Mardi Gras, commonly known as Fat or Strove Tuesday, goes hand-in-hand with Carnival, a wild festival which has origins in ancient Rome and Greece. Back then, for example, pagan celebrations honoring the gods Dionysus and Bacchus (Greek and Roman gods of wine), were a time of fun and drunken merriment.  Another celebration from ancient Rome, the Festival of Saturn, gave citizens the chance to dress up as members of the society that they were not (the rich as the poor, women as men, slaves as masters).  Such festivities became closer to the Carnival we know today with the rise of Christianity. Christians supposedly adopted the pagan tradition of rowdy merry making, incorporating it into their own religious practices.  The word “carnival” comes from the Latin “carne vale,” which roughly translates as “farewell flesh.”  In medieval times, Carnival would have been the last chance to eat meat before Lent.

Carnival is still celebrated around the world today and ends with Mardi Gras.  The Fat Tuesday we know today (complete with feasting, costumes and revelry) is, thus, a combination of both Pagan and Christian festivities.  The actual date changes each year, depending on Easter.  It always falls the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, which begins the 40 days of Lent.  It is said that “Fat Tuesday” is so-named because of the tradition of using up all the butter, oil, eggs and cream in the house before the fasting period. Thus, the French tradition of making and eating such goodies as fried beignets and crêpes.

Here’s my most-recent (and easy) crêpe recipe:

What’s probably already in your cupboard

2 eggs

½ liter whole milk (or less)

250 grams all-purpose flour

Pinch of salt

1 tablespoon melted, unsalted butter

Directions:

1. Beat eggs and add about half the milk.

2. Begin adding the flour/salt and mix, alternating with more milk, until all the flour is used up and you get a thick ribbon of batter when you lift up the whisk.

3. Add the melted butter.

4. Let batter sit in the fridge for several hours (this helps it settle and really does make the crêpes easier to cook).

5. If needed, add a little more milk just before cooking.

5. Cook (kind of like pancakes) on an appropriate crêpe pan or other hot skillet (there’s a whole spreading/flipping technique, but that merits another post entirely…).

Make lots and enjoy with your favorite toppings.

]]> http://thetomatoknife.com/2010/02/mardi-gras-crepes-recipe/feed/ 0 http://thetomatoknife.com/2010/02/restaurant-review-loga-paris/ http://thetomatoknife.com/2010/02/restaurant-review-loga-paris/#comments Sun, 14 Feb 2010 17:16:58 +0000 Joy Anna Becvarik http://thetomatoknife.com/?p=1110 Valentine’s weekend, Paris’ most-popular restaurants are packed full of couples, literally cheek to cheek. Reservations are a must and, for the special occasion, most places propose a set menu with entrée, plat and déssert.  As our tradition goes, we hopped on the metro and stepped through the doors of one of the city’s well-liked, yet out-of-the-way restaurants.  L’Oga, a small and not-so-traditional dining spot in the 11^th arrondissement, is young, trendy, and recommended by many city-dwellers and dining guides.

From the non-descript outside, you really can’t tell what kind of restaurant this is.  As you walk through the doors and dark curtains draped at the entrance, you begin to understand that L’Oga is a funky cross between tradition and modern trend.  The lighting is dim candlelight.  The walls are covered with boldly colored contemporary paintings and handwritten chalkboards announcing the menu and wine lists- a décor full of edgy, eye-appealing contrasts.

We opted for the special Valentine’s menu (49 euros per person, not including wine). Although there were two choices for each course, we went true Valentine style and both selected: entrée- nage de St. Jacques au légumes et gingembre (scallops served in a light creamy sauce with leeks, carrots and ginger); plat principal- mi-cru de thon rouge au sésame et basilique, purée de carottes et patate douces au lait de coco (seared tuna with sesame seeds and pesto sauce, accompanied by a sweet potato, carrot and coconut milk puree); déssert- coeur coulant chocolaté, coulis pistache (warm chocolate dessert with creamy pistachio sauce).  Also included in the menu: a cocktail of either champagne, rose, and litchi or champagne, vodka and raspberry.

