½ bunch fresh flat-leaf parsley, cilantro, or chives, chopped
6 cups (500 g) shredded green or red cabbage
Coarse salt
In a large bowl, mix the peanut butter, garlic, peanut oil, lemon juice, soy sauce, and water until smooth.
Toss in the peanuts, radishes, carrot, parsley, and cabbage, mixing until everything’s coated. Taste, then add a bit of salt and another squeeze of lemon juice, if necessary.
VARIATIONS: Substitute toasted almonds or cashews for the peanuts or swap 1 tablespoon of dark sesame oil for 1 tablespoon of the peanut oil, adding a tablespoon of toasted sesame seeds to the salad.
HOT CHOCOLATE TO DIE FOR
If you’re one of those people who come to Paris craving a cup of the famous rich and thick hot chocolate served up around the city, you’re not alone. Many visitors get a lost, misty-eyed look when describing the ultrathick, steamy chocolat chaud that glops and blurts as it’s poured into dainty white cups in places like Angelina and Café de Flore, which serve it forth with great pomp and ceremony.
Me? I can barely swallow the sludge.
You need to clamp my mouth closed and massage my neck to get that hyperthick stuff down the hatch—like forcing a dog to swallow a pill. That throat-clogging liquid hits my tummy with a thud and refuses to budge for the rest of the day. I just don’t get its appeal.
Seriously, if I had a pistole of chocolate for everyone who asks me where they can find the “best” hot chocolate in Paris, I’d be able to enrobe the Arc de Triomphe. And I’ve learned to stay away from that kind of question, since a guest once asked what “the best chocolate shop in Paris” was. Because I replied that I couldn’t easily name any one in particular as “the best,” a message was posted on an online bulletin board about what a jerk I was for not giving a definitive answer.
But how can I! It’s like going into a wine shop and asking the clerk, “What’s your best wine?”
Each chocolate shop in Paris is unique, so I’d never recommend one as “the best.” I tend to think of them all as my children, each having various and lovable quirks. Nevertheless, we Americans love our lists and even more, we love superlatives; the higher up something is, the more we like it. When the rest of the world wonders why America never adopted the metric system, it’s because it’s not very exciting for us to say, “Oh my God, the temperature’s about to hit 37 degrees!” when we could gasp, “Oh my God, the temperature’s about to hit 100!” And don’t get me started on that silly “wind-chill factor,” which allows us to use even more superlatives.
How did all this hot chocolate madness get started around here anyway? Most credit Spain’s Anne of Austria, who married France’s Louis XIII, and brought chocolate into France in 1615 in the form of plump, aromatic cacao beans as part of her dowry. Back then, there was no high-tech machinery to pulverize and mold chocolate into smooth tablets, so the cocoa beans were ground, heated, and whirled up into hot chocolate, which was so rare and pricey that it could be sipped only by the fashionable elite.
Since those French royals lived lavishly, to keep them in high style, they sold chocolate to the yearning masses, and soon, almost anyone could get their hands on the stuff. The Marquis de Sade used hot chocolate to hide poison, Madame de Pompadour drank it to keep up with Louis XV’s hyperactive libido (the recipe is on the Château de Versailles Web site, in case you’re interested), and the randy Madame du Barry made her lovers drink the brew to keep up with her by keeping it up.
Not everyone embraced this magical elixir and although Madame de Sévigné was delighted with chocolate’s “regulatory” effects on her digestive system, she warned that drinking too much could cause adverse reactions: she reported to her daughter that another Parisienne, the Marquise de Coëtlogon, drank so much chocolate that when she gave birth, the child was “as black as the devil.”
Four centuries later, you can find evidence of the past at Debauve & Gallet, a former pharmacy that’s now an aloof (and outrageously expensive) chocolate shop that still dispenses flat disks of chocolat de santé—chocolate for health. Studies continue to this day offering proof that eating and drinking chocolate may be healthy, but most of the folks in Paris aren’t downing cups to improve their health. And from what I’ve seen around here, everyone’s libidos seems to be pretty healthy, too.
