in praise of sardines

Pierre Hermé macarons (Spring 2007)

"Oh please! Spare us, Brett. Macarons? That is so 2006," cry those food bloggers who just last year wrote about the macarons from the legendary Parisian pâtisserie, Pierre Hermé.

The veterans protest: "2006? People, we blogged about PH macarons way back in '05 (even '04!)."

Too bad. Add one more blogger's post and mouth-watering photos to the long list. This time it comes from the same blogger (me) who once left a comment vowing to boycott further posts on the topic on the grounds that such descriptions and their accompanying pornographic photos were too "deliciously cruel."

Call this photo set my revenge.

"So, Brett, what did you think?" you ask to be polite, suppressing your yawn.

Here's my take. (This is the part where I get in trouble).

Macarons are to Paris what cupcakes are to America. Like cupcakes, they're ubiquitous. Also like cupcakes, they're as irresistibly cute as baby chicks and as colorful as a bouquet of tulips. You just wanna squeeze their little cheeks and say "aawwwww." The main difference is that, instead of being smeared on top of cake, the buttercream frosting is squished between two sugary meringue buns, like a hamburger re-imagined by Oompa-Loompas.

Don't get me wrong. I like cupcakes. Even the sickly sweet ones sold at NYC's Magnolia Bakery. On occasion. Like once every year or two.

And I liked Pierre Hermé's macarons. At least some of the flavors. Whenever the master pâtissier added a healthy dose of bitterness to the cookies' buttercream filling, I was in heaven. Café, Chocolat, Caramel à la Fleur de Sel, even Huile d'Olive & Vanille (olive oil and vanilla) all made my tongue smile. I could gobble them up all day long. But the rest, brilliant and creative and sexy as the flavors were, made my teeth ache.

Did I say sexy? You bet. Check out the names PH has bestowed on the petite sweet nothings in his "spring collection." They're the strippers of the pastry shop: Jasmin, Rose, Arabesque (apricot and pistachio), Mogador (passion fruit and milk chocolate), Mosaïc (pistachio and cherry), and Ispahan (litchi, rose, and raspberry). Next month, Céleste (passion fruit, rhubarb, and strawberry) and Satine (cream cheese, orange, and passion fruit) will be joining them on stage. Rrrrowrr! Tell me you're not perspiring!

In my opinion, though, the reality of these sugar pills didn't live up to the promise of their fantasy names. But ain't that always the case?

So tell me, did I miss something? I mean, I like rosy, girly desserts more than your average feller. Were my expectations for the PH macarons too high? Is there a context for consuming these treats that's unknown to me? Am I just too much of a grease-stained, restaurant kitchen hot-line hillbilly to get what the fuss is all about over these gussied up French macaroons?

Food|and Drink|Paris|Pierre Herme|Macarons

Purple fava beans...

...may look pretty. But...

...that vivid color is not necessarily a sign of deliciousness.

When Andy Griffin said "good-bye" to the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market a month ago, my first reaction was to pout. I couldn't imagine a Saturday without discovering what magical vegetables Andy and his crew were growing at Mariquita Farm, their farm in Hollister near Santa Cruz. Next, I stomped my feet. Who was to blame for this injustice? For lack of a better target, I shook my fists at CUESA, the non-profit organization that runs the market blamed myself for not buying enough of Andy's artichokes, cardoons, piquillo peppers, and pimientos de padrón last year.

Finally, I got smart. I signed up for the weekly CSA basket from Two Small Farms (the other farm being High Ground Organics in Watsonville). That's how these pretty purple beans landed in my hands. They were part of last week's basket. When I ripped open one of my 2 pounds of fava pods, out popped a violet bean. How exciting! In the tens of thousands of fava beans I've shucked, I had never once seen a purple one. 2 of the pods in my basket contained purple beans.

As you know, shucking favas is a 2-step process. First you pop the beans out of their pod. Next you blanch them for a minute and toss them in ice water. Finally, you pry them out of their little wet suits with your finger nail. Would the bean inside be purple?

