Tag Archives: paris

September 18, 2012 · 5:11 pm

travel notes: paris

At the end of August, I took an impromptu trip to Paris, Geneva and Franche-Comté. I couldn’t be more grateful for this francophile trip, and I’ve been eager to share my new finds – from a zany barbie artist in the Parisian puces, to an old-timey Besançon patisserie that serves up one hell of a chocolate/meringue bomb.

First things first? Paris.

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EAT
Comme à Lisbonne: A tiny boutique specializing in Portugeuse pastels de nata. I first tried these flaky, flan-filled tarts in their hometown (Belem, Lisbon – near the breathtaking Jeronimos Monastery) and was delighted by the Parisian reproduction. Moreover, the accompanying espresso was top-notch, a true find in the notoriously coffee-challenged city of lights.

Chez Jeanette: A very hip, low-key bistro with impeccably fresh cuisine. The saumon en cocotte blew me away, and I also loved their just-rich-enough nutella tiramisu.

Neva: Neva may be in one of the less-traveled neighborhoods of Paris, but it merits the detour. It was my “splurge” this trip, but the prices were more than reasonable, considering the exquisitely balanced flavors and textures of each carefully crafted dish. I was especially impressed with the ris de veau (veal sweetbreads) and the meringue-topped lemon tart, but every dish was outstanding.

Les Petits Plats: This unassuming, lovely bistro is a favorite among locals, and it’s easy to see why. With charming service, vibrant flavors and beautiful presentation, it’s a close contender for my favorite lunch spot in the city.

DRINK
Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis: A strip of bars where patrons spill onto the sidewalks, drinks in hand. It was a bit of a gritty scene, with lanky, attractive bobo boys abreast seedier sorts. I loved the relaxed, pro-mingling vibe, and the bars themselves were actually somewhat charming, should you prefer to drink indoors.

Barbershop: A French interpretation of a “Brooklyn bar”…which looks a lot like a Brooklynite’s version of a Parisian bar. Clustered seating, a solid wine list and decent cocktails. Basically, it a was a hipster hangout and became a victim of its own trendiness as the night went on. (The solitary bartender served both diners and late-night drinkers, which meant by 11pm, you were literally waiting a half hour to get a drink.)

Grazie: An open, industrial pizza joint/cocktail bar. The kitchen closes late-nights, but I did enjoy an earthy, walnut-infused negroni.

VISIT
Puces de Vanves: I had previously biked through this noteworthy flea market, but never really stopped to look. Among the piles of curiosities, I fell upon the aforementioned “zany Barbie artist” (apparently, the president of the market). He doesn’t sell his imaginative works for profit, but rather, hopes they attract further visitors to the market. I applaud his efforts and urge you to go, if only to check out his sculptures for yourself.

Chez Chartier: A self-consciously touristy spot, this restaurant is far from the best in Paris. That said, the historic interior merits a look, and the crème chantilly (whipped cream) at Chartier is utterly addictive, so I’d recommend stopping in for dessert.

Passerelle Léopold-Sédar-Senghor: I discovered this footbridge by accident, as a study abroad student, and did not revisit it until this last trip. For the most exciting views, enter on the lower level from the Tuileries. Then climb to the upper arch, where you will find far more “love locks” than on the nearby (and better known) Pont des Arts.

Saint Sulpice: This has always been among my favorite churches in Paris, but for the first time, I got to see its facade fully restored. Enjoy the lovely plaza, then head inside – not for the Delacroix paintings, but to see the gorgeous, undulating statue of Mary in the chapel behind the main altar.

For more of my favorite spots in Paris, click here.

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June 28, 2012 · 5:33 pm

seen & heard: buika

It’s funny how often my favorite concerts have been those I’ve attended by accident.

Last fall, I wrote about my love affair with Rockwood Music Hall, and how it led me to discover the eerie eloquence of singer/songwriter Freddie Stevenson. Yet before I discovered the NYC trick of frequenting well-curated venues, I was rambling through the musically confusing landscape of Paris, where truly great gigs were less easy to find.

