Ann Mah's Blog, page 34

Provence with Marcel Pagnol

Until about a month ago, I'd never heard of Marcel Pagnol, though he's beloved in France as a filmmaker and writer. But on the eve of my trip to Marseille, a friend recommended I read his books, La Gloire de Mon Père and Le Château de Ma Mère (My Father's Glory and My Mother's Castle).

Once I read them, I fell in love too. These two tender memoirs recount Pagnol's boyhood adventures in the back country above Marseille, around the turn of the 20th century. They capture an innocent time of hunting and hiking, secret springs, heartfelt friendships, and familial love, set against the sunny, rosemary-scented scrub of Provence. I loved these books so much that on my recent visit to Provence, I set out to follow Pagnol's footsteps.

"I was born in the town of Aubagne, beneath the goat-crowned Garlaban, in the days of the last goat-herds," begins My Father's Glory. The house where Pagnol was born in 1895 is now a museum with a small collection of artifacts and a few recreated rooms. The real treasure, however, was the gentleman who worked here as ticket-seller and guide, a veritable fount of Pagnol knowledge. Pagnol's mention of "the last goat-herds," he told me, is a tribute to Marcel's brother, Paul, who was the last goat-herder in the area, and who died in 1932 at age 34.

Aubagne is also home to one of the oddest tributes I've ever seen, a miniature world of Marcel Pagnol, which pays homage to their native son's movies and books, as well as the local craft of clay figurines, called santons.

I spent an afternoon in Marseille, hunting for the family's apartment at 51 rue Terruse. Marcel's father, Joseph, was a schoolteacher and the family moved often, living here for only three years. A plaque notes that Marcel's mother died here in 1910.

As it turns out, December is not an ideal time to visit the Provence of Pagnol, whose adventures unraveled in more clement seasons. Though I caught several glimpses of his beloved Garlaban mountain (photo above), I was unable to visit La Bastide Neuve — the family's summer cottage — and it was too chilly to hike the 20-kilometer "sentier de Marcel Pagnol," the network of trails used by Marcel and his childhood friend, Lili des Ballons.

But I loved visiting the village of La Treille, perched high above Marseille, yet still considered part of the city's 11th arrondissement. From here, the family would walk two kilometers to their summer house. Despite the sharp mistral wind tearing through my coat, I could still imagine the sleepy square in the lazy heat of an August afternoon.

In his later years, Pagnol returned to La Treille to vacation and work. He filmed many movies here — among them Le Cigalon and Manon des Sources — and started writing La Gloire de Mon Père in the the fancy villa pictured above.

 

The family has a plot in La Treille's tiny village cemetery (photo left). If you've read the books, the names are especially poignant. There's Joseph, the father, his second wife, Madeleine (whom Marcel reviled), and Marcel's siblings: his mischievous brother, Paul, sister Germaine, and youngest brother, René. Marcel has his own tomb (photo right), with an inscription that reads: He loved the springs, his friends and his wife.

Cemeteries usually make me too sad, but this one had a lovely atmosphere, surrounded by blue sky and Provencal hills. It seemed a fitting resting place for someone who loved this country so much.

Adventures in bouillabaisse (and more!)

Port cities are the best, aren't they? A salty melange of cultures, a proximity to the sea, vigor, diversity, a gritty crackle in the air… I felt it in Marseille, where a thousand years of seafaring has given way to a vibrant food scene that mixes the cuisines of the Mediterranean — among them, North Africa, Italy, and Spain — with the sunny local flavors of Provence. Oh, and fish, of course. Seven mornings a week, fisherman gather at the Vieux Port to hawk their catch.

  

There were stranger sea creatures like eels and octopus…

Pretty shells for tourists (like me) called l'oeil de Sainte Lucie, which are supposed to bring wealth…

And a mixed assortment of small fish that's sometimes called "bouillabaisse."

  

We ate the real deal at the Marseille institution, Chez Fonfon (140 Vallon des Auffres): Bouillabaisse (photo left) and its paler, garlickier, winier cousin, bourride (photo left). Both are served in two parts, first as a soup, with croutons that have been spread with aioli or rouille…

  

And then with potatoes and fish — at least five kinds, which have been poached in the broth. The fish arrives on a separate platter (you can spy it in the background in the photo left) and you cut up morsels to dunk in the soup. From time to time, our waitress would trundle out a huge tureen of soup and ladle out hot spoonfuls. It was a hearty and decadent meal (46€ for the bouillabaisse, 47€ for the bourride) – and very, very garlicky.

