Ann Mah's Blog, page 20

Land of sandwich

On our drive from Vermont to Cape Cod, we kept seeing signs proclaiming “Sandwich.” Of course they made me hungry. I was a little disappointed, however, to discover they referred to a town in Massachusetts, rather than lunch.

Before we embarked upon our New England vacation, my friend, Katia, asked me to document my sandwich consumption on the trip. It had never occurred to me that we eat an inordinate amount of sandwiches in the United States, or that they might be different from those found elsewhere in the world. But after a week in the homeland, I can say: We do! They are!

In France, the mid-day repast varies between long, leisurely and wine-soaked (e.g. a one-way ticket on the Naptime Express), or a packaged salad scarfed secretly and shamefully in the office kitchen. In other words, lunch is either very slow or very fast, with few options in between.

But we do lunch a little differently in the States — a little more relaxed, a little easier, a little simpler. On our recent trip, I was thrilled to rediscover sandwiches big and small (but preferably small), and reclaim them as my one, true, lunchtime love.

At the Shelburne Farms Farm Stand, I gobbled down a petite sandwich filled with turkey, cheddar, mesclun, and a crisp slice of apple, everything raised locally. I also loved a vegetarian version layered with hummus, cheddar, chunks of juicy yellow squash, and crisp shards of fennel, the vegetables all grown steps away from our picnic table, in the market garden.

Of course, Americans eat sandwiches for breakfast, too. (I could never have survived my 20s without the restorative, hangover-kicking bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll.) Though I had my doubts about eating bagels in Vermont (can you blame me?), this seeded specimen turned out to be very fine, properly chewy and doughy, with a hefty, almost crisp, crust. It was particularly enjoyable with a cup of iced decaf and a long perusal of the Sunday New York Times. (You can take the girl out of the Big Apple, but…)

One day in Cape Cod, my in-laws served up a lunch that was most refreshingly un-French — sandwiches from Ferretti’s, a local deli, eaten from the butcher paper wrapping, washed down with a pickle. I spent an hour at the counter trying to decide on my order. The bread options read like poetry (sourdough, rye, marble rye, whole wheat, bulkie roll, soft sub, pumpernickel, wraps in every color of the rainbow…), and the list of sandwiches was as detailed and imaginative as Les Misérables.

I finally decided on the Gobbler: turkey spread with mayonnaise and cranberry sauce, piled high with a scoop of thyme-scented stuffing. Yes, it was a bread sandwich. I loved it, even though I could only finish half.

I couldn’t visit Cape Cod without eating a lobster roll, and the version I found at The Captain’s Table in Chatham, Massachusetts came pretty darn near close to perfect. The lobster meat was tender, sweet, and lightly dressed, the bun soft, mushy, golden and warm from the grill. My only quibble was the price: $16.95 for a lobster roll the size of my palm. I’m still reeling.

  

Then again, in the end, I was kind of glad my lunch had been so modest, if only because it left room for me to indulge in my true favorite meal of the day: cocktail snacks next to the Bass River.

Shelburne Farms

The Farm Stand in the children’s farmyard has fresh, creative sandwiches, salads, and soups. I wish I’d tried the grilled cheese made with farm cheddar.

1611 Harbor Road

Shelburne, Vermont 05482

802 985 8686

Burlington Bagel Bakery

If you’re staying at the Inn at Shelburne Farms and you don’t feel like a full-service breakfast hullaballoo, this is a great, cheap self-serve option. I especially loved the pumpernickel bagel.

992 Shelburne Road

South Burlington, Vermont 05403

802 864 0236

Ferretti’s Market

An array of inventive sandwiches, though they handle changes or substitutions without batting an eyelash.

501 Underpass Road

Brewster, Massachusetts 02631

508 896 8919

The Captain’s Table

In the adorable town of Chatham, this is the Cape Cod seafood shack you’ve always dreamed of — except for the prices.

