• The many delicious things boulangers make with pastry dough: croissants, pain au chocolat, pain aux raisins, escargots, almond croissants…
• The many delicious ways the French prepare potatoes: steamed in butter, steeped in chicken fat, deep fried, Daupinois, gratin’d, mashed, pureed…
• The incredible-edible egg in all its French forms: omelettes, quiche, torts, sliced on sandwiches, the classic oeufs mayo…
• The overwhelming variety of bread: pain complet, boule au levain, pain aux cereals, pain de compagne, pain au lait, pain moulé, a good old baguette…
Showing posts with label Bread. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bread. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
My Vegan Mondays
“Eating what stands on one leg [mushrooms and plant foods] is better than eating what stands on two legs [fowl], which is better than eating what stands on four legs [cows, pigs and other mammals].”
A Chinese proverb, shared as Rule 24 in Food Rules.
Morning
Coffee and soy milk
Two bananas and a delicious nectrarine
Afternoon
Quinoa salad with tomatoes, cukes and corn
Couple pieces of bread (post-Italy, I am trying to lay off the carbs, but this was the irresistible crunchy-doughy French baguette variety—miam)
White nectarine
Evening
Soba noodles with edamame and sesame seeds
Wheat toast with raspberry jam
Tea
A Chinese proverb, shared as Rule 24 in Food Rules.
Morning
Coffee and soy milk
Two bananas and a delicious nectrarine
Afternoon
Quinoa salad with tomatoes, cukes and corn
Couple pieces of bread (post-Italy, I am trying to lay off the carbs, but this was the irresistible crunchy-doughy French baguette variety—miam)
White nectarine
Evening
Soba noodles with edamame and sesame seeds
Wheat toast with raspberry jam
Tea
Friday, September 3, 2010
Sensory Friday
This week, I’m back in Paris but New York is still lingering.
• It felt so good to have the sun’s rays and summer heat on my bare legs.
• Of the many delicious things I ate, I think the very best wasn’t even a sweet—it was the smoked cod salad at Jack the Horse: smoky, creamy, generous, unique and utterly divine.
• I finally listened to La Petit Choue’s kickass birthday mix—all kinds of new musicians. Merci, Kate!
• I was dazzled by the wardrobe and art direction and cinematography in I Am Love—extraordinary.
• But now that I am back in Paris, I am surrounded by one of my all-time favorite things in the world: the smell of freshly baked baguettes. Not even the Egyptian jasmine for Hermé’s perfume smell as good as a French boulangerie at 8 o’clock in the morning.
• It felt so good to have the sun’s rays and summer heat on my bare legs.
• Of the many delicious things I ate, I think the very best wasn’t even a sweet—it was the smoked cod salad at Jack the Horse: smoky, creamy, generous, unique and utterly divine.
• I finally listened to La Petit Choue’s kickass birthday mix—all kinds of new musicians. Merci, Kate!
• I was dazzled by the wardrobe and art direction and cinematography in I Am Love—extraordinary.
• But now that I am back in Paris, I am surrounded by one of my all-time favorite things in the world: the smell of freshly baked baguettes. Not even the Egyptian jasmine for Hermé’s perfume smell as good as a French boulangerie at 8 o’clock in the morning.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Bread on the back-burner
Having visitors usually means adding a pound or two to the scale. Not that I own a scale. In fact, I only see my weight a couple times a year: once when I visit the doctor and the other when I visit my mom. But I can tell weight gain by the fit of my jeans and the rolls on my stomach. Some things we just know.
A week of visitors meant an extended period of eating more than usual. And not that Connie, Nina and I were decadent, not at all. But still, there was wine, cheese and bread on a near-daily basis and other little treats like chocolate and macarons (I had to initiate the young one!).
The kicker, however, was Friday—it had nothing to do with Connie and Nina and my thinly veiled excuse to eat more, but, rather, it was another petit dej at work. We have these every two weeks, where three people bring in viennoiseries, fruit, juices, baguettes, jars of Nutella—the works—and we have enough food to feast on from 10 in the morning until departure time at 7 o’clock. This past Friday was particularly weird as the “breakfast” foods consisted of: cupcakes, brownies, m&m cookies, two boxes of chocolate-covered marshmallows, chocolate chip sweet bread and two brioche loaves, accompanied by an especially large jar of Nutella and regular-sized jar of Speculoos.
In case I’ve ever left any room for doubt, I am hopeless at times like this; utterly helpless in the presence of these sweet and chocolaty foods. Even though I would steal only a piece of cookie here and a slice of brownie there, that’s all I ate for eight hours: cookies, brownies, Nutella and cake… I had such belly bloat from all the refined sugar by noon that I should have been frightened, very, very frightened, but instead I kept going back for more. And it was all topped off with a giant bowl of pasta for dinner, which was delicious—Mel and I had dinner at Caffè dei Cioppi—but it was not exactly the smartest choice at the end of that gluttonous eating day. My belly bloat was beyond a polite woah-ho slow down, girl! look. It was disgusting, to say nothing of how carved out and empty I felt.
