Today’s feature hails from last June, when we returned from Paris and all I wanted to do was go back. If you’ve played this game before, see if your earlier choice still grabs you. If this is your first reading, enjoy a little dream on me – and if you already have a Paris apartment, well, you’re free to go.  The original post, full of freshly cliched yearning, can be found here.

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On every street in Paris, I found a reason to abandon my new old house and move into a place with dubious plumbing, cramped space and a totally dreamy facade. I took enough apartment photos to make a local gendarme look twice, and maybe he would, if he wasn’t busy with cafe and croissants, the French cops’ answer to a Dunkin’ Donuts break.

Already annoyed, this particular madame in the 6th arrondissement was much too peeved to notice me.

“Oh, when I see that Marie I will box her ears! The stupid girl never waters the plants.”

Whoever lives up there, the buildings in central Paris stand like solid urban fairytales, full of geraniums and tall windows and ironwork. Since there are thousands of them, why should I keep the fantasy all to myself? Pick your own Paris apartment.

No. 1: Mon dieu! That Madeline roof, those arches, the view. Gerard has just called Therese to say he bought an excellent Brie de Meaux, but will be home, ahem, a bit late – and that’s fine with her, because she is entertaining Jean-Luc.

No. 2: Merde, that’s a lot of stuff going on up there! In America, we’d call it ‘busy’ – there, we’d call it charming, and pay double.

No. 3: Simple but well-kept in the Latin Quarter. Are you kidding? If an ad read “above fondue restaurant, all the cheese you can eat,” I’d be first in line.

No. 4: Bonjour from the uptight Right Bank! Genevieve the maid will be in today, but she drinks all the Bordeaux and smokes while she cleans, no?

No. 5: Ooh la la! Someone has a green thumb on the busy Left Bank. Is it you?

No. 6: Living right over Chinese takeout near the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Where do I sign?

Honestly, I’d take any, and if I won the lottery, I’d take them all. Which one is yours?

Today – a travel daydream and the one that got away?  No problem.

1950′s cookbook

mmm – maybe

wandered

came back later

gone.

Merde!

what slipped through your fingers?

(Yeah, the 12-year old had a glass. Six hot wings, a few pizzas, leftover candy and one election later, she’s out cold. Bad parents!)

From May 28, 2008 – The Last Time I Saw Paris
(if you’d like to comment on the original post, click here)

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By the time you read this, I will be in a seat with little legroom, hurtling across the ocean toward the City of Light. The first time I saw Paris, we slept on the floor, carried backpacks and didn’t spend enough money to be shocked by prices – bottled water, bread and cheese, a slice of apple tart. The second time we slept in a hotel, brought a toddler, and were shocked by the price of everything. This time I anticipate just being plain shocked – at hotel prices, apple tarts, having a preteen instead of a toddler – everything.

Still, we keep going back for more, even with mixed feelings about Parisians. They run from “Thank you for letting us co-exist with you for this brief time, and for being the keeper of life’s delicious mysteries,” to “Screw you. I am putting ketchup on this burger right now.”

Love them or hate them, they have everything I want – except deep dish pizza.

Back in 2000, we visited for a second time when Josie was almost-four. I recall that trip as the last gasp for our umbrella stroller, which we dumped before the flight home. Every day we’d walk for miles, and when Josie wouldn’t walk, we’d pop her in the stroller. She was (and is) a great traveler, cheerfully running through metro stations and security gates and sculpture gardens, but she was small, and Paris was huge.

After one crabby afternoon she collapsed in the stroller and we pushed her, snoozing, into a little restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. The Champ de Mars neighborhood is unspeakably charming in a way that makes it seem bitterly unfair to live anywhere else, and as the stars came out I peeked into tiny lit apartments above cheese shops, and briefly planned to abandon my family for whomever lived upstairs. Instead I pushed my sleeping toddler into a nearby bistro, Chez L’Ami Jean, and hoped for the best.

