As we got closer and closer to Paris I simply couldn’t believe the look, the vibe, the smell of the city. We drove down along the Seine and it called out to be investigated, but before we could do that we needed to get dropped at L’Hotel on the Rue des Beaux-Arts in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. This was such a wonderful introduction to Paris: the hotel that Oscar Wilde stayed in till his death and one that had become as famous for the people who stayed there as it was for its incredible location right in the centre of the Left Bank.
We dropped our bags and, as our room wasn’t ready, rushed back to the street, filled with excitement, to walk along the Seine and drink up the atmosphere. We hung over the walls of the wonderful river, with all its activity: the barges heading upstream and downstream, the Citadel in the distance, people walking across the most extraordinary bridges to the Right Bank. It was simply too much to take in, in one go. We turned back and walked past the hotel and into the Rue de Seine. It was mind blowing.
As we turned the corner the street opened into a vibrant and busy market with food shops and stalls—eye candy to a simple cook from Sydney: it was like walking into Charlie’s Chocolate Factory except instead of wanting to eat the chocolate I just wanted to cook and taste everything I saw. There were butchers with meat that looked so amazing—incredible veal, large ribs of beef, pure white saddles of pork, the most incredible chickens. I saw my first Bresse Chicken, the famous bird of Burgundy, right there. There was rotisserie of chicken and pork rolling around, glistening with the fat as it cooked and fell to the potatoes underneath. Awesome takeaway indeed. Cheese shops full of so many beautiful cheeses of all kinds with large slabs of butter and pails of crème fraîche and cream that screamed to have a finger dipped in it. The stalls were full of plump and small vegetables and ripe sweet fruit, vibrant herbs and the most incredible asparagus I had ever seen. The green asparagus was amazing enough, but to see my first ever white asparagus was a revelation. I had seen photos before but to meet in person was almost like falling in love at that moment. There was the fishmonger too, with huge turbot, sea bass and sole and the most incredible langoustine, lobster and oysters of all kinds and shape. The charcuterie—full of terrines, cooked meats and all manner of prepared salads, bowls of celeriac remoulade. It all sent me into a total spin. Wine shops, full of wine I have lusted over my whole life and then the patisserie—oh my god, the tarts and gateaux and moulded desserts, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that perfect fine apple tart, I just had to have one and as I ate it walking along the street I thought how I must sit and have a coffee, but most of all I simply thought … I must be in heaven. Oh, and with all the excitement I almost forgot my first baguette. Bread unlike any I had ever seen or tasted … crisp, white, crunchy, melting, the taste so sweet and mouthwatering. This alone would be a very good reason to come to Paris, just for a loaf of bread, but oh, what bread it is.
We returned to the hotel to find a very comfortable place to rest and then in the afternoon explored the city. What an experience. At every turn something amazing. Notre Dame—a straight-up OMG moment. The Louvre—an awesome place and the pyramid wasn’t even there then. Up the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe and over the river again to the Eiffel Tower. This is truly a city to walk around and wonder at its history and beauty. We had walked the left and right banks, had explored the Place de Madeleine, visited all the shops along Rue Saint-Honoré. We had walked for hours and rather than feeling tired, we were full of youthful excitement and focussed on dinner, but still, a couple of hours nap in the afternoon would be a good idea, right?
That first night we went to Alain Dutournier’s Au Trou Gascon—not as flash as it is now but all the same a wonderful introduction to Paris. I had my first taste of real foie gras and knew it wouldn’t be my last, although I can’t remember much of what we ate. I know that I really enjoyed it and our first day in Paris was complete.
The next morning it was up for a walk and breakfast at a local café … freshly squeezed orange juice, one of those amazing baguettes with ham and cheese and a coffee: ah, I love Paris. The baguette arrived and we looked at each other. How could we possibly eat something so large? We clearly should have split one, but what fools were we. Within five minutes we had demolished the best sandwich I had ever had and were contemplating ordering another; only the thought of a light lunch and what we knew would be a massive Michelin-starred restaurant experience was holding us back.
