Lunch in Paris (37 page)
1 sugar cube
A dash (½ teaspoon) of crème de violette (violet liqueur)
1 glass champagne
Place a sugar cube in the bottom of a champagne glass; add the
crème de violette
. Top up with champagne and give it a quick stir.
Yield: Serves 1, cook or helper
Coquilles Saint-Jacques au Champagne
12 scallops, in their shells
¾ cup champagne
¾ cup fish (or chicken) stock
¾ cup heavy cream
3 egg yolks
Shell and rinse the scallops to remove any sand or impurities; set them aside on the counter (you don’t want them to be chilled
when you put them in the oven). Line 2 baking sheets with aluminum foil. Rinse the top half of each shell and set aside for
baking and serving.
In a small saucepan over medium heat, reduce the champagne by half, then set it aside to cool.
Meanwhile, in a second small saucepan, combine the fish stock and any scallop juice collected at the bottom of the bowl; reduce
by half. Lower the heat and add the cream. Bring just to a boil and then take off the heat.
Transfer the cooled champagne to a medium mixing bowl, add the egg yolks, and whisk until foamy. Slowly add the hot cream
mixture, whisking continuously. This is the beginning of your custard. Transfer it back to the saucepan.
Over low heat, whisk the custard until it coats the back of a wooden spoon. This will take a good 10 to 15 minutes. Don’t
attempt to rush it by turning up the heat, or your custard will separate.
Preheat the broiler.
Cut each scallop in half horizontally, so you have two even coins. If they are especially thick, you might want to cut them
into thirds.
Arrange 6 scallop shells per baking sheet. Arrange the scallop slices in each shell. Top with a tablespoon or two of custard.
Put one pan under the broiler for 1 to 2 minutes. Serve straight from the oven. Repeat with remaining pan of scallops.
Prepared this way, the scallops will remain almost raw, like a lightly poached carpaccio. I love them, but if you prefer you
can sear the scallops in a small frying pan and spoon over the warm custard just before serving. The custard also makes a
superb sauce for pasta.
Yield: Serves 3–4 as an appetizer
Filet Mignon de Porc aux Quatre Pommes
The combination of cider vinegar, hard cider, tart apples, and Calvados gives this roast an intensely layered flavor. I usually
make it with pork tenderloin, but if you have a hankering (like Mayur) for wild boar, by all means, search it out.
1 pork tenderloin, 1½ pounds
3 cloves garlic, grated
1 teaspoon thyme leaves, dried or fresh
½ teaspoon fresh rosemary, chopped
1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar
½ cup red wine
¼ cup olive oil
1 tablespoon olive oil
Coarse sea salt and freshly ground pepper
1 tablespoon butter
3 cooking apples or Granny Smiths, cored and quartered
6 shallots, halved
1 cup hard cider
1 tablespoon Calvados
Make small cuts in the surface of the pork tenderloin.
For the marinade: Make a paste of the garlic, thyme, and rosemary and moisten it with the cider vinegar. Rub the paste all
over the meat.
Place the pork in a resealable plastic bag; add the red wine and olive oil. Marinate for 12 hours (or overnight) in the fridge.
I’ve marinated for as little as an hour—and it still tastes great. Bring the pork to room temperature before cooking.
Preheat the oven to 375°F.
Remove the pork from the marinade and pat it dry. In a roasting pan or Dutch oven, brown the meat well on all sides, sprinkling
generously with sea salt and pepper.
Remove the meat from the pan, set it aside. Add the olive oil and butter to the pot, along with the apples and shallots. Cook
for 5 minutes, until lightly colored.
Return the pork to the pot, add the hard cider, and put it in the oven. Cook until the internal temperature reaches 145°F
(the meat will continue to cook while it rests). Tenderloin can overcook quickly; I start checking at 15 minutes.
Remove the pork, apples, and shallots to a platter and cover tightly with aluminum foil. Let rest for 10 minutes. Meanwhile,
add the Calvados to the pan juices and reduce slightly.
Slice the tenderloin on the diagonal, surrounded by apples and shallots. Spoon the sauce over or pass separately in a small
gravy boat.
Yield: Serves 4
Spring Thinking
Y
anig passed away in early April. My parents arrived just in time to squeeze his hand; Affif and Annick drove up after midnight,
and he waited for them. That last night, Nicole slept on a mattress on the floor beside his bed. The next morning our small
group left Nicole and Gwendal to say good-bye while we went for a walk by the sea. When we returned, he was gone.
It was four days before we could get an appointment at the crematorium. In the meantime, Yanig would stay with us. The embalmer
came to the house and we went for another walk. This time when we returned, the door to the garden was open and the living
room smelled faintly of formaldehyde. Yanig was laid out on his hospital bed, fully dressed in jeans and a wool vest, his
beard neatly combed. Actually, he looked better than he had in months.
