Paris - Duluc Detective

Words fail me.

Need I say more?

Ok. Just this closeup of my dream doorplate.

Paris - Review of Illios Restaurant in the 18th

One cold day in Paris, having trekked across town to a well-known bakery in the 19th (without checking my Excel spreadsheet, which would have told me that the bakery in question was not open on Tuesdays), I found myself at loose ends. So I hopped on a random bus. It took me up and around through the 18th and 19th arrondissements. It wasn't a particularly scenic tour, but it was, as always, fun to get a random glimpse of a part of town you'd otherwise have no reason to visit. (It was the 60 bus, in case you're interested.)

So, there I was, wandering around cold and starving and trying to find a place that wasn't Italian. I spotted Illios, but it looked a little too swanky for me. How wrong I was. It was tiny and charming and staffed by a waitress who kept running around, throwing up her hands and murmuring "Catastrophe! Catastrophe!" but as far as I'm concerned, there was no catastrophe at all.

I had foie gras as a starter, because it's almost always a good idea to do that, and followed it up with a lovely garlic roasted chicken leg, with a solid side of potatoes and a nice light salad.

Given the look of the other restaurants around, I chose wisely. Should you be down the hill on the wrong side of Sacré Coeur, I highly recommend stopping in.

Oh, and the place was packed, including one elegant sophisticated lady of a certain age, whose gorgeous face, perfect make-up and impassive gaze have since served as my inspiration for how to eat--no scratch that--dine solo.

Illios Restaurant (61 Rue Ramey, 75018 Paris. Métro: Jules Joffin. Tel.:01 42 23 67 60)

Paris - Review of Le Petit Curieux in the 3rd

So even though I'm the kind of girl who whips up an extensive Excel spreadsheet detailing all of the restaurants she'd like to check out (even for spur-of-the-moment type vacations like this one), I'm also the kind of girl who forgets to print out said spreadsheet, and also the kind of girl who has a horror of advance planning.

All this to say that if you were to plot a Venn diagram of my actual restaurant experiences versus my spreadsheet, there wouldn't be a whole lot of overlap.

But that's good. Because what it also means is that I am often pleasantly surprised by under-the-radar spots that I would never have otherwise happened across.

Like Le Petit Curieux (16, rue des Filles du Calvaire, 75003 Paris. Métro: Filles du Calvaire. Tel.: 01 42 74 65 79)

It's a tiny space (and extremely cute, for what it's worth) and was bustling when I arrived. I managed to grab a table for one, no problem, and decided to go for the full three-course lunch "formule" for a terrific €19. I started with the smoked herring and sardine "maison" which were good, but not the most exciting thing in the world. Many other diners were swooning over what I later found out was "oeufs cocotte aux truffes" (something like "soft-baked eggs with truffles, but if it's all the same with you, I'll stick to the French as being infinitely more adorable).

For my main, I had a wonderful dish of sweetbreads in a buttery, garlicky, parsley sauce. With a side of buttery mashed potatoes. Oh, and there was a glass or two of wine in there too, don't worry.

For dessert, I had "faisselle," which is a kind of fresh cheese that tastes like a tangy yogurt, topped with salted caramel (a specialty of Brittany, it would seem).

It was the perfect place to happen upon while stumbling around desperately looking for lunch. (Ahem. The place I was going to go to was closed - what did I say about that spreadsheet? Oh right. That I forgot to print it. Yes, it contains a column for opening hours.)

Paris - Act IV

Somehow, I forgot to mention my awesome introduction to Paris... Wandering around the Gare du Nord, trying to figure out how to transfer to Line 2 (which turns out to be longer and more complicated than you might think), a man asked me if I needed help. He proceeded to rush me through the station (in, I might add, what appeared to be the wrong direction) at breakneck speed (especially considering that I was dragging all my luggage behind me).

We arrived at what I know to be exit gates, and he gestured that we needed to go through, but I didn't have my ticket handy (you need it to exit), so he just had me squeeze through behind him. He brought me to the ticket vending machine, and selected the booklet of 10 tickets.

Now, I'm very much the kind of girl who does her homework, so I knew there was no way I was going to buy a booklet. I needed a single ticket for that day, was going to spend the next day recovering from jet lag and getting to know my own neighbourhood. I then intended to buy a Navigo pass, which is good for unlimited travel for a week (Mon-Sun). I explained this to him, and he tried to pull off a line about how the Navigo pass doesn't exist anymore. I had to call bullshit on that one, since I (well-informed traveller that I am) knew that a different card was recently eliminated, that the Navigo was introduced to replace it, and that it was very much available to me.

