Category Archives: au RESTAU

The 21st

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The 21st arrondisement, that is. What? You didn’t know Paris has 21 arrondisements? Understandable, given that it is never spoken of and not on any of the maps. It must be one of those French things, like knowing that you pronounce the city Paree, but my lawyer friend, Bruno Paris, is Monsieur Pareace. I’ve given up trying to understand.

But I do understand the 21st arrondisement. It’s a joke about the seaside town of Deauville, in Normandie. A short 2 our car ride, or a direct train trip away from central Paris, Deauville is a luxurious burst of fresh air for city rats needing to breath. With a casino, large luxury hotels, horse racing and the American Film festival, Deauville has the reputation of being quite luxurious, indeed. Having an Hermes boutique not far from Bruno Cucinelli and Louis Vuitton does not help dispel the thought. But this is only half the story.

Deauville is really not far from Paris, easy to reach, a great place to picnic and the beach is  free. Running along the beach in the early morning (early morning in France is 10am) this Sunday, we heard Vietnamese, Arab, Yiddish, Portuguese and a few African dialects, mixed with British, German and Dutch from every socio-economic class. Many of the people we passed were unloading their cars, having driven up from Paris that morning. Like us, the were in town for just the day.

Mr French and I do this trip fairly often. Getting up early in the morning, we dress in our running gear, throw two groggy teens into the back seat and head on up. As soon as we arrive the teens set themselves up in a café on the boardwalk, while we run. An hour later they dive in with us at the indoor sea water swimming pool before heading off to lunch.

Lunch always creates a heated debate. I love Les Vapeurs in the neighboring town, Trouville, just a 20 minute stroll away. Mr French is a fan of Les 3 mages in Tourgeville, 12 minutes further down the boardwalk. Les Vapeurs is on a crowded port and Paris socialites squeeze on to the terrasse with tourists and locals, everyone savouring the exceptional butter (butter HAS to be great for a Parisienne to dig, this one is legendary) before digging into perfect moules frites. It you’re feeling flush their grilled lobster is PERFECT.  Les 3 Mages has a large, wind protected deck on the beach, with exceptional seafood platters and good (not great) food. Both are a welcome break after our sporting frenzy.

Lunch is generally followed by a stroll into “town” or a siesta on the sand. This weekend we had a great time on the beach listening to some local (Parisian) kids playing soccer, as they made fun of the yuppy looking bourgeois Parisiens on the boardwalk with their Italian loafers, Lacoste shirts, long pants, Ray Bans and a sweater across the shoulders. These kids were of African decent, with one Arab friend, who they called the Hallal Pig. Who needs tv when you can go to the beach in France?

Les Vapeurs

Eating New York

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Tipsy cocktailsI’ve been feeling like Godzilla lately, but looking more like the Incredible Hulk as my clothing strains and tears from the incredible pressure that is the result of inhumanly rapid growth.

“Did you have a bagel?” sighed my New Yorker expat friend longingly.

“Did you have a slice?” asked the Chief Parisienne eagerly.

“How were the street vendor dogs?” inquired my teens.

I didn’t try any of it. Unintentionally and completely unwittingly, this trip was all about cocktails and crustaceans. Merde! My nose just grew an inch. That was a lie. The cocktail part was absolutely intentional and completely planned. I didn’t look into restaurants before our trip, I researched bars. Food optional. But the seafood part was not planned, I swear!

When I tell My New Yorker about our food choices she starts to look a bit down, accusing me of searching out my own, native California cuisine. Its true, what I miss the most in Paris are the big, bright flavours of lime juice and coriander with lots of vegetables and plenty of heat. With the East Coast fisheries near by, my taste buds spent the week doing a happy dance; soft shelled crab, lobster and every style crab cake imaginable.

Some of our highlights were;

The Spotted Pig. I didn’t need to know more than the name and I was hooked. Didn’t even mind the 90 minute wait (probably because we spent that time at a wine bar next door) and was absolutely thrilled with their vegetarian plate main dish as well as their spicy cocktails. The rest of our party was bowled over by the shoestring french fries (fried with rosemary, thyme and garlic!) and their cheeseburgers. We were too stuffed to attempt their desserts.

