The Truth about Parisian Markets

The open air market is one of the fixtures of Parisian life.  Everyone has their favorite market (even if it's not the one in their quartier) and everyone also has their favorite vendors.  And even if you don't do all or even half your food shopping there, it's hard not to love them for their visual wow.  The fruit!  The flowers!  The fish!  The veggies!   I take all my visitors to the market and truly, it never fails to impress.

But here's the deal folks.  With all the talk about reducing our carbon footprint, eating locally, and eating what it's in season, it's important to recognize that Parisian markets are not necessarily models for this type of behavior.  Most importantly, most Parisian markets are NOT farmers' markets.  Take a look at the country of origin (a required label) here:

What's on offer at the market may often be better than what's available at the supermarket.  But that's not because the vendor raised it himself.  He may just have good connections at Rungis, the vast wholesale food market on the outskirts of Paris.   So, if you want to buy local produce, you need to look for a vendor marked "producteur."

Paris food writer Phyllis Flick has written a long and thoughtful post on how to eat locally in Paris and if that's your goal, I suggest you take the time to read what she has to say.   Personally I'm not quite ready to go completely local (what, no more mangos unless I move to the tropics?!) but at least I'm doing my buying with my eyes wide open.

Strawberries for the Jet Set

It's officially strawberry season in France and these ads for the highly prized gariguette variety from the town of Plougastel in Brittany are everywhere in the metro.  (That's a traditional Breton bonnet on the strawberry.)  You will pay 20 euros or more per kilo for these babies., and I can tell you that I am far too cheap to be able to tell you whether they're worth the premium.  Those less serious about their fruit can pay in the neighborhood of 1 to 3 euros per box (about a quart) depending upon the part of town where you make your purchase.  And believe me, those are still pretty darn good.

Big Box

Americans tend to imagine France as that fairy tale place where people still do their shopping at the butcher, the baker, and the greengrocer.  And while in Paris, you can still do that if you choose, increasingly in places where there is room to build (both for the retail space itself and for parking), the big box store has become king.  (Actually French chain Carrefour started the big box phenomenon even before Walmart and now ranks no. 2 worldwide in profits behind the U.S. retail giant.)  And the American penchant for valuing low prices and quantity above quality seems to have taken hold as well.  The slogan for this store (which I photographed in Rochefort during our recent family biking vacation) is "the more I buy, the cheaper it is."  My younger child independently pointed out to me the fallacy of this statement.  My work as a parent is done.

When Life Gives You Lemons

Over the past four years, there have been any number of times when I have been fed up with this country and ready to hop on the first plane back home.  Someone sneering at my French, lousy customer service, and bad weather were just a few of the things that set me off.  But it's been a long time since I've had that feeling.  Is it because I know I'm already heading home so I'm willing to forgive the little things?  Or is that I've just become so acclimated to how things work that I just shrug and go on, knowing that getting frustrated serves no purpose?

Twice recently, someone cut in front of me in line, one time at the corner market, another time at the open air market and both times, I just let it go.  I have the French skills to make a fuss if I want to but I just couldn't summon the energy to do so.  And both times, the person standing behind me in line was insistent that I say something and prevent this grave injustice from occurring.  The first time, I actually said to the lady behind me that being American, I felt it more polite to rest neutral rather than call the offender out.  And believe it or not, she actually got a chuckle out of that.

All that being said, my skin is not made of steel.  Yesterday, I carefully assessed the lines for home delivery at the big supermarket.  Three registers were open and since you have to pay at least 100 euros to get delivery, most of the shoppers' carts were overflowing.  I contemplated and made my choice, only to have an overtanned lady, who had clearly had too much cosmetic surgery and probably spent more money on her hand bag than I spend on my entire wardrobe in a year, butt in front of me because she realized the line she was in only took cash.  I was all geared up to give it to her but she turned her head and studiously ignored me for the rest of the transaction.   And that's what pissed me off even more.  She knew she was in the wrong but her own self importance justified the action.

Okay, so this incident is not making me change my travel plans.   But it's a good reminder that life in Paris is not as candy coated as I may some day remember it to be.  And woe to the next person who tries to sneak ahead of me in line.  You can expect my cart on your heels and a good tongue lashing to boot.

