Griottes - Early in the Season Yet

These are griottes, a sour cherry used a lot in preserves, sauces, and chutneys for sucré-salé dishes, dishes that incorporate staid savory flavors and textures with sweet accompaniments. When combined together with just the proper level of restraint, the complimentary qualities can really heighten the enjoyment of a dish.

There are many classic combinations to choose from should you decide to try a sucré-salé dish at home.

A Gift for the Green Walnut Lady

Before we went to the market this morning

Every weekend for months now I have been meaning to drop off a bottle of vin de noix with the lady who supplied me with the nuts last year. Throughout the year she sells a variety of things from her farm in Grenoble, but her principle specialty is walnuts, they must have a large orchard of walnut trees. Mushrooms in the fall, dried nuts offered throughout the winter, various veggies coming from her garden, always asparagus in the spring.

I inquired once in the past with a man who sometimes used to work her stand about getting some green ones, and he gruffly turned me away, but it was because he didn't get it. Last year in passing I noticed that this woman had a bunch of green walnuts back behind the table in a bucket, and she was a bit taken aback when I asked oh please could I buy some. She was a bit surprised that I make vin de noix, maybe because of my accent.

I was very glad to have found them without any effort whatsoever. In years past I have gone to great effort to get the green nuts and people always made a big deal about making me meet them at some particular place or come and pick up the order under constraining circumstances. Last year's vin de noix was made with this lady's walnuts, the ones that serendipitously fell into my lap.

Next Sunday is the festival of St. Jean, which is also the day that traditionally people pick the green walnuts in Grenoble. I have been told this by several producers over the years, and I am not exactly sure why they always choose this particular weekend, except that it's always around the beginning of summer. The Festival of St. Jean always falls on the third Sunday of June. The vin de noix is an extra that comes from these green nuts.

The festival itself has its roots in the pagan celebrations surrounding the summer solstice, but in the time of Clovis, our dear Burgundian newly converted king, the pagan festivals became the festival of St. Jean the Baptist. Many a festivity takes place on this day, especially in this region, where Clovis followed his bride the Burgundian princess Clothilde into Roman Catholicism. From a more local perspective, there is also the neighborhood in the 5th arrondissement of Lyon called St. Jean, named after the cathedral there, and they always have big parties involving lots of merrymaking the third weekend of June.

This morning I put my name, address and phone number on a card and tied it to the bottle with some red string that Callan gave me before she moved to New York. I thought it would be better than just giving the lady the unmarked bottle. That's fine for friends and family, but since I am merely a a familiar face to her, I thought it might be better to idenitfy myself with the gift and let her rest assured I wasn't some kind of crazy. Loic of course thought I was being silly even for giving her a bottle to begin with, since she is not someone we socialize with. But I had been meaning to do this since winter and every time I always forgot to take a bottle with me on the way out the door to market.

Today at the market, we went to her stand where she had some cherries out, and I presented her with the wine. I told her that last year the batch had turned out particularly well, and I wanted her to have a taste of the product of her own nuts. It was such a nice moment between us, and she promised to bring me more nuts next Sunday. Loic was amazed and mused aloud on our way home, wondering why she seemed so incredibly happy to have received the bottle of vin de noix from me, in fact more incredibly happy than anyone he had ever seen at receiving a bottle of one of our home made fortified wines, ever.

I explained to him that when you show to a producer that they mean something in your life, that their product is a part of your family tradition, and show to them that you appreciate their product and come to know them through connections like this, it warms their heart. A lot.

So you know what we'll be doing next Sunday. If you want to make Vin de Noix this year, here are two recipes from my kitchen notebook, one for a liqueur, and one for a lighter aperitif drink.

Postcard from Lunch with Fran

Fran came down for lunch. She wore white and I wore black.
Lunch was omelettes containing the chopped up leftover stuffed mushrooms.
Celery root salad.
Cheese.
Dessert.

Burgundy, Part I

One idea ....

