tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20301301891116892412024-03-14T03:40:57.316-07:00Devour...ParisA blog about eating my way through life in Paris...Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-10013826234256198892011-02-12T09:46:00.000-08:002011-02-23T01:31:49.561-08:00Devour....Paris has moved<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I'm now devouring London so I've decided to move to a new home at <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><a href="http://missdevour.blogspot.com/">http://missdevour.blogspot.com/</a></span></b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><br />
</span></b><br />
I'll see you there!<br />
<br />
Miss Devour<br />
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</div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-76083845850945127422011-02-12T09:33:00.000-08:002011-02-12T09:33:45.946-08:00Brian has the right idea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">On the radio last week, a miscellaneous artist was discussing her latest album. She panted away about her modern euro-dance-soul-pop style (is this a genre now?) sporned from her discovery of spiritual faith, a brush with her deceased grandmothers ghost and a non-controversial coming-of-age sexual discovery. I am not sure her PR team knew they were promoting a single entitled “Shake dat Bootay” when her script was briefed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view from graduation. The Year I Lived The Dream.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Oddly enough, The Booty Shaker did say one thing that stuck with me. I know! I know…I blame the temporary lapse in my intellectual firewall on a long day in the sun. Miss Shaker: “As an artist, I am constantly traversing the line between the emotional and the sentimental”. From this statement I took the basic dichotomy: Emotional, good. Sentimental, bad. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer time by the Seine. A picnic of chefs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">While querying whether either emotion or sentiment was harmed at all in the making of “Shake dat Bootay” I found myself rising to the defence of sentiment. Brian Adams and Richard Marx have each bankrolled lucrative careers on the love songs and dedications ballad model (OK, perhaps not my strongest argument). The e-dating community thrives on an intravenous feed of sentimental promises and nobody can fend off those tears in the airport arrivals hall (or the credits of Love Actually if you lazy enough to make your loved ones cab it home from Heathrow). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Winner, Nachos, TGC. Second Place, Nachos, The Moose.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">In the taxi on my way to Gare du Nord for the last time, I was wearing a sentimental unitard. Even whilst arguing with the typically boorish driver in my best Taxi Driver French (a measure of fluency whereby the speaker can discourse with taxi drivers with confidence (often, but not always, aided by a glass or two of vino prior to travel)) I withheld the urge to affectionately punch his arm whilst exclaiming “Oh you! Good times, good times”. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'll just have something light, like a salad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">9.13am to London St Pancras International. On way. No more summer time glasses (bottles) of chilled rose at <a href="http://www.blackbookmag.com/guides/details/la-palette-odeon">La Palette</a> with my girlfriends. No more Sunday nights with caramelised pork and a glass (bottle) of Morgon at <a href="http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/11/12/standing-room-only-lavant-comptoir-in-paris/">L’Avant Comptoir</a>. No more <a href="http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/05/sunburn-and-speculoos.html">Grom</a>. No more <a href="http://prescriptioncocktailclub.com/">Prescription Cocktail Club</a>. No <a href="http://travel.nytimes.com/2006/12/31/travel/31bite.html">L’as du Fallafel</a>. No….ohhhhh!!!</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Rice and Fish then Rice and Beans. California goodness in Paris.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Already I am fighting the demise of this blog post into the rhetoric of a US high school valedictorian’s speech. If Green Day had released “Time of you Life” in French I would attach a sound link. Instead I’ll retreat to the barren executive format of dot points in my farewell to Paris and The Year I Lived The Dream (hey, I said no sentimentality, not retrospective cliché…I’m claiming a difference). It’s just easier for us both this way, Paris, jusqu'à la prochaine fois.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfjP-4hKfv8darEanY5r_REP7oD_WCf6vOQ2EjU34BMTQrHgdQDV4SGUomd7UPi-fJRh8cfLVPYzAnZqnPw1RCgFy28Ft_HGpK61x4tKv4psUQ0Tuf936ZhxKPnhhOmj-0Zy9cXpqqF70/s1600/P1000953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfjP-4hKfv8darEanY5r_REP7oD_WCf6vOQ2EjU34BMTQrHgdQDV4SGUomd7UPi-fJRh8cfLVPYzAnZqnPw1RCgFy28Ft_HGpK61x4tKv4psUQ0Tuf936ZhxKPnhhOmj-0Zy9cXpqqF70/s320/P1000953.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ultimate soothing broth, Pho Boeuf Cru, Pho 14</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">To a loop of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yq7aTLui0I4">Sebastain Tellier’s “La Ritournelle”</a> I’d like to thank all those calories which contributed to the making of this year. Amazing. In no particular order, I’d especially like to thank:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Picnics by the Seinne, Le Cordon Bleu style</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gin Gin Mules, Prescription Cocktail Club</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Stonker Sandwich, <a href="http://www.zagat.com/Verticals/PropertyDetails.aspx?VID=8&R=69276">Cosi</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Foie Gras, everywhere</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Café gelato, Grom</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Falafal Sandwich, L’as du Fallafel</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Une Bouteille de Morgon, L’Avant Comptoir</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Brie de Meaux</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mixed Taco’s, <a href="http://www.blackbookmag.com/guides/details/rice-and-fish">Rice and Beans</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Pho, <a href="http://www.cityvox.fr/restaurants_paris/pho-14_11845/Profil-Lieu">Pho 14</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nachos, <a href="http://www.tgcparis.com/">The Great Canadian</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Giant Salads, everywhere</div><div style="text-align: justify;">•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Port Royal Boulevard fresh food market</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My local supermarket...we're a long way from Tesco Toto</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> I can’t go on. It hurts too much. This just isn’t healthy x</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-21053114581873827662011-01-31T11:50:00.000-08:002011-02-01T11:00:51.075-08:00Do you home deliver? Lessons from a professional kitchen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m escaping my own style with this post. I’m also indirectly and unintentionally posting an anti-ode to the infinitely more accomplished stylings of <a href="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_drink/eating_out/a_a_gill/article6882183.ece">A.A. Gill</a>. I’m going to write about food. Straight up. Without the odd yet parallel tale of some current life event or recent happening. I feel a little naked in this approach, but here we go with some naturalist musings.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the past few months I have had the privilege and the sometimes pain of working…OK, be it for free, but labour none the less…in some great restaurant kitchens. My approach to my stage (kitchen apprenticeship) pursuit was simple. Where do I like to eat? Where am I embarrassingly excited by the food? Where will a chef take another now chef into his kitchen knowing full well I was a lawyer in a past life?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As it turns out, the whole ex-lawyer branding proved less difficult than I imagined. I met with congratulations, mockery, disbelief and only on odd occasion anger. Unfortunately the consequences of a poorly managed divorce can scar a man for life…but the consequences of a well managed kitchen station and a little non-binding guidance on a debt recovery can heal all wounds. Miss Devour & Co, Registered Office: Hot Starters.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="John Spinks The Ledbury's chef, Brett Graham" class="active" src="http://static2.travelandleisure.com/images/amexpub/0000/8897/200710_a_London_Chefs.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brett Graham, contempo casual at The Ledbury</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Last November, through sheer luck, <a href="http://bestemergingchefs.wordpress.com/2010/03/31/11-brett-graham-the-ledbury-london-uk/">Executive Chef Brett Graham</a> at <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1900341236">The </a><a href="http://www.theledbury.com/">Ledbury</a> plucked my application from email anonymity. Lesson One: Roe deer butchery. Working with Brett to reduce the bounty of his weekend shooting trip into priced portions for The Ledbury’s winter menu was fascinating. He is so commercially astute in maximising value from his produce, which goes some way to explain the continued success of The Ledbury. The Roe deer portions are seared and presented in a smoking glass dome of hay (Douglas Fir), which gives the flesh a smoky finish. The deer is served with the classic meaty accompaniments of beetroot and marrow, The Twist element being the malt shavings dusted on top. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Brett" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-5888" height="214" src="http://www.britishlarder.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/Brett.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Brett" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Candied walnuts in their sweet phase at The Ledbury</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">My most useful take home from The Ledbury: Candied walnuts. After taking a 2/3 water to 1/3 sugar mix to a just-turning caramel, the walnuts are added to the pan and vigorously mixed. The caramel immediately starts to crystallise, turning white around the walnuts. After cooling on a silicone or paper-lined tray you are left with a crisp dusted slightly sweet walnuts. Chocolate or wintery desserts are an obvious home for these walnuts, but I also like them in salads or crushed over a mushroom risotto or pasta. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://nommynomnom.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/quay_quail_breast_truffle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://nommynomnom.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/quay_quail_breast_truffle.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quay's butter-poached quail</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite turning the seasons upside down, walnuts were there again when I worked at <a href="http://www.quay.com.au/">Quay</a> in Sydney earlier this month. Their butter-poached quail breast balances on a crisp fried quinoa and walnut crumble, pan-fried off in clarified butter before serving. The silky quail is also served with truffle custard plopped onto a smooth walnut and chestnut puree and a ripe loose ‘pudding’ (crumbled pumpernickel, morel and foie gras all muddled together). Plating each of the elements (and the rest, <a href="http://www.quay.com.au/files/quay_dinner_menu_december_2010.pdf">Quay’s menu</a> reads like a epic degree) with silver chopsticks was an exercise in high-speed microsurgery! </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://nommynomnom.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/quay_salad_turnip_radish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://nommynomnom.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/quay_salad_turnip_radish.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quay's salad of breakfast radish and blood sorrel</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Quay’s dishes are certainly not easy additions to you home repertoire. Even if Peter Gilmore’s truly sexy recipe book, <a href="http://www.quay.com.au/page/book2.html">Quay</a>, takes its place amongst your food porn collection, it’s unlikely you will construct the exquisite salad of breakfast radishes and blood sorrel as an impressive entrée at your next dinner party. But the lesson to take away from the restaurant and the book is Peter’s fresh, clean and textural approach to food. He calls it nature-based cuisine. If your produce is good, and you treat it with love, you really don’t need to play around with it too much. When you're cooking think about how everything on your plate tastes, bites, feels in your mouth, smells and work with your ingredients to create depth, contrast and personality on the palette.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://gourmettraveller.files.wordpress.com/2010/12/quay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="http://gourmettraveller.files.wordpress.com/2010/12/quay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This approach doesn’t have to be complicated. I’m loving mushrooms at the moment. I often default to an easy mushroom pasta after work. I’ll try and grab some different looking mushrooms at the market on the weekend. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1900341259">Black </a><a href="http://www.jrmushroomsandspecialties.com/index.php?cPath=43_54">Trumpettes</a> look amazing on a plate, dramatic and smoky. Their paler relative, the <a href="http://www.jrmushroomsandspecialties.com/product_info.php?products_id=90">Chanterelle</a> is softer, fruity and bit more homely. <a href="http://theforagerpress.com/fieldguide/septfd.htm">Ceps</a> have a great integrity and flavour and what I call ET Fingers (or everyone else calls <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enokitake">Enoki</a>) are a fragile contrast. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In good quality olive oil I’ll sauté down a couple of finely sliced shallots and garlic, a little thyme, add the roughly chopped mushrooms and let them sweat out (start with the Ceps, they take a little longer). You can reduce a dash of white wine or sherry in the mix, before adding a loose teaspoon of honey, a twist of cracked pepper, a quick glug of soy, and then some chopped parsley. I have started using soy a lot more as a substitute for salt. It adds an umami to the dish which is deeper and richer than salting.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">To plate I’ll fold this duxelles (rich, chunky) through hot pappardelle (long, smooth) with peppery roquette (crisp, fresh) before crumbling over some Stilton (creamy, tangy) and crushing a few candied walnuts (crunchy). A pinch of Maldon sea salt and a sling of olive oil never hurts. This is an easy dish with classic flavour combinations but it’s consistent with Peter’s textural approach. Think about this next time you’re pulling something together for dinner. Add a snap to something slippery, a squish to something crunchy and each mouthful will have a lot more personality and we all know, personality goes a long way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-47122387810259262002011-01-17T04:03:00.000-08:002011-01-17T04:17:14.862-08:00Elvis lives...in Sydney<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I’ve recently extricated myself from a decision vortex usually populated by twenty-something former daddy’s girls, drunk late-night buck’s party participants and members of narcotic peddling ‘security’ specialists astride motorbikes. Why at the age of 30 I thought a tattoo clinging awkwardly to my hipbone was an intelligent decision, I can’t quite determine. I have an odd and unexplained fear of butterflies which therefore eliminates about 50 percent of tattoo designs readily directed at female tatooees. I loathe the tramp stamp, can’t read Asian characters (other than those required to order at my local Szechaun restaurant) and think branding myself property of my boyfriend is not one of the experiences I care to share with Johnny Depp. Wino Forever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZPZsH8-zH1hBY2YOkMuK96NGl8IZa2TzRs6KUc-sknbP5Cj7f_hGBcfZp-W4jM8waOSatDWtBMeOvpeeg0lBSbNBjKxfsvghduJfG6Xz6LoE4Ak02h68BNZyncqi2cMV9mi7OtGIvuI/s1600/foster_pig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" height="240" id="il_fi" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxZPZsH8-zH1hBY2YOkMuK96NGl8IZa2TzRs6KUc-sknbP5Cj7f_hGBcfZp-W4jM8waOSatDWtBMeOvpeeg0lBSbNBjKxfsvghduJfG6Xz6LoE4Ak02h68BNZyncqi2cMV9mi7OtGIvuI/s320/foster_pig.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></span></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Steaks, whisks, eggs, knives, forks and pork butchery diag</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">rams - all suggestions avidly advanced by my friends. I’m not sure what these proposals say about me but permanently inking myself with the butchered carcass of fellow mammals is not really what I was hoping for as a permanent memoir of the completion of my third decade. If only I adored cute butterflies and fairies, tattoo regret would not have loomed until well after childbirth and the reappearance of my hip bones.