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The sweetest street in Paris

The Rue du Bac is one of the loveliest streets in Paris — and thanks to a recent avalanche of renowned pâtisseries and chocolatiers (including Jacques Genin, Philippe Conticini, and Patrice Chapon) — it’s also one of the sweetest.

(Photo: Courtesy of Lindsey Tramuta)

Today pastry expert and author Jill Colonna — whose charming new cookbook, Teatime in Paris, cracks the code on making Parisian pâtisserie at home with fast, easy recipes for teacakes, eclairs, cream puffs, macarons, tartlets and more — rounds up six of her favorite treats. (And if you’re interested in my Rue du Bac picks, I wrote about them in this article.)

(Photo: Courtesy of La Grande Epicerie)

La Grande Epicerie

“This is Paris’s equivalent of London’s Harrods,” says Jill. “I love popping into their buzzing food hall with tempting stands of the best of world cuisine and French local specialities.” She raves about their “classic opéra, decadent but light” — a cake featuring layers of coffee-syrup-soaked almond sponge, chocolate ganache, and a chocolate glaze. Also, “their tarte au citron (lemon tart) is so beautifully decorated with meringue resembling a snow-capped forest that’s great inspiration to try the look at home with a piping bag.”

(38 Rue de Sèvres, 75007 Paris, tel: 01 44 39 81 00)

Angelina

“I particularly love this store in rue du Bac — even if it doesn’t have a tearoom — since it’s much less crowded than the one in rue de Rivoli,” says Jill. “They’re perhaps famous for their classic Mont-Blanc” — a dessert featuring chestnut purée, whipped cream, and meringue — “and hot chocolate but I particularly love their Saint-Honoré, with its traditional caramelised vanilla-cream filled choux buns nestling on top of a puff pastry base, and finished off with a swirl of Chantilly cream and glistening with gold leaf.”

(108 Rue du Bac, 75007 Paris, tel: 01 42 22 63 08)

La Pâtisserie des Rêves

“This is the original boutique where pastry chef Philippe Conticini started the Rue du Bac pâtisserie shop mania,” says Jill. “It is a perfectly pink pastry shop of dreams with its oversized upturned glass bells presenting the most pristine creations, many of which are there to evoke sweet childhood memories. My favourite pastry remains the Paris-Brest, with its more designer bicycle wheel shape to resemble that of its creation in Maisons-Laffitte for the Paris-Brest cycle race in 1910. Cut into the praline and choux and you’re in for a memorable tasting surprise.”

(93 Rue du Bac, 75007 Paris, tel: 01 42 84 00 82)

(Photo: Courtesy of Lindsey Tramuta)

Jacques Genin

“This is a brand new store opened after the popularity of his tea salon in rue de Turenne. It’s a patisserie that resembles more of a museum,” says Jill. “I could simply lunch on his rhubarb jellies alone — they are so addictive and bursting with fruit! His vegetable jellies are worth trying too. My favourite is a cucumber jelly, even if it’s coated with sugar, you can imagine just how refreshing it is during a heatwave in Paris. I recently was completely foxed by his dark chocolates with capers.  You heard me right. Capers! But do you know? It totally works and it sums up Monsieur Genin’s cheeky spirit!” Jill also recommends the mango and passion fruit caramels.

(27 Rue de Varenne, 75007 Paris, tel: 01 53 71 72 21)

Chapon

Patrice Chapon is one of the rare French chocolatiers to roast his own cocoa beans. “He goes out to the cacao plantations himself, he is passionate about making his chocolate from bean to bar, so we can appreciate not only the end results but the origins of the chocolate,” says Jill. His Rue du Bac boutique features “an impressive line-up” of single-source chocolate mousses.”It’s difficult to decide which one to take away. The Peru Mousse, for example, is made from the Trinitario bean, with notes of dried fruits, caramel and a hint of apricot and rounded finish…”

(69 Rue du Bac, 75007 Paris, 01 42 22 95 98)

(Photo: Courtesy of Acide Macaron" target="_blank">Acide Macaron)

Acide Macaron

“It’s a little bit off the “beaten Bac track” since the boutique is at completely the other end of the street, nearer the Seine,” says Jill. “I love what pastry chef Jonathan Blot does. I would thoroughly recommend tasting his macarons, which are all given names such as Edouard (pistachio & orange blossom) and Jean-Paul (salted butter caramel), which are my favorites. My daughter, Julie, has always been tickled pink that she has her own bubble-gum macaron! Chef Blot doesn’t just make macarons; his pâtisserie is worth the detour too. One of his latest creations is a yuzu tartlet with a strawberry and rose confit finished off with a lemon thyme cream and decorated with strawberries.”

(10 Rue du Bac, 75007, Paris, tel: 01 42 61 60 61)

Of course — if a trip to Paris isn’t in your immediate future, you can mix and match the recipes in Jill’s new book to crate a tartlet base filled with rose pastry cream, finished off with a mascarpone cream, and decorated with a sprig of lemon thyme and fresh strawberries. (Buy a copy here :)

For more Paris pastry tips, recipes, and beautiful photos, visit Jill’s website.

