The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (11 page)

Fresh sardines are one of the few fish that were never intimidating to me. I guess because they’re so diminutive, they don’t look like they could do much damage.

This idea for pickling fish in a sweet-and-sour brine goes back to the time when fish needed to be preserved, so they were pickled lightly in vinegar and sugar, which are both preservatives—not to be confused with
préservatifs.
So choose your word carefully: You’ll get you some funny looks if you tell your French fish merchant that you’re going to store your fish in
préservatifs
, which in French are condoms.

1. Pour vegetable oil in a large heavy-duty skillet (not nonstick) to a depth of about ¼ inch (1 cm) and heat until shimmering hot.
   

2. While the oil is heating, put the flour in a shallow pie plate or similar dish and season with salt and pepper. Dredge both sides of each sardine in the flour and shake off any excess.
   

3. Fry the sardines, as many as will fit in the pan in a single layer, starting flesh side down. Cook for about a minute on each side, until lightly browned. Remove each one as soon as it’s done with a slotted spoon and drain in a single layer on paper towels. Repeat with the remaining sardines.
   

4. Once all the sardines are cooked, pour off any excess oil, reduce the heat to very low, and add the onions, olive oil, salt, sugar, and red pepper to the pan.
   

5. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onions are wilted and meltingly soft, 20 to 30 minutes.
   

6. While the onions are cooking, toast the pine nuts in a 325°F (160°C) oven for about 6 minutes, checking and stirring them frequently so they don’t burn.
   

7. When the onions are cooked, stir in the vinegar, wine, bay leaves, raisins, and pine nuts. Remove from heat and let cool.
   

8. In a deep nonreactive bowl or baking dish just large enough to hold the fish snugly, alternately layer the sardines and onions, making sure to end with a solid layer of onions on top. Pour the marinade over the fish, then cover and refrigerate.
   

SERVING:
I serve the sardines with a basket of sturdy bread, like
pain au levain
(sourdough) or a hearty rye, along with a mound of good butter. I like to butter a slice of bread, then drape a sardine across the top. Make sure there’s a little dish of coarse sea salt,
or fleur de sel
, handy to sprinkle on top. This makes a great do-ahead meal, served with a big leafy salad.

STORAGE:
The sardines can be refrigerated for up to two days. They’re best served at room temperature.

NOTE:
Most fishmongers sell sardines already cleaned. If you can’t find fresh sardines, use any little fillets of fish that aren’t too meaty, such as perch, sole, or sand dabs. You can also use red wine vinegar if you can’t easily locate white wine vinegar, which for some reason is almost impossible to find in Paris.

THE FRENCH SECURITY BLANKET

What are the absolute last words you want to hear your host say when you’re invited for dinner? How about, “We had some fish that was about to go bad. So we’re having fish for dinner.”

The French are notoriously famous for their love of fresh food, which abounds in the outdoor markets, where locals line up (well, sometimes) to select what’s best and freshest that particular day. But they’re equally famous for another trait, and that’s not letting
anything
go to waste. After living in Paris for a while, when there was no longer any room even to slip an envelope into my snug apartment,
I asked around for places to donate used items, like clothes that were no longer in fashion—or more likely, that I could no longer fit into. But I was met with blank stares. Romain edified me,
“Non
, Daveed,” he said, wagging his finger in front of my face.
“Les Français ne jettent rien?”
(“The French throw away
nothing.
”)

I fit in well, since I can’t bear to throw away things either. Like those perfectly good designer pants that were such a bargain at 60 percent off, even though they felt just a bit snug at the time. In the years since I bought them, sometimes when I’m getting ready to go out, I’ll try them on. Yet neither I, nor the waistband, seem to want to change. I reason to myself that parachute pants with more pleats than a Broadway theater curtain will eventually come back in style, so back in the closet they go for a few more years, even though space is lacking in my tiny French closet.

Space is equally in short supply in French refrigerators, which means that things aren’t kept in there as much as I think they should. I’ve been a guest at people’s homes and seen them leave beef stew or, worse, beef stock, unrefrigerated, on the counter, overnight. Even for a couple of days. (Stock is such as perfect medium for growing bacteria that science labs use it for that purpose.) I spent a week on vacation with a family who kept bouillon in a jar next to the stove. One by one, everyone came down with a wicked case of
le gastro
—except me, who wisely begged off the bowls of soup that were offered that week.

