salad graces the table with lettuce picked only minutes before.

“I’m not leaving.” I announce.

“Me neither.” Eric chimes in both of us in foodie heaven.

We put the Brunswick stew in the refrigerator for another day since Suzie and Oliver have cooked their hearts out in our absence. I pour red wine for the ladies and crack Budweisers for the men. Actually Annie and I are double fisting with wine and beer. Well, why not. Budweiser tastes more like flavored water anyways.

We eat like Kings. Polish off the magnum of table wine and an 18 pack of Bud and hit the hay. I sleep deep on a featherbed with a little space heater desperately trying unsuccessfully to do her job.

In the morning Suzie and Oliver are at it again cooking up food so fresh and delicious I’d pay twice the amount of a fancy restaurant just for second helpings. She spoons a big dollop of her cranberry sauerkraut next to my farm fresh eggs and places some strong black coffee next to my seat. I scarf down.

“I will buy your sauerkraut for my restaurant. Anything you can or jar I will buy. Just tell me what you want for it and we’ll work it out.”

“Really? That could be cool. I’ve never thought of selling any of it. I guess I’ll have to perfect the recipes.”

“Well you should think about it. And don’t worry about perfecting it – you’re already there. I’d hire you in my kitchen just so I could eat your bread everyday.”

After breakfast we hit the local flea market where my Aunt Annie runs the parking lot collecting 50 cents per car. There is everything to be found here. Animals, chickens, saddles, food, antique cast iron pots and pans, junk, and blue eggs.

Oliver, Suzie, and a new addition to the intern team, Alex, find a shabby looking dog in a cage and debate with Annie over whether or not they should buy it for $20 and take pity on its sorry state. It’s a mixed breed: beagle and hound.

We talk the owner down to $8 and he swears tooth and nail through tobacco stained yellow teeth that the dog does not bark or chase chickens.  The dog is not a chicken killer. Annie gives him a once over through her crystal clear turquoise eyes suspecting that he’s fuller in shit than his crusty appearance is letting on.

We take the dog anyway against better judgment.

“We need a dog that will kill the groundhogs.” Suzie and Oliver justify their nurturing hearts. The other dog on the farm is a gentle rotwilder that prefers swamp swimming to hunting.

We get the dog back to the farm after I get shooed away from one woman’s stall for taking photographs of her $1 grab bag collection (why? Did she think I was going to copy her idea?!!). Our motley crew is feeling good after our dog rescue. It is a sweet dog.

At the farm the dog is unleashed. It makes friends with Carla the rotwilder, a good sign, then it takes off after one of the chickens semi killing it by grabbing its feathery neck and thrashing the chicken back and forth. The other chickens squawk and we run over to the crime scene.

Annie is in shock and visibly upset. She pens up the dog who immediately begins barking its head off and yodeling for us in hound-dog fashion to unleash it. Oliver grabs an axe and lops off the chicken’s head to put it out of its misery.

But now our crew is left with a chicken and no idea what to do with it. I’ve gutted and plucked numerous feathered creatures and skinned rabbits and baby boar, but none that are freshly dead. And I’ve heard it’s hard to get the feathers off of fresh kill.

After quickly researching the farmers put a big pot of water on to boil. Dunk the chicken by the feet into the pot and pull off the feathers. They come off easily. They singe the pinfeathers with a torch and debate on how to gut it.

I explain that I like to go through the neck sticking my fingers up to the top of the breast bone and fingering the lungs loose then reaching back further and pulling out intestines and all in one clean swipe.

But a book on Country Living says to cut the chicken across the thighs to gut it. I’m wondering if this is the way to go with a freshly murdered chicken as opposed to one that has had time to firm up with rigamortis.

I’ve also cleaned chickens through the butt hole. I know that sounds bizarre. But in France we clean capons through the backend. You cut the anus a tiny bit larger and then pull all the innards out while everyone in the kitchen cracks jokes at your expense in French. Executive chefs included.

The reason for this innard enima is so the skin over the breasts is not torn. And the opening around the neck is kept smaller. It is very important that a whole cooked bird has beautiful crispy skin that is fully in tact.

Oliver, very much wanting to gut his first chicken, makes an expert incision with a buck knife from thigh to thigh reminding me of a field cesarean section. Warm gelantinous yellow fat spills forth but no intestines. The crew gathers around and debates the next step.  They are fearful of puncturing the gall sack and ruining the flesh of the bird.

I’m afraid my gall sack warning has caused hesitation so I shove my hand in the bird and reach far back to the neck into the warm gushy innards and blood feeling around for the lungs to loosen and pull as much as I can out.

The blob does not come out in one neat grab probably because the bird is still warm. There are still odds and ends to rip out and Alex and Oliver take turns reaching in and fishing out the rest.

We wash the bird, crack open some beers to celebrate, and feel mightily redeemed that we have turned a wrongfully murdered chicken into something useful like dinner.

Eric and I leave the farm and hit the road aiming the truck towards Oklahoma City by way of Tennessee and Mississippi. Suzie packs us lunch and hands me a large jar with Kombucha mothers so I can make my own when I get back home. I squeeze Annie promising to come back in the Spring.

Goodbye Sweet home Alabama, hello Oklahoma O.K.

The post Murder & Redemption in Sweet Home Alabama first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

No small feat considering I have just spent the previous day puking my guts up for hours on end and have no real desire to carry heavy boxes and furniture. Just my luck, my last weekend in New York City and I am food poisoned. Either from the cheap BBQ wings I had feasted two nights before or the Chipotle burrito the day after which only digested for roughly one hour before emerging looking surprisingly un-chewed in my toilet bowl.

I’m sure there are worse things to regurgitate, but I can’t think of many that top black beans, hot sauce, and marinated chicken.

Nonetheless, Nico the “French Terminator” as we have lovingly dubbed him at work for his make-it-happen work ethic and funny sounding French Alsatian accent, get to work wrapping everything we can in shrink wrap and loading up the truck. Nico is a master packer. Not suprising because he is a very efficient and organized cook.

The decision to drive my apartment across country was out of necessity although the romantic idea of driving through America’s backbone easily turned my grim reality into an exciting adventure.  When will I have an excuse to make this kind of trip again? No doubt my new home at Le Club restaurant in San Franciso will keep me fully engaged for years to come.

Road trip. God it’s been ages since I went on a road trip.

I rent a Budget truck after many blog readers advise me against using U-Haul trucks to drive across country. (And I must add a quick ‘thank you’ to the reader who provided the low down on rental insurance). Before Nico arrives on Saturday afternoon, I go to the rental place, take a look at the 10’ truck I’ve rented, shove open the roll gate cargo door to check out the space that will house my apartment, and realize it is much to small. Much, much too small.

I go back to the office and sweet talk the manager into giving me the 17’ truck for the same price. Things are looking good so far even though my stomach is still not sure if it wants to be cooperative on this journey.

Climbing into the cushiony driver’s side I adjust the seat, my side mirror and reach for the rearview mirror when I realize there isn’t one. Shit. I’ve never driven a truck before. I roll down the window on the passenger side and adjust the other side view mirror.

Keys in ignition, radio blaring Lady Gaga’s overplayed hit ‘Bad Romance’ I peel out of the Budget truck parking lot onto the Westside Highway and commence in making my way South to the financial district, my home.

This is fun! I am so much taller than I’ve been before riding higher than the cars all around me. I can’t believe I’m doing this, I think out loud laughing for nobody to hear but Lady Gaga.

I make a left off of the Westside Freeway and head over to 7^th street and now I’m a little nervous. The streets are narrower and I have too much stimulous to take in trying to negotiate stoplights, parked cars on my right and traffic passing me on my left.

And then the worst happens. As I’m looking out my side view mirror I hear a deafening smack. I automatically look into my nonexistent rear view mirror and then to the passenger side mirror which is no longer outstretched but firmly folded into the window.

I have just taken off some parked car’s side mirror. Shit, shit, shit. Do I turn back? Do I keep driving? Oh my God, I can’t believe this.

I pull over, shaking, get out of the truck and adjust my mirror then slowly walk down the street to see what kind of damage I’ve caused. And there it is, a car with a demolished side mirror. Some guys standing outside work on a smoke break are laughing their asses off. I smile sheepishly.  

I’m waiting for some one to come running out and start screaming at me, but no one does. I leave a note, nervously take another quick glance around, and get the hell out of there.

This time I keep the radio off and drive slower down the street until I make it to my enormous apartment building. And now the real fun begins: parking a 17’ truck in New York City.

There is no parking in the financial district. My building, a block away from the Stock Exchange is a heavy security area with guards up and down the block and meter maids that fly out of nowhere giving double and triple tickets to illegally parked cars.

I drive around the block once, twice, three times, four times. I need to park oustside the building but it is a ‘no standing’ zone and the moving trucks that have dared to risk the vengence of Rita the Metermaid all have little yellow slips underneath their windshield wipers. I pull up outside the entrance to my building and leave the truck running.

There is a black Surburban in the ‘no parking zone’ (not to be confused with the ‘no standing zone) on the other side of the street. A famous name is plastered in the window and I ask the driver if he is going to leave soon. He is.

Since it is Saturday I can park in the ‘no parking’ zone but not in the ‘no standing’ zone. Go figure. I wait and wait and finally the world famous passenger leaves the apartment building. He waves to me, I wave back wishing my camera more accessible and then attempt to negotiate parallel parking the beast without any more casualties.

In my apartment I look at the twenty boxes I’ve managed to pack over the last few days in between sudden and swift naseau attacks and flop on the sofa waiting for NIco. The rest we will do together. And I’m sort of at the giving up point. Maybe I should have just paid the extra $1000 for some one to make my crap disappear.

Nico arrives with enough energy for the both of us. We pack, we talk shop, and I attempt to convince him unsuccessfully to leave New York and join me in my new adventure. I can tell he’s thinking about it. I have already secretely attempted to win over his wife, who has trained in France and who holds a Master’s  Degree in hospitality and management. A dynamic duo in my small restaurant would be awesome.

Nico and I are around the same age and both ready to have creative input. The idea of burning yourself out for yourself is always more alluring than being a burnt out cog. We brainstorm recipes while loading up and he promises to at least make a trip to San Francisco with his wife. I repay him with cold beer and hot pizza and he leaves to enjoy a layman’s holiday with a promise to return on Sunday and finish the job.

Thank God for Nico. I could never have packed up without him.

Eric, a chef friend from San Francisco and my newest and only other team member thus far, flies out to help me make the drive across country.  This is team spirit. I trade him a free one way ticket to New York and promise a quick and fun tour of the city’s attractions before heading out. He’s never been to New York before and hasn’t taken a vacation in over 7 years.

I can’t imagine how driving 8 hours a day would be considered a vacation. But Eric tells me he loves to drive. And he’s excited to make the cross country trek. Growing up in logger country, and working for the family business as a kid, he has driven just about every truck known to mankind and driving long distance is no big deal.

There is a God after all. How I ended up with a talented chef who also happens to like driving trucks long distance is beyond me and I think qualifies as a bonefide miracle.

Now Eric is funny. He shows up to my apartment in shorts. It’s still Winter in New York. “Don’t worry, I have a pair of pants.” This is so Californian. The rest of the East Coast is bundling up in layers and face masks and scarves and mittens. And Eric is still surfing the West Coast. He’s of Nordic descent, Viking no doubt, and apparently cold weather or ‘weather’ as we call it on the East coast does not affect him.

“Is there anything you really want to eat in New York?” I ask before dragging him around the freezing city?

“Not really, I just want to see what I can, and maybe eat at one of David Chang’s restaurants. Good pizza would be awesome.”

Not a problem.

Times Square. Check.

Central Park. Check.

Kespe Pizza in the West Village. Check.

Pool and jazz at Black Cat. Check

Cocktails at Daddy-O’s. Check.

Pork Buns at Momofuko’s ssam bar. Check.

Cocktails at DPT. Check.

Leo’s Bagels. Check.

The morning of the our first travel day things go wrong. I am forced to park the truck in the ‘no standing’ zone outside my apartment building in order to load in the last of my stuff. Rita gives me a $95 parking ticket but promises not to double or triple ticket me out of something resembling pity. I’m not sure that metermaids have pity, but she is cutting me some slack anyway.

We’re ready to roll and I go to wash my hands in my kitchen sink and the faucet comes straight out of the socket spewing water everywhere.

“Are you kidding me?!?!?!?!”

I get it fixed delaying our trip to Williamsburg, Virginia by hours and say goodbye to the concierge staff who have taken very good care of me over the last two years. And then it hits. I’m leaving for good. I give Oliver, the doorman and my constant protector, a big bear hug and tears start flowing.

Oliver looks over to Eric and says, “Take care of my girl. Or I’ll find out where you live, if you know what I mean.”

Eric laughs and promises to do his best. Oliver is smiling, but I know he’s not kidding either. Oliver has helped me to my apartment in some interesting conditions. He has been a good friend and easy listener. If there’s anything I need he’s there to help and not just because its his job.

“Don’t say goodbye Amy. Just say ‘I’ll see you later’. Come back and open a restaurant here. I’ll get the investors…”

I wipe my tears and muster a half smile and a ‘see you later’.  Eric and I hop into the truck. Me in the passenger seat with a plethora of GPS devices and out of date maps and we begin the adventure navigating New York City streets to the New Jersey turnpike before the incoming snow storm hits.

We cross into New York and the Statue of Liberty is holding her flame high. “Eric, look, there she is! Now you can say you’ve seen that too.”

He responds with a simple, “Statue of Liberty. Check.”

The route we have come up with is not the real Backbone of America that bisects the country in two but a Southern route, I-40, that starts with a slight detour into Williamsburg, Virginia where my older sister lives. I’ve lived two years in New York and never once made the visit and there is no way in hell I’m going back to California without seeing her.

We had hoped to get there by early evening, but our trip is now more than four hours behind and we pull up to her house late in the evening. Nonetheless my sister and sister-in-law have a steaming bowl of beouf bourguingnon ready for us and some nice cold beers. We catch up filing in the blanks over the last few years and then I fall asleep with her three dogs snuggling up around me like a re-found pack member. That was some good sleep.

Day two of the adventure we head to Knoxville, Tennessee where a fellow blogger and chef, Kevin Weeks of Seriously Good, promises us some sofa to sleep on and a hot meal. It’s a good deal: we bring the wine, he makes the dinner and gives us a place to stay.

But we get lost and end up in North Carolina around 6PM. We somehow manage to miss the I-40 connection from I-85 and continue on it until we are far South of Knoxville.

I call Kevin, who I am very excited to meet, and say “I know you don’t really know me yet, but I think you’re going to very much dislike me. We somehow ended up right outside of Charlotte in North Carolina and we don’t really know how long it will take us to get to Knoxville, Tennessee from here.”

“Oh you poor thing!” He says with a reassuring voice “I’ve missed that connetion before too.”

“Really?” I ask feeling not so inept as a navigator. “You have really missed that connection before? How long do you think it will take us to get to Knoxville? My now-working GPS says four and half hours.”

“Oh, no way. There’s a rockslide that you will have to detour so plan on 7 hours.”

“Oh my God. Okay, I guess we better find some place to stay here and then head up tomorrow.”

Kevin wishes me well and reassures that the dinner he has prepared for us is no big deal. But I know he’s not telling the whole truth. I know he has something special up his sleeve. He’s a chef after all and a good one. However, he lets me off the hook without even a slight guilt trip. I’m bummed. I was looking forward to meeting a fellow food blogger. And I think he is too.

Parked outside a diner called Bicuitville Eric gets on his cell phone and me on mine as we call friends and family trying to see if anyone knows anyone in Charlotte, North Carolina.

I’m coming up empty handed but Eric is making headway. He knows a cook who knows a cook who just moved back to North Carolina from California. It’s a long shot. We don’t even know if they live close to Charlotte or if they will have us.

Within fifteen minutes we are heading over to a suburb of Charlotte, the Biscuitville truck stop growing smaller in the rearview mirror and the promise of a biscuit and fried bologna sandwich. “Fried Bologna is Back” the posters around the diner boast.

Really? It’s back? Where did it go?

We arrive to our new host’s house and are greeted with ice cold Budweisers, hospitality, and a hot plate of pinto beans, fresh cast iron skillet cornbread, and sautéed cabbage. It is a great meal. Homey and nourishing.

We polish off six pack after six pack swapping hilarious cooking horror stories comparing burns and scars. My cheeks hurt from laughing. Our host is funny, and I can only imagine what cooking on the line with him is like, no doubt a good time.

In the morning we re-route. Our next stop was supposed to be Oklahoma City after Knoxville but this will mean a 20 hour drive. Without internet connection we feel lost, so I call my Mom, our new On-Star navigation system, and she quickly comes up with a new plan.

“Listen, you are going to have to add another day to the trip. That’s all there is to it. Enjoy yourselves and don’t risk the long drive. From Charlotte you will drive through Alabama and then up to Oklahoma City. That’s the quickest way to get to I-40.”

“Alabama?”

“You know what. Your Aunt Annie has a farm in Alabama. She would love to see you.”

“Yeah, but is it on the way?”

I can hear my mother clicking away on her key pad inserting new information into our trip.

“Actually her farm is right on your way. You will have to go through Birmingham anyway and she’s just 50 miles North from there. She would love to see you, you know.”

I have only heard rumors of my Aunt’s certified organic farm. And although we talk on the phone and keep in touch via email I have never visited.

We fortify ourselves with biscuits and gravy at Bojangles and hit the pavement.

Alabama here we come!

The post Fried Bologna is Back: From New York to North Carolina first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

It goes like this: you live in a city for two years and think it’s kinda cool and suddenly it becomes magnificent.

And then you run around snapping pictures, walking aimlessly ogling over skyscrapers, jogging over bridges you have never crossed, taking cruises to the Statue of Liberty and crying at her feet…

stuffing pizza into your mouth, eating at every vending truck on every street desperately hoping that each precious experience will absorb itself into your being before it’s just a memory.

What a stunning city it is this time of year. All sunshine and snow once the storm clouds pass. The skyline defiant and strong in the sharp winter light. It is hard to live in New York and not take pride in what it means to be American and what it means to live the American Dream.

The unity here in New York city will rekindle any misconceptions you might have. It will inspire you!

However moving companies do not inspire. They swindle. They scam. And they are absolutely crazy if they think I can afford $4,600 to move home. And if they think $900 doesn’t raise one eyebrow in an are-you-f’ing-kidding-me untrusting arch, they are wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

So I have decided to drive home. And the newest member of my three person kitchen team is hopefully flying out to help me do it.

I couldn’t be more excited! I have never driven across the country. I always hoped it would be in a huge plush comfortable cadillac and not a noisy U-Haul truck, but it has been ages since I went on a road trip!

I’m planning on taking I-40, the Southern route across the country. If you live along that route and would like to put up two cooks for the evening who don’t have a lot to offer other than great knife skills and fantastic dishwashing abilities please let me know. I know that doesn’t sound like a great swap. It isn’t. But I figured it was worth a try?

Any tips, places to eat, national parks & monuments that are must-see detours would be greatly appreciated.

Cheap gas too. Cheap gas is good. Keeps my eyebrows level.

The post Goodbye New York hello San Francisco! first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Fourteen days ago I was unsure of how I was going to buy groceries. Now I still don’t know how I’m going to buy groceries, but if I use the Enron mark to mark balance sheet module I might be able to bank on potential profits.

I’m re-opening a restaurant in San Francisco!

I came home to the Bay Area to find and apartment and found myself a job instead. Gina Milano, owner of several popular establishments in San Francisco called me last week and the conversation went something like this:

“Amy, Babe, where in the world are you right now? Are you still at Le Bernardin or are you in Paris, or where?!?”

“I’m flying back to SF this week. Why? What’s up?”

“You want to cook a dinner party for 30 people on Wednesday at Le Club?”

“Sure! What’s the menu? Or do you have one yet?”

“Yeah, it’s easy. It’s a salad with three choices of entrées: chicken, filet, or pumpkin risotto and chocolate pots de crème for dessert.”

“No problem, I can make that happen…”

“Call me when you get in hon’.”

I’m great at committing myself to things and then freaking out over how I’m going to accomplish them. So I call one of the sous chef’s at Le Bernardin and ask for advice because he is the master of running private parties.

“How much filet do you think I’ll need to order for a party of 30 texan doctors with 3 choices on the menu? I don’t want to over order the filet because it will go to waste.”

“Are you kidding me? You better expect all of them will order filet.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I respond with calculator in hand adding up pound per pound.

“What are the other options?”

“Roasted chicken and pumpkin risotto”

“No one’s gonna order the risotto.”

