“Europe is different,” my mother said. “This is a really nice hotel.” But coming from Oklahoma, with its big trucks and strip malls, I wasn’t sure. Paris seemed very small, as though its proper inhabitants were those prehistoric men in my social studies book, the ones who were only four feet tall.
My parents had been there before, and they loved the Latin Quarter. My father, especially. That was his Paris. He’d first seen the city in the early sixties, when he spent a month there on sabbatical with his first wife and their children. He was a young radiologist, and he’d come to visit the Institut Curie, which was tucked away in the fifth arrondissement, the old, still-beating heart of the quarter. The way he talked about it, you’d have thought he’d stayed for years. He’d eaten in this brasserie here and that bistro there. He remembered Métro stations and streets with the sort of awkwardly instinctive memory that made me wonder if he’d once sat down with a map and memorized them.
Of that trip, I really only remember one street: the next one over from our hotel, the rue du Dragon. It had a familiar name, but in French, it was hard to pronounce. When I tried to say it aloud, it snagged on my thick American tongue, making me sound, I thought, like I had a tiny dragon stuck in my throat. I liked the idea of that.
We stumbled upon the rue du Dragon that first afternoon. Like most of the other streets in that area, it was a narrow strip of pavement with buildings close in on both sides, but it was a little brighter and more lively, with a few small businesses, two or three restaurants, and a stationery store that sold Mrs. Grossman stickers. (I had a collection at home.) A couple of doors down from the stationery store was a glassy window with a sign above it, written in fat, squatty letters. La Boule Miche, it said.
“I think boule and miche are names,” Burg said, leaning down to my ear, “for a type of bread. Like that round one over there.” He pointed through the window to a shelf where flat, floury disks were propped side by side, like books on a shelf. “But boule might also be short for boulangerie. That’s what they call a bakery.”
We stepped inside. A gray-haired woman was standing behind the cash register, busily arranging a stack of long paper bags, the sleeves that clothe baguettes when they are sent out into the world.
“Remember,” he said, nudging us closer to the pastry case, “the big street we crossed this morning, in the taxi? The boulevard Saint-Michel? They call it the boul’ Mich for short.” He stooped down to peer into the case. “I wonder if the name of this place is a play on that.”
I have no idea how my father knew these things. Between you and me, his French was awful with a capital A—affreux, as the French would say. By the time I was old enough to know the difference, it was clear that his grasp of the language was most firm where food terms were concerned. Beyond that was shaky ground. One-month sabbatical in the sixties or no, when he spoke, Frenchmen winced. In his mouth, a poor, unsuspecting Loire Valley town called Cangey—pronounced conzhay—became “Cainghee,” a name better suited to a small town in central Texas. Neuilly (nuoy-yee), a well-to-do suburb west of Paris, was reduced to “Nigh-yule,” which strikes me now as a quick, handy way of saying that Christmas is coming soon. But he always tried to speak, at least, and that got him far. It got us into the boulangerie. It even got a smile out of the lady at the cash register. If you’ve ever been to Paris, you know that’s no easy feat.
He pulled a few coins out of his pocket. “Deux croissants et un pain au chocolat, s’il vous plait,” he said haltingly.
On the wall opposite the pastry case was a copper counter with a long mirror mounted above it. A row of black, velvet-topped stools squatted in front of the counter like spindly mushrooms. We sat down, watching ourselves in the mirror, and ate our pastries: the croissants for him and my mother, the pain au chocolat for me. It crackled when I bit into it, but underneath the shattery crust, it tore into dozens of stretchy layers and strands. The chocolate inside was still warm, and it oozed out the side until I caught it with my finger and brought it back to my mouth. I was sold.
Each morning after that, while my mother was getting dressed, my father and I would walk around the block to the bakery. It was always the same order for me: a pain au chocolat and a chocolat chaud. I’d perch myself atop one of the black mushroom caps, kicking my feet against its stem, and lean over the counter to sip the hot chocolate from its white ceramic cup. Sometimes, for an afternoon snack, he bought me one of the small, oblong breads—pain passion, they called them—from a basket by the register. Later in the day, if I got hungry before dinner, I would stuff a little square of chocolate, the kind they give you in cafés when you order coffee, into its doughy center. My father beamed.