So I have nicked bread and pastries and anything filled with refined sugar and flour for the time being. Saturday, I had only whole foods like sliced mango, roasted chicken and cheese. Sunday turned into Vegan Sunday with couscous with roasted broccoli and sundried tomatoes, quinoa with asparagus, oranges and dates and more fresh fruit. And today will be a proper Vegan Monday. No bread. It's an order that's almost more difficult than no pastries.
But I already feel tons better: more energetic and lighter and healthier. It’s a sad and cruel truth, I fear: that we really are better off, the less we eat. I’d probably be a whole lot safer in a city like Manchester or Tbilisi.
A week of visitors meant an extended period of eating more than usual. And not that Connie, Nina and I were decadent, not at all. But still, there was wine, cheese and bread on a near-daily basis and other little treats like chocolate and macarons (I had to initiate the young one!).
The kicker, however, was Friday—it had nothing to do with Connie and Nina and my thinly veiled excuse to eat more, but, rather, it was another petit dej at work. We have these every two weeks, where three people bring in viennoiseries, fruit, juices, baguettes, jars of Nutella—the works—and we have enough food to feast on from 10 in the morning until departure time at 7 o’clock. This past Friday was particularly weird as the “breakfast” foods consisted of: cupcakes, brownies, m&m cookies, two boxes of chocolate-covered marshmallows, chocolate chip sweet bread and two brioche loaves, accompanied by an especially large jar of Nutella and regular-sized jar of Speculoos.
In case I’ve ever left any room for doubt, I am hopeless at times like this; utterly helpless in the presence of these sweet and chocolaty foods. Even though I would steal only a piece of cookie here and a slice of brownie there, that’s all I ate for eight hours: cookies, brownies, Nutella and cake… I had such belly bloat from all the refined sugar by noon that I should have been frightened, very, very frightened, but instead I kept going back for more. And it was all topped off with a giant bowl of pasta for dinner, which was delicious—Mel and I had dinner at Caffè dei Cioppi—but it was not exactly the smartest choice at the end of that gluttonous eating day. My belly bloat was beyond a polite woah-ho slow down, girl! look. It was disgusting, to say nothing of how carved out and empty I felt.
So I have nicked bread and pastries and anything filled with refined sugar and flour for the time being. Saturday, I had only whole foods like sliced mango, roasted chicken and cheese. Sunday turned into Vegan Sunday with couscous with roasted broccoli and sundried tomatoes, quinoa with asparagus, oranges and dates and more fresh fruit. And today will be a proper Vegan Monday. No bread. It's an order that's almost more difficult than no pastries.
But I already feel tons better: more energetic and lighter and healthier. It’s a sad and cruel truth, I fear: that we really are better off, the less we eat. I’d probably be a whole lot safer in a city like Manchester or Tbilisi.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Dinner is served
As a single girl, it’s not often I come home to this.
Cheese and bread and dinner almost ready in the kitchen and a bottle of Bordeaux already open on the table.
But I could definitely get used to it.
Cheese and bread and dinner almost ready in the kitchen and a bottle of Bordeaux already open on the table.
But I could definitely get used to it.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Reflections on a year
I’ve been in Paris for exactly a year. Happy Anniversary to me!
Accordingly, I’ve been reflecting on my time here this week, trying to gather the highlights and learnings. There are lots to think about, but here are my basic takeaways.
Change is good. It’s not always easy or comfortable, but surrounding yourself in a new environment, meeting new people, creating new habits, and confronting new challenges—change—is one of the riskiest, most rewarding, most exciting experiences life can offer. Having moved here at the age of 36, after eight years in New York, I am convinced of this.
Things can get pretty low. I had a couple months of mild depression in the fall. I never expected it (especially after six months of nearly non-stop euphoria), and I hated it. I wanted to cry, I craved sympathy, I lashed out at strangers. It was a horrible time. As happy as I’ve been, it hasn’t been perfect. Nothing is.
Loneliness is one of the worst feelings in the world. The pangs of not feeling understood, knowing you’re thousands of miles from friends and family, not having someone to just grab a cocktail with at the end of a day—these were little things that felt even worse than the depression. Thank god I can now count on a handful of really good friends here in Paris and rarely do I feel lonely. I still miss everyone back home dearly— more than you think—but it’s good to have a new community of friends whom I adore and trust and love being with.
And on that positive note…
It’s been a year of appreciation. What a wonderful feeling it is, walking around this city and being seduced by everything from a random flower stand to the smell of warm bread to the perfect architecture. It’s like being in love. With a city.
The initial phase of being here was like nothing else, and I will always relish it. It’s that charmed time of being so open—open to meeting people, going places, trying new things even if I knew I was going to hate them (and get mauled). It just didn’t matter because it was all part of the experience. Sadly, that precious phase is over. It was a unique and fleeting time. But only because a deeper, more fulfilling—and more demanding—phase has replaced it.
The food? Nothing short of incredible. I do not exaggerate. The fruit and veggies, the full-fat yogurt and café crèmes, the myriad cheeses and wines, champagne and chocolate, and of course, the bread and the pastries. Sigh. In-cred-ible.