“Yeah, not when there’s filet on the menu. So I’m cooking this alone. I gotta pre-sear stuff or I’m going to get seriously crushed.”

“Oh yeah, pre-sear everything. You really gotta take the bull by the horns, ya know? I mean you have to embrace it even if you don’t want to embrace it or you’re going to fail. Failure is not an option, remember? See, now you understand why I was such a control freak in the salon parties.”

“Yeah, I understand a lot more now, that’s for sure. I wish I had taken better notes.”

“You’ll be fine. Just don’t leave anything up in the air and trust no one. If you mess up something in the cooking process then you can blame yourself, but it you let some one else f’ck it up then that’s a different story. You’ll be fine. Let me know how it goes, huh?”

It’s not that preparing a meal for thirty people is so difficult. But picking up three different entrées simultaneously and getting food out hot and timed correctly for thirty people is challenging when you have limited help.

The evening was a total success. Knowing that it would be impossible to plate thirty dishes and pick up three different entrées alone, I brought in a new cook friend of mine to help out and we just had a blast in the kitchen.

It’s been a long time since I actually had fun cooking. I forgot how much I loved it. Working in 3 Michelin star restaurants is exciting, but the pressure can be draining. And it’s hard to find time to really talk to colleagues and get to know them. Crazy, considering we work side by side day in day out.

I blaze through most of the prep the day before and Eric comes in after his daytime shift at a different restaurant to help me finish up. We’re ready to go. No rush. We’re confident. We’re swapping cooking stories, jokes, comparing burns injuries, talking about knives, gossiping about cooking schools and restaurants. We’re having fun.

We wait and wait and still the tables haven’t ordered and now we’re getting bored and Eric, no doubt, is getting tired having already worked 10 hours or more. The servers bring the tickets back to us and sure enough each of the three tables has ordered a staggering amount of filet. I sell one risotto. What a waste of time and effort! But thank God I ordered enough filet to cover the board.

We pump out the orders table by table all the while loving the 12 burner stove from the 1940’s that burns hotter than any stove top I’ve ever worked with. And then one of the ovens dies. The chicken is semi-done. Not good. I put my hand in the oven and realize it’s gone kaputz.

But it’s not a major catastrophe. I switch the proteins to the other oven and in minutes we’re ready to plate. The first table is turned out a few minutes later than I would have liked, but the servers reassure me there is no rush. The party is giving speeches, drinking wine, and enjoying themselves.

I pick up three more last minute private parties in the same week. All the parties go smoothly and the regular customers happily eat up the extras I send out to the bar. Everyone agrees that it’s time to bring the food back.

The last chef was fired a year ago for soaking the restaurant in outrageously high food and staff costs and Gina has kept the restaurant closed ever since keeping the three lounge rooms open for cocktails. She books the small restaurant with private parties and normally brings in a chef to cook. We’ve flirted off and on this year about re-opening it. But with the bad economy and my work commitment in New York, the timing was off.

Now the timing is perfect!

I am scared, nervous, and totally excited. It is rare that a cook can walk into a kitchen that has everything in place and do exactly what he or she wants to – with in limits of course, we are working on a tight budget. Which makes it even more of a creative challenge and will translate into an affordable menu that clearly everyone is looking for these days. We’re bringing ‘bistro’ back. (As if it ever went out.)

I love the venue. I always have. It’s one of San Francisco’s last true historic gems. In fact the name, Le Club, dates back to the original restaurant/lounge in the 1920’s. It has an old Paris bistro feel with a certain San Francisco speakeasy flare. And the kitchen is amazing. Small, but loaded with goodies.

And the piano! Oh my goodness I have never worked on a piano quite like this one. Twelve burners, two rows of six, with unusual flower shaped cast iron and btu’s that are out of control. An energy saver’s nightmare for sure. Now if I can just get that oven calibrated…

I will be heading back to NYC to pack up and move out. We hope open next month. In the meantime come by for a properly made cocktail or glass of champagne on the top of Nob Hill! Or, book a reservation for March…

I can’t believe this is really happening!

Le Club

San Francisco

1260 Jones Street, 94109 (top of Nob Hill)

The post The Ending Chapter And the Beginning of a Restaurant first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Nicholas did his apprenticeship at Michel Rostang after culinary school and worked his way up through the brigade to Chef de Parti. After five years, he left to take the position of sous chef at Le Meurice, under Executive Chef Yannik Alleno, and helped drive the team to 3 Michelin Star success.

I met Chef Beaumann during his tenure at Le Meurice five years ago. And if rumors in the Parisian cooking world hold true, he was highly regarded then for his consistency in leadership and dedication to perfection. He’s a bit of a whip cracker, but a good one.

Now he is back at Michel Rostang as the Executive chef, and I am sure he will be reaching for a third Michelin star in the near future.

What a small world the Michelin star restaurant business is. Everyone knows everyone…

I sit down to dine at Michele Rostang and instantly I’m treated like an old friend. Bruno, The Maître D, and Alain, the Chef Sommelier, who I’ve met only a few times in the past keep me company asking about my exerience at Le Bernardin in NYC.

How’s Maguy Le Coz? (the owner of Le Bernardin). Is there a man named Tommy there? He works on the floor? We remember Le Bernardin when it was in Paris! (This was over 20 years ago and once located in the space that is now Guy Savoy). Are you coming back to live in Paris? (No, wish I was). Work at Guy Savoy peut-être? (No, don’t think I could handle the long hours again or the double taxation).

Guy Savoy, the restaurant I cooked at in Paris is located just a few blocks away from restaurant Michele Rostang in the 17th arrondisement close to the L’Arc de Triumph and the Champs Élysées. The two restaurants share clientele, a similar style of cuisine (traditional yet modern), and often cooks jump ship from one to the other. It’s a good relationship and one that has spanned 20 years.

This small world does have it’s perks. The Maître D takes me with him to another table to demonstrate how the ‘duck press’ works. (I just asked to see it, I didn’t ask to be part of the table-side presentation.)

“Are you sure they won’t mind? I don’t want to disrupt their dinner.”

“Oh don’t worry, they won’t mind, they’re regulars, come on, I’ll show you how to press a duck, it will be fun!”

I can’t imagine being a regular at any Michelin star restaurant, but follow along for the ride. Bruno expertly cuts the legs off the duck and then the breasts. He places them to one side.

“Amy, you cook the duck rare, very rare. See? The breast is almost bleu.”

I watch from the side feeling slightly self-concious that I have now been included in the entertainment. But at the same time realize that this little teaching demonstration is something special.

He takes the bones and the legs and put them expertly in a silver canister. Then loads the canister inside a very large silver hand cranked press that is decorated with ornate silver ducks.

“Now watch. You must come over on this side to see. I will turn the press, and the blood of the duck will run out of the spout. I add it to this duck jus here and the blood thickens the sauce turning it a rich dark brown color.”

It’s beautiful and a little bizarre at the same time. What Bruno is really doing is crushing bones in a very expensive bone-crusher machine. I watch in amazement at this lost art of table side presentation. Servers in France go to school to learn how to do this sort thing. It is a career – a profession! – not a temporary job to make a few tips in between Broadway musicals auditions.

The Maître D whisks his mixture over a low burning flame. As the blood heats up it acts as a thickener turning the thin duck jus into a velvety sauce thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Blood, as we all know, coagulates.

He pours the chocolate colored sauce onto a large porcelain platter that rests above silver bunsen burners, not exactly camping material. Next, he returns to the breasts and slices off extra thin cutlets placing them directly into the sauce

“You see, the sauce will cook the duck just a little more. If you cook the sauce too much over the heat it will separate because of the blood. You must pay attention here. It’s a strong tasting dish, but a good one.”

I have tasted several blood sauces in my Parisian past and made plenty at Le Cordon Bleu. For me they are normally a little too rich for my taste. And blood does have a special metalic taste. Nonetheless, the platter is gorgeous with bright red cutlets of duck breast floating in the earthy sauce. A server whisks away the platter to serve immediately.

I am escorted back to my table which faces the kitchen so I can watch all the action of the evening. Chef Beaumann has prepared a truffle menu that is truly inspired. I wasn’t presented with a menu upon arrival, just a glass of champagne and a huge basket of truffles to ogle over! Some one pinch me please?!?!

I love truffles, but in many cases truffle menus can be somewhat redundant with the same flavors repeated. Not so in this case.

The menu begins with a special amuse bouche: 1/4″-thick slices of black truffles sandwiched in between two pieces of pain de compagne (country bread). The sandwiches are toasted in truffle butter and cut into bite size fingers. Simple yes, but totally decadent.

Actually, I’m lying, the amuse bouche is not so easy to prepare and it must be assembled days in advance to allow the truffles to fully permeate the bread and butter. But the idea is easy enough and the ingredients, although expensive, are few.

My two favorite courses of the evening are the seabass and pigeon. The fish is cooked sous vide (in a water bath at low temperature with a thermo circulator that holds the temerparture steady) garnished with thinly sliced chestnuts, perfectly cut triangles of leeks, and a frothy truffle infused seashell foam.

But the real winner is the last course: pigeon stuffed with foie gras and black truffles under the skin, cooked sous vide until perfectly tender and then pan roasted to sear the skin crisp. The plate is garnished minimally with caramelized salsify. A perfect pairing for the pigeon.

Caramelizing (glazing) vegetables is an art. Too cooked and the vegetables fall apart, too much butter and the lacquer separates, too much sugar and the flavor is ruined.

The pigeon jus is just what jus is supposed to be: pure. There is no roux, no flour, no butter – just pigeon jus reduced for a long time until it has the consistency of oil. I know from experience, this is time consuming. We’re talking hours of reduction here.

The wine pairings are fantastic, and by my last course I’m wondering why I’m still not totally wasted. This little wine habit I’ve developed has definitely got to be reined in. I have tasted (and finished, bien sûr!) five glasses of wine. Starting with a glass of lively Gimonnet Blanc de Blanc Premier Cru Champagne 2002 and ending with an earthy Nuit St. Georges Premier Cru Vaucrains 2003.

But the most exciting wine of the evening for me is the golden yellow Beaucastel Blanc 2005, paired with the seabass. I absolutely adore white Chateauneuf du Pape Blanc and it is so difficult to find in the U.S.

If you’ve never tried a white Chateauneuf du Pape, I suggest you do. It has viognier grape blended with 12-13 other obscure white varietals. It’s sexy with a nose of ripe melon, pear, peach and loads of minerality. A heavier white for sure, compared to other French whites.

The desserts start rolling in and Chef Beaumann takes a break from the kitchen and joins me at the table while the rest of his kitchen staff is scrubbing down the stainless steel.

I sip a 6th glass of wine, a nicely acidic Gewurztraminer Grand Cru Furstentum 2005, while inhaling an apple-truffle pastry as he fills me in on his last few years: his recent marriage (Congrats! It’s about time!), his beautiful son (adorable!), his bid to be the next M.O.F (scrreeeeech – wait whuuuuut????).

For those not familliar with the title of M.O.F. it stands for Meillure Ouvrier de France and it is a craftsmen competition held every three years in France. To win this title for cuisine is like winning an Emmy. Every chef that makes the grade gets to wear (forever) a special chef’s jacket that has a collar made of red, white, and bleu – the French flag. It is an honor hard won.

The sommelier refills my wine glass and now I’m headed straight to hell, because I’m still not even close to tipsy. I finish it, of course, then slurp down an espresso with little cakes and cookies.

Normally I would never get this kind of attention, but it’s a slow Monday night. For the most part restaurants in Paris are closed Sunday and Monday and folks generally stay home. And I think it’s fun for the staff to treat a cook to ‘the other side’ once and awhile. I know we do it at Guy Savoy and at Le Bernardin.

Chef Beaumann takes me back to the kitchen to meet some of the staff and I am happily surprised to see an equal number of female to male cooks. I recognize the female Chef de Viande (meat chef) as the wife of the Sommelier at Guy Savoy (small world, small world) and we exchange greetings before she goes back to scrubbing.

“Chef Beaumann, you have so many women in the kitchen!”

“I knew you would like that.” He laughs.

And just when I think the evening can’t get any better the daughter of Michel Rostang, Caroline, who is the director of the restaurant introduces herself. Another female in the kitchen! I couldn’t be happier.

I float out the front door (glass slippers and all) a little high on the whole experience. The frosty winter Parisian air hits my lungs and my thin silky dress instantly feels like cheesecloth. The wine has no doubt warmed my core and my spirits or I’d be a five foot five ice cube.

I catch a taxi, replay the photos on my camera during the drive home, and wonder if I’ll ever have another dinner quite like this one…

Restaurant Michel Rostang

20 rue Rennequin, Paris, 75017

+33 1 47 63 40 77

The post Voici! The New Executive Chef at Michel Rostang in Paris first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

And I don’t mean in the traditional sense like if you see a penny face up and you leave it there (because New York City sidewalks are dirty) that you will get hit by a bus.

I have created my own superstitions. I think this is the beginning of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder…

I hit my snooze bar at 5:45A.M. my body begging for another ten minutes. My hands are so numb and swollen from fresh cuts and burns that I’m not even sure they are still connected to my body. And my desired ‘extra 10’ is looking like a lost cause since the feeling is starting to creep back into my extremities.

The numbness has now morphed to a new sensation resembling frost bite mixed with boiling hot water. Not pleasant. I get out of bed pumping my hands to get the blood going.

I stumble into the bathroom, look in the mirror, and ponder for a split second if I really need to shower. I showered last night. Do I really need to do this again? Couldn’t I crawl into bed again instead? No, I turn the rocket jet on and walk into the shower, bend my head slightly forward, and let the water which falls like hard rain pummel my brain. This feels good. I know it sounds like torture, but really it feels good.

I scrub quickly, vow to wash my hair in the evening, put on the same clothes I wore yesterday (change underwear and socks), grab my knives and run to the subway in order to catch the 6:06 A.M subway. On the train I doze off. Everyone dozes off. We are all sleeping, rocking too and fro with the rhythm of the wheels gliding over the well polished tracks.

My eyes open every now and then to peek at what station is next and then close thinking about what I need to do when I get to work…..cut kobe fries first, then make tuille batter, continue with normal prep but have grilled veggies done by 8 A.M, don’t forget extra corn cannelloni’s for the salon, and…..

It’s finally my transfer stop, 42nd Street, and I stumble out of the train eyes still half shut to wait for the local #1 train to arrive. It never arrives at the same time. Ever.

If the #1 train is already at the station and all I have to do is hop over and take a seat, then I know it’s going to be a good day. But, if I have to wait 10 minutes, then I know the Gods have predetermined my morning if not my afternoon and evening…

I wake up early so I can spend 3 minutes on my walk to work to grab a quick cup of coffee at Starbucks. I need coffee in the morning. I am not human without coffee in the morning. And none of the morning cooks (myself included) have figured out how to get our brandnew coffee machine going so we are forced to outsource. We all come with Starbucks coffee.

Which is a good thing because there are too many sharp objects and stressful situations in the restaurant kitchen to start off work at 6:45A.M without coffee. It helps to take that edge off.

No zucchini in the walk-in fridge for my cod tandori plate? Slu-u-u-rp. No problem, I can wait till 10AM when the produce arrives to finish that. The 4 gallons of freshly squeezed orange juice that I need for my poaching liquid have mysteriously disappeared overnight? Slu-u-u-rp. No problem, I can squeeze my own.

But here is where superstition comes in… if the #1 train has screwed me over yet again, this means that Starbucks had better be empty so I can grab a quick cup. But, if Starbucks has a long line and only one person working behind the counter – like today – then I know I am going to be in the shitz all day long.

Today, specifically, not only were all the tell tale signs in place of a no-good-very-bad day. But I’m pretty sure the kitchen witches were gathering around their Amy Glaze voodoo doll and sticking in pins. I’m almost positive that every time I tried to get back on track this morning one of the witches stuck me good.

You have heard of kitchen witches haven’t you? Perhaps you have a kitchen witch doll hanging in your kitchen to appease the coven?

The kitchen witch, and I quote here from a pagan wicca website, “honours what she cooks, preparing meals with loving intent. Using fresh ingredients, often from her own garden, she makes magic in the kitchen by creating delicious, seasonal food, herbal remedies, and magic spells.”

Clearly the kitchen witches felt I was not honoring them in someway. Why else would I semi slice off my finger tip with my brand new mandoline? Or drop my misono pairing knife on the ground breaking its tip? Or why would there be no orange juice in the walk-in for my poaching liquid but a bunch of staffers sipping something cold and citrus-like all morning?

12 o’clock finally hits like a sledgehammer and I’m set up. I’m ready. fingertip be damned. I am set up and ready rock.

And then the kitchen witches start to make a mockery of me. I grab a plate from above the stove to flash in the oven for the first order of striped bass and cramps stab me in my lower abdomen. Oh yes, the joys of being female, working on a hot line, without coffee, and my premenstral syndrome just went code yellow to code I-could-use-some-motrin.

My eyes cloud momentarily with pain. The sauté cook, and only other female on the line, looks at me and asks if I’m okay.

“Cramps.”

“Oooooo, stay away from me! I don’t want mine yet!”

We laugh. Women who live and work together will pull each other to the same cycle. And having attended an all woman’s college I can say it’s a fact not a myth.

Orders start flying in now and I’m getting hit pretty hard. However, Kendra, the sauté cook who cooks 80% of all the fish we have on the menu, is getting pummeled. But, like always, she’s going strong. She loves it, the sense of dominating and controlling chaos and the euphoric release of endorphines that no street drug can replicate.

The chef calls in the nightime cooks who have started their mise en place for the evening to give a hand on the line. We are doubled up on the three one-man entrée line stations and the chef starts firing off the orders all at once.

“2 halibut, 1 monk, 1 stripe by 2 stripe by monk, stripe by salmon, skate…”

I pull my two halibut out of the poaching liquid while Brian slices the monk for the first order. They’re perfectly cooked but by the time they reach the passe they will have gone from medium rare to just under medium. I rush the plates, the chef checks the temperature with his metal skewer against his lip:

“Less cook on the hali…”

“Oui, less cook on the hali…”

I finish the striped bass while Brian brings the next monk to the pass. We grab sauces for the dishes and run back to start the next table.

The rush is finally over and the line is turned over back over to the girls. It’s a nice feeling to have a little female comraderie on the line. Something I’ve only encountered once. Another order comes in and it’s mostly mine: two halibut (one well-done) and one striped bass. I drop the two halibuts in my poaching liquid and set up plates, garnishes, and sauces while Kendra pan poaches the striped bass.

But the timing goes funny. Her stripe is done and one of my halibuts is done, but the other is still medium. I bring to the passe the two dishes that are ready and then run back and plate the last one. I know it’s a little under in temperature, but I’m hoping the heat of the plate will finish it off. It’s so close to being well done…

The chef checks the fish temperatures with his skewer and I’m sure I’m off the hook, but then he calls out: “What is this? Did I not say ‘well-done’? Does this look like well-done to you?” He pulls apart the fish and a thin line of rareness is visible.

I’m pretty sure he’s going to throw it at me, but instead he gives me back the plate calmly and tells me to fix it. No problem. I can fix it easily. It’s impossible to turn ‘well done’ into ‘rare’ but the reverse takes seconds – at least with fish.

I fix it and bring it back to the passe, but I’m embarrassed. I felt pressured to rush it because I didn’t want to loose the other fish.

I’m telling you: no #1 train, no coffee, no orange juice + pms + kitchen witch voodoo = no-good-very-bad day.

But there were some humourous parts to the shift. Think of them as out-takes on the line….

Kendra split her pants on the line during service and no one but me noticed. And they were split from waist to bottom. Thank God for long chef’s coats. She’s not fat, she’s mean and lean, but boys pants somehow don’t work out all the time for us ladies.

I got so upset with the coffee maker at work that I opted for espresso instead. But there was only decaf. This did not help any. So I poured a cup of what I though was iced tea. I took a big gulp only to discover that it was cleaning liquid and water. I basically drank half a cup of industrial soap. Luckily my stomach didn’t object.

8 gallons of freshly squeezed orange juice arrived late, the driver got stuck somewhere.

Sometimes you gotta roll with the punches! And, pay a little homage to the kitchen witch in your house – or restaurant…

The post Le Bernardin: Superstitions & Kitchen Witches first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I discovered it the summer I graduated from from college while visiting my college girl friend who had, at the time, dedicated her life to urban forestry in NYC. Quite a noble mission for a rural born Oregonian. New York was much different then. And in someways the same. But, no, much different. It was dirty. You hung on to your purse tightly on the train.

But it was fun, the same way it is now, with energy, excitement, and diversity that no city in the world can match. It’s just I’m notas worried about getting mugged as I was back then. Catkin landed an internship for a company called the Green Gorillas and with her major in Environmental Studies, New York seemed the perfect battle ground for a must-change-the-world-now type of gal.