Sounds good.  What did we think?  The atmosphere: fun and amorous, excellent choice for an evening en couple. The cuisine: Very satisfying (except for the scallops, which had obviously been prepared in their dishes ahead of time, as they were served too quickly after ordering and were already getting cold).  The tuna was perfectly cooked, tender and quite tasteful.  The dessert was also enjoyable, though the pistachio sauce tasted a bit bland.  The service: Unfortunately, the service wasn’t quite up to par.  Most of the waiters were friendly, but (except for the scallops) we waited too long for everything, from ordering to receiving the dishes- and the person who took the dessert order outright forgot about it.  What was awkward was that the tables didn’t have one primary waiter, but a constant rotation of three or four different people.

All in all, we had a really enjoyable evening. I can’t put L’Oga on my personal list of favorite spots in Paris, though, mostly because of the service and lack of feeling completely at ease.  What I did like about this restaurant is that it helped me get closer to answering my ongoing question: what’s French Cuisine, Today? This experience was a hint that modern French cuisine has undoubtedly been influenced by the larger international community- chefs nowadays seem to be taking traditional dishes and spicing them up with such exotic ingredients as sweet potatoes and coconut milk- a trend my taste buds find especially appealing.

L’Oga

Address: 82, rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud (11^th)

Telephone: 01 43 57 60 15

Metro: Parmentier

Though I was hopeful for spring with my last post, this week’s on-and-off flurries of snow have officially confirmed that winter is not yet over.

In fact, this has been the strangest, coldest winter I’ve experienced in Paris so far.  Today, alone, has been proof of divine indecision: one minute, unbelievably large snowflakes are floating in the air; the next, the sky is clear and blue; and, then, it’s masked in grey, bone-chilling cold.

Whether you’re just visiting or actually living in Paris, one of the coziest escapes from the weather is shelter in one of the capital’s endless array of wine bars. Just recently, we discovered one that was especially inviting- and hidden away from any tourist crowd.

Le Rouge et le Verre is located in Paris’ 9^th arrondissement, not too far north of the Palais Garnier opera house and right near the church Notre Dame de Lorette.  This area may not get the same attention as the neighboring 1^st and 2^nd arrondissements (home, for example, to the Bibliothèque Nationale, Place Vendôme and the Louvre), but I enjoy walking around its somber streets and stepping into its cafés/bars for the unexplored, authentic atmosphere I always feel.

Soon as you walk in this cave à vin, your eyes roam the rows of wine bottles lining the walls (arranged by region and identified with rustic wooden signs, of course).  The atmosphere is relaxed and friendly- with most customers coming in to ask for pairing advice and purchase a few bottles.  In the evenings between 5pm and 8pm, however, you may enjoy a glass of wine and a plate of cheeses or charcuteries.  This is where I was introduced to a monastic cheese from Brittany called “Timanoix.”  A semi-hard cow’s milk cheese, it’s made with nut liqueur which gives it a pleasant, almost smoked and nutty flavor.        

As for the wine, Sébastien and I each ended up with a glass we’d now recommend.  With my cheese, I took a 2005 Margaux, Les Gondats de Marquis de Terme (the young man helping us said this hearty red wine would go well with the meat plate as well).  Sébastien opted for a 2007 Irancy, Domaine Heimbourger, a light and refreshing white wine.

For anyone who likes oysters, it’s the season to enjoy these, too.  You can either take them to go (sold out front) or sit and eat them with a glass of wine.

Address: 8, rue Maubeuge (9^th)

Telephone: 01 48 78 68 43

Metro: Notre Dame de Lorette

It’s snowing again, by the way…

Spring has (literally) sprung early in our apartment this year.

Meet Fergie, the wild asparagus plant that has been mesmerizing us for a few weeks now.