Inside there were little wooden tables, a row of banquettes, chalked specials and Basque pelote bric-a-brac on the walls. A middle-aged woman in an apron ran out from the kitchen, looked at my sleeping kid, and I thought, this is it. We are about to be booted to Le McDonald’s. But she swooped down at the stroller, quietly kissing each sleeping cheek, cooing over eyelashes and retying her gym shoes. Oh, thank you, thank you for the international language of sympathy.

She pushed Josie’s stroller right up to the table and insisted we not wake her up. Things were going swimmingly while she slept, but as we drank our red wine her eyes began to flutter, and I felt like a seismologist – it could be a tremor, or it could be a disaster. Should I order her something? The maman appeared again with a plate, and at the moment Josie’s brown eyes snapped open, she put it down in front of her.

Without asking, they had made her a fluffy yellow omelette with gruyere cheese and a little green salad with bacon. The woman set cold orange juice and a soft brioche in front of my child, and waited. Josie stared soundlessly at the food, reached her round toddler hand out, and began eating like she’d never eaten before. The woman beamed, and we all breathed. Later there were sweets; a tender profiterole, a little chocolate for her pockets – and as we left, she buckled Josie into her stroller, zipped her red jacket and smooched her face.

How often are we the recipients of unabashed acts of intuition and kindness? Even now when I turn a yellow omelette I think of the Parisians. They are not all that way, but they have what everyone wants and they know what everyone wants in a richly supernatural way. When they don’t want to share, you’ll know it, but when they do – well, I am headed back to Paris. With any luck, I will be tired, and my feet will hurt, and someone will bring me eggs and cheese and red wine without asking. And also that the exchange rate will improve, and chocolate and croissants will suddenly have no carbs.

I don’t often make Josie – named for a great-grandpa and Jo March, thank you very much – pose in front of things, but here I could not resist. I snapped fast – but was clearly too close to my subject, because it took numerous friends and Flickr viewers to note the similarities I’d somehow missed: two center parts, two strappy headbands…two bored half-smiles.

Empress Josephine: “How can I avoid the little toad and meet my lover tonight?”

Modern Josephine: “How can I avoid another gallery and find some ice cream?”

Ah, there we are. Even her servants need a treat now and then.

Funny what you see and what you don’t see. I love taking pictures, but look at Josie’s face! Sometimes being on the other side is a royal pain.

The strips are thick and more like salt pork, less smoky and served in a little chopped heap on every bowl of dressed frisee. You do not see lardons at breakfast – so to get more bacon, you must eat more greens. Genius!

Me and bacon go back a long ways, and like many people, I’d prefer if my alarm clock stopped ringing and started emitting the smell of frying bacon. After a lifelong love affair I’ve finally cut it down, but not out. Here, I did it up right on Bastille Day with Tarte Flambee, also known as Flammkueche – the traditional Alsatian savory tart.

Flammkueche – which is lots of fun to say out loud – literally means “burnt edges,” and after you wash down bacon, onions and cream with a hearty Kronenbourg, you may feel a little rough around the edges yourself. But you’ll sleep with a great big strip of a smile.


Bacon and onions. Smells so heavenly it’s like sizzling Prozac.

So…I didn’t use 3 ounces of bacon, as listed in the recipe. I used something like one strip of regular bacon and two slabs of pepper bacon. Is that so wrong?

Let’s just move on.

Roll out your dough, mix the caramelized onions with the creme fraiche and spread. A word of warning: the onion-cream mixture will taste suspiciously like high-end Lipton’s Onion Dip. Resist the urge to reach for the Ruffles.

Then “dot” with bacon.

How you “dot” with bacon is up to you. I think dot is French for “cover.”

Bake to lightly brown. Voila!

If quiche lorraine married pizza, you’d have Tarte Flambee.

