Ann Mah's Blog, page 19

Carte postale: Farm fresh

Greetings from Washington, DC! We’re still in furnished housing while we find a place to live. For now, I’m reveling in the things you can’t find in France, like sweet corn from the Farmer’s Market, so fresh its juices ran down my chin.

Autumn song

The other day I was making a quiche, rubbing butter and flour between my fingertips, and thinking about the French immersion I took before I moved to Paris, about my courses and classmates, and a poem that we learned by heart. It’s a slight poem, and mournful. I can still recite the words.

Chanson d’Automne de Paul Verlaine

Les sanglots longs

des violons

de l’automne

blessent mon coeur

d’une langueur

monotone.

(Translation: The long sobs of autumn’s violins wound my heart with a dreary lethargy.)

Tout suffocant

et blême, quand

sonne l’heure

je me souviens

des jours anciens

et je pleure

(All stifled and lifeless, when the hour strikes I remember days gone by and I weep.)

Et je m’en vais

au vent mauvais

qui m’emporte

decà, delà

pareil à la

feuille morte

(And so I go on an ill wind, which carries me here and there like a dead leaf.)

Pretty gloomy gumdrops, right?

Fall has arrived in Paris. There is a northern wind in the air, and piles of crunchy leaves on the streets, and bushels of plums in the market to prove it. That quiche that I was making was for a picnic, one of the last of the season, and some friends and I enjoyed it on the Champ de Mars as we watched the golden late-summer day turn into a luminous evening lit by a blue moon and the sparkle of the Tour Eiffel.

You’d think that I’d be sad, what with the disappearance of peaches and nectarines, and my imminent departure from Paris, and Paul Verlaine’s gloomy refrain running through my head. But autumn has always been my favorite season, a time of new beginnings and all that. As much as I love Paris, I’m ready to be reunited with my cookbook collection, to launch new projects (including on this blog — stay tuned!), and to join my husband in nights of Indian food and bad TV. I really miss that guy.

I was thinking about all of this as I rolled out my tart dough, pre-baked the shell and removed its shrunken form from the oven. (Sidenote: Why do the edges always creep away from the sides? Why?!) The cadence of Paul Verlaine’s autumn song swam in my head as I squeezed water from defrosted spinach, and chopped some steamed broccoli, and whisked together eggs, milk and cheese.

When the quiche was in the oven, I sat down at my computer and Googled “Chanson d’Automne.” And I made a discovery.

During World War II, the BBC and the French Resistance developed a code to signal the start of Operation Overlord, aka D-Day — and they used the first three lines of Chanson d’Automne as an alert. When repeated twice — “Les sanglots longs/ des violons/ de l’automne” — meant that operations would start within two weeks. They were broadcast on June 1, 1944. When the poem’s next three lines were transmitted twice — “Blessent mon coeur/ d’une langueur/ monotone” — it signaled that the action would take place within 48 hours and that the Resistance should begin sabotage operations. These lines were broadcast on June 5, 1944. (For more details, visit this fascinating website.)

It turns out that Paul Verlaine’s despondent poem — part of an 1866 series that he oh-so-cheerfully entitled Paysages Tristes, or “sad landscapes” — was actually a symbol of hope.

Mes amis, I leave you with a recipe for quiche and the wish that cooking it may bring you many insightful, heartening, and inspiring contemplations.

See you in Washington, D.C.

xoxo

Spinach and cheese quiche

1 recipe pâte brisée dough (see below)

500 grams/ 1 lb frozen chopped spinach

200 grams/ 1 cup grated cheese (Comté, Gruyère)

4 eggs, lightly beaten

1 1/2 cups milk or cream

Salt and pepper

With clean cool hands and a floured rolling pin, roll out the dough on a floured surface and fit it into a 22-cm/10-inch tart pan. Prick the bottom and sides with a fork. Chill for one hour (allegedly this reduces the shrinking). Preheat the oven to 180ºC/350ºF. Bake the tart crust until golden brown, about 15-20 minutes. Remove from oven.