I had a good laugh when I walked in the door from work one evening and saw Sébastien holding a small terracotta pot sporting the most awkward, scrawny, spiky reincarnation of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree I’d ever seen.  I quickly learned  that a friend had given us a wild asparagus plant.

Back then, there wasn’t much sign of life, just the four sprite, rather nervous-looking “trees”  that spread haughtily into the air.  Sébastien warned, though, that asparagus would soon start sprouting up from the soil.

Judging from our endless misadventures with orchids (which never seem to make it through winter with us), I wasn’t so sure we’d be able to grow asparagus- it’s supposed to be difficult (three years before a seed will give way to friendly green stalks).

Despite our mild lack of confidence, we watered Fergie (who was named instantly by the way) and… just like that, two little white creatures pushed their way through the dirt.  What got us most was the stunning rate one of these asparagus stalks grew- as though it inched up by the minute.

In just a couple weeks, the innocent newborn in the photo turned into a lanky thread that now measures 13 inches!

Since I’ve never grown asparagus, I’m kind of curious about the whole thing.  As far as I know, this veggie’s been around for a while- records take it back to Ancient Rome- as both a delicacy and a medicinal plant.  Also, asparagus, apparently (like French nouns), can be either male or female.  Wonder what this one is?

You can’t have a blog on Paris without mentioning the infamous

This is where one goes for a handful of administrative documents in France, and in a foreigner’s case, for your titre de séjour- the card that gives you permission to live in France and acts as your “identity card.”  Once you move to Paris the Préfecture kind of becomes part of your life- like the post office, the bank, the grocery store (okay, maybe we won’t go that far).  After a while you just kind of get to know it, and most expats seem to have a story to tell- from waiting in line to being sent back home to fetch a missing document, from misunderstandings with employees to just plain confusion.  Maybe I’ve just been lucky, or maybe I’m just strange, but I actually kind of like going to the Préfecture.

The old stately building in located right in the center of Paris, on Ile de la Cité.  I usually arrive by metro, anxiously poking my head out of ground to have a peek at the row of green huts lined up out in front.  These little shops are overflowing with all sorts of plants for sale- and many also display Christmas ornaments that are always fun to look at through the large glass windows.  Then I turn around and see the stately Préfecture- and my husband waiting patiently for me on a bench.

This afternoon, though, I decided to take the 72 bus which strides along the Seine and lets me out on the north side of the water, so that I have to cross over the Pont Notre Dame in order to get to the island.  This is my favorite part of the journey- crossing the bridge and looking out over the Seine toward the west.  No matter what time of year, or what time of day, the sky is always striking.  I’ve seen pale hazy pink, bright clear blue, and cold misty grey hovering above the rows of bridges.

What always surprises me about the Préfecture is actually how quickly it all goes.  Since we were married, Sébastien and I have had to return every year to renew my titre de séjour, and then go back a month or so later to pick it up.  While the initial meeting with an agent takes longer, I can usually bet on ten or fifteen minutes to pick it up- I know, not the usual story we hear.   The secret is knowing where to go and in what order.

I walk through the security doors and through the main entry way- no point in stopping at the front desk like I did the very first time- I just continue out the back door and take two lefts until I see “Caisse” marked on a door to my left.  This is where I buy the timbre OMI (Office des Migrations Internationales)- a 70 euro stamp that they will stick on my papers.  Then I  walk directly back out this door and cross the hallway to a little machine that gives me a number when I press the button.  Today I was only three people away from the next agent.  This is where I see most people getting confused.  Instead of going directly to the cash register, they wait with a number to go through the magic titre de séjour doors, then they come out in search of the hidden register and missing stamp.  My advice is simply to not wait in line and go through those doors until you are armed with:

- the stamp

- your passport

- your old titre de séjour

- your récipissée (a piece of paper that proves you’ve requested a new titre de séjour- it basically bridges the gap between the old one, which is expired by now, and the new one, and lets you get back in the country if you leave during the change-over)

When it’s your turn, you walk through the doors, smile and say “Bonjour” to the agent, sign a paper and walk back out the door with a shiny, laminated card.