France is beautiful. There is still so much to see and explore, but from Nantes to Nice, Lille to Biarritz, nothing in this country has disappointed me yet.
God, do I love the Velibs and biking through Paris!
It’s interesting being part of two cultures; straddling two lives. It’s both alienating and exhilerating. I wasn’t keen to be part of an ex-pat community when I moved here, but laughing with people who understand how absurd all the paperwork and protocol and bad humor is has really kept me sane. So now I am two citizens, twice over: of New York and Paris, and of the local and Anglophone communities.
I am a girl of solitude. I’ve always wished I were a better conversationalist, but the French proclivity to talk, talk, talk drives me bonkers and makes me a little more proud of not having to always fill silences. And of not always having something to say.
I love the care the shopkeepers take with their windows, each one like a mini museum exhibition; a shrine to objects, pleasures and ideas.
French kids are pretty damn cute. Almost, almost, as cute as Annika and Aidan.
You have to be happy in your space. I love my treehouse, especially in the summer months when it’s bright and sunny and I catch a glimpse of the Pompidou or the chimneys peppering the rooftops. But in the cold winter months, I hated being home.
I have a lot to learn about cheese and wine and champagne and cooking and baking and French history and art and, and, and...
It’s cool that you can still learn about yourself after 30-something years of being stuck with yourself. I don’t always like what I see in the mirror, I’m not always proud of the thoughts that pass through my head, but life is all about learning. And this Parisian adventure has been fun, fulfilling and an indulgent and wonderful time to learn just a little bit more about myself.
Accordingly, I’ve been reflecting on my time here this week, trying to gather the highlights and learnings. There are lots to think about, but here are my basic takeaways.
Change is good. It’s not always easy or comfortable, but surrounding yourself in a new environment, meeting new people, creating new habits, and confronting new challenges—change—is one of the riskiest, most rewarding, most exciting experiences life can offer. Having moved here at the age of 36, after eight years in New York, I am convinced of this.
Things can get pretty low. I had a couple months of mild depression in the fall. I never expected it (especially after six months of nearly non-stop euphoria), and I hated it. I wanted to cry, I craved sympathy, I lashed out at strangers. It was a horrible time. As happy as I’ve been, it hasn’t been perfect. Nothing is.
Loneliness is one of the worst feelings in the world. The pangs of not feeling understood, knowing you’re thousands of miles from friends and family, not having someone to just grab a cocktail with at the end of a day—these were little things that felt even worse than the depression. Thank god I can now count on a handful of really good friends here in Paris and rarely do I feel lonely. I still miss everyone back home dearly— more than you think—but it’s good to have a new community of friends whom I adore and trust and love being with.
And on that positive note…
It’s been a year of appreciation. What a wonderful feeling it is, walking around this city and being seduced by everything from a random flower stand to the smell of warm bread to the perfect architecture. It’s like being in love. With a city.
The initial phase of being here was like nothing else, and I will always relish it. It’s that charmed time of being so open—open to meeting people, going places, trying new things even if I knew I was going to hate them (and get mauled). It just didn’t matter because it was all part of the experience. Sadly, that precious phase is over. It was a unique and fleeting time. But only because a deeper, more fulfilling—and more demanding—phase has replaced it.
The food? Nothing short of incredible. I do not exaggerate. The fruit and veggies, the full-fat yogurt and café crèmes, the myriad cheeses and wines, champagne and chocolate, and of course, the bread and the pastries. Sigh. In-cred-ible.
France is beautiful. There is still so much to see and explore, but from Nantes to Nice, Lille to Biarritz, nothing in this country has disappointed me yet.
God, do I love the Velibs and biking through Paris!
It’s interesting being part of two cultures; straddling two lives. It’s both alienating and exhilerating. I wasn’t keen to be part of an ex-pat community when I moved here, but laughing with people who understand how absurd all the paperwork and protocol and bad humor is has really kept me sane. So now I am two citizens, twice over: of New York and Paris, and of the local and Anglophone communities.
I am a girl of solitude. I’ve always wished I were a better conversationalist, but the French proclivity to talk, talk, talk drives me bonkers and makes me a little more proud of not having to always fill silences. And of not always having something to say.
I love the care the shopkeepers take with their windows, each one like a mini museum exhibition; a shrine to objects, pleasures and ideas.
French kids are pretty damn cute. Almost, almost, as cute as Annika and Aidan.
You have to be happy in your space. I love my treehouse, especially in the summer months when it’s bright and sunny and I catch a glimpse of the Pompidou or the chimneys peppering the rooftops. But in the cold winter months, I hated being home.
I have a lot to learn about cheese and wine and champagne and cooking and baking and French history and art and, and, and...
