Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

Trade your Soul for Sole?

Why is it that simple tasting French food is always the most difficult to prepare? For years I wondered why the classic fish dish, Sole Meunière always commanded high prices in restaurants, sometimes higher than filet mignon and always wads of euros more than salmon. It's just a whole fish cooked in brown butter with a squeeze of lemon and some chopped parsley thrown in!

Now I know better.

Just trying to skin sole will teach you why it's so darned pricey. But more than that, the art of cooking it to perfection is just that: ART. I know because I just attempted with three expensive whole fillets that all ended up mushy. Not crispy on the oustide and flake-a-licious on the inside. Not lightly browned and opalescent white. Not nutty brown butter-ish with lemon saliva bursting sauce. And not all together served in one piece, but instead falling apart fish fingers. Bummer.

However, my fourth fillet I got right. And I will share with you my findings with the hopes that you will not waste your time and money as I did mine.

But first a little story on sole and how it took the soul of one of France's most revered cooks, Chef Vatel.

Before the Roi de Soleil's extravagant palace of Versailles was constructed in 1682, the King traveled around the country with his aristocracy. Wherever he went they were required to go too. In this way he kept an eye on his scheming court and also kept them in dept paying for their travel expenses and hosting lavish parties in his honor.

In 1671, the king traveled to Chantilly to meet with his commander, Prince Condé before waging war on Holland. A great feast was planned hosted by the Prince for the King and his court with the aid of his "Master of Cooks", François Vatel.

The first night of feasting, a light supper was provided of turtle soup, creamed chicken fried trout (whatever that is), and roast pheasant. Seventy-five extra guests attended the party. Vatel was horrified that some of the tables at his super did not receive enough pheasant roast. (I think I would have been happy not to receive one of his roast pheasants) Although his staff assured him that he wasn't to blame for the shortage of food and unknown quantity of royal guests, he was humiliated by this blunder.

No doubt his fear of failure was doubled with the failed firework show that was ruined by cloud cover and the desire to prove himself as a master chef in the absence of the King's Chef, the god father to Haute Cuisine, Varenne.

At four o'clock in the morning after what he considered to be a failed first diner, Vatel was still hard at work desperately trying to secure enough food for the next day's gala event, an even more extravagant and opulent menu of anchovies sevigne, melon with Parma ham, lobster quenelles with shrimp sauce, and filet of sole.

He met with a fish monger in the early hours of morning who arrived with an inadequate amount of fish. He asked the purveyor, "Is this all"? and the man replied back to him, "Yes sir" not knowing that Vatel had also ordered more from several seaport towns in France. Vatel waited hoping that more would arrive. Nothing came.

Exhausted from twelve sleepless nights of preparing for Prince Condé's feasts and unable to see a way out of total disgrace, he went to his room and fixed his sword to his door. He ran into it several times. The first two times only wounding himself, the third thrust he pierced his heart. Some say he ran upon it another five times.

Fifteen minutes after his suicide fish poured in to the royal household and assistants came running to find Vatel so that he could distribute it. Too late, Vatel lay dead in a pool of blood.

The dinner went on as planned minus the filet of sole course, and all agreed – the Roi de Soleil included – that his death, although tragic, only proved Vatel's code of honor. Vatel traded his soul for sole.

(Even more tragic none of his recipes survive today with the exception of a famous dessert topping he created called Chantilly cream, a mixture of whipped cream and sugar. Perhaps you've had some on a hot fudge sundae?)

No need to trade your soul for sole. The recipe's on the following page!

Bon Beaune Burgundy

JOKE: What do French wines and French train strikes have in common?

PUNCH LINE: They both cost you a lot of money!

Okay, that wasn't funny. But that's how rock-bottom my sense of humor is right now. You thought this post was going to be about the oldest and biggest charity wine auction in the world! NOT!!! This post is about the French Grève (the strike) and how it practically ruined five peoples long awaited vacations.

No, just kidding, it's a little bit of both.

My friends and family came to visit from various parts of the world so that we could gather in Paris and head off en mass to Beaune, the famous city in the heart of Burgundy, for pinot noir and chardonnay tasting. We've been attending the wine festival for the last three years. It's become a family tradition.

