Return the pork to the pan and add enough water so the pieces are about two-thirds submerged. Add the cinnamon stick and stir in the chile powder, bay leaves, cumin, and garlic.
Braise in the oven for 3 ½ hours, turning the pork a few times during cooking, until much of the liquid is evaporated and the pork is falling apart. Remove the pan from the oven, lift the pork pieces out of the liquid, and set them on a platter or in a bowl.
Once the pork is cool enough to handle, shred it into bite-size (about 2-inch/7-cm) pieces. Discard any obvious big chunks of fat, if you wish.
Return the pork to the roasting pan and cook in the oven, turning occasionally, until the liquid has evaporated and the pork is crispy and caramelized. The exact length of time will be determined by how crispy you like the pork. It will take at least 1 hour, but probably more.
SERVING: Carnitas ideally should be served with a stack of warm tortillas, bowls of salsa, stewed beans, guacamole, and other Mexican accompaniments so guests can make their own tacos. If I’ve run out of tortillas, I serve it with rice.
STORAGE: Carnitas can be made up to three days in advance and kept in the refrigerator. Rewarm gently in a low oven.
VARIATION: If you wish to make pork mole, in step 8, once you’ve shredded the meat, mix in half a batch of mole (page 58), adding any pork juices to make it liquidy. Then rewarm in the oven for 30 minutes, turning the pork pieces once or twice.
MY CLE TO SUCCESS
If you haven’t been to Paris in a while, one thing you can’t help but notice is the startling number of banks that have opened in the past few years. Whenever a business closes, especially on a prominent corner, the construction crews arrive the next morning and gut the interior; shortly thereafter, a generic Société Générale, Crédit Lyonnais, or BNP Paribas opens its gleaming double doors.
Banks in France wield a tremendous amount of power, and if you live here, the bank-issued clé (key) RIB is just as vital as your government-issued identity card. The RIB (relevé d’identité bancaire) is a flimsy three-inch square of paper generated by your bank with a gazillion numbers on it. It proves to everyone that you’ve got a bank account. Which in turns proves you’re a person worthy of things like gas, electricity, and telephone service.
And you need an electric bill to get your visa.
But you can’t get a visa without an electric bill.
And you can’t get electricity unless you have a RIB.
But you can’t open a bank account, and get a RIB, without a visa.
And you can’t get a visa without an electric bill.
Of all the French paradoxes I encountered, this is the one that had me closest to tears for weeks on end. My troubles began when I was compiling the paperwork required for my carte de séjour, a long-term visa, which had to include proof of residence. (Which is another paradox: to get a visa to live here, you need to prove you already live here.) So I needed to open a bank account. Except every single bank I visited refused to open an account for me, since I didn’t have a visa. Even the post office, which acts like a bank in France and is known for being incredibly lenient, denied me the privilege of letting them hold my money.
Something Americans don’t understand is that the person sitting at the desk or behind the counter in France has the inalienable right to say non for whatever reason he, or usually she, wants. Unlike in America, where everyone’s taught to say yes, in France, oui means more work. And if more work sounds as appealing to you as it does to them, you’re beginning to understand a bit of the logic around here.
Not looking forward to deportation, and getting desperate, I was offered an introduction to a banker by a rather well-to-do friend, who accompanied me to her branch in the place de l’Opéra. I brought along a box of La Maison du Chocolat chocolates, which the bancaire gladly accepted, after which, she directed me back to a branch of their bank back in my neighborhood. (One bonus of Paris being laid out in a big spiral is that it makes it easy to get back to the point you started from.)
Back in the Bastille, I spent the next two weeks making appointments at various banks, getting all dressed up in tie and jacket, then arriving with my thick dossier of paperwork only to be turned away by the less-than-interested directeur d’agence. One by one, I was systematically banished from their branches. With my visa hearing in just a couple of days, I started to panic and could feel my eyes welling after each grueling day of rejections.
Then it hit me. I realized I held something that few Frenchwomen would be able to resist.
So I confidently marched into one of the last banks in my neighborhood I’d yet to visit, without the requisite appointment. I strode through the imposing double doors, almost unable to breathe because of my firmly knotted tie, but was told I’d have to wait.
When my name was finally called, I entered the office of a sternly coiffed Parisienne, just like all the others I’d seen, who didn’t seem particularly interested in me or my thick dossier. I sat still, trying not to squirm or say much, while she perused each sheet of paper in my carefully organized folder, flipping through it with a look that I had come to know all too well. When she was done, she sighed, frowned in my direction, and as she parted her lips, ready to speak, I stopped her. This time I was ready.
I reached into my bag and on cue I pulled it out: a copy of my first cookbook, one filled with dessert recipes. Even more important, it was complete with full-color photos. I handed it across the desk to her with an explanation that this was my métier.
You would have thought I’d told her Johnny Depp was dumping Vanessa Paradis and was on his way over, ready to take her away from this drudgery on his private yacht, to spend the summer sailing the Côte d’Azur. She became visibly flushed as she started flipping through the pages, admiring the sleek gâteau Marjolaine layered with ribbons of shiny chocolate ganache and nutty praline. She grazed her hands over the pictures of buttery cakes glazed with pinwheels of maple-caramelized pears, and sighed with pleasure at the trembling soufflés, oozing chunks of dark chocolate.
