On Rue Tatin

by Susan Herrmann Loomis

  Whether or not the man was a Parisian I will never know, but Alain’s remark caused many indulgent smiles throughout the store.

  Watching other shoppers is almost as entertaining as watching the staff. There are those without budgetary concerns who stand and point at this and that, call Monsieur Clet “François” in syrupy tones, and often have a tiny, furry dog at the end of a leash. Then there are the many men who shop at Chez Clet, a category unto themselves. I’m always curious about them—do they do the cooking? Do they simply come with lists written out by their wives? They are gourmands one and all, this I can vouch for after seven years of observing them. Listening to the men as they request ingredients is often a lesson in seasonal cooking, as they are even more punctilious than their female counterparts.

  When Monsieur Clet isn’t to be found on the ground floor or in his small office upstairs, he is downstairs in the chilly, gravel-floored wine cellar, his pride and joy. He adores taking a customer there to show it off, to give his advice, to share his excitement over a new find, or a rare bottle. His shelves are heavily stocked with Bordeaux, what I call the wine of Normandy. Normandy doesn’t actually produce wine—the locally produced beverage is hard apple cider. But since Normandy was a stop on the historic trade route between Bordeaux and London, Bordeaux is the wine most Normans know and drink. Michael and I have a preference for Côtes du Rhône and Burgundy, but we welcome the chance to learn about Bordeaux, so when we are in the mood for something new and different, I go talk with Monsieur Clet.

  I’m not only a regular at Chez Clet, but some days I go in there three or four times as I develop a menu. Occasionally I’ve forgotten my purse at home or don’t have quite enough change. This is not a problem. My debts are written in a leather-bound accounting book under the name L’Américaine, or The American Woman. It took at least three years for it to dawn on anyone at Chez Clet that I had a name. When they finally asked me what it was and I told them, I was Madame Loomis for two years after that. Finally, I became Suzanne, though for purposes of tallying debts, I remain L’Américaine. I always apologize for my lack of ready cash. The response is always the same. “It is no problem. If you don’t pay, we know where to find you.”

  Learning shopping habits in a different culture took me some time. Milk is a good example. In America, milk is easy to find. When you want it, you go to the store and get a gallon, never thinking twice about its availability. In France, it’s another story.

  By milk I mean fresh milk, not the thick sterilized milk that tastes like sweet cardboard and is always available here. We use only fresh milk, and we go through a fair amount of it, with cafés crèmes and morning cereal. Fresh milk is sold by the liter, which doesn’t go very far. We usually discover we’ve run out in the morning, before school, so either Michael or I run to Chez Clet, which usually opens at 7:30 A.M., to get more, and often we find the shelf bare. One day I asked Isabelle if they would be getting more milk. She looked at me and said, shortly, “No, there won’t be any more this week,” as though my question was unreasonable. I asked her why. “Because it’s only delivered once a week, and when it’s gone it’s gone, that’s why,” she responded tersely.

  Since they seemed to be out of milk often, I asked her why they didn’t order more.

  “Ah, non!” she replied vigorously, shaking her head. “Ah, non! We can only order it by lots of five liters. Yes, perhaps we would sell seven or eight, but then we would lose two, and this is not acceptable. We would lose too much money. Non. It isn’t possible to do it any other way. If you want milk, you must tell me and I will put it aside for you.”

  “Ah!” I thought as I left the store, having ordered two liters for the following week. “Another key to the mystery of French culture and thrift.”

  There are few American foods that we miss, but corn on the cob is one and until recently it was nearly impossible to find. Now I see it occasionally, wrapped in cellophane and never very appetizing. During our second summer here, Chez Clet had some that was displayed proudly out front. Like all the corn I see wrapped in cellophane, it already looked tough, but it was a thrill to see it nonetheless. I didn’t buy it, and no one else did either so that by about the fourth day on display it was looking pretty tired. Monsieur Clet still put it out front every day, leaving it in plain sight as it became more and more dry and wizened. By the end of the week it was embarrassing, a blot on the display. I couldn’t figure out why Monsieur Clet wasn’t throwing it away. I felt I had a duty to help.