Burgundy. The Bourgogone. I used to think of heavy overly wine-laden rich floured sauces that put people to sleep. I used to think of this region as a good place to have a large bulbous glass of either wan and sugary stuff, or heavy earthy wine closed up secret and tight like a monk would encase the bones of a saint. The good ones teased me with a promise of heavenly bliss years down the line. I always had a feeling of a bit of remorse and dread that I could not ever afford to buy it once its flavors had opened up and its character had reached full majestic maturity (this was before we had the cave of course, now at least we can hope...). I believed that Burgundy was a place to have a gargantuan ladle of meaty stew, to drink young robust wine before its time and to lie down and take a nice long nap, but I was wrong.


If you do make Lyon home base for a gastronomic discovery tour, a day trip to the Burgundy is completely do-able and actually a wonderful idea. There are things to find there that depart completely from anything you'll find in in this city. One hour's drive north can take you to the heart of it. Burgundy of course would never claim to be a part of Lyon, although you might find some restaurants in the more touristy areas that feature their interpretations of Lyonnais specialties. There are other things to look for in the Bourgogne.

When I think of the English word Burgundian, history professors' lectures still linger. Of course my imagination ran wild as tales were recounted. Images marched rote through my mind in mnemonic detail on timelines. Now they are like flashbacks: Medieval armor clad knights jousting. Battles with Huns, Roman conquests, and landscapes ravaged by war and betrayal. Joan of Arc was kidnapped by the Burgundians and sold to the English to be burned at the stake. Did you know that? Thick short towers constructed in the dark ages, viciously defended by Cisterian monks and the intrigue behind little spy holes in six foot thick stone walls. Moats and draw bridges. Big breasted wet nurses lined up along their beds of hay while the mothers lined up with their own swelling bosoms along banquet tables creaking with gluttonous feasts hosted by the hordes of megalomen ready to swear their oath and take power, or die. And well of course, the cheese. But that came later. Lord, Please forgive me for my indulgences in Burgundian cheeses. Well, At least I won't get osteoporosis.

The land of Bourgogne has in fact been divided, conquored, traded, given up, fought for, granted as gifts by kid Charlemagne, sectioned off, sold, raped, tunneled through by force of the sword, and been host to long periods of mayhem and slaughter. It is a land that has been defended by its men, women, and children to the very tooth. It still is.

Aside from its land having been a geographically strategic buffer between warring factions and capitals in times of shifting boundaries and conquests, the Bourgogne in essence is the epicenter of the creation of French identity. In Burgundy the land has always been of infinite importance. The terroir. You can see this pride in Burgundian eyes today.

In the 21st century, when you go and breathe the air there and take a look around, the shadows and time lines and not so mysterious gratuitous violence in the history of this region is swept away on an early summer breeze. The historical matrix is filled out with a whole new spectrum of lightness, color, lyme and mineral rich steppes. Telling you what makes Burgundy different from the rest and how I think it does interact with Lyon may inspire you to give some real Burgundian cooking a try once you get back. It might make you think a little bit more about the wine, especially the whites, which can be surprising and beautiful.

You have to ask why so much precious stereotype has been dismissively penned over and over about the gastronomy of Burgundy region and why they can't seem to get much further than you know, those dishes. Is it that the people who wrote about didn't actually go there to write about it, or did they only speak from the voice of distant memory? Were they working on a huge work that was tiring them and in a hurry to get on down past through and to the next Michelin starred restaurant where they might be coddled and felt more appreciated and less - defended against? I haven't figured it out yet. But it won't stop me from giving Burgundy a try this summer.

In terms of research material, In French, there are a few interesting tomes that record old original cooking from the region in the ancient collections reading room at the municipal library here. I will get some inspiration from them, but the real discovery this summer will come from actual kitchens there. Hopefully I will have a chance to absorb the stories that normally hover like halos around people cooking in them.

My approach will begin with the wine and as I discover dishes that use that kind of wine, I'll ask the women who prepare them in their kitchens to show me how its done in their homes. This is the only way, really.