We don't go to the auction itself. I'm sure I could weasel some press passes, but if you don't have big money, it's boring. Just a lot of tall hat texans, cold Russian mafia, and riotous rich Scotsmen in kilts with the odd Frenchman thrown in and a ton of media. My posse is not interested in paying 15,000 euros for a barrel of wine. Even if it does go to charity and even if we do get our names put on the Hospice de Beaune labels. It still is just a wee bit out of our league. We like to smush our faces up against the windows of the auction hall and watch the numbers go flying up along with the prices per barrel. Much more satisfying.

So just how did we get to the Beaune festival this year? My brother-in-law, "Clyde" Wittman, lassoed a private plane down to the ground while his sass talkin' girlfriend "Bonnie" held up the pilot with a snickers bar in her pocket. The rest of us climbed in while Bonnie and Clyde blackmailed the crew. No, that's not it. We just got there. Not all at the same time and not all on the same day – merci SNCF for costing us extra money and vacation time!

One activity we do like to participate in when we're not hijacking airplanes is the wine tasting at Patriarche Pere et Fils located in the town proper. They open up their extensive underground wine caves to the public once a year and share newly released wine along with several special vintage bottles. Patriarch Pere et Fils are wine brokers that have been in business since the 18th century! They buy the cream of the crop from the surrounding areas (Meursault, Chassagne, Pommard, Chambolle Musigny, Gevrey Chambertain, etc.) and bottle it privately under the famous Hospice de Beaune label.

Buying wine at Patriarche Pere et Fils is fun. We normally begin with the programed public tasting of 15 wines that meanders through the cool stone caves and then end with a private tasting.

The part I like about the private tasting is how our salesperson cages us in one of the smaller caves while she pulls out more good stuff for us to taste. There's no escaping! All and all it's around 30 wines to sniff, swish, gargle, and spit (or swallow). This normally annoys the rest of the public that doesn't get to come along but is allowed to watch us taste special wines through a locked iron gate. Peasants – let them drink 2001 Musigny! If you want to buy wine they will do the same for you. Just ask for a salesperson when you get to the last public tasting and they will customize the rest of your tasting according your interests.

My favorites from Patriarche Pere and Fils this year were the sexy Vosne-Romanée 1980 (pinot noir), The feminine Musigny Grand Cru 1960 (pinot noir), and an stunning 1957 Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru. The last one, a chardonnay was one of the most memorable wines I have ever had. I could have put a straw in that magnum and sucked down the whole thing. Talk about gold clover honey with a clean acidic citrus-y finish. I couldn't believe it. Most old whites loose that fresh acidity and turn to vinegar.

Of the newer vintages, all the 2005's I tasted both in the Pinot noir and in the Chardonnay varietal were outstanding. Drinkable now but structured enough to last for a decade or more. The Perrier Corton and Chassagne were my fav's.

We didn't just come to wine taste ourselves silly. We also came to eat. You've got to eat well if you're going to drink well! The city turns into a festival of food and crafts for the weekend complete with corking competitions and marching bands. Traditionally we start the morning out with a breakfast of champions: foie gras, baguette, comté, chevre, jambon, croissants, pain aux chocolate, and coffee. Then we leave our hotel room stuffed and head straight for the town hall for oysters and escargot. They shuck the oysters for you right from the crates and they are 4:00 A.M. ocean fresh.

This year we included a winery tour outside of the town with Susan Boxell who began the original tours or the area (in English) with her company Burgundy On A Plate. She has access to many private wineries and long standing relationships with the wine makers so the experience is special. One of the hits of this tour was getting to meet and talk with Monsieur LeFlaive of legendary chardonnay and pinot noir greatness. He's a third generation wine maker in Burgundy and quite an upbeat character. His wines are in restaurants across the world and he spent two hours just with our small hung-over group taking us through his cellars and explaining his traditional methods of wine making.