And I’d have a fantastically French-American double bacon fix.
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TARTE FLAMBEE

Crust

1 recipe of your favorite pizza dough, risen and ready
time-saver: try using good-quality frozen bread dough, thawed and ready to roll

Topping

2 tablespoons oil
1 medium onion (3 ounces), finely chopped
1 cup crème fraîche, commercial or homemade*
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
4 pinches nutmeg
3 ounces bacon, cut into matchsticks

If you’re using fresh pizza dough, mix dough and allow to rest. (if you’re using thawed pre-made bread dough, just have it ready to roll)

Heat 1 tablespoon of the oil in a nonstick skillet. Add the onion and cook over low heat, stirring to golden brown, about 5 minutes. Let cool.

Combine the crème fraîche, salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Add the cooled onion.

Heat the remaining oil in the skillet and fry the bacon to lightly browned, stirring constantly. Remove and drain.

Preheat oven to 450 F.

Lightly oil a baking sheet of approximately 14 x 16″. Roll the dough to slightly smaller than the sheet, then place it on the sheet. Spread the onion mixture over the dough, leaving a very small raised rim all the way around, then dot with the bacon.

Bake for 20 minutes, or until the tart is lightly browned.

*to make your own crème fraîche: combine 1 cup heavy cream with 2 tablespoons buttermilk, stir, cover with plastic wrap, and leave at room temperature for 12 to 24 hours, or until it has become very thick. Refrigerate, and it will become even thicker.

adapted from traditional recipes

For a delightful dinner, serve Tarte Flambee with green salad, vinaigrette and a little red wine. Or, a lot. Enjoy!

And how about those camera-ready looks? I mean, look at those Paris oysters - huitres. They are piled in baskets for the evening’s delight, and people rush home with so many damp bags that the street smells like a shoreline. I admire their rocky textures and lust for them, they are all so different, and have different names, and…and…wait. A dim light behind the lens. But you don’t like oysters. Well…yes. Maybe I just like taking their picture.

In yesterday’s Tell Simmer, Molly Wizenberg noted that she, too, wishes she could thrill to the slimy devils but just can’t – yet. I’ve downed a few oysters in places where it’s worth trying, coast to coast, and I even own a shucker, but that tool sits dry in a drawer.

I suspect I only like oysters in some fussy preparation like Oysters Rockefeller, where buttery crumbs on your tongue mask the watery gulp in your throat. Love them or leave them, oysters inspire waves of feeling. Do you love our rubbery friends from the deep?

While you chew on that, check out this recipe from Patricia Wells’ classic Bistro Cooking. From a restaurant on the Atlantic coast of France called L’Huitre Joyeuse – The Happy Oyster – it combines spicy sausage and oysters for a traditional fisherman’s snack. Add buttered bread, and we may have an oyster I can get behind.

Huitres et Saucisses from L’Huitre Joyeuses

4 servings

1 dozen oysters, shells well scrubbed under cold running water, shucked
crushed ice
8 oz bulk pork sausage meat
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves or 1 teaspoon dried
1 teaspoon crushed hot red pepper flakes
1/4 teaspoon sea salt

Place the oysters on a plate of crushed ice. Arrange the oysters, balancing them so they do not lose any of their liquid. Cover loosely with aluminum foil and refrigerate. Remove the oysters 10 minutes before serving.

In a medium-size bowl, blend the sausage meat with the thyme, pepper flakes and salt. Mix well with your hands to blend thoroughly. Shape the pork mixture into 4 equal-size round patties, about 1/2-inch thick.

In a medium-size skillet, cook the patties over medium-high heat until golden brown on the outside and cooked all the way through, about 5 minutes on each side. Drain on paper towels. Serve the sausages immediately, accompanied by the oysters, sliced of buttered, crisp-crusted bread, and chilled white wine.

Then there is the purple asparagus. A little bit blue-ribbon here, common as Perrier there.

And yes, they even have our own green asparagus, but it looks so skinny and pale next to its robust white cousins, so pick me, Pierre, I’m okay but I’m green. Perhaps green asparagus flourishes on our shores out of spite - hey, we’re a beloved side dish, a provider of folic acid in the new world. Yeah.