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Stuffed delicata squash

This is just a little post, because I’m excited about the lunch I just made. These winter squash halves are stuffed with bread, cheese, and other good stuff (bacon, garlic, cream…), then baked in the oven until golden and crusty. I used delicata — “the best squash,” said the lady at the Farmers Market — but acorn, butternut, or pumpkin would all be wonderful. This recipe, from The Kitchn, is like Dorie Greenspan’s Pumpkin Stuffed with Everything Good, but in miniature form.

Here’s the clever part of the recipe: Once you’ve packed the stuffing into your squash boats, nestle them upside down in a baking dish lined with parchment paper. (I’ve started lining everything with parchment paper to prevent sticking; it’s my new life motto.)  With the squash flipped upside down, the flesh cooks faster and the stuffing sears golden, crunchy, and delicious against the hot surface of the baking dish.

You guys, this was SO good! The stuffing had crunchy bits and steamy pockets, offset by the chestnut sweetness of the squash.

Find the recipe here.

Bon weekend!

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Visit to Naples

I had been to Naples once before, for a few hours, on our honeymoon, twelve years ago. We hurried across town in a taxi, from airport to ferry terminal, where we boarded a boat to Capri. The taxi driver took one look at our drawn jet-lagged faces, our shiny new wedding bands, our eager American smiles and proceeded to cheat the hell out of us. What can I say? He saw an opportunity and he seized it. And so, when I received the opportunity to visit Naples for a few days this summer, I was at once excited and apprehensive. Excited because of the food, the museums, the Italy. Did I mention the food? Apprehensive because I was a woman traveling alone, in a notoriously shady city that had outfoxed me once before.

I packed with care, leaving my camera, wallet, and engagement ring at home. I borrowed a friend’s travel pouch, stuffed it with a modest amount of cash, and strapped it on beneath my clothes, never mind that it made me look five months pregnant. I kept loose change and two credit cards in a ziplock baggie. I carried a tote bag turned inside out so that no one would see the English words printed on the side. I obsessed over these precautions — but the minute I spied Naples from the air, eyes bleary from the 6:30am flight — I felt a jolt of pure excitement. A whole new city filled with food discoveries! All I could think of was pizza.

Pizza was my first meal — a “marinara,” with no cheese, all tangy sauce, fragrant garlic, and soft, soggy center. As we ate lunch, my friend, Paola — native Napolitana, professor at the local university, and fellow former Beijing expat — told me about her city. Later, she led me on a tour of narrow streets, pointing out her favorite restaurants, shops, and churches, spending generous hours helping me to orient myself, even though she was leaving on a business trip the next morning. Thanks to Paola, I saw an entire ancient Roman shopping street unfurl before my very eyes, beneath the church of San Lorenzo Maggiore. I gazed at the stark, shadowed figures of a Caravaggio at the Pio Monte della Misericordia. I learned that the cracked façade of an unassuming building can hide a spectacular modern apartment: cool Mediterranean terracotta floors, glossy Italian fittings, and a sun-splashed terrazzo shaded by a lemon tree, an olive, a kumquat.

Thanks to Paola, I discovered the most delicious sfogliatella — this kind is called “riccia,” which means ruffly — crunchy, baked layers wrapped around sweet ricotta perfumed with cinnamon and candied orange peel. She told me to visit Pintauro, on the via Toledo, a tiny pasticceria with very odd hours. Every time I passed (which was at least twice a day) they were closed. On my last morning, I arrived at 9:30am, but the riccia were still in the oven. (Have I mentioned that I do not speak Italian? A lot of Napolitanos speak English, and my French went a long way, but I still communicated mainly by pantomime.) I went for a walk around the block, returned fifteen minutes later, and held this beauty in my hand, the pastry’s heat almost unbearable. I devoured it on the street.

In fact, there was a lot of eating on the street, by tourists and locals alike. Like the pizza fritta at Sorbillo — a round of dough dabbed with tomato sauce, buffalo ricotta, buffalo mozzarella, and cicoli (“pressed cakes of fatty pork,” says Wikipedia), folded into a half moon and deep fried. The result was blistering hot, greasy enough to soak a double paper wrapper, and yet surprisingly light, the dough at once crisp and chewy. When you receive your dangerously hot bundle, there’s a ritual juggling from hand to hand, as you let it cool enough to raise it to your lips. Is it ready yet? Ouch, no. Is it ready yet? Ouch, no. Is it ready yet? YES. Molten ricotta sears your mouth; filaments of mozzarella fly through the air.

