A Blithe PALATE

French Women Don't Get Fat

Superb book.  No nonsense.  Common sense.

But as I said to Jules tonight after a family dinner of osso buco, it only works if you’re not visiting Paris. 

Tres Gauche

We ate on the Rive Gauche last night.  Lan tells me that the French don't refer to the embankments on either side of the Seine as geographic descriptors.  "Left Bank" and "Right Bank" are terms apparently more American than French.  They consider locations by arrondissements.  After the mouse encounter at Fauchon, Jules and I headed off towards Les Bouquinistes, located in the Sixth (St-Germain-des-Prés), overlooking the Seine. 

It’s a lovely walk – past the Louvre and along the Seine, traversed by several ponts including the Pont Neuf, which we crossed to get to the restaurant.  Les Bouquinistes is named for the booksellers who line the street on the left side of the Seine with stalls of second hand and antique books.  Being a bibliowhore myself, I’m a little unnerved by displays of hand blocked prints which are obviously torn pages from books.  Writing in books is one thing.  Tearing books apart to sell the pictures piecemeal is an unnatural act.

Twilight in Paris is a dusty blue; the river turns black and lights from the street glitter on the water’s surface.  Brightly lit tourist barges occasionally destroy the serenity but they sail by quickly and the dusky colors settle on the Seine again.  Along the river, couples are kissing, lost to the moment and to each other.  It’s Robert Doisneau’s photo of the kiss at the hôtel de ville in situ.  We think they’re French because we can’t imagine Americans being this openly passionate.  Then again, we are in Paris.  A dear dear dear friend once said with feeling, “It’s ironic to be in the city of love with a broken heart.”  I think it’s the best time to be there:  nowhere else is there such a clear affirmation of romance.

Les Bouquinistes is one of five Guy Savoy restaurants in Paris.  It’s high end, upscale, minimalist interior chic.  There are restaurants similar to it in most of the major cities in the world. Not necessarily tourist friendly but foreigner accessible.  In fact, we heard a lot of English on either side of us.

Having already distended ourselves with our chocolate luxury two hours earlier, we weren’t too hungry.  The menu featured seafood with one or two poultry dishes.  Jules ordered the Thon "cru- cuit" en trois préparations, riz Basmati et sauvage aux herbes (Tuna Raw & Cooked, Three Styles with Basmati Rice and Wild Herbs) and I was torn between the Risotto crémeux au tourteau et langoustines rôties, bouillon de crustacés (Risotto with Roasted Prawns and Crab in a Seafood Broth) and the Sauces D’Asperges au langoustines rôties (Roasted Prawns in Asparagus Sauce). Ultimately, my deep affection for risotto won out (I just can’t say no to a carbohydrate).

I wanted a glass of wine, but I don’t know how to read French wine menus; unlike American wines, which are classified by varietals, French wine menus appear to be arranged by terroir and region.  I asked our waiter to select a wine for me.

“Red or white?” he asked.

“Your choice,” I answered. 

He nodded confidently and brought me a glass of 2002 Faiveley Mercurey Clos Rochette (a white Burgundy).  Mercurey is an appellation in Burgundy and the Clos Rochette is a  chardonnay varietal.  The very first white burgundy I ever drank was in 1992 – an Olivier LeFlaive St. Aubin.  That St. Aubin still ranks as one of the best white wines I’ve ever had (and I don’t generally like white wines; Hubby says I love wines so tannic they’ll strip enamel off your teeth).  The Mercurey reminded me about everything I’d love about that LeFlaive:  round, crisp, with a soft floral note and pear finish.

Perfect with any seafood dish, our waiter told me. If you think it’s funny that I wrote down the names of our dinner dishes, consider that I blinded half the people on our side of the restaurant with the camera’s flash when I took this picture of my dish (I was too chicken to repeat and take a picture of Jules’ plate).