But a girl can't live on fish soup alone, so I was happy to tuck into Au Falafel (5 rue Lulli), a kosher restaurant serving Israeli specialties. The falafel on the assiette de falafel (12€) could have been a little hotter, but I loved their fresh pita, as well as the creamy humous and crunchy salads garnishing the plate. Plus, their house-made hot sauce created enough fire on its own.

Wandering around in search of chickpea cakes called panisses (I never did find any), I came across M&G Traîteur (9 rue St Michel), a gem of a restaurant and take-away shop. Their chicken tagine with olives was hauntingly delicious, savory and tart with the faint bitter edge of preserved lemons. Couscous was extra, but it was the most delicate, finely grained semolina I've ever eaten (10€ for tagine + couscous).

My friend Jean-Marc Espinasse recommended the wine bar l'Enoteka (28 bd Notre Dame), saying its owner, Nicolas, was "un mec extra!" And you know what? He was right. Nicolas was extremely kind, super knowledgeable about wine, and we spent a lovely evening sampling some excellent vins du coin, accompanied by simple salads and sausage (approx 35€ for two).

I can't really recommend the couscous I ate in a smoky, dodgy cafe on the spookily deserted Iles Frioul. But at least it was hot and hearty, and at least the cafe held a few other souls — drunk souls, yes, but I wasn't complaining (8.50€).

I loved Café Lulli (26 rue Lulli), a charming tearoom with house-baked sweet and savory tarts. One afternoon I drank spiced almond tea called "London Christmas" and read my book. The next, I went back for lunch and sampled all the things I'd seen the day before, like a savory pumpkin quiche and the melting pear-and-chocolate tart in the photo above (approx 27€ for two).

  

But let's not forget that Marseille is in Provence — and no trip to Provence would be complete without sampling the regional fare. On my quest to follow Marcel Pagnol's footsteps (more on this soon), we ate at Le Cigalon (9 bd Louis Pasteur, La Trielle), where Pagnol shot the movie of the same name. The restaurant is in La Treille, a teeny village, which, though perched high above the city, is still considered part of Marseille's 11th arrondissement! Here, we tucked into a Provencal sampler, (clockwise) artichokes barigoule, ratatouille, stuffed mushrooms and a cassoulette of mussels in a saffron cream sauce (photo left). I also enjoyed the beef daube (but I have to say mine is better).

  

Alas, I couldn't overcome my fear of offal to sample the region's beloved winter dish, pieds et paquets (photo left), or "feet and packages." The "feet" refer to sheep's hooves while the "packages" are pieces of tripe stuffed with parsley and garlic, the whole stewed together in a tomato sauce. Our hosts reported that the version at Le Cigalon — a house recipe from 1896 — was delicious. Thankfully the similarly gruesome-sounding alouette sans tête (photo right) was not a decapitated songbird, but rather thin slices of beef rolled with a stuffing of bacon, parsley and garlic, and braised in tomato sauce. Served with pasta, it was a Marseillais version of spaghetti and meatballs. An immigrant from Italy? In this port city, anything is possible.

Winter in Marseille

Bonjour, mes amis! If you've been wondering about my uncharacteristic recent silence, it's because I've been in Marseille (sans internets) soaking up the vibrant energy and colors of France's second largest city. What have I seen?

The Vieux Port, the heart of the city and backdrop for The French Connection, Fanny, Marius, César, and so many other famous films.

The moody, churning Mediterranean sea.

The tiny, toy-like port of Vallon des Auffes, home to renowned bouillabaisse restaurant, Chez Fonfon (more on this Marseille institution soon!).

Notre Dame de la Garde, the shining, gilt-covered Virgin Mary who surveys the city and protects those at sea.

I huffed and puffed my way up the hill to the church of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, and was rewarded by a view of the whole city.

Inside the church, the walls are lined with plaques thanking Mary for her eleventh hour interventions.

In the twisting, souk-like streets of the Panier, I stocked up on dried chilies.

And admired red-skinned, bug-eyed rascasse, which is traditionally used in bouillabaisse.

These figurines are called santons and they're a traditional craft in the region. At Christmas, each town seems to have their own marché de santons, filled with different vendors selling their creations.

Despite the chilly temperatures, I took a boat to the Iles des Frioules, to inspect the rocky calanques.

In the dead of winter, this island nature preserve was spookily deserted and I couldn't help but imagine it as the setting for a Poirot murder mystery.

With my imagination running wild, I felt happy to escape alive!

