The Sweet Life in Paris

by David Lebovitz

  The shop sits near Les Halles, an area that writer Emile Zola famously characterized as Le Ventre de Paris—the belly of Paris. For nearly a thousand years, Les Halles was the the epicenter for anything edible in France. An impressive, soaring, glass and metal structure was built in the 1850s that dominated the neighborhood. Sadly, in 1971, the market was torn down and the wholesale businesses were exiled to Rungis, a modern, soulless structure near Orly airport. And what now sits in its place smack-dab in the center of the World’s Most Beautiful City is the World’s Ugliest Building, a glass and steel monstrosity filled with chain stores, fast-food outlets, pickpockets, and loitering teenagers.

  A few cookware shops remaining in Les Halles retain the spirit of a bygone era. The ones that have managed to survive did so by conceding that a majority of their clientele are no longer professionals, who can easily order from supply houses, but out-of-town chefs and cooks. And, of course, les touristes. The most famous of these shops, and the most annoying, is E. Dehillerin, thanks to mentions from Julia Child, Martha Stewart, and Chuck Williams—whom the clerks are more than happy to quote when they see anyone vaguely American. It wasn’t so long ago that if you wanted help, you’d have to pry the salesmen away from their rigorous duties, which involved leaning against the wall and enjoying a cigarette. Or sobering up.

  Nowadays, I’m certain a commission system has been implemented, since even if I inadvertently brush my elbow against the handle of a spatula or saucepan, an ebullient salesman will race forward, pluck it off the shelf, wrap it up, then push me toward the eager cashier with a bill in hand—and they’re happy to take most major credit cards. It can all happen in a matter of seconds, before I’ve even opened my mouth to murmer, “Je regarde, s’il vous plaît”—“I’m just looking.”

  If you’re not paying attention, or are easily intimidated, you might not get off as easily as I do. Sure the stuff is great quality, and the prices (especially for copper pots) aren’t bad. But I see people exiting, loaded down with shopping bags full of stuff they’ll probably never use. More likely, it’ll end up at their garage sale the following summer accompanied by a good story about the provenance of that kite-shaped (and-sized) copper turbot poacher, those pristine scalloped-shaped baking pans for madeleines, or the gleaming set of copper cannelé molds that they fantasized plucking little eggy cakes from, just like they saw Martha do on television.

  Everything they have at G. Detou is stuff you really will use, since it’s all edible, and their clerks are on the exact opposite end of the aggression scale. Many times I’ve seen either savvy locals stocking up or adventurous cooks checking out what’s new that’s worth trying.

  One exception was the time a tour guide was bringing a group through. Eavesdropping, as usual, I felt sorry for her guests, because she didn’t know anything about the wonderful items that are stacked on the shelves. So I spoke up, mentioning that the Valrhona Manjari chocolate she had described as “some kinda French chocolate” is actually unique, because it turns a lovely reddish brown when melted and has an unconventional, lush, raisin-like character that you don’t taste in other chocolates. She stared at me and barked, “So what? Who cares?” and quickly herded her group away from the crazy man.

  But I’m not the only one crazy enough to care about those kinds of details. Since buying the shop over a decade ago, cheery owner Jean-Claude Thomas has spent the following years revamping and constantly expanding what the store carries to reflect current gastronomic trends, as well as improving his selection of traditional French standbys.

  And no one’s happier than I am, since now I can easily find top-quality couvertures from almost every chocolate maker in France, facing off in the two opposing corners of the store. In one corner are three- to five-kilo professional-size boxes of pistoles and stacks of foil-wrapped tablettes. In the other are the bars from smaller French chocolate makers like Cluizel, Weiss, Valrhona, Bonnat, and Voisin. Monsieur Thomas told me that 25 to 30 percent of his customers are professionals, but the rest of his clientele is rather varied and there’s no customer typique.

  And he’s right. The last time I was there, a frail little old lady with a cane came in, knew exactly what she wanted—three kilos of Cacao Barry white chocolate—and scurried out as quickly as she could. (Another cook-book book author on a deadline?) Soon afterward a harried gent barged in, grabbed a stack of the three-kilo bars of dark chocolate, and loudly ordered a case of pistachio paste and a container of rose paste, all the while trading barbs with the salesman and carrying on a frenzied cell phone discussion while his car engine was humming impatiently just outside.