We spent the day at the Louvre and again did what is best to do in Paris, walked and walked. That evening we dressed and headed out to the gardens in Paris excited to be eating at Le Pre Catelan, which was owned and run by the famous pastry chef Gaston Lenôtre. His son Patrick was the chef and, from memory, it was a two-star in those days. The food was delicious and I remember drinking a 1980 Chateaux Margot, a wine not fancied because of the wet year in Bordeaux but cheap and really delicious for a thing so young. The rest of the meal, although delicious I’m sure, hasn’t stuck in my memory after all these years.
The next day we spent most of our time revisiting the markets and looking at food stores, which for me, back then, were just extraordinary as we had nothing like them in Australia. In reality, though, we were just staying calm and relaxed as the most important part of our trip so far was going to be dinner that night, our first ever three Michelin star and this was why we were here.
Our booking some months before had been made for Alain Senderens’ L’Archestrate. We arrived with great excitement. Upon being seated, we simply sat and soaked up the atmosphere. Here there seemed to be service at every moment; it was clear this was different to everywhere else we had been and that it was famous for good reason. Once we started to eat, I knew we were indulging in something very special. Actually it was more than special, it was life changing. We decided on the tasting menu and the first course arrived: a little cube of fresh foie gras wrapped in cabbage and steamed; on the side was sea salt and freshly ground pepper. We were instructed to sprinkle a little of both on the cabbage then pop the foie in our mouths and eat it while still hot. Oh my god, it was amazing—the crunch of the cabbage, the hit of salt and pepper and the melt-in-the-mouth sensation and flavour of the fresh foie. This was sheer genius in such a simple way.
The next course arrived; it was a salad of lobster, duck confit and mango. The centre of the plate was warm frissee dressed in walnut oil with slices of freshly cooked lobster, cubes of pan-fried duck confit and mango surrounding the main prize. As I tasted each of these flavours on the same fork my mouth was full of a dish that could only be described as balance and harmony, simply the most delicious salad I had ever tried, but again no tricks—just great ingredients that married so well together.
Next, a sautéed piece of salmon with leek coulis. It was the first time I had tasted wild salmon and I couldn’t believe what a wonderful fish it was paired with the sweet earthy leek, cooked slowly and mounted with butter. So simple, elegant and utterly delicious.
The main arrived, slices of perfectly cooked milk-fed lamb lying casually next to an assortment of beautiful little vegetables and a drizzle of some simple pan juices over the meat, almost not there at all. This was so delicious, the milky tender lamb younger than I had ever tasted, the vegetables intense—turnip, carrot and radish that tasted as if they had just come from the ground, each mouthful bursting with flavour.
I can’t seem to remember dessert on that night, perhaps the wine had kicked in, perhaps by then I was overwhelmed and by that course my life had changed.
We went on to eat some amazing food in some great three-star restaurants all over France, but this was the one that changed my cooking forever.
I had been cooking away, making French Provençale food at Barrenjoey House in Palm Beach at that stage of my life. My father had armed me with the knowledge that great produce was everything in cooking; I had a great love of Chinese food and from that moment on I realised I could release my own produce-driven style of cooking and it could be serious and could be world class
too. In that one meal I understood that great produce didn’t need secondary sauces, albeit good ones, it needed to be expressed by its own true flavour and it needed to be light and intense at the same time. Meat and seafood needed a relationship with vegetables and herbs and a simple drop of juice from the pan was more important than any stock-based sauce.
From the day I arrived back in the kitchen in Palm Beach on a cold June day, I started cooking Neil Perry’s food, something I hadn’t done until that wonderful and life changing trip to France.
FRANCES MAYES had written six books of poetry and The Discovery of Poetry before she bought a house in Italy and spontaneously began writing prose. Under the Tuscan Sun, Bella Tuscany, Every Day in Tuscany, two photo texts, the novels Swan and A Year in the World followed. Her books have been translated into over forty languages. Recently she gathered together the recipes from many feasts and published The Tuscan Sun Cookbook. She and her poet husband, Edward Mayes, live in North Carolina in a community of writers and artists, and in Cortona, Tuscany. Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir will be published in 2014
DEVIL IN A BLUE APRON
Frances Mayes
A long, long time ago, before glorious farmers’ markets bloomed, before the non-stop Food Network, recipe blogs, celebrity cooks trying not to look foolish on Iron Chef, before the proliferation of excellent food magazines, and even before rampant obesity (resulting from torturous attitudes toward eating), before foams, gluten crazes, before food became cult, and way before every third mas, villa, and farm kitchen in France and Italy became a cooking school, I journeyed far to study with Simone Beck in Provence.
