The Sweet Life in Paris

by David Lebovitz

  The second thing that is that you need to know how to move in a kitchen. That’s how I got my first restaurant job in college. I had no experience, but the head chef said I knew how to move. And I got hired.

  And last, you must have the willingness to do anything. I can’t tell you how many interns I trained who rolled their eyes when I asked them to juice a case of lemons or pit a flat of cherries. You would have thought I asked them to clean the bottom of my work shoes with their tongues. At Chez Panisse, even Alice and the head chefs take out the garbage, and in a restaurant kitchen, if you’re above doing any sort of work (except cleaning squid, of course) you’re not part of the team.

  As I started working at the fish market, I realized it had been at least twenty years since I had tackled a new job. Working at home by myself, I’d forgotten that feeling of inadequacy and having to prove myself as “the new guy.” So I was careful, since there’s nothing worse than messing up something big on your first day to make you feel really horrible.

  The first job they gave me was prepping a case of dorade, a task that consisted of using a jagged metal scraper to briskly rub the scales off each chubby fish, lopping off the head with scissors, slicing open the belly, and wrenching out the soggy mass of oozing organs with my hands. If you don’t think about what you’re doing, it’s fine: you just cut, slash, and yank. If you stop and think about it, you gag. Especially at 6:03 a.m.

  There’s a reason fishmongers are not called fish “butchers”—you don’t want to hack away at them. Each fillet needs to be clean and neatly trimmed. No one wants to get home and unwrap a piece of fish that looks like it’s been on the losing end of a tug-of-war with a cat.

  Once I finished cleaning the small fish, I graduated to the bigger ones, which were slapped down in front of me, making me extra-appreciative of the apron and boot combo. Aside from one whole salmon that looked like it was the victim of a serial killer with a penchant for fish that swam upstream, I didn’t do so badly. My weakness was that I wasn’t so quick, which is to be expected when dealing with something new and unfamiliar. And those fish were tricky little fellas: unlike blocks of chocolate and cups of sugar, which stay put, fish slide around as you’re working on them. Filleting one is like trying to change a tire on a moving car.

  I also learned how to shuck scallops quickly and neatly, the correct way to skin and slice an eel, the delicate art of peeling the thin skin off sole, the ease of deboning a sardine with a slip of my thumb, and how not to grimace when people inquired about squid. Which whenever I passed, I looked at longingly, imagining myself running my hands over their slippery bodies, fondling those fleshy tentacles. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  The hardest work wasn’t at the fish market, though, it was when I got home after work. (As a courtesy to others, I walked home instead of taking the Métro.) After my first day, as soon as I closed the door behind me, I dove into the bathtub for a good soak, thinking that would wash off the smell. Unfortunately, I discovered that hot water just seals in the fish essences even deeper. I tried scrubbing my hands with industrial-strength soap and holding my hands under running water while rubbing them with a stainless steel spoon, which usually works, but was no match for the powerful smell of fish.

  I was reminded of the film Atlantic City, where Susan Sarandon comes home every night, cuts a few lemons in half, then rubs them over her arms and hands while her voyeuristic neighbor (Burt Lancaster) watches lasciviously from across the way. So I followed suit. Unfortunately, all that left me with were two hands that felt as if they’d been immersed in battery acid.

  After a couple of weeks at the poissonnerie, I started to feel I was getting the hang of things and was doing a decent enough job for them to let me stay on as many weeks as I wanted. Not that it was glamorous, but being there, hanging out with guys who should have been modeling for Dolce & Gabbana, having coffee in the café with the market workers, really made me feel I was blending in with the French. Surrounded by piles of dead fish, their entrails permanently lodged underneath my fingernails, the floor slippery with sea water, and flaky, translucent scales littered in my hair and eyelashes, I somehow managed to keep stoking a warm and fuzzy glow inside for what I was doing.

  So imagine my surprise when one morning as I headed to the changing room to don my rubber boots and apron, Thiebaut took me aside and said they didn’t need me anymore. At least that’s what I think he said. He mentioned something about les droits, which in my predawn French, I believe meant something about French law, which is very strict about who works where. There’s a chance, too, that I could have been fired. But I’d like to believe it had something to do with my lack of working papers.

  Dejected, I went home and climbed back into my still-warm bed, a bit depressed. I curled up under the covers and pulled my pillow beneath my head. The only thing perking me up was that my hands smelled, well…they didn’t smell like anything.

  I thought back on one morning when I was in the shop a few minutes before we opened, alone with the fish. I had walked by a big pile of squid on ice and I suddenly plunged my hand right in and moved it around, fondling the cool, glossy heads with my fingers, trying to avoid the tentacles (I didn’t get that crazy), and in that moment, I overcame my biggest fear in the world, one I’d been dragging around all my life.

  By the next day, I didn’t feel so bad about not being asked to return. (My editor keeps crossing out “not asked to return” and replacing it with “fired,” but I’m sticking to my story.) In fact, I was a bit relieved to be fired—I mean, not asked to return—since that meant I’d no longer spend six sleepless nights of the week panicking about waking up at an ungodly hour on the seventh.

  I’m glad to have had the experience of working among some of the handsomest poissonniers in Paris, too, and I still stop by at least once a week and buy my fish from them. But I’m still going to stay away from the squid—unless no one’s looking.

  SARDINES AUX OIGNONS ET RAISINS SECS A LA MODE DE VENISE

  VENETIAN-STYLE SARDINES WITH ONIONS AND RAISINS

  MAKES 8 SERVINGS

  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.

  Vegetable oil, for frying

  ¼ cup (35 g) flour

  ¾ teaspoon coarse salt, plus more for seasoning the flour

  Freshly ground black pepper

  1 pound (450 g) cleaned fresh sardines (see Note)

  1 pound (450 g) red or white onions, peeled, halved, and thinly sliced

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  1 tablespoon turbinado or granulated sugar Big pinch of red pepper flakes

  ⅓ cup (40 g) pine nuts

  ½ cup (125 ml) white wine vinegar

  ⅓ cup (80 ml) dry white wine

  2 bay leaves

  ¼ cup (35 g) golden raisins

  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.

  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.

  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.

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

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

  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.

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

  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 b
illfolds. 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.