Remembrance of Things Paris

by Gourmet Magazine Editors

  Some of those shoppers, laden with overflowing plastic bags, paused on the way home to pray in the Church of Saint-Sulpice. There, in the soft gray light, the near-life-size crèche beyond the Delacroix frescoes evoked the serenity that may have been lost in the crowded streets. The Place Saint-Sulpice itself, only a couple of hundred yards from the bustle of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, gives one the feeling, so rare in Paris, of actually being in a small French town. Circling around the great fountain in front of the twin-towered church on Christmas Day was a covey of schoolchildren on roller skates.

  The life of the Left Bank pulses on, much as it always did. In A Moveable Feast (1964), Hemingway remembered the Place Saint-Sulpice and the pigeons perching on the statues of bishops, and one hungry day his senses were alert to anything that smacked of eating. “From this square,” he wrote, “you could not go further toward the river without passing shops selling fruits, vegetables, wines, or bakery and pastry shops.” And he noted on his walk that only when he reached the Odéon were there restaurants. In other streets today, there are bistros that we had known years before, serving good, simple meals. It was also true, however, that not far from the church some of our former favorite restaurants had disappeared.

  Almost in the shadow of Saint-Sulpice’s towers, the rue des Canettes straggles toward boulevard Saint-Germain, unimpaired by the half dozen pizza places that give the narrow street new color. Still, halfway along is the varnished front of Aux Trois Canettes, and inside, though almost everything else looked smaller and more intimate, the dining room seemed unchanged. Nearer Saint-Germain-des-Prés, on the other hand, Le Récamier in the cul-de-sac of the same name—once a bistro we’d often been able to afford—has become posh and, like most upper-echelon hostelries, it was closed for the holidays.

  Proprietors whose neighborhood shops were kept open for the Christmas crowds filled the small room at Aux Trois Canettes. Settling in among them, we ordered from a menu characterized by country food. We chose rillettes d’oie (shredded goose spread) and salad followed by monkfish masked by a tomato sauce as lotte à la languedocienne, and colin meunière, or sautéed hake, in a creamy tartar sauce thick with minced cornichons, capers, and pimientos. Such a lunch brings out one’s admiration for the neighborhood eating places that still serve many old standards, among them hearty soups, delicately sauced blanquettes de veau (veal stew in white sauce), and simple desserts that include ungussied-up rewards like tarte aux pommes.

  A few steps away on the rue de Sèvres, the peaceful vibrations of bistros were lost in the traffic jam of celebrants at Vigneau Demarest, a great meeting place for connoisseurs of foie gras and other Gallic culinary classics. Its window display of geese and pheasants, with ruffled necks and beaks still on, drew us inside, where every aisle was congested with determined buyers of all the treats that enhance a festive board. Most of them were shopping not only for Christmas dinner but for the midnight supper called réveillon that awaits most French families after Mass on Christmas Eve.

  A friend from Brittany had been responsible for our first réveillon in France some years back. That night a cold mist coming in from the Golfe de Saint-Malo had whetted our anticipation as we came down the cobbled street from the stony chill of the village church. We had not been disappointed, for waiting on an ancient oak buffet were oysters morbihannaises, a steaming cotriade (a Breton stew of white fish with mussels, onions, potatoes, herbs, and cream) in a chafing dish, a terrine of foie gras, and babas au rhum, which were served with Champagne.

  At Vigneau Demarest this time around, young waiters squeezed through the aisles full of shoppers, with trays bearing tulips of pink Champagne for everybody. Broods of ortolans and tiny quail behind the glass front of one counter reminded us of “four-and-twenty black-birds baked in a pie.” Across the aisle, in spite of the jostling, a slicer with his back to the throng used his long blade expertly on one smoked salmon after another. There were galantines de volaille (chicken terrines) to be bought and chanterelles among the vegetable displays. For our own holiday bird we chose precisely what was needed, as we had decided from the start that we would try to reproduce as closely as possible a Christmas dinner we had once shared with our friends Jacques and Bettina, a couple who still lived in Paris. And so, with the help of the floor manager and a crisply attendant young clerk, we ordered a handsome goose and waited as it was eviscerated and deprived of its head. (In true French fashion the head and giblets were packed up for the makings of a stock.)

