GourmandeMom™

Austin Food and Wine Festival--to do and not to do and yes would do again

It's a smaller-than-I-expected event, this Austin Food and Wine Festival (only in its second year).   At first glance on entering I was underwhelmed.  But it grew on me.  And grew and grew.  And now I am thrilled at its manageability and the set-up, despite the pretty awful combination of Saturday's suffocating humidity, quasi-dehydration, and mixing tequila and vodka tastings in between the wine demos.  Bad idea that last one.  I thought I could do without Day 2.  But after sleeping off Saturday's sins, I was ready to go.  Pacing is everything for a food and (lots of) wine festival.

(Jealous of the folks who got there early for hands-on grilling class.  I think I saw someone Tweet that only VIPs were able to get into these popular first-thing-in-the-morning classes.)

Day 1 (for me), Saturday, started out well when the heart-stopping telltale colors of Veuve Clicquot were spotted right on entering.  Their super cute VC-themed Airstream was air-conditioned, so I lingered a long time checking that out.... Champagne was a great way to start the day...at 11 am or so.    

Finally we get in line for the H-E-B Grand Tasting Pavilion to open up for the masses.  We had only a "cheap" ($200 for early bird special) Taste Pass.   But now I know why the cost. There is a LOT of alcohol at this event.  A lot of water too have to say.  But there is a lot of alcohol at this event.  

At 12 p.m., folks with the Taste Pass can enter.  I need food, badly, after standing in the sun sweating after 3 small tastings of the VC champagne.  At first it was hard to find the food.  I must have been delerious.   But we found it.  And dug in.  

These grilled carrots, with a tangy yogurt sauce drizzled on them, just set out there in a gorgeous array of color for the taking: I took about 3 (small ones).

Thrilled to stumble across a stand for Pâté Letelier.  Have been following them for some time.  Now just need to get their goods into my fridge.
And then who can resist big baskets overflowing with beautiful bread?  Had to stop and ogle the bread and yes take more than a few samples. But this bread really needed to be savored.  And though the name did not turn me on, a pretzel roll bread, I took a sample anyway, and it changed my world.  The bakery is Flour, and this pretzel roll bread is really pretty astounding in terms of its taste and texture. 

These eye-catching displays of a kale and beet salad, crunchy tasty croutons, some bacon in there, a little feta, all encouraged me to have 2 of these in rapid succession.

Despite all this talk about the food and the wine (many, many samples on that Day 1 in the Pavilion), we did make it to some demos.  

Demos for Marcus Samuelsson, whom The Food and Wine Magazine Editor introduced as the "Swedish Ethiopian Urban Cowboy," were always SRO.  I love that he called Scott on his cell phone -- that judge on Chopped -- for us to tell him, in unison, that he was "too mean."  (Scott did not pick up; Marcus had us leave a message.)

But luckily we did make it to the Cinema and Vino demo with the bad boy of wine, Mark Oldman.  Only after standing there to make sure we got a seat - for like 30 minutes.  He's also a co-founder of Vault.com, so it is no wonder he is fluent in the pricing of La Tâche wines.  He had many women lined up afterwards to get their picture taken with him (my group included).  One woman had him sign her arm with a Sharpie.  Right next to Tim Love's autograph.  

With all the fun and laughing, etc. and sabering of the champagne bottle going on for that event (and it really was champagne--Bollinger), I ended up drinking my friend's wine tasting samples as well.  This was the beginning of the end for me of Day One.  

She drove home.  Just in time for me to rest up for the Sel et Gras festivity at the W's Trace from 9pm to midnight.  Cannot pass up a "Paris in Austin" night.   The music: exquisite.  French pop, Serge Gainsbourg, Air - cool electronica.  The setting: gorgeous.  Windows wide open. A cool night.  Sure the rain had them bring everything inside, but it was still lovely.  I just have a thing for Trace anyway. Trace's Executive Pastry Chef Janina O'Leary's desserts - yes, again, fantastico.  The black and white French movie - with Jean-Paul Belmondo, yes? - très sympa.  The frog legs were the tastiest ones I've ever had.  But we could have used some more savory stuffs. No worries: just an excuse to have more of Janina's chocolates.

Day 2:  I am surprisingly eager to get going.  I skip the champagne this time.  I am all about education this morning.  The goal is "anything French" so I hit Anthony Giglio's "French Underdogs."   Thanks to him I have fantastic French wine finds and a newfound compulsion to get an ice bucket.  (You just had to be there.)   Let's just say the horror of putting ice cubes in your wine is indeed confirmed, but cooling the (red) wine in more appropriate ways is very à propos and indeed necessary.

These folks in the audience were intense: they knew all the grapes that went into a Bordeaux, for example.  They knew obscure villages in Beaujolais.  I left happy. Entertained.  And not too tipsy.

Each day had some intense outdoor grilling going on.  On Day 2, there were little guys like this one getting a good fire on them:

Lots more meat the second day it seemed over at the Grand Tasting Pavilion. The brisket from Stubbs? Wow. Had no idea that they had this good of a brisket.  

I must say this shaved pork slider from Jasper's may take the cake for favorite foods (but the Day 1 kale salad is right up there).

How they described this: "Shaved Pork Sliders, Ancho Barbeque Aioli, Housemade Pickles, Maytag Blue Cheese Chips."  Yep, it was as tasty as it sounds.

One more class with Anthony Giglio, this one on wines of Sicily - who knew I knew so little about Italian wines?? - and then I was about ready to call it a day.

The striking vista the blue and green chairs made on the lawns of Butler Park - this picture from early Saturday -  was harder to discern by this time on Sunday because there was not a single available chair.  

Growing tired and slightly annoyed by asking many times - "Is this (empty) seat taken?" - and having the person say "yes" - I decided I could use my standing time more efficiently by making my way back to the car at City Hall (free parking!).

By this time, I also had a few heavy books in hand.  Yes, I bought a Mark Oldman book (signed).  Yes, I bought the Marcus Samuelsson book "Yes, Chef: a memoir") (signed).  And why not take a few more bottles waters on the way out.  

And so ended my First Austin Food and Wine Festival, and Austin's Second.  

Will I go again.  Yes.  Will I drink more water, wear the hat and not care what I look like.  Yes.  

One can imagine this event growing ever bigger every year.  So enjoy the smaller, manageable, even sort of charming aspects of this still rather new festival - and get an early bird special next year for a pretty good bargain of a ticket price ($200) in the big scheme of things. 

 

The Confit de Canard French Dinner Party...and those show-stealing Parisian macarons...but really it was all about the cheese plate and the refreshing non-etiquette of cheese-eating

I just wanted to have another French family dining experience.  But even I could not have imagined this French Dinner Party experience would be so formidably elegant, yet so completely casual and warm.  A formidable feast it would end up being: melt-in-the-mouth confit de canard; pommes de terres sarladaises (classic side dish for confit de canard: thinly sliced potatoes cooked in the (duck) fat from the duck confit); a salmon tartare with watercress before that, preceded by champagne (the real deal: Veuve Clicquot).  But there was more.  Way more.

To get this experience state-side, I bid enthusiastically at a fundraiser to earn two seats at the dinner table of a French couple, who would prepare and host an authentic French Dinner Party for 8 persons in their home.  No way I was missing that.  My favorite, most heart-warming, interesting meals in France have been with friends at their homes.

For the pre-dinner ritual there were many lovely coupes of Veuve Clicquot.  There was a warm and effervescently bright green pea soup in tiny glass tumblers with long sprigs of chives laid across them.  There was the ultimate indulgence:  foie gras.  A heavenly moment of gourmandise.  

But yet, out of the corner of one's eye, one could not miss, standing out, crying out for attention, over on the enormous white marble kitchen island, a burst of hot pink. That hot pink blast was in fact rows of shocking bright pink and red confections -- raspberry macarons -- set out just so, with a single red rose petal set asymetrically atop each one of them. These would be our desserts.  Prepared just for us by a soon-to-be chef/proprietor of a new French patisserie in downtown Austin. (More on that later.)

These sassy macarons, Jezebels really, cried out for attention.  From every angle they were gorgeous. And they knew it.  They loved the camera.  And I loved them.  I snapped a series of macarons photos.  Could not get enough of them.  Photo of solitary macaron. Macaron with serving fork.  Trio of macarons, viewed horizontally.  Long tray of macarons, viewed at an angle. Up close.  Far away.  

They almost stole the show.  

But then we sat down to la table.  For the first course - very light and spring-like: pale pink salmon, a spray of watercress.  Perfect counterpoint for the heartiness of what was to come.  

We learn that for our main course we will have confit de canard, straight from France.   And we not only will have a gratin dauphinois (huge weakness for me: potatoes, cream, cheese, garlic, all browned in the oven for grand finale), but yet another potato dish.  (Uncharacteristically excessive for a French dinner party!)  For at the last minute, someone called an audible and insisted on the classic confit accompaniment: pommes de terres sarladaises, potatoes cooked to go especially with confit de canard, as they are cooked in the very same duck fat that has preserved the duck. And then a nice ratatouille alongside as well. 

I tried to eat slowly.  Really I did.  But the duck...so tender, with a few crispy bits here and there from its final cooking to warm up and crisp up.  (Even my vegetarian friend is agog at the deliciousness.)  Seconds were offered. Oh, if you insist....

And then the cheese.

The French cheese plate has always intimidated.  Only because I know there is ritual and there are rules to be followed.  And I do not know my cheese well enough to really get this nailed down just right.  I admit out loud this intimidation, and yet, no one else really knows what I am talking about.  Sure, our French hosts do.  But between their time living in Spain, Argentina, Brazil, such rituals are not necessarily the bread and butter of their days, so to speak, in the US.  No one really followed the rules, but for starting with the mild and working one's way to the super strong one of the night, which our host warned us about in advance.

And really it was not fair, not nice at all, to include so many cheeses.  So many choices.   Caprice des Dieux; a Brillat Savarin; and of course a bleu cheese.  At least three or four more in there.  

Now, after much anticipation, having devoured the macarons with the eyes earlier in the evening, it was, finally, time to enjoy them by eating them.

More photos: macaron on my plate before consumption.  Macaron partially destroyed upon commencement of destruction.

But wait.  There was more.

Seated in the living room for digestif time, there were yet still more delicacies set out on the table. Miniature chocolate eclairs.  Just casually, elegantly hanging out to be adoringly viewed. 

I could not help it.  They looked so cute.  I had one.  I had another.  I had some Armagnac.  I had some coffee.   We, or some of us, launch into Spanish when relatives of our hosts arrived, an adorable and very interesting couple from Ecuador.

At the end of the evening, we were given charming little gift bags and gift boxes: take-away macarons lined up all tiny and pink in the little box bearing the name of the soon-to-be new patisserie in downtown Austin (I am so in trouble), and a bag of crispy buttery flaky palmiers.

So many lessons.  

All those rituals and rules...in the end, the only real rule about enjoying French food despite the centuries of history and tradition is to just enjoy.  And be gracious.  I am again reminded that my favorite French meals are still with friends and family, around a table at home, with lovely food and lovely people.  But now I realize that this can happen not just in France -- but also in the US. 

 

 

 

 

International Food Law Stuff (AOC, DO): you say sparkling wine/Prosecco/Cava I say we say champagne, sometimes, and incorrectly

It was ironic that I would receive a David Lebovitz blog post called "Champagne, Reims, and Veuve Clicquot" just hours after realizing a faux pas I made on one of my own blog posts.   I called a beverage champagne that, in fact, was not champagne at all.  I did not know this at the time, as I knew little about the lovely sparkling beverage I had been served.  But I should have known, and I could have known, were I not so caught up in the festivities, fun, and self-reflexion and getting too much sun (and wine) too early in the day. 

The lovely sparkling wine provided for the Austin Angers Music 2013 festivities was this Bouvet Rosé Excellence produced by Bouvet-Labuday, and available in the US through Kobrand Wines and Spirits.

Of course, a sparkling wine that one may unthinkingly call "champagne" is not truly "champagne," and in fact may technically not be called that at all unless it comes from a specific region in France -- "Champagne," "one of the great historic provinces of France," as this site explains.   So what, you might say.  Well, so a lot.  There are international trade laws on this topic, and the interplay of international and national and EU laws for regional food specialities is well, pretty darn fascinating.  And complicated. 

My "champagne" error touched on an issue I was (very) lightly researching, on regional laws protecting food as an intellectual property issue.  The champagne issue is thick in the middle of this controversial topic in certain circles.  Some back story is in order.

Recall a few labels you may have seen on your favorite French wine and you might recall the term "AOC."  "AOC" is the shorthand version for a French term (though other countries have similar terms, such as Denominacion de Origen) loaded with legal and cultural consequences in terms of regulating what food or wine may be called what. It is "Appellation d'Origine Controllée."   A site for Diplomatie France explains it this way:

The AOC system was initiated in 1935 to safeguard the specificity of products originating in France’s regions, or terroirs. It is administered by the Institut National des Appellations d’Origine (INAO), the national regulating body established at the time. The INAO recommends labels of origin to the French government and drafts all related regulations. It also ensures the labels are controlled and protected, both nationally and internationally, requiring producers to strictly observe the rules they have set themselves to. Beyond indicating a product’s geographic origin, the AOC designation also focuses on specific criteria such as geological, agronomical and climatic factors, as well as indisputable know-how. For example, in order to receive the label of guarantee from its region of origin, the famous Roquefort cheese must meet a series of criteria: specific manufacturing process, the use of milk from sheep raised in the region according to traditional breeding techniques and fed a certain type of forage, in addition of course to specific characteristics (cheese’s colour, appearance, etc.). Such stringent requirements guarantee the product’s quality.

We who love food and food experiences could probably all agree this is a good thing, in terms of wanting to make sure a particular camembert is in fact from Normandie to ensure that a particular flavor associated with a camembert from Normandie can be had when purchasing a cheese with that label.  The system ("AOP" in terms of such products as camembert: see here) protects me to make sure I am getting what I want and what I am willing to pay a premium for even. 

