The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (23 page)

Daniel Craig? He wasn’t in
Something’s Gotta Give.

Okay, he had nothing to do with the film, or Le Grand Colbert. But he’d come to her office for a part in another film wearing a skin-tight muscle shirt, and she was willing to spill. No gossip, but she said his fabulously muscled stomach wasn’t just flat—it was concave, a curve she demonstrated by gracefully shaping a vertical arc with her hand in the air, which transfixed me even more than the Belle Époque surroundings. I should have asked her to draw it in my still-empty notebook, but that would have been especially unprofessional of me.

Thankfully, my fiercely knotted tie was blocking my windpipe, which was probably a good thing.

Yet even greater than my thirst for celebrity dirt was my hunger for food, so we ordered. My Champagne was almost gone and I didn’t want to
embarrass myself by flagging down the waiter for more. Nancy, who hadn’t adapted to the French midday spree of lunch
plus
wine, had had only a few sips. I wanted to ask, “Hey—are you gonna finish that?” But I didn’t.

Turning to the questions of food and dining, I asked Nancy: Why Le Grand Colbert, and why roast chicken, especially when they didn’t even have it on the menu?

For the film, she’d originally chosen Brasserie Lipp, a notoriously uptight spot on the Left Bank, part of the trilogy of all-star Parisian cafés, along with Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots. As filming time came closer, someone at the Lipp changed his mind and made the less-than-brilliant decision not to let the film be made there. So that left Nancy to scout out an equally classic Parisian bistro to shoot in. In the end, she was much happier, and the host at Le Grand Colbert reported that they were thrilled, too, because afterward, business increased permanently by 20 percent. (No report on how the folks at Brasserie Lipp felt.)

As for the chicken? Nancy herself doesn’t eat meat. So when I asked, “Then why chicken?” she didn’t remember how she came up with “The Most Famous Roast Chicken in the World.” She just thought that a big ol’ hunk of beef or massive lamb shank wasn’t something that Erica Barry, the prim writer played by Diane Keaton, would rhapsodize over. Correctly anticipating a barrage of roast chicken orders, the chef afterward came up with a respectable recipe for the menu. So if you go and order their roast chicken, it may not be the absolute best version in town, but it is pretty darned good. Heck, if it’s good enough for Diane, it’s good enough for me.

That day Nancy and I were the only Americans in the restaurant, and we were surrounded by French business folks from the nearby
Bourse.
No one was paying any attention to the minor fuss being made over Nancy, except for the headwaiter, who at one point came by with a scrapbook of images from
Tout Peut Arriver
(“Anything Can Happen”), as the film was called in France. And sitting there with Nancy, being fawned over by the entire staff, I felt like I’d—at long last—arrived here, too.

Aside from the hyper-hygienic bathrooms, there’s another touch of Americanism at Le Grand Colbert: just behind the table where the roast
chicken landed in the film, there’s a Hollywood-style clapboard that reads “Nancy Meyers.” Proving that no matter how long you’ve lived in Paris or how famous you are, it’s still fun to play tourist, Nancy and I took a few snapshots before we headed out into the brisk Parisian air and toward Les Halles in pursuit of a tarte Tatin pan for her at the pastry equipment store MORA, and more edible adventures in the neighborhood.

I was happy that I’d limited myself to one slender flute of Champagne, but when I got home, I realized that I had made only a few cursory remarks in my notebook, which made me a better dining companion than journalist. As a result of that lunch, I’ve changed my tune regarding visitors. If you want to come to Paris and meet up, we can talk. But VIP treatment is an absolute requirement. When Nancy comes back to town, I’ll certainly make the time for her. If Diane happens to make the trip back, I think I can find time in my schedule for a dinner date. And if an e-mail from Daniel Craig pops up one day in my in-box, even if it’s last-minute—I’m definitely available.

SAUCE AU CHOCOLAT CHAUD DE NANCY MEYERS
NANCY MEYERSS HOT FUDGE SAUCE
MAKES L CUP (250 ML)

I’m not in any position to edit one of Hollywood’s most successful screenwriters, so I thought I’d tread carefully reprinting Nancy’s instructions. In the recipe she sent me she wrote, “… Toss it all in a small pot, stir, and eat immediately.”

I did as I was told and have to agree with Jack Nicholson: this is one heckuva hot fudge sauce. It’s very, very thick, and although I’m not one to get between a
woman and her chocolate, you may want to stir a little bit of milk into the sauce at the end until it’s the consistency you want. This recipe can also be doubled. But I find a little goes a long way.