  In another part of the store were two Japanese women, huddled together, oohing and aahing at everything with their hands covering their mouths. By the window, a man who was intently scrutinizing the shelf of teas almost bouscule’d me, so focused was he on finding the right one among all the elaborate Russian tins.

  Aside from the chocolate shelves, which I always visit first, you’ll find top-quality candied citrus peels (not the icky green kinds); hand-peeled fruits lolling around in jars of light syrup; artisanal horseradish (who knew there was such a thing?); tins of Breton-packed tuna studded with prunes, coconut, lime, and smoked peppers; true Dijon mustard and spicy mustard oil from Edmond Fallot; and a whole shelf of unpronounceable additives for molecular gastronomy, a movement that still mystifies me—didn’t we just spend the past decade trying to get all that stuff taken out of our food?

  Anyone in need of unsweetened cranberry juice will find it here, as well as electric-green Sicilian pistachios, Trablit coffee extract, lifetime-lasting bags of Venezuelan cocoa nibs (they’re a deal, but find someone to split one with—unless you’re planning to start your own chocolate factory), Worcestershire sauce (which my French friends find amusing, since neither of us can pronounce it), honest-to-goodness chocolate chips (which I almost cried upon finding), candied cumin seeds (you can keep those—I have a few bad dessert memories involving cumin), and everyone’s favorite: cans of stuffed duck necks. And much to the delight of Americans, they have nonstick spray, albeit labeled “for professional use only,” which made me realize why French home cooks have never heard of it: the professionals here are hogging it all for themselves. And yes, there are tubs of the elusive glucose.

  When Monsieur Thomas took ownership of the shop, he started replacing the decades of dust on the shelves with French specialties like precious candied flowers from Toulouse and single-origin chocolates. He also kept track of cooking and baking trends by befriending Parisian chefs and began stocking unusual foodstuffs from other countries that the young renegades were looking for, including maple sugar and pecans, which have since become très branchés among the trendy hobo (bourgeois bohemian) crowd. And of course, are popular with certain Americans, too.

  When I started shopping at G. Detou, the clerks eyed me with curiosity. I’d pop in, peruse the shelves, maybe ask a few questions about chocolate, pick out a box to buy, and split. After a while, I’d start weaving into my questions hints about what I did, which I’d season with technical questions, trying to show off a little, so they wouldn’t just foist any old product on me. Most specialty stores in France will insist on selling you the better product if you show some inkling of interest or knowledge about it, because the clerks in these kinds of shops are professionals, not minimum-wage employees, and they make it their business to really know their stuff. I learned my lesson here when my Yankee thrift (a gift from my grandmother) once induced me to buy the inexpensive chocolate that’s stored on the highest shelf possible, waving off their warning that it wasn’t very good. And it wasn’t. I suppose they stock it just to remain true to their mission to have everything, but paradoxically, keep it sufficiently out of reach to discourage customers from buying it.

  It didn’t take long for them to take a shine to me. Not only did I become a good customer, but I brought them brownies and copies of my books, and the French devour books like Americans wolf down brownies. In a nation
of readers, writers are revered in France like pro football players are in America. And if you write about chocolate and ice cream, and make killer brownies, you’re like the one who scored the winning field goal for the home team.

  One day Monsieur Thomas lifted the rope tagged RESERVE: Accès limité au personnel, and we slipped underneath and headed to the backroom, where they keep their special ingredients hidden away for extra-discerning Parisian chefs and bakers. The wooden shelves were as neat as a pin and well organized, everything in easy reach. I made a mental note that when I got home I was going to completely reorganize my shelves of ingredients, too. (Which I haven’t done yet but I swear I’m getting around to.)

  We poked around and he showed me things like burlap bags of heavenly smelling roasted cocoa beans, which I like to nibble on just as is, carefully laid-out boxes of delicate candied violets, and a few others things he told me he’d prefer that I not talk about. We chef types are entitled to keep a few secrets to ourselves, non?