Warning flags had been going off the entire time, and I certainly wasn't going to be bullied by some random guy into buying something I didn't want. After a few more attempts to convince me, he must have seen that he wasn't getting anywhere. I blinked and he was gone, disappeared back through the entry gate.

Why do I tell you this? Pride. Terrible, awful, sinful pride. This is the first time I can think of that someone has tried to swindle me, and I wasn't taken in for a minute. You never know things will go until it actually happens, but now it has, and I totally had him pegged.

I guess his plan was either to grab the tickets, or snatch my cash or card, but it doesn't seem like a particularly good scam to me. Not that lucrative, really.

Who knows? Maybe he wasn't a very good grifter, but I like to think that I'm just a savvy traveller.

Paris - Act III

To anyone considering dining solo in Paris:

Do it. No one will bat an eye. You will not be seated at the bar, because, well, you don't eat dinner at the bar. You may get a lousy table, but so far I have not. Your waiter or waitress may be lovely (or may be standoffish, on occasion), but they will not treat you any differently than they are treating any of the people at the two-tops or three-tops. If they are being charming to the other tables, they will be charming to you. Most are. Extremely. But the opposite does apply (if they're a bit of a jerk, they will at least be consistent) (this has only happened to me once).

I know it sometimes feel like you've got a huge L tattooed on your forehead when you walk into a restaurant for dinner alone, but do. Treat yourself. Don't be shy. Your wait person will take good care of you.

(NB: I have been eating almost exclusively at adorable neighbourhood bistrots, because that's the kind of food I'm interested in, but I'm sure at the multiple-Michelin-starred restaurants they take even better care of you.)

Paris - Act II

(Translation observations -- potentially boring)

On the single-line subway maps that show you where you're at and suggest where you might be going (the entire system doesn't appear in the metro cars, only in the stations), the following message appears (followed by my very literal translation) if your line connects with Strasbourg--St-Denis:

"La correspondance n'est pas assurée." (Connections are not guaranteed.)

But what it actually means is that the station is closed. Not only are you not guaranteed to be able to transfer, but you are actually guaranteed to NOT be able to transfer. But, you know. It's French.

Equally fascinating is the warning message to keep you hands off the door. In French (and in the extremely faithful Spanish, German and Italian translations), the warning reads:

"Don't put your hands on the doors. You might get pinched." (My translation.)

This warning is illustrated by a rabbit getting his fingers trapped between the closing doors. The English, however reads:

"Beware of trapping your hands in the doors."

Only the Italian takes an exclamation mark.

Paris - Act I

First baguette sighting (confirmation that you have indeed arrived in Paris):
A young reckless driver making a screeching left turn across oncoming traffic, laughing with his buddy and biting off a huge hunk of the baguette braced between his knees.

First dead-on Parisian moment (in haiku form):
En sortant du Passage Plantain
In the bright sunlight
She leans out of the window
In a pink housecoat

Then, suddenly, it turned cold. I am not taking pictures. I'm somehow ok with that.

Did I say yet that guanciale makes everything better?

Damn. I've been drowning in green beans this past two months or more. When gardens produce, they tend to produce with a vengeance. So since I'm going to by busy and eating out all weekend, I decided to whip up the 3-4 lbs of green beans I had kicking around in the fridge. (I live alone. That's a lot of beans.)

Well, while in spring a young man's fancy may lightly turn to thoughts of love, in late summer a young girl's fancy is wont to turn to that last remaining chunk of pork jowl. And lordy, am I glad it did.

So I chopped up some small bits and threw 'em in a pan to cook. Thought to add some garlic. Added the beans (in batches, since they were of varying varietals and ages). Lidded that sucker and let 'er braise a while.

I didn't actually eat them hot, since I had already eaten, but just threw them in the fridge for tonight. And lo and behold, what do I find? Sweet jesus. The most delicious accident I've ever made. Some of the beans are caramalized in the pork fat. The extra-porky guanciale has permeated everything. The garlic may not have been necessary, but what the heck. I served them cold, with a drizzle of olive oil, a sprinkling of parm, and a pinch of salt.

Divine. This tastes like restaurant food. Good restaurant food.

Instructions (for a reasonable amount of beans)

1 lb green beans, any variety, trimmed
1 slice guanciale, cubed (or any similarly delicious pork product, though I highly recommend this one, if you can get your hands on it)
1 clove garlic, sliced
salt, to taste
oil, for pan
(parmesan cheese, oil, for serving)

Throw your guanciale in the pan over lowish (low to medium) heat. Stir it occasionally while you're trimming the beans and chopping the garlic.