I’ve eaten at countless restaurants like this.  They do lovely, elegant dishes that are often quite good, but usually lack depth or finish – seldom does flavor linger on the palate or in the memory.  What came to our table was one of the most exquisite flavors I’ve ever tasted.

The rice itself was a little softer than I like my risottos to be and the prawns were about 2 minutes from being mushy – but the broth was breathtaking:  aromatic, savory, intense, with a chardonnay base and tasting of the sea.  The spices were incredibly subtle; nothing pushed forward aggressively, but together formed a luscious mouthful.  No offense to Jules, but paired with my wine, I really didn’t want to talk; I just wanted to roll that remarkable flavor on my tongue over and over again.  I should have asked for the broth to go.

Jules loved her dish – a tuna ceviche, a seared tuna belly, and two deep fried tuna spring rolls.  Not being a fan of tuna, I ate one bite and politely acknowledged its serviceable preparation. I was too convinced of my risotto’s inherent superiority.  Before she ate any part of her dish, I gave her a spoonful of my risotto.  She made noises that drew second glances from men on either side of us.

We had the best service we’ve had since we came to Paris.  And no wonder, as service n’est pas compris at the restaurant.  In France, a 15% tip and tax are generally included in the bill.  Lan tells me that most servers are on salary and can’t really be fired so many of them don’t really try because they’re already getting their tip.  Compared to eighteen years ago, “service” in the France has definitely improved…I remember eating with Tata Michelle in 1987 at Maître Kanter near Grenoble and having our waiter tell her he wasn’t interested in explaining what specials were available that day.  In any case, Alexandre, our waiter, was attentive without being annoying and very helpful – important since his tip depended not on the “compris” or “tip included” ‘system, but on service.  I can’t believe I’m so blasé about mediocre service now that I was enthralled with being treated like a customer.  But I’ll take indifferent service for superb cuisine any day of the week.  Except from Soto in Atlanta.  That’s a different gripe. 

…This is why I come to Paris.  To be happy. 

Tea and la souris.

As it turns out, Lan and Quang live four blocks away from Fauchon’s flagship store at 30 Place de Madeleine.  Fauchon is a high end gourmet store, a French version of Dean and Deluca (or maybe the reverse that Dean and Deluca’s is an American version of Fauchon?). Fauchon was founded in 1886 by Auguste Félix Fauchon, a grocer from Normandy. Fauchon learned about the “chain” store concept from Félix Potin, to whom he was apprenticed.  He started with a small vending cart on the Place de la Madeleine in 1885 and opened his first store a year later, as a purveyor of fine foods and gourmet items.  After his death in 1938, the business was taken over by his sons, who later sold the business to business man Joseph Pilosoff.  Under Pilosoff’s tenure, Fauchon expanded to include international items, and after his death, ownership passed to his heirs.  Fauchon was acquired by a private investment group in 1998 and there are now over 600 stores internationally.

Per Wendy’s instructions, Jules and I headed over to the store to partake of the truffle omelet and to buy lobster butter.  Upstairs in salon de thé, Blondine, our hostess, explained that they served the omelet only during lunch, but suggested some pastries with tea instead.  It was 6:00 and we had dinner reservations at Les Bouquinistes, one of Guy Savoy’s restaurants, at 9:30,  but I have no problem beginning with dessert.  Jules ordered the green tea with orange blossoms and I had the mélange Fauchon, a black tea with raspberries, lavendar, and vanilla. We also ordered a half bottle of the house champagne. 

Our dessert selection was vanilla meringue enveloped in a thick dome of Gianduja ganache, textured with chocolate spray (achieved using a paint sprayer with melted chocolate), and dotted with chocolate meringue.

Okay, see that little brown square embedded in the dessert?  It was inscribed with “Fauchon” in gold lettering.  As Jules asked me about my birthday evening with Hubby, I popped what I assumed to be a chocolate square in my mouth.

“So where did you guys go?”

