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.

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.

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.

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

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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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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

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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

The post Interview with World Radio Paris first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

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…

The post Laverie Automatique III first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

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

The post Ms. Glaze in Marrakech 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

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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

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Technorati Tags: Alsace, Chateauneuf du Pape, french wine, Reisling, wine

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Amy and Marine making crêpes!

In honor of “La Chandeleur” Marine held a huge Crêpe Party. The significance dates back to the middle-ages. Traditionally, in France, La Chandeleur is celebrated every February 2nd, in honor of the dead (including the end of the winter), and for good fortune. Crêpes are a symbol or wealth, and making them while holding a gold coin should bring good fortune and health during the year. Marine found historical details dating back to Pope VII! Nowadays in early February people make these delicious thin pancakes, put on costumes and throw fresh eggs and flour at people on the streets! (well, some do, like students).

When I arrived, Marine had prepared all imaginable accoutrements: tomato confit, sautéed mushrooms, grated grûyère, chevre, lardon (bacon), blue cheese, and eggs. For the dessert crêpes we had our choice of: homemade mandarin, blackberry, and strawberry jams or flambéed with Grand Marnier. She also served an “in between” crêpe filled with chevre, honey, and walnuts–
yummm!

I watched as she tossed pancake after pancake in the air….

We did get a little too crazy with the flambéed crêpes and at one point switched from Grand Marnier to Rum which was NOT a good idea. As we discovered the higher alcohol content in rum causes a much MUCH bigger flame. We melted the air filter on her stove which ended our flambé fun. Luckily the filter is easily replaced, however it dripped all over our last crêpe of the evening.

I DO NOT recommend lighting anything on fire, but for those curious about the process you heat up a small amount of alcohol (usually a cognac or some sort of liqueur) to a simmer then pour it over gently while simultaneously lighting on fire with the longest possible match or lighter. Do not put your face over it or have anything around that can catch on fire– you can never tell how big the flames are going to be.

We gobbled our delicious crêpes with Cidre (hard sparkling cider) and had good fun with baby Zoe..the real light of the party!

Thanks again Marine for all delicious fun and to Stuart Isett (Pro photographer) for capturing our flambé moments.

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The restaurant was orginally opened in 1931 by a Basque nationalist. One would never guess from the strings of garlic, peppers, legs of hanging jambon, Basque rugby player photos, pelote memorabilia, and Basque berets displayed on the wood paneled walls. I wrongfully assumed that Basque food was heavy and was so impressed after my first meal that I’ve been bringing friends and family back since. (Thanks Carrie & Sylvie for dragging me out that night long ago!). This is a fun restaurant and it is always packed so a reservation is necessaire.

C’était vachement bon!!!!

L’Ami Jean

27 rue Malar, 7th arrondissement

Tel. 01 47 05 86 89

Closed Sunday, Monday

Technorati Tags: Food, Paris, Paris restaurants, Basque

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Strangely enough, Paris has tons of Tex-Mex chains that are surprisingly popular. One such place is called Indiana and they serve huge portions even by American standards. My husband and I checked it out during one of those gotta-have-Mexican-food days. My enchilades tasted the same as his burrito. We were kinda like, “hmmmm, this is odd…” but we gobbled it down anyway just for the novelty of it. We felt sick later.

However if you’ve been living in Paris craving Mexican food then you MUST check out Anuhuacalli. It is owned by a really sweet couple who passionately cook authentic Mexican food. I inhaled my enchilades verdes before I could even snap a photo (sorry) and my amigo opted for a salmon and papaya dish that was equally tempting. The margaritas were the real deal with top shelf tequila. The restaurant is small and moderately decorated with objects and art from Monterey, Mexico. Make a reservation (they speak English, French, and Spanish) and go….

Number two on my list is A La Mexicaine. It’s a festive place for a party with live mariachi music and beautiful decor and good authentic food. Their prefix meal is a great deal and includes a margarita. However, my group all had hangovers the next day and we were NOT boozing it (really, I promise). I’m always wary of pre-blended drinks. I ordered the tri color enchilades with an entrée of ceviche and I think between the six of us we ate through half their supply of salsa fresca.