Then you walk out the exit, which is to the south- completely the opposite direction from where you came in.  Your entire body feels weightless and smugly satisfied because, after all, you’ve just accomplished something and, admit it, you’re happy to know Paris is your city for at least another year- as though it’s yours and only yours- and you walk past Notre Dame, back over the Seine, and look out over the ever-present sky, remembering all the reasons you’re in Paris in the first place.

There’s a little orange notebook that sits on my bedside table.  “Il faut vivre pour écrire, et non pas écrire pour vivre,” it says in bold letters.  I’ll translate this as: “One must live in order to write, not write in order to live.”  Let’s just say I’ve been taking 19^th century French writer Jules Renard’s advice a little too seriously lately.  Better to blame it on that than get into the holiday weather (and the cancelled planes that go with it), the week of no phone (or Internet), the new (painful) French word I most recently learned- lombalgie, or lumbago in English- more or less, lower back pain that gets you an arrêt de travail (a doctor’s note).  Yes, best to blame it on that advice, one of the reasons I “live” in France in the first place: the enjoyable moments you can have despite the cold dark days and the time that just keeps getting away from you, the savoir vivre that permeates through the air and attaches itself to us, despite all.  In short, 2010 has been off to a crazy and busy, but oddly agreeable start- full of “living” and all that word means.

Come to think about it, I don’t think the bathroom’s going to get in order tonight.  It’s already past seven- and it’s Saint Sébastien Day here in France- yes, I live in a country where my husband (like many people) has his own holiday- all the more reason to “live” some more and take a break from all those things we’re “supposed” to be doing.

Bonne fête (and Happy New Year, by the way).

Some exotic spice, no?  The one that giddily finds its way into Indian and Thai cookbooks; the one I’d always ignored.  Until my most recent cooking adventure, I’d always skipped that part of the recipe, replacing the unknown with the familiar.  I only ever thought freshly squeezed lime juice could be my accomplice in Pad Thai crime.  I knew this friendly fruit could easily replace the so-called “tamarind,” and at least I knew where it came from and what tang it’d give my noodles.

That’s where my story starts, actually- with my trip to the Paris-based Asian grocery store, Tang Frère (*see note below), to buy the ingredients for one of my all-time favorites: homemade Pad Thai. There I was buying bean sprouts, leafy greens, hot chili sauce, carrots, rice noodles, lime- you name it- all those ingredients I usually buy to make my dish.  Yes, there I was, minding my business, when I looked up and saw a stack of bright red boxes marked “sweet tamarind.” Wow, I thought.  It really exists.  And it’s here in France, in front of me.  And, wow, it’s a… fruit?  That ’s funny, whatever it is, it’s in a… it’s in a pod- a strange little four-inch brown pod. In my moment of folly, I didn’t know anything from anything, except that “tamarind paste” must come from this “tamarind” fruit.  Decided: If I was going to make Pad Thai, I was going to make it “the real way.”  My very spontaneous idea was first to make tamarind paste.

As I learned, tamarind is a fruit that grows on a tamarind tree. The outside, indeed, is a curvy, bumpy pod which is filled with large seeds, a fibrous spine and, of course, pulp. Normally, tamarind is fairly acidic, getting sweeter as it ripens.  The ripe pulp can be eaten just like that or, after being made into a paste, can be used in cooking.  Tamarind contributes to the sweet/sour taste in a variety of recipes; popular in India, it’s one of the main ingredients in chutney, for example.

Cracking open my first pod and tasting the pulp, I was reminded of a date- a similar chewy, sticky texture and a similar dark red/brown color.  Thus, my problem: I thought tamarind was supposed to be acidic.  This was quite sweet.

