Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

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

1st Week Review: No Place For A Lady

I can only liken my experience as a female chef cooking in a 3-star Parisian restaurant to that difficult time in America when women were starting to make a presence in the military.There is a hierarchy in the French kitchen, just like the army, and they don't know how women should fit in – do they treat us like dogs and yell at us point blank the way they do with the young men to toughen us up? Do they flirt with us and just enjoy the fact that we're there to brighten the eleven hour work day? Do they resent us because we're screwing up the system? What do they do?

Then there's the reverse question – what should I do? Do I take the sexual humor as a joke and let it roll off? Do I put forth my best butch impression and try and be one of the boys? Do I play off the fact that I am a women so I don't have to do all the icky work? Do I dare show talent and determination?

Of course, I am who I am, there's no changing that, but how to fit into an ingrained system that is not quite sure about whether or not women are acceptable? I find this more challenging than even the French/English language barrier.

The restaurant kitchen is not set up for women at all. There is one toilet by the chef's dressing room that doesn't lock and isn't clean and we can't use the bathrooms in the restaurant. All chefs are expected to change in one locker room that has no privacy. No one is supposed to wear their uniform in or out. However, I live a block away, so I've decided to forgo that rule.

I'm not shy, but I don't feel like giving 36 young men a sneak peak and then having to work with them in the kitchen. Even the way the day is set up, working from 8:30 AM – 11 P.M. with a two hour break in the middle, provides a barrier for any woman who might want a family.

I would say that most of the chefs really enjoy female presence in the kitchen and even though they aren't quite sure how to behave around me yet, they want to make it work. I think I have proved my self-worth to the point that I now am heaped with prep work.

I do have restaurant experience, so I'm not completely a deer caught in the headlights, and I think that shows in the speed in which I can whip through tasks. However, I feel that I have to prove myself at all times, because there is always some one watching me either out of curiosity or disdain.

Looking back on my first week, it has definately been a difficult one. The physical exhaustion, the language barrier, the male dominated army like regime. Very very difficult. There have been rays of sunshine that have brightened my week and I count myself lucky because I've only had one afternoon where I came home in tears and seriously thought about not going back.

As one of the older and wiser chef's said to me : You'll get used it. Don't worry mon petit, after two months it won't bother you at all.

Hmmmm, I hope so...

Walking Tours In Paris: Notre Dame

I am spending my last two days of life as I know it entertaining my parents. Thank God for this wonderful distraction. Otherwise I would be sitting around nervously awaiting my new position as an official 3-star potato peeler. I start my apprenticeship (stage) at Guy Savoy on Thursday and I haven't been given a schedule yet. They want to see "what level I'm at" on the first day. I'm supposed to show up and bring three knives – one to cut my wrists with if I fail miserably.

Before my parents leave me and take off for Provence in search of Sistercian Abbey's, we've been galavanting around Paris looking for evidence of the Parisii, Romans, Francs, and Merovingians. Today I donned my chunky camera & strapped on my fanny pack ready to brave the cobblestone. Okay, I'm joking about the fanny pack, but we did take a walking tour today that was incredible – fascinating!

The oldest clock in Paris, still works!
Our group met outside the metro station Cité and we walked around the original Island of Paris ending at Notre Dame. I have tromped through this area many many times from the Prefecture de Police (oh, what a ghastly place) for my Carte de Sejour to Notre Dame but I have never noticed the architecture. Or, if I have, I haven't been able to decipher it.

Faces underneath Pont Neuf bridge
The leader of our small group, Iris, was knowledgeable and lively bringing alive Paris's last Eighteen hundred years. Not an easy task. I found it curious how many of original buildings were replaced with similar modern ones. For instance the Conciergerie, or Justice Hall, is built on top of the old Roman courts of Law and Notre Dame was built on top of the Roman temple to Jupiter. It seems they recognized those pieces of earth to be meant for certain tasks: justice, worship, etc. and continued to use it in that way, just modified a little bit.

Courtyard memorial wall dedicated to French deportation, 1945
I also had no idea that there is a memorial to all the WWII deportees behind the courtyard to Notre Dame. It is dedicated to the 200,000 Parisians (126,000 who were Jewish) that were taken from Paris by the Nazi's, never to return to Paris again. The memorial is subtle in appearance on the ground level with a little grass courtyard and small patch of roses, but walk down those same steps to the Seine that all those prisoners did, and you will never be the same.

Above center doors at Notre Dame Cathedral
We left the memorial and continued our walk along the side of Notre Dame and ended our historical tour right in front of the huge ornate center doors with a statue of Jesus looming overhead, palms outstretched to all of us tourists . A nice way to finish.

PARIS WALKS
www.paris-walks.com
e-mail: paris@paris-walks.com
Tours include: Ile de la Cité & Notre Dame, Medieval Latin Quarter, The Marais, The French REbolution, Montmartre, Paris and the Da Vinci Code, Saint Germain-des-Prés, and Hemingway's Paris,

For more info, stop by the Red Wheelbarrow bookstore in the Marais for updated flyers

Technorati Tags: Church, Notre Dame, Paris

St. Denis: Burial Place of Kings & Queens

What happens when you get a history fanatic, a Catholic, and a graveyard obsessed nut together? You go to all the church's in Paris that's what!

