My friends David and Randal host wonderful dinner parties, with excellent food and well-chosen wines. It’s always clear they’ve spent a lot of time setting a handsome table and preparing yet another fabulous dinner the moment you walk into their Latin Quarter flat. After dinner, they invariably bring out a tray arranged with the most gorgeous French cheeses, hand-selected from the exceptional fromagerie Laurent Dubois, each at its peak, and place it in the middle of the table. Oh la la!
After a recent dinner, as usual, out came a big, wide platter. On it was a sublime, oozing-ripe Camembert de Normandie wafting its sweet barnyard fragrance in my direction. Next to it was a squat, ash-rubbed cushion of chèvre, its snow-white creaminess peeking through the gray smudges blanketing the surface. I couldn’t wait to lop off a slab of the nutty Comté, a top cheese in my book, made from cows who’ve spent their days leisurely grazing their way across mountains in the Jura. And to complete the picture of perfection, there was a wedge of cave-ripened Roquefort, mottled throughout with its much-revered fuzzy green mold. All were simply arranged on a cheese board, as they should be. No fruit or leaves or anything superfluous: just cheeses presented in their exquisite perfection.
I actually gasped when the platter was put before us. Everyone around the table fell silent to inhale the aromas, savoring the moment of being in the presence of perhaps the ripest, most perfect specimens of cheese available anywhere in the world. Then the calm was broken. With self-assurance, a guest visiting from New York grabbed the lead—and the cheese knife. “Here, I’ll make this easier,” he announced.
Making good on his promise, with a few deft strokes of the knife, he pounced on the cheeses and started hacking away, cutting them all into little cubes as if they were going to be served with frilled toothpicks at a gallery opening alongside jugs of Mountain Chablis. In a matter of moments, he’d managed to decimate what had taken several generations of cheesemakers to perfect. We all sat in stunned silence, horrified by the desecration; our cheese course was ruined.
The French have certainly taken their share of knocks over the years, but no one would dare complain about their ability to make cheese. I can’t pass a cheese shop without taking a deep whiff of the pungent air just outside the door, or craning my neck in the doorway to see what specialties on the straw-lined counters await the lucky shoppers that day. Even if I have an overload of cheeses stockpiled at home, I usually can’t resist ducking inside, and I inevitably leave with a compact little chèvre or Rocamadour, a slab of nutty Beaufort, or milky-sweet Cantal cut from a colossal wheel.
There are several fancy, very famous fromageries in Paris, but it’s hard to go wrong in any of them: any cheese shop you set foot in will carry a carefully chosen selection of specialty and regional cheeses that will blow your mind—not to mention your wallet and your arteries.
I knew I had found the right dentist when, after my first appointment, he sat me down in his office and we had an in-depth discussion, not about brushing and flossing techniques, but about French cheeses. As he talked, he jotted down a list of cheeses from the Auvergne, the region in the center of France where he was born. And at the top of that list, which he underlined twice, was a creamy Bleu de Laqueuille that he insisted I just had to try. I can’t imagine a better reason for choosing a dentist than one who’s also well versed in regional cheeses. (It doesn’t hurt that he’s movie-star handsome, either.)
Not only is it worth tasting as many cheeses as possible when in France, but it’s also crucial to learn the right way to cut them. The technique is pretty easy to figure out, and most of it is logic: you wouldn’t eat a bagel from the inside out, or slice a round birthday cake in long slabs like a ham, would you?
Here’s how to work your way around the cheese tray.
If you’re presented with a solid round cheese, like a Camembert de Normandie or a petit Reblochon, think of it as a round birthday cake (sans the sugary blue roses), and cut it similarly into triangular wedges, not lengthwise slices starting from one edge. If the cheese is particularly small, like Rocamadour, crottin de chèvre, or any that would fit in the palm of your hand, it’s permissible to cut those small rounds lengthwise, since wedges would be Lilliputian.
