Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

Festival of Pain

It wasn't really the Festival of Pain but the Festival de Pain (festival of bread). But I still find it curious that the word 'pain', pronounced 'pahn' in French, can have two completely different meanings in two different languages.

Bare with me as I attempt to establish a connection between the two.

I was in pain after I walked into the tented makeshift bakery just outside Notre Dame to witness the festival of French bread bakers, because the smell of freshly baked pain hit my stomach and instantly rendered me starving.

This hunger pain, turned to physical pain as hundreds of people pushed themselves up to the counters eager to snatch up free samples. (In fact, I still have a very large black bruise on my arm). Nonetheless, in need of pain, I managed to squeak up to the front of one counter and my effort was repaid with a whole free piping hot baguette.

No pain no gain. Or rather: no gain no pain.

The artistry that went into making some of these loaves must have been painstakingly difficult. I mean, look at the ribbons and detail work made of just water and flour! Who knew such creativity was possible?

Perhaps these bakers should be called painters instead?

And then of course there's the historical connection between pain and pain, The French Revolution, that left many nobles headless because of their failure to aid the starving working class. Those crabby peasants.

We all know that Marie Antoinette's famous quote, "Let them eat cake" was really not in reference to a Betty Crocker gâteau but rather a tasty type of French bread that is cake-like, called brioche.

In theory the Queen's statement, "Qu'ils mangent de la brioche" was really a good suggestion. Brioche is higher in nutritional value containing an outrageous amount of butter and egg yolks. In those days fancy breads were sold at higher prices and normal bread was price fixed (and still is to some degree).

The Queen's idea to make brioche the same price as bread so the working class could eat well was probably better intended than history has suggested. Nonetheless, if you can't buy bread at any price, fixed or not, heads are going to roll.

My head went happily back to my apartment munching my free hot baguette. Thinking, all the way home, of the significance one food item could have in a country's history: the prestige and honor of the profession of bread baking today and the suffering and bloodshed that lack of the product has caused.

France has taken great pains to achieve it's status as 'best bread in world' and I can't think of a country more deserving of this title, all things considered.

Technorati Tags: bread, brioche, french

Google Maps: Paris Teen Tours

Well, one could say the best way to entertain a college student in Paris is to give them a whole bottle of Champagne and a very long straw and watch the magic happen. But there are other more educational and thought provoking ways too.

I taught Cooking and Theater before coming over to Paris and now all my students are in college. Some are actually out of college. And all of them have drivers liscene's which scares the bejeezus out of me. You know how teens are with their zippy tricked out cars, mobile phones, and loud blaring music. Yes, I prefer to be far, far away from my hormonally challenged students during their final indoctrination into adulthood.

However, their parents keep sending them over to me. So I've developed a tour that is two-fold: it's educational and it tires them out thoroughly. Matthew was my first Paris guinea pig and he was also one of my very first students. And I might add, that he is also exceptionally talented (NYU Film major!!!) along with his younger brother Andrew (Dartmouth freshman!!!). Those two kept me laughing and crying for years.

Enlarge the maps for the full tour details and then CLICK on PINS for photos and background info. Puh-leeease check it out, it took hours to do.

TEEN TOUR RIGHT BANK (6 hours walking)

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TEEN TOUR LEFT BANK (4-5 hours)

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Technorati Tags: google maps, Ms. Glaze, Paris, paris tours, students, teens, walking tours

Holiday Help

Although there is something magical about walking into a warmly lit bookstore and finding a book that ends up relating to your life more than expected, missing the holiday shopping chaos and buying online is a close second. Here are my book picks for the holidays that I have selected from bloggers I enjoy, foodies I admire, and novelists who transcend time with words. I like to support publishing companies that are either local (Bay Area) or small and spirited that might or might not appear on the New York Times best seller list.

David Lebovitz worked for Chez Panisse as a pastry chef for fifteen years and now resides here in Paris. His blog is spirited, funny, and warm chronicling his food adventures in Paris. His six cookbooks fall nothing short of fabulous with the same beautiful photography of his blog paired with his extensive knowledge of all things sweet. Published by Ten Speed Press.

