Amici Miei, or should I say, my New Best Friends?

So everyone was right.

Sometimes I really hate admitting that, but in this case it's true. Everyone: the Fooding guide, my friends, various blogs and websites, colleagues... Not one person had anything negative to say about this place, and neither do I.

Oh yeah, wait, I could say that they could have used just a bit more garlic. But that's really it.

Amici Miei. What is supposed to be the best Italian restaurant in Paris. What is, I am sure, the absolute best Italian food I have had outside of Italy.

I literally have nothing to say. (Except that I apologize for the shitty iphone pics--the low light is at fault, its definitely not because I had had too much to drink or anything. No no no.)

Linguine alle vongole? Amazing.

Pizza biancha with prosciutto di parma, pommodorini, garlic and mozarella di buffala? Amazing.

House wine? Prosecco? Little olives served as a side to the Prosecco? Amazing.

Panacotta all' pistachio? Amazing.

Tiramisu? Amazing (Just as good as my own in fact) 

Cute waiters? Yup! (Gay? Or simply Italian? Sometimes it's hard to tell...)

I think visiting a good restaurant is the biggest writing challenge. You are literally left speechless, wordless.

So all that I can say is Go. Eat. Drink. Be merry. And tell me if you liked it.

Amici Miei
44 Rue Saint Sabin
75011 Paris, France
01 42 71 82 62
Metro: Chemin Vert or Bastille 

Michelin Starred High-School Chefs

While reading my usual 'Direct Matin' on the metro on the way to work this morning, I noticed a little article that caught my eye. 

                

"20 school chefs have spent the day today learning different recipes from Guy Martin."

 They mastered everything from chicken burgers with comte cheese to an apple concassee with a Carambar caramel reduction. (Carambars are the French equivalent of tootsie rolls....although I don't think you'd necessarily want to melt a tootsie roll-it would probably ignite instead.) Now where I come from, we don't use the word 'school' or 'chef' in the same sentence. It just doesn't make any sense. For me, the school cook, aka the lunchlady, was a woman who wore a hair net and served me chicken nuggets with a side of tater tots and a carton of chocolate milk. But in Paris, or Val-d'Oise specifically, high school cooks used to work for Michelin starred restaurants. 

This initiative is part of a campaign called 'Our Schools Have Taste', which aims to introduce more sophisticated yet regional and seasonal delicacies that children may not usually be accustomed to, like vegetable bruschetta or mushrooms from Mery. The schools chefs trained under Guy Martin this morning in his atelier in Miromesnil, and will then return to their schools to spice up the menus. 

But were the chefs nervous about working with the Guy Martin? Nope, one of them had already cooked for Joel Robuchon once. Of course. 

Now I don't know about you but I find this story entirely absurd! The idea that a chef who once personally served Robuchon would then go and work in a high school cafeteria in Val-d'Oise (in the middle of bumfuck nowhere from the Parisian perspective) is just absurd. Absolutely absurd. 

It really makes me want to start a tasting tour of cafeteria food, because apparently thats where all the good chefs go to die. 

Les Cocottes de Christian Constant

Ok, so it's been a while. In the time that I've been absent though I do promise that I have been eating a lot of 'new material', all to come very soon.


On that note, as the always-faithful follower of Anthony Bourdain's footsteps, I've just come back from having lunch at Les Cocottes, one of the hidden gems that he dined at during his last visit to Paris. (Although not so hidden anymore, considering the size of the lunch crowd...)

Just google Les Cocottes and you will get a myriad of raving reviews, how the food is astonishing and the service impeccable, the ambiance superb and the wine heavenly. Even David Leibovitz calls it a 'fantastic restaurant concept.'

Me, I say 'meh.'

Yes, the food was good. But not that good. Everything comes in beautiful Staub cast iron pots, but the dish I ordered wasn't even cooked in its cocotte; fillet mignon and beans is not something that traditionally gets stewed, is it? Luckily, there were a couple of dishes, like vegetables stewed in the cocotte (mmmm how exciting) and a boeuf bourguinon (yawn), that do indeed generally tend to be cooked in a Staub or a Le Creuset.

For dessert, I had a waffle which I'd heard was excellent; and I do think it could have been, if only it weren't slightly burnt on the bottom...not burnt enough to be black, but just enough to leave a lingering bitter aftertaste. The cotes du rhone I used to wash away that bitterness however was quite satisfying, but then again, when has a cotes du rhone never been at least fairly good?

And to top it off, the waitress sucked at counting and ripped us off a couple euros. Again, just a couple, bit still, enough to notice and leave slightly annoyed.