I was on my way back to London to make it as an actor, but thought I’d stop in New York to help her out for a few months. After all, we became friends in an Environmental Studies class and best friends during a hellish Biology class at Mills College. Later we became roommates. But after receiving a ‘C’ in Organic Chemistry I gave up on becoming a Botanist and traveling to the Amazon rain forest to discover cancer curing plants and decided to focus more on Theater, Communications, and Middle English.

Don’t ask. She stuck with Environmental studies and added on a French major just to cover the bases. And she also completed a minor in ballet. No one can say we weren’t well rounded in our education if not totally bipolar. How could I turn down being a green gorilla for few months?

We planted gardens along Houston Street in Soho, handed out information about “getting green”, and traveled into Harlem to replant people’s personal gardens (incuding the late Langston Hugh’s backyard), greenify parks, and spread the gospel about the dangers of lead paint. These were the days before the word “green” was PC. I think we were seen as annoying, funky, crunchy granola, West Coast hippies. Probably how most people view those college kids who canvas for Green Peace. I mean come on, the company was called Green Gorillas afterall.

New York really didn’t care about getting ‘green’ in 1995. Global warming was a concept that was mostly uninteresting to people if not proposterous. And radical. And totally unproved. Cows were blamed by the media for part of the problem because of the methane gas they create. As if getting rid of cows would end the insignificant annoyance called: Global Warming. Harlem was in transition too. We got off the train one day with our pamphlets and shovels and quickly were told by a group of young men that were hanging out around the station that we “didn’t belong here”, “it could be dangerous for us”, “best get on the train back to where we came.” Catkin and I just laughed and asked directions.

The guys shook their heads in disbelief but headed us on our way all the while shouting out how crazy we were. We really didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Still don’t. However we did look ridiculous in our Green Gorilla uniforms that were really nothing more than cut off shorts, bandanas to hold our hair back and keep the sun from melting our brains, and our college T-shirts that boasted slogans like: “Strong women, proud women, Mills Women” or “Remember who you are and what you represent”. Regardless of the warnings we had a great time in Harlem. And people fed us constantly. We inhaled the hospitality.

Summer never tasted so good. Our apartment was in Brooklyn. Alice Walker’s daughter had just purchased a cafe just down the street and Spike Lee opened a shop on the corner boasting his own clothing line. A lively performing art’s school chorused with talent from morning through the afternoon right across from us. I haven’t been back to Brooklyn since that time, so I can’t exactly remember where the neighborhood was sadly enough. And I wonder if that special area has maintained it’s vibrant artist community.

Brownstones were just beginning to become hot commodities then and I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment there today. In the morning we would catch the train into Manhattan were the headquarters of the Green Gorillas was lodged just North of Houston in a neighborhood that is now called Noho. It was defintely not called Noho then. It was simiply: North of Houston or North of Soho.

One hot sticky muggy summer’s day after planting a garden that is now in shambles near Houston and Broadway, we ventured into the trendy Soho district for lunch, broke and starving after a hard day’s work in the sun. And we were not attractive: the two of us covered in dirt wearing our cut off shorts and our dirty bandanas that barely hid our sweaty, dusty, greasy hair. We were not Soho material. We were not Sex In The City girls by any means.

Walking down the little streets West of Broadway we came upon a restaurant called Kelley and Ping’s and decided to take a risk. I had never seen a noodle bar and certainly not a stylish self serve Shanghai canteen that boasted affordable prices and huge bowls of soup steaming with noodles and vegetables.

We were not disappointed. Although hot food was not exactly what the doctor ordered on a New York muggy summer’s day steamed vegetables, nourishing broth, with tender pork dumplings hit the spot. The restaurant captured summer effortlessly with an overhead gentle breeze from slowly moving fans and sunlight streaming through its partial glass ceiling.

Kelley and Ping is exactly the same today. Except they have a liquor license. Which I think is an added bonus. Especially considering that now I am more than old enough to legally drink. The prices are still cheap. (I hate the word ‘reasonable’, it always sounds like a compromise.) You can order any number of soups from Pho Bac, a frangrant Vietnamese soup with beef and basil to Wonton soup with duck, chicken, or pork broth and any noodles of choice.

There are lots of Asian curries and stir frys too. I always order a side of the steamed market vegetables that comes with a carrot ginger dipping sauce and fresh tofu.

My friend has long since left the Green Gorillas in order to pursue a career in Chinese Medicine and acupuncture and I have returned to study botany in the form of cooking at the Veg station (Entremet) here in a fancy New York restaurant. We both still enjoy Kelley and Pings. She never left New York. I keep coming back for more…

Kelley and Ping is located in downtown Soho 127 Greene Street (between Prince and Houston New York, NY 10012 Phone: 212. 228. 1212

The post Kelley & Ping, A Shanghai Noodle Bar, And a Summer Long Gone first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Well who wants to cook on their one day off? Not me!!!!

The Radegast Hall & Biergarten in Williamsburg, Brooklyn has how officially been included on my ‘Industry Picks’ list for it’s unpretentious tasty affordable Austro-Hungarian menu and its plethora of beers.

12 on tap and 37 in the bottle. Lots. And lots. Of beer.

But what really made the Sunday enjoyable and the heavy drinking and eating excusable was the long stroll over the Williamsburg bridge from Manhattan.

What a beautiful view.

The view coming home was a bit blury… The biergarten is a beer hall. A huge beer hall spanning two connected warehouses. One hall is a traditional darkly lit space with a semi-circle red oak bar where one can slurp in privacy, while the other is an open garden under a retractable skylight ceiling.

We preferred the garden with its long wooden tables that allow for communal carnage.

Happily enough, we also happened to arrive during a mustache contest which was taken very, very seriously. Contestants were given one month to grow a mustache. I’m not quite sure how winners were chosen, but roundtrip tickets to Austria were the prize. I’ll drink to that…. Radegast Hall & Biergarten 113 N. 3rd St., Brooklyn, NY 11211 at Berry St. 718-963-3973 Nearby subway: L at Bedford Ave

The post Radegast Hall & Biergarten! first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Somehow I have time to party until 6AM in the morning, eat at fantastic underground restaurants, sleep for 3 hours and go back to work again but (sigh) no time to cook at home.

So I’m adding a new category to my blog: Industry Picks. In other words, restaurants that all the cook’s eat at in NYC.

Here’s the criteria:
1. Open late or early in the morning
2. Reasonable in price
3. Fast
4. Must have a kick ass signature dish
5. Seriously cool.

Well, cook’s are cool these days. Ten years ago we were just a cut above certifiably insane, but now there seems to be a rock star allure to being ADD and unable to sit still in an offfice all day.

This restaurant is not only a well loved cook’s hangout but also a neighborhood hotspot. The Dumpling House serves ridiculously yummy food at a very reasonable price.

There’s nothing like a soft and salty, squishy, hand made, meat filled dumpling to soak up all the toxins and revive the creative juices. And you can have them steamed, pan friend, tossed in soup, or served up plain.

“This place is awesome. It will cure you’re hangover.” He promised.

“Not possible.” She moaned, forehead in hand throbbing with pain.

“Oh, it’s possible.” He laughed with the sage knowledge that one dumpling could remedy a plethora of problems and bestow good luck, fortune, security, and safety all in one bite.

“I’m not even hungry right now, I just wanna dive face first into my pillow and never wake up again. There’s no way I can cook today. I can’t even see straight.”

“Meet me in the Lower East Side at The Dumpling House.”

“You’re crazy. I’m going back to bed.”

“Just meet me there…”

“I’m broke.”

“It’s $3 for 10 dumplings. It’s so cheap you can splurge on a taxi. 118 Eldridge between Grand and Broome in 20 minutes or you’re missing out…”

The making of dumplings in China is often done by women. And I was not surprised to see that the restaurant was almost entirely staffed by woman making the dumplings, cooking them up in huge steamers and woks, and running the front of the house.

Even if you’re not a dumpling lover, this restaurant it is still well worth a visit just to see the precision and speed of the women who sit in the back and make the dumplings. And I suggest coming at off peak hours – they fill up for lunch fast.

The Dumping House
118 Eldridge St.
New York, NY 10002
nr. Broome St.
(212) 625-8008

The post Dumpling House: Insudstry Picks first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Let me rephrase that: I was reeled in quickly like a line-caught trout heroically flopping away for freedom but tragically hooked by the smell of frosting and cake.

They must pump that heavenly smell above the entrance for people like me who are slaves to their salivary glands.

My inner magpie was dazzled by the bright pink store with old fashioned glass cake tiers filled with perfect tiny frosted cakes in colorful shapes and tantalizing flavors.

“Can I take a picture?”

“Only if you buy one. And only of that cupcake. Not the whole store.”

“Okay. Hmmmm… is that really McCain?… I’ll take that one.”

For some odd reason the little shop only had McCain cupcakes of the political persuasion. No Obama, no Palin, no Liberman – just McCain. I’m not sure why. Honestly I couldn’t figure out if they were celebrating him, pawning off leftovers from the RNC, or indulging customers in some twisted fantasy.

And frankly, I was sort of curious as to how they would flavor the presidential candidate.

I asked the staff, “Why McCain?” but nobody answered. They just sort of shrugged, smirked, and looked sheepishly between one another.

And yes, I could have chosen one of the vanilla cakes topped with flakes of dried coconut clear up to the sky or a strawberry one with girlish pink swirls of buttercream. But…

this was so much more satisfying.

Forgive me?

The post McCain Cupcakes with Sprinkles first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I am so excited I don’t even know where to begin. Part of me feels like I just walked out of 1940’s Broadway musical where the leading lady shows up in NYC with two suitcases and a lot of nerve and just dives right in.

Come on, you know that song… “if I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere..”

That’s me pretty much, except I showed up with 16 boxes (half of which were shipped from France), 2 suitcases, 2 army duffle bags, and my knife case.

And the most important item: a wine opener.

I have learned through living in 6 different apartments, 4 different cities, 2 different countries over the last 5 years that having a wine opener is really the key ingredient.

Everything else can wait. But damn, that glass of wine just cannot wait.

When you’re sitting around staring at an empty apartment wine makes everything look rosy. Or it knocks you out cold so you don’t have to think about the grim reality of starting all over again.

I’m still in the rosy phase, but depending on how my furniture looks when it gets delivered, I might end up in the drain-the-bottle-in-one-whole-swig phase. We’ll see.

But that’s what I love about this city – everything can be delivered right to your doorstep even if it’s on the 17th floor. How cool is that?

No wonder the French love to visit New York. They don’t have to climb up and down multiple flights of stairs all day long.

Today I had 6 bags of groceries from Whole Foods delivered plus multiple boxes from Bed Bath & Beyond and I didn’t even have to lift a finger. I didn’t have to drag my little Parisian wheel-y cart through bumpy cobblestone streets and up five flights of stairs.

Aside from settling in to my new apartment, I’m peddling my resumé around once again. And this time it’s hard. I’m anxious to see what it’s like to cook in a New York kitchen, but not so energized about starting from scratch.

I know things will be different here. I know there are kitchen systems, regulations, cultures that are unfamiliar. I’m sure I will be flung mercilessly to the bottom of the totem pole and then struggle to inch my way back up again.

I’m positive that I will be cooking beside 20-something’s that have boundless energy while varicose veins climb faster and darker up my legs.

Oh well, as everyone says: fuhgghedabowdit. I suppose that’s a little like: tant pis.

The street food alone is reason enough to move. Oh my God is it delicious. I’ve been eating off the streets since my pots and pans have yet to arrive and all I have to say is: I LOVE NEW YORK!

I thought the crèpes in France were tasty, but I’m sorry, they are nothing compared to the spicy stewed chicken tacos I had for lunch today oozing with sour cream and melted cheese or the philly cheesesteak I had for dinner – again oozing with carmelized onions, peppers, and more melted cheese.

Nathan’s hotdog? Yes please. Halal gyro? I’ll take two. Fruit smoothie? I need my vitamins. Salted pretzel with mustard? Yup. Spinach empanadas? Oh hell yeah.

Work-out at the gym? No thank you. I’m too busy stuffing my face right now.

Maybe I should re-name my blog: Ms. Glaze Eats Manhattan. Then again, maybe not.

Just so you don’t get the wrong impression about my feelings about Paris, I should let you know that I’m applying to only French restaurants.

I’m not sure how restaurants here feel about cooks blogging about their kitchen experiences, so I will keep mine on the back burner until I find out what the proper etiquette is.

My former employer was supportive about my writing and I will always be thankful for that and for everything I learned there too (bien sûr!)

So here’s to New York and a new adventure! May it be just as tough, sweaty, and exhausting as the last one and filled with even more grit, grime, and elbow grease.

I’m drinking to that…

The post From Paris to New York, New Work first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Sitting around doing nothing is not my forté.

So, I’m on a friend tour. Otherwise known as couch surfing. And I’m reconnecting with girlfriends who have scattered all over the U.S. catching up on the last 4 years that I’ve missed out on. I’m thankful for this injury, it’s a blessing.

For the moment I’m in New Jersey with one of my old college roommates, Catkin, and her family, and we are cooking up a storm – 3 home cooked meals a day!

Cooking with Cat is a learning experience. Why? Because she’s a vegetarian and ‘wild’ chemist, and she eats weird stuff that I’ve rarely used or never heard of like: hemp protein powder, quinoa, spelt, buckwheat, and amaranth.

She also plans carefully on how to make the most of leftovers and run a full-time home kitchen. And she has a doctor’s practice out of her home in Chinese Medicine and Acupuncture.

She’s a busy woman.

I open her kitchen cabinets and there’s strange little brown glass tintures with even stranger names – not a thimble full of white sugar, all-purpose flour, or regular salt to be found.

And I’m like: how do I cook? How do I make meals without meat? How do I make banana bread with whey protein powder, teff, and evaporated cane juice? What the heck is Agave syrup? How do I survive without a glass of wine at night?

I’m getting healthy, despite my wicked ways, with the nasty tasting Chinese teas she forces me to drink made of frankincense, myrrh, dragon’s blood, and peony root not to mention the needles she keeps sticking in my head and ears. And I’m learning about how to cook for a vegetarian family.

Actually, I’m just getting totally schooled in the kitchen. You’d think I never went to cooking school or worked in a 3-star French kitchen. I’m so out of my league, it’s not even funny.

Last night we tucked the kids into bed after a hearty soup of lentils, collard greens, and beans and did something very naughty. We went out on a midnight raspberry run.

We grabbed flashlights and pails and drove to a hidden spot she knows where raspberries grow by the side of the road. All the while feeling like runaway teenagers on a renegade mission.

Careful not to get in the way of poison ivy we shined our flashlights on the bushes and picked away laughing about our old college exploits, margarita ‘study’ sessions, and catching up on who is where and doing what.

We ate more berries than we put in our pails. They were so tart-sweet and juicy, not the normal mushy type. Difficult to resist straight off the bush.

In fact, we only came home with two handfuls each. But, it didn’t matter anyway. We escaped in the humid New Jersey night for a girl’s night out.

The next morning, I asked what to do with our waning raspberry supply and she suggested we make yogurt and sprinkle them on top.

Make yogurt? Am I living on a hippy commune or what? Okay, let’s make yogurt.

When I taught in India, the school kitchen made a lot of yogurt. The milk would come fresh in the morning and the staff would boil it for the students’ morning cereal then take the extra milk and turn it into yogurt for lunch and dinner.

There was no refrigeration (none, zip, de nada, rien de tout) so keeping milk products fresh was difficult. But, yogurt has live bacteria that fight off bad bacteria inside and outside our bodies. Probiotics – It does a body good.

Catkin took a year abroad in Madagascar where they also made a lot of yogurt. When you’re living in a third world country, yogurt can spare you from many unwanted digestive problems and it’s delicious and cooling on hot days.

It’s pretty simple if you have the right stuff: milk, culture, and 8 hours. A yogurt maker makes the job easy and quick, but you can make your own contraption with foam rubber (see Joy of Cooking circa 1964).

We used Bea’s yogurt recipe at Le Tartine Gormande and she creates her own culture starter using greek yogurt and organic milk. Store bought yogurt has high concentrations of live bacteria and are great for getting your own culture started. Just like yeast starters, you can save some to get the next batch going.

But aside from hunting wild raspberries and drinking herbal teas, the best thing about being here is talking to her children about who their mom was waaaaaaay back before she was a mom.

“Did you know your mom was one of the best ballet dancers in school?”

“My mom can dance?”

“Yeah, she can leap high in the air.”

“I can leap high too, wanna see?”

“Yeah, I do wanna see.”

Bea’s Yogurt Recipe
(taken directly from her fabulous blog; Le Tartine Gourmand

1 plain Greek yogurt (full fat, that is 20g)
4 cups of Organic 2% milk

And that is it! To do it, simply boil the milk and then let rest until it reaches room temperature. Remove the skin formed on top and mix with the yogurt. Pour into the individual glass jars and start the yogurt maker. Set a timer for 8 hours and then, go and do your errands!

The post Midnight NJ Wild Raspberry Run & Homemade Yogurt first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Ingredients
Rib Cage

Instructions
1. Walk straight into a rod iron latch sticking out of a gate at full speed carrying boxes. Make sure the rod goes in between two ribs cracking the upper one.
2. Fall over face flat on the cement ground.
3. Try to move your head and yell for help while all sensation leaves your left arm and a warm spreading painful feeling throughout your chest warns you that the damage is more than just a bruise.
4. While trying to yell, give up, because breathing is difficult and using your diaphragm to press air over your vocal chords is excruciatingly painful.
5. Find a passerby who speaks your language to help you get off the ground– not just stack your dropped boxes neatly while you continue to lie paralyzed.
6. Go to emergency room.

Note: Make sure to have the doctor check your lungs for punctures. Don’t worry about your ribs, there’s nothing they can do for you at the hospital anyway accept confirm that you do have a fracture and give you painkillers.

Oh, and one more note, be sure to have an appetizer party to cater with some very special people attending (who you’d like to impress) two days after the accident. That gives you one day to shop for the food in pain, one 15 hour day to prepare the food in pain, and one day to transport the food and serve it (in pain).

Also, make sure it’s your first real catering job ever so there’s no other stress involved.

And do yourself a favor. Hire your best girlfriend to come and help you cook and serve. Convince her that her disability leave from cooking should be ignored. I mean really, tennis and golf elbow in both arms? What’s that compared to cracked ribs?

Tell her you’ll share your Vicadin and your sympathy if she lends a helping hand.

Let’s see, what else can we add to the mix. How about hot weather, lack of refrigeration space, and bags of ice nowhere to be found.

Other than those minor set backs, I’d say the party was smashing success. And I’m very fortunate that a third talented female cook came to lend a helping hand on the big day. And she was not injured, tired, or stressed. She was perky, proffessional, and a big, big help. A life saver really.

So what did we injured cooks conjure up for the party? That’s really the important part. Not all the pain and suffering that went into it. Because no one wants to eat an appetizer of tears.

We made some really fantastic stuff – all bite sized. And despite our physical ailments we had a great time doing it.

The biggest hit was an appetizer that I wasn’t sure would work out or not. It was a crab & mango salad tossed with an apple cilantro vinaigrette served in a little apple crisp cup. These little apple cups just dissolved in the mouth magically.

Other hits were the warm apricots stuffed with walnuts and blue cheese and wrapped with thin country ham and the steamed mussels served cold topped with cucumber, red onion, and mint relish with a splash of ponzu sauce and a tiny red hot chili pepper slice.

I wish I had taken pictures of everything, especially the beautiful fruit plate my friend made. I asked her to come up with a fruit sculpture and she pretty much laughed at me and then did it anyway. It was sleek and modern. God, I love her.

I’ve learned a lot about catering from this experience. First of all, it can be more challenging than cooking in a restaurant because you are responsible for everything that goes into the dish, not just one part of it, and the transportation too. Secondly, a professional kitchen makes preparing for large parties much easier than a small galley kitchen. Third, working with talented people is the key to success.

It’s all about the team. Just like in theater, you can have the best musical or play at your disposal but without a talented cast to pull it off it’s just a script in black and white.

The same goes for any recipe.

And, just like in theater, no matter what happens the show must go on.

(Thank you Jamie and Mattie for all your hard work and help! I hope we can all three work together again soon. And a big thank you to our client who made all this learning possible and allowed us to be creative in ways that we rarely get to do in a restaurant. It was a fantastic experience for all us. )

The post Cracked Ribs & Catering first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

With all-night cabarets, raucous Greek restaurants, kabob stands, night clubs, ex-pat bars, fondue bistros, late night cafés, rotisseries, Mexican establishments, Italian trattorias, and Tunisian pastries – this quarter has got it all.

