The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (27 page)

Many visitors come to Paris and ask me where they can find the best bouillabaisse or an authentic salade Niçoise, and they’re surprised when I tell them they can’t. Many regional specialties don’t travel well out of their region, and because Parisians can’t resist adapting other cuisines to their own tastes (which is why you’ll disconcertingly find warm cheese served alongside
les sushis
), if you want to find an authentic version of a specialty, it’s best to go to that particular region and taste it there.

Few Parisians would even know what
socca
is (which the Niçois should probably be thankful for), but on the Côte d’Azur, it’s a very popular and well-known street food, cooked in huge rounds over a roaring fire. Once cooked, pieces are scraped off the griddle onto a napkin, sprinkled with flecks of coarse salt and freshly ground pepper, then handed over. After my first bite, I was hooked.

I played around with various techniques, trying to duplicate the same effect in my home oven. But it wasn’t until Rosa Jackson, who teaches cooking in Nice, offered a few cooking tips, which included using the broiler, that I perfected
socca
in my Parisian kitchen. The best results were obtained using the well-seasoned 10-inch (23cm) cast-iron skillet that I lugged over from America, cooking one right after the other in the same pan. You can also use a similar-size nonstick cake pan, although you may need to add more oil between cooking each
socca.

It’s important to remember that this is street food, not something hanging in the Louvre.
Socca
isn’t supposed to look precise or perfect: the more rustic, the better. But it does need to be served right from the oven. And just like in Nice, glasses of very cold rosé served over ice are an obligatory accompaniment.

1. Whisk together the chickpea flour, water, salt, cumin, and 1 tablespoon of the olive oil until smooth and lump-free. Let batter rest, covered, for at least 2 hours. (It can be refrigerated overnight, then brought to room temperature before cooking.)
   

2. To cook the
   socca
   , position the oven rack in the top third of the oven and turn on the broiler.
   

3. Pour the remaining olive oil into a cast iron skillet or nonstick cake pan, then place the pan in the oven to preheat.
   

4. Stir the batter, which should be runny (the consistency of buttermilk). If it’s very thick and holds a shape, add a spoonful of water or two, to thin it out.
   

5. Once the oil is shimmering hot, ladle enough batter into the skillet or pan to cover the bottom, tilting the pan to distribute the batter.
   

6. Cook the
   socca
   , with the door ajar, 3 to 4 minutes, depending on the heat of your broiler, until the socca begins to brown and is blistered. Remove from the oven, slide onto a platter, and crumble with your hands into irregular pieces.
   

7. Sprinkle very generously with coarse salt and a few turns of pepper, and eat right away. Cook the remaining
   socca
   batter, in the hot pan, the same way.
   

STORAGE:
Socca
don’t store well and they lose something when reheated. They really should be eaten right after they’ve been cooked.

NOTE:
Chickpea flour can be found in stores that specialize in Indian or Asian foods. It’s often labeled
besam
or
gram.
If using fine Italian chickpea flour, use only 1 cup (250 ml) water. Check Italian shops in your area for
farina di ceci
(or see Resources, page 271).

If you come to Paris and want to try authentic
socca
, visit the stand in the marché des Enfants Rouges, in the third arrondissement. The scruffy, but friendly, Alaen fries each
socca
to order, crumbles it into crispy shards, then hands it over with an avalanche of black pepper. (Tip: Unless you like a lot of salt, just tell him
“un petit peu”
when he reaches for the shaker.)

FINDING MY BALANCE IN A CHOCOLATE SHOP

On my first day manning the counter at one of Paris’s finest chocolate shops, my very first customers were a less-than-elegant American couple. Forgive my cultural bias, but their nationality was easily discernible by his high-above-the-knee shorts, plastic flip-flops, and faded T-shirt, in marked contrast to everyone else in Paris—most people were bundled up in wool coats, scarves, and hats, it being mid-November. Dressed for a vacation at Orlando’s Disney-World, he must have been freezing. It was obvious his wife wasn’t faring well either, since her tight and dramatically low-cut stretchy shirt couldn’t hide pointed evidence that
she was feeling the chill of winter. Or was she just as excited as I to be around all those chocolates?