Never a Dull Moment

You never know what's waiting for you when you head out the front door in the morning.  Yesterday, I saw:

A cherry tree in full bloom inside the courtyard of the Petit Palais.  No, spring has not progressed this far citywide.  My guess is that it's a good 10 degrees warmer inside the courtyard than elsewhere.  And if you haven't visited the Petit Palais, put it on your list.  The collection is a bit of mish mash but there are some amazing pieces.  Plus it's free.

Poulet de Bresse for sale at the butcher shop.  For 24 euros a kilo, you get to pay for the feet too.  But that is some fine chicken.

A fine equestrian show along the quai des Célestins by la Garde républicaine, I'm assuming as part of the ceremonies related to South African President Jacob Zuma's state visit.

All in all, not a bad day.

Scary

I'll admit it.  I am a complete chicken about certain things in life, especially those involving potential body sacrifice, such as sky diving, scuba diving, bungee jumping, and fast drivers on mountain roads that lack guardrails.   Now other things that some folks find equally scary -- like speaking before a group of 300 people -- don't phase me in the least.

Since coming to Paris, however, I've found a whole new class of scary situations, for example, clothing boutiques that have only about ten items displayed on hangars and several pint sized Parisiennes just waiting to see what my very American sized body might fit into.  Or realizing mid sentence that I have no idea the correct gender of the noun I'm about to use and I've only got a 50 percent chance of getting it right.

Recently, I set out to make a German chocolate cake for my husband's birthday and the recipe in the Joy of Cooking called for sweetened chocolate.   I didn't think twice, set out for the supermarket to stock up on flour, sugar, eggs, and chocolate, only to be confronted with this:

Now that is scary. 

When I melted the chocolate, it was clear from the gloppy mess, that I had picked the wrong type.  No problem, I beat that chocolate into submission, whipped it into the cake, and voila!  It came out just fine.

Even though I still have no idea what I should be looking for when it comes to "sweetened chocolate", I suppose I learned how to conquer my fears.  Should I take up sky diving next?

Eggs, Milk, Laundry Detergent, Champagne

I don't know about where you live but there sure as shooting ain't no champagne in my neighborhood grocery store in DC.  Well to be fair, the liquor laws don't allow sales in the supermarket.  Even if they did, I don't think they'd have a big honking display of Veuve Cliquot right there next to the bacon and the packaged salads.  For the record, I did not stock up.  Yet I somehow was able to spend 60 euros and I still don't have anything in the cupboard for dinner tonight.

Topinambours

It's midwinter at the marché.  Although you can still find strawberries, grapes, and figs, it's certainly not the season for them.  You'll pay a pretty penny plus have the guilty conscience of knowing that they've had to be shipped and trucked long distances, using plenty of fossil fuels, to get to you.  If you're trying to eat locally, then your shopping list will likely have a lot of root vegetables, including topinambours, otherwise known as Jerusalem artichokes or sunchokes.

Jerusalem artichokes are native to the Americas, brought to France in the 17th century by the great explorer Samuel Champlain.  I'm told that the older generation stays as far away from these as possible.  During the war years, when food was scarce and people were hungry, root vegetables were a staple, day after day.  Worse, the occupying Germans took all the potatoes.  Once the privations finally came to an end and the variety of fruits and vegetables available diversified, some of these folks decided that they had had quite enough topinambours, parsnips, turnips, and rutabagas for one lifetime.  These vegetables are only now becoming popular again.

As for me, I had my first taste of topinambours this week in three variations, one boiled and then fried up with bacon and onions, tossed with leafy greens, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar; the second being raw, sliced paper thin and paired with arugula and a citrus dressing.   The third dish was served up for dessert at a chi chi neo bistro in the 2nd, covered with a cloud of whipped cream and dusted with chocolate and hazelnuts.  Thumbs up for the salads.  Nice try but no cigar for the dessert.



Points for creativity and presentation; regrettably none for taste



The Corner Store

I have a love-hate relationship with our corner store.  I absolutely love the convenience of having a mini supermarket just two steps from our front door.  When I'm lacking a lemon or onion mid-recipe, it's no problem to turn off the stove, and run down there, or better yet, send one of my kids with a few euros.  And when we're running low on eggs or butter, or I realize that someone ate up all the leftovers that I was planning on serving for dinner, I can swing by on my way home from wherever and be in and out of there in two seconds flat.   When it comes to about 80 percent of my every day needs -- pasta, rice, milk, orange juice, broccoli, coffee, jam, bananas and apples, cereal, canned tomatoes, laundry detergent, toilet paper, to name a few -- I can pretty much always rely on finding it there.  Plus since the one super grouchy cashier seems to have left, the folks who work there are generally helpful and the new ones don't have the obsession with correct change I encounter elsewhere.