Nowadays there’s no shortage of places in town to indulge, and just about any café will whip you up a cup of le chocolat chaud. However, in most instances, it’s buyer beware: often it’s slipped from a powdery packet into the cup. If you’re not in a place that specializes in chocolate, look for the words à la ancienne scribbled on the menu or blackboard, which means the hot chocolate is made the old-fashioned way. Like Darty, though, there’s no guarantee of 100 percent satisfait, and I’ve sampled a few “old-fashioned” cups where the only thing ancienne about them was how old the mix tasted. One day, I stopped in for a snack at one of my favorite dives in Paris. The feeling inside the place is a close equivalent to a diner, although there’s no long counter or, being France, no bottomless cups of anything. Like diner waitresses, the uniformed women who work there are efficient, perfunctory, and agreeable. Judging from their muscular calves and forearms, I wouldn’t mess with them, though.
That afternoon, I had one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. It was particularly cold and even though, like most Parisians, I had wrapped and artistically double-knotted my scarf all the way up and around my neck, I couldn’t shake the chill that kept me shivering-cold. So I ordered a petit chocolat chaud. After the waitress set the clunky little cup in front of me, I blew away the cloud of steam that rose from the surface, peered at the dark brew inside, and cautiously brought the cup to my lips.
It took a moment for my brain to process what had just happened: everything I ever thought about hot chocolate was suddenly banished, dragged into the trash icon in the corner of my brain, and deleted for good. It was quite simply the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had, and the only one I’ve ever truly, madly fallen in love with.
Each day at Pâtisserie Viennoise, this extraordinary hot chocolate is whipped up fresh in the underground kitchen in a giant pot, then poured into a massive urn and measured out all day long in two sizes: petit and grand. For me, petit is exactly the right amount of this intensely chocolatey drink. Looking around, I’m clearly in the minority, since no one seems to have any problems finishing the larger mugs topped with a completely unreasonable amount of billowy whipped cream teetering dangerously over the edge.
Don’t expect to find anything gilded around here or served on dainty little doilies. The two rooms are dark and a tad shabby with photocopied prints on the walls, and there are sizable chips in the mocha-brown moldings. But the delicious chocolat chaud costs just a couple of euros, so you don’t suffer sticker shock when l’addition arrives. And if you absolutely have to have a doily underneath your cup, bring your own.
So where is Pâtisserie Viennoise?
To get to it, you’ll need to brave the most hazardous street in Paris: la rue de l’Ecole de Médecine (which, fortunately, means there’s a medical school nearby), in the fifth arrondissement. If it weren’t for the amazing hot chocolate, I’d avoid this street entirely, since the buses speed down this narrow alley, barely missing the limbs of pedestrians, who cower as they move along on sidewalks so narrow that if you exhale at the wrong time, you can actually feel the bus graze your cheek as it rockets past. As much as I’ve always wanted to enjoy lingering over the lovely Viennese Strudels and pastries on display in the window, when I make it to the front door, I hop inside as soon as I can, propelled forward by the whoosh of the #86 bus behind me as the driver floors it forward, barely grazing one of my other cheeks.
Once you’re safely inside Pâtisserie Viennoise, slip off your coat and wedge yourself into any place you can find. If you come midday, you have to order something to eat. They won’t just let you sip a chocolat chaud while harried Parisians wait around on their lunch breaks, eyeing your
table while you enjoy your two-buck cup. You’re welcome to stand at the few square centimeters of space they call a counter and have a quick fix if you arrive during mealtime, which is usually where you’ll find me, even if there are tables available. It provides a great overview of the waitresses in action, one of my other favorite forms of entertainment in Paris. But when they come barreling around the corner with their hands full of tottering cups and saucers, stay out of their way; they’ll run you down with as much determination as the #86 bus outside.
If you don’t really want to overdose on whipped cream, do not order a hot chocolate Viennois. The rule here is to top each cup with a lofty puff that’s equal in size to, or larger than, the cup itself. Consider yourself fortunate if it hasn’t toppled off and oozed in a billowy blob melting down the sides of the cup and pooling up in the saucer by the time it reaches your table. I’m a purist, and always ask for mine sans Chantilly. When I do I always detect a deep wrinkle of disappointment crossing the waitress’s brow.