Somehow, no one ever makes the connection around here between getting sick and how food is handled. It’s something I, and my digestive tract, have had to adjust to.

Having worked in professional kitchens, I know a thing or two about food preparation and sanitation. But I’ve learned to keep my cool and look the other way when the woman at the
charcuterie
lifts a dripping-wet pork loin out of the case, then proceeds to handle the slice of pâté I plan to make a sandwich with for lunch. “Maybe the alcohol will kill the pathogens,” I think hopefully, pouring myself a glass of wine, even though I know it’s not true. I don’t usually drink much at lunch, but when I do, I gauge the
amount of wine I drink in direct proportion to the attention to hygiene I witness during the food prep, so sometimes I have no choice.

At home, with such a scarcity of space, I’ve had to become a little more lenient about food storage than I know I should be. As I unload my market basket, I evaluate each item, then ask myself, “Do I
really
need to refrigerate this?”

At
chez Dave
, mustard, cheese, and anything pickled, preserved, or
confit’d
goes in the “perhaps” category, whereas milk, meat, and most
charcuterie
get priority access to my demi-fridge. Vegetables are on a “case-by-case” basis: if I’m not going to use them within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, in they go. Bulky, space-hogging root vegetables are an exception: for them, the refrigerator is
interdit.

Meat, pork, poultry, and fresh fish, of course, get chilled. Sausages? Yes to fresh sausages—not always for
saucisses sèches.
Milk and unfermented dairy products go right in the minute I get home, since I refuse to buy into the belief of some French folks that keeping opened milk in the cupboard, even if it’s sterilized, is a wise idea. To me, that’s just asking for trouble. On the other hand, anyone who buys sterilized milk deserves what’s coming to them.

Unfortunately when you’re a guest in someone’s home for the weekend, you can’t always keep on top of these things. And the fish
du jour
might be from a
jour
last week. It also means you’ll have the opportunity to get well acquainted with another less-than-savory fixture in every French household:
la serpillière.

What is
la serpillière
, you ask? Even if you haven’t set foot in a French person’s home, if you’ve walked the streets of Paris, you’ve certainly stepped over those soggy, wadded-up rags curled up in the gutter directing water. I know, I know. It seems silly and archaic that a nation with rocketlike high-speed trains, that pioneered supersonic air transport, and was the first to implement an efficient system of cyber communication still litters their streets with foul rags—as well as dragging them through their kitchens and wadding them up in the crevices of their bathrooms.

The French love those skanky, damp gray rags, and they tow them from room to room in their homes like a security blanket. Admittedly, it’s been a while since Paris was a big muddy marsh and water needed to be controlled and redirected. A few hundred years later, which would be today, most of the water stays right where it belongs: in the Seine. And with groundbreaking innovations like shower curtains, mops, and sponges, you’d think there wouldn’t be any need to drag sopping-wet towels around the house. But apparently, there is.

Although I’ve come to love the precision of the “hose” that the French favor for taking a shower, I can’t fathom why many homes and hotels in Europe don’t provide curtains for their showers. All it takes is a split-second of absentmindedly reaching for the soap to misdirect the spray and you’ve soaked the floor, the toilet, the toilet paper, and your toiletries. I don’t know about you, but the last activity I want to do when I hop buck-naked out of the shower is get on my hands and knees and start mopping the bathroom floor.

And since a holder for the hose isn’t always provided, I haven’t figured out where to put it down while soaping up. Perhaps you’re supposed to turn it off while lathering, but in my punky handheld shower, it takes at least five minutes for the hot water to reach the nozzle from the hot water heater, which may—or may not—come roaring to life. (Unfortunately, it’s much more dependable in the summer than in the winter.) So I was a big spender and sprang for a shower curtain, and boy, am I glad I did. After a shower, I can’t tell you the thrill I get stepping into a dry bathroom and toweling off. What a concept! Maybe I’ll start bringing them as hostess gifts when invited to people’s homes.

