Ann Mah's Blog, page 22

Spring greetings

Bonjour, mes amis! The month of April means more than just strawberries, asparagus, and torrential showers spiked with hail (seriously, Paris, what is up with the weather this year?). It’s also time for another edition of my newsletter, which I just sent! You can find it here, and subscribe here. I share a few stories, offer a few addresses for new gastronomic discoveries in Paris and Toulouse, and provide a recipe for the photo above. Enjoy!

Strawberries and cream

The past few weeks have been a peculiar period, equal parts self-indulgent and diligent. Never have I spent so many hours on end inside my apartment, not even when I had the great gastro of 2009 and could only eat liquids for three weeks. My husband took over the cooking and grocery shopping — turns out he makes a pretty mean meatloaf. I stopped exercising, reading for pleasure, and seeing friends. I hoarded dirty dishes in the sink because it turns out that if my brain is stuck, washing a pile of them helps get the gears moving again.

And yesterday — yesterday — I turned in the manuscript for the book. After more than a year of research and writing, it is done! Finished! I can scarcely believe it. Also, I think I have empty nest syndrome. I’ve spent the past 24 hours wandering in a haze, picking up things and putting them back down. I keep feel like I’m missing something, and then I realize, Oh, it’s the book. And it’s done! Hurray! And… sob! I’m both relieved and sorrowful at the same time. And, yes, I recognize that’s probably a sign of bipolar disorder.

To distract myself, I’ve nosed back into the kitchen and composed a little spring salad of bright cherry tomatoes and strawberries, perfumed with basil leaves. Pairing fruit and tomatoes is not a new idea — in the summer, I make a similar salad with peaches or nectarines, tomatoes, slivered red onions, and a pinch of dried chili — but I like the basil-enhanced fragrance of these two together. Also, it’s a good way to use early, not-very-fragrant strawberries.

A couple of suggestions: to make up for young berries, I recommend using cherry tomatoes, the sweet, ripe kind that are sold attached to the vine. I also recommend serving the salad at room temperature — the refrigerator will only chill the flavor out of the fruit. It’s gorgeous paired with burrata as the cheese’s luscious interior combines with the fruit for a modern, decadent, salty-sweet interpretation of strawberries and cream. (And if you’ve ever wondered “what is burrata?” here is a beautiful explanation.) Just make sure your cheese is room temperature (and not chilled) when you serve it. The salad is also wonderful with macadamia-crusted chicken.

As for me, well, 24 hours later and I already have my fingers in about a dozen new pies. You know me, mes amis, I just can’t stop myself. I’ll be sending out another edition of my quarterly newsletter later this week — please sign up here! — and I’ve begun an author page on Facebook and I would be thrilled if you stopped by and liked me. I also have all sorts of plans for lunches, walks, exhibitions, flea-marketing, and just plain enjoying life in Paris again, one bite at at time. Because that, surely, is the true art of French eating, n’est-ce pas?

See you again, very soon. xoxo

Strawberries + tomatoes + basil

1/2 lb cherry or grape tomatoes

1/2 lb strawberries

3-4 basil leaves

1/2 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

Black pepper

Cut the tomatoes into quarters and place them in a small bowl. Hull the strawberries, slice them into quarters, and add them to the tomatoes. Slice the basil leaves into thin strips, called a chiffonade, and add to the bowl. Stir in the vinegar, olive oil, and several grinds of fresh pepper. Taste adding more pepper if necessary. Serve immediately with burrata, fresh mozzarella, or plain.

Signs of spring

The temperatures in Paris ain’t balmy, but it’s spring! Spring! And I’ve seen the vegetables in the market to prove it.

There are lovely violet artichokes whose tender little hearts I dream of eating raw with a bright burst of lemon juice.

There are fat, juicy, grassy stalks of white asparagus, which I peeled, steamed, and drizzled with my lighter version of hollandaise.