My parents are here in town for my graduation from Le Cordon Bleu and we're sight seeing. My mom is a history-o-holic. She's probably the only person on earth who's interested in touring France for it's Sistercian Abbey's (not for the wine and cheese). She's also the only person I know that can correct tour guides on their facts. God, I love her.

My Stepdad is the Catholic. Growing up in a strict Lithuanian Catholic family, he is able to decipher many of the symbols that elude my mom and me. However, I think the church has mixed memories for him and when I asked if he wanted to light a candle for anyone the other day, the answer was a firm "No." Then he joked and said, "I'd rather buy some indulgences..."

I'm the graveyard obsessed nut. When I was a child if we passed a graveyard on a road trip I would throw a fit until we stopped and walked through it. I had my gravestone picked out by the time I was six. This worried my parents greatly and still continues to mystify my Mom. I've always been fascinated with death and burial rituals.

We arrived at St. Denis, the famous final resting place of all the French Kings and Queens, on a cloudy morning . Many of my notorious favorites are buried here including Catherine Medici (who brought artichokes to France) and Marie Antoinette (Let them eat cake). According to my mother, it is also one of the earliest gothic churches, although it was embelished by later peiods, and influenced famous churches like Chartres.

The outside is in bad shape. In fact, we thought we had come to the wrong place. We were surprised once we walked inside to see the vaulted ceilings and beautiful stained glass windows. We headed to the crypt, with morbid curiosity.

During the Revolution most of the tombs were desecrated. Many years later restoration was begun under Napoleon I to consecrate the church as the Imperial burial place. Under his authority the search began for the bones and relics of all those naughty Queens and Kings that had been dumped into two pits outside the church by the revolutionaries. Thankfully, the mausoleums had been preserved underneath the church and were restored above later.

The mausoleums are incredible. Those made after 1285 are lifelike, carved from death masks. Many of these are of King's and Queen's together naked on their deathbed showing detailed muscular structure, hair, and features. I was surprised to find out that they had been commissioned this way by the royalty themselves. Above their twisted deathbed statues they are dressed in coronation clothes showing their former decorated selves.

Marie d'Espagne really gave me the heeby-jeebies. I was taking a picture of her when I noticed that she was looking at me. I put my camera down to rub my eyes and make sure I wasn't hallucinating, and her eyes seemed normal again – a blank marble slate with no pupil or retina or direction. When I went to take another picture, I could swear she was looking at me again. I changed the angle of my camera to see if it was the lighting, but no matter where I moved, there she was peering at me from the corner of her eye. I showed my mom the pics after we left the church and we both got shivers.

Marie Antoinette's masouleum is saintly. She looks like a perfect little beautiful Queen deep in humble prayer. To betray otherwise, we noticed that her breasts are haflway popping out of her dress (unlike all the other Queens) and they are shiny from people rubbing them. It must be the new buddha-like tradition in St. Denis – rubbing Marie Antoinette's breasts. Although, I can't see how that would bring anybody luck. Nonetheless, there is something about her, even her statue, that is intriguing. Can't wait to see the new film coming out on her. I hope it's good and not too forgiving of the spoiled Queen.

As we walked out of the church back through the nave, my Stepdad remarked on the incredible architecture, "Imagine, they did all this without a computer or anything, just with their hands. Funny how enlightened we are today and we can't build anything as beautiful as this." We all paused to admire the endless archways and heavenly light peering in through the stained glass one last time before heading to the duldrums of metro Line 13.

Where: St. Denis, St. Denis Basilique on Line 13

Technorati Tags: Paris, St. Denis, travel

Private Cooking Class

I had the privilege today of having two famous Paris bloggers over to my house for a little privé cooking session. I can't tell you how honored I was to entertain Maitresse and Gill of Confessions of a Young Woman. Gill emailed me last week and asked if I'd be interested. Of course I said yes! Like there was even an option!!! Luckily for me I had a little assistance from my cooking partner Jamie at Le Cordon Bleu and my husband who is one of the best mixologists I know of.

I have to admit I was a little nervous at first. Only because there is something voyeuristic about reading other peoples daily posts. Then meeting that person in person, is slightly bizarre at first. Serious deja vu, because you already know about their history. You can talk about people/problems in their lives (boyfriends, family, work etc) like you've known them for years. I have been fascinated with their journeys in Paris, so our cooking session was a great excuse to finally meet in person and swap stories.
So here's what we made based on French cooking techniques:

Spring Menu:
Vegetable Soup Provencal with Pistou
Beef Tournedos with Béarnaise Sauce and turned Artichokes
Tarte au Citron & Tarte aux Poires Frangipane & Tarte aux Frambois et Frangipane

We started with basic cutting technique (mirepoix, paysanne, brunoise, julienne) for our vegetable soup and moved onto multiple tart variations. We tried our hand at grilling meat, turning artichokes, and making the alltime French classic, bearnaise sauce. Quite an ambitious meal for one day.