Next article, The White Burgundy Wines (don't worry, the food and recipes will come!)

Auvergne's Magic, Strawberries & Champagne

Photo by Lisa Annenberg, Mother of the Bride

Yesterday Loic opened the jam called Strawberry and Champagne. This prompts me to tell about who gave us the jam, and why the jar Loic opened is fitting.

Alison, my second of 8 nieces, came to France after graduating from the university with her diploma in Classical Dance and also Arts Management. She came here for dancing at the National Conservatory and teaching and learning the language. Her teaching position was placed in the Auvergne, it was to be her home base.

After the audition which basically consists of a master class,
and before she met Tom.

Anyway, Alison's job and dancing in Auvergne gave me a pretty good excuse to go out and do some research into the traditional regional cooking of a region that had me in a constant state of fascination. One typical dish, for example is the stuffed cabbage soup that originates there. I have had discussions also with chefs here in Lyon who come from the Auvergne. One striking fact is they all independently tell me without pause that the Auvergnat culinary heritage is rich precisely because it has its roots in poverty.

Being broke, as we all know, is one of the most difficult things to have to endure, and it's funny that some of the best tasting and most powerfully touching country dishes in the Auvergne were developed and transmitted through the region in times when poverty was the moving factor in creating them. Things are of course very different now, and the Auvergne of today is much more affluent. Now there are remnants: symbols, some traditions which have been embellished for touristic reasons, and icons of a certain style that existed at another time, now markers of places where one must dig deeper and send out feelers for the stories and peoples traditions that once created the food there.

Clermont Ferrand.

Imagine you go to a place and it strikes you because there is a very old emotion circulating around and through everything. For me, being in the Auvergne is like being in the back yard among a whole lot of towering trees in autumn with a rake. You get lots of leaves some pretty and colorful and some faded and grey. You rake up a big pile of them and then you lie down in the pile if only to rest, and take one in your fingers by the stem and hold it up to the sun. The veins in each leaf are like treasure maps to images and stories of that region to me. The richness of the culinary tradition is central to all of it because it is what has always brought communities and families together. There seems to be a collective memory of something tragic but also shared and joyous and a feeling that resides in your throat threatening to sweep you up that settles in when you enter certain places, something I cannot explain, and this region is one of them. It can come out in words with some coaxing and early morning channeling, I am sure of it.

The dirt there sparkles because of the volcanic soil so when you are dirty and tired you glow and sparkle. (do you remember, Alison?) There are a number of very special cheeses that are local to the region and many recipes I have collected and researched have been put in my kitchen notebook. They find their way to our table time and again. I hope that one day in America these cheeses will be available to everyone and not just the rich and glamorously connected. I still have much to discover there.

Tom is a person I admire a whole lot. I can see that his mind turns carefully and thoroughly as he takes in the significance of activities and subjects of conversation, and like my father, who was a remarkable man, Tom reflects about what he wants to say before he speaks. Tom knows how to verbally encapsulate an idea extremely well. This is a good quality in a man, and he may not realize it now, but a central quality to a leader. His symbolic gestures are profound as well, for example, we had a discussion one afternoon when he was but a mere acquaintance to Alison, and a week later, in the mailbox, Alison's aunt Lucy received an interesting book to read on the same subject that enriched not only my knowledge of the topic we had touched upon but took my esteem for him up a notch.

Tom is good for Alison and I felt that fact in my bones even before she told me that she had fallen in love with him (I was not the first to know, her mother knew already). Tom is also a man who knows how to compliment a woman's cooking, even a first attempt at Sticky Toffee Pudding which for me was a stab in the dark in which I incorporated Molasses and he didn't bat an eye. He appreciates soft yolks coddled in egg coddlers and passes the whites to his friends, which tells me he will well fit in to the clan, especially that side where my father comes from. My feelings stayed strong and I felt unequivocal joy much later when the news came that he proclaimed she was the love of his life and had proposed marriage to her. I told her at one point, I think in general about men that she had to have not a single doubt in her heart, not one doubt. And she didn't with Tom.

