GourmandeMom™

Friday night at home: Popcorn on the cob (Greenling #localbox) and Herbel

After a plateful of steamed cauliflower for dinner last night while watching Anne Burrel on Food Network do her thing in an otherwise very quiet house (the son is away in the country), I noticed I had not much left of the fine French natural red wine, Herbel, from my currently favorite wine region, the Loire Valley (and just 20 km from Angers, Austin's sister city).   Might as well finish that off.  Herbel, the site says, is both an organic and natural wine. This is an amorphous and confusing area as to what exactly is a "natural wine," even for those fluent in the subject matter.  In very general terms, a natural wine is one with no preservatives or chemistry in wine-making: just the essence of the vine and the grape.  This wine from Les Vignes Herbel in the Loire Valley is so exquisite as natural wines go that it deserves an informative post dedicated to it alone.  

But for now, it's all about the popcorn.

Having been so extreme low carb for dinner this Friday night, I thought why not check out the popcorn on the cob that was in my Greenling local box this week?  

Greenling includes a list describing what is in the big green box as well as recipes for the week's items.  Thursday night I thought something from the box was squash, and cut it up to sautée it with onions and garlic, but then realized, as soon as I put it in the Le Creuset, that something was not quite right. Indeed.  It was cucumber. Cucumber was listed on the list. Squash was not.  One of those weeks.  Popcorn on the cob though on a Friday night in my kitchen, with a fine French natural wine with one of the most poetically beautiful wine labels ever--from dear friends in Angers--will make everything right with the world. And indeed, it just about did.

The Instructions (paraphrased from the Greenling instructions)

Take the husks off the cobs of popcorn.  Take off as much silk as possible.  

Place the cobs in a paper bag.  Fold the top of the bag over several times (a very necessary step; see below).

Place bag in microwave on its side.  Cook on high, until you hear two seconds between pops (like traditional microwave popcorn, the instructions say).  Stay close by: it will burn quickly once popped.   

I set the microwave for 2 minutes.  After a long delay it seemed, around 1 minute, 15 seconds the popping finally started.  

The popping was fast and furious for about 45 seconds, then slowed down a bit. The bag was expanding and expanding, almost coming undone at the top.  This is why you need to fold the top of the bag down several times.  Otherwise, the force of the steam will start forcing the bag open, too soon, during the cooking.

By the time the microwave wound down at 2 minutes it was probably just about at the right time.

The instructions say wait 2 minutes before opening the bag.  Too hot to handle they say. I forgot to wait, but I am still alive and unscathed by steam.

And there it was: a brown paper bag of popcorn, complete with cobs, mostly bare of kernels, but still many partially popped kernels attached here and there.  

I struggled (briefly) as to whether to add just a tiny bit of melted butter.  If you're going to have popcorn just popped off the cob, with a lovely French red wine at home on a Friday night, a little bit of butter is a propos. And it so was.

I was all ready to plant some popping corn in the backyard.  Like most projects I think are a great idea, it's more complicated and requires more tedious attention and care than I am capable of--but apparently such popcorn is indeed quite ok to grow in the backyard.

So amaze your friends, your kids, or just yourself.  Such cobs are available on line for purchase. I like these folks in Nebraska (just from a look at the site) at Big Red Pop Corn, but the cobs don't have the husks on them.  Securing a lovely bottle of Herbel to go along with the popcorn ... not so easy.  (You'll have to perhaps take a wine and food tour with me sometime over to the Loire Valley.)

Paris Trip No. 18: light and sunny streets and wine bars and new restos in the 11eme in Paris

(Entry through courtyard and into building where my sunny apartment in the 11eme is located)

For this France trip, which, despite the strikes, got underway officially today when I landed around 6:45 a.m. Paris time at CDG, I forgot my toothbrush, packed only two bras—one white and one black—for 4 types of short-sleeve and sleeveless white t-shirts. This would not be a problem but for it is a three-week stay.   Telecommuting is a wonderful thing.  I found the local Monoprix - love - and took care of those issues.