There are fragrant strawberries — I’ve even found the Gariguette variety, from Brittany — which make a lovely breakfast when combined with Greek yogurt and a drizzle of honey. Or, there’s my new favorite lunch — half a ball of fresh mozzarella and a simple salad of quartered cherry tomatoes, quartered strawberries, torn basil leaves, olive oil, balsamic, and pepper.

There is plump young garlic, so much juicier and crunchier than its dried counterpart. If I were a preserving  kind of gal, I bet these fat cloves would make delicious, crisp pickles.

And there was my birthday cake, specifically the Montebello from Pierre Hermé: Dacquoise biscuit, pistachio cream, and strawberries (note how they only used the larger center slices of the berry). If one must celebrate another year, I couldn’t think of a better way.

Happy spring!

 

Le Select

Once upon a time, before a deadline reared its head, I used to go out during the day for hours at a time. The past few weeks? Not so much. Here then, are some photos from a month or so ago, from lunch at Café Select.

I first read about Le Select in The Dud Avocado. Like so many other details of Elaine Dundy's comic novel, I thought it was exaggerated or invented. Not so. Le Select exists, as it has for decades, on the boulevard du Montparnasse, a glass-terraced café with rattan chairs and grumpy waiters. The former Hemingway watering hole (but weren't they all?) is now the favorite hangout of French Green Party presidential candidate Eva Joly.

Across the street is another famous Hemingway café, La Coupole, and around the corner another, La Rotonde, and down the block still another, La Dôme. But Le Select is still Le Select.

Good for a croque monsieur (12.50€)…

A salade chèvre chaud (13€)…

And a coffee (2.80€).

Because it's always lunchtime somewhere, n'est-ce pas?

Carte postale: Un petit café

Sipped on the beautiful terrasse of the Café Select.

P.S. Posts have recently been light because I am working frantically on finishing my new book, which is due in less than two weeks (insert quiet freak out). I'll be back soon.

P.P.S. I'm very excited that said book will be a hot title at the London book fair. Here's a lovely mention in Publishers Weekly!

 

Shades of pink Toulouse

They call Toulouse la ville en rose, a city built of bricks that cast a rosy glow. Two weeks ago, just before the tragic events that struck the region, I visited this southern city and caught an ombre of pinks with my camera…

Palest petal pink at the L'hôtel d'Assézat, once the palatial home of wealthy pastel merchants, now a museum.

Seashell pink at the Saint-Sernin Basilica.

Dusky pink at an elegant hôtel particulier (Toulouse has the most 16th-century hôtels particuliers in all of France!).

Salmon pink street view.

Carnation-pink-and-white stripes at the Hôtel de Ville (city hall).

Coral pink bricks.

And… not-at-all-pink cassoulet — you didn't think I skipped it, did you?

When the tragedies of last week started to unfold, I watched in shock. I couldn't believe they were taking place mere kilometers from where I'd strolled in the bright sunshine. I've been thinking about Toulouse ever since.

Paris, my sweet (macaron)

An array of desserts in Paris and New York? It's the stuff dreams are made of. For Amy Thomas, the dream came true when she moved to Paris to write ad copy for Louis Vuitton. Her memoir, Paris, My Sweet, is a starry-eyed tour of the City of Light's best pâtisseries, juxtaposed with the American-style treats of her beloved New York. It's "a bonbon of a book," said USA Today, one woman's heartfelt homage to two iconic cities and all the sugared surprises life can offer.

Today, I'm delighted to welcome Amy for a special guest post on the Jour du Macaron — which takes place tomorrow, March 20 — a magical day that ties together pastry shops, charity, and free almond cookies cemented with ganache… Well, I'll let Amy explain the rest:

Macaron, Mon Amour

by Amy Thomas

When I first moved to Paris, I was all but ignorant to the charms of the French macaron. I wasn't even one of those people who exclaimed, "Ohhh, I thought you meant those little coconut things!" Macarons just weren't on my radar. Not in my consideration set. And since I wasn't really aware of them, they weren't able to seduce me.