  I found Monsieur Clet and pulled him aside. “Monsieur Clet,” I said in a hushed tone. “I don’t like to say this but those ears of corn you’ve got out there are really an embarrassment.” He raised his thick dark eyebrows. “An embarrassment, why what is wrong with them?” he asked me. I tried to explain. “You see, Monsieur Clet, I wouldn’t venture to say this if I didn’t completely understand corn. When it looks like that, it is inedible.”

  “Oh, it’s inedible,” he echoed. “Why do you say that? I thought it was fine.”

  For a man who has spent his life among produce Monsieur Clet’s ignorance about the shelf-life of corn was surprising. On the other hand, corn on the cob is something exotic in France, where it has only recently become available at all.

  I forged ahead, explaining about the kernels, the silk, the fine quality of corn when it is fresh, and the sad state it degenerates into when it isn’t. “If you want people to respect your store,” I said, “you must get rid of that corn. Anyone who knows corn and walks in here and sees that will walk right out again, I assure you.”

  Monsieur Clet looked at me, frowning. I already knew enough about him to know that if he thought he could sell something, he wouldn’t take it off the shelf. I suspect he was asking himself who I thought I was to try and advise him about corn. I could tell he wasn’t convinced. So I pulled out both barrels.

  “In America we live on corn in the summer,” I said. “It is a traditional food, one we all grow up eating as children. All Americans know corn intimately. I am American, and I know corn. I promise you, that corn shouldn’t be in a store as fine as yours.”

  The cultural angle was persuasive. He smiled in understanding, picked up the corn, and tossed it in the trash. “I thank you, Madame,” he said and returned to his work. Monsieur Clet continues to stock cellophane-wrapped corn on the cob, though now, if it gets beyond its prime he is quick to remove it from the shelf.

  BAKED EGGPLANT APPETIZER

  AUBERGINES AU FOUR

  Garden-fresh eggplant is a vegetable apart—sweet, tender, and succulent, unlike the bitter supermarket variety. The owner of the sporting goods store down the street from us grows them in her huge garden in Acquigny, about four miles from Louviers, and every now and then she brings me a basket full of them or I get them garden-fresh from Clet. I rush to cook them as quickly as possible for, like any delicate fruit or vegetable, the sooner they are eaten the purer their flavor.

  This is one of my favorite things to do with fresh eggplant. I often serve it as a first course in summer, letting the eggplant cool to room temperature if the ambient temperature is very warm. But the contrast between hot eggplant and room-temperature tomato sauce is also appealing.

  Serve additional olive oil on the side as well as a Côtes du Rhône.

  NOTE: When eggplant are very fresh it isn’t necessary to salt them before cooking as they aren’t bitter. On the other hand, the skin of under-ripe eggplant is very bitter, so use mature eggplant.

  11/2 pounds/750g ripe tomatoes, peeled, cored, seeded, and cut in small dices

  Fine sea salt

  1/2 teaspoon sugar

  1 tablespoon/15ml balsamic vinegar

  2 pounds/1kg fresh eggplant, trimmed and cut lengthwise in 1/2-inch/1.3cm slices

  2 to 3 tablespoons/30–45ml extra-virgin olive oil

  1 cup/10g loosely packed basil leaves

  1. Combine the tomatoes, 1/2 teaspoon sea salt, the sugar, and vinegar in a medium-size bowl, transfer to a sieve
set over a bowl, and let drain for 1 hour.

  2. Preheat the oven to 425° F/220° C/gas 8.

  3. Brush the eggplant slices generously on both sides with olive oil and arrange them on two heavy baking sheets. Sprinkle the slices with salt, and bake them in the bottom third of the oven until they are golden on one side, about 12 minutes. Turn the slices, sprinkle them with salt, and return to the oven to bake until they are golden on both sides and tender, an additional 8 to 10 minutes.

  4. Arrange the eggplant slices on a warmed platter, overlapping them slightly if necessary. Top with the tomato sauce, garnish with the basil leaves, and allow to cool or serve immediately.

  4 TO 6 SERVINGS

  RUSTIC NECTARINE AND APRICOT TART

  TARTE AUX NECTARINES ET ABRICOTS

  We are tart fanatics and I make them all the time during summer with whatever seasonal fruits I find at Chez Clet. This style is my favorite, because it is quick and gives a gorgeous result—the pastry is neither chilled nor prebaked.