Our last tasting of the weekend, at a small wine shop in town that promised vintage tastings, was a let down. It was so bad. I tasted a wine that smelled exactly like bong water and another that tasted like Crackerbarrel cheddar cheese. And you know what? My whole family agreed that they smelled and tasted exactly that same way. (Parker's got nothin' on me baby.) This only goes to show you that not all wines, even from the most prestigious areas like Pommard and Gevrey Chambertain, are good. Before you go and buy a case of something you think is going to be outstanding, taste it. Even if it claims to be a Grand Cru. Each winery has their own style and the differences even between hectares of the same varietal and same classification can be extreme.

We weren't quite as rowdy as we were last year. I think the Scotts and Texans out-did our partying this time around. Mainly because somewhere along the weekend half our group was food poisoned. Must have been the escargot. We had a long ride back to Paris with the strike and our queasy stomaches. And I won't even mention how we left two 1980 Vosne-Romenée magnums on the train. Oh wait, I just did. But we'll be back next year gluttons for punishment and fantastic wine. I think next time we'll ship all the wine home.

When to go: The second weekend of every November
Where to Stay: Hotel Cep
Wine Tours: Burgundy On A Plate, Susan Boxell
Where to Eat: Ma Cuisine for bistro fare, Bernard Loiseau for Michelin cuisine, Town Hall for oysters and escargot
How to get there: lasso a plane and hijack the crew or take a train from Paris to Beaune
Fun Bars: The Pickwick (this is where all the Scotts go to for dancing on the tables in their kilts), La Parte Des Anges for wine tasting and local clientele.
Wine Tasting in Beaune: Patriarche Pere et Fils

Technorati Tags: Beaune, Burgundy, chardonay, festival, hotel cep, ma cuisine, pinot noir, wine auction

Pain de Mie

I like bread. Do you like bread? We like bread. See Ms. Glaze buy bread. See Ms. Glaze eat bread. See Ms. Glaze finish whole entire loaf of bread in one day.

Today's lesson boys and girls is on the French white bread with a thick dense spongy crumb called Pain de Mie. In the United States we call this sandwich bread. But here in France, we call it: addictive. Uh-dic-tive. Good.

(Children, this is too expensive for pain de mie in France. It should cost no more than 2 euros)

I would like you to write a short essay on Pain de Mie and post it below. I will give you an example from a previous student, Billy, who used his creativity to share with the class on why he likes Pain de Mie so very, very much:

"My mommy buys me pain de mie. She cuts off the crusts and then slices it for toast. I like it when she puts jam and butter on top. But what I really wish she would do is make a bed for me out of pain de mie so that I could squish into its soft crumb and fall asleep. I would like to take my nap on a pain de mie mattress because I don't think I would have anymore nightmares. I want her to make me two pain de mie pillows too, so I can smell the bread as I am going to sleep. My mommy would be the best mommy in the world if she would do this for me."

See? Wasn't that lovely?

Lesson for tomorrow is on why Ms. Glaze is fat. Ms. Glaze is fat because she can't stop eating French bread. Ms. Glaze needs to stop eating French bread or she will be as big as a house and no one will want to play with her anymore because she won't be able to squeeze through her tiny Paris apartment doorway.

For a recipe you can try at home check out: Pain de Mie recette
For more about bread baking check outt: Bread Baking in Conzieu

Technorati Tags: pain de mie, sandwich bread, white bread

Pierre Hermé Fetish Macarons

Look, it's over. I'm sorry but I've met some one else. What does he have that you don't? He's just really sweet. I know you're really sweet too, but it's different. No, I didn't want it to end this way either. But, we're in love and I have to see him everyday.

Yes, we've had some really good times together, but my new man has me on this demanding schedule and I just don't have any extra time. What schedule? It's a macaron schedule, he's coming out with new flavors all the time now and I have to be there when he does. No, I'm not crazy! Why do you always say I'm crazy? I hate it when you say that! See, this is why we can't be together. Because you always put down the things that are important to me. Macarons are really really important to me, why can't you understand that?

I can love a man for his macarons if I want to. And I certainly don't have to justify my feelings to you. Well let's see you make a silvery sexy truffe blanche macaron made of orgasmic earthy white truffle cream sandwiched in between two handsome Italian hazlenut biscuits that dust your fingertips with edible glitter on each luscious bite.

