On Rue Tatin (22 page)

1/4 cup/1 ounce/30g finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Generous pinch of hot paprika

1. Place the garlic and 1 tablespoon of the oil (15ml) in a
9 1/2-inch/24-cm skillet over medium heat and cook until the garlic begins to brown, about 3 minutes. Add the chard, stir, cover, and cook until it is wilted and has turned a very dark green, about 25 minutes, stirring occasionally to be sure it doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs with the salt, the cheese, and the paprika just until they are broken up. Preheat the broiler.

3. Add the remaining oil to the chard and stir, making sure that it doesn’t stick to the bottom of the pan. Pour the eggs over the chard and let them cook until they are set on the bottom, 4 to 5 minutes. You will detect a somewhat toasty aroma, and the eggs will be set, except for about 1/4 inch (.7cm) on the top.

4. Remove the pan from the heat and place it about 5 inches/12.5cm from the broiler. Cook until the top is just set and there is no uncooked egg, 1 to 2 minutes. Be careful not to overcook.

5. Remove from the heat and place the serving platter on top of the pan. Reverse the pan and the platter so the frittata falls onto the platter. Allow to cool to room temperature before
serving.

6
APPETIZER SERVINGS;
2
TO
4
MAIN-DISH SERVINGS

GOAT CHEESE SAUCE
SAUCE DE FROMAGE DE CHÈVRE

This light, delicate sauce, which I make with fresh goat cheese from the market in Louviers, is perfect with freshly steamed asparagus (preferably white, though it is wonderful with green as well). It is also delicious alongside freshly grilled fish or poultry, or a thick, tender steak.

1 cup/250ml fresh goat cheese curds (or 3/4 cup/185ml fresh goat cheese and 1/4 cup/60ml either goat or cow’s milk)

2 tablespoons/30ml extra-virgin olive oil

1 cup/about 10g mixed fennel fronds, sweet cicely, and chervil leaves, or fresh chives

Fine sea salt

1. Whisk the goat cheese until it is light. Whisk in the olive oil until thoroughly incorporated and smooth.

2. Mince the herbs, and whisk them into the goat cheese mixture. Season to taste with salt.

1
GENEROUS CUP
/250
ML
—
ABOUT
6
SERVINGS

FOURTEEN
               

Paris

PARIS IS ONLY an hour from Louviers, and it beckons constantly. I go often, to meet editors for business, friends for lunch, to see the doctor, the dentist. Michael and I drive in at night to meet friends for dinner. Often I go to run errands for things I can’t find anywhere else. At least I think I can’t find them anywhere else, though Rouen, a good-sized city, is much closer and most things could probably be purchased there.

But I know Paris like my own backyard. And I love it. I step off the train at Gare St-Lazare, cross that scruffy station, emerge outside, and at once feel right with the world. I love walking down the steps, past the sculpture that is an assemblage of clocks, and across the street to the new FNAC, a bookstore that has made waiting for trains so much more pleasant. I try to arrange my trips so that I can stop at Ladurée, the early-nineteenth-century tea salon, which is a ten-minute walk from the station down the rue Royale. It has the best
café crème
in Paris and atmosphere unequaled anywhere else.

I know because I’ve spent years sampling
cafés crèmes
in Paris. When I lived there in the early eighties I loved nothing better than to start out in the morning with my
Plan de Paris
, the indispensable guide to Paris streets, and explore, stopping frequently for a
crème
as I studied the map and the passersby. The very first newspaper article I ever wrote in Paris, for a publication called
Paris Passion
, was a roundup of
salons de thé
in Paris. To do the research I visited every single one in the city sampling more
crèmes
, teas, and pastries than I could count. I liked some of the tea salons better than others but what I loved most was the fact that searching them out took me places I might otherwise not have gone.

When Michael and I lived together in Paris we explored the city
arrondissement
by
arrondissement
. We would set out early on a weekend morning and go to a market to buy all the ingredients for a picnic, then make our way to a garden or a park to eat it. Afterwards we visited a museum or a gallery, or simply window-shopped and we wouldn’t return home until after dark.

Our favorite market street was the one nearest our studio apartment, on rue Mouffetard in the fifth
arrondissement
. We went there regularly and always stopped at the Café Mouffetard at number 116. The
crèmes
there were good but what really drew us were the dense and yeasty homemade croissants and brioche. We liked the twiceweekly market at rue Monge, too, also in the fifth, for it offered more rustic fare like huge loaves of bread baked in wood-fired ovens, different honeys and spice breads, sausages, and other
charcuterie
from every region in France. We also loved rue Poncelet, a fast-paced and chic market street in the seventeenth where I had shopped regularly for nearly six months when I lived near it in a
chambre de bonne
. The best place for coffee there is a quaint Austrian tea salon and pastry shop called Le Stubli, and we would choose among little crescents filled with poppy seeds, miniature linzertortes, spice cookies, or butter cookies dusted in powdered sugar and have them in the dining room upstairs, where we could hear the bustle of the market over the hushed tones of the other guests.

