Confit de canard

This is now the second time that I've had confit de canard, and I have to say, it just gets better and better.

By now I'm sure that my obsession with duck fat is pretty clear. But imagine this: a piece of duck leg, cured with salt, rubbed with garlic and then poached in its own fat for anywhere between 2 and 10 hours. Naturally it's always served with my favorite potatoes, which are roasted with garlic in the fat the leg has been poaching in.

Normally I'm not the kind of person who particularly digs fat. I generally tend to pick it off and leave it somewhere on the side of my plate. But there is something about duck fat that is just so delicious, and it seems to be so characteristic of French cuisine. Now I know that that smell I have been smelling on the streets of Paris when I walk by a bistro, that's duck fat. Just throw some in a pan at home along with a clove of garlic and voila, you too can smell Paris at home.

Nesting, aka how to make tomato sauce

"Dream a little dream of me" by Louis Armstrong is playing in the background while I slowly chop shallots, carrots and parsley. I only pause to take the occasional sip of cheap red wine I originally bought just for my sauce.

I'm nesting, or trying to win my never ending battle with tomato sauce.

For some reason, basic tomato pasta sauce is the one thing that I never manage to get right. But recently, during a discussion with my cousin on the major do's and dont's of pasta sauce, I was inspired to give it another try.

So here I am, after researching the topic for a good two hours, attempting to make a good, clean, simple but deep tomato sauce for pasta.

Step 1: Slowly brown a carrot, a shallot (bought in the French countryside on one of the many roadtrips) and 2 tablespoons of fresh parsley for 15-20 min, covered.

Step 2: Add 2 cloves of minced violet garlic (purchased from the same farmer in the country) Add tomato pulp or full tomatoes (canned), a splash of balsamic vinegar (apparently the acidity helps bring out the flavors), the rind of a piece of parmesan, a lot of red wine. Cover and simmer for at least one hour, adding chicken stock when it gets too thick.

Hopefully this one will finally be a good one!

Tony would be proud

I guess the true mark of obsession is worshipping the ground someone walks on.

Lucky for me, a few years back, Anthony Bourdain decided to come to Paris and walk around the Marais.

In the first episode of his then brand new series called 'No Reservations', Tony visited a mysteriously dark and hidden bistro called Chez Robert and Louise, and showed us a world where women with red lipstick and big knives whacked away at big chunks of prime rib in the kitchen. I remember Tony being particularly tickled that his steak wasn't served on a plate, but instead on a wooden chopping board with a little moat around it so that the blood would have somewhere to drip into.

4 years later, I decided to find this bistro, because it did indeed sound almost too good to be true.

And there it is, in the Marais, not as ominous and secretive as in the past, but definitely as exceptional as promised.

We arrived and were told by a man standing outside smoking a cigarette (presumably he worked there?) that we should go sit downstairs, so we followed him past a massive open fire, into the cellar. After we had been seated at the bar, I snuck back upstairs to get a peak at what was going on with this fire.

The fire was being fed with a variety of different types of wood (so there is nothing to be said for the 'oak giving my steak any oaky flavor' or any other pretentious nonsense like that). On top of the fire was a cast iron shelf, or slab, that was precariously balanced on two bricks. And on this cast iron shelf laid row after row of sizzling, shimmering, smoking chunks of prime rib, entrecote and contre fillet. W-O-W.

I ordered the contre fillet, which was described to me as a fillet of beef which is less fatty than the entrecote. It indeed came, as promised by Tony, on a delightfully old and weathered round chopping board, complete with mote to accommodate the blood. It was served with a refreshing green salad and a plate of my favorite potatoes roasted in duck fat and garlic.

All in all, this was one of the most deliciously primitive slabs of meat Ive had in a loooong time. The atmosphere was unique and the bill was not that expensive. And I think experience has shown that any place with duck fat potatoes gets a special place in my heart.

croustillant d'agneau

Mmmmmmm.....I found a new slice of heaven.

It was conceived at Chez Paul, a new bistro that I hope to frequent regularly from now on. If it weren't for the heavy price tag that is.

For starters I had my usual favorite which came highly recommended at this place: 6 small but delicious Bourgogne snails. They came without their little homes, which I prefer, because then the garlic butter really manages to marinate these little squishy bits of goodness.

In this case Im going to tell you what we drank with dinner, since it was one of the rare occassions where someone actually knew alot about wine and was able to select one that was appropriate for our meal: it was a Bordeaux AOC called Dourther Numero 1 from 2005. I can't really think of another way to describe it except that it was a dry yet incredibly deep red that literally filled every part of your mouth...

And now for the good part-my latest discovery which has rocked my socks as much as the duck fat epiphany-the croustillant d'agneau.

Basically, it was the most beautifully cooked, tender and rosé pink fillet of lamb (if there is such a thing). As I started to pick away at it, I noticed that there was a little white rim around the fillet, which I assumed to be the fat. But no, oh no, boy was it not the fat.

This fillet of lamb, apart from being accompanied by the most sublime garlic and honey reduction and a mousseline of split peas, turned out to be enveloped in the thinnest, most transparent, soft and buttery yet somehow also crispy, layer of dough. What I thought was fat turned out to be a crunchy layer of paper thin crust, which I soon realized was actually wrapped around the entire piece of meat.

And to top it all off, hidden under this layer of divine 'crust' was the most discreet bed of caramelized onions, so delicate and finely chopped that they almost went unnoticed. Almost.

How they got the sides to be crunchy, the rest melt-in-your-mouth soft and the color almost completely transparent, I will never know. But what I do know is this: anytime you see the word 'croustillant' on a French menu, no matter what it applies to (cheese, meat, veggies), you MUST order it.