But, for better or worse, that all changed when a colleague shared his macaron mania with me. In an effort to introduce me to French culture as much as the delicious French delicacies, he presented me with a beautiful box one day: chic and sturdy, covered in a bold illustration, I knew this was something special. I was instinctively captivated, especially when he dramatically removed the lid to reveal the contents. There inside were tidy rows of Technicolor double-decker treats, pretty and petite, feminine and elegant. I was mesmerized—practically hypnotized and immobilized—until he prodded me to sample one.

I wonder if everyone has their "macaron story." The first time they bit into a proper French macaron… do you? I just remember the crunch: feeling that light-as-air shell break and then give way to a delightfully tender, almost wet texture. Then came the ganache: an uber-rich, creamy-chocolaty filling that held the two meringue cookies together. And suddenly, it was a symphony. Crisp but chewy, ethereally light yet laden with flavor, the textures and tastes converged flawlessly. I had chosen Pierre Hermé's Mogador (for my colleague fell firmly on the Hermé side of the great debate of who makes the best macarons: Pierre Hermé or Ladurée), and no two flavors had ever complemented each other better than the rich chocolate and tart passion fruit.

Needless to say, that wasn't my last experience with the macaron. Once I was properly schooled (not only by my colleague, who proved to be eternally generous and devoted to my douceur education, but through classes at La Cuisine Paris, and my own diligent explorations and samplings), I could never resist a macaron. Or 47.

That's right. 47 macarons in one day. It was 2010 and, inspired as I was by my new affection for the iconic French treats, I decided to celebrate Macaron Day, which was created by Pierre Hermé. At the time, he had six boutiques in the city and you could go to any one of them to receive three free macarons. But if you went to all six, and got a card stamped to prove it, you were rewarded with a box of 35 macarons.

I started at the rue Bonaparte boutique as I expected that would be the busiest throughout the day. Sure enough, at the ripe hour of 10:15, there was already a line down the block. But I dutifully waited and kicked off the day with my three free choices: milk chocolate and earl grey, vanilla, and raspberry and wasabi. From there, I went to rue Vaugirard (pistachio, caramel, and the lovely mélange of peach, apricot and saffron), followed by avenue Paul Doumer (chocolate, white truffle and hazelnut, and apricot and pistachio). At Publicis Drugstore, I actually declined my three free macs. The sweet mania was too much, even for me. After stopping for some savory fortifications, I hit rue Cambon (lemon and hazelnut praliné, raspberry and balsamic vinegar, and the much-acclaimed olive oil and vanilla) and finally ended my tour of duty at the Galeries Lafayette, where I was rewarded with my own pretty, illustrated box of beautiful macarons.

Two years later, I'm still enamored. And now that I'm back in New York, it's almost as if macarons are following me; haunting me. Ladurée arrived on the Upper East Side last August, making it possible to sink my teeth into a lovely little lemon macaron at l'heure gouter. I've also discovered local bakeries with outstanding macarons that—in flavors like maple bacon and peanut butter and jelly—have been adapted for American tastes. And, bien sur, Macaron Day will be celebrated across the city this Tuesday, with more than a dozen bakeries and tea salons offering free macarons. It's hard to imagine there was ever a time that macarons weren't in my life and my heart.

Thank you, Amy!

Curious about the Jour du Macaron? Find more information about events in Paris and New York, and check out Paris by Mouth's very useful guide to participating pastry shops.

To learn more about Amy, visit her blog, God I Love Paris. And, while you're at it, why not pick up a copy of her charming book, Paris, My Sweet?

How do you choose books?

Last week, the New York Times had an interesting debate about blurbs (i.e. those words of praise from other authors that appear on the back of a book), asking: "If so many books are being commended, are they all commendable? [Are] blurbs on book covers still meaningful or have [they] become just background noise?"

I know from my days of working in book publishing that blurbs almost always come from the author's friends (or friends of friends), or friends of the author's editor or agent — which is why I rarely buy books based on blurbs. Instead, the main factors that influence my book reading are:

1) Recommendation from a friend.