My mother gave me this cookbook when I started working the viande station at Guy Savoy. She thought the nicely illustrated diagrams would help me to figure out the difference between American and French cuts of meat and they did. This is for the carnivores and bone suckers in your family. Includes tasty game recipes too.

Suite Française is one of those books that caught me in Shakepeare & Co. and I just couldn't walk away without buying it. It's not a charming little ex-pat story, it's a stunning poignant novel written during World War II in France that was just recently discovered and translated. The author Irène Némirovsky, a Russian jew by birth, was prevented from publishing this novel when the Germans occupied France. She moved to Issy-l'Evêque with her family during the war (German occupied) and died in Auschwitz. A must read.

Fires written by Nick Antosca is an edgy fiction book printed by the upcoming hip publishing company Impetus Press. Nick's style of writing is difficult to resist and the author draws you into the dark lives of three Yale college students as they struggle to come to terms with their childhoods and futures amidst fires both real and imagined that threaten to turn their dreams to ashes. I read this book in one day. I just couldn't put it down. This book contains some graphic language and images.

4 Seasons À La Table N˚5 can only be ordered from the Amazon French store and it's worth the extra bucks. It was recently mentioned in the December issue of Gourmet magazine. The book was co-authored with one of Hotel Meurice's regular clients Kazuko Masui, who always dines at table number five. The recipes cover four seasons of food and are the executive chef, Yannick Alleno's contributions to 3-star cuisine. This is some of the most beautiful food in Paris if not the world. The recipes are written in French and are not practical for the home chef, but the pictures and ideas are stunning. I can't express enough how beautiful this coffee table book is. A very special and unique gift for the foodie in your family.

Technorati Tags: books, cookbooks, tag

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

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

Ah Buh Oui, Uh?

French Expression: Ah buh oui, uh?

Meaning: That's just the way things are. That's life. Some things will never change. Yesssirrybob. I told you so. Welcome to France. Tough shit.

Anyone who's ever taken a linguistics class or traveled abroad knows that the flavor of a language – the essence of its soul – is not in the words themselves but in the unwritten expressions and gestures. Once the point of understanding these sublties is reached, then either you've been in that country too long, or it's too late and you're in-culturated.

I came back head waggling from living in Southern India for a year. It drove my mother so crazy that she would grab my head to stop me shaking it back and forth. I couldn't help it! I didn't even know that I was doing it. That's just part of talking and listening in Southern India. Studying in London, I picked up phrases that sounded like I smushed every vowel in the alphabet together at one time: "aaoouuw-right mate?" and "aaoouuw's it going?" From a summer in Ireland I picked up more of a drinking habit than anything else (it's part of the language I swear) and from a different summer in Spain I learned how to use my hands simultaneously when talking to punctuate feeling.

From France? No doubt I will come home blowing through my lips in exasperation and shrugging my shoulders while rolling my eyes slightly to the heavens above. Ah buh oui uh? Notice that this sentence only contains one word. The rest are sounds.

The first, "ah" is pronounced as written. The second "buh" is really more of an exasperation created by pursing the lips and blowing out. "oui" you know – I'm sure you've heard this one before. And "uh" is said with a slight upwards inflection as if asking a rhetorical question.

We're not done yet.

On the "ah" it is necessary to raise the eyebrows upward and cock the head to one side every so slightly. With the "buh" of exasperation, the shoulders come come up in a shrug. They remain in the shrug on "oui". And with the last "uh" there's an optional hand signal, palms outstretched and turned up, to punctuate the shoulder shrug as if asking, "what are you gonna do?"

Let's say it together now with feeling: Ah (eyebrows raised, head cocked) buh (shoulders come up with explosive lip sound) oui (remain in shrug position) uh (hands come up if you're really feeling moved by emotion)

Why am I writing about this? Because I've just spent the last three weeks trying to do two of the most difficult things for Expats in France at the same time: find an apartment and get my Carte de Sejour renewed. Ah buh oui, uh?