I suppose not installing a shower curtain reinforces the French
fidélité
to
la serpillière
, similar to the oversized French ID cards, which are mandatory for all to carry but don’t fit into men’s billfolds. Men have no choice but to carry man-purses—it’s like there’s a government-issued decree requiring French men to look gay. And when I’ve questioned the no-shower-curtain logic, my French friends defensively ask how we sop up water in America.

“With a mop. One that has a nice, long wooden handle.”

This is also a country where it’s
interdit
for men to wear anything but a skimpy, religion-baring Speedo in public pools
“pour l’hygiène, monsieur!
” If someone could explain why strapping on a slingshot-style swim-suit is so much more hygienic than a square-cut swimsuit with two extra centimeters of fabric—and why I, who have less hair on my head than many of the men have on their backs, have to wear a bathing cap—I’m all ears. I don’t understand how anyone can be concerned about the hygiene of a few extra centimeters of spandex in a swimsuit when all those
serpillières
are out there at large, infecting the general population.

So next time you’re in France, if you really want to pick up something that’s truly French as a souvenir, skip the box of luscious
macarons
from Ladurée, the snow globes of the Eiffel Tower, or the Mona Lisa T-shirts on the rue de Rivoli. Bring home a
serpillière.
Which you can pick up almost anywhere.

Literally.

ROTI DE PORC MARINE A LA CASSONADE ET AU WHISKY
ROAST PORK WITH BROWN SUGAR-BOURBON GLAZE
MAKES 6 TO 8 SERVINGS

In Paris, if you want pork you head to the
charcuterie.
For beef, it’s off to
le boucher.
And for chicken, you need to visit the
volailler.
They maintain it’s
nécessaire
to keep all meat, pork, lamb, and poultry separate
pour l’hygiène
, which I don’t quite understand since raw meat and poultry all require the same careful handling procedures.

Brining the pork is optional, but this easy step, which was inspired by the instructions in
The Zuni Cookbook
by Judy Rodgers, gives a bit of leeway to those
of us who must shop on specific days at our local outdoor market, as well as ensures a moist pork loin. Feel free to adjust or substitute any seasonings and spices in the brine, but keep the salt, sugar, and water amounts the same.

The brining and marinating can be done a day or so in advance; then you simply roast the pork for about an hour. Although
le whisky
may sound like an odd ingredient in French cuisine, it’s one of the most popular apéritifs in Paris, so I keep a bottle on hand. And when invited for dinner in someone else’s home, if watching the food prep, I often need a glass or two as well.

1. Make a brine by heating 1 cup (250 ml) of the water with the salt, sugar, allspice, bay leaves, and thyme. Once the sugar and salt are dissolved, remove from heat. Pour into a large bowl or plastic container. Add 1 quart (1 L) water and chill thoroughly.
   

2. When the brine is cold, submerge the pork and top with a small plate to keep it submerged. Cover and refrigerate for 2 to 4 days.
   

3. To make the glaze, mix the jam, bourbon, sugar, and molasses in a small saucepan. Heat to a low boil and cook for 2 minutes. Let cool.
   

4. 4. Remove the pork from the brine, dry it well with a paper towel, and place in a sturdy zip-top freezer bag. Add the marinade, seal the top, and knead it gently to distribute the glaze. Let rest in the refrigerator for at least 8 hours or overnight, turning it occasionally to distribute the marinade.
   

5. To cook the pork, preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
   

6. Lift the pork from the marinade and place in a baking dish that’s just large enough to hold it. Add water until it’s barely ½ inch (1 cm) deep. Pour the remaining marinade into a bowl and reserve.
   

7. Roast the pork for 45 minutes to 1 hour (depending on the thickness of the pork), brushing at regular intervals with the reserved marinade and adding a small amount of water to the pan if it’s evaporating.
   

8. The pork is done when an instant-read thermometer inserted into the center reads 140°F (60°C). Remove from the oven, cover snugly with foil, and let rest 15 minutes before slicing.
   

SERVING:
If you want to serve this with
Oignons aigres-doux
(page 181), add them to the baking dish during the last twenty minutes of baking to heat them through.

FIGUES ROTIES
OVEN-ROASTED FIGS
MAKES 4 SERVINGS