1. Place all ingredients in a 1-quart (1-L) heavy saucepan. Stir over low heat until the butter is melted.
   

2. Continue to cook over low heat, stirring without stopping and scraping the bottom and sides of the pan, 3 to 5 minutes more, until the sugar is melted and the sauce is smooth. Serve immediately.
   

STORAGE:
The sauce can be refrigerated for up to one week. Reheat slowly in the top of a double boiler or in a microwave.

LE CHEESECAKE
CHEESECAKE
MAKES ONE 9-INCH (23-CM) CAKE, 12 TO 16 SERVINGS

Nancy began her Hollywood career not as a screenwriter, but as a cheesecake maker. Starting out in Tinseltown, she decided to bake and sell cheesecakes, since it was something she could do at home while she was busy typing away.

Quickly overwhelmed with orders, and with only one oven, she offered to pay her neighbors’ electric bills if she could use their ovens to meet the demand, and thus a star was born. Unfortunately, she’d been sworn to secrecy and vowed never to divulge her recipe for cheesecake, even after her writing career took off. But since my career depends on sharing recipes, I’m happy to share mine.

French people love Philadelphia-brand cream cheese, and
le cheesecake
, even more than Americans, if that’s possible. It doesn’t matter where you live, though, the rules for baking a great cheesecake aren’t constrained by cultural allegiances: make sure your cream cheese is at room temperature, don’t overwhip the filling, and be careful not to overbake it.

1. For the crust, lightly butter the bottom and sides of a 9-inch (23-cm) springform pan. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C) and position the rack in the upper third of the oven.
   

2. Mix the graham cracker crumbs in a small bowl with the sugar and the melted butter until the crumbs are moist. Press the crumbs into a flat layer in the bottom and slightly up the sides of the pan. (You can use the flat bottom of a glass to get it even.)
   

3. Bake the crust for 12 minutes, until golden brown. Set the pan aside on a cooling rack while you prepare the batter. Turn the oven up to 500°F (260°C).
   

4. For the batter, begin by creaming the cream cheese and sugar for about 1 minute at low speed in a standing electric mixer, or by hand. Beat only until the batter shows so signs of lumps. Add the lemon zest and vanilla.
   

5. Stir in the eggs one at a time, scraping the sides of the bowl as necessary to incorporate the cream cheese. Add the flour.
   

6. Mix in the yogurt until completely blended but do not overbeat.
   

7. Pour the batter over the crust and bake for 11 minutes.
   

8. Keeping the oven door closed, turn the oven down to 200°F (100°C) and continue to bake the cheesecake for 40 minutes, until it jiggles slightly in a 3- to 4-inch (7 to 10-cm) circle in the center when you gently shake the pan; it will appear to be
   just
   ready to set in the center. Do not overbake.
   

9. Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack until room temperature.
   

SERVING:
Refrigerate the cheesecake for at least 3 hours before serving. Slice with a sharp knife dipped in warm water for best results.

STORAGE:
You can refrigerate the cheesecake for up to five days. Cheesecake lovers are divided; some prefer to eat theirs chilled, while others insist on room temperature. Cheesecake freezes well for up to two months, if well wrapped in plastic, then wrapped snugly with foil. Let thaw with the plastic wrap and foil intact to avoid condensation forming on the cheesecake.

HAVING IT ALL

There’s no shortage of wide-eyed newbies, like me, who’ve moved to Paris, expecting to be able to find all the things just like we’re used to back home. There are even a couple of shops that cater to homesick Americans who are willing to pay the price just to savor the taste of microwave popcorn, canned soups, bacon bits, and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.

Since I write recipes primarily for Americans, part of my job is to track down the equivalents of familiar ingredients here. After my arrival, I spent months searching out some of the things that I use most, hoping to find a place where they
were sold in bulk, since it’s not uncommon for me to blitz through a ten-pound tablet of
chocolat noir
in a week. Sometimes I even bake with it.

I was spending
beaucoup d’euros
breaking up those fancy tablets of chocolate into little pieces and was certain that when I moved to a culinary wonderland like Paris, I’d be able to find chocolate in jumbo slabs as well as larger sacks of cocoa powder so I wouldn’t have to rip open all those undersized pouches sold in supermarkets.

