by Mary McHugh
3. Heat eight-inch crêpe pan until hot.
4. Heat oil in pan until hot.
5. Pour about cup of batter into the pan, tilting the pan until the bottom is covered with the batter. You want very thin crêpes, so don’t pour too much batter into the pan.
6. When the crêpe is lightly browned on the bottom, turn it over with a spatula and brown the other side.
7. Keep making crêpes until you have used up all the batter—makes about twelve crêpes, maybe more.
To make the filling
1. Preheat oven to 200 degrees.
2. Cook bacon until crisp and drain on paper towels.
3. Chop the bacon.
4. Leave about 1 tbsp. of bacon fat in the skillet, and add 1 tbsp. of butter to it.
5. Sauté the mushrooms in the bacon fat and butter until they’re done, about five minutes.
6. Make a roux by melting 2 tbsps. of butter in a heavy saucepan and whisking in the flour. Cook for three minutes, stirring the whole time.
7. Gradually add the milk, constantly whisking, until the roux is thick and smooth; should take five minutes or so.
8. Add the sautéed mushrooms, heavy cream, parsley, bacon, salt, and pepper, and simmer for ten minutes. It should be very thick.
9. Put about ¼ cup of filling in each crêpe and fold them over.
11. Each person gets two crêpes (or invite fewer people and serve each person more crêpes).
Shrimp, Orange, and Anchovy Salad
Serves four.
24 raw, unshelled medium-sized shrimp
6 ground allspice
Salt
2 small red-skin onions, peeled
4 seedless, peeled oranges
8 flat anchovy fillets
Kalamata olives, pitted
Sauce Vinaigrette with Rosemary
2 tsps. Dijon mustard
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
½ tsp. chopped garlic
4 tsps. red wine vinegar
½ cup corn oil
1 tsp. chopped fresh rosemary
To make the sauce vinaigrette
1. Put the mustard, garlic, salt and pepper, and vinegar in bowl.
2. Whisk in corn oil gradually until mixture thickens.
3. Stir in fresh rosemary.
To cook the shrimp and prepare the salad
1. Put shrimp, ground allspice, and salt in a saucepan, and just cover with cold water.
2. Bring to a boil.
3. Turn off heat. Let shrimp stand in water until it becomes room temperature.
4. Shell and devein shrimp.
5. Cut onions up into ¼-inch slices, put them in a bowl, and pour boiling water over them.
6. Stir onions for fifteen seconds, then drain and chill in ice water.
7. Slice oranges and arrange on four salad plates.
8. Place shrimp on oranges.
9. Put onion slices on top of shrimp.
10. Place two anchovies on top of each salad.
11. Dress salads with sauce vinaigrette.
12. Add Kalamata olives.
Janice’s Fashion Tip: Get a great haircut to go with those summer dresses while you’re in Paris.
Chapter 16
Want Some Raspberries to Go with That Frozen Lemon Soufflé?
Gini woke me early the next morning.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said. “I signed us up for a cooking class this morning, and we have to be there by eleven-thirty.”
“Gini, I don’t care about cooking,” I said. “I don’t even care about eating. I’ll just stay here and read. The rest of you can go, but I’m not going.”
“I know you don’t like to cook,” Gini said. “I’m not crazy about it either. But this is really great. It’s a dessert cooking class, and we get to eat all the things we cook. I mean, think of it, Jan. Tarte tatin. Frozen lemon soufflé. Napoleons. Nobody makes desserts like the French. You have to come.”
Mary Louise, already dressed, poked her head in the door. “Come on, Jan,” she said. “You need to get out of here and have some fun on our last day in Paris. We’ll be with you. Officer Paulhe will be with us too. You can’t spend your last day in Paris shut up in this apartment.”
“They might even make my favorite,” Pat said. Chocolate sou—oh, I mean a—uh—a chocolate mousse.”
Even I had to laugh at Pat’s gaffe. That’s all I needed. One look at a chocolate soufflé and I’d be on the next plane home.