Things get more complicated for libations that have been part of our common (American) cultural reference vocabulary for like, forever.   Such is the case for the beverage known as "champagne," as we laypersons, outside the food/beverage/restaurant industries, sometimes use the term "champagne" in a generic form (wrongly) to refer to anything bubbly.  This may be because of a loophole in the international law that addressed this issue.  For example, per this article, back in 1993:

...the International Agreement of Trade-Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS) recognized wine appellations as valuable intellectual property rights. Under provisions that took effect in 1996, many signatory countries (including the U.S.) have agreed to protect Geographical Indications (GIs).  The Joint Declaration to Protect Wine Place & Origin was signed in 2005, and now has the support of 15 international wine regions.

But as the article notes, there is indeed a loophole, despite efforts of US wine producers and advocates to get people, and wine producers, to use the right words in the US when it comes to what is really "champagne" and what is not really "champagne":

The Center for Wine Origins has been hard at work to protect these GIs....This particular problem is a little bit different—it focuses on an interesting loophole that exists in the current agreement, an exception that protects the continued use of geographic indications that were in trademarks and in actual use before TRIPS became effective. In the bilateral trade agreement, the term ‘champagne’ grandfathers’ U.S. producers using the name prior to 2005—the aftermath is evident as we continue to see U.S. producers such as Korbel’s ‘California Champagne’ on supermarket shelves.

And if you need a more authoritative, detailed source from lawyers who really know this stuff, the American Bar Association has this comprehensive summary of that patchwork of international laws, including a piece on the major philosphical differences between the US and European legal systems in dealing with such issues.

As for me and my everyday life between baseball practice, lightly monitoring homework and my carb intake and keeping up with Federal Circuit cases, I vow to do better.  And though I am having a hard time wrapping my vocabulary around inviting friends to raise their glasses for a "sparkling wine toast" or a "Prosecco toast," I may just have to buy French champagne (redundant) for a real champagne toast.   Better yet, I can do what the wine bars do.  Notice they never have a section for "champagne."  That part of the libations menu is simply "Bubbles."  A bubbles toast it shall be.  Cheers!

When Real Life Starts Looking Like A Long-Ago Pretend Life: The 10-Hour Justine's Day (Austin Angers Music 2013) (Take 2)

(Justine's; part of the hip decor for the Austin Angers SXSW 2013 festivities on 15 mars 2013)

It seems like another lifetime long ago in San Angelo, Texas when I would spend hours pouring over glossy magazines such as Metropolitan Home, Vogue, and Elle Decor.  My parents in fact blamed my Vogue magazine habit as the reason I harbored such grand illusions as living in Paris and enjoying a refined lifestyle of high-end finishes in everything from travel and clothing and meals to interior design and backyard landscapes.  (By then, to be clear, I was already teaching myself French with Berlitz records from the Tom Green County Library.)  

And all of this was way, way before "foodie" culture took off.   I did eventually wander over into Gourmet and Bon Appetit, and then Martha Stewart as she combined all of my favorite high-end visual aesthetics: food, lifestyle, interior/exterior design.  I daydreamed about a life full of elegant dinners with happy (well-adjusted, satisfied in their careers and family lives) people, with lots of friends in stylish circumstances amidst some charming vignette or another.  E.g., a beachfront dinner with driftwood-colored benches, some votives on a long weathered wood table that someone bought at a yard sale in the Hamptons, elegant wispy thin ladies in Eileen Fisher enjoying carefree and effortless banter with young rugged men slightly and adorably unkempt in faded linen shirts half-way buttoned because they had just nonchalantly tossed on that shirt upon exiting the water from say, an ocean kayak for the short trek over from a neighboring cottage.  Yes, I thought all this was so easy to have and to hold, and that indeed it was one's birthright (i.e., mine) upon entering the adult world to enjoy such moments.

Of course, I would soon find out life was not a magazine spread. In fact, I spent the next 2 decades figuring that out, i.e., getting realistic a/k/a disillusioned and disenchanted.

But a funny thing happened on Friday, March 15, 2013.  I figured it all out.

I arrived at Justine's at 10:45am, right after the Titi Robin Trio finished their gig on a TV morning show and we carpooled them back to Justine's for the Austin Angers Music 2013 event. This would be the second of the Chef Rémi brunches.  The first one was the day before at The Bungalow--the one I already waxed on and on about.

It started out as an almost chilly morning at Justine's.  The sun then started to come out.  It started to warm up.  Justine's owner Pierre was rewarded for his call on taking away the winter tents for this occasion.  Yes, there was more of that same fine array from Chef Rémi: that duck pâté I so loved.  The cheeses.  The bread.  Ah, yes, the smoked salmon and the duck tartare.  But this brunch felt different from the one just 24 hours before.  There was relief - a large, collective if perhaps unconscious sigh of relief that all had gone well.  We were all so very relaxed.  This was the end of the complicated logistics, and it was a gorgeous day.  So of course, a brilliant, happy and prestigious sparkling wine from the region -- the Bouvet Rosé Excellence -- was in order.

François Delaunay, co-directeur of Le Chabada, organized the special toast with this very special sparkling wine as the Austin's Mayor, and France's Consul General, in from Houston, join in with the others who made this Austin-Angers connection possible.

There followed an afternoon of music, Justine's open for lunch on this out-of-the-ordinary Friday, and piles and piles of people making their way to Justine's, some of whom did not even realize Justine's is never open this early.  

I stayed for brunch.  I stayed for lunch.  I stayed for more bands.  Friend Amy came on down to catch some of them.   We pulled a bench over from the sidelines and just sat there, front and center, watching the music, wine in hand whilst everyone else around us was milling about.  

As the music time came to a close, we figured it was time to call it a day from our perfect spot, on that bench, with our organic white wine, talking to Francois about Texas, Texas food, Texas landscape, Texas monuments.  He showed us his pictures from Bandera.  We recommended they take in the Rodeo. We almost called it a day after all that.  Almost. 

But then kind and ever-polite and gracious Francois tells me we are invited to stay and dine with the Angers contingent.  I say yes.  Amy says yes.

It is cooling down again as the heat of the day goes away with the sun.  A breeze kicks up.  The group is large.  Germain helps the kitchen and our server by taking orders for the very large group spread out among many tables.

Chef Rémi finds the last of the bottles of that sparkling wine they had specially procured for this event.  

He prepares the bottle for what is to come.

And yes we were right there when he sabered off that top of the bottle. (Glad Amy was there to explain for me.)  

And it is celebratory sparkling wine all around as we are placing our orders for steak frites, moules, cheese, escargots.

Pretty soon there is so much food, talking, laughing--mostly in French.  I know it was wrong to order cheese as a meal to follow my escargots.  Francois did not frown too too much on this odd food selection. 

I look at our table -- and all the tables around us.  There are wine bottles everywhere.  Friends all around.  The jazz from the turntable inside is competing with all of us who have taken over a vast corner of the outside patio there at Justine's.  There is French all around.  There is then a brief time away for Melanie, the documentary filmmaker documenting the whole week, to interview me. Chef Rémi gives me a gift.  

Those last couple of hours with our friends from Angers, a chef, musicians, outside on a cool evening at Justine's--speaking French, were no different from those picture perfect magazine moments of charming vignettes of friends, food, wine, music I found so compelling when prettied up for a magazine.  

And so I figured out.  

The real life version is, of course, always better than the well-lighted glossy magazine picture spread.  And the real life version of those vignettes is not so unattainable, but those scenarios do require a certain amount of just doing your own thing and finding your own groove.  

And then, voila, what do you know.  Decades after sitting in your bedroom repeating over and over "la plume" to a Berlitz record, you start figuring out you just need to get to France, and you just keep going and going, and before you know it, you're sitting at Justine's, speaking French all day drinking wine and exquisite sparkling wine surrounded by French friends and Austin friends, food--not to mention a young French chef, and (French) wine and music.  So much better than a magazine.  It just took, oh, some 30 years to realize that.

 

 

 

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Austin Angers Music SxSW 2013: the Chef Rémi Food Angle

Austin Angers Music SxSW 2013: the Chef Rémi Food Angle

Angers (Austin's sister city in France) had a brainstorm for the music showcases that Angers would bring to SxSW2013, ably assisted by Angers music venue Le Chabada. Why not bring along a French chef as well, a rising star in Angers, and host (French) food events along with the music?   Brilliant.  Only problems: (1) where to cook the food at a music venue (The Bungalow) that has no kitchen; and (2) where to source in Austin items that are omnipresent in France on a daily basis but not necessarily readily available in Austin.

This led to some interesting meetings and networking on the organizers' diligence mission in February 2013, including meeting with Slow Food Austin, and its biodiversity head Valerie Broussard, a trained chef, Francophile, and  "forager" over at Trace at the W Hotel.  

At first I was unclear on the concept of my Angevins friends.  I got that the idea that the music showcases would be preceded by a "brunch" by Chef Rémi Fournier, owner of Chez Rémi, a charming restaurant, in Angers.  It would be from 10 am to 12 pm, before the music kicked in.  I imagined perhaps some pastries.  Some sausage. Maybe some eggs.  

But when I heard that some interesting pork cuts were needed, and that pork blood also was an ingredient they needed (for one of Rémi's specialties, blood sausage, which I tasted in Angers), all of which they quickly had to re-source from another local producer (Sebastien to the rescue!) a week before their arrival in Austin--when the first one fell through--I started to realize there might be more to the meal than link sausage and maybe some pain perdu to stand in for brunch-esque item French Toast.

Thursday le 14 mars arrived.  This was the long-awaited day of so much advance planning, strategizing, logistics (i.e., organizing, and cooking at the Justine's kitchen and transporting the food for a "pop up" brunch off site).  I arrived at the Bungalow on Rainey Street at 10h30, after catching some KUTX live music time down at The Four Seasons.

What I saw was not what I was expecting.  Not by a longshot.  No pancakes.  No omelette station.

It was a long table, with row after row of lovely portions of visually stunning food arranged in tiny plates and bowls arranged for mouth-watering effect.  

Mussels; smoked salmon and lentils; duck tartare; tiny Spanish sardine bites over French lentils; bright red beet purée garnished with tiny delicate slivers of what looked like watermelon radishes but what I heard was just a lovely beet.  And yes, the blood sausage.  And more and more little bites.

And there was still more beyond these little feasts for the eyes.  Two huge pâtés--one duck and one chicken liver.

And piles of lovely little tart cornichons here and there.  

And yes, some lovely cheese, and yes, that is a rich St. Marcellin right there in the center.

And sure, why not a few pains au chocolat and croissants (from Bagette et Chocolat), for good measure.

No coffee, alas.  But this did not stop me (and others, to be clear) from digging in.

As 11 a.m. approached, and the duck pâté was crying out to be tasted, I dug in. With a glass of the fresh and almost effervescent organic white wine from Touraine, which they had managed to secure from a local wine distributor, I was set.  One bite in and I was hooked.  Chef Rémi had indeed pulled off something miraculous and magical under what looked like some pretty uncertain circumstances just a week or two earlier.

Justine's also came through again, providing its cheery wait staff to serve the wine that lovely (late) morning and into the early afternoon.

It is not often that one has such a feast laid out, with pâtés of this quality just there for the taking, on a cool spring day in Austin, surrounding by French speakers from all over France there for SxSW.  So I do not regret the copious (and repeated) combinations of pâté, cheese, bread, that I indulged in--which now has me on a boot camp, 6 days a week, for my post SXSW workout/super low carb regime.

I do regret that I obviously have a long way to go before I really learn one great French way-of-life lesson: moderation. 

 

 

 

 

2013 City Guide: French Restaurants/Foods

"French," as in French food, is a complex term to define these days.  Paris would be, one might assume, full of "French" restaurants just as a matter of fact of being located in France, that lovely and charming but complex Hexagone of gastronomic glory.  But when some of Paris's best restaurants these days are run by Americans (i.e., much beloved Verjus, as reported in Saveur and here), deciding what counts as "French"--especially in terms of dining in Austin, Texas--is tricky.  In the end it just requires getting ok with very subjective parameters, and so it is for this Guide.  All my baggage (the French major thing, the living/going to school-in-France thing, the 17 trips to France for food and other business reasons) informs what I considered "French enough" for this Guide.  Do I love Lenoir with all my heart? Absolutely. Does Lenoir remind me of Paris dining (i.e., Verjus) with its dynamic culinary duo owners and emphasis on community and exquisite nicely portioned food and service?   Absolutely.  But if I include it here, it's a slippery slope and possibly quite divisive and controversial for what else gets included -- like whom to invite to a wedding once you've invited so and so.  I may well have missed some very arguably "French" treasures. Feel free to debate any difference of opinion or offer a discerning critique.  That is, after all, very French.  

Justine's Brasserie   First there was Chez Nous (see entry below after this one), a much-loved Austin icon for truly "French" French food.  Then Justine's came along in 2009 and really kicked up the French vibe in Austin.  Though off the beaten track for some out on East Fifth towards the airport, Justine's has a passionate following for this little white house, surrounded by ample courtyard/patio seating.  

(credit for picture here, but the cute picture of just the house does not reflect the current all tricked-out outdoor area)

When I want a Paris fix, I head here and settle in to wait, at the bar, and sip as slowly as I can some of the cocktails, such as my favorite version of a French 75 or the Enfant Terrible. Nice and tart, not sweet. Then I order up either superlative escargots (buttery and hot and garlicky with good bread to soak up every last drop of the hot butter that has fresh garlic infusing it), or a hearty assiette de fromages.  All this gets enjoyed, no, relished, while the jazz or Motown albums are playing on the turntable back behind the bar amidst the record library. If you find it too loud inside, which it can be, opt for outside seating in a still charming setting, near the black and white canopy and the Pétanque court.