Lets talk about finding an apartment in France. I'm from San Francisco and I clearly remember trying to find an apartment during the Dotcom boom where high rolling geeks lavished roundtrip plane tickets to anywhere in the world on landlords. Or offered to double the rent. Or even paid for a whole year up front just to cinch the deal. You think I'm joking? I'm not.

Here in Paris, it's not about the extra cash or the perks you can offer, it's about the paper work. He who has the most paperwork wins!

Ah buh oui, uh?

When you go to see an apartment you must bring a book with you that proves you are a good person with a paying job, you have money in your bank account, and either your employer or your parents are willing to pay the bill if you cannot. If you are an Expat then you also need copies of your Carte de Sejour (oh wait, mine's expired, hope they don't notice!), your passport, and any other official looking documents that you can throw on top to make the pile look more presentable.

Once you've got this book together then it's time to start combing the listings because paying for an agency is astronomical. If you want to do it the French way, then it's necessary to go to the website De Particulier A Particulier and search through listings posted privately. Be careful about leaving telephone messages because often landlords get scared when they hear a foreign accent. Ah buh oui, uh?

And who wants to be turned down, or not have the call returned, before you even get the chance to show off your official looking Book-Of-Self.

One apartment I looked at (for an ungodly amount of money) the young owner asked if I could have my parents sign a paper saying they would vouch for me. I'm American! What was he going to do? Drain my parent's accounts all the way from France? And, I'm a grown married woman of 34, not a college student. I can afford to take of myself thank-you-very-much. I don't need my mommy or daddy to sign a permission for me.

Thankfully, I did finally find a new apartment through my connections with the Democrats Abroad. This is the other thing about living in Paris that is a must. You MUST network if you want to get anything here. Ah buh oui, uh? Now I am the proud renter of a tiny cute flat in St. Michel complete with a wood-beamed ceiling and a bed I have to climb up stairs to crawl into. I love it. It's my new mouse house. And the landlord is an American ex-pat who didn't even ask to see my Book-Of-Self. Go figure. Ah buh oui, uh?

Finding an apartment is peanuts compared to the Carte de Sejour process. Guess what you need this procedure? That's right! Paperwork!!! You must also bring the Book-Of-Self that contains everything you put together for the apartment search on top of everything you thought you didn't need and some pictures. No matter how complete your revised book is they will find some problem with it. I guarantee it.

Yesterday, I went to the police station buried deep in the outskirts of the 17th arrondisement to file for my extended Carte de Sejour, so that I can file for my re-newed Carte de Sejour next month at the Prefecture de Police. Ah buh oui, uh?

It was raining and freezing cold, so just for fun the security guard decided to keep us waiting in line outside the building, letting groups of ten enter in 45 minute intervals. I waited 45 minutes to enter the non-descript depressing building. I climbed the stairs to the room marked for Etrangers (strangers or foreigners) grabbed a number and waited in the holding pattern for my time to visit the clerk who would undoubtedly find something wrong with my revised Book-Of-Self.

I waited another 45 minutes.

Finally my number was called and I had my first encounter with the secretary who asked the reason for my visit and quickly scanned my paperwork to see that I had everything in order. Then I went back to the holding pattern to wait for my chance to see another pencil pusher who would give me the green slip – the extended Carte de Sejour - so that I can repeat the process with the big guns down at the Prefecture de Police.

My number was called again and a disgruntled unfriendly blonde took my book for review. She looked at the photos I had brought and decided they wouldn't work. What? They won't work? It's the same friggin' picture I've used on my Carte de Sejours for the last three years! I showed her my old Carte de Sejour and she took it and the photos to her boss to see what could be done about this.

I was told that even if they did work last time, they wouldn't work this time because my shoulders were ever so slightly cocked to one side. They needed to be full front. She told me to get new ones and come back. Wait, what? You want me to wait outside in the freezing cold rain for another 45 minutes? She explained that I could just come straight back inside and that it wouldn't be a problem.