It’s cool that you can still learn about yourself after 30-something years of being stuck with yourself. I don’t always like what I see in the mirror, I’m not always proud of the thoughts that pass through my head, but life is all about learning. And this Parisian adventure has been fun, fulfilling and an indulgent and wonderful time to learn just a little bit more about myself.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Speculoos, my new favorite word
Okay, one thing that sometimes makes baguettes even better is waiting until you get home so you can slather them in…
The biggest slave to Nutella I am, I never thought another spread might capture my heart. Speculoos comes pretty close. The same color and consistency of peanut butter, yet it’s sugar-y sweet and somewhat spiced and crunchy too.
In other words, it’s like crushed up Speculaas—those thin, crunchy Danish cookies—that have been blended with extra sugar and additives and preservatives so you can smear it on bread and croissants and make weird sandwich combinations out of (Speculoos and pear? Speculoos and Nutella? Speculoos and Nutella and peanut butter??). It’s really good for you, too. No, really! It gives you lots of energy and happiness.
Speculoos, people. If you’ve had it, you know the bliss that I describe. If you haven’t, you must try it. And if you can’t find it, maybe I can be convinced to start a Speculoos mail order business.
The biggest slave to Nutella I am, I never thought another spread might capture my heart. Speculoos comes pretty close. The same color and consistency of peanut butter, yet it’s sugar-y sweet and somewhat spiced and crunchy too.
In other words, it’s like crushed up Speculaas—those thin, crunchy Danish cookies—that have been blended with extra sugar and additives and preservatives so you can smear it on bread and croissants and make weird sandwich combinations out of (Speculoos and pear? Speculoos and Nutella? Speculoos and Nutella and peanut butter??). It’s really good for you, too. No, really! It gives you lots of energy and happiness.
Speculoos, people. If you’ve had it, you know the bliss that I describe. If you haven’t, you must try it. And if you can’t find it, maybe I can be convinced to start a Speculoos mail order business.
Sometimes heaven comes cheap
One thing I’ll say for the French: they know how to make a good baguette.
Two of my favorite moments this week included getting demi-baguettes in the evening, still warm, therefore impossible to resist tearing into in the street (it’s okay, I’ve seen other people nibbling on their baguettes). It’s like nothing else: warm, chewy, crunchy, doughy and earthy. Altogether sublime.
Two of my favorite moments this week included getting demi-baguettes in the evening, still warm, therefore impossible to resist tearing into in the street (it’s okay, I’ve seen other people nibbling on their baguettes). It’s like nothing else: warm, chewy, crunchy, doughy and earthy. Altogether sublime.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The impossible happened
I turned down Pierre Hermé macarons yesterday.
Someone at work was passing around a nice, big, fresh box of them. The chewy, little meringue-y cookies, sandwiching rich, creamy ganache looked heavenly and my team members eagerly plucked their pistachio and café flavors. And I just stood and watched. I was halfway through my no-sweets week. I couldn’t blow it then.
Today, I’m more than halfway done (hurrah!) and the sad truth is, I feel a difference. I have more energy. I feel slimmer. I’m proud of all the fruit I’m eating. In other words, I can’t deny the mal effects of sugar and pastries and chocolate and all of those wonderful things in life.
But I’m not being totally pious. To compensate for my dear sweets’ absence yesterday, I snacked on a baguette. And ate nearly the whole thing. Followed by lots of wine last night, which was followed by more bread with dinner. And a dense, chewy roll today chockablock with nuts and dried fruit. Beaucoup de pain, mais c’est la vie, eh?
Three more days. Easy, right? So long as the macarons don’t get passed around again. And then this weekend, I can break the detox with…. hmmm… maybe a warm pain aux raisins in the morning? Or a nice thick chocolat chaud in the afternoon? Or maybe with galette des rois in the evening by the fire. Life is beautiful.
Someone at work was passing around a nice, big, fresh box of them. The chewy, little meringue-y cookies, sandwiching rich, creamy ganache looked heavenly and my team members eagerly plucked their pistachio and café flavors. And I just stood and watched. I was halfway through my no-sweets week. I couldn’t blow it then.
Today, I’m more than halfway done (hurrah!) and the sad truth is, I feel a difference. I have more energy. I feel slimmer. I’m proud of all the fruit I’m eating. In other words, I can’t deny the mal effects of sugar and pastries and chocolate and all of those wonderful things in life.
But I’m not being totally pious. To compensate for my dear sweets’ absence yesterday, I snacked on a baguette. And ate nearly the whole thing. Followed by lots of wine last night, which was followed by more bread with dinner. And a dense, chewy roll today chockablock with nuts and dried fruit. Beaucoup de pain, mais c’est la vie, eh?
Three more days. Easy, right? So long as the macarons don’t get passed around again. And then this weekend, I can break the detox with…. hmmm… maybe a warm pain aux raisins in the morning? Or a nice thick chocolat chaud in the afternoon? Or maybe with galette des rois in the evening by the fire. Life is beautiful.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Paris for the first time
The Eiffel Tower is amazing, it’s true. And the Louvre and L’Arc de Triomphe are massive and impressive. All the things you’ve heard about Paris, in fact, are true. It’s a city of immense beauty and wonder and rarely does anything disappoint.
