Gelati Festival

(Gelati spoons as art. The ad I stumbled across a few days before it the festival began.)(CINQUE gelatis at once. That's a solid effort.)

I forgot to mention (I've no idea how!) that I was in Firenze for the gelati festival. Of course, given the obsession some of my friends have for ice-cream I bought my 5 tastes ticket. (It is not, happily, a personal foible. Chocolate I'm there everytime. Gelati, hmm, take it or leave it. So this is for you guys- you know who you are!)

Your ticket entitles you to go around ALL the boths across Florence (there are 5 main piazzas all set up for it. So picture 5 Fed Squares in Melbourne with a few marquees, each with about 5 different stalls, each stall with at least 8 different flavours.) Then you hand over one of your vouchers each time. The 'tastes' were generous- Ma and I shared them all.

(Choices four and five, naughty secret aniseed and yummy biscotinni.)

We tried dark chocolate, raspberry sorbet on a stick, biscottini, rosewater pistachio (a rogue choice, obscurely labelled as that brand's 'speciality'. So of course we tried it but Ma was AGHAST to taste the rose.) and then it was MY turn to be disgusted by the aniseed flavour hiding among the chocolate chips in our final choice.

(Sorbet on a stick. They looked gorgeous as a collection, such bright colours.)

Amazing Italian food moments

Millefoglie ciccolato. Even the words look delicious.

My mother is an avid reader of foodie magazines, eg. Gourmet Traveller, Vogue Entertainment, Cuisine, Delicious....

For years (decades is probably more accurate) she has been tearing, ripping and cutting out places to eat, recipes to try and styling to emmulate. The styling and the cooking she can do at her leisure in Melbourne, and has done for as long as anyone remembers. Getting the chance to actually test out some of the amazing foreign locations, however, is a relative novelty.

Finally, she is in Italy, the land of her foodie dreams, and for Florence she has come armed with a 2 page spread from two Sydney gentlemen who run a restaurant together, and frequently return to Florence. The article is EXCLUSIVELY about food and is very specific in what to eat at each place.

There are probably about a dozen places mentioned, and we have so far tried at least 8 of them. Their hit rate is eight for eight. Do you know how rare this is?? I want to travel the WORLD with these dudes, they,ve got some serious flair. The bombolini, chocolate millfoglie, panino bollitos with salsa verde, hole-in-the-wall paninoteca, pasta-free trattorias, gelati and chocolates have all been out-of-this-world delicious. And we are a VERY discerning pair of eaters.

Eggplant Parmagiana. Rich but not too rich, cheesey, hot and fresh. So tasty all propriety went out the window and I ate it fast a golden retreiver. VOMPFF! Gone. I was lucky it was a civilised portion size, cos I would have cleared the plate no matter how big it was.

At the Market Centrale, the Florence food markets rather like Queen Vic or Camberwell Markets. Fresh produced and preserved meats strung high, it looked like Christmas in there. Nerponte (? dont have my notes on my to check atm, sorry) was recommended for their bollito rolls. Ma and I were prepared to order a bollito roll based exactly as we were told, even asking for the recommended swipe of salsa verde not know what "bollito" meant. Boiled, it turns out, is what it means. Boiled beef and they pour the cooking juices into your roll, stack in some boiled beef and if you know what you're doing you ask for some salsa (it's like pesto, but better. This we already knew.) While hanging out at the counter Ma saw a large, steaming tray come out filled with a stew-like meal that smelt and looked amazing. On a whim, she added that to the order with the karafe of vino casa and we looked like locals. Although a little early (11am, haha. How to beat the lunch crowds: eat before lunch!) Anyway, turns out that meal in the bowl, that looks a little like pasta is in fact tripe. Sheep's stomach lining. Which, when uncooked looks like a bizarre kind of fleece.

I was OK with the fact I LOVED boiled beef roll. I was DISTURBED by what a celestial experience the tripe was. From Aus I had promised Mum I'd sample tripe because it was the regional speciality, but it was a WORLD away from what I expected. Do it.

Mixed Crostini. These are actually in Venice. The half-eaten one was the best, just incredible. radicchio, some kind of mayonaise, herbs, white anchovies (I normally detest anchovies). Num num num num. There are very few Italians in Venice, so it can be hard to judge where might be good to eat, but I noticed when paying that some of the gondola crewmen were hanging out there. Good sign. Their macchiato was also the best I've had to date in Italy (good cappucinos are much easier to find.)

This is the home of the chocolate millfoglie, custard bombolini, mini fruit tart, torta della nonna, delicious cappucino/macchiato.....

