tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59287544369924907612012-01-29T09:50:23.550ZRosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.comBlogger991100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-91599556478747377432008-05-25T08:28:00.008Z2008-12-09T21:41:12.671Z

I didn't really plan it this way, but just in time for my 100th post I'm relaunching my blog with a new look and a new address.I've always been proud of the way my Edible Paris and Les Petits Farcis web sites look, and am thrilled that my new blog now has the same friendly, colorful feel. I owe all the credit to the fabulous Josh, creator of the Big Medium software which I now use for all three

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-83902945039105184922008-05-16T13:27:00.008Z2008-12-09T21:41:12.811Z

When I first came across this dish at the Château de la Chèvre d'Or, I thought it was sheer madness. Then I tasted it and decided otherwise.A few weeks later, I can no longer buy sheets of Niçois ravioli stuffed with beef and Swiss chard or spinach without also picking up a ripe avocado and a punnet of cherry tomatoes. It helps that the first time I served this combination at home, Sam - who had

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-33872192287317412992008-05-07T10:15:00.009Z2008-12-09T21:41:13.000Z

This might surprise some of you, but shopping and cooking are not the only things that eat up all my time. I also read - and not just cookbooks. When lovely, poetic Lucy invited readers to turn to page 123 of our current reading, count five sentences and post the following three, I came up with this:"Look at the sky," she said quickly. The sky had grown darker. "I think it will thunder again."It

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-60217737381330399472008-05-01T11:09:00.011Z2008-12-09T21:41:13.842Z

There hasn't been much time for experiments in my kitchen lately. That doesn't mean that I haven't been cooking, just that for the past couple of weeks most meals have consisted of leftovers from my cooking classes or the handful of dishes that I can make again and again without anyone in the house tiring of them.This week, leftover monkfish from bourride - fish stew with aïoli - and its

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-64423287017302221322008-04-26T12:36:00.015Z2008-12-09T21:41:14.610Z

We had been driving for eight hours in pounding rain and fog only slightly less puddinglike than riz au lait. Finally, after many wrong turns and some predictable griping about Italian road signs, we arrived in the little-known town of Rosà (nice, name, don't you think?). Our great friends from Canada were staying in Cittadella, just a few kilometers away, but suddenly the distance seemed

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-61674404969213358672008-04-20T07:43:00.024Z2008-12-09T21:41:17.060Z

Spring has been in a playful mood this year, getting our hopes up only to dash them like the wave that swept through our beach picnic yesterday, soaking us from head to toe. Yet the season started promisingly with a brilliant if chilly day in Eze Village, a little town 20 minutes from Nice that clings to the top of a craggy rock overlooking the sea.Philippe and I came here on the first day of

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-76871530352312366752008-04-11T07:07:00.007Z2008-12-09T21:41:17.225Z

My blog's first birthday is coming up and I'm feeling generous. Or maybe I'm just stalling for time, as I'm off to Italy today and won't be able to post for about a week. Whatever the reason, there are two fabulous paperback books up for grabs: Nigel Slater's Real Fast Food and Lindsay Bareham's A Celebration of Soup.Though I wouldn't dream of being without either of these books, I happen to find

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-3314808436217143902008-04-08T12:56:00.012Z2008-12-09T21:41:17.890Z

My love affair with French food began with pâtisserie and I still take pride in knowing where to find the best, from Pierre Hermé's passion fruit and milk chocolate macaron to Sadaharu Aoki's green tea millefeuille. That's why I was surprised to come across an interview with Pierre Hermé in which he spoke of a pastry shop that had somehow escaped my notice.Though I thought I could sniff out sugar

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-62448920136874386152008-03-30T14:03:00.012Z2008-12-09T21:41:18.052Z

I wasn't planning to bring you a bread recipe today, but when this chubby loaf came out of the oven I found it irresistible. It's the first time I've made bread in weeks: my once thrillingly active starter has been languishing at the bottom of the refrigerator looking gray and neglected (though I know it will be quick to forgive me).The recipe is a remarkably simple one using fast-acting yeast

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-17084083555544797642008-03-28T12:25:00.009Z2008-12-09T21:41:18.350Z

With deadlines looming like thunderclouds I've barely had time to breathe this week, let alone turn my mind to blogging. But I did find a few moments to appear on the local news.It happened after I ran into a camera crew from France 3 television while giving a tour of the Cours Saleya market. We chatted for a few moments and I explained what I do. "A Canadian teaching Niçois cooking to Americans?