“Hold on,” I said, gagging.  “I’m eating cardboard.”  I removed the sodden, teeth-marked piece of paper from my mouth and stared at it in horror. 

Jules doubled over.  “I’m so glad you did that first,” she said.  “I was about to eat it, too.”

It reminds me of a Far Side cartoon in which two sharks are munching on body parts and one shark says to the other, “Is this some sort of cruel joke?”  In the background is a sinking ship with floating boxes labelled, “mannequins.”

Apart from this grotesque pastry trompe l’oeil, dessert was an exquisite play in contrasts.  The ganache was just creamy enough to be rich instead of heavy, and the chocolate fine enough to be subtle and not sugary.  The meringue provided a satisfying “crunch” to an otherwise smooth and lush mouthful of chocolate.

In between bouts of admiring our view (“We’re in Paris!”) and consuming a zillion calories, we were catching up when Jules suddenly reared back and gasped.

“Oh my God!”

“What?  What?”

Jules clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes bugging out.  “There’s a mouse over there!”

I turned to watch a furry little grey body scurry towards the back of the room.  As we were the only two people in the salon, it was easy to spot Mr. Mouse’s  trajectory throughout the restaurant. 

“I’d rather see that than a cockroach,” I said.

“I’m thinking there’s not much difference,” Jules answered, gritting her teeth.

“I was at Nieman Marcus on Fifth Avenue last year when a mouse ran up a woman’s leg.”

Wrong thing to say.  Jules went ashen.  “I’m on the verge on getting on this chair.”  As it was, she had already planted both feet on the chair next to us.  She remain fixated on the area behind me.  “What if he climbs up the wall and gets on our table?!”

“Jules, he’s a mouse, not Spider-Man.”

“Then how did he get up here to this level?!”

“Up the stairs, like everyone else.”

Since I was facing the opposite direction, I could not see Mr. Mouse’s second run at us, but Jules began to sound like Beaker when confronted with an experiment about to blow up in his face.  When Jules is panicked, she also begins flapping her hands in front of her face violently, resembling an illiterate sign language speed demon.

“Oh my God!” she wailed.  “He’s coming right at us!  He senses my fear and he’s circling!”

You know, I try hard, but sometimes, I’m just not as good a friend as I should be.  I began snorting and laughing.  At this point, a waiter walked into the room bearing a tray. 

“Excusez-moi, il y’a une souris là bas,” I told him, pointing at the mouse who was taking a break in the middle of the aisle, likely tired from his divebombing runs at Jules.

He put the tray down and ran towards where I was pointing.  “Oui je la voies.”  He came back towards our table.

Jules began swigging from her champagne glass.

“S’îl vous plaît,” he said, “Je veux expliquer.  C’est Paris.  Il y’a des souris surtout.  Ici, chez moi, surtout.  C’est un magasin vieux, dans  une ville très vielle.  Nous sommes désolées.” (Please, I want to explain:  this is Paris; there are mice everywhere.  Here, my house, everywhere.  This is an old building, in a very old city.  Sorry.)

Then he walked away. The French do nonchalance so well.

“Listen,” I said, “We’ll get the check and you can sprint for the stairs.”

“No, dammit, I’m going to maintain my dignity and walk out.”  (Bear in mind her feet are still planted on the seat at the table next to us). "Okay, okay.  I can do this.  You ate cardboard, I saw a mouse.  This will just be something you'll put in your blog."

Oh, and Wendy, we did go downstairs to the store and look for the lobster butter, but there was none. And Jules said that if I want the omelet and lobster butter today, I'm going to have to go by myself. Maybe la petite souris will join me again.

Lunch a la Fresque

I was noticing this morning that my eyebrows are doing a fair caterpillar imitation.  On the other hand, I’m in a country where the women don’t shave their armpits.