But still, many of its charms are in the small nooks and lesser-known areas. If you wander off the beaten path, you’ll be rewarded with small delights like hidden courtyards, homemade ice cream and cute old-timers shuffling down cobblestone streets with their baguettes in one hand and French bulldogs in the other. Here are a few small ways to guarantee you’ll fall in love with the city.
• Walk around the residential neighborhoods. Get away from the first and sixth arrondisements (not that there’s anything wrong with them) that, head for head, probably have more foreigners than locals. When you stumble into Parc de Monceau, on the border of the eighth and seventeenth, or climb the hills of the thirteenth instead of the tourist-clogged eighteenth, you’ll get a true sense of Paris’ charms.
• Stroll through the flower market on Ile de la Citie.
• When it comes to art, think small: museums (l’Orangerie), fondations (Cartier) and galleries. Going to a vernissage (gallery opening) gives you the bonus of great people-watching, too.
• Take a Velib for a spin.
• Markets, markets, markets. The produce, the cheese, the flowers, the soap, the honey, the rabbits getting skinned right in front of you! It’s an orgy of sights and smells, and it’s one of the best things in the world.
• Get dolled up and visit a salon de thé like Fauchon or Maxim’s.
• Picnic: pick a prime spot along the Seine. Or settle on a hill in Buttes Chaumont. Pull up a chair and watch the mini sailboats racing at the Luxembourg Gardens. Any excuse to pack some bread, cheese, chocolate, wine and fruit and sit and watch the world go by.
• Pick a public bus route and ride it from end to end. In this city, chances are you’ll see at least one gorgeous monument, plus all the cafes, boutiques, parks, markets and restaurants you’d never know otherwise existed.
• Bonjour, chocolate tour! Pick a neighborhood and follow a trail from one chocolatier to another, sampling just a bonbon or two from each. Go from Jean-Charles Rochoux to Pierre Hermé to Pierre Marcolini in the sixth. In the first, start with Jean-Paul Hevin, to Michel Cluizel, followed by cocoa at Angelina. In the eighth, a Maison du Chocolat, Patrick Roger and Neuhaus all peacefully coexist on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
• Linger on a café terrace. Have a single café crème or coup de champagne. Or get a chevre chaud salad or poulet roti with frites. Imagine yourself in a Bresson photograph. Paris. Perfect.
But still, many of its charms are in the small nooks and lesser-known areas. If you wander off the beaten path, you’ll be rewarded with small delights like hidden courtyards, homemade ice cream and cute old-timers shuffling down cobblestone streets with their baguettes in one hand and French bulldogs in the other. Here are a few small ways to guarantee you’ll fall in love with the city.
• Walk around the residential neighborhoods. Get away from the first and sixth arrondisements (not that there’s anything wrong with them) that, head for head, probably have more foreigners than locals. When you stumble into Parc de Monceau, on the border of the eighth and seventeenth, or climb the hills of the thirteenth instead of the tourist-clogged eighteenth, you’ll get a true sense of Paris’ charms.
• Stroll through the flower market on Ile de la Citie.
• When it comes to art, think small: museums (l’Orangerie), fondations (Cartier) and galleries. Going to a vernissage (gallery opening) gives you the bonus of great people-watching, too.
• Take a Velib for a spin.
• Markets, markets, markets. The produce, the cheese, the flowers, the soap, the honey, the rabbits getting skinned right in front of you! It’s an orgy of sights and smells, and it’s one of the best things in the world.
• Get dolled up and visit a salon de thé like Fauchon or Maxim’s.
• Picnic: pick a prime spot along the Seine. Or settle on a hill in Buttes Chaumont. Pull up a chair and watch the mini sailboats racing at the Luxembourg Gardens. Any excuse to pack some bread, cheese, chocolate, wine and fruit and sit and watch the world go by.
• Pick a public bus route and ride it from end to end. In this city, chances are you’ll see at least one gorgeous monument, plus all the cafes, boutiques, parks, markets and restaurants you’d never know otherwise existed.
• Bonjour, chocolate tour! Pick a neighborhood and follow a trail from one chocolatier to another, sampling just a bonbon or two from each. Go from Jean-Charles Rochoux to Pierre Hermé to Pierre Marcolini in the sixth. In the first, start with Jean-Paul Hevin, to Michel Cluizel, followed by cocoa at Angelina. In the eighth, a Maison du Chocolat, Patrick Roger and Neuhaus all peacefully coexist on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
• Linger on a café terrace. Have a single café crème or coup de champagne. Or get a chevre chaud salad or poulet roti with frites. Imagine yourself in a Bresson photograph. Paris. Perfect.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Home on a Wednesday
It’s Armistice Day today. A sad holiday of remembrance. But man, am I happy to be home.
I went to the gym this morning and had another funny/surreal aerobics class with French men bouncing around to Estelle and Coldplay in white tank tops and black tube socks.
Then I hit up rue Montorgueil for some fresh bread and veggies from the markets. Still working on that sugar detox.
Now, I am devoting myself to writing and just enjoying being home in my treehouse with Milo, with no crazy agenda. Laundry and blogging are hardly exciting or sexy things to do on a day off. But I get a sick pleasure out of days like these.