Not impressed? Then how about whipping up his huile d'olive macaron with vanilla and chopped green olive cream. With each taste I close my eyes and think of warm sun tanned skin drenched in virgin olive oil and sprinkled with glistening vanilla sugar. Let's see you do that!

All your good for is opening a can of beans.

It's not just a cookie! How can you say that?!?!?! MACARONS ARE NOT JUST COOKIES! And I do not have a fetish problem. That's it! We're done. I am NOT a fetish freak and don't ever call me that again. In fact, don't call, don't write, don't text. We're over. O-V-E-R!!!! It's just me and Pierre now.

Forever.

For more fetish macarons from his fétiche desserts visit Pierre:

Pierre Herme
72 rue Bonaparte
Paris 75006.
Telephone: 01 43 54 47 77.
For more locations and information, see www.pierreherme.com.

Technorati Tags: fetiche, fetish, macaron, Pierre Herme, Pierre Hermé, truffe blanche

How to Talk Like a French Chef

I’m not learning the kind of French I intended to.

The other night on one of my days off, I ordered a cocktail at an upscale restaurant that I had never heard of before. It was a mixture of rum and spirits with fruit juice. It sounded interesting but a little too sweet for my taste. I asked the server if it was dégueulasse (deh-guh-lass), which I thought meant 'gross'.

I hear it all the time in the kitchen and I just assumed it meant bad or unsavory. I just wanted to know if the cocktail was good! I really upset the server who stormed away after correcting my French and telling me never to use that word in public. How was I supposed to know? The word means 'filthy'.

My French friends at the table burst out laughing after the server vanished and then they explained the word to me. They thought my little cloquial version of ‘gross’ was funny. But there I was totally in the dark wondering why I had just caused such a reaction to the extent that the server was replaced by another young man.

And then there’s the word ‘putain’ (poo-tan) which means ‘whore’. Every time some one messes up a dish in the kichen they exclaim, “Oh putain!”. I thought the word meant ‘oops!’ or 'oh brother!'. I hear the word constantly throughout the day so it’s just become part of my vocabulary. If I drop something on the floor I say, “Oh putain.” If the chefs are yelling at me I say, “Oh putain” and put my head down and work faster. If some one is being a jerk I say, “Oh putain” in exasperation and walk way.

But I don’t think I was supposed to use it on the crowded the metro during rush hour when I dropped my cell phone on the floor. Because when I exclaimed, “oh putain” and then crouched down to look for my phone in between people grabbing onto bars for balance I caused some funny stares, a few giggles, and some downright mean looks.

So now you have two words you can put together into a sentence. Here’s how the chef’s do it in the kitchen: Oh putain! Ça c’est dégueulasse! (oh whore! That’s filthy!)

But wait there’s more. Oh yes, there’s a lot more bad words in the kitchen and I haven’t even begun to really get down and dirty. But first let me fill you in on the obligatory inbetween words that will no doubt pair with the spicier bad ones. Qu'est-ce que c'est ça? (keh-skuh-say-sah) literarlly translated means ‘what is that there?’. This is one of my Chef's favorite phrases and he has a way of putting the fear of God into you just with that one rhetorical question.

If you’re being asked ‘what is that there?’ by the Chef, then you already know what is there. You know it is something totally inedible that is an embarrassment to the reputation of the restaurant. God forbid, the Michelin reviewers should walk in while you're serving that plate of shit. Normally the sentence is accompanied with the rolling of eyes and an outstretched finger pointing directly to the merde that you have just created.

So here’s the new phrase altogether now: Oh putain! Qu'est-ce que c'est ça? Ça c’est dégueulasse (Oh whore! What is that there? That’s filthy!)

I know you know the French word merde that I mentioned above. Everyone in the world knows that word. It’s a funny little word for dog doo isn’t it? But there’s another way of twisting it into something a little less cutesy. C’est de la merde is like dégueulasse but means 'it’s of the shit’ or 'it's a plie of crap'. Again, this phrase is normally accompanied with the obligatory rolling of the eyes and outstretched finger pointing to the dog doo you’ve just plated for some famous client. It can be tagged on behind the phrase ça c’est dégueulasse for added punctuation.