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">So no tattoo for me. I went blonde instead. Yes, yes, I hear you. And the word ‘crisis’ does mean something to me. Crisis (n) a calamitous occurrence whereby the local fromagerie owner unexpectedly cl</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">oses up shop early and one is forced to do without brie for close to 15 hours. Crisis.</span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img height="142" id="il_fi" src="http://money.cnn.com/2004/10/18/news/fortune500/mattel_barbie/barbie_beach_story.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="198" /></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Casually relaxing on Sydney's beaches</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">For now my ink-free, flaxon self is in full disguise amongst the tan, blonde and brauny inhabitants of Sydney, Australia. Looking the way I do right now, they’ll never guess I’ve lived a life of back-alley coffee shops and basement restaurants in Melbourne. My black and camel wardrobe is a bit of a giveaway…although I can always blame Paris for the costumes.</span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I’ve always been fiercely supportive of the Melbourne restaurant scene, often at the expense of Sydney’s offerings, but this trip, consider my words eaten. There is a real buzz around the Harbour right now. Loosening of liquor licensing has really opened up the market and the streets around Darlinghurst and Surrey Hills are speckled with niche eateries, bars and sexy restaurants. OK, it’s still Sydney and being hot and not looking like you eat at all still helps secure a table in front of the newest and coolest kitchens. But trust me, disguises work!</span></span></div></div></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePCzcMFjlJoc-52EFHL6YwT-w-WbOT7KvVP5NjP3Z_LZho2G5cwqqyZkvDvCdgkmPRyP4xYpH-rQifwIjvPK1xNaDZJZYFr-F21Pvv3QQPSmhAgDMHrVA5K15gLdAvxhLDsi0fuSROW9m/s1600/P1010031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePCzcMFjlJoc-52EFHL6YwT-w-WbOT7KvVP5NjP3Z_LZho2G5cwqqyZkvDvCdgkmPRyP4xYpH-rQifwIjvPK1xNaDZJZYFr-F21Pvv3QQPSmhAgDMHrVA5K15gLdAvxhLDsi0fuSROW9m/s320/P1010031.JPG" width="320" /></span></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The butchers counter at Porteno...table top dancing for carnivores</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Costumes and all we met outside </span></span><a href="http://www.porteno.com.au/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Porteno</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> in Surry Hills (</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">358 Cleveland Street, </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Surry Hills, 2010, Australia, +61 </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">(2) 8399 1440)</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> this week in hope of a rare table at </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Ben Milgate and Elvis Abrahanowicz’s new Argentinean restaurant. I knew it would be popular, their last venture Bodega is still credited as changing the pace of Sydney dining and tapas in particular. But to see at least 50 people without reservations loitering in the street outside and calculating their sprint to the soon to be opened doors surprised and amused me. It was 5.45 on a Thursday and we had already secured poll position with no exceptions for women, children or the elderly.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img alt="The Bodega/Porteno crew" class="size-full wp-image-3648" height="287" src="http://thecraftyminx.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/ben-elvis-sarah-bodega-3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="ben-elvis-sarah-bodega-3" width="400" /></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The Porteno crew</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Once seated, I immediately regretted my decision not to tattoo myself. The staff here explode from the rockabilly subculture with all the ink, Brylcreem and rolled up denim you can imagine. They have an immediate capacity to make you feel so terminally uncool and yet so welcome at the same time. This isn’t a theme, this is just a group of friends and family running a fiercely popular restaurant exactly how they want to. Front of house manager, Sarah Doyle, partner to Elvis, platinum pin-up girl, and perfect vegetarian paradox to carnivorous menu, is immediately crush-worthy and expert at hosting the large dining room, smaller upstairs bar and waiting list as boisterous diners pack the restaurant each night. My suggestion, go as a group as you can book for 6 people and more…and you can order for 6 people or more. You will want everything on the menu.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOq0Kt2JePM8uScC_u0o0HGp_RQgU0e0v1sLOeYanpYB02P7d3AhP2h76JCJVlLggs6XrHxwEZsndLLSR2UjUQLZp_D3t4A1S3A3l-pm4Xxrg6nlV9S4XAGVEG4lcyKArZlqb8uEguxkz/s1600/P1010027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOq0Kt2JePM8uScC_u0o0HGp_RQgU0e0v1sLOeYanpYB02P7d3AhP2h76JCJVlLggs6XrHxwEZsndLLSR2UjUQLZp_D3t4A1S3A3l-pm4Xxrg6nlV9S4XAGVEG4lcyKArZlqb8uEguxkz/s320/P1010027.jpg" width="250" /></span></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The asador mid-roast...and always empty come second service!</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">I was distracted for most of th</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">e ordering process. Usually I am looking at other diners, judging the feel of the place, sneaking a look into the kitchen. This time I was eye locked on the asador, a large campfire pit over which whole lambs and sucking pigs are iron strapped in some sort of flesh roasting sadomasochistic display. Beyond food porn for the protein fetishists in the dining room.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xw_zfvWuVDwGqhQpCRkVVGEevJjBiLByjAGNfgBTvCbJbzmYSF9lpQohuQ6HrFGWLcVfMlEpQWctzF1fMVUvTnd1TsmaEslNdTUcwL_f63koETh9T92cC-gJVLoT8EKuXukOAdtRe_gU/s1600/P1010033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xw_zfvWuVDwGqhQpCRkVVGEevJjBiLByjAGNfgBTvCbJbzmYSF9lpQohuQ6HrFGWLcVfMlEpQWctzF1fMVUvTnd1TsmaEslNdTUcwL_f63koETh9T92cC-gJVLoT8EKuXukOAdtRe_gU/s320/P1010033.JPG" width="320" /></span></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">The best way to eat beans</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Oddly, or so I thought, we started with a vegetarian dish: barbequed eggplant, tahini, pearl barley and my current love of the moment, preserved lemon. Surprisingly, the vegetarian offerings at Porteno are extensive and tasty (perhaps the result of Sarah Doyle herself being vegetarian). The green beans, ricotta and oregano which side kicked our main dishes were equally as good as the silky and fresh eggplant starter and held their own in the crowd of alpha meats overwhelming our table. But before the alpha meats arrived, our grilled calamari was perfect, just opaque and visibly whipped by the charred hot parilla grills before being soothed on the plate by cool pickled green tomato and whipped all over again with strips of chilli. </span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI70jUwxH8G_6aNgPoL-Mnx8YXrrP03pdCry8h6bnoEgxSpjz4OJSUzCPTYJDRRhyphenhyphenQZZHbIi5tLvMECq9pgf2HCXUSTnmYyCY_wUmBgOfoPjdZ18CI9m7FR66n7C-KyozNlZtffu7i6Lfl/s1600/P1010034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI70jUwxH8G_6aNgPoL-Mnx8YXrrP03pdCry8h6bnoEgxSpjz4OJSUzCPTYJDRRhyphenhyphenQZZHbIi5tLvMECq9pgf2HCXUSTnmYyCY_wUmBgOfoPjdZ18CI9m7FR66n7C-KyozNlZtffu7i6Lfl/s320/P1010034.JPG" width="320" /></span></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Blood sausage and capsicum...</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></o:p></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">But what really has the Sydney-slickers queuing are the meaty offerings Elvis and </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">the kitchen team bring to the menu. The blood sausage was ripe and drooling with richness, the sweetness of the roast capsicum smoothing over the bite of garlic. A truly dreamy mouthful, this sausage and a fatty shred of eight-hour wood-fired suckling pig complete with glass crisp crackling to finish for bite. I am still in debate as to whether it was this pig or the wood-fired Suffolk lamb which ruled the roast. I imagine the only way to ease such contention will be with further research.</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MgS6fNqC2H5vnCbiasjO7_Hh8GquWFjVqbJuh1Iz78RqmOwHnWaGJG_dkzjcdS8pMjCzVIbFZcbl_y43AoTmSOY7ow6Wsfov6Jro_eSdKFjmSnJ_aeUCpvceAVx_i0VHllHJDnGhrTiZ/s1600/P1010037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MgS6fNqC2H5vnCbiasjO7_Hh8GquWFjVqbJuh1Iz78RqmOwHnWaGJG_dkzjcdS8pMjCzVIbFZcbl_y43AoTmSOY7ow6Wsfov6Jro_eSdKFjmSnJ_aeUCpvceAVx_i0VHllHJDnGhrTiZ/s320/P1010037.JPG" width="240" /></span></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Suffolk lamb...the skin was amazing!</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">A little like the band performing after the Rolling Stones at a music festival, the desserts at Porteno are probably independently very talented, but I’d already left the building. It’s just unlucky timing that my will to dine was, by this point, lulled into a state of post-hedonistic paralysis and sweet ambivalence. Even the promise of dulce de leche in every possible contortion couldn’t arouse my interest. My heart and stomach remained with the meat splayed burning asador…unsurprisingly the latest proposal for my now defunct advancement into the world of body art. I wonder if Porteno would like to take on my lower back as advertising space?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"> </span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1jgI4FXyVb8lFM0wqgvzPzDd6_Q4DKtoqNxERibPKnIp6tWoWnhH_KAlJdMGG2isNyF7ByEkMHPzjbKutoUVXo1PUmYXLtXo7Pj68SsTxtE7_6qquFPDYaAPUYwD9DzCRLr1GU5n1yEc/s1600/P1010040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1jgI4FXyVb8lFM0wqgvzPzDd6_Q4DKtoqNxERibPKnIp6tWoWnhH_KAlJdMGG2isNyF7ByEkMHPzjbKutoUVXo1PUmYXLtXo7Pj68SsTxtE7_6qquFPDYaAPUYwD9DzCRLr1GU5n1yEc/s400/P1010040.JPG" width="400" /></span></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Burnt custard and dulche de leche...if only I had room!</span></span></span></td></tr>
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</span></span></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-67006618305707684732010-12-04T19:18:00.000-08:002010-12-04T19:18:49.256-08:00Picasso and Cowboys<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It took me only a few days on the outskirts of the culinary world to see the divide between cuisine chefs and patisserie chefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Were I Mike TV’d into a Disney cartoon circa 1985, a cuisine chef would appear (Shazam!) over one shoulder, a cowboy culinary devil, mixing and matching, salting and slicing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the other shoulder, a precise pastry angle would systematically reveal himself (culinary gender bias in France it appears has rubbed off on my reflexive pronouns) willing me with discipline and form to the sweeter side.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px;"> </span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_D1idQc3q5PQ/S_3bZzVKdvI/AAAAAAAAAW8/Psf8JIrVTUA/s1600/Devil-And-Angel-cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_D1idQc3q5PQ/S_3bZzVKdvI/AAAAAAAAAW8/Psf8JIrVTUA/s320/Devil-And-Angel-cartoon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Me, I’ve always felt a penchant for chaps over halos so my path was set before I even enrolled in the Diplome de Cuisine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After graduating last month, I now have my training chaps and must say, they feel pretty good (I have to sex-up the checked safety trousers and rubber clogs some how!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My inner culinary cowboy comes out for a ride every day in the kitchen at <a href="http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/09/food-crush.html">Le Chateaubriand</a> here in Paris.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big stable for such a young pony!</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Little Cowgirl with Small Pony" border="0" height="400" src="http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/FIPPOD/CG-00005.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="300" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in the kitchen on my first day</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Inaki (chef) and Laurent (sous chef) run the kitchen here is a truly crazy way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is crazy in a good way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or a French way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or a genius way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Genius to a soundtrack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am now well versed on all genres of French electro, Euro indie and hardcore bi-coastal rap. I can recite 25 ways not to get smacked up…apparently a lesson every thirty-year old female should already know. Thank you 2PAC…cringe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still not entirely convinced young sleep-deprived men with knives should be on such an aggressive music diet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s reminiscent of awkward male teen years spent behind a bedroom door sporting a skull and cross bone ‘Do Not Enter’ sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I think I might be showing my age and employment history there (the closet thing to a soundtrack my old office ever had was the coral sounds of Windows XP opening at 9am each morning). Back to the genius and out of the drive-by.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.randocheval.com/images/RanchKalispell/MT-Kalispell_cowboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.randocheval.com/images/RanchKalispell/MT-Kalispell_cowboy.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Chef, Inaki, in the kitchen at Chateaubriand</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We don’t get yelled at.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We don’t ‘Oui Chef!’ ‘No Chef!’ with military precision.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We (myself excluded) don’t blink when Baz Lurman walks into the open kitchen and starts bowing to the night’s culinary performance.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We (again, myself excluded) don’t mind when 3 Star Michelin chefs ‘borrow’ ideas with a surreptitious scribble in the dining room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Chateaubriand is the opposite of every stereotype surrounding a restaurant kitchen. Genius.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx2pGr2gC2R5GRPDbKoKOi08bOYxITljIWtAz5FdmC2gKMAegFHNJHYaorXD9jyS3WzhFga7_0AP9L_G9GgtQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Chef as Artist Vision best viewed through rose coloured glasses</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I have always had a kind of romantic vision of The Chef as Artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I envisage a truly creative chef would work a little like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CkRS3wDg1xU">Picasso paints a free mural</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out I wasn’t entirely wrong…or entirely right either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At Chateaubriand we have a new menu every day, working and adapting seasonal produce with an ever-rotating store and cool room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inaki and Laurant ‘workshop’ ideas with the kitchen each night, but it’s as much wisdom and knowledge as it is flair and pant seat flying. Sure, we have enough squid left for another entrée service tomorrow, but pickles when? Ink who? Cocoa how? Mahleb what?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYvv0AD1gnZr1oQatPQU_264_1OPIIumKjk46DgEeZ1zTUmuqjlkyNf4Mj4NIATT5YxLC6y3_qaMoN_q6I_oZwtD_xBwBdCNaTNj-SiatgTcYf8GOprhAFwrUV_P78YGBLIfs0MXUPwuGS/s1600/P1000767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYvv0AD1gnZr1oQatPQU_264_1OPIIumKjk46DgEeZ1zTUmuqjlkyNf4Mj4NIATT5YxLC6y3_qaMoN_q6I_oZwtD_xBwBdCNaTNj-SiatgTcYf8GOprhAFwrUV_P78YGBLIfs0MXUPwuGS/s320/P1000767.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pickles, Beets and Beef. No rose tinted glasses necessary.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p>It seems the reference section has invaded the romance section.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reference library of flavours, textures and ideas these guys store somewhere between their memories and taste buds.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Of course cocoa with game, Mahleb with sweet beet, squid ink with tapioca. Of course! Quick, I better write this down. I can’t lie, it’s intimidating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But mostly exciting and I hate to indulge in a ‘food dream’ cliché, inspiring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whilst painfully brunoising Granny Smiths to infuse with celery juice (a fresh sauce for seared beef when mixed with yuzu and olive oil) I keep in mind the prize will be learning that tart grapefruit gel loves dancing with salty salsify crisps and buckwheat ice cream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>File under D for Dessert. