The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (20 page)

It’s so challenging to find good fruits and vegetables in supermarkets that many Parisians head straight to Picard, a chain of frozen-food stores. The stores are immaculately clean and brightly lit, each a beacon of hope in the bleak landscape of supermarket produce. Although I’m not the addict that many others are, I’m amazed at what you can find there: shelled fava beans, lobes of foie gras, individually frozen
macarons
, ready-to-bake
soufflés a la framboise
, precut bags of leeks, and big sacks of pitted sour cherries, of which—as someone who’s pitted a heckuva lot of cherries in his lifetime—I am a great fan. They also have small peeled onions that I like to cook in a sweet-and-sour mixture of sugar and vinegar and serve alongside roast meats.

In general, though, I prefer to use regional products as much as possible, and on a trip to rural Brittany, I passed a sign for a
producteur-récoltant
with a colorful drawing of some appealing-looking apples. Slamming on the brakes, I made an unauthorized U-turn, ignoring the ire of drivers in both directions. They were undoubtedly left cursing the Citroën, whose license plate read “
département
75” (the mark of the despised Parisian driver), that was running amok in their idyllic countryside. I followed the dirt road that led to the apple orchard of Paul Loïc, where he and his family press the most wonderful apple juice and make a fruity apple cider vinegar, which smells just like fall apples, too. It adds a lovely fruit note to these sweet-sour onions.

If you have fresh boiling onions, you can peel them by dropping them in boiling water and letting them simmer for five minutes. Drain them, and let them cool. Then slice the ends from each one and slip off the skins. You can also use small shallots. These are terrific served alongside a meaty pâté or added to a braised meat or poultry dish, like the Braised Turkey in Beaujolais Nouveau
(page 160). If you like them spicy, use harissa or Asian chile paste instead of tomato paste.

This recipe was inspired by Judy Witts Francini, who teaches Italian cooking in Florence, but who has French roots.

1. Put all the ingredients in a deep, nonreactive skillet, cover, and cook over moderate heat for 10 minutes.
   

2. Remove the cover and continue to cook the onions. During the first few minutes, you don’t need to stir them, but as the liquid slowly reduces and the onions begin to caramelize, you should start stirring.
   

3. Keep stirring during the final minutes so they don’t burn, cooking until the liquid is thick and syrupy; they’re done when a thin layer of liquid remains on the bottom of the pan. Remove from heat and transfer the onions to a bowl, scraping the flavorful juices clinging to the pan as well.
   

STORAGE:
These onions are even better the next day, and will keep in the refrigerator for up to one week.

FANCYING LE FROMAGE

Aside from the so-so supermarket fare, there are a lot of exceptional things to eat in France. Although I have a well-known weak spot for the chocolates, what’s truly special are the French cheeses, which no other country or culture could ever hope to match. From Abondance to Vacherin, every round, square, or
bouton
of cheese is an expression of
terroir
, climate, and other geographical elements specific to the region where it’s produced.

Each cheese is distinct and appealing in its own particular way, whether aged and earthy or ripe and runny. Although I have my favorites, I haven’t tasted a cheese that
didn’t make me swoon. I want them all. How can one decide between a wedge of Coulommiers and a chunk of Comté? The happy tradition of the cheese course, which still concludes meals in France, gives one an opportunity to try several of them.

My friends David and Randal host wonderful dinner parties, with excellent food and well-chosen wines. It’s always clear they’ve spent a lot of time setting a handsome table and preparing yet another fabulous dinner the moment you walk into their Latin Quarter flat. After dinner, they invariably bring out a tray arranged with the most gorgeous French cheeses, hand-selected from the exceptional
fromagerie
Laurent Dubois, each at its peak, and place it in the middle of the table.
Oh la la!

