115012069611073055

tanti auguri a me

what’s better on one’s birthday than waking up in paris?

nothing, i say.

well, unless one is waking up on one’s birthday in paris to take an early flight back to italy, the better option might be stay another day. i’ve been on the planet for 26 years, give or take a few hours, and to celebrate, i paid a much-needed visit to the city of light over the weekend. and yes, even if parisiens live up to their reputations of unfriendliness and general contempt for non-parisiens, i still want to move there straightaway. particularly for the food.

in all honesty, i don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but there’s something about this city that pulls me into patisseries and chocolate shops, even if it’s just a half-hour before lunch (or a half-hour after). my intrepid host tom (MIHT hereafter) took me to the classic pastry shop in his neck of the 2nd, stohrer, for breakfast. i also managed to stumble into pain de sucre, a fairly recent addition to the patisserie stratosphere. no photos of the pistache-flavored calisson square or the marshmallows (chocolat, safran et piment d’espelette, gingembre et angelique) i picked up there, because they disappeared too quickly into my mouth and plus, i had to go into the

musée carnavalet, a beautiful structure (complete with idyllic garden) housing a collection detailing the history of paris (through paintings, relics, signage, etc.). highly recommended. in any case, i did manage to record my return trip to pierre hermé — if not the hordes of japanese, at least the macarons:

the second photo, of course, is of hermé’s specialty, the ispahan, a rose-, raspberry- and lychee-flavored confection and a really miraculous combination of flavors and textures. my favorite macaron is the passion fruit.

on clothilde’s advice, MIHT and i went to l’ami jean, a lovely basque bistro in the 7th:

my tongue and ears en gele, with piment d’espelette. i love aspics in summer. and tongue is one of my favorite offal cuts. come to think of it, there’s a piedmontese saying that’s fitting for cold tongue salad suspended in aspic: bon p bon fa bon (good plus good equals good).

MIHT’s pannière de cochonailles.
[MIHT’s and my exchange as we peruse the menu:
w: what do you suppose this is?
MIHT: well, cochonaille must be some pig thing.
w: right
MIHT: i don’t remember pannière.
course arrives.
MIHT and w: hm.
MIHT: ahem. i remember what pannière is. it’s ‘basket’.
w: right.]
terminology confusion aside, i loved the spicy one (though really all were very, very good, and made by the camdeborde family — see post on le comptoir tomorrow. l’ami jean’s chef, stephane jgo, is one of yves camdeborde’s protegs.). MIHT was a fan of the blood sausage.

axoa, a veal and pepper stew. much written about, but i wasn’t all that impressed. the veal was a little on the dry and stringy side. the robuchon-style pommes purées were, as always, kick-ass. (we’re talking 4:1, potato : butter here. ass-kicking and name-taking is what this baby is about.)

it’s unfortunate that my photo of MIHT’s pigeon (roasted, with lobe of foie) didn’t turn out so hot because it was one of the bestest birds i’ve ever tasted. and of course, foie gras never hurts.

my soupe de rhubarbe et fraises. a perfect, perfect dessert.

space is tight at l’ami jean, so you’re well within earshot of your neighbors. we made friend with ours:

a funny priest who lives just a hundred yards from this place (lucky dog). we had an amusing exchange with him. not sure if it was all priest-appropriate, but then again, i’m no authority on any religious practices, much less catholic ones. he’s definitely one of the most friendly parisiens i’ve come across — possibly a little too friendly in that elderly european male way. but doesn’t he look like a fun guy? even if the food here weren’t head-spinningly good, the prête would probably keep me coming back.

more on paris tomorrow. in case you were wondering why i’ve been so silent lately, there’s been too much work and not enough good eating in these parts. but i can’t complain too much: i did manage to make it out to bern with the Big Friendly Giants to see the cousin, cousin-in-law and the bears — who seem to be more docile than ever:

maybe even ridiculously so. this one has taken to rolling over on her back to more comfortably catch the fruit and veg that visitors toss down to her. she doesn’t bother straining herself if they overshoot. if it’s beyond tongue or claw, she just waits patiently for the next toss.

switzerland itself is still pretty alright looking:

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2 Responses to “115012069611073055”


  1. 1 Anonymous June 12, 2006 at 1:42 pm

    happy birthday winnie

    tim

  2. 2 Tom June 13, 2006 at 1:27 pm

    It was great to have you, Winnie. Sorry I couldn’t be your one true love to walk you by the Seine. You can’t say I didn’t try, though!

    Without further ado, however:

    I call our meal at l’Ami Jean, Father Strangelove, or How I Loved to Stop Worrying and Love Organ Meat.

    Now, I LOVE blood sausage, having lived in Ireland for a little while. All the same, other kinds of organ meat, like tongue or liver, never sang to me; I found the terrine of duck I ate at Chartier a little like cold meatloaf. But W. let me taste her beeftongue in aspic, and it was marvelous. She explained that the most used muscles of the animal, like tongue or heart or cheeks, had the most flavor. I asked, but aren’t they tough? She further explained, not really, because they’re cooked a long time or served in aspics, like this, or in soups. I was super-impressed.

    On the sausages: I too liked that red one, a sort of salami, I guess, and it had a similar texture. W. neglected to mention that the white one at right is headcheese, and while W. assured me that it was tasty, I didn’t like the texture (tough and chewy) and I couldn’t get rid of the thought that I was eating BRAIN. And maybe even PRIONS. I was still chewing when the the server popped up to remove the basket.

    It’s a shame that the photo of the pigeon didn’t make it, because it was truly delicious. Though it’s poultry, pigeon is a red meat (apart from the waiter who warned me about this, who knew?), and it tastes a little like beef but not as fatty; the partly-cooked foie gras (Holy Saint Hugh of Lincoln!) was awesome. The bird was presented removed from its ribcage and splayed, but the ribcage was on the plate all the same. W. thought that maybe I should gnaw on it a little, but really the bird was too well carved to leave much meat on the bone.

    The priest freaked me the fuck out.


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