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUlFxiPXgp6CUTev_4kPpJ7zZGGoAx5cmZJ7KRDWnD69FDZWjb253RvL5RbtOBu7qDgp8kambaaVMZeL7gZka-0De97C_kv2dM16cQHE-ncGLkikCJzBMIjnlrV3tqlZMeXUzEofjnlhyphenhyphen/s1600/P1000998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUlFxiPXgp6CUTev_4kPpJ7zZGGoAx5cmZJ7KRDWnD69FDZWjb253RvL5RbtOBu7qDgp8kambaaVMZeL7gZka-0De97C_kv2dM16cQHE-ncGLkikCJzBMIjnlrV3tqlZMeXUzEofjnlhyphenhyphen/s320/P1000998.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I would like to thank Niki Segnit for her back-up in the reference isle over the past few weeks. It appears Niki has performed some sort of non-invasive cranial surgery on the culinary world and published The Flavour Thesaurus (Bloomsbury, 2010).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her book takes flavours from the broad (Marine, Sulphurous, Fresh Fruity) to the specific (Washed-Rind Cheese, Liver, Caviar) and sets out flavour pairings, recipes and anecdotes. Her aim, a cathartic attempt to reduce her own dependence on recipes and cook more like an educated kitchen cowboy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a lot in here my mouth and mind is already familiar with, but I’m a nerd at heart and if there is a why or a how whisky soaked pineapple tastes so perfect with salty hot tiny grilled shrimp in their shells, I want to know about it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh…and eat about it while I’m reading! It feels a little like reading Shakespeare with Cliffs Notes, but while I’m working, tasting and filing flavours in the kitchen, I’ll be sure to hide the cover of The Flavour Thesaurus behind a copy of Renegade Chef and randomly shout out ‘Westside 4 Life’!</div><!--EndFragment-->Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-13420940522141629212010-10-21T08:54:00.000-07:002011-02-01T11:09:08.220-08:00For all the fathers out there...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">Around the same time I begrudgedly started endorsing the shooting of novelty photos at key tourist landmarks (apologies to the Great Pyramids, you are indeed greater than my mis-placed pinch hold would indicate) I began chuckling at ‘witty’ puns captured in the proper nouns of restaurants. Yes, I laughed when I saw Thai Tanic and even when someone told me about Thairanosaurus. The latter got me thinking, not just about the appeal or market demand for a Flintstone-esque Thai restaurant, but fundamentally whether this was the sort of person I wanted to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/86/208520182_b1aa2b209f.jpg?v=0" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/86/208520182_b1aa2b209f.jpg?v=0" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It is usual that, around their late twenties and early thirties, men start finding amusement in the world of puns and word plays. It’s an inevitable step in the development of a man’s later-life capacity to tell Dad Jokes (</span><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Dad Jokes</span></i></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> (n) Jokes, puns and word plays of a basic and repetitive nature expressed by fathers or the old-at-heart, involving low or questionable levels of hilarity, often associated with groans and eye rolls (see: Steve Martin as George Banks in Father of the Bride Parts 1 and 2). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Lifeandhealth/Pix/pictures/2010/6/29/1277807542311/Father-of-the-Bride-006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Lifeandhealth/Pix/pictures/2010/6/29/1277807542311/Father-of-the-Bride-006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I have a friend, he suffered from early onset Dad Joke symptoms. To disguise his comedic demise from his still young and still amusing friends he developed a ‘witty’ alter-ego…The Pun-isher. The Pun-isher, a young and restrained corporate lawyer by day, by night, a force of witty repartee, questionable banter and devastating puns. His categorization of puns as a super-hero super-power might indicate that my friend was awkwardly caught between his youth and the Dad Vortex when his early symptoms appeared. Unfortunate. He’s currently expanding his excessive and un-used tool collection and practicing the art of packing a car boot to the soundtrack of Tetris at the age of 27. He would have the perfect pun to complete this paragraph.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVt04lZCSSp5K6OJzc0BJeUYHBySMPC93YOsNhaXMhkXWYp-9bRjPdIEp2HYEqNIJvCD2XQ2xuqs7pCrE-rN6tmMc3KHSjews3a2uBP96wk5o9mU960_itpDic7bBCZRFDdgypQ8U_VnE/s1600/P1000884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfVt04lZCSSp5K6OJzc0BJeUYHBySMPC93YOsNhaXMhkXWYp-9bRjPdIEp2HYEqNIJvCD2XQ2xuqs7pCrE-rN6tmMc3KHSjews3a2uBP96wk5o9mU960_itpDic7bBCZRFDdgypQ8U_VnE/s320/P1000884.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Interestingly enough, I’ve discovered that the French, who don’t appear to outwardly express any sense of humour (big statement), but usually just a mild bemusement at something they are themselves thinking, have dabbled in the Dad Joke restaurant name too. Of course the French would argue such dabbling is a playful dance with the nuances of the French language rather than a simple word play to capture the attention of the middle-aged American tourist market. Regardless, I have to admit Je Thé…Me is a good one! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsjB-bVyQhNQAhoAlXVInEAeY-YXThKnQeo8PBO97LZOXPjR698So_yI7d3HyBaM2TPpCkKMenBubpmH7suLMXTTZ2N2owz4mOO2qBaawgscXDAPIWBqEHBYsz0WgMC8iBi4N8z9DZkqMB/s1600/P1000875.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsjB-bVyQhNQAhoAlXVInEAeY-YXThKnQeo8PBO97LZOXPjR698So_yI7d3HyBaM2TPpCkKMenBubpmH7suLMXTTZ2N2owz4mOO2qBaawgscXDAPIWBqEHBYsz0WgMC8iBi4N8z9DZkqMB/s320/P1000875.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 11.0pt 36.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0cm;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I first found myself at Je Thé…Me (4 Rue Alleray 75015 Paris, 01 48 42 48 30) back in February when I was politely abducted by a saussison, bottle of Burgundy and good company when I bumped into chef, Jacky Larsonneur, on my way home from school. Every day since he’s popped his head out the window, “Bonjour mon petit chef!”, or I’ve popped my head in, “</span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Que faites-vous aujourd'hui Chef?”. And that’s how I became friends with the chef and proprietor of the most delicious and possibly only Dad Joke bistro in Paris.</span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2ye77K6Fd1yum6hMDz0LZyxGylmH9NBidMZbsA8xlzxwq3x_QPfzDDLgz9vBpv0R7y3w0S1K9A_atlyA2Vf3TnwPCQ05N_G7L1Wn_J6O9pUV3LjUzMI4G3QrVOLw7IkLBbP-XaorW5wE/s1600/P1000874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij2ye77K6Fd1yum6hMDz0LZyxGylmH9NBidMZbsA8xlzxwq3x_QPfzDDLgz9vBpv0R7y3w0S1K9A_atlyA2Vf3TnwPCQ05N_G7L1Wn_J6O9pUV3LjUzMI4G3QrVOLw7IkLBbP-XaorW5wE/s320/P1000874.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 11.0pt 36.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 11.0pt 36.0pt; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0cm;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span>Jacky’s small kitchen sits just aside the intimate and wood paneled dining room, beautifully restored in an old epicerie storefront. The walls are filled it glassware and china, pictures and all sorts of good things your grandma might have kept in her cabinets which you were never allowed to touch as a kid (actually I don’t think I’m supposed to touch these cabinets either). </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1oTZGkEsGwJdrms7SW3wt1bLeb-DRUgDbDPNJXySaIVC3a1VAqL-Pv1OlWqwtx9PFZ6Z-lCmeintPG4k4pDOvKNkPE8FPmQ8hYZuyCamoHrRUd_rxKj16bsVgkSOiak-aZMmPcvf9LTE/s1600/P1000876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1oTZGkEsGwJdrms7SW3wt1bLeb-DRUgDbDPNJXySaIVC3a1VAqL-Pv1OlWqwtx9PFZ6Z-lCmeintPG4k4pDOvKNkPE8FPmQ8hYZuyCamoHrRUd_rxKj16bsVgkSOiak-aZMmPcvf9LTE/s320/P1000876.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Despite originating from Normandy, Jacky’s menu is a rich chalkboard of Bourgogne and Bordelaise cuisine. The kind of food I crave as autumn gets colder and salads just don’t cut it any more. Last night I did what we call the Duck Double or Belly to Breast (thank you Dad). For starter the Fois gras de canard maison, a smooth marinated terrine with a tart apple puree, and for main, the Marget de canard roti au gros sel. Let me talk about this duck for a second. Firstly, excellent force-feeding my friend (not to make light of the in-proper or inhumane treatment of geese and ducks in the production of fois gras). The fois terrine was generous and silken in texture, the opulent fatty flavour cut with a simple vinaigrette and pomme puree. Secondly, the breast was so perfectly and evenly pink, unctuous without being fatty, sweet and saucy without being sickening and sticky. Ideal. And as best supporting side dish, </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #4a4a4a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">potatoes Dauphinoise</span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">. It is statistically and humanly impossible for the combination of potatoes, cream and cheese to ever taste less than amazing. Jakey’s Dauphinoise would taste amazing on a really really bad day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoz99C_FyLvmPD25lVKvCMhvDC1SiLcUWGdowJ2lsH_T-ceDEdJMbgIqT5Zz0iMw7_LJl4nx0vvM3j-yZQkAp-BYoczoSIao8CPg4fQ1_NSQ5Njcr_wdLiKOigelBj0-g0c_kNgYTIveBQ/s1600/P1000881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoz99C_FyLvmPD25lVKvCMhvDC1SiLcUWGdowJ2lsH_T-ceDEdJMbgIqT5Zz0iMw7_LJl4nx0vvM3j-yZQkAp-BYoczoSIao8CPg4fQ1_NSQ5Njcr_wdLiKOigelBj0-g0c_kNgYTIveBQ/s320/P1000881.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We are now well practiced at the shared dessert selection. A social product of the inability of culinary students to commit to only one dish out of a selection of possibilities we can justify as ‘homework’, the ultimate challenge between fromage and the sweet tooth and good ole fashioned gluttony. Visitor Jen had already demolished the chocolate dessert of the day while I was photographing the other desserts. A frozen bitter chocolate parfait, crisp praline hat, thyme ice cream and warm pistachio cream. She won’t be dining with us again…no seriously… The </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Croquant aux fruits de saison was fabulous to photograph and light, spunky and citrusy to taste. I cannot say a bad word about cheese plates in France. </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhs7cHMlOPKrcJjbOl5clJ0FEomZbvRkMOg-19vKRNYXBpQVGKEwpE5xd5CoxQ_-TJbgWCWQb3rVAmpsaOeQoTSGLJw3H1xP0larpEj8oiNR7y6SRs3NOJgMxGtoyDKszCo9THqyJ7Cx7q/s1600/P1000883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhs7cHMlOPKrcJjbOl5clJ0FEomZbvRkMOg-19vKRNYXBpQVGKEwpE5xd5CoxQ_-TJbgWCWQb3rVAmpsaOeQoTSGLJw3H1xP0larpEj8oiNR7y6SRs3NOJgMxGtoyDKszCo9THqyJ7Cx7q/s320/P1000883.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sommelier duties at Je Thé…Me are calmly undertaken by Jakey’s son, Damien. His selections have been interesting and perfect every time. Damien plays in a band called The Winey Frogs. Yes, like father like son.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div></div></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-44789065699515273112010-10-11T07:51:00.000-07:002010-10-11T07:54:29.972-07:00Orange Mocha Frappuccino!<div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A friend of mine, a fashionista, a design student who also happens to be the purveyor of the city’s longest legs kept me regularly envious for the duration of Paris Fashion Week with her deliberately public profile updates: “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">[Insert subject of envious lifestyle] </span></i></span><i><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">is back from the givenchy show. leopard, zippers and a hint of s&m, i've fallen in love. sipping champagne only made it go down better.”</span></span></i></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Student budget forces me to muster enthusiasm for the new range of faux leopard at H&M so you can imagine my fragile state of mind come Day Three of Fashion Week when a call came from Ingrid Pankonin of </span><a href="http://www.mielcooking.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Miel Cooking</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> asking if I was free to cater an event with her.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mielcooking.com/images/miel_home_sep09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="http://www.mielcooking.com/images/miel_home_sep09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My initial reaction was to query the necessity of catering for The Fashion Set at all. They eat? Crostini is the new sushi? Raw is the new cooked? Binge is the new purge? Pay cheque is the new unemployment? I was in before I even heard Olsen Twins, Anna Wintour, Karl Largerfeld and Pierre Herme. No calories for guessing which of these characters I most hoped to meet.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Ingrid runs her catering and private chef business out of the Bay Area in California. On what was meant to be a relaxed holiday before attending the </span><a href="http://www.salonedelgusto.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Salone del Gusto</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> slow food festival in Turin, Italy next week she instead found herself designing a crafty menu tasty enough to trick even the most ardent black-attired-smoked-out-design-queen to at least consider delicious consumption.</span></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://the818.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/watermelon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://the818.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/watermelon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We prepped and assembled and juiced and toasted for hours as 6-foot mannequins peered occasionally through our kitchen door with confused lust. I studied the languished drift with which models saunter the earth. They don't appear to labour with steps and movement like the rest of us, but glide with a vague disinterest in the rest of the imperfect world (as advertised by me...in effect carrying a watermelon...though the dressing rooms to the kitchen because Karl doesn't like his house to smell of food therefore keeping his refrigerator in the bathroom. Fact) We pureed and diced in complete denial to the possibility that water, no ice, salad no dressing might be the preferred order of the day. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In summary, Anna Wintour never touched her macaron platter. The Starbucks-mad Olsen Twins are more goth-elfin and uber-directionally-over-robed than I ever imagined and in a perfectly French mess of fashion mayhem the show went off with only a few blazered man tantrums and little cerebral utilisation by the pretty-boy ‘waiters’. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://cucinatestarossa.blogs.com/weblog/images/herme_macarons_400_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://cucinatestarossa.blogs.com/weblog/images/herme_macarons_400_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">As for me, Pierre only showed up in macaron form (his olive oil and vanilla macaron is arguably life altering depending on the level of drama in your life), but Ingrid introduced me to a perfect and oddly surprising canapé combination I will definitely borrow (with credit) next time I cook for people who actually eat. She takes a halved and standing baby radish beneath a baton of ripe avocado, a slither of preserved lemon (home preserved in San Francisco) and a cross of chives. The flavours tickled every part of my mouth by surprise one after the other. Ingenious.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Her crostini combinations of Confit fennel with espelette and Guerande salt; Fresh pea puree with crumbled feta and shredded mint and roasted artichoke with Parmesan and black pepper were simple but delicious….and so small they were basically carb free? </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0ewB7SjgodzrTabe843dUMIpr11D2FJF394EOwyFxHySy8xmhPCqeBjm_cVfN8v4hVdNPwQto5jyvXrIQTp_gPgZg1DEhHJdAeJv0WAWDqsVnPw2R5Us1JNKqms1gjW_jFMjd-HsoSpN/s1600/P1000669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0ewB7SjgodzrTabe843dUMIpr11D2FJF394EOwyFxHySy8xmhPCqeBjm_cVfN8v4hVdNPwQto5jyvXrIQTp_gPgZg1DEhHJdAeJv0WAWDqsVnPw2R5Us1JNKqms1gjW_jFMjd-HsoSpN/s320/P1000669.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">After my brush with Fashion Week glamour, I took a moment to reflect and more importantly eat a meal portioned to 100% adult size. We ended up on the bank of St Martin’s Canal in the 10</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">eme</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, with a bio Jamon Iberico, fig and Gorgonzola pizza from </span><a href="http://www.pinkflamingopizza.