I didn’t know quite what to do with this picture. I’d never seen a dead body before. My own father died suddenly, from one
day to the next. On Sunday afternoon we went to an exhibition on diamonds at the Museum of Natural History. On Tuesday evening
the police called me at my office. In one way or another, I had
been waiting for this call since I was a little girl. When my father hadn’t shown up for work, his colleagues had become suspicious.
I asked if there was gas, or pills. “No, nothing like that, ma’am,” said the sergeant. In fact, my father had died of a heart
attack, sitting at home eating a turkey sandwich. After that I felt little but relief. After so many years of struggle, no
one could begrudge my father a bit of peace and quiet. My mother was caught in traffic. In the end it was Auntie Lynn who
went in to identify the body while I sat outside on the floor in the hall.
W
E MOVED THE
dining room table upstairs to Nicole’s bedroom, to give Yanig a little privacy, and for the next three days we did what almost
every culture and religion in the world does after a death in the family: we ate and we reminisced.
Affif and Annick drove home and came back two days later with a trunk full of pots and pans. Affif had made a vegetable couscous,
the kind of spicy tomato-based stew that can be endlessly extended with extra carrots and turnips to feed whoever happens
to show up for dinner. The
pièce de résistance,
in honor of Yanig, was a
pastilla:
layer upon layer of flaky, buttery phyllo, stuffed with painstakingly deboned pigeon, crushed almonds, cinnamon, and sugar.
A revolving cast of friends and relatives arrived, and cases of wine made their way from the garage to our improvised dining
room. We stayed up late, me with a book, Gwendal with his computer, writing the eulogy. In the morning, Affif used the leftover
couscous to make us a kind of sweet porridge, drizzling hot milk and honey over the grains and dotting the casserole with
small nuggets of butter.
The days surrounding my own father’s death centered around food as well, but in an entirely different way. More than his body,
which I hadn’t seen, or his absence, which I could not yet feel, I
couldn’t stop thinking about the sandwich, untouched on a folding snack table in front of the television. Because he died
alone, the police had placed a seal on the door, so his heirs (there was only me) would not steal anything before the probate
hearing.
The sandwich haunted my dreams over the next few days. I dreamed of it rotting on the table, roaches swarming between the
layers of turkey and tomato and stale rye. I imagined the apartment infested, crawling with life. The police told me it would
be days before I could collect his wallet, his bankbook, his cuff links.
The local police precinct was next to a vintage clothing shop on a quiet block in the East Twenties. There was a turquoise
dress in the window, a sixties micromini, the kind that makes my mother feel like a relic.
I told the sergeant on duty my predicament. I did not cry, though I was nearing hysteria; I merely mentioned the rotting sandwich.
I would have to clean out the apartment after probate court, I explained. I was afraid to find a stinking mess. It was sure
to draw bugs and vermin to the neighboring apartments.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Like all public servants, this man took pleasure in the letter of the law.
When I got up to leave, a young cop followed me outside. “Wait,” he said. “Sergeant’s off duty at five. Come back then and
tell the night sergeant you need clothes for the funeral.”
The funeral had taken place the day before, in a chapel on Riverside Drive, but I did exactly as he said. So I ended up with
a police escort for the only illegal act I’ve ever committed. Before that day, I’d never stolen so much as a stick of gum.
The young officer and his partner drove me to the apartment. I had never been in the back of a police car before. It smelled
like smoke, artificial vanilla, and vomit.
I went in; the cops stood in the doorway, respectfully looking elsewhere. I took a white shirt, a pair of gray trousers, an
undershirt.
I am almost sure I forgot the undershorts. The sandwich was as he had left it; the turkey was hard and brown around the edges,
the bread gone limp, and the tomato dry. On the way out I tipped it into the kitchen garbage can, which shut with a thud of
the aluminum lid.
I
’D SOMEHOW GOTTEN
used to having Yanig in the living room. I would say a tentative hello as I descended the spiral staircase to get something
from the fridge.
“They are talking about you up there,” I said, staring into the darkened living room. “You wouldn’t like it one bit. They
are showing your boy scout pictures and making fun of your knobbly knees.”
Yanig wanted his ashes thrown out to sea, but Nicole wanted a place to visit. In a final show of marital compromise, they
had agreed that half the ashes would be buried in a small cemetery in Saint-Malo and half released into the bay. We set out
on a friend’s boat one sunny Saturday in June. The jar sank slowly, with a trail of roses floating behind it. I tried to avoid
thinking about how he was going to swim out to eternity with only one arm and one leg.
S
PRING HAD COME
to Paris, and everyone was coming up for air. I could finally pick my head up from family responsibilities and start thinking
ahead. It was time for me to find some direction, build something for myself separate from my role as supportive spouse.