MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS
The first time I cooked dinner for French people in my little kitchen, I assumed that half a chicken would be the right amount for each person, American-style. But I’ve cut back on my shopping, since the French are content, and patient enough, to fuss endlessly with a lone chicken leg for much longer than I thought humanly possible. I derive endless fascination from watching them extract each and every morsel of meat from a bony wing with finely honed, surgical precision.
Although I’m getting over my fear of eating fresh fruits in public, dried fruits don’t pose a similar problem. I like to use them when making a tagine, a typical North African casserole that Parisians have taken a liking to. I find sun-dried apricots, French prunes, Armenian peaches, and Iranian dates at Sabah, an Arabic market that sits on the corner of the busy marché d’Aligre (see Resources, page 271). The tight aisles are crammed with everything from olives and preserved lemons, bobbing away in their brine, to sacks of nuts and dried fruits from all over the world. Although they have a pretty fascinating selection of spices, I make a trip across town for saffron to Goumanyat (see Resources, page 271), which specializes in saffron and is truly a mecca for spice-lovers as well.
4 ounces (125 g) dried apricots
1 chicken, cut into 8 pieces (2 legs, 2 thighs, and each breast cut in half crosswise, leaving wings attached)
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground turmeric
2 teaspoons paprika
¼ teaspoon saffron threads
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons coarse salt Freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons (30 g) butter, salted or unsalted
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 cups chicken stock (if using canned, use a low-salt brand) or water
⅓ cup (10 g) chopped fresh cilantro, plus a bit extra for garnish
1 tablespoon honey
Juice of ½ lemon
¾ cup (75 g) blanched almonds, toasted
Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
Put the apricots in a small bowl and pour boiling water over them to cover. Set aside.
In a large bowl, toss the chicken pieces with the ginger, turmeric, paprika, saffron, cinnamon, salt, and pepper.
Melt the butter in a large Dutch oven or similar ovenproof casserole. Add the onion and cook for 5 minutes over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until translucent.
Add the chicken and cook for 3 minutes, turning the pieces with tongs to release the fragrance of the spices. Pour in the stock, add the cilantro, and cover.
Bake for 50 minutes, turning the chicken pieces once or twice while they’re braising.
Remove the casserole from the oven. Use tongs to transfer the chicken to a deep serving platter, then cover with foil. Return the casserole to the stovetop, add the honey and lemon juice, and reduce the sauce over medium-high heat by about one-third. Taste, and add more salt if necessary.
Return the chicken to the pot, add the almonds, and reheat in the sauce. Transfer the tagine back to the serving platter. Drain the apricots and spoon them over the top, then garnish with additional cilantro.
SERVING: Although tagine isn’t traditionally served with couscous, I do at home, as they serve it at one of my favorite North African restaurants in Paris—L’Atlas, which faces the Institut du Monde Arabe. Another favorite is Chez Omar, a former bistro that’s become a rather popular and slightly trendy North African restaurant. They also serve one of the most authentic versions of steak frites in town.
DRESSING LIKE A PARISIAN
If anyone had told me ten years ago that I’d be standing over an ironing board, pressing the wrinkles out of pajamas and kitchen towels, I would have told them they were insane. What kind of idiot irons his pajamas, let alone kitchen towels?
Fast forward to today, and you’ll find me dutifully each week working a hot iron back and forth over my dress shirts, polo shirts, T-shirts, jeans, pajamas, pillowcases, dinner napkins, and yes, my kitchen towels, making sure I’ve eradicated every last wrinkle, crease, and dimple.
Shortly after I arrived in Paris, I happily discovered the vide-greniers, the French version of tag sales, where you snag great deals on household items for much less than in the fabulous, and fabulously pricey, department stores. About the same time I also discovered linen. Specifically, vintage French linen sheets, pillowcases, and kitchen towels. When I took hold of the thick, heavy fabric with its starchy, clinical crispness, I was hooked and began manically stockpiling as much as I could carry home on the Métro.
Each time I came upon a stack, I thought I’d uncovered a rare find and would buy the whole load, certain I’d never see such deals again. Months later, when I could barely close my closet, I learned that fine linen is common in France and all my hoarding wasn’t necessary.
