When we finally met in person, Nancy was laid back, and indeed, as the French say, “très cool,” and more than happy to indulge in all the places I recommended. She asked if I knew any good spots for seafood, but I drew a blank and could think of only one place: Le Dôme. I’d had lunch there once, and was quickly ushered past all the festive Parisians having a grand time eating their plateaux de fruits de mer heaped with glistening oysters, cracked crab, and lobster-length langoustines, to Siberia, a hideously decorated, overlit hideaway. One look around and I saw it was their repository for Americans who showed up in sweatshirts with fanny packs strapped to their sides. I was there with a pastry chef friend who had just sold her bakery for somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty-five million dollars, and we were both dressed just as nicely as the guests in the main dining room. I suggested that it would have been pleasant to sit in the gorgeous gilded dining room, but the maître d’ thought otherwise.
And the next morning, after our lunch in purgatory, both of us were too weak from writhing on the bathroom floor all night, clutching our stomachs, to even think about our carefully planned Paris pastry crawl that day. But I figured since Paris was giving me a second chance at life—and I was giving myself a second chance with visitors—why not just declare a blanket pardon to all, which included giving Le Dôme another chance as well?
This time Nancy and I were led to a plush booth, and over fillets of St. Pierre with rounds of crusty, buttery pan-fried potatoes, she gave me some equally juicy Hollywood gossip while I filled her in on more tasty Paris hot spots to check out. This time, the service was très correct, with the handsome and assured waiters hovering over us, their long aprons wrapped around their waists and impeccably starched collars standing tall. I remarked to Nancy on how nicely we were being treated. She responded, “Well, if you really want to see star treatment, you should see what happens when I go to Le Grand Colbert.”
For those of you who don’t know, etched in the minds of every middle-aged woman is the scene toward the finale of Something’s Gotta Give where Diane Keaton sits down for dinner with Keanu Reeves at Le Grand Colbert to dine on roast chicken, which she’d raved about as being the best in Paris at various points in the film. (Although it wasn’t even on the menu until Nancy wrote it into the script.) I was dying to see what “star treatment” meant to not-so-easily-impressed Parisian waiters. So I called Le Grand Colbert to make a reservation for lunch the following week. The person who picked up the phone was pleasant, if a tad reserved.
“Bonjour, monsieur, I’d like a reservation, s’il vous plaît” (which was, by the way, the first sentence I mastered in French).
“Oui, monsieur, pour quelle date?”
“Tuesday.”
A bit of silence as I could hear him leafing through the pages of his reservation book.
“Oui. Eh … (pause,) … à quelle heure?”
“1 p.m.?”
“Bon.”
I could hear some pen scribbling in the background.
“Combien de personnes, monsieur?”
“Deux.”
A moment of silence. More writing.
“À quel nom?”
My moment had arrived. I took a deep breath. “Nancy Meyers.” I stood back and took a mental bow. This time, there was a long silence.
“Nan-cee May-oarz?” he asked, his voice going up several octaves.
“La directrice? Mais oui, monsieur! Pas de problème!”
I’d been to Le Grand Colbert once before and, frankly, I had been skeptical. Plastic-laminated English menus in the window and a faded poster of the movie tacked up in the window weren’t exactly beacons for good food. The silly pink writing on the menu was totally inappropriate for a Parisian bistro, and aside from the gently aged façade, the appeal of the place was lost on me. I was tempted to bolt to Le Grand Véfour nearby in the Palais Royal, constrained only by my credit card limit.
But step inside and bien sûr, Le Grand Colbert is indeed a classic bistro parisien, right down to the mirrored walls, starched linen napkins, waiters gliding across the room with platters of oysters, and the aged, yellowed ceiling attesting to decades of Gauloises clouding the air. The food had been fine, but, I wasn’t especially eager to return.