Jules came today from the U.S. (after I called her from JFK yesterday and told her, “Meet me in Paris.”).  First stop, Les Halles (in the 1er arrondissement) for lunch.  If you ever took French class, it was probably beaten into your head that there’s a liaison when a consonant comes before a vowel so theoretically it should be pronounced “lez al.”  I’ve never heard it pronounced as such; always with a silent “h,” as in “lay al.”  I wonder why.

Anyway, Les Halles used to be an open market in Paris where King Philippe II Auguste built a shelter for the merchants in 1183.  By the 1850’s, glass and iron buildings had sprung up amidst the vendor stalls and are still in evidence today.  In the late 1970’s, the market was moved to another Paris suburb and Les Halles in its current state is the central hub for the RER, the underground system. We went to La Fresque with the Vu/Nguyen clan.  It’s a local’s type of place – not fancy, just simple bistro fare.

It’s the same place I went to five years ago with Lan where I first encountered steak tartare.  I felt like I was coming full circle ordering the dish.  Mesclun salad, a baked potato (which I gave away since I needed fried potatoes), and a quarter pound of ground steak with a raw egg yolk perched on top, surrounded by onions, capers, chopped cornichons and other condiments.  Jules has been a vegetarian for some time and has slowly been re-entering the carnivorous world.  She says she was fascinated watching me mix everything together and eating what amounts to little more than raw hamburger, but I think I might have set her back a few years.

I have marching orders from Wendy: “Go to Fauchon.  (mink stole optional, but definitely not if you are wearing mac 'n cheese).  Order the $20 truffle omelette. Eat it.  Buy a jar of lobster butter.  Eat that in the car on the way to wherever you are going next.”  So, we have Fauchon and Mariages Frères to hit this afternoon.  And then we have to figure out where to go for dinner…

Petit Dejeuner and a View

Noodling.

I arrived this morning at Charles de Gaulle.  My clothes didn't.  But the suitcase full of Mac and Cheese did.

I text messaged Hubby that I needed to go shopping, or I could wear the macaroni.  I wonder if he finds that suspicious?  That I'm in Paris and I have to go shopping....

Postscript

From phone conversation: 

Me:      “My luggage didn’t show up today so I had to go shopping.  Actually, the mac and cheese suitcase came through but the clothes didn’t.”

Him:    “Did they say when your luggage might come in?”

Me:      “Oh.  Well, they actually delivered it tonight.  But after I’d already gone shopping.”

Him:    “I see.”  (long pause, followed by heavy sarcasm)  “How unfortunate.”

Simplifood.

What a difference five years makes.  When last I flew to Paris, dinner service on Air France (a Delta partner) really was:  I had a placemat, metal utensils (pre 9-11), baby romaine salad, chicken in champagne sauce with rice pilaf and a chocolate mousse cake for dessert.  Peggy and I also had two bottles of wine – a chardonnay and a pinot noir.  This was in coach.  Traditionally the airlines (Delta) piss on you in domestic travel – but service on international flights has always been superlative.  Not so in this new Simplifare world!

For lunch yesterday, I had a crab fritter and roasted potatoes from Star Provisions in Atlanta.  I should have brought enough for dinner, too. This is the menu Delta served for dinner on my way over to Paris:

• Fresh Garden Salad with Parmesan Cheese and Croutons, offered with Roman Caesar Dressing

Choice of:

• Braised Beef Sirloin, Enhanced by Red Pepper Sauce, presented with Mashed Potatos and Green Beans
• Breast of Chicken, Offered with Adobo Sauce, accompanied by Mexicali Corn and diced Potatos with Cheddar Cheese
• Bread & Butter
• Cheese & Crackers
• Cinnamon Oat Bar (for dessert)

If ever a menu invited ridicule, this would be it.  The flip side, in French, is even more hilarious. I especially love how they described the Sirloin as “faux-filet de boeuf braisé.”   I will have to ask my French friends if sirloin is actually called “faux-filet” because if ever a description encouraged one NOT to select a particular item, “fake meat” would definitely do the trick.