I went to the gym this morning and had another funny/surreal aerobics class with French men bouncing around to Estelle and Coldplay in white tank tops and black tube socks.
Then I hit up rue Montorgueil for some fresh bread and veggies from the markets. Still working on that sugar detox.
Now, I am devoting myself to writing and just enjoying being home in my treehouse with Milo, with no crazy agenda. Laundry and blogging are hardly exciting or sexy things to do on a day off. But I get a sick pleasure out of days like these.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
An ace Sunday
What a day. By the time I rolled out of bed, had my coffee, did a little work and got ready, it was nearly noon. I made a beeline for Rue de Martyrs. The idea was that I’d start my day with the pastry I had decided against yesterday. But when I arrived at Arnaud Delmontel, the line was not only out the door, but down the street. I swear, more people wouldn’t have been waiting if the patisserie was giving away eclairs and baguettes for free. I was shocked. And sad—there was no way I was standing in the line so I couldn’t realize my morning pastry fantasy.
I did go inside the patisserie, however, to get the name of the treat I had yesterday. I felt like an idiot for not writing it down so I would know what to order next time. It was a patte d’ours: a bear paw. Awwww…
Next stop on the day’s grueling itinerary was the organic market (marché biologique) on Avenue Raspail. This is a Sunday market that Zack and I discovered back in 2001 (we were here for 9/11) when we stayed in Saint-Germaine. I returned on both visits last year. I just love walking through and soaking up all that food. Okay, I did enough of that yesterday, I know. But this was a quick visit. It was a gorgeous day and I wanted to fait du velo!
I got a Velib, headed back to the right bank, making my way by the Bastille Opera (The Third Symphony of Gustav Mahler on the calendar; got a ticket for next Monday), and up the canal. It was just a fantastic ride. With a beautiful spring day, everyone was out biking, rollerblading, strolling, and sitting along the water and at outdoor cafes. The energy is infectious. I biked way up to the 19th arrondisement and back down along the other side of the canal; then, through the charming streets of the Marais; and, finally, to the highway along the Seine, which they close to cars on Sundays.
This bit is amazing for the views alone, but it gets really clogged with pedestrians. Before peeling off to return to the streets, I biked through a long tunnel in which the streetlights cast an aquarium-type, soft bluish glow. With the other bicyclists' headlights shining and occasional ringing of bells, it felt like being in a fantastical under-water world.
By the time I emerged back into daylight, around the Place de la Concorde and through the first arrondisement, my legs were burning and my knees, aching. I was all too happy to ditch the bike and walk again. I headed up to Montmartre, where I:
• Had proper nourishment with a salades gigantes. Yes, the one that’s topped with fried potatoes.
• Bought a pair of jeans—my first purchase here, actually (not counting a couple books yesterday). But they were on sale, and they fit, and we all know that if you find a pair of jeans that actually fit, you have to buy them. Especially if they're on sale.
• Meandered up the hill, enjoying the quiet residential streets (where I passed a fondue restaurant I actually went to when I was a student), but not so much the souvenir stands, piano bars and tourist overload at the top.
• Bought a demi-baguette from Coquelicot. It was warm.
I told you: an ace Sunday. And I am exhausted.
I did go inside the patisserie, however, to get the name of the treat I had yesterday. I felt like an idiot for not writing it down so I would know what to order next time. It was a patte d’ours: a bear paw. Awwww…
Next stop on the day’s grueling itinerary was the organic market (marché biologique) on Avenue Raspail. This is a Sunday market that Zack and I discovered back in 2001 (we were here for 9/11) when we stayed in Saint-Germaine. I returned on both visits last year. I just love walking through and soaking up all that food. Okay, I did enough of that yesterday, I know. But this was a quick visit. It was a gorgeous day and I wanted to fait du velo!
I got a Velib, headed back to the right bank, making my way by the Bastille Opera (The Third Symphony of Gustav Mahler on the calendar; got a ticket for next Monday), and up the canal. It was just a fantastic ride. With a beautiful spring day, everyone was out biking, rollerblading, strolling, and sitting along the water and at outdoor cafes. The energy is infectious. I biked way up to the 19th arrondisement and back down along the other side of the canal; then, through the charming streets of the Marais; and, finally, to the highway along the Seine, which they close to cars on Sundays.
This bit is amazing for the views alone, but it gets really clogged with pedestrians. Before peeling off to return to the streets, I biked through a long tunnel in which the streetlights cast an aquarium-type, soft bluish glow. With the other bicyclists' headlights shining and occasional ringing of bells, it felt like being in a fantastical under-water world.
By the time I emerged back into daylight, around the Place de la Concorde and through the first arrondisement, my legs were burning and my knees, aching. I was all too happy to ditch the bike and walk again. I headed up to Montmartre, where I:
• Had proper nourishment with a salades gigantes. Yes, the one that’s topped with fried potatoes.