The pan flutes of Paris. Fete de la Musique, 2010

There is one day, however, in France when music quite literally lines the streets: the annual Fête de la Musique. This day-long, free music festival coincides with the summer solstice (June 21) and,  since its inception in 1982, has become an international celebration. (Make Music NY is one of the more recent iterations of the festival.) In Paris, the fête is so extensive that you can simply follow the sound of music through the cobbled streets of the city.

I was in town for the Fête in 2010, and spent most of the morning rambling around Les Halles, hopping from one ubiquitous pan flute to another django-esque guitarist. Eventually, I met up with my friend Gina, who suggested we head to the Palais Royal. (The first time Gina and I had gone to a concert, it was to see Manu Chao at the Fête de l’Humanité, a communist festival which quickly turned into a mosh-pit nightmare. Needless to say, my expectations were low.)

The Palais’ program was to celebrate female performers, none of whose names we had ever heard. After head-bobbing to singer/songwriter Madjo‘s pop-y tunes, we snuck off for some snacks. The historic park was pleasantly buzzing when we left, but upon our return, it had swollen with anticipation. We wove our way back to the front, just as the crowd began to roar. There she was, a regal, afro’ed vixen in red: the Mallorcan “Flamenco Queen”, Buika.

Buika, Palais Royal, Fete de la Musique, 2010

For two hours under the dark, open skies and uniquely Parisian box-cut trees, we swayed – squished but mesmerized -beside a group of overzealous Italians screaming “che bella!” (when not singing along in broken Spanish). Though I didn’t understand a word of the lyrics, I couldn’t take my eyes off the slim, vivacious siren. Buika’s musicality and rhythm were exceptional, laced with a feisty humor and passion that transcended linguistic boundaries. To this day, I vividly recall her heartfelt performance of “Volveras“.

For months after that concert, I downloaded Buika’s various albums, singing along in my 5th floor mezzanine bedroom, attempting to repossess some of the magic of that night. But her records, while still admirable, held only the slightest glimmer of the singer’s commanding stage presence. If it is disappointing when a band sounds worse in concert than they do on the radio, it is even more frustrating to discover an exceptional live artist whose albums are comparably unremarkable.

Two years later – almost to the day  - I learned Buika was coming to New York City. I immediately snatched up tickets, raving to friends about “one of the best concerts of my life”. But as the day drew closer, I wondered if my second, intentional evening with Buika could ever live up to that accidental night in Paris.

The set-up at the Highline Ballroom was sparse – a single guitar and a percussionist on cajón. Buika glided on stage with a sleek, long hairstyle and a red, bustled dress. She was as quirky and elegant as ever, blessing the stage with her drink and excusing herself for her broken English. The Spanish speakers in the crowd began a dialogue with her almost instantaneously, echoing the zany energy of my Italian neighbors from the Palais Royal. And then, almost casually, she began to sing.

Buika takes the stage at NYC’s Highline Ballroom, 2012

Some artists impress us with their musical skill – a unique sense of pitch or meter. Buika has both. But what struck me that night – as it did in Paris – was the emotion in her breath and her uncanny reverence for the present moment. Between songs, unabashedly personal banter eloquently revealed the source of her authentic performance style  - “I think to sing is easy. It’s about sincerity.” – and witty insight into her lyrics – “At 3 o’clock in the afternoon, lies hurt my heart. But at 3 in the morning…lies are nice.” On stage, she is both a real-life Carmen -approaching the microphone like a confident toreador – and the most convincingly heartbroken woman in the world.

If the Highline Ballroom was less romantic than a historic Parisian public garden, you wouldn’t have known it that night. Part of Buika’s enduring appeal is the sense that every concert is the most special performance of her life. In the end, there is only one word to describe her elusive aura : “gratitude”. It is this emotion which she so uniquely inhabits and exponentially inspires in us, her admiring crowd.

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June 15, 2012 · 5:16 pm

eater’s digest: sandwiches of nyc

A sandwich from one of my favorite Parisian boulangeries, Huré in the Haut-Marais (3e). That bread is pretty unreal.