Given that I've only had 4 days in Florence, the fact that I've returned 4 times should tell you all you need to know.

Nicola's Starling memory

I feel it’s a strange string of coincidence, or a bizarre strain of irony, that the novel I’m reading is set among the famous monuments in Florence, and features characters eating strange things they’ve never tried before. On the face of it, this may not be so, but if I explain….

I picked up a novel at Melbourne airport, wanting to have some disposable English reading with me. I wasn’t sure if I’d read the book before, (I read voraciously, but forget frequently, making this a chronic problem of mine) so I opened it at random to sample a few pages. Nope, that sounds unfamiliar.

I settle in for some reading, and most UNFORTUNATELY, the bells of my memory start chiming. Hmmm…it is after all a sequel, perhaps that explains the familiarity? A few more pages and nope, I have DEFINITELY read it already. But, in that happy chain of coincidences, my sieve-like memory has retained only the starch of the story. The details once again appall and shock me.

And I ‘discover’ what I’d forgotten: the book is in part a caper about Florence and the protagonist eats the finer things in life such as sweetbreads, truffles, and has a particular penchant for liver.



But I really do need to work on my memory- I mean, who forgets that they’ve read Hannibal? And forgets enough of the plotline to enjoy reading it again???

*And for the record, tripe is delicious
** Clarice Starling is the lead female character

Boo-yah!

Sometimes, I leave my brain behind (see previous post.) And at other times I feel so on point I could do a happy dance.

The book....
Wandering around the bookstore of the Museum of Modern Art, very little took my fancy or looked like a book I hadn’t seen at the airport. Until a little, square, brown cardboard cover caught my eye. Bound with black linen tape, and with a simple charcoal-esque drawing of a spoon standing up on its mermaid tail. ‘Venetian Cuisine’. The introduction goes through market shopping tips on choosing your fresh seafood, a Venetian specialty. The recipes are clear, straightforward, accompanied by wine recommendations and more charcoal sketches. The book feels lovely underhand, light enough to hold with just one and quite a stand out in the glossy, luridly colourful world of the modern cookbook. But it gets better. After purchasing the book, we discover they’re the coveted recipes of Al’Trieste, a Michelin Guided restaurant on the island of San Marco. Determined to dine there, we ask our penzione hostess, Maria, to call them for us. She in turn recognizes the publishing house; the owner lives in the same building, just floors above us. The response from Al Trieste (about our Saturday night impromtu plans) is that they are fully booked, but if we call back at 7pm, they may have something available for us.

The eyes...
Not wanting to take any chances, baffled by the possibility of explaining what we wanted in Italian, and fully aware from my restaurant-hostessing days of the power of showing up early with pitiful faces, we rocked up in person. Shining puppy-dog eyes in place, we pinch ourselves at having found the restaurant. Mum whispers to me as we’re standing in the doorway, “Tell them we have the cookbook, tell them we came here especially because we bought it today. Tell them it’s just two of us.” I turned to Mum, who’d obviously gotten used to me speaking French with our Italian hostess, and reminded her that I don’t ACTUALLY speak Italian, thus she was just as capable of saying that as I was!

Regardless, puppy-eyes won out and the waiter, in his IMPECCABLE English (and infinite wisdom) found us a table in the tiny space (just 20 people can be seated at any one time.) His product knowledge was incredibly, and he laughed when we said we only wanted to eat items from the cookbook: “Ahhh. You already know all of our secrets!!” To his immense credit, he eyeballed the menu (printed out fresh every day, based around the catches of the day) and took us through everything that was in the book.

The restaurant...
We watched people show up and get turned away, even some who had bookings, but had failed to confirm them. One American lady on her own tried valiantly to bully her way in, based of course on American customer-service principles. More fool her, she was swatted away and was NOT invited to come back in a few hours. The couple seated next to us had booked months in advance, and duly confirmed IN PERSON two days earlier.

The food...
My entrée was Pilgrims Scallops with peppermint and lemon (gorgeous tiny scallops, 15 of them!) Mum had mussels and razor calms with a fresh ginger broth. Her wine was white and fruity, mine was a refreshing rose. Main course was pumpkin puree ravioli with scampi sauce and baby shrimps. Mum’s was a simple grilled sole. The vegetables of the day, to my surprise and minor dismay, were served in quite a French style. Not a fresh, crisp, glossy salad of riddicio, artichoke heart, eggplant….nope. All buttery and well-cooked. Well, you win you win you win and then you lose some.