She was so excited that she called in her coworkers, who clustered around her desk with a chorus of “Oh la la, monsieur!” as they turned the pages, each causing more of a fuss than the previous one. (When I wrote the book, I was worried that I was paying too much for the photos. I now know for sure that it was money well spent.)
After the commotion died down and the women all went back to their respective cubicles, she turned to her computer keyboard, still so excited she was practically bouncing off her seat, looked over at me, and asked, “Quelle est votre adresse, monsieur?”
The moment her manicured fingers started tapping away on the keyboard, I realized that my first triumph in France had nothing to do with my fiscal fitness, but instead hinged on my culinary qualifications. I’d found my clé to success around here. And the future was looking a little bit sweeter for me.
MOUSSE AU CHOCOLAT I
CHOCOLATE MOUSSE I
MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS
Some people think of mousse au chocolat as something fancy, when in fact, it’s a very typical, everyday French dessert. This one was made for me by Marion Levy, who lives in the Marais, but spends many of her winters skiing in Méribel. One night after we tackled the slopes she put together this incredibly simple mousse au chocolat, which I thought would be delicious with a shot of Chartreuse in it, similar to the chocolat vert (hot chocolate with a shot of the regional herbal liqueur) served in the chalets that kept me warm and happy trying to keep up with her on the slopes.
When I whipped it up at home, I brought some to my Parisian neighbors with the warning there were uncooked eggs in it. They looked at each other, then at me, completely perplexed, and asked, “How else would you make chocolate mousse?” If you’re concerned about raw eggs, use pasteurized ones, checking to be sure that the whites will be suitable for whipping.
Or move to France, where no one seems to worry about it.
7 ounces (200 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, finely choppe
d
3 tablespoons (45 ml) water
2 tablespoons (30 ml) Chartreuse (or another favorite liqueur)
4 large eggs, at room temperature, separated Pinch of coarse salt
In a medium-sized bowl set over a pan of barely simmering water, begin melting the chocolate with the water and Chartreuse, making sure not to let it get too hot. Take the bowl off the heat when the chocolate is almost completely melted, then stir gently until smooth. Set aside.
In a clean, dry bowl, whip the egg whites with the salt until they form stiff peaks when you lift the whip. They should still be smooth and creamy, not grainy.
Stir the egg yolks into the chocolate, then fold one-third of the whites into the chocolate to lighten it up.
Fold the remaining egg whites into the chocolate just until there are no visible streaks of whites. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and chill for at least 3 hours. (You can also divide the mousse into individual custard cups, ramekins, or goblets before chilling.)
SERVING: Although you can serve mousse au chocolat with whipped cream, I prefer it just as is. For some reason, to me, mousse au chocolat is best enjoyed straight from the serving bowl, with friends and family sharing communally. You can also freeze it and serve it frozen. Dip a spoon or ice cream scoop in very hot water for easy scooping.
STORAGE: Mousse au chocolat will keep in the refrigerator for up to five days. It can also be frozen for up to one month.
VARIATIONS: You can use another favorite liqueur, such as Grand Marnier, rum, or Armagnac, or omit it altogether, substituting coffee or water for the Chartreuse.
MOUSSE AU CHOCOLAT II
CHOCOLATE MOUSSE II
MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS
For those concerned about raw eggs, here’s an alternative recipe for mousse au chocolat. As in the previous recipe, you can swap another liqueur, or espresso, for the Chartreuse.
8 ounces (225 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, finely chopped
4 tablespoons (60 g) salted butter, diced
3 tablespoons (45 ml) Chartreuse
¼ cup (60 ml) water
¾ cup (180 ml) heavy cream
In a medium-sized bowl set over a pan of barely simmering water, heat the chocolate, butter, Chartreuse, and water until melted and smooth. Remove from heat.
In a separate bowl, beat the cream with a whisk until it’s thickened and forms soft, droopy peaks when you lift the whisk.
Fold about one-third of the cream into the chocolate mixture to lighten it up, then fold in the remaining cream. Cover and chill for at least 3 hours. (For storage and serving tips, see preceding recipe.)
CHOUQUETTES AUX PEPITES DE CHOCOLAT
CHOCOLATE CHIP CREAM PUFFS
MAKES ABOUT 25 PUFFS
Whenever I’m having a difficult day, my remedy is to treat myself to a small sack of chouquettes, which bakeries sell in little paper bags. Ten chouquettes per bag seems to be the magic number, which coincides with exactly how many I need to eat before I feel better.
When I stopped at Aux Péchés Normands, a bakery in the tenth arrondissement, I discovered chouquettes studded with chocolate chips, so I now toss a handful in mine whenever I make them at home. The only problem with making them myself is that I can’t make just ten, and I always end up eating the whole tray.
Pearl sugar is the key to the irresistible appeal of chouquettes. The large, irregular chunks of sugar provide a toothsome crunch that makes them as popular with adults as they are with children, who often get one as a reward from the baker when stopping by with their parents for the obligatory dinnertime baguette.