No, I can't actually get my caddie through that space. 

Use the next aisle, you say? 

That would be the one that was completely blocked.

BUT (and you knew there was one of those coming), there are certain things that are inexplicably lacking -- lemon yogurt, red onions, mozzarella you can put on a pizza, brown sugar, type 65 flour.  It's this inability to finish off my shopping list for what I consider pretty normal, everyday items that absolutely drives me to distraction.  We're not talking fresh bread or vegetables straight from the farm.  I mean staples, people. And while I appreciate the industriousness of the store's employees in their efforts to keep the shelves continually stocked, sometimes the restocking makes it impossible to actually shop. 

Love or hate, I have to admit it always keeps me entertained.  When I popped in one day last week, there was a pigeon loose in the store and a somewhat agitated woman in her 60s with a giant goose egg of a bruise over her left eye being interrogated by our friendly neighborhood pompiers.  The week before, I was amused by an elderly lady in a fur coat who asked for free delivery even though she had only about 20 euros worth of merchandise.  When the checker very calmly and respectfully explained that free delivery was only available for those spending 100 euros, she snapped at him, "well I always give a good tip to the boy who brings it up."

And love or hate, you can pretty much bank on my being there at least once a day, or if I'm lucky, just five times a week.  And darn it, I just realized there's not enough milk for breakfast.  Better grab my coat and head on down.

Spices and Things

I don't live anywhere near rue Montorgueil but in my continuing quest to find the ingredients I need for the dishes I like, I've found myself there on a number of occasions recently.  You could call it "eat street" as there are half a dozen wonderful spots there -- a great Italian traiteur, the famed Stohrer bakery, and quite a few others.  My favorite at the moment is Agha, where the spices are hot and the service is warm. (Which is more than I can say for the fancy culinary shop Bovida just two steps from there where the fellow at the register said he'd never heard of Chinese five spice powder.) The proprietor assumed I was Brazilian (no clue why) but when I corrected him, he proudly pointed to the postcard of President Obama taped to his cash register.   That sealed the deal for me; next time I'm out of curry powder, I know exactly where I'm headed.

Agha
21 rue Montorgueil
Open Monday through Sunday from 7 am to 10 pm (but you might want to call ahead just to be sure  01 42 33 72 39)

Sweet Potato Follies

My quest to put on a proper American Thanksgiving for our Belgian friends Saturday evening had me close to questioning my sanity.  No, it wasn't trying to find the cranberries (I had a bag frozen left over from last year -- and yes, they do keep a year -- plus supplements from Picard).  And it wasn't even looking for pureed pumpkin.  Pumpkin pie is not one of my favorites and I've scotched it from our Turkey Day menu.  No, it was the pursuit of sweet potatoes that had me pulling out my hair.

I'd bought sweet potatoes at our neighborhood supermarket last year but they'd cost a bloody fortune.  This time, I told myself, I do it the right way.  I got on the Métro with my big shopping bag and headed for the Barbès market near Gare du Nord.  It's a neighborhood a bit rough around the edges but I'd figured somewhere in that polyglot of North Africans, South Indians, and others, I'd probably get lucky. 

From first apppearances, it went well.  I found a cheerful fellow who sold me a big sack of sweet potatoes, plus celery, onions, parsley for my stuffing, four big white baking potatoes, and few oranges for the cranberry sauce, and it all set me back less than 10 euros.  My bag was stuffed and it was time to head home.  Of course, there was the little matter of pushing through the crowds back into the Métro station but it all worked out okay.

That is, until I got home, and roasted up one test potato.  Uh oh.  When I split open the potato to scoop out the insides, it wasn't orange and it sure wasn't moist.  It was white and crumbly with a starchy taste only mildly resembling my Thanksgiving favorite.  It may have been a sweet potato but it sure wasn't the right kind.

I figured I'd put those aside for home consumption and find replacements elsewhere.  The next day, other errands took me in the direction of the Marché d'Aligre in the 12th.  I found a fellow selling what looked like sweet potatoes.  I asked him what color they were under the skin and when he said, "pink."  I thought, "sold."  And then started the dance that I really dislike about the open air market -- dealing with vendors who won't let you touch their wares and who have different ideas than your own.   He asked me how many guests and then started piling the potatoes high in the sack.  When I protested and said it was too much, he got all huffy.  Then he wanted to sell me 2 kilos of clementines.  When I said, I'd take one, he got huffier still.  I paid and made my get away.