The dessert...
As for dessert, the only match up between availability and the book was Tiramisu (“pick me up”, as in “cheer me up”). Ah life’s hard when you HAVE to eat Tiramisu. I’ve come to it a little bit late in life, but the lusciousness of marsala soaked sponge, marscapone, chocolate sauce and dustings of cocoa is addictive. And this one was, officially, the best I’ve ever eaten. SOMEHOW the chocolate sauce was still liquid. And it came served with what they call sauce spoons, ie. Spatula-like spoons with angular edges so you can get them nice and close to the plate, scooping up every last sauce drizzle, sponge morsel and cocoa speck.

Perhaps the best I can hope for in the balance of life is that I have one of these on point moments for every few ‘betise’ I make. I think Ma may have even forgiven me for forgetting the guide book….

La Nourriture

Given my love of all things edible, I feel it's time to share some of my favourite foodie pics. I have a mountain to choose from, thanks to my predeliction for snapping everything I'm about to eat, and many more generally drool-worthy morsels.

And, instead of wishing you were here with me in person to share the deliciousness, be glad, be very glad that you are far, FAR away from the buttery, calorific minefield that is Paris. Sometimes vicarious is better....

Bon appetit!


I enjoy the general prettiness of the experience. The high-quality, silky-soft china, the quaintness of pouring tea. This is made on WILD strawberries. Outrageous.


Everything in this store is tiny. Tiny tarts, tiny cupcakes, tiny tables, tiny stools, tiny karafs of water. Such a glorious selection of tinies, it's tough to know where to start. Luckily at this particularly tiny pit stop I had two of my Aussie ladies with me, so we could trade mouthfuls.


Meet Kevin. He joined my sister and I for our romp together around Paris in February. Here we are at a serendipitous find. We were actually tracking a resto found in a magazine, but it didn't look any better than anything in Melbourne. But wouldn't you know it, this lovely modern-but-traditional boulangerie was on the corner. The drinks came with dense, fruity friands (little cakes often made on nut-flour instead of wheat flour) and the berries are always so fresh!


At some point home cooking really should be done. This is a jar of organic supermarket cassoulet, with sausage, beans and stewed meat. Sure it might not sound great to you as you chow down a fresh sushi roll, but over here cassoulet with lightly steamed asparagous is a light, healthy dinner.


I'm so tickled by the packaging in Europe, whether it's the paper bread bags, the sardine tins, the vegie papers (eg. asparagus feature above) or the fruit wrappers. This dude's gone to the trouble of tesselating his oranges. Awww. I bought some of the glossy blood oranges for their papers, but was warned to wash them well. Why? Because they papers (with too-cute drawings of a lady on them) are infused with insecticide. Who knew??

Restaurant Chartier and Chez Jeanette

I had read about Restaurant Chartier on my favourite site of all things Parisienne, "Do it in Paris." It featured in their cheap weekend guide. And it was PERFECT.

I ate leeks dripping in a white viniagrette, followed by steak tartare and fresh "steak frites", followed by a baba au rhum and creme chantilly for dessert. N began with a country terrine, same for main and an ile flottant for dessert. We shared a karaf of the house red.

The building was gorgeous, somewhat like an old railway station (I think it may well be just that) with incredibly high ceilings, ornate mirrors, so many tables and brass luggage racks above the tables to place your coats and bags on (when everyone wears a "doudoune", a doona jacket, coat storage becomes a serious business...). The order is written on your table cloth and the waiters are all in black with full length white aprons. The food is cheap and arrives promptly. (Ordering a raw meal helps, I'm sure. Although the ladies next to us received their cooked meals just as fast.)

And as I ate my steak tartare, lavishly soaked in worsterchire (please, spelling someone?) and drank my second (third?) glass of wine, in the oh-so-french surrounds I felt completely a laise. I was exactly where I needed to be at that very moment. My dessert, meanwhile, was quite an introduction to the French favourite, Baba au Rhum.

It's basically a large brioche, soaked in brown rum and served with a generous swirl of whipped cream. I had confirmed with the waiter that I did indeed like rum, and boy did he take that to heart. Every mouthful postively squelshed with rhum. And I loved it. Loved. It.