While the shell is baking, defrost the spinach and squeeze it dry (I usually use my bare hands. It’s very satisfying). Combine with the milk, cheese, and beaten eggs. Season well. Pour the egg mixture into the prepared crust. Bake in the center of the oven for 30 minutes, or until the quiche is puffed, set, and lightly golden.

Note: I really like Chocolate & Zucchini’s pâte brisée recipe, though I usually substitute whole wheat flour for half the quantity. She also offers lots of good pastry tips with the recipe (though not all of them work for me).

The world out there

The other day I ate a bowl of sweet black sesame soup by the side of the road. I was at a dai pai dong, one of those Hong Kong eateries whose name translates to “outdoor food stall.” Or, perhaps it means, “delicious cheap eat.” Or, alternatively, “fast food with a dollop of verbal abuse.”

I’d received my first serving of brow-beating when I arrived at 12:43 pm and the woman within the shed that doubled as a kitchen told me they didn’t open until one o’clock. “Don’t wait here!” she said gruffly. I turned and fled and came back a couple of hours later, sat at a table and began to fan myself with a menu. “DON’T DO THAT!” the woman screamed at me in Cantonese. “THAT’S SO LAZY. There’s a FAN!” She pointed at the electric fan that faintly stirred the heavy air. “PUT THE MENU BACK.”

Here’s something you probably don’t know about me: I can understand a little Cantonese. When I was nine years old, my father transported us to Hong Kong for a sabbatical year and my parents insisted that I take lessons. Mind you, I can no longer speak Cantonese — when I try, a jumble of Mandarin emerges, with a few French filler sounds tying everything together — but I knew what the woman was saying. Especially after she repeated herself in English.

I ordered my dessert soup from the bilingual menu and it arrived a few seconds later, scooped from a pot in the shack and set down with a slosh. I summoned up a gigantic smile and thanked the woman with an elaborate m’goi saiiiiii! It was an aggressive thank you, exaggerated politesse intended as a weapon. Alas, my arrow missed its mark, for as I raised the spoon to my lips, I heard the woman say with disgust: “Oh, so she DOES speak Cantonese!”

Oh, Hong Kong! It hit me the minute I stepped off the airport express into Central, not just the humidity — a thick layer that I could never quite wipe from my skin — or the smell — a mixture of garlic, and gasoline, and something else industrial — or the people — so many people crowding the sidewalks, jockeying at zebra crossings. It was the energy, so relentless and vivid it made Paris seem like a backwater. I hadn’t felt that energy since I’d left China in 2007. For five years, I’d forgotten it. But I knew it immediately. And I realized something else, something that surprised me: I had missed it.

At first, it seemed like I’d fallen out of practice in Asia, lost my China expat skills. Soon enough, however, I was back to carrying packets of tissues in my handbag, rinsing restaurant plates with hot tea before I ate from them, and donning my finest duds every morning so that people wouldn’t think I was — Hong Kong horrors! — a Mainlander. Actually, that last part is a lie — in the 98% humidity that is August in Southern China, I couldn’t bear to wear nice clothes. As a result, everyone thought I was the maid — starting from the very first morning, when the doorman at my friend’s apartment building eyed my bedraggled travel clothes and asked me: “Are you here to work?”

  

I suppose I should have said yes, because I was there to work, which, in my job, means eating. I’ll post details on the project as soon as possible, but I can tell you this: At one point, I ate at six restaurants in a single day. Six! My pants will never fit the same. In between bites, I plotted my trajectory to the next meal, scouring the map before setting out on the metro, in taxis, and on foot, pushing through the moist summer air, fighting the jet lag that had screwed itself around my head. (Turns out, I had also forgotten about the jet lag — oof.)

 

Lost in the immediacy of my activity, a funny thing happened — I didn’t have time to worry about the Big Move, or where we’ll live in Washington, D.C., or whether everyone is going to stop reading this blog once I leave Paris (er, you’re not, right?!). For the first time in, well, ever, I was living in the moment, absorbed in this short, strange and intense journey.