Naples is famous for its fried snacks, sold from street-side stands that look like money-laundering fronts — they display no food — because they cook everything at the last minute. I entered the Friggitoria Vomero just as school had let out for lunch, walking straight into a crowd of ravenous, screaming schoolchildren. I almost fled in terror, but I held my ground in the name of research, even though it took me a few panicked minutes to figure out the system: Pay at the cashier first. Then move to the counter to receive your fritti. The kids pressed around me like feral foxes, waving and shouting at the woman behind the counter to fill their order. She moved with calm efficiency, unbothered by a scene reminiscent of “Lord of the Fries.” (Ba dum bum.) On the sidewalk, I ate a potato croquette, an arancino rice ball, and a zucchini blossom (total price: €1). The latter items were a little too cold and I realized too late that I should have been more strategic when ordering, choosing not my favorite foods, but rather the items that had just emerged from the fryer. Next time.

I learned a lot from my mistakes. Standing at the counter of a café, I ordered a sfogliatella with my espresso. After an incomprehensible exchange (on my end) with the barman, I received a warm pastry that I later discovered was the Other Sfogliatella. Called “frolla,” this is like a soft shortbread cookie filled with the same sweetened ricotta mixture as its frillier sibling.

One rainy afternoon, I visited the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, one of the most famous museums in the world, stuffed with a collection of ancient artifacts: marbles, bronzes, mosaics, and more. I had dreamed of visiting this place ever since our honeymoon day trip to Pompeii, and I (and about a hundred French tourists) wandered the galleries in a blissful sweat (there was no air conditioning; the place was stuffy as hell).

At one end of the museum, I found a gated room called the Gabinetto Segreto, or secret cabinet, where I was surprised to discover quite an eye-popping collection… let’s just say that’s not a gherkin in the photo above… those cheeky ancient Romans! Seriously, the objects here reminded me of that movie Super Bad, sort of relentlessly, hilariously thematic.

My only regret of the whole trip is that I didn’t eat clams, especially since I kept seeing them for sale. But the one night I decided to splurge on a nice meal, my restaurant of choice was fully booked. Instead, I drank wine at the outdoor Enoteca Belledonne, and ate more pizza fritta for dinner, which ended up being kind of a perfect evening after all.

Before I left town, I made sure to pick up a corno, a charm in the shape of a horn, meant to ward off the evil eye and bring good luck. You see them everywhere in the historical center, hanging in bright strings that resemble dried chile peppers. I bought two and tucked them safely inside my anonymous tote bag.

As I headed to the airport in the backseat of a taxi, I finally allowed myself to relax. I had made it through three days and nights in Naples, without getting pickpocketed or rooked (that I knew about). I think my cab driver must have seen me heave a little sigh, for when we pulled up to the curb, he tried to tack an extra €6 onto the fare we’d already negotiated. But I held firm, and we ended our transaction with a smile. What can I say? He saw an opportunity and he seized it. Naples will always be Naples. 

IF YOU GO – TIPS

–For clear information on Naples taxis, visit the blog Napoli Unplugged. In short, there is a fixed rate to travel from the airport to the historical center (and vice versa), but you must ask for it when you get in the car. (Learn how to say “tariffa predeterminata.”) If you want a receipt, you have to ask for it at the beginning of the trip (“ricevuta“). Be firm.

–Many cafés, bars, and food stands in Naples have a particular payment system. 1) Order and pay at the cashier. 2) Make sure to collect your receipt. 3) Show this receipt to the barman, fry cook, what have you. 4) Collect your goods.

–For restaurant and wine bar advice, visit Gillian’s Lists and Katie Parla. Trust me on this.

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Tuesday dinner with Hillary Davis + giveaway!

For years, I’ve been in love with my Le Creuset cookware. (I have two.) I use them to braise stews, meatballs, soups, ratatouillaise…  :) But I’ve also often wondered how to deploy them in other ways. Lo and behold, I was delighted to discover Le French Oven by Hillary Davis, a new cookbook completely devoted to the cocotte (aka Dutch/French oven). (And, psssst — I’m giving away a copy! Find out more at the bottom of this post.)

Hillary is a food journalist, cooking instructor, mom to a Pomeranian pup named Fez, and the author of four books. In Le French Oven, she pens an ode to enamel-coated cast iron cookware, with recipes for all seasons, as well as tips for purchasing and maintaining. Today, Hillary shares her weeknight cooking secrets, and a recipe for one-pot pasta Niçoise…

On the importance of toast:

I always manage to have a really good sourdough or country bread around. So my favorite quick meal is to make a tartine (the French word for open-face sandwich). I look to see what’s in the fridge or pantry. If I have cold chicken leftovers, I’ll spread mayo on the bread, top with lettuce and tomato and thinly sliced chicken and more mayo, with a generous amount of coarsely ground black pepper. If I have great tomatoes, it will simply be a perfect summery tomato and mayo tartine with a grinding of sea salt.

On cooking fast meals:

I concentrate first on making what I call a flavor bomb. It usually starts with me opening a can of tuna and dumping it in the food processor. Then I might throw in 4 to 5 cloves of garlic, kosher salt, some Dijon mustard, half a bottle of capers, a can of anchovies. It all depends on what I have around, but the intent is to make a highly flavored paste.