When the guanciale is as cooked as you like it (think your preferred bacon style), add the garlic. Let 'er cook for a minute, just to begin to colour, and add the beans. (If your beans are all similar, which they will probably be if you aren't harvesting them from my garden, add them all at once. If you are crazy, add them in stages, according to how long you guesstimate they'll take to cook. That said, you're going to braise the hell out of them, so maybe it doesn't matter. In fact, I'm sure it doesn't.)

Add the beans all at once. Mine had water clinging to them, but if yours don't, add a splash of water. Just a splash. Really. Because...

Now you're going to lid the pot and turn the heat down if you need to. Not to nothing, but to it's-ok-to-go-text-your-friend-for-a-while-and-forget-about-the-beans-without-burning-anything temperature.

Mine went for maybe an hour. They're melting and luscious. I highly recommend it.

Eat hot if you want to. I'm sure they're great. But I put them in the fridge for a day, then pulled some out and drizzled oil, parm and cheese on top, and could not believe how amazing they were.

Best part? I've got leftovers.

Pork jowl. Cured.

In the battle of East vs. West, West has won this round.

I stopped in my favourite West-end butcher a few weeks ago on my way to a friend's house for a dinner date, and noticed a mysterious pork product hanging from the wall. "What's that," I asked, "not prosciutto." (They were much smaller than haunches.) "No," smiled the butcher, "Guanciale."

Now, I had never actually had guanciale before, but it's been haunting me like a ghost. I keep seeing it referenced in cookbooks as "difficult to find outside of Italy." The cookbooks sigh with pity, look superior, and explain that we mere mortals can substitute bacon or pancetta.

If these are the substitutes, you know guanciale's a winner.

The guanciale (pork jowls, by the way) weren't ready yet. Wouldn't be for a week. Luckily, I've got a standing dinner date in the West end, so I was there the following Monday. Picking up my guanciale. Paying eight bucks for a 2-lb jowl. Crazy.

So that was two weeks ago, and I've only just now gotten around to using my precious pork product. The verdict? Out of this world. Here's what I did (faking my way through a Bucatini all'Amatriciana).

Around 1/3 lb guanciale (random guess - go with a 1/4, go with a 1/2, no worries) cut into little squares or sliced, as you wish.
1 fat onion, sliced thinly (I must insist).
Around 1/2 can tomatoes (for the record, I picked these up on sale at No Frills a hundred years ago, and they're a good choice, with a thick puree).
Dried chillies (I used two, broken into halves).
Around 1/4 cup of cheese - apparently it should be Pecorino Romano, which I usually have (but didn't). All I had on hand was Parmigiano Reggiano. Personally, I think there's no shame in that.
1/3 a package of pasta. Don't feel compelled to use bucatini. I used my obsession, Mafalda corta by Garofolo (highly recommended) (incredibly highly recommended).

Throw your chopped or sliced guanciale into a heavy-bottomed pot (I used a cast-iron dutch oven) over medium or even medium-low heat. Render the fat. Just let 'er go. When the guanciale has released enough delicious fat, throw in the onions. Oh, but if you were frying slices, rather than squares (aka "lardons"), pull them out to slice them. Or not. It would probably be delicious with long strips of guanciale, but I enjoyed mine with little bites dispersed through the sauce. So you want to cook the onions for a good long time, to get them nice and sweet. So cook them for a while, throw in your dried chilli(es) and meanwhile, back on the ranch, heat up your pasta water.

Throw in your tomatoes (and the guanciale, if you had to pull it) with the onions and crank the heat up a little to simmer. This should go on for maybe ten or fifteen. Which is perfect, since the pasta will be cooking at the same time. Then throw in some cheese. Take your sauce off the heat. Taste it. It will be more delicious than you anticipated. Now the pasta is ready. Drain it and toss it in the sauce. Sit down, pour yourself a glass of wine, and enjoy.

The old no-knead

Wow.

Is that bread shot dramatic, or what?

I think I must've been on speed or something today. This morning? Just whipped up some sweet potato-cranberry muffins. Like it weren't no thing. (I always plan to throw in a spare sweet potato when I'm baking other things, and never do. This week I did.)

But as if that weren't enough, I threw together a good-but-n0t-great soup of collards, kale, potatoes and (still cooking my way through my freezer) cannellini beans.

And to top it all off, I threw my most recent attempt at the infamous no-knead bread in the oven. I started it last night while 3 or 4 quarts of beef stock were simmering away merrily. (So come to think of it, the erratic behaviour actually started last night.)

And the bread? Gorgeous. Best rise I've managed. Just look at it! Doesn't it look like it could take on the world?