I love reading menus – sometimes more than ordering off said menu – but seldom do I feel compelled to laugh at a menu.  And even rarer is the urge to laugh at the food when it arrives (which I actually did).  It amounted to little more the standard sub-par Delta fare and calling it food is probably stretching. 

This morning’s breakfast offering was a mini box of Corn Flakes, milk, a still-green banana so unripe it defied all attempts to be peeled (I’m not kidding, I finally gave up when it became apparent that having my ass kicked by a banana at 3:10 am EST was just not a good way to start my morning), and a bagel so rubbery it defied all comprehension of how you can take water, yeast, and flour and make it so inedible.  I chose not to eat anything on the tray because 1) it’s 3:10 am and I’m not screwing my body up that way; and 2) I’m 2 hours away from pain au chocolat and café noisette and I am not ruining my appetite.

I wish to declare...

I turned 35 yesterday.  It seemed appropriate to hop a flight to Paris.  The decision to go didn’t occur until the night of the 25^th when I had a freak out session about delayed decisions and compromises about when I’d do things.  Actually, I was probably drunk and whipping myself into a frenzy about how chickenshit every excuse not to go sounded.

I'm on my way with an overnight bag, a new computer and a suitcase full of mac and cheese.  Yes, you read that right.  On my way to the culinary capital, from whence the foundation of all classical cooking springs, I am bringing along 13 boxes of Annie's organic mac and cheese and two gigantic jars of Peter Pan extra-crunchy peanut butter. Can you imagine anything more quintessentially American?

Witness my nightmare:  standing in line at immigration, trying to explain in rusty French why I'm coming to PARIS – PARIS! – with processed food. Somehow the idea of my underwear tumbling out seems less embarrassing.

I can only plead that it's for a four year old whom I adore and who I could not disappoint.  Mia is my friend Lan's daughter.  I've known her all her life – in fact, during my last foray to Paris for my 30^th birthday, Lan was pregnant with Mia.  Annie's Mac and Cheese is her favorite and since moving to Paris several months ago, she hasn't had any.

My flight departs in an hour and I'll arrive in Paris at 9:30 tomorrow morning local time.  My sister has already sent me a list of restaurants to hit, including Joel Robuchon's restaurant at the Hotel Pont Royal.  I have strict instructions on ordering the chef's tasting menu to make it worth my while.  I also have plans to attack Mariages Freres for tea and in the back of my little head (all vegetarians go no further in this sentence) is a particular notion to find pressed duck somewhere.

Hubby instructed me to eat and drink and to bring back bottles of good wine.  I can do all three.  I can do anything.  I'm going to Paris.

Plain Vanilla

I got a package in the mail last week.  I ordered vanilla and saffron from an online site (www.saffron.com) and I’ve been happy ever since.   I complain a lot about not having any access to gourmet goods (at prices I’m willing to pay) or organic foods (at a selection I’m used to) where I am, but the fact is, I’m not as isolated or as deprived as I liked to think I am.  Since the advent of the Internet, far flung corners of the universe have suddenly become much more accessible.  Foods, spices, books, music, paper – most of the things I need to make me happy are within keystrokes of being in my possession.

Oddly enough, my computer offers instant gratification in a way that going to a store can’t – instead of being disappointed when a product isn’t available, I’m seduced by the notion that I can buy it whenever I want.  It’s 1:30 am and I want Seascape strawberry seeds for my garden?  Peaceful Valley Farm and Garden Supply.  It’s Sunday and I want to contravene the archaic Blue Laws of the Deep South (because let’s face it:  I live in the buckle of the Bible Belt) by buying wine (buying is one thing; shipping is another…oy)?  My local Barnes and Noble doesn’t have that hard to find copy of whatever book I’m obsessing about?  No problem!  The ever faithful and reliable Amazon.  So what if it’s a few days or a week away from delivery?  I was ready to buy and I bought!  It’s not quite as real an experience as buying my favorite French tea in Paris – but few things in life are ever that real. 