But this time I was. And as I whizzed around the place des Victoires, with Louis XIV on horseback lording it over me and my bike, I made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t have anything to drink, so I’d be on my best behavior with Nancy. I have a tendancy to mindlessly toss down what-ever’s put in front of me to mask my anxiety in social interactions, a problem that’s especially acute if I’m around anyone famous. Water, rum, fruit juice, wine, absinthe, iced tea, kava, Champagne, or vodka all quickly disappear if I’ve got a glass of it in my hand.
The moment we sat down, two tall frosty flutes of Champagne were set in front of us. I grabbed mine right away, brought the thin rim of the chilled glass to my lips, and gulped down three-quarters of it. Nancy took a delicate, measured sip and put hers back on the table.
I’m always amazed how my journalist friends are masters at whipping out their notebooks and furiously jotting things down when meeting important people. I often have a hard time focusing. Trying to appear equally respectable, I’d brought my little Moleskine notebook, as Nancy told me beforehand that she was willing to answer any and all questions. I asked her about what Jack and Keanu were really like (she loved them both), why she chose Keanu Reeves (he was a star, but different enough to not be dominated by Jack’s large-scale presence), how fabulous Diane Keaton is. And then she told me about Daniel Craig, which got my undivided attention.
Daniel Craig? He wasn’t in Something’s Gotta Give.
Okay, he had nothing to do with the film, or Le Grand Colbert. But he’d come to her office for a part in another film wearing a skin-tight muscle shirt, and she was willing to spill. No gossip, but she said his fabulously muscled stomach wasn’t just flat—it was concave, a curve she demonstrated by gracefully shaping a vertical arc with her hand in the air, which transfixed me even more than the Belle Époque surroundings. I should have asked her to draw it in my still-empty notebook, but that would have been especially unprofessional of me.
Thankfully, my fiercely knotted tie was blocking my windpipe, which was probably a good thing.
Yet even greater than my thirst for celebrity dirt was my hunger for food, so we ordered. My Champagne was almost gone and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by flagging down the waiter for more. Nancy, who hadn’t adapted to the French midday spree of lunch plus wine, had had only a few sips. I wanted to ask, “Hey—are you gonna finish that?” But I didn’t.
Turning to the questions of food and dining, I asked Nancy: Why Le Grand Colbert, and why roast chicken, especially when they didn’t even have it on the menu?
For the film, she’d originally chosen Brasserie Lipp, a notoriously uptight spot on the Left Bank, part of the trilogy of all-star Parisian cafés, along with Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots. As filming time came closer, someone at the Lipp changed his mind and made the less-than-brilliant decision not to let the film be made there. So that left Nancy to scout out an equally classic Parisian bistro to shoot in. In the end, she was much happier, and the host at Le Grand Colbert reported that they were thrilled, too, because afterward, business increased permanently by 20 percent. (No report on how the folks at Brasserie Lipp felt.)
As for the chicken? Nancy herself doesn’t eat meat. So when I asked, “Then why chicken?” she didn’t remember how she came up with “The Most Famous Roast Chicken in the World.” She just thought that a big ol’ hunk of beef or massive lamb shank wasn’t something that Erica Barry, the prim writer played by Diane Keaton, would rhapsodize over. Correctly anticipating a barrage of roast chicken orders, the chef afterward came up with a respectable recipe for the menu. So if you go and order their roast chicken, it may not be the absolute best version in town, but it is pretty darned good. Heck, if it’s good enough for Diane, it’s good enough for me.
>
That day Nancy and I were the only Americans in the restaurant, and we were surrounded by French business folks from the nearby Bourse. No one was paying any attention to the minor fuss being made over Nancy, except for the headwaiter, who at one point came by with a scrapbook of images from Tout Peut Arriver (“Anything Can Happen”), as the film was called in France. And sitting there with Nancy, being fawned over by the entire staff, I felt like I’d—at long last—arrived here, too.