Unfortunately, once my cabinets were packed with all those beautiful linens, I also realized they’d come out of my mini washing machine in a wrinkly ball, looking like one of those Danish modern white paper lamps: a tight, wadded-up sphere of sharp pleats and folds. So unless you’re a masochist and enjoy waking up after a rough night with bruises and abrasions on your arms and legs—which I don’t—those sheets need to be starched, ironed, and pressed into submission.
Not that all that many people get to check out my sheets and pillowcases, which I now send to the laundry since if I hang them up to dry for two to three days in my apartment, it’s impossible to walk around the Christo-like maze. But in Paris, people do check out how others dress. I recall an enlightening story by a travel writer who, because of her profession, had spent time in a lot of unusual and exotic places. If you’ve traveled to any of them yourself, you know that one of the pitfalls of being a foreigner is that you can become a magnet for hucksters harassing you to purchase something that you probably don’t want—jewelry, a carpet, a leather jacket, their sister. (“She is virgin—many times!” was one particularly ineffective sales pitch, I remember.) Most women are certainly no stranger to tenacious, pesky men hitting on them in foreign countries, suggesting a liaison d’amour. So the writer decided to start dressing in the native garb when she traveled, and immediately the touts started dropping like dead mouches, and people began treating her like a local.
Even though Parisians outfit themselves in nearly the same Western-style garb as we do—some combination of pants, shirts, dresses, and jackets—closer inspection reveals subtle, telling differences. And it’s helpful to know about them if you want to blend in.
Parisian men wear shoes that are long and skinny with narrow, hard leather soles and, except in August, a scarf tied with great élan. No Parisian would dream of walking around with a scarf just dangling around his neck. It’s always arranged with a complex series of knots so elaborate, I think some of them use a sailing primer for guidance. Jeans are normale, although you won’t see any baggy ones or brands boasting a “relaxed” or “comfort fit.” No matter what the material, pants are always form-fitting, to make everyone’s butt look good, which I hope is a look that never becomes passé.
Sport coats are much more common than the polar fleece jackets with all those toggles and zippers and pockets that pragmatic Americans tend to favor. I take that back. You do see Parisians wearing them, but it’s obligatory to have English-language patches with words like “rugged” and “sporty” sewn up and down the sleeves, plus a few arbitrary sailing flags and reflectors, even though we’re hours away from any ocean—and I can’t imagine a scarier sensation than feeling the spray from the dubious waters of the Seine on my skin.
Speaking of the sea, there’s one particularly unfortunate fashion gaffe that’s taken Paris by storm: the gilet de pêcheur. Yes, the last remnants of your high school French are correct; it’s the fisherman’s vest. Parisian men have adapted them for everyday wear, and it’s not uncommon to see French dudes proudly patrolling the streets in heavy-duty khaki vests laden with pockets and buckles piled on top of each other and straps dan
gling every which way.
Gilets de pêcheur notwithstanding, you always want to make a bonne présentation, so it should be a priority to look your best if you want to fit in. No torn jeans unless they’re torn intentionally. Words on clothes are fine, but only if they’re printed up the back of your shirt or diagonally across the front. Preferably in gold. And slogans needn’t shy away from sex: I was having dinner at Chez Michel, a casual but fairly nice restaurant, when a man entered wearing a T-shirt that said, “If you don’t like oral sex, keep your mouth shut.” I doubt he knew what that meant. If he did, he was looking in the wrong place. Perhaps the city of Paris needs to add fashion police to the other duties of the gendarmes.
Zippers need not be limited to the groin: shoulders, sleeves, knees, up the legs, behind the legs, and across one’s backside are all locations that are acceptable, even encouraged. I’m not sure why anyone needs a zipper across his chest or shoulders, but I sure hope all those folks strutting their stuff on Sunday afternoons in the Marais take extra care when zipping up: the brazen tightness of their clothes makes me certain there’s no room for undergarments above (or below) the waist. It’s embarrassing enough explaining how certain things get stuck in your zipper; I don’t know how you’d explain how you got your shoulder blade jammed in one.