And being a purist, I like really bitter chocolate. To someone who hasn’t met a chocolate that’s too bitter for him, this hot chocolate is my Waterloo. After a couple of sips, I wuss out and begin unwrapping one of the cubes of sugar perched alongside, and fais un canard, as they say; make it like a duck and dunk it in.
One day, while trying to sleuth out their recipe, I asked if they used unsweetened chocolate, and the waitress behind the counter promptly replied, “Non”—nor do they add cocoa powder, which I asked about too. She wasn’t giving up the secret, yet did confide that it’s cooked for a while on the stovetop, which she attempted to demonstrate by moving her right arm in a very large circular motion, large enough for me to know I don’t have a pot that big. (Or muscles like hers.) And that was that; she just smiled and went back to work.
When I’ve reached the bottom of my cup, fully sated, I head toward the door without any feeling of overindulgence, but fortified enough to handle the fiercest of Parisian winter weather. With a warm glow, I slip on my jacket, re-macramé my scarf around my neck, drop a few coins in the dish by the register, and leave. As I exit, I’m always careful to make a sharp ninety-degree turn just after I’m out the door so I don’t inadvertently meet my maker. (Or my hot chocolate maker, although I’d sure like to meet him to pick his brain.)
Come to think of it, I don’t think a nice, steaming cup of chocolat chaud made just the way I like it would be such a bad last supper. Maybe from here on out, I’ll start to accept the overload of whipped cream they’re always pushing on me: if it’s my time to go, at least I’ll go a very happy man. And then I can say, in all honesty, that I’ve finally found the best hot chocolate in Paris, one that’s truly “to die for.”
LE CHOCOLAT CHAUD
HOT CHOCOLATE
MAKES 4 TO 6 CUPS
If you can’t make it to Pâtisserie Viennoise, you’ll be missing out on not just the most fabulous cup of chocolat chaud in Paris, but a pretty formidable range of Viennese desserts, like Sacher torte, filled with apricots and glazed in shiny chocolate; flaky rectangles of Strudel bursting from an overload of cinnamon-baked apples; and hearty rounds of savory, bacon-studded Tyrolean bread. And perhaps a close call with death.
Luckily, my version of Parisian hot chocolate is easy to make safely at home, and you can use either regular or low-fat milk. But do use a top-notch chocolate. Since the recipe has so few ingredients, the quality of the chocolate really does make a difference.
2 cups (500 ml) whole or low-fat milk
5 ounces (140 g) semisweet or bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped
Pinch of coarse salt
In a medium saucepan, warm the milk, chocolate, and salt. Heat until it begins to boil. (It will probably boil up quite a bit at first, so keep an eye on it.)
Lower the heat to the barest simmer and cook the mixture, whisking frequently, for 3 minutes. If you want a thicker consistency, cook it another 1 to 2 minutes.
SERVING: Pour into cups and serve nature, or with a giant mound of slightly sweetened whipped cream. Sugar can be added, to taste.
STORAGE: Le chocolate chaud can be made in advance and stored in the refrigerator for up to five days. Rewarm over low heat in a saucepan or microwave oven.
A FISH OUT OF WATER
I’m scared of fish. Terrified of them.
Even dead, they have those unblinking, glistening, glazed-over eyes that stare off into the distance, but always seem to be looking at me. When I see them lying there, I’m convinced that their slippery bodies are somehow going to miraculously spring back to life and take a chomp out of me.
For reasons unknown, I’m not afraid of snakes, spiders, alligators, lizards—or shellfish, for that matter. Dead or alive. But what really scares me, even more than scaly fish, are those shape-shifting, squiggly, vile creatures from the deep—squid.
It’s a fear deeply rooted from the time my sister chased me around the house when I was six with a Marineland booklet spread open to the double-page larger-than-life centerfold of a giant octopus unfurling its tentacles around some innocent rock. I was sure she’d never find me hiding under my bed. But she did, and tossed that terrifying tome, spread wide-open, under there with me. It’s a trauma I haven’t recovered from to this very day.
Forty years later, yes, I’m still haunted by those evil encephalopods, and I think all of them deserve a fast death in hot oil—breaded first—then drowned in spicy sauce. That’s the fate those ugly suckers deserve.