The next day, I took the potatoes out of the sack to roast them.  There were already rotten bits -- I cut away as much as one-quarter of what I'd bought.  And then an hour later, when I took them out of the oven, it was pretty clear that about half of what I'd cooked was bad.  It wasn't orange; it was black and nasty.   I was grossed out, angry, and not surprisingly a little deflated.

Saturday morning was my last chance.  I did what I should have done in the first place.  I went to the little corner market where the prices are high but there they were:  a big box of healthy looking sweet potatoes (pink under the skin) marked "Origine: Israël."  Even better, on my way to the market, what did I find but a five euro bill on the sidewalk.  It didn't fully cover the costs of my sweet potato misadventures but it sure took out the sting.

All's well that ends well.  The last bunch roasted up beautifully.  Scooped from their skins, mashed and mixed with a bit of lime juice, they were a hit with our guests.  Lesson learned?  Always check under the hood before buying.  Never ever  buy from vendors who won't let you pick your own produce.  And despite the perception that the best produce comes from the open air market, sometimes a supermarket is just the ticket.

Foraging

French cuisine gets major points for finesse and delicacy.  What it lacks, however, is a certain spirit of adventure.  And while I don't like to complain, I have to admit that after awhile, a constant diet of thyme, oregano, salt and pepper, lemon, and creme fraiche kind of wears on you.  But if you're looking for any of the following, better strap on your running shoes and stock up on metro tickets.

• scallions
• chipotle salsa
• lemongrass
• chili peppers, dried and fresh
• molasses
• Fontina
• jicama
• brown sugar
• chili powder
• ground cloves
• mango chutney
• mustard seeds
• wonton wrappers
• black beans
• peanut butter
• pickled beets
• sweet potatoes
• orzo
• blueberries
• bulgur
• pomegranate juice
• anchovies

 All of these items, old friends called for by the stained and tattered 3 x 5 cards in my recipe box , are available in Paris.  But while finding them in DC was a snap,  they're not all in the corner market here nor even necessarily in the open air market in my quartier.   So if you're planning a meal with hints of Latin America, the Far East, or India, better plan ahead and make sure you have time to get to the 10th, 13th, 15th, 19th, or other ethnic market in an arrondissement other than your own.   And since that's not in the cards for me today (especially since it's both Monday -- a day when many food shops are closed -- and a holiday to boot), I'm thinking it will be either onion soup or roasted chicken for dinner tonight, once again.  Although honestly, that's not such a bad second choice after all.

Ethnic Eats

I've got a stack of Paris guidebooks on the shelf, some acquired in the giddy months between the news that my husband had actually landed the job in Paris and our arrival, others left to us by departing expats, and still others that I've picked up or been gifted along the way. But none has been as much my faithful companion in the exploration of Paris as this cookbook. Written for North American cooks (using cups and teaspoons for measurement), it's divided into sections for each of regions that has large immigrant groups living in Paris: the Maghreb (Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia), southeast Asia, west Africa and the Caribbean, and the Middle East. Plus there's a section on Japan, not so much because of the huge number of Japanese immigrants here but due to the mutual France-Japan lovefest.

The recipes are interspersed with cute illustrations and plenty of sidebars with both the stories of immigrants who've made their careers in the food business and recommendations for ethnic groceries and restaurants. Want to make that lamb with ras el hanout? Better check out the list of spice shops on p. 49. Got a hankering for bahn mi? Head to Thieng Heng on avenue d'Ivry in the 13th.

It's colorful, inviting, and needless to say delicious. Vietnamese bo bun is now one of my kids' all-time favorite meals and the carrot salad with orange flower water has become one of my staples. Realizing these recipes demands that I leave the confines of my comfortable quartier and head off to the unknown. And you know what? Just like how food cooked outdoors when you're camping always tastes better than if you had prepared it at home, the dishes I've cooked from Ethnic Paris resonate with the sights and smells of my forays around town.

A thousand thanks to my dear friend Lauren who gave me the book as a hostess gift when she visited back in early 2008. Time for another visit!