On how to deploy the flavor bomb:

I toss it into spaghetti, slather it into an omelet, add olive oil and use it as a salad dressing or to make a chicken salad. I think flavor first, then create the meal from that.

On cooking in the French oven (and only the French oven):

In my newest cookbook, my recipe for Niçoise pasta uses a technique for cooking pasta in a French oven. First, you cook the pasta in wine and chicken stock rather than water to produce a much more flavorful pasta. Then, you make a flavor bomb from tuna, anchovies, hot pepper flakes, and garlic. Once the pasta is cooked, you mix it in just before serving.You can cook the pasta all at once in the French oven and carry it to the table to serve from. This is a true one-pot meal that is quick and delicious.

One-pot Niçoise Pasta / Pâtes à la Niçoise

Adapted from Le French Oven by Hillary Davis

Serves 6

*Note from Ann: In this clever recipe, everything cooks in the same pot — you don’t even need to drain the pasta. (Californians take note! This is good drought cooking :) Tuna and anchovies get blitzed in the food processor to create a rich and savory sauce. I was initially dubious about using so many strong flavors, but the white wine and lemon juice offset any fishiness. “Personalize this recipe by creating your own version of a flavor bomb, or by simply stirring in a jar of marinara sauce at the end,” says Hillary. “Quick and simple.” In the summer, she suggests making this recipe in the French oven, then chilling it in the pot and serving cold.

4 tablespoons olive oil, divided

2 5-ounce cans tuna, drained

4-5 anchovy filets

5 large cloves garlic, crushed and peeled

3 teaspoons Dijon mustard

Zest of 1 lemon

Juice of 1/2 lemon

1/4 teaspoon hot pepper flakes

1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

1 pint cherry tomatoes, sliced in half lengthwise

1/2 cup tightly packed fresh basil leaves, coarsely chopped

1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped

1 pound uncooked fusilli, medium shells, or short rigatoni pasta (or any dried short pasta)

3 cups dry white wine

3 cups chicken stock

Salt and pepper

In a food processor, blend the tuna, anchovies, garlic, mustard, olive oil, and lemon zest. Hillary calls this paste a “flavor bomb.”

In the French oven, warm the remaining oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until tender, about 5 minutes. Add the pasta, wine, stock, hot pepper flakes, and a pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, cover, and cook until the pasta is cooked, about 7-9 minutes.

Stir the tuna-anchovy paste into the pasta. Add the lemon juice. Cook over low heat, stirring continuously, until the pasta and sauce are creamy in texture, and everything has warmed through.  Add the parmesan, stirring until the cheese is melted and well-blended into the pasta, adding dashes of lemon juice, chicken stock, or water, as needed. Stir in the tomatoes and basil. Taste and adjust seasonings. Serve immediately.

*Le French Oven by Hillary Davis Giveaway!*

Hillary is giving away a copy of her book to one lucky reader!

To enter:

1. Leave a comment below with your favorite slow-cooked dish.

2. For an extra entry, follow Hillary on Twitter (@MarcheDimanche), tweet the following, and leave a comment to let me know: I’m entered to win Le French Oven by @MarcheDimanche from @AnnMahNet. More info: www.annmah.net. 

3. For an extra, extra entry share this post on Facebook. Leave a comment to let me know.

The contest ends Tuesday, October 13, 2015. A winner will be selected at random and announced here. Good luck!

For more about Hillary, visit her blog, Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook!

(Non-food photos from Hillary Davis.)

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Savory zucchini, mint + goat cheese cake

The other day I had some friends over for a drink. Normally, I’d unscrew the top off a bottle of white, rip open a bag of potato chips and call it a day ;) But these weren’t just any friends — they were food bloggers. I wanted to go the extra mile.

A couple of weeks earlier, I’d made a savory Roquefort pecan cake to serve at a birthday picnic, and so I had the itch to create another — one perfumed with late summer’s beckoning flavors: the glut of zucchini, the voracious bushes of mint, tangy goat cheese. (My friend Jenny also inspired my subconscious.) I cobbled together a recipe based on Les Cakes de Sophie by Sophie Dudemaine, a fun cookbook devoted to the savory cake. My “cake salé” baked as I rifled through the liquor cabinet, mulling over cocktail ideas.

When the timer went off, the cake looked and smelled delicious — golden with blistered cheese — but as soon as I pulled it out of the oven, I knew something was wrong. For one thing, the loaf pan felt like it weighed about forty pounds. I let the cake cool, and when I sliced into it I found a dense, wet, heavy interior — more like bread pudding than the fluffy, courgette-threaded cake of my dreams.

Alas, time was running short. My guests were due to arrive in a few minutes. I had no time to make another cake, or even run to the store to buy an extra tube of Pringles. So, I pulled a Julia Child — “never apologize” — zipped my lips shut and served it. As we sipped ginger-mint margaritas and chatted about the state of olive oil in 2015 (which, I learned, is dire), my mind kept churning over the recipe — what went wrong? How could I fix it?