Shaping the mounds of dough is easiest to do with a spring-loaded ice cream scoop, although you can use two spoons or a pastry bag with a large, plain tip.
1 cup (250 ml) water
½ teaspoon coarse salt
2 teaspoons sugar
6 tablespoons (90 g) unsalted butter, cut into small chunks
1 cup (135 g) flour
4 large eggs, at room temperature
½ cup (85 g) semisweet chocolate chips
½ cup (60 g) pearl sugar (see Note)
Position a rack in the upper third of the oven. Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat.
Heat the water along with the salt, sugar, and butter in a medium saucepan, stirring, until the butter is melted. Remove from heat and dump in all the flour at once. Stir rapidly until the mixture is smooth and pulls away from the sides of the pan.
Allow the dough to cool for 2 minutes, stirring occasionally to release the heat; then briskly beat in the eggs, one at a time, until the paste is smooth and shiny. Let cool completely to room temperature, then stir in the chocolate chips. If it’s even slightly warm, they’ll melt.
Drop mounds of dough, about 2 tablespoons each, on the baking sheet, evenly spaced.
Press pearl sugar crystals liberally over the top and sides of each mound. Use a lot and really press them in. Once the puffs expand, you’ll appreciate the extra effort (and sugar).
Bake the chouquettes for 35 minutes, or until puffed and well browned. Serve warm or at room temperature.
STORAGE: Choquettes are best eaten the same day they’re made. However, once cooled, they can be frozen in a zip-top freezer bag for up to one month. Defrost at room temperature, then warm briefly on a baking sheet in a moderate oven, until crisp.
NOTE: Pearl sugar—large, white, irregularly shaped chunks of sugar (roughly the size of small peas)—is available from King Arthur Flour (see Resources, page 271) and in some Ikea stores. Scandinavian baking supply places carry it as well. Or substitute the largest sugar crystals you can find.
WHAT THEY SAY VERSUS WHAT THEY MEAN
When they say, “Non,” they mean, “Convince me.”
When they say, “We do not take returns,” they mean, “Convince me.”
When they say, “It’s not broken,” they mean, “Convince me.”
When they say, “You need a prescription for that,” they mean, “Convince me.”
When they say, “The restaurant is completely full,” they mean, “Convince me.”
When they say, “The restaurant is completely full,” they mean, “We already have enough Americans in here.”
When they say, “Do you mind if I smoke?” they mean, “Do you mind if I pout and scowl for the next five minutes if you say yes?”
When they say, “It does not exist,” they mean, “It does exist—just not for you.”
When they walk right into you on the street and say nothing, they mean, “I’m Parisian, and you’re not.”
When they say, “We don’t have change,” they mean, “I want a tip.”
When they say, “Do you want directions?” they mean, “I look forward to telling you what to do for the next five minutes.”
When they say, “I’d like to practice my English,” they mean, “For the next twenty minutes, I’d like to make you feel like a complete idiot while I speak picture-perfect English.”
When they say, “They’re up on the seventh floor,” they mean, “They’re right around the corner from where we’re standing.”
When they say, “We don’t have any more,” they mean, “We have lots more, but they’re in the back and I don’t feel like getting them.”
When they say, “It’s not my fault,” they mean, “It is my fault, but I’m not taking the blame.”
When they say, “That is not possible,” they mean, “It is possible, but not for you.”
When they say, “I am a Socialist,” they mean, “I’m not responsible for picking up my dog’s poop.”
When they say, “Your package hasn’t arrived,” they mean, “I’m just about to go on break. Come back Monday and wait in line for forty minutes again.”
When they say, “The fat’s the best part!” they mean, “I’m under forty.”
When they say, “The cheeses in France are the best in the world,” they mean, “We are indeed a superior culture.
”
When they say, “We are tired of American culture,” they mean, “Please don’t show us Sharon Stone’s vagina again.”
GATEAU A L’ABSINTHE
ABSINTHE CAKE
ONE 9-INCH (23-CM) LOAF CAKE
If you’re a recipe writer, there are no better taste testers than the French. When I made this cake for the first time, I brought it to Luc-Santiago Rodriguez, who runs a tiny absinthe-only shop in the Marais, Le Vert d’Absinthe, which is certainly one of the most unusual shops in all of Paris—and perhaps the world.
He’s serious about absinthe, and the next day there was a message in my in-box from him telling me that the particular absinthe I used in the cake wasn’t the best, and I should try another one that he carries. Although absinthe is now flowing freely in America (see Resources, page 271), I’m not going to recommend any specific brand. If you come to Paris, stop in; the bottle of turf-green Duplais he suggested was just perfect. (He bristled when I told him I was going to advise readers who didn’t have absinthe on hand to use another anise-based liqueur. So if you go, don’t tell Luc-Santiago I told you that.)
I love this cake when it’s made with pistachio flour, also known as pistachio powder or meal, which gives it a lovely green color similar to la fée verte, the green fairy that allegedly one sees if too much absinthe is consumed. Almond powder or cornmeal can be substituted.
For the cake
¾ teaspoon anise seeds
1 ¼ cups (175 g) all-purpose flour
The Sweet Life in Paris Page 7