A pretty pink sunset and glass of fruity, chilled white wine from Cassis helped ease my paranoia.

It's been a lovely trip so far, mes amis! Stay tuned for upcoming posts: Part II: Dining out in Marseille, and, Part III: A day with Marcel Pagnol.

Vienna

Even the name is lovely, isn't it? Vienna. It conjures up the Old World, elegant buildings, horse-drawn carriages, and afternoons filled with coffee and strudel. At least, that's what I was hoping to find.

It turns out, I also discovered schnitzel, sausages, sandwiches and — it being the season –Christkindlmarkts around almost every corner. In other words, Vienna was a veritable winter wonderland.

  

I did lots of research on where to find the city's best wurst. We ate these bratwurst from the Wurstelstand at the Hoher Market hot off the grill and I loved the generous sprinkle of horseradish and dollop of mustard (7.80€ for two sausages + bottle of water).

But I wasn't sure if we'd found the best, so continued research was necessary. Like these sausages from the stand near the Albertina, which were good but maybe not as good as the first kind.

Then my eye was caught by these little sandwiches, seemingly available on every corner.

  

If you order up a melange — Vienna's answer to the cappucino — or a glass of sekt (sparkling wine) and a couple of small sandwiches, you have a little slice of heaven.

One day when I'm rich, I'm going to open up a little sandwich luncheonette in New York City. I can't be the only one who finds these amazingly appealing, right?

How does one top tiny sandwiches? With dessert of course. When in Vienna, a visit to the famous konditori (pastry shop) and tea room, Demel, is obligatory.

On the way upstairs to the non-smoking dining room, I spied on the kitchen.

And then I tucked into strudel, the pastry light and tender, the apples gently sweetened, the whole sprinkled with a crumbly nut-cinnamon-sugar mixture. It was a perfect, old-fashioned dessert in one of the Old World's greatest capitals.

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Spontaneous wine discovery

I'm not as adventurous as I should be when it comes to tasting new wine. Once I find a bottle I like, I tend to buy it again and again and again (which is a bad habit if you're living in, say, France, for only a limited period of time). That's why wine fairs are so helpful, presenting hundreds of new labels, producers and varietals all in one spot, offering plenty of opportunity to try something different.

This weekend, the Salon des Vignerons Indépendants – which I wrote about here – will take place in Paris. There are two neat things about this wine fair: 1) It features only independent winemakers and, 2) Stands are arranged at random (not alphabetically, not by region or appellation), to encourage spontaneous discovery of new vintages.

Whether you're heading to the Salon des Vins this weekend, or just holding a private dégustation over the holiday turkey, here's a tip I learned from a lady sommelier friend: Never taste wine on a full stomach. Your palate will be sharper if you're a little hungry. Professional sommeliers always eat dinner after service concludes so that they can more clearly discern a corked bottle.

Red? White? What wine will you be serving at your Thanksgiving table?

Pumpkin mania

Pumpkins! Pumpkins! I have been obsessed with PUMPKINS this fall. In the past, I avoided them, intimidated by their grandiose size, their knife-defying flesh. But then, a couple of things happened.

First, I ate a wonderful dessert during my rainy weekend in Provence — a pumpkin cappuccino — pumpkin purée, warm sautéed apples, and cinnamon whipped cream. It was so simple, lovely and autumnal, I had to try it myself. The recipe (below) is still a work in progress, but I liked David Lebovitz's technique for roasting pumpkin slices, which I used to create my purée.

  

Then, I kept reading about Dorie Greenspan's recipe for a whole pumpkin stuffed with bread and cheese. Everywhere I looked (e.g. Facebook, Twitter) everyone (e.g. fellow food nerds) was heralding the stuffed pumpkin with multiple-exclamation-point updates. So, I made one, using this recipe. And guess what? It was awesome. (There's also another version that calls for bacon, herbs and other stuff, but I think I prefer it without the meat.)

After all this pumpkin consumption, I've learned something. In French "pumpkin" has many names, among them potiron, which refers to the giant squash sold in slices that have a sweeter flesh. Then there's the potimarron, which is what I used for my stuffed pumpkin. It has a starchy texture, like a cross between pumpkin and chestnut (in French, marron) — hence the name, poti-marron.

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Daube

A few weeks ago, we went to Provence for the weekend. I'd never been there in the autumn (or winter, or spring, for that matter) but after five summer vacations there, I thought I knew the region: sunshine, blue skies, warm temps (or at least warmer and sunnier than Paris, right?).

Emit hollow laugh here.