Inside or out, you get the same great food, such as really tasty soupe à l'oignon gratinée, more escargots, a great steak tartare, coquilles St. Jacques basquaises.  Or there is also, in addition to the usual yummy French fare, the daily "market" menu, which kicks up the gastronomy level here with such items as cassoulet, done right: "flageolet beans, duck confit, sausage, bacon, bread crumbs" ($22) and with starters such as "dandelion greens, fried egg vinaigrette, crispty potatoes, country ham" ($12).  Crème caramel here is standard-setting and impossible to stop eating once you've started.  Justine's is one of the very few (good) real restaurants in town for late-night eating, as well as star-sightings.  Justine's has seen its fair share of them: David Byrne, Patrick Stewart, Kat Von D, to name a few.  

Chez Nous   

Before Justine's, way before Justine's, there was Chez Nous, which opened its doors in 1982--when a gallon of gas was just $1.30 and the Dow Jones high for the year was 1,070.  Nestled on quiet Neches Street downtown, just off the hustle and bustle of a crazy part of Sixth Street, Chez Nous early on won over our hearts and stomachs.  It remains a mainstay and has a firm place in the heart of Austin's Francophile foodie population, despite the kitschy wall decor of painted scenes of Paris Metro stations.  The menu remains classically French and consistently excellent.  A house paté is offered daily, and a recent sampling of the duck liver one delivered big on flavor.  It gets scooped up on what for me is more like New Orleans-style French bread (from Phoenicia).  Favorite classics here are the Salade Lyonnaise (with lardons, $8.50, and, really, cannot see having it any other way), the egg poached just right and ready to be broken into at the right moment to run over and slightly warm the greens.

The salade de crudités (photo at left; with the addition of chickpeas in addition to the traditional beets and celery root) may be better than mine, hard to admit, but the Trout Meunière I could never even deign to try to re-create.  It exemplifies  tasty goodness in a clean, classic execution ($14.50). But if that sounds too high-end for a weekday lunch, the usual French fare for lunch is here too: the croque monsieur, the croque madame, and a sandwich du jour even--in addition to spinach crepes, chicken crepes, and a steak frites, of course ($19.50).  

The dinner menu loses the sandwiches and crepes and adds heartier French classics, at a higher price point--worth every penny for a big night out for guaranteed good food.  The dinner menu includes such main dishes as lamb chops crusted in herbes de provence and grilled ($33.50), an Entrecôte Béarnaise ($32.50) and a pepper-crusted prime beef tenderloin finished off with a brandy, stock and cream sauce ($37.50). All main courses are served with a side of vegetables (caramelized grilled carrots last time I was there) and highly decadent cream puff-like balls of potatoes, which are their pommes dauphines.  A bargain: the "Menu du Jour" option at dinner.  For $28.50 you get a three-course meal, with three choices in each category.   Parking can be a challenge, but public parking garages ease tremendously what used to be a mild impediment to getting here more often.

Blue Dahlia Bistro

In what is becoming a well-developed, and charming foodie and retail area in East Austin, Blue Dahlia bistro sits on East 11th, close to the 11th Street/Rosewood intersection.  Though the beautifully composed tartines (open-faced sandwiches with various toppings and sliced into wide slivers) are served on a thicker-sliced soft, but still delicious wheat bread, and not the Poilâne bread used for Paris "tartines," I love Blue Dahila Bistro for, well, anytime.  It is especially nice on a long weekend to soak up the feel of the place here: at the outdoor patio seating to be out and about feeling urban, or inside where there are nicely hewn wood tables, including an inviting community table right up front in the sunny front window, near overflowing shelves of breads and a giant basket of baguettes on the counter.  A back courtyard is available too for dining, under an ample pergola with leafy vines climbing up into it--and ceiling fans.  

Blue Dahlia offers breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but it really gets its French groove on at night, when it turns to such “Plats du Soir” (after 17h) as duck cassoulet; mushroom crêpes (with a yummy bleu cheese parmesan cream sauce); bouillabaisse with mussels, cod and shrimp ($15.95); and my two favorite classics of all the French classics: coq au vin (this one done with vin blanc and adding some prosciutto for good measure) and a boeuf bourgignon.  Though perhaps not so great a beverage for dinner (wine and beer available), but yes for breakfast or any cold afternoon: steamed milk with a side of Ghiradelli chocolate.  The bistro has gluten-free options available (both the original and Westlake locations), as well as local and organic produce, etc. as much as possible.  Check the calendar for happy hours, wine tastings, and music, at both the original East Austin and Westlake locations.  (East Austin location reviewed here.)

Artisan Bistro    A loyal following makes this their go-to destination out in Lakeway off Ranch Road 620.  With Austin getting smaller by the day it seems as it gets bigger, Lakeway is just not as far away as it seemingly used to be.  Do not be put off by the terra cotta stucco exterior of the small retail center where the bistro is located.  Get over it and just walk in.  (Well, they do really prefer that you make a reservation:  they run a lean, highly knowledgeable staff so they will adjust to make sure the loyal client base gets attentive service.) 

On entering you will see charming bistro tables, a black and white tile floor, and an open kitchen with shelves piled up high with brightly colored crockery, red, blue, the brown for the soupe à l’oignon gratinée, where you can watch Chef Cesidio d’Andrea do his thing. 

If you head for the long comptoir, or counter, as I do, you will get to enjoy your nice glass of wine while you order and watch Chef do his thing in the kitchen, by himself, with an efficiency and energy that makes one feel guilty for sitting there having a nice white Bordeaux.

But you may be distracted before you get seated by the area to your right as you enter the bistro. Here there are tables overflowing with pastries, breads, as well as gift items that would make perfect hostess gifts for a dinner party, such as a lovely bag of fleur de sel de gris, or basil infused olive oil.

Among the pains au chocolat, the croissants, the tarts, the macarons, there are also these little treasures you just do not see much at all around Austin.  A bell-shaped pastry that is the specialty of Bordeaux: cannelles.  But the real star in my book for the pastries here is a nod to French heritage and Chef's American surroundings: a breakfast bread/pastry that he calls French Toast.  It is crispy sugar on the outside, moist and custardy on the inside, reminding of the moist inside of a crispy-on-the-outside French Toast.  

 Artisan Bistro is open for both lunch and dinner (closed on Mondays (very French)), to star the French classics but with variations on the theme: a boeuf bourgignon, a Cassoulet Toulaisain, a Confit de Canard, and, for starters, some Duck Foie Gras “au torchon” roasted peaches ($14). Of course escargots are an option as well: by the half or full dozen ($9, $13).  For the lighter side, there is my favorite salad I order all the time in France (culinary rut): a hot goat cheese (chèvre chaud) salad, but this one adds sundried tomatoes and bacon.  (A not too widely known fact: Chef leads gastronomic tours.  A chateau in Normandy was mentioned upon inquiry into the details.)

Hopfields    Hopfields is styled as a gastropub, and may be more well known for its fine craft beers than its wine selection, but it’s very French.  Francophiles rejoice at seeing items not seen since the last trip to France, sandwiches such as the Jambon Beurre ($8), the Merguez Frites ($9), entrées (as in main course) such as a tarte du jour ($8; leek and manchego cheese being a favorite), moules frites ($16) and what is truly the superstar of this lean but high-quality menu:  a steak frites ($18). 

This is a superlative steak frites.  The cooks refuse to cook the steak anywhere above medium (or it used to be this way pretty much…Paris superstar artisanal butcher Hugo Desnoyer would so approve). The quality and cooking of this meat are superb. The steak arrives with a tart dijon mustard artfully swirled around the plate and a round of compound butter sliding off into meat juices and all of it blending into the fries sitting there alongside to sop it all up.   Dig in.  If the salade verte (with the charming departure from French tradition of adding of a wedge of camembert), leads to your thinking you are back in Paris at a café in the Marais, you are not off base here:  the house dijon vinaigrette is the recipe of owner Bay’s Parisian mother in law (Bay’s wife, co-owner Lindsay, is one-fourth French).  Along with the expertly selected craft beers and wine choices, you can also enjoy looking through the short but varied list of cocktails—such libations as the 75 Years in Provence or a Port of Havana run $8; some others, such as the Au Fait (Madeira, honey syrup, grapefruit, bitters) run $9.

To accommodate the growing number of Hopfields groupies, the back patio seating area is larger--and full food service out there.  In addition to the pub format in the original space, they’ve expanded out into the back portion of the building to add a “traditional” dining room, comprised of charming small nooks that house a few tables where you can have traditional table service (on the pub side you just place your order at the bar).  A calm yet simply-staged glamorous, way-in-the-back place is there for bringing your cocktails, beer flight, or bottle of wine back to chill in a quieter seating area.  I’m partial to the original pub side of the house.  Sit at the community table and make some new friends, or just enjoy sneaking some of those frites doused in butter and steak juice off the plates of your old (as in longtime) friends while you polish off the Cotes du Rhone.  

Péché    Péché is already well known for serving up Prohibition-era cocktails down on 4th Street, in Austin’s warehouse district, in an upscale ambiance that evokes the lore of absinthe.  Péché just feels luscious and decadent as one slips into one of those banquettes and sips on an absinthe cocktail amidst the exposed brick, wood-beamed ceilings, and chandeliers.

But it is also well worth a visit for the good, French-esque food to go along with those cocktails.  Owner Rob Pate tells me he has indulged his talented cooking team with an additional two burners to work the food magic back there: from four burners to six.  Yes, all this food on just that small amount of real estate (very French).

Péché in my book has the best frites in Austin.  They are served up with chipotle and salsa verde.  The "Bar Menu" is seriously mouth-watering (they change it up every four months or so), and the more French of those items they are serving up now include a Roasted Marrow and French Fries with Truffled Egg ($20), add escargots for $7; or a hearty Pot au Feu, done here with brisket, ideal for those occasional chilly evenings in Austin.  In addition to the extensive bar menu there is a daily menu that is tweeted daily. Examples of recent offerings: crispy duck breast with red wine braised cabbage ($28); boullabaisse ($32); and charcuterie and cheese boards that could easily make a meal.  Péché has some great happy hour deals, lasting all day Sundays and Mondays (after the late afternoon opening), and is definitely a food destination in addition to a preferred destination for beautifully crafted Old World cocktails.

épicerie    This new addition to the Rosedale neighborhood on Hancock Drive, near Fonda San Miguel, comprises a charming blue bungalow, with fig ivy-covered courtyard walls, and bright orange lettering reflecting the venue's name that immediately connotes France.  An épicerie is a little grocery store, not to be confused with a larger, more commercial "supermarché" or "magasin alimentaire" such as a FranPrix and its ilk.  Non, une épicerie oozes charm--such as the Epicérie Générale across the street from my last studio rental in Paris, on the rue de Verneuil.

This Austin version of an épicerie is light and bright.  White painted chairs, light wood tables, white subway tile behind the counters, great light fixtures; shiny chrome and lovely marble platters display piles of homemade brownies and salted chocolate chip cookies.  The white painted shelves comprising the "grocery" include shelves upon shelves of wine, including a Stump Jump Sticky Chardonnay dessert wine from Australia, and numerous other food items, such as orange blossom honey and Mast Brothers chocolate.  Once you’re done, for now, drooling over the food items in the “grocery,” it's time to think about food at the café part of épicerie.  

Here too favorite French things are featured: there is a grilled comté (cheese) sandwich with tomato soup; an oxtail stew (with anson mills grits, japanese turnips, oven-roasted tomato; $11.99); a comforting roasted chicken (roasted chicken leg, grilled Brussels sprouts, French lentils, mustard; $12.99); tri-tip steak (with frites, grilled green onion, aiilo; $14.99).  Salads include an arugula salad, rounded out with a great French bleu cheese (forme d'ambert), pears, marcona almonds, all finished off with a sherry vinaigrette ($8.99).  Seating can be outside in a nice courtyard or in the sunny bright interior.  Owner Sarah Macintosh has hit on on something special here with the café/grocery concept.  In fact, I wish I had done thought of this.  

Bakeries & Creperies & Etc.

Baguette et Chocolat   Chef Tyson Cole of Uchi and Uchiko fame says this is his go-to place for anything chocolate.  The line here on Saturday mornings attests to the quality that gets a superstar chef over there out on Bee Cave Road (a/k/a FM 2244).  Regulars know to get there on a weekend morning earlier than later in case a favorite sells out.  Enjoying a basket of buttery flaky croissants and a couple of hot chocolates in the Lavazza cups, with Chantilly whipped cream overflowing and dripping down the sides of the cup, is a good way to start a Saturday or Sunday.  

Baguette et Chocolat has a considerable array of menu items--definitely something for everyone here: salads, crêpes, paninis, sandwiches (and, of course, the two croques: croque monsieur and his better half the croque madame).  The crêpes range from classic flavors and combinations such as the Paysanne (Mornay sauce with chicken, mushrooms and swiss cheese), to a Texas twist: the Texane (chicken, red onions and BBQ sauce). My favorite combination: the Cabri, mixing up for its filling some prosciutto, goat cheese and tomato.  The pastry case is so full of classic French pastries, if you close your eyes and squint you would think you were doing some window shopping at a Patisserie somewhere in France.  No mistake that: the owner, Chi-Minh, is from Versailles, just outside of Paris, and is a graduate of l’Institut National Boulangerie Patisserie (INBP).

Pick up a baguette tradition on your way out – if there are any left – and enjoy the Baguette et Chocolat experience for a couple more days at home.  

Le Café Crepe  

Housed at ground level of the Hampton Inn downtown on San Jacinto near The Four Seasons, the owners of now closed Dreyfus Antiques (I still miss that giant Eiffel Tower structure every time I drive down North Lamar), thankfully opened up Le Café Crepe a few years ago to accommodate what was apparently a pent-up need for something different downtown. The Café quickly gained a following for offering a delicious option for the downtown lunch routine.  Downtown diners are lucky they can get here just about any time – crowds permitting – because they do not have to deal with parking.  With downtown construction eating into already limited parking, access is a little tricky on a weekday, but always worth it once you settle in.