2) Recommendation from a bookseller (in publishing lingo this is called hand-selling).

3) Book reviews (though sometimes reading a lengthy review is as good as reading the book).

4) Bestseller list (reading it weekly is a habit leftover from my publishing days; very rarely, I discover new authors there).

5) Cover (I admit it).

How about you, mes amis? Aside from word of mouth, how do you select the books you buy? Do you find new titles from blogs, the radio, TV, the bestseller list, or prime bookstore placement? Do you trust blurbs? I'm so curious!

(Photo via MorBCN on Flickr.)

 

Mini Palais

I didn't to mean to eat lunch at the Mini Palais, but it was Sunday, and we wanted to see the exhibit of villes en reliefs at the Grand Palais, and what's there to eat near the Grand Palais that's open on a Sunday? Well, you can see how my logic unfurled.

Housed in a wing of the Belle Epoque glass confection that is the Grand Palais, the Mini Palais is not royal merely in name, captained as it is by chef Eric Fréchon of the three-Michelin-starred restaurant, Le Bristol. At the Mini Palais, he has created a simpler, more affordable (though not inexpensive) menu.

As it turns out, the tiny palace — not to mention its grand counterpart — are not for the faint of heart on a Sunday, especially for those without a reservation. But after a bit of "patienting" we were seated at a table and a giant, warm gougère was set down. It was all cheesy and crusty exteriored with a soft steamy middle, and it immediately cast a spell over me. Yes. I can only surmise that it had been made by witches, because how else to explain the glass of Champagne that I ordered when the serveuse came by our table?

The Champagne paired beautifully with salmon cooked sous vide (19 Euros), the fish delicately pink, and perfectly moist, though its tandoori spices were overly subtle in that French spice-fearing way. The accompanying buttery cabbage was spiked with slivers of lemon confit and ginger that elevated the humble vegetable into a worthy accompaniment.

Where the salmon was pure and bright, the risotto (19 Euros) was lush and decadent, stirred with artichokes and parmesan and drizzled with high-quality olive oil. The flavor was fresh and springy yet with an underlying note of meatiness, the texture creamy yet finishing with a satisfying tooth-sticking bite of rice. This was textbook risotto, aspirational risotto.

I don't usually order dessert at lunch, but, hell, nor do I usually drink Champagne in the middle of the day. A café gourmand (9 Euros) was the perfect greedy way to finish the meal, a trio of buttermilk ice cream, chocolate cake, and a vanilla pot de crème as silky as a negligée. Too bad our waitress forgot the accompanying coffee. Which brings me to a critique of the Mini Palais – the service is forgetful and impersonal, full of miscommunication and disorganization — frustrating, though it didn't dampen the charm of the meal, nor the lovely neo-classic dining room.

As it turned out the line for the exhibit of scale models of French cities and towns — my whole raison d'être for eating at Mini Palais — was too long on a Sunday.

But that just gave me an excuse to return to the Mini Palais for goûter, after viewing the exposition during the week.

Mini Palais

Grand Palais

Avenue Winston Churchill, 8e

tel: 01 42 56 42 42

Watch cats

They're not easy to spot — shy and a little stealthy — but there they sit, behind glass storefronts: Watch Cats. It has taken me months to collect these photos of Paris kitties in shop windows. They're a secret French feline force keeping the mice at bay.

I've never eaten at the restaurant Lard d'Enfance in the 6e, but I love it because whenever it's closed, someone pulls out a chair so their house cat can watch the world go by. Even though the cat is usually elsewhere (he must have many napping spots), his chair is always there, ready to be perched upon.

I didn't knock on the window, I swear! But this cat's ear's pricked up all the same at the sound of my camera.

The picture of health in a pharmacy window.

A spokes-cat for the film, Chat Potté? (Actually this fluffy creature was standing guard in a vet's office.)

A feline maitre d' on a break between the lunch and dinner service.

How about you, mes amis? Have you spotted any cats at your local businesses?