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Pink Flamingo</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> (67 rue Bichat, 75010, Paris, </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">01 42 02 31 70)</span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> on it’s way. While we waited for our crisp and toasty pizzas, beers in hands, balloon cast to the sky (the high tech apparatus which ensures the pizzas find their way from the hot ovens to patrons lazing a few blocks away in the dusk sun) I wondered what Anna Wintour was having for dinner…I’m sure she’s having pizza too I smiled.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53I4BY37-MphbtV9FMcgzQp8RVNBVO5Hor2_7TRVylARHBaiC8zSzpEpnc1XCJdpB-nqgATz6Yo8pTQScCeg-4BjXxlweSUGS2xxu9oaCUkSNkxg7vR79t9BJvAMCHvAdfA9QzXBbeHoL/s1600/P1000673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53I4BY37-MphbtV9FMcgzQp8RVNBVO5Hor2_7TRVylARHBaiC8zSzpEpnc1XCJdpB-nqgATz6Yo8pTQScCeg-4BjXxlweSUGS2xxu9oaCUkSNkxg7vR79t9BJvAMCHvAdfA9QzXBbeHoL/s320/P1000673.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">[Insert subject of envious lifestyle] </i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt;">is back from The Row show. radish, artichoke and fennel and a hint of s&p, i've fallen in love. sipping champagne only made it go down better.”</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><sub><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></sub></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-26701153562533120072010-10-07T07:04:00.000-07:002010-10-07T07:08:55.958-07:00Bretagne: Anthony's Prophecy and A Craving<div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My name is Miss Devour (so to blog speak). I am a food network TV junkie, a cookbook glutton and a long time food tourist. </span></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I like to think this statement cannot simply be replaced with the phrase “clichéd representative of Gen Y”. Sometimes thinking something and knowing something are not the same. When I look around my favourite restaurants or the “Culinary Interest” section of a bookstore, there tends to mingle various versions of my demographic. In order to maintain the untruth that I am the only the food obsessive in the bookstore I baselessly allege these minglers are just masking a copy of “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff” behind that copy of “Larousse Gastronomique” and propose they should step two feet left to properly identify themselves as tenants of the “Self Help and Modern Psychology” section instead. It’s usually at this point I realize the ‘emotionally unstable’ mingler is my classmate at Le Cordon Bleu and we go for a cheese plate or two.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoE9yq34npZSUusze9C-o4Z-1Ib6CbnSvlUneqARzVvtBaCKc_isVVgw9TOPtMlWKKN7OizCKqT4-pG5PtVakoh8ZJ6WxuKYowsU5uxA_iGuDoUudcw7ARGI349I4IXD9CLiGFV29f0SRM/s1600/P1000847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoE9yq34npZSUusze9C-o4Z-1Ib6CbnSvlUneqARzVvtBaCKc_isVVgw9TOPtMlWKKN7OizCKqT4-pG5PtVakoh8ZJ6WxuKYowsU5uxA_iGuDoUudcw7ARGI349I4IXD9CLiGFV29f0SRM/s320/P1000847.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And so…it was one quiet afternoon last month when Anthony Bourdain (</span><a href="http://www.travelchannel.com/TV_Shows/Anthony_Bourdain/Episodes_Travel_Guides/ci.Episode_Brittany.map"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">No Reservations</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">) came to me by television and foresaw I would venture the regions with my kindred and come upon the culinary Mecca of Cancale, Brittany. This was 'a calling' of kinds, around these parts we call it A Craving. </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A Craving cannot be denied so we three culinary students and one food loving lawyer (a necessary addition when an Australian drives manual on the right side of the road in regional France) packed our stripes and headed to the sea side. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">After significant and accidental ancillary research into the current relationship status of Brittany Spears, the post-humus controversies of Brittany Murphy and popular baby names in the southern states in 1988, the internet led us to Cancale, Brittany, France. Olivier Roellinger is the man who owns this town. Or the taste buds and tummies of this town at least. After closing shop on his three star restaurant in November 2008, what he calls his ‘new life’ began here. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ai9zKke5YbJnglqoLggNWpNl5pxcVMgOL0WVmOfjLXFqlZIefd1rd9KytcFBYfurimNoX5kSktdaqdTgvA069OCv5R5YWe7kRMdytn4k_iYc10_h2_EyHVHcQy0LQ3DDiusn6SY2WM4k/s1600/P1000801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ai9zKke5YbJnglqoLggNWpNl5pxcVMgOL0WVmOfjLXFqlZIefd1rd9KytcFBYfurimNoX5kSktdaqdTgvA069OCv5R5YWe7kRMdytn4k_iYc10_h2_EyHVHcQy0LQ3DDiusn6SY2WM4k/s320/P1000801.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Les Entrepots Epices-Roellinger</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Roellinger and his wife own shops, a cooking school and restaurants throughout the town (</span><a href="http://www.maisons-de-bricourt.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Maisons de Bricourt</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">)…really just a three-block radius of the port…and we ate our way through every calorie and flavour in them (and the shops and stalls of any other vendor of anything edible). We were possessed.</span></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGjStUMKRHaN0wzhtNTwHYxZbASqWhbNBf30M-OVaOQla4e4IRlsLt4sd6ZCHw8X8U_52w7SJbzkx-snQq5EdtEDi9v0LULUTrHM-wCx8ID2OcuEVBmZ4fvAeJqqRTTAMHAtr-sJ8uw36l/s1600/P1000819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGjStUMKRHaN0wzhtNTwHYxZbASqWhbNBf30M-OVaOQla4e4IRlsLt4sd6ZCHw8X8U_52w7SJbzkx-snQq5EdtEDi9v0LULUTrHM-wCx8ID2OcuEVBmZ4fvAeJqqRTTAMHAtr-sJ8uw36l/s320/P1000819.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Street Fighter: Mille Feuille, Grain de Vanille</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;">The special blend spices and salts at Les Entrepots Epices-Roellinger provided a brief and intense sensory ad break from consumption while we waited for our made-to-order Mille Feuille to be constructed at Le Grain de Vanille. Worth the wait, or weight, the pastry was flaked and butter glossed our fingers, the pastry cream was smooth and light, maybe a little creamy, and the all-important pastry-to-filling ratio spot on.</span></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlKVhOItqiZc9e7IRUlrnKElo8qMnLDPB2Q84nRksLQ4YWPJo1ydEn2W-me5ZSSOFG-CQ7AVRIvmhMajBrCR72M-eZvhAO89NpOiuDM49FOGQYuOqygV02RrOIfnuI72KNSR-wTLdvlxT/s1600/P1000805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlKVhOItqiZc9e7IRUlrnKElo8qMnLDPB2Q84nRksLQ4YWPJo1ydEn2W-me5ZSSOFG-CQ7AVRIvmhMajBrCR72M-eZvhAO89NpOiuDM49FOGQYuOqygV02RrOIfnuI72KNSR-wTLdvlxT/s320/P1000805.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Kouign Aman as a child</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We thought it necessary to cross evaluate our mille feuille against the locale specialty, </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Kouign Aman. Amazingly, Kouign Aman is a salt caramel laminated pastry specialty of the region and not the once dictator of a former far-east communist state. After considerable debate, the jury remained hung on whether small and rolled Kouign Aman, or large flat and buttery Kouigin Aman would win in a culinary street fight with or against Mille Feuille. We were acutely aware that the mostly senior age locals and tourists found our debate somewhat inane or marginally insane. </span></span></span></o:p></span></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGbntSdyKMaT_FDcyDDrRYKNdkeLxAl2hyphenhyphen1rKrEgDsBYDMYOG6KO3jvTRMBQ6_QU3zAyHAL56XmX2SK261fiAU_i33YaohOcznWjGTU0vWAD749ayw-xFVcZCuxj_njP2HYdu90lN_r9Z/s1600/P1000851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGbntSdyKMaT_FDcyDDrRYKNdkeLxAl2hyphenhyphen1rKrEgDsBYDMYOG6KO3jvTRMBQ6_QU3zAyHAL56XmX2SK261fiAU_i33YaohOcznWjGTU0vWAD749ayw-xFVcZCuxj_njP2HYdu90lN_r9Z/s320/P1000851.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Kouign Aman as an adult, ready for battle</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately the consumption of over 72 Belon and other local oysters sold for nothing from vendors fresh from the oyster beds provided us with ample distraction from our patisserie debate. Each oyster was a mouthful of the most perfect and fresh ocean you can imagine. I don’t think any other mollusk will ever be as worthy of my love.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAwGHlbFGbjoHX-cfDUFZILfEPQRbpzh3xMbzWavAGbOjq9_XwCf2Fhi_ANAeCrXrb39jjEUV0qLJ4dYJSh_tjSGF6EBNn1qIsN9MwB2v_n0NkolYlyoGU7Qe3-j_NMsXlCRN5PBF_4LM/s1600/P1000836.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizAwGHlbFGbjoHX-cfDUFZILfEPQRbpzh3xMbzWavAGbOjq9_XwCf2Fhi_ANAeCrXrb39jjEUV0qLJ4dYJSh_tjSGF6EBNn1qIsN9MwB2v_n0NkolYlyoGU7Qe3-j_NMsXlCRN5PBF_4LM/s320/P1000836.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Breakfast anyone?</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> That said, we were not exactly faithful to those little creatures we loved on the seashore. The seafood tower at La Mere Champlain was a feat of modern engineering. Every seafood worth its shell was invited. We were forced to acknowledge that conversation must cease for at least the first half (a half time break is sometimes required if this sort of dining situation) until more than the tops of our heads were visible over the orgy of meaty crab, plump prawns, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">razor shell clams, cockles, shrimps, mussels </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and ever frustrating and disproportionately time-consuming langoustines.</span></span></span></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrE6pUq_52OucKRcrR23zmi6RMk-uMQ673kwjiGx8SbOEDRa3aCXGwjxzPXc_a4_rYs9uHVy8AiT3rhVH_DeiS15qTe52-fdQAlEBRi3jJbE5Sr4rbZ2w0TIXgb74PPpEeEowqxuaLFQn/s1600/P1000843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrE6pUq_52OucKRcrR23zmi6RMk-uMQ673kwjiGx8SbOEDRa3aCXGwjxzPXc_a4_rYs9uHVy8AiT3rhVH_DeiS15qTe52-fdQAlEBRi3jJbE5Sr4rbZ2w0TIXgb74PPpEeEowqxuaLFQn/s320/P1000843.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Leaving Cancale with bags of Guerande sea salt, a lifetime of butter, a bottle of crisp local Muscadet and a heavy disappointment that our friendly Avis car hire professionals advise against cross-regional oyster exportation in their vehicles, the bistros of Paris were, well, the bistros of Paris again (spoilt, I know). Alas, we’ll always have oysters, striped shirts and fictitious salt-caramel-cream street fights.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-81323375081148345712010-09-24T04:11:00.000-07:002011-02-01T11:10:51.740-08:00Le China - Red No. 5<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have an odd and reoccurring thought which occupies me sometimes. I understand it is entirely outdated and perhaps the surfacing of repressed memories from painfully watching Ben Affleck flounder in Pearl Harbour but, I wonder if World War 3 were to occur in my lifetime, would I be mandated to work in an ammunitions factory or as a nurse in a ward for injured soldiers. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Despite being aware that modern warfare would not afford me or the rest of civilisation this option, I debate my worth in an urgent medical situation, my penchant for classically styled sundresses and cherry red lipstick or my complete lack of knowledge as to the operation of heavy machinery (and the fact that after a tipple I’d be precluded from operating this machinery anyway). It is usual at this point I realise my mind is one warped vortex of procrastination and apologise to the uniformed photograph of my grandfather I keep on my mantel. Sorry Poppa.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://0.tqn.com/d/movies/1/0/a/J/pearlharbpub5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://0.tqn.com/d/movies/1/0/a/J/pearlharbpub5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;">The first time I visited Le China, a restaurant meets bar meets event space nestled behind Bastille, I cursed that I hadn’t popped my Chanel Rouge Hydrabase Lipstick in Red No.5 in my purse. This place calls for such conspicuous Sunday afternoon retro glamour.</span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sundays are our preferred evening to retreat to Le China’s brooding and jazz age decor. If I'm not on my way to my favourite bistro (and sister restaurant) <a href="http://devourparis.blogspot.com/2010/07/shell-have-what-im-having.html">Le Petit Marche</a>, I'll be lazing back in deep leather couches, sipping cocktails and barely listening to the often present husky vocalist or sax player. This 'occupation' easily carries us through the 6pm to 12pm happy hour...or hours. </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSQSO4XtBoquWK5Q62ouIswZN-fd-8cC0CNHzhf2LodS-fu2KJVN0lUZa12ud7s8cgOJGKGifmzU9TIGLAIZDYI_EMVA5Qc_Hn95bHiFumIA4NPV4-ancwdsROlOLRFrJ7enrvg6bcjCt/s1600/P1000393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSQSO4XtBoquWK5Q62ouIswZN-fd-8cC0CNHzhf2LodS-fu2KJVN0lUZa12ud7s8cgOJGKGifmzU9TIGLAIZDYI_EMVA5Qc_Hn95bHiFumIA4NPV4-ancwdsROlOLRFrJ7enrvg6bcjCt/s400/P1000393.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;">Although six hours consumed by smart and crisp cocktails like the Macao Spring Punch (a muddle of vodka, lychee, fresh strawberries, lime, champagne and Chambord) or the Sweet Cucumber (gin, cucumber, fresh int, lime and tart apple liqueur) can leave Monday mornings at the desk or in the kitchen a little precious.</span></div></span><br />
<div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Le China’s menu accompanies the bar offerings perfectly (or some would say vice versa). Nibbling on plump dim sum or beef curry croustillant does the trick. And if the dim sum need some help, the main plates are a delicious fusion of asian and classic french styles. Pork medalions with cocoa caramel or lamb fillet with Sechouan pepper usually join me at the table at some point in the evening.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhItkjJ34lont5X4FiDLl1JtMpPxN6S4AQLC7H3j7xxQ0JrYOApeHGDu9Ee8cHCtBj7W9qnhTb4pBgaLnu1hiE2Qb1QYDsL9EUYIcLhoIeqYlaXT88ip_SRU_Qs6p-mQe5Ty6jbGUa5gOeI/s1600/P1000397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhItkjJ34lont5X4FiDLl1JtMpPxN6S4AQLC7H3j7xxQ0JrYOApeHGDu9Ee8cHCtBj7W9qnhTb4pBgaLnu1hiE2Qb1QYDsL9EUYIcLhoIeqYlaXT88ip_SRU_Qs6p-mQe5Ty6jbGUa5gOeI/s400/P1000397.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium;">I do have to warn you, some of the entertainment selections have been ‘interesting’. I still can’t confirm or deny signing up to the <a href="http://www.myspace.com/legroupespad">SBAD</a> fan club after they played what appeared to be a reunion tour date at Le China some month ago. Aging rockers of a Sunday afternoon. Wish I’d remembered my lipstick.</span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">(Le China, 50 Rue de Charenton 75012 Paris, +33 1 43 46 08 09, Reservations not necessary, <a href="http://www.lechina.eu/">http://www.lechina.eu/</a>)</span></span></div></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-19581072457843612512010-09-20T11:36:00.000-07:002011-02-01T11:05:33.830-08:00Food Crush<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I am going to try and write this post without using any of the following words and phrases: “new wave bistronomy”, “inspired by his basque heritage”, “unintimidating decor”, “thwarting convention” or “raw culinary genius”.</span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">If you have been anywhere near a French food magazine or blog space recently you have probably already guessed I’m about to write about </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Iñaki Aizpitarte and his bistro Chateaubriand...either that or you’re trying to figure out the Basque roots of Daniel Rose. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2311/2300413386_7dcf175f4a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2311/2300413386_7dcf175f4a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Verdana, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Chateaubriand was named 11th best restaurant in the world by this years S.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Pelligrino</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> World’s 50 Best Restaurant panel and I get it. I really really get it. My first night at the chilled bistro I undoubtedly my vocal expressions of joy caused my friends to uncomfortably shift in their seats and feign ignorance as to our relationship when plate after plate of sexy, creative and really smart food sauntered to our table. More correctly, it was sauntered to our table by a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">gillette</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> (the collective noun for perfectly tended facial hair) of smooth, understated and nearly earnest front of house staff who could each talk knowledgeably of the ever changing menu and ideally priced wine list.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGQQBANrKTzozWclZtTUdL0x0DKByDE97U3mWsP9vbSwioBwYydmWb9Wp2hbuOINXZJ4ed_aU-jl09n3QDlGgnlkO46gOG5BjYz0uiloYgNnSPhLNEI_ZXWWa6sRqQraXt2iyGdLQuqgt/s1600/P1000763.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGQQBANrKTzozWclZtTUdL0x0DKByDE97U3mWsP9vbSwioBwYydmWb9Wp2hbuOINXZJ4ed_aU-jl09n3QDlGgnlkO46gOG5BjYz0uiloYgNnSPhLNEI_ZXWWa6sRqQraXt2iyGdLQuqgt/s320/P1000763.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"></span></div></span><br />