576 Main Street

Chatham, Massachusetts 02633

508 945 1961

Green Mountain vacation

I never thought I’d say this, but jet lag is a marvelous thing when it wakens you at 5.23 to a soft and dewy Vermont summer morning. The sun, which will set your face on fire later in the day, is still gentle, low in the sky. The air feels like silk pajamas, cool against your skin. And, if you’re lucky — like us — to be staying on a farm, there are miles of open road for an early run.

I worry a lot, so of course I’d been fretful about my reentry to the United States. But in the high, green mountains of Vermont, I discovered a region as enchanting and absorbing as any place I’d visited in the world, with its moody skies, and verdant landscapes, and lake framed by misty mountains, and sturdy farm-food culture.

There were swimming holes and cheddar cheese sandwiches, fields filled with wildflowers and grazing cows. And at Shelburne Farms, the handsome Belle Epoque mansion where we stayed — converted to an inn in the 1980s — there were glimpses the Gilded Age and its extravagant luxury, now faded and a little shabby.

The 1,400-acre farm raises vegetables and dairy cows, sheep, pigs, and hens. Alas, not everyone was a willing subject for my camera.

  

While France is, curiously, a kale-free country, Vermont seems to be producing enough to burn. There were farmers markets filled with fresh produce, including bunches of cruciferous leaves that would make an American in Paris weep. I eavesdropped on several conversations about kale cookery (massage it with lemon juice to break down the fibers). And I ate it. A lot of it.

It appeared in: Eggs Benedict. A cool, crunchy salad scattered with blue cheese and caramelized pecans. With grilled chicken. Folded into a frittata. It wasn’t in the cheeseburger (at least, I don’t think there was any), but it could have been. A little shredded kale slaw? Why not?

My favorite restaurant discovery, by the way, was the Farmhouse Tap & Grill, a Burlington pub dedicated to Vermont produce and beer. The hamburger pictured above was made of local, grass-fed beef and topped with local cheddar cheese, succulent and satisfyingly meaty.

 

Thanks to your suggestions, we wandered the streets of Burlington, visited the weird and wonderful Shelburne Museum, and hiked a portion of the Long Trail, to the top of Camel’s Hump. The latter almost made my legs fall off, but the view was worth it.

We also went sailing on beautiful Lake Champlain, climbing aboard our vessel, “The Friendship,” just as the sun began to dip into the sky.

  

The evening was too calm for swift passage, but luckily our boat was equipped with an engine. We bobbed along the calm, rose-tipped waters and watched the sky change from orange, to pink, to lavender, to black.

On our final night at Shelburne Farms, we sipped wine on the porch and gazed past the lawn to Lake Champlain, and, beyond, New York and the Adirondacks. I lowered my gaze for only a second, but it was enough time for clouds to gather and a shower to burst from the skies. And then we saw this:

I like to think it was a good omen.

P.S. Thank you for all your tips, which made our vacation truly remarkable! xoxo

The Inn at Shelburne Farms

Built in 1890 as a country estate, now an inn and restaurant, open from May-October. The working farm has wonderful educational programs for children (and animal-loving adults).

1611 Harbor Road

Shelburne, VT 05482

802 985 8686

Farmhouse Tap & Grill

We loved this casual restaurant so much, we ate here twice.

160 Bank Street

Burlington, VT 05401

802 859 0888

Pizzeria Verita

Pretty darn good Neapolitan-style pizza, made with exceptional ingredients, including house-made Italian sausage and mozzarella.

156 Saint Paul Street

Burlington, VT 05401

802 489 5644

Carte postale: Lobster à table

Greetings from Cape Cod! Last night, as we ripped the shells apart with our bare hands and dipped the meat into melted butter, my in-laws asked how they eat lobster in France. Not like this.

Summer holidays

After all the emotional sturm und drang of the past few weeks, we are off for a little holiday next week. This summer, we are not vacationing in the Alps, or Provence, but in two equally beautiful and exotic (to me) spots: Vermont and Cape Cod.