So, I did what I was told. I found a place to get my pictures retaken and then marched on back to the Police station. But the guard had changed and the new guy didn't recognize me and he refused to call the disgruntled blonde upstairs. He told me that I must stand in line like everyone else. Ah bu oui, uh? (tough shit)

Another 45 minutes elapsed and finally I was allowed to see the disgruntled, blonde, unfriendly pencil pusher. She took my photo and cut it out and pasted in on my new green extended Carte de Sejour slip. 4 hours of waiting for 2 minutes of cut & paste.

Now, I have an apartment and an extended Carte de Sejour.

Ah buh oui, uh?

Baking Bread in Conzieu: IT'S ALIVE!!!

This has got to be one of the top ten reasons to quit your day job and become a food blogger: so that you too can get invited to a beautiful Chateau outside of Lyon overlooking a gorgeous valley to learn bread baking in a wood fired oven while sipping champagne in the company of new friends who share a common passion for good food! Who said blogging doesn't pay off?

My husband and I were invited by Bradley and Marie Prezant, the bread baking power duo of Bethesda Baking, to come spend a long weekend at their maison in Conzieu, an hour outside of Lyon, located at the hilly tip of the Alps. As I was madly trying to arrange last minute train tickets for our trip, my husband, being the internet guru that he is, asked:

"Honey, do you know these people?"

"Yeah, I met them on the internet."

"No, do you know these people?" He probed again trying to ascertain the risk involved in our new adventure.

"Um, yeah, they're bread bakers."

No doubt the idea of driving out to the middle of nowhere and being cut up into a million pieces was plaguing him. But me? Well, I think bread bakers are a special breed of scientist that have better things to do than to draw food bloggers out of their Parisian habitats for luxurious weekends just to serve them up on a platter.

We reached their house overlooking a valley dotted with farms and rivers and pulled into a driveway bordering a church dating back over one thousand years. "Oh, mon dieu, this can't be it!" I muttered in disbelief after viewing the incredible beauty and serenity of the surroundings. Bradley and family greeted us with a warm welcome and a cold glass of vintage Veuve Cliquot. Not a bad way to begin a weekend! They showed us to our cozy bedroom complete with clawfoot bathtub, wood burning fire place, and views of the valley out of each window.

"This is for us? You must be kidding me..." I said peering out one of the windows.

The next few days were a cooking and baking frenzy fueled by good wine and great conversation. It was my first time baking bread from scratch. I don't mean just adding fresh yeast to flour and letting it do its bubbly thing, I mean making creating starters like 'poolishes' and 'levains' that pack extra flavor and take time and energy to develop. Then mixing them with more ingredients to form beautiful loaves of hearty tasting bread.

If you're a novice bread baker like me, then you're probably wondering what the difference is between a poolish and a levain yeast starter. A poolish or 'pouliche' as its called in French, is a liquid pre-fermentation starter that is created with roughly equal parts of water and flour with added yeast that is allowed to develop over an extended period of time of four to eight hours. It adds a nutty rich flavor to bread and can also increase its longevity after its baked (if it doesn't get eaten immediately). The word 'poolish' was coined in the 1700's from the way the Polish make a liquid yeast starter to bake bread.

A levain starter, mostly used for sourdough bread, is a little more complicated and requires several feedings over a longer period time. Its created like a poolish but has more flour than water. During the long aging process, while the levain is fed, it develops a rich sour taste that adds more complexity and character to the bread. Levain starters are like something out of the musical Little Shop of Horrors: "Feeeeed me Seymour! Feeeed me allll night lonnngg!!!"

Making bread starters reminds me of sea monkeys – remember those? You add water to a magical powder and then watch tiny creatures grow, swim around, and multiply. Only its more satisfying because you get to eat the bread at the end or trade it (like we did with the villagers) for fresh eggs and foraged mushrooms.