In other words, if you didn’t understand (because you're an idiot) that what you slaved over for five hours to create is disgusting, you will certainly get it through your thick skull that it's a pile of poop.

Hallelluja! Now we’re really getting somewhere: Oh putain! Qu'est-ce que c'est? QU'EST-CE C'EST ÇA? Ça c’est dégueulasse – c’est de la merde. (Oh whore! What is that there? WHAT IS THAT THERE? That’s filthy – it’s a pile of crap!)

Now remember that cooking in a French kitchen is like being in the military. Not only is the fact that you messed up your roti de veau (roasted veal) pointed out for the whole staff to witness, but also the fact that you’re a butt hole.

Well you’ve got to be an butt hole if you’ve just messed up something as basic as roti de veau right? And the chef’s also have to insure you clearly understand the pecking order. If you screwed the pooch on the veal then you are definitely in the merde pile. The word for butt hole is conard (coh-nard) or if you’re a female butt hole its connasse (coh-nass). Isn’t that nice and undiscrimating of the French? How kind of them to give women their own feminie version of the word. I think the female version sounds much prettier.

And of course if you’re a gros connard, then you’re a ‘big butt hole’. Now before we put the whole new sentence together I’d like to introduce one last phrase, fait chier (fay-shay), which is truly grotesque. It means ‘to take a poo’, but really it is more equivalent to our “oh f&*k” American expression. This expression can be used in the same way, “Oh putain” is used, but normally expresses a higher degree of agitation.

So here it is, the grande finale, the final sentence that will truly enable you to call it like it is in a 3-star French kitchen: Oh putain! Fait chier! Conard, qu'est-ce c’est ça? QU'EST-CE C'EST ÇA? Ça c’est dégueulasse – c’est de la merde! Oh putain. (Oh whore! Oh f*&k! Butt hole, what is that there? WHAT IS THAT THERE? That’s filthy – it’s a pile of crap! Oh whorrrrre!)

And what do you answer back when you hear this lovely sentence breathed inches from your face by a screaming, sweaty, red faced French chef that has pulsing veins bulging out from his neck?

Oui chef! (yes, chef)

Technorati Tags: French swear words, merde

Pho 67 in Paris

If I tell you about this restaurant then you must promise me you won't go. Seriously. There's just not enough room for you and me both unless we go together – the restaurant is too tiny! They only have sixteen seats and so far I haven't had to make a reservation or wait long for a table. But, if that changes, and I can't get my pho when I need it, then there's going to be some trouble in Seine City!

I'm a pho addict. And when I need my fix I normally trek out to the 13th arrondisement for a big bowl of steamy beef broth filled with thick rice noodles, beef slices, onions, spicy basil, and cilantro. Since the weather has turned cold, I'm finding my cravings for this Vietnamese speciality have increased.

Now that I've moved from the stuffy 17th to jazzy St. Michel I have discovered a whole new world. Right across from me (and all the raucous Greek Latin Quarter restaurants) is a quiet hidden street that has several Vietnamese restaurants and markets brimming with Asian produce and products. Apparently this was one of the original areas that the Vietnamese immigrated to in Paris! Who knew?

Pho 67 is a Mom & Son establishment from what I've sussed out. The mom is the chef and the son takes care of the service with grace and professionalism. Sometimes you have to wait a little for your soup or main dish because she cuts and chops everything to order. But it's worth the wait. And everything is super fresh!

I discovered this restaurant on a rainy Paris afternoon with my friend Carol from the beautiful blog Paris Breakfasts. And we just sat over our big bowls of steamy pho inhaling and slurping up the intoxicating mix of herbs, spices, noodles, and rich beef broth wishing the conversation and the meal would never end.

Pho 67
59, Rue Galande
75005 Paris, France
+33 1 43 25 56 69

Technorati Tags: Paris restaurants, pho, soup, vietnamese food