I grew up in California, so New England has always held a special allure. Even though I’ve spent two summers in Vermont, both sojourns were at the Middlebury College Language School, where I was immersed to my eyebrows in Chinese vocabulary words, or French verb conjugations. As a result, I couldn’t properly explore the Green Mountain State’s lakes and breweries, its hiking trails, local farmers and cheese-makers. (Never mind that I wasn’t, you know, allowed to speak English.) This summer, I’m so excited to return under my own steam, with a rental car and map!

I’d love to know: What are your favorite things to do (or eat!) in Vermont or on Cape Cod? Aside from canoeing and eating cheeseburgers (Vermont), and searching for lobster rolls (Cape Cod), I’m not really sure where to go, or what to do. I’d love to hear about your favorite spots!

P.S. Where will you spend your summer holiday?

 

A little pasta

Ever since I moved to Paris four years ago, I’d been dreading one day — the day the movers would come to pack up our belongings, the day we would have to leave our rambling Parisian apartment. That day came on Monday. Hello from our new apartment. Hello from The Other Side.

I don’t want to dwell too much on the Big Move, but I’m still reeling from the sight of our home of four years stripped bare. The movers worked like a fury — they packed the whole apartment in four hours (I fear for my china) — leaving the rooms looking so small, so scuffed and vulnerable.

After they left for the day, my husband and I went to eat lunch at a neighborhood café, a place where the owners greet us by name, and kiss us hello. And then, we went back to the apartment to collect our bags and bring them to the the new chez nous. We’d called a taxi and it was waiting on the curb with the meter running, so my last glimpse of the place was a rushed blur of heavy suitcases grabbed on the run. I’d planned to go back the next day to help oversee the removal of the packed boxes, but my husband bravely shouldered the unpleasant task alone. In the end, I didn’t even know my final visit was my last, which was kind of the way I wanted it to be.

I’ve loved and left a great number of apartments in my life, but I can’t ever remember feeling so sad to say goodbye to a place. It feels like I’ve broken up with someone. And even though I know it was for the right reasons, reasons beyond our control, if I think about it too much, I still want to burst into tears. I am heartbroken — not deeply, or permanently, or irreparably (it was just a place, after all) — but still, my heart is broken just a little bit. I know it’s silly, but I feel grief for something I’ve lost.

Our new apartment is trying hard to fill the empty space in my heart. But I’m on the rebound. I’m not ready to fall in love, not yet. Still, things like new bedskirts and rattan wastepaper baskets are helping to make this new place feel cozier, more like home. Cooking is helping, too, specifically the pasta I made on Monday night, our first night here in the new apartment. It combined summer courgettes with onions that I sauteed long and hard to drive the new paint smell away from our walls. A handful of parmesan and an egg stirred in at the end made everything creamy. We ate on our new couch, while watching The Good Wife on our new TV. This place will become chez nous, one spaghetti strand at a time.

Spaghetti + onion + courgette

250 grams (1/2 pound) spaghetti

Olive oil

1 onion, quartered and sliced

2 courgettes/zucchini, quartered lengthwise and sliced into triangles

1/2 cup grated Parmesan

1 egg

Salt and pepper

Bring a large pot of water to boil for the pasta. Place a sauté pan over medium-high flame and heat a tablespoon or so of olive oil until it’s hot enough to make the onion sizzle. Add the onion and sauté for a 2-3 minutes until wilted. Add the sliced courgettes, stirring to coat with the oil. Cook for 7-10 minutes, or until the courgettes are soft and faintly golden on the edges. Stir frequently and lower the heat if the vegetables start to stick or brown too quickly. Season.

Meanwhile, add the pasta to the rapidly boiling water and cook for the indicated time on the packet (mine says 8 minutes). Break an egg into a small bowl and beat it with a small handful of Parmesan and healthy dash of black pepper. When the pasta is cooked, fish it out from the water and add it to the pan of courgettes. Toss to combine, adding dashes of pasta cooking water to keep the mixture fluid. Remove from the heat and stir the egg thoroughly through the strands of pasta. Taste and adjust seasonings. Serve immediately with a sprinkle of Parmesan.