For himself, he always bought a croissant. I never saw him turn one down, in Paris or anywhere. I can still see him now, sitting next to me on a stool with the street behind him. He’d bite into one pointy end, and then he’d reach for his cup and swallow noisily, wincing at the heat. He always did that with coffee, more of a slurp than a sip, a loud sucking sound that ricocheted around the room. He didn’t want to miss a drop.
BREAD AND CHOCOLATE
t his is a simple trick familiar to every French child. There’s something surprisingly right about chocolate and bread together, all that dark, rich sweetness against the chewy, salty crumb. It’s one of my favorite snacks.
French-style bread, preferably a baguette with a crust that’s not too thick
Chocolate, preferably dark
Cut or tear off a hunk of bread. Slice or tear it partially across its middle, as though you were going to use it for a sandwich. Break off a piece of chocolate roughly the same length as the piece of bread. Insert the chocolate into the bread. Eat.
VARIATION: You can also warm the bread a little in the oven, either before or after inserting the chocolate. That way, the bread is soft and warm, and the chocolate gets a little oozy. Oozy chocolate is hard to beat.
A STRANGE SORT OF COMING OF AGE
In spite of the potato salad, pound cake, and pains au chocolat, I believed deep down that mine was a childhood of tragic deprivation. My parents put a tight cap on processed foods, which meant no toaster pastries, no grape-flavored bubble gum, no cinnamon toast–flavored cereal, and none of those shiny, single-portion packets of fruit punch with a tiny straw attached. Also not permitted were those stubby, twig-like cheese puffs, which I wanted with a twisted desperation and, on more than one occasion, stole from the lunch box of an unsuspecting classmate. Save for a few packages of Oscar Meyer beef bologna, which somehow crept in under the radar, and the Ranch dressing for my father’s potato salad, we generally only ate things made from scratch. It was a conscious decision that my parents made, a source of quiet pride.
None of this helps to explain, however, the fact that until well into adolescence, I believed that pancakes came from a box. In the kitchen of my childhood, pancakes had three ingredients: milk, eggs, and powdered mix. I can still feel the heft of that box in my hand. I can hear the reassuring rustle and thump of the powder as it tumbles down the cardboard chute. It smelled like flour and fat and something faintly creamy, and it made a very nice pancake. I loved Bisquick. I believed in Bisquick. Bisquick was pancakes.
But then, sometime around age fifteen, I started reading the food magazines my parents kept stacked on the coffee table. Some nights, after my homework was finished, I would take one upstairs and thumb through it until I fell asleep. It wasn’t long before I stumbled upon a recipe for pancakes. I was honestly miffed. The only box it called for was baking soda. Learning that pancakes could be made without a mix was a strange sort of coming of age. It was like learning that your favorite uncle, the one who could do a spot-on impression of Donald Duck, is a loyal subscriber to a skin magazine.
The box of pancake mix was an anomaly in our pantry. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it sneaked in with the bologna. As these things go, it was pretty benign. But that anomaly meant that I spent the first two decades of my life eating one single, standardized
pancake. I was so busy believing in that mix that a whole world of pancakes almost passed me by. Buttermilk pancakes. Whole wheat pancakes. Big fluffy ones splotched with blueberries! And buckwheat pancakes, the top of the stack.
I’ve worked hard to make up for lost time, as you can imagine. I’ve made a lot of pancakes. I’ve eaten a lot of pancakes. There are so many out there, and so many to love. But a few years ago, I found one in particular that still holds my attention.
The place was a kind of upscale greasy spoon, a funky storefront spot in Seattle called the Longshoreman’s Daughter, where the waitresses all had gorgeous skin and messy hair. Everything they served was good, but the buckwheat pancakes were legendary: enormous, the size of salad plates, warm and toasty with a thin, lacy edge. Coming from such a hearty flour, they could have been heavy as bricks, but instead they were light—delicate, even. They were eminently satisfying, but not so much so that you’d want to sleep all afternoon. They came with a tiny pitcher of maple syrup and blueberries scattered around, and they were absolutely perfect pancakes.