It might sound sacrilegious, but I’m not the type of girl who gets excited about a sandwich. In fact, before I lived in Paris, I wasn’t really “into bread.” Since then, I’ve learned to love a good loaf, but the crusty heritage grain or sourdough boules I crave are more suited to sopping up sauces than stacking up cold cuts.

The average ol’ American sandwich doesn’t celebrate bread; it renders it a mere vehicle for debatably exciting fillers. And those who do try to use exquisite loaves often botch the crust-to-inside balance of the ideal bite. (*For the record, I exclude open-faced tartines. They are an entirely different animal from the sandwich, given their sit-down/fork & knife style.)

Yet everyone once in a while, I fall upon an inventive sub or panini that revives my faith in the the future of portable lunch. After two years in New York – and countless meals on-the-go – there are three sandwiches I still swoon over, even if I’ve the time for a proper seated siesta.

1) Num Pang – Pulled Pork or Catfish w/ Pickled Carrots, Cilantro & Cucumber

When the bahn mi craze hit, I wasn’t the biggest fan. After living in Paris, stateside baguettes tend to leave me less-than-impressed. In the case of most BM shops, their stale impressions of this seminal French bread remain impossibly dry, no matter the highly-curated contents. So when my sister and mother started raving about a “Cambodian sandwich shop”, I anticipated an equally desiccated sub. To my surprise, the semolina num pang rolls are a softer, subtler sibling to the bahn mi baguette. Here, filling is king, and boy is it delicious. Savory, spicy, acidic and crunchy – it is sustenance and refreshment in one. To boot, NP’s grilled chili-coconut corn is beyond addictive.

2) No. 7 Sub – Broccoli, Riccota Salata, Lychee Pickles & Toasted Pine Nuts

I’m all for wacky, rare ingredients, so I was pretty intrigued when I got wind of the latest Flatiron food addiction. I’ve tried a few different sandwiches at No. 7, but the broccoli is by far my favorite. I usually hate syrupy-sweet lychees, but pickled, they are genius. Riccota salata and toasted pine nuts are enough to win over any good Italian girl, and I pity people who hate broccoli. Depending on who makes your sub, the bread here can tend a little towards the aforementioned Bahn Mi dryness, but on a good day it’s just so damn delicious.

3) Porchetta – Namesake Sandwich

The first NYC sandwich to ever win my heart, the Porchetta classic will go down in East Village history. Can you ever have enough cracklin’? I think not. In fact, I’ve asked for extra and the pig-loving meat carvers are sometimes lovely enough to indulge me. The pork itself is slow-cooked and stuffed with rosemary, sage, garlic, salt and – the hot spice of 2011 – wild fennel pollen. By the way, the similarly seasoned potatoes with cracklin’ are also sinfully good…

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April 9, 2012 · 11:20 pm

ordinary pleasures: sunday feast

As Spring approaches and the sun shines a bit brighter, my thoughts often turn to vibrant memories of markets and preparations for elaborate feasts – in short, my eternal Parisian Sundays. Each weekend, I would wake early to shop at Place d’Aligre – inventing dishes on the fly, experimenting with new ingredients. Whether it was pancakes (by request), a pork roast or an indoor picnic, each and every Sunday was “family” dinner for twelve.

Since joining the full-time workforce in NYC, my Spring Sunday routine has become simpler – typically beginning and ending with a long bike ride, in which the market is only one of several points of interest. If food is purchased, it’s just a few interesting ingredients for the week, moreso than preparations for a celebratory weekend feast.

But on rare occasions – for a holiday or an out-of-the-ordinary reunion – I return to my elaborate Sunday kitchen. The weekends that I escape to my parents’ home in Connecticut, these culinary impulses are at their peak, inspired by spacious counter-tops and cupboards (filled with tools for which I lack space in my meager Upper West Side studio).

This Easter was no exception. We spent Saturday afternoon preparing a home-made batch of puff pastry. On Sunday, that pastry was adorned with gruyere, creme fraiche, bacon and eggs – a spectacular and indulgent Easter Sunday brunch.