I soon learned that my flight to Paris, cancelled just two days ago due to the strike, was suddenly reinstated (just the day before I left) because the air traffic control strike ended June 13--today--to be followed immediately by a train strike.  Train strike is code for all transportation in Paris besides taxis is not working per usual, or at a snail's pace if at all: metros, RER, the TGV, etc. I learn all this from the man sitting next to me on the plane, who flies every few weeks to see his new (of 2 years) French wife: they met as pen pals when he was learning French, and that exercise was considered the thing to do to help him learn French.  He went to visit her.  He got swine flu.  She took care of him.  Voila. He says his French is terrible, and he has given up.  They speak English.

I think to get concerned about getting a taxi from the airport, as they should be in high demand with the RER commuter trains and Metro affected, but opt instead to spend the balance of the trip with a good cry with a tiny plastic bottle of red wine and Crazy Stupid Love on the high-def touch screen. 

On arrival, no problemo with les taxis.  I decide, with 4 hours to kill while awaiting the apartment's state of readiness, I will go to a comforting comfortable place where I can charge all my devices, get a fantastic bathroom break in, and enjoy lovely coffee and service before I head to the unknown territory of the 11th Arrondissement.  This venue of choice would be the Hotel Burgundy, where friend Maureen and I have had some lovely phone-charging champagne or coffee-drinking sessions in between meetings.   Getting there was a whole other issue.  

With all of Paris and its regions' inhabitants taking to their cars given the no regular train service available, the route was packed.  Crawling along at a snail's pace, I begin to fear the fare will consume the week's grocery budget.

The driver and I start talking.  For an hour.  His wife has a fabulous job at a big corporate American company, with global operations, where she is in charge of various highly technical import-export regulation matters.  They realized early on that 2 careers was crazy with caring for the only child, a daughter. He would adjust to his wife's career.  He made it so he woke up every morning, very very early, to finish in time to pick up his daughter at her school, a school just 300 meters from their house.   He did this every day.   It was he who decided, when she was 12, that perhaps he would wait for her a little off to the side somewhere.  She was 12 now after all.  "Papa" - she chided him, why are you doing this.  He went back to his usual practice.  He at times tried to alter the routine, but every school year, same routine. This was of course really hard on the working mom, but for her daughter, amidst this wonderful teamwork for parenting, this was an optimal arrangement.  Two difficult careers and a child just do not mix well, he said.  That leads to problems.... I said I knew something about that.  He continued this tradition with his daughter until she ended high school, at that same school, just 300 meters from their house.

I find out he is from Valencia, so we speak some Spanish.  And talk about Sevilla, and the dialects and Catalan.  And we talk about cabrito.  

His daugher is now married to her high school sweetheart (who also has parents who are French (the mom) and Spanish (the dad).  This cute couple used to live a few hundred meters away from her dad  (my now totally intriguing taxi driver) and her mom, that high-powered also multi-lingual wife of my taxi driver.  This only child, who now has a precious baby boy--the first, and maybe only, grandchild--then moved back next door to her parents.  

(Cafe de l'Industrie: will go back; found it while I was lost looking for lunch restaurant)

Now, as retirement for this world traveler taxi driver looms near for his wife, the days look even more charming.  With his one and only grandson next door, he will now do for his only grandson what he did for his only daughter.  He will take him to school, the same school his daugher attended all those years, and, as with his daughter, he will wait after school for his grandson and walk him home.  He and his wife could have opted for the big "terrain," the big house, but they "live small."  And they travel: California, Wisconsin, Bryce Canyon, Yosemite, New York, Boston, Florida -- and of course back to Spain every summer as well.  We talk about where he should visit in Texas. I marvel at the wonder of getting this driver and having this conversation about a special man's charmed "small" happy life.