“I know this is tough, Jan,” Tina said. “But you’ll be glad you did it. Please come. We have more fun when you’re with us.”
Tina always knows exactly the right thing to say. How could I resist her?
“Well, OK,” I said. “You talked me into it.”
“You’ll be so glad you did, Jan,” Gini said. “The woman who teaches this class is brilliant. She teaches at the Cordon Bleu—you know, the most famous cooking school in the world, practically—and she knew Julia Child. She took one of her courses when she was very young. She’s fun too. She teaches this class for tourists in her home, which is the most warm and welcoming place I’ve ever been in.”
“But what about that poor police guy out there?” I said. “How will he feel about going to a cooking class?”
“He’s French!” Gini said. “He’ll probably love it. Beats looking for little pieces of glass in that club.”
“Gini,” Tina said, frowning, “maybe we could stay off that subject for a while.”
“Oh, sorry, Jan,” Gini said. “Sometimes I talk before I think.”
“Sometimes?” Pat said. “How about every time you open your mouth?”
“I’m not the one who brought up the chocolate sou—”
“Case closed,” Pat said. “Get dressed.”
Cooking class. It wasn’t my favorite way to spend part of my last day in Paris, but it wasn’t the worst either. What the heck, it would take my mind off Anderson and Ahmet and chlorine gas.
We told Officer Paulhe where we were going, and his smile told us he was delighted to accompany us. “Très, très bien, mes petites,” he said. “Allons-y.” In other words. “Very good. Let’s go.”
Officer Paulhe hailed a cab, and we scrunched in the back while he sat up front with the driver. Gini told us later the cabbie congratulated the police officer for his arduous duty—having to guard five beautiful women. We drove to the Champs Élysées on the Right Bank and turned off onto a side street with very expensive-looking buildings, the kind we have on the Upper East Side in New York. You know just by looking at them that only rich people could afford to live there.
Tina paid the driver, and we were buzzed into the building. A voice told us to come to the fourth floor. An attractive woman in her seventies opened the door for us and ushered us into a sunlit living room, where a black King Charles spaniel welcomed us with barks and a wagging tail.
“Woofy,” the lady said. “Hush.”
“He loves company,” she said, her accent charmingly French. “I am so glad to see you. I’ve seen your films, Gini. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“I’ve always wanted to do a documentary about you,” Gini said. “We have to talk about that.” She introduced each of us to the woman, whose name was Madame Arnaud.
“Come into my kitchen,” she said.
Our gentle police officer looked uncertain as to whether he was included in this invitation. We could tell that he wanted to be part of this marvelous experience, but wasn’t sure if he should follow us.
“Monsieur, venez,” Madame Arnaud said. She took his arm and led him into her perfect kitchen. The rest of us followed. The room was huge and bright, with pots and pans hung on a rack above the counter where she would cook. There were colorful jars containing spatulas, wooden spoons, and knives, small bowls full of spices and liquids. Much as I hate cooking, I was seduced by this room.
“If you are ready,” she said, “take your seats on the stools on the other side of the counter and we will begin. I will start wit
h a tarte tatin. You will have a chance to participate as we go along. Do not worry. I will get us started.
“First, we make the pie crust. You are all pie makers chez vous?”
“We really only have one member of our group who cooks a lot, madame,” Gini said. “Mary Louise Temple loves it. The rest of us are better eaters than cooks.”
“Bon!” she said. “Mary Louise, you will be my assistant, and we will try to teach the others a little something as we go along. Ça va?”
“Ça va,” Mary Louise said. Her beaming expression assured Madame she was her willing helper.
“The most important thing to remember when you make this pie crust,” Madame said, “Is that you must use very cold butter and ice water so that your dough will be firm and easy to handle. Put a cup of flour, one-eighth teaspoon of salt, and one quarter cup of sugar through the sieve into a bowl. Then you add a quarter of a pound of butter—very cold butter, remember— to the dry ingredients with a pastry blender. It should look like crumbs when you are finished. Then you add three tablespoons of ice water. You sprinkle it in like this and toss the pastry with a fork. Form it into a ball. You must use a very light touch when you do this. It’s the difference between a heavy dough and a light one. You understand me so far? The light crust is crucial to a good tarte tatin.”