In the old days, before the dangling fanny pack, the most obvious giveaway for Americans was our sneakers. One glance at our padded feet was all it took to peg us as hailing from the home of Air Jordans. Now, thanks to mondialisation, you’ll find Parisians pounding the pavement wearing sneakers too, especially the younger generation, who’ve dubbed them les baskets. The difference is that Parisians wear les baskets because they’re stylish, not because they’re comfy. So go ahead. It’s fine to wear sneakers. But make sure they’re hip, racy—and expensive. Or purple. A good rule of thumb is that you can wear them in Paris if they cost you at least half of what your airfare did to get here.
I don’t wear sneakers much, but as hard as I try, I’m unable to squeeze my feet into the stiff leather shoes that Parisian men favor. It’s beyond me how Parisian gents are able to wear these shoes on the city’s hard and treacherously slippery pavement. Consequently, my black, lug-soled Trippen shoes from Germany make me an outcast and invariably draw stares. Maybe it’s because the smooth soles are easier to wipe clean than my deep-grooved soles if you step in the minefield of sidewalk dog droppings. The downside is when racing through the market in the springtime, I have to stop and take a stick to flick out the cherry pits that get stuck in the bottoms or else people look up, expecting to see a seasoned hoofer tap-dancing his way toward them as I click around the city.
Not only is it okay to wear sneakers nowadays, but another recent change you’ll notice is that it’s now cool (and cooler) to wear shorts in the summer. But wait, don’t drop those trousers so fast. If you plan to venture outside in les Bermudas, they need to hang below the knee, please. Even in Paris, one must follow the rules set forth in the global transatlantic Treaty of Taste: shorts must never be wider than they are long.
(Exempt from this rule are the big, busty “working women” on the rue Blondel, whose girth generally exceeds their height. They get a pass.)
So sneakers are okay, shorts are sometimes okay, but never wear both in combination with a fanny pack. And, mon Dieu, don’t even think of adding an oversized water bottle. Because I’d rather have you dying of thirst than dying of embarrassment.
VACHERIN A LA CANNELLE, GLACE EXPRESS-CARAMEL, SAUCE CHOCOLAT, ET AMANDES PRALINEES
CINNAMON MERINGUE WITH ESPRESSO-CARAMEL ICE CREAM, CHOCOLATE SAUCE, AND CANDIED ALMONDS
MAKES 6 SERVINGS
One combination that always works in Paris is le vacherin. You can’t miss with a crisp disk of meringue topped with a scoop of coffee ice cream, warm chocolate sauce, and candied nuts.
There’s a misconception that the French don’t like cinnamon. Once when I was giving a cooking demonstration, a Frenchwoman in the front row spoke up just as I was about to add a heaping spoonful of cinnamon to something: “Why do you Americans put so much cinnamon in everything?” It’s true, we do tend to be rather generous with it, and it ends up being the predominant flavor. So I’ve started using less and appreciating it as a subtle, spicy accent rather than giving it star billing.
Although I’ve given you a recipe for coffee ice cream, feel free to substitute another favorite flavor, or use a store-bought premium brand.
For the meringues
2 large egg whites, at room temperature
Big pinch of coarse salt
6 tablespoons (75 g) granulated sugar
¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
Espresso-Caramel Ice Cream (recipe follows)
Chocolate Sauce (recipe follows)
Candied Almonds (recipe follows)
Preheat the oven to 200°F (100°C).
With an electric mixer or by hand, begin whipping the egg whites with the salt at medium to high speed until they thicken and begin to hold their shape. While whipping, add the sugar a tablespoon at a time. Then beat in the vanilla and cinnamon. When done, the meringue should hold a soft but glossy peak when you lift the beaters.
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and divide the meringue into six equal mounds. Dampen a soup spoon and make an indentation in the center, slightly flattening each one as you create the indentation.
Let dry in the oven for at least 1 hour, then turn off the oven and let the meringues dry out for another hour. (If you lift one off and it feels dry, you can take them out earlier.) Remove from the oven and cool completely.
SERVING: Place a meringue in the center of a shallow soup bowl. Add two scoops of ice cream, spoon warm chocolate sauce over the top, then sprinkle with almonds and serve.