This was followed by a noisette (macchiato) on the way to our next stop, C's house for farewell champagne. Then, we accompagnied C and her South American friends to Chez Jeanette for second dinner. N and I shared a house specialty, the duck pie. And boy, was that worth eating a second dinner for. Rich but not overwhelming, crispy but not dry, the salad fresh but not undressed. This time the bistro was noisy and crowded- hence why the five of us squeezed into a booth-side table meant for two. But, being French, the staff were most understanding and fully supported our intimate dinner arrangement. (Melbourne waiters would not be so kind about stacking customers one on top of the other.) The walls were tiled and the walls mirrored. And yet again, as the choruses of 50's and 60's rock and roll music caught my ears, and the duck pie disappeared one forkful at a time, and my wine glass emptied and re-filled itself I thought: I am happy. At this very moment, I am completely happy. I wouldn't be anywhere else, with anyone else.

And I'm glad, that in someway, I was able to recognise and share the moment. Because too often those moments happen without me realising. But not tonight.

Mmmm, squelchy rhum brioche.....

Warm and fuzzies

Do you ever have those times where you can actively recognise, that at THAT particular moment you are completely happy? I had one of those this evening. And it's no coincidence it happened in a restaurant. Two, actually. In fact, the whole day was relatively peaceful and easy going, but it was only over dinner that I could actually name the sensation running through me: contentment.

My day involved a 15 month old who didn't want to take his morning nap, but after dressing him, feeding him warm milk and biscuits, a little play and giving his room a heating turbo-charge he was good to sleep. While giving Little J second breakfast I too had breakfast- two cups of tea and some speculos (really yummy gingerbread-style flavoured biscuits that the Frence are big fans of.) Then, with him down for a nap, I browsed my newspaper and then hunted for a suitable banana bread/cake recipe. Any mention in the review of it being "dry" and I was outta there. This family take their TIME eating cakes, so those helpful "great when microwaved and spread with butter" comments were no good to me. I needed "moist", "sensational" "disappeared the moment it hit the table." My recipe of choice ended up including brown sugar, and I substituted the buttermilk for creme fraiche. Perfect. (I may also have subsituted an apple for the third banana....)

And then, right on school pick up time, I got told Madame and Monsieur would be meeting up with us at the school and we would all be going home together and after that I was free to go home. I couldn't believe my luck- I was shooed out of my pen at 5.30pm!

I called N and suggested we disappear off to dinner at an actual restaurant. So we did....

London...breakfast

La Petite Nicola at Holland Park (Saturday AM, day two of four)


Saturday dawned crisp, clear and blue. Friday night had rained like I’d only seen once before, in Vietnam. I now understand the upside to such a downpour; the streets were washed clean, the sky emptied of clouds and the parks painted an extra lush shade of green.


After our house party on Friday night, H and I tugged ourselves gently to Saturday breakfast. We cut through Holland Park, deserted so early in the morning. The oval, covered in dew, sparkled like an emerald in the sunshine. The trees were turning their leaves from green to gold. Even the park gate made me smile, with its long hinges and wooden cross bar.

Phillies was full of English/Italian charm. Black chandeliers and substantial timber communal tables, paired with a real latte and a real breakfast menu made it very worth our while to be up at that hour. (Well, for her it’s only across the park. For me, it’s across the channel.) I was tossing up between some English favourites, perhaps the porridge or the eggs+bacon+baked beans combination. I asked the waitress for advice, and her response was “It’s Saturday.” I ordered the eggs.


The French attitude often seems to be that they possess all the culinary prowess they need; I would humbly suggest they can’t make a proper breakfast to save themselves. Given that the French don’t eat breakfast, however, it’s no surprise they don’t ‘do’ breakfast. The English, meanwhile, deserve credit where credit is due. They love breakfast, they eat breakfast, they ‘do’ breakfast!

La Patisserie des Reves

La Patisserie des Reves is the most recent patisserie that I hunted down. The little pink swirly toothpick is their logo. It is actually a cartoon representation of a religiouse, a particularly renown French speciality made from three balls of choux pastry, with lots of cream and icing also involved. Most patisseries do a fairly basic version, but this comes from La Patisserie des Reves, where only one of each pastry is on display (and I do mean, "on display". As if they are exhibits in an art gallery that displays the sculptures under glass domes.) You tell the madames your choices, and she tells the bakery out the back who arranges them delicately on a foam sheet, inside a watermelon-pink box. These toothpicks are used to help keep each pastry in place. When there the assitant who was folding our box shut noticed that the cream from a religiouse (which, ironically enough, had been deconstructed in the artistic sense of the word and reimagined as a rectangle...) was at risk of being touched by the lid as it tucked in down the side. So instead of just shimming the pastry over a few millimetres, the box was sent back to the baker for rearrangement. I shared a religiouse, a Paris-Brest, and an enormous madeleine with my lunch partner. The religious was marvellous, with the top balls of choux pastry filled with a coffee-cream and topped with crunchy, shiney toffee. Like creme-brulee balls. But the Paris-Brest was definitely my hero. I'll write about her in another post, and I promise to include pictures....