With charming interior décor, those cheery yellow walls and French signage, the Cafe's crêpes here are on the classic side, but with a nod to the local vibe with The Hampton (turkey pastrami, blue cheese, spinach, tomatoes, green onion, and avocado ($8.75)) and the allure of all things French (for some of us), with The Eiffel (chicken, provolone cheese, tomatoes, asparagus ($8.25)). And though the sweet crepes have classics as well, I am partial to one of the fancier ones, La Fromagère, with brie, pear, walnuts and honey ($8.10); the classics (nutella, la canella (cinnamon)) will run from a modest $5.50 to around $7.

En plus, and très français as well for spending an afternoon, there is WiFi access at the café. So while away an afternoon sitting outside, at a café table under an umbrella, and enjoy those classics with a big bowl-like cup of café au lait, or an Orangina.  (Or with wine and beer options as well, and save the coffee for after.) Construction downtown as of March 1, 2013 has Le Café Crepe boxed in for a time, but it is still open and still the place for a crêpes fix in the heart of downtown.  

Flip Happy Crepes (trailer)   

Austin’s most relatively famous creperie, Flip Happy Crepes, is a refurbished silver trailer (some say it’s an avion; in video footage the owners call it an Airstream) is just off Barton Springs Road, behind the building at 400 Josephine Street. Here, surrounded by condos and a vibrant commercial area of new eateries, is a plot of nature with giant trees towering over bright red picnic tables and colorful café tables and chairs.  Here sits Flip Happy Crepes, which received national exposure in 2007 when Bobby Flay of Food Network fame came to town with his Throwdown series to take on the crepes of owners Nessa Higgins and Andrea Day Boykin (they have been friends since kindergarten).  

Weekend mornings bring out families or those taking a pause while walking the dog on the Lady Bird Lake trail to linger here for a break.  Line up at the window for placing your order for sweet and savory crepes:  the most popular sweet ones being cinnamon sugar (ground almonds, buttery hot and sugary with whipped cream) and the vanilla pastry cream with blueberries, strawberries, and blackberries (pictured below).  If you’ve really worked up an appetite, the Peanut Butter Delight usually is ample enough for two persons, or one person who just did the 5-mile loop.   

The flavors on the savory part of the menu include classic French creperie items: roasted chicken & mushroom & caramelized onion, or another one with tarragon, mushroom, goat cheese, spinach and caramelized onion and tomatoes.  Other show some funky Austin flair, such as in the shredded pork with carmelized onions and white cheddar ($6.95). 

Worried about the kiddos not liking a full-sized crepe at the full price? Check out the Kids Menu: a "Mini Crepe" option exists ($3.75), for cheese only or ham and cheese or chicken and cheese, and a Nutella Roll-Up for a modest $2.50.  

Prepare for a bit of a wait – but enjoy the sun, the trees, and the fact that you’re in Austin.   Pick up orders are available, call 512.552.9034, but time it just right. You want that buttery hot cinnamon crêpe (pictured at left) the minute it’s ready.  Limited hours, so check the website frequently. 

Crepesmille (trailer)

On a crowded corner on South Congress at Gibson Street, away from the heavier concentration of food trailers, is the shiny Airstream trailer for Crepes Mille.  Run by two (very) young and adorably energetic women, this spot gets crowded with folks vying for room to sit at the picnic tables plus line up and place an order for one of these super funky creations.  There are deliciously well done twists on the classic crepes.  You will not see Oreos or Marshmallows on the menu for a typical crêpe stand in Paris, but the combinations here are right on and gorgeous upon arrival.  Case in point, one of the most popular:  The Parisian, including brie, milk chocolate, strawberries and whipped cream.

If the combined effect of the busy corner and the line and the tables feels too claustrophobic, just be patient because heaven awaits:  grab the crepe (figure about a 5-7 minute wait most days) and take it to go.  Walk down esoterically scenic South Congress, with a big smile on your whipped cream- or powdered sugared-face once you take that first bite of crepe: a hint of a crispy outside, yet tender, with butter or chocolate or whatever you selected. Lots of lovely combinations are available in addition to The Parisian, such as The Caramelized Pear and French Toast, but make up your own crepe too for $5.  Pick from a line-up of fillings, such as almond butter, honey butter, or classic crepe ingredient nutella, then pick a topping from another list of toppings, such as bananas and bluebell Ice cream.   Do not worry that whipped cream is not on the list of options for a topping.  You will be asked when they call your name and you pick up with crepe.  Enjoy mixing it up with the South Congress crowds among other nearby hotspots, Perla’s and Hopdoddy, and maybe even work up an appetite for another one.  Check the web site for their current (limited) hours.

Etc.

Melvin's Deli * Comfort (trailer; 53rd/Duval)

Melvin's, this cute red trailer, makes this list because of one food item.  No, better to call this item an event.  It is the Melvin's Croque Monsieur.  It does not matter where you are in Austin between the hours of 11 and 2 on a weekday (the only hours Melvin's is open for business). You really owe it to yourself to have Melvin’s Croque Monsieur.  Sure, it’s a little out of the way for some, at 53rd and Duval, but you should really have this Croque Monsieur.  But have it only if you really like great (Gruyere) cheese, finely cured high-end meats and bread and béchamel sauce all mixed in together with a stout Dijon mustard.  If you don’t like cheesy messes, then you can skip this.  And if you're not into finely crafted and cured meats (such as the superlative ham on this food event), then you can skip this.  And if you’re being really French and not too keen on eating a café classic with your hands, this may not work for you.  But you’d be missing out.  Other sandwiches coming out of this humble trailer are also recognized around town by foodies because of the fine meats. But the croque monsieur is the show-stealer.  Eat it while it’s hot.  Right there in the parking lot where the trailer is parked. 

P.S.

Thanks, Austin Food Blogger Alliance City Guide, for giving me an excuse to go eat more and park illegally all over Austin getting the pictures.

 

Melvin's Deli Comfort's Croque Monsieur (a great hot mess)

In the mad dash to check out all the "French" food venues I could for the AFBA on line City Guide 2013, I had to quickly check out a tip I received for Melvin's.  I heard their Croque Monsieur had been written up as something spectacular.  As Melvin's is a happy bright red trailer located at 53rd and Duval, I figured leaving at 11h30 from my house would allow me get me there, score this croque monsieur, and get to French class for noon.  Time is of the essence now to visit these spots before my write-up is due. And Melvin's is only open from 11 to 2, Monday through Friday.

Let us consider for a moment the croque monsieur.  It is, at bottom, a ham and cheese sandwich.  It is omnipresent in France, a staple among basic cafe fare items. If one is hungry for quick but filling sustenance after walking along the Seine, up to the Quai Branly and down to l'Institut du Monde Arabe, back up the Right Bank to the Louvre, Place de la Concorde, sighing wistfully for hours, a croque monsieur hits the spot.  And it's hard to get it wrong.  Or so you would think.  

Having spent many hours working up an appetite in walking up and down the Seine over the last three decades, I have had a fair number of very mediocre croques monsieurs.  There are many things that can go wrong on it:  not broiling it enough to make it nice and hot; not having enough Bechamel sauce and cheese on top to make it bubbly and golden brown and crusty crispy; lackluster innards, i.e., bland cheese (rather than a great gruyere) and/or benign ham, like just a thin slice of ham, obviously pulled up out of a plastic package.  

The red trailer that is Melvin's is easy to spot on the corner, in a parking lot (parking is easy).  There are two picnic tables set up in the parking lot.  It is cold. I will not be sitting at a picnic table.

I order the Croque Monsieur.  The perky order-taker tells me: "Ok, now the croque monsieur takes a little longer, so just warning you."  Drats..."How much longer?  I need to get to French class?" 10 minutes she says.

I'm too far in.  I say ok.  And now I'm intrigued that they will be taking their time with this Croque Monsieur.  I wait:  I pace in the cold; I sit in the car; I get back out and pace in the cold.  "One more minute, Liz!," she tells me.  Adorable.   Others have lined up and already gotten their orders.  I realize I will have to hurriedly eat this in the car while driving to French class.

"Liz!"

She hands me a white box.  I open the white box in the car.  There it is.  The Croque Monsieur.  Along with the homemade potato chips.

I pick it up and balance the heavy, ooozing cheesy buttery thing.  It is heavy.  It is hot. It is a hot mess.

A bite, balancing it all precariously as I try to start the car as well (impossible).  Need two hands for this thing.  It is delicious. Like gasp, and say things like, well, I won't repeat what I said and dig in more as it is dripping with cheese, sauce, butter, ham, drippings of all of this mixed together...

David Lebovitz wrote up some tips about food writing a while back.  He said to refrain from just calling a food item "delicious" or "good."  That is no help for the reader. So I will say exactly what made this so delicious.  

Delicious is the hot tart cheese, hitting the tang of a unique non-commercial mustard, combined with the bubbly bechamel, and, the superstar: the sweet salty ham.  It is ham as one would cook up in the frying pan, with it just starting to crisp up on the edges and curl up some.  It it piled into and becomes one with the oozing cheese.  All is in proportion.  There is not a single mistake with this croque monsieur.  Maybe the bread could hold up a little better.  But it is a high quality meat, good strong cheese, and the tanginess of the mustard hitting the bechamel that make this an inspired croque monsieur.  

I drive and eat, the steering wheel getting smeared with all the drippings as I bite and steer, holding the sandwich up so I can get keep my head straight while driving and get the mouth up under the sandwich.  

By the time I get to French class, my hands are soaked with buttery salty goodness. I walk into class, proclaim I have just eaten the most magical croque monsieur ever, from a happy red trailer just blocks away, and go to wash my hands off.  I try to explain to my French teacher that first magical moment of biting into the hot mess, which was really just moments earlier.  And then I forget, again: she does not like cheese. 

No need for the potato chips.  They could be a little thicker for me in the homemade chip category.  But don't waste the calories.  The calories are well spent on the Croque Monsieur.   Do not wait and eat it at home.  Eat it immediately.  

Now if only Melvin's could get its hands on some Cotes du Rhone to serve alongside that hot mess.

 

Considering Valentine's Day

I have been thinking much these past few days on Valentine's Day: specifically, the fact that the romantic dinner is so the thing to do on Valentine's Day with a Significant Other a/k/a boyfriend or girlfriend, and the angst that this ritual can pose to the outsiders, those in a rut of singlehood, and to even the most seemingly successful, together, and hip of single women.  The day is just a big in-your-face reminder that, yes, you're on your own - go get your own flowers and artisanal chocolate - and you're, yes, in a state of being that is contrary to the societal inclinations toward considering "normal" as the couple and not the Table for One person.  

(Spread at Mollie's Annual Pink Tea)

For many years, this holiday, or whatever it is, conjured up for me about the same level of warm fuzzies as do memories of P.E. class at my small Catholic grade school and my being inevitably among the last dregs of the class to be picked for whatever awesome team sport was on tap for that day.  (To this day just hearing "dodge ball" makes me flinch.)  

But this year is different.  I wonder what on earth I would actually want from a beloved Significant Other, if I had one, on such a day.  I realize I don't know.  If I don't know, I wonder how on earth a guy in this equation is supposed to know.  (As it seems to me, again from observation only, that it is typically the female in the equation that has the expectations about this day along the same lines as daydreams about the gorgeous trimmings of The Wedding Day and the Dress but not so much the realities of Marriage.)

I guess the ideal is that the SO would know you so well he could come up with something interesting.  [You know, in my case it would be easy. I could be surprised with, for example, an order of a case of a certain wine that I loved somewhere, sometime, and Tweeted about.  (Except I would perhaps note the fact it is wrong for an ordinary busy single mom to have so much red wine in her house at one time.)  Or I could be surprised with a certain outrageously decadent salted caramel chocolate bar over $10 at Antonelli's (wrapped up and presented very nicely of course), which I cannot bring myself to buy for myself but would not turn down if someone else showed up with it. (But for the fact it is Lent and that outrageously decadent chocolate at this price is a bad choice for a time of year when decadence avoidance is more the norm....See?  It's complicated.  Even for me thinking of my own appropriate token of thoughtfulness.)]  

But does one really want this forced thinking on what an appropriate sign of affection would be on this particular day just because everyone else, so it seems, is on that bandwagon?   Seems like one would gladly trade a bust on this one overcommercialized day for a healthy, fun relationship the 364 other days of the year.

One big problem I have these days, as 50 looms closer than I like to think (and I still haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up), is that because my food-centric life has recently been so, well, fulfilling in terms of going to great places and being with great people, that a non-spontaneous going out again for Valentine's Day almost sounds like a chore.  Indeed, it has been a fantastic food week already leading up to 14 February:

1)    Friends from Angers, France arrived to prep for the SxSW indie rock bands they are bringing for SxSW.  Had lunch with them at Second and their P.R. agent. I of course wanted to use this as an excuse of having wine with lunch.  (Only one other person joined me.)  And on Wednesday we visited with (1) Iliana de le Vega at El Naranjo - she truly is a lovely person in addition to being a spectacular cook - and (2) Valerie Broussard at the W Hotel, as a "forager" or scout of the best of the best produce for the restaurant, Trace, and so in touch with local produce, local farms, and game for future collaborations with our sister city Angers.  

2)    Had dinner with new or putative potential friends at Winflo Osteria who just wrote me here, on the blog, and thought it would be neat to get together with me for dinner.   Yes, that definitely counts as pretty dang awesome (though if Hugo (Desnoyer) wanted to track me down this way, sure, that may be a few degrees cooler in the cool things column).  

3)    Party-giver extraordinare neighbor had her annual Pink Tea on Saturday, and continues the streak with a small dinner party on Saturday.

(Mollie's Pink Tea spread...I'm not a sweets person really, but these cupcakes...not sure what she put in them.  Delish.)