It rained the entire three days, and when I say rain, I mean a continuous and steady piss. In fact, one-seventh of the year's annual rain fell in those three days alone.

So, we read and watched old movies on TV. And once a day, we ventured out for lunch. That's how I made a big discovery: daube.

You'd never find daube in hot, sunny, summertime Provence. No, it's a winter dish, hearty and comforting —  a heavy beef braise, cooked slowly in red wine until the meat flakes apart under the tender pressure of your fork. One day, it was the plat du jour at the Gare de Bonnieux, where it was served with a cheesy cauliflower gratin. The next, we ate a more refined version (photo above) at a terrific little restaurant in Apt called La Manade (36 rue Jules Ferry, 84400 Apt, tel: 04 90 04 79 06).

And when I got back to Paris, I had to make my own.

Maybe you're wondering: How is daube is different from boeuf bourguignon? In truth, the two are very similar. Except, daube uses herbes de Provence and sometimes orange peel, olives, tomatoes and/or bacon — or sometimes not. I like to think of it as a more casual recipe than the classic and rather stuffy bourguignon. I used this Patricia Wells recipe as a starting point and added garlic and ginger to my marinade, as well as dried herbes de Provence. Make sure to marinate the raw beef for at least 12 hours. I served my daube with a cauliflower gratin and a stuffed pumpkin (which is another post for another day).

In Provence, after I had licked my plate clean at the Gare de Bonnieux, I complimented the owner. "C'était excellent," I told him. "I know," he said, without any pretension of modesty. And then he told me the secret: Always make your daube at least a day in advance. "It tastes better the second day."

After he gave me this advice, we drove off, and for a moment — just a second — the sun broke out of the clouds and we saw this…

At the end of the rainbow was a pot of daube, I'm sure of it.

Reading in Paris

Thanks to Kristin at French-Word-a-Day, here are some photos from Monday's reading and wine-tasting at Shakespeare and Co.

An author's favorite sight: a window display full of her books.

Pretending not to be nervous before the event.

But actually, the room was so cozy and the audience so welcoming and supportive, I had nothing to fear.

After the reading, Jean-Marc Espinasse (in the purple shirt) poured delicious wine from his vineyard, the Domaine Rouge-Bleu.

Thanks so much to those who came. I enjoyed sharing my work with you, and, most of all, loved seeing so many old and new friends!

Recent restaurants

Salut, mes amis! First of all, I wanted to thank you all for your kind support of last night's reading at Shakespeare and Co. I felt honored to speak to a packed house (it was the free wine, wasn't it?) and I loved seeing so many friends, old and new. I could also feel the good vibes sent from those afar. If I can round up some photos, I'll post some here. In the meantime, from the bottom of my heart, merci mille fois!

And now, on to more important matters, such as… another Paris restaurant round-up! Yes, it's my semi-regular report of the places I've eaten at recently. What lives up to its name? What's comforting? What's best avoided? Let's see…

  

Where: Le Dôme (108 bd du Montparnasse, 14e)

With: Newly promoted husband (hurray!)

Ate: An unusual restaurant experience in that we ate exactly the same thing. We started with a lobster salad, the meat tender and sweet, accompanied by a few lightly dressed leaves (photo left). And then, the Dôme's famous bouillabaisse (photo right), prepared for two, a copious stew of several kinds of fish and potatoes, served with toasts and rouille. I loved sampling the different varieties of fish, but there was enough to feed an army.

Thoughts: Le Dôme is a Paris institution and its reputation is well deserved. The food is classic and faultless, the fish beautifully fresh and perfectly prepared, the service discreet. In fact, the only thing I would complain about are the prices — which are pretty outrageously expensive (152€, not including wine or dessert). How could Hemingway afford this joint?

Where: Le Bambou (70 rue de Baudricourt, 13e)

With: CK and snotty cold sufferer (me)

Ate: Cha giò, aka nems, aka Vietnamese spring rolls. These were savory, crunchy and so fresh they burned my fingertips. Added bonus: they came with a big plate of lettuce and mint for wrapping. Pho with thin sliced rare beef and cooked beef featured top quality meat and a hot, soothing, fragrant broth — the perfect bowl of comfort to soothe my runny nose. I also loved the side sauce — a mix of hoisin and chili for dipping the meat — and the big, bright plate of herbs.

Thoughts: No points awarded for the décor or lack of smiles, but who cares when the food is fresh, delicious, authentic and cheap (25€ for two)? Le Bambou is perfect for a chilly winter day, as evidenced by the crowds packed in at the lunch hour. Don't worry, the line moves quickly.