Our studio apartment was equidistant between the Jardin des Plantes and the Jardin du Luxembourg and we spent a lot of time in both of them. They lack abundant shade, however, so when our studio was simply too unbearably hot in summer we would go to the Arènes de Lutèce, a small garden nearby, to sit in the shade and read. Evenings we walked along the banks of the Seine, which were crowded in summer and virtually empty in winter.

We had a handful of favorite restaurants and the one we went to most often was Polidor on rue Monsieur-le-Prince. We always began with the same dish, a dozen fat, juicy, garlic- and parsley-sauced snails. Served blistering hot by the cheerful waitress, they were the most delicious I’ve tasted, before or since. We also loved a beer bar on the rue Mouffetard where we drank our first Morte Subite (a very high-alcohol beer in a liter-and-a-half bottle that practically knocks you dead on your feet, thus the name “Sudden Death”) and another beer bar on the rue Soufflot that served dozens of varieties of beers, each with its own glass, and the best
moules frites
in Paris.

Chez René, a bistro on the Blvd. St-Germain whose lentils with smoked sausages and
coq au vin
are as delicious now as they were then, was where we took visiting guests. I remember going with my parents for dinner and while we entered as customers we left as friends, the entire staff seeing us out the door with handshakes and smiles.

We often went very far afield in our rambling about the city. Once we were deep in the heart of the eighteenth
arrondissement
and ended up at a tiny African restaurant tucked into an alley there, eating spiced meat and peanut sauce that we washed down with beer. Often we made our way to the first
arrondissement
and would always stop at a
pâtisserie/charcuterie
on rue St-Honoré called Gargantua, where the pastries were gigantic and excellent. In Chinatown we would have egg drop soup or dim sum, and very occasionally we would dress to the nines and go out for a meal at our truly favorite restaurant, Le Grand Véfour in the Palais-Royal.

I still try to walk wherever I’m going in Paris so that I can inhale as much Parisian air as possible. Walking allows for discovery of an as-yet untried café or restaurant, an unexplored antique shop or shoe store. In summer I always walk through the Tuileries and stop for an organic sorbet sold from a gaily colored little cart at the Louvre end. My French publisher is across the Seine and as often as not my business takes me there, so I cross the river and head down a tiny, choked street enjoying the rare antiques, artful flower arrangements, and chic handbags in the store windows on the way.

The decorous beat of the city infiltrates my bones so that I’m instantly at home. As I walk I relive other walks I’ve taken, simultaneously inhabiting the past and present. When we have friends or family visit I take them to Paris and lead them to all my favorite old places and some new ones, too. My life changes constantly but Paris remains the same even as it lives and thrives, a steady reference point.

Joe enjoys the train ride to Paris. And he loves the Meteor, the spanking, shiny, clean new metro line that cuts the city down to size. He goes wild with delight when we go to the aquarium at the Musée des Arts Africains. And he loves the hot chocolate and strawberry tarts at Ladurée. But other than that, Paris to Joe is mainly a pain in the neck.

Some things disappoint him. He dreamed of seeing the eternal flame under the Arc de Triomphe so we made that possible last Christmas. When we got there and he saw it burning bravely amidst the crowds he looked up and said, “This is all there is?” Others frighten him. The noise, the clank of the metro—he fears one or the other of us will get stuck between the doors. And still others bore him, including visits to the doctor or dentist, which means time in the waiting room.

Dissatisfied with medical and dental care in Louviers, we’ve established our medical relationships in Paris, which has its good and bad sides. The bad side is that a checkup is never simple for it implies a good part of the day away from home. The good part is that a visit to the doctor necessitates a day in Paris. I love it. Joe doesn’t.

Not that he doesn’t love our doctor, Pierre. He does. Anyone would. Pierre is a young, handsome, jolly homeopath and physician with a droll sense of the absurd. His dark office—he keeps the shades pulled—is stuffed with books about everything from I Ching to Babar. Toys are placed cleverly in the shelves here and there to tempt and surprise young patients. The examining couch and the stethoscope are incidental.

Most sessions with Pierre involve conversation during which he doodles on a thick pad with one of the dozens of colored pencils on his desk. He listens thoughtfully as he doodles, asking questions that appear to have no relevance to anything. He will suddenly look up and ask whoever among us is describing symptoms, “Do your feet get hot at night?” Or “Do your eyes itch when the sun comes out?” Or “Do you like spicy food?” As we continue he will look up and ask, “Do you like to drink hot drinks?” Michael is convinced that Pierre hears voices, which is why his questions are non sequiturs. I’ve learned to answer them without questioning, because Pierre is a crack analyst and nine times out of ten whatever treatment he prescribes, and he always prescribes
something
in true French fashion, cures the ill.