3)    Gratitude is front and center this week:  I am grateful that after much away time the past few weeks, it just feels so right to be (mostly) at home and cooking (sort of) real meals for the son, whose smile on his face when I walk in the door from a long trip, despite his best efforts to hide it, he cannot suppress because it is so involuntarily genuine and spontaneous.  

In light of the blessings of friends and family, I wonder why we (i.e., some womenfolk) persist in thinking this one day is the barometer of our lives in general -- in terms of "success" or "failure," even though most of the single moms (mostly lawyers) I know do not have the energy left, if they were honest with themselves (which I am on this front), to even entertain the option of a relationship beyond a few dates. 

In short, I am looking forward to thoroughly enjoying Thursday evening at home, making something perhaps with my overload of turnips from my Greenling Local Box, drinking a lot of water given the wine and great food overload these past few days, making sure the son has finished his note cards for chemistry class, and - if I'm really lucky - I'll catch an NCIS marathon.

And I will have no one else to blame for what is this year, for me, the perfect Valentine's Day. 

 

Best Laid Plans Gone Awry (Frenchie Night a Bust) / The Unexpected Steps Up To The Plate

I have been stalking Frenchie, one of the most sought-after reservations in Paris, for some time.  And then, after months of attempting, a friend in Paris gets me a reservation weeks before my trip.  I am agog.  I look forward to this - for all those weeks - to Thursday night, January 24, at 19h.   Yea, I made it there.  Barely.  But because of something like a stomach flu that morning, I was not in prime form. Indeed, I could not eat the main course at all, and barely held it to gether to take a stab at the beautiful entree.   Yes, after all that anticipation and longing and yearning.  The best laid plans...just sometimes are not the best thing at all.

Instead, I prefer to look at the Frenchie bust amidst some amazingly unexpected and wonderful food events here.

First: the invitation of faculty at the University of Angers to sit in on the high-end intense wine-tasting class - and, even better, lunch with the gastronomy faculty, including Olivier Etcheverria and Jean-Rene Morice, and the well-known sommelier/wine professor/professional, Jean-Michel Monnier, also on the faculty, Although the chemistry of wine, aromas - and the physiology of taste through the nose and mouth were heady stuff, especially in French - I may have grasped, for the first time, just how one can actually start to discern the many layers of nuance in a wine.  Once you learn to taste and experience, all of that starts to come to light. Lunch with this group, discussing gastronomy, agriculture, tourism/economic development - and how it works with Austin's food scene - totally unexpected. Totally fortuitous.  Much good work and dialogue to come in the realm of Austin-Angers connections. 

Second, the surprise of such an unassuming facade, for such a tiny footprint of a storefront that is Chez Remi in Angers, could be such an utter delight inside: in terms of setting, the welcome, and the food.  Chef Remi will be in Austin for SxSW.  I hope he plans to make some of the creamy bright orange squash soup with chorizo that I had there as an entree (starter).  Pretty sure I am going to like anything he makes.   

Third, later that night, before the expectedly very classy meal at Une Ile, there was a quick stop for a pre-meal drink (sometimes my favorite part of a meal actually) with some Angers music professionals/agents at a wine bar: all organic wine. Great place to prepare the palate for the fine wines at Une Ile.  This is Le Cercle Rouge.  It is just the kind of ambiance I like: stone walls, rough and tumble mismatched furniture for seating, sort of loud music/surroundings for an old person such as myself, but not too hipster that I feel totally awkward.  I was with cool (and much younger) people so that helped.

Fourth, the generosity of the complete strangers I have been connected with to get insights into how France is handling its food system issues with technology and/or plain ole innovation.   As part of that effort, I am introduced via email to web developer/entrepreneur/food addict extraordinaire Cedric Giorgi, founder of Cookening.com.   (Cedric will be in Austin this March for SxSW.) Cookening connects people wanting to have the in-home dining experience - like a dinner party in someone else's home, when you get to meet other people, from other countries ideally, just as interested in eating and meeting new people as you are.  

Cedric not only says sure, let's talk when you're in Paris, but organizes a lunch for me, for Friday January 25.  After blowing me away with the menu for his dinner party the night before - crazy - he introduces me to folks from La Ruche qui dit oui, including Marc-David Choukron, joining us for my "Paris Food Startups 101" class of sorts.  (Marc-David was in Austin last year for SxSW.)  I meet them at a really nifty wine bar in Paris, Chez Pierre, in an area I've been having to be in quite a bit these days.  Delightful place.  Cute staff, informal, good food, fast, inexpensive. Cool furnishings: wood, stone, 1960s-ish simple furniture.  I learn there is a genuinely gorgeous cave down below, for private parties, with a huge long impressive table. Maybe for my birthday some year.... And it was very gratifying that Cedric felt sorry for me and my failed foodie dream at Frenchie.  He was amazed I could even get a reservation - impossible - he says, is the rule there for reservations.  Yea, I know.  Sigh.  

Fifth, I unexpectedly run into an event that allows certain myths to live on: the French beret.  On a bitter cold day, a very gregarious and generous man is bellowing out in the street, outside a restaurant, where he is standing with a hot cauldron of the classic winter libation in Paris, vin chaud.   He is just giving it away. He is wearing a beret.

And though not exactly part of the delight-of-the-unexpected theme, I just really thought adorable these French bull dog - tiles? - at a high-end tile shop near me on the rue du Bac.

 

Dear Austin: If a French chef from around the Loire Valley were visiting Austin...

Would you be interested in, for example:

• Going on a market visit/tour with him as he shops at local Austin markets for the dinners he will prep during SxSW?
• Learning about how French cooking and the French restaurant scene is evolving and comparing that journey to Austin's journey to becoming more of a foodie paradise?
• Attending casual, informative wine-tastings with him to learn about some of the fantastic regional wines that Austin's sister city Angers (i.e., the region around there) has to offer and that we would typically never see or taste in an Austin restaurant -- or any Texas restaurant or wine bar for that matter?
• Enjoy some small tastings and chat with him about why or how or whether the US (and Austin) (or their idealized mythical impressions) hold some sway in the French psyche and imagination (and vice versa)?

This could all happen - just brainstorming here.  Send me your thoughts about how this sounds - or what else you might be interested in - and we'll see about making it happen during SxSW and let you know about time, place, etc.

Snowy Sunday Night Dinner - Paris (2013)

I was delighted to get the chance to eat with the family again.  Amazing leftovers on the last Sunday night supper with them a few months ago.  But this Sunday night was very different. They still called it a simple dinner....Here are the courses, in the order in which they were served.

Cream of Pumpkin Soup.   With an extra dose of awesomeness: slices of foie gras, which we were told to place at the bottom of the bowls into which our pumpkin soup was then ladled. This was, um, very tasty.

Salade.  With the "house" sauce - the balsamic vinaigrette they make up regularly and always have at the ready in a glass jar for serving.

Homemade Quiche.  Imagine an enormous ceramic quiche dish, the size of a small wagon wheel, or so it seemed.  And two of such vessels for the quiche(s):  This was dinner for 12+ after all.   One type of quiche was not enough for Matriarch (and superb cook) Anne apparently. She made two, each with a  superb buttery homemade crust, one a cheese quiche; the other a leek and goat cheese quiche. One slice of each was served to each of us. (Whew, because I was going to be hard-pressed to pick which one I wanted.)

Cheese.   Anne announced that because there was cheese in the quiche, she was not planning to serve cheese...(so reasonable and moderate these French), but would anyone want a little taste of cheese?   She looks over at me.  I look at her.  I really want some cheese.  The cheese here is no doubt, again tonight, from master cheese vendor Laurent Dubois.  Liz, would you like some?  Well, okay, maybe just a taste.  They were raving about this particular goat cheese after all.   And the wine that night, a nice Bordeaux, yes, that sounded so right for a nice Laurent Dubois cheese.

An array of cheese arrives.

The guys go nuts over one of them.  Me, my eye is on this chevre (pictured here in the middle).  I will need to ask Anne, again, for the name of it.  The one they are loving is, I learn, a Mont-d'Or, and comes with a spoon to scoop it out.  That's all I need.  Another cheese to add to my favorites list.  

Benoit and, I think it was Gregoire, are digging into the Mont d'Or remains.  They love it.  And I understand why after I try it.  This, with a garlic bruschetta as in this recipe, it's almost too much decadence to think of consuming, but I am absolutely going to make this.  Soon.

Anne exclaims how happy she is when the family finishes up the little pieces of cheese hanging around.   I, in the meantime, am sneaking sliver after sliver of this goast cheese.   Benoit: can you please pass the wine?  

Dessert.   Yes, there is more.  Anne says she has a very very simple dessert.  

It is lovely and classic:  A tureen of pears poached in red wine.   Anne says it is the first recipe she ever made.  I agree with her: the sauce this dish creates is divine.   Some little butter cookies go around to go with it.  I do not get many pears - all that cheese you know - but nevertheless try the little biscuit to get in the sprit of things.

And then we are done.  The kids (adults all of them) do the dishes.  A new batch of sauce is made to replenish the glass carafe that is almost empty of the week's supply of truly a "house" vinaigrette. The guys start to gather around the TV.  A big (soccer) match is on TV.

I say my good-byes.  I would catch an early train the next morning for Angers.  I go out one last time into the Paris night in this unbelievable snow and near the Seine and the vistas of the two islands, to get some cash.  I meant to be gone for a few minutes.  I was gone for an hour.  Paris, on a Sunday night covered in snow, was very quiet.  Hardly any cars.  Hardly any people.  Could not help but walk.  And walk. 

Le Hot Dog (but before, Les Papilles)

It had been a great food day already.  I did not need much else.  I considered a simple goat cheese tartine, on Poilane bread, at Le Pick Clops, a favorite from long, long time ago trips to Paris.   I settled in at the bar at Le Pick Clops for an aperitif and some of the popcorn they were serving therewith.  With the Michael Jackson tunes going (Pretty Young Thing, Beat It...), and the place bubbling over with activity when outside was bitter cold, it seemed right to stay all night.  But the unwelcome conversation from someone next to me, about trash pick-up services in Nantes, Paris, Lille and Toulouse, finally got the best of me.

In what I thought could be a flash of inspiration (after two small glasses of red wine), I decided to brave the hot dog stand there on the rue Vieille du Temple.  There was a line after all.  How bad could it be?  ....

I see they have a Tex-Mex version.  Chile con carne.  I order it, saying I'd like to check that out as there is a fair amount of Tex-Mex in my part of Tex.  I started to be a little afraid though, so asked the proprietor what the most popular hot dog is. He said people mostly go for the "onion confit."  Well, I'll take that instead then.  And when he showed me the "chile con carne" I was glad I made that call. The "chile" was just black beans and corn.  I ask him how popular the place is, who the clientele is. He was a little evasive.  I get the hot dog.

Now, I am not a big fan of hot dogs. But the last one I had was awesome. Grilled outside on an open fire on a beach, with a toasty bun likewise grilled outside over the open fire.  I walk back toward the Hotel de Ville with the dog.  At least it is warm.  One bite.  Oh.  Not quite the crispy grilled beach-side dog of recent memory. One more bite to confirm maybe I'm missing something.  No.  Not missing anything.  It can be disposed of.  Too soft; too bland; too - just not right at all. At least lunch was spectacular.

Lunch was at Les Papilles.  It had been on my list for a couple of years.  It is close to home base.  It is a Saturday.  I figure a nearby & casual wine shop/spice shop, whose menu says you can tailor your meal to as large or small as you like, would be a great option for a wintry snowy day.   

The lunch did not get off to a great start.  I walk in; hardly anyone is there.  Great!   But it is a little more formal than I envisioned.  I ask whether I can sit just anywhere - hilarious - and the proprietor asks me :  Vous connaissez le restaurant?  I pause for a very long period of time pondering this question.  I think to myself: Well, I'm here aren't I?   So yes, I know the restaurant.  Not sure what he means, so he repeats in English.  Ugh.  Dude.  I KNOW what you're saying : I don't get what you're getting at. What he was getting at was this:  reservations only, one set meal for the day, no choices.  Ah, sure, I'm cool with that.  He guides me to a table for 2 right in front of the front door with the 20 degree wind whistling through.   I question (nicely) whether there is something else maybe not right next to the door where it is Siberia?  No- only thing left that is not reserved.  Well, I will be delighted to take it then, I say.  And when he turned down a couple that came in right after me, because there were no more places and they had not reserved, I smugly settled in, wrapping all my scarves around me.

As I settle in, he tells me I can pick whatever bottle of wine I want in the place to accompany my lunch.  One entire wall of the restaurant is nothing but rows and rows of wine bottles.  Well, I only need like 2.5 glasses I mention to him. He offers up why don't I start with a glass of white, then red (they will choose) and handle it that way. Perfect! 

The first course was a cauliflower soup, with swirls of lovely olive oil through it, poured over creme fraiche, lardons, thick buttery garlicy croutons.  Posted on that yesterday.   I noticed, later, that every table got a tureen of soup.  But as I was just one person with no one with whom to share, I alas on this set menu got the same amount.  In short, I should not have had those extra ladles of soup.  Oh, but it was so, so very good.  I could have stopped there and been very happy.

Next, some very slow cooked pork - terrine - almost but not really - simmering in some tiny white beans, snow peas, roasted carrots. Served in a copper vessel. Again, I think this was for 2-3 people.  But I was one.

I know there is a cheese course coming, and a dessert - a banana panna cotta (!) - so I just cannot do this lovely dish justice.  I do take my time with it though because of the group of people next to me.  Obviously very wealthy - (American) parents and their adult son - with exquisite taste in wine, and frequent visitors to this place. They were planning their trips around the world for the rest of the year.  But I would soon get to hear all about, without really even trying, the son's upcoming marriage, the parents' concern about how to handle his fortune and inheritance - the pros and cons of a pre-nup, etc. Fascinating.  All discussed in an extremely nice way, with the son against the idea, as it did not seem like a nice way to welcome someone into the family.  Even more hilarious : They were definitely from Texas, and maybe even Austin.  