In other cases I had to find substitutes. I figured it would be nearly impossible to find corn syrup here, something I use sparingly, but is an essential ingredient for certain candies. And I knew professionals worldwide used glucose, which would be a good substitute. Since Paris is the pastry capital of the world, I suspected glucose was lurking somewhere in one of the twenty arrondissements. I just had to find out which one of them it was.

Upon my arrival, I’d stocked my kitchen with bakeware from MORA, the well-known shop that specializes in pastry equipment and is a must for pastry chefs and bakers visiting Paris. So I asked one of the delightful white-smocked women there, who love to help me, where to go. (As with other shops in Paris, I’ve greased the wheels with
les brownies américains
, so when I walk in, they’re sure to remember me. And, boy, do they ever.)

I was led out the door and pushed across the busy rue Etienne Marcel toward a weathered orange awning shading a couple of wood-framed windows packed with an incredible array of specialty foods, most of which I’d never seen before. I couldn’t wait to go inside.

The name of the store, G. Detou, is
a jeu de mots
, a play on words.
G
in French is pronounced as “jay,” so G. Detou when spoken becomes
J’ai de tout
, or “I have everything.” And for a voracious baker like me, I’m happy to report that they live up to that promise. This tidy shop is my personal mecca, where I make weekly pilgrimages. The words in big block letters over the entrance, POUR PATISSERIE had the same impact on me as if they were rolling out the red carpet to welcome my arrival.

The shop sits near Les Halles, an area that writer Emile Zola famously characterized as
Le Ventre de Paris
—the belly of Paris. For nearly a thousand years, Les Halles was the the epicenter for anything edible in France. An impressive, soaring, glass and metal structure was built in the 1850s that dominated the neighborhood. Sadly, in 1971, the market was torn down and the wholesale businesses were exiled to Rungis, a modern, soulless structure near Orly airport. And what now sits in its place smack-dab in the center of the World’s Most Beautiful City is the World’s Ugliest Building, a glass and steel monstrosity filled with chain stores, fast-food outlets, pickpockets, and loitering teenagers.

A few cookware shops remaining in Les Halles retain the spirit of a bygone era. The ones that have managed to survive did so by conceding that a majority of their clientele are no longer professionals, who can easily order from supply houses, but out-of-town chefs and cooks. And, of course,
les touristes.
The most famous of these shops, and the most annoying, is E. Dehillerin, thanks to mentions from Julia Child, Martha Stewart, and Chuck Williams—whom the clerks are more than happy to quote when they see anyone vaguely American. It wasn’t so long ago that if you wanted help, you’d have to pry the salesmen away from their rigorous duties, which involved leaning against the wall and enjoying a cigarette. Or sobering up.

Nowadays, I’m certain a commission system has been implemented, since even if I inadvertently brush my elbow against the handle of a spatula or saucepan, an ebullient salesman will race forward, pluck it off the shelf, wrap it up, then push me toward the eager cashier with a bill in hand—and they’re happy to take most major credit cards. It can all happen in a matter of seconds, before I’ve even opened my mouth to murmer,
“Je regarde, s’il vous plaît”
—“I’m just looking.”

If you’re not paying attention, or are easily intimidated, you might not get off as easily as I do. Sure the stuff is great quality, and the prices (especially for copper pots) aren’t bad. But I see people exiting, loaded down with shopping bags full of stuff they’ll probably never use. More likely, it’ll end up at their garage sale the following summer accompanied by a good
story about the provenance of that kite-shaped (and-sized) copper turbot poacher, those pristine scalloped-shaped baking pans for madeleines, or the gleaming set of copper
cannelé
molds that they fantasized plucking little eggy cakes from, just like they saw Martha do on television.

Everything they have at G. Detou is stuff you really
will
use, since it’s all edible, and their clerks are on the exact opposite end of the aggression scale. Many times I’ve seen either savvy locals stocking up or adventurous cooks checking out what’s new that’s worth trying.

One exception was the time a tour guide was bringing a group through. Eavesdropping, as usual, I felt sorry for her guests, because she didn’t know anything about the wonderful items that are stacked on the shelves. So I spoke up, mentioning that the Valrhona Manjari chocolate she had described as “some kinda French chocolate” is actually unique, because it turns a lovely reddish brown when melted and has an unconventional, lush, raisin-like character that you don’t taste in other chocolates. She stared at me and barked, “So what? Who cares?” and quickly herded her group away from the crazy man.