See…three very happy customers

Anuhuacalli
30 rue des Bernadins, 5th (01.43.26.10.20)
metro Maubert-Mutualité

A La Mexicaine
68 rue Quincampoix, 3rd (o1.48.87.99.34)
metro Rambuteau or Les Halles

Technorati Tags: Food, Paris restaurants, Mexican

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After a challenging dinner party I went to the other night, I have to share some concerns I have with America’s image abroad. I’ve encountered many situations where people say what American culture is without ever having set foot in the “big bad” United States. What most don’t consider is America is a huge country and each state has it’s own identity similar to France and it’s regions (pays). This concept is very hard to explain just like it’s hard to explain that all New Yorkers aren’t gang members and all Texans don’t ride horses and carry rifles…

I was told last night that Americans don’t eat organic food, the wine is horrible, we know nothing about cheese making, our cuisine is based on fast food, and everyone is fat. All quite ironic considering that Paris farmer’s market’s produce and meats are rarely organic (even though people think so), Cowgirl Creamery cheese recently beat the French in an international competition, West Coast wines (example: Stag’s Leap Cellars) consistently score high internationally, and the French obesity rate in children is steadily increasing (Economist Article: Gross National Product.

I feel that America is going through a food Renaissance and more people need to know that. In San Francisco we are adamant about our organic produce. We encourage heirloom fruits and vegetables and we recognize and are willing to pay for organic products. There are huge stores like Whole Foods that encourage organic produce as well as a myriad of smaller ones like Rainbow Grocery. Our Safeway’s (like Monoprix) now even carry good organic produce. San Francisco is known for it’s diversity and the cuisine reflects that.

Finally after being scolded for jogging (it’s bad for you–who knew?) and told that Paris is pollution free, we were asked to describe San Francisco cuisine. We looked at each other in disbelief: What is San Francisco cuisine!?!? How can we answer that question? It is not simply coq au vin or a cheese soufflé or a sauce bordelaise over filet! We stumbled over the question…it’s kind of like fusion food with, uh, organic heirloom produce, and lot’s of sea food, and great wine, not too much butter…olive oil, we’re really into olive oil. We were bumbling idiots!!! There was our big chance to prove to the French just how inventive we are and we couldn’t think of anything!

So, in search of the ultimate reference book to use for self-defense in the future, I bought the new San Francisco Chronicle Cookbook Volume II (which is just as good as Volume I) and the recipes reflect the amazing world cuisine in San Francisco restaurants. There are Regional Indian, Thai, Chinese, Italian, French, Malaysian, American, Mexican, South American food recipes from my favorite eateries. But how to explain this to people without throwing the cookbook at them?

The next time some one asks me the same question I would like to have an answer prepared. So I guess my question is: what is your impression of American cuisine and specifically, how to define California Bay Area food? I’m also interested in how other American cities describe their cuisine. I would be grateful for any words of wisdom….

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If you only have a few days in Paris this is one of those restuarants that you MUST check out before leaving. The fun white coated waiters, kitsch decor, and delicious soufflé’s constitute a thrilling night out without breaking the bank. It’s close to Tuilleries and Metro Concorde so why not complete a day of shopping on the Champs Elysees or trekking through Le Louvre with a 29Euro prefix soufflé meal at Le Soufflé?

As the name suggests the menu is all soufflé’s and they are delicious and light (well, seemingly light). We opted for the prefix menu which includes three soufflé’s of choice: entrée, main course, and dessert. I ordered the fromage, salmon & sorrel, and the framboise combo. All three were delicious.

My girlfriend ordered for dessert the Grand Marnier soufflé and they brought it to her with the bottle – and then left the bottle for her on the table to help herself! Admittedly we all kinda helped ourselves…Framboise souffé is not so bad with Grand Marnier…who knew?

