Brining the pork is optional, but this easy step, which was inspired by the instructions in The Zuni Cookbook by Judy Rodgers, gives a bit of leeway to those of us who must shop on specific days at our local outdoor market, as well as ensures a moist pork loin. Feel free to adjust or substitute any seasonings and spices in the brine, but keep the salt, sugar, and water amounts the same.
The brining and marinating can be done a day or so in advance; then you simply roast the pork for about an hour. Although le whisky may sound like an odd ingredient in French cuisine, it’s one of the most popular apéritifs in Paris, so I keep a bottle on hand. And when invited for dinner in someone else’s home, if watching the food prep, I often need a glass or two as well.
For the brine
5 cups (1¼ L) water
2 tablespoons coarse salt
½ cup (120 g) packed dark brown sugar
10 allspice berries, crushed
2 bay leaves, crumbled
A few thyme branches or 1 teaspoon dried thyme
2 ½ pounds (1¼ kg) boneless pork roast
For the glaze
¼ cup (80 g) strained apricot jam
¼ cup (60 ml) bourbon
3 tablespoons (45 g) dark brown sugar
1 tablespoon mild-flavored molasses
Make a brine by heating 1 cup (250 ml) of the water with the salt, sugar, allspice, bay leaves, and thyme. Once the sugar and salt are dissolved, remove from heat. Pour into a large bowl or plastic container. Add 1 quart (1 L) water and chill thoroughly.
When the brine is cold, submerge the pork and top with a small plate to keep it submerged. Cover and refrigerate for 2 to 4 days.
To make the glaze, mix the jam, bourbon, sugar, and molasses in a small saucepan. Heat to a low boil and cook for 2 minutes. Let cool.
4. Remove the pork from the brine, dry it well with a paper towel, and place in a sturdy zip-top freezer bag. Add the marinade, seal the top, and knead it gently to distribute the glaze. Let rest in the refrigerator for at least 8 hours or overnight, turning it occasionally to distribute the marinade.
To cook the pork, preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
Lift the pork from the marinade and place in a baking dish that’s just large enough to hold it. Add water until it’s barely ½ inch (1 cm) deep. Pour the remaining marinade into a bowl and reserve.
Roast the pork for 45 minutes to 1 hour (depending on the thickness of the pork), brushing at regular intervals with the reserved marinade and adding a small amount of water to the pan if it’s evaporating.
The pork is done when an instant-read thermometer inserted into the center reads 140°F (60°C). Remove from the oven, cover snugly with foil, and let rest 15 minutes before slicing.
SERVING: If you want to serve this with Oignons aigres-doux (page 181), add them to the baking dish during the last twenty minutes of baking to heat them through.
FIGUES ROTIES
OVEN-ROASTED FIGS
MAKES 4 SERVINGS
During fresh fig season, I love to serve pork with oven-roasted figs; they’re very simple to make. Choose black or green figs that are just ripe, but not too squishy. These can be baked at the same time as the pork, but they are much better if baked a day or even a few hours in advance and allowed to rest, during which time the juices thicken to a smooth, syrupy consistency. The figs are luscious with just honey and sugar, but a few sprigs of thyme, some lemon zest, and a shot of pastis are all delicious additions.
10 to 12 (about 1 pound/500 g) fresh ripe black or green figs
1½ tablespoons honey
2 to 3 tablespoons dark brown sugar
Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
Stem and quarter the figs. Place in a baking dish that will hold them in single layer and spoon the honey over them, then crumble the sugar over the top.
Toss together gently, cover tightly with foil, and bake for 15 minutes.
Remove the foil, gently turn the figs in the syrup, and cook uncovered for 15 minutes, or until tender.
HAVING THE BOURSES TO GIVE MYSELF A SHOT
Aside from real estate prices and an unshakable fixation that French people hate us, there’s nothing that fascinates Americans more than the French health care system. I’ve heard Americans proclaim, “People die in France waiting to get a doctor’s appointment!”
Well, no, you don’t. Which I can personally attest to, since I’m still alive. When I want an appointment with my doctor, I get one within a day or two, although for specialists, the wait can be a harrowingly long week or two. And when it’s time for your visit, in many cases, the doctors themselves greet you at the door. No one’s in a rush and there’s no insurance company between you and your doctor waiting to deny your claim. If you get sick in France, people say, “How are you feeling?” instead of, “How’s your insurance?”
The medical care that I’ve received here has been great. The only uncomfortable moments I’ve experienced were because doctors don’t think twice about prescribing treatments that aren’t always taken orally. I had a bad cough that I couldn’t shake and when I stopped by the pharmacy with my prescription, I was handed a box of bullet-shaped, waxy pellets. I questioned the wisdom of placing the remedy in the end opposite from where the problem was, but the pharmacist looked at me like I was crazy to think that cough medicine might go anywhere else. So I let it drop. The medicine did indeed work, but take it from me; I don’t recommend dosing yourself prior to heading to a yoga class, especially if that day you’ll be concentrating on inversions.
Still, most Americans simply can’t get over their skepticism about the excellence of the French health care system and how well it works. Oddly, it’s one of the few things around here that does.