One would think the 5th arrondissement, was named the Latin Quarter after the many Latin restaurants and late night festivities. But in fact, it was named in the Middle Ages because the Monks and students that inhabited the area spoke and studied Latin, the language of learning.

This makes a lot of sense considering that Notre Dame is just a stone throws away, across the Seine, and that many universities have popped up over time around the area.

Now, however, I don’t think anyone gets any studying done in the 5th. The most pious of activities includes raising a pint of beer to your lips while praying that your wallet doesn’t get stolen at the same time. There are pickpockets in the area, so it’s good to be cautious. Finally that money belt will get some use.

But, I’ve never had any problems and I’ve done countless stupid things like leave my purse unattended at my favorite cabaret and my keys in the door upon returning to my apartment.

First on the international eateries to visit is the Tunisian Patisserie on rue de la Harpe. This place is an institution. The desserts are syrupy and often filled with nuts and spices – a welcome unusual break from French pastries.

If you’re looking for savory street food to munch on while strolling through the cobblestone streets and Medieval architecture, then a kabob is the perfect accomplice.

Don’t just go to any kabob stand, because many slice up this strange phony compressed white meat that I can’t quite place (Chicken? Lamb? What?!?!?). There is one stand on Rue de la Huchette, called Souvlaki, that serves up real lamb and piles on fresh hot french fries and lots of sauce. And they are open late night – my dinner after work.

A perfect place to grab a book or hear a reading by an author is the bookstore Shakespeare & Co. This shop is often a meeting place for students and ex-pats.

My favorite place to hang out on weekend nights is the cabaret Aux Trois Mailletz on rue Galande, that offers unpretentious bistro food till early in the morning.

Upstairs they have an old rickety piano and people bring their sheet music and sing various show tunes, French standards, arias, and pop music. Downstairs you can pay for dinner and a show in a large cave and watch professional performers. Very relaxed and always entertaining and not touristy at all. This is a great place to watch the French let their hair down and join in with the chorus.

Right across from the cabaret is Le Guillotine Pub with Le Caveau des Oubliettes (the cave of the forgotten) underneath. This pub is said to have once held prisoners in its cave during the French Revolution before their heads were chopped off. Now, the cave below the bar is used for blues, jazz, and rock n roll. There’s no entrance fee and I especially enjoy the eclectic mix of ex-pats, tourists, and French university students.

If drinking and rebel rousing is not your thing, then perhaps church going is? The often over looked Eglise St. Séverin on rue St. Séverin is a gothic beauty with unusual twisting spires and stain glass. It houses an enormous antique organ and hosts concerts in the evening.

No, it wasn’t listed in The Da Vinci code, but it is still worth a look. Don’t miss the art collection in the small prayer room or the peaceful enclosed courtyard.

Right across from the church St. Séverin is the goat rotisserie. I’ve never eaten here, but the stuffed goat stands outside every day and welcomes me home. Sometimes they paint the French flag on its forehead for rugby games. I’ve often thought about kidnapping the goat just for fun, but it’s become as much a part of this quarter as I have. And I’m sure it’s the most photographed attraction in Paris next to the Eiffel tower and the l’Arc de Triumph.

I’ve left out quite a number of fun restaurants, clubs, and bars but there are just too many fun places to list in one post. No doubt, if you come to my hood, you will discover them on your own.

Technorati Tags: kabobs, Latin Quarter, rue St. Séverin, Trois Mailletz

The post My Hood: The Latin Quarter first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Bare with me as I attempt to establish a connection between the two.

I was in pain after I walked into the tented makeshift bakery just outside Notre Dame to witness the festival of French bread bakers, because the smell of freshly baked pain hit my stomach and instantly rendered me starving.

This hunger pain, turned to physical pain as hundreds of people pushed themselves up to the counters eager to snatch up free samples. (In fact, I still have a very large black bruise on my arm). Nonetheless, in need of pain, I managed to squeak up to the front of one counter and my effort was repaid with a whole free piping hot baguette.

No pain no gain. Or rather: no gain no pain.

The artistry that went into making some of these loaves must have been painstakingly difficult. I mean, look at the ribbons and detail work made of just water and flour! Who knew such creativity was possible?

Perhaps these bakers should be called painters instead?

And then of course there’s the historical connection between pain and pain, The French Revolution, that left many nobles headless because of their failure to aid the starving working class. Those crabby peasants.

We all know that Marie Antoinette’s famous quote, “Let them eat cake” was really not in reference to a Betty Crocker gâteau but rather a tasty type of French bread that is cake-like, called brioche.

In theory the Queen’s statement, “Qu’ils mangent de la brioche” was really a good suggestion. Brioche is higher in nutritional value containing an outrageous amount of butter and egg yolks. In those days fancy breads were sold at higher prices and normal bread was price fixed (and still is to some degree).

The Queen’s idea to make brioche the same price as bread so the working class could eat well was probably better intended than history has suggested. Nonetheless, if you can’t buy bread at any price, fixed or not, heads are going to roll.

My head went happily back to my apartment munching my free hot baguette. Thinking, all the way home, of the significance one food item could have in a country’s history: the prestige and honor of the profession of bread baking today and the suffering and bloodshed that lack of the product has caused.

France has taken great pains to achieve it’s status as ‘best bread in world’ and I can’t think of a country more deserving of this title, all things considered.

Technorati Tags: bread, brioche, french

The post Festival of Pain first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

marinated mackerel garnished with, zucchini blossom and orange sauce

I’m sure you’ve heard of this chic bistro because the American Chef, Daniel Rose, has been featured in just about every foodie magazine including Gourmet.

What really makes his restaurant special (besides the fact that he’s an American Chef in Paris) is that he cooks right in front of you, just for you.

He goes every morning to the farmer’s market and picks out only the freshest ingredients and then plans a three course meal only for the people that have reserved for the evening. So you know that everything is top quality and truly seasonal.

No use showing up at the door unannounced. Because first of all, there probably won’t be a table available. And secondly he only prepares food for the customers that have called. So book your table at least a month in advance.

velvety rich pumpkin soup with pan seared foie gras

And what a beautiful and creative meal it is! Chef Rose brings his American know-how to French cuisine with style. Check out his blog for menu updates, recipes, private cooking classes, and even live TV footage from the kitchen.

Lamb prepared three ways with rich jus and spinach to garnish

Unfortunately for me, I don’t get the opportunity to eat at his restaurant often because when he’s cooking I’m cooking too. That’s the breaks for cooks in Paris – we all have the same days off. But, I did get the opportunity to meet him and taste his food this last Fall. I only wish I got around to posting my experience earlier.

How can you not love a restaurant that sends you home with breakfast for the next morning?

Restaurant Spring
28 rue de la Tour d’Auverge 75009
Reservations +33 (0)1 45 96 05 72

Technorati Tags: bistros, paris, Paris restaurants, restaurant Spring

The post Spring! first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

If you have followed my laverie automatique stories from the past (aka: As The World Spins) you will remember that my experiences are often plagued with kids who smear dog doo around the floors, coin machines that eat twenty euro bills, French housewives who snap up all the dryers with their wet house-washed laundry, and random drunk cooks who hang out on their midday breaks.

But I moved from the bourgeois 17th arrondissement to the boisterous 5th arrondissement and I thought things would be different.

Things were different the first couple of times.

Okay, so I have to walk five blocks to my laundromat because the two in my hood are closed (Why? Wouldn’t you think an area filled with tourists and Sorbonne students would warrant an array of places to wash clothes?) But still, my new laverie automatique is clean, has a plethora of dryers, and never eats my change.

Today the bubble burst. I took my laundry over to my sparkling clean laundromat, popped my clothes in, and left to do some shopping. When I came back one machine had finished and the other was overflowing with suds everywhere. My machine had turned into Mount Everest with a large white snow peak that bubbled up from the soap dispenser on the top.

Why me?

Both my machines were the same type and on the same cycle and they were started within seconds of each other. I asked a nice man (and the only other person in the place) what I could do, because the doors of the machines lock and you can’t get your stuff out unless the caretaker comes to physically unlock them with a key. Furthermore you can’t even stop the cycle. There’s no emergency breaks.

He told me to switch the cycle button, which I did. Immediately all the suds and Mount Everst evacuated.

Much relief.

As my other load of laundry was drying I noticed that my wash machine was still stuck on one cycle. It was supposed to be a rinse cycle, but there was no water. So my chef’s jackets were just flopping around endlessly from top to bottom, white arms waving around for rescue.

I asked the man again what I could do and if he could call the help number for me. But then he told me, the problem is that the water had been cut.

Why had I not noticed the men right outside working down in the manhole? He then pointed out to a paper on the door that said the water would be off until 6PM at night.

“But how long has your machine been running?”

“Une heure. Mais je pense que elle travaille bien. Elle est presque finie” (One hour, But I think she works well, she’s almost finished)

“Normalement le cycle prend 45 minutes.” (But normally the cycle is 45 minutes.)

He looked to his watch and then back at his machine.

I asked him when the paper on the door had gone up and he replied that they had posted it twenty minutes ago. Great, so while I was out enjoying my ONLY day off this week, the Parisian water department snuck in and posted their little incognito sign and dropped into the bowels of France to check out the drainage problems.

I only hoped that l’eau de toliette had not been washing my clothes all day.

We called the help number on the wall and they informed us that they had no workers available to help today. So then my new friend came up with an ingenious plan. He told me that maybe if I went outside and smiled and talked with the head water dude, that they might have our water back on.

“Plaisantez-vous?” (you joke?) I asked.

“Non.” He replied and gave a helpless shrug.

So I did, I went outside and smiled and apologized for my bad French and asked what the situation was with our water. The head water dude told me that they were working on it. And, indeed they were. I peered down to see three men suspended with ropes and little headlights attached to their hard helmets.

I then lied and told him (in French):

“I have a problem, I’m a cook, and I have all my jackets in the washing machine and it won’t stop and I can’t unlock the door. I think without the water the cycle won’t stop and I cook in two hours and I have nothing to wear.”

He came in to the laverie automatique to examine the situation and look at my sad jackets waving endlessly for mercy. My new friend and the water boss had a quiet serious man conversation for five minutes and then the boss left to shout down into the manhole.

Twenty minutes later our water was back on and all the guys in the manhole came up to say “bonjour“. We graciously thanked them over and over again. They packed up and moved on to the next water problem.

So all that’s wrong is right again. And before you go thinking that I’m terrible for using female persausion in such a contrived way, think about working for 12-14 hours a day, six days a week, and then having to spend six hours at the laundromat on your one day off.

Not only that, but all the bistros and cafe’s on the street could re-open with water, so really I was helping out the whole area. (My halo and wings are glowing can you tell?)

In fact, aside from being perturbed about my laundry taking three hours, the chivalry of the French water department truly made my day. They were so sweet and helpful and I will always have a special place in my heart for the water depatment of Paris.

Oh, and just as my second load of laundry was finished drying and my new friend’s laundry too, the caretaker called back to say they would send some one over to stop the washing machines.

Too late, but at least they made the effort.

The post French Life: Laverie Automatique Part IV first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I’m spending my first day at my new position as Chef de Partie staring at the ceiling, flat on my back, sick in bed. How do you like them apples? This is such a bad joke, it’s not even worthy of a three tap drum roll.

Despite the onset of ma crève yesterday I ironed my chef’s jacket and my chef’s pants too laying them aside for a quick morning exit. I even trekked out in the rain to the 14th arrondissement to get all my knives sharpened.

My knife guy does everyone’s couteaux in Paris including the staff at Hotel Crillon and Le Meurice. He grinds many a galley cook’s knives to razor sharp precision – and he’ll be happy to do yours too. (address at the bottom of post). It’s a lot of fun to see his enormous five foot grinding wheel turning while he holds the blades against it, sparks flying everywhere.

Every time I go he tells me to be careful with my freshly sharpened knives. And every time without fail I slice one of my ten doigts without even noticing it. That’s how crazy sharp they are. You don’t know you’re cut until blood gushes everywhere and you realize it’s your blood that’s making the mess. The nice thing about smooth cuts (as opposed to cuts from serrated knives) is that you really don’t even feel them. Until you start cooking…

I had my first chef’s knife professionally sharpened twelve years ago while working at Ristorante Ecco in San Francisco. I was so darned proud of that knife. It was a beautiful enormous Wüsthof chef’s knife (Global who?) I didn’t have a satchel of knives like other cooks, just had that one German workhorse and at a whopping $64, it was all I could afford. In hindsight it was too long and heavy for me, but I didn’t care. I just loved the weight of it in my hand and the power it wielded.

After a month at the Garde Manger station my trusty steed began to dull past the point of a sharpening rod’s aid. Since everyone’s knives were dull he Head Chef, Wendy, called the knife man to come in and grind all of our blades. She warned me that my knife would be very, very sharp afterwards.

Yeah, okay, thanks for the tip Chef.

Slicing beefy red tomatoes horizontally into rounds, I noticed a burgundy color juice running all over the cutting board. I thought it was the tomato. Nope, it was my finger squirting blood everywhere. I unknowingly swiped the inside of my left index finger, which was holding the tomato steady, with my right hand and the tip of my knife across the inside bone joint down to my finger’s base.

I should have gone to the hospital for stitches right then and there. The cut was deep tearing across the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Wendy came over with wads of papers towels holding them around my finger applying pressure in between my deep gulps for air. We bandaged it tightly and put a finger condom on it. The clock struck 6 – time for dinner service to start.

The restaurant turned out 60 covers a night, with a bare bones kitchen brigade of four cooks. There were no stagiers or apprentis dying to take over and prove their worth. There was no Grand Chef standing at the pass cleaning plates and calling out orders to step in. The Head Chef was also the meat & fish cook and the Sous Chef was also the pasta & vegetable cook. I was the garde manger and pastry cook and there was one pizza guy. And that was that.

I made some beautiful insalatas at Ristorante Ecco: spicy rocket salad with sweet fennel ribbons, bitter endive, peppery radicccio and sliced pears tossed in a tart champagne vinaigrette and garnished with a crisp lacy cheese wafer. Or, my favorite, the baby spinach salad with roasted beets (gold, pink, and crimson) and smoked trout mixed with an aged balsamic dressing. Not to mention our signature Ceasar salad and the butter lettuce with tarragon starter.

But, mixing those salads required the use of bare hands. Each ingredient was dressed separately and then added artistically together on the plate. And plastic gloves weren’t very popular back then – they certainly weren’t practical in the kitchen in any case. Think about it, you would have to change your gloves every time the different beets were dressed in order to keep the juice from staining the shaved fennel or pears. Who has time for that nonsense?

Orders flew in like witches gathering for winter solstice and I was out of my mind trying to get cold entrées finished in time before the dessert orders started up. Whipping together salads in record speed, I felt my index finger bitterly stinging. I looked down in horror to discover that both the bandaid and the finger condom were missing.

Oh fuhhhhhhhhhh-dge.

Waitresses grabbed salads off the ledge of my station before I had a chance to delicately poke through them. And more servers ran back yelling: “Where’s table 5? Where’s table 7?”.

I frantically turned back to the salads I was preparing searching for any remnants of plastic, but none was to be found. I spent that whole night in fear that sooner or later a customer was going to chew my bloody bandages, report it to the server, who in turn would tell the head chef, who would then fire me on the spot.

I waited.

Luckily for me nothing happened. I would hate to think that a client ate the bandage and the finger condom. I dunno, maybe they mistook it for calamari? It must have been awfully chewy. Hopefully it magically found its way to the garbage can, but I still can’t be positive. My finger eventually healed although it took a good long month and I still have the fine white scar to remind me. But, at least it’s a neat bulging line and not some jagged saber tooth monstrosity.

Don’t worry, that was a good long time ago and one of my first real cooking jobs. I would never do that to your food today. Never!

So, tomorrow I intend to start my new position assuming my fever comes down, my throat isn’t blistery, and my head stops threatening to explode. Luckily for me, they only laughed when I called at 7 A.M. to say “I’m sick”. They told me not to worry and that my post will still be waiting for me.

Did you want that knife guy’s address in Paris?

Coutellerie D’Allésia
Affutage & Reargenture
161 Rue D’Alésia
Paris, 75014
Metro: Plaisance, line 13
Tel: 01 45 42 39 67 (you must call in advance to make sure he’s not on assignment)

P.S. If you tell him that “Amy the American” sent you he’ll be happy. I don’t know if it will get you a discount, but I told him I’d mention him on my website. He asked me to send my friends

Technorati Tags: knives, paris, puppy, sharpened

The post The Sharper Your Knives? first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I taught Cooking and Theater before coming over to Paris and now all my students are in college. Some are actually out of college. And all of them have drivers liscene’s which scares the bejeezus out of me. You know how teens are with their zippy tricked out cars, mobile phones, and loud blaring music. Yes, I prefer to be far, far away from my hormonally challenged students during their final indoctrination into adulthood.

However, their parents keep sending them over to me. So I’ve developed a tour that is two-fold: it’s educational and it tires them out thoroughly. Matthew was my first Paris guinea pig and he was also one of my very first students. And I might add, that he is also exceptionally talented (NYU Film major!!!) along with his younger brother Andrew (Dartmouth freshman!!!). Those two kept me laughing and crying for years.

Enlarge the maps for the full tour details and then CLICK on PINS for photos and background info. Puh-leeease check it out, it took hours to do.

TEEN TOUR RIGHT BANK (6 hours walking)

View Larger Map

TEEN TOUR LEFT BANK (4-5 hours)

View Larger Map

Technorati Tags: google maps, Ms. Glaze, Paris, paris tours, students, teens, walking tours

The post Google Maps: Paris Teen Tours first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

PUNCH LINE: They both cost you a lot of money!

Okay, that wasn’t funny. But that’s how rock-bottom my sense of humor is right now. You thought this post was going to be about the oldest and biggest charity wine auction in the world! NOT!!! This post is about the French Grève (the strike) and how it practically ruined five peoples long awaited vacations.

No, just kidding, it’s a little bit of both.

My friends and family came to visit from various parts of the world so that we could gather in Paris and head off en mass to Beaune, the famous city in the heart of Burgundy, for pinot noir and chardonnay tasting. We’ve been attending the wine festival for the last three years. It’s become a family tradition.

We don’t go to the auction itself. I’m sure I could weasel some press passes, but if you don’t have big money, it’s boring. Just a lot of tall hat texans, cold Russian mafia, and riotous rich Scotsmen in kilts with the odd Frenchman thrown in and a ton of media. My posse is not interested in paying 15,000 euros for a barrel of wine. Even if it does go to charity and even if we do get our names put on the Hospice de Beaune labels. It still is just a wee bit out of our league. We like to smush our faces up against the windows of the auction hall and watch the numbers go flying up along with the prices per barrel. Much more satisfying.

So just how did we get to the Beaune festival this year? My brother-in-law, “Clyde” Wittman, lassoed a private plane down to the ground while his sass talkin’ girlfriend “Bonnie” held up the pilot with a snickers bar in her pocket. The rest of us climbed in while Bonnie and Clyde blackmailed the crew. No, that’s not it. We just got there. Not all at the same time and not all on the same day – merci SNCF for costing us extra money and vacation time!

One activity we do like to participate in when we’re not hijacking airplanes is the wine tasting at Patriarche Pere et Fils located in the town proper. They open up their extensive underground wine caves to the public once a year and share newly released wine along with several special vintage bottles. Patriarch Pere et Fils are wine brokers that have been in business since the 18th century! They buy the cream of the crop from the surrounding areas (Meursault, Chassagne, Pommard, Chambolle Musigny, Gevrey Chambertain, etc.) and bottle it privately under the famous Hospice de Beaune label.

Buying wine at Patriarche Pere et Fils is fun. We normally begin with the programed public tasting of 15 wines that meanders through the cool stone caves and then end with a private tasting.

The part I like about the private tasting is how our salesperson cages us in one of the smaller caves while she pulls out more good stuff for us to taste. There’s no escaping! All and all it’s around 30 wines to sniff, swish, gargle, and spit (or swallow). This normally annoys the rest of the public that doesn’t get to come along but is allowed to watch us taste special wines through a locked iron gate. Peasants – let them drink 2001 Musigny! If you want to buy wine they will do the same for you. Just ask for a salesperson when you get to the last public tasting and they will customize the rest of your tasting according your interests.

My favorites from Patriarche Pere and Fils this year were the sexy Vosne-Romanée 1980 (pinot noir), The feminine Musigny Grand Cru 1960 (pinot noir), and an stunning 1957 Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru. The last one, a chardonnay was one of the most memorable wines I have ever had. I could have put a straw in that magnum and sucked down the whole thing. Talk about gold clover honey with a clean acidic citrus-y finish. I couldn’t believe it. Most old whites loose that fresh acidity and turn to vinegar.