Pierre’s office is right near the Jardin du Luxembourg, which we used to jog around regularly when we lived near it in the early eighties. We loved the French joggers we would meet, many of them women swathed in silk scarves and heavy clouds of perfume daintily running along, or gentlemen in simple sport shoes and shiny, color-coordinated sweat suits. Michael and I, dressed in shorts, t-shirts, and clunky jogging shoes, would pass them and giggle, imagining how much time it must have taken them to get ready to go do their morning “footing.”

Within the Jardin du Luxembourg is a very luxurious playground with rubber flooring and colorful toys, and when Joe was much younger we went directly there from Pierre’s office. It costs 30 francs to enter and once inside the jostle of kids, languages, and colors embraced us as Joe climbed, jumped, swung, and wiggled on and over everything. It kept him busy for hours and was an ample reward for the doctor visit.

There were ponies to ride, puppet shows to see, and beehives to visit in the Jardin, as well as tiny sailboats to rent on the central pond. Joe is too old for all of that now, though he is occasionally tempted by the boats, but we can always entice him with a movie or a museum geared to children so that, while he doesn’t look forward to a day in Paris, it is usually a success.

A visit to the dentist is another story. Our dentist couldn’t be nicer. A handsome young man who trained in the United States, he not only speaks good, slang-filled English, but his dentistry techniques are in line with what we expect. He treats Joe like a human being not a laboratory animal, as we found dentists in Louviers tended to do. “Oh, I never give novocaine to children. They don’t feel pain, it never hurts them much,” said one to me as I asked him to ease the obvious pain he was causing my screaming son. Needless to say, we never returned to him. Every effort is made to be gentle, quick, thorough. But it is, any way you look at it, time in the dental chair. And because Joe’s teeth are weak, he’s spent more of his share there than most children.

One warm July day I had to take him in to the dentist. He resisted. I was working on a story about sorbets and to sweeten the visit I asked if he would help me judge their flavors. That perked him up and we drove directly from home to the Île-St-Louis, home of Berthillon, the best ice cream shop in Paris.

I parked the car illegally on the Ile, in very good company since most of the cars around me were also parked illegally. As soon as I turned off the key Joseph and I were out of the car and walking briskly down the sidewalk to a restaurant whose windows boasted Berthillon Glaces et Sorbets. We walked in and the waiter informed us he could only sell us cones through the small window that gave out onto the street, not inside. We dutifully went outside and he came to the window to take our order.

There are always at least forty flavors of Berthillon ice cream and sorbet to choose from, which makes it tough. Joe reflected for a long time before weighing in for black currant, strawberry, and peach. The waiter prepared Joe’s cone and handed it to him. His eyes lit up. “Mama, I’ve never had three flavors at once before,” he said.

I received mine—red currant, apricot, and rhubarb—paid the bill, grabbed a handful of napkins, and we walked back toward the car. The air was warm so our tiny balls of sorbet were melting and we lapped at them studiously. I tried apricot first, and my mouth tingled at its tartness. The rhubarb, a gorgeous pink color, was also tart, and the red currant vivid and fresh. I almost hate to say this, but Berthillon sorbets are sometimes better than the ripe fruit itself.

Joe liked the black currant best, and when we switched cones to sample I had to agree with him. Exquisitely tart and tannic like a black currant, it had just the right amount of sweetness. It was so intense it was hard to appreciate the other flavors (though the strawberry was delicious and the peach delicately perfumed).

The car, mercifully undiscovered by a
oiseau bleu
, or parking policewoman—nicknamed bluebirds for their pale blue uniforms and hats—was parked right by two benches that overlooked the Seine, so we sat there to enjoy our cones, savoring intense hits of fruit flavor with every lick.

We finished, got back in the car, and went on our way to the dentist. I had bought Joe a delicious-smelling chicken sandwich for lunch, and he munched that as I threaded my way through traffic. “It was great eating dessert first, Mama,” he said between bites. “But I just want you to know I’m not going to the dentist.”

I didn’t insist or cajole, I simply said fine. I had an appointment too, so I told him I’d just leave him on the sidewalk while I went up. He was quiet. “What will I do there, Mama?” he asked. “I don’t know, Joe, but if you won’t go there is nothing else I can do.”

I parked and Joe went with me reluctantly, asking me if the dentist would drill and if it would hurt. His experience with the sadistic dentist in Louviers had left a bad memory.

It turned out the dentist had to pull his tooth, which he did painlessly thanks to novocaine. Joe emerged from his office, his face lopsided but smiling, a handful of plastic spiders clutched in his fist as consolation prizes. “It didn’t hurt a bit,” he said proudly. The dentist assured us both that Joe would be just fine, and the only thing he couldn’t do was eat hot or hard food.

We got back into the car and headed out to the
autoroute
, around the place de la Concorde, up the Champs Elysées, around the Arc de Triomphe and on our way. The novocaine began to wear off, and Joe started to moan, then he fell asleep.