  It was a different sort of marketing than we had done the first time we’d cooked a Christmas goose in Paris. Our Breton friend, who now lived in Montparnasse, had demonstrated what any bonne femme would know by instinct: The trick of dealing with an open market is to walk the length of it, inspecting everything closely for both quality and price, then about-facing to buy only from vendors who make the best deals. Our first goose had been bought that way, but in bargaining for a cheaper price we brought upon ourselves a nasty chore. The goose had not been plucked, and the poultry seller had neglected to sever the neck, creating a kitchen dilemma that was solved only when a saw was located—the only instrument we had that was up to the challenge.

  We had no similar problem this time, and the dinner itself was sheer pleasure because of the presence of the guests who had shared that long-ago feast of sawed-off goose. To prepare for the reunion we got an early start in the kitchen. The goose, stuffed with a baguette torn into pieces and mixed with onions, Alsatian sausage, green apples, and herbes de Provence, sizzled and spat in our kitchenette oven for two and a half hours. Meanwhile, simmering on top of the stove was a triumphant mushroom soup based on bolets (also known as cèpes), shallots, leeks, and sautéed chanterelles. Their woodland juices combined with the butter in which they cooked to produce an elixir that was poured into the soup, which was then topped with a tablespoon of crème fraîche. When first in Paris we had yet to learn the subtle techniques that made such a dish so good.

  We’d had several culinary mentors then. The first was named Bernadette, born in the Alsatian city of Colmar, and we found her so much on our minds on this trip that one evening, when the holiday had passed, we had dinner at La Chope d’Alsace, near the Odéon, a favorite spot for the French when in search of country classics; in her honor we chose to have the restaurant’s “fameuse” onion tart, as well as la demi-faisan au chou rouge (pheasant with red cabbage). As the rich food was served, it suddenly became apparent how memory can sneak up on one: The sausage stuffing we had made is as Alsatian as a glass of gewürztraminer, and it had been Bernadette who first shared with us her knowledge of French Christmases. It was she, memory told us, who had thrown up her hands with a grimace: If one must have a bûche de Noël, she said, it should come from a pâtissier instead of being produced inexpertly in a family kitchen.

  Christmas dinner had been enhanced by the lingering past. The plump goose, surrounded by quail cooked in goose fat, was a tribute to the one we had all first shared. The combination of chestnuts fresh from the Cévennes, in the center of France, and brussels sprouts was another reminder of Bernadette, who matched chestnuts more often with cabbage, as do many cooks in Alsace. Whatever else, the meal caused Bettina to exclaim that we should say grace again and Jacques to kiss the tips of his fingers as he summed up the reunion feast in a phrase: “Ça alors, c’est fantastique!” Yet nothing about the meal was ornate. There was a giant round brown loaf of bread from Poilâne, decorated with a wreath of sculpted dough. And there was plenty of wine to toast the past, the present, and the future. The bûche de Noël from the pâtisserie a block away in rue Vaneau was the crowning glory.

  To cap the reunion and the end of the old year as well, we drove up the Champs-Élysées, etched with frostily lighted white branches against the evening sky, to Neuilly. There on the boulevard du Général Koenig, in their apartment next to the Seine, Bettina and Jacques had set out an exceptional celebratory repast. Except for the aromatic sorrel soup, it was a composition of marvels playfully, ingenious
ly, even lovingly prepared by neighborhood traiteurs(caterers), who everywhere in Paris make such treats easy to be had.

