Le China - Red No. 5

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  I understand it is entirely outdated and perhaps the surfacing of repressed memories from painfully watching Ben Affleck flounder in Pearl Harbour but, I wonder if World War 3 were to occur in my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.  

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.

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.

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) Le Petit Marche,  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. 

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.

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.

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 SBAD 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.

(Le China, 50 Rue de Charenton 75012 Paris, +33 1 43 46 08 09, Reservations not necessary, http://www.lechina.eu/)

Food Crush

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”.

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 Iñaki Aizpitarte and his bistro Chateaubriand...either that or you’re trying to figure out the Basque roots of Daniel Rose. 

Chateaubriand was named 11th best restaurant in the world by this years S.Pelligrino 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 gillette (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.

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. 

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).  

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.

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.

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.        

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? 

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.

(Chateaubriand, 129 Avenue Parmentier, 75011 Paris, +33 (0) 1 4357 4595, Reservations necessary for 8pm sitting)

Salad Envy – On Saladism

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.

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.

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.

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.

I Sarah, take you Pain Perdu

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.

I was introduced to my first love by an ex-boyfriend at a still amazing restaurant Ezard in Melbourne (http://www.ezard.com.au/main.html). 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.

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 (http://www.theprovidores.co.uk/)  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.

My Ex - Turkish Eggs at Providores, London

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.

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.

Outside Coffee Parisien, Paris.

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.

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.

Sarah's First Date with Pain Perdu, Cafe Charlot, Paris.

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.

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.