P.S. http://chezpaul.com/index.htm

A Little Anecdote

So I've been lazing away in Greece on summer vacation, hence the lack of posts. I've been too boozed up on ouzo and sun to even think about sitting in front of my computer.

But before I get back into full swing blogging (which I will, I promise) here is the story of a fun fiasco to make you laugh.

The night before I left for vacation, my lovely man decided to take me out to one of our favorite little bistros on the rue Monmartre, called Le Tambour. We've been here countless times, and in fact it is one of my primary sources of inspirational French food. (see duck fat potatoes, snails in garlic butter etc.)

By now I know their menu pretty much by heart, so I tend to go for the specials. The specials are to be found on a tiny piece of photocopied paper, scribbled in the scribbliest pompous French handwriting youve ever seen. (As if to say, if you can't read me then you're the idiot, not me.)

But it's safe to say by the time your waiter comes around, you'll have gotten the gist what it says and know what you want to order.

So there I was craving lamb and garlic duck fat potatoes (duh) when low and behold, one of the specials is 'rice scribble of lamb, scribble in the pan, scribble whiskey sauce with potatoes.' YAAAAAAY!

So now I'm a real happy girl, waiting for my lamb to come, somewhere in the back of my mind vaguely wondering why there would be rice and potatoes in the same dish, but whatever, the thought of the potatoes makes my mouth water so I take a sip of wine and step back into the conversation.

Our dishes arrive, and I immediately dive in. At this point I could hardly contain myself, let alone stop to look at what I was actually eating. "Mmmmmmm, mmmmmm, mmmmm" I tell my friend, who asks me how it is. Once again, somewhere in the back of my head, I'm wondering why all the pieces of lamb are in such perfect little oval shapes. "Mmmmm, mmmmm, mmmmm" I continue moaning to myself. Slowly, these little thoughts in the back of my head start creeping up to the front. "Why is the taste of this lamb so mild? Usually lamb has a really strong taste. And seriously, why is this meat so white? Lamb is usually brown!" Slowly I start waking up out of my duck fat potato stupor and give my meat a closer look. It's white, unlike lamb, and has a very spongey constitency, unlike lamb. But it does taste of lamb, vaguely.

The sponginess immediately tips me off that it's definitely not flesh, but probably some internal organ. But then I'm thinking, nooooo way, they've made a mistake and given me someone else' s order of liver or something.

So I ask the waiter, "Excuse me, this isn't the lamb is it?" "Bah oui! Ze lamb!" he says. "Exactly what part of the lamb is it?" I carefully whisper. "The riz!" (Note: riz in French means rice.) "What exactly is 'lamb rice'? I ask. And the waiter points to the two sides of his neck, right under his jaw line.

"Ze glans, ze glans!". Some translation ensues and the mystery of my lamb rice if finally revealed.

Sweetbreads in English, aka lamb growth glands. Taken from the throat and the armpits of the little lamb.

...Yeah...

The waiter notices I look a bit...pale, and tells me "dont worry, eat it with a nice glass of red (wine) and everything will be fine!".

Thankfully, my friend trades me his rossini steak-steak on toast topped with foie gras- and all's well that ends well.

On Duck Fat

On a recent trip to one of my favorite bistros (Le Tambour on rue Montmartre), I finally asked the waiter slash owner how the chef was making his incredibly crunchy, crispy, garlicky, fatty, oozy roasted potatoes. And after a few coy smiles and a couple flips of my hair he finally spilled the beans; and that's how I found myself in the supermarket, lovingly staring at a jar of something that was about to become my new best friend.

Duck Fat. Graisse de canard. Heaven in a jar.

Honestly, I was a little concerned in the beginning. Duck fat sounded so....fattening and gluttonous. So much more fattening than my innocent friend olive oil and somewhat less innocent friend butter. So I started to do a bit of research and realized that not only is it a healthier alternative to both olive oil and butter, but its also full of omega 3's and 6's, and it's less fattening. Oh and did I mention that it's delicious? I'm sure that much youve gotten by now.

I'm thinking that duck fat may just be the key to the French paradox. Maybe it's the reason that the French can get away with eating so much fat, and yet live the longest than all of the Mediterraneans. The fat they're eating is actually healthy, and it doesn't seem to have any effect whatsoever on the stunning size 0 waistlines of all the picture perfect parisian femme fatales. (Trust me, they're everywhere)

I would highly recommend that you start using duck fat immediately, any and every time that you are cooking potatoes. If you're roasting them or frying them or anything of the sort, use duck fat instead of oil or butter. The smells that will come wafting out of your kitchen will make everyone that passes your house think “Mmmmm...I wonder what they're cooking!”.

Take me out to the ballgame...

Ok, so it wasn't exactly a ballgame. It was a rugby game.

But what struck me about it was the snack of choice of Parisian fans. I knew to anticipate some good junk food...for where there is beer, and balls, there is food. But I expected a boiled hotdog on a hotdog bun the consistency of a twinky.What I got is the perfect symbol of the differences between French and American cuisine and food. 

In Paris, they don't eat hotgogs at ballgames. No. They eat fresh baguettes stuffed with french fries (probably fried in duck fat) stuffed full of spicy Merguez sausages. In principle, it's the same concept as a hotdog. But it's the details that make all the difference. Spicy, blood red sausages seasoned with a sprinkle of provencal herbs, grilled until they burst, shoved into a fresh baguette, to help you wash down your beer at half time. 

It's times like these that make me truly appreciate French cuisine. It's not all about the fancy sauces or the odd smelling offals. Real, everyday French cooking is about taking simple comfort food and taking it to the next level. Only they don't know they're at the next level, because frankly, you will never see a hotdog served anywhere. This is where I find the real Paris, the real sophistication of the French lifestyle, without a 150 euro bill at the end.