Life, lemons, lemon tart

There’s a lot of stress and anxiety over here as Moving Day approaches (er, tomorrow). But why contemplate the unpleasantries of life when you can dwell on a lovely afternoon of tea and tarts? After all, when life hands you lemons…

Jacques Genin’s tarte au citron has a crust so tender it crumbles at the mere suggestion of a fork. Its crème citron center is a masterful balance of sharp and sweet (this from someone who usually finds French lemon tarts too sugary), perfumed with the faint scent of basil. This last touch evokes a hot summer day cooled by an iced glass of lemonade, a suggestion of refreshment.

Many have worshipped the lemon tart, including Jacques Genin himself, who penned an entire cookbook devoted to it. The object of our adoration can be found and photographed at Jacques Genin’s salon du thé. One tart will provide about three weeks of daydreamy contemplation. Don’t miss the passion fruit caramels, either.

Jacques Genin

133 rue de Turenne, 3e

tel: 01 45 77 29 01

Related posts from around the web:

Goûter at Jacques Genin

Paris Pâtisseries takes on Jacques Genin

Jacques Genin (official website)

Le Meilleur de la tarte au citron by Jacques Genin (book)

Jacques Genin’s tarte au citron recipe (in French)

Big Sandwich

Home improvement. DIY. Bricolage. The very words strike fear into my heart. My toolkit consists of a hammer that I found in the closet of a former apartment and a screwdriver that I bought at CVS. My self-assembled Ikea furniture is starting to self-disassemble.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned since buying an apartment, it’s that handyman work and home ownership go together like procrastination and Twitter. Unfortunately, though my husband can navigate his way mapless through any new city, charm the most sourpuss of great aunts, and bring your pub quiz team to victory with his profound knowledge of sports trivia — just a few of his many talents — he shares my dislike of DIY. Our home together is crumbling to bits — well-read, well-fed, jazz-noted bits, but bits nonetheless.

Luckily, we have friends. Friends who own drills and levels and toolboxes in the shape of tiny metal suitcases. How could I convince these friends to spend a “fun” evening with us building furniture and hanging shelves?

I bribed them. With beer, and snacks, and rosé wine (for the spouses), and a sandwich. A Big Sandwich.

  

  

The Big Sandwich is not just a sandwich. Nor is it merely big. Rather, it’s an elaborate creation, a triumph of sandwichery. There are meats — I used mortadella, cooked ham, and spicy salami, but feel free to go crazy at the deli counter — you could even skip the meat and add tuna, or anchovies. There are cheeses — gouda, maybe Emmenthal? Perhaps a spot of cheddar? There are chopped black olives and lettuce and tomato. There is bread that has been brushed with vinaigrette. But be careful — the right kind of bread is important — it must be mushy enough to absorb flavors, yet sturdy enough to withstand the delectable juices that soak into it. I couldn’t find the perfect Big Loaf, so I used two different breads: ciabatta rolls that had the perfect texture, though they weren’t really the perfect size, and a country round. That’s why my Big Sandwich is actually a collection of several sandwiches.

The true magic of the Big Sandwich actually occurs after it has been assembled, during its overnight compression in the fridge. I weighted mine with a 5-kilo pail of sauerkraut (which is up for grabs, if you live in Paris — free sauerkraut!). The overnight rest smooshes everything together, melding the flavors.

The result is a compact, salty wedge of meats and cheeses, the perfect reward after hours of toil spent assembling beds, and hanging shelves, and being yelled at by your bossypants hostess. (“Higher! Higher! No, now lower. Lower. Lower. Too low. Higher. Higher!”)  Dear friends, I am very grateful.