I wanted to do something special for them to celebrate. I wanted to make a dinner party sized croquembouche, which is a traditional French wedding pastry served like a wedding cake and more a pagan fertility rite more than elegantly French - of pastry creme filled profiteroles and held together with caramel with its own history and symbol all mixed in. But then as usual events went this way and that and I began flipping through one of David Lebovitz's now classic dessert cookbooks, you know the one Ripe for Dessert, a very good one, actually one of my favorites. I looked at the sky, was it was clear blue and had been all day, felt my thumb for any sign of stiffness, and feeling none, I decided that David's idea of meringue nests with chantilly and strawberries in a very special sauce (listed in his easy desserts section in that book) would be just the thing. We went out for an apero at a sidewalk cafe while the nests crispened in the oven.

I always do a few extras to ensure I have at least enough in tact to serve.

Not being a person particularly adept with pastry, I appreciate David's encouraging note that I don't have to pipe the meringue from a pastry cone like a professional although this is an option. I can plump up little nests like the ones the birds make, created with a spoon and with love.

I chose the recipe too because it was an opportunity to use our instant chantilly pumper, which is amusing to newlyweds and I just love the thing. The kind you insert a cannister of gas into and pump out the foamed sweetened cream as a kind of way of making instant bliss, just the kinds newlyweds appreciate. (David doesn't say to use this contraption in the recipe, it's just something I use when I can). And the strawberries, which needed no searching for. We served the dessert with champagne, of course.

When we were at the table and having fun each feathering our nests with chantilly and strawberries in sauce in our own style I mentioned that this was like a Pavlova, and Alison being a dancer, it was a nice light touch to the end of their weekend of gluttony in Lyon.

Tom delicately noted said that his mother does a sublime Pavlova. What he didn't say was that his mother's Pavlova (with which these nest have no comparison to) is that one day Alison must go and spend some time in Sue's kitchen with her own kitchen notebook (which I gave her as a wedding present) in hand and get that Pavlova recipe, because it is something very special to Tom and to his family.

They will be having a big party at home in America to celebrate next summer. That is going to be one big serious party. Congratulations, Alison and Tom Gardiner. I am glad you finally made the formal announcement to everyone. And you are a pair of complementary personalities that I just know will help each other to flourish as you tend to each others' spirits together throughout each others long and fruitful lives.


Come and see us soon again. And bring jam.

The Secret Stash

Between 5 and 7 in the morning, I write. This is something that many find to be a terrible gaspillage of sleep, but in fact I find the aube glow just before the street cleaners begin making their rounds and the birds waking to be perfect for me to think. In the center of the city a quiet and comforting feeling has descended on everything. Things seem actually countrysidelike and my mind is clearest even before coffee, which I have after I have spent my 2 productive personal hours.

Sissy, who is my entirely spoiled kitty born in Beijing, eats rabbit Whiskas senior in sauce from a secondhand limoge teacup and then settles on the arm of the couch to raise her nose to sniff the breeze coming in over the window boxes through the open window, and watch me, or perhaps try to telepathically tell me to give her more rabbit.

Loic came out seeking breakfast sometime between 6 and 7 and while I had his toast heating, I realized there was nothing sweet to spread. I had given him the last dollop of last summer's Mirabelle Jam last night on yogurt for dessert, and the cherry butter was finished. I began rooting around on the shelves turning out various half used jars of savory apero spreads in our embarrassingly cluttered refrigerator, nothing for Loic's sweet tooth. I mentioned that I might have to make him some cinnamon toast and he said - Lucy, don't worry.

He went knowingly over to the old cabinet where we keep special things like delicacies we are saving and liqueurs and things like special teas we have received as gifts, and he reached directly his full arm all the way into the back like he knew exactly where a treasure was hidden. He brought out the oblong box that kind of looked like a box you might receive jewels in. He paused for a moment, as if he was contemplating something.

