Tag Archives: Food

A lot o’ gelato.

8 Jun

I am back from a glorious trip through Italy, well rested and sun kissed. And probably also about 10 pounds heavier, which I will shamelessly attribute to le bébé. Honestly. I swear it had nothing at all to do with this:

or this:

or this:

That last one there was technically sorbet (melon and lemon), which is nothing more than a light afternoon refreshment. A palate cleanser. Practically health food if you ask me.

I will admit that the cone I accidentally topped with two scoops of gelato mousse (which is apparently not gelato, but pure whipped cream) wasn’t the healthiest approach. But I didn’t even finish that one! I ate Husband’s stracciatella instead.

And although I did fall deeply, madly in love with a dark chocolate fondant and caramel combination from Giolitti in Rome, I can say with authority that red grapefruit sorbet is really where it’s at. And isn’t grapefruit part of any healthful, nutritious diet?

Yep. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Especially when I step on the scale at the doctor’s office today.

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Crabs, French style.

16 May

I am from Maryland. Which inherently means I can take down a dozen or so blue crabs without batting an eye. I love the ritual: sitting for hours on some hot, sticky back porch, a perfect pile of crustaceans steaming on the newsprint in front of you and a cold beer handy for when the Old Bay spices get the best of you. I relish in the exquisite torture of pulling apart a crab piece by piece, meticulously picking and prying to retrieve the tiniest morsel of sweet meat.

Husaband, on the other hand, is from Maine. He’s used to finding the mother lode with one crack of a tail. His delicate hands can’t handle the fresh sting of red pepper and salt in all the nicks where the crab claw put up a fight. He often mistakenly eats the mustardy guts out of sheer hungry desperation. When he eats crustaceans, he’s looking for a bigger, faster payoff.

So when a friend recommended a little place up the street from us called Le Crabe Marteau (the crab hammer), we were intrigued. They promised newspaper covered tables and plenty of mallets to smash the living daylights out of your food (in Paris of all places!). But the crabs on tap were of a heartier stock than those delicate specimens from the Chesapeake: le torteau, which pretty much looks like a blue crab on steroids, and l’arraignee de mer, which is your basic spider crab. Plus they offered fresh oysters and langoustines (like crawfish) from Bretagne.

(All served, I might add, by a tanned French waiter with dreamy blue eyes, tousled blonde curls, a rustic, seafaring stubble and adorable striped shirt. Who happily obliged when I asked more than once to show me again how to crack the crabs open.)

Which means I could have my epic, messy crab picking experience (with a side of hot waiter) and Husband could get more crab meat. And a bib. That’s a win-win situation, wouldn’t you say?

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Breakfast of champions.

12 May

It’s no secret that I love butter. Mostly in pastry form, but it’s also divine added to freshly popped pop corn or a plain old crusty end of baguette. I’ve been known to throw a few extra tablespoons into my chocolate chip cookie dough, just for good luck. A small pat smooshed with minced garlic does wonders for a simple slab of steak. I’ll admit that I’ve strongly considered eating it by the spoonful.

And here the butter is just quite simply otherworldly. Even the lowliest of supermarket brands somehow seems richer, more decadent than anything back home. Probably because it’s often sprinkled with chunks of sea salt or produced from a lone herd of cows somewhere on one specific mountainside eating a certain type of clover.

But while whatever they’re doing over here to their dairy products is magical, I also feel it’s a bit worrisome for my arteries. And my ass. So when opening a package du beurre yesterday I felt very reassured to find the following message on the back:

“BREAD AND BUTTER make up part of a recommended breakfast”

Well hot damn! The nutritionists themselves want me to eat butter every day. I can even throw in some fruit and another dairy product if I want to. And here I’ve been wasting valuable breakfast time on GoLean Crunch and oatmeal! From here on out it’s gonna be toast slathered with salty butter and strawberry jam.

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Vocab Friday: Frites

29 Apr

So yesterday I told you about our Indonesian-Dutch waiter handing over with much glee his top two places to get fries in Amsterdam. Today I’m going to tell you about the ensuing quest for perfect frites.

