½ cup (55 g) pistachio or almond flour or ½ cup (70 g) stone-ground yellow cornmeal
2 teaspoons baking powder (preferably aluminum-free)
¼ teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons (120 g) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup (200 g) sugar
2 large eggs, at room temperature
¼ cup (60 ml) whole milk
¼ cup (60 ml) absinthe
Crated zest from 1 orange, preferably unsprayed
For the absinthe glaze
3 tablespoons (45 g) sugar
¼ cup (60 ml) absinthe
Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Butter a 9-inch (23-cm) loaf pan, then line the bottom with parchment paper.
Crush the anise seeds using a mortar and pestle, or in a freezer bag with a hammer, until relatively fine. Whisk together the white flour, nut flour or cornmeal, baking powder, salt, and anise seeds. Set aside.
In the bowl of a standing electric mixer or by hand, beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, until completely incorporated.
Combine the milk and absinthe with a bit of zest.
Stir half of the dry ingredients into the butter mixture, then add the milk and absinthe.
By hand, stir in the other half of the dry ingredients until just smooth (do not overmix). Smooth the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 45 to 50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
Remove the cake from the oven and let cool 30 minutes.
To glaze the cake with absinthe, use a toothpick and poke 50 holes in the cake. In a small bowl, gently stir the sugar and absinthe until just mixed, making sure the sugar doesn’t dissolve. (You can add a bit of orange zest here too if you like.)
Remove the cake from the pan, peel off the parchment paper, and set the cake on a cooling rack over a baking sheet.
Baste the cake with the absinthe glaze over the top and sides. Continue until all the glaze is used up.
If you want to go somewhere in Paris and sip absinthe, on one end of the scale is the Hôtel Royal Fromentin, up near Sacré Coeur in Montmarte, where artists got a cheap buzz before it was banned. If you’re looking for something more unusual, check out Cantada II, a goth bar with a menu of absinthe. But consider yourself warned: skip the cuisine médiévale—one bite and you’ll understand why people in the Middle Ages didn’t live very long.
LINES ARE FOR OTHER PEOPLE
In Paris, there are only two reasons you can cut in front of others waiting in line:
Because you’re old, frail, or have a physical disability that prevents you from standing for long periods of time.
Because you don’t think you should you have to wait in line behind anybody else.
Aside from our ability to form ourselves into nice straight lines in service-oriented situations, one of the most endearing traits of Americans is our ability to be self-deprecating and laugh at our foibles. Late-night talk show hosts make fun of current events, celebrities, politicians, and American culture in general. Few are spared and everyone has a good laugh. It’s a cultural quirk I miss.
The French have a pretty good sense of humor, too, which may explain the popularity of Sharon Stone films here, but they tend to get a wee bit touchy when criticized by outsiders. And while they’re masters of the art of argument, when really trapped, sometimes they’ll say something so bizarre or illogical—that the danger from secondhand smoke is a myth, for instance, or that snipping off the ends of green beans is a simple way to remove radioactive matter—that there’s just no comeback possible. I’ve had lots of spirited discussions with locals defending the behavior of their fellow Parisians, but the only two things they can’t justify are the dog doo on the streets and line jumping.
I’m not touching the dog doo, but I’ve tried to understand why Parisians are such fanatical line jumpers. I’ve been told it’s “because we are a Latin culture.” Yet I’ve seen scant evidence of any other aspects of Latin culture inserting themselves into Parisian daily life, except for the occasional honcho peeing in a corner. And how Latin can they be if you can’t even find a decent-sized burrito around here?
Parisians are always in a big hurry, but are especially frantic if they’re behind you. They’re desperate to be where they rightfully feel they belong: in front of you. It’s a whole other story when you’re behind them, especially when it’s their turn: suddenly they seem to have all the time in the world.
Line cutting is rampant in Paris. So much so, that there’s a word for it: risquillage, or “taking the risk.” And believe me, anyone who has the temerity to slide in front of me is definitely taking a risk.
Although I lived for years in San Francisco and have seen many public displays of close, intimate physical behavior, I still find it disconcerting to have an unseen stranger pressed smack-dab up against my backside, gently nudging me forward, while I’m waiting patiently for stamps at La Poste. Or to have someone inching beside me in line at the supermarket with the slim hope that they’re going to be able to wedge themselves within the five centimeters of space between me and the metal railing.
What are they possibly thinking? I doubt it’s because Parisians have trouble keeping their hands off me. The only possible way anyone could slide around me, though, would be by transforming himself into Elasto-Man. And being a San Franciscan, I’m also no stranger to seeing people contort themselves in unusual positions in public places either, but that’s one feat I’d be pretty shocked to see at my local Franprix supermarket.
In fairness to Parisians, five centimeters of space is equivalent to five feet of space in America. Leaving the slightest area open in front of you is seen as justification to slide right in there, so unless you’re standing genitals-to-backside to the person in front of you, you may as well put up a sign pointing in front of you that says, “Please, step ahead of me.”