Sadly, the answer is no. The purple jackets contained starchy beans the color of straw. Fine for a puree on toast, I suppose. But a pale shadow of the beautiful emerald jewels in the rest of my bowl. Those tender marvels represent the highest expression of spring.

Have any of you ever seen a purple fava bean?

Maybe, just maybe, finding a purple fava bean is like finding a four-leafed clover. Perhaps I should head to Vegas this weekend. Or buy a lottery ticket. Or maybe, instead of blanching them, I should have planted those purple beans in the backyard of my future restaurant. Do you think a completely constructed restaurant would have sprouted from the earth? (Sigh. One can dream).

If you want a chance to win your own good luck charm, head down to Mariquita Farm tomorrow morning between 9 and noon to their one-day-only Fava Bean U-Pick. Fava bean season's short, so it's tomorrow or next year. I know, I really ought to have told you sooner. Please don't pout. Or stomp your feet. I know you miss Andy and Julia as much as I do. Maybe I'll see you down there?

Food|and Drink|San Francisco|Farmers' Market

Where would you have met the Amateur Gourmet for lunch?

Last week, I left a comment for Adam on his super-popular New York City-based food blog the Amateur Gourmet. I told him I was sorry I missed his San Francisco get-together at Place Pigalle and wished we could meet.

2 minutes later I got an email: "Hey Brett! Just saw your comment — I would really love to meet you too. Are you free at all for lunch on Thursday?"

"Sure!" I replied.

I thought I'd have a little fun with him. I asked him to send me the list of the places where he'd eaten and where he was planning to go to, then I would come up with a restaurant for our lunch. How hard could that be? He agreed, adding one criteria: lunch should be relatively light. He was going to the best-restaurant-in-the-Bay-Area (aka Manresa) for dinner.

In case you missed his posts, this is the list Adam sent me:

Saturday lunch at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market with Elise, Sam, and Catherine
Saturday dinner at Ad Hoc
Sunday lunch at Taqueria Pancho Villa
Sunday dinner at Zuni with Sam and Fred
Monday lunch at Tartine 
Monday dinner at A16 with Fatemeh
Tuesday lunch at The Slanted Door with Kristen
Tuesday dinner at Chez Panisse with Kristin again
Wednesday lunch at Delfina Pizzeria with Heidi and Bruce
Wednesday dinner at César and JoJo with Derrick and Melissa
Thursday dinner at Manresa with Pim

Oy! Adam had already planned to visit virtually all of my favorites. What had I gotten myself into?

Actually, I love challenges. (Why else would I be crazy enough to want to open a restaurant?) I got down to business. I searched for gaps in his list. Seemed a bit heavy on the California cuisine. The Bay Area dining scene is more diverse than that.

I asked myself questions. What kind of cooking do we do in the Bay Area better than what he can get in NYC? What are some places that are unique to San Francisco? What are some of my favorite places for lunch? What's on my Shortlist (see righthand column, half way down this page)? What would make for a light lunch?

This is the list I initially came up with:

I love Paris in the springtime: dessert

On our plate today are more culinary highlights from our trip to Paris at the beginning of the month. Granted, they're not all desserts, per se, but for this chef of the savory kitchen these are sweet memories.

Best meal of our Paris trip: dinner chez Clotilde et Maxence

Whenever you're on the road, don't you find yourself craving a home-cooked meal? Maybe it's just me. This is somewhat of a confession I suppose, but I find dining out in restaurants (even excellent new wave Parisian bistros) for breakfast, lunch, and dinner gets old quickly. I know, poor me. It's one reason I chose to stay in an apartment on this trip. Nevertheless, imagine my excitement when N and I got an invitation for a home-cooked meal from none other than the popular food blogger and soon-to-be-published cookbook author Clotilde Dusoulier! Talk about an offer you can't refuse!

Reading Chocolate & Zucchini over the years, I've often admired the playful attitude that Clotilde brings to her cooking. She seems to have an uncanny ability to come up with the perfect creative twist that will bring a French classic into the 21st century. Our delightful dinner with Clotilde and Maxence just before Easter showed off this talent and more.