My sister and I went for a spin before eating, as per our NYC custom. As the sunlight gleamed through the tall seaside grasses, we squinted, rounding the corner for home. Just then, our uncle arrived in a family heirloom – grandfather’s 1969 jaguar convertible – the cherry on top of our Sunday CT nostalgia.

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April 6, 2012 · 2:16 pm

recipes: cooking with tea

The food-pairing trend may have started with wine and cheese, but in recent years has burgeoned into a full-blown industry, with events featuring products from whisky to kimchi. Tea pairing has become an increasingly popular alternative to alcoholic pairings, inspiring a tangential interest in culinary uses for tea.  At the forefront of this movement is French tea brand, Le Palais des Thés, which recently launched an online US store and has plans for a New York storefront in the coming years.  I sat down with Aurélie Bessière, president of the company’s American branch, to learn more.

I recently learned that tea was actually introduced into France more than thirty years before coffee and made popular by Cardinal Mazarin and Louis XIV.  Can you speak a bit about the French tea tradition?

The French tea tradition, introduced in the 17th century, was always less popular than coffee, but has grown. In France, we always look for the best quality and taste [in food], and it is the same with tea. We want to find the freshest and most interesting product available.

What distinguishes Le Palais des Thés from other French tea brands?

Le Palais des Thés was founded when my uncle, François-Xavier Delmas, first discovered a passion for tea. He opened the first store in Paris and quickly decided to go to the plantations in Asia to select the leaves himself, to pursue the best quality. This was and still is unusual, as tea companies tend to go through intermediaries. He then opened a tea school in Paris, the only institution of its kind in Europe. Students learn about blends, regions and crus, as well as tea ceremonies and food pairing. The most popular class is tea and cheese pairing – very French!

Have you noticed any difference in American tea culture vs. French tea culture?

We didn’t expect this, but in the US there are more male customers (30%) than in France (25%). What remains consistent is that our customers tend to be loyal tea drinkers and that the most popular teas are our signature creations (such as Thé du Hammam, Thé des Moines, and Thé des Lords) and grands crus (such as our Darjeeling first flushes and Korean Jukro.).

Has the growing interest in tea pairing affected your production style?

The growing interest in tea pairings has not changed our philosophy. Our focus is on quality and rarity first. Then, of course, we take an interest in how we can use the teas in cooking and pairings – we’re French after all! What is different is that we have begun to use the teas in more interesting ways, and we now provide suggestions for pairings.

In what ways have you collaborated with other culinary professionals to explore the tea pairing trend?

We have a history of collaborating with chefs in France, most notably on a tea-based cookbook, which is currently only available in French, but will be available in English in the future. We have also partnered with chefs for events. For example, in New York City, we organized a class with the French Culinary Institute and chef Melanie Franks about tea pairings and tea-based cooking. We are also the proud House Purveyor of tea for the James Beard Foundation for all events at their House in New York.

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February 27, 2012 · 11:58 am

au marché: richard lenoir market, paris

It is difficult to pick a favorite market in Paris – some have the best prices, others have higher quality or more unusual products and a few have simply incredible ambiance.  But if I had to pick one market in Paris to be the “best” market for first-time visitors to the city, I would pick the Marché Richard Lenoir.

This renown market is impressive in both its size and the diversity of its products.  Stretching north of Place de la Bastille (under the watch of the famous monument’s gleaming angel), this twice weekly market fills a fountain-lined promenade with a motley crew of both vendors and shoppers.  As you enter on the Bastille end, you will walk past cheap clothing and hygiene/beauty products, followed by kitchenware merchants.  You will then see stands of prepared/hot foods, fruits and vegetables, and eventually dairy, meat and seafood.  Once deeply entrenched in the market, specialty vendors of Italian goods, honey, spices or wine will also dot your path.  (Word to the wise: it is worth walking the entire loop of the market before deciding on any purchases.  And a line typically means that a vendor has good value and/or high quality products).

The ever-elusive olive fougasse.