• Bought a pair of jeans—my first purchase here, actually (not counting a couple books yesterday). But they were on sale, and they fit, and we all know that if you find a pair of jeans that actually fit, you have to buy them. Especially if they're on sale.
• Meandered up the hill, enjoying the quiet residential streets (where I passed a fondue restaurant I actually went to when I was a student), but not so much the souvenir stands, piano bars and tourist overload at the top.
• Bought a demi-baguette from Coquelicot. It was warm.
I told you: an ace Sunday. And I am exhausted.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Pastry check-in
It had to happen. Today was a bit gluttonous.
It all started on Rue de Martyrs, which is an awesome little market-filled street, much like the Rue de Montorgueil near my new apartment. It’s food paradise, and I love walking around and admiring the piles of clementines and artichokes, smelling the stinky cheese (fromageries) and seafood (poissonneries) shops, ogling the patisseries and boulangeries… I even enjoy the butchers (chacuteries) with their coils of sausages and terrines of pates because the food here is taken so seriously that you have no choice but to appreciate it, and maybe even genuflect before it. It’s glorious.
I had read about Rose Bakery, started by an English woman who married a Frenchman. It’s supposed to have lovely scones, salads, sandwiches and the like, and I wanted to give a try. But not bad enough to wait in the line that was about eight people deep when I arrived (I hate waiting in food lines). I took a gander at the salads, tarts and baked goods—which did indeed look worth some waiting around for—bookmarked it for a future visit, then beat it across the street to Arnaud Delmontel. Sure, his bread is incroyable, but what of his pastries?
Oh! Oh, so, so good. I should have written down the one I chose. There were just too many to choose from and I stood before a very patient shopkeeper for many long minutes, trying to decide. The one I finally decided on was similar to a pain a chocolat except it had a different shape and was filled with pistachio almond paste. It was so fresh and delicious; the pastry, so flaky and buttery; it made my heart flutter as I strolled down the hill eating it.
My quest for the day was to check out a bookstore down on Rue de Rivoli so I carried on southward and, wouldn’t you know, I crossed rue Saint-Honoré right near Michel Cluizel. I took this as a sign that it was time to have my first bite of chocolate in Paris and got one—just one, so don’t talk to me about a lack of restraint—marcolat, the crunchy, praline-filled, macaron-shaped chocolate that I had discovered last year in Paris.
I then hit a couple British bookstores, which were wonderful (I swear, I could blow all my savings when a bookstore is new to me.) and meandered to the Marais. I figured it was time to add a healthy salad to the pastry and chocolate that were mingling in my belly.
But it was one of those days where I just couldn’t find the right place to eat. I went back to the café I visited last weekend, but they were done serving food. And I was getting tired and cranky. So I wound up at a very mediocre place and had a very mediocre salad that suffered from too much oily dressing. I hate mediocre food. It just shouldn’t happen—especially here.
So I felt gypped. Which was my excuse for searching for another pastry. Which was a bad idea. Never make a shotgun pastry decision.
Even though I had conveniently made my way to Rue de Montorgueil, the market-filled street near my new apartment, where the patisseries should be good, mine wasn’t. I had a plie du chocolat, which was similar to last week’s Pain Suisse, but drier.
To repent, I had half a mini-quiche and fruit for dinner.
It all started on Rue de Martyrs, which is an awesome little market-filled street, much like the Rue de Montorgueil near my new apartment. It’s food paradise, and I love walking around and admiring the piles of clementines and artichokes, smelling the stinky cheese (fromageries) and seafood (poissonneries) shops, ogling the patisseries and boulangeries… I even enjoy the butchers (chacuteries) with their coils of sausages and terrines of pates because the food here is taken so seriously that you have no choice but to appreciate it, and maybe even genuflect before it. It’s glorious.
I had read about Rose Bakery, started by an English woman who married a Frenchman. It’s supposed to have lovely scones, salads, sandwiches and the like, and I wanted to give a try. But not bad enough to wait in the line that was about eight people deep when I arrived (I hate waiting in food lines). I took a gander at the salads, tarts and baked goods—which did indeed look worth some waiting around for—bookmarked it for a future visit, then beat it across the street to Arnaud Delmontel. Sure, his bread is incroyable, but what of his pastries?
Oh! Oh, so, so good. I should have written down the one I chose. There were just too many to choose from and I stood before a very patient shopkeeper for many long minutes, trying to decide. The one I finally decided on was similar to a pain a chocolat except it had a different shape and was filled with pistachio almond paste. It was so fresh and delicious; the pastry, so flaky and buttery; it made my heart flutter as I strolled down the hill eating it.
My quest for the day was to check out a bookstore down on Rue de Rivoli so I carried on southward and, wouldn’t you know, I crossed rue Saint-Honoré right near Michel Cluizel. I took this as a sign that it was time to have my first bite of chocolate in Paris and got one—just one, so don’t talk to me about a lack of restraint—marcolat, the crunchy, praline-filled, macaron-shaped chocolate that I had discovered last year in Paris.
I then hit a couple British bookstores, which were wonderful (I swear, I could blow all my savings when a bookstore is new to me.) and meandered to the Marais. I figured it was time to add a healthy salad to the pastry and chocolate that were mingling in my belly.