For cheeses you buy in wedges that are cut from a larger round, like earthy Saint-Nectaire, hearty Tomme de Savoie, or pungent Brie de Meaux, whatever you do—even if you’re getting first stab at it on a cheese platter—never lop off the pointy nez, the “nose,” of the cheese. This is considered terribly rude and arrogant. Take a lengthwise slice off the side and include a bit of the rind from the outer edge. Once again, pretend it’s a birthday cake and everyone after you should have a bit of each part. No hoarding the roses.
Large rectangular hunks of mountain cheeses, like Salers, Comté, or Cantal, can be cut in whatever way makes sense. But in general, if you’re faced with a big fat slab lying on its side, simply cut across, top to bottom, creating a rectangular bâton of cheese with a bit of the rind on both ends. Do not cut a small square out of the middle (which if I hadn’t seen another of my compatriots do, I never would have thought possible). As for the rind, it’s time to answer that perennial question: Should you or shouldn’t you eat it?
Jean D’Alos, an affineur who ripens cheese in his cool, dry caves buried deep below the city of Bordeaux, runs one of the finest cheese shops in France. “It’s easy,” he says. “There is no rule. Don’t eat the rind if it’s going to negatively affect the flavor of the cheese.”
If the rind looks dried-out, gnarly, fuzzy, or has a musty grayish-green mold—or is teeming with mites—you’re probably better off leaving it on the plate. Especially if it’s moving. Hard cheeses, like Vieille Mimolette, have firm, inedible-looking, waxy rinds that are a tough chew, and you probably want to avoid them. Ash-covered or orange-hued rinds are usually okay to eat, but if the surface resembles the forest floor, like Brin d’Amour, you should rake off the leaves and twigs.
How much to take? However much you can heap on your plate! Okay, seriously, I always find it tempting to take too much when the cheese platter lands next to me. But normal decorum dictates that during round one, you can select up to three different varieties of cheese. I’ve been known to play the “Oops. Didn’t know. Silly me!” card and take a few extras if I’m not sure I’ll get another go.
If offered, or if the platter’s left on the table, taking seconds is fine. Thirds are generally frowned upon. But please, whatever you do, don’t even think of asking for a doggie bag. Or frilled toothpicks.
SOUFFLE AU FROMAGE BLANC
FROMAGE BLANC SOUFFLE
MAKES 8 SERVINGS
I bake this stress-proof soufflé in a shallow baking dish on the upper rack of my oven, so what emerges is a vision of dark, caramelized crust, which in my opinion is the best part of any soufflé. Like the French, I like my soufflés very, very creamy in the center, erring on the side of underbaked.
If you’re timid about making a soufflé, don’t worry: this is spectacular served piping hot from the oven, but is equally good when it has settled. Served at room temperature, it becomes a cheesecake-like “cake.” When I brought a wedge of it to Leticia, the cute-as-a-button young lady who fries up crêpes at the Richard Lenoir outdoor market, she told me it was the best thing she had ever eaten in her life. Ever! And she’s had a lot of experience with desserts, let me tell you …
I made this with full-fat (20 percent) and lower-fat (8 percent) fromage blanc, and both were delicious, although for the smoothest result, I recommend the full-on version, if you can find it. If there’s no fromage blanc where you live, you can use the variation with cottage cheese and yogurt at the end of the recipe.
8 tablespoons (120 g) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus more for the baking dish
11½ tablespoons (165 g) sugar, plus more for the baking dish
Freshly grated zest of 1 lemon
3 tablespoons (25 g) cornstarch
4 large egg yolks
2 cups (480 g) fromage blanc
6 large egg whites (at room temperature)
Pinch of salt
Liberally butter a shallow 2-quart (2-L) baking dish, with sides that are at least 2 ½ inches (8 cm) high. Sprinkle a few spoonfuls of sugar inside, tilt the dish to coat the bottom and sides, then tip out any excess.
Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
Using a rubber spatula or an electric mixer with the paddle attachment, mash the very soft butter with the lemon zest and cornstarch until completely smooth. Beat in the egg yolks until smooth, then whisk in the fromage blanc.