We started with a lighthearted take on the classic radishes with butter and sea salt: avocado and radish canapés with smoked salt, accompanied by skinny saucisson sec on toothpicks. Then we sat down to a soulful slow-roasted lamb shoulder with flageolet beans served from a cast-iron cocotte. Our crave-worthy dessert was chocolate jelly with pineapple and violet (pictured above left) which is featured on C&Z today. What a great menu, no? What was even more amazing was to discover that Clotilde manages to cook all these wonderful dishes in a kitchen not much larger than a phone booth.

I was also fortunate to get a sneak peek of Clotilde's dynamite new cookbook (pictured right, in the author's hands). As if I wasn't already, after our scrumptious dinner I'm especially excited about this book. For a more objective perspective, check out the glowing review of the book in yesterday's New York Times magazine.

For what it's worth, here's one blogger's-eye view of the new C&Z book. Granted, I only got a quick glimpse, so my comments are limited to the superficial. My brief look was enough to convince me that fans of Chocolate & Zucchini (myself included) will be thrilled with this book. It's as heartfelt, playful, and stylish as her blog. The book's format is a totable 8- by 6-inch quality paperback, so there's no reason to leave it behind during your market trips. The recipes (most previously unpublished) and stunning photos (all by the author) look and sound as delicious as our dinner. Need I say more?

Head on over to C&Z and follow the link to preorder Chocolate & Zucchini: Daily Adventures in a Parisian Kitchen, due for release in about 3 weeks. Alternatively, go to your local independent bookstore next month and buy it. You won't regret it. With her youth and imagination, I believe Clotilde is the perfect ambassador to rekindle everyone's enthusiasm for French cooking!

Best snack: L'As du Falafel

Here's another place that's doing just fine without my endorsement. As the astute Amateur Gourmet Adam wrote the other day about his arrival in San Francisco, I wanted my first bite in Paris to be memorable. Unlike Adam, whose first bite on his visit to my city was a lousy slice of pizza, N and I hit a home run without even trying.

The famous L'As du Falafel was only about 200 yards from the apartment we rented, and the line on Palm Sunday/April Fool's Day came practically to our door. After a 20 minute wait, during which I endured much head-shaking skepticism from N ("We came all the way to Paris and you want me to eat falafel? Is this one of your April Fool's Day pranks?"), we tucked into our prize: 8-10 little greaseless balls of falafel stuffed into a fluffy pita with tangy cabbage, cucumbers, roasted eggplant, tahini yogurt sauce and a spicy harissa-type sauce piquante on the side. MmmmMmmm. I was in heaven. Even my skeptic was converted.

And now for something completely different

We interrupt this 4-course Parisian meal for an English pudding.

No, this is not a joke.

And neither, might I add, is English food. English food is a force to be reckoned with. It's no mere trifle.

Unless of course you're talking about Trifle. English Trifle is indeed a trifle. I mean that in the sweet-custardy-dessert sense of the word, not the something-of-little-importance sense.

In fact, in recent years English Trifle has become more than a little important. Its charms have spread far and wide. Why, it has even managed to ooze through the Chunnel, down the gullet, and into the brain of none other than the great pastry chef Pierre Hermé.

It's true. Pierre Hermé and other Great Chefs of France have been having a Tryst with Trifle. I've seen it with my own eyes. I've tasted the francofied trifle with my own tongue. What? Has the unimaginable occurred? Have the Great Chefs of France begun looking towards the much maligned cooking of England for inspiration? Quel scandal!

"Please forgive us," the Chefs plead. "We cannot resist Ms. Trifle's creamy and voluptuous charms. She is like Nigella Lawson in a silk negligee and glass slippers."

"Non!" cried the proud French people upon learning of the Great Chefs' anything-but-trifling Tryst with Trifle. "We must enroll les docteurs du spin to defend our nation's gastronomic integrity. We won't allow anyone to trifle with our reputation." The docteurs du spin hatched a plan. "From this day forward, on our side of the Channel we will call Trifle la Verrine. Heh heh heh. We will convince the world the the Verrine is our invention! With a sexy name like Verrine, no one will realize that she is simply English Trifle in a little black Chanel dress."