Le Charlot. A bunch of Frenchies going to a French meal in NYC? Pathetic! But we had an excuse… I had reserved at the Central Park Boat House; upon our arrival, on a glorious spring day, with the red geraniums shining like party balloons and the white linen table clothes dancing in the breeze, everything looked perfect for a Pah-Tay. But alas, the restaurant had been closed due to an emergency, the Maître d’ assuring us that our lives would be at risk if we were to dine there that day!!! Mulling over the mystery, (had a sous-chef lost it, stabbing his boss? Did the health department find rotting food?) We headed to Madison Ave where two helpful sales girls directed us to Le Charlot. They had crab cakes on the menu, so our entire party was thrilled and our guest of honor, the French student who was living in NYC for the year, was ecstatic to see French standards that he craved from home. These were the best crab cakes we had all week and the rest was pretty good, too, although we were (again) too stuffed for dessert.

Beauty & Essex. More spicy cocktails. And then a few more. You enter this über swanky establishment through a door at the back of a pawn shop, although the three town cars waiting out front with the blazing marquee lights were a dead give away that we’d arrived. Upstairs, the barmaids wear the shortest little dresses and are only allowed enough fabric to cover one shoulder. It was an after work crowd with a drunken woman surveying which diners had read “The Many Shades of Grey”. I kindly suggested that she stop reading about it, buy herself some sexy lingerie, find herself a lover (preferably French) and start doing it. Oh, the food. Excellent. The ribs were melt in your mouth without being stringy and I could have had seconds of the lobster tacos and spicy greens. By now you can guess what we decided for dessert…

The Lobster Place. Fresh steamed lobster in a busy food court that was once the Premium Saltine cracker factory. Full of locals on lunch break and a sect of Japanese tourists who are obsessed with photographing their food. The lobster? PERFECT.

EAT. A café on Madison Ave. Ridiculously expensive, but really, really good and they had soft shell crab that was swoon worthy. Even the bread was good, which I don’t often say in the USA. Went two days in a row, it was that good (and somewhat convenient to our hotel).

Tipsy Parson. Only had drinks here. And a bourbon soaked dessert. Did I mention that I had planned to drink my way through New York? It was good and the atmosphere charming. Would have loved to have returned for a down home southern meal.

The rooftop bar at the Manadrin OrientalVue at the Mandarin Oriental. We went to this roof top bar for the stupendous view towering above the city and we were not disappointed by that, the thai beef salad, the Asian bento box, or the cheesecake. The cocktails were good enough that we all had a second round as we sat and watched the cars go round at Columbus Circle.

Okay, enough. I am starving now and I’ve just gained another kilo writing about all those calories!!!

 

 

You know you’re in France when…

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This morning I headed out for the weekly shopping, but this time its was a little different because I was shopping for one teen. Mr French’s son is graduating from Columbia Law School, which is pretty amazing for anyone, but even more amazing for a French kid, so he and I are headed to NYC for a week of celebration.

The Bug will be staying with friends, but E is an adult now and I wanted her to taste a bit of what that means, so she’ll be flat sitting for us. My first stop this morning was the butcher. It is one of the first hot days of spring, so I ordered carpaccio for dinner. I love that the local butchers sell pre-sliced, already plated carpaccio. I then asked for a steak or two that would be appropriate for freezing. What froze was my butcher’s expression. I had made a major faux pas. A false step.

“I know,” I back pedaled, “its almost criminal to freeze…” I stalled with a delicate uhm…  as I read the information card on his showcase, telling me the name of the cow that had been slaughtered to become my steak, “Blanche.”

“Oui. It is obvious, you only have to come by more often. You live around the corner. It is not complicted.”

“Yes, I know, but I am leaving for a week and my teen will be home alone and she will be preparing for her BAC.”

Monsieur the Butcher unthawed immediately. The BAC is the French baccalauréat. It is a series of major exams taken at the end of one’s high school career and the results can be the determining factor for one’s entire future. No pressure there, as your average 17 year old is desperately trying to tame those hormones raging through their body.