There are two elusive and addictive foodstuffs sold at this market that I have never found of equal quality elsewhere in the city.  The first of these is fougasse, a doughy webbed bread, that I prefer stuffed with black olives.  This particular Parisian delight is an obsession of my bread-loving sister (who, ironically, doesn’t like olives, but apparently loves olives encased in perfectly fluffy, soft bread).  The second time I lived in Paris, my apartment was steps from the Richard Lenoir market – and I can actually recall waking up at the crack of dawn, rolling my suitcase to the bread stand (before they were even officially set up),  and purchasing still-warm fougasse, just to hail a taxi and hop on a plane back to the ‘States – just so she can have it (relatively) fresh. (Yes, it’s really that good).

Pain au thym, Deliciously bubbling away.

The second of these products is less portable, unfortunately.  Pain au thym  is a lebanese flat bread spread with olive oil and za’atar – a middle eastern spice blend of thyme, marjoram, oregano, sesame and salt.  Heated over a cast-iron dome, the circular flatbread is then folded into parchment paper, piping hot and ready to eat.

Pain au thym, tempting to burn your tongue with briny salt and crispy thyme.

After thirty seconds of impatience (which are necessary, I have in overeager moments burned my tongue), the fragrant bread is ready to bite – inundating your taste buds with an herbaceous, salty and slightly acidic punch.  An empty stomach is an undisputed prerequisite for such a market trip, but filling that stomach immediately with pain au thym more than gratifies the short-term sacrifice (and may help inspire moderation during the rest of your shopping experience).

Famous Foodie Andrew Zimmern, just buying some supplies for a batch of bacon ice cream.

Last but not least, this is a market well-worn by savvy tourists, and thus easier to navigate for English speakers than others (for example, the nearby Place d’Aligre market, which is very popular and often preferred for daily shopping by full-time residents of the quartier).

Scouting the market on a Thursday morning with my fougasse-loving sister.

If you have the chance, check out the Richard Lenoir market early on a Thursday.  It is far less packed than it will be on Sunday, and thus easier to grab the elusive fougasse (which tends to sell out in the first couple hours).

For more coverage of the Marché Richard Lenoir, check out expat foodie David Lebovitz’s perspective.  And don’t forget to visit Catherine, his favorite chicken lady.

Finger-lickin' chicken. Roasting away and dripping all the love and goodness onto some fingerling potatoes.

My mother's favorite RL product - plump, flower-like artichokes

My most famous RL purchase, an octopus! To read about how I cooked it, head here: http://laviefranglophone.wordpress.com/2010/04/20/foodaphilia-poulpe/

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February 16, 2012 · 6:36 pm

recipe: gluten-free madeleines

Studying food culture in France, it was impossible to avoid Proust.  In fact, I had already encountered his famous “madeleine de Combray” (link to story in english, french) in high school – and recall struggling with his run-on, pensive sentences.

But as I grew older, and more interested in the history of culinary criticism, I began to appreciate Proust’s summary of the essential relationship between food and memory:

“…when nothing subsists of an old past, after the death of people, after
the destruction of things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more immaterial,
more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste still remain for a long time,
like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, upon the ruins of all the rest,
bearing without giving way, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense
edifice of memory”.

I also learned that pondering while dipping a madeleine in a tasse du thé (cup of tea) was an excellent habit to acquire.

I’ve since made quite a few batches of madeleines, and have yet to find a recipe I swear by.  So this time, I adapted a recipe myself – inspired by a Parisian amie who is boldly going gluten-free in the bread-centric capital.

 

See the original recipe posting at HonestCooking.com.

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January 20, 2012 · 6:07 pm

ordinary pleasures : café culture

Almond Horn, Hungarian Pastry Shop, NYC

As an undergraduate, I often spent my time in between classes at coffee shops on campus.  On occasion, I made genuine attempts at academic progress, but in truth, anyone trying to work was better off in the dorms or the library.  The coffee shop, in essence, was a not-so-subtle locale to see and be seen.  There I’d sit – staring at the same page, rereading the same line – hoping that my crush-of-the-moment would happen upon me nonchalantly reading Rilke.  (As if the average undergraduate male actually cared what the heck I was reading).