But first things first: let’s talk about what exactly you consider a perfect french fry: Thick and hand cut? Thin and crisp? Perhaps the waffled version offered by Chick-fil-A? I myself like my fries fresh – none of this frozen, food coloring yellow crap. I want them to taste like potatoes, and maybe even have bits of skin left on. Then they should be fried to golden perfection, creating crisp edges that yield to delicate fluffy potato inside. They’ve got to be sturdy enough to hold a pile of ketchup or even a dousing of vinegar, but not so crunchy that they scrape the roof of your mouth and not so fat that they’re like swallowing a mouthful of boxed mashed potato mix. And they need to be salty.

Here in Paris, I’ve been disappointed by some pretty terrible specimens– sad, frostbitten yellow twigs that clearly came from Picard. Six years ago. And don’t get me started on the elusive duck fat french fries, which better be coming back this summer or I will personally start sending hate mail to chef Daniel Rose.

So I was pumped to get to Amsterdam and get some real, undeniably good fries. Which brings us back to the quest for frites and our waiter friend, who assured us that he personally taste tested french fry establishments on a regular basis, in addition to keeping up with the latest french fry blogs. Thus we knew we were in good (if not chubby) hands.

His first recommendation?  Vlaams FritesHuis, tucked away at Voetboogstraat 31, off of Heiligeweg (which apparently means “heavenly way”).

Heavenly indeed. The draw of the FritesHuis was supposedly the excellent potato flavor and extensive array of sauces on tap– everything from plain old ketchup to soy sauce mixed with mayo to satay peanut sauce. We opted for plain old ketchup:

The verdict? Pretty delicious, but not salty enough. And I was suspicious of the bright yellow coloring.

But don’t get me wrong– we forked that whole cone down in no time, and proceeded on our way to the next friteshuis. Well, first we actually walked around for a while to digest, then checked out of our hotel, then inexplicably stopped for lunch. Finally on our way to the train station we made it to Damrak 41, location of Manneken Pis, purveyor of purportedly awesome, crispier-style fries.

These were definitely crisper, crunchier, and much saltier. And no crazy sauce options to confuse you. Pretty damn good for what looked like a boardwalk chain. The verdict? I felt like my stomach was going to explode, but still wanted to cram these into my craw. That should tell you something (something like, I’m disgusting, I have a problem, I need to do more salad taste tests…)

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les frites

Pronunciation: ley freet

Definition: French fries! Duh. As in,

“Please baby jesus in velvet pants, give me the chance to savor those glorious duck fat frites at Spring!”

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The real Cosi.

10 Mar

Today I want to share the experience of walking through the Saint Germain neighborhood on a crisp spring-ish day, only to find an odd sign for a sandwich shop called “Cosi.” That’s funny, you think to yourself. Just like the chain back home.

Then you hear opera music wafting over the tousled heads of the students waiting in line, and catch an intoxicating whiff of something baking in a brick oven. So you decide to step in line and see what this Cosi impostor is all about.

And that’s when you see it: a golden rectangle of crispy, slightly salty flat focaccia bread, ready to be stuffed with the sandwich fixings of your choice. The bread! you shout to yourself. It’s the same bread! What is going on here?

You’re busy pondering the legal implications of such blatant copy-catism when your pesto-mozzarella-arugula masterpiece arrives, still warm, and suddenly you don’t care if the French Cosi is guilty of stealing an American idea. Because they’re doing it so much better.

So much better in fact that you’ll only be mildly surprised to learn why: Cosi is actually French. It all started here in Paris. It wasn’t until two Hamilton College grads on a semester abroad fell in love with the place and asked the owner if they could use the name. And the vague concept. And definitely the bread recipe.

I really wish I could share a bite with you. Or at the very least a nice photo. But I ate it all and forgot to take a picture so you’ll just have to come to Paris and taste the real Cosi for yourself.

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Happy birthday Husband.

14 Feb

Husband turns thirty-something today. I say thirty-something because he’s feeling old (older than me!) and not spelling out the exact state of his aged-ness might soften the blow a bit. But just in case, I prepared him a chocolate peanut butter pie in which to drown all of his old-person sorrows.