What propelled me across the Atlantic in those dim years? My husband was sailing all the time he was not working. My daughter was entranced with her horse. I often felt that I was flying around my room, a bird come in through the chimney. I wanted to be a writer but kept cooking instead. Go somewhere new, I thought. My friend Jeannette called to tell me about the cooking classes and before she finished the sentence, I said, ‘Let’s go.’
We were five at Simone Beck’s honey-colored house, La Campanette, in the hills above Grasse: Jeannette, also from San Francisco, two pretty and accomplished young women from Atlanta, and a woman from South Africa who was sent there while her boyfriend went on vacation with his wife. Jeannette and I had cooked our way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which Simca co-authored with Julia Child. We were adept at dinner parties featuring cream soups, veal Prince Orloff, Grand Marnier soufflé, and other time-consuming, flamboyant, delicious recipes. We loved Simca’s Cuisine, her straightforward approach, and immediately liked her no-nonsense rigor in the kitchen. On the first day she gave each of us an apron that matched her impression of us. Mine was plain blue, while the others got charming flowers and stripes. Simca was cordial to us, but not friendly. When Cathy from Atlanta asked one question too many, Simca cut her off with ‘Are we going to measure or are we going to cook?’ We worked in the morning, and then enjoyed a sumptuous lunch on the terrace. Fish mousseline with hollandaise, pizza with pastry crust, sole in ring mold with velouté, and various sausages in brioche—not exactly Sunday night suppers but still easy and fun. Simca demonstrated. We were assigned small tasks. We took notes. We did not clean up.
If one of us asked a question she usually looked incredulous through her tinted glasses and curtly said, ‘But you have it in de Mastering,’ as if we should have memorized the whole tome. But I was learning how to beat egg whites in a copper bowl until I could hold the bowl upside down over my head—that’s how you know they’re stiff enough. I learned to boil chicken stock uncovered so that it reduces and concentrates. We made airy rolled soufflé filled with crab. Never brown shallots, just melt them. She preferred metal spoons because wooden ones ‘always have some fat on them’. I learned to keep my knives sharp and dry. Never waste anything. I saw her save the whites when only yolks were needed. Leftover bread became crumbs. Shells of shrimp went into the broth. In that plain kitchen, I acquired life-changing habits. Many small changes add up to revolutionary change. She respected ingredients as a writer respects words. Frugal as she was, the table was set with largesse. Her trucs and scoldings and care gently seeped into my hands and made me more aware as I stood at the stove. I began to see the process of cooking as an art and a practice, not a means to an end. I began to love the battered pans, wooden bowls, a particular slotted spoon, colanders and baskets. My tools.
French desserts descended to earth from a certain corner of heaven. We constructed then devoured Simca’s toffee-based tart of packed-down apples (tartin des pommes), chocolate gateau garnished with cherries in kirsch, and a dense chocolaty-chocolate mousse without cream. She taught the French way with meringue—cook it over hot water then, through a pastry tube, pipe decorative rings around fruit or lemon tarts. (Way too much trouble.)
I could not know then that from Simca’s dessert repertoire, one recipe would come to stand for all the tastes, aromas and bliss of my time at La Campanette—Le Diabolo, a flat, dense, unassuming chocolate cake. Simca took the recipe from her mother’s little black notebook. I recall vividly the first taste: the inner essence of chocolate, sweet, with a touch of almond, and buttery with a slight hit of bitterness from the coffee in the frosting. A complex cake, I thought. I don’t know if I’ve ever made a complex cake before. The ones I knew were straightforward, except for my mother’s formidable Lane Cake, which I’d never attempted.