But a true café – that European or Europhilic wonder of the world – resembles neither the collegiate coffee shop (a slightly less commercial variant of your local Starbucks) nor a silent study hall.  It has a character all its own – charmingly unchanging despite generations of regulars, who ultimately leave it high-and-dry after an intense stint of unflinching fidelity.  It’s a quiet, yet buzzing corner of the world, best suited to the grad student, youthful researcher or urban creative – thinkers entrenched in their own ideals and interests, both incensed and mellowed by the fog of sleepless nights.

Which brings me to the subject of sustenance.  Some café creatures seem to live on black coffee alone.  Others drift towards cigarettes or café crèmes.  But my favorite cafés are those who provide a little something more to chew on (as endless hours of reading seem to have a way of cultivating oral fixations).

Moroccan Mint Tea, Café Maure, Paris

In Paris, my café of choice was the Café Maure at the Grand Mosquée de Paris.  Built in the years following World War I, La Grande Mosquée remains the only official mosque in Paris, despite the significant growth of the capital’s Muslim population.  The mosque itself is typically closed to all but the faithful, but on the corner of Rue Daubeton and Rue Geoffroy-Saint-Hilaire, a Moorish archway invites the curious in – to sip sweet mint tea, smoke hookah or nibble on honey-laden pastries under the shade of fig trees. There I would spend many an afternoon, induling in Kaab el Ghazal (half-moon pastries perfumed with orange flower water) and reading French philosophy).

Back in New York, there’s no shortage of cafés worth frequenting in the city, but unlike Paris, those worth lingering in are a bit harder to come by.  Morningside Heights’ Hungarian Pastry Shop is one of these rare gems, located just outside the thumping heart of Columbia’s main campus.

Baklava, Hungarian Pastry Shop, NYC

The leaner (and thriftier) among us will rave about Hungarian’s free refills, but my indulgence of choice is their baklava – honey soaked and nutty as the day is long, somehow simultaneously flaky and densely chewy. (When I worked at Columbia, the walk home past Hungarian was treacherous.  The only thing that saved me from poverty-by-pastry was the fact that the desserts are not quite viewable from the window).  And with an ambiance fitting of an old Woody Allen film (or Love Story, if the protagonists had attended Columbia), there’s enough 1970s flair to sustain the whole neighborhood’s charm.

True, it can be hard to find a seat here – but in warmer months the sculpture garden at St. John the Divine (just across the street) is an enviable extension of HP’s café culture.  At worst, if it’s too cold or crowded to stay, they’ll wrap you up a snack in an old-timey paper box with striped pastry string.  An adorable consolation prize for your efforts.

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December 7, 2011 · 11:47 am

seen and heard: French & American Perspectives on Food & Nutrition

This week, I had the pleasure of attending a conference on “French and American Perspectives on Food and Nutrition” at the Cultural Services of the French Embassy.

The French view of "American" Food - BBQ sauce, marshmallow fluff, creamy salad dressing, various canned goods...

With speakers from various sectors and cultural biases – ranging from researchers at the Institut Paul Bocuse to the much-lauded Marion Nestle – the conference covered everything from epigenetics to American terroir.

The presenters touched on subjects from food politics in the 1980s to the French preference for three-course meals, but a few key themes emerged from the wide array of research:

  •  The French, on the whole, are more open to the relationship between food and social responsibility.  The American media – despite the increased presence of scholars and journalists who portray these issues as political or systemic problems – continues to portray health as a personal, individual pursuit (especially when it comes to obesity).
  • The French openly flout some of the most common advice provided by nutrition professionals (for example, “don’t eat dinner late in the evening”).  They do, however, maintain a certain reverence for the pleasure of eating, spend more time preparing food, and involve the whole family in the food preparation process.  (Studies have shown that the amount of food one consumes is inversely correlated to the amount of time one spends preparing food.  Aka – the longer you take cooking, the more likely you are to appreciate and value your food – and the less likely you are to overeat).
  • Epigenetics is a field that is likely to take the forefront in the way we understand nutrition, as well as social and personal responsibility.  We are only beginning to realize the dramatic effect that our diet and environment can have on the expression of our genes (and the genes of our future offspring – not to mention the fact that French researchers have found that our food preferences start developing in utero).
  • There is a future for “terroir” in the United States.  In Vermont, initiatives to preserve or cultivate traditional methods for producing maple syrup and artisanal cheese are revealing that the American public has a vested interest in the value of food traditions.  And as the locavore movement continues to pick up speed, (Husk, an uber-local Southern restaurant was named Best New Restaurant in America, 2011 by Bon Appétit), this is the perfect time for local food communities to take pride in products specific to their region.