I greeted them in French. And to put them at ease, I followed up with a salutation in English right afterward.

“Bonjour, monsieur dame.
Good morning.”

“Uh … oh! … urn … good morning,” he replied, surprised, but obviously relieved.

“Oh …
hey …
you’re an American, right? That’s great. Uh … hey listen, buddy … can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I said, assuming it would be a question about the exceptional chocolates spread out in front of him.

“Can I ask you how much you make working here? What’s a guy like you get paid for working in a place like this?”

In one of my rare, speechless moments, I stammered—and told them that I was a
stagiaire
, working there as a volunteer to learn the
métier.

Not embarrassed at all, nor content to leave it at that, he pointed with his chin toward the other salesperson who was working with me in the boutique.

“So, how much does
she
make then?”

Lifting my jaw back up into place, but barely able to muster a response, I said I didn’t know. I explained that Corinne, who runs the shop, is the sister of the owner and chocolatier, and hoped this would put an end to his embarrassing line of questioning.

But after a bit more back-and-forthing, he still couldn’t come to grips as to why I was working at Patrick Roger’s chocolate shop, without pay.

His wife finally chimed in:

“So then … this Roger-guy must be your boyfriend or something, right?”

And people ask me why I moved to France.

After my experience working at the fish market, I realized that my forte was chocolate, and that I’m too old to learn new tricks and should stick with what I know best. So I went to work in the boutique of Patrick Roger, one of the best chocolate shops in Paris, which opens at the sensible hour of 10:30 a.m. and whose merchandise lacks beady eyes or tentacles.

It’s difficult for Americans to grasp the French concept of a
stagiaire.
The idea of working for someone for free is shocking to us. When I tell aspiring chefs to volunteer in a restaurant kitchen to see if they like the work before plunking down the big bucks for culinary school, they look at me like I’m crazy. (One friend in Paris who’s a fantastic cook asked for my advice about starting a catering company. When I suggested he hold on to his high-paying tech job and go work for a catering company on the weekends to see how he liked it, he was horrified: “No way! I don’t want to work on weekends.” He must have been planning on catering only the weddings that take place Monday through Thursday.)

In France, calling yourself a chef carries a lot of responsibility. It’s not just someone who tosses a piece of fish on the grill, drizzles it with olive oil, and tops it with a sprig of thyme. That makes one a cook, not a chef. A chef is someone who has the responsibility for composing menus, managing food costs, overseeing a staff, and most important, has usually risen through the ranks the hard way. Many begin scrubbing pots and pans in the dishroom when they can barely reach the sink, and no job is too menial.

Although Monsieur Roger doesn’t work in the shop (and no, we don’t drink café au lait together either), the raffish-looking chocolatier commutes between his shop and workshop on his motorcycle. Despite his unshaven appearance, he holds the top culinary honor in France and can wear
le tricolore
on the collar of his chef’s jacket signifying he’s an MOF, Meilleur Ouvrier de France. That makes him part of the elite corps of chefs in France who are considered the very, very best at their craft. In order to obtain the privilege, one has to pass an extremely rigorous exam that includes creating intricate chocolate masterpieces, for which he’s famous. His startling shop windows always feature an offbeat sculpture, like a garden
den of plants made of pure chocolate (including the soil) or a life-size replica of a man harvesting cacao. Corinne’s out there several times a day, wiping nose prints off the front windows.

I’ve become friends with many of the people who work in the chocolate boutiques in Paris because of the chocolate tours I’ve led. Hesitant about a newcomer in their midst, the people in the shops quickly took a shine to me and my guests, probably because I was sure to give each participant rules for how to behave, which included not wearing shorts and ragged T-shirts. (I never mentioned bras, but it never seemed to be an issue.) So when I asked her, Corinne let me come to work there as a
stagiaire.