The entire bread making process is a combination of several steps. Yeast is ALIVE and requires oxygen, a little food, and a warm place to grow. As the yeast eats its food it releases carbon dioxide which causes the dough to stretch, rise, and ferment more. The dough must ferment at least three times. The first time with the poolish or levain starter, the second after more flour is added and the dough is kneaded and allowed to double (here it is often punched down to release carbon dioxide and rise again), and the third time after shaping the dough into loaves and allowing it to quickly 'proof' in a warm humid environment before baking.

Good bread bakers know how to play with the timing involved with the fermentation processes in order to create more flavorful breads. In many cases the second fermentation process can be slowed down or controlled by placing the dough in the refrigerator overnight. However, if you're in a hurry the bread will rise quicker in a warm environment. Brioche dough contains tons of butter and needs an extra long time to rise in the refrigerator, otherwise you'll end up with a gloppy mess of melted fat on your table.

The flour that you choose to bake bread with is important. The higher the protein content is in the flour, the more elasticity and the nicer the structure of the bread. That stretchiness comes from chemical compound gluten which is made up of protein and starch. Normally bread flour has a higher protein content than all-purpose flour.

We baked several breads including: brioche in all different shapes and sizes, sourdough rye, and cereal. The brioche we cooked in a normal stove but the heavier loaves we baked in Bradley's wood burning oven. In order to heat up the bricks inside his specialty furnace, Bradley made a fire with several logs and let them burn to coal. After they had burned down completely, he swept the ashes out of the oven and we shoveled the loaves in, added some water for steam, and shut the little iron door to let the bread bake away.

To "pay" for our lessons we cooked dinner. With my husband as sous chef we whipped up some soul warming potiron (pumpkin) soup with toasted seeds, a roast chicken with root vegetables and reduced red wine vinegar jus, tomatillo and corn relish (from Bradley's garden!), and a Tarte Aux Noix made from walnuts we gathered up from walnut trees around town. Not complicated, but completely locally grown and seasonal.

In between cooking, baking, and letting poolishes poolish my husband and I explored some of the neighboring villages. We drove through a town called Crapéou, pronounced Crappy-You and picked apples perfect enough to be something out of Snow White. Then headed for the surrounding hills to discover pristine lakes, trails, and more tiny villages. It's hunting season right now and you can hear the hunting dogs barking away with their little bell collars ringing everywhere. Not wanting to end up on the wrong side of a shot gun we noted the trailheads for next time.

Our last evening was spent playing the French card game Tarot with some of the local card sharks in the village, eating Tarte Aux Pommes baked with our Crappy-You apples, and drinking more vintage champagne. Due to the fact that I was a little too tipsy to concentrate on the rules of the game, I lost. But I think I won overall, so no hard feelings.

I know there are those who believe that bloggers are a narcissistic bunch who only seek out others whose beliefs reflect and mirror their own while hiding all the time behind an anonymous computer screen. But, I beg to differ. I am truly thankful for all the people I have met world wide whose areas of expertise and values are different and yet complimentary to mine. Although I can be shy in social situations, I enjoy the opportunity to meet new people face to face. This weekend for me, was an example of extraordinary generosity and the desire for a world community that I think most of us seek to create in whatever way we know how.

Many thanks to the Prezants for taking the time out of their busy lives to show complete strangers a truly wonderful time. I know it will be a memory that we will cherish forever.

I will leave you with a recipe for brioche, the rest of the bread recipes are somewhat secret and you'll have to get invited over to the Chateau...

Technorati Tags: bread, brioche, chateau, conzieu, levain, poolish, yeast

Oh La Vache!

My all-time favorite French expression is “Oh la vache!” which strictly translated means “Oh the cow!” I believe the closest English euphemism would be “Oh my gosh!” …

Photos of Claravale Farm taken by Tana Butler of www.iheartfarms.com

When I moved to Paris two years ago to work as a cook, I did not have the same ah-ha revelation that Julia Child experienced with her first meal in Normandy. No, I went from bistro to bistro in search of something that would rival any of the restaurants in my native San Francisco. I was unwilling to compromise taste for a smoke filled patio view of the Eiffel Tower.