  The oven must be preheated and the pastry rolled out and fitted into the tart tin before the fruit is cut up and combined with the sugar and cornstarch, so you can turn the fruit mixture immediately into the pastry, finish the assembly, and bake it. If the fruit sits, it gives up a great deal of juice, which can prevent the pastry from baking properly.

  1 small egg

  Pastry for one-crust tart (see Apple and Thyme Tart, page 80)

  1/3 cup/65g sugar

  2 tablespoons cornstarch

  1 pound/500g apricots, pitted and cut in quarters

  About 5 nectarines/11/4 pounds/625g, pitted and cut in eighths

  1. Preheat the oven to 425° F/220° C/gas 8. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg and 2 teaspoons water to make an egg wash.

  2. Roll out the pastry to a 13-inch/321/2-cm circle. Fit it gently into a 101/2-inch/26-cm removable-bottom tart tin, leaving the pastry to hang over the edge of the tin. Brush the bottom of the pastry with the egg glaze.

  3. Combine the sugar and the cornstarch in a large bowl. Add the fruit and stir until all the ingredients are combined, then turn it into the prepared pastry. Quickly fold the edges of the pastry over the fruit—they will be somewhat uneven but don’t be concerned. Quickly brush the pastry with the egg glaze, place the tart tin on a baking sheet, and bake it in the bottom third of the oven until the fruit and the pastry are golden and cooked through, 35 to 40 minutes.

  4. Remove from the oven, place the tart on an upturned bowl, and immediately remove the edge of the tart mold from the tin. Let the tart cool to room temperature, and serve.

  6 TO 8 SERVINGS

  AUTUMN FIG JAM

  LA CONFITURE DE FIGUES D’AUTOMNE

  I was first introduced to thick and chunky fig jam many years ago by Danie Dubois and it was a delight. Each year I buy enough figs at the market to make jam, and this is my favorite recipe, a perfect showcase for figs, for it is not too sweet.

  NOTE: I partially peel the figs to eliminate some but not all of the skin, which can be tough but adds interesting texture in small doses—it also contributes to the lovely, deep rosy hue of the jam. Ripe figs are ultra-sweet and need very little additional sugar to make a wonderfully rich jam. Because of the low sugar content this jam must be well-sealed to keep. If the seal is questionable keep the jam in a very cool place and eat it as quickly as you can.

  41/2 pounds/2kg figs, trimmed, partially peeled, and cut in eighths

  11/2 pounds/750g sugar

  1/2 cup/125ml bottled water

  2 lemons, preferably organic or at least untreated after harvest, ends trimmed, cut lengthwise in quarters then very thin triangles, seeds removed

  Place the figs, sugar, water, and lemons in a large, heavy- bottomed saucepan, stir so the ingredients are well combined, and bring to a boil over medium heat. When the mixture is boiling cook it until the juices thicken slightly, which will take about 25 minutes. The mixture will still seem thin but will thicken as the jam cools. Remove from the heat and seal according to jar manufacturer’s instructions.

  ABOUT 8 PINTS/4 LITERS

  EIGHT

  A Hair in the Soup

  ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS I noticed about our house that September when we came to claim it was the proliferation of carts and potted plants in the small backyard behind the house. They belonged to the florists at L’Art Floral across the street who, decades ago, had claimed the spot as their storage area. Our front yard had served as the exercise run for the family’s German shepherd, though the florists had been thoughtful enough to discontinue that practice before we moved in.

  The plants were something of a problem. So were the elderly women who parked their bicycles at different times throughout the day near the front door and returned some hours later with full shopping bags. And then there were the gentlemen who walked casually into the courtyard looking neither right nor left, headed to an old raised drain with a faucet over it in the corner outside the entry room window, unzipped their trousers, and used the drain as an outdoor toilet.

  The notary who supervised the sale of the house was aware of this use of our property, and he had told us in no uncertain terms that we should turn out everyone. I mentioned the elderly ladies to him and without skipping a beat he closed his eyes, turned down the corners of his mouth, and made a wide sweep with his hand. “Everyone,” he said, coldly. “If you do not get them out now, you will never get them out.”