The batter was too wet, I decided. So, a few days later, I sat down to rejigger the recipe, drastically reducing the amount of liquid. When I finally had the chance to bake another cake, voilà — it was delicious. Moist and tender, with a light crumb, studded with chunks of chèvre and perfumed with fresh mint, this cake makes a lovely cocktail snack, or a light meal paired with a green salad. Best of all, the recipe comes together quickly, and you can feel confident it will work!

Savory courgette, mint, and goat cheese cake

Butter and flour for greasing the pan

1 1/2 cups (160 grams) flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon pepper

3 eggs

1/4 cup vegetable oil

3/4 cup (100 grams) Comté or Gruyère cheese, grated

1 cup (150 grams) zucchini, grated

3 tablespoons chopped fresh mint leaves

7 ounces (200 grams) fresh goat cheese, crumbled

Preheat the oven to 350ºF (180ºC). Butter and flour a 9-inch metal loaf pan.

In a mixing bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, salt, and pepper. Add the eggs, oil, Comté cheese, zucchini, and mint, stirring to combine. Gently fold in the goat cheese, making sure the crumbles don’t disintegrate. Pour the batter in the prepared pan and bake for 45 minutes. If the top starts to brown too much, cover loosely with a piece of tented aluminum foil and continue baking. Cool on a rack for twenty minutes before slicing.

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Paris with toddlers

We recently spent two weeks in Paris with Lucy, aged two. Admittedly, our vacation could have been subtitled “The playgrounds of Europe” :) But we also made many wonderful discoveries of toddler-friendly activities, restaurants, and shops, and I’m delighted to share them with you today…

Jardin du Luxembourg

This is the Grand Fromage of all playgrounds: enormous, rubber-floored, full of climbing structures, and nestled into one of the world’s most beautiful parks. You have to pay to enter, which seems a bit crazy at first, but the space is well-maintained and packed with fun stuff (my photos don’t do it justice). My favorite thing about this playground — and all Paris playgrounds — is that they’re divided by age. The brightly colored equipment (slides, climbing gyms, rocking horses, seesaws, and more) are for little kids, while the dark green jungle gyms and zip lines are reserved for bigger children. Playing on age-appropriate equipment not only prevented me from hovering on the brink of a heart attack (as I do in New York), it also built Lucy’s confidence, reduced frustration, developed her independence and motor skills. I loved watching her figure out how to use the equipment, while also feeling confident that success was within her grasp.

Il étais une fois

We popped into this adorable toy shop during a sudden rain shower, and Lucy was immediately transfixed. While many of the toys are those you’d find anywhere else (because that’s the world we live in now), everything is thoughtfully selected and beautifully displayed. There are also darling Eiffel Tower knick-knacks and souvenirs. If you really want to spoil your kids, bring them shopping here after a visit to the Luxembourg Gardens, a short walk away, and then have an early meal at Pizza Chic (see below).

Happy Families

This space near Beaubourg advertises itself as “Le 1er lieu pour parents heureux” (the number one place for happy parents), with a café, workshops (art, yoga, dance — for kids and adults), beauty salon, spa — and two indoor play spaces, one next to the café (free), the other with childcare (paid). On a desperate rainy day, we came here for lunch. Our table was right next to the free play area — which was minute, more like a child cave — but Lucy enjoyed romping there and the kind staff didn’t mind that we took our time to order. (The place was also virtually empty, which probably helped.) I enjoyed my simple lunch of salad and quiche; Lucy tolerated the mashed potatoes and ham; we both loved the dessert of fromage blanc au coulis fruits rouges. With high chairs, kid utensils, plastic cups, a huge bathroom with changing tables, ample stroller parking, and a patient staff, this is the kind of kid-friendly place you don’t usually find in Paris. And though the free play space is tiny, on a rainy day, we weren’t quibbling. (Sidenote: I found it amusing that Happy Families also offer sessions with a shrink, career coach, podiatrist, or sophrologist — while your kid is tucked away in the babysitting area.)

Manège 1913 (Carousel 1913) in the Champ de Mars

This is of the last old-fashioned carousels in Paris, and it’s been delighting children in the Champ de Mars since 1913. Built by Limonaire, a company famous in the Belle Epoque for amusement rides and street organs, the carousel still operates from an old-fashioned, man-powered mechanism, turned by a hand crank (as you can see in the video above). The kids sit astride their horses, each with a “baguette” (stick) in hand, and as the manège turns, they try to spear the brass rings that dangle from a box. It’s all extremely charming, and rather eccentric. Note: Right next to the manège, there’s an enormous double-sided playground, almost as good as the Jardin du Luxembourg — and free!

RESTAURANTS

Paris restaurants are notoriously unwelcoming of kids, but we had several lovely lunches out. We used the strategies covered in this post, and especially heeded the number one rule: Go early. Here are our favorites:

Pizza Chic

If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that I love this place (as evidenced by posts here, here, here, here, and here). As the name indicates, it’s quite chic — with a bobo clientele and pristine white tablecloths — so I was nervous to bring a two-year-old. But we arrived as soon as the doors opened (12:30pm), sat at a lovely window table with a banquette, and our pizza appeared minutes after we’d ordered. It was as delicious as ever, especially my favorite, the pizza carciofi. The Italian waitress even stopped by a few times to chat with Lucy, just because she likes kids.