Consider vanilla.  Not, not that little brown bottle of imitation synthetics we grew up with which our moms used to douse cake batters.  I’m talking about real vanilla – the vanilla planifolia in all its manifest loveliness.  Vanilla beans (or pods) come from this orchid, which bears edible fruit. The vanilla planifolia is a small, plain yellow flower which can produce pods up to 7 to 8 inches in length.  They resemble green beans when picked and are dried and fermented in order to develop their flavor.

Vanilla was first introduced to the Europeans by Herman Cortez.  The Aztec emperor, Montezuma, was fond of drinking a cocoa drink (chocolate) scented with vanilla.  After conquering the Aztecs, Cortez brought bags of vanilla and cocoa back to Spain among other precious items.  Interest in vanilla spread throughout Europe and other countries attempted to cultivate the vanilla plant.  Despite careful efforts, no vanilla planifolia orchids outside of Mexico ever bore fruit, ensuring the Spanish chokehold on the production and export of vanilla. A plant was successfully grown in England at the turn of the nineteenth century and these plant cuttings were sent to Paris and Antwerp.  However, these plants did not bear fruit and most efforts to grow the plant outside of the New World were met with failure.  It was a Belgian botanist named Charles Morren in 1836 who solved the mystery:  unlike most plants, which can be pollinated by various insects, only a tiny bee called the Melipone, native to Mexico, which was specifically equipped to pollinate the vanilla orchid.  And Melipones could not survive outside of Mexico.   From Paris a cutting had been taken to Mauritius in 1827 and survived, beginning the Indian Ocean centered vanilla trade.  It was in Madagascar in 1841 that a former slave named Edmond Albius invented a pollination process that bypassed the Melipone:  he used a bamboo splinter to pollinate the orchid (okay, does anyone else find this as tee-hee, laugh-behind-your-hand hilarious as I do?  Like, you're sitting there one day and you think, oh, hey, I'm gonna use this bamboo splinter and I'm going to impregnate this orchid).  This time consuming process is still in use today and is one reason why vanilla ranks behind saffron as one of the world’s most expensive spices.

There are three varieties of vanilla beans:  Madagascar, Tahitian, and Mexican. The beans from Madagascar and the Comoros (incidentally the home of the coelacanth [my beloved “dinofish”]) are also known as Bourbon beans – they’re very long and slender with a rich taste, dark, oily skin and an abundance of little seeds.  Tahitian beans are shorter and have a higher oil and water content with floral notes in its scent.  Mexican beans are very similar to Bourbon beans but have a very distinctly earthy aroma.  If you buy beans, make sure you buy from a reputable dealer.  Don’t buy that stupid little $10.00 jar at your grocery store with the stunted 3 inch nearly dried bean crammed into a glass bottle lined up with other dried spices.  Buy beans that look plump and moist and are at least 6 inches long.  The bean should look inviting to touch; if it is dry and crumbly, move away.  And smell the bean:  it should smell like vanilla.  If it has no scent, don’t buy a twig.  Really.  Store vanilla beans in an airtight container in a cool, dry space.  Don’t refrigerate them:  it dries them out.

I use vanilla beans in virtually every dish that calls for vanilla.  But this is my favorite non-dessert use for vanilla.  I can’t wait for my friend Jules to come visit.  Her dad made this dish for us years ago when I visited their home; he said the recipe came from Emeril Lagasse, so I’ll give Emeril his due, but I’ve modified it several times over the last few years, stripping it down to what I consider essential ingredients for maximum flavor (and to cut down on calories as the original recipe called for 2 sticks of butter!).