We nodded, but I knew I would never be able to make my hands fly around that ball of dough the way she did.
“I will put this dough in waxed paper and refrigerate it while I do the next part,” she said. “I will ask my assistant, Madame Temple, to do this part, if she would like.”
Mary Louise bounded to the other side of the counter to stand next to Madame Arnaud.
“I like an enthusiastic helper,” she said, smiling at Mary Louise. “This next part is very easy. Please grease this pie plate with two tablespoons of butter, and sprinkle on three tablespoons of sugar. You need a deep nine-inch pie plate for this tarte.”
Mary Louise did us proud, expertly smearing the butter all over the bottom of the pie plate.
“Excellent,” Madame said. “Now please sprinkle three tablespoons of sugar over the butter. Très bien. Next, you will arrange these three red delicious apples, which I have peeled and sliced neatly, in layers over the butter and sugar.”
As if she did this every day of her life, Mary Louise placed the apples in the pie plate.
“You must stay in Paris and be my assistant every day,” Madame said.
“If only I could,” Mary Louise said. “This is so much fun.”
“Next, my little assistant, please take the rest of the butter—four tablespoons are left—and dot the apples with them. You understand ‘dot’?”
“Like this?” Mary Louise asked as she used a knife to take small pats of butter and plunk them on the apples.
“Perfect,” Madame said. “Now, sprinkle three tablespoons of sugar over the butter and apples and you are finished—for now.”
Mary Louise sprinkled the sugar and stepped back.
Madame took the ball of dough out of the refrigerator. “Next I will roll out this pie dough until it is just the right size to fit over the apples.”
“I always have trouble with this,” Mary Louise said. “Lots of times the dough tears, and I can’t get it in one neat round.”
“It does not matter if it tears,” Madame said. “Dough will do that. You just have a little bowl of water near you and dip your finger in it and mend the tear in the dough with that. It won’t show when the crust is baked.”
It was a pleasure, even for me, the non-cook, to watch her place the dough on a floured surface, and quickly, expertly, with the least amount of pressure and effort, roll out the dough to a perfect nine-inch layer to place over the apples. She had no tears to mend.
“I have heated the oven to 375 degrees,” she said, “And we will cook this for thirty minutes. While it is cooking, I will show you how to make a frozen lemon soufflé.”
I felt my friends stiffen at the word soufflé, but I was all right since it wasn’t preceded by the word chocolate.
“This is my favorite dessert after a three-course dinner,” she said. “It’s the perfect way to end a meal. Light and delicious.”
She gave Mary Louise a little hug and said, “You are the perfect assistant, ma chère, but we must give your friends a chance to participate also.”
She beckoned to Tina. “Would you like to help, madame?”
Tina jumped up and took Mary Louise’s place behind the counter.
“With pleasure,” she said. “I’m not as good a cook as my friend, but I do like to try new things. I’m Tina Powell.”
Madame Arnaud brought out a one-quart soufflé dish and handed Tina a piece of waxed paper with butter spread on it.
“This will not test your cooking, just your wrapping skill, Madame Powell,” she said. She handed Tina some string and told her to wrap the waxed paper all the way around the top sides of the soufflé dish so that it stood up about three inches above the dish.
“Why is she doing that?” Gini asked. If something doesn’t seem logical to Gini, she always asks.
“Because,” Madame answered, “The soufflé will rise above the top of the dish, and this waxed paper will keep it from falling out. Vous comprenez?”
“Oui, je comprends,” Gini said, always glad to speak French. “I understand.”
“While Madame Powell is doing that, I will put one tablespoon of gelatin in a quarter of a cup of cold water and let it soften. While it is sitting there, I will separate six eggs. Do any of you know how to do that?”