STORAGE: Baked meringues can be stored in an absolutely airtight container for up to one week.
Espresso-Caramel ice cream
MAKES ABOUT 3 CUPS (3/4 L)
1 cup (200 g) sugar
1 cup (250 ml) heavy cream
1½ cups (375 ml) whole milk
Pinch of coarse salt
6 large egg yolks
¼ cup (60 ml) strong brewed espresso, or more to taste
Prepare an ice bath by filling a large bowl with ice and water. Nest another bowl inside it that will hold at least 2 quarts. Set a mesh strainer over the top.
Spread the sugar in an even layer in a medium heavy-duty metal saucepan; I recommend one that’s 4 to 6 quarts (4 to 6 L). Have the cream ready nearby. Heat the sugar slowly until the edges begin to melt and liquefy. Continue to cook, stirring with a heatproof spatula, until the sugar turns deep brown and begins to smoke.
Continue to cook until the sugar just starts to smell slightly burnt, then immediately pour in the cream while stirring. The sugar will seize and harden, so stir the mixture over low heat until the sugar dissolves. (Don’t worry about any lumps; they’ll dissolve later. But you may wish to wear oven mitts since the steam can be rather hot.)
Add the milk and salt and heat until warm.
In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolks. Slowly pour the warm caramel mixture into the yolks, whisking constantly; then scrape the warmed egg yolks back into the saucepan.
Stir the custard constantly over medium heat, scraping the bottom as you stir, until it thickens and coats the back of the spoon.
Immediately pour the custard through the strainer into the bowl nesting in the ice bath. Cool the custard by stirring it frequently.
Once cool, stir in the espresso, then chill the mixture at least 4 hours or overnight.
Before churning, taste the custard and add more espresso, if desired. Freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.
Chocolate sauce
MAKES 1 CUP (250 ML)
You can spike this very easy chocolate sauce with a big pinch of ground cinnamon or a shot of rum to suit your taste. Depending on which brand of chocolate you use, the
sauce may be too thick; if so, stir in a few more tablespoons of milk until it reaches the desired consistency.
4 ounces (115 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, finely chopped
½ cup (125 ml) whole or low-fat milk, plus a few additional tablespoons, if necessary
1 tablespoon sugar
Heat the chocolate, milk, and sugar in a saucepan over the lowest possible heat, stirring constantly with a whisk until the chocolate is melted and the sauce is smooth.
STORAGE: Sauce can be stored in a covered container in the refrigerator for up to two weeks. Reheat gently before using.
Candied Almonds
MAKES ½ CUP (60 G) CANDIED NUTS
2 tablespoons sugar
½ cup (40 g) sliced almonds
⅛ teaspoon ground cinnamon
Spread the sugar in a heavy-bottomed skillet and strew the almonds over the top.
Cook over medium heat until the sugar begins to melt. Start to stir the almonds and sugar with a heatproof spatula or spoon until the nuts start toasting and the sugar begins to darken and caramelize.
Sprinkle with the cinnamon and stir a couple of times, then scrape the mixture onto a plate or baking sheet to cool.
Once cool, break into small pieces.
STORAGE: Keep in an airtight container until ready to use. The almonds can be made up to one week ahead.
WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE—BUT YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY
If you ever peered closely into the brackish water of the Seine, you’d probably lose your thirst in Paris. Because that’s where most of the drinking water comes from. Yuck! Over the past few years, the city of Paris has been making a big push to get Parisians to use less of those environmentally unfriendly plastic bottles and head back to the tap. Not only is the tap water safe to drink, or so they say, but its high calcium content is supposedly good for preventing osteoporosis. One thing they did gloss over was the fact that the heavy doses of chalky calcaire ruin our wine glasses and block our shower heads. And good wineglasses are as important as good posture in Paris. The calcium requires us to add a dash of environmentally unfriendly anti-calcaire to the laundry so that for those of us who bathe regularly, our towels don’t scrape off a couple of layers of skin. (Unlike my neighbor down the hall, who evidently doesn’t consider showering all that important.)
The Sweet Life in Paris Page 5