After several disappointing experiences in bistros serving the same badly prepared fare, I headed to the farmers' markets hoping to find seasonal and perhaps unusual heirloom produce. Mais non! The SF Ferry building easily rivals any of the best Parisian markets and Bay Area farmers’ markets are just what the name implies—farmers selling their wares. As opposed to vendors buying their produce from Rungis, the largest supermarket in the world, and reselling it.

But then it happened. On a hot summer’s day, I entered Monoprix (the French Safeway) in search of a light lunch. I chose a 4-pack of small terracotta pots filled with vanilla yogurt. I recognized the label Yoplait and thought to myself, “Hmm, I’ve never really liked Yoplait but these pots look so unusual.” When I got home I plunged my spoon into the creamy white yogurt flecked with ground vanilla pod and savored every last creamy bite. “Oh la vache! C’est bien ça! je n'ai jamais goûtée de yaourt comme ça!” (Oh the cow! It's good. I've never tasted yogurt like that!)

With the excitement of my newfound delicious milky treat I went straight back to Monoprix for more samples. I figured that if Yoplait was so good in France then Dannon had to be equally rewarding. And it was. Which led me to my next purchase of yoaurt fermier (yogurt from the farm) bottled in beautiful glass jars. The consistency of this yogurt was runny but the flavor unbeatable.“Vache, tout les yaourts sont délicieux!” (Cow, all of the yogurts are delicious!)

Thus began my love affair with French cows and one that did not stop at yogurt. Oh no! Yogurt was only the beginning. After yogurt I discovered French butter. Not to worry, I wasn’t buying sticks of butter and eating them like candy bars although there were times I wanted to!

Who knew that butter could be made with big crunchy grains of sea salt that when smeared on hot toasted baguette and served with raspberry jam created one of the most heavenly pairings on earth? Who knew that beurre sec, or ‘dry butter’ made extra flaky melt-in-your-mouth croissants? Or that beurre salé or ‘salted butter’ allowed one to sauté on high temperatures without burning it. Did I mention the sweet farm butter dotted with clots of sweet cream?

Of course no essay on the holy French cow would be complete without a nod to frommage. I’ve always been a Cow Girl Creamery loyalist and I regularly like to show my chef friends, who think all U.S. milk products taste like Velveeta, a glimpse of the California good life via their website. But one cannot ignore the divine goodness of Comté, pungent Munster, wickedly delicious triple cream Brie, or a scoop of ooey-gooey Camembert with a bowl of apple cider to wash it down. The methods for making these world famous cheeses has been handed down for generations and are strictly regulated by the A.O.C. to insure quality and tradition.

So just what is it about these French cows that provide such heavenly milk and who if anyone can match their product in Northern California? That is really the question that begs to be answered.

I posed this question to one of the chefs I cook with in Paris. The response I got was nothing less than expected: “En France les vaches du meilleurs lait parce qu'elles font l'amour toute la journée.” In other words, French cows produce the best milk because they make love all day long. Bien sur! (Of course!) Well, there you have it: good milk comes from oversexed cows. I knew there was a simple answer—and I thought all happy cows came from California.

Through research I discovered that there are at least twenty-five different dairy breeds in France and many provide milk for specific products. For instance the Simmental cow produces milk for Gruyère cheese and the Normande breed is famed for producing milk for Camembert.

In the United States we have around eleven dairy breeds and half of those breeds are dwindling in number. We rely heavily on the Holstein and Jersey breeds for our milk products. This is not altogether bad, because, both breeds are highly regarded worldwide and also used in France for a majority of dairy products. It appears that both countries have happy (I didn’t say oversexed) cows that produce tasty rich milk.

Photos of Bobolink Farms taken by Tana Butler of www.iheartfarms.com

The reality is that our milk products are different because our consumer demand is different. French people won’t eat yogurt that is loaded with gums or gelatins. However Americans will purchase yogurt (or should we say Jell-O with all the additives?) because it costs less and it’s convenient.