Linguine and Lobster with Champagne Vanilla Sauce

Serves 4

4 lbs lobsters, cooked, meat cut into chunks (leave one or two claws intact for plating)
2 cups dry champagne (I’ve used a bunch of different champagne ranging from very cheap to very expensive wine; the fact is, you’re cooking off all the alcohol and I’ve found that a mid-priced bottle – say $10-$15 – works best.  Any less and you have Asti Spumante [gross] and anything more expensive will render Hubby insensate with fury)
1/3 cup heavy cream
4-6 T butter, chilled, cut
1 vanilla bean, sliced lengthwise
Enough cooked linguine for 4 people

To make the sauce, pour champagne into heavy bottomed sauce pan and set over medium heat.  Slice the vanilla bean lengthwise and scrape out the seeds with the tip of a paring (or other) knife.  Add the seeds and the beans to the champagne.  Simmer champagne on medium (reduce heat to low if it starts to boil) until the liquid reduces by half (this will take about 30-45 minutes).  The longer the bean and the liquid reduce, the stronger the aroma and flavor.  I once reduced an entire bottle and two beans to 1 cup (about 2 ½ hours) – and man was that an intense sauce.

Once the champagne has reduced to about 1 cup, whisk in the heavy cream.  Slowly add butter, one tablespoon at a time.  What you want is flavor, so taste the sauce after adding each tablespoon.  There’s no need to add ALL of the butter if you don’t need to – but for a richer sauce, add it all.

Just before serving, add the lobsters to the sauce and let the meat warm (don’t leave meat in too long or it will become tough).  You just want the meat to be coated and reheated, not hot.  Toss lobster and sauce together with linguine.  You’ll love how the vanilla seeds coat the linguine.  To serve, scoop linguine onto plate, add lobster meat and spoon extra sauce around plate.  Add one of the lobster claws for effect, maybe some chopped parsley.

By the way:  this is one of those dishes that tastes better the next day.  All of the flavors meld together overnight and it’s stunning.  I’ve never recovered from the actions of a woman who came to dinner one night years ago; she dumped the leftovers while helping to clean the kitchen because she didn’t think anyone would eat it the next day.  Thank God my friend never went out with her again. 

By the Book.

I spent the weekend curled up with a few cookbooks and a bunch of papercrafts.  I’m hosting a baby shower for a dear friend in several weeks and when it became clear that I would not find what I was looking for in the stores, I decided to DIY my own cards.  A few wired hours later, we have 40-some handmade invitations.  Whenever Hubby leaves town, I notice an influx of DIY activity.  The last time he went on an extended trip, I sewed cushions and slipcovers.  It’s a good thing I didn’t have the raffia paper I wanted to put up in the hall bathroom.  It’s amazing what a pot of black tea and OCD / ADD can accomplish.  Anyway, in between making invitations, I’ve been reading my way through some cookbooks that I thoroughly enjoyed.

Heidi Swanson is a friend of my sister’s.  Her book, Cook 1.0 fulfills my basic literary needs:  1) it's well written; 2) it's a hardback book with slick, heavy stock paper; and 3) it's gorgeously designed.  Anything more than that is gravy and I've been really delighted with the recipes.  Her photographs are amazing and I've actually been using some of the book layouts to figure out potential colors for my dining room.  It’s the first vegetarian cookbook I’ve come across that makes vegetarian look easy – not intimidating (read:  Deborah Madison) or inaccessible.  I bought several copies to give to friends who complain they can’t cook or they can’t find good vegetarian books.  Don’t miss this one –really.  If you don’t cook, just buy it and use it for a coffee table book; it’s that gorgeous.

I am a fan of Anthony Bourdain’s.  He’s a fabulous chef (I did not have a chance to sample his cooking at Les Halles despite visiting several times; he is semi-retired apparently – but friends who have dined under his kitchen rule rave), and an exceptional writer.  It’s his style.  Very alpha male, very blunt, very sarcastic.  Hysterically funny.  Reminds me a lot of a beloved someone.  Said Beloved Someone has been responsible for such gems as the laconic, “Honey, I think this is the flatbread they served Jesus at the Last Supper,” after I served him a disastrously flat and overly crisp pizza.  My personal favorite came after I served him another horribly anorexic and wafer-crunchy pizza (why don’t I just learn?):  “You know, if we cut these into stars, we could use them as shuriken [Japanese ninja throwing stars].”  He makes all the pizzas now.

