DORIE GREENSPAN

The Flux of February

This morning, I left for the market on the Boulevard Raspail wearing a turtleneck sweater, a little polartec vest and a short jacket.  Within a block, I’d unbuttoned the jacket; soon I bundled it into my market basket, and minutes after that I unzipped my vest.  It was warm – at least in the sun – but when the sun moved behind the clouds, I was chilly and the women who’d worn their fur coats seemed enviably comfortable. 

It’s that funny time of year when you can catch a glimpse of the first forsythia blossom over the folds of your wooly muffler or find yourself at an outdoor café not sure whether you want a hot chocolate or a cold beer.

I was musing on la météo (the weather) when I walked into the market and saw this:

the hard-shelled winter squash next to the bright but vulnerable mimosa, the first of the year – a true sign that the season is changing.

Valentine's Day in Paris

Paris has a reputation as a city for lovers and it’s my sense that Parisians feel a civic responsibility to make sure that their town lives up to that rep.From the waiter who just about coos in your ear when he’s asking if you want regular or decaf and the book clerk who helps you find the latest novel by leaning over your shoulder, to the siren on Paris’s jazz radio station who only says TSF, quatre-vingt-neuf-neuf but is as dangerous to men as the Pied Piper was to children, le tout Paris gets a gold star for burnishing the city’s storybook image. And today, Valentine’s Day, I’m giving everyone an extra star for extra-good work, especially the pastissiers, chocolatiers and fleuristes in my neighborhood.

As he’s done so deliciously before, mon patissier preferé (my favorite pastry chef), Pierre Hermé, played theme and variation on his Ispahan. Ispahan, named for the ancient city of Persia that was famed for its roses, started out as rose macaroons sandwiching a rose cream, litchis and raspberries, and has since blossomed into about a dozen treats from jam to tea cake. For Valentine’s Day, Pierre offered heart-shaped Ispahans in every size as well as in a twofer: two small side-by-side Ispahan hearts.  He packed his elegant chocolates in a whimsical box, one that, while great for Valentine’s Day, would be just as right for any other day, like, for instance, maybe, hint, tomorrow.



Up the street on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the chocolatier Patrick Roger crafted such perfect chocolate hearts that if you stared at them long enough you had the impression they’d begun to beat (probably the dizzying effect of being in such close quarters with so much chocolate).  I knew myself well enough to know that if I had one of those hearts, I’d put it on my desk, leave it there as an object d’art, then, when it turned gray and motley, I’d berate myself for wasting such a treasure, so I saved myself the angst and bought a bag of his Allégories, clusters of toasted, caramelized almond slivers coated in fabulous dark, dark, dark chocolate.



After lunch at Le Comptoir, I crossed the street, pressed my nose against the window of Pascal Mutel’s flower shop and giggled: Mutel’s sophisticated floral arrangements were sharing the stage with shiny, super-large jelly apples. The candies made for a bold design and an equally bold Valentine’s Day message since, in French, these treats are called Pommes d’Amour. The only reason I can think of that the French would call these sticky candies Love Apples is because the French are French. And thank heavens for that.

Del Posto Delicioso

I know I wouldn't get a lot of top toques to agree with me, but I think that the pastry chef's job might be the hardest in the kitchen—especially if it's a great kitchen. The way I see it, the pastry chef is responsible for the make-or-break moment of the night because, no matter how outstanding the food is, that last course is either going to send you out of the restaurant skipping merrily for joy or complaining grumpily.  (To read on, click here.)

Bonjour Paris

It's GREAT to be back.

Bye Bye New York

A last look out the kitchen window before leaving for the airport.

Sweet Art at The Flo Gris

My Sweet Art workshops (I did two, back-to-back) last night at The Flo Gris (more properly know as The Florence Griswold Museum) were terrific fun and very, very delicious too.

To get us into the holiday spirit, we had local eaux-de-vie from Connecticut distillers Westford Hill -- their new apple brandy could bring happiness to anyone with a penchant for Calvados -- and coffee drinks from Carol Dahlke, who roasts her own beans at Ashlawn Farm Coffee, and her 8-year-old son (I think I've got the age right -- hope so), Charlie, who donned a suit for the festivities.  It was a great way to warm everyone up in every way before they had to face the frigid outdoors and walk the candlelit path into the gallery to play with chocolate.   (The lucky group that had signed on for the 8:30 demo, had an extra warm-up hour and we had an extra-jolly time.  Think there was a connection?)

The plan was that I would demo making my  "all you've got to do is press the food processor button" tart crust and a just-keep-stirring-gently bittersweet ganache, and then I'd turn the table over to the workshoppers, who would roll their own truffles with the chilled ganache, pack them in beribboned bags and go merrily into the night with a homemade Valentine's Day present for their sweethearts.

And that's what we did and that' s what my own sweetheart, Michael, recorded, paparazzi style.  Problem is I'm new to posting and I can't seem to get it right when I post a bunch of pix with captions.  It all looks OK and then ...

So, after spending a couple of hours trying to figure it out, I decided I'd just post one of my favorite pictures.  Can you tell that it comes from workshop #2? 

I could call it Man Seized by Truffle Madness, but I've decided to give it a more scientific name - I'm calling it:

Truffles = Happiness, an equation even math dunces like moi can understand.

By the way, the truffle-happy man is David Graybill.

