An American Home Cook in Paris

Everyone who has visited Paris is familiar with its restaurants, bistros, brasseries and cafes, and for devotees of French cooking it’s a visit to the source, a culinary pilgrimage. But what Parisians cook and eat at home differs markedly from the cuisine served in restaurants.

Recently, I spent time in the Buttes-Chaumont section of Paris, a traditional neighborhood, a former village that around the middle of the last century found itself enveloped by the city down the hill. My host, who had finished a major renovation of his apartment the day of my arrival, was very happy to have a cook in residence for a month. Needless to say, we threw lots of dinner parties to show off the new apartment.

Every day, I found myself in the neighborhood shopping street, much like any Parisian, traipsing around with the ubiquitous baguette under my arm, trying to balance my overladen basket of food. Between the Metro station and the apartment were two produce stands, three butchers, two poultry shops, two fishmongers, three bakeries plus two bread shops, a couple of convenience stores, some wine shops and the general store, or epicerie.

As if this were not sufficient, at the bottom of the shopping street was the Marche Carmes, a covered market dating from 1868 that sheltered, I found out shortly, an additional two dozen or so purveyors, including two kosher butchers and a Moroccan specialty shop.

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For most Parisians, shopping for food and cooking at home is a daily activity. It’s also very social. Neighbors gossip and exchange news while shopping for the day’s meals, and there’s the feeling of a local fair.

The marchand des quatre saisons (greengrocer) hawks tomatoes from Sicily and Anjou pears from Morocco before the French crops come in. He’ll tell you to bathe summer endive in a little sugar water for use in salads because when the weather turns warm the endive turns bitter. He advises you to simply shell the fava beans--but not to bother peeling them--when they’re young, because the skins on the beans inside the pod are not at all a nuisance to eat. Beets are sold cooked in their jackets, ready to peel and eat. There’s a special price for buying two types of lettuce rather than two heads of the same variety. (Is he concerned that we may serve a boring salad and perhaps blame him for selling us boring lettuce?)

There’s new garlic, wild asparagus shoots, green beans, yellow wax beans, cauliflower, broccoli, cabbages, onions, garlic, zucchini, eggplant, peppers, celeriac, turnips, several varieties of potatoes, fresh herbs and fruits unimaginable.

One spring day, after a week of rain throughout northern France, the grocer alerted me to an anticipated arrival of cepes , the king of mushrooms, just in time for the weekend. On weekends, he told me, people spend more time cooking.

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Or, as a woman explained to me one morning in the Marche Carmes, “On Wednesdays, I go alone to the market and look for bargains. I take my time. On Saturdays, I go with my husband. He doesn’t want a bargain. He wants something fabulous.”

The dairyman sells milk (cow’s, goat’s and sheep’s), cheese, yogurt and several kinds of butter. He asked if I were planning to serve the cheese that same evening, or should he sell me one that would be ripe the following day?

The triperie vends specialty meats; the charcutier makes pates and mousses and sells dry country sausages, salted pork, hams and prosciutto. The traiteur sells composed salads, coquilles St. Jacques ready to go under the broiler, marinated fish and seafood pates and mousses.

The butcher sells all cuts of beef, lamb, veal and pork. He prepares rolled and stuffed veal roasts, or pork loins garnished with prunes, ready to take home and pop in the oven. He asked for what dish I was intending the beef shoulder I’d pointed to, and then insisted I buy instead a more gelatinous cut from the shank to prepare my daube , a rich winey stew.

There are no less than a dozen kinds of fish on any given day at the neighborhood fishmonger, la poissonerie. She also sells cooked langoustines, shrimp, even lobsters and crabs, ready to take home and eat, and cooked bulots and bigorneaux , types of sea snails that you dip in a garlicky aioli mayonnaise. When I told her that I loved brandade --a puree of salt cod, oil, garlic and cream--she offered to soak a nice piece of salt cod for me to cook two days hence.

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Whenever I returned to the market, there would be inquiries about the dinner in question, and the merchants took more than a little pride in having helped make the meal a success.

Although Parisians don’t spend hours preparing the main meal of the day anymore, they still want to eat meals at home, together with family or friends. In Paris, eating at home is a refuge from the hassles of life in a densely crowded city. Cooking is perceived as a productive use of time, an activity that enhances the day. Good food is a symbol of well-being. You may be anxious and exhausted, but when you sit down at the table, all of life’s bad things disappear for a while.