Of the newer vintages, all the 2005’s I tasted both in the Pinot noir and in the Chardonnay varietal were outstanding. Drinkable now but structured enough to last for a decade or more. The Perrier Corton and Chassagne were my fav’s.

We didn’t just come to wine taste ourselves silly. We also came to eat. You’ve got to eat well if you’re going to drink well! The city turns into a festival of food and crafts for the weekend complete with corking competitions and marching bands. Traditionally we start the morning out with a breakfast of champions: foie gras, baguette, comté, chevre, jambon, croissants, pain aux chocolate, and coffee. Then we leave our hotel room stuffed and head straight for the town hall for oysters and escargot. They shuck the oysters for you right from the crates and they are 4:00 A.M. ocean fresh.

This year we included a winery tour outside of the town with Susan Boxell who began the original tours or the area (in English) with her company Burgundy On A Plate. She has access to many private wineries and long standing relationships with the wine makers so the experience is special. One of the hits of this tour was getting to meet and talk with Monsieur LeFlaive of legendary chardonnay and pinot noir greatness. He’s a third generation wine maker in Burgundy and quite an upbeat character. His wines are in restaurants across the world and he spent two hours just with our small hung-over group taking us through his cellars and explaining his traditional methods of wine making.

Our last tasting of the weekend, at a small wine shop in town that promised vintage tastings, was a let down. It was so bad. I tasted a wine that smelled exactly like bong water and another that tasted like Crackerbarrel cheddar cheese. And you know what? My whole family agreed that they smelled and tasted exactly that same way. (Parker’s got nothin’ on me baby.) This only goes to show you that not all wines, even from the most prestigious areas like Pommard and Gevrey Chambertain, are good. Before you go and buy a case of something you think is going to be outstanding, taste it. Even if it claims to be a Grand Cru. Each winery has their own style and the differences even between hectares of the same varietal and same classification can be extreme.

We weren’t quite as rowdy as we were last year. I think the Scotts and Texans out-did our partying this time around. Mainly because somewhere along the weekend half our group was food poisoned. Must have been the escargot. We had a long ride back to Paris with the strike and our queasy stomaches. And I won’t even mention how we left two 1980 Vosne-Romenée magnums on the train. Oh wait, I just did. But we’ll be back next year gluttons for punishment and fantastic wine. I think next time we’ll ship all the wine home.

When to go: The second weekend of every November
Where to Stay: Hotel Cep
Wine Tours: Burgundy On A Plate, Susan Boxell
Where to Eat: Ma Cuisine for bistro fare, Bernard Loiseau for Michelin cuisine, Town Hall for oysters and escargot
How to get there: lasso a plane and hijack the crew or take a train from Paris to Beaune
Fun Bars: The Pickwick (this is where all the Scotts go to for dancing on the tables in their kilts), La Parte Des Anges for wine tasting and local clientele.
Wine Tasting in Beaune: Patriarche Pere et Fils

Technorati Tags: Beaune, Burgundy, chardonay, festival, hotel cep, ma cuisine, pinot noir, wine auction

The post Bon Beaune Burgundy first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I’m a pho addict. And when I need my fix I normally trek out to the 13th arrondisement for a big bowl of steamy beef broth filled with thick rice noodles, beef slices, onions, spicy basil, and cilantro. Since the weather has turned cold, I’m finding my cravings for this Vietnamese speciality have increased.

Now that I’ve moved from the stuffy 17th to jazzy St. Michel I have discovered a whole new world. Right across from me (and all the raucous Greek Latin Quarter restaurants) is a quiet hidden street that has several Vietnamese restaurants and markets brimming with Asian produce and products. Apparently this was one of the original areas that the Vietnamese immigrated to in Paris! Who knew?

Pho 67 is a Mom & Son establishment from what I’ve sussed out. The mom is the chef and the son takes care of the service with grace and professionalism. Sometimes you have to wait a little for your soup or main dish because she cuts and chops everything to order. But it’s worth the wait. And everything is super fresh!

I discovered this restaurant on a rainy Paris afternoon with my friend Carol from the beautiful blog Paris Breakfasts. And we just sat over our big bowls of steamy pho inhaling and slurping up the intoxicating mix of herbs, spices, noodles, and rich beef broth wishing the conversation and the meal would never end.

Pho 67
59, Rue Galande
75005 Paris, France
+33 1 43 25 56 69

Technorati Tags: Paris restaurants, pho, soup, vietnamese food

The post Pho 67 in Paris first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

My husband and I were invited by Bradley and Marie Prezant, the bread baking power duo of Bethesda Baking, to come spend a long weekend at their maison in Conzieu, an hour outside of Lyon, located at the hilly tip of the Alps. As I was madly trying to arrange last minute train tickets for our trip, my husband, being the internet guru that he is, asked:

“Honey, do you know these people?”

“Yeah, I met them on the internet.”

“No, do you know these people?” He probed again trying to ascertain the risk involved in our new adventure.

“Um, yeah, they’re bread bakers.”

No doubt the idea of driving out to the middle of nowhere and being cut up into a million pieces was plaguing him. But me? Well, I think bread bakers are a special breed of scientist that have better things to do than to draw food bloggers out of their Parisian habitats for luxurious weekends just to serve them up on a platter.

We reached their house overlooking a valley dotted with farms and rivers and pulled into a driveway bordering a church dating back over one thousand years. “Oh, mon dieu, this can’t be it!” I muttered in disbelief after viewing the incredible beauty and serenity of the surroundings. Bradley and family greeted us with a warm welcome and a cold glass of vintage Veuve Cliquot. Not a bad way to begin a weekend! They showed us to our cozy bedroom complete with clawfoot bathtub, wood burning fire place, and views of the valley out of each window.

“This is for us? You must be kidding me…” I said peering out one of the windows.

The next few days were a cooking and baking frenzy fueled by good wine and great conversation. It was my first time baking bread from scratch. I don’t mean just adding fresh yeast to flour and letting it do its bubbly thing, I mean making creating starters like ‘poolishes’ and ‘levains’ that pack extra flavor and take time and energy to develop. Then mixing them with more ingredients to form beautiful loaves of hearty tasting bread.

If you’re a novice bread baker like me, then you’re probably wondering what the difference is between a poolish and a levain yeast starter. A poolish or ‘pouliche’ as its called in French, is a liquid pre-fermentation starter that is created with roughly equal parts of water and flour with added yeast that is allowed to develop over an extended period of time of four to eight hours. It adds a nutty rich flavor to bread and can also increase its longevity after its baked (if it doesn’t get eaten immediately). The word ‘poolish’ was coined in the 1700’s from the way the Polish make a liquid yeast starter to bake bread.

A levain starter, mostly used for sourdough bread, is a little more complicated and requires several feedings over a longer period time. Its created like a poolish but has more flour than water. During the long aging process, while the levain is fed, it develops a rich sour taste that adds more complexity and character to the bread. Levain starters are like something out of the musical Little Shop of Horrors: “Feeeeed me Seymour! Feeeed me allll night lonnngg!!!”

Making bread starters reminds me of sea monkeys – remember those? You add water to a magical powder and then watch tiny creatures grow, swim around, and multiply. Only its more satisfying because you get to eat the bread at the end or trade it (like we did with the villagers) for fresh eggs and foraged mushrooms.

The entire bread making process is a combination of several steps. Yeast is ALIVE and requires oxygen, a little food, and a warm place to grow. As the yeast eats its food it releases carbon dioxide which causes the dough to stretch, rise, and ferment more. The dough must ferment at least three times. The first time with the poolish or levain starter, the second after more flour is added and the dough is kneaded and allowed to double (here it is often punched down to release carbon dioxide and rise again), and the third time after shaping the dough into loaves and allowing it to quickly ‘proof’ in a warm humid environment before baking.

Good bread bakers know how to play with the timing involved with the fermentation processes in order to create more flavorful breads. In many cases the second fermentation process can be slowed down or controlled by placing the dough in the refrigerator overnight. However, if you’re in a hurry the bread will rise quicker in a warm environment. Brioche dough contains tons of butter and needs an extra long time to rise in the refrigerator, otherwise you’ll end up with a gloppy mess of melted fat on your table.

The flour that you choose to bake bread with is important. The higher the protein content is in the flour, the more elasticity and the nicer the structure of the bread. That stretchiness comes from chemical compound gluten which is made up of protein and starch. Normally bread flour has a higher protein content than all-purpose flour.

We baked several breads including: brioche in all different shapes and sizes, sourdough rye, and cereal. The brioche we cooked in a normal stove but the heavier loaves we baked in Bradley’s wood burning oven. In order to heat up the bricks inside his specialty furnace, Bradley made a fire with several logs and let them burn to coal. After they had burned down completely, he swept the ashes out of the oven and we shoveled the loaves in, added some water for steam, and shut the little iron door to let the bread bake away.

To “pay” for our lessons we cooked dinner. With my husband as sous chef we whipped up some soul warming potiron (pumpkin) soup with toasted seeds, a roast chicken with root vegetables and reduced red wine vinegar jus, tomatillo and corn relish (from Bradley’s garden!), and a Tarte Aux Noix made from walnuts we gathered up from walnut trees around town. Not complicated, but completely locally grown and seasonal.

In between cooking, baking, and letting poolishes poolish my husband and I explored some of the neighboring villages. We drove through a town called Crapéou, pronounced Crappy-You and picked apples perfect enough to be something out of Snow White. Then headed for the surrounding hills to discover pristine lakes, trails, and more tiny villages. It’s hunting season right now and you can hear the hunting dogs barking away with their little bell collars ringing everywhere. Not wanting to end up on the wrong side of a shot gun we noted the trailheads for next time.

Our last evening was spent playing the French card game Tarot with some of the local card sharks in the village, eating Tarte Aux Pommes baked with our Crappy-You apples, and drinking more vintage champagne. Due to the fact that I was a little too tipsy to concentrate on the rules of the game, I lost. But I think I won overall, so no hard feelings.

I know there are those who believe that bloggers are a narcissistic bunch who only seek out others whose beliefs reflect and mirror their own while hiding all the time behind an anonymous computer screen. But, I beg to differ. I am truly thankful for all the people I have met world wide whose areas of expertise and values are different and yet complimentary to mine. Although I can be shy in social situations, I enjoy the opportunity to meet new people face to face. This weekend for me, was an example of extraordinary generosity and the desire for a world community that I think most of us seek to create in whatever way we know how.

Many thanks to the Prezants for taking the time out of their busy lives to show complete strangers a truly wonderful time. I know it will be a memory that we will cherish forever.

I will leave you with a recipe for brioche, the rest of the bread recipes are somewhat secret and you’ll have to get invited over to the Chateau…

Technorati Tags: bread, brioche, chateau, conzieu, levain, poolish, yeast

Brioche

Note: Making brioche by hand is a messy business because it almost equal weight butter and flour. I’ve done it before, but I wouldn’t recommend it unless you have unlimited counter space and a temperature controlled room to work in. Use a mixer like a kitchenaid instead. It will save you time.

Yeast Starter
1 cake fresh yeast (preferred) or 1 envelope of active dry yeast
1/2 cup whole milk at room temp.
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup bread flour
Dough
3 cups bread flour
11/4 teaspoons salt
4 large eggs at room temp lightly beaten
1/2 pound unsalted softened butter (not melted)
Eggwash 1-2 eggs beaten

Instructions
1. For the starter combine the yeast and milk in a bowl of a standing mixer (paddle attachment) and beat until yeast is dissolved. Stir in sugar and flour. Cover with plastic wrap and let rest somewhere warm for 30 minutes. If it’s working you’ll see lots of bubbles and foam created.
2. For the dough, add the rest of the flour, the salt, and the eggs to the starter and beat on low speed to get it all mixed. Then turn up the speed on the mixer to medium to begin working the dough. When it starts to come together it will turn shiny.
3. While its still mixing (and after the dough has reached that shiny phase) add the butter little by little. Stop the mixer when necessary and scrape down the sides of the bowl. Continue to beat the dough until all the butter has been incorporated and it is shiny (6-8 minutes).
4. Stop the mixer and scrape the dough out. Turn the dough into a dry bowl covered lightly with oil (or back to the same bowl that you’ve just cleaned). Cover it with plastic wrap and let rise at room temperature for about two hours or until it has doubled in size.
5. After it has risen, press it down to release some of the carbon dioxide and fold it in half. Continue to fold it in on itself three times.
6. Cover with plastic wrap again and place in the refrigerator for 4 hours or overnight.
7. To proof the bread prepare the baking pans or molds. Spray them with panspray or lightly butter. (2 bread loaf pans or 3 large brioche pans)
8. Take the dough from the fridge and cut in half for the bread loaf pans. For one design you can roll the dough out into a rectangle the same length as the pan but double in width, and roll it up from the smaller side like a jelly roll pinching the seem. Place the seem down in the loaf pan. Or make equal size balls, all the same size, and scrunch them next to each other two by two down the loaf pan. If using the brioche molds make a large doughnut shaped ring for the bottom and then a ball, flattened on one end and rolled into a cone, to place on top and hook around under the doughnut ring.
9. Cover dough with plastic wrap and let rise at room temperature until the bread fills the pans. About 1-2 hours longer.
10. Preheat oven to 400˚F and move rack to bottom.
11. Brush eggwash over the tops of the dough to give it a shine and help it turn brown in the oven. Make sure not to let it drip down the sides of the dough or it will burn in the pan and inhibit the bread from rising correctly in the oven.
12. Bake for ten minutes and then turn down the oven to 350˚F and let it bake for 30 minutes more.
13 Remove from baking pans immediately when done and turn out onto a rack.

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There they were, one quarter of my family, the Pennsylvania Dutch – those bone deep Protestants – traveling across the United States in a covered wagon. “Giddyup” Great Great Grampy yelled to the horses barely old enough to spell her own name. The women from that side of the family were clearly trailblazers and stern teetotalers all. The men – they came, went, and died early – it was the women who set up the “dirt farm” in Rocky Mountain Colorado and tilled the unforgiving soil. It was the women who took care of the children. It was the women who picked up the pieces when the farm went bust and moved to California for jobs. They became teachers and cooks – movers and shakers.

And later, not long before she passed away, Great Great Grampy, lit up her wood burning stove one final time and made pie pastry to last her family after her death. One of her daughters froze them. There’s probably one of her famous cherry pies hidden way down in that freezer.

I’ll never forget Great Grandmother’s baking. She would get in that kitchen and make everything by hand – even when catering huge parties. Her upper arm flab would get moving as she whipped egg whites to no return. But no one had a hand for pastry like my great, great grandmother, Grampy. Her daughters and granddaughters always wanted to know, “How hot should the oven be Grampy?” The answer was always, “Well, just put your hand in carefully, like this, and when it’s hot, but not too hot, then you’ll know.”

Sometimes my grandmother, would call her for a recipe and get the standard reply, “Well sure, it’s simple, you just take flour, a pinch of salt, a few eggs separated….” But it wasn’t, no one had hands the same size as Grampy.

The Pennsyvania Dutch women grew to be outstanding in their chosen fields of baking and teaching and they weren’t afraid to protest their beliefs now and again. Great Aunt Bernie was a member of the WTCU, and it’s rumored she marched for Prohibition. If she went into a restaurant (which wasn’t often because it cost too much money) and saw wine glasses on the table. She would, with back straightened and lips tightly pursed for the audience of the server and the rest of the clientele, dramatically lift up her glass, turn it around, and bring it down firmly stem-side up on the linen, announcing to everyone, “I don’t like drinky places!”.

My head ached in the strangest way possible. A lump was emerging from a cranium soft spot that once was my skull and an icy cold pain trickled down around the growing mountain. I could see people gathered around my bed trying to decide whether or not a trip to the doctor’s was in order.

“No, I’m fine, I just want to rest….” I weakly protested.

“Don’t let her sleep – you need to wake her up every three hours and ask her questions…” Some one murmured.

“Look, there’s nothing the doctor can do but tell me I have a concussion. Trust me, I’ve done this before. Well, it was done to me before…”

I closed my eyes and then from out of the mist came three ships. Three large slowly rollicking sad ships carrying immigrants from two countries in three different time spans. The one boat from Ireland carried my Great Grandmother shaking with cold and hunger barely escaping the potato famine and death. Not much is known about her, except the cotton wedding dress she carried with her from her home that I have tightly packaged to this day. It was rumored she was beautiful and it couldn’t have taken her long to find her loving handsome husband, the Welsh James Glaze.

James worked in the Pittsburgh steel mills and fought on the weekends. His nickname, “Honey Glaze” was his fightin’ name. He was big, muscular, sweet as pie outside the ring and downright scary inside. He was a great prize fighter and a smart man, but rumor had it he killed a man in England which is how he ended up in America. No one really knows, and no one dared asked him. From the Pittsburgh steel mills they moved to Ohio where James moved up the ranks to foreman in the newly opened mills. His son James Jr. followed in his footsteps, while operating a small farm on the side.

I don’t remember my Great Grandpa Honey Glaze, but I do remember my Grandpa Glaze and that farm. The cornfields for miles and the back 40 forested with deer and berries. The chicken coup that disgusted me and the barn of dough-eyed cows for milking and thick haunched horses for tending the fields and jumping over fences with. I remember the water pump outside the house and the fireflies at night lighting up the star studded Ohio sky.

But I also remember my Grandmother, midwestern farm wife that she was, who longed for something more glamourous than the life she had been given. And it’s no wonder, she too had a figure that wouldn’t quit and she knew it. She would let me try on her finest velvet and satin dresses, that she sewed expertly to match the styles of the time. I doubt she actually ever wore them, but they hung in the back of her closet just in case. I never filled into the breast pockets of her gowns, and the waist was always too tight to zip up all the way. She was one small hourglass of a woman. The dresses hang unworn in my closet now and I still don’t fit into them.

James was lucky to keep her up on the farm with three boys. She wanted to be an actress she would tell me as she churned butter in the old wooden machine. Up and down her arms would go pumping the churn, arm flab wagging away as she talked in out of breathy sound bites. “I…even….had…a man that was….interested in being my agent….but then I met…your Grandpa”.

Now, Grandpa was like his father: tall, muscular, soft spoken, and handsome. But he hated vegetables. Can you believe a farmer hating vegetables? If Grandma put a salad on the table then the heinz ketchup bottle and the salt shaker wasn’t far behind. He squeezed ketchup over everything he liked and disliked. I thought ketchup was salad dressing for a very long time. “Salt,” he used to say, “brings out the flavor.”

Years later the farm turned to swamp and the fields were no longer giving. My sweet Grandpa died of stomach cancer, maybe because he wouldn’t eat his veggies, but certainly not because he smoked two packs of unfiltered Camels a day. And my Grandma is still hanging on, God Bless her.

I rolled slightly over in my bed reaching for the bottle of ibufrofen and a drink of water. Only to be hit with a wave of naseau. “Perhaps I’ll rest some more and then take the pills….”

With my eyes closed attempting to steady the nausea, the last two boats, my mother’s father’s ancestors, rocked and rolled in my head more ghost-like than the first—maybe because I only know the stories from that side of the family and I’ve never seen all family pictures. My mother’s father, my grandfather Ryan, now dead was more handsome than Clark Cable and more of a womanizer too. He left my Grandmother (the Pennsylvania Dutch hardworking woman that she was) shortly after World War II with two small children. He had women around the world from Japan to California, and what did he need a tiny periwinkle blue eyed wife for?

I don’t remember a lot of him, except for the passionate letters I found between him and my Grandma from WWII and the silk Kimono he sent me from Japan when he was stationed there, and then his death bed where he lied unable to move. His emphysema got the best of him and so we gathered around to watch this man who had never been a good father, a good husband struggle to breathe through air tubes. He was a good sailor though, and a WWII hero. I remember sailing on his teak racing yacht when I was little. He had seven wives all of them beautiful and all of them different. He remarried his second wife in his last years.

His mother and father were both from Russian Jewish backgrounds. It’s thought that his grandparents escaped the pogroms. Who knows? There’s no one around who can say anymore. There’s no one who even remembers the family name besides “Berkely” and that was probably originally “Berkowitz”. They were smart people, Great Grandpa set up one of the early modern medical clinics in Chicago, and during the Depression, he let people pay with whatever they had available, whether is was eggs from the chicken coup or dollar bills. He felt strongly that healthcare should be for everyone.