Parisian "petite fille" joins "maman" at the market.

Yet even more fascinating than the multitude of topics presented by the speakers was the diverse perspectives of the conference attendees.  Their varied backgrounds – from an AirFrance employee passionate about pastry to a landscape designer curious about the social effects of gardens – spoke to the intimate and influential role food plays in the lives of each and every person.

After a few days’ reflection, I find myself lingering on one cultural distinction between the US and France. While I have no statistics to back up this claim, my personal experience and research in Paris has taught me that the French appreciation for the “art of eating” is matched (if not surpassed) by an insatiable desire to talk about food.  Everyone has an opinion, a story, a discovery to share – and the discussion about food reaches far beyond the confines of the table.  Moreover, meals are not one of many possible moments for socialization in France; they are the moment for community and social interaction – so much so that a threat to the quality of mealtime is considered a threat to French-ness itself.

The dangers of letting the media define our relationship with food.

On the American side, we are experiencing a veritable food revolution and the exponential growth in media buzz around food is absolutely astounding.  But does watching the Food Network or Top Chef religiously translate into spending more time in the kitchen or participating in meaningful conversations about food in our day-to-day lives?

Americans may be increasingly food-obsessed, but we are not yet adequately food-conscious.  There is nothing wrong with enjoying the fruits of the food media, but I fear that, unless we stop primarily taking our cues from the fantasy-land of the “food stars” and start basing our appreciation of food in our own experience (and our own kitchens), we will forever be missing the je ne sais quoi that distinguishes food as culture, rather than a commodity.

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November 16, 2011 · 11:59 am

ingredient: cephalopods

I’ve always had a certain fondness for creatures of the deep.  This isn’t entirely unexpected, as I grew up by the water and my grammar school had its own private beach.  I can still toss marine biological tidbits into normal conversation – about the sex lives of slipper limpets, for example, (they’re hemaphrodites of the “sequential” variety) or how to decipher the gender of a crab.  Heck, I summer-camped on a historic schooner, my favorite beany baby was “Inky” the octopus, and even my college application essay began with the phrase “I love tunafish”.  But at a certain point, my affection for all the fishies-in-the-sea became a hierarchy, in which the cephalopod was king.

Random shot from a Parisian photo gallery - I call it "cephalopod clothesline".

Squid, octopus, cuttlefish and their ilk make up the class “cephalopoda”.  They are perhaps some of the most “alien” underwater creatures known to man – inspiring everything from childhood curiosity to intense fear (Note to self: do not watch late-night Discovery Channel features on the legend of giant squid.)  So odd are they in form and fashion that, for most, nothing about them inspires hunger.  That is, until you eat them.

For me it started very simply – fried calamari.  By the age of 13, I was a fried calamari authority, preferring the legs to the body and a light tempura-y batter to a greasy, dense crunch.

Yet, for many years, “calamar” (as my American-Italian-ish peers would say) was my only cephalopod exposure.  That is, until the summer before college, when my family boarded a sailboat from Istanbul to the Greek isles.

"Dinner!", as they say in Oia.

It was on the beach in Oia, on the island of Santorini – largely considered the most photographed place in Greece – that I first was inspired to eat octopus.  As I lay tanning, a beautifully bronzed man with a snorkel mask splashed around in the waves.  Just as I was dozing off, he lept – victorious – from under the waves, exclaiming (in Greek) what I can only imagine was “DINNER!” – for there in his hands was an aubergine, writhing octopus.  After the commotion died down (and my sister got over the fact that she was just swimming around with such creatures), we jumped back on our 4x4s and raced off to eat our own little lunch.  It was that day, in a shack teetering off the cliffs, that I first sampled fresh, grill-blackened octopus.