Eat Cake More Often

Here is a random assortment of things in my life that I would like to share with you:

Gloves.

Bought by my mother in Berlin, brought to Australia in her suitcase, given to me upon the eve of my departure, travelled back to Europe in my suitcase, and much admired around Paris.

Felt flower.


Bought at La Droguerie on Rue de Jour. La droguerie is actually a fairly generic term, used to describe anything from a fabric store, to a corner store. In this case, however, it is one of the most amazing spaces I've been in. All woodpanelled and just COVERED in spindles and spindles of ribbons, racks of buttons, drawers of charms, jars of flowers, shelves of material, skeins of wool....This particular flower is an auberginey purple, to be pinned upon my grey winter coat de temps a temps.

Mini-satchel.


I spent my latest Sunday afternoon wandering Montmartre and came across, of all things, a Mexican store. I'm not surprised it drew my eye, I can be somewhat of a butterfly at times and it was COLOURFUL. I have been searching for a toiletry bag, but often the options are naf, not made in a my-shampoo-leaked proof fabric, and have holes at the zip ends. This baby is none of those things, and I'm happy to have her on display and use her all the time (the dust in my apartment is astounding, so bagging things instead of leaving them shelf-side should help protect them.)

Paperbag.


While in Montmartre I also tripped past a favourite bakery and grabbed my first piece of Parisien quiche. I normally eat only the pastryless quiche that I cooked with E, so I had forgotten what a deliciously naughty indulgence it is to have a perfect pastry crust surrounding the rich cream, egg, cheese, bacon filling. This is the bag it came in (I ate it outside in the sunshine to save money) and it says "Eat cake more often." Here, here.

Zebra


Love the colours, the composition, everything about it. It's stuck up in a possie that I see all the time.

Two and a half ways

I have so far discovered two and half ways to get free coffee in Paris.
(If it's from a friend it's not really free, because you take turn about and next time you're out having coffee and a tete-a-tete together, it will be your turn to pay for BOTH coffees.)

Halfly: the shop assistant forgets to charge you for it. But because you should (and my kind friend did) inform them of their error, you end up paying for it anyway. And even if you do not, you probably get a naughty karma mark chalked up to your name somewhere. That's why this is only half a way to get free coffee.

Firstly: A complimentary Nespresso from one (or both) of the big department stores.

Nespresso are currently pushing their machines in a big way, and given that all coffee in Paris comes out of a machine not unlike an Nespresso machine, why not? (i.e At the push of a button. Coffee grinders are not part of the Paris soundtrack.) It really doesn't taste much...strike that....any different. And it comes with a chocolate square. What more could a girl want as she browses deluxe French homewares?


Secondly: Have one bought for you by a stranger.

I had just finished browsing an open-air photography exhibition on the left bank that was hosted by the Quai Branly Museum and was hanging out for an coffee and some people watching. Given my tourist-heavy location, however, I decided to check the prices on the outdoor menu. While scanning it for 'espresso' two guys sitting nearby admired my outfit. (Vocally. With full sentences. They didn't just leer.) One of them had a stroller with a sleeping child, and the other looked like a Ralph Lauren cut-out, so I figured how bad could they be? We continued chatting, they invited me to join them. Which, given my time-killing status, seemed like a logical enough thing to do.

Monsieur Dad had an accent that made me doubt my French speaking abilities, I had so much difficultly understanding his questions. (At the time, I felt silly having to always ask him to repeat himself. In retrospect, however, it's highly possible he also came away feeling silly, seeing as the blonde Australian girl seemed to only be capable of speaking to his friend.) Le other one, however, was cute, with square white teeth, sandy blonde hair AND easy to understand. When the waiter came over with the bill, I had a laugh that it was Monsieur Dad who footed the afternoon's entertainment for his friend. And with that, my phone buzzed, I bid my adieus to Monsieur Ralph Lauren and Monsieur Dad and dashed off into my waiting chariot, Le Metro.

Cooking lesson 1: Cucumber skin is NOT FOR EATING!

We return home, victorious, with everything. Little J was running minorly behind schedule for his nap, and between being overtired and his bubbly, snotty, blocked nose, decided that sleep wasn't on the cards. So, the entire time E and I were in the kitchen, he railed and cried from his crib. There were some pauses, but none longer than a few mins.