I just feel like it's a little gimmicky, a little too flashy. Yes the presentation of the food is beautiful as is the decor, and the food is very good, but it doesn't feel Parisian. French bistros are all about the relaxed, "I don't give a shit if you like it or not", laissez-faire ambiance. It's a kind of understated grungy-ness that you fall in love with because the food is so mind blowing that you're not even looking at the decor or the walls or the waiters. The French are cool because they pretend not to care about what you think, even if they secretly do.
All in all, Mr. Constant, I'm slightly disappointed with your cocottes. I had such high expectations thanks to you, Mr. Bourdain, who for the first time seem to have led me astray. Tis a sad day indeed.

A slice of heaven

Living in Paris for the last couple of years has certainly not left me wanting for much, in terms of food. Almost every week I am lucky to discover something new, whether its an amazing bistro, a special goat cheese that has only now come into season, a little-known wine from a little-known region, or even a simple twist on an original classic, like crème brulee a la rhubarbe.

But there is something that I have missed, although I didnt even know that it was missing from my life until it was served to me at lunch yesterday. I'm not talking so much about a specific food, as I'm talking about a dining experience.

People come to France with preconceived notions about the food; they expect everything to come in a sauce, in small portions, with lavishly garnished plates, decorated with small dots of some sort of bizarre reduction. And in fact, food in Paris is the opposite- most Parisians tend to eat in bistros, and bistros are refreshingly rustic, and homey, and down to earth. But I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I was still waiting for a lavishly decorated plate, with a crazy sauce and a brightly colored swirl of an unidentifiable mousse of some sort.

                                          And yesterday, I got it.

Having decided to go explore a small portion of the undeniably magical Loire region, the first stop was determined to be the spectacularly romantic Chateau de Chenonceau. This castle is one of the most magical places I have ever been. It has been constructed over the Cher river, meaning it stretches across the Cher, from one bank to another, with arched columns that dip into the riverbed. Surrounded by gardens and a labyrinth, no matter where you are in this castle, you constantly catch reflections of the water projected onto the walls, or are presented with the most breathtaking views of the middle of the river.

We arrived around lunchtime, and of course decided that we needed to gather our energy before we visited the castle, so we decided to try out the lavish restaurant that the castle has to offer. We hadn't even sat down yet and I was already happy; dining in a castle on a beautiful autumn day, with trees that look like they are bursting into red and yellow flames, is not something that you get on a typical day in Paris.

The setting of this restaurant is heaven, and the service is old school French. A different waiter for every course, warmed bread rolls in the middle of the table, a vegetable cake and home-made pickled vegetables are all stark contrasts to the usual snarky Parisian waiter and the little bowl of peanuts you get with your aperitif. They even had the little machine that vaccuums up the crumbs between your third course and dessert. Because who wants to have crumbs sticking to their elbows as they glance across the river at a castle bathing in the afternoon autumn sunlight, while sipping on a glass of wine produced two kilometers away and sinking their fork into a warm fondant topped with a strawberry-mint coulis that erupts with molten chocolate? Not me.

The menu regional was a two hour, four course meal that makes your eyes roll back into your head with every bite and necessitates a discreet unbuttoning of your pants to make room for your ever expanding belly.

The entrees we chose were very typical of this region; pork rilletes and salmon rilletes, mixed with both smoked and un-smoked salmon, topped with avocado, cream and chives. 

 For the main course, I chose the Filet de Sandre à la crème d'ortie, a local river fish topped with a creamy nettle sauce. Yes, nettle. And yes, it was heavenly. Its hard to describe the flavor of nettle, but suffice it to say that any herb in a creamy white wine sauce over a delicately flakey fish caught ten meters away is delicious. 

After the main course came the chevre chaud, but of course the cheese served with this cleansing green salad was a local goat cheese produced around the corner. Of course.

And finally, dessert. Although I would not say that chocolate fondant or tarte fine aux pommes are desserts that originate from the Loire, it's safe to say that the apples most certainly did, as did the strawberries and mint that the coulis was made out of, and the white (yes, white!) raspberries that they were topped with. 

But what was so old world about this incredible lunch was the presentation. Small portions, beautifully decorated plates, with several small side dishes served in miniscule glasses or mini-cocottes: a pumpkin veloute served with a mini spoon in a mini glass was a seasonal delight, reminding us that it is autumn. (In case the trees exploding with the most vibrant reds and yellows and greens and browns and oranges had somehow let us forget). Then there was a mini ratatouille, and I emphasize mini, because usually I dont like ratatouille, but for some reason cutting the vegetables into miniscule cubes the size of a pea and serving it in a mini bowl as big as a quail egg somehow took this innocent classic side dish above and beyond.

And last but not least, the wine was so perfect that we were inspired to go visit the chateau that produced it, a family business a mere two kilometers away from the chateau, and bought a case to take home. (After, of course, sampling their other wines too).