And since his sorrows did indeed need drowning, and I can currently consume twice my body weight in food, we cut into that puppy last night. Sweet jesus in velvet pantalones. I think if I wasn’t married to my best friend in the whole wide world, I would have tried to elope with that peanut butter mousse. I mean, it’s made with with real Reeses peanut butter chips and about 4 gallons of fresh cream for cripes sake. At this stage in my life I’m not sure I need anything else.

But in the end I came to my senses. Because even though he clips his toenails in bed, Husband does wear plenty of funny outfits to make me laugh. He brings me pain au raisins when I need them most. And he doesn’t get mad when I ask to watch another episode of Law and Order. Husband makes me sane when things are crazy, happy when things are sad, and all lovey-dovey when he wears those tight French suit pants. So in my little slice of life, he’s pretty much the Master Bite.

 

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Vocab Friday: Un rêve

4 Feb

Since I’ve been spending such a good deal of time lately complaining about the grocery stores here, I thought I’d take a minute and share my idea of the perfect food shopping experience, complements of the riverside Sunday market in Bordeaux:

1. Garlic shrimp grilled to oder. To fortify you before shopping.

2. Plenty of cheese and other farm fresh products.

3. A French Elvis impersonator, to keep you energized. Bonus if he can do the splits.

4. Post-checkout wine and raw oyster bar. Truly a thing of beauty.

*    *    *

un rêve

Pronunciation: uh rehv

Definition: A dream. As in,

“It’s mon rêve to someday find a beautiful outdoor market that also sells toilet paper.”

 

 

 

 

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Cocottes and culottes.

1 Feb

It’s cold here in Paris. And I don’t think I’ve seen the sun in, oh, almost 3 weeks. I know I won’t garner much sympathy, what with a major blizzard slamming the midwest. And the fact that I am still in Paris. But it’s getting depressing around here! It’s endlessly gray and dismal, and they’ve taken down all the sparkling Christmas lights that made December somewhat bearable.

It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to hibernate, that pushes you into an unbreakable state of inertia. This past Saturday Husband and I slept unthinkably late, then rushed out to make the market before it closed. After an hour of fighting old ladies in the bread line, we returned with a full cart and promptly curled up on the couch for the remainder of the day.

Drastic measures were in order to break the winter spell. We needed dinner. We needed warmth. We needed comfortability. So we snagged some good friends and met at a little place in the 7th called Les Cocottes. It’s a bistro run by chef Christian Constant that specializes in…wait for it…food cooked in Staub cocottes. And if a sizzling cocotte full of French comfort food can’t cure the bleak doldrums of January, I don’t know what can.

It was absolutely packed, even at 7:30, which isn’t even dinner time in France. But a just few apéritifs later we had a cozy table and 4 adorable miniature cocottes in front of us. Mine was filled with the most unbelievable langoustine ravioli in a velvety pink broth, steaming with hearty goodness. Upon the first bite I felt moved to stand up on my chair shout to the world C’est comme un petit Jesus en culottes de velours!

Except that I’ve recently been informed that it’s not cool to say that anymore. Friends back home actually broke it out at Epcot Center France, and so impressed the staff that they were crowned King and Queen (still wondering if they meant figuratively or literally). Then the waitress promptly informed them zat nobody says zat anymore een Frrrench.

Ouch.

So I’ve been running around promoting the colloquial slang equivalent of “Groovy!” and “That’s the bee’s knees!” But you know what? I don’t care. It’s still hilarious. In English or French. So that Epcot waitress can stuff it in her velvet pantalones.

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Vocab Friday: Snack steaks.

28 Jan

A day in the life of a newly pregnant me:

Get up early to do new years resolution yoga.

Stop halfway through to eat an orange.

Lie prone on the couch for a while.

Eat breakfast #1.

Eat breakfast #2.

Shower, feel refreshed, make a to-do list.

Finish first item on the list then promptly fall asleep for an hour.

For a while there, le bébé was sucking the life force out of me at an alarming pace. My kind sister, herself a mother of 4 darling life-force-suckers, assured me that the epic fatigue is something that should continue for the next 20 years or so. My dad said for the rest of my life.

Thanks guys.