The name, too, is complex. I assumed diabolo meant ‘devil’. But a French devil is diable. Italian and Spanish devils are diavolo and diablo. Going way back to the Greek, a diabolos was a liar. For later Christian writers, the word meant ‘the liar who speaks against God’, therefore, a devil. I can see why one might think of that deep chocolate as diabolical, as in the devil made me do it. But why Simca’s mother spelled her cake diabolo remains a mystery, and we can’t ask now. Perhaps it’s dialect or an obsolete spelling. Maybe she liked juggling, because now the word ‘diabolo’ refers to a nifty device for a juggler’s tricks, a sort of double cup joined at the bottom and strung between two sticks. When we separated eggs, Simca had us break the egg into our hands, letting the whites slip through our fingers while the yolks remained whole in our palms. ‘You must be very sure of your eggs,’ she cautioned. Cooking can be a bit like juggling.
Made in a round baking pan, the ancient devil stands two-inches high, at most. Although in her cookbook Simca lists an American chocolate, you can be sure that in her French kitchen she used chocolate from a special shop in Paris. Little flour is called for, and ground almonds keep the batter from ambitious rising. The top becomes slightly crusty and the middle stays moist—more than moist, but not quite creamy. ‘You must be careful not to overbake,’ she warned. One minute past noon is midnight, some writer said, and that’s true here. The soft and delectable texture can turn dry and brittle in a flash.
As soon as it cools, you pour over it a simple coffee-based chocolate butter cream, thin but intense. Guests put down their forks and look at you as though you’ve unveiled The Winged Victory. A sliver will do—this is not the same thing at all as the much-loved towering layer 1-2-3-4 cakes of my youth. They were slathered in luscious thick icing. Discovering Le Diabolo was sort of like the moment of recognition when you’re dressed in blue flounces and someone wearing black Prada walks in. You get it. When something is this good, you don’t need much. Sometimes I ring the cake with raspberries, but, really, what’s the point? Le Diabolo needs no embellishment. In my kitchens, I have turned out Le Diabolo onto the same white Wedgwood plate for my daughter’s birthdays, endless dinner parties, potlucks, even funerals. Now my daughter bakes it for her family, and I’ve passed on the recipe to many friends, who, in turn, have handed it to others. On that first day, however, my history with Le Diabolo was unwritten. I ate each bite slowly, slowly, savoring every tender morsel.
In the afternoons, we meandered to Biot, Fayence, Vence. We were allowed in the kitchens of the Michelin-starred
chefs in the area. Sharp-eyed Simca took us to markets and taught us to buy the right fish—look at its eyes and the shimmer of the scales—and cunning little cheeses wrapped in grape leaves, and olives, and small purple artichokes. We learned to drink kir royale (and I’d thought Champagne was glamorous) on the terrace at evening, where, with Simca and her husband Jean, we were sometimes joined by Julia herself and her courtly husband Paul. The effervescent sunset light in the Kir seemed to have absorbed the color of the rays raking across the distant hills. Julia was interested in how we ‘girls’ were getting on. Her high voice thrilled us, and although we were shy around her, we had fun trying to imitate her when we were back in our quarters.
I was seduced by the gentle landscape and by the idea of a life in the countryside. The air was balmy. As we drove, I was dazzled by the golden, perched villages, the Matisse chapel, and the acres of roses cultivated by perfume makers. We sometimes stopped, as evening fell, at a small square and dined outdoors under greening plane trees. Biting into poulet à l’estragon, I devoured, too, the way of life behind it. I thought, I’d like to live this way.
The trip was brief. Poppies spread like a brushfire all over the fields. Never had I seen such a marvel. How is it that some people get to live their everyday lives here? I fancied as I packed my bag that I could fold into my clothes the scent of the nearby roses. Simca’s book was dog-eared and spattered. Provençal fabric sacks of herbs did penetrate all my summery dresses. En route back to the US, on a stop in Paris, I madly purchased a copper pot, chocolate (grocery store chocolate was over), individual cylindrical molds for soufflés d’Alençon, vanilla powder, various extracts, a nutmeg grinder, and all sizes of tart pans, some of which, eons later, still have the stickers on them. Who knew when I’d ever pass that way again?
A Fork In The Road: Tales of Food, Pleasure and Discovery On The Road (Lonely Planet Travel Literature) Page 19