I arrive at l'Hotel Burgundy.  I have to explain no, not checking in. I, uh, have a rendez-vous later on nearby and want to have breakfast and a coffee (and use your lovely WC facilities and your Wi-Fi as well).   Alas the lounge is not available, just the breakfast room.  I am surrounded by Fendi strollers and demanding super wealthy and very young hotel patrons wanting many different varieties of cooking methods done for their eggs. 

Service is impeccable at a 5-star boutique hotel.  And so it was in summoning the taxi and loading everything up for me in the taxi.  The driver is intrigued by my 3-week stay, my business plans - he totally nailed the business side of my trip in like 12 seconds - and he is amused at the change in scenery I am doing here with the taxi ride from the swanky swanky Place Vendome area over to the more real-life 11eme.

We find the little street that will be home for 8 days.  

The apartment agent meets me in time to manage my suitcase up the two flights of stairs.

The drill was that I would leave the bags and wander around for another 2 hours while Sebastien, the agent, finished the cleaning of the apartment (he already was letting me check in earlier than the rules say).   We go over the little booklet of information about local sources for wine, food, cheese, and where to not buy wine (no, never from the large commercial entities--go local; go local and smaller producer), and the best restaurants for very reasonable prices.  

This turns into a conversation about the ways "industrial cuisine" has made its way into Paris restaurants and how to avoid bad food in Paris.  One tip: Read the reviews - but pay attention to the bad ones, not the good ones (and dismiss the ones from Americans who sound like they do not know Paris.  Have to agree with him there).  

I also get a lesson on the chef/owner of restaurants in the area and more on organic wine and the purpose of preservatives in wine, etc.  

(View from interior courtyard close to my building, looking out onto rue Popincourt)

Not that he is too different from any other French person who cares about where his food is from and the "correctness" of the pricing as to the quality, but I am taken aback by this impromptu food and wine conversation and the gravitas of it.  I decide I will set out for one of the few places that make his cut for the small booklet for the apartment.  I decide it will be "Le Petit Cheval de Manege."  I stumbled around in a daze, literally, getting lost along the way, and finally end up there.  

(front of restaurant, but Google images for this place - better than my pics)

Sebastien was spot on for this place.  And, it turns out, my most reliable food review food blog Paris by Mouth is all over it as well.  For good reason.  

There is a very small "market" menu, but I still go for what I think might be especially good: the "formule" of the day - a set dish or two for a bargain price.   A mere 15 euros for a starter (l'entree) and the principal dish.

Candidly, I was not sure what I ordered.  Was losing consciousness because of exhaustion.  I did order a glass of Bordeaux.  That I could do and remember.  

Apparently I ordered a warm salad with spizy homemade chorizo and capers.  Good bread is served therewith--a good sign that this is indeed a quality place.

Shock.  The young chef comes out and checks on me.  He tells me how to eat this salad to get the best of it and all the juices of the chorizo and its drippings mixing into the salad's minimal vinaigrette.  He asks me if the dish is pleasing to me.  After I get over being agog at how young, and cute, he is, I speak: Uh, yea, totally (en francais of course).

Next:  fish of some kind with tasty grilled and flavorful spicy sauced fennell.  One bite and I get why this made Sebastien's cut.

Crispy on that outer part, flaky and tender and piping hot on the inside.  I melt with contentment.   I realize I may have to get dessert.  What else can this guy do?!

But no.  I am done.  I get the check.  I assure self I will come back. I walk home and trust I am just right on the timing for me to crawl into bed and deal with my sleep deprivation.

Sebastien was just leaving.  I have to de-brief him on my meal.  

He is horrified that I had a Bordeaux with the fish - I should have known better than to tell him - and, worse, I said I pretty much drink red with anything.  I decide I need to rebuild my credibility.  I tell him:  did not know what I was going to eat when I ordered (well, that's a problem right there though) and the fish did have a hearty rich sauce that made it maybe not too wrong. I did concede the Bordeaux as the red was a little heavy.  We discuss what fish may be ok for a red wine.  

Finally.  Nap time.   

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.