Little Breizh

Though tiny and cramped, this place lives up to the general crêperie reputation for kid-friendliness. Their savory galettes are hearty and delicious, bursting with ham, cheese, egg, mushrooms cooked in cream, or leeks cooked in butter. (As well as andouille de Guémené! Beware!) Lucy preferred her galette plain, and since buckwheat is so wholesome, I didn’t worry about malnutrition :) And, may I say that a crêpe au caramel beurre salé is a wonderful bribe treat for a toddler who has been patient all morning? We loved Little Breizh so much, we ate here twice.

Café Varenne

I had serious doubts when we set foot in the old-fashioned dining room of this traditional bistro. Turns out, they were completely unfounded. The owner immediately whisked away our stroller, and seated us at a window table, adding a beautiful rattan high chair for Lucy. We enjoyed a very correct (if pricy) meal of salade au chèvre chaud (€14.90) and cod with ratatouille fait maison (€19), and the waiter proposed a special plate of ham and frites (€10) for Lucy, which she loved. (Well, she loved the fries #keepingitreal) The food appeared immediately, and we all felt very civilized to be dining in such an elegant spot.

Do you have any tips to add or addresses to share? I’d be grateful for your advice!

Jardin du Luxembourg

75006 Paris

Il était une fois

1 rue Cassette

75006 Paris

01 45 48 21 10

Happy Families

5 rue du Cloître Saint-Merri

75004 Paris

01 40 29 89 99

Manège 1913 (beware: website launches music)

Champ de Mars

Corner of Avenue Charles Risler and Avenue Pierre Loti

75007 Paris

Pizza Chic

13 rue des Mezières

75006 Paris

01 45 48 30 38

Little Breizh (no website)

11 rue Grégoire de Tours

75006 Paris

01 43 54 60 74

Café Varenne (no website)

36 rue de Varenne

75007 Paris

01 45 48 62 72

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Fortune’s Kippers in Whitby, England

If you’re a Yank like me, kippers are only something you’ve read about in P.G. Wodehouse novels. But when I traveled to Whitby, England — a seaside town on the east coast of North Yorkshire — to research this article on Bram Stoker and Dracula, I was delighted to visit one of the last independent kipper smokehouses in England.

“Kippers are herring that have been split, brined and cold smoked,” says Derek Brown (pictured above, left) who, together with his brother, Barry (above, right), continues Fortune’s Kippers, a family business begun in 1872. The oily fish were once bountiful in the North Sea, and smoking was a way of preserving them without refrigeration. 

During Whitby’s 19th-century fishing heyday, small smokehouses dotted the town, and ran along the coast. But when Yorkshire herring fishing died out in the late 1970s, the smokehouses followed. Fortune’s is one the last independent smokehouses in England, and these days they use fish from the Northeast Atlantic, frozen at sea. “It’s easier because the supply is constant,” says Derek. “During our busy season” — around the Christmas holidays — “we just ring up and request an extra delivery.”

The fish are defrosted overnight, split, gutted, cleaned, and then placed in a salt water brine for forty minutes. “It’s just salt and water. No seasonings,” says Derek. The fish are then hung in the 90-year-old smokehouse (photo above—it’s the black structure to the right of the cottage) for 18-24 hours.

Inside the smokehouse (photo above), three different fires cure the fish. “The first dries them out,” says Derek. “The second is a heavy fire. We use oak shavings and it burns through the night. If needed, a third fire finishes them off for the color.”

Industrially produced kippers are often dyed orange. “If they’re made in the traditional way, the longer you smoke a kipper, the darker it gets,” says Derek. But it’s a fine line between achieving a golden color and overcooking. “You maintain the oil of the fish by not smoking it too much.”

Kippers are traditionally a breakfast food (they’re especially popular on Christmas morning), eaten simply with bread or butter. “They can be eaten cold,” says Derek. “But they’re better heated up. Fried or grilled,”(that’s Brit-speak for broiled) “or jump them in boiling water.” The latter method is known as a jugged kipper and the doyenne of British food, Delia Smith, describes it thusly: “All you do is remove the heads, then fold the sides of the fish together and pack vertically in a tall warmed jug. Now pour in enough boiling water to cover the kippers, put a lid or plate on top of the jug, and leave them in a warm place for 6 minutes. Then drain and dry them with kitchen paper, and serve on hot plates with a knob of butter to melt over each fish.”

Along with whole and fileted kippers, Fortune’s also offers kipper pâté—”kipper filets and double cream, prepared by my niece” says Derek—which is smokey and delicious on rye bread. They sell only from the shop and don’t ship, but if you are lucky enough to visit Whitby (which is worth a visit), they’re open seven days a week. Word to the wise—get there early. When they sell out of kippers, they close up for the day.