With an electric mixer or by hand, whisk the egg whites with the salt in a clean, dry bowl (not plastic) until frothy. Increase the speed and beat until the whites begin to mound and hold their shape. While whipping, gradually add 10 tablespoons (140g) of the sugar, 1 tablespoon at a time. Once you’ve added all the sugar, beat until stiff.
Fold one-third of the beaten egg whites into the fromage blanc mixture, then fold in the remaining egg whites just until incorporated. It’s okay to have some tiny bits of white; that’s preferable to overfolding the batter.
Scrape the batter into the prepared baking dish, gently smooth the top, and sprinkle with the remaining 1½ tablespoons (25 g) of sugar.
Bake on a middle rack (or slightly higher, if possible) for 30 minutes, until the top is browned and the soufflé is just set but still very jiggly in the center if you nudge it. Depending on your oven, this may take slightly less or more time. Rather than going by strict baking times, touch the center to tell when it’s done. If you like your soufflé creamy in the middle, the center should feel rather soft, like runny pudding. If you like it more firm, you can bake it until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out pretty clean.
SERVING: Serve immediately, scooping portions onto serving plates or bowls, making sure to include some of the crunchy topping with each portion.
The tang of fromage blanc is a great pairing with summer berries. Toss some sliced strawberries, raspberries, or any stone fruits with a bit of sugar until juicy, then divide them among shallow bowls. Once the soufflé emerges from the oven, use a large spoon to rest a warm, fluffy mound of soufflé on top, making sure to give everyone a nice bit of the sugary crust.
Or serve the soufflé by itself. With a tipple of Armagnac or Chartreuse on each warm serving, it makes a pretty effortless dessert.
VARIATION: If fromage blanc isn’t available, you can make a perfect substitute by whizzing together l ½ cups (360 g) whole-milk cottage cheese (try to find one labeled “cultured”) with ½ cup (120 g) whole-milk plain yogurt in a blender or food processor until it’s as smooth as possible.
GATEAU MOKA-CHOCOLAT A LA CREME FRAICHE
MOCHA-CREME FRAICHE CAKE
MAKES 12 TO 16 SERVINGS
What’s passed off as crème fraîche elsewhere bears little resemblance to the unctuous, hyperthick cream you get in France. While the kind you can make at home isn’t bad, I urge—no, insist—that if you come to Paris, you make it a point to treat yourself to a small tub of the real deal. If you don’t like it, there’s something wrong with you. (And call me: I’ll take the rest off your hands.)
Similarly, I can’t imagine anyone not liking this cake, especially serious chocolate lovers. What you might not like is trying to get perfect, clean slices out of the pan. But don’t worry if you don’t get pristine portions: one thing I learned eating in French households is that food is meant to be enjoyed, not examined.
I sometimes serve this cake frozen, which makes it easy to slice, and a sliver is wonderful in the heat of summer with a scoop of brightly flavored Orange Sorbet (page 191), or another favorite ice cream or sorbet, melting alongside.
12 ounces (340 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped
⅔ cup (160 ml) brewed espresso (or very strong coffee)
¼ cup (60 g) Crème Fraîche (page 193)
5 large eggs, at room temperature
Pinch of coarse salt
½ cup (100 g) sugar
Lightly butter a 9-inch (23-cm) Springform pan and wrap the outside of the pan with aluminum foil, to seal it watertight. Set the cake pan inside a larger pan, such as a roasting pan, large enough to make a water bath, or bain marie.
Preheat the oven to 325°F (160°C).
Put the chocolate and the espresso in a large heatproof bowl. Set the bowl over a saucepan of simmering water, stirring gently until melted and smooth. Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature. Stir in the crème fraîche.
In a standing electric mixer, whip the eggs, salt, and sugar on high speed until they hold their shape, about 5 minutes.
Fold half of the whipped eggs into the chocolate mixture, then fold in the remaining eggs.
Scrape the batter into the prepared pan. Add warm water to the roasting pan until it reaches halfway up the outside of the Springform pan, creating a water bath.
Bake for 50 minutes to 1 hour, until the cake is slightly firm, but still feels soft in the center.