I had gone to chocolate school and worked in a chocolate shop before, but only spent time dipping and enrobing in the back kitchen. I thought it would be fun to dress up for a change, and find out what it was like in the front of the house. Waiting on customers requires a certain amount of patience and skill, quite evident if you’ve ever watched Parisian salesclerks filling boxes of chocolates ever-so-perfectly. Their ability to use delicate silver tongs to deftly tuck each chocolate-coated square, dome, and rectangle so they fit just-so into the box is really a marvel to watch. I wasn’t sure I was up to snuff. I mean, in my own kitchen I drop things all the time (which, of course, I throw away afterwards) just using my hands. How was I going to handle those puny tongs?

The other concern I had was that I don’t do “patience” very well. It’s one of the skills I’ve not yet mastered, and I wasn’t sure I had the restraint required to stand there silently while people pondered which two individual chocolates to buy. I’d scooped ice cream in my younger days and was always surprised how long it could take someone to decide on a flavor. Anyone who kept me waiting a particularly long time got a nice big scoop—that was hollow in the center.

Patience was a skill I admired, but only from afar. I had guests on my
tours stand there, glassy-eyed, unable to make a decision, and I’d do my best to make it as easy as possible by offering my opinions and advice.

Still, there were plenty of unanswerable inquiries, ranging from “Do you think my father would like this?” to discourses like “Hmm. Well, I like almonds … and I like chocolate … but I don’t like them together. I dunno, David … hazelnuts are okay. But I only like them with milk chocolate … they taste funny with dark chocolate. I do like almonds with milk chocolate, though … but only if there’s almond paste in there somewhere … or liqueur. I don’t like liqueur with hazelnuts … unless it’s Cognac … though I don’t like that with almonds. Rum is okay… at least I
think
it is. What do you think, David? I guess liqueur and walnuts are okay… if there’s another nut mixed in. Can you ask them if they use light or dark rum, because I’m allergic to light rum, but not dark.”

I like people. I really do. But I would just stand there, mouth slightly agape, hoping they’d answer their own questions, because I just couldn’t. It drives waiters bonkers when customers ask them what they should order. How the heck do they know what we’d like to eat? Working in a shop all day was going to test my mettle.

The French usually know what they want and order it without second thoughts. More than once some harried Parisian would come rushing in and say, “I want twenty pieces. I don’t care which ones; just fill a bag,
s’il vous plaît,”
before racing back out the door with our signature turquoise bag in hand.

Working in a shop and dealing with Parisian customers was also an unparalleled opportunity for me to finally nail down my comprehension of French numbers. For some peculiar reason the French don’t have a specific word for seventy, eighty, or ninety. I’ve heard it’s because some war was lost in a year ending with the number eighty, and the French were forbidden from uttering those numbers afterward; hence they came up with an alternative way of saying it—
quatre-vingts
, or four times twenty. (Which in turn elongates other numbers; ninety-eight becomes
quatre-vingt-dix-huit
, or four times twenty plus ten plus eight.) Although I haven’t found
any evidence to support that theory, my war with French numbers was definitely real, and one I needed to conquer.

As luck would have it, France adopted the euro in 2002, conveniently around the same time I arrived, and there’s still a bit of sentimental feeling about
le franc
, which seems to be missed by everyone around here but me. Many people still can’t figure out prices in euros and some things they still have to convert to francs. Especially older folks, who, oddly, have less of a problem with a car that costs 163,989.63 francs than one that costs 25,000 euros. The big bonus for me is that all the numbers became much smaller, and simpler than they were before.

No matter how much easier the numbers are now, imagine people firing away at you, rat-a-tat-tat in French numbers, while you do all you can to avoid that
biche
-in-the-headlights look, mentally sorting out how many pieces of which chocolates they want while simultaneously sifting through your brain how you’re going to say what they cost when you’re done.

Fortunately the French are used to being obsequious to salespeople, so I learned to put on my Parisian face when I was asked a question. Hiding my confusion, I’d look them squarely in the eye, grimace, and look slightly taken aback, pause a moment, then imperiously ask,
“Comment?”
(“I beg your pardon?”) so they’d have to ask again, buying me a little bit more time to think about it.

Clerks in Parisian chocolate shops use dainty pairs of tongs to handle the wares. And since the
h
is silent in French, it’s important not to confuse them with
les thongs
, which are flip-flops, or a thong, which is
le string.