In any case, Bourdain’s non-fiction books, the ever-excellent Kitchen Confidential and A Cook’s Tour are outrageously funny books about the food service industry, and a gonzo journalistic endeavor to sample the “perfect meal,” respectively.  It’s his latest book, “Les Halles Cookbook” that I’ve been laughing my way through.  Cookbook + laughter?  Yeah, sure.  I have two cookbooks that do that.  Bourdain’s is one (how can you NOT love a cookbook in which four lettered words are routinely used as adjectives, nouns, verbs and gerunds?  Again, not dissimilar to Beloved Someone’s remarkable ability to do the same).  Bourdain’s voice is incredibly distinct and his opinion bullhorns through:  “The best cut of meat for this dish is the neck, bone still in.  But if you can’t, for some reason, find neck, or prefer boneless meat (you poor deluded bastard), then use shoulder.”  Or:  “…the eating of liver was transformed from a pleasure to an occasional odious chore, reinforced by generations of well-intentioned mothers who urged their kids to eat liver with the blood chilling admonition, “It’s good for you!”  Well, let’s pretend it’s not good for you.  Pretend it’s illegal.  Hell, if the PETA folks and the Health Taliban have their way, it soon may be.”  And:  “Lobsters are essentially big fucking bugs; they’re too stupid too know they’re dead.  And if makes you feel any better, they do much worse things to one another.”  I love this cookbook.  It’s like hanging out with Bourdain and talking about recipes over a tumbler of Scotch.  Since I don’t know Bourdain (yet) and I don’t drink Scotch (much), this is as close as I’m getting (for now).

Epicure, was written by Canadians (no, I’m serious) Kate Bush, David Cobb, Charles Oberdorf and Jane Rodmell.  Frankly, I’ve tried some of the recipes and as a gastronomic instruction book goes, it’s not great.  The recipes I tried didn’t turn out well – but no matter how many times I read this cookbook – and I read it more than I use it as a cookbook – I still crack up.  I once woke Hubby out of deep sleep because I was so convulsed with mirth reading in bed.  The recipes are broken up by mini-essays about various food issues, such as the on one on page 39 which discusses Goat Cheese.  Goats are praised for their productivity and usefulness to humans and the authors lament that the goat has been unfairly lampooned.  The essay then devolves into the following paean to the goat’s inherent superiority over other cud chewers:  “[The goat] deserves respect.  Check out the eyes.  They are remarkable.  No-nonsense, level-gazed, inclined to humor, they bespeak an intelligence rare in ruminants.  Just compare a goat’s eyes with a cow’s vacant watery ones, which give special meaning to the word bovine, or to the shallow, shifty looks of the sheep…in herd world sociology, it’s the difference between speed-readers and lip-movers.”  Shallow, shifty looks?  I have visions of ovine (oh, I have an odd predilection for animal adjectives in case you haven’t noticed) deceitfulness and untrustworthiness.  I mean, come on, I wear sweaters made from their wool and I eat their young – I don’t play poker with them and ask them to keep my books!

I like when cookbooks aren’t so serious you forget the whole reason they exist: as instruction guides to making food, for consumption, for sharing, for nourishment, and for enjoyment.

A semi-related (I’m stretching here) aside:  my cousin Mica – then four years old -- asked me to draw a sheep for her.  I drew a fluffy cloud on four legs and was starting to fill out details – ears, nose, tail – when Mica burst into noisy tears. “Where are its eyes?” she sobbed.  I hadn’t gotten that far and even after I filled in its eyes, she continued to cry.  This is why cooking is my hobby, not art.  I’ve yet to make someone cry from my cooking.