“Effectivement, she’ll be needing to eat plenty of meat. Absolutely. I’ll tell you what. Tell her to pass by here after school each day and I’ll prepare something special. Something easy. She won’t have to worry about a thing. Just give me your name and I’ll keep a tab for you.”

You know you are in France when; there is an information card with a photo and the name of the cow you are about to purchase in the form of a steak, you have a butcher, your butcher is so against the idea of you freezing his meat that he is willing to set up a running tab for a client who has been in his shop exactly four times in the last six months. Yes, we are definitely in France.

And it is time I started thinking more like a French mom; I rounded up my caddie, swallowed my guilt and headed home to tell E that she would have to do her own grocery shopping for the week. Mom was clicking her red ruby slippers and heading “home” for the non-holidays.

 My Butcher

 

A new art space

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Last Sunday it was grey, and miserable and pouring rain, so we headed to the Palais de Tokyo to check out the newly renovated exhibition space that is now the largest contemporary art space in Europe.

My first impression is that the place desperately needs a face lift. I loved the space. It is really and truly phenomenal, but it is falling a part. Literally. Chucks of wall are missing, areas are roped off because tiny waterfalls are infiltrating the area, and it was sometimes difficult to distinguish the art work from the repairs. I eventually asked Mr French when they were closing the space for renovations. Which is when he announced that this was the post renovation re-opening!?!

 

This is a humongous space, so there is a LOT of art. And reading the press reviews after the show, I saw that we missed a chunk of it, despite spending 3 hours in a maze that extended over three stories of art. Photography is allowed and I had a lot of fun playing with the interaction between the art and my camera. My legs + someone else’s sculpture = a new collaborative piece.

 

The Palais de Tokyo does not have a permanent collection, and I can not say I was overwhelmed by the exhibit, Triennial, that we explored. There were a lot of great ideas, but even the work by artists that I generally appreciate, like Ann Messager, appeared only half complete. Some of the art seemed like it belonged at the Quai Branly and other pieces were just documentaries or political protests disguised as art. Some of it was x-rated. But some of it was fun, too, and thought provoking. A small minority was truly great, belonging in the Pompidou collection, like the film of the girl who explodes herself into 6 easy pieces that detach and move about a black background (see top photo).

Regardless of the art, the space itself is a masterpiece, well worth the visit.

After the show we headed to the Palais’ restaurant, Tokyo EAT for a tasty lunch which has a serious Asian slant with an appreciation for food that once had roots and lots of tempting fruit/vegetable non-alcoholic cocktails. We invited a couple of Parisienne teens and they found it so good they had to finish their plates, even if that isn’t entirely chic with the ‘in’ crowd.

Le Tokyo Eat

 

 

 

Bakkus

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Last night I was working, waiting for Mr French to get home from the office. The girls are on April holidays so just the adults are dining in this week. The children we live with are mine, so dinner responsibility is mine, as well, turning this week into a mini-holiday for moi. Only half the mouths to feed means only half the mouths to please.

20h30 the phone rings.
“I’m on my way home.” Mr French announces,  “What are we doing for dinner?”

It is late, I am starving and we’ve got another half an hour before Monsieur walks trough the door.

“Raviolis,” I improvise, “the truffle ones from the Maison de la Truffle that I got at Monoprix last week.”

“How about we go across the street to that wine bar they opened last week,” he proposes.

Now, I LOVE truffles. I go to great lengths every winter for my truffles, but I am faithful to my men, not my food. I start doing the happy dance… no kitchen duty for me tonight!!!

Bakkus, the new wine bar, (hey, that’s a pun… Bakkus, Bacchus, only took me three days to get it) reminds me of Semilla; exposed walls, lots of wine and a younger crown than we generally get in this part of Paris. One wall is lined with glass enclosed wine bottles, each bottle attached to some new-fangled digital contraption that serves the exact amount of wine requested by the server. Directly facing that wall is a large chalkboard listing the day’s offering, each dish divided into three; avocado/crab/green apple entrée, or cod/anchovy/green sauce main. Ordering made easy.