Lift the cake pan from the water bath, remove the foil, and set on a cooling rack until room temperature.
SERVING: Slide a knife along the outside edge of the cake to release it from the pan. Release the outside ring of the Springform pan.
Because the cake is delicate, I slice it with a thin, sharp knife dipped in very hot water and wiped clean before each slice. You can also cut wedges using a length of dental floss (unflavored, please), pulled taut and drawn across the diameter of the cake. This cake can be served at room temperature, chilled, or frozen with a scoop of ice cream or frozen yogurt—a great warm-weather dessert for summer—or with whipped cream and a spoonful of chocolate sauce.
NOTE: You can substitute water for the espresso in the recipe.
STORAGE: The cake will keep for up to five days at room temperature or refrigerated. If well wrapped, it will keep in the freezer for up to one month.
SORBET ORANGE
ORANGE SORBET
MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS
A simple sorbet is always welcome after dinner, either alongside a rich chocolate cake or with crisp cookies. For the best-tasting sorbet, use good juicing oranges or, if available, colorful blood oranges. In season, tangerine juice can be used instead.
2 cups (500 ml) freshly squeezed orange juice
½ cup (100 g) sugar
2 tablespoons Champagne or dry white wine, optional
Warm ½ cup (125 ml) of the orange juice with the sugar in a non-reactive saucepan, stirring until the sugar has completely dissolved.
Stir the sugar mixture into the remaining orange juice and add the Champagne, if using.
Chill thoroughly, then freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions.
SERVING: If left in the freezer, Orange Sorbet tends to chill rather firmly. Adding the wine helps prevent it from getting rock-hard, but you should remove it from the freezer five to ten minutes before serving; it’ll be easier to scoop.
VARIATION: If you don’t have an ice cream maker, you can make Orange Granita. Use just ¼ cup (50 g) of sugar, or to taste, then pour the mixture into a shallow plastic container and put it in the freezer. Scrape it with a fork several times as it’s freezing, raking it into icy crystals.
CREME FRAICHE
Cultured cream
MAKES 1 CUP (250 ML)
Obscenely thick crème fraîche is available in every fromagerie in Paris, where it’s often scooped from big earthenware bowls. This recipe makes a good approximation. Check the Resources (page 271) for producers of traditional crème fraîche in America.
1 cup (250 ml) heavy cream
1½ tablespoons buttermilk
In a clean bowl, mix the cream and buttermilk.
Cover with a tea towel or plastic wrap and store in a warm spot for 12 hours, or until thickened and slightly tangy. Refrigerate until ready to use.
STORAGE: Crème fraîche will keep in the refrigerator for up to one week.
GREVE GRIEF
Imag
ine if you were the parents of a bunch of very unruly children. And every time they misbehaved or threw a temper tantrum, you caved in and gave them whatever they wanted. Now imagine them maturing as adults. What do you think they would do whenever they wanted something? Welcome to my world.
Strikes are so well known in Paris, so part of the cultural fabric, they even have a season. In early fall, then returning later in May, the strikes and les mouvements sociaux begin to erupt on a regular basis. The general timeline is this: signs are posted warning of an intended strike or demonstration, then the protest takes place for a few hours in the afternoon (rain or shine). Shortly afterward the disaffected group meets with government officials who—as usual—cave in to the protesters’ demands, and everyone goes back to work after getting what they wanted.
The first major all-out, opened-ended grève after I moved to Paris was in November of 2007, and it lasted much longer than an afternoon. Like les bousculeurs, it was a game of playing chicken, this time with newly elected President Nicolas Sarkozy, and it was his first major challenge. He proposed changing the contracts for employees of the transit and electric and gas unions—agreements that allowed them to retire at the ripe old age of fifty, a throwback to the times when working the rails meant shoveling coal and other laborious duties. Nowadays, that argument was pretty moot—and costing France a ton of money. (While I’m sure sitting in a station selling tickets isn’t the most stimulating job, I can think of worse.)
The Sweet Life in Paris Page 18