Americana

So sad. This is what goes for "American foods" in our local supermarket. Of course, the Mexican aisle is mostly Old El Paso products and the Asian section has lots of soy sauce and instant noodles. So I suppose we're in good company in this reductionist vision of our national cuisine. (Not that I really have anything against Oreos or Pepperidge Farm cookies. Even a marshmallow straight from the campfire is pretty tasty every now and then.) Now if they could just figure out how to stock barbecue, Maine lobsters and blueberries, Southern biscuits, freshly picked corn on the cob, hot from the oven bagels, and a nice Wisconsin cheddar, we'd be in business. For the moment, I'll just pass this aisle and keep on shopping.

Grocery List

No dryer sheets or lemon yogurt in Franprix. No type 55 flour or printer/copier paper in Casino, thus requiring a trip to Monoprix, also the only place in the neighborhood that stocks the Poilâne rye with raisins. No Rice Krispies anywhere except Auchan, 25 minutes on the metro and a hike through a huge shopping mall away. No vacuum cleaner bags without a separate visit to the droguerie. And I still have to get bread, go to Picard, and find a replacement bulb for the chandelier in the dining room.

Grocery shopping used to be so easy. One trip to Safeway once a week and I was done. Pick up the dry cleaning, you say? Maybe I'll have time tomorrow.

Carte du Vin

The juice box packaging on this serving of cabernet cracks me up. When I saw it in the corner market, I just couldn't resist putting it in my caddie. Plus it was only 1.20 euros, about the same price as the cheapest bottles which are the lunchtime choice of painters, plasterers, plumbers, and other workers in the neighborhood. Not sure I'm brave enough to drink it though. Of course, I could say the same for that box of fruit juice on the left.

In Praise of the Fig

It's the season for fresh figs, something I had eaten before I came to France, but had never seen in such abundance until now. Let me just say that the fresh fig is a wondrous thing; you can eat it at any time of day, savory or sweet, cooked or raw. It's always delicious and not at all like the figs you know from Fig Newtons.

At a recent welcome event at my kids' school, the Europeans were all clamoring for the figs being served with a selection of French cheeses and most of the Americans were recoiling a bit, nervous as to just what they might be. (Although in their defense, the Koreans were even more concerned, mostly huddled in the corner, not sure whether they wanted to try any of it.) "It's a fig," I said, picking up a quartered beauty and popping it in my mouth. "You can eat the whole thing, skin and all." As the French say, "miam, miam."

Fresh Fall Fruit

Tis the season for plums: green, yellow, and purple. They're just delicious, the little ones perfect for popping in your mouth whole, the bigger ones just the right size for a snack at any time of day.

But what may I ask is the right price to pay for these beauties? There seems to be no consensus at the market and no way for me to determine the best relationship between quality and price. Chicken that I am, I took the middle price point and wasn't sorry.

25 Things I Find Somewhat Annoying About Paris

Enough of Pollyanna. I've got a few bones to pick.

1. Dog droppings on the sidewalk
2. Too many smokers
3. Lack of customer service
4. Gray skies, day after day after day
5. The layout in the supermarket
6. People who respond to my lame French with blank stares
7. Impatient drivers
8. Crazy motorcyclists
9. People who ride their Velibs on the sidewalk
10. The fact that you have to actually go to the bank (and only the branch where you opened your account) to order more checks
11. Clerks who ask for exact change
12. Bagging your own groceries
13. The fact that my home phone only rings for 10 seconds before sending the call to voice mail
14. High prices
15. No canned black beans, dental floss or decent salsa
16. Litter
17. Lack of understanding of how to form and stand in a queue
18. The SNCF web site
19. Stores not open on Sundays and sometimes Mondays
20. The plus que parfait and futur anterieur
21. Panhandlers on the subway
22. Getting "that depends" (and nothing more) as an answer to a question
23. Dogs in the grocery store
24. Restaurants that serve three course meals with no fruits or vegetables
25. Skinny women

End of rant.

25 Things I Love About Paris: #10

10. Roasted chicken straight from the butcher.

If you're planning on visiting me here in Paris, I'll tell you right now what's for dinner: poulet rôti. It's my go-to meal for visitors from home because it's delicious and sure to please even the least adventurous palate. The roasted chickens fresh from the boucherie are like none other: tender meat, crispy skin, an aroma that will knock you out, and of course, some chicken fat dribbling down your chin. Served with roasted potatoes and salad, it's a meal that's hard to beat both in terms of taste and ease of preparation.

On the closest market street, there are two competing butchers selling roasted chicken. We've tried both but haven't come to a household consensus on which is better. On one thing, we're definitely agreed: more poulet rôti please!