Unfortunately, about two years after I first ate there, the Longshoreman’s Daughter closed its doors. It was jammed with customers, so I’m not sure why. Maybe they decided to rest on their laurels. It could be hard to keep going, I guess, when you’ve made a pancake so good. It could be tempting to hole up and keep them all to yourself.
Which, frankly, is what I want to do whenever I make buckwheat pancakes. In the years since the Longshoreman’s Daughter went defunct, I’ve been tinkering in my own kitchen, and though it took a lot of batches and botches—the recipe you see here took seven excruciating Sunday mornings—I’ve come very, very close. Mine are a little fluffier than theirs, which I like, and I make them smaller than salad plate size, but they’re just as good as the ones that inspired them. There’s no mix involved, so I’m not sure what my family would say. But I’m pretty sure that with a little nudge and some maple syrup, they’d come around.
BUCKWHEAT PANCAKES
this recipe uses an unconventional mixing trick that I learned from Cook’s Illustrated. Rather than adding the melted butter directly to the wet ingredients, you first mix it with the egg yolk. It does require an extra bowl—a Pyrex custard cup works nicely; you can microwave the butter in it and then just add the yolk—but it helps the butter to better incorporate into the batter, making for a more even-textured pancake. It’s worth the extra bit of effort. Just be sure that you microwave the butter on medium power and in short bursts. If the heat is too high, butter will sometimes splatter or explode.
These pancakes are great on their own, but they’re even better with some fruit. Slices of banana are always nice. Or you could try blueberries, raspberries, or blackberries, either fresh or frozen, 4 to 5 per pancake. In the summer, whenever I find myself with a surplus of berries, I arrange them in a single layer on a rimmed baking sheet, freeze them until they’re hard, and then put them in a heavy-duty plastic bag and stash them in the freezer. They’ll last that way for months, and freezing them on the pan means that they don’t stick together, so you can pull out only as many as you need. You don’t even have to thaw them before adding them to the pancakes; the heat of the pan takes care of that. Whatever you use, let the pancakes cook on their first side, undisturbed, for about 1 minute before you add any fruit. That gives them time to puff and begin to set.
Also, this recipe doubles easily.
2/3 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1/3 cup buckwheat flour
2 teaspoons sugar
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
¾ cup buttermilk
¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons milk (preferably not low fat or nonfat)
1 large egg, separated
2 tablespoons (1 ounce) unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly
Vegetable oil, for brushing griddle
Pure maple syrup, for serving
In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, sugar, salt, baking powder, and baking soda.
Pour the buttermilk and milk into a medium bowl. (A 2-cup Pyrex measuring cup also works well; you can measure right into it.) Whisk the egg white into the milk mixture. In a small bowl, use a fork to beat the yolk with the melted butter. Whisk the yolk mixture into the milk mixture. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients all at once, and whisk until just combined. Do not overmix. The batter will be somewhat thick.
Meanwhile, heat a large nonstick skillet or griddle over medium-high heat. Brush the skillet with oil. To make sure it’s hot enough, wet your fingers and sprinkle a few droplets of water onto the pan. If they sizzle, it’s ready to go.
Ladle the batter in scant ¼ cupfuls into the skillet, taking care not to crowd them. When the underside of the pancakes is nicely browned and the top starts to bubble and look set around the edges, 2 to 3 minutes, flip them. Cook until the second side has browned, 1 to 2 minutes more.
Re-oil the skillet and repeat with more batter. If you find that the pancakes are browning too quickly in subsequent batches, dial the heat back to medium.
Serve warm, with maple syrup.
Yield: 8 to 10 pancakes
THE HARDBALL STAGE
It wouldn’t be right for me not to tell you about the fresh ginger cake. For one thing, it’s wonderful: pale brown and spiced, sauced with warm, caramelly pears. It’s a recipe I found in one of my mother’s issues of Gourmet during my junior year of high school, and in the years since, I must have made it two dozen times, if not more. The first time I made it, it inspired a late night in the kitchen with my parents, all three of us stirring and tasting, working on different recipes. It was the beginning of something, I think. Coming from a family of avid cooks, the kitchen had always been a comfortable place. But it wasn’t really my place until this cake came along.