Back in the kitchen....most of the ingredients for the quiche just required grating- the carrots, zuccini, cheese. I thought E would be capable of this, which she was, but under pretty keen supervision.

And then I chopped up the onion with their fabulous pink chef's knife. (I'm not joking, it's a gorgeous pale pink Japanese number, gloriously sharp.)

"You're not allowed to use that knife."

"Yes I can, I'm a big girl."

"No, Dad said that no one except him is allowed to touch it. Not me and not even you. He told me the other day."

"Ah, but he doesn't know what a good cook I am. I'm used to using dangerous knives."

E pouts in the corner for a moment, and then decides to get up close because she wants the onion to make her cry. It does, and then she pouts some more because her eyes are stinging.

With the quiche finished, next comes the salad. (Little J is still railing away next door). I pulled out the red capsicum and E said she adores them. That's great, so do I. After doing to pre-chopping, I got her to chop it into little pieces. She tried one, and then declared she hates it. I put some aoili in a bowl (she loves it on her chips) so she could try it with that. "But that's for CHIPS" she said, wide-eyed that I would even consider putting it with anything else. "I know, I know, just try."

Blurgh, no success. "What about with mayonnaise?" (a similar reaction on all fronts: MAYONNAISE?! and more blurgh faces.)

She was so good at trying the capsicum that I decided next she should try the cucumber with the skin on it. She adores cucumber, it didn't seem like such a leap.

I may as well have suggested she eat her shoe. "WITH THE SKIN?????!!!!!"

"Yes, just try it."

She pulled the skin off and went to eat it separately.

"No no, together. They'll taste better together."

WELL, the biggest pout for the day came out to play, she clamped her mouth shut and wouldn't say another word.

"But you're a big girl, you can try it."

Extremely emphatic head shake. Whimpering.

"Why not? I don't understand, you're not saying anything. Only babies don't speak, and you're not a baby."

And with that she whimpered and ran from the room. I conceded, and peeled the cucumber and finished the salad, thinking I was giving E time to cool off. Nope. She came in on her little white mobile phone, and passed it to me so I could speak with her mother.

In English:

"Um, so what is the story about the cucumber?

I shared

"Ah, well, in France we never eat the skin, so she has never seen someone eat the skin. But that's it?"

"Yes"

"Oh, so it is not at all serious then?

"No, it's really not.

"haha, ok then, well, I'll be home for lunch like we planned. Bye"

I think E was disappointed that I didn't look at all scared or told-off when speaking with Mrs.

The pouting continued into lunch, with E barely touching her quiche or salad. Mr and Mrs cracked a joke about Australia being full of rabbits (which I mis-heard as full of bread. I seriously explained that no, normally we wouldn't eat bread with the quiche, until I realised Mr had said 'lapin', not 'le pain'. He's not a vegie fan, so my voracious appetite for fruit and vegetables has thrown him for a loop.)

But, the next day, Mrs thanked me again very much for lunch and said how much she had enjoyed it. She loves vegetables (I had noticed her second helping of salad, and her keeness over the red capsicum.) She loves eating vegetables, and loved eating something that was fresh, not fried, not too much butter. A nice change.

After all of that, who would have thought that the person most enamoured with my cooking adventures would be her??

Bringing home the bacon

This week I finally decided to put my cooking skills on display, and at the same time create an activity for E on her schooless wednesday (Worst invention ever. well, ok, maybe not. It does mean I get a day that I'm not tied to the school pick up schedule. there are also lots of activities around paris for children on Wednesdays. I would like to have a trip to the doll museum planned for one wednesday soon, with a special storytelling activity. Such a shame the Barbie exhibit has just closed....)

I had tried to do all the necessary grocery shopping on the Tuesday, to avoid the joyous experience of taking E, her trotinette, and Little J in his stroller for the hour long round trip it takes to get to 'the' green grocer, followed by a supermarket stop off. But alas, I forgot the green salad ingredients, the onion, the bacon and the cheese. All of these things were annoyingly crucial to la recette. (Luckily my quiche recette is pastryless and very forgiving.)

Finding bacon proved to be my biggest challenge, having neglected to learn the french word before hand. I cruised around one butcher, trying to see it in the rows of pink flesh, but i just couldnt see it, or anything that looked like any form of bacon i had ever seen. streaky bacon, rindless bacon, long rashers, short rashers....none. So i marched my troupe off to the nice looking meat and meal providors to have a discussion with the commercants (shop keepers). In French, my description of bacon went something like this:

"I have a little problem, perhaps you can help me. im looking for a pork product, but not ham. In english the word is bacon (with my australian accent on bacon). Unfortunately i dont know the french word for it."