Great Grandma Goldye liked to travel and entertain. She brought her daughter over to Paris to study ballet before WWII. There she learned French cooking. She was quite the linguist speaking English, Yiddish, and French. Smart woman that she was, she fired her first cook when she learned he was taking a cut off the produce he shopped for in the markets. Determined not to let her husband’s hard earned money go to waste, she hired a new chef but told him that she would do all the shopping. She learned her French from the market stalls and her recipes from her various French cooks. As her daughter attended ballet school, she entertained artists including Chagall. They left Paris shortly before WWII began.

After Paris, she traveled to Mexico where again she set about learning to cook Mexican cuisine and speak Spanish. Her collection of French paintings decorated their big house in the Indiana woods along with huge silver Mexican serving platters. But it’s all gone now. Even their big house that once hosted weekend parties for the elite has vanished.

But my mother remembers visiting that grand house and my great grandmother Goldye as a child. And here’s where the Protestant Pennsylvania Dutch butts heads with the Russian Jewish elite. Goldye made borscht and blintzes but my mother, a child, turned up her nose and refused it. Goldye having no tolerance for picky eaters or unappreciative grandchildren asked my mother what she did like to eat. “Hamburgers, I like hamburgers!” And that is what she made for the rest of the vacation. My mother returned home a very embarrassed little girl.

My relatives set down roots across America fighting their way through poverty and persecution and with one easy click on my computer I have reversed all their hard won struggles and bought myself a ticket for Paris. Like a trout swimming upstream. If they could see me now waiting around in Paris for my immigration papers what would they think? No doubt Goldye’s Russian blood is running hot and the Dutch and Irish blood is running ice cold – like that strange sensation on the top of my head.

“Now will some one please give me my damned work visa so I can get on with it?”

“What was that Amy?” my mother asked coming in dutifully every three hours to make sure I still remembered my name.

“Nothing, I don’t know, I was on a ship or something and there was Grampy, Goldye, and Grandma Glaze and…”

“Well I doubt they would ever tolerate being on a ship together, but it looks like you’re feeling a little better. Did you take your pills?”

“No, I guess I will though.”

I didn’t have to reach this time as my mother’s hand cupped an ibuprofen inches from my lips with a cup of water close by.

“Thanks Mom… can you tell me the ‘Drinky Place’ story again? I don’t know why I was just thinking of that…”

Note to reader: this story is concocted only from the shards of memories and stories I have heard or remembered. Fact, fiction, or both it’s how I perceive my history not how it really was I’m sure. Well parts of it really were…

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3 Michelin Star French Cuisine:
Guy Savoy: Traditional French cuisine transformed into contemporary elegance. Ask for the 100 euro lunch tasting menu if looking for a fine dining experience without breaking the bank. Guy Savoy is favored by international stars, French politicians, business men, and chic clientele that desire a private secluded atmosphere without all the fussy gold glitz. Service is impeccable, professional, and friendly. Besides, Monsieur Guy Savoy is an international film star now, having played one of the characters in Pixar’s Ratatouille! Do you know which part?
8, rue Troyon, 75008, tel: +33 (0)1 43 80 40 61

Le Meurice A newcomer into the 3-star arena. The très sexe chef Yannick uses traditional and modern cooking techniques to elevate French traditional cuisine to new heights. Set within the beautiful and historic Hotel Meurice, the decor is reminiscent of a more opulent and decadent era. Great service and beautiful sensual food plated with a nod to Japanese presentation. Reserve a table through their website.

Hélène Darroze (two Michelin stars) One of the only female owned restaurants in Paris to receive Michelin rated accolades. Her food is feminine, imaginative, and sensitive drawing upon her native roots in Landes. A very special experience without the self-concious Parisian elite attitude to muck it up. Check it out ASAP before she receives her third star and the prices go higher!
4, rue d’Assas, 75006, Tel: +33 (0)1 45 72 07 14

Bistros:
L’Ami Jean: Basque food in a fun pro-rugby atmosphere. I think it’s some of the best food in Paris. If there’s one restaurant you must go to, it’s this one. For more info click the link, I wrote a post on it a few years back. I always take friends here when visiting in town.
27, rue Malar, 75007 +33 (0)1 47 05 86 89

Le Comptoir: located right off Metro Odeon in the ever-trendy St. Germain area, this resto serves up traditional bistro food offering one tasty menu a night. If you don’t believe me, then click the link to read Chez Pim’s write-up! Great people watching too! (photo by Moveable Feast)
9, carrefour de l’Odéon, 75006 Tel: +33 (0)1 44 22 07 97

Le Severo: This restaurant is for carnivores and wine lovers. There is much debate over whether this is really a steak-frites bistro or a wine bar with excellent food. Both Patricia Wells and David Lebovitz have given it their blessings so you know it’s good. I’ve linked to Chef Lebovitz’s detailed review. Worth the trek to the 14th! (photo by New York Times click link to read their article too!)
8, rue des Plantes, 75014, tel: +33 (0)1 45 40 40 91

Spring: If you can get a reservation at this tiny restaurant (only 16 seats) owned by American Chef Daniel Rose, then take it! He changes the menu daily and serves what he’s found to be the freshest. Chef Daniel worked at Le Meurice (mentioned above) before opening his own place. I’ve linked to his blog here so you can get an up close and personal account.
28 rue de la Tour d’Auvergne, 75009, tel: +33 (0)1 45 96 05 72

Le Soufflé: Totally kitsch, but so much fun and they do have the best soufflé’s in Paris at a very reasonable price. It’s a fun way to end a vacation in Paris. Ignore the flourescent lighting and the well worn white tableclothes and just enjoy. The servers have been working there probably for half a century and they speak English very well. Seriously, I love this place – it’s good fun food in a tourist-friendly environment. Click on the link to read my old blog post and see some pics.
36, rue du Mont-Thabor, 75001, Tel: +33 (0)1 42 60 27 19

Chez Janou: Tucked away in the Marais, this hidden bistro serves classic provençal fare. Their menu boasts seasonal dishes and desserts. They also have one of the largest collections of Pastis, the traditional French anise flavored aperitif. Don’t skip dessert, you’re in for a treat especially if you order the chocolate mousse.
2, Rue Roger-Verlomme 75003 Tel: 01 42 72 28 41

Technorati Tags: 3-star restaurants, best restaurans in Paris, bistros, Guy Savoy, L’Ami Jean, Le Soufflé, Les Bouquinistes, Paris restaurants, Spring, tag, top

The post Paris Picks: Restaurants & Bistros first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Photos of Claravale Farm taken by Tana Butler of www.iheartfarms.com

When I moved to Paris two years ago to work as a cook, I did not have the same ah-ha revelation that Julia Child experienced with her first meal in Normandy. No, I went from bistro to bistro in search of something that would rival any of the restaurants in my native San Francisco. I was unwilling to compromise taste for a smoke filled patio view of the Eiffel Tower.

After several disappointing experiences in bistros serving the same badly prepared fare, I headed to the farmers’ markets hoping to find seasonal and perhaps unusual heirloom produce. Mais non! The SF Ferry building easily rivals any of the best Parisian markets and Bay Area farmers’ markets are just what the name implies—farmers selling their wares. As opposed to vendors buying their produce from Rungis, the largest supermarket in the world, and reselling it.

But then it happened. On a hot summer’s day, I entered Monoprix (the French Safeway) in search of a light lunch. I chose a 4-pack of small terracotta pots filled with vanilla yogurt. I recognized the label Yoplait and thought to myself, “Hmm, I’ve never really liked Yoplait but these pots look so unusual.” When I got home I plunged my spoon into the creamy white yogurt flecked with ground vanilla pod and savored every last creamy bite. “Oh la vache! C’est bien ça! je n’ai jamais goûtée de yaourt comme ça!” (Oh the cow! It’s good. I’ve never tasted yogurt like that!)

With the excitement of my newfound delicious milky treat I went straight back to Monoprix for more samples. I figured that if Yoplait was so good in France then Dannon had to be equally rewarding. And it was. Which led me to my next purchase of yoaurt fermier (yogurt from the farm) bottled in beautiful glass jars. The consistency of this yogurt was runny but the flavor unbeatable.“Vache, tout les yaourts sont délicieux!” (Cow, all of the yogurts are delicious!)

Thus began my love affair with French cows and one that did not stop at yogurt. Oh no! Yogurt was only the beginning. After yogurt I discovered French butter. Not to worry, I wasn’t buying sticks of butter and eating them like candy bars although there were times I wanted to!

Who knew that butter could be made with big crunchy grains of sea salt that when smeared on hot toasted baguette and served with raspberry jam created one of the most heavenly pairings on earth? Who knew that beurre sec, or ‘dry butter’ made extra flaky melt-in-your-mouth croissants? Or that beurre salé or ‘salted butter’ allowed one to sauté on high temperatures without burning it. Did I mention the sweet farm butter dotted with clots of sweet cream?

Of course no essay on the holy French cow would be complete without a nod to frommage. I’ve always been a Cow Girl Creamery loyalist and I regularly like to show my chef friends, who think all U.S. milk products taste like Velveeta, a glimpse of the California good life via their website. But one cannot ignore the divine goodness of Comté, pungent Munster, wickedly delicious triple cream Brie, or a scoop of ooey-gooey Camembert with a bowl of apple cider to wash it down. The methods for making these world famous cheeses has been handed down for generations and are strictly regulated by the A.O.C. to insure quality and tradition.

So just what is it about these French cows that provide such heavenly milk and who if anyone can match their product in Northern California? That is really the question that begs to be answered.

I posed this question to one of the chefs I cook with in Paris. The response I got was nothing less than expected: “En France les vaches du meilleurs lait parce qu’elles font l’amour toute la journée.” In other words, French cows produce the best milk because they make love all day long. Bien sur! (Of course!) Well, there you have it: good milk comes from oversexed cows. I knew there was a simple answer—and I thought all happy cows came from California.

Through research I discovered that there are at least twenty-five different dairy breeds in France and many provide milk for specific products. For instance the Simmental cow produces milk for Gruyère cheese and the Normande breed is famed for producing milk for Camembert.

In the United States we have around eleven dairy breeds and half of those breeds are dwindling in number. We rely heavily on the Holstein and Jersey breeds for our milk products. This is not altogether bad, because, both breeds are highly regarded worldwide and also used in France for a majority of dairy products. It appears that both countries have happy (I didn’t say oversexed) cows that produce tasty rich milk.

Photos of Bobolink Farms taken by Tana Butler of www.iheartfarms.com

The reality is that our milk products are different because our consumer demand is different. French people won’t eat yogurt that is loaded with gums or gelatins. However Americans will purchase yogurt (or should we say Jell-O with all the additives?) because it costs less and it’s convenient.

The French take great pride in regionally made butter and recognize that cows produce milk with different moisture content depending on the season. Grain fed cows over the winter will produce a butter that is lower in moisture and better for baking whereas butter made during the spring is creamier from green grass pasture grazing. Not all of our cows—even our organic cows—are allowed real pasture time and in some cases they will never see a blade of fresh grass ever!

As always, Northern California dairy farmers are illuminating the path to quality. Farms like Claravale, Strauss Family Creamery, Stornetta Farms, Triple C Ranch, & Robert Giacomini Dairy provide organic (local) milk for consumers and boutique cheese makers. Cowgirl Creamery, Point Reyes Cheese, and Brown Cow yogurt are just a few to benefit. Even traditional dairy farmers in California are transforming their farms in order to experiment with organic milk, cheese, and beef since it has proven to be profitable and environmentally sound.

Which brings me to my conclusion that Northern Californians and the French alike are happy consumers. Parisians might not have the choice in produce that we do in California and the small French bistros perhaps don’t have the money to support the quality that we demand in San Francisco, but both cultures are content. So logically, we all must be either making love all day long or eating fabulous dairy products. Or both? Oh la vache!

Technorati Tags: cow, Cowgirl Creamery, french, vache

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My brother was the biggest radio fanatic of all of us. He ran the high school radio station and after college rode the airwaves from disc jockey to program director to national radio consultant. He now co-owns eleven popular radio stations in California. My niece, twelve years old, has her own station called School of Pop that she streams live. And before you skip over the link thinking it’s child play, think again, it’s a great station. Don’t ever play Name That Tune with her, because she knows every song in the book regardless of genre and can tell you when it first played, where it was recorded, who recorded it, and more. I guess you could say we’re a pro-radio family.

So when Katie Macpherson, asked to do a radio interview for World Radio Paris, an NPR affiliate, I jumped at the chance. I met her at the metro station close to my apartment and we walked down to my local farmer’s market to shop for seasonal produce and then headed back to my apartment to cook it up while she interviewed me about life in Paris and cooking in a French restaurant. For three hours we cooked, ate, taped, and talked. How she edited all that jammer down to five minutes is beyond me!

If the player is not working try this link: WRP Interview by Katie Macpherson

Something happens to my brain when I have a microphone in my face. The gerbals stop running up there. My own story – my own history – disappears. Luckily Katie is a great journalist and she kept those questions coming for three hours en plus despite fish scales flying around like confetti and various dishes cooking on the stovetop. It’s a little nerve wracking to cook with a microphone a few inches from your face, like rubbing your belly and patting your head simultaneously. Challenging but fun.

I like Katie, she’s quirky. She’s this beautiful young American woman who is petit, cheerful, and smart. And yet despite her diminutive frame and sweet disposition, I can somehow picture her elbowing her way through a pack of crowded reporters and getting the headline story. She’s not afraid to ask questions and she’s not afraid of people. That may sound simplistic, but the reality takes faith and determination. I don’t think I could do it.

I was intrigued with her desire to pursue radio journalism, when clearly she would be equally successful on TV. I know that she has dabbled in television but her heart remains with radio perhaps due to the simplicity of medium – no heavy cameras to lug around, no makeup to put on, no camera shy interviewees or camera-loving candidates. If the story and the relationship with the interviewee are the objectives, then radio, seems to me, to be the purest way of capturing it.

Being interviewed was an enlightening experience. I sometimes interview myself in the shower and I definitely have been grilled during job interviews, but this was different. This was personal. And yet, it was so easy to open up to her. She asked me questions I had never thought about which ultimately helped me to gain some personal clarity. Everybody should be interviewed, it’s cheaper than therapy and gets a lot off your mind!

I couldn’t help but to ponder afterwards, if our world is becoming too visually focused – if we are loosing our oral traditions. When I taught English in India, I used radio plays as a teaching tool. The students loved reading the lines and performing the sound effects. My students always laughed nervously when they heard their first lines played back through the tape recorder but after a few minutes they became entranced with the story itself. They understood the idea of story telling and listening because it is such a rich part of Indian culture. Later, in the Bay Area, I used radio plays again in my theatre classes but my students struggled with the concept. They were unaccustomed to communicating a story through their voices or listening to the story played back without squirming around. They wanted to see everything acted out.

Hope you enjoy listening to this short interview. We had a great time making it even if my brain wasn’t functioning properly. I think the background sounds are especially fun. Wish there was more of Katie’s voice in it. I interviewed her a little during our session, but she obviously cut that out. We joked about starting a radio cooking show. Heck, if The Car Guys can fix engines through the airwaves then perhaps it’s possible to teach French technique. They’re both time consuming and ridiculously complicated. Anyway, hope you find the interview entertaining and please check out World Radio Paris if you’re living in France.

There’s some interesting stories to be heard out there…

Technorati Tags: Ms. Glaze, NPR affiliate, radio, radio interview, world radio paris

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Many people have emailed me about the connection between Guy Savoy and the movie. I had no idea that the movie had anything to do with Monsieur Savoy until recently! So here’s the scoop: the Pixar crew came to the restaurant four years ago to study how cooks work in a 3-star kitchen. They took detailed notes on the layout of the kitchen and the social interactions. They also went and visited other famous French kitchens including Procope, Tour d’Argent, Hélène Darroze, Tailevent, et Chez Michel.

Monsieur Guy Savoy has a small part in the French version of the film as a client ordering foie gras. It was funny to hear his familiar voice but see such a different character on the screen. Nonetheless, we applauded his performance. After all, he took his entire staff from his four Parisian restaurants to watch the preview in between lunch and dinner shifts! I’m not back officially at the restaurant yet, but they invited me along anyway. I guess I’m the token American along for the ride.

The movie is fantastic! It is so French – the Pixar team has captured everything that I love about Paris and everything I love about cooking in a restaurant in Paris. The ending for me was a little bitter sweet, only because I don’t want to leave this city and I know some day I will have to. The movie sums up why I love it here. You’ll have to see it for yourself to understand…

Technorati Tags: Guy Savoy, preview, ratatouille

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Just to update those that have not tuned in previously to As the World Spins, the laundromat on my street is a portal to purgartory that seems to draw a mix of loosers, boozers, travelers, crazy ex-pats, artists, snotty women, and single men. Then there’s me, and I’m not quite sure which category I fit into (please, no need to comment).

But yesterday, out of sheer boredom I decided to hull my army duffle bag, filled to the max, down to hell’s gates to see if I could drum up any excitement. I’m sure just the sight of me carrying my massive duffle bag was entertaining enough. The French just never seem to have the quantity of laundry that we Americans do and I don’t know why. Perhaps they throw clothes away when they are dirty? I dunno. There’s still a few secrets to living la vie française that I haven’t figured out …

I entered the Laverie Automatique and was lucky enough to find it empty. I placed my clothes in the big washer and added my detergent. Next, I went to turn on the washing cycle at the change machine or should I say slot machine in disguise? It took my money without any problems (Hail Mary!). Sometimes I win at the slot machine and sometimes I loose, but for the moment we are even.

Then I picked up a French gossip mag with Sarkozy’s picture all over it and waited for the show to begin. Just as I was getting bored trying to read in French (it used to put me to sleep in high school and unfortunately it still has the same effect today) some bewildered Americans walked in. I always recognize Americans immediately because they enter the Laverie Automatique like they are trespassing on private property. I watched for a few minutes as they tried to decipher the heirglyphic instructions on the wall and then offered assistance.

But these Americans were able to adapt to their surroundings quickly and they figured out the whole system without any help. However, the one thing they did need was an internet cafe. No, not a cafe with wi-fi, but a cafe with computers. I know this sounds like an easy problem to solve. One would think that any international city would have an abundance of such places. Heck, even when I lived in a rural part of India without sewage or clean water we had at least one place to get online. (okay, so it took an hour, but whatevah) Mais non! The internet cafes in Paris are few and far between and not exactly welcoming.

So I did what any American would do, because contrary to popular belief Americans are nice and generous people, I offered up my apartment for their computing needs. At first they were surprised and I’m sure a little embarrassed. However in the end, I lured them out of purgatory with promises of fast internet connection. Hillary and Brice came over to chez moi, and were able to purchase their tickets for the Eurostar online. Without these tickets they would not have been able to catch their return flight back to the States. Good deed done for the day! I think that deserves one free pass out of hell.

I returned shortly after my new American friends to the laundromat to say goodbye and added more money to the slot machine to dry my clothes. So far so good: met nice Americans, no line for the dryers, no loss on the slot machine, no crying kids that smear dog poo all over the floor – oops that was last time.

But when things are too good to be true they are just that. I hadn’t really paid a lot of attention to this one guy sitting in the corner. I thought he was just doing his laundry until I took a closer look at the machines and realized that I was the only one with laundry in the whole place. He recognized my army duffle bag because my husband had dragged in a load the previous week. I guess not too many French people have gigantic green bags for their laundry. He started to talk to me in French with a thick unrecognizable foreign accent. He looked a little scary too, like one of the bad guys from Grease (the movie) with his hair slicked back wearing a white undershirt with sleeves rolled up to show off scars and burns.

I started folding my laundry while trying to dodge his personal questions. How old am I? Why don’t I have children yet? Why don’t I have sex with my husband every evening so we can have children? Where do I live? What floor is my apartment on? Is it a big apartment? What does my husband do for a living? And then right as he was about to ask me what I do for a living he caught a glimpse of one of my chef’s jackets that I was folding. “Tu es une cuisinier ?” (You are a cook?). “Oui.” I responded knowing full well that my jacket would now lead to a new clip of questions.

It did: How much do I make? Where do I work? How many hours do I work? What station do I work at? Luckily I shut down most of those questions quickly because my work permit is still inactive (thank you Sarkozy, I thought you were supposed to be an American supporter?). He then told me that he was also a cook and he showed me three business cards of different restaurants. I think he was trying to tell me that it was a chain Italian restaurant.

Our new found camaraderie was obviously cause to celebrate because he cracked open a 40 ouncer of beer (I thought we only had those in the U.S.?) and offered me the first sip. I was tempted, only because I was thirsty and it was hot, but instead of giving into temptation I finished folding my laundry quickly so I could get out of there. He kept shoving the beer can in my face like it was some sort of peace-pipe. I told him I was trying to loose weight, which is true, and gently pushed his hand away from my mouth. But then I felt a little bad, and when I said goodbye he came over to give me the traditional two kisses.