<div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I’ve been back three times in the past couple of months and on each visit the fixe menu (50 Euro for 5 courses which changes daily) has prompted this same reaction from me. Usually by the time a series of amuse bouche have been served (drunken prawns, seared tuna, ceviche jus) I realise that to maintain ongoing friendships I may have to dine alone next time...or only with my equally amused friends from culinary school. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhh5v4GoMlacMcZVjqy6E08AhxRekWyZEBiiiBE2zbDgEZ_Ml7dJAPkl7LjMy6znNZBHWqWLhyvkKuKNAOhyphenhyphene9Pv9JY4eSxZfqRCcP9ELi74d7VWnPbEuTYNHbFC92m1wx2L3-3zn-Q96/s1600/P1000762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhh5v4GoMlacMcZVjqy6E08AhxRekWyZEBiiiBE2zbDgEZ_Ml7dJAPkl7LjMy6znNZBHWqWLhyvkKuKNAOhyphenhyphene9Pv9JY4eSxZfqRCcP9ELi74d7VWnPbEuTYNHbFC92m1wx2L3-3zn-Q96/s320/P1000762.JPG" /></a></div><div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Aizitarte (who appears from my stalking online to have a penchant for leather and ‘bad boy’ themed photo shoots) has no formal training, having realised and committed to his culinary career relatively late for a chef. I feel this translates in the fresh, often raw (actually raw, not of raw emotion, that would be a little too much hyperbole despite my obvious persuasion towards this restaurant) food offerings at Chateaubriand which feel unconstrained by the stereotypes of classic French cuisine (of which I am becoming a certified expert at Le Cordon Bleu, be it happily, one knob of butter at a time). </span></span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The food at Chateaubriand focuses on divine produce, is clean in its construction and appears deceivingly simple in technique sometimes. Brittany cockles and razor clams, baby leek, herbs and Jerusalem artichoke crisps. Delicious.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcRJcmyxBaA1ZczZClAGNOZon1my7jS_Va6eXieUp-RXIlzca6pQDx__gaDYea-YGiqB0A_IqC_wpP1K88JNi5wYUEXVJ_xW3Vst8cg50WGCcRW9Gh0P13dtKQ9mCrud678RAZ1dxxfn9/s1600/P1000764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcRJcmyxBaA1ZczZClAGNOZon1my7jS_Va6eXieUp-RXIlzca6pQDx__gaDYea-YGiqB0A_IqC_wpP1K88JNi5wYUEXVJ_xW3Vst8cg50WGCcRW9Gh0P13dtKQ9mCrud678RAZ1dxxfn9/s320/P1000764.JPG" /></a></div><div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Poached cod, just opaque, with baby vegetables and a cauliflower emulsion, so calm in flavour and colour that I nearly overlooked in before the final ribbon of taste reminded me it was also delicious.</span></span></div></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGH19MdzWkIbPqgaA4XiUlngJj2I3fec6fvLGTuAp4AQik0HEYjt41ZZvlPjL6ZjNlLGel1CLoc3FwSBboAen6o1y8TP3oySEOvRr_r0cURhFyKA-FZhN6LoJ9oFjVWd6Zi9cqT6cCjmp/s1600/P1000765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGH19MdzWkIbPqgaA4XiUlngJj2I3fec6fvLGTuAp4AQik0HEYjt41ZZvlPjL6ZjNlLGel1CLoc3FwSBboAen6o1y8TP3oySEOvRr_r0cURhFyKA-FZhN6LoJ9oFjVWd6Zi9cqT6cCjmp/s320/P1000765.JPG" /></a></div><div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The perfectly seared beef fillet hidden beneath a salad of both cooked and raw beets, radish and leaves, dressed in a beet and mustard seed jus is bright and bitey. Its always sad at this point when the course count tips in favour of the end and you can see other tables only starting out their menu. I would usually ask the waiter whether it is possible to take cheese and dessert to postpone the inevitable. It’s France, the answer is always yes. </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXQhEp8woDvhb0zvoadJLYIfjOeNImmYyj7TTGI7mrKRfxXuGlopiD3pbWbWuGeXuzCbtNEmdX_MuqAdVpa-wIgLfT-CbeO4rjBg1I-POQJTII-k5QtOxIYg4iYnW6zdT633mlZQNRFeu/s1600/P1000767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXQhEp8woDvhb0zvoadJLYIfjOeNImmYyj7TTGI7mrKRfxXuGlopiD3pbWbWuGeXuzCbtNEmdX_MuqAdVpa-wIgLfT-CbeO4rjBg1I-POQJTII-k5QtOxIYg4iYnW6zdT633mlZQNRFeu/s320/P1000767.jpg" /></a></div><div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">As a culinary student, the pairings Aizitarte and his team plate are intimidating and exciting in equal measure. Red fruits, raspberry dust, fried basil and red fruit sponge send little punches all over your mouth which are then soothed by a rice flavoured ice cream and a semi-sweet biscuit crumble. The dish looks too amazing, perhaps a simple warning signal not to dine in white silk clothing? </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdESXdkTlPtYmUU-EC7Lfwbh8tE4l9-BzviGpZB91GpO-0atNyx66tOTyg1vTY8UF_qdDv_AHvQFGf-ehlitjBCluEzP-LczlUw9hjsZfWZ8hQgRV2fIYS_3I8sQZFffWCPonHnf6TNXNn/s1600/P1000769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdESXdkTlPtYmUU-EC7Lfwbh8tE4l9-BzviGpZB91GpO-0atNyx66tOTyg1vTY8UF_qdDv_AHvQFGf-ehlitjBCluEzP-LczlUw9hjsZfWZ8hQgRV2fIYS_3I8sQZFffWCPonHnf6TNXNn/s320/P1000769.jpg" /></a></div><div style="color: #181818; font: normal normal normal 10px/normal Verdana; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">All I can say is go to Chateaubriand, believe all the hype, wear something suitably French and aloof and make sure you have a good list of friends to go back with next time just in case you are as incapable of restraint as I am.</span></span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">(</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Chateaubriand</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #191919;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">129 Avenue Parmentier, 75011 Paris,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> +33 (0) 1 4357 4595, Reservations necessary for 8pm sitting)</span></span></span></div></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-66962305107022633272010-09-13T09:32:00.000-07:002010-09-13T09:41:44.913-07:00Plenty - Yotam Ottolenghi...In loving memory of Pointer<div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'd like to start by dedicating this post to the memory of the finger pad on my left pointer finger. Pointer was a brave digit who we sadly lost to fatal burns during the making of this post. But she died doing what she loved best, lathered in caramel. She will, I imagine, post-humously audition for the role of The English Patient in the finger puppet adaptation of Michael Ondaatji's classic tale of ill-fated desire, espionage and self discovery in wartime Saharan Africa. I will remember her fondly.</span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So as you can see, at this point it is: </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.fr/Plenty-Yotam-Ottolenghi/dp/0091933684"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Plenty</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> (the recent vegetarian cookbook released by London chef and restauranteur Yotam Ottolenghi) (1), Miss Devour (0). If you count the fact I even bought a vegetarian cookbook an achievement in itself, it’s probably more like 2:1 down.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsWNtmssm96DE0Foh6YgiLEUaeg10JkFR4axTqHSrAkgsEw25xOVjKWDATqFIIjQsu6Da-GeTGf7t4ppW31viKxPvTq3-WOudSFTCX7grIPQvHmJjEm_vpL0qe4q9oPX-j094zGd_Hnpl/s1600/P1000749.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsWNtmssm96DE0Foh6YgiLEUaeg10JkFR4axTqHSrAkgsEw25xOVjKWDATqFIIjQsu6Da-GeTGf7t4ppW31viKxPvTq3-WOudSFTCX7grIPQvHmJjEm_vpL0qe4q9oPX-j094zGd_Hnpl/s320/P1000749.JPG" /></span></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I justified the uncharacteristic purchase of a vegetarian cookbook firstly, because Ottolenghi is not himself a vegetarian (I enjoy the irony of the publication) and secondly, with a desire for something new after flicking, cooking, eating and being inspired by his first cookbook, </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Ottolenghi-Cookbook-Yotam/dp/0091922348"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ottolenghi: The Cookbook</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, about one hundred and seventeen times over. </span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Plenty is very much the ‘to be continued’ episode of Ottelenghi's first book. Fresh flavours, bold combinations and excitingly for me, ingredients and ideas I just don’t see often in the restaurants of Paris. I adore French food, obviously, but regularly crave the diversity of tastes and cuisine fusions I enjoyed in London and Australia. I also yearn for a cooked vegetable which you could not use the words limp, drowned or flaccid to describe. Unsavoury dining descriptions really, but regularly how I sadly experience vegetables cooked in classic French bistros.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Plenty is divided into chapters focussing on essential elements or ingredients: The Mighty Aubergine, Green Things, Funny Onions. Recipes are generally not complex and happily the ingredients lists are short enough to pick up at the market and carry home (a real consideration on a velib). There is a mix of snacks and starters (marinated mushrooms with walnut and tahini yoghurt), sides (caramelised fennel with goat’s curd) and mains (the ultimate winter cous cous) and where a dish would work well with a meat, Ottelenghi lets us know.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipK5UJUa5yhLR5a2GbnEvTe3DjNWQoifjey2WdGZn57PZFqeSlh74FCuWeW6bITvHtS_Jb68z0abIAVqCEdZrmY-Stna7uV8txc3KW0S5S7-avPRX3LXEHXTpxbpu_w9SNAsni3PMCCRqu/s1600/P1000748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipK5UJUa5yhLR5a2GbnEvTe3DjNWQoifjey2WdGZn57PZFqeSlh74FCuWeW6bITvHtS_Jb68z0abIAVqCEdZrmY-Stna7uV8txc3KW0S5S7-avPRX3LXEHXTpxbpu_w9SNAsni3PMCCRqu/s320/P1000748.JPG" /></span></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I took to the kitchen with his recipe for Surprise Tatin. A savory take on a French classic. I have a low to medium-grade obsession with each ingredient so it seemed a perfect starting point to my inevitable relationship with this book. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Surprise Tatin</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> adapted from Plenty, Yotam Ottolenghi, 2010. </span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">200g cherry tomatoes (I slowly oven dried them at 130 C with salt, pepper, garlic, olive oil and thyme, segmented ripe tomatoes will work equally as well)</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">500g baby potatoes (the smaller the better, boiled in salted water until just cooked)</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1 large onion (I used two, caramelised with butter and water until honey coloured)</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oregano (or I used thyme simply because I had plenty in the cupboard)</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">150g of hard goats cheese</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1 puff pastry sheet</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">40g sugar</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">10g butter (I didn’t use this and made my caramel with water and sugar only)</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After lining a round cake tin with paper, you make a medium dark caramel with the water and sugar and pour this directly into the bottom of the pan. Sprinkle the caramel with your herb(s) and flaked sea salt depending on your taste.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1yAJjpFGbGlfJ6DvvlYTYAsGQCs3dj_s504z_yrVvDSvID-lLCeTKzFZs0XC_sh0X8USDXA4AHJHfOVtXMCIkheJ0nNVoZhtk9p9TjD81OAaFCdfWul24zikoIFN3zcVbyaRgFOpxjgX/s1600/P1000755.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1yAJjpFGbGlfJ6DvvlYTYAsGQCs3dj_s504z_yrVvDSvID-lLCeTKzFZs0XC_sh0X8USDXA4AHJHfOVtXMCIkheJ0nNVoZhtk9p9TjD81OAaFCdfWul24zikoIFN3zcVbyaRgFOpxjgX/s320/P1000755.JPG" /></span></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Next trim the tops and tails off the mini potatoes so they are all roughly 2 cms high and set them on top of the caramel cut side down. Keep thinking upside down. It’s perhaps an obvious statement, but keep in mind what the tart will look like when you turn it out.</span></span></div></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOH28KD9JOnFUBTqbdegRU6laFsfwKnuR3oTSQcIZ23AwdACs0aJeQWt97rEXY_U_n2av12G_Onex0HrGCdWkjWqQdH4xkjyllsrUb5LUmEhvV2F86ubetf_H3jH9TSGktXrdsfJ23timi/s1600/P1000756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOH28KD9JOnFUBTqbdegRU6laFsfwKnuR3oTSQcIZ23AwdACs0aJeQWt97rEXY_U_n2av12G_Onex0HrGCdWkjWqQdH4xkjyllsrUb5LUmEhvV2F86ubetf_H3jH9TSGktXrdsfJ23timi/s320/P1000756.JPG" /></span></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Push the 'confit' tomatoes and caramelised onions into the holes around the potatoes and spread the sliced goats cheese evenly across the mosaic of deliciousness. You can season at any point and may even like to use some fine slices of garlic in there too. Finally lay a round of pastry on top, being careful to tuck the edges of the pastry around the pan and hug all the potatoes. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhtOh9cvRMCK5juay0P_EKj0zq4xXWWwzNjZ3Zi8QKl6PYPrDIloH5x7Q3kNcl2xCZq6GlKeQH352J1BCkY_G4uZGZ9dSkPC8QSvJnzRxSsMseRsKSlYe956fT1qJ4Klbe0qzNavq8bCEW/s1600/P1000757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhtOh9cvRMCK5juay0P_EKj0zq4xXWWwzNjZ3Zi8QKl6PYPrDIloH5x7Q3kNcl2xCZq6GlKeQH352J1BCkY_G4uZGZ9dSkPC8QSvJnzRxSsMseRsKSlYe956fT1qJ4Klbe0qzNavq8bCEW/s320/P1000757.JPG" /></span></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Start the tart off in a 200 C oven for 25 minutes then turn the oven down to about 180 C for a further 15 minutes. This should ensure the pastry is cooked through and you won’t end up with a soggy base. Don’t leave the tart in the tin for more than a couple of minutes after baking (the caramel will set and you’ll never get it out) and turn the tart out while holding your breath and hoping you don’t loose half of it in The Flip. Tah Dah!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpEi19ltCKIw0wy_Z55u8PB4K6-xnqUAC10SZ0o6wrWlplEqLspsuP5h7DZr2r6QdbwEfx4bwfNf9AZN_AOE70P8I9oi-edtl5Lw_Lx6hTz0xO8TstRzdmO0UC_b8s8ZN7Y58fBY3YOP9V/s1600/P1000759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpEi19ltCKIw0wy_Z55u8PB4K6-xnqUAC10SZ0o6wrWlplEqLspsuP5h7DZr2r6QdbwEfx4bwfNf9AZN_AOE70P8I9oi-edtl5Lw_Lx6hTz0xO8TstRzdmO0UC_b8s8ZN7Y58fBY3YOP9V/s320/P1000759.JPG" /></span></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A few tips: Molten caramel burns. Molten caramel may require the purchase of oven cleaner. Molten caramel is truly delicious in this dish with some flakey sea salt sprinkled just before layering the potato rounds. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Me, I'll will probably take a hiatus from molten caramel at least in the short term. That said, I'll be making this dish again and next time want to experiment with pumpkin, chevre and basil/pesto or maybe caramelised onions, gorgonzola and sage with some toasted walnuts for garnish. In the mean time Pointer and I wish you and your fingers luck and fun with this one.</span></span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10px;"><br />