You can imagine my reaction during my first week of work in the kitchen at Chez Panisse, eager to do my best, when a huge plastic tub brimming to the very top with gloopy, gooshy squid was thrust into my hands, which I was expected to clean. Even though I was just one week into my two-week trial period, there was no way I was touching any of them. Conjure up your worst nightmare, and that’s mine. In a panic, I had a sudden urge to go to the restroom, where I stayed until I was sure the project had been handed off to someone else. Thankfully, later I moved on to the pastry department, which was tentacle-free, and I was off the hook forever. Or so I thought.
At the markets in Paris where the poissonnières proudly display the daily catch of seafood on mounds of cracked ice, I find myself scared, but oddly attracted to, those slippery little devils lying in a soggy, cold heap whenever I pass them. I get a smug satisfaction knowing they’re awaiting their fate for all the psychological harm they’ve caused me over the years. (Somehow I gave my sister a pass.) I knew they were dead but felt oddly drawn to them, peering over at the tangled pile, almost wanting to touch one to find out what it feels like.
Funny how we’re often fascinated by what we’re most afraid of. Who hasn’t peered from a giant skyscraper or bridge wondering what it would be like to tumble off the edge? Or what it would be like to go to your local fish market and tell the friendly, ruggedly handsome young men there that you want to work with them gutting fish all day?
One of my favorite places to buy fish, called Pêche Paris, is at the marché d’Aligre. Brightly lit so you can inspect everything, the seafood at Pêche Paris passes even the closest scrutiny for freshness. Its ice-blue countertops are brimming with the pick of the pêcheur: tangerine-colored chunks of salmon, spiky, cross-eyed rascasse, silvery little sardines, delicate fillets of crimson rouget, and slender sole française, as flat and lithe as an Hermès calfskin glove.
When I was writing a book on frozen desserts, my freezer quickly filled up, and I needed to jettison several batches of ice cream at a time to make room for the next couple of batches waiting to be churned up. I correctly assumed that Pêche Paris had a big ice chest, and the young fellows who worked there, with their only-in-France waistlines, could handle eating much more ice cream than a certain American, who foolishly squandered his enviable adolescent waistline on chocolate. When the guys saw me coming, they’d drop everything to say hello, eager to see what flavors I brought them that week.
I believe in taking advantage of my decision to live in a foreign country b
y making myself open to new adventures whenever the opportunity arises. So one day, while I was talking with my fish boys, I asked if I could work there. Of course they were stunned. I mean, who in their right mind wants to handle ice-cold, icky fish all day, then head home all wet with fish juices clinging to your arms and sticky little scales clinging to your hair and eyelashes? Aside from the fact that I would be dangerously close to the squid, even more frightening was that they told me to come the following Wednesday at 5:30 a.m. And let me tell you, there’s nothing scarier than I am at 5:30 a.m. A giant octopus doesn’t even come close. As anyone who’s worked with me can attest, I’m distinctly unpleasant in the morning. Waking up when it’s pitch dark in the dead of winter, trudging over to the marché d’Aligre, and hefting dead fish all morning suddenly didn’t seem so appealing, the more I thought about it. But since I had asked and they had said yes, it was too late to back out.
On my first day I managed to arrive just two minutes late. The French may have a reputation for being laissez-faire about things like punctuality, but when it comes to work, that reputation isn’t always well deserved. The fish boys were already in full swing under the blazing, harsh lights, shoveling ice, thwacking off fish heads, and ripping out their bloody guts.
We rifled through a pile of tall rubber boots to find a pair that would fit, which I slid on, and someone handed me a thick blue floor-length rubber apron. I’d been completely waterproofed, and hefting all those fat carp and slithery conger eels around, I soon saw why this was necessary.
Because I’ve worked in restaurants for almost half of my life, I’ve learned there are three things you need to do to survive in any food service environment. The first is never to lie about your experience or skill level. There’s no use bragging about something you can’t do. You’ll be busted for it almost immediately, and it’s more endearing to be eager to learn new skills than to screw up.
The Sweet Life in Paris Page 9