"So you're looking for ham?"

"Ah, no, I dont think im looking for ham, unless you call bacon ham, in which case yes im looking for ham." This comment puzzles him immensly, and that's not really surprising. I only said it because I'm aware the European definition of Jambon is broader than the Australian version.

"This?" (points to shoulder of pork)

"No..."

"This? (points to pork roll)

"No..."

"Wait, I'll get the other madame to help us.

Quick discussion ensues between them, and he gives her a speedy run down of our non-progress so far

"Bonjour madame. So you are looking for pork meat?"

"Yes...."

"What are you going to do with it?

"Put it in a quiche."

"Ahhhh. Like a quiche Lorraine?"

Me, thinking furiously about whether all quiches are alike enough to say yes...

"Yes."

"Ah, voila, then you are looking for poitrine fumée. (She holds up something that looks like it might vaguely resemble heavily smoked streaky bacon). You dice it up and fry it quickly on the stove before putting it in the quiche."

The mention of cooking it before it goes into the quiche oncerned me a little, because I never cook my bacon first, but i decided that surely an hour in the oven would cook the pointrine fumée.

"Ah yesss, that's exactly what I'm after."

She gives it to the man to slice up for me. I, stupidly, decide that it should be cut into fine slices the way I'm familiar with. So he holds up his knife to the chunk of pointrine fumée to indicate how wide I would like my slices. I'm trying to say and indicate narrower ("plus fine") and he wasn't really getting it. So I had resigned myself to fat slices until the madame took the meat and the knife from the man and said

"No no no, I understand what she wants. She wants it like this (indicates a slice the same thickness as one i had already refused) and then you will dice them up nice and small for her."

"Yes! That would be perfect!" (Poor man)

Anyway, I then entered the shop to pay (this all took place at their little street cart in front of the shop), and was looking around at all the yummy potential. Then, I discovered bacon! In its most familiar form, short rindless rashers. (uncut).

"But you've got bacon over here!"

"Of course we have bakon. You can mix the two if you like. But what you have is much better for a quiche." (What's a girl to say?)

"Ok, then I am happy."

*All translations are approximate, and what I intended to say and what I understood them to have said. Whether I actually achieved this is another matter.

Saturday Markets

Late in my second week I discovered that I was just 'expected' to be available on Saturday morning to help look after Little J while Mr and Mrs completed their errands for a few hours. Afterall, they said without a trace of irony, Saturday morning is the first chance all week we have to go grocery shopping, drop by the bank and do a million tiny things that we didn't have time for during the week. No shit? Had it occurred to them that when they're at work, I'M AT WORK??!! Why don't they do what normal people do and either take turns at the errands or take baby with them??

Anyway, Saturday morning I arrived at 10am for my once/twice monthly 'coup de main' (more like a favour than strictly speaking part of the job). Mr, Little J, his stroller and their grocery cart (think of a nanna-trolley) and I headed off to pick up fresh bread, fish, fruit and vege, cheese and wine. I very quickly took charge of the shopping caddy, leaving Mr to deal with the wonky stroller (unless you're using two hands it constantly veers to the left. I think of it as working out my core strength muscles everytime Little J and I take a stroll.) He offered me the choice and I quite honestly said I'd prefer the caddy just to mix things up a little.

I find food markets an incredibly exciting experience. There's so much POTENTIAL at a market, all those meals that could be....

The poissonerie was definitely a highlight. So much gorgeous, glistening fresh seafood to choose from. And not just the range I see in Melbourne either, random things like what I think is abalone (in spikey cases?) and live crabs and shells with fish in them that I didn't even know you could eat. The smell of a well-kept fish shop is a wonderful thing. I feel healthy just being in there!

The green-grocer was interesting, with one or two things I hadn't seen before, such as funny-shaped tomatoes or things I don't see very often like epinards. I also noted that their little pineapples were selling for 6e a pop. Twelve dollars for a PINEAPPLE!! And 1e per kiwifruit. Good to remember sometimes how lucky I am that some of my favourite fruits are cheap in Aus.
(Below: Their punnets of berries here are too cute- love the little baskets. Below Right: prices are hung from little boards above the fruit. Bottom left: a general feel for the shop. It's quite narrow, often people don't even go in the shop assistants hear what you want and bring it all to you. Bottom right: the strange tomato, I think called a Spanish tomato.)