When the proprietator checks on me and my status with the lovely porc, I know he is dismayed at my not finishing it.  I know this is such bad form in France.  But I just cannot.  I look up at him.  I tell him, imploring him:  "I can't, I just can't - I know the cheese and the dessert are still to come."  Oh, but the cheese....it is very small, he says, smiling.

Sigh.  I go in for just a few more bites.  They were good ones.  Glad I did.

Finally, his helper clears that all away.  And then, yes, the really lovely bleu cheese.

I was into Hour 2 of the meal by now.  

I had been reading a French newspaper from 2 days ago to make sure the American aristocrats next to me did not censor their conversation because it really was so intriguing.  Not the subject matter necessarily.  I was just really impressed at how well all of them handled the touchy subject.  No drama.  Just logical arguments, a conflict in their points of view. 

The food finale finally came.  The banana panna cotta.  And then I had to order coffee.  Just seems incomplete to have that kind of lunch and no shot of espresso after.  And the bill came.  It was not bad at all for this experience.  I will definitely go again - with a larger group of persons besides one (1) - and I will reserve.  

And I will not be trying a hot dog again in Paris. 

 

 

 

The First 16 Hours in Paris (A+) but first, l'Avant Comptoir

I read a lot about Paris.  Food, restaurant, wine bar reviews.  But I know enough from flawed experiences that someone else's good review and experience may not be mine.   It was with optimistic anticipation that I nevertheless headed to l'Avant Comptoir yesterday, a wine bar, for a quick re-fueling after 6 a.m. Paris arrival at CDG, RER trip into the city, coffee with my hosts--where we discussed the U.S. jury system and the purview of the judge and jury in questions of law and fact--and a five-hour nap.

The obvious choice was to use the first of the limited, not already-booked nights in Paris to try the Verjus wine bar.  The restaurant, yes, sublime experience in April, but need to get in and try that wine bar my fav food writers love so much.  Closed.

What now.  Paris by Mouth's list of wine bars, by arrondissement, comes in handy. If I am not walking all the way to Palais Royal in the bitter cold, I should try a new place that is close.   L'Avant Comptoir, already on the list I always keep in my head (when my post-45 ailing memory can recall the list), is on their list.  Done.

It is a short walk away, over at the Carrefour de l'Odeon.   Straight shot down Boulevard St. Germain.

Enter.  Let's see what this is all about.

Unassuming at first.  A group of young 'uns from a country in Asia is placing a large order for crepes and gauffres (waffles).   I ask them, after politely waiting and studying the food items signage hanging from the ceiling, if they are waiting for wine.   (When I am hungry, and food/wine is just right there, I do not mince words). They were not.  I squeeze by and settle in at the counter (the "comptoir") and work on figuring out the drill here.

I ask if I order right there, from the master organizer of everything I figure out (and whose name is Eric/Erik/Erich (with red hair, en plus)).  I admitted I wanted a little help with the red wine selection.  Well, he says, what do you like?  "Uh, everything?" I say. (Bad start to new year's reoslution to increase wine vocabulary).

He says, smiling:  "What matters is what interests you right now."

Me: "Well, I just arrived from Texas this morning.  I have not slept much, have not eaten much, and am starving." (rough English translations from the French, or what I recall of it...)  

He ponders.  He turns around look through the wine array.   I order in the meantime what Dorie Greenspan must have been talking about as "voluptuous" in terms of some fried ham croquette thing.  

Dorie was right.  Yes, voluptuous might just work as a description here.

The wine comes.  One sip in and I am writing the name down to email Austin Wine Merchant and see how this can become the new go-to red wine at Chez Liz. Because what do you know, it is a Cotes du Rhone.  I'm not sure I need to drink any other wine for the rest of my life. 

At the comptoir, there are plates of enormous blocks of butter, with butter knives plunged deep into them. There are giant crocks brimming with cornichons, wire baskets of a Poilane-like bread.   And Eric the Red is preparing all of the delectible bites in a space the size of tiny Manhattan closet, a tiny "kitchen," right there (cooktop and toaster oven), with all the ingredients incredibly well-arranged in plastic containers in a tiny regrigerator.  

As Eric left the bottle of my new favorite wine right in front of me, I ask if I just help myself, as he had chosen to place the entire bottle right there in front of me. He smiles again and says, non, though it does look that way, j'arrive to pour your wine for you.  (I really love having wine poured for me.)

Next item to order: I opt for the foie gras brochette.   Eric asks if I am from California - non, I say, foie gras still legal in Texas.  Thankfully.

More orders for crepes at the window.  Eric manages the food orders, deliveries coming in.  He handles all the food prep - except the crepes and gauffres. He handles the friendly banter with old and new friends.  He speaks great English to the English couple that had come in and, to my surprise, just stared ordering in English without even asking if he spoke English.  It is an amazingly well-orchestrated operation in this small space.

The fois gras brochette arrives: hot, seared tiny pieces of yummy fatty melt-in-your-mouth foie gras, roasted red pepper bites in between - a balsamic vinegar tangy glaze. Now this just feels dream-like.

I tell Eric this wine could not be more perfect for me tonight.  He chose well.  Thank you.  And when he launched into the tutoyer with me too, I get that everyone gets the friendly tutoyer, not just longtime friends.  And, enfin, I say:

"Monsieur Eric - I will need the addition when you have a minute."

He stops in his tracks.  Stares at me.

"Madame Texas, I will get that for you right away."

He smiles and asks my name.  We shake hands.  Tell him I will see him again very soon.  

I wonder why people never listen to me when I try to steer them away from what they think is a quintessential Paris experience.  A friend of a friend told me her family would be dining at the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower over a holiday.  I had on good authority from  American almost-chef friend that the food there was lifeless and a waste of time.  This was someone who could afford to eat and drink anywhere and everywhere in Paris - and has, so knows full well there is far, far better food to be had in the city.  I tried to subtly suggest to the friend of a friend not doing this - a stupendous waste of money.  Why not hang out and see what Paris is really like?

I said something to Eric like this place was "pas mal."  He smiles, getting the joke, because he knows it is awesome, and says I came at a good time to really enjoy it. Not the huge crowd (I can barely move by now it is getting so crowded). 

I step out into Paris and it starts to snow.  

Later on, in a cozy cafe on the Ile St. Louis, over French Onion Soup, and a nice chat with a table of Professors from Toronto, whom I let have the last of my carafe of Bordeaux as I could not polish it off, I watch the snow come down harder, and watch snowball fights in the street in front of me.  

It was a short walk home over the Seine, past the Christmas trees now covered with snow.  Not a bad first 16 hours in Paris.

Poorly written recipes, or "why I appreciate David Lebovitz cookbooks and recipes more than ever"

The poorly written recipe.  You know the one.  It looks simple.  It says it's "easy" or "quick."   But every other ingredient or step, you realize, it's not so easy.  But the problem is not you.  It's the recipe.  The very poorly written one.

I'm not blaming my failed gateau de pommes this week on said poorly written recipe.  Nor do I blame the failed gateau (bad case of underbaking) on the fact that for some reason I have not a single measuring cup to be found at my house -- or any measuring spoons.  (I fortunately have a 1 cup measure.  That was handy, as I had to measure 2 cups of flour.)

This recipe for "French Apple Cake" looked "easy" - and it is.  But only if we had a little clarity and help with the "simple" recipe.   

Probem and Pet Peeve No. 1: "3 to 4 apples"

Sounds simple enough.  Well, not when the chopped-into-quarters pieces must be poured into the batter.   If one has purchased 4 large apples (like I did...the more the better my motto), for example, this just will not work.  Too many apples spilling out over the pan and overwhelming and taking over the batter completely.  So it would have been nice to know if the author meant 3 small or medium apples or 4 large apples.    The "easy" recipe says nothing about this.  I ended up with lots of leftover chopped apples.  It seemed ludicrous to pour them all in there.  The batter was already right up to the top of the cake pan. 

Problem and Pet Peeve No. 2 :  "one-half cup melted butter"

I knew this was a trick, or mistake rather, as soon as I read it.  I had this problem for the son's last-minute late-night Mexican cookie making marathon with my mom for his Spanish class.  The author does not mean what he or she has said.  They do not really want you to melt enough butter such that you will end up with one-half cup of melted butter.  What they mean is what they did not say:  one-half cup butter, melted.  So that's when I went with.  And based on the resulting texture and consistency of the batter, I was right.  Annoyed, but right.

Set the iPhone time, went back to work at the (home) office, and before I knew it the timer went off.  It was a robust brown, and I took it out immediately, pleased that I caught it just in the nick of time before I ruined my efforts to bring a nice French dessert to a Sister Cities Holiday Reception down at City Hall (Austin's sister city is lovely Angers, France).

It was not overdone.  It was not even done.  I would learn this when, after the recommended 10 minutes of cooling, I went to unmold it.   A large wet mass stayed in the cake pan.   Operation back-up plan went into effect.  Central Market. They only had one pear frangipane tart left.  Fearing that this one tart would not be enough, I grabbed one of the perenially-pleasing-to-the-eye fruit tarts as well.  This was overkill.  Down at City Hall, I set them out on my platter, and they disappeared amidst the United Nations of food sprawled out on a very large conference table.

I thought to myself.  David would never do this.  David would near leave me in the lurch like this.  David would have said something in the recipe like: "Don't worry if the cake looks dark--it may be dark golden brown yet not quite ready on the inside.  Go by what the toothpick test proves, not the color of the cake."   And David for sure would have said: "1/2 cup butter, melted."

This David is of course Paris-based David Lebovitz.  

I now appreciate a good recipe -- the well-written one.  Which all of his are--to date at least.  He includes charming narratives to ensure what you are doing is the right thing.  He includes details about what the batter/icing/whatever should look like at a certain time.  And recognizing one's human nature to be concerned at a certain point in the recipe, he preempts that and writes down to, in effect, keep calm and carry on. 

Best desserts I have ever made.  Rave reviews every single time for every single dessert.  

So thank you, David, again.  I will no longer be so easily wooed by the results of a search for "easy French desserts."  

But the French apple cake I will make again.  Just not that recipe.  Now I find that, sigh, Dorie Greenspan, another lovely cookbook scrivener, has this very recipe (in the cookbook I already own!), and David Lebovitz likes that recipe so much he wrote about it here.  And let the record show: Dorie's recipe is properly written: "8 tablespoons (115g) butter, salted or unsalted, melted and cooled to room temperature."

 

(This contribution to the Sister Cities Holiday Reception was a conversation piece.  "Russian Salad" - to represent our sister city of Lima, Peru.  Yes.  The "Russian" part of it comes from beet juice, which has turned the hard-boiled eggs hot pink.")

Outstanding in the Field Farm Dinner - A Day, and a Meal, in a Field in Brenham (and unexpected realizations)

I had been looking forward to this for months.  

A beautifully sited dinner table winding into a vast landscape of rocks, fields, cliffs or even coves for an Outstanding in the Field dinner out in the middle of nowhere.  

Outstanding in the Field is a series of "farm dinners" - getting people out into the land, the landscape, a farm ... the earth.  Then getting a great local chef onto that land - and a team of cooks, servers and organizers - to prepare a multi-course feast for well over 150 people.  Through this setting and the people and the food, you are reconnected with where your food comes from.  This was Jim's founding vision.  And it took years to catch on.

(Jim, the founder, talking about the tough beginnings, how a Range Rover commercial saved the concept (by providing a revenue stream for him)  and kept him in it to try one more time ;  years later, here we are)

Whatever.  What I was looking forward to was a beautiful meal, in a simple, beautiful, tranquil setting with friends.  And a lot of nice wine.

From Austin, we drive, and drive and drive.  Finally there, at Jolie Vue Farms, the site for the dinner - and in not Brenham actually - but Independence, Texas.   And our gracious hosts, who have developed this property into the organic farm and ranch it is today, are Glenn and Honey Ann Boudreaux.  

The land was a mess when they got it.  Torn up and dried out, worn down and out from decades of fertilizer, pesticides -- all the stuff of modern agri-business.  They didn't want any of that.  If God thought the sun and the earth were good enough to make food, why bother with all that extra stuff.  So Honey said, or something like that.

So they brought the earth back to life.  No more chemicals.  No more artificial fertilizers.  And the land rewarded them for the efforts.  So many natural grasses came back to fill the fields they had to summon folks from Texas A&M to make sense of it all. All told, 16 native grasses: all gone before, all brought back to life now.

(Honey talking in the field of natural grasses about the history of the farm, farm/ranching life, and telling us about heffers and steers and what not)

We learn where the pigs roll around, and how the animals get rotated to different pastures to let the earth rebound in one pasture over enough time; how this summer and last summer went for them and how they and the livestock survived (barely);how the new water tanks/troughs for the pigs save water and waste less of this precious resource; how smart the pigs are, how they rolled around in the summer with the rain shower waterheads and made giant pools of mud that you can still see dented into the earth; how the water hole is so low now - but it used to be so much more and used for the kids' fishing and swimming - and for helping to catch their own food.  Some weekends, the kids would be tasked with making do on their own: if you don't catch or find your own food, you don't eat.

Thus prepped with the idea of working for your food, we have to work to reach our food.  The table, the hallmark table of these Outstanding in the Field farm dinners, is way up high on another hill.  We would have to walk up there.  

Clearly this is part of Jim's founding vision.  

Jim surely wants us to walk up and honor the table as part of the earth we are walking on, earth that literally did produce some of the very food we would be eating. 

Another ritual, or tradition, is the bringing of your own plate.  You drop it off with the organizer upon entering the farm.  

You retrieve it later up the hill, as you get closer to the table.  There also was a pile of plates for those who had forgotten to bring a plate, a pile made up of plates forgotten at previous farm dinners.  And then, the table.

 

Just out there.  In a field.  Just as they say.    And then some food.