  Speaking firmly to the florists and the gentlemen who used our courtyard didn’t bother me much. But how to evict the elderly women?

  One morning before we had actually moved into the house, I opened the large metal gate that served as the entry into the courtyard and I came face-to-face with a woman who was wheeling out her bike. Well dressed and cheerful, she greeted me with a hearty bonjour, which I returned. My stomach was in knots. I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t. Then, a vision of the notary flashed through my head and I screwed up my courage. “Madame, I am sorry to have to say this, but my family and I now own this house and we will soon be living here and . . .” I trailed off. She looked at me, expectantly. “I must ask you not to park your bicycle here any more.” My face was hot.

  “But of course, madame, it couldn’t be any other way,” she said, graciously. She climbed on her bicycle and with a quick au revoir, rode off down the street, never to return. I was relieved, but I still had two more women to go. One responded pleasantly, but the other looked hurt. “I’ve always parked my bicycle here,” she said. “Couldn’t I still do so once in a while?” I relented immediately, of course, but she never did. I think she realized that once we had really taken possession of the house, leaving her bike in our courtyard would be a bit like parking in our living room.

  I surprised a gentleman at the drain in mid-flow one day when I returned from a quick trip to the store on my bicycle. This was an opportunity I relished. I wheeled in, propped the bicycle against the apple tree, and walked right up to him, my eyes on his. “Monsieur, this is now my home, and you are in my garden. I must ask you to leave.” I’ve never seen anyone zip faster than he did. He hastily nodded his head and hurried off. Neither he nor any of his compatriots ever returned.

  The situation with the florists was harder to approach. I knew from observation and from comments dropped by others that they were none too happy to have us as neighbors. A bonjour on my part elicited nothing but a cold look and I feared that once they were turned out the invisible cool barrier that ran right down the middle of the street would turn to ice.

  It was a shame because we all loved living across from a florist. We could smell the hyacinths and the roses if the breeze blew toward us on a warmish day, and we loved the vividly colored tableau of potted plants and tall bouquets of flowers that spilled out onto the sidewalk creating a sweet, fragrant maze. The shop’s picture windows were filled with funny little accessories I had never seen before, from rustic little benches made of birch bark to delicately wrought porcelain flowers intended for gravesto
nes. There was always a panoply of dewy-eyed plaster elves that swung back and forth from fake trees and fawns that mechanically sipped water. I bought bouquets from time to time hoping to thaw the chill but my money was accepted without expression or comment.

  One day I was in our courtyard when Monsieur Taverne, one of the florists, walked through on his way to the back to get plants. I politely asked him to move his wagons and plants, explaining that we would soon move in. He brushed me off with a “Oui, oui, oui,” and continued on his way. I wasn’t yet working at the house everyday so I couldn’t keep tabs on the situation, but Michael was, and about a week later I asked if there had been any movement. There hadn’t. Several days after that I saw Monsieur Taverne again and repeated the request. Again I got the French brush-off.

  Time passed. We moved in. November rolled around and with it a huge stock of Christmas trees, all stacked tidily behind our house. “There is a positive side to this,” Michael observed. “We can walk out the back door and choose our tree—call it rent on the property.”

  I tried to think of everything I’d ever read about the French mentality and diplomacy. How to go about elegantly turning these people and their plants from our property? Asking them wasn’t enough. What was the turn of phrase that would do it? I became fixated on the situation, dreading it yet knowing there must be a way to proceed that would make them feel good about removing their wares from our garden.

  One unseasonably fine day as I was digging out weeds from the garden in preparation for planting spring arugula and mesclun, a flavorful blend of lettuces, Monsieur Taverne boldly came through the garden to get his plants. I watched him, impressed with his culot, or brio. He obviously felt he had a claim on the property, and he undoubtedly viewed us as a temporary annoyance. After all, he’d been storing his plants and carts and trees there for decades and the previous owner had never said anything.

  I watched him return with his wagon full of plants and I was suddenly infuriated. To hell with diplomacy: we needed action here. I put myself right in his path. “Monsieur, I have asked you three times to remove your things from our garden and you have done nothing. I want everything out of here by tomorrow!” I said. Then I turned and went into the house where I fumed for awhile.