There was a hilarious series of television ads for the newspaper Le Parisien, all portrayals of Parisians at their worst. (They’re definitely worth catching at video-sharing sites: search “le parisien publicité.”) In one, you hear the sound of a zipper going up from behind one of the automatic sidewalk toilets in Paris. A moment after, a well-dressed man emerges and steps over the stream he just created, which is leading right into the bottom of a woman’s market basket, now resting in a pool of pipi. He strides up next to her and her basket, gives her a brief nod of acknowledgment, then blithely crosses the street without a care.
Another presents two confused Japanese tourists wielding a guidebook, searching for the Eiffel Tower. A Parisian gently helps them out by pointing them back down the street they came from. They thank him, nodding and bowing profusely, before heading off. As they turn and depart, the helpful fellow turns and rounds the corner, the Eiffel Tower looming just above.
But my favorite is the scenario that takes place in a supermarket, where a little old lady is shuffling down the aisle toward the bored cashier, clutching a tiny bottle of water. Just as she’s about to put her small purchase on the belt, she’s broadsided by a harried woman who waves her away with a weak smile of insincere apology (which is such a Parisian touch, brava to the actress on nailing that one!) before unloading the contents of her over-heaped grocery cart onto the belt.
Just when you think she’s done, as la grand-mère is about to set down her bottle, the woman waves her back as her husband barges in with another armload of things. The tagline for all of the ads: “Le Parisien: il vaut mieux l’avoir en journal” or “The Parisian: it’s better to have one as a newspaper.” Chalk one up for the Parisian sense of humor.
“Oh, were you waiting in line?” more than one person has said to me when I’ve busted them for trying to cut in. “No, not really,” I want to come back with, “I was just standing here in the supermarket with a basketful of items at the register, since I had nothing else to do today.”
One dame who stepped right in front of me at the busy Ladurée on the Champs-Elysées actually turned
to me when I spoke up, and said, “Is there really a line?”
To clarify it for her, I pointed out the ten people in single file in front of me and the twenty people waiting behind. I don’t know how her definition of “a line” differs from mine, but I gave her plenty of time to ponder that as she skulked back to the end of it.
Many expats develop certain techniques to avoid strangers pressed up against them or trying to scoot in front. One that seems to be the most popular is to wear a small backpack. Those fall into the dreaded fanny pack category for me, so my chosen weapon to defend my turf around town is something that’s easier to wield: the shopping basket.
My basket is wider than I am, with an imposing handle that I can spin to block anyone coming at me from any angle. When navigating a busy market, I hold it in front of me as I walk, like the prow of a battleship, to clear the way. That doesn’t always work, as Parisians don’t like to move or back up for anyone, no matter what. So sometimes I hide my basket behind me, then heave it forward at the last moment; the element of surprise gives them no time to plan a counteroffensive, and when the coast is suddenly clear, I make a break for it. It’s best used, though, when waiting in line, since it makes a movable barricade that I can manipulate and position, halting even the most tenacious risquilleur in his or her tracks.
Unless you’re pretty courageous or your French is exceptional, don’t try anger. I caused an incident when a woman abruptly cut in front of me in line at Tati, our low-end department store. When she refused to budge, I muttered “salope” which, although technically the same word Americans use for a female dog, in France, it’s the equivalent of the c-word for women. I suppose that’s the price I pay for an imperfect French vocabulary. As she let loose on me, loud enough for everyone on the same floor to hurry over to check out the commotion, I certainly learned a few other new, and not very nice, words that day.
I don’t recommend humor, either, which Parisians don’t seem to get. I once turned around and told the Frenchman of un certain âge, old enough to be my grandfather, who was nudging me forward from behind, “Pardon? But don’t you think you ought to buy me a drink first?” My humor was wasted on him, and he just blankly looked at me. Or maybe he was too cheap to spring for the drink.
Even more fun when people start to push me from behind, as they inevitably like to do. I’ll slowly start backing up…taking a little step…hesitating a moment…then taking another backward. There’s no sound more satisfying than listening to the grumbling of people collapsing together behind me like a squashed accordion. You can keep your visits to the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower—this is one of my favorite things to do in Paris!
Since wheeled shopping carts are the favored weapon of those fragile little old ladies (who you’ll find aren’t really so fragile if you happen to get in their way), Parisians have developed an instinctive fear of le chariot de marché. I’ve taken a cue from them and transformed mine into a demarcation line between me and others. If they want to cross it, they risk an inadvertent roll across the foot, followed by a very sincere “Oh! Excusezmoi!” But at least I have the courtesy to feign regret: those women would bulldoze a blind, legless invalid if he were in their path.
After living here a while, I didn’t see any reason why I should have to wait in line behind anyone else either. So I trained my eye on Romain, who’s the pro. I watched him at work, sliding between everyone waiting patiently for their onions or Camembert, and soon joined the ranks of les risquilleurs myself. I now cut in line with impunity with no regard for others. And can I tell you how much time I’ve saved? So with all the free time I seem to have now, there’s nothing to keep me from passing on my tips to others.
First off, you need to know exactly what you want to buy. When you’ve barged in front of others, it’s not the time for uncertainty. If you falter or hesitate or have a question, you’re sunk.