(the first course - including among other things scrapple, blue corn grits, a 63C egg, which I expertly, so proud of self, identified as sous-vide prepared and the 63C was the temperature, in celsius; on my blue Sasaki wedding gift plate (1 of 10) that I brought for the event)

And more food.   And then more food.  The bycatch fish - looking all prehistoric.  I loved that the best perhaps.

And by now, with wine at each course, and the sun setting ever so slightly, and the chill of these cooler days descending, we start to get a little feisty in our well-fed comfort zone pf this community of a long long table.  

We get up.  We walk out and around and out into the vast field.  The moon is starting to rise, just as the sun is setting.  

Dessert comes. 

Then it is over.  

On the ride home, we talk a lot to stay awake.  But back here, and even while there, I realize that what I expected was not what I got.  Not exactly at least.  

I expected a super high-end gorgeous meal, with exquisite wine, and maybe more than a little bit of food snobbery at the table, with carefree chatter of friends all around you.  It was sort of that, and there were glitches to be sure.  We almost got forgotten entirely, our group of 8, on that first course.   The wine was a little skimpy on the serving sizes I thought at first.  The courses came slowly. I almost had to whip out a protein bar. 

But all logistical glitches faded - soon.   And the most I got out of it was something entirely unexpected.  

As Honey Ann was talking, without judgment for our wasteful ways in the city at all, I realized, as if a cow patty had been thrown at my head to wake me up, was how much my life affects what I eat.  Duh.  

The water I use to water my lawn is water that is not going to help keep the animals alive that are being fed on thriving native grasses nourished in only the old-fashioned ways.  My choices to eat fruits and vegetables out of season only encourages the food system machine to spend more resources to produce an artificial food cycle that knows none of the ebb and flow of nature.  

  

In the heat of the moment, on that farm among the people helping to bring back a more natural and normal way of living and eating, I vowed I would stop watering my yard.  I hate doing it anyway - the cost, the waste.

I am back in Austin, and as it is fall I am not tested on the no watering rule.  I only watered one a week anyway when I did water.  But the farm dinner worked for me, and in this awakening way I never imagined.  

Outstanding in the Field takes its show on the road - in Asia and South America, for example. It was in Brazil recently.  But never France. Almost one time, but it did not work out. So I learned from Jim during the farm tour.

They wash all the plates by hand when everyone is done with the last meat course.   It is there for you to pick up as you leave the table for your walk back down the hill and through the farm.  

I chose to leave my blue Sasaki plate.  I like the idea of it being used by some other haggard single working mom who barely got her act together to get her ticket and get to the farm site for the dinner and so forgot she was supposed to bring a plate.  

I also like the idea of seeing my plate again someday at another Outstanding in the Field dinner...maybe in France.

(A bientot my blue Sasaki plate! ...Bon voyage, safe travels, and see you in France!)

Le Marche des Lices - Rennes - and why I need yet another picture of a pile of radishes??

(Le Marche des Lices, Rennes, France)

From my extremely comfortable bed in the surprisingly well-appointed-for-the-price Hotel Mercure in Rennes, I heard the bells of a nearby church ring.  It would have been easy to stay there for another couple of hours in that delightful state of cozy semi-consciousness.  But the lure of a market proved too much.  Despite jet lag still weighing me down, everything I had read kept nagging at me that I just had to get up and get the tired self over to the Marche des Lices.   The market is said to host some 300 products from all over Brittany.  Rennes is the capital of Bretagne, or Brittany en anglais, and this, the Marche des Lices, is the second largest market in all of France.   How could I lounge in bed when the second largest market in all of France was but a 12-minute walk away....

I couldn't, and I didn't. I got up and got over there.

 

It did not disappoint.

The first assault on the senses was all saliva-inducing savory stuff: sausage and chicken dripping with butter and fat.  Waffles, or gauffres, steaming hot just off the waffle iron.  

The next assault is a visual one.  A mass of people.  Organized.  Focused.  Intent on the food, comparing the food.  This mass of people was organized in that there were vague yet well-defined lines moving slowly, deliberately.  And most had shopping baskets--real baskets, the woven kind, not the kind made of metal with 4 wheels and a coffee cup holder and a hook for the purse--winding up and down and up and down the many aisles of produce piled high and stretching, at some point, literally as far as the eye could see.

I have pictures of vegetable and fruit stands and fish markets and oyster stands from all over France dating back to my high school trips.

And there have been others like me, though not so much here at the Marche des Lices which is very not tourist-y at all despite its gorgeousness, but in other market strolls, who are snapping pictures just as insanely as I am.  And of nothing but giant piles of radishes, romaine, cabbages and garlic.

Why do we do this?  

I have an inkling why I do it.  We eat with our eyes so the pleasure of seeing the earth's voluptuous bounty piled riotously high has to be part of the visceral joy of eating ... Whole Foods Market gets this.  Their produce displays evoke this - even under artifical light - where we can indulge in a little fantasy life of market shopping in a charming old-school back-to-the-earth way. 

"Flowers, as everyone knows, are among the freshest, most perishable objects on earth. Which is why fresh flowers are placed right up front--to "prime" us to think of freshness the moment we enter the store. Consider the opposite--what if we entered the store and were greeted with stacks of canned tuna and plastic flowers? Having been primed at the outset, we continue to carry that association, albeit subconsciously, with us as we shop.

The prices for the flowers, as for all the fresh fruits and vegetables, are scrawled in chalk on fragments of black slate--a tradition of outdoor European marketplaces. It's as if the farmer pulled up in front of Whole Foods just this morning, unloaded his produce, then hopped back in his flatbed truck to drive back upstate to his country farm. The dashed-off scrawl also suggests the price changes daily, just as it might at a roadside farm stand or local market. But in fact, most of the produce was flown in days ago, its price set at the Whole Foods corporate headquarters in Texas. Not only do the prices stay fixed, but what might look like chalk on the board is actually indelible; the signs have been mass-produced in a factory." 

Of course I realize, somewhere at some level, that there is a well-studied marketing scheme all behind this, playing to my senses, as the author of this article quote above notes.   The author wrote this while taking in one particularly bucolic faux market setting: the Whole Foods store in Columbus Circle in NYC.  I get it.  I'm being played.  But I go along, enjoying the fantasy, because I want to.  We just can't all be in France at the Marche des Lices all the time after all.

But here at the Marche des Lices, there there is another big difference from the pretend market experience (aside from this being the real thing).  In Rennes, the Market is set up nicely to be a spectator sport as well.  Cafes are strategically placed up on the higher elevation of this Place.   I thought hard about sitting and watching. Drinking a double espresso at 10h with that Market stretched out before me was tempting.  But how much better to just be in it.  Not just watching it.

And so it was that I said no to the cafe and yes to getting really into the Market.

Ducking into the larget metal and glass structure - an halle - full of still more foodstuffs: the local honey, breads, confits, salts and herbs and spices, charcuterie...I dived into the laughter and the chatter of these happy smiling vendors, who let me sample and compare, for example, the difference between honey made from spring flowers versus summer flowers, and let me eavesdrop for a long stretch an extremely long-winded conversation about goat milk yogurt.

I only recently unpacked my suitcase.  

I think a certain government agency that will remain unnamed (but who left a little love note in my luggage about their gentle search of my bag) may have lost an item or two I had in the suitcase while handling it....but at least I still have my goodies from the Marche des Lices in Rennes: salt, spices ... and honey made from springtime flowers.

Sunday Night Supper a/k/a Leftover Night in Paris - not your ordinary leftovers

For my last night in Paris, a Sunday, friend Maureen had wanted to treat me to a cocktail at the Plaza Athenee, which any other time would have sounded fantastic. But on this exhausting trip, and on this last night staying with a family in their large, elegant home tucked between the Quai de Montebello and the Boulevard St. Germain, what sounded fantastic to my tired self was the Sunday night dinner invitation the family had extended to me.  

Don't expect anything fancy, Anne (the multi-lingual matriarch of la Maison d'Anne) warned.  It is Sunday after all :  Sundays are very simple she said.  We'll have "une salade, des tomates...."  That sounded good to me, with my jeans almost too tight now from too much foie gras and three too many attempts (three attempts) to find the quintessential tarte tatin.  

So instead of the Plaza Athenee, friend Maureen joined me for one last glass of wine sitting on the family's terrace, crowded with potted succulents and ivy, overlooking Notre Dame.  Night fell.  Then it was time to tell Maureen good-bye. She would go to her favorite cafe down the street over on the Ile St. Louis.  I would go start packing.

At last, it is dinner time on the 4th floor.

In the kitchen there is much activity despite the alleged simplicity of this simple spread for dinner.   Anne announces what there is spread out, making herself heard over the din of her sons and her husband watching the soccer match between Paris and Marseille.  This was no ordinary leftover night.  

• Blanquette de Veau (classic French dish: veal stew; this Food and Wine recipe may be the one I try...someday)
• A dish - something like a parmentier - made with "marcassins" - which I figured out had something to do with a sanglier (boar) - and indeed it is a young (baby) wild boar.  One of the girl's boyfriend's father had shot one, and they (Anne) had made this nice casserole type dish.  Think Shepherd's Pie.  Such as this recipe here.
• Soupe de courgettes (zucchini)
• Soupe de potiron (a/k/a soupe au potiron) (pumpkin)

I had already been given the royal treatment Thursday night at dinner.  Anne tells me on this night, leftover night, to take whatever I feel like and re-heat it.   I go for the zucchini soup.  It is already nice and hot in a huge stock pot.   As I am happily slurping up soup, and using some Eric Kayser baguette chunks I had pulled off to help with that, Jean-Louis, the dad reminds me: "Sers-toi, Liz" - no one waiting on you tonight.  

I loved it.   

But those were just the main courses.  

There was also a large apple tart, still partially wrapped and mostly uneaten from the week.  One of the sons took two slices.  

And then I saw it.  Something wrapped up in that hallmark elegant grey paper of prestigious fromagier Laurent Dubois.  I unwrapped it.  I may have been too intimidated to figure out how to reheat the baby boar casserole without interrupting the menfolk watching the big game, but I had no qualms unwrapping the beautifully packaged cheese treasure within the Laurent Dubois paper.  I sliced off a piece.  I taste.  I slice off a bigger slice, and a few more slices, and include them around my second bowl of zucchini soup.  Soup, cheese, bread.   Anne insisted that the white Burgundy that night was really quite nice.  So, yes, I had that.  Just a tad.  I figure out this cheese from L. Dubois must be the well-aged Comté from the other night.

That cheese was a revelation.  Jean-Louis explained to me Thursday night that Comte could come in very much older, aged versions - this was one three years old.  See Wikipedia Entry ("Most Comté cheeses are aged from 12 to 18 months, though some are aged as little as four months and as long as 24 months. Some places, especially high-class restaurants, can carry Comtés aged for a longer time. The restaurant L'Arpège in Paris, France, is known to carry a four-year-old Comté.). It was nuttier and sharper than a more usual Gruyere, yet more subtle and interesting. And it has such an addictive quality.

They ask if I have enough: please, help yourself, Liz.  Oh, no, I am so very happy with this cheese.  I say, this is the aged Comte, yes? 

Surprised faces.  How did you know??  Did you have it here??   I think I earned some points.   I think this because Jean-Louis had carefully preserved from a previous night a certain red wine.  I tried so hard to remember exactly what it was.  I do know it was a grand cru classe from Bordeaux.  I think I saw the Chateau Margaux verbiage on there.  This was so the big time.  That I know.  He asked if I would like some [of this very special, extraordinary Bordeaux].

Uh. Yes.  

He went to get special wine glasses. Three-year-old Comté.  A fine, no great, as in grand, Bordeaux.  This is the life.  And this is leftover night?

But there was more.  Dessert.

In addition to the apple tarte, there were a couple of chocolate pots de creme left from the Thursday night dinner.  And there also was what would become my favorite: a platter of special traditional desserts of Bordeaux: "Canneles de Bourdeaux." So Anne told me.  She said they did not turn out so great.  They were so great to me.  They have a carmelized outer shell then a custardy tender soft not too sweet inside.  The contrast of that crunch on the outside and the tender inside - this too, addicting.

Before I ate 4 more of those things, I called it.  I was done.  Time to finish packing. Anne and I arrange for my timing in the morning to get to the airport.  She orders a cab for me.  Before heading back downstairs in the elevator, I thank Jean-Louis for letting me in on that extraordinary red wine.

The next morning, I tell Anne good-bye over a quick espresso - there would be les bises - and then a good-bye, until the next time. 

The following Sunday night, I am back home in Austin, Texas. I have my own leftover night, with my smaller family of two: my son and I.  We have ESPN on.  We are most definitely not watching soccer.  I make tortilla soup with some of the leftover grilled chicken from this week of my back-to-reality food life.  

And to go with it, it may not have been a legendary Bordeaux, but it was as good as I remembered: a wine I had at Barley Swine back in December and so loved I bought a bottle eventually.  Figured no good just staring at the label admiringly waiting for a special occasion.  Time to dig in. 

It was not a blanquette de veau or artisanal bread and cheese from some of the most reknowned masters of their craft: cheese and bread, from Laurent and Eric in Paris.

But I was home, reminded that leftover night really is just a good reminder of family nights and simple food. And a good enough reason to open up a new bottle of wine.

 

Foie Gras Fan Club and The French Connection with Food

(Le diner chez Sophie...yes, fine cuisine, but first, superlative munchies for the aperitif ritual, accompanied by this perky rabbit-eared gadget for serving up the toothpicks; who says the French are stuffy?!)

I am back from France.  I am back with a newfound love for foie gras, which I think I just thought I liked or pretended to like more than I did (gasp!).

