P'TIT DEJ'

Rumor has it that the French don’t “do breakfast.” According to another rumor, we pig out on croissants all the time. So, what constitutes a typical petit déjeuner français? It’s true that most French people have a light breakfast at home before heading out to school or to work: a glass of juice, a bowl of café au lait, a tartine or a couple of biscottes with butter and jam; that’s about it. Habits have changed somewhat: a cup of yogurt or some cold cereal might also make an appearance. Croissants are weekend treats, unless… I confess to being a serial croissant eater when I am in France: good ones are impossible to find in Modesto so I make up for it when I find myself in Paris. It’s quite special to start the day at a neighborhood café and watch the regulars interact with the servers while sipping a nice cup of tea or coffee in which I blissfully dunk a long slice of crispy baguette smeared with Brittany butter (the kind with salt crystals); and a perfect croissant, because every day feels like Sunday when I am in Paris…

Vocabulary
Le P'tit dej': short (and familiar) for le petit déjeuner
Le petit déjeuner français: French breakfast
Le café au lait: coffee mixed with milk (usually in about equal proportions)
La tartine: a slice of bread topped with other ingredients
La biscotte: a store-bought bread product similar to Melba toast

LILY AND FRIEND

Lily is officially turning seven this week: l’âge de raison. Although she has mellowed out since her puppy years, she’s still a very active girl who exhibits this endearing quality present in all dachshunds: stubbornness. Her eye/mouth coordination is excellent and genetics must have played a part: her mother was a superb Frisbee catcher while Lily routinely nabs bugs in flight. She’s not much of a digger, a talent that would come in handy when we start restoring my grandparents’ old house: I guess we’ll need to hire professionals to trench out the septic tank after all. Her hearing is very fine tuned to a variety of sounds, including the chimes of Skype when my mother calls on Sunday morning, the “pshhhhlrp” of Reddi-Wip coming out of the can, and –unfortunately– sirens from all emergency vehicles. She understands several English words and one French expression: c’est tout. For some reason, that command never gets challenged, establishing once and for all the obvious superiority of training pets in the French style. We know that dogs are pack animals and we’ve made sure to populate the house with an array of tasteful dachshund collectibles: paintings, prints, statues and additional objets d’art contributed by thoughtful family members. Strictly for her own comfort and enjoyment: c’est la vérité, je le jure. Rick took this picture of her and one of her friends while he was having breakfast at the dining room table. She was eying his croissant; he hadn’t said “c’est tout” yet.

Vocabulary
L’âge de raison: the age of reason
C’est tout: that’s all
C’est la vérité, je le jure: it’s the truth, I swear

EASTER EGG (CARTON) HUNT

Instead of coloring hard-boiled eggs and hiding them in the garden, maybe we should just pick up some colorful egg cartons at Le Bon Marché on the Left Bank and make a delicious omelet?

PAULA WOLFERT

After moving to the USA in the early 80s, I had a standing Saturday rendez-vous with PBS and their lineup of cooking shows. There were only a handful of celebrity chefs back then: Julia, Jacques, and Justin who always sipped some of the wine his recipe called for.

I had never heard of Paula Wolfert until I noticed one of her books at my –now defunct– favorite bookstore: The Cooking of Southwest France. The 1984 soft cover edition didn’t have any mouth-watering color photos but I hardly needed them: I was in familiar territory. The list of recipes immediately transported me back to my grandmother’s kitchen where she would cook the mique in the fireplace, simmer her civet de lapin on one of her two gas burners, or bake a clafoutis in a tiny windowless oven. Reading Paula’s anecdotes and notes to the cook, I could have sworn that she had actually met my grandma, helped her pluck a chicken and shared a glass of ratafia while chatting about peasant life in the Quercy. I bought the book.