I was seventeen then and writing a lot of poetry, wearing pink false eyelashes and vintage polyester shirts festooned with tiny flowers. My mother told me that my father’s mother Dora used to wear shirts like that, and though I don’t think she intended it as a compliment, it made me feel all the more sure of my choice. When I wrote the essay that follows, the story of the night in the kitchen with the ginger cake, I’d been pickling myself for quite some time in a potent mix of Flannery O’Connor, William Faulkner, and Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you.) I wrote it for English class, for my teacher Perry Oldham, whose name always made me think of Old Hollywood, black-and-white movies, and marcelled waves. It was the first piece of writing I ever did that wasn’t about a thwarted crush or the fact that I had yet to be kissed. I suppose I could retell the story today with the added wisdom of a decade or so, but I like it better the old way, the way I told it back then.
This is the story of how it all began, how one wordy teenager found her way to the kitchen. It comes straight from the sun-bleached yellow sketchbook that holds all my teenage writings—or the parts, at least, that aren’t hidden in my parents’ freezer. (I used to put all my poems in there, sealed in gallon-sized freezer bags, because I’d heard that was the only way to secure them against fire and vandalism.) It explains a lot.
It’s midnight, and we converge upon the kitchen: Mom for poached pears, Burg for rice pudding, and me for fresh ginger cake with caramelized pears. Lately I’ve been really identifying with the kitchen, the way it’s always warm in the pantry, its shelves lined with bottles or bags labeled Raspberry Apple Butter or Cranberry Beans or Quaker Barley, the way there are cookbooks lying open on the butcher-block island, the way it smells good after dinner and in the afternoon when the refrigerator is cold and full. It’s been this way since Christmas with me, always thumbing through magazines in search of recipes to read about, soak in, taste without tasting. But the recipe for fresh ginger cake with caramelized pears demands immediate attention. So we go to the store after dinner and come home with a backseat full of bags: gingerroot, a dozen eggs, a bottle of molasses with a gr
anny on the label, a pint of heavy cream, a tub of sour cream, and two pears, firm-ripe.
We all think alike. Burg is at the stove with the double boiler, then opening the pantry for rice. Mom is at the sink, peeling pears with her new swiveling vegetable peeler, leaning over the recipe for “Pears Noir” from her California Heritage Cookbook. I am making the cake I can’t stop thinking about. Me, I want fresh ginger cake with caramelized pears at midnight, with the kitchen warm and the cake and caramel and pears warm and the marble tabletop cold under my elbows.
Rice pudding is fine, but it’s not for me. It’s Burg’s once-a-week-or-so fun, later to be Tupperwared and tucked into the refrigerator for occasional spooning. The poached pears will tomorrow be coated in bittersweet chocolate and served to the guests who will sit and laugh in the dining room with my parents. But the cake is mine. Cake. I like it on my tongue, the word—not just the stuff itself—but even better in my throat, my stomach. Cake. It can only mean something good.
And anyway, I’ve never liked rice pudding all that much. Something about the dairy and the rice: they shouldn’t be together. But lately I’ve started to change my mind. I wonder if it’s my father’s rice pudding that’s done it, or maybe it’s my uncle’s rice. My father’s brother Arnold—you can call him Arnie—sends the rice from Nanuet, New York. It’s basmati rice, straight from India, still in the little burlap sack with the handles and the big red block letters spelling out the name of a town I can’t pronounce. Arnie is great. He calls for Burg and speaks slowly, slowwwly, and it makes me crazy if I’m in the middle of something because it takes hours, it seems, to get him over to Burg. The word hello in and of itself takes a good minute. But Arnie is fun. He looks like Burg but with paler hair and a ponytail, and he has an Afghan hound that’s almost as tall as he is. So I like rice pudding because of Arnie and the rice, and also, it is my own father’s rice pudding. Though really, I don’t think I’m biased at all.
A Homemade Life Page 6