Being in Asia reminded me again of how big the world out there is, so much larger than one city in Northern Europe — as beautiful and elegant and beloved as that city may be — of how the mind expands with new experiences — experiences that take you out of your comfort zone. I leave Paris in less than a week and I’m not ready — I could never be ready. But I think about the clouds of incense drifting from the ceiling of the Man Mo temple, the piles of exotic vegetables in the market stalls off Queen’s Road Central, the snappy crunch of a steamed shrimp dumpling, the Star Ferry chugging across Victoria Harbour. I think about how many more places there are to discover, and devour, and lose my heart to. And I tell myself: Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.

Carte postale: Hong Kong

Greetings from Hong Kong! I’m here for work, which means I’m eating at least five meals a day, all in the name of research. I think I might be food drunk.

Rue de Loo

One of the first things I bought for our new apartment was the picture. It’s a photo of Julia Child in her kitchen in Paris, and I wanted to hang it in my own.

By now, Julia’s story has become the stuff of bestselling memoirs and blockbuster films. But those of us who love Julia are each touched by her story for a different reason: the late bloomers, the kitchen unconfident, the professionally unsatisfied. In honor of Julia’s birthday — she would have turned 100 tomorrow, August 15 – I’d like to share mine.

A month after we got married in 2003, my husband and I moved to China. I left my job in book publishing to become a diplomat’s wife. I loved being married, but in those early days, newly unemployed, I floundered. I missed my job as an editor so much I felt like I’d lost an internal organ. I wept, I worried, I spent weeks alphabetizing our bookshelves. I wondered how I’d ever adjust to life as a trailing spouse, moving around the world for my husband’s career while lacking my own.

It would be disingenuous to say that Julia Child led me to food writing. She was one among a pack of writers whose work inspired me to strive and to despair. But I had read Julia’s biography and I often considered the parallels in our lives: her stint in China, her marriage to a Foreign Service officer, her life as a trailing spouse, her career nurtured throughout multiple international moves. Even now, my mind still turns to them like a set of worry beads. I don’t aspire to be Julia — she remains a true original with that height, and gustatory enthusiasm, and funny, fluting voice. But I look at the loving teamwork of her marriage with Paul — unwavering despite personal and professional disappointments, not to mention multiple untimely overseas relocations. The self-mocking tone of her letters when she became too maudlin over leaving her beloved France. The success that bloomed from hard work and sheer will, despite the upheavals of diplomatic life. And I feel hopeful.

If you read this blog, you’re probably familiar with my story. You know I got my start writing for a local Beijing expat magazine, a free monthly that, though littered with typos, burst with energy. I wanted to write about food but they needed stories about everything else. And so, I wrote about orchid care, Chanel knock-offs, men’s seersucker suits. Eventually, when the dining editor left, I leapt at the chance to take her place. I will be forever grateful to that magazine for giving me a job, a chance, a path in another direction, a new dream to nurture.

Julia and Paul moved to Paris in 1948, when Paul was assigned to a job at the American Embassy. In 2008, my husband began an assignment at the American Embassy in Paris, and, like Julia, I too became a diplomat’s wife in France. In the four years that I’ve lived here, she has never been far from my thoughts. I’ve looked for her in all the usual places — her apartment at 81 rue de l’Université, which she dubbed rue de Loo. Her old haunts like E. Dehilleren or Au Pied de Cochon (I feel sure the latter two must have been more honest and appealing in her time). Lesser known spots, too, like the Hôtel de Talleyrand, home of the Marshall Plan and post-war diplomatic cocktail soirées, or Place de la Concorde, where our husbands worked at the Embassy, albeit separated by fifty years. I’ve tried to replicate her culinary curiosity by remaining open, adventurous, enthusiastic — even when faced with a heaping plate of andouillette. I’ve done my best to honor her in my new book, Mastering the Art of French Eating. And when we decided to buy an apartment, a shoebox pied à terre in Paris, the one that struck us with a thunderclap just happened to be on her old street, rue de Loo.

“It’s fun to get together and have something good to eat at least once a day,” said Julia. “That’s what human life is all about—enjoying things.” Yesterday, a friend came over for lunch and I made a quiche and green salad tossed with Julia’s vinaigrette, the recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. My friend brought bread and honey, traditional gifts to sweeten a new home, and we ate, and talked, and finished the salad, and lingered over Eric Kayser’s amazing pistachio-apricot brioche. “Does the apartment feel more like home?” she asked. It did. It does.