Big Sandwich

I adapted this from a Julia Child recipe for pan bagnat, a tuna sandwich from Nice. But you could add different meats, or skip the meat, or different vegetables (bell peppers would be nice). Let your imagination run wild!

1 ciabatta loaf (preferably large and round)

1 teaspoon minced garlic

1 teaspoon mustard

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

3 tablespoons olive oil

5-6 leaves red lettuce

1/2 lb (250 grams) sliced cheese

3/4 cup (100 grams) cured black olives, pitted and chopped

3/4 lb (375 grams) sliced deli meats

1 large tomato, thinly sliced

Slice the bread horizontally, into two layers. Prepare a vinaigrette by combining the garlic, mustard, vinegar and olive oil (I use a jar and shake vigorously). Using a spoon, spread half the vinaigrette on each side of the bread.

Arrange the sandwich ingredients in layers on the bottom half of bread. First the lettuce leaves, then the sliced cheese. Scatter the olives on top. Add a layer of tomatoes on top. Finally, arrange the slices meats as the top layer. Drizzle with the remaining vinaigrette (if you have any — I usually don’t) and top with the cap of bread.

Swaddle in several layers of plastic wrap and place in the fridge on a baking sheet. Place another tray or cutting board on top and weight with heavy items. Leave overnight to press and flatten the sandwich. Before eating, allow the sandwich to come to room temperature.

The best baguette in Paris

You guys. You guys are the best readers a blogger could ask for. You guys are the best friends a girl could ask for. Your funny and heartfelt comments on my last post have made me laugh, cry and brim with new appreciation for our new apartment (tiny though it may be). Most of all, they have encouraged me. I feel fortified by your kind words, mes amis. I’m down but not out. I’m screwing my courage to the sticking place. I still have a few months left in Paris, which amplifies to dog years when it comes to food discoveries. And so, ladies and gentlemen, I present: the City of Light’s best baguette.

Last month, Sébastian Mauvieux of the Boulangerie Mauvieux was awarded the prize of “Best Baguette in Paris” in a competition run by the city. A few days after his big win, I met Mauvieux at his shop in the 18th arrondissement, descending to a tiny, cramped, basement laboratoire, which was suffused by the oven’s fierce heat and the scent of yeast.

Mauvieux credited many factors for his win — high-quality ingredients, the dough’s leisurely overnight rise, his own savoir-faire – and he also made sure to acknowledge his apprentice, Roues Ngeht, who hails from Cambodia. Ngeht (pictured left in the photo above) mixed, kneaded, shaped, and formed the winning baguettes, just as he creates every one of the baguettes the boulangerie sells. The result is a golden crusted, honeycomb crumbed beauty, a marvel of crunch and chew.

Read more about the prize of Meilleure Baguette de Paris at the travel blog of the New York Times.

Boulangerie Mauvieux

159 rue Ordener, 18e

tel: 01 42 62 76 70

Closed: Saturday, Sunday

Goodbye, hello

I’ve been wanting to write this post for a long time, but I haven’t known quite how to start. Somehow, it seems easier to break the news in French, so here it is, plain and unvarnished: Je quitte Paris.

As I sit in my office, with the rosy scent of peonies drifting across my desk, it seems impossible to believe that our lovely apartment — with its marble fireplaces, and flutters of crown molding, and parquet floors laid out in a elegant pattern of point de hongrie – will no longer be our home. That I’ll no longer climb the gently spiral staircase to our front door, or embed the kitchen walls with the smells of sizzling turmeric and cumin, or shake my fist out the living room window at the line of cars honking as they impatiently wait to turn onto the rue de Rennes. It seems impossible that in less than three weeks, movers will come to sweep most of our belongings into boxes and send them across an ocean. But it is true. My husband’s work as a diplomat means we move often, every three or four years. It was his career that brought us here, and now, it is taking us away.