</span></span></div></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-64132688352884994462010-09-08T09:49:00.000-07:002010-09-08T09:52:52.214-07:00Character and Tentation<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> like character. In people, obviously. In dogs, definitely. In wine, usually and where there is wine in my life there will be cheese, probably. </span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Given this you can imagine my cholesterol’s joy when I saw a small (certain aspects of this post may have been altered to accord with reasonable consumption expectations) wheel of double cream, raw cow’s milk, vintage, soft flowered crust cheese properly nouned Tentation at my fromagerie this week. Yes, I have a fromagerie. Well a few actually, primarily so that no single fromager will judge me on excess consumption or elastic waistbands. </span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6vllVnBjo__jrDyRJKeoWbFaW-SPJiFJ5um3wrjFI88Tw88w9Gkt0RePKu6aIWbdg8B8oFqU4p4eQ7D8c8ZTtCmDtMh1cSRpj-_v9eGjFkdcRUj7jQ4X7coACL386zHvO2Lfj09f_Vx1/s1600/P1000716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6vllVnBjo__jrDyRJKeoWbFaW-SPJiFJ5um3wrjFI88Tw88w9Gkt0RePKu6aIWbdg8B8oFqU4p4eQ7D8c8ZTtCmDtMh1cSRpj-_v9eGjFkdcRUj7jQ4X7coACL386zHvO2Lfj09f_Vx1/s320/P1000716.JPG" /></span></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I’m not usually the one to v-line for the soft cheeses on a platter, but with a loaf of still warm fruit and walnut sour dough in my sac, it seemed appropriate to trust the double cream concept and deny my natural inclination toward any cheese which moulds, burns, bites or accosts my nasal workings.</span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Tentation Saint Felicien has the sort of character I would normally miss out on while I mouth off against a strong mould or punchy wash rind elsewhere on the cheeseboard. It tastes nearly whipped, pillowy and light, creamy (as the name would suggest) and quiet. I should probably have left it to stand at room temperature a little longer than I did before devouring. Perhaps this way the centre could have oozed more and the slightly too creamy cream edge may have tarted up a little. Disappointingly, there were no surprises and no sparks for me (yes, this is the calibre of expectation I lay on my cheeses) but I knew that for a soft cheese lover, Tentations double cream siren call would have been heavenly. </span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1WtMe9ftzLX-coX6YKIEGa3oFhIqibF4TNvCpLR1W6jIKskdzHzUHCT35KNc5Mj0ETsd_z8NWNGsoWRW4RgIzDtPAWwiQLbguZZ691zt0qlaEPNMyFNqUDFd_YVJGHcEPTpPPUAHsnhN/s1600/P1000720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1WtMe9ftzLX-coX6YKIEGa3oFhIqibF4TNvCpLR1W6jIKskdzHzUHCT35KNc5Mj0ETsd_z8NWNGsoWRW4RgIzDtPAWwiQLbguZZ691zt0qlaEPNMyFNqUDFd_YVJGHcEPTpPPUAHsnhN/s320/P1000720.JPG" /></span></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Maybe my problem was that my moments with Tentation were shared wine-free? With a crisp glass of Brouilly or a classic Cote de Rhone (both regional matches to the cheese) perhaps our love would have been richer. I cannot, however, justify red wine for breakfast. Yet. </span></span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Verdana; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">(Ask for: Tentation de Saint Félicien, Double Crème produced by L'Etoile du Vercors)</span></span></i></b></span></div></div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-47214212735724002432010-07-21T05:01:00.000-07:002010-10-22T04:36:07.226-07:00She'll have what I'm having...<div style="text-align: justify;">I hate it when people order for me at a restaurant. My friends know better than to attempt now, a firm suggestion as to specialities will suffice. If I hear the words “<em>Oh, yes please, and she’ll have the cold cod salad with the fat free aioli with spiced tofu</em>”, I suffer the same reaction I do when people call me “cute”...it is an involuntary one, my organs seize, my eyes awkwardly blink to control the anger laser beams I swear I can feel pulsing behind my retina and I smile politely while hoping the delicious rib eye steak they have ordered for themselves is charred to a crisp. </div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">French men love to exert a little dominance over the menu. I have wondered if in fact this is because they assume I cannot read the menu (false, my priorities whilst learning French have been food stuffs, directions and coy and flippant remarks best delivered with a side of eyelash flutter (which tends to make up for any inadequacies in perfecting the former)). Is it a cultural thing? Perhaps...but unlike my growing tolerance for many things in Paris which are met with the response "<em>ce n’est pas possible</em>", for me having my culinary decisions dictated <em>ce n’est pas possible</em>! </div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Luckily, one of the perks of my culinary training is that friends and family visiting from overseas often defer to my culinary suggestion...now I will be quick to differentiate between a third party deferring to my suggestion and a third party usurping my free and independent will to order...really, it’s different not a subtly guised double standard...really!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LxS_H0gnoWzVD7SkfhYoN-vPj-Ai_vDHqztr_XgCJxTFzYRSv7JoeRwk9jQJsVmFNWJz6VdJifVU43xI0jEJkesxCH_rE44GtFd0Yo9A2cFRCw955iVNg5HCr69BGkh7uwgnVggbxgCo/s1600/P1000425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8LxS_H0gnoWzVD7SkfhYoN-vPj-Ai_vDHqztr_XgCJxTFzYRSv7JoeRwk9jQJsVmFNWJz6VdJifVU43xI0jEJkesxCH_rE44GtFd0Yo9A2cFRCw955iVNg5HCr69BGkh7uwgnVggbxgCo/s320/P1000425.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Impressive but some what irrelevant to your forthcoming meal...</span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">My first place prize for the bistro most recommended to my travelling comrades is Le Petit Marche in the Marais (and not simply because it is in proximity to what has to be one of the most spectacular wall vines in Paris (yes, Dad’s love a little horticulture in the back streets of the Marais before they dine. There is a shadow of Don Bourke in us all)). On first glance, even on second or third glance, it is a simple looking corner bistro serving your everyday dishes in the city. Those glances don’t explain why there is nearly always a queue sardined at the bar, why nearly everyone I know who has eaten there loves it or why I get so excited to take people there.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BLCXXQfpzZAOR48XuXHx_jHI0Zg_rV7UwCKmQyv1ZhAJfID4WKu3znLpQA0zlsysHwDINsJrCI-44BllFx2YDE2ucz6t7ZqmEtP0BQnnOK56_vOoBN8WBfJ-L3tDHT7OIoFCD6wSXunq/s1600/P1000435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BLCXXQfpzZAOR48XuXHx_jHI0Zg_rV7UwCKmQyv1ZhAJfID4WKu3znLpQA0zlsysHwDINsJrCI-44BllFx2YDE2ucz6t7ZqmEtP0BQnnOK56_vOoBN8WBfJ-L3tDHT7OIoFCD6wSXunq/s320/P1000435.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I do feel some degree of entirely misplaced personal accomplishment when I take people to a restaurant/bar/shop anywhere which I love and they turn out to love it too. Le Petit Marche is one of these places each and every visit. The food concept is bedded in classic French techniques and could be mistaken when reading the specials board as simply resulting in some solid bistro dishes. But there is a modern Asian influence running through the menu. Certainly not enough to amount to the 90’s fad of fusion, but just enough to lighten and freshen the menu and make you just a little bit jealous of the dish your friend has ordered, even when you are more than happy with your own. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkyL7kSKxEI91rVKsBx86QHlejBqewI_L7Dz1PD9ISoVfUUxkCAANX8G5p9Qrbkg-jzK71BO-RVQ-b6J7qhwiQFnNDo2F_hhG_wIuEZbw7qrzTjrOl6hpvm8C6u8RUq5kZbDMM_V8V7Mzw/s1600/P1000427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkyL7kSKxEI91rVKsBx86QHlejBqewI_L7Dz1PD9ISoVfUUxkCAANX8G5p9Qrbkg-jzK71BO-RVQ-b6J7qhwiQFnNDo2F_hhG_wIuEZbw7qrzTjrOl6hpvm8C6u8RUq5kZbDMM_V8V7Mzw/s320/P1000427.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The Salade Chinoise - My current Masterchef taste test challenge</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> “<em>You absolutely have to try the Salade Chinoise for starter, it is seriously good</em>”...It is, and over many taste deconstructions I think I have nearly figured out the recipe: poached chicken breast, friend spring roll pasty, red and white cabbage, black sesame seeds, Japanese mayo, sesame oil, soy sauce, fish sauce, fresh coriander, chilli and....ohhh, those last couple of flavours still escape me. A good excuse to go back.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-4Fv4DMj-vNJ6jRP2MpBICwAf98KzLPaEYp0Q0IDK1TcLq2udqVHl5qh1rAc0m1jUDvigxFMH3OrvkR-rPNIqtO9imqgn6i1Ta1PWzmmtJvN7XG7ebCFqG9kdFWI1LZZjrK7w15PL50bn/s1600/P1000433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-4Fv4DMj-vNJ6jRP2MpBICwAf98KzLPaEYp0Q0IDK1TcLq2udqVHl5qh1rAc0m1jUDvigxFMH3OrvkR-rPNIqtO9imqgn6i1Ta1PWzmmtJvN7XG7ebCFqG9kdFWI1LZZjrK7w15PL50bn/s320/P1000433.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The lamb...I cannot confirm or deny whether I had already consumed the potatoes</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“<em>Yes, I understand you are a vegetarian, but if you order the lamb it comes with the potato puree and you will die when you eat it</em>”...It’s true, you will die and not simply from the butter to potato ratio I am sure is indulged by the kitchen. The potatoes are smooth, dense, creamy, rich and with the cream emulsion which is served on the lamb fillets, enough to embarrass my friends with my uncontrollable consumption excitement. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CkLvKHmBV78mCqgH5kS_tTyAZyFNySOh8qVPgaNRIBl2WwbdzVroI_Zn1_BhEEvPZfaPFbIjrFoAJFjGWJRhU6Qan5REKHhFETW71L3FH64E0i0TGrnqy1poblMJgAR2uu70su0TfSg4/s1600/P1000432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0CkLvKHmBV78mCqgH5kS_tTyAZyFNySOh8qVPgaNRIBl2WwbdzVroI_Zn1_BhEEvPZfaPFbIjrFoAJFjGWJRhU6Qan5REKHhFETW71L3FH64E0i0TGrnqy1poblMJgAR2uu70su0TfSg4/s320/P1000432.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">With all respect to the lentil dish...the tuna</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">“<em>Trust me, I’ve had pretty much everything on the menu (except for the lentils) and you cannot go wrong (my thoughts are reserved on the</em> <em>lentils)”...</em>I am actually told by a vegetarian friend of mine that the lentil dish is quite delicious. I will defer to her sound judgement of the legume and let you know that so is the carpaccio of St Jacques (light and citrusy), the mille feuille de thon (crisp layers, perfectly seared slices of red tuna, sesame and a spicy Asian marinade) and the moelleux de chocolat (the liquid centre is life-long friends with the accompanying crème anglais). </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisPNbh9cVhq22WEsfHKcpqzB6Nipe6ZQLUNvtvS6safcMqVd7RH_Xw-PsdysSDBy6bhxa7Ruo5GhExEwobBhjtXDFE9CEJhSyqJ51juKpNLEaGoUj66wDhdlkiAEboIj9mHNyXepizWLJx/s1600/P1000430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisPNbh9cVhq22WEsfHKcpqzB6Nipe6ZQLUNvtvS6safcMqVd7RH_Xw-PsdysSDBy6bhxa7Ruo5GhExEwobBhjtXDFE9CEJhSyqJ51juKpNLEaGoUj66wDhdlkiAEboIj9mHNyXepizWLJx/s320/P1000430.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Carpaccio of St Jacques</span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
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</div>Honestly though, the service is not great, it is often slow, there will sometimes appear dishes you did not order...but that is what friends and wine are for, to distract from such forgettable shortfallings. But I must say, nothing can distract from the short fallings of the coffee. It is at this point of every meal at le Petit Marche that I will always step in, commandeer the menu and ride that culinary dictating double standard all the way past the coffee option. It’s for the greater good...have another Salad Chinoise instead and give me a hand with those illusive final ingredients. <br />
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<strong>Le Petit Marche</strong> (9 Rue Bearn, Paris, 75003, Tel: 01 42 72 06 67, Reservations necessary)Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-26513490742339530052010-05-07T15:36:00.000-07:002010-10-22T04:34:57.608-07:00But what eeeeiiiissss marrow bone?Once upon a time the extent of my knowledge of marrow bone was to invert it to ‘bone marrow’ and start quoting ‘complex’ script extracts from mid-seasons of Grey’s Anatomy.<br />
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While recently researching cooking tips for marrow bone, not to be confused with web-browsing Patrick Dempsey, I came across this informative site: <a href="http://wayofthesun.com/marrowbone/index.htm.">http://wayofthesun.com/marrowbone/index.htm.</a> I immediately sent my crushed velvet dirdel to the dry cleaners and brushed up on my early-century forest poetry. <br />
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This site has tempted me to digress deep into the dark woods and explore recreation by way of recreation, or niche poetry readings in the forest, but will save this concept for an inevitable later post about game season and Bambi…and my love for Buck Hunter…or Tofu Hunter (<a href="http://games.adultswim.com/tofu-hunter-action-online-game.html">http://games.adultswim.com/tofu-hunter-action-online-game.html</a>) to which I was recently introduced by a vegetarian friend of mine.<br />
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Digression aside, bone marrow is the flexible tissue stored in the interior of bones. Usually, the bone marrow we eat comes from calves, their femur (thigh) bones to be more precise.<br />
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My renewed interest in marrow bone arose last week in class. We poached marrow bone in stock with a mirepoix and melted the fatty goodness (along with parsley butter) under a grill and into our Flintstone-esque 800g grilled beef prime ribs. I knew at this moment that never at home would I ever be able to prepare such a delicious and mammoth contribution to the world of meat consumption. Neither my heart nor my cholesterol would ever continue to believe the little white lie I’ve been telling them for years: “Don’t worry guys, marrow bone is good fat…just like avocados.<br />
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I don’t like to entertain this debate often, it makes me sad to debate the fat content, rather than the deliciousness, of food…I just go out for bone marrow. <br />
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I know it’s predictable, but the roasted bone marrow salad at St John’s in London is delicious (<a href="http://www.stjohnrestaurant.co.uk/">http://www.stjohnrestaurant.co.uk/</a>) . The night I devoured this dish I was also the proud consumer (amongst company) of a whole roasted suckling pig, a log of froi gras and litres of wine, all part of their summer feasting menu. It wasn’t pretty. It was some what Roman in a chic gourmand nose-to-tail kind of way. I tell myself that whilst eating the good fats in avocado.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUTQkdxupIRKzVJbL5STpctHUuuBTXc8TGgtzIYiQLfdmJ4-mP9GmHAD4ZgUzYZeHn7X6S-IfBPaLy_SmF-ftPhdpTVPPBVltzfjdoAMwFLt-pAZU0IfCFFXSv4ggZupLRjF5pu1pnGN0W/s1600/Bone+Marrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUTQkdxupIRKzVJbL5STpctHUuuBTXc8TGgtzIYiQLfdmJ4-mP9GmHAD4ZgUzYZeHn7X6S-IfBPaLy_SmF-ftPhdpTVPPBVltzfjdoAMwFLt-pAZU0IfCFFXSv4ggZupLRjF5pu1pnGN0W/s320/Bone+Marrow.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><br />
Here is the recipe (narrated and annotated to my preference) in case you do want to attack bone marrow in your own kitchen:<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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<strong>Ingredients</strong><br />
<br />
12 x 7-8 cm pieces middle veal marrow bones (ask your butcher to cut them for you unless you feel like channelling Patrick Bateman)<br />
<br />
1 bunch flat leaf parsley, leaves only, chopped (other green herbs can be added also)<br />
<br />
2 shallots, very thinly sliced (soaking them in water first takes the bite out of them)<br />
<br />
1 small handful extra-fine capers (or larger capers sliced to size)<br />
<br />
1 lemon, juice only <br />
<br />
6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil <br />
<br />
freshly ground salt and black pepper <br />
<br />
toast (preferably waxy baguette or toasted sour dough), to serve<br />
<br />
<strong>Method</strong><br />
<br />
1. Preheat your oven to 190C/gas 5. <br />
<br />
2. Roast the bones for 20 minutes in a saute or roasting pan, until the marrow loosens but is not melting away (be careful, it will start to disolve if you over cook it....such a waste). <br />
<br />
3. Combine the parsley, shallots and capers in a small bowl and dress with lemon juice and olive oil.<br />
<br />
4. Finally season the salad as you like with salt and freshly ground black pepper. <br />
<br />
5. Eat...if you need instructions...scrape the marrow from the bones onto the toast and season with a little coarse sea salt - flavoured sea salt is even better. Top with a small spoonful of parsley salad.<br />
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I never doubted the French would find a way to serve me bone marrow only remotely located near a salad and in immediate proximity to proteins and creamy, cheese covered potatoes Dauphinois. <br />
<br />
At <strong>La Taverne De L'arbre Sec</strong> (109 Rue Saint-honore, 75004 Paris, 01 08 99 78 61 69) I have never ordered anything but the Cote de Beouf. Your meal is served on a large wooden slab (for lack of a better word) which consumes the table as you consume your beef. It is nothing fancy, true, and I’m sure many Parisians will say they have their own favourite unassuming corner bistro which does the same, but this is mine. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigL9UqKptPaYZzOJ2y8DcFaOGG4KfSKwQU4kKXqKxsvUE2_gXP22_Uwb7wSs32ZPyNBGRf_1iIhXeayhY3NuCVtA1WSIEQY3AwcbBGbP0BfxYQn3CF7CUr_9B-RZjEbJht4gRcZxSB95qc/s1600/Steak.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigL9UqKptPaYZzOJ2y8DcFaOGG4KfSKwQU4kKXqKxsvUE2_gXP22_Uwb7wSs32ZPyNBGRf_1iIhXeayhY3NuCVtA1WSIEQY3AwcbBGbP0BfxYQn3CF7CUr_9B-RZjEbJht4gRcZxSB95qc/s320/Steak.bmp" tt="true" /></a></div><br />
The marrow when spread, or awkwardly balanced, on the chewy baguette and then corrupted further (in the best way) by the parsley salt is dangerously tasty. I am slightly ashamed to share just how much satisfaction I derive from this simple act of consumption...perhaps I should try bone marrow at home...with the rest of Season Six, Grey's Anatomy.Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-44175949743388035862010-05-05T07:53:00.000-07:002011-02-01T11:02:01.453-08:00Salad Envy – On Saladism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have been waiting for what seems like the entire five minutes I have been waiting. I only notice because The Suit in front of me is speaking fluent Suit with another Suit and I find the talk of Suits reminds me that I used to be a Suit too. In a default Suit reaction I make a list in my head. I’m hungry. That’s the list.<br />
<br />
I should have paid more attention. By the time I meet my challenger I wish I had made a better list. Fifty odd salad ingredients. One set of tongs. One Salad Master (or a demi-teen dressed as a Salad Master) and me. Calm.<br />
<br />