Paula called my office twenty years later. I recognized her name as soon as she introduced herself. She had just completed the revised edition of her book. Before listing Joie de Vivre as a resource for meats and grocery items, she wanted to talk to a “real” person and make sure the company would be around for a while… We had a very pleasant conversation and I felt like I was talking to an old friend. A few months afterward, a fresh copy of the completely updated Cooking of Southwest France showed up in the mail. Before I had a chance to shelf the new hardcover tome next to my original copy, Emma (long hair dachshund #2) managed to gnaw on the bottom right corner of the book; perhaps to indicate interest or register approval…

I never met Paula in person but kept aware of her subsequent publications: the foods of Morocco, Spain, and the Mediterranean received the same in-depth treatment as Southwest France. I eventually followed her on Facebook, shortly after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Far from hiding her illness, she has embarked on a new adventure, exploring the relationship between food and memory; and Emily Kaiser Thelin, her former editor at Food and Wine, just published a biography (Unforgettable: The Bold Flavors of Paula Wolfert’s Renegade Life) interwoven with fifty quintessential recipes. In case you’re wondering, her famous Toulouse Cassoulet recipe is included: it’s widely considered the gold standard. It sounds like a fascinating read and I’m pretty sure I’ll pick up a copy. I just need to make sure that Lily (long hair dachshund #3) doesn’t chew on it…

Vocabulary
La mique: a big dumpling cooked in broth and vegetables
Le civet de lapin: rabbit stew in red wine
Le clafoutis: a custardy cake, usually filled with cherries
Le ratafia: a sweet aperitif made with non-fermented grape juice and brandy. It can also be made with other macerated fruits.

Paula's Crème de Haricots de Maïs
Creamy Bean Soup with Croutons and Crispy Ventrèche
Serves 4 to 6

 
1 pound dried Tarbais beans
1 carrot, cut into ¼ inch dice
1 large onion, cut into ¼ inch dice
4 tablespoons duck fat
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1 cup diced crustless dense country bread
3 ounces lean ventrèches, pancetta, jambon de Bayonne, or Serrano ham, slivered (about ½ cup)
2 tablespoons minced fresh chives
1 cup heavy cream
Pinches of piment d’Espelette

 1/ Pick over the beans and soak them in water to cover by at least 2 inches for 12 hours.

 2/ The following day, rinse and drain the beans and set aside. Meanwhile, in a heavy 4 to 5-quart flameproof pot, preferably earthenware, gently cook the carrots and onions in 2 tablespoons of the duck fat, stirring, until tender, 5 to 10 minutes. Scoop out and reserve about ¼ cup of the onions and carrots. Add the drained beans and 2 quarts fresh water to the pot. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat to moderately low, add a pinch of salt and pepper, and simmer for 2 hours, or until the beans are tender and the liquid is reduced.

 3/ In a medium skillet, heat the remaining duck fat. Add the diced bread, slivered ventrèche, and the reserved carrots and onions. Fry, stirring, until crisp. Remove to a side dish, add the chives, and set aside.

 4/ Let the beans cook slightly, scoop out about 1/3 for garnish and set aside. Press batches of the remaining beans and liquid through the fine blade of a food mill or puree in a food processor or blender. Add the bean puree to the soup. Stir in the cream; bring to a boil and simmer for 5 minutes. Correct the seasoning with salt, pepper, and red pepper to taste.

 5/ To serve, divide the reserved beans among soup bowls, ladle the hot soup over the beans, and garnish each portion with a spoonful mixture of fried onion and ventrèche mixture. Serve at once.

 Joie de Vivre carries Tarbais beans, duck fat, Espelette pepper, and ventrèche.

THE SKY'S THE LIMIT

During the 1980s, I got to fly almost all over the USA; it was a (welcome) job requirement. When traveling from one coast to the other, I usually transited through O’Hare airport in Chicago.

I remember the first time I experienced the “tunnel of lights” between the B and C concourses. Instead of dragging my suitcase on a numbing people mover confined within drab concrete walls, I found myself transported through a luminous wonderland: bright waves of multicolor neon tubes undulating from the ceiling while complimentary glass blocks lit up the walls. A rainbow of colors cycled rhythmically to the tune of Rhapsody in Blue. What a beautiful way to conjugate art and practicality.

Thirty years later, I always look forward to landing at a C gate. Michael Hayden’s The Sky’s The Limit art installation is familiar, yet still exciting. I feel like a little kid enjoying a two-minute ride in Disneyland: a spring in my step, a smile on my face, and peace on my mind.