Fortune’s Kippers

22 Henrietta Street

Whitby, England

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Farmer’s market pasta

In theory, I love the Farmer’s Market — all that bright, locally grown fruit and veg, bursting with peak ripeness… ooooh shopping there makes me feel so virtuous. In practice, however, the Farmer’s Market kind of stresses me out. I never make a list or meal-plan before I go, because that seems to defeat the concept of “cooking with the season.” Ten minutes into the market, however, I find I’ve spent an unholy sum of cash with only a sack of small plums and a novelty basket of fresh chick peas to show for it. (Btw — fresh chick peas? Totally not worth it.)

Happily, my friends, I’ve discovered the most wonderful, virtually no-cook meal to make with all the farm-stand produce — and it’s delicious, fast, and low-effort to boot. This pasta recipe combines the best of summer vegetables — tomatoes, corn, zucchini — into a dish that I’ve been making weekly this summer. It’s so easy, I hesitated to write about it here, wondering if it even counted as a recipe. My husband convinced me that it is. It is! Here’s what you do:

In a baking dish, combine tomatoes (cherry, or chunks of heirloom), some zucchini batons, a crushed garlic clove, olive oil, salt and pepper. Roast at 350ºF until the zucchini is tender and the tomatoes have relinquished their juices.

Meanwhile, cut the kernels off an ear of fresh corn. Boil a pot of water, and cook your pasta when the veg has a few more minutes to go. When the other vegetables have cooked, stir in the corn kernels. The vegetables are flexible, by the way, happy to wait on the counter for the pasta to finish cooking.

Drain the pasta — reserve a cup or so of cooking water — and add it directly to the baking dish of vegetables. Stir to combine. Taste and season with salt and pepper. You can also stir in a chunk of butter, if you’re feeling devilish. Serve immediately, passing Parmesan at the table.

You guys, that’s it! (Like I said — not sure if this actually constitutes a recipe.) Like all of summer’s best food, the season itself is really the star. I hope you enjoy the end of it and I’ll see you back here in a couple of weeks!

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Tiger salad

I’m not usually one for food trends, but suddenly everyone in New York was talking about fried chicken sandwiches. When I realized that my workspace was a few blocks away from the very source, a friend and I broke for an early lunch — only to find the place closed for the day.

I’m not going lie, I was a little annoyed. Changing the hours without notice? That sort of thing happens all the time in France, but I expected more from New York. Fortunately, the inconvenience led to a happy discovery. Scrabbling around for a quick lunch, we ended up at Xi’an Famous Foods, where the dumplings are plump, rustic, and served without ceremony on styrofoam plates. In an instant, I was transported back to China.

Along with lamb dumplings and spicy cold noodles, we tucked into a fresh pile of “lao hu cai,” or tiger salad. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but this is one of the homestyle Chinese dishes that I loved the most during the four years I lived in Beijing. It combines cilantro for fragrance, slivered bell pepper and cucumber for crunch, scallions and chiles for bite. To the artistic Chinese eye, the different shades of green form stripes that look like a tiger’s coat (hence the name).

It felt so incongruous to be chowing down like a “ge men’r” (that’s Chinese for duder) amongst the tattoo parlors of St Mark’s Place, that when I got back to my desk, I checked out tiger salad on Google. It turns out that in the eight (!) years since I left Beijing, lao hu cai has gone the way of facial hair and become hip. You guys, they’re making it with kale. [Insert crying emoji.]

Anyway. When I got home that night, I seized upon the bunch of cilantro wilting in the bottom drawer of my fridge and proclaimed myself a tiger eater. First, I texted my friend Lee — my former fellow cohort in the Beijing expat magazine trenches — to verify my memory of the salad. Then I started chopping. The result is below. If you try it, the transformation to ge men’r is 100% guaranteed :)

Lao hu cai / Tiger salad

Serves four as a side dish

This recipe is a wonderful way to use up large quantities of wilting cilantro. If your herbs are too droopy, completely submerge them in cold water for 10 minutes or so, and they’ll perk right up. When dressing the salad, use the tiniest drops of oil and vinegar — be sparing — you can always add a drop or two more. If you douse the leaves, the salad will turn soggy.

1 bunch cilantro

1/2 green bell pepper

1/2 cucumber

1-2 green onions

1 serrano chile (or to taste)

Sesame oil

Rice wine vinegar

Salt

Remove the tougher stems from the cilantro. Cut the pepper and cucumber into 1/4-inch strips. Thinly sliver the green onions and the chile. Toss the vegetables together. Add a tiny drop of sesame oil and toss so that the leaves look shiny — they should just barely glow. Add a pinch of salt and drops of rice vinegar and sesame oil. Taste and correct seasonings, adding tiny dashes of salt, vinegar, and oil as necessary. Do not overdress!