I didn't realize at first what it was, because it had been ferreted away within minutes after we received it as a gift from Alison and her new husband visiting from London, and then he raised the top off of the box, a bit like he raises the top off the box containing a set of silver knives we have. He was kneeling before the cabinet and opened the box and fitted the rich thick creamy forest green colored cotton rag paper coated lid carefully underneath it.

That was when I saw the two blank spots, the missing jars. Two of the four small gourmet jars of special English jam had already been eaten. Without my knowledge. I had never even seen them opened or even had a taste of them or seen them empty. He had discreetly devoured them and gotten rid of the evidence.

He held the box without even looking in my direction, kind of cute kneeling before the cabinet like a kid in his pyjamas anyway. He had a little smile on his face because he knew I was going to forgive him. He made his choice carefully after scratching his chin and then his cheek, something he does when deciding, and removed yet another jar of jam from its custom moulded slot. He closed the box back and smoothed his fingers over the top of the box as if caressing it. He replaced it back into the very back of the cabinet again. I wasn't suprised at what had just occurred. Amused because it is not like him to keep secrets. Touched that he confessed in this silent way, just showing me.

La Fête des Mères

Today is Mother's day in France, and if there's one thing my French family knows how to do is to take advantage of the chance to faire la fête. All the mothers came from near and far and had a weekend at you know where. Four generations were together today.

The fathers pitched in while the mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers
relaxed and basked in mid-day sun out near the elms.

Aude and Seb decided a few weeks ago to have another baby so now there's one on the way. Isn't that nice? The noontime meal preparations hummed in the little kitchen where Brigitte set her champagne aside and quickly prepared her cod and shrimp curry.

Awen's making a place in her garden for another little brother or sister.
Even favorite tanties got their kisses in.

All of the mothers got flowers and presents. It was a lovely party with lots of smiles and laughter.

La Tropézienne was my favorite dessert. I took all of the vanilla beans that were topping all of the dessserts and tied them in a knot to go into the sugar jar.

The Optomistic Salad

Recently friend Mimi spoke of her everything but the kitchen sink salads and somehow she managed to create a conduit in my mind. You know, just a thought, about something that everybody does or has or is, a snapshot, but still something that hits. Mimi's salad last month somehow slithered in like a probe and found the route to where the essential thoughts wait. Now there is a path that I walk down these days, kind of like the path to the swimming hole. A place to take a dip, to think about and develop perhaps a character that does their thinking there.

Last year, Mimi sent me some American Spoon Cherry Butter made by nice folks out in Michigan. I am not from Michigan and have no memory or experience with Montmonrency cherries, or this traditional Michigan favorite. But retrieving the package through the post and coming back to the house and seeing her handwriting and taking this foreign vessel of sweet breakfast spread into my palm recalled annother time. Even the jar seemed strange in its classic American simplicity. While I stood near the fireplace in the midst of ancient boiserie surrounded by a French tune on the radio sung swiftly and tersely along precise hexagonal metre, I felt extremely and at once very far far away.

The jar was glowing with something so simple and so strongly home it amazed me. I did what I normally do in these circumstances. When we were in L A California, real unpastrurized properly aged very simple cheese like camembert could only be had in the city from a boutique on Beverly Drive. At the time it was plain that Camembert was not really a common thing there, but an icon, which was a sad thing for Loic, because to him it was the simple homely thing he had fixed in his mind.

We were completely out of place on Beverly Drive, but we went there because this shop's specialty was cheese. We closed our eyes and bought the common Camembert which at the time would have cost pocket change within its proper context, but which featured a markup of approximately 17 times its normal retail price. We paid, because it was important. And Loic held it in his palm. Precisely the way I was holding the curious jar containing America that came from Mimi last summer.

A razor thin shaving of camembert goes a long way. And a couteau à tartiner has scraped ever so gently across the top surface of Michigan cherry butter so many times I cannot count now, and then it is spread completely, turning the knife first one way and then the next until the knife is clean. How I relish the process.