My husband used the simple syrup I had poached the pears in from the Tarte aux Poire et Frangipane, and created a vodka cocktail with mint. It was so refreshing and I'm afraid, a little too drinkable. The essence of lemon, cinnamon, cointreau, and fresh pear in the syrup really created the most sublime spring time cocktail.

We chopped, we grilled, we baked, we laughed, we drank, we ate and ate and ate. Good time had by all...can't wait to do it again...I think next time I'll start the refreshments a little later in the lesson :-)

Vegetable Soup Provencal recipe to follow...

Technorati Tags: Paris, soup

Preparing for My Stage

I've been avoiding expressing my immediate dream because I didn't want to jinx it. Now I see that the idea is preposterous, so I might as well share my little foodie fantasy and if it doesn't happen then I can grovel for sympathy or if it does happen we can all celebrate together.

I'm graduating in four weeks from Le Cordon Bleu and I'm trying desperately get myself ready for my "stage". A stage is like an apprenticeship without pay in a restaurant. We call it an internship in America. However, in the french kitchen it really means slave labor. I have worked in kitchens in San Francisco restaurants and run overly packed cooking classes with hormonally challenged teenagers – a feat I still look back on with wonder – but the idea of working in a Michelin star restaurant is intimidating.

In the vein of Julia Child, I've started working in the kitchens at Le Cordon Bleu to try and get back into the swing of prep work and to practice with unfamiliar produce, meats, and fish. It hasn't been easy. First of all, my french is horrible. The sous-sol chef barks orders to the assistants and I have to double check to see what he's said. This is a huge problem. Often instead of telling me what to do, he'll come over and show me an example. What am I going to do in a french restaurant where nobody speaks English? Is the head chef going to come over to me and show me an example every time he want's something done? Uh, don't think so!

I secretly think the sous sol chef puts up with me only because my french makes him laugh. I'm not shy about talking en francais, but my pronunciation, grammar, and verb conjugation in elementary. On our first encounter I told him that I needed a "gros carrot" for one of the chefs. He burst out laughing so hard that tears started flowing from his eyes. I didn't understand what I had said, until I grabbed a big carrot from the walk in fridge – then it hit me. I had asked him if I could have a big penis.

To make matters worse, there's a little hierarchy amongst the student kitchen staff at LCB and I spent the first week having to really prove myself. I'm older than everyone down there and have restaurant experience so you can imagine my surprise (and annoyance!). I know that sounds cocky, but when a 21 year old tells you your brunoise is shit and orders you to do it again in a tone reserved for disobedient kids, it takes a lot of deep breathing to maintain composure. And, by the way, the recipe said dice not brunoise. However, I sucked it up and inwardly thought, "This is just a test, it could be much worse in a real French restaurant kitchen".

My favorite was when one of the students tried to tell me how to wash lettuce. I was ripping the core out quicker than he was cutting it out and he was insisting that I was doing it wrong. I finally turned to him and said, "I used to prep for hundreds of salads a night, I think I can handle these twenty heads here". After that he realized that I had some experience and instead started asking me questions about quick ways to handle different produce.

But, I don't want to come across as a know-it-all here because many of these Cordon Bleu Kitchen Slaves have been working sous-sol a long time and they understand the flow of preparing lunch for the whole Cordon Bleu staff as well as preparing all the foods for the demonstrations and practicals. I have learned a huge amount from the students in the basement of Cordon Bleu: I can shuck oysters, clean monkfish (very hard), cut purrrfect brunoise and julienne, butcher just about any type of meat, and understand basic french orders. And yes, I've also learned that it's okay to be 30-ish and still learning.

I have four weeks in the basement kitchen at Le Cordon Bleu and then It's either sink or swim. Why am I doing this you might ask? Because I want more than anything in the world to do my stage at my favorite restaurant in Paris, the three Michelin star, Guy Savoy. This is my favorite restaurant in Paris and if I had 285 euros for dinner I would eat there every night.

Recently Guy Savoy was voted the 7th best restaurant in the world. I would be happy peeling potatoes in a corner if they let me.

So keep your fingers crossed for me and if anyone has any fancy shmancy favorite restaurants here in Paris, please share...

Technorati Tags: Cuisine, Food, Le Cordon Bleu, paris cooking school, Paris restaurants

Easter Souvenir's

I was struck this Easter morning by an email my Mom sent me that opened the floodgates to lost memories like an uncontrollable river hurtling over everything in it's path. Who knew that Easter eggs could contain such precious jewels? She reminded me of the beautiful Easter dresses my Grandma would buy for me, the bunnies and chicks my Dad raised, the psychedelic Easter eggs we tie-dyed when I was going through my Grateful Dead stage, the Lithuanian eggs we decorated with wax when she first met Joe my Stepfather, the beautiful brunches, neighborhood egg hunts, and fun we had with family and friends.

Appropriately, the French word for a memory is 'souvenir'. A souvenir to me, is like a charm you keep around forever and take out every so often to polish and reflect upon. They don't vanish the way memories do.

Wishing you many souvenir's to put in your basket on this Easter morning!

Technorati Tags: Easter, Paris