But it was one of those days where I just couldn’t find the right place to eat. I went back to the café I visited last weekend, but they were done serving food. And I was getting tired and cranky. So I wound up at a very mediocre place and had a very mediocre salad that suffered from too much oily dressing. I hate mediocre food. It just shouldn’t happen—especially here.
So I felt gypped. Which was my excuse for searching for another pastry. Which was a bad idea. Never make a shotgun pastry decision.
Even though I had conveniently made my way to Rue de Montorgueil, the market-filled street near my new apartment, where the patisseries should be good, mine wasn’t. I had a plie du chocolat, which was similar to last week’s Pain Suisse, but drier.
To repent, I had half a mini-quiche and fruit for dinner.
Friday, March 13, 2009
“How has the food been?”
That’s one of the questions Kerry asked in her last email.
Pas mal.
I’ve been here for eight days and so far: one plain croissant; one almond croissant; three pastries with varying amounts of chocolate chips, almond paste and fruit; a Nutella crepe; strawberry cake; red velvet cake; one coffee macaroon; and one bag of Haribo gummies. Can you believe I haven’t had a pain au chocolat yet?? Or any chocolate bonbons? I can’t.
But it hasn’t been all sweets. The French are coo-coo about chicken, so I’ve had a lot of chicken: chicken and frites, chicken and couscous, chicken sandwiches and chicken salads. That’s a lot of chicken.
Many of the bistros serve amazing salads – this has been one of my sources of chicken. One of the salads I’ve fallen for is just lettuce, tomatoes, chicken, hard-boiled egg, cheese and fried potatoes, served with a basket of bread. (I tell myself this is healthy.) At one of the places I’ve had this salad, they call them “salades gigantes” and, indeed, they’re huge. I started laughing when the waiter placed this salad, topped with so many fried potatoes that it looked like a bowl of chips, in front of me. But it was so good, I nearly ate the whole thing.
My other favorite thing so far is the “sandwiches toastés” at Cojean. They’re basically just paninis, but the bread and ingredients are to die for. Today’s special was mozzarella, tomato and artichoke, but it also had some creamy spread. Amazing, I tell you.
And the yogurt is also awesome. It’s creamy and flavorful, without that weird faux sweetener taste.
The food’s been great.
Pas mal.
I’ve been here for eight days and so far: one plain croissant; one almond croissant; three pastries with varying amounts of chocolate chips, almond paste and fruit; a Nutella crepe; strawberry cake; red velvet cake; one coffee macaroon; and one bag of Haribo gummies. Can you believe I haven’t had a pain au chocolat yet?? Or any chocolate bonbons? I can’t.
But it hasn’t been all sweets. The French are coo-coo about chicken, so I’ve had a lot of chicken: chicken and frites, chicken and couscous, chicken sandwiches and chicken salads. That’s a lot of chicken.
Many of the bistros serve amazing salads – this has been one of my sources of chicken. One of the salads I’ve fallen for is just lettuce, tomatoes, chicken, hard-boiled egg, cheese and fried potatoes, served with a basket of bread. (I tell myself this is healthy.) At one of the places I’ve had this salad, they call them “salades gigantes” and, indeed, they’re huge. I started laughing when the waiter placed this salad, topped with so many fried potatoes that it looked like a bowl of chips, in front of me. But it was so good, I nearly ate the whole thing.
My other favorite thing so far is the “sandwiches toastés” at Cojean. They’re basically just paninis, but the bread and ingredients are to die for. Today’s special was mozzarella, tomato and artichoke, but it also had some creamy spread. Amazing, I tell you.
And the yogurt is also awesome. It’s creamy and flavorful, without that weird faux sweetener taste.
The food’s been great.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
They do like their bread
Clichés are awesome because they’re so often true.
When I was walking “home” this evening, I took rue des Martyrs because I know it’s filled with all the neighborhood markets that I love: fromageries, epiceries, butchers, boulangeries and the like.
I love that the French flock to their neighborhood bakeries in the evening to get their baguettes fresh from the oven. I was surprised there wasn’t much of a line at Arnaud Delmontel, who won the Meillleur Baguette ’07. This is the bread they serve at Hotel Amour, and it was fantastique.
The line at Montmartre’s Coquelicot, on the other hand, was literally out the door. This was good because otherwise I would have gone in for a pastry. Today was my first pastry-free day.
When I was walking “home” this evening, I took rue des Martyrs because I know it’s filled with all the neighborhood markets that I love: fromageries, epiceries, butchers, boulangeries and the like.
I love that the French flock to their neighborhood bakeries in the evening to get their baguettes fresh from the oven. I was surprised there wasn’t much of a line at Arnaud Delmontel, who won the Meillleur Baguette ’07. This is the bread they serve at Hotel Amour, and it was fantastique.
The line at Montmartre’s Coquelicot, on the other hand, was literally out the door. This was good because otherwise I would have gone in for a pastry. Today was my first pastry-free day.
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