A few brainwashed individuals in America tried to convince me that the system in the States is better than the system in France; “I don’t want some government official making medical decisions for me.” I wouldn’t want the government making medical decisions for me either. Or worse, a for-profit HMO. I want my doctor to make those decisions, like they do in France. There are no claims to be denied or accepted, and if you start using terms like “preexisting conditions” and “usual and customary charges,” French people look at you like you’re from Mars. Doctors are free to make decisions based on what they think is best for the patient.
The World Health Organization calls the French health care system “the best in the world,” and French people have the third-highest life expectancy on the planet (Americans are a bit further down—we’re twenty-fourth). Perhaps the French live longer since they don’t have to worry about medical bills, or have to cope with the stress of spending hours on the phone with their health insurance company fighting for coverage.
Much of that longevity gets attributed to the baffling contradiction that even though the French eat a diet notoriously high in saturated fats, three times what Americans consume, they have fewer coronary problems. Frenchwomen have the second-highest life expectancy in the world (bested only by their Japanese counterparts), for which they especially deserve kudos considering that between 33 and 48 percent of the French (depending on their sex) smoke. And if you’ve ever had the pleasure of sitting next to a group of teenage girls who slap their cell phones and cigarettes on the café table and start fumbling for their lighters even before they’re seated, you’ll know which sex falls closer to the 48 percent end.
A few other advantages of the French health care system: doctors still make house calls, and each neighborhood has nurses who will give you a shot, change bandages, and remove stitches. (They make house calls, too.) Doctors give you their cell phone numbers—gladly—and you can dial SOS Médecins at any time of the day or night and they’ll come racing over, within an hour, to cure what ails you. Prescriptions rarely cost more than €10 and after giving birth, women not only get in-home help with child care, but are eligible for a complimentary rééducation du périnée.
Even better, at least for me, is that pharmacists have a lot of leeway
, and mine will give me any prescription drug I want, sans ordonnance, because I bring him ice cream. Now that’s my kinda system!
Still, all is not perfect in the land of the single-payer system. There are a couple of downsides (aside from a proliferation of medicines that are taken upended), which I found out when I had surgery in Paris.
For one thing, I didn’t realize I was going to be so do-it-yourself. I was given a list of things to bring to the clinic: bandages, surgical tape, painkillers, antiseptic, and gauze. I was surprised needle and thread weren’t on the list. They don’t ask you to bring a gown either, but you might want to if you’re bashful. And pack a bar of soap and a towel if you plan on taking a shower. Clean sheets, beds, and pillows, however, are provided.
Although I wasn’t expected to do anything but lie there during my surgery, I was expected to be able to administer to myself whatever medications were prescribed afterward. When I went to fill the doctor’s prescription for a blood thinner, the pharmacist handed me a box of very long hypodermic needles with a booklet showing how and where to jab myself. He was quite surprised when I freaked.
This being France, of course everyone behind the counter, as well as the other customers, had an opinion, offering tips and techniques. “Oh, it’s very easy. It’s not going to be hard at all. Stop being so scared,” everyone chimed in, without one iota of sympathy.
And after three or four times of bouncing the needle off my stomach, I somehow managed to pique myself, at last. (In retrospect, it might have helped if I’d kept my eyes open.) Once I got the hang of it, though, my doctor went and upped my dosage, which required a needle twice as wide and long. And he wasn’t at all concerned that I almost fainted when he showed me the new hypodermic I had to use.
The bedside manner of French doctors can leave a lot to be desired, too. Don’t expect anyone to hold your hand, look you in the eye, and tell you, “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay.”
I hobbled into the doctor’s office the day after I had my leg surgery, white-knuckling my cane. Painful jolts shot up and down my legs, and each step felt as if I were being Tasered. “You look like an old man!” he said, laughing. Since I couldn’t move a step without wanting to crumble to the floor, thanks to the kilometers of stitches running up and down my leg, I thought it would have been nice if he’d shown a bit of compassion. But we’re paying for doctors to treat us, not hold our hands. Or our hypodermics.
Fortunately, I managed to live in France for a few years before having my first full-blown medical emergency: one Friday night I thought I was having a heart attack. I was getting ready to go to a Thanksgiving dinner, which we Americans have to celebrate on the weekend, since everyone has to work on Thursday. (After all, it’s just any other day in Paris. Although a surprising number of Americans ask me if French people celebrate Thanksgiving, which I find odd. I’m not quite sure why anyone might think someone in another country would be interested in celebrating the discovery of America.)
All day long I’d been having racing pains in my chest while baking my heart out (this time, I was afraid,—literally). Fearing the worst, I thought I should head to the emergency room, since I wanted to make good on my promise to master all fourteen French verb tenses before I die. And I hadn’t quite reached that goal yet.
Shortly after I’d moved to Paris, my friend Lewis had handed me a little slip of paper and advised, “David, if you ever have to go to the hospital here, tell them, ‘Take me to the American Hospital.’” Since I was American, I figured that I would indeed be better off with my compatriots at our very own hospital. Unfortunately, our hospital is in Neuilly-sur-Seine, a suburb on the edge of Paris. Which also happens to be the absolute farthest point in the city from where this American lives.