I forged on and tried using a few different (intuitive) methods of making my tamarind paste. I tried soaking the peeled whole in boiling water, then picking through the seeds and fibers and crushing the pulp through a sieve.  But, it was too liquid, tasted like water and was too sweet.  Then I tried again, with less water, at room temperature.  (I know, there was no “constant” in my experiment- very bad).  This time, my paste was too thick and still too sweet.  I reminded myself I had bought “sweet tamarind” from Thailand and began to wonder if maybe there were other kinds. Then I realized I had no idea what tamarind paste was supposed to taste like or what the consistency should be.

In short, I ended up resorting back to my lime for that evening’s Pad Thai.  I’m not finished with this one, though!  Next task: find some sample tamarind paste (apparently, it’s sold either as a block that has to be prepared or ready-made in a jar).  Then, back to the tamarind pods (once I figure out if I can find some sour ones!), finger smooshing and sieving.

Anyone know more about tamarind and making the paste from scratch?

*Tang Frère is an Asian grocery store not to be missed.  It has two locations in Paris: 168, Avenue de Choisy (13^th arrondissement, China Town) and 41, Rue Labrouste (15^th arrondissement).  Although both will entice you with an array of not-so-common products, the China Town location is the largest and most well-known.  Fresh tofu, rice paper wrappers for spring rolls, wasabi…

I love big projects, especially cooking projects- big messy ones where you have long cleaning sessions afterward.

I, however, like most, don’t have endless hours each evening to spend concocting unknown dishes (nor do I always have the time to trek through Paris hunting down the various ingredients typically required of such ventures).  That’s why I have a secret store of “emergency recipes.” My definition of an “emergency recipe” is one that can be made easily, with easy-to-find ingredients, that is healthy, potentially 100% organic and, of course, tastes so nice you’d be looking forward to eating it again the next day (when you’ll be even busier and reheating is a wonderful solution to the day’s efforts).  This week’s “emergency recipe” only took half an hour and gave me the chance to dig into that package of quinoa/garlic/parsley spaghetti (organic, of course) I picked up at the health food store last week.  I also got to use up the crème légère impatiently waiting in the fridge, as well as part of the beautiful bouquet of parsley I couldn’t resist at the Tuesday market.

While the sauce was all my doing, I have to thank my Tout Robuchon (The Complete Robuchon) for inspiring the salad that accompanied our pasta dish. While we didn’t have any arugula for Robuchon’s Salade de roquette au parmesan, we did have a fresh endive that worked extremely well with his lemon/olive oil dressing and slices of parmesan.  Not too bad for a busy week night!

The sauce recipe below make enough for four:

Shopping List

1/2 onion (diced)

1 clove garlic (minced)

1/2 pound mushrooms (sliced)

1 cup crushed tomatoes

1/3 cup light cream

Olive oil

Salt

Pepper

Red Pepper Flakes

1. Sauté onion and garlic in olive oil over medium heat until slightly transparent.

2. A mushrooms and cover, stirring occasionally, until they are tender and juice has begun accumulating in the sauce pan.

3. Add tomatoes, cover and bring to a slight boil.

4. Add salt and let simmer.

5. Just before serving, add the cream, pepper and some red pepper flakes.  Allow to warm and season as needed.

Pour over pasta, decorate with fresh parsley and serve with a salad.

As I mentioned in my posts about bourru and bernache, tradition has it that you eat roasted chestnuts with these young “wines” that show their faces only in the autumn.

There are two words for chestnut in French: marron and châtaigne. While we don’t seem to distinguish between the two in English, we certainly do in French.  Marrons come from marroniers (cultivated chestnut trees) and châtaignes come from châtaigniers (wild chestnut trees).  They are very similar; in fact, a marron is technically a type of châtaigne.  Both nuts fall from the tree when ripe and are encased in a prickly bur.  One difference between the two types of nuts is that the marron bur will contain only one “fruit”, while that of the châtaigne will contain two or three.  Marrons are larger and rounder than châtaignes.