The Great Chefs of France worked long hours, sometimes even exceeding 35 hours per week, to cover up their shameful Tryst with Trifle. First, they had Ms. Trifle slip into a size-2 glass (verre). Then they adorned her with tuiles and gelées, crème and caramel. They varied her temperature and texture, smeared croustillant on her lips, dabbed craquant behind her ears. They enrolled la bonne femme and even bloggers in their cause. Cook books were published. When they were done, they leaked the concept to the American media. "Let's start with LA. The Californians love us French. They will believe whatever we tell them."

And after my trip to Paris, I too have fallen prey to their deception. I have fallen head over heals for the charms of this repackaged Trifle, the voluptuous Verrine.

So what follows is the result of my own scandalous tryst with the francofied Trifle. I concocted a fashionable French verrine an old-fashioned English Trifle with a California sensibility. Imagine Joan Collins as Alexis Carrington. (If you haven't guessed by now, this Pythonesque tale is my fashionably late entry in Sam's Fish & Quips event. Happy St George's Day to all!).

Allow me to introduce you to my lovely sweet paramour...

I love Paris in the springtime: the plat principal

The Parisian bistro.

Conjures images of closely packed tables. Tobacco-smoke-stained walls. Hammered zinc bar.  Laughter. Boisterous conviviality. Chalkboard menu. Rickety bent-wood chairs. Pale red beaujolais poured into small glasses from a carafe. Well-worn mismatched silverware. Copper pots. La cocotte. Smoke-filled dining room. Cheeky waiters in long white aprons. The stern matron.

Admittedly I'm slathering the stereotypes on a little thick, like salted butter on a baguette. Might as well cue Édith Piaf or Django Rheinhardt. Roll the tape from Pagnol.

Regardless, this is the picture many of us — Americans at least — carry in our psyche. In our subconscious, this image dictates our vision of what a neighborhood restaurant could and should be. Keith McNally understands this. So does Gabrielle Hamilton.

The whole reason I chose Paris over another visit to Spain was to explore les bistrots (I'll leave it to others to explain why the word sometimes ends with a t, sometimes not).  In particular, I wanted to check out the néo-bistrots of the so-called bistronomie movement, whereby chefs have left grandiose Michelin-starred restaurants to open their own small restaurants on more modest budgets. According to the press, these chef-proprietors use high quality ingredients to create more contemporary versions of classic bistro fare. I felt a bond with these chefs. We share a vision. Their restaurants sounded exactly like what I hope Olallie will some day become.

Besides, I hadn't been to Paris since I started down the culinary career path a dozen years ago. And, despite my love of all things Spanish, my cooking is rooted in French technique as much as any other American chef's is. ("Plus," N pipes in, "Paris is incredibly sensual and romantic!").

Although our list of must-visit bistrots grew longer with each person we spoke to and each website I read, we ended up visiting 4 néo-bistrots and we liked them all.

We interrupt these Parisian posts for a glass of water

A month ago I mentioned that we will be serving a choice of sparkling or still filtered tap water at my future restaurant, Olallie.

On Saturday, the Wall Street Journal published a thorough article on the topic that I thought might be of interest to my readers. Surprisingly, the article, "Latest Gourmet Offering: Tap Water,"  is currently offered free to non-subscribers.

Food|and Drink|Restaurants|Opening Restaurant|San Francisco

I love Paris in the springtime: the entrée

If the previous post was the amuse bouche, then we'll call this the entrée. That's French for appetizer, by the way, not the main course. But you savvy readers knew that already, didn't you?

Whenever I travel, I get my bearings by visiting local food markets, from corner grocery stores to farmers' markets, bakeries to butchers. I like to believe these forays offer a glimpse into the every day world of the locals. But perhaps that's just glossy food magazine drivel. Regardless, there's really no better way to start the morning. And no better way to whet one's appetite for a 3-course lunch.