Le Soufflé
36 rue du Mont-Thabor
1st Arrondissement
Tel: 01.42.60.27.19 (They speak English)
Metro: Concorde

Paris restaurants

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I go to one produce vendor who sells nothing but gorgeous vegetables. He’s so popular that often I have to wait in line just to get a look at what’s fresh. Today when I arrived there was the most beautiful radicchio that I have ever seen. Just like a huge rose. I sampled the leaves and they are sweeter than the normal small round purple radicchio but still refreshingly bitter. Can ‘t wait to make a gorgeous salad of sliced pears, arugula, radicchio, crumbled bleu cheese and champagne vinagrette. Should be delicious…

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photo courtesy: The Four Seasons Hotel

When we arrived our coats were whisked away by four people who simulataneously unrobed us. We were led through the warmly lit dining area to our table that was elegantly laid out with gold rimmed china and real crystal glasses. As I began to sit my chair was gently pushed in by an invisible attendant.

We began with flutes of champagne from their assortment of iced champagne. I chose a pretty rosé that sparkled light pink in the warm glow of the restuarant. We clinked to Nat’s and Giles future happiness and settled into our plush chairs. No sooner had we taken a sip of luxury when our first amuse bouche arrived – sliced brioche with lardon baked for us on arrival in petit ramekins. After quickly finsihing our first nosh, small plates of thinly shaved pata negra arrived. All this before we even looked at the menu!

The menu is exquisite. Wanting to taste everything we opted for the tasting degustation with paired wines (which is actually a good deal!). My first entree was thinly sliced divers scallops carpacio with a tiny bread stick that oozed a delicately citron flavored fromage blanc when broken. Sublime.

I won’t bore you with all the courses. There were too many to write about. However, my petit veal medallions served with a small side of blanc souffle was outstanding and so was the line caught sea bass. I don’t normally eat veal but, the other option was pigeon (um, merci non)

Here’s some funny things about the evening…they brought a stool for my purse! After I sat down I put my purse on the floor (like I always do) and a few minutes later an attendant came and carefully lifted it onto it’s own little couch. CRAZY!!! Also, everything was synchronized. Our food was set in front of all four of us at precisely the same time. Four attendants whisked off the silver warming lids simultaneously. I noticed they have these cute little signals so that no one jumps the gun. So cool – they use hand signals!!!

When Nat and I got up to go to the bathroom a female attendant appeared from thin air and escorted us to the ladies room. And when we sat back down at the table two male attendents again pushed our chairs in simultaneously. I believe we each had our own attendant but I’m not quite sure.

After our main courses were fini, a HUGE cheese cart was wheeled over to us. I’ve never seen my husband so happy in his entire life! He was like a sixteen year old boy with a brand new Mustang. I chose an aged Comté (hard cheese) and a chevre sec (slightly dry goat cheese) and a creamy blue.

When dessert finally arrived it seemed to keep arriving. We had some sort of amuse bouche before our dessert. Then our dessert, then chocolates, nougatine, caramels and gelees. Of course everything was paired with wine.

photo courtesy: Four Seaons Hotel

And FINALLY after we managed to fill our bellies with an outrageous amount of food and wine we had coffee.

Here’s the real kicker. The whole meal was free. That’s right! F-R-E-E!!! We didn’t pay a dime. I’m not at liberty to say why, but it was wonderful! I think I might have left my glass slipper there…

George Cinq Four Seasons Hotel
“Executive Chef Philippe Legendre has created menus for Four Seasons Hotel George V which draw upon classic French culinary techniques and also embrace newer, lighter cooking styles, always incorporating the freshest regional ingredients.”

Paris restaurants

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See other peoples resolutions: 2006resolutions

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The other night my husband and I booked a table at a new Japanese restaurant. We parked our car a block away and as we were walking to the restuarant we stumbled upon a hidden bistro called Chez Spencer. The little bistro was so inviting with an outdoor heated patio and tables softly lit by candlelight that we decided to go in…just to look. Needless to say, we gave up our sushi reservations. Dinner was perfect. The service was french & friendly (oh la la!), the menu was traditional french haute cuisine with a Japanese twist, and the wine list featured great world wines (including fabulous french wines by the glass).