From there on, calamari took a back seat to its larger, wilder cousin.  From baby octopus slow-roasted in sauce (Trattoria Il Panino, Boston) to refreshing octopus salad (Otto, New York), I preached the octopus gospel high and low, to any fellow eater who would listen.

"Pouple en promotion" (Octopus on sale)

And then I moved to Paris.  It was there, for the first time, that I saw an octopus for sale.  But during those first six months of study-abroad, I was too intimidated by the prospect of de-scaling or de-shelling fresh-caught seafood (let alone butchering and cleaning an octopus) to purchase a single item from a poissonerie.  But the following year, when I returned to study food culture (and had learned that the poissonier would clean and prep your fish for you), I finally attempted to cook my favorite edible beast.  (Click here for more on my octopus-cooking adventure).

Yet octopus was not to be my ultimate cephalopod obsession.  It was on my 21st birthday, in Venice, that I first discovered my true cephalopod love, the cuttlefish.  And in particular, cuttlefish ink.

In the United States, it is often possible (in high-end Italian groceries) to buy dried black pasta.  This pasta is dyed with cuttlefish ink, an ingredient you’ll be hard-pressed to find sold independent of the dyed-pasta format.  But in Venice, nero di seppia runs through the restaurants like water through the canals.  From risotto to spaghetti – if there is a pasta product in sight, it can be spruced up with this dark and mysterious sauce.   It was in a little trattoria off the Campo San Leonardo that I first tried this truly unique Venetian delight.  I can still remember the lighting, where I sat at the table, the way the parsley decorated the plate.  This was a truly incomparable flavor – like none I had tasted before or would ever taste again after.

Spaghetti al nero di seppia (Venice)

Luckily, in Paris, fishmongers sell miniature packets of l’encre de seiche, perfect for a plate of risotto for two.  I seduced all my friends and lovers with black risotto for months on end, excited to introduce them to the little-known ingredient.

It soon dawned on me, upon moving to New York, that I had left my steady supply of cheap, perfectly-sized packets of cuttlefish ink behind.  And for a time, I could not find cuttlefish ink at all, let alone in a cheap or convenient format.  And then came Eataly.  On a whim, I asked if they sold nero di seppia, and the fishmonger looked at me as if I had 5 heads.  But upon consulting with an Italian colleague, he brought me a small (and expensive) jar from the storage room.  It almost seemed a black market for black ink– but I eagerly paid the steep price.  (Note: these days, you can find cuttlefish ink just sitting out by the anchovies and other pre-portioned fish products at Eataly).

And so my days of black risotto, paella, and pasta entertaining resumed.  But my American comrades were less adventurous eaters than my Parisian pals (and more likely to be strict vegetarians), and eventually, my zeal for serving ink-sauce entrees waned to an infrequent whim.

There were glimmers of hope of course.  A squid-ink soup at Kin Shop.  A particularly lovely paella negra dinner party.  Then finally, a particularly unappetizing plate of spaghetti al nero di seppia (in Venice of all places) abruptly brought my affair with cuttlefish to an unexpected end.

Salt and Pepper Cuttlefish, Taste of China

That is, until this weekend.  I was in Connecticut, visiting my parents for a day or two, when they suggested we try out a new “authentic” Chinese restaurant, Taste of China.  Given my previous experience with “authentic” ethnic food in suburbia, I was just hoping for a less-greasy plate of General Tso’s chicken.   And then I saw the menu.  “Salt and Pepper Cuttlefish” – it was too good to be true! For despite my love of cuttlefish ink, I had never actually eaten (but a morsel of) the beast itself.

My mother laughed when it came to table.  Nubby little fried bits of perfectly seasoned cephalopod.  Resistant, but far from rubbery, and served atop a refreshing shaved salad – it was everything I could have ever hoped the little bugger would turn out to be.

So now, a new cephalopod adventure: learn to cook and clean a fresh-caught cuttlefish.  Perhaps by the end of 2013?  I dare say this one might require some traveling…

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