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Ratatouillaise

I’m a big believer in traveling via food — fork traveling? — so when my lovely friend Kristin Espinasse posted a photo of a delectable-looking dish of braised meat and summer vegetables, I ran to the market so I could recreate it myself. She called it “ratatouillaise” and it’s a hybrid of that quintessentially summer stew, ratatouille, and Italy’s beloved export, bolognese.

Kristin lives in Provence, which is one of my favorite places, the region where we enjoyed six years of happy holidays, renting the same house in the village of Bonnieux. I used to spend the mornings meal planning and marketing, followed by lunch at a local café, a long, lazy afternoon by the pool, cocktail hour, which edged into cooking dinner, and the joy of touching all that beautiful local produce. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

A few years ago, the house we used to rent was sold, and now Provence is only a memory. I keep a lavender pillow on the bench in my entry hall and when I brush against it, the fragrance is like a time machine, sending me back to the days when vacation meant simply throwing a bathing suit in a bag and hopping on a plane (and not worrying about nap schedules, toddler jet lag, if prune juice is available in France, etc. etc. etc. :)

With the days long and bright, what better way to revisit my beloved Bonnieux with this dish that sings of hot sunshine, cicada calls, and sprigs of thyme springing from garden cracks? Kristin was inspired by a recipe from Yvon Kergal, an artist, bon vivant, and mutual Facebook acquaintance who lives in Le Cannet des Maures. To prepare my version, I first read this article from Felicity Cloake, which explores several ratatouille methods, and then devised my own.

The key to an authentic (exceptional?) ratatouille is that all the different vegetables are cooked separately, then combined and cooked together slowly. Though tedious and time-consuming, Felicity Cloake notes that this makes the difference between “creamy soft vegetables,” with an “intense, almost jammy sauce that sings of the sun,” and “just plain vegetable stew.” So, yes, I scalded the tomatoes, roasted the red peppers, and teased away all the clinging bits of skin.

As Yvon recommended, I peeled the eggplant and courgettes in stripes, then cut them into small tronçons, or chunks. (I did not salt the eggplant because I live on the wild side don’t think it makes a difference.) I sautéed these two vegetables in generous splashes of olive oil before adding them to a Dutch oven.

The dish has two secret (and untraditional) ingredients — a generous drizzle of honey, which heightens the tomatoes — and a dash of something spicy — I used harissa. Herbs, sautéed onions and ground beef join the vegetables in the covered casserole before it’s placed in the oven for a slow simmer. In the photo above, you can see the “raw” state — the vegetables still bright and crunchy. After a couple of hours, they turned soft and creamy, rich with a deep, meaty savor. Paired with couscous, this made a superb Sunday dinner — with leftovers for another weeknight meal (over pasta or soft polenta). The best part? It leaves your house smelling like a summer kitchen in Provence.

Ratatouillaise

Adapted from Yvon Kergal, Kristin Espinasse, and Felicity Cloake

The word “ratatouillaise” is a hybrid of ratatouille and bolognaise (spelled the French way). Kristin says it’s “apparently valid in Scrabble, though no other definition is found.” Whatever the case, it’s synonymous with delicious :)

Serves six

Olive oil

2 red bell peppers

3 onions, chopped

3 cloves of garlic, minced

1 lb ground beef

2 lbs tomatoes, peeled and diced

2 large zucchini, peeled in stripes, and cut into 1.5-inch chunks

3 small eggplant, peeled in stripes, and cut into 1.5-inch cubes

2 tablespoons honey

1 tablespoon harissa

1 bay leaf

1 teaspoon dried thyme

1 teaspoon dried oregano

Salt and pepper

Cut the red peppers in half and remove the seeds. Line a baking sheet with parchment pepper and arrange the peppers on it. Roast the peppers at 400ºF until their skins have blistered, about 20 minutes. Peel the peppers and slice them into thin strips.

In a large Dutch oven, heat a tablespoon of oil and sauté the onions and garlic until they’ve softened and start to turn golden. Add the ground beef, breaking up the chunks with a wooden spoon. When the meat has cooked, stir in the tomatoes. Season lightly with salt and pepper.

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. In a (separate) sauté pan, warm a tablespoon of olive oil over medium-high flame, and then add the zucchini and a dash of pepper. Don’t overcrowd the pan — cook in batches, if necessary. Sauté the zucchini until gently softened and starting to turn brown, about five minutes. Add the zucchini to the meat mixture. Repeat with the rest of the zucchini, then the eggplant cubes. Add them to the meat mixture. Stir the red pepper strips into the meat mixture, along with the honey, harissa, bay leaf, thyme, oregano, and 1.5 cups of water.

Bring the mixture to a boil on the stove, then cover the pot and place it in the oven. Cook the ratatouillaise in the oven, stirring every half an hour, until the vegetables have collapsed and everything is “bien confit” (well reduced) — about 2.5 hours. If too much liquid remains, uncover the pot for the last 30 minutes. Taste and adjust seasonings.

As Yvon says “Voilà , ayé … A vos fourneaux et bon app’ .. Bizzzzzzzzz!”

P.S. Read more about my love for Provence here.

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