  But what really thrilled me was when he asked me if I’d like to visit la cave downstairs, motioning to a staircase that led into dense darkness. It was somewhere he told me outsiders never get to see. Wanting to see it all, of course I said, “Mais oui!”

  When we reached the bottom of a series of time-worn stone steps, he switched on a light and I gazed upward, reeling backward at the sight of magnificent stone arches and tunnel-like passageways leading off in various directions. “Wow!” was the first word out of my mouth and about all I could say for the next few minutes over and over again, like the village idiot. An idiot in awe. “Wow … wow … wow …”

  As we walked around in near darkness, I was half expecting to trip over a few skeletons, like the ones resting in peace over in les catacombes. I ran my hands over the massive stonework, which he said were ancient fortification walls from when Paris was thirty feet or so lower than it is today. As with other ancient cities, buildings had simply been constructed one on top of the other over time, but who knew the little shop where I foraged around for chocolate, dried fruits, honey, and almonds sat atop such history?

  Sadly, there wasn’t much down there in terms of baking goods. Monsieur Thomas told me since it was so damp, he couldn’t keep anything edible there. We walked around for a few minutes and I kept running my hands over the walls, which felt cool and damp, until I was satisfied that I’d really seen it all.

  Now that I’ve seen everything they’ve got, from top to bottom, I can confirm that G. Detou certainly lives up to its name and has everything I could ever want. My fantasy is to move in permanently and spend the rest of eternity sampling French chocolate and candies there, until my time has come. If I did, I wonder what people would think a few hundred years from now, when they came across a skeleton in the basement clutching an empty burlap sack and a small plastic bucket of glucose. But should I get a proper burial down there, I suggest my tombstone read, “He Got Everything.”

  MADELEINES AU CITRON

  LEMON-GLAZED MADELEINES

  MAKES 24 INDIVIDUAL CAKES

  In spite of what Proust implied, I don’t think the original little cakes had much of a hump, but merely a gentle curve. Somewhere along the line, a bit of baking powder was added, and voilà—a phenomenon was born. If you’re one of those people who must have a large hump, note that I’ve included baking powder in my recipe. While purists may insist it isn’t traditional, one could also make the argument that it’s also not traditional for bakers to purchase eggs or buy flour—traditionally, people used to raise chickens and grow their own wheat. At some point, a lazy baker broke down and bought his eggs and flour from someone else, and ruined the entire system of traditional baking. Since it’s already been ruined, you can comfortably add baking powder.

  I bought my madeleine molds, the nonstick ones, at MORA. You still need to butter them, though, making sure you hit every little nook and crevice. I also found that it’s best to place nonstick pans on an upper oven rack so both sides bake evenly, since their darker metal attracts heat to the bottom.

  If you’re one of those people who end up selling those pans at your next garage sale, I invite you to enjoy your madeleines in Paris instead. The most perfect ones I’ve found are at Blé Sucré, an excellent little bakery overlooking a gorgeous square in the twelfth arrondissement. Fabrice Le Bourdat turns out the loveliest, most delicious madeleines I’ve ever tasted, which prompted me to come up with my own version. To ensure each little cake is just as moist as his, I swathe each with a puckery lemon glaze.

  For the madelaines

  9 tablespoons (135 g) unsalted butter, melted and cooled to room temperature, plus additional melted butter for preparing the molds

  3 large eggs, at room temperature

  ⅔ cup (130 g) granulated sugar

  Rounded 1/8 teaspoon salt

  1 ¼ cups (175 g) flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder (preferably aluminum-free) Crated zest of 1 small lemon, preferably unsprayed

  ¾ cup (105 g) powdered sugar

  For the lemon glaze

  1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice

  2 tablespoons water

  To make the madeleines, brush the indentations of a madeleine mold with melted butter. Dust with flour, tap off any excess, and place in the freezer.

  In the bowl of a standing electric mixer, whip the eggs, granulated sugar, and salt for 5 minutes, until frothy and thickened.