Mr has known the fishmongers and the grocer for 10 years, and went out of his way to introduce me to them all so that if I came by to pick up some things for the family, I would be looked after (and it would just be placed on his account.) A relationship like that would be impossible for me to cultivate in just 12 months on my own. I would still be considered a stranger otherwise, even if I went every week. As Mr said, it means that they won't give me dodgy produce. Heartening, isn't it?

The cheese shop was fascinating, but not as personally exciting. I don't know my cheese very well, and it's one of those things I really like having a couple of my key cheese-friends around to let me know what's what. I can't handle anything too mouldy, and sheep's cheese is a complete and utter no-no. Blargh!

One of the perks of the Saturday coup de main is that I got to stick around for the yummy homecooked lunch, which was french pan seared prawns (a little too fresh- they were alive when he bought them and he didn't put them in the freezer first to put them to sleep before frying them. Sob) followed by boiled fish (this sounds really strange to me, but it tastes just like steamed fish) and rice with hollondaise sauce, followed by a selection of cheeses with baguette stick (about 6 cheeses to choose from.) The lack of vegetables in French cuisine would likely annoy me more, except that I can go home at the end of each day and eat heaps for dinner.

La Boulangerie

I had spied an artisan baker on my strolls up near their apartment, so I kickstarted my Thursdayday with an espresso and a sweet something. It’s strange, but all the espresso here seems to smell divine. (Perhaps I am just in dire and constant need of coffee...?)

I’ve hit the jackpot with this boulangerie- they have by far the cutest collection of bakers I’ve ever seen. Who knows if they can even bake? Who cares? Brushing their pain to glossy perfection before gently sliding it into the oven, it’s hard not to bat your eyelids. And yet only in Paris is there just as much chance that you’re admiring the loaf and not the baker. No wonder the women of Paris look so good so early in the day.

My espresso and what I thought was the world’s smallest muffin (about the size of my thumb squished into a patty pan) arrives. It turns out to be the world’s smallest piece of flourless cocoa-driven heaven. I get a caffeine high, a sugar hit and the best view in the quartier. All for under 2 euro. Hello new morning routine?

Dinner on the hop

E was upset her parents were going to be late, but her little eyes lit up when I said this meant she could eat dinner a couple of hours earlier than usual. And so, one of my standard no time, no ingredients, no recipe meals popped into my head. Spaghetti bolognaise. Wonderful. We’ll go past the tiny mini mart on the way home and buy what I need.

This idea was somewhat altered by their lack of spaghetti, mince, tomato paste, garlic…you get the picture. Spag bol became tuna penne. This was, of course, assuming they had tuna. Which, if I could just remember the French word for tuna I’m sure I could find…

The Arabic guys running the store were lovely and very helpful. It was the same shop I dropped past after the first Monday night, to purchase some wine (and chocolate biscuits) from. On the Monday night, I had arrived teary and became worse when I came across a tin of cat food with a dead-ringer for my own cat on it. She’s so pretty, with long white fur, deep green eyes and a purr that’ll blow your house down. That Monday, while watching me sniffling and packing my wine, biscuits and tin of cat food into a bag he had slipped an extra chocolate bar in there and I am eternally grateful for his thoughtfulness.

So I have no doubt he remembered me, when on Wednesday I did my crazy dash around the shop, asking him for “fish in a tin in olive oil.” (Thon, I finally remember, is French for tuna.)
Being able to wrap up the evening according to my own schedule suited me much better. Children’s natural clocks are early, so being able to bathe, feed and bed baby by 7pm, and E by 8.30pm was more my style. In the week since I have struggled a little to cope with the elongated evening home-stretch. If the French have a reputation for being rude, and for being food-obsessed, it’s because the two go hand-in-hand. If you only ate twice a day, 7 hours apart, no snacking, you’d be rude and bloody hungry too! (I would like to add that this is a vicious stereotype, that I have seen disproved more than I have experienced.)

Breakfast in Paris

Today I took my first Parisienne breakfast; espresso and croissant on my way to work. After all the hot weather, the cool breeze was a perfect breakfast accompaniment and I strolled off to work feeling very French.

Having yesterday discovered the apartment’s internet access I was desperate to write home and touch base with everyone else’s goings on. This made me generally impatient for E to start school the next day, so I would then have Little J’s nap times to cybercruise to my heart’s content. But, alas, I had two children to entertain. When Little J was awake, it was him that needed the close attention and when he was sleeping it was nose back to the Polly Pocket-sized grindstone.