The French take great pride in regionally made butter and recognize that cows produce milk with different moisture content depending on the season. Grain fed cows over the winter will produce a butter that is lower in moisture and better for baking whereas butter made during the spring is creamier from green grass pasture grazing. Not all of our cows—even our organic cows—are allowed real pasture time and in some cases they will never see a blade of fresh grass ever!

As always, Northern California dairy farmers are illuminating the path to quality. Farms like Claravale, Strauss Family Creamery, Stornetta Farms, Triple C Ranch, & Robert Giacomini Dairy provide organic (local) milk for consumers and boutique cheese makers. Cowgirl Creamery, Point Reyes Cheese, and Brown Cow yogurt are just a few to benefit. Even traditional dairy farmers in California are transforming their farms in order to experiment with organic milk, cheese, and beef since it has proven to be profitable and environmentally sound.

Which brings me to my conclusion that Northern Californians and the French alike are happy consumers. Parisians might not have the choice in produce that we do in California and the small French bistros perhaps don’t have the money to support the quality that we demand in San Francisco, but both cultures are content. So logically, we all must be either making love all day long or eating fabulous dairy products. Or both? Oh la vache!

Technorati Tags: cow, Cowgirl Creamery, french, vache

Interview with World Radio Paris

Forget television! Growing up in my house the radio was always playing. I couldn't study, shower, walk, sleep, or eat without it. My taste in music changed over the years throughout my distinct rebellious phases. However, my parents tastes were un-waivering. It was always National Public Radio with programs like Fresh Air, Prairie Home Companion, The Car Guys, and Mystery Theater. I loved it when my parents turned on NPR. Especially during those long car trips.

My brother was the biggest radio fanatic of all of us. He ran the high school radio station and after college rode the airwaves from disc jockey to program director to national radio consultant. He now co-owns eleven popular radio stations in California. My niece, twelve years old, has her own station called School of Pop that she streams live. And before you skip over the link thinking it's child play, think again, it's a great station. Don't ever play Name That Tune with her, because she knows every song in the book regardless of genre and can tell you when it first played, where it was recorded, who recorded it, and more. I guess you could say we're a pro-radio family.

So when Katie Macpherson, asked to do a radio interview for World Radio Paris, an NPR affiliate, I jumped at the chance. I met her at the metro station close to my apartment and we walked down to my local farmer's market to shop for seasonal produce and then headed back to my apartment to cook it up while she interviewed me about life in Paris and cooking in a French restaurant. For three hours we cooked, ate, taped, and talked. How she edited all that jammer down to five minutes is beyond me!

If the player is not working try this link: WRP Interview by Katie Macpherson

Something happens to my brain when I have a microphone in my face. The gerbals stop running up there. My own story – my own history – disappears. Luckily Katie is a great journalist and she kept those questions coming for three hours en plus despite fish scales flying around like confetti and various dishes cooking on the stovetop. It's a little nerve wracking to cook with a microphone a few inches from your face, like rubbing your belly and patting your head simultaneously. Challenging but fun.

I like Katie, she's quirky. She's this beautiful young American woman who is petit, cheerful, and smart. And yet despite her diminutive frame and sweet disposition, I can somehow picture her elbowing her way through a pack of crowded reporters and getting the headline story. She's not afraid to ask questions and she's not afraid of people. That may sound simplistic, but the reality takes faith and determination. I don't think I could do it.

I was intrigued with her desire to pursue radio journalism, when clearly she would be equally successful on TV. I know that she has dabbled in television but her heart remains with radio perhaps due to the simplicity of medium – no heavy cameras to lug around, no makeup to put on, no camera shy interviewees or camera-loving candidates. If the story and the relationship with the interviewee are the objectives, then radio, seems to me, to be the purest way of capturing it.

Being interviewed was an enlightening experience. I sometimes interview myself in the shower and I definitely have been grilled during job interviews, but this was different. This was personal. And yet, it was so easy to open up to her. She asked me questions I had never thought about which ultimately helped me to gain some personal clarity. Everybody should be interviewed, it's cheaper than therapy and gets a lot off your mind!