After a recent dinner, as usual, out came a big, wide platter. On it was a sublime, oozing-ripe Camembert de Normandie wafting its sweet barnyard fragrance in my direction. Next to it was a squat, ash-rubbed cushion of chèvre, its snow-white creaminess peeking through the gray smudges blanketing the surface. I couldn’t wait to lop off a slab of the nutty Comté, a top cheese in my book, made from cows who’ve spent their days leisurely grazing their way across mountains in the Jura. And to complete the picture of perfection, there was a wedge of cave-ripened Roquefort, mottled throughout with its much-revered fuzzy green mold. All were simply arranged on a cheese board, as they should be. No fruit or leaves or anything superfluous: just cheeses presented in their exquisite perfection.

I actually gasped when the platter was put before us. Everyone around the table fell silent to inhale the aromas, savoring the moment of being in the presence of perhaps the ripest, most perfect specimens of cheese available anywhere in the world. Then the calm was broken. With self-assurance, a guest visiting from New York grabbed the lead—and the cheese knife. “Here, I’ll make this easier,” he announced.

Making good on his promise, with a few deft strokes of the knife, he pounced on the cheeses and started hacking away, cutting them all into little cubes as if they were going to be served with frilled toothpicks at a gallery opening alongside jugs of Mountain Chablis. In a matter of moments, he’d managed to decimate what had taken several generations of
cheesemakers to perfect. We all sat in stunned silence, horrified by the desecration; our cheese course was ruined.

The French have certainly taken their share of knocks over the years, but no one would dare complain about their ability to make cheese. I can’t pass a cheese shop without taking a deep whiff of the pungent air just outside the door, or craning my neck in the doorway to see what specialties on the straw-lined counters await the lucky shoppers that day. Even if I have an overload of cheeses stockpiled at home, I usually can’t resist ducking inside, and I inevitably leave with a compact little chèvre or Rocamadour, a slab of nutty Beaufort, or milky-sweet Cantal cut from a colossal wheel.

There are several fancy, very famous
fromageries
in Paris, but it’s hard to go wrong in any of them: any cheese shop you set foot in will carry a carefully chosen selection of specialty and regional cheeses that will blow your mind—not to mention your wallet and your arteries.

I knew I had found the right dentist when, after my first appointment, he sat me down in his office and we had an in-depth discussion, not about brushing and flossing techniques, but about French cheeses. As he talked, he jotted down a list of cheeses from the Auvergne, the region in the center of France where he was born. And at the top of that list, which he underlined twice, was a creamy Bleu de Laqueuille that he insisted I just
had
to try. I can’t imagine a better reason for choosing a dentist than one who’s also well versed in regional cheeses. (It doesn’t hurt that he’s movie-star handsome, either.)

Not only is it worth tasting as many cheeses as possible when in France, but it’s also crucial to learn the right way to cut them. The technique is pretty easy to figure out, and most of it is logic: you wouldn’t eat a bagel from the inside out, or slice a round birthday cake in long slabs like a ham, would you?

Here’s how to work your way around the cheese tray.

If you’re presented with a solid round cheese, like a Camembert de
Normandie or a petit Reblochon, think of it as a round birthday cake (
sans
the sugary blue roses), and cut it similarly into triangular wedges, not lengthwise slices starting from one edge. If the cheese is particularly small, like Rocamadour, crottin de chèvre, or any that would fit in the palm of your hand, it’s permissible to cut those small rounds lengthwise, since wedges would be Lilliputian.

For cheeses you buy in wedges that are cut from a larger round, like earthy Saint-Nectaire, hearty Tomme de Savoie, or pungent Brie de Meaux, whatever you do—even if you’re getting first stab at it on a cheese platter—never lop off the pointy
nez
, the “nose,” of the cheese. This is considered terribly rude and arrogant. Take a lengthwise slice off the side and include a bit of the rind from the outer edge. Once again, pretend it’s a birthday cake and everyone after you should have a bit of each part. No hoarding the roses.

Large rectangular hunks of mountain cheeses, like Salers, Comté, or Cantal, can be cut in whatever way makes sense. But in general, if you’re faced with a big fat slab lying on its side, simply cut across, top to bottom, creating a rectangular
bâton
of cheese with a bit of the rind on both ends. Do not cut a small square out of the middle (which if I hadn’t seen another of my compatriots do, I never would have thought possible). As for the rind, it’s time to answer that perennial question: Should you or shouldn’t you eat it?