But I’m not the only one crazy enough to care about those kinds of details. Since buying the shop over a decade ago, cheery owner Jean-Claude Thomas has spent the following years revamping and constantly expanding what the store carries to reflect current gastronomic trends, as well as improving his selection of traditional French standbys.

And no one’s happier than I am, since now I can easily find top-quality
couvertures
from almost every chocolate maker in France, facing off in the two opposing corners of the store. In one corner are three- to five-kilo professional-size boxes of
pistoles
and stacks of foil-wrapped
tablettes.
In the other are the bars from smaller French chocolate makers like Cluizel, Weiss, Valrhona, Bonnat, and Voisin. Monsieur Thomas told me that 25 to 30 percent of his customers are professionals, but the rest of his clientele is rather varied and there’s no customer
typique.

And he’s right. The last time I was there, a frail little old lady with a cane came in, knew exactly what she wanted—three kilos of Cacao Barry white chocolate—and scurried out as quickly as she could. (Another cook-book
book author on a deadline?) Soon afterward a harried gent barged in, grabbed a stack of the three-kilo bars of dark chocolate, and loudly ordered a case of pistachio paste and a container of rose paste, all the while trading barbs with the salesman and carrying on a frenzied cell phone discussion while his car engine was humming impatiently just outside.

In another part of the store were two Japanese women, huddled together, oohing and aahing at everything with their hands covering their mouths. By the window, a man who was intently scrutinizing the shelf of teas almost
bouscule’d
me, so focused was he on finding the right one among all the elaborate Russian tins.

Aside from the chocolate shelves, which I always visit first, you’ll find top-quality candied citrus peels (not the icky green kinds); hand-peeled fruits lolling around in jars of light syrup; artisanal horseradish (who knew there was such a thing?); tins of Breton-packed tuna studded with prunes, coconut, lime, and smoked peppers; true Dijon mustard and spicy mustard oil from Edmond Fallot; and a whole shelf of unpronounceable additives for molecular gastronomy, a movement that still mystifies me—didn’t we just spend the past decade trying to get all that stuff taken
out
of our food?

Anyone in need of unsweetened cranberry juice will find it here, as well as electric-green Sicilian pistachios, Trablit coffee extract, lifetime-lasting bags of Venezuelan cocoa nibs (they’re a deal, but find someone to split one with—unless you’re planning to start your own chocolate factory), Worcestershire sauce (which my French friends find amusing, since neither of us can pronounce it), honest-to-goodness chocolate chips (which I almost cried upon finding), candied cumin seeds (you can keep those—I have a few bad dessert memories involving cumin), and everyone’s favorite: cans of stuffed duck necks. And much to the delight of Americans, they have nonstick spray, albeit labeled “for professional use only,” which made me realize why French home cooks have never heard of it: the professionals here are hogging it all for themselves. And yes, there are tubs of the elusive glucose.

When Monsieur Thomas took ownership of the shop, he started replacing the decades of dust on the shelves with French specialties like precious
candied flowers from Toulouse and single-origin chocolates. He also kept track of cooking and baking trends by befriending Parisian chefs and began stocking unusual foodstuffs from other countries that the young renegades were looking for, including maple sugar and pecans, which have since become
très branchés
among the trendy
hobo
(bourgeois bohemian) crowd. And of course, are popular with certain Americans, too.

When I started shopping at G. Detou, the clerks eyed me with curiosity. I’d pop in, peruse the shelves, maybe ask a few questions about chocolate, pick out a box to buy, and split. After a while, I’d start weaving into my questions hints about what I did, which I’d season with technical questions, trying to show off a little, so they wouldn’t just foist any old product on me. Most specialty stores in France will insist on selling you the better product if you show some inkling of interest or knowledge about it, because the clerks in these kinds of shops are professionals, not minimum-wage employees, and they make it their business to really know their stuff. I learned my lesson here when my Yankee thrift (a gift from my grandmother) once induced me to buy the inexpensive chocolate that’s stored on the highest shelf possible, waving off their warning that it wasn’t very good. And it wasn’t. I suppose they stock it just to remain true to their mission to have everything, but paradoxically, keep it sufficiently out of reach to discourage customers from buying it.

It didn’t take long for them to take a shine to me. Not only did I become a good customer, but I brought them brownies and copies of my books, and the French devour books like Americans wolf down brownies. In a nation of readers, writers are revered in France like pro football players are in America. And if you write about chocolate and ice cream, and make killer brownies, you’re like the one who scored the winning field goal for the home team.