I instantly regret my lettuce choice (always crispy mixed, always crispy mixed) as I fumble between chicken and tuna (chicken), parmesan and feta (feta), always baby tomatoes, cucumber? Here is where it starts to go wrong. Breathe, just breathe. The lady behind me is tapping her manicured nails on the glass counter impatiently at the hold up my decisional impasse is causing to the execution of her salad list. I should have made a list. I freeze and then point and nod at every ingredient that was never meant to meet the rest of my salad. Focus. Crème fraiche dressing (no, before you ask, it’s not good, it means nothing to nobody). Pay. Seat. Breathe.<br />
<br />
As my pulse slows I peer into the deep silver bowl, the product of my friends Salad Master battle and his scars are far fewer than mine. He’s done well, stuck to the classics. Avoided the comingling of sweet and savoury. Balanced cured and fresh, dairy and legume. Damn him. Avocado. I don’t have avocado. I wish I had avocado. I think perhaps my cucumber could be as tasty as avocado. It’s not. I have an impotent salad. Salad Envy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtV_JazWKmvWkbY2_roc_oBzbDtbI3a2jiZW2Etm5bVCV9KNmi8W-zxXeuH-XdY6dzSCxjJOGtWHYprWsjda6kbbrJgCqGRy8RVV2T1YNGag8h3Gn3ODOVjr9mqUjTZR6BDCQhxK2Z2H6W/s1600/IMG00001-20100504-1310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtV_JazWKmvWkbY2_roc_oBzbDtbI3a2jiZW2Etm5bVCV9KNmi8W-zxXeuH-XdY6dzSCxjJOGtWHYprWsjda6kbbrJgCqGRy8RVV2T1YNGag8h3Gn3ODOVjr9mqUjTZR6BDCQhxK2Z2H6W/s320/IMG00001-20100504-1310.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><a name='more'></a>This is me in a salad bar. Even the very popular one at Calm (4 rue du Commandant Rivière 75008 Paris, 01 53 76 12 20 and 60 boulevard Malesherbes 75008 Paris, 01 45 22 31 98, <a href="http://www.calm-restaurant.com/">http://www.calm-restaurant.com/</a> ) despite the support and emotional direction provided by the stores proper noun. I make poor and regrettable decisions on a nearly per ingredient basis and have learnt that if you can’t say anything nice, do not say anything at all. Get a sandwich.<br />
<br />
But do not avoid Calm. The concept of the instructional salad bar isn’t a new one. But it is done well here. The ingredients are fresh, the staff very generous (especially the feta), the options wide, tables ample and it makes a light change to the usual plat de jour lunches in the 8eme. How about the NASDAQ today ?...(oh sorry, that’s the default Suit again).<br />
<br />
If you are like me or if you can separate yourself from the need to control your salad, calm down (once you’ve pounced a terrace table) at Au Rocher de Cancale on Rue Montorgueil (78 rue Montorgueil 75002 Paris, 01 42 33 50 29, Reservation not required, <a href="http://www.aurocherdecancale.fr/">http://www.aurocherdecancale.fr/</a>) and let the kitchen concoct make your salad list for you (it’s called a menu). <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp8qmu6aMr-O3-HHC9a24b6JKRa5a7QTDMmH3Mt0H3lJZRZZWF14k5jyTL-umF-kg3QQ05K2R238HUDyaK4o77D57OlMpud39DnyGZOo7eGLlFtCfvlrFiMR7qCRcnlFahogY3DiDgLrxg/s1600/Rocher+de+Concale.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp8qmu6aMr-O3-HHC9a24b6JKRa5a7QTDMmH3Mt0H3lJZRZZWF14k5jyTL-umF-kg3QQ05K2R238HUDyaK4o77D57OlMpud39DnyGZOo7eGLlFtCfvlrFiMR7qCRcnlFahogY3DiDgLrxg/s320/Rocher+de+Concale.bmp" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Here they serve predominantly salads. Big salads. Elaine Benis kind of salads. <br />
<br />
The langoustine offering appears on the specials board regularly and is the envy of nearly every other diner who has regrettably forgotten to consult the chalk board before ordering one of the classics (Nicoise, chevre chaud, Paysanne, Grecque). Green with envy. The plate nearly consumes the table, the little shrimp fight with the big shrimp for creamy dressing, the pink langoustines kick back on the bed of tomatoes and greens. Croutons and cucumber crunch and add texture. No stress. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnBMsod8BxvHwvtfdO1zrlpAtLTYz0Xtu3ZDG36B9qfCJFxHtc3iYEZFXw3Vh0LX0RfXOXVJ_-sgHMPkLPbwq7V4Uel3giZg1zYqzPBK6oWekLIva_r0_cetPrH9iQtWk3jhDMFyRDGlc/s1600/Salad+RC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnBMsod8BxvHwvtfdO1zrlpAtLTYz0Xtu3ZDG36B9qfCJFxHtc3iYEZFXw3Vh0LX0RfXOXVJ_-sgHMPkLPbwq7V4Uel3giZg1zYqzPBK6oWekLIva_r0_cetPrH9iQtWk3jhDMFyRDGlc/s320/Salad+RC.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Salade Chevre Chaud - You can't go wrong...unless you've missed the langoustines.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The Italian Salad is a perfect list (tomates séchées, poivron mariné, champignon, courgette grillées, jambon de Parme, coeur d’artichaud, mozzarella), but I’m currently ignoring artichokes after an unfortunate incident between myself, a turning knife and one of their kind in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
Damn him. Still. Avocado. I should have thought of that….food grudge.</div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-20596045819170406252010-05-03T04:41:00.000-07:002010-10-22T04:36:59.020-07:00If it looks like it's cool...As the dictum goes, if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, the chances are...well, it’s unlikely to be a seared rib eye steak, medium rare, isn’t it? <strong>Mama Shelter</strong> (109 Rue de Bangnolet, Paris 75020, 01 43 48 45 45, Reservations Necessary, <a href="http://www.mamashelter.com/">http://www.mamashelter.com/</a>) felt like this to me...the dictum, not the steak. The restaurant at Mama Shelter, which forms part of a boutique design hotel complex in the 20eme, looks cool and is filled with loudly fashionable people wearing all the ‘right’ clothes, dining in all the ‘right’ urban-warehouse-meets-space-mountain-neon interior design. But you never hear Johnny Depp telling people how cool he is...Mama Shelter tells everyone just how cool it is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYyE5qjHxC81DUT5j9MU1CXRcnCs6jdDBJcq9JHPfrGEuzavuwOG8_gAlVBsQT7w0ykuOsEXtSin-6fI6QURwD_q9OlFm62AF_m8JxUVJ8kNs0bB-rd31X39ilu9fvIiGcq-JvT97d9NCE/s1600/P1000368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYyE5qjHxC81DUT5j9MU1CXRcnCs6jdDBJcq9JHPfrGEuzavuwOG8_gAlVBsQT7w0ykuOsEXtSin-6fI6QURwD_q9OlFm62AF_m8JxUVJ8kNs0bB-rd31X39ilu9fvIiGcq-JvT97d9NCE/s320/P1000368.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The Island Bar at Mama Shelter where patron banter about <br />
suitably 'cool' topics like how 'cool' they are</span></div><br />
<a name='more'></a>On this basis, I was expecting some pretty sexy takes on classic home cooking..cool food for cool people. Alain Senderens has conceived a classic home style menu (assuming one’s home has faux poignant phrases chalked all over the ceiling and a collective of equally faux preppie bankers hanging out in the living room). On first glance, nothing particularly jumps off the page. All the ‘right’ things are there and they are executed well. For starters we picked and shared from everything on the menu: the duck rillettes (slightly waxy, tasty enough, but really, the duck seemed fairly disinterested to be there), the trio de fromage (creamy and salty chevre selection befriended by a tart onion relish), froi gras (if you mess this up you’re an idiot), and they were all good. Good, spoken with a slight shrug of the shoulders and a subtle French indifference.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTzBDdJFgA-oKcXew1dYpJFFoCR-HMBn64ee38_9eoAHF0zIaPTvud3eNGkc6QJPtmWZ3yEt-CCI5OFTBJTHOzap1dwAFZWKp5wYjjrLdzRY2XI2UAWUIeBNC0AmhMNK4xp5RVhHQbd2k4/s1600/P1000367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTzBDdJFgA-oKcXew1dYpJFFoCR-HMBn64ee38_9eoAHF0zIaPTvud3eNGkc6QJPtmWZ3yEt-CCI5OFTBJTHOzap1dwAFZWKp5wYjjrLdzRY2XI2UAWUIeBNC0AmhMNK4xp5RVhHQbd2k4/s320/P1000367.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Alain Senderens's food philosophy</span> </div>The main courses felt like they were going through the motions also. Chicken (tick), steak (tick), 7 hour veal (tick...and double tick, this was the only offering which raised any heat rates at the table), fish (tick). But to fault what was served would not be fair. The steak was an exceptional cut, seared perfectly and the accompanying sauce was deeply rich and sported an unpickable sweet finish which we concurred was probably cognac (but one friend still swears was chocolate). But when I dine at a place like this I’m looking for a plate of food which I, or any of my friends, could not make ourselves on a lazy Sunday night. I didn’t find this plate amongst the starters or mains...but then again, perhaps I should have spent more time looking at my food and less time looking at the other patrons who were looking at me to check that I was looking at them. To be seen, to be seen.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYY3qum5HOBMEL9doiC1oLZ4-PDMbPMSsDjWBJlZn4bG07E08k6gkR2SRebD_1sOHbRqZ21JNGdk1QRdP8T6umtT7aLAGjOZRVuOJ0vjdThbxJpeHBjF7AQHBvOMg1YrO06G66IbQJ_szg/s1600/P1000364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYY3qum5HOBMEL9doiC1oLZ4-PDMbPMSsDjWBJlZn4bG07E08k6gkR2SRebD_1sOHbRqZ21JNGdk1QRdP8T6umtT7aLAGjOZRVuOJ0vjdThbxJpeHBjF7AQHBvOMg1YrO06G66IbQJ_szg/s320/P1000364.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">It's important to pose at all times, you never know when it <br />
will be more important than performing your job</span></div><br />
Passing the baton to the dessert menu was the best thing the other courses have ever done. The moelleux au carambar for dessert was the culinary equivalent of a difibrulator. Any dish served in a miniature la creuset pot (even though these were the sort of le creuset pots one might purchase at a beach market in asia for an crazily low price) already excels beyond other students, but the moelleux at Mama Shelter is spoon-coating, lip-licking, bowl-scraping good. I cannot handle my chocolate, but every last morsel of this chocolate caramel magma found its way into one of the many mouths on our table. We were not cool about it, fingers may have been involved.<br />
<br />
I find it interesting, if I can, to read a restaurants website before or after I eat there to see whether the restaurants ambitions and food philosophy translates or accords with my experience. Of Mama Shelter: “<em>a restaurant with simple family style dishes conceived by Alain Senderens</em>” (sure, it is what is says on the box), the “<em>private terraces where you might run into American poets, Japanese painters, or Latin American writers</em>” (they forgot American tourists, men with up turned collars and eastern bloc husband hunters), “<em>the space is not a prisoner to design</em>” (the restaurant space is all design, they call it a ‘cultural wink’ (undefined), it’s a space which has been incredibly over thought in every detail). The next time I’m in the neighborhood (rarely if ever, the 20eme is a trek), I’ll likely return to Mama Shelter but not for the food. I’ll eat at home. Instead I’ll sit myself at the bar for some cocktails, people watching, social commentary and a double side of carambar moelleux.Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-41253422262995550892010-05-01T08:47:00.000-07:002010-05-07T15:45:23.662-07:00Sunburn and SpeculoosThe past two weeks of spring weather have left me with two things. Some unfortunately geometric tan lines (more correctly burn stripes) and a renewed love for ice cream. I was the subject of a pop up foodie pop quiz by a new friend this week – favourite colour (green), favourite food (cheese) and favourite dessert (cheese). Easy. <br />
<br />
I was swiftly prompted that in fact it was not so easy given the plethora of cheese varieties in France alone (between which I retorted I refuse to discriminate my love) and politely requested to reconsider my response. Whilst deep in self contemplation I proposed the same to my friend. His response, blue (for boys, very mature), all food (so obvious) and sweet cucumber and aloe vera coriander mousse and mozzarella ice cream. Damn you, I thought. That’s a great answer.<br />
<br />
I love boutique ice cream flavours, odd and niche so you know the batch is beautifully homemade and the product of a moment of odd thought by and eccentric taste bud. <strong>Pizza East</strong> in London (<a href="http://www.pizzaeast.com/">http://www.pizzaeast.com/</a>) routinely changes its ice cream selection as the chefs try out new flavours and ideas. Creme Fraiche and brown sugar got me every time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQDktVyiKhTTxILFTm-vGe1nCwY3e2jR_UFZRwvhnxapowZBbOAoOpS9fvAu__OnGUZQ9W28gzFHpzROuRSIRpDiXVdA-thcQDjoEHKdsrfsMETJ8s58yY_FiP3Yzp-MBX9rDoMF34VZn/s1600/Berthillion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQDktVyiKhTTxILFTm-vGe1nCwY3e2jR_UFZRwvhnxapowZBbOAoOpS9fvAu__OnGUZQ9W28gzFHpzROuRSIRpDiXVdA-thcQDjoEHKdsrfsMETJ8s58yY_FiP3Yzp-MBX9rDoMF34VZn/s320/Berthillion.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Berthillion - Worth waiting for...just not that long.</span></div><br />
<a name='more'></a>It must be something about brown sugar because the Speculoos ice-cream at <strong>Amarino</strong> (<a href="http://www.amorino.com/fr/">http://www.amorino.com/fr/</a>) is always in my cup (or cone if I’m feeling brave)...or even better pressed between two crisp and toasted brioche halves in their delicious focaccinnas. I know the concept is wrong (in a loose five pounds for spring kind of way), but to be honest, I don’t care. <br />
<br />
It is about at this point that I’m meant to rave about the artisan craftsmanship of <strong>Berthillion</strong> ice cream (<a href="http://www.berthillon.fr/">http://www.berthillon.fr/</a>) but waiting 30 minutes in a touristy crowd (look at me after living here only a few month) on a mini thoroughfare on Isle Saint Louis gives me a little ice cream head ache. I’m always content when one of the many many restaurants in Paris which serves Berthillion does just that, but I’m impatient when it comes to satisfying an ice cream desire.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwrZMl8gp8ZtcMal9CkAoJmhN7WcKhrki5tT7bw_kGseLkNpKzPEejq9iHTeoC9B4R3aO6Vef7PvYY0g0EQeOTBZ5T3qJxjUzu6GQub4UohN5AAy8jTTx5IA0Hf2BBZFqQg8kN0z-FYZ3/s1600/Grom.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwrZMl8gp8ZtcMal9CkAoJmhN7WcKhrki5tT7bw_kGseLkNpKzPEejq9iHTeoC9B4R3aO6Vef7PvYY0g0EQeOTBZ5T3qJxjUzu6GQub4UohN5AAy8jTTx5IA0Hf2BBZFqQg8kN0z-FYZ3/s320/Grom.bmp" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Gelati from Grom</span></div><br />
My current favourite gelateria is <strong>Grom</strong> (81 Rue de Seine, Paris 75006, <a href="http://www.grom.it/ita/">http://www.grom.it/ita/</a>). The ice cream is exceptional and like many gelati makers no additives or emulsifiers are used in the products. Their flavours alter seasonally (to some extent) and I enjoy their store presentation with each flavour hidden in a deep metallic ice cream cave. The Tiramisu (which I always combine with their extreme chocolate and then their nougat flavours) is seriously good. It’s creamy, but has the slightly icy edge which I prefer to a heavy overly creamed mixture. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3JqMBFcato0JqHFofmYcIxN14fVjTF_08y3ZjTFGrKMuArvN4rpaDPb5esce-Dc6w8NKwESFzd7hqAJu95jY8IaW4UXhE4AkSg9OFnhVOdPMf1a_EAfaLibOVcj8E89l661gVQ9lNgmv/s1600/Grom+Guys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3JqMBFcato0JqHFofmYcIxN14fVjTF_08y3ZjTFGrKMuArvN4rpaDPb5esce-Dc6w8NKwESFzd7hqAJu95jY8IaW4UXhE4AkSg9OFnhVOdPMf1a_EAfaLibOVcj8E89l661gVQ9lNgmv/s320/Grom+Guys.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Well the owners of Grom are certainly happy about their gelati too</span></div><br />
If the guys who own and run what is now this huge multinational franchise didn’t make such great gelati, I’m not sure I’d forgive them for their proposition that seeing a child smiling while eating a Grom’s gelato is enough to make their hard work worthwhile (uurgggh, I know). I guess, while I’m smiling too I can forgive the cheese.Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-54659513665324200372010-05-01T06:00:00.000-07:002011-02-01T11:06:21.626-08:00Eggs & Co<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have no puns or witting word plays for the title of this post. Eggs & Co (previously Coco & Co) (11 rue Bernard Palissy, Paris 75006, 01 45 44 02 52, Reservations Advised, <a href="http://www.eggsandco.fr/">http://www.eggsandco.fr/</a>) is exactly what is says on the sign. All about eggs and the company they chose to keep.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEGmRVIP9AAqlB1XqNXNsBTtlyXwHHtizAHtGUbvXZIj4QF4dm9qKxj4XTKGwrVlp9s3ZxCxHYoRAnZ6hfoIOD4DGxXcVs4PTWDxpKTo4OMKLRxjOwh-lOFTKvazs422wgMMuEAsu62d4/s1600/coco01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPEGmRVIP9AAqlB1XqNXNsBTtlyXwHHtizAHtGUbvXZIj4QF4dm9qKxj4XTKGwrVlp9s3ZxCxHYoRAnZ6hfoIOD4DGxXcVs4PTWDxpKTo4OMKLRxjOwh-lOFTKvazs422wgMMuEAsu62d4/s320/coco01.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">In her past life before entering the wtiness protection program - Eggs&Co (Coco & Co)</span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
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<a name='more'></a>The bistro is set back off the busy streets of St Germain in an odd little service alley. But please keep walking when you think you have taken a wrong turn. You haven’t, it’s there. Eggs & Co feels a little like you’ve come to brunch (or lunch or dinner for that matter) in the perfectly converted mezzanine farmhouse loft of a stylish friend. Except for that stylish friend has a things for chickens (some of the artwork and decoration is a little much) and does not know anyone taller than 6 foot (the loft ceilings upstairs leave my tall male Australian friends partaking in an impromptu limbo challenge).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgup-0CUU-Q-BhyphenhyphengmDpXImjQ1BSod-yCiqHqyN5TF2Br6Ccbw9l8-GdaErgdbJF1KhYg-895czGG1aoynta15a6p8oQG79LervqyfCv2t91yk85aWAl6ZAkN5kimZa_zXEwgtQqUYEVzGuI/s1600/Coco+and+Co.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgup-0CUU-Q-BhyphenhyphengmDpXImjQ1BSod-yCiqHqyN5TF2Br6Ccbw9l8-GdaErgdbJF1KhYg-895czGG1aoynta15a6p8oQG79LervqyfCv2t91yk85aWAl6ZAkN5kimZa_zXEwgtQqUYEVzGuI/s320/Coco+and+Co.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">An egg for every weekend...</span></div><br />