TIME TRAVEL

Tick, tock. On Sunday Rick will spring forward the hands of the grandfather’s clock in the living room. This twice-a-year ritual is a touch more ceremonial than my resetting the car clock: I’m not required to pause for the Westminster chimes at each quarter…

While in Paris on a Sunday afternoon in October, I nearly missed my train because I briefly forgot that we change our clocks three weeks earlier than they do. Daylight Savings Time is just not a traveler’s friend.

I’m sure my grandpa René never missed his train. He worked for the French railroads where punctuality was the foremost qualification. He was issued an official Régulateur pocket watch. The engraved guilloche on the brass case is quite ornate; the dial is marked with Roman numerals and the image of a steam locomotive; the crystal is not even scratched.

Timepieces made a hundred years ago were built to last a lifetime. Or maybe two. René’s watch still works perfectly. Tick, tock.

Vocabulary
La guilloche: engraved pattern on metal

CALIFORNIA DREAMING

I guess nostalgia can work both ways! I spotted this bi-national bicycle on rue du Grand Prieuré in the 11th arrondissement. 

LOST IN ALMOND LAND

One of my favorite sights in the Central Valley of California is the blooming of almond trees in the early spring when the bare gray limbs disappear under a thick canopy of white blossoms. Almond production has increased at a frantic pace during the past two decades and new orchards sprouted in fields once planted with tomatoes or simply used as cow pastures. My ride to work takes me through country roads lined with dense orchards; this week, the low white skies and the thick white flowers enveloped me in a gauzy cocoon.

And yet, there is one almond orchard I still miss, the victim of another trend in the Valley: rampant urbanization. It was located in Manteca at the junction of SR 120 and Hwy 99, where the elevated off-ramp dips downward and curves South. Apartment buildings, storage units, and strip malls have replaced the huge almond orchard that was nestled within the ramp and extended as far as the eye could see.

On a clear February afternoon many years ago, Rick and I were driving back from San Francisco airport. As we left 120 to head home, my eyes lingered on the exploding blooms to my right, thick cottony pillows framed by deep blue skies. For a moment, I thought I was still on the plane, watching our descent from above the clouds and then through them. A second reentry. A second landing. Terra firma again.

THE CAT AND THE POT

Meet Saphir, my sister’s cat. She’s posing next to one of Grandma’s retired toupine. In Southwest France, a toupine is an earthenware pot used to hold duck confit, a regional specialty. Salted duck legs and breasts were gently simmered in duck fat; the meat quarters would then be transferred to a toupine and covered with liquid fat while still hot. As the fat cooled off and hardened, it would create a barrier between the meat and the outside air, and prevent the development of bacteria. The preserved meat could be kept for months in a cellar, without refrigeration.

These confit pots were highly valued and reused year after year. When the outside enamel eventually peeled off, Grandma would fill her toupines with dirt and recycle them as planters. Toupines usually fetch high prices at local vide-greniers.

Vocabulary
La toupine: earthenware pot
Le confit de canard: duck meat cooked and preserved in its own fat
Le vide-grenier: the French equivalent of a garage sale (literally, emptying the attic) but usually organized by the city and grouping individual sellers and professionals.

NIGHT WALK

Exactly a year ago, Rick and I flew to Paris for few days before our long-planned visit with my parents in Gourdon. It was a few short months after the terrorist attacks. We enjoyed the luxury of a half empty Economy cabin in the plane. The crowds in the city appeared markedly sparser than usual. Conversations on the streets were conducted in French, not in English or Japanese. Reservations to our favorite restaurants were simply not needed. It felt a bit strange but nice.

We walked back to our hotel after an early dinner on the evening of our arrival and crossed the Seine on Pont des Arts. The pedestrian bridge has always been a popular spot for flâneurs at all hours of the day. That night it was eerily deserted. All the love locks had been removed from the metal screens and the views of the river were breathtaking. Save for one woman sitting on a bench and admiring the reflections on the water, we had the bridge to ourselves. It felt a bit strange but nice.

Vocabulary
Le flâneur: one who walks leisurely