Keeping in sync with the über modern serving devices, the wine menu is on an iPad that has information for each wine offered. Which is not a bad idea, because Bakkus offers some heavy hitters and it is probably good to know exactly what you’re ordering before investing in a Montrachet or St Julien. There are friendlier, more reasonable wines available, and there are three different serving sizes, so you can even create your own flight.

The food arrived and it was lovely. Served on slate or white porcelain, the presentation is original without being fussy. The flavours are pure and textures play an important role. The meal was not perfect, the house-made artichoke purée had an unintentional, yet distinctly burnt taste and I think a few of the sides would do well with a bit more seasoning. My favorite dish of the evening was dessert. A thick, perfectly carmalised slice of pineapple clad in a yogurt sorbet beret and a sash of verbena syrup. Light, with a palette pleasing balance of sweet and acid. Mr French nearly applauded for his alarmingly green pear that had been poach in a mint syrup. Secretly, I am afraid that he was thrilled to have found an easy, local joint for those moments when he just can not take another night of my “cooking”.

Bakkus – 97 rue du Cherche Midi, no website, yet.

It’s a date!

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Friday night was the beginning of the long Easter weekend and the end of a particularly full week which included an extended business trip for Mr French, so it was a special treat when he walked through the door at 19h, looking relaxed and ready to play. As is often the case, I picked up the phone and tried to get reservations some where. Anywhere.

But it was last minute Friday night, and Easter weekend means that half of Europe is in town anticipating a long romantic weekend. Everything in my petit livre noir was fully booked, désolé, madame. Even La Table d’Aki, which was still off the foodie radar as recently as three weeks ago.

A Maître Ouvrier de France at work

Mr French changed into something more comfortable while I racked my brain for inspiration. Restaurant 21, another favorite for fish, had a table at 22h, a bit late for my ravenous appetite,  so we headed out for a stroll as I proposed creole tapas from La Rhumerie, or the Italian wine bar Oenosteria, run by our friends Chicha and Simone.

Strolling through the festive crowds, everyone was thrilled to be on a long weekend, except the waiters, who were thrilled at the thought of the extra tips they would be earning. Suddenly I remembered a restaurant I had walked by earlier in the week. It was still under construction, but looked bright and welcoming and I already knew that it was part of the group that owns Cosi, Fish La Boissonerie and La Dernière Goutte, so bound to be decent. The menu boasted cheeses by Marie Quatrehommes and listed the names of their suppliers for meat, fish, olive oil and hazelnuts. A place that is proud of its suppliers is bound to be good.

Semilla bouquet

Not your average bouquet

The place was throbbing with energy as we arrived. The exposed pipes and high volume made me feel like I was in NYC, while the menu made me think of California cooking with starters featuring spring greens, mangos, green apples or shitake mushrooms. The mains are either grilled, steamed or in broth, making for light, healthy eating that was simply delicious. I was intrigued with the tangy sweet mango mixture, but loved the deep, woodsy flavours of the grilled shitakes, the bright flash of the gremolata with a monk fish osso bucco and the fresh, pure taste of the pumpkin purée that accompanied my perfectly cooked pollack.

The desserts took more courage to attempt. By this point, we had total confidence in the chef, Maître Ouvrier de France Eric Trochon, but we were not in the mood to brave the avocado ice or the aloe vera cream. We settled on the carmalised bananas, which were so good we both awoke the next morning, their flavour lingering in our memory.

Semilla

 

Feeling crab-y?

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OOoooohhhhh….. a lovely weekend in a luxury hotel, just off the Champs Elysées! Mr French and I couldn’t wait to be out exploring, but first we were starving. Taxi, check-in, room check, luggage. We were in such a rush we barely took the time to admire our gorgeous suite (although I did have the time to notice the Jacques Genin chocolates on our pillows, AND the JG caramels on the desk).

According to the menu posted across the street, we were at “The Indian restaurant in Paris”, Annapurna. We went in. Really fresh, really spicy, over priced. I wouldn’t return.