One of my favorite memories of this Parisian trip was Friday morning's trek across the city to buy just picked artichokes and cauliflower from a farmer named Joël Thiébault, whose family has been growing heirloom vegetables since the Middle Ages (well before "heirloom vegetables," légumes retrouvés in French, were "rediscovered"). I crawled out of bed at dawn, leaving N safely tucked under the sheets. On my walk from our apartment in the Marais, I marveled at the sight of Notre Dame in the morning sunlight. Then I joined the sleepy school children in matching uniforms and climbed aboard the RER commuter train to the 16th arrondissement to a farmers' market across the river from the Eiffel Tower.

Not all market excursions were as picturesque. Other days we visited more typical markets where, presumably, real working Parisians shop.

One morning, for example, N and I stepped into the future and visited the frozen tundra of a branch of Picard ("2 to beam up, Jean-Luc."). If you spliced the DNA from the frozen food aisles of Trader Joe's with the embarrassment of riches of Dean & Deluca and the sterile strangeness of Woody Allen's Sleeper, you might come up with something like Picard: gourmet frozen food. Our visit prompted the burning question "when is my local Safeway gonna start carrying frozen escargots de bourgogne, foie gras canard entier cuit au torchon, choucroute garnie au riesling, and macarons caramel au beurre salé?"

Another day N and I found ourselves wandering the opulent aisles of excess at La Grande Épicerie de Paris on the ground floor of the Bon Marché department store, Paris' answer to Harrods Food Halls in London. We ogled the terrines and mousses and fromage and the best butter in the world, favored by 3-star chefs like Alain Passard. The selection is dazzling. They even sell horse milk. What kind of nut job would drink such a thing?

I love Paris in the springtime: the amuse bouche

For those of you who have never used a "Pictobrowser," click the big photo to advance to the next photo. Or click the little photos below. To find out the title of the picture, hover your cursor over the corresponding thumbnail under the big picture.

Yes. The whispers and sightings are true. N and I sneaked off to Paris last week.

Our goal was to keep our trip low key and unplanned and spontaneous. Back in January when we realized the restaurant opening was going to be delayed even further (we're looking at autumn now, folks), we cashed in some frequent flyer miles for plane tickets, rented an apartment in the Marais (the first listing we saw, without any second guessing or further research), and that was it.

Sounds easy, no? For you, maybe. But not for little ole me. Let me give you a glimpse of last summer's OCD trip to Spain. I booked, confirmed, and reconfirmed every excruciating detail of our trip — from the hotels to the car rental to every single lunch and dinner — as far in advance as 10 months. Then I laid it all out on an Excel spreadsheet that listed addresses, phone numbers, and websites. I stopped just short of scheduling the piss stops.

Last week was the mirror opposite. We let our hearts guide us. Occasionally our stomachs took the lead. Our carefree attitude yielded equal and in many ways better results than those trips where we've spent countless hours researching and planning and fretting (OK, so I did break down at the last minute and send a frantic email to Rosa of Edible Paris to make half a dozen reservations for us. But we ended up canceling or changing most of them once we arrived. *Sigh* Old habits die hard).

We didn't go to one 3-star restaurant. Or even a museum. Or *gasp* a single chocolatier. The one tourist site we saw (repeatedly) was Notre Dame, but only because it was a 5-minute stroll from our apartment. Though, now that I think about it, we did find ourselves acting silly under the Tour Eiffel on our way to lunch one day.

Instead, N and I idled for hours at little chef-owned bistros and cafés, took long walks, did a little shopping, enjoyed each other's company and, on a couple of nights, the company of friends. I even foraged at the farmers' markets one morning and threw together a simple dinner.

I've learned my lesson. Pick a city or village, rent an apartment, and stay there. And if it can be avoided, no rental cars. I doubt we'll ever travel any other way again (although a teensy little phone call to L'Astrance or Le Comptoir back in January couldn't have hurt). I suppose I've truly entered middle age.

I'll save my angst-ridden planning and obsessive compulsive attention to detail for where it belongs: opening and running my restaurant.

Warning: As you may have noticed, I'm a self-diagnosed binge blogger. No posts for weeks, then *bam!* 4 posts in 4 days. It would be safe to expect several stories and photo collections from our trip over the next few days. Consider this an amuse bouche.

Food|and Drink|Paris