Time passes more quickly in Paris than anywhere else in the world. The four years I’ve spent here have felt like the shortest of my life (except for one, the year my husband spent in Iraq, which was the longest). In the blink of an eye — a gold-tipped, market stall-striped, gleaming cobblestone blink — it is time for us to pack our things and discover a new city, in this case, Washington, D.C.

And yet… and yet, Paris, I just can’t quit you, not like that. And so, after years of saving, we took the plunge and bought an apartment here. It’s just a tiny shoebox, but it’s airy and bright, with its own crown moldings, and point de hongrie floors, and a new Ikea kitchen whose remodel may have shaved several years off my life. And then there’s the view…

I’ll spend the summer in Paris feathering our new nest, and arrive in Washington, D.C. in September. The coming months hold much fear, and uncertainty, and emotion – and anticipation at seeing old friends, and publishing a new book – and also lots and lots and lots of questions. In fact, 99% of the practical details about our life in Washington are still completely up in the air. But there is excitement, too, excitement at finally having a home, a place to nurture, and decorate, and visit every year on vacation (or, in my case, several times throughout the year on research trips) — a haven to dream about on smog-choked Beijing afternoons, or during blowhard bureaucrat dinner parties, or other unlovely moments, wherever life takes us.

There’s no experience quite as wonderful — and I mean, quite literally, full of wonder — as being an American in Paris. But part of the romance is heartache. Vacations end, visas expire, and, in the end, most of us are obliged to return home. We can only try to hang on to a piece of a city we love so very deeply, via our daydreams — or mortgage payments — to yearn for it until we can return, and embrace it with all our strength when we do. Goodbye, Paris, and hello, and hello, and hello.

The Food Lover’s Guide to Paris

Journalist, cookbook author, cooking teacher, former restaurant critic for the International Herald Tribune, Patricia Wells‘s name has long been synonymous with good food. In 1984, she published her travel book, The Food Lover’s Guide to Paris, which was quickly recognized as an authoritative volume for gourmet travelers. Now she has updated and refreshed the book for the digital age, creating a new travel app that reveals Paris’s best addresses in the swipe of an i-Phone, i-Pad, or i-Touch screen.

The app offers reviews for over 350 of the city’s best food spots (including restaurants, cafes, bakeries, pastry shops, wine bars, and markets), a clickable map, an unparalleled glossary of French culinary terms, and more. As Patricia says in her introduction: “Visitors will find old favorites as well as new inspirations, covering every category from spots for quick bites to crêperies, sushi and dumpling treasures, as well as Michelin three-star haute cuisine restaurants.”

I’m delighted to welcome Patricia…

The app features more than 300 culinary addresses in Paris. How did you winnow them down from the city’s copious selection?

I began, of course, with addresses I already knew and loved, revisited and rewrote, then also spent extensive time visiting new spots and whether or not to include them in the app.

The last updated edition of the Food Lover’s Guide to Paris came out in 1999. How has the Paris dining scene changed since then?

The Paris dining scene has changed dramatically. More chefs moving to out of the way neighborhoods, very small restaurants, simple menus or just set menus. Also happy to see so many places now open seven days a week.

One of the benefits of an app is that it can be updated regularly. Do you have plans to add new addresses as you discover them?

For the moment we plan to make any necessary changes on  addresses that already exist in the app (any errors, change in hours, chef, style, etc.) I have already made extensive changes, with photos, commentary, etc. As to adding new addresses to the current app we have not made any final decisions.

What is your favorite food neighborhood in Paris?

Well, I live in the Sixth and Seventh [arrondissements] so totally love everything there, the merchants at the Raspail market on Tuesday, Friday, Sunday, Quatrehomme cheese, Poilâne bread, Pâtisserie des Rêves brioche, Henri Le Roux’s caramels au beurre salé, and Eric Kayser’s pain aux fromages. I also love the Président Wilson market on Wednesdays and Saturday.

Many thanks, Patricia!

The Food Lover’s Guide to Paris – a fantastic tool for any gourmands visiting Paris — is available for download on i-Tunes.