Photo by Jee Park at www.jeethang.com

The restaurant’s head chef Laurent Katgely, is a French transplant to the Bay Area having lived in San Francisco for fifteen years and his sous chef is Japanese. This duo’s magic shows in the attention to detail. I was very happy with my dorade (a rarity in the States) and my husband practically sucked the marrow out of his lamb entree. The Hog Oyster starter was out of this world. I nursed a Premier Cru Chablis (by the glass- how nice) while my husband slurped down a few french cocktails (the blood orange lillet cocktail was delicious).

The next day we were invited to lunch at Chez Papa in Potrero Hill. This bistro serves the classic French fare of moules marinere and steak frites but also adds a small plates selection featuring inseason treats. I ordered their butternutsquash soup with parmesan and truffle oil for a starter and followed with a small plate of baby artichokes wrapped in prociutto and filled with herbed goat cheese. Tasty! We splurged on a warm chocolate cake for dessert.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em…

Chez Spencer: 82 14th Street, SF, 94103 tel: 415. 864. 2191
Chez Papa: www.chezpapsf.com
also check out Chez Mama and Pink owned by the same people

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

The morning started out fine with an easy traffic commute, and then we hit Charles Degaul terminal 1– possibly the ugliest international terminal in the world. The terminal used to look so cool but now the asbestos ceilings have seen better days and the futuristic façade is sooo fifteen-years-ago. After checking in our luggage and grabbing a greasy croissant we headed to our “satellite” for security check-in before boarding the plane.

What happened next was surreal. Incredible lines of people standing around frustrated afraid of missing their flights at the security gate. People were glancing constantly at their watches and shrugging their shoulders in disbelief. I heard the occasional “putain” muttered more than a few times. People repeatedly were trying to cut in front of others only to get sent to the back of the queue again.

The one by one process of x-raying peoples clothes, bodies, etc, continued at a pace slower than poured porridge. My husband pointed out to me that one whole entire STAFFED security lane (with x-ray machines and weapon detectors) was off limits to passengers. As it turned out, that lane was for airline crew only. Funny thing, the two planes that were boarding were leaving in thirty minutes and I’m pretty sure that everyone working on a plane was– well–already on the plane.

Finally we got to the security check area. After passing the x-ray and weapon detector test we grabbed our bags from the mini conveyor belt. One of the security women pulled my husband aside to look in his bag– fine, no problem, always happy to cooperate. But then, this side door opened and a random passenger walked through from the unchecked area. He walked behind all the security people and headed straight into the gate. My husband and I looked at each other in disbelief that a person could just walk right through. The security guard helping us started to stop the man, but then after briefly talking with him let him go and explained to us he had just left the gate area to go to the bathroom (which is outside the gate).

I couldn’t believe it, I mean really, what is the point in checking all of our bags and personal belongings if once you’re cleared you can leave the gate to go to the bathroom meet some guy who has a deadly package of explosives for you, and walk right back in bypassing the security gate. Ummm, hello? Does this bother anyone else besides me?

We started to argue with the security woman over this outright breach of security. She called over her superior that then explained to us that he was just going to the bathroom. We realized that our case was going nowhere so we headed to our flight praying that our suspect was just a guy who couldn’t hold it.

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This weekend Paris hosted the largest food fair I’ve ever been to, with over 400 hundred artisanal vendors, producers, and artists of gourmet food & wine. The Salon Saveurs Des Plaisirs Gourmands was held in the 17th arrondissement (right next to us!!!) at porte de Chamberrett. We sampled wine, foie gras, apple cidre, vodka, cognac, cheese, chocolate, candy, pasta, and champagne from all over France for only 4 euros! This possibly was the first true bargain we’ve come across in Paris.

The most beautiful stall was created by Les Jardins de Morgane from Vauvert in the South of France, who had perfect little marzipan fruits and pastries displayed. They even had a barrel of marzipan bananas half peeled flecked with brown aging polka dots. I couldn’t get over the meticulous perfection required to shape each item. I bought a little peach to take home and try (5 euros for one piece of fruit–tres chere!) and it didn’t taste very good, but I’m not sure that it was really supposed to be eaten anyway. My husband was shocked that I actually bit into the miniture piece of art, but it just looked so juicy.