On the way home, stuffed and happy with our palettes completely over-saturated and the top of my pants unbuttoned , we stopped at a tiny goat farm with a little grandma making only about three types of fresh goat cheese, using the same recipe that her mother in law taught her. Selle-sur-cher and wine in tow, we started to make our way home. 

Nowadays we fuss so much about eating local, about eating organic, about eating sustainable. But it goes to show that once you leave the big metropoles, the rest of the world is still eating that way. They aren't concerned with 'being green' or their carbon footprint because they simply don't have one and they probably never will. Things haven't changed in these regions for hundreds of years, at least in terms of food production, and I pray to god that they never will.

P.S. There is an amazing collection of Renaissance cookwear in the basement of the castle; complete with stoves, cauldrons, cutting boards and cake moulds. Its a lesson in food history and, for me, was the cherry on the cake.

Here are the addresses if you are interested in going:

1. Chateau de Chenonceau and L'Orangerie restauraunt in the chateau (http://www.chenonceau.com/media/fr/restau_menus.php) 

2. Les caves du Pere Auguste for some excellent local Touraine wine (try to Gamey and the Cot) http://www.cavesdupereauguste.com/

This little piggy went to the market...

Take a trip down to the Basque region and you will no longer feel like you are in France. Everything here is different, from the colors of the houses, to the way they play boules, to the language they speak, to the food they eat and the wine they drink.

But there are three really amazing things that come 

from this region: ham, cheese and cake. (Not to mention wine and piment d'espelette, and the Lindt factory that's near Pau. Let's just say that I would get really fat if I lived here. )

One of the most well known dishes from this region is probably the gateau basque. There are traditionally two different fillings to this amazing cake, black cherry and frangipane, which is a kind of almond paste mixed with sugar and butter. But one quick look at the landscape around you will reveal that there are indeed no almond trees to be found- which seems to be a clue about which filling is the more authentic one. Look a little closer and you will also notice that black cherry jam is traditionally served with their cheeses, so I think it's safe to say that anything made out of black cherry is probably the more indigenous choice, and that the almond cake filling is probably a more recent addition. 

As for the ham. Well, here is a picture of some very happy little piggies frolicking in the sun in the middle of the Aldudes valley in the Pyrenees mountains. These little piggies, which are black and light pink, or white, are the traditional Basque pigs, which were almost going extinct before a man named Pierre Oteiza decided to revive the race and make amazingly delicious ham and pâtés with them. Oteiza now has boutiques in Paris and exports to the US and Japan.(http://www.pierreoteiza.com/) If you get the chance, buy the black pork pâté with the piment d'espelette, spread it on some crusty bread and drink with a good glass of red and you don't need much else to make you happy.   

So as cute as these little piglets look, they taste even better.

And finally, the cheese. The most commercialized version of their local cheese is the petit basque, a cheese which is frequently found advertised on billboards in the Parisian metro. You can find it anywhere, and I have to say that it never dissapoints. But of course once you visit this region, you realize that in fact, like everywhere in France, there is no 'one definitive cheese,' but instead practically every little village or valley makes its own special cheese. While driving around in the Iraty region, every 500 meters or so there were little hand written signs by the side of the road telling tourists that they are only 200 meters away from amazing, hand made sheep's milk Ossau Iraty cheese. The regional government has tried to standardize these signs by making one big brown sign depicting a sheep's head, a piece of cheese and an arrow, which is actually quite amusing.

So apart from all the amazing produce, the restaurants that I've visited really seem to try to incorporate the local ingredients into their dishes. The salade Iraty that I ate in the Iraty region contained, of course, Iraty cheese, basque pig ham, and local asparagus. For my main dish I continued with the tradition of eating small, cute animals and chose to eat baby mutton cutlets, simply seasoned with rock salt and grilled on a sizzling hot plancha. While gnawing on the bones I could literally see the little baby muttons grazing on a nearby hill. Now that is what I call 'eating local.' 

Oh, and the wine is really good too. 

Foodie

Foodie is a relatively new term that entered our vocabulary during the mid 1980's. The word is defined as “a person having an enthusiastic interest in the preparation and consumption of good food.”

But when I picture a foodie, I think of a snob. 

Of someone who will turn their nose up at my cheeseburger because it's not made with Kobe beef. Of someone who won't let me eat tuna because it's over-fished. Of someone who sneers at a tomato salad served in winter, the season when they're out of season. When I think of a foodie, more "dont's" come to mind than "do's".