Certain I was dying, I did the first thing any normal person would do in that situation: I turned on my computer and checked my e-mail for one last time. Then I clicked over to the American Hospital Web site to get directions, and the good news was that the site prominently noted that they have free parking. Well, that clinched it, so I gave them a call. The Frenchwoman on the phone managed to sound typically blasé in spite of my agitated state. She purred softly into the phone, in measured French, that I should come right in.
But before she hung up, her not-so-soft tone of voice abruptly changed, and she added in textbook-perfect English, “and we are not a public hospital. Bring your checkbook. Or cash.”
I packed an overnight bag, as well as my checkbook, and Romain and I began the trek across Paris. In the best of circumstances, the drive might take about thirty minutes. On a Friday night, all bets are off. I suppose I could have taken the Métro, but since I was dying, I didn’t want to spend my last few hours below ground, suffering in a crowded, hot, stuffy subway car.
Plus there was free parking. And whose dying wish isn’t free parking? With my heart a-pounding, it didn’t exactly calm me down to see traffic blocking all lanes when we hit the boulevard and that everything was at a complete standstill. Cars were barely inching from one stoplight to the next, and being Parisian, every driver thought that if he leaned on his horn, all the cars would eagerly move aside to let him pass.
Then, suddenly, the worst thing that could happen to anyone in Paris happened. I had to go to the bathroom. I certainly didn’t want my mother’s worst fears realized—to have her son arrive at the emergency room with less-than-pristine undies, so I made Romain pull out of traffic when I spotted one of the automatic toilets, and I sprinted out of the Citroën.
HORS SERVICE, said the circular red glow of the sign.
Zut!
I hopped back in the car, crossed my legs, and we meandered a few more blocks until I spotted another one. I sprinted toward it. HORS SERVICE as well. Merde!
“Hmm, should I just use la belle France? Or should I wait to find another one?” I pondered, while doing a little dance of agony on the sidewalk that perplexed the locals. I got back in the car and gave it one more chance. Luckily the third time was a charm and the next one worked fine. My mother will continue to rest in peace.
When we finally arrived at the hospital, we found that parking was not free and the hourly rate almost tipped me into full-on cardiac arrest. Good thing they told me to bring my checkbook. At the time, I had private health insurance from a company in the States. Romain was really surprised when I balked; “Don’t they reimburse you for parking?”
(And people continue to ask me why I live in France.)
Due to my Yankee thrift (a gift from my mother), we looked for a place on the street. My heart attack could wait.
Once parked and inside an examination room, waiting to see the doctor, Romain was once again surprised, this time by the fact that the room had a price list in big block letters hanging on the wall.
The first doctor to see me turned out to be, as advertised, American. We chatted and joked around a bit in our native tongue before she got on with the serious questions. Romain, who doesn’t speak English, wondered why the doctor and I were laughing it up like long-lost friends. French doctors don’t laugh with their patients, I guess. Only at their patients.
Once she left, the French male nurse came in, ordered me to strip down, and strapped me into a chair, giving me a twinge of nostalgia for San Francisco. (Was this my life passing before my eyes?) He pasted little sticky things, which for some reason they store in the freezer, over my bare chest and legs. Then I understood why he had secured me to the chair. After a bunch of knobs were turned and buzzers went off, the main cardiologist arrived, who spoke very little English. Actually, she spoke none at all, which kind of negates the idea of an American Hospital. Especially at these prices.
Reading the printout, she announced that all was well and it was probably anxiety, and I could breathe a sigh of relief that I was going to live many more years. They released the straps and I was free to go. The well-dressed cashier in his remarkably fashionable suit and tie was also obviously relieved that I was going to live when I tore off a sizab
le check and handed it over, an amount that made Romain’s eyes almost tumble out of their sockets. Good thing we were in a hospital, although I’m not sure if this one takes French people. Unless they brought their checkbook.
After that experience, when a few months later my doctor recommended the aforementioned leg surgery, I decided I’d go where the French go: à la clinique française.
I arrived early in the morning, shaved as directed, belly to toe, and walked into my assigned room. My roommate looked up from his book, Gay Vinci Code, and gave me a big “Bonjour!” then went back to his literature. His legs had been shaved, too, and when he pulled his nose out of his book, we began exchanging épilation tips. The worst part, I said, was being scratchy “down there,” so he shared that I should have used la crème instead of le rasoir to avoid the inevitable after-itch. And I must admit, without hospital gowns, it was hard not to appreciate how much better his legs looked compared with my own stubbly limbs. Why do Frenchmen, even in hospitals, always manage to look so much better than me?
An added benefit was that I increased my French lexicon of anatomical parts, which is good to know if you need medical care. For example, if you use the word rognons to describe your kidneys, an entire hospital room of French doctors, nurses, and a roommate will break out in fits of laughter at your expense. Only animals have rognons—humans have reins. And there’s something like six different words for neck, depending on whether you’re talking about the front, back, or the whole thing. I also learned that les bourses is a scrotum. Which is also the word for the French stock exchange. But I’d like to know how one gets differentiated from the other, since I’d like to avoid a crash to either.
The Sweet Life in Paris Page 11