 

Where: Moustache (3 rue Saint-Beuve, 6e)

With: Lady-who-lunches (visit #1), CK (visit #2)

Ate:  Thai-inspired shrimp and squid salad, bright and tangy with beautifully tender seafood (visit #1, photo left). Steamed filet of bar with lime juice, nicely cooked fish but a bit overly simple (visit #1, photo right). Chicken bouillon with galanga and lemongrass could have used a hit of acid (visit #2). Chicken breast with saté sauce featured judiciously cooked meat but the sweet peanut sauce lacked sparkle (visit #2).

Thoughts: There's lots of buzz about this small Asian-fusion restaurant, which is right next door to le Timbre — apparently the chef trained under Daniel Boulud. My expectations were high… so high I went back twice. Both visits left me feeling lukewarm. Don't get me wrong, there's plenty to like about this place, with its exposed brick wall and charmingly eager service. The food is well prepared and tasty though it's a bit expensive (entrées 9€, plats 21€), especially at lunch when the prices don't change. But I'm getting tired of Asian-fusion food. There, I said it. I don't want to taste lemongrass, lime juice and fish sauce in French restaurants any more. Surely there's got to be a more inventive way to modernize French fare? Surely this trend will soon die its tortured death?

  

Where: Bar at Le Meurice hotel (228 rue de Rivoli)

With: Club sandwich aficionado (CK)

Ate: On the day that le Figaroscope named the club sandwiches at le Meurice the best in Paris, I had the incredible urge to eat one. So, off we went, curling ourselves into a dim corner of the classic hotel's clubby bar. To ward off caloric guilt, we shared one vegetarian club (photo left) — layered with thin slices of carrot and cucumber — and one vrai, a gloriously stuffed, triple-stacked club sandwich (photo right). I loved its judicious spread of mayonnaise and the layers of white and dark meat chicken. The accompanying frites were hot and crisp, and the side mesclun salad was perfection.

Thoughts: My only quibble is that the bacon came perched on top, not wedged into the club. But seriously, is this even a quibble? I just popped it right inside. At 25€ per sandwich, this is not a casual indulgence. But room is so beautiful, the food so delicious, and the service so efficient and friendly that I would indulge here again without hesitation.

Where: Ralph's (173 bd Saint-Germain, 6e)

With: Chic Greeks

Ate: Crispy crab cake that lacked crab. Cheeseburger, ordered rare, arrived well done, hard and tasteless (though I liked the cheddar cheese). The worst, greasiest, tiredest onion rings this side of the Atlantic.

Thoughts: Where I grew up in Southern California, Ralph's is a supermarket chain, so every time someone mentions the chic and pricey Ralph Lauren eatery I automatically think, "Paper or plastic?" Given these prices, I'm lucky they take plastic. Ah, what can I say mes amis? When a restaurant serves you a burger that is hard and dry and then charges you 27€ for it, you know this is not a place you will frequent, no matter how beautiful the dining room and courtyard.

Shakespeare & Co (and me!)

People sometimes ask me what it feels like to publish a book and the truth is, it's like a roller-coaster: you waver between exhilaration and sheer terror. But the highs are really high, and next Monday will (I hope) be one of them, when I present Kitchen Chinese at the venerable Shakespeare & Co.

This Latin Quarter bookstore is a Paris literary institution, once the haunt of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, James Joyce, Gertrude Stein… Mah?! To say that I am excited and nervous about speaking there is an understatement!

If you're in Paris next week, I hope you'll join me for a talk about my novel, Kitchen Chinese. Uighur flatbread, Yunnan cheese, and tingling Sichuan peppercorns will also be discussed. As well, I'll reveal my favorite places in Paris to eat Chinese food.

AND, if I'm feeling extra brave, I'll read an excerpt from my new book, an in-progress novel about a female sommelier in Paris. To accompany this portion of the evening, Jean-Marc Espinasse (husband of friend and French-Word-a-Day blogger, Kristin Espinasse) will pour wines from his vineyard, Domaine Rouge-Bleu.

A literary evening + free wine? What's not to like?

Here are the details in a nutshell:

WHAT - Reading from Kitchen Chinese and winetasting

WHEN - Monday, November 8, 2010 at 7pm

WHERE - Shakespeare & Co., 37 rue de la Bûcherie, 5e

I would be truly delighted to see you there!

P.S. If you're interested in my current project and writing life, please visit Paris (im)perfect for a fun and smart interview by Sion.