My choice to eat fast food the other day

Two weeks ago, after a routine mammogram which progressed quite quickly to other frightening imaging techniques which came as a bad surprise and then to a biopsy between results in which I cried myself to sleep, made love to my husband as if it was our last chance to continue humankind, rethought my entire life plan, and gave some serious thought into career decisions, I had a bad craving.

It was a nasty, awful, take out, craving for a fast food chicken sandwich. Why? I hadn’t touched those fast food things forever. The day after my biopsy last week I entered a McDo for the first time in a good seven years, ordered specifically this sandwich, this particular sandwich, ate it on a park bench, and in between bites let memories flood into my mind.

James Street. Mama. Exit 45 on route 81 on the way to the yacht club, only with Mama, because my father would never agree. Burger King (does not exist in France) Chicken sandwiches would only do. How we looked smiled into each others eyes as we devoured them.

Willie came home. I knew, and I didn’t know because between us it was too difficult to take and impossible for him to tell. He had AIDS, at the time when people didn’t have a chance to live very long, he was going to die, which he did within a rather short time, something he never told me he was going to do but which I was aware was going to happen, and when I wrapped a silk scarf around my hair to keep it calm, I pushed the button to cause the 1968 Chevrolet Impala roof to ceremoniously raise itself and back and fold like self satisfied arms behind us. The convertible cruised round coners through the east side, and he popped the tape into the system he’d made for me in NYC. I guided that loose steering wheel along the streets of our home town - through it and along and we wound the black and silver two toned Impala round corners through the projects here now and there.
We ordered drive-through on Erie to go and took our prepared bag full of rebellion with fries complete and so very bad for him, although he wanted it, and parked at the Thornden water tower where lovers go and unwrapped them and looked into each others eyes like me and my mom and we never let any kind of remorse rule us. We laughed although he wasn’t normally allowed to eat these things at this time, we laughed about how it was perfect, loved it and loved our friendship like never before. I wanted him to talk some and mention it but he could not so I didn’t push but I took pictures it being afternoon and directed him to lean against the wall like the first ones I took for his fashion portfolio. We didn’t talk about Marthas Vinyard but we kissed, like first love because we knew that maybe it would never happen again and our friendship as children had been long and rich.

Willie never said goodbye. His health deterioriated soon afterward and he never had a chance to contact me during the time when people come by the bedside. I only knew from his father through my sister who was a nurse who talked to him.

The results came back from my test and it was benign. The sandwich comforted me although I suspect the strange food craving was related to memories of Willie and also the confort that came with my mother indulging me so.

Organizing Ideas

How do you develop your ideas? Instead of a few extra sheets of paper in my filofax for those fleeting moments when ideas fly by and risk disappearing if they aren't plucked from the air, I made sure a while back to begin choosing sacs, or purses that are large enough to carry a clipboard.

You would be surprised at how stable and well balanced handwriting or even designs, plot diagrams, character sketches, landscapes, dishes, moments, wisps of perfumed steam rising from Italian meringue or flow charts can seem when sturdied by a clipboard on a moving bus, in the metro, while walking, riding, or sitting in a café among the people. These ideas can be systematically captured and squeezed from the smallest of moments if you get into the habit.

When affixed to a clipboard, a piece of paper can become the calm center of a vortex of all manner of observable movement and activity, inside the mind and out. It is then preserved as an object on its own, to be placed within the order chosen in the times when I am in that frame of mind for imposing order. In addition to free form feuilles, I have pads of many colors and special sheets with pre-set blanks for important information that I use for telephone conversations. I save these pages in sleeves in different binders once my inner administrator has deemed them significant.

I simply adore the sound of a good ball point scratching the single slice of paper and clicking on the board as I bring it down again to begin another word. Black flair pens make voluptuous lines. I love pencils just as well. Sharpened to a pinpoint for precise expression, ready to scratch the surface of anything, or rounded soft lead worn from the hum of flowing ideas, broad strokes in patterns and shapes filling a concept's shadow and light.