Many, many thanks to the The Flo Gris Hot Air Club for inviting me and to its chairs Erica Tannen and Lisa Holmes; to Shawn Savage for handling the at-the-museum logistics; to Chris Steiner, food lover, accomplished cook and professor at Connecticut College by day, and my back-up last night; and to the museum's director, Jeff Andersen, for making The Flo Gris such a vibrant part of the community.

Fresh From the Oven

Some of the 100 tartlets I made for the workshop at The Florence Griswold Museum tonight.  They're mini versions of the Tarte Noire from Baking and I'll tell you more about them the first chance I have.

Fireside Soup

There are lots of differences between men and women – you noticed, I know – but here’s one that came to mind last night as I settled into our house in Connecticut for a week of work sans Michael:  When the temperature hovers around zero, men build fires and woman make soup.  At last, that’s what this woman does.

On the drive up from New York, the weather guy kept saying that it was going to be dangerously cold and, in fact, it was awfully nippy when I made the dash from driveway to door and fumbled for my keys.  I got the heat going (that’s easy – a flip of a switch; no tree-chopping required), queued up the music, turned on the computer (it may be the country, but life without the internet is no life at all), made the big wine decision (it was definitely a red night) and started rummaging through the fridge.

There wasn’t a lot of fresh stuff in the house, I’d dragged pretty much everything back to New York with me last Sunday, but I always think that if I’ve got onions and a few carrots in the house, all is not lost, and, in fact, there was one onion, three big carrots and a few bonus tidbits: half a head of garlic, a teensy knob of ginger and one parsnip. 

I put all the vegetables in my trusty soup pot (a French blue Le Creuset number) and started softening them in olive oil over low heat, when inspiration struck – I stirred in turmeric and some wonderful garam masala, which had been mixed at Falls Brook Organic Farm, up the road a piece in Lyme.  Stir, stir, soften, soften, season, season, and then a big can of chicken broth and a handful of barley for stick-to-your-ribsness. 

It’s hard to tell you how happy I was.  Just knowing there was soup on the stove gave me the feeling of all being right in the world (or at least, in my little house for that little moment).  That it turned out to be an earthy, satisfying soup with a little bit of sweetness – the carrots, parsnips and garam masala did that – only added to the pleasure.

Oh, there was another nice thing:  the fire.  Once I knew the ingredients in the pot were on their way to soupdom, I could consider building a fire.  Naturally, by the time I built it I didn’t need it for warmth, but it was pretty swell for atmosphere. What doesn’t taste better eaten fireside?

Here’s the picture of the fire.  It’s not great, but I sent it off to Michael, who’s in London, just to prove to him that I did learn something when I was a Brownie.

And here’s the recipe – kind of – for the soup.  I say kind of because I didn’t measure anything while I was making it and you probably won’t either, it’s not that kind of recipe.

FIRESIDE SOUP

Makes 4 servings

1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil

2 to 3 onions, peeled, trimmed and diced

3 big carrots, peeled, trimmed and diced

1 parsnip, peeled, trimmed (cut out the core if it’s woody) and diced

3 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped

One 1-inch piece of ginger, peeled and chopped

Turmeric, to taste (start with about 1/2 teaspoon)

Garam masala, to taste (start with about 3/4 teaspoon)

Hot pepper flakes, to taste and optional

1 large can (48 ounces) chicken or vegetable broth (or water)

1/2 cup pearl barley, rinsed

Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Warm the olive oil in a large heavy pot with a lid.  Add the onions, carrots, parsnip, garlic and ginger and stir to coat with oil.  Season with salt and pepper, cover and cook for about 5 minutes over low heat.  Stir in the turmeric, garam masala and hot pepper, if you’re using it, cover and continue to cook very gently, stirring often, until the vegetables are soft but not colored, about 15 minutes more.  Add the broth or water, bring to the boil over higher heat, then stir in the barley.  Reduce the heat so that the broth simmers, cover and cook until the barley is tender and “blossomed” (it will puff considerably).  Taste and add more salt, pepper and spices, as needed.

Cooking with Fire

This is Waldy Malouf and his favorite heat source – a hot, hot, wood-burning oven.  Malouf is the chef at New York’s Beacon Restaurant, where just about everything but the arugula is subjected to his delicious brand of devilishly high heat.  His is an elegant brand of macho cooking performed in an open kitchen that looks out onto a glamorous, woodsy, elegant brand of macho dining room.  Yet, every night the crowd is the same, an almost 50-50 mix of men and women with one thing in common: an appetite for food with bold flavors.

Last night, our table might have thrown the boy-girl ratio a little off balance.  I was there with two of my female food buddies and we had a ringside seat in front of the kitchen, so we could watch the swashbuckling brigade pull paper-thin-crusted mushroom pizzas, roasted squash, potato gratins, crisp-skinned chickens and fabulous briny, smoky, shallot-y oysters from the oven.  As each dish came out of the oven, we’d decide we had to have it – and we did!  And then we had dessert!

Just as we were polishing off the cappuccino cheesecake, the chocolate-chip soufflé and the tall, layered chocolate-ganache cake, a woman walked past our table, smiled and said, “I love seeing three woman eating dessert!”

I wonder what she would have said had she seen everything else we’d had.  Years ago someone told me that there’s nothing sexier than a woman with a good appetite.  If that’s true, then we may have been three of the sexiest women in the joint last night.

Gives another meaning to bon appétit, doesn’t it?