Well these days life is much better. The only problem I face is code red hunger attacks, which you think wouldn’t be such a problem in France. You know, land of all things buttery and good. But the fierceness with which my body is now demanding sustenance is otherworldly. It scares me. Me! The lady with standard faim de loup!

I’m almost getting to the point where I’m tired of eating. Someone please fly over here and slap me because never in my life did I think I’d ever say those words. I am hungry all the time. And most desperately hungry when all the cafes and shops seem to be closed in the afternoon. I find myself half conscious, stalking through grocery store aisles like Frankenstein on a serious binge, clearing entire shelves of food into my cart. Which explains why I currently have cottage cheese, butternut squash, Cap N Crunch and sardines in my kitchen.

Husband, desperate to stave off the panicked delirium of code red hunger, actually suggested that I cook up a bunch of steaks every week and just keep them in the fridge to nibble on.

And this is what my life has come to people: Snack steaks.

But you know what’s worse than sinking to the base level of snack steak? NOT BEING ABLE TO EAT STEAK.

Yeah, Ok, I can eat steak. It just has to be cooked into oblivion, which for me totally defeats the purpose of butchering the cow. Steak, especially a nice entrecôte or filet, should be juicy and rare. Just a few degrees past moo. In other words, delicious.

I get it. Blasting a fine piece of meat into charred, well-done land cooks out all of the toxoplasmosis germs. Which is critically important here, since it seems to run rampant among the French population. I’m guessing thanks in part to a national fetish for steak tartare. With a raw egg on top.

But let’s be real. Well done is no way to eat steak, at least in my book. And especially not in France. Make the mistake of ordering it here and you will be served a plate of shoe leather with a side of snide remarks. Make the mistake of ordering with an American accent and failing to specify the cuisson, and you will automatically also get something inedible.

So, no snack steaks for me. I’ll have to stick to eggs and pain au raisins. And peanuts. And pickles. And apples with peanut butter. And frites! I can definitely eat the frites.

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Should you find yourselves in Paris, about to order une belle pièce de boeuf, here’s a handy guide to how things are cooked. I’ve found that the scale of doneness in France can be slightly off from American standards — hence “medium” here is often a little more rare than U.S. medium.

bleu - (bleuh) Seared on the outside, cold and raw in the middle. Unless you like meat that’s barely grazed the frying pan, I wouldn’t order this.

saignant – (sang-yant) Very rare to rare. Or quite literally, bloody. Usually what I go for.

à point - (ah pwehn) Usually medium rare, sometimes closer to medium. Expect a warm pink center.

bien cuit - (bee-ehn kwee) Here’s where things get funky. This means well done, but actually comes out more like medium or medium well. It’s often still slightly pink in the very center.

très bien cuit - (trey bee-ehn kwee) Ordering your meat très bien cuit will most likely result in something charred beyond recognition. So faire attention! Unless you like it that way. In which case I don’t know if we can be friends.

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Hello carrot cake.

25 Jan

Fresh off a lite lunch of roasted chicken and potatoes, Husband and I were strolling through Hemingway’s old neighborhood when we rounded the corner and came face to face with this:

Well, something like that. I was too busy smooshing my face up to the window of the fabulous Sugar Plum Cake Shop to take a picture of what I actually saw, which was triple decker carrot cake with satin cream cheese icing, perched on an antique cake stand amongst other homey American treats. And a long communal table, full of people nibbling and sipping tea.

So needless to say, I sprinted immediately to the counter and ordered up a slice of heaven. Husband got a Rice Krispie Treat. And while I was waiting, I saw these:

The dear American lady behind the counter told me in a sweet southern accent that they were Hello Hazels. But I know better. Those are Hello Dollys! Otherwise known as Jen’s Famous Crack Bars: Graham cracker crust, choco chips, butterscotch chips, and coconut, all drenched in sweetened condensed milk and baked to golden perfection. Except the Sugarplum people went and put nuts in there, and that just ruins it.

But that didn’t stop me from smiling a big old happy faced grin when I saw them. It was a little piece of home on a cold, gray Paris day. And the carrot cake? Obscenely good. Even though the French couple doing a wedding cake tasting across the table from us wrinkled their noses and refused to finish it. Silly Frenchies. I almost offered to finish it for them.

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