  Spoon the flour and baking powder into a sifter or mesh strainer and use a spatula to fold in the flour as you sift it over the batter. (Rest the bowl on a damp towel to help steady it.)

  Add the lemon zest to the cooled butter, then dribble the butter into the batter, a few spoonfuls at a time, while simultaneously folding to incorporate it. Fold just until all the butter is incorporated.

  Cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least 1 hour. (Batter can be chilled for up to 12 hours.)

  To bake the madeleines, preheat the oven to 425°F (210°C).

  Using two teaspoons, plop an amount of batter in the center of each indentation that you think will expand to the top of the mold once the heat of the oven spreads it out. (You’ll have to eyeball it, but it’s not brain surgery, so don’t worry if you’re not exact.) Leave the dough in a mound; do not spread it.

  Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until the cakes feel springy and just set. While the cakes are baking, make a glaze in a small mixing bowl by stirring the powdered sugar, lemon juice, and 2 tablespoons water until smooth.

  Remove the madeleines from the oven and tilt them out onto a cooling rack. The moment they’re cool enough to handle, dip the cakes in the glaze, turning them over to make sure both sides are coated. Scrape off any excess with a dull knife. After dipping, set each one back on the rack, scalloped side up, letting the cakes cool until the glaze has firmed up.

  STORAGE: Glazed madeleines are best left uncovered and are at their peak eaten the day they’re made (which is not too difficult). They can be kept in an airtight container for up to three days after baking, if necessary. I don’t recommend freezing them since the glaze will melt, but the unglazed cakes can be frozen in freezer bags for up to one month.

  VARIATIONS: For orange-glazed madeleines, substitute orange zest for the lemon zest, and for the glaze, use 3 tablespoons freshly squeezed orange juice in place of the lemon juice and water.

  For green tea madeleines, sift 2 ½ teaspoons of green tea powder (matcha) with the flour. Omit the lemon zest and add a few swipes of orange zest instead.

  For chocolate chip madeleines, omit the lemon zest and stir 2 to 3 tablespoons cocoa nibs or chocolate minichips into the batter. Omit the glaze.

  NOTE: If you have only one madeleine mold (you obviously didn’t buy it at E. Dehillerin, where the guys would have talked you into buying two), bake one batch of cakes first. After you tip them out, wipe the mold well with a dishtowel, then rebutter. Freeze the mold for five minutes, then bake the remaining batter.

  GUIMAUVE CHOCOLAT COCO

 
CHOCOLATE-COCONUT MARSHMALLOWS

  MAKES 36 MARSHMALLOWS

  In France, you’ll find marshmallows sold in long ropelike strands, not just in pastry shops, but in some pharmacies as well. The extract of the mallow plant is considered a remedy for respiratory disorders; the idea behind the long strands of marshmallows, or guimauves, is that the pharmacist will snip off a piece so you can “take your medicine.” If this seems odd to you, think about those sweetened vitamins, candied cough syrups, and chocolate-flavored laxatives. For my money, I’ll take marshmallows over any of them. (Although I do like that orange-flavored children’s aspirin quite a bit.)

  On the rue Rambuteau, a street that cuts through the Marais, is Pain de Sucre. It’s not a drugstore, but arguably the best pastry shop in the quarter. In the window rest several glass apothecary jars filled with marshmallows of various flavors: angelica, olive oil, lemon verbena, chicory, rose, and saffron, all crafted by chef Didier Mathray. I haven’t tried them all—yet. But my favorites, so far, are the pillowy-soft chocolate ones tossed in shredded coconut.

  I’m not entirely convinced that marshmallows are the cure for what ails you. But I don’t want to take any risks with my health, so I make sure they’re part of my weekly regimen—just in case.

  ⅓ cup (80 ml) cold water, plus 6 tablespoons (95 ml) for the gelatin

  2 envelopes (15 g) of gelatin

  1 cup (200 g) sugar

  ⅓ cup (100 g) light corn syrup

  3 large egg whites

  Pinch of coarse salt

  6 tablespoons (50 g) unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder, sifted if lumpy

  1 cup (80 g) unsweetened grated coconut