I also bring back a renewed wonder at the learning process of a person growing up French in French culture.  I base these observations from a field study including pointed questions of real French people, maybe about 8-10 of them.  They include people I like to call friends in Angers - Pierre, Sophie, and Anne-Sophie; and Jean-Luc in Nantes, as well as the superb concierge/front desk man at the Hotel La Perouse in Nantes (we also talked about food) who spent some time in St. Louis, Missouri. And of course I base this on the advanced studies in French cultural/gastronomic life done in the kitchen over meals with the family in Paris, my hosts, Anne and Jean-Louis, at surely the most elegantly unique "bed and breakfast" ever. 

I fell in love with foie gras over a lovely dinner at Sophie's house outside of Angers in a village-like atmosphere of her backyard that is a grassy knoll along the water.  Along with the other elegant food items for the before-dinner aperitif time, which included Anjou specialty rillaud prepared by her husband, Sophie says she has made a foie gras.  She swears it is an easy recipe and that I could make it too.  Well, I confess I did not realize you had to "make" foie gras. I know, I should be ashamed of myself. She asks if I would like to have some.  Uh, yes.

I follow Sophie into the kitchen to check into this.

I am surprised to see her take out of the refrigerator a big fat roll of stuff in plastic wrap that looks like an on-steroids roll of refrigerated Nestle Toll House cookie dough.  This thick round of stuff in plastic has string wrapped around it.  Sophie is unwrapping.  I can't help but pick up some of the strings.  She chides me for getting my hands all greasy because - attention - it was very fatty.  And, yes, she is right.  Very slippery, fatty those strings from being wrapped around that plumped plastic wrapped foie. 

I learn that hers is made with white wine and is well cooked.  This I figure explains the lighter color for this - far lighter than I had ever seen for a foie gras (ok, have only had twice: Jeffrey's in Austin (now closed alas) and Boulevard in San Francisco (before the ban)).   This foie gras was a revelation.  Maybe it was the thinner slices.  Or the well-cooked style of it.  I had 3 slices. This is a lot in foie gras terms. Especially when dinner is not even served yet.

At Christmas time Sophie says, there may be several foie gras made to get everyone through the holidays.  Heaven forbid one run out of foie gras over the holidays.  (Yea, I hate it when that happens.) Indeed, she says, one of the most treasured holiday moments: on Christmas morning, early, one makes up with coffee and perhaps takes just a tiny smidgen of foie gras onto a piece of toast for Christmas morning breakfast.  She sighs wistfully.  Done.  I am convinced.  I will ramp up the gourmande-ness this holiday season chez moi with my very own foie gras recipe, and it would be Sophie's, and we will smear it onto Poilane bread from Paris. 

I would learn the next day, from Anne-Sophie who would accompany me to the opera in Angers that sunny Sunday afternoon, that there is an ugly side to foie gras preparation.   No, not the gavage.  The actual making of it.  I learn this as we sat outside the opera house in Angers at a cafe near the small harbor, with the Chateau d'Angers to our left, the opera house with its wide open enormous 3-story tall sliding glass doors to the right, and the Maine river, a tributary of the Loire River, in front of us.  Here, over a glass of red wine and slices of wild boar sausage, I have my disenchantment.  I learn the making of foie gras requires extracting and tearing out by hand all sorts of tendons and strings of stuff.  This sounded disgusting even in French.  I am sad.  There will be no foie gras making at my house after all.  I cannot even handle touching boneless chicken breasts some days.

I also learn though from Anne-Sophie that she has a signature foie gras recipe too.  She does hers with cognac or armagnac and will do it to a mi-cuit, or less well done on the cooking time.  And so obviously families can have their own foie gras recipes and thus very strong opinions about a proper foie gras.  I asked if this is a problem when individuals marry and they are brought into a household with a conflicting foie gras philosophy.  Oh, yes, she says. Not a problem with her extended family though, where her style of foie gras is warmly welcomed.

I would have foie gras again on Monday at lunch, at a really lovely restaurant in the countryside, Le Rabelais, to break up a day full of meetings that Pierre had organized for me.  

Here, Pierre tells me about a fish on the menu, sandre, and how the wine chosen matches this local fresh fish based on how the vines grow and how the soil lends itself to a particular type of vine and a particular type of grape. 

The next day, Tuesday, I would be in Nantes, with another colleague, Jean-Luc, also hosting me for meetings.   A couple of slices of foie gras and aged ham atop greens was the special entree of the day at the hip restaurant along the Loire that was our lunch venue. 

And, yes: I said yes to the foie gras.  I tell Jean-Luc I am smitten with foie gras and share my newfound knowledge from Angers. 

But, really, I ask him--though I have been going to France for years I just want to know from the source:  how is it that everyone with whom I had dined thus far has what seems to me an elegant and high-level vocabulary and knowledge that only (very generally speaking) food magazine writers in the US have, such as the fact that the vines for a certain wine grow to a certain depth that will create a particular taste that goes so well with the fish from the river nearby, or that the aged quality of this particular cheese means it goes better with this particular wine. 

It is the French connection with their food he tells me.  They just feel connected to it.  So they want to know, and they grow up knowing about these issues, being surrounded by others who also are asking or telling where it came from, who made it, and why or how it's here.  And so agreed the concierage/front desk man at l'Hotel Perouse in Nantes, when I brought up this subject on checking out the next day from his lovely hotel.  I tell him I am intrigued by the signage at his minimalist yet delicious "buffet" about personal responsibility about the buffet to avoid waste, the local sourcing, the organic everything.  I mention my conversation the day before with Jean-Luc about this connectivity the French have with their food.

He says he did not realize he was different, as a French person, until he was in a gourmet club in St. Louis.  Not that there was anything not lovely about everyone there.  He loved St. Louis and his time there.  It just was not until then that he recognized the difference in his and his wife's profound attachment to the food and the sourcing and the ritual of the food.  I asked how: how do you get that way? Where does it come from?  He says you just grow up with this to be like this.  Your parents are like this.  Their parents were like this.  It's part of the environment.  As natural as learning the language that describes that food.

Of course many similarities can be said to exist here in the US.  There is organic produce.  There is slow food, concerns for sustainability, and community gardens to avoid sourcing from far afield.  But it's just different at the basic level.  Having said that, I myself am still so not French, though Anne in Paris described me one night as "presque française" (almost French).  I have yet to learn moderation but am getting there.  But I have learned one thing.  Again on this trip, I am told that for my French family in Tours back in my student days of 1985 to call me "gourmande" (meaning likes to eat, loosely), well, that was a huge compliment.  And it remains so. 

Or so they tell me, as I take that third/fourth/fifth slice of foie gras...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rennes - When en Bretagne....one must eat crepes...but not all creperies are worth a trip: Creperie Saint-Georges Is.

On the day I landed in Paris, I left Paris.  For Rennes.  This was a technology/diligence trip, and so western France would occupy my time for the first part of the trip.  The first stop was Rennes.   When I finally emerged from the hotel after a coma-like nap, a young hip gal with the heavy regional accent of Bretagne - Rennes is the capital of this region - told me that for the aperitif I sought in a nice ambiance, I specified, perhaps Place Ste. Anne was where I should head.  And so I did, passing all sorts of lovely and actually just exquisite architecture along the way. 

When one is sitting outside in a lovely Place such as this, i.e., the photo above, and enjoying the first aperitif in France, one tends to go overboard.  I had two aperitifs - and then realized I needed to eat. Soon.

No good calling the hotel to ask what they had recommended as the best creperie out of so many in the crowded creperies culinary space.  Too tired.  Faint with hunger.   I figured just any one of the nearby creperies on this bustling gathering spot would be a good pick. 

I would be wrong.

I picked one nonetheless.  And had more red wine.  But it could not disguise that the spinach in this crepe - which I thought would be a healthy choice along with ham, mushrooms, and hallmark of regional egg on top - for my first famous regional crepe in this the capital of Brittany.  

The equivalent of frozen chopped spinach this was.  A sour canned taste.  I was forced to order a dessert crepe: chocolate and salted caramel.  For someone who had been on no bread, no sugar, and in general just no complex carbs for weeks, this was manna.  Slowly, but not entirely, the sour canned spinach taste and memory went away.

Next day, I know better.  I ask at the Front Desk.  The nice young man does not hesitate when I say I made a mistake the night before and needed a great creperie.   The Creperie Saint-Georges, he says, and hands me a map.

I walk down the charming quais.  Then turned right and right again onto the cobblestone street, with lanterns and those hallmark half wood-framed buildings. It was perfect.  How ever did he know? 

I walk in.  It is unlike the 1970s mode creperies I recall from high school trips to Paris.  It is hip, warm, friendly, and bustling.  Mid-century modern chairs - avocado green almost, gold, lucite and shag up front. But all done up with a 2012 contemporary sensibility.  See it all here.

Even better, the music.  That lounge-y stuff that I on buying on iTunes (Soul Lounge, Gregorian Chant Lounge, Celtic Lounge).

I wanted to high-5 the guy at the hotel about now.

I walk through the cool vibe room onto that back terrace.

I am handed a menu. 

So many elegant choices for a crepe.

This is not the last night creperie-of-canned-spinach horrors.

This is about fresh farm cream and other locally sourced dairy, including all the goat cheese.

 

Even better, certain crepes had recommended wine pairings by the chef.  Have to have that.

I order the "George" something: with the chevre cendre (ashed) and pears, and lightly smattering of "lardons" (bacon).   I was unclear on the "glace (ice cream) a chevre" - how does ice cream enter into the picture?  But the pear and goat cheese with that ashen outside was calling my name. I ordered, and for 3.2 Euros extra, got the Chardonnay pairing.

"Black wheat" (ble a noir) is the composition for these crepes - darker it seems than the more traditional buckwheat.

Inside, the lardons are not overmuch and not greasy. 

Just enough to pick up and contrast that salty tasty with a sweet crisp pear, and several small layered slices of just melted oozy goat cheese with that telltale sharpness that I just never get tired of.

And that little bit of ice cream on the side on my lovely plate?  So used to "chevre" being used to refer to cheese, or that's just where my head is usually, I forget it is just the word for goat.  Therefore, if one has yogurt with "chevre" - it is yogurt made with goat milk.  And if it is "glace" - or ice cream - a la chevre, it is ice cream made with goat milk.

It was such a French, tiny, just-right portion.  It was a thick, rich vanilla taste, with a tart tangy bite to it.  I loved it.  Loved it all.

And then I ordered coffee.

And then I finished my coffee.

And then there was nothing left to order.  I had to leave.

Here, one pays at "l'accueil" - at the welcome desk up front. The two guys running this whole show, answering the phone, cheerfully and graciously welcoming every guest - a charming bookend to the creperie of horrors the night before.  I told of my mistake: that I ate the night before at a creperie up at the Place Sainte Anne.  He smiled and kind of rolled his eyes knowingly, but he said nothing.

And because it is "Festival Gourmand" in Rennes for about a month -- though I am missing the big finale weekend in a couple of weeks --  they stamped my card for me that I picked up at the tourism office.  If you go to 3 restaurants participating in the "Festival Gourmand" and have them stamp this card, you rank which of the visited restaurants you liked best and turn in the card at the tourism office for a drawing.

I did not turn mine in. 

But if I had, the Saint Georges would have been my No. 1 pick.

 

A couple of food things better left unseen...Honey Boo Boo's "Sketti" Night and the Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte Secret Syrup

It is with some hesitation that I mention anything related to "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo" because that would confirm that yes, I watch the show, briefly, when I happen upon it.  I am actually quite enthralled by it.  Apparently a lot of other people are too.  Ratings are way up and they are asking for raises.  Loving but vulgar is about right to describe the family.  Alana, a/k/a Honey Boo Boo, is freakishly articulate and bursting with spunky personality for what, age 7?  But I guess if you've been trained for years in the toddler pageantry scene, that's par for the course. 

I love best about the show the interesting turns of phrases in the family vernacular.  The mom's "what the hellever" is my current favorite.  She uttered it at the unsuccessful conclusion of an etiquette class for the girls, and the teacher's gentle remark that more work was needed.  Really.  Now, I've heard "what the hell ever for," but to use the phrase just to state one's disdain, as if to say "whatever" and say instead, eyes rolling, "what the hellever," I kind of love it.

But I did not love a recent food episode.   Mom was making "sketti."   The family's favorite sauce for "sketti"  on family sketti night is butter and ketchup.  I felt a little sick to my stomach.  But as grossed out as I was, I also was fascinated.  I could not avert my eyes.  But then they got out the big plastic brown tub of faux spreadable butter/margarine and were scooping that out, and then squeezing the ketchup out, and about then I was done.  I had to look away.  But for a minute, I did wonder how it tasted.  Would the faux spreadable butter substance take away enough of the sweetness of the ketchup?  Would this combination even stay together or separate when heated?  I should have watched to see if they did heat it. 

Not 12 hours later, I was in a long line at Starbucks, where I happened upon another food (beverage) item that I really wish I had not seen. 

I realize a lot of people are gaga over the Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte.  Even really good friends of mine.  I always get just nice strong coffee ("grande bold no room"), so I don't entirely get this.  But I do get the thrill of it being that time of year, like now, when Starbucks rolls out the Pumpkin Spice Latte.   I get that it means fall is here - and for Austin that means just a tad bit of thrilling coolness in the mornings and at night.  Autumnal coziness I totally get because I become almost weepy with serious warm fuzzies when Starbucks changes the cups over from the signature white with green logo to those holiday red paper cups with snowflakes.  It means Christmas time:   ultimate cozy times, in front of the fire (if it dips below 60 degrees), curled on up on the couch surrounded by cookbooks and planning the holiday food spreads, listing to a little something Baroque on KMFA, a glass of red wine....

But the magic of the Pumpkin Spice Latte is better left unseen.  Because it is really nothing more than this icky sweet viscousy stuff that comes in a plastic jug, which someone had left out in plain view on the counter for all to see. 

It is a good thing the Festival Gourmand  will be in full swing in lovely Rennes, France when I am there next week.  I aim to have enough gourmet gourmandise outings to erase residual queasiness over the thought of spreadable-from-a-tub-butter-and-ketchup sauce over sketti.