Mary Louise raised her hand timidly. “I can do it, but I always make a mess,” she said. “Could I watch you do it?”
“But of course,” Madame said. “I have done it so often, it’s easy for me, but I understand it can be messy. Watch and I will show you how.”
She brought out three bowls and six eggs. “The tricky part is that this recipe calls for six egg yolks, but only four egg whites, so I must put two of the separated egg whites into this small bowl to save for another time or perhaps to make an egg-white omelet tomorrow morning.”
She cracked each of the six eggs on the side of the bowl, and without allowing one speck of yolk to get into the egg whites, she smoothly, without any mess, separated the eggs into yolks and whites.
“It’s very important not to let any yolk get into the whites because then you cannot beat the whites properly,” she said. “Now, who would like to beat these egg yolks with a cup of sugar?”
“I can do that,” Tina said. She had tied the waxed paper around the soufflé dish so that it looked presentable. Madame poured the egg yolks into a saucepan and gave Tina the sugar and a wire whisk. “They must be very light and very thick,” she said. “Beat them strenuously.”
Tina lit into those egg yolks with a vengeance until they passed Madame’s test. “Excellent,” she said. “Now we stir two-thirds of a cup of lemon juice into that.” She looked at us sternly. “Not that excuse for lemon juice that comes in bottles, but lemon juice from real lemons. That is very important.”
I felt as if I had committed some crime since I always used bottled lemon juice. I didn’t even own a lemon squeezer. And there were all those pits that kept falling in the juice.
Tina, who probably used bottled lemon juice too, added the real stuff to her concoction of yolks and sugar and stirred it in. Madame nodded her approval. “Very good. Now you will cook this over a low flame, beating it the whole time until it is very thick. But do not,” again she looked stern, “do not let it boil. That would totally ruin it.”
Tina looked a little nervous. “Maybe you’d better do that part, Madame,” she said. “I’d hate to do it wrong.”
Madame’s expression softened. “Oh, do not worry, chérie,” she said. “I would not let you ruin it, but if you wish, I will finish this part.”
Tina looked immensely relieved. “If you don’t mind, Madame,” she said and came back to our side of the counter.
&nb
sp; Madame started to beat the mixture in the saucepan, when she looked up and noticed our police officer watching eagerly on his stool next to us. He obviously wanted to be a part of this but was too timid to volunteer. Madame took pity on him.
“We need a strong arm for this,” she said. “Perhaps, monsieur, you will help us?”
Office Paulhe was off his seat and behind the counter before she could finish her sentence. He started beating the mixture, and his whole face showed how much he was enjoying this.
“You have done this before, monsieur?” Madame asked.
“Oui, Madame,” he said, not stopping, “Cooking is a great pleasure for me.”
When he had achieved just the right consistency, Madame Arnaud said, “Now you may add the gelatin and one tablespoon of grated lemon rind. Another reason not to use bottled juice. It has no rinds.”
We laughed politely.
“Next, monsieur, perhaps you would like to use this hand mixer to beat the four egg whites until they are stiff, but not too dry.”
He nodded eagerly and turned on the mixer.
“While our chef is doing that, perhaps one of you will whip this heavy cream with the other mixer until it is firm,” Madame said.
We all sat there, not moving, until Gini stood up and went around the counter. “How hard could it be?” she said. “I’ll do that.”
“Brave woman,” Madame said, handing her the bowl of cream.
Soon the noise of electric mixers filled the air. I was getting hungrier and hungrier. I assumed we would get to taste this divine dessert when they finished their beating and whipping and stirring and mixing.
I tried not to think about last night and Alan Anderson, but bits and pieces of my ordeal kept creeping back into my mind. My friends were keeping a protective eye on me. When they noticed my face change, one or the other would take my hand or put an arm around my shoulder for a minute or say something to bring me back.
“Think Gini will beat that cream until it begs for mercy?” Mary Louise asked me.
I relaxed. “Probably,” I said.