But I thank this stylish friend for their seriously delicious and absolutely comprehensive offerings from the world of eggs. You have Florentines, Benedicts, Norwegians, omelettes in every way you ever knew (or didn’t know) existed..oh, and burgers...but let’s get back to the eggs.<br />
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The servings are more than generous (in the best way, not an elastic waistband on the jeans kind of way) and the flavours are much more bold and fresh than I have found many Parisian brunch and breakfast options to be. The house omelette is a tasty cocoon of parmesan and crispy bacon served with a bitey and creamy chive sauce and salad. Please you should just order the Eggs Benedict rather than keep reading this. Abundant and saucy, herbs galore, rich and deeply tasty (which makes me happy as sometimes I’m left wanting a little more ouummf from classically delicious and simple breakfast dishes).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7C00BwU0ngmiLE81_wIoIMTG4b3Kr7iQKOWIS8MUIjLpB6Uz9mKaAmyBE2smJgkum7J5WBzM-kSlBC2TrmJxPQuGs9f-cPJnf-lHUfLrxbXGayaI7ewl_xH_-GQPGgk2Tw2CU0I-1KbjS/s1600/eggs-benedict-a-la.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7C00BwU0ngmiLE81_wIoIMTG4b3Kr7iQKOWIS8MUIjLpB6Uz9mKaAmyBE2smJgkum7J5WBzM-kSlBC2TrmJxPQuGs9f-cPJnf-lHUfLrxbXGayaI7ewl_xH_-GQPGgk2Tw2CU0I-1KbjS/s320/eggs-benedict-a-la.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Eggs Benedict at Eggs & Co</span></div><br />
I’m not so slowly working my way through the menu one egg at a time. This is the sort of place where each time I struggle to concoct a polite answer when my brunch/lunch/dinner date proposes that we share something rather than order our own. Their normal rationale may be because they are not so hungry, or are watching their weight, or we have reservations elsewhere in only a couple of hours. I don’t share like this and I sometimes question the basis of our friendship. A girl’s got to eat and especially when the food is as tasty as Eggs & Co turns out.</div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-6085849069384157552010-05-01T05:00:00.000-07:002011-02-01T11:03:41.110-08:00I Sarah, take you Pain Perdu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have spent much of adult life ‘wedded’ to food. I can’t say my relationships have always been monogamous. My eye has strayed. I’ve dined with handsome strangers. It is a little more akin perhaps to the concept of marriage as exercised by a maharaja with his concubine or let’s be honest, multidimensional family living on a commune in the middle of Utah.<br />
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I was introduced to my first love by an ex-boyfriend at a still amazing restaurant Ezard in Melbourne (<a href="http://www.ezard.com.au/main.html">http://www.ezard.com.au/main.html</a>). This chance meeting occurred at a time when Said Ex was meant to be my first love - so you can imagine how awkward that first encounter was. One thing led to another and I ended deeply in love with Truffle and Artichoke Creme Brulee for a number of years. As it turned out, Said Ex was also entwined in a fiery affair with Chilli Mud Crab so no hearts were broken during this culinary exchange of affection.<br />
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Without sounding like a food floozy, my twenties have been a bit of a table hopping decade. I’ve recently ended an affair with Turkish Eggs (served at Providores in London (<a href="http://www.theprovidores.co.uk/">http://www.theprovidores.co.uk/</a>) perfectly poached eggs served in a pillow of whipped Arabic yoghurt and bathed in chilli and garlic clarified butter). Long distance was never going to work out and I think he became jealous of the occasional Sunday morning I would spend elsewhere on the menu. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1pViCBYHkuUcB1yhm3eHa7hpce3_XyEMExumhuYl_igUfnVBrPgH7Yfyey1IaxbZYG06QKtq3Edp03d8aN_0INeVH3GODflYEG6Udrx8T9YjpyrJYNSdyhC67o69wwIaxWMciRRak3T2/s1600/Turkish+Eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1pViCBYHkuUcB1yhm3eHa7hpce3_XyEMExumhuYl_igUfnVBrPgH7Yfyey1IaxbZYG06QKtq3Edp03d8aN_0INeVH3GODflYEG6Udrx8T9YjpyrJYNSdyhC67o69wwIaxWMciRRak3T2/s320/Turkish+Eggs.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">My Ex - Turkish Eggs at Providores, London</span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
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Since moving to Paris I have had many one meal stands. Some have become regular visitors in my kitchen, while others I’ll probably struggle to remember their name in a few months time. I’m currently dating the nutty, smooth and slightly spiced Hummus sold by the Lebanese vendor at my local market. It’s still a new relationship, but I’m optimistic.</div><br />
I’ve nearly always been in savoury relationships. My friend Sarah, she’s the opposite, it’s all about the sugar. Sarah left her high school sweet heart, Nutella, back in Connecticut for a three month volunteer program in Tanzania before moving to Paris. She’s met a lot of interesting prospects in the past few months, but we knew that French Toast was different. French Toast often, but not always, is served at Coffee Parisian (4, rue Princesse, Paris 75006, 01 43 54 18 18, No Reservations) a bustling and very popular American themed diner in the 6eme. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimt9nsoyLCwoxjjkdN59T69W49GwvpQjH4Xn64cP6M0G0H1pDuSjLOOV65nOQE9NSr5TOgXh5eujTjbSnf5JJxOkMrD0IzU_D74qrOlIxB3msemkk42tR2hdEK54r7kfotfT6rfYXgmuPk/s1600/coffee+parisien.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimt9nsoyLCwoxjjkdN59T69W49GwvpQjH4Xn64cP6M0G0H1pDuSjLOOV65nOQE9NSr5TOgXh5eujTjbSnf5JJxOkMrD0IzU_D74qrOlIxB3msemkk42tR2hdEK54r7kfotfT6rfYXgmuPk/s320/coffee+parisien.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Outside Coffee Parisien, Paris.</span></div><br />
I had heard so much about French Toast that by the time we finally met, I doubted he could ever eat up to the hype. I had already flirted with a plump and meaty burger that night (the burgers are what Coffee Parisen is best known for), but with tart grapefruit and lashings of maple syrup there was enough room in my heart that evening to understand what Sarah saw in French Toast.<br />
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It’s tough with friends though, you often think they can do better. While I knew Sarah’s affection for French Toast was very real (she was already talking marriage) I also knew there were plenty of other toasts on the griddle. So I set up a blind date with Pain Perdu a good friend of mine at Cafe Charlot in the Marais (38, rue de Bretagne, Paris 75003, 01 44 54 03 30, No Reservations). Pain Perdu is only ever served with the brunch plate on Sundays, a delicious forest of ramekins filled with creamy eggs, smoked salmon, herbed crème fraiche, seasonal fruit and a plum tomato salad. Pain Perdu is sweet, but not too sweat, moist and smooth like a marshmallow of brioche, cream, eggs and sugar.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjak-qo9XPs0gLWAbX65dbc1CQYLdalCvCrGpD0nIrtmeUtW2ylBcb7hEFTh3nvrB6_IwiTEnP_z4MQxsDhprxhE1ofZH7Ck-hRWK_dioZb9t4CyaksbUxVXot308hRNq6-9hFYTL3PdV8V/s1600/P1000311.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjak-qo9XPs0gLWAbX65dbc1CQYLdalCvCrGpD0nIrtmeUtW2ylBcb7hEFTh3nvrB6_IwiTEnP_z4MQxsDhprxhE1ofZH7Ck-hRWK_dioZb9t4CyaksbUxVXot308hRNq6-9hFYTL3PdV8V/s320/P1000311.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sarah's First Date with Pain Perdu, Cafe Charlot, Paris.</span></div><br />
Cafe Charlot does a great coffee, the tiled and wooden decor is straight from an early century movie, the staff love their regulars and always welcome new faces and the menu is filled with everything you love to eat with your Sunday paper and good company. I’m going on a date with Eggs Benedict there tomorrow and trying to think of something cute to wear for the occasion.<br />
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As it turns out, I played the perfect cupid. Sarah and Pain Perdu will be married in August here in Paris. I wish them only happiness and maple syrup for their future.</div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-33150535364106260342010-03-29T10:16:00.000-07:002011-02-01T11:07:47.068-08:00Pouvez vous ‘shepherd’ un canard?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The easy answer is in the noun (or the verb, if you prefer). I am clear on that point. Yet I still question, can you? These sorts of <em>petit</em> conundrum trouble my mind these days quite regularly. <br />
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More concerning is the hybrid merging of my meagre French <em>vocabulaire</em> into my English mother-tongue. I annoy myself and roll my eyes simultaneously. I am that person at a jazz bar wearing a black turtle neck and clicking their fingers daddy-o to the improv sounds of the cats on stage (the same person who knows nothing more about jazz than the itunes podcast taught them earlier that afternoon). I judge myself. Wearing Breton stripes does not make me French.<br />
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Retourner to the petit conundrum. By definition, a shepherd herds sheep. The herding of sheep is to shepherd. For centuries these herdsmen played the same roles of biblical heroes, protectors of the hooves, creators of The UGG. Tired of being type cast The Shepherds changed management and shortly after, in the 1870’s, signed a lucrative sponsorship deal with the World Food Organisation and McCain’s. All future rights to the term ‘Shepherd(‘)(s)’ were exclusively assigned to a third party ‘Pie’, from which time Shepherd’s Pie has held a strong market position around the globe.<br />
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I convinced the potato puree in France to be the best I have ever eaten. I understand the perils of the one part potato to one part butter, me and my cholesterol count revel in it. To suggest in Paris that a meat and a potato would be served in a composite dish (other than in stew format) for the purpose of consumption convenience is the equivalent of an American tourist asking for ketchup at a Michelin starred restaurant. Just say no.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliYFvmVjqvKcLsrXhEX0pKmJ1J2ONgpXsdi0ks_RZ-yEd_iA2cQfpeLDyhqt0eHO4modApw63TTak-YT6kWCfaZQ7YghKnRzCfAGCxNttdRhPPCmMrtR8yHzJeyvNhSGc5Y9EyOSlxUiH/s1600/555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliYFvmVjqvKcLsrXhEX0pKmJ1J2ONgpXsdi0ks_RZ-yEd_iA2cQfpeLDyhqt0eHO4modApw63TTak-YT6kWCfaZQ7YghKnRzCfAGCxNttdRhPPCmMrtR8yHzJeyvNhSGc5Y9EyOSlxUiH/s320/555.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">You can imagine my surprise, when dining at Hotel du Nord on Quai de Jemmapes with friends recently, when I was presented with a dish remarkably resembling a Shepherd’s Pie’s, only its sexy French cousin. Yes, I thought, I do recall ordering “Confit de canard maison, sauce meil et gingembre, galette de pomme du terre au Salers”. True, I acknowledged, the shamelessly cool and charming bar staff may have waivered my attentions in part with a few complementary gifts from the French wine regions. Regardless, it took a large amount of will power (and a general awareness of social etiquette) to stop wishing I were a miniature version of myself on a diving board above the rustic dish of potato clothed goodness in front of me. It took even more restraint to quell my volume (a common problem for me) when I realised lamb was so last season and beneath the robe of silky potato puree bathed the very confit de canard I had ordered. The dish was plump and rich and while clearly it would count Shepherd’s Pie as one of its early influences, the shepherds were now moonlighting with a little spiced, saucy and delicate confit de canard. Hence my conundrum.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_oDiqahqTVKhyfs1LBZBNMPqMBpR4-T4a4bbJ7Y-bnxhjfz2egPze_-mKclixty9Pp16Dwq31RnrDJvsO_mY27q0VQyx_PgAeAb90muDNUiXtpQO66On72kf-DLa_r8I6phrPh4XGw46q/s1600/Sheepandshepherd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_oDiqahqTVKhyfs1LBZBNMPqMBpR4-T4a4bbJ7Y-bnxhjfz2egPze_-mKclixty9Pp16Dwq31RnrDJvsO_mY27q0VQyx_PgAeAb90muDNUiXtpQO66On72kf-DLa_r8I6phrPh4XGw46q/s320/Sheepandshepherd.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Not one of us fell victim to the almost inevitable Menu Envy either. The St Jacques served in the half shell were the size of sea creatures significantly further up the ocean food chain than the mollusc. Genetic modification debate aside, usually when seafood is this large the flesh is akin to popular surgical modifications of the 1980’s, but these creatures were divine. Similarly the cotelettes d’agneaux grilles were spiced and smoky and again, restraint was required to stop short of licking the sticky goodness of the asian-esque lamb reduction right off the plate. <br />
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Adjusting my waistband, we opted for a shared dessert. Too many models and hipsters in a warmly lit historic salon can sometimes get the better of a usually shameless glutton. Sharing will never be advocated again. The Pain Perdu made me want to investigate whether it is legal for a human to marry sweet egg and cream soaked brioche seared and served with caramel which slinks over the plate. I’m assuming the answer is no. But it is worth looking into just in case...I can propose when I return for my next delicious night at Hotel du Nord.<br />
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<strong><a href="http://www.hoteldunord.org/">http://www.hoteldunord.org/</a></strong> <br />
<strong>Hotel du </strong>Nord, 102 Quai de Jemmapes, 75010 Paris (01 40 40 78 78) <br />
Reservations necessary</div>Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2030130189111689241.post-87852408007904669692010-03-15T16:12:00.000-07:002010-05-01T05:09:05.978-07:00Je ne suis pas Sasha FierceI find the need to be honest and up front with you. I know that usually, when such a prefix is required, what most often follows cannot be considered even a far and distant limb of the Honest and Upfront family tree...but trust me, I gain no benefit from making this story up.<br />
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I used to be a lawyer. I used to be a lot of other things too (leader of a post-toddler union movement at kindergarten, Deans List pupil with honours in Hollandaise, Secretary of the World Rib Eye Steak Consumption Collective, self-proclaimed dictator of the fictitious nation state of Brie) but finance lawyer feels to me like something I should declare.<br />
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I hope that my now recent past does not stand between us...but I am long used to the glazed look which abducts people shortly following this revelation.<br />
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Done with all these pre-emptive apologies and preludes I can now get to the good stuff. My current self...in summary form!<br />
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I broke my heart (more correctly it was broken for me, but fingers and blame are not the new black truffle). <br />
I evaluated my life.<br />
I evaluated my stomach.<br />
I evaluated my life savings whilst satisfying my stomach. <br />
I decided not to buy that house.<br />
I decided that all foods should be treated equally (except tofu).<br />
I quit my beige office in my grey city.<br />
I bit off everything I could ever chew and more and moved to Paris to study a Diplome de Cuisine at Le Cordon Bleu.<br />
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I wholly expect a young cliche to approach me in the street and say he is a great fan of my work. I only hope Marian Keyes does not do the same.<br />
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La Femme du Fromage. A name inspired by the father of a good friend who bestowed me with the proper noun Cheese Girl (you see, everything does sound better in French) when witnessing my deep and unwavering adoration for the construct known as the cheese platter. Yes, me and the cheese platter. Good times. <br />
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So there you have Me. Exfoliating daily in 'My New Life' (most girls don a new haircut, I don a life dream, or devour a life dream more correctly).<br />
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This blog is a little bit of everything I hope to eat, or have consumed, in my new city. Inevitably, food (my second favourite thing in the world), recipes, restaurants, culinary (and other) secrets and gastronomic destinations dominate (without bringing too much WWF lexicon to this cyberspace), but eating isn't just intended for my mouth and stomach...I'm enjoying (perhaps not) and sharing (only if it's not indivisibly good) this city in every way with an open mind, an unapologetic laugh and an appetite like no other.Miss Devourhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01642789571026029192noreply@blogger.com0