Aside from the hyper-hygienic bathrooms, there’s another touch of Americanism at Le Grand Colbert: just behind the table where the roast chicken landed in the film, there’s a Hollywood-style clapboard that reads “Nancy Meyers.” Proving that no matter how long you’ve lived in Paris or how famous you are, it’s still fun to play tourist, Nancy and I took a few snapshots before we headed out into the brisk Parisian air and toward Les Halles in pursuit of a tarte Tatin pan for her at the pastry equipment store MORA, and more edible adventures in the neighborhood.
I was happy that I’d limited myself to one slender flute of Champagne, but when I got home, I realized that I had made only a few cursory remarks in my notebook, which made me a better dining companion than journalist. As a result of that lunch, I’ve changed my tune regarding visitors. If you want to come to Paris and meet up, we can talk. But VIP treatment is an absolute requirement. When Nancy comes back to town, I’ll certainly make the time for her. If Diane happens to make the trip back, I think I can find time in my schedule for a dinner date. And if an e-mail from Daniel Craig pops up one day in my in-box, even if it’s last-minute—I’m definitely available.
SAUCE AU CHOCOLAT CHAUD DE NANCY MEYERS
NANCY MEYERSS HOT FUDGE SAUCE
MAKES L CUP (250 ML)
I’m not in any position to edit one of Hollywood’s most successful screenwriters, so I thought I’d tread carefully reprinting Nancy’s instructions. In the recipe she sent me she wrote, “… Toss it all in a small pot, stir, and eat immediately.”
I did as I was told and have to agree with Jack Nicholson: this is one heckuva hot fudge sauce. It’s very, very thick, and although I’m not one to get between a woman and her chocolate, you may want to stir a little bit of milk into the sauce at the end until it’s the consistency you want. This recipe can also be doubled. But I find a little goes a long way.
3 tablespoons (45 g) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
⅓ cup (65 g) granulated sugar
⅓ cup (70 g) firmly packed dark brown sugar
½ cup (50 g) unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
⅓ cup (80 ml) heavy cream
Pinch of coarse salt
Place all ingredients in a 1-quart (1-L) heavy saucepan. Stir over low heat until the butter is melted.
Continue to cook over low heat, stirring without stopping and scraping the bottom and sides of the pan, 3 to 5 minutes more, until the sugar is melted and the sauce is smooth. Serve immediately.
STORAGE: The sauce can be refrigerated for up to one week. Reheat slowly in the top of a double boiler or in a microwave.
LE CHEESECAKE
CHEESECAKE
MAKES ONE 9-INCH (23-CM) CAKE, 12 TO 16 SERVINGS
Nancy began her Hollywood career not as a screenwriter, but as a cheesecake maker. Starting out in Tinseltown, she decided to bake and sell cheesecakes, since it was something she could do at home while she was busy typing away.
Quickly overwhelmed with orders, and with only one oven, she offered to pay her neighbors’ electric bills if she could use their ovens to meet the demand, and thus a star was born. Unfortunately, she’d been sworn to secrecy and vowed never to divulge her recipe for cheesecake, even after her writing career took off. But since my career depends on sharing recipes, I’m happy to share mine.
French people love Philadelphia-brand cream cheese, and le cheesecake, even more than Americans, if that’s possible. It doesn’t matter where you live, though, the rules for baking a great cheesecake aren’t constrained by cultural allegiances: make sure your cream cheese is at room temperature, don’t overwhip the filling, and be careful not to overbake it.
For the crust
4 tablespoons (60 g) unsalted butter, melted, plus more for greasing the pan
1¼ cups (100 g) graham cracker (or gingersnap) crumbs (about 9 crackers) pulverized
2 tablespoons sugar
For the cheesecake
2 pounds (900 g) cream cheese, at room temperature
1¼ (250 g) cups sugar
Crated zest of ½ lemon, preferably unsprayed
¾ teaspoon vanilla extract
4 large eggs, at room temperature
2 tablespoons flour
½ cup (120 g) plain whole-milk yogurt
For the crust, lightly butter the bottom and sides of a 9-inch (23-cm) springform pan. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C) and position the rack in the upper third of the oven.