  First there was a fine Michel Guérard creation, a fish mousseline

  in puff pastry with beurre blanc that needed only to be heated. Then there was the pure, rosy, unctuous foie gras in a charming little terrine. Bettina served great scoops of it, plunging a hot spoon—which she warmed between each serving—down into the interior of the chilled, lightly cooked goose liver. As Jacques poured the Alsatian Tokay he’d chosen to complement the foie gras, he announced with a glint of mischief that “it is known as ‘little Jesus in velveteen britches,’” and it was indeed like liquid velvet. After the green salad and before dessert there were cheeses that never taste the same when eaten outside France. They included a Mimolette, an oozing Vacherin, a Camembert straight from the farm where it had been made, and a sage-seasoned crusty wheel of goat cheese. These were served with fresh walnuts, for which Jacques poured a fine Bordeaux that had long been at rest in his cellar.

  So typically French, it was nonetheless a meal purchased almost entirely from food shops of impeccable repute, and it was probably superior to what the average Paris host could have prepared. Small wonder that most of the esteemed chefs can vacate Paris during the holidays, leaving no one behind in real deprivation. We understood why the fêtes de Noël and the nouvel an are so unanimously family occasions, and we applauded. Such times are cherished by chefs and restaurateurs as opportunities to sit down with their own families just as others do, and thus they prove that making money does not outweigh some of life’s better moments.

  In many parts of Paris—no surprise—there are Americans who years ago chose to lay permanent claim to the best aspects of living in France. On the day before we returned to the United States we had lunch with Warren and Jean Trabant, two former colleagues who publish the informative, stylish “Letter from Paris,” with subscribers throughout the States. Its columns are filled with their current observations on the changing culture of Paris; squibs on shopping of every stripe, including food; and full reviews of books, hotels, and restaurants.

  A nostalgic piece the Trabants had published on Paris’s now vanished Les Halles led us to visit together the cavernous Saint-Germain Market near the Mabillon métro station. Jean seemed to know every vendor by name, and we stopped with her, just before going on to the Restaurant La Foux, to chat with Madame Decots, a statuesque, blond farm wife who with her husband raises free-range chickens and pigs exclusively on natural feed. They sell their meats and homemade pâtés at a spacious corner concession in the high-ceilinged market. “The only way to create excellent terrines,” Madame said, her grin showing her affection for Jean, “is to use meat that is grown as God meant it to be—that’s where the real flavor comes from.”

  The point was echoed by Alex Guini, a giant veteran of thousands of meals whose face, behind a wonderful mustache, is fissured with laugh lines. Born in the gastronomic shrine of Lyons, he is cook-patron of La Foux, the establishment he moved to rue Clément from a village southeast of Lyons. As he joined us at our round, commodious table, we were told that he features his own recipes among the plats du jour. Every Tuesday he serves poularde de Bresse poached in pig’s bladder. Soupe au pistou (vegetable soup, much like minestrone) is another specialty that Alex makes his own, and we decided to have it on the recommendation of his wife, Simone. When the next course of saucisson de Lyon was brought, Alex confirmed that recently he had initiated a more relaxed, bistro-like menu for midday meals on Saturdays. He described this idea as his version of brunch—the white table linen is replaced by checkered oilcloth—and said that the word for it in Left Bank vernacular is mâchon. The lighter, less formal bill of fare sharpens the focus on the casual, easy friendliness that often exists between restaurateurs and their clientele throughout France. It’s also a sign that today’s more knowledgeable enthusiasm for good food among Americans is being saluted by French professionals. Parisians in earlier times were usually friendly enough with American travelers, but now they’re apt to accept the more intense American interest in food as a common bond.

  It became clear as our time together waned that the Trabants and the Guinis had come to exemplify that common bond. Certainly this seemed indisputable when the chef brought out an irresistible plum brandy as a digestif. And the degree of camaraderie between the families was engagingly certified when we understood that they were all gathering the next day for a New Year’s dinner. The pièce de résistance, to be cooked at home by Alex, would be chili, as authentically American as possible. “I don’t make chili because these friends are from the States,” Alex said. “I try it because it is a new dish to me, and I like to master every kind of cooking.”