When ideas for projects are complete, having been successfully researched - when lists of recipes have been amassed, photographs pondered, telephone calls made, visits to pinpointed locations complete and thoughts put down, the varied singular handwritten sheets are already in their sleeves. I can flip over one and past the next as though I am separate from them, and view them with a different eye.

The sheets are insulated from me, from outside observers, my moods, the weather, coffee rings, events, gusts of wind and cleaning frenzies. I have the pleasure of organizing them, a luxury for me. Once they are clipped into the binders, I can let them go completely because I know they are safe there. I am ready to work, free from distraction, with the ability to use them as reference when needed.

Mara des Bois Economics

Mara des Bois are up by half a euro a barquette.

Sometimes when something first comes out, we're just dying to embrace everything it means to have that moment in the season arrive. We feel the sting in our pocketbook but it's bittersweet - we still fight to get some of the season's first pickings. Then time marches on. When more producers begin to come forth with more and what stood out as an exception becomes part of the background, competition begins and the prices come down again. This happened with the Cèpe mushrooms - the first ones were cher as all hell, and I paid willingly, with nearly a tear of joy in my eye.

There's a complex relationship between our hopes and memories and signs and signals of the cyclical nature of life as seen on the market table. These vendors of course know when we must have something at any price, and they have the priceless skill of stopping us in our tracks, bringing us back to the moment. We reinvent our limits. We think of the best way to use them. Or sometimes we soak in the view and continue walking, content to come back again when we have concluded between us that things have reached their just balance.

Lyon 1ere - Au Bon Temps

At the market this morning, Loic and I hit the volailler for some rabbit in addition to cruising the quai for the season's first Mara des Bois, organic lettuce, spinach, flowers, butter, a Rocamadour, some Bleu d'Auvergne, a Crottin de Condrieu, radishes, onions, oregano and thyme. The sage was in flower. Isn't it pretty?


After the market we were on the way to run another errand and took a little back street around the corner from Eglise St. Nizier. We passed this place where the menu looked straightforward and the prices correct and decided to go ahead and eat. The restaurant is called Au Bon Temps, next to the doll shop and across the street from the lingerie shop, a cute little bijou with 10 covers downstairs and 36 in two rooms upstairs, a place that used to be a wine bar. They changed owners this past winter, and boy we are lucky to have this new address in our neighborhood.


Chef Patrick Scalia, who cut his teeth at La Mere Brazier, Le Moulin de Mougins, and Le Theodore has brought his show from Le Comptoir in La Tour de Salvagny to town.

We just came in off the street, market haul in hand. They sat us with a smile even though we drifted in at the tail end of luncheon service, and served us with gracious aplomb. From the moment we were served the entrees it was clear we were in for a treat. Loic's generously sliced house smoked duck magret over lentils had the perfect whisper of smoke and I appreciated the care coming from the kitchen in the various citrus zests festively setting an elegant tone to my marinated salmon.


I loved my boeuf tartare (what can I say, I had a thing for raw today) which was judiciously seasoned with capers and pickles and served with ultra fresh mixed greens and dark balsamic vinaigrette with a side of gratin dauphinois with just the right touch of nutmeg in the sauce. Loic's double slice of veal roast was the real winner, a long slow roast that melted in the mouth and suprised us both with its honesty and gorgeous follow through to the jus. We oohed and ahed all the way through the course.

I can't stop thinking about the veal.

The total mind blower was the BABA AU RHUM. A picture's worth a thousand words.


As an example of how welcomed we were in this restautant, I note that the chef graciously put my rabbit saddles in the fridge to keep them cool while we dined. Mark this address on your list for Lyon, folks.

AU BON TEMPS
2 rue Chavanne
69001 LYON
04 78 39 26 12

Childhood Memories and the Croque Monsieur

When does a simple grilled sandwich take on mythical status? Apparently when it is mentioned by Proust. David's search for the perfect Madeleine in Paris the other day had certain associations fresh in my mind, and when I found the croque monsieur press yesterday the simple pattern inside made me think that childhood gustatory memories a la Proust perhaps were the inspiration for the shape embedded into the press. But I may never be sure. I can't find the inventor of the Cuisor croque monsieur press or one of his or her progeny in order to ask. Perhaps we will never know.