After Paul’s assignment ended in 1952, he and Julia never again lived permanently in France. (Though they kept a small, stone house in Provence, they used it only for vacations.) If I’m being honest, I have to admit that I, too, may never again live permanently in Paris  – a hard truth that makes my heart seize up. But thinking of Julia reminded me of the important things in life: the essential humanness of sharing good food with the people you love, even when you’re in a place you may not love so very much. Somehow everything tastes better when eaten with your favorite dining companion. Later, as I washed dishes, I gazed at the photo of Julia in her kitchen on rue de Loo, now hung in my kitchen on rue de Loo. I like to think she’ll be keeping an eye on things while I’m away.

More on Julia Child and her 100th birthday:

Cook for Julia birthday celebration from PBS

Old photos of Julia and Paul Child (I bought mine here!)

Recipe for sauce vinaigrette from Mastering the Art of French Cooking

Fun video mash-up of Julia Child’s best action scenes (thanks, Dad!)

Côte d’Azur and London

It has been a summer of planes, trains, and automobiles, of overnight bags and mini-sized toiletries. I had planned to document all my voyages but, to my surprise, I was too busy actually, you know, enjoying my travels. Imagine that! Instead of an avalanche of photographs, I’ve got a flurry of snapshots. Instead of detailed blog posts, I’ve got a handful of half-baked ideas.

But on the Côte d’Azur and in London, I found several bonnes adresses, little gems so delightful, I feel compelled to share them. Here then, is a motley mix of restaurants (and one B&B) — my favorite summer discoveries.

 

Saint-Paul de Vence: Les Orangers

This charming bed and breakfast, located outside of St-Paul de Vence, is set into a grove of flowering orange trees bordered by a sea of violet agapanthus. It has a cool stretch of swimming pool, a pair of statuesque cats, breakfasts of croissants and homemade marmalade (made from the trees in the garden!), and patios strewn with rambling courgette plants (I loved monitoring the rapidly growing squash). My room was clean and cool, carpeted in sisal and edged by a terrasse where, every evening, my parents and I would gather for a glass of wine. I can’t imagine staying anywhere else on the Côte d’Azur.

Nice: Oliviera

I’ve written about this olive oil-focused restaurant before (here and here). But almost a month after a leisurely lunch here, I’m still feeling inspired by the food: the plates of sliced sweet tomatoes and vegetable-stuffed courgette blossoms, a lasagne layered with baby zucchini, tiny ravioli stuffed with slow-cooked beef daube, chunks of baguette dipped into a pool of golden olive oil… again, and again, and again.

 

London: Ba Shan

Ah, London. The River Thames, the Queen’s guards, the tradition, the majesty, the Chinese food…?! Every summer, I visit my parents in London where they spoil me with museum exhibits (this year, Shakespeare: Staging the World at the British Museum is excellent) and feasts of ethnic food. At Ba Shan, a Hunan restaurant near Oxford Circus, we tucked into chili-spiked stir-fried cabbage, vermicelli noodles studded with spicy pickles, and wedges of homestyle tofu slipped into a fiery, salty sauce that made our lips burn.

 

London: Kateh

My parents’ lovely Iranian-British neighbors introduced us to this Persian restaurant in Maida Vale. I wrote about the lamb and chicken kebabs in my newsletter, but I ate other items worth mentioning: the satisfyingly chewy flat bread, served warm from the oven, dipped into thickened yogurt for a contrast of hot and cool, cubes of tangy feta that crumbled on the tongue, smoky pureed eggplant studded with walnuts, a warming stew of lamb sweetened with pomegranate, and piles of beautiful herbs — my favorite was the tarragon — that added a fresh perfume to each bite.