I couldn't help but to ponder afterwards, if our world is becoming too visually focused – if we are loosing our oral traditions. When I taught English in India, I used radio plays as a teaching tool. The students loved reading the lines and performing the sound effects. My students always laughed nervously when they heard their first lines played back through the tape recorder but after a few minutes they became entranced with the story itself. They understood the idea of story telling and listening because it is such a rich part of Indian culture. Later, in the Bay Area, I used radio plays again in my theatre classes but my students struggled with the concept. They were unaccustomed to communicating a story through their voices or listening to the story played back without squirming around. They wanted to see everything acted out.

Hope you enjoy listening to this short interview. We had a great time making it even if my brain wasn't functioning properly. I think the background sounds are especially fun. Wish there was more of Katie's voice in it. I interviewed her a little during our session, but she obviously cut that out. We joked about starting a radio cooking show. Heck, if The Car Guys can fix engines through the airwaves then perhaps it's possible to teach French technique. They're both time consuming and ridiculously complicated. Anyway, hope you find the interview entertaining and please check out World Radio Paris if you're living in France.

There's some interesting stories to be heard out there...

Technorati Tags: Ms. Glaze, NPR affiliate, radio, radio interview, world radio paris

Nose To The Grindstone

I'm sorry I don't have a recipe to post inbetween chef stories, but I've been trying to accomplish a million errands before work starts and I haven't had time to cook. Besides, I'm dieting and I'm sure no one really wants a recipe on how to make a tasteless salad with the right balance of protein, carbs, and fats. How un-français!

I sometimes feel that I'm living back in India because it takes a whole day to accomplish simple tasks. Grocery shopping takes me at least two hours because I hop from one little shop to the next for meat, fish, cheese, and wine chatting with all the local vendors. Then it's over to the farmer's market in my neighborhood for produce.

I know this notion is very romantique to those not living in Paris – but sometimes I miss good ole' American convenience. I often day dream about driving to Whole Foods in my huge American car. Parking in the spacious parking lot. Shopping in a store that has multiple options and exciting international products – many of them organic. Putting all my groceries in my huge American trunk and driving away into the sunset. Oh, and of course, pulling up into my double driveway and parking inside my house. Eeetzh uh good dreem, non?

Today was spent trying to get my knives sharpened before 8 A.M. tomorrow morning. A feat nearly impossible in any country. However, I found a place on the outskirts of Paris and metroed myself over there this afternoon. It was a tiny little shop with only one man working. Behind his counter were the biggest spinning sharpening stones that I have ever seen. They were taller (and wider) than me! I kicked myself a few times for not bringing my camera along. He took my knives and told me to return at 5 P.M.

I hopped back on the metro and killed time in St. Germain lécher la fenêtre (window licking) and people watching in Jardin du Luxembourgh until the blue skies burst into grey torrential downpour. Then I ran for cover as best I could in my stiletto heels and huddled under an awning barely wide enough for all us sun worshippers. No matter we bonded in the rain and clapped when it was over. I metroed back over to my knife guy and there my beauties were awaiting me in sharpened splendor.

So tomorrow's the big day. Back at work at the 3-star restaurant I call home. I don't know what I will be doing but I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I will still be at the meat station, it's interesting, and I like to work with meat. I like to hack up chickens and debone lamb and peel the legs off of pigeons. I'm wierd like that.

However, there are many other stations that are equally fascinating, they just happen to be in areas of the kitchen that are twenty degrees hotter and next to the chefs that yell a lot. Eeeeek!

There will be a whole new crew of apprentices tomorrow and we are somehow supposed to be ready for dinner service after a month of being closed with a totally new staff. Twenty new young chefs will be arriving tomorrow. Twenty. Oh la la la la la la. Should be interesting. I'll let you know how it goes...

A Demain!

Technorati Tags: French, Paris, travel