If someone wants to be taken seriously as a foodie, they need to show that they're serious about food. In order to do this, they do in fact need to know what vegetables are in season, which fish are facing extinction and why El Bulli is closing. But this level of purism, knowledgeableness and awareness often times become conservative in its approach and restrictive in its practice. Pleasure, enjoyment and satisfaction no longer remain the muses of the foodie; instead, self-righteousness, snobbishness and pretension prevail. Foodies nowadays have started taking themselves too seriously---sometimes I just want to eat a chili-dog or a gyros, not because it's a symbol of local (sometimes immigrant) identity but because it's simply good. It's comfort food, food that I crave in the pit of my stomach, food that once I eat satisfies me in a way only comparable to a warm bubble bath or a sunday afternoon nap in your lover's arms or a good cup of tea. I'm not going to deprive myself of these pleasures simply because of they way that they are labelled- “fast food”, “dirty food”, “hangover food”. We forget that these foods are someone's cultural heritage, even if they have become dumbed down and Americanized for the Western palate. And even if they aren't culturally notable, they still serve an honorable purpose: to nourish. To nourish not only our hunger, but also our bodies, our hearts, our emotions and our souls. I admit that a chili-dog may not be the healthiest thing with which to nourish my body, but in this world of culinary excess and permanent access to any food any way we like, in this world where we no longer need to hunt and gather but can have food delivered to our laps with the click of a button, it's important to remember that the purpose of the chili-dog, despite all of its flaws, is to nourish.

And why should I feel embarrassed to admit that that is what I'm craving? In all honesty, I would never dream of publicly conceding to my guilty pleasures, chili-dogs and gyros included. But pleasures they are, and when did we start living in a world where admitting our pleasures became looked down upon? The answer to that question is probably 'always'.

I do consider myself a foodie, but not one of those foodies. I consider myself a foodie who worships at the altar of pleasure, of satisfaction, and of hedonism. If I'm craving a tomato in January, then by all means I will sink my teeth into that tomato and eat it like an apple. To not do so would be to deny my most primal cravings, which is, quite frankly, a sin. We would not deny ourselves water when we are thirsty, so why do we deny ourselves food when we want it, when we need it?

To me, it's all about balance. If I eat a tomato in January, I eat it because I crave it, but with the full knowledge that it will taste nothing like the blood red beef-heart tomatoes that I eat in Greece in the middle of August, when the heat of the summer sun has practically baked them into a caramelized red the color of blood. The awareness and knowledge of when I should ideally eat this tomato are what make me a foodie.  But the fact that I will ignore that knowledge, close my eyes, and bite into that tomato with the full hope that it will taste like a Greek summer day, is what makes me a hedonist. But perhaps it is this constant search for pleasure, comfort and nourishment that makes me a true foodie, a pure foodie. Because whoever argues that pleasure is not the most important thing when it comes to food can go join Greenpeace and leave the good food for the rest of us.  

The bouillabaisse fiasco

Off we went on a little mini-vacation to sample the delicacies of Marseilliean cuisine;
I have to say though, things were not exactly as they seemed.

Firstly, for some reason, I thought that aioli would be served as a side dish to everything. So I kid you not when I say that not one spoonful of aioli entered my stomach the whole weekend. Not one. Actually wait, I take that back. One tiny spoonful did, and it turned out to be the only thing that saved my bouillabaisse, although it was too little too late.

Having arrived in the Vieux Port around 2pm, most places had actually stopped serving lunch. No Dorothy, we are not in Paris any more I'm afraid. But luckily we managed to find one cute little place that would still pour us a couple glasses of pastis, a carafe of rose, and grill up some fish. That, coupled with a sunny day and a sea breeze, was good enough for me.

But...

Then came the bouillabaisse fiasco.

Since of course no foodie in their right mind can come to Marseille and not try it. However most slightly broke foodies like myself cannot afford to pay the atrocious asking price, ranging anywhere between 30 and 60 euros. And that's alot of money for some rock fish. But I found a nice little place where they were serving what appeared to be very yummy looking soup, topped with croutons and fresh aioli (finally!). They even threw in a couple of mussels into the soup, and all that for the comparatively low price of about 16 euros.

But...

The soup was not that great. There was some weird brown goop at the bottom, which I was lovingly assured was the remainder of boiled fish guts and eyeballs. They forget the mussels. And they forgot the only thing that I was really looking forward to: the little croutons with the fresh aioli. Once that finally came, (and of course by that time the soup was cold) it did manage to make things a little bit better. And once they took my plate away, and I casually mentioned that the little bowl designated for my mussel shells was in fact empty, and that no, I had not eaten the mussel shells but that they simply had be omitted from my soup, they gave me a little bowl of mussels, right before the dessert course. The mussels were just steamed, served with a little garnish of leftover steaming water in the bottom of the bowl. Barf.

Surprisingly though, the pizza in Marseilles is quite good. And so is the pastis. And the rose. And the little navettes a la fleur d'oranger. But all the rest I must say was a surprising disappointment.

Armenian Pizza