Knowing the vendor helps a lot. But being French, they’ll want to chat with you. Be prepared with a few quick words, but don’t go overboard. Here, the typical “Ça va?” which can translate into either “Hey!” or “How’s it going?” does nicely. The worst is if they ask you a question that requires a thoughtful response, like, “That ice cream you brought us last week was delicious. How did you make it?” or “Can you move your basket since it’s blocking all the others?”
Whether you know the person or not, be sure to fix your gaze squarely on the merchant and don’t make eye contact with anyone else. Just the vendor. If you glance at the others, like that salope you blindsided for the last bunch of radishes she was lurching toward, you may incite another international incident.
Have correct change. If you’re buying a head of lettuce and hand the fellow a fifty-euro note, you’re going to be stuck there for a few uncomfortable minutes while he rifles through his pockets, gathering and unwrinkling assorted bills and fishing for coins. You want to get in and out of there before the people in line have a chance to figure out they’ve been had.
But mostly it’s all about l’attitude. Do not for one minute think that you don’t belong in front of those other people. I mean, who do they think they are? Don’t they know that you have more important things to do than wait behind them in line?
So if you come to Paris and you want to wait your turn patiently, that’s your choice. Should you see a man barreling through the market, cutting a wide swath with a wicker basket, jangling a bunch of change in his hand, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Unless you’d prefer to have me nudging you from behind. Just don’t expect me to buy you a drink first.
TRAVERS DE PORC
PORK RIBS
MAKES 6 SERVINGS
Although you’ll often see travers de porc (pork ribs) for sale at the markets, if you see them in a restaurant, they’re rarely grilled or barbecued, the way we cook them in America. I don’t think too many restaurants here have barbeque pits, but if anyone knows of one, please let me know!
On my first day at cooking school at Lenôtre years ago, as we all sat down to eat in the cafeteria, another student (from Denmark) commented, “Aren’t you going to put ketchup on everything, like all Americans do?”
I pointed out, sarcastically, that, unlike his country, America is a large and very diverse place, and we don’t all eat the same thing.
Americans do have a reputation for being ketchup lovers, although the French seem to enjoy it, too. And now you can find big plastic bottles in French (and probably Danish) supermarkets with Old Glory waving in the background on the label.
I’m not all that enamored of ketchup myself, but it does give the ribs I roast in my oven a close-to-down-home taste. Ribs are one of the few foods you’ll see Parisians picking up and eating with their hands. Heck, I caught one licking his fingers when he thought I wasn’t looking!
⅔ cup (160 ml) soy sauce (regular or low-salt)
⅓ cup (80 ml) ketchup
8 garlic cloves, peeled and finely minced
1-inch (3-cm) piece of fresh ginger, peeled and finely minced
2 teaspoons chile powder or Asian chile paste
2 tablespoons molasses
2 tablespoons dark rum
½ cup (125 ml) orange juice
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
Freshly ground black pepper
4 pounds (2 kg) pork ribs, trimmed of excess fat, cut into 6-inch (15-cm) sections
Preheat the oven to 325°F (160°C).
In a large roasting pan, mix the soy sauce, ketchup, garlic, ginger, chile powder, molasses, rum, orange juice, mustard, and pepper.
Add the ribs and slather the marinade over both sides thoroughly. Cover and bake for 2 hours. While they’re baking, turn the ribs a few times in the marinade.
Uncover and continue to cook, turning the ribs at 15-minute intervals, for an additional 1 to 1½ hours, until the juices have reduced and thickened and the meat easily pulls away from the bones. The exact time depends on how quickly the liquid reduces and how lean the ribs are.
SERVING: Cut the racks
into individual ribs and serve.
STORAGE: Pork ribs are just as good the next day. Cut them into riblets before reheating them in a covered baking dish, making sure there’s just enough liquid to cover the bottom of the dish.
VARIATIONS: Feel free to play around with the seasonings. Add a handful of chopped fresh ginger or, a big pinch of ground allspice, or replace the orange juice with rosé or even beer.
SALADE DE CHOUX AUX CACAHUETES
PEANUT SLAW
MAKES 6 SERVINGS
Peanuts are a popular snack with drinks in cafés across Paris, but most of the peanut butter around here is found in the homes of Americans. However, Africans and Indians like it as well, and I buy jars of it up near La Chapelle, the lively Indian quarter behind the Gare du Nord.
Resist the temptation to use delicate Napa or leafy Savoy cabbage, both of which quickly get soggy from the peanut dressing. I use a mix of firm green and red cabbage, which I slice as thin as possible. Tossing the salad together at the last minute is essential to preserve the crunch of the cabbage, although the sauce can be made a few hours in advance and mixed with the cabbage and other ingredients right before serving.
¼ cup (65 g) smooth peanut butter
1 garlic clove, peeled and finely chopped
2 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon or lime juice, or more to taste 1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon water
½ cup (65 g) roasted, unsalted peanuts
1 small bunch radishes, trimmed and thinly sliced
1 carrot, peeled and coarsely shredded
The Sweet Life in Paris Page 8