We were ready for a stroll. Past the Hustler Club, near the Crystal Bar and through the Queen nightclub crowd, we arrived on a Champs Elysées teeming with humanity from across the globe. It was not our Paris scene, and it was kind of fun watching the staid German families walking out of the Lido cabaret, unaware burka clad ladies passing drug dealers and young girls hobbling comically by on stilts disguised as shoes.

The next day we decided to play it Rive Droite, lunching at an anonymous café, checking out the illuminating Neon exhibit at La Maison Rouge, exploring the Village St Paul and ending up at Auld Alliance to catch the final match of the Six Nations rugby tournament (excuse me while I stop to polish my girlfriend halo.)

Inside Le Crabe MarteauAnd I wrote all that just to get you to dinner. Dinner. I’d been wanting to try this restaurant ever since I first read about it in FigaroScope a year ago. Wood-lined walls with fishing nets, newspapers on the tables, slop buckets on the floor and sailor clad waiters… these guys had Parisiennes wearing bibs and eating with their fingers! Le Crabe Marteau specializes in crab and anger management, which explains the wooden mallets on every table. You’re served a large stone crab and authorized to whack it open, sending bits flying before picking out the succulent meat. When you’re ready for a break from the physical labour, there is a wooden pail full of the sweetest, steamed new potatoes with raw milk butter to melt away in your mouth, chewing optional. I felt like I’d died and gone to Brittany….

Weapons of mass digestion

Le Crabe Marteau

ps… a major THANK YOU to Elle, who made this weekend possible. Bises!!!

The solution

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from the book, Un Proletariat Rêve © Jean-Claude Seine

“Une seule solution, une manifestation!!!”

That is the first song my five and eight year old children learned when we moved to Paris.  No farms à la Old McDonald, or Little Piggies for this crowd, Parisian kids sing about going on strike!

Once had I finally made friends with these kids’ Moms, a pattern arose; every afternoon, around 4-ish, my phone would ring, with a harried woman asking me, “What are you making for dinner?” Nobody was calling because I have any particular skill at the stove top, they wanted fresh ideas. As a recent immigrant, I was happy to be exploring the French repertoire, excited to be cooking their beloved dishes, dishes they hadn’t thought of in ages. And I had lots of “new” ideas that were standards from my California kitchen. As time went on and I, too, started to loose inspiration, I turned to other European recipes, gleaning ideas from Greek, Italian and Spanish cooking. Then my inner Californian re-emerged and needed some heat. I quickly found supplies for Mexican, Vietnamese, Thai, Indian and just about any other spicy cuisine, maintaining my place as an inspirational source of new cooking ideas in the quartier.

With Picard, Chinatown, Passage Brady and countless other international sources, I was still full of ideas. Then, over a three week span, we moved, combining two households into one. And it was the holidays and my daughter was frantically writing college essays and my French ”mother-in-law” came to stay and wouldn’t leave, and my parents came to town and my Dad got ill and my step-son came for a visit and my brain short circuited and I could not, for the life of me figure out what to make for dinner…

Don’t you just love those humbling moments when you are finally in someone else’s shoes and can not see the forest for the trees any better than they could?

I began to realize that French women have to worry about cooking for the kids every night of the week. With long school days, plenty of homework and late dinner times, family friendly restaurants are really only family friendly on weekends. Take-out is not common and delivery is limited to Pizza Hut and bad sushi. I’d cooked nearly every day for nearly a decade and had not really noticed. Well, I was noticing now and I simply could not go on. SO, I did the French thing… I went on strike! A cooking strike! Heating, yes, but preparing, mixing, sautéing, steaming or roasting were off the negotiating table.

Here is how our family survived the month the chef lost it;
Soups. Pretty much every other night I was heating up a soup. The fish soup, Ile de Ré style from Monoprix, the Thai chicken from Picard or Covent Garden. Carrot, mushroom, and tomato soups, also from Covent Garden. Gaspacho, anyone?
I even found a few take out options that go beyond a slice of quiche from the bakery downstairs, our favorites being;
Clasico – Argentinian empanadas
Evi Evane – Great Greek
Mai Do – Bo Bun

Now I have to worry about the family striking against Mom’s cooking!

* Only one solution, protest!

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