My husband and I are suckers for pinot noir so we tasted at the stall of the Caves du Palais, Michel Saban, Grands vins de Bourgogne. We justified our purchase of Nuits St. Georges 2002 and Beaune Premier Cru 2002 as Christmas presents for friends and family–and us too. The wine vendors tried to talk us into purchasing a limited production grand cru pinot noir, and after tasting it we found it hard to say no, but sometimes you need to cut your losses and walk away.

The saucisse and jambon stalls go on an on and we happily sampled different varieties from Basque country, South of France, Spain and more. My Cordon Bleu friends couldn’t pass up the Pata Negra jambon (black shoe) and they purchased a half kilo. It keeps for years and just tastes better and better with age. The only downside is that you can’t legally bring it into the U.S. so I guess they’ll have to share it with me while they’re here! So many different types of salami (saucisse): super dry, moist & peppered, chorizo, and even meat and cheese filled.

I don’t normally eat foie gras because I think the process is inhumane, but the Groliere foie gras vendors were in such good spirits and so happy to share their product that I reluctantly decided to give it a try. Admittedly, it was delicious and my husband and our friends happily savored bite after bite. I stopped after the vendor joked with me that it was toad paste. My concious was having a hard enough time with it anyway. However, they have won many medals for their foie gras and pate and several items can be shipped back to the States. Unfortunately you can’t ship the uncooked stuff home, but it’s all delicious. foies gras groliere

No food fair would be complete without chocolate sampling. I tasted an incoyable range of different little chocolate treats including chocolate made with olive oil that has a surprisingly beautiful finish on the palette. I never thought that olive oil and chocolate would be a good pairing, but it works. Our friend’s bebe, Etienne, ate the biggest chocolate macaroon that I have ever seen and saved a few tastes for later too!

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The beautiful medival city, Beaune, hosts the world’s largest wine auction in the world– The Trois Glorieuses– the third weekend of November every year. The town comes alive with festivities: marching bands, wine tasting, escargot sampling, arts and crafts, mustard sellars, street food, bottle opening competitions, beauty competitions, and so on.

Burgundy is of course known for it’s amazing wine: Chablis, Sancerre, & Bourgogne (white and red). If you are really in the know then you might be able to bid on your own barrel at the Christie’s auction located in the center of Beaune. All proceeds go to charity and you can have your barrel bottled with your name on it if you win. Unfortunately we couldn’t get past security so I guess we’ll have to wait until next year…

No trip is complete without a wine tour/tasting at Patriarche Pere Et Fils who uncorks older vintages for the festival. This cave (5 minutes from the center of town) is over 5km of corridors and houses over four million bottles. The expert sommeiliers speak English and have no problem whisking you away to private tasting rooms if you want to try vintages not on the menu and are willing to buy something. The more you buy, the better deals you get too so don’t be afraid to haggle a bit. After much debate, here’s our selection this year:

2002 Corton Grand Cru Renardes (Pinot Noir),
1995 Pommard Premier Cru Epenots (Pinot Noir),
1992 Clos de la Roche Grand Cru (Pinot Noir),
2002 Puligny Montrachet Premier Cru “Champs Gain” (Chardonnay),
1986 magnum of Chambolle Musigny (Pinot Noir) for Thankgiving

There are many places to stay, the most expensive being Hotel Cep which is in the center of town and abolutely gorgeous with period furniture and top notch service. However, there are some beautiful places right on the perimeter of Beaune that offer country hospitality in charming settings with modern facilities at half the price. Hotel le Clos, was perfect and not too expensive. Price ranges from 60–200 euros. The hotel is an old Chateaux that was beautifully restored. Friendly service and clean accomodations too.

Leaving was difficult, I was just getting used to beef bourgongne and coq-au-vin on a daily basis, not to mention my vin chaud (hot mulled wine) in the 1C weather. Oh well, we’ve got reservations for next year too! I’m working on my wine conections in the meantime so I can get my own wine labeled for Christmas presents!

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

In years past, France has restricted the shipment or selling of Beaujolais wine until the actual corking date, officially the third Thursday of November. This year they are able to ship a week in advance thus insuring that everyone around the world can drink in harmony. What a beautiful thought (sigh)!