  We thought about such portents as we walked “home” toward rue Vaneau. We swayed a bit, lingering in the pleasure of our indulgent lunch and joie de vivre. The realization that the next day we’d be landing at Kennedy Airport seemed to heighten all the impressions of another Christmas on the Left Bank. Among them, one thing was sure: It would have been next to impossible to find a better way to say “Joyeux Noël.”

  December 1986

  A LITTLE BLACK MAGIC

  Ruth Reichl

  The woman was ageless. Her coal-black hair was cut in a severe bob, the bangs slashing a straight line across her forehead. Her feet were booted, and the little black Courrèges dress caressed her slight frame familiarly, as if they had been intimate since the sixties.

  “Bonjour,” she said from the small desk in the center of the elegant shop in the Palais-Royal. The beautiful old man in the corner looked up, nodded sleepily, and went back to his newspaper. The little white dog approached, sniffed, then retreated. With an appraiser’s eye, Madame surveyed me, then walked to the rack of vintage dresses and began studying its contents. “You will try this one,” she said, choosing, “and this.” The hangers slid, clicked, slid again. “No,” she said suddenly, her voice rising with excitement, “try this one!” She reverently lifted a dress from the rack and held it aloft in triumph. “This is from Saint Laurent’s second collection for Dior in 1959.”

  Her arms were filled with a froth of black lace that foamed briefly before settling into the shape of a huge dark orchid. “So beautiful,” I breathed, as she led me to a corner curtained off with black velvet. She watched dispassionately as I removed my clothes. Then, very slowly, she lowered the dress over my head in an avalanche of lace.

  Madame knelt to close the tiny hooks. It was odd and unexpectedly pleasurable; with each hook, the embrace of the dress became increasingly sensuous. At last she stood up, put her knuckles to her mouth, and gasped, “C’est magnifique!”

  I looked in the mirror; a stranger was staring back at me. The dress had transported me to its own era, given my body voluptuous new curves.

  “This dress was meant for you,” said Madame. “You’ll take it, of course.” She was glowing proudly, no mere saleswoman but someone who has had the great pleasure of introducing strangers and watching them fall in love.

  I nodded, completely in her thrall. And then I realized that I had absolutely no idea how much my dress cost. Madame glanced at the clothes I had been wearing and said, “Let me negotiate with the owner.” From the dressing room, I could hear her urgent voice crying into the phone, “But this dress was meant for her!” She returned ecstatic. “He has agreed to take two thousand francs off the price!” she said happily. “Your dress is only fifty thousand francs.”

  I made the calculation, then sadly removed the dress. It was not meant for me after all. As I handed it over, I said, “This dress belongs in a museum.”

  “Oh no!” said Madame, fervently clutching it to her. “Clothes were meant to be worn. And this dress was meant to be worn by you!”

  She watched me step into my own clothes, watched the magic creature I had momentarily become disappear. I was letting her down. As I buttoned my coat, she pressed her card into my hand and said seductively, “I will be in New York
next month. I could bring your dress with me. Think about it.”

  I have thought about my dress many times since leaving that shop last fall. For one moment, I saw the person I might have been if I had been born in another time, another town.

  And that, for me, is part of the wonder of Paris. For years I have been treating Paris as a movable feast, reveling in the fact that I was eating where Colette once dined and buying bread in a boulangerie frequented by Napoleon. But you don’t have to be at the table to understand that this is a passionate city, a place where the past and the present coexist and the future is filled with possibilities.

  March 2001

  AN INSINCERE CASSOULET

  Michael Lewis

  A few months ago my parents came to visit us in Paris, to see their new granddaughter and to see how we were getting on. They hoped to be shown around the city, of course, but they didn’t need us to help them find the Louvre. They already knew how to be tourists in Paris; what they wanted to know was what it was like simply to live in Paris. This raised a question: Around which quotidian Parisian experience might I structure a week with my parents? I was able to think of only one: a cassoulet. A cassoqlet is less a French dish than an athletic event capable of eating up large chunks of time. It requires at least a day and a half of scavenger-hunt-style shopping; two more days of cooking; and then another two days of digestion. To do it well, you must travel from one end of Paris to the other.