What could I do? It’s one of those French things that sometimes you just can’t get out of. So I kissed the devil twice on the cheek and he insisted that we kiss twice more. I grabbed my heavy body bag and scooted out of that place faster then a bat out of hell. That was enough excitement for one day I think. I’m still not exactly sure what he was doing in there. Hmmmm…any friend of the devil is a friend of mine?

To be continued…

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The intoxicating smell of Marrakech still lingers in my head (and my suitcase – I knew I shouldn’t have brought back all those spices!). It is impossible to ignore the spice shops with their tall bright colored cones of cinnamon, cumin, paprika, and tumeric. When customers buy the spices, it’s fun to watch the the sellers scrape the tall cones with a spatula without spilling any to the floor. Miraculous.

Fresh mint is sold at every corner for use in the traditional mint tea. The smell of mint wafts through the overcrowded marketplace of Medina intermingling with the spices and barbecued meat stalls. Every time I sat down some one offered me a cup of mint tea – whether I was buying handmade rugs, enjoying the street performers, or relaxing in our riad (hotel). The tea was so refreshing amidst the chaos of the markets and the scorching afternoon heat.

The riad we stayed at, Dar Les Cigognes, was exquisite. It is hardly noticeable from the outside, but once you enter, there is a paradise awaiting. The riad has been restored with attention to every detail from the intricately carved plaster moldings to the stone polished walls. We had a difficult time leaving our hotel especially after we experienced the spa and hammam

My favorite part of our riad (aside from drinking Moroccan beer on the terrace and getting scrubbed down in the hammam) was taking cooking lessons from the resident chef. He taught me how to make lamb tangine and other Moroccan specialties! Here’s a Moroccan cooking tip: when you think you’ve added enough spice to your tangine – add more!!!

My video below doesn’t do the city justice. I was so overwhelmed by all the color and music and people that video taping took last priority. Honestly, I’m a total tongue twisted idiot in this video. I’m sure you’ll notice that I only describe food as “delicious” even though there are a million better adjectives for Moroccan cuisine.

If you’re wondering why I don’t know what I’m eating at any of the meals in the video, it’s because people kept brinigng me things to eat without a menu. None of it disappointed and I had a difficult time keeping my fingers away from the olives and salted peanuts that seemed to follow me everywhere. Especially those red olives – DELICIOUS!!! (shit, there’s that word again)

Our guide, Mustafa, was incredible. He took us through the confusing streets of Medina, in and out of the different markets explaining the history and introducing us to prominent people and shop owners. I finally asked him how he learned to speak English and he told me that in the ’60’s the hippies who used to smoke hashish in the Medina sqaure, taught him English little by little. Now he makes a substantial living as a tour guide and helped to write the Lonely Planet guide on Marrakech. He’s also been interviewed on several travel shows.

The last tour he gave was for Gwen Stefani and he has her personal cell phone number to prove it!!! He said he really didn’t know her music too well, but his kids were big fans. Apparently she filled her mansion in L.A. with rugs, furniture, and antiques from Marrakech. Mustafa took us to all the shops she went to just in case we wanted to fill our Paris ‘mansion’ with goodies too.

We didn’t want to disappoint Mustafa so we bought a few tiny things. Including a beautiful antique vase (God, I hope it makes it back here in one piece), some hand woven wool rugs, and a few lanterns for the terrace. Oh, and a ton of spices – I’ll be making tangine for the next hundred years!

In the video you will notice a disclaimer to one of the Casbah’s we visited. We got our adventure a little confused that day. We were supposed to take a mule ride up to a Unesco Casbah and then come down and drive to Richard Branson’s Casbah for our reserved lunch. However we got up to the top of the first Casbah and asked if it was Richard Branson’s and the host said ‘yes’. We stayed for lunch thinking it was Chez Branson.

Lunch was DELICIOUS but when we got back down our taxi driver was wondering what happened to us. We missed our reservations at the Branson’s casbah. I’m glad we did, I don’t think anything could compare with that view of the snow covered mountains or the freshness of ingredients in the tangine (I think it was lamb, again no menu).

All in all I would definitely go back to Marrakech. But this time I want to take some belly dancing lessons instead of cooking lessons. Then I can come home with all those great sexy moves and shiny outfits!

Technorati Tags: Marrakech, Moroc, Morocco, travel, travel guide, video

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Everyday’s a long day – sometimes over 12 hours, but we do manage to have some fun because our team is FUN! We just hired a new girl to the garnish station so now I’m not a lone female. She’s young and super talented and we have a lot of fun working together. We’ve bonded in our need to brave the constant teasing – yesterday we were caught chatting in the hallway and when we returned to our respective stations our bosses asked if we had fun shopping together and if we would like any coffee to go with our afternoon brioches. “Thees eez not holidays!” Nonetheless, I know our femininity is a welcome relief.

In fact I think our team has become the envy of the rest of the kitchen because there are two women now in the meat and garnish section. What a novel idea! Can you imagine not working around the opposite sex every day – 12 hours a day? I know that not all chef’s are particularly happy about our being included on the line, but too bad. The Chef de Parti’s of the meat and garnish stations seem to think that a co-ed work environment is a good thing. Perhaps France is changing slowly but surely!?!

Chef Johh Baptiste, Chef Francois, and Chef Damien (soon to be Executive Chef at the new Moscow restaurant). Take a good look at these faces, because these guys are young and have been cooking since the age of 17 – they are sure to be the upcoming talents gracing the pages of foodie mags in future years. They already have ten years of professional cooking experience thanks to the trade school university programs in France. Sometimes I feel so behind…

Some new dishes were added this week. One beef dish, one chicken breast cooked in a pigs bladder that is popped tableside for extra entertainment, a new crab entrée, and a raw mushroom salad. The pigs bladder one is the weirdest and I don’t know how I feel about it. The bladder is popped at the tableside to reveal a stuffed chicken breast. Kinda cool, I guess, but kinda weird too…

I like the new beef one that has fillet with a melted pieces of bone marrow on top served alongside a beef and carrot medley that is sauced with different mustards and jus. It’s a little retro – okay it’s very 1980’s, but it’s tasty anyway.

Only other major happenings include Auralee, the new girl, slicing off the tip of her finger with a mandoline into our staff lunch. The carrot salad was extra crunchy. Oh well, we all ate it anyway. She came to me with finger spurting blood asking for a bandaid. We had to send her to the pharmacy to have it professionally wrapped (thank God for the pharmacy’s here!).

How she made it through the rest of the day I will never know. Her job includes garnishing all the meat dishes and she’s constantly putting plates under the hot broiler which I’m sure her thumb didn’t appreciate. I’m surprised the finger condom didn’t melt into the wound. She’s a tough cookie!

I’ve progressed into slicing chicken and pigeon at the meat station for presentation and not stressing out so much when I have to cut ris de veau into exact 35g pieces without wasting any of it. I’ve noticed that my speed in hacking apart chickens to order is increasing and so is my oragami pappiotte dish. Life is good.

That’s all for now, from the land of 3-star cuisine… there’s no place like home…

Technorati Tags: 3-star restaurant, 3-star restaurants

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Those hippie days are gone man, we have evolved into the technically savvy earth aware hipster who is fiercly proud of our diversity and totally organic food driven. Hence, all the cutting edge restaurants that rival if not surpass New York, not to mention huge farmers markets (right on the Bay) that highlight Bay Area small farms.

Yes, it’s good to be home on vacation after 8 months of cooking in Paris, and I am one proud San Franciscan.

Here’s one of my favorite things to do in San Francisco. Next time you’re in town take an afternoon and go to the Ferry Building. It was converted to a huge market a few years ago and houses many specialty stores and trendy restaurants. Hop on one of the old F-trains through downtown to the Bay, have a stroll by the water, and then check out all the shops and the farmer’s market at the Ferry Building.

I like to brunch at the Market Bar. Their limited menu always includes local organic farms and they make killer Bloody Mary’s. I ventured out and tried an interesting carrot and mussel curried soup topped with zucchini blossoms that was delicious.

My absolute favorite cheese shop on this earth is Cowgirl Creamery. They make all their own cheeses and have won several first place awards (even beating the French – can you believe it?) for their Redhawk cheese. I like the fresh ricotta for baking and always enjoy sampling as much as possible before purchasing.

The Wine Merchant plies us “crack heads” (read the board) with great picks from all over the world. You can sit in their wine bar and sample the latest greatest or sign up for their monthly program and have it shipped to you

Stop by my Cousin Jason’s Village Market inside the Ferry building for specialty olive oils, wines, pastas, spices and chocolates. He’s always got super yummy samples out and loves to talk about food and wine. If you’ve got a question about how or where to find an ingredient he’s either got the answer or will find out for you.

There are many many other restaurants and shops, but you’ll have to come by to take it all in. Saturday is the big farmer’s market and Tuesday there is a smaller one that is less crowded and equally fun to browse and taste your way through. Yummmmm-y!

Technorati Tags: Cowgirl Creamery, Ferry Building, Market Bar, San Francisco, SF, Village Market

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I love NYC – the people, the food, the theater, the energy – I don’t love the weather, but it’s no worse than Paris. We stayed in the Lower East Side and spent time with old theater friends currently taking respites from their Broadway careers.

Playing soon in a theater near you!?!?!

Lo-side used to be seedy but now it’s the place for food, music, and eclectic boutique stores. They even have some trendy cool hotels now such as the Rivington Hotel. The area has always been a haven for music with venues like the legendary CBGB’s (closing soon –quick get a t-shirt) but the food is incroyable and affordable.

Here’s my suggested itinerary…Start at Suba’s, a tapas restaurant whose Chef de Cuisine is a prodigy and the recent recipient of the James Beard Best Restaurant award. Sip fresh peach white sangaria while waiting for a table (hopefully next to the moat – yes, there is a little river that surrounds the restaurant) and get into the spirit of the evening while listening to latin inspired techno grooves spinning overhead. The tapas are divine, but our group opted for main courses because we needed fuel for the night ahead…

After Subas, walk down Ludlow street just before Rivington Street to the rockabilly hangout, Motor City. As one city search reviewer described it: “The bouncer is the Lower East Side and the bikini girl dancing in the window is directly out of 1950’s. Cheap beer, decent drinks and a Star Wars pinball machine”. Couldn’t have said it better myself…

And don’t forget the Pabst Blue ribbon with the shots of tequila

After Motor City check out the local venues for music. We went in and out of different places in search of the the best grooves and more snacks. We poked in Katz Delicatessin the famous 24-7 eatery but decided we weren’t hungry yet and headed over to Arlene’s Grocery for live music (it’s not a grocery store) but they wouldn’t let me in because I didn’t have my ID with me. Bummer! – don’t they know who I am!?!?

Somehow we ended up at a dive bar on the corner of Clinton & Houston Street bordering Alphabet city that had a secret backroom where a salsa band was playing and it just happened to be right across from the famous Clinton’s restaurant known for their cuban sandwhiches. The service is notorious slow, but worth the wait.

We finished the night at the marvelous afro-french colonial restaurant Le Pere Pinard on Ludlow Street, for some well made nightcaps, groovy beats, tarot card readings, and French conversation with the fabulous owner FiFi.

One last photo…we had to get a picture with the local fireman. I’m not too sure what they were doing up so late at night or where exactly the fire was – but we attempted to put it out! God Bless the New York Firemen and all those that lost their lives.

Quel Bonheure!

Technorati Tags: Arlene’s Grocery, La Pere Pinard, Lower East Side, Motor City, New York, NYC, restaurants, Rivington hotel, Suba, travel

The post My NYC: Lower East Side first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Why the excitement? Because it is very difficult to transport green almonds and they only have about a two week period before they turn from a premature jelly to a hard nut. If you get them at the right stage you can pry open the fuzzy green shell and pick out the creamiest white almond seed. They are sweet and milky. Very mild, but oh so delicate and delicious.

So of course the next question once you actually get them, is what to do with them? I’m sure you could bake them into an almond cream tart or scatter them over a salad, but their flavor is just so delicate that I almost think it’s better to let them stand alone.

I blanched them for ten seconds in boiling water and refreshed under cold water to help remove the skins (like fava beans, you gotta get that skin off because it’s bitter). Then I quickly pan fried them with a little olive oil and a sprinkle of sea salt. You can toast them too in the oven on a baking sheet to enhance the flavor, but it’s hard to wait that long.

I served them along side the sweetest French melon in the world (melon rouge) and some sliced parma ham. My husband and I nibbled away with a glass of dry cold Riesling. Delicious!

The post Fresh Green Almonds first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

There was one dish that was a Spring ode to petit pois. I believe it consisted of a bright green cold pea gelée with a bed of perfect little sweet peas on top that had been hand cut in half. Our waiter informed us that this was to “double our pleasure”. All I could think of was, this is going to double my pain because I’m probably going to be the one pea splitting for hours on end.

On top of the split sweet peas perched a small ball of sweet pea mousse and the softest poached egg you have ever seen, the white barely set and still translucent. Our waiter cut the yolk open with a sharp knife individually at the table and a gash of yellow oozed over the little pond of bright green peas. I almost didn’t want to eat it, it was like performance art. (But I was hungry so I gave in to temptation.)

One of the chef’s signature dish is his artichoke soup with shaved parmesan & black truffle garnished with a warm piece of brioche that also has truffles baked in and a smear of truffle butter on top. Heaven? Uh, yeah! I love the way he pairs different breads with each of his dishes. Instead of ignoring the bread basket he brings full attention to it and incorporates it with the flavors. So creative!

A tour of the kitchen after lunch
The staff recognized me from my previous two un-announced visits. I wasn’t going to say anything like “Hi! I’m the one who came in last week to get my papers signed and couldn’t understand anything you said. Remember me?” I didn’t want any special treatment, just to observe and taste the food one final time.

However they did remember me, and served our table with grace, humor, and professionalism. Kind of funny because after we were seated, three of the waiters huddled quietly in the hallway discussing something and they kept looking back over at me. My husband whispered to me, “I think they’ve found you out” and then one waiter finally came over and asked if I was the new stagier (intern). After that I think they made a point to have fun with us.

I won’t go on about all the dishes right now because I’m sure I’ll be writing more about them in the future. I’m sorry I didn’t snap endless photos, but it hardly seemed the time or place to play the amateur food photographer amidst high powered business lunches and ladies who lunch.

Besides how to capture the memory of a delicate translucent egg white opalescent as a liquid opal, or the feeling of warm truffle brioche melting in the mouth, or homemade marshmallows that dissolve instantly leaving a sugary citron flavor to savor? Now who could capture that with a photo?

Technorati Tags: artichokes, Cuisine, Food, Guy Savoy, Paris, peas, petit pois, sweet peas

The post 3-Star Lunch! first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Before my parents leave me and take off for Provence in search of Sistercian Abbey’s, we’ve been galavanting around Paris looking for evidence of the Parisii, Romans, Francs, and Merovingians. Today I donned my chunky camera & strapped on my fanny pack ready to brave the cobblestone. Okay, I’m joking about the fanny pack, but we did take a walking tour today that was incredible – fascinating!

The oldest clock in Paris, still works!
Our group met outside the metro station Cité and we walked around the original Island of Paris ending at Notre Dame. I have tromped through this area many many times from the Prefecture de Police (oh, what a ghastly place) for my Carte de Sejour to Notre Dame but I have never noticed the architecture. Or, if I have, I haven’t been able to decipher it.

Faces underneath Pont Neuf bridge
The leader of our small group, Iris, was knowledgeable and lively bringing alive Paris’s last Eighteen hundred years. Not an easy task. I found it curious how many of original buildings were replaced with similar modern ones. For instance the Conciergerie, or Justice Hall, is built on top of the old Roman courts of Law and Notre Dame was built on top of the Roman temple to Jupiter. It seems they recognized those pieces of earth to be meant for certain tasks: justice, worship, etc. and continued to use it in that way, just modified a little bit.

Courtyard memorial wall dedicated to French deportation, 1945
I also had no idea that there is a memorial to all the WWII deportees behind the courtyard to Notre Dame. It is dedicated to the 200,000 Parisians (126,000 who were Jewish) that were taken from Paris by the Nazi’s, never to return to Paris again. The memorial is subtle in appearance on the ground level with a little grass courtyard and small patch of roses, but walk down those same steps to the Seine that all those prisoners did, and you will never be the same.

Above center doors at Notre Dame Cathedral
We left the memorial and continued our walk along the side of Notre Dame and ended our historical tour right in front of the huge ornate center doors with a statue of Jesus looming overhead, palms outstretched to all of us tourists . A nice way to finish.

PARIS WALKS
www.paris-walks.com
e-mail: paris@paris-walks.com
Tours include: Ile de la Cité & Notre Dame, Medieval Latin Quarter, The Marais, The French REbolution, Montmartre, Paris and the Da Vinci Code, Saint Germain-des-Prés, and Hemingway’s Paris,

For more info, stop by the Red Wheelbarrow bookstore in the Marais for updated flyers

Technorati Tags: Church, Notre Dame, Paris

The post Walking Tours In Paris: Notre Dame first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I have to admit I was a little nervous at first. Only because there is something voyeuristic about reading other peoples daily posts. Then meeting that person in person, is slightly bizarre at first. Serious deja vu, because you already know about their history. You can talk about people/problems in their lives (boyfriends, family, work etc) like you’ve known them for years. I have been fascinated with their journeys in Paris, so our cooking session was a great excuse to finally meet in person and swap stories.
So here’s what we made based on French cooking techniques:

Spring Menu:
Vegetable Soup Provencal with Pistou
Beef Tournedos with Béarnaise Sauce and turned Artichokes
Tarte au Citron & Tarte aux Poires Frangipane & Tarte aux Frambois et Frangipane

We started with basic cutting technique (mirepoix, paysanne, brunoise, julienne) for our vegetable soup and moved onto multiple tart variations. We tried our hand at grilling meat, turning artichokes, and making the alltime French classic, bearnaise sauce. Quite an ambitious meal for one day.

My husband used the simple syrup I had poached the pears in from the Tarte aux Poire et Frangipane, and created a vodka cocktail with mint. It was so refreshing and I’m afraid, a little too drinkable. The essence of lemon, cinnamon, cointreau, and fresh pear in the syrup really created the most sublime spring time cocktail.

We chopped, we grilled, we baked, we laughed, we drank, we ate and ate and ate. Good time had by all…can’t wait to do it again…I think next time I’ll start the refreshments a little later in the lesson

Vegetable Soup Provencal recipe to follow…

Technorati Tags: Paris, soup

Vegetable Soup Provencal

Ingredients:

Vegetable Soup
2 Carrots
2 Celery Branches
50g Salt slab bacon
1 Leek
1 Small yellow Onion
1 Shallot
2 Tomatoes peeled, seeded
1 zucchini diced
400g petit pois
1 8oz can of white beans in water, drained (any white bean will do, just make sure they are already presoaked)
Bouquet Garni (mixture of dried thyme, bay leaf rolled into a leek leaf or tied in gauze)
2 garlic cloves
pinch saffron

Pistou
1 Bunch basil
1/4 Cup parmesan
4 Taplespoons olive oil
2 Garlic cloves

1. Make vegetable stock by roughly chopping one carrot, celery branch, onion, shallot, garlic clove, and bacon. Heat bacon first in a large pot and then add the rest of the vegetables. Cook on medium low heat for 4 minutes stirring occasionally (don’t brown). Add bouquet garni and 6 cups water and cook on medium heat for one half hour. Let stock rest for another half hour off heat off heat. Strain and reserve broth.
2. Dice the rest of the vegetables the same size of the petit pois, about 1/4″ and add to broth (leek, tomatoes, zucchini, carrot, celery). Simmer on medium heat.
3. Add a pinch of saffron and salt and pepper to taste.
4. Add peas and white beans
5. Cook until all vegetables and beans are done
6. To make the pisou blend basil, parmesan, olive oil, garlic cloves, and salt to taste in a blender. Add more olive oil if too thick or more parmesan if too thin. Season to your taste.
7. Serve soup hot with a spoonful of pistou on top.

The post Private Cooking Class first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Forget Nice & Cannes and come to the original Cote d’Azur for surfing, delcious food & pinxtos, fabulous inexpensive wine, and happening nightlife. From Paris catch the TGV to Biarritz and the local trains between cities, each within 18 kilometers of each other.

Biarritz, prized for it’s natural beauty and healing waters, was popularized by Napoleon III who built a palace for his wife Eugenie upon the gorgeous coastline. Now us “little people” can enjoy the same luxury at Eugenie’s palace which was converted into the famous Hotel Palais. The hotel is famous for more than just hosting Emperor’s and Empresses, it was turned into an American army college after World War II to re-educate war veterans so that they could earn degrees and enter back into American society with new skills.