The Cuisor works perfectly.

We do know that for nearly 100 years the croque monsieurs have been offered in cafes, and that just about every French child is served a croque monsieur at one time or another. Loic remembers many croque monsieurs of his youth, and tells me that they were kind of like what hamburgers and french fries are for kids these days. He says that fast food chains didn't come to France until he was in his teens, and before that time, it was a croque monsieur in a cafe that children begged for.

Keep it simple.

You can search for recipes for the croque monsieur and on the French recipe sites be rewarded with a plethora of combinations of things to be toasted between two buttery slices of bread, but in essence, the classic croque monsieur consists of sliced wheat bread, which is buttered on the outside and contains gruyere and thin sliced ham in the middle. Beauty in simplicity.

Now what about this mention of croque monsieurs by Proust? Apparently in 1919, Proust and his Grandmother are served a croque monsieur and eggs. There is no reference to the actual meal, just a mention that it was ordered for them. This is very significant to the history of the sandwich, non? Perhaps I should read it now that I am reading in French and see if I can find out what the hullabaloo is about.


I studied the French language once with a lovely Japanese girl named Akiko who was doing a graduate thesis on Proust's mention of food, and was here in France for a linguistic stage before going back to the Japanese university. I always admired her academic stick-to-it-iveness. She was very serious about her subject and I thought there was something about her that was very attractive, observant in a quiet and systematic kind of listening way. We got along quite well. There was everything to respect in her chosen vocation. If I called Akiko she could probably tell me more.

The sandwich was delicious. I can't wait to try out all the variations.

Lyon Fleamarket Find - a Christofle Presse à Canard

I could not believe my eyes.

There is a magic fleamarket in the suburb of Lyon. Did I tell you I once found a set of 10 antique linen napkins with our initials monogrammed on them for €1.50 each from a box seller on the field? I was sure it was the find of a lifetime. But no.

Since today was a holiday, we made plans to get up as if it was a work day and hit the Puces de Canal nice and early. Even though it was raining and miserable, we stuck to our guns and swung up to St. Juste to pick up Francine and Lucas. Raining and miserable are really good days at fleamarkets, in my opinion. They did not come out in pyjamas, as Francine promised. I told her our bargaining power is doubled when we are wearing pyjamas but I guess she didn’t believe me. As we rolled through the 6th arrondissement, it was as if we were floating through a ghost town. Unfortunately, this morning was not a big market day, as I hoped it would be. There were a couple of box sellers out under the awnings and about half the indoor stalls were open. We had coffee and croissants before hitting the warehouse.


My jaw hit the ground when I stumbled over this Christofle duck press with its matching tray and accoutrements. Its original home was at the Casino in Charbonnières-les-Bains. The lady selling it says that she has been discussing a sale but it is far from closed. If I had the cash I would have snatched it up right there, just for a chance to use it once and pass it on. They want about 6,000 Euros for the set. I was drooling as I described the process of pressing the duck and making the sauce to Loic. I wasn’t carrying my camera with me but Francine had hers and let me take a photo. This is a once in a lifetime fleamarket find. I can pretty much confirm that I will never see such an item again at the fleamarket. Sigh.

We rummaged through the boxes outside and although I felt slightly sick to my stomach having just come down from the duck press adrenaline rush, I did find a few things that appealed to me. (note prices are after bargaining)

20 escargot forks, each fork slightly different, €2 for the lot.

A set of Fondue Bourguignonne spears, €1.

A spoon. Free.

Two knives, good for picnics. Free.

A Presse Croque Monsieur instead of a Presse à Canard, €3.

Every time we use the presse croque monsieur,
I will think of finding that beautiful presse à canard.

Puces du Canal
1 rue du Canal
69100 Villeurbanne

To inquire about the duck press
A. Bernard Brocante
Allée D, Stand 21
+33 (0)6.19.66.48.69