Mix the graham cracker crumbs in a small bowl with the sugar and the melted butter until the crumbs are moist. Press the crumbs into a flat layer in the bottom and slightly up the sides of the pan. (You can use the flat bottom of a glass to get it even.)
Bake the crust for 12 minutes, until golden brown. Set the pan aside on a cooling rack while you prepare the batter. Turn the oven up to 500°F (260°C).
For the batter, begin by creaming the cream cheese and sugar for about 1 minute at low speed in a standing electric mixer, or by hand. Beat only until the batter shows so signs of lumps. Add the lemon zest and vanilla.
Stir in the eggs one at a time, scraping the sides of the bowl as necessary to incorporate the cream cheese. Add the flour.
Mix in the yogurt until completely blended but do not overbeat.
Pour the batter over the crust and bake for 11 minutes.
Keeping the oven door closed, turn the oven down to 200°F (100°C) and continue to bake the cheesecake for 40 minutes, until it jiggles slightly in a 3- to 4-inch (7 to 10-cm) circle in the center when you gently shake the pan; it will appear to be just ready to set in the center. Do not overbake.
Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack until room temperature.
SERVING: Refrigerate the cheesecake for at least 3 hours before serving. Slice with a sharp knife dipped in warm water for best results.
STORAGE: You can refrigerate the cheesecake for up to five days. Cheesecake lovers are divided; some prefer to eat theirs chilled, while others insist on room temperature. Cheesecake freezes well for up to two months, if well wrapped in plastic, then wrapped snugly with foil. Let thaw with the plastic wrap and foil intact to avoid condensation forming on the cheesecake.
HAVING IT ALL
There’s no shortage of wide-eyed newbies, like me, who’ve moved to Paris, expecting to be able to find all the things just like we’re used to back home. There are even a couple of shops that cater to homesick Americans who are willing to pay the price just to savor the taste of microwave popcorn, canned soups, bacon bits, and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.
Since I write recipes primarily for Americans, part of my job is to track down the equivalents of familiar ingredients here. After my arrival, I spent months searching out some of the things that I use most, hoping to find a place where they were sold in bulk, since it’s not uncommon for me to blitz through a ten-pound tablet of chocolat noir in a week. Sometimes I even bake with it.
I was spending beaucoup d’euros breaking up those fancy tablets of chocolate into little pieces and was certain that when I moved to a culinary wonderland like Paris, I’d be able to find chocolate in jumbo slabs as well as larger sacks of cocoa powder so I wouldn’t have to rip open all those undersized pouches sold in supermarkets.
In other cases I had to find substitutes. I figured it would be nearly impossible to find corn syrup here, something I use sparingly, but is an essential ingredient for certain candies. And I knew professionals worldwide used glucose, which would be a good substitute. Since Paris is the pastry capital of the world, I suspected glucose
was lurking somewhere in one of the twenty arrondissements. I just had to find out which one of them it was.
Upon my arrival, I’d stocked my kitchen with bakeware from MORA, the well-known shop that specializes in pastry equipment and is a must for pastry chefs and bakers visiting Paris. So I asked one of the delightful white-smocked women there, who love to help me, where to go. (As with other shops in Paris, I’ve greased the wheels with les brownies américains, so when I walk in, they’re sure to remember me. And, boy, do they ever.)
I was led out the door and pushed across the busy rue Etienne Marcel toward a weathered orange awning shading a couple of wood-framed windows packed with an incredible array of specialty foods, most of which I’d never seen before. I couldn’t wait to go inside.
The name of the store, G. Detou, is a jeu de mots, a play on words. G in French is pronounced as “jay,” so G. Detou when spoken becomes J’ai de tout, or “I have everything.” And for a voracious baker like me, I’m happy to report that they live up to that promise. This tidy shop is my personal mecca, where I make weekly pilgrimages. The words in big block letters over the entrance, POUR PATISSERIE had the same impact on me as if they were rolling out the red carpet to welcome my arrival.
The Sweet Life in Paris Page 20