Les Orangers

Chemin Les Fumerates

06570 St-Paul de Vence

tel: 04 93 32 80 95

Oliviera

8 rue du Collet

06300 Nice

tel: 04 93 13 06 45

Ba Shan

24 Romilly Street

London W1D 5AH

tel: 0207 287 3266

Kateh

5 Warwick Place

London W9 2PX

tel: 0207 289 3393

Summer news

I just hit send on the July edition of my newsletter, in which I dish about summer reading, my new book, recent travels, apartment phobias and restaurant finds. If you’re not a subscriber, you can find it here. And why not subscribe while you’re at it?

In the newsletter, I talk a little about the books I’ve read recently, but I’d love to know: What are you reading right now? I have a 12-hour flight to Hong Kong coming up next month and I’m eager for suggestions!

City cat, country cat

Every time I write a post about cats, I fear it will be my last. Felines in France hide, you see, they curl into cozy apartments, or cool shadowed corners. They’re difficult to spot and almost impossible to photograph. But then you see one, and then another, and — here’s the tricky part — capture them on camera. And suddenly you have another collection of cat photos to share! Ladies and gentlemen, I present City Cat and Country Cat.

In Paris, this cat waits for his order of pâté de foie gras at a neighborhood café.

In the 7e, this alley clearly belongs to this cat.

Meanwhile, in the country…

Artists flock to the South of France for the light, but others are attracted to the relaxed pace of life.

While still others seek a quiet hideaway.

La Colombe d’or

If you arrive in the sharp heat of a summer day, you understand immediately why they flocked here, the greats like Picasso, Matisse, Leger and Renoir. On the Côte d’Azur, the sun seems brighter, the sky bluer, the shadows darker, the light more dazzling. If you stare long enough, the wrought-iron balconies turn Cubist, the palm trees Fauvist. And in Saint-Paul de Vence, a little village in the arrière-pays behind Nice, you can glimpse both inspiration and oeuvre at La Colombe d’Or.

As the story goes, this simple café-cum-hotel welcomed impoverished artists in the 1950s, allowing them to exchange their artwork for meals and sojourns. The result is a treasure trove of paintings and sculptures. They line the walls, the stairwells, the linen closets, you know, just a little Miro in the front hall, a Braque, Chagall, or César in the dining room, a Calder mobile floating above a stack of tablecloths. Some say the paintings are copies now, the real canvases hidden in safety, but I prefer to believe they’re just nailed to the walls.

The collection is open to the public, but to visit it, you must be a guest of the hotel, either staying in one of the rooms or eating at the restaurant. Alas, you can’t just pop round for a drink and tour (I had that idea, too). You have to make a reservation and embark upon a full meal. Which begs the question: How’s the food? Well, last weekend, my parents and I had a chance to find out.

We were traveling with some friends of my parents, lovely, worldly friends who know people who know the Colombe d’Or. The Sophisticated Friends made the reservation — a table on the terrasse underneath an ancient fig tree, a Leger mural along one wall, a César sculpture in the corner — and when we sat down, a bottle of chilled champagne appeared, a gift from the Sophisticated Friends’ friends. Champagne. Appeared. As if by magic. It joined the softening light and gentle air, the buzz of happy voices and exquisite artwork, in casting a spell.

  

As for the food? It was quite simple and plain, if you can consider salads of truffle and lobster simple and plain. The ingredients were fresh, though not particularly well considered (for example, arugula leaves completely overpowered the truffle shavings). But the classics were well executed: an aioli Provençal with sparkling fresh cod and a bouquet of vegetables, a sauceboat of garlic-scented mayonnaise hovering by the side. A thick pavé steak seasoned with a generous sprinkle of salt and pepper, cooked judiciously à point. A bottle of chilled Bandol that filled our glasses with a rosé-pink glow. The Grande Marnier soufflé, a fragile mound set alight in a halo of blue flames. An orange-scented grappa — the hotel’s signature, homemade digestif — that the waiter spilled into tiny glasses. He came around a second time to offer us another drop, to keep us under the enchantment for a little longer.

La Colombe d’Or

Saint-Paul de Vence

06570 France

tel: 33 04 93 32 80 22

Carte postale: To market, to market

I’m still exploring my new neighborhood. But on my way to the twice-weekly outdoor market at Pont de l’Alma, I discovered this view. Pas mal, hein?