What is Beaujolais you ask? It’s red wine made from Gamay Noir (a close relative to Pinot Noir) and it’s fresh & fruity yet structured. There are several differnt types, terroirs, and crus. For more insight on tasting, the terroir, grand crus & different regions you MUST check out the official Beaujolais website beaujolais official website The region will shed more light onto this delicious drinkable wine than I can take credit for.

Beaujolais is a fantastic apperitif and also pairs well with foods that a light Pinot would compliment. It would be fabulous for Thanksgiving dinner and not too heavy! I must warn in advance, that this wine is exceptionally drinkable and tends to go down faster than heavy Bordeauxs, so explore with caution.

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

On the rare day that you find yourself sitting in your apartment starving for some conversation in English or just there are many ex-pat hangouts that can turn a blue day into something brighter.

MOOSE’S
Is in St. Germain has got to the difinitive ex-pat hangouts. It’s run by Canadians (hence the name) and they have sports all the time. American football too! They also cook up a wicked hamburger and have a wide selection of beers. Check out their website for fun pics and nightly events www.mooseheadparis.com

FU BAR
Right across the way from Moose’s is a small little bar called the FU BAR which is reknowned for it’s secret appletini recipe. If you’re looking for an ex-pat college crowd, and perhaps a little kareoke then this is the place. It fills up with an 18-25 year old crowd on the weekend and can either be a lot of crazy fun or a self concious look-at-me-look-at-me kind of experience. The upstairs hosts local dj’s most nights and normally spins cool funky house beats and mello trance. Biggest complaint is the lack of air circulation and the incredible amount of cigarette smoke that permeates hair, clothes, and lungs. There’s no windows upstairs…so beware. After a few cocktails this minor detail seems hardly noticable.
Location: 5 Rue St-Sulpice 6th Arroindesment
Telephone: 00 331 4051 8200

LE FUMOIR
This is my favorite place. They have a well stocked bar with trained handsome bilingual bartenders. A great place to unwind in a comfy leather chair with a martini. They know how to make a martini to suit even the most discriminating of tastes. The crowd is mainly Ex-pat business people but there are a lot of trendy Francais that come too. The restaurant is excellent and reminicent of upscale trendy New York fusion food. When I want a good martini and a fabulous seasonal meal I go here. I think the metro stop is Louvre-Rivoli. Make sure to make a reservation for dinner–the hostess speaks English.
Locaction: 6 Rue Adival-de-Coligny M. Louvre Rivoli

HARRY’S
There are many that would argue that this famous bar draws an ex-pat crowd, but I think think they cater more to the tourist crowd. Either way, their cocktails are good and it’s always an interesting evening. The regular characters will entertain you to no avail. (Be careful of the Swedish guy who has a lot of bar tricks to perform!) They have lots of cool American paraphenailia around the bar like old college banners and pictures of famous people that used to come (Hemmingway, etc.). The bartenders have been there for a long long time and don the traditional old school white bar coats. It’s a fun place to come with a group or just sit at the bar and chat with the bartenders.
Location: rue Daunou 2nd Mº Opéra
Telephone: (00 33 1) 4261 7114

BUDDHA BAR:
Another ex-pat favorite and a place you must go to at least once. This bar and restaurant is super trendy and boasts a two story golden buddha. The ambiance is trendy zen and it’s a really nice mix of French, ex-pat, and hip tourists. However the drink prices are ridiculous and there’s not much liquor in them. I get annoyed when I am charged 16 euros for a simple gin and tonic and it’s not even a proper pour. The Thai fusion food is comme-ci, comme-ca and probably a better deal than the drinks. Despite the outrageous drink prices, it’s still a fun place to go and a great way to network and meet people. Order a glass of wine or a European beer if you don’t want to get ripped off. Check out their website: www.buddha-bar.com
Location: 8 Rue Boissy d’ Anglais M. Concorde 75008
Telephone: 01 53 05 90 00

Technorati Tags: bars, Food, paris bars, Paris nightclubs, Paris restaurants

The post Ex-Pat Bars first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.