Jean D’Alos, an
affineur
who ripens cheese in his cool, dry
caves
buried deep below the city of Bordeaux, runs one of the finest cheese shops in France. “It’s easy,” he says. “There is no rule. Don’t eat the rind if it’s going to negatively affect the flavor of the cheese.”

If the rind looks dried-out, gnarly, fuzzy, or has a musty grayish-green mold—or is teeming with mites—you’re probably better off leaving it on the plate. Especially if it’s moving. Hard cheeses, like Vieille Mimolette, have firm, inedible-looking, waxy rinds that are a tough chew, and you probably want to avoid them. Ash-covered or orange-hued rinds are usually okay to eat, but if the surface resembles the forest floor, like Brin d’Amour, you should rake off the leaves and twigs.

How much to take? However much you can heap on your plate! Okay, seriously, I always find it tempting to take too much when the cheese platter lands next to me. But normal decorum dictates that during round one, you can select up to three different varieties of cheese. I’ve been known to play the “Oops. Didn’t know. Silly me!” card and take a few extras if I’m not sure I’ll get another go.

If offered, or if the platter’s left on the table, taking seconds is fine. Thirds are generally frowned upon. But please, whatever you do, don’t even think of asking for a doggie bag. Or frilled toothpicks.

SOUFFLE AU FROMAGE BLANC
FROMAGE BLANC SOUFFLE
MAKES 8 SERVINGS

I bake this stress-proof soufflé in a shallow baking dish on the upper rack of my oven, so what emerges is a vision of dark, caramelized crust, which in my opinion is the best part of any soufflé. Like the French, I like my soufflés very, very creamy in the center, erring on the side of underbaked.

If you’re timid about making a soufflé, don’t worry: this is spectacular served piping hot from the oven, but is equally good when it has settled. Served at room temperature, it becomes a cheesecake-like “cake.” When I brought a wedge of it to Leticia, the cute-as-a-button young lady who fries up crêpes at the Richard Lenoir outdoor market, she told me it was the best thing she had ever eaten in her life. Ever! And she’s had a lot of experience with desserts, let me tell you …

I made this with full-fat (20 percent) and lower-fat (8 percent) fromage blanc, and both were delicious, although for the smoothest result, I recommend the full-on version, if you can find it. If there’s no fromage blanc where you live, you can use the variation with cottage cheese and yogurt at the end of the recipe.

1. Liberally butter a shallow 2-quart (2-L) baking dish, with sides that are at least 2 ½ inches (8 cm) high. Sprinkle a few spoonfuls of sugar inside, tilt the dish to coat the bottom and sides, then tip out any excess.
   

2. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
   

3. Using a rubber spatula or an electric mixer with the paddle attachment, mash the very soft butter with the lemon zest and cornstarch until completely smooth. Beat in the egg yolks until smooth, then whisk in the fromage blanc.
   

4. With an electric mixer or by hand, whisk the egg whites with the salt in a clean, dry bowl (not plastic) until frothy. Increase the speed and beat until the whites begin to mound and hold their shape. While whipping, gradually add 10 tablespoons (140g) of the sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time. Once you’ve added all the sugar, beat until stiff.
   

5. Fold one-third of the beaten egg whites into the fromage blanc mixture, then fold in the remaining egg whites just until incorporated. It’s okay to have some tiny bits of white; that’s preferable to overfolding the batter.
   

6. Scrape the batter into the prepared baking dish, gently smooth the top, and sprinkle with the remaining 1½ tablespoons (25 g) of sugar.
   

7. Bake on a middle rack (or slightly higher, if possible) for 30 minutes, until the top is browned and the soufflé is just set but still very jiggly in the center if you nudge it. Depending on your oven, this may take slightly less or more time. Rather than going by strict baking times, touch the center to tell when it’s done. If you like your soufflé creamy in the middle, the
   center should feel rather soft, like runny pudding. If you like it more firm, you can bake it until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out pretty clean.
   

SERVING:
Serve immediately, scooping portions onto serving plates or bowls, making sure to include some of the crunchy topping with each portion.