Biarritz is by no means a sleepy surf town, there is still a glitzy french feel to the seaside cafe’s and nightclubs. However, one can easily tell that it’s hay day has come and gone. New construction and spa hotels are attempting to bring it back to it’s former glory, but I hope it remains as is.

Take the train to Hendaye for a more unique Basque experience. Here, most of the population still speaks Basque, but you can get by with Spanish or French. Our friend’s just bought a house by the beach, so we spent the day walking the coastline and the night eating delicious home cooked food: potato tortilla, rabbit stew, cider, Basque wine, jambon – cut from the leg itself (which, they actually have in their house!!!). I was really impressed by the potato tortilla which is also called a Spanish omelet, a mixture of potatoes and eggs. Simple and delicious (recipe to follow)

If you’re a fan of Spanish tapas, then you’ll appreciate the Basque version called pinxtos (little pinches) and the tradition of munching from one restaurant to the next in search of the best bite. These little treats run the gamut from baguette slices piled high with crab salad, smoked salmon, and caviar to bites of freshly carved jambon with pimento and melted sheep’s cheese. We walked up and down the streets paved with history eating, laughing, drinking, and enjoying each other’s company.

San Sebastian, our final Basque destination, retained all the beauty and glitz of Biarritz (if not more) but had a dominant Spanish influence as opposed to French. Warm people, picture perfect coastline dotted with sail boats and sun worshisers, and the best nightlife of all three places. San Sebastian reminded me of Barcelona but with more places to grab pinxtos and wine. I was also impressed by the age range of the night life. This is place for all ages to enjoy a little stroll down the beach and glass of rioja or sparkling cava (the Spanish version of champagne) at night – it doesn’t matter if you’re 91 or 19, everyone’s strolling about at night and having a good time.

We returned to rainy Paris by train, disappointed that we weren’t able to soak up more sun and fun. Lazily, we watched the sun set through our window and munched tasteless train food dreaming of pinxtos, rioja, cava, warm coastlines, and good friends…we’ll be back soon, I’m sure.

Spanish Potato Tortilla recipe on next page..

Technorati Tags: Basque, Biarritz, Hendaye, San Sebastian, surf

Spanish Potato Tortilla

This thick potato cake makes a fabulous side dish for meat and stews. It is also commonly served on top of baguette slices for pinxtos or tapas. Easy, delicious, and filling it’s quite the crowd pleaser.

Ingredients
5 medium potatoes, peeled & diced (about 1/2″)
One small yellow onion diced
garlic salt
pepper
Italian herbs: thyme, oregano, basil
olive oil
5 eggs beaten

Instructions
1. In a nonstick frying add enough olive oil to lightly cover the bottom. Heat and add diced potatoes, onions, and garlic salt and herbs to taste. Cook covered until potatoes are soft (about 10 minutes). Do not brown potatoes, they should be soft and moist.
2. Pour egg mixture over potatoes and cook for five more minutes or until mixture is set.
3. Place a large plate over skillet and flip the potato tortilla onto it and back into the skillet cooking the other side briefly.
4. Serve in wedges.

The post Pays Basque first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

My husband and I did something really really naughty tonight. We brought in three huge loads of laundry five minutes after 9PM into our infamous laundromat. Fully aware of the cut off time, we ran with a huge army duffle bag balanced between us from our apartment – determined to get our wash done.

Just as we arrived and started stuffing washing machines, a teenager pointed to the sign on the door that read the “Dernier lavage a 9 PM” (last load at 9) and then she told us that the coin machine (yes, the infamous coin machine) would cut off and we’d be stuck. She insisted that we couldn’t do our laundry anymore.

I responded that she was wrong: “Le Laverie ferme a dix heure!” and my husband started plugging coins into the machine which was still working. Out of nowhere he began to sing, “Il ma-arche, il ma-arche, il marche!” (it wo-orks, it wo-orks, it works!). Our brooding teen was not very happy with this. But let’s face it, the French are sticklers for process –any one who’s been through the Carte de Sejour process will agree.

The owner of the shop walked in and looked at all three of our loads carefully. He wished us all a good evening and walked out. Not a word about the time. No question about if we needed to use the dryers. Everything was hush, just the sound of clothes going around and around.

As soon as our disgruntled teenager’s clothes dried, she balled them up and marched out. But, not before she wished us a “bon soireé” – another french formality that you must do no matter what the situation is. Oh, I felt pain for her. There’s nothing worse than insisting that your right, not being right, having some one rub it in your face with a victory song, having to wait in silence for your laundry to finish, and then having to wish those awful Americans a good night anyway!

The owner let us dry our laundry and killed the machines at 11 P.M. Plenty of time to finish. We told him we had just got back from vacation and that we were sorry. He responded, “C’est normal, c’est normal”

Didn’t loose or make any money tonight at the laundromat, so I guess we’re still a few coins ahead.

Tune in next time for “As Our Clothes Turn” …

Technorati Tags: Paris

The post Laverie Automatique Part II first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

There are two things in Paris that hold a lot of anxiety for me. The first is french taxi drivers and the second is my neighborhood laundromat. In fact the only time I have had a positive experience was when I met the American jazz pianist Joel Forrester, but that too was after the money machine ate my 20 euros.

The laundromat likes to gamble – a sure sign of the devil. My husband and I have begun a running total on what we loose and what we get back. This is no joke. I spent 12 euros on the wash today and the bill slot was broken so I had to go get change, which meant I had to buy something from the Tabac to get the change. So I broke a 20, bought some gum, and came back with 18. I put 12 in for the wash and saved 6 for the dryer.

After finishing my wash and loading up 2 dryers, the owner of the joint came in and asked me if everything was working. I said, “Non, il ne marche pas” and pointed at the bill slot on the money machine. The money machine controls all the dryers and washers so there’s no getting around it.

He opened the machine, fixed it, and then took my 3 euros to test it. Happy with himself he locked it up and began to leave. I stopped him because he had only entered 1 euro’s worth of time. “Monsieur, tu mis un euro, pas trois euros”. Embarrassed he responded: “Désolé, désolé, pardon madam…” He unlocked the machine again and fed what I thought was a 2 euro coin into the machine and left.

Never trust a Frenchman! (that was told to me by a French man) I went to the machine to check the time remaining on my dryer and there was 20 minutes instead of 30. He jipped me for a euro. But the money machine gave me an extra euro earlier for one of my wash loads so we’re even today.

Two months ago the machine ate my 20 euros. Some woman thought I was trying to start my wash machine and kept insisting that I push one of the buttons. I finally turned to her and said, “Look, I use these machines all the time. I’m not trying to start the machine, I’m trying to get my money back because it just ate my 20 euros”. She gave me that blank look that many French people do when I start speaking French.

This didn’t help my temper and I started babbling a furious litany on why Paris is backwards and how I wish I was back home in front of my newly purchased maytag washer and dryer. Joel Forrester introduced himself after my little temper tantrum and we became friends. Nice to know that you can start a friendship at your worst moments and still be liked.

Three weeks ago I dragged two huge duffle bags down to the laundromat and filled all of the washing machines in the place. This made me happy because I knew that I would at least get to the dryers before anyone else. Just as my laundry was finishing some woman came out of nowhere with heaps of wet laundry from her house and filled up all the dryers. I didn’t know whether to deck her or cry. To make matters worse, she barely filled all four industrial sized dryers when she could have easily taken one.

I piled my heaps of wet laundry in a basket and pushed it towards the dryers and stared at her until she put down her stupid magazine. She finally glanced up at me with that a “who me? Did I do something wrong?” expression. You know – that same expression when you get bumped hard in the street and then get the customary “pardon” response. I gestured towards the four dryers and then to my wet laundry, my cheeks burning in rage clearly giving away any pretense of civility.

She shrugged. Yup, she shrugged and continued with her laundry and her lame magazine. I glowered at her from across the laundromat planning her death. Better yet, wondering if maybe I could stuff her toothpick figure into one of the industrial dryers without anybody noticing. I hate cutters and she clearly cut in front of me. People who sit in the laundromat doing their wash should have dibs over the dryers. Finally one of her dryers stopped and she took out her laundry piece by piece, folding each one before returning to grab another. I decided to help her and picked up all her laundry and dumped it next to her and gave her my best courtesy smile.

But every rain cloud has a silver lining and as I was trying to stuff my 10 euro bill into the money slot unsuccessfully it all of a sudden spit back 30 euros at me. Some one must have crammed a bunch of bills in there. I took the money and pocketed it, she looked over and I gave her the same shrug she gave me, sat down, and picked up my stupid magazine. Nice to know that I just got back all her money.

Then there was the time my husband and I did laundry together hung over from a few too many bottles of red wine the night before. Some kid, in need of a lot of attention, entered with his single father who clearly was more interested in his telephone conversation with his new girlfriend than entertaining his child.

The kid had two of those new Mc Donald’s beat box toys played and them simultaneously for at least a half hour until his Dad whacked him really hard. Then he started crying and hitting all the washing machines with his toys over and over and over. We felt sorry for the little kid, but secretly pondered what sin we had committed to be forced to endure such a cacophony.

Finally the Dad brought him outside to calm him down after he noticed how shocked and irritated we were. But the kid had somehow managed to step in dog shit right outside the door and when he came back in he dragged it around the small laundromat. Nothing like the smell of fresh laundry and merde to cure a hangover.

So as we speak, we’re up 10 euros in Purgatory. I’m hoping that if we reach 100 we can just buy our way out.

Et Voila!

Technorati Tags: Paris, travel

The post Laverie Automatique first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

My day started at 4:30 A.M. After a restful three hours of sleep I jumped in my pre-ordered taxi and headed across town to meet up with friends and await our tour buses. We were told to get there by 5:15 A.M. sharp or the buses would leave without us. I arrived at 5:00 A.M. underdressed, with no jacket, scarf, or hat – WHAT WAS I THINKING? The buses were late. An hour late. I froze my butt off during that long, long hour and had to pimp clothing from other barely awake friends (thanks Omry & Richard). We all huddled for warmth and amused ourselves with silly jokes still punch drunk from lack of sleep. Finally our buses arrived and we were off! Unfortunately, by 6 A.M we had missed all of the fish market, and most of the butchering in the meat packing area too.

I guess I didn’t really understand how big Rungis was going to be. I thought it was going to be like a large farmer’s market. When the bus tour guide rattled off the figure of 3,000 hectares, it really didn’t mean anything to me – uh, what’s a hectare?. Rungis is huge! We started off in the produce area and worked our way through exotic fruits, miniature vegetables, edible flowers, artichokes bigger than my head, hundreds of apple varieties, potatoes for miles, and more. I’ve never seen so much food in my life. In fact, Rungis supplies 20 million consumers with food. Incroyable!!!

After our vegetable and fruit tour we drove to the meat packing area and donned special hair nets and jackets. The area was a bit of a shock initially. There were hundreds of animals hung on meat hooks: veal, pigs, cows, horses, suckling pigs, etc. I’m a little desensitized because we butcher smaller portions of meat all the time in class, but I was struck dumb by the sight of dead baby suckling pigs. I don’t know why, but baby animals really tear at my heartstrings. The funny thing was, they all seemed to be smiling. I wanted to ask how exactly they are killed, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Another bizarre sight were butchered cows hanging with their pictures pinned on. As if to say, “Here’s Daisy, she was once a gal chewing cud, now just a side of beef – but not just any side of beef – a blue ribbon choice”. And then there was the horse section. I love horses and love to ride and I don’t think of horse as an acceptable form of food. If I ever have to eat horse steak I’ll probably throw up, but I was impressed by their massive muscular structure covered with the deep yellow fat. One of the meat packing guys told me that a lot of the horses come from America. That really shocked me. There were other disturbing things like how they crush the animal skulls to get the brains out, but I won’t go into that…

Meat packers are a happy morbid bunch who can slash an animal into parts in record breaking time. I was interested in the process and impressed by the cleanliness of the facilities, but happy to get out – besides, it was freezing in there! Interesting to note also, is the bidding process on the animals. Restaurant and market managers come down to Rungis and haggle over the prices. I guess that’s where the ‘before’ pictures come in handy. How some one can look at a side of beef and know what it’s worth is beyond me.

Lips blue, fingers numb, and brains churning over the morality of animal death, we left for the the fromage section. Oh happy day! Many students entered the cheese warehouse and immediately pinched their noses from the overwhelming powerful cheese scents. Not me! I took a big sniff and smiled. I love cheese and there was every single type to be seen (unfortunately none to taste – and we were starving). Soft cheese wrapped in leaves or herbs, huge wheels of cheese aging on wooden racks, gooey cheeses with moldy crusts ranging from dark grey in color to soft fluffy white. Cheese for miles…yummmm.

I didn’t know that buyers could sample the big wheels of cheese before buying. The process is kinda cool, like wine tasting. There is a special tool that takes a plug out of the cheese wheel about the size of a cork. The hole is then plugged back up with just the outer rind from the little cork. Next time I need to buy a wheel I’ll make sure to get a plug full first…hey, maybe that’s where all the holes in cheese come from!

Lastly we finished with the flower market which was half empty and dull in comparison to the San Francisco flower mart. There was only a hand full of vendors, but it’s not exactly the best time to grow right now in Europe. The buyers for the market are on the phones every day to foreign countries including South America (Ecuador for roses) asking what the weather is like and how the flowers are doing. It’s really a fast paced business and the buyers must speak a lot of languages. I always thought that the flower industry was more laid back, but it’s more like the New York stock exchange.

On our way back to school everyone passed out on the bus. Heads bobbed trying unsuccessfully to stay awake as we pulled into the 15th arrondissement – more tired than when we had left. On arrival we stumbled back into school, changed into our uniforms, and prepared for a three hour demonstration on meat. I’m not quite sure how any of us made it through that demo, and I don’t remember a lot about it either except that I did have to leave a few times to get coffee from the vending machine.

We always think so much about what we’re going to put on the plate, but seldom do we have the time to actually consider the business of food. How it’s grown, how it gets to the markets, the middle men involved in price negotiations, and the health standards maintained or ignored. The trip was fascinating, like walking backstage in a Broadway show.

Rungis is a professional market and you can’t get in without the appropriate license so we were very lucky to have this opportunity. It was an experience I’ll remember forever despite my lack of sleep and warm clothing!

Technorati Tags: Cooking School, Food, Le Cordon Bleu

The post The Biggest Market in the World: Rungis first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Photo by Typefiend, Gregory Han
(flavors: vanilla, coffee, caramel, black pepper, chocolate, raspberry, cherry, pistachio, cardamom, lemon, etc.)

Macaroons

Ingredients
5 1/4 cups of ground almonds (poudre d’amands)
5 cups of confectioners sugar
1 1/4 cups of egg whites
1 T granulated sugar

Instructions
1. Sift almond flour and powdered sugar separately. Don’t skip this step. You can make almond powder by grinding up skinless almonds, but it is much better to buy the commercial type.
2. Mix almond flour and powdered sugar together with a whisk in a mixing bowl.
3. Beat egg whites until soft peaks form. Add granulated sugar and continue to beat until they are stiff.
4. Pour half of almond/sugar mixture over eggs whites and fold in.
5. Fold in the rest of the almond/sugar mixture with added color of choice (see below for options & use powdered colors if available). Do over mix/fold until batter is shiny.
6. Paper a cookie sheet with parchment
7. Put cookie batter in a pastry bag with a 8-10mm pastry tip.
8. Pipe circles to desired size. Somewhere between 1″-4″.
9. Tap baking sheet and let cookies rest until a skin forms over the top of the macaroons. For the crackled look let them rest up to two hours. If you touch one and your finger comes away clean, then they are ready to bake.
10. Bake at 350˚ for 10 minutes.
11. Let rest in the oven with the door open and heat off for another 2-3 minutes.
12. Take two cookies and spread a thin layer of easy butter cream or filling of choice and sandwich together. (real buttercream frosting is not necessary because it is just a little bit for added flavor)

Variations for flavors
Vanilla: Scrape the seed of two vanilla beans and add to almond/sugar mixture or use 3 pinches of vanilla powder. Fill cookies with softened butter mixed with sugar and vanilla extract.

Coffee: add 1T coffee extract or powder to egg whites. Fill cookies with coffee ganache or mix a little butter with sugar and coffee powder.

Chocolate: add cocoa powder with the almond/ sugar mixture. Fill cookies with chocolate ganache. To make choclate ganache scald 1/2 cup of cream and pour over 1/2 cup of chocolate chips. Whisk in one place until ganache forms, then make bigger whisk circles

Pistachio: add green and yellow food coloring to the egg whites. Fill cookies by mixing almond paste with pistachio paste and butter

Raspberry: add red food coloring to the egg whites. Use raspberry jam for filling.

Lemon: add yellow food coloring to egg whites. Fill cookies by mixing softened butter with a little lemon juice and lemon peel

Note: even the best pastry makers will tell you that sometimes these turn out and sometimes they don’t. They really are not easy even though the ingredients look simple. However, once you get down the general idea then you can get creative and make your own flavors. If you have a scale and want the metric measurements, let me know.

Technorati Tags: Le Cordon Bleu, macaroon, macaroons, Paris, passover, pastry

The post Passover Pastry Macaroons first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Technorati Tags: algarve, lagos, portugal, surf school, surf, travel

The post Surf Vacation in Portugal first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Technorati Tags: portugal, Lisbon, travel

The post Weekend in Lisbon first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I rushed through my Friday night practical at Le Cordon Bleu to make my flight to Barcelona on time. Thankfully the mornay sauce for my cauliflower dish didn’t break (bechamel sauce with egg yolks) and my bacon wrapped monkfish with braised artichokes the chef deemed as “tres bien”. A relief considering the pace at which I cranked through everything. Muchas gracias to my cooking partner who made efforts to help get me out faster (thanks Jamie!).

I arrived at the airport three hours earlier than my flight and was able to easily switch to another flight. Iberia Air is cool like that. They are also cheap if you book at least two weeks ahead of time. Two hours later I touched down in Barcelona and caught a taxi to Hotel Pulitzer. The hotel I stayed at is owned by the Clarion group (think Comfort Inn) but their Barcelona hotel is super trendy (no, really, it is). There were all sorts of glamoratti, fashion photographers, and film makers staying at the hotel–no doubt they opted for the same great Expedia deal as me.

Saturday morning we went for cafe con leche, Spanish pastries, and sunshine at Cafe Zurich. Coffee in Spain is really good. The last time I was in Spain was 12 years ago and I remember thinking, “this is the best coffee in the world, I could drink cafe con leche all day long…” and I still feel that way. I also remember thinking, “I could live here for the rest of my life…” and I definately still feel that way too!

Some things never change. However, Cafe Zurich has. The original cafe was flattened around 8 years ago and replaced with a shiny chrome exterior underneath a shopping center, but the new one still offers the same attentive service and people watching opportunities. After a leisurely breakfast, we strolled down La Rambla to the harbor and took in some provacative street tango and crazy performance artist acts along the way.

Saturday night is a little bit of a blur. We went to so many bars and clubs that I couldn’t keep track of them all. I did manage to keep pace with my Spanish buddies until 6:30 AM, but I slept through my flight the next day. Did I mention that Iberia is really cool about switching flights? Check out my rec’s below for fun clubs and yummy restaurants. I love Barcelona. The people are friendly, they believe in customer service, the food is delicious and international, it’s not overpriced, the nightlife is fun, and the city is clean and beautiful.

Next on my list is Portugal for a surfing vacation in Lagos and some porto tasting up north. Just two more weeks left until I graduate from my intermediate courses at Le Cordon Blue and take off for some serious relaxation! If anyone has restaurant/club suggestions for Lagos or Libon please pass it along.

Clubs:
Sugar Clubat the World Trade Center
www.sugarclub-barcelona.com
Trendy, hip, view of water, lots of great house dj’s

Otto Zutz Club
Scensters, multi-level with different music styles on each. Fun

Shoko Club
Young, hip, right on the beach, back porch with big couches to sip cocktails and enjoy the beach view. It’s a restaurant that becomes a club later in the evening. Definately worth a visit!

Restaurants:
Little Italy Ristorante
Av. Marques de l/Argentera, 19
tel. 93.268.76.33
08003 Barcelona
Trendy, industrial jazz design, seasonal fresh limited menu. Delicious. Try the beet nocchi with brown butter and sliced almonds if it’s still on the menu

7 Portes
Catalan cuisine with good paella. A little touristy, but still worth a visit because it’s been around for ever

Technorati Tags: barcelona, clubs, Food, restaurants, travel

The post Beautiful Barcelona first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.