In France, you’ll find marrons used in a variety of specialties, such as marrons glâcés (sweet glazed chestnuts) or crème de marron (a grainy spread often used in dessert crêpes).

Châtaignes are the best for roasting. In France, they’re often collected off the ground by passersby, taken home and eaten on chilling fall evenings.  You will also see them for sale at farmers’ markets and in certain grocery stores- already taken out of their outer burs, but still enclosed in their dark brown shells.  Now’s the time to take advantage of these cheery little nuts, as they’re only around from September to February.

This last week, I tried home-roasted châtaignes for the first time- and what a treat!  When cooked just right, the inside fruit is warm and steamy, soft and pasty- not at all like the other nuts I know.  I didn’t just eat, though; I also learned how to prepare them. Here’s the very simple and traditional recipe that Sébastien’s family shared with me.  All you need are chestnuts, an old cast iron pot and some heat.  We used a gas flame, but I’m thinking you’d might be able to roast them on an electric stovetop or even in the oven.

Recipe

1. Cut two small slits into the shell of each chestnut with a paring knife.  This keeps the nuts from exploding during cooking.

2. Begin heating pot over a high flame and add prepared chestnuts- as many an each person wants to eat!

3. Cook for about ten minutes or more (it’s better to overcook than undercook).  Test one chestnut by cutting it open with a knife- the outside will be blackened and the entire inside should be soft and warm.

4. Transfer chestnuts to a bowl and enjoy with some bourru, bernache or your favorite white wine.

A few hints: You eat each chestnut as you open it.  Just off the flame, they will surely burn your fingers, so use a cloth napkin to hold them.  Also, use a small knife (or your daring fingers) to help open the shell and dish out the “fruit.”  Before biting in, make sure the nut isn’t dark-colored, a sign of mold or rotting.  That happens in nature!

We enjoyed our châtaignes plain- not salt, no butter, nothing- pure, simple tradition.

It all started with the bourru wine I talked about in this post.

Thanks to my sister, last weekend we got the chance to visit a seventh-generation, family-owned vineyard in Cour-Cheverny, a small rural town near Blois in the Loire Valley.  After writing about bourru, Sébastien and I were wondering if it was only a tradition in Bordeaux to drink the fermented grape juice that hasn’t yet been turned into “real” wine.  On our visit to the Domaine de la Marigonnerie, we had the chance to taste the Loire Valley equivalent, bernache, right out of the fermenting vat.

Drinking this sweet, cloudy, fizzy grape juice wasn’t only special because we were able to see first-hand how wine is made, but also because we tried a couple different kinds.  My favorite was the one made from the rare cépage “romorantin.” Also the name of a nearby town, this is a grape variety that was originally brought to the Loire Valley from Burgundy by Francois I in the 16^th century.  Today it is only cultivated in this region.

Of course, “bernache” wasn’t the only wine we tasted.  We especially enjoyed the AOC Cour-Cheverny, Cuvée “vieilles vignes”- a full-fledged dry white wine made from 100% “romorantin” grapes. We were told it would pair especially well with spicy foods- of course, the adventurous New Mexican in me liked that idea.

We also enjoyed the AOC Cour-Cerverny, “Cuvée tardive”- a vin moelleux. “Cuvée tardive” means that the grapes were picked later than for a dry wine and, therefore, have a higher sugar content.  It was interesting to taste the difference between the dry and sweet wines of the same grape variety.  Mr. Daridan, who runs the vineyard, joked that this wine would go well with Maroilles, a semi-soft cows-milk cheese made in the north of France and known for it’s very strong smell!  I’ll keep you posted as soon as we try that one.

For anyone who might be in the Blois area this December 5-6, the Daridan vineyard will be hosting an open house with tasting and sales of their wine and other local products.  Check their website for more details and directions- they may come in handy on the small dirt roads!

Next post: roasted chestnuts and white wine.