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.
Comments