Begin the meal by serving vegetables as a first course rather than as a side dish. This is typical. More common than dessert is a cheese plate served after the main dish.

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This recipe of my friend Eve Piacentini may be served hot, at room temperature or cold. If serving the cauliflower chilled, place in the refrigerator until cold. Do not refrigerate the dressing, though, or it will thicken up.

CAULIFLOWER WITH WATERCRESS VINAIGRETTE 4 baby cauliflowers or 1 large cauliflower, about 1 1/2 pounds total 1/3 cup trimmed watercress 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar 1 tablespoon sour cream 1/4 cup olive oil Salt, pepper

If using large cauliflower, quarter it. Bring pan of salted water to boil and cook cauliflower until barely tender, about 5 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine watercress, mustard, vinegar and sour cream in blender and process until leaves are well pureed. Run blender on low speed and slowly add oil until incorporated. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Drain cauliflower well and arrange on plates. Drizzle some dressing over. Makes 4 servings.

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An acquaintance, Philippe Lapeyre, teaches special education to disabled children. Since he’s home by 4 o’clock every day, he is the cook in his family. His method for cooking fillets of delicate fish is to place them in simmering liquid, turn off the heat and let the fish cook by itself in the hot liquid until done. Since the water maintains a steady low temperature, the flesh maintains a creamy texture.

I tried this method with John Dory, sole, halibut and even frozen fish. They all come out more succulent than by normal cooking methods. Another advantage is that you can serve the first course without having to constantly monitor the fish as it’s cooking on the stove. I also tried this recipe with different sauces. In one variation, Philippe substitutes finely chopped capers and anchovies for the watercress, which gives a briny flavor to the dish. He cooks fish about four times a week. He saves the poaching liquid and uses it about three times by adding some water to it as necessary.

POACHED STRIPED BASS IN CHIVE SAUCE 3 cups cold water 1 cup dry white wine 1 small onion, sliced 1 small carrot, sliced 1 celery stalk, sliced 2 bay leaves 1 1/2 pounds striped bass fillets Chive Sauce

Combine water, wine, onion, carrot, celery and bay leaves in large saucepan. Cover and bring to boil over high heat. Cook 5 minutes.

Reduce heat to low and add fish. If there’s not enough liquid to cover, add enough hot water to cover. Cover and cook 1 minute. Remove from heat. Let fillets stand, covered, in hot liquid 10 minutes.

Pour Chive Sauce onto serving platter and sprinkle with chives. Remove fish from poaching liquid, arrange on sauce and serve. Makes 4 servings.

Chive Sauce 1 small onion, finely chopped 1 tablespoon butter 2 tablespoons lemon juice 1/2 cup poaching liquid 1 bunch chives, chopped

Place onion in saucepan and add butter, lemon juice and poaching liquid. Bring to boil over high heat and boil until lightly emulsified, about 1 minute.

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I insensitively asked a butcher in the March St. Quentin if he made sausages out of miscellaneous scraps of meat. “They are not dechets (scraps of meat). No, not at all.” He was nearly speechless. “This is the same meat that I sell as steaks or for stews. It’s first quality. It’s just, how do you say, it isn’t pretty enough to sell as steak or for stew.” Scraps, I thought to myself. But to him they were not scraps because he respected them as much as the larger pieces that he could sell in handsomely portioned pieces. And he did not, he insisted, put much fat in his sausages, barely 4% to 5%--”just enough to give du moelleux, moist texture. Anything more is filler and the sausages, when cooked, would shrink”--as would his reputation as a butcher.

One woman at the Marche d’Aligre gave me this recipe for cooking pork sausages. She heats the skillet over high heat and sears the meat for about one minute on each side. Then she lowers the heat, adds potatoes and shallots and continues in the usual way.

SAUSAGES WITH POTATOES IN WHITE WINE 4 Italian-style sausages 1 pound small new potatoes, unpeeled 4 shallots, finely chopped 1/2 cup white wine 1 teaspoon chopped fresh or dried sage Salt Freshly ground pepper 1 tablespoon unsalted butter

Heat skillet over high heat. Place sausages in skillet and brown on 1 side, about 1 minute. Turn sausages and brown on other side. Reduce heat to medium and place potatoes and shallots in skillet.

Cover and cook over medium heat 5 minutes. Add wine, sage and salt and pepper to taste. Continue to cook until potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes. Add butter and mix to incorporate. Serve immediately. Makes 4 servings.