I can’t imagine a summer without spear after spear. I dredge those beauties through lemon butter and bite off tips before they ever reach the table. Here in Kansas, asparagus bursts from local farms onto as many plates as possible – we even have a U-Pick-It place where you leave with sunburned cheeks and green hands. You pick it, you steam it, you love it.

I love it steamed with lemon or stir-fried with sesame. How do you love your asparagus?

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Late-breaking news from the kitchen. Clearly my own post stirred me to prove my herbaceous love. Right after publishing, I chopped up a green sheaf for beef & asparagus stir-fry dinner. The asparagus was first briefly steamed, and that was enough to bring my family to the kitchen. Not every stalk made it to the stir-fry.

Seared rare beef and scallions tossed with soy, sherry, garlic and a ton of asparagus. If the stove didn’t require a full post-splatter cleaning, I swear I’d make it every single night.

Mme. Booshay, I thought I was finished posting the Paris trip. I was trying, really – trying to move on, and write nice American posts about grilling and burgers and summer heat. But – well, you mentioned Angelina, and that’s like waving a red flag. A big chocolate flag. Whatever – I love that place, and she must be posted.

On the Rue de Rivoli, near the Louvre and across from the Tuileries, Angelina is a venerable institution, a gilded turn-of-the-century lily where lunching French grand dames have grudgingly given way to international tourist masses. I’m sure the ladies are thrilled – but it’s lovely for the great unwashed. Now we can share their luscious hot chocolates and tart citron presses…

…the jewel-box pastries…

…and a sandwich Greg calls the best croque monsieur he ever had. Made on thick brioche and closely resembling a Monte Cristo smothered in gruyere cheese, it really was that good. Quick – what’s a croque madame? No clues – all I can tell you is that it’s delicious and requires an extra Zocor.

Whew! Now I’m done with Paris – really. I mean, if you show the slides too long, the guests fall asleep, right? Still, there’s the bright food stalls on the Rue Mouffetard…and the blue plates at the Vanves flea market…and that little video with the accordion guy on the bridge. Oh dear…maybe I’ll just put on some coffee.

It is a pleasure to eat in the salon at Angelina. But for a peek at the beautiful and tasty things you can take out of there, see Paris Breakfasts’ Angelina a Emporter.

So we went with a near-the-hotel, easy choice, and that easy choice was pizza.

It took only a few moments to figure out we’d basically chosen the Olive Garden of France. Those place mats, those photos, that big, bold type. It was fun to translate their current promotions – “Les Salazzas!” was giving me a P’Zone vibe – and it was frighteningly easy, because in any language, marketing is marketing.

So, now we’re eating at the faux-Tuscan Jardin d’ Olive. In the St. Germain neighborhood even the chains are good, but still, I fully expected to see a bottomless salad and breadsticks. Which is not to say it was bad – I’m not sure bad food is technically legal in Paris – but the best we can say is that it was a great deal, and that was a welcome change, indeed.

What I did take away was the idea that around the world, pizza works in mysterious ways. Here, it was much more than a meat and cheese, pepper and onion platform – it provided a glorious trifecta of fat from distinctly un-American toppings: French ham, a baked egg and a puddle of smooth, chived creme fraiche.

It was so easy. In a restaurant full of blissfully Lipitor-free French families, it was a simple matter to say “Sure, bring me some eggs, cream, and meat on top of my cheese and sauce. Maybe some ice cream on the other half?”

I’m telling you this pizza came with a river of sunnyside-up and the absolute right to dip crust in creme fraiche. It came with a mixed-meal identity and tripped some pizza alarm that sleeps in all of us, the one that challenges your own beloved pie. I sometimes think there’s no bad pizza, only better pizza, and good ingredients tip the scale. My favorite Chicago deep dish, it tips the scales, all right – but deep dish comes with sausage, not eggs. And after munching an extra-fat pizza awash in runny yolks, I must speak to Lou about that.