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-45850984646187403692008-03-18T13:25:00.017Z2008-12-09T21:41:19.602Z

With leaves like Cruella's spiky fingernails and a spirit just as malicious, this is not a vegetable to be taken lightly. The spiky Italian artichoke seems hell-bent on causing injury - but oh, what a reward once you conquer it.When my wine merchant saw the vicious thorns poking out of my basket this morning, his eyes lit up. "Ce sont les meilleurs," he exclaimed. "Comme du beurre." They even got

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-83203893347821704412008-03-12T14:21:00.007Z2008-12-09T21:41:19.837Z

I was pleased to discover last week that I'm not the only one who loves marmalade. A few readers of this blog share my taste for jam with a bitter edge, famously beloved of Paddington bear until he sold out to Marmite in an advertising campaign last year.Two marmalade recipes in as many weeks might seem to be overdoing it, but I did have to deal with those Seville oranges that Philippe had

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-82326059427783629872008-03-05T15:45:00.016Z2008-12-09T21:41:20.766Z

With spring around the corner, the last thing I should be thinking about is knobbly, hairy vegetables that grow under the ground.There are true wild asparagus at the market, which I've tossed with cappellini pasta, lemon zest and juice, cream and parmesan, and stirred into just-laid eggs with cubed potatoes for a frittata to be eaten on the beach (it has been that warm).Finger-thin carrots taste

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-25286478750348534882008-03-03T16:06:00.007Z2008-12-09T21:41:20.981Z

My downstairs neighbor Tony is normally quite friendly. When I run into him in the street, he says hello and sometimes stops for a chat.On Saturday, though, he backed away from me slowly as if I were a madwoman, muttering "no thanks, no thanks" without meeting my eye. It was my fault for asking the seemingly innocent question that no-one who lives in Nice wants to hear during the month of March."

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-51913847892643192812008-02-22T16:56:00.029Z2008-12-09T21:41:24.594Z

You could easily miss Claude's trestle table among the producers at the Cours Saleya market. Little pots of hand-labelled tapenade stand next to bottles of herb-infused red wine vinegar and deep golden oil, with a few jars of honey to one side and sometimes a long loaf of pain d'épice.It might seem like a modest collection of goods, but if Claude sold nothing more than vinegar I would still be

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-37799861587616010302008-02-17T10:26:00.011Z2008-12-09T21:41:24.811Z

Soufflé is the quintessential show-off dish, so it's no wonder the French have kept quiet all these years about how easy it really is to make.This version from chef Christian Plumail in Nice is one of the simplest and best I have ever eaten. It calls for only four ingredients - lemon, eggs, sugar and a pinch of salt - and comes together ridiculously quickly with the help of an electric mixer.You

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-80302310588567103642008-02-07T12:09:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:25.497Z

Like most people who make a sort of living from writing, I rarely spring into action until I sense a deadline looming. With just two days left to take part in Susan's Legume Love Affair, I started thinking seriously about my own passions: lentils, especially the small, flinty-green ones from the volcanic land around Puy in central France; white beans, particularly the pearly coco de Paimpol from

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-80981142229778404282008-01-31T07:52:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:27.101Z

One of my more bizarre childhood memories is of being stuck at the top of the Eiffel Tower. My family came to Paris often so I don't know how old I was, probably eight at the most. Just before the elevator reached the very tip of the tower, it came to a grinding halt.I don't know how long we hung there until help came: probably no more than a few minutes, though it must have felt much longer to

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-45196788586210750552008-01-25T09:02:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:27.262Z

Yakisoba at Zen in Paris.The first place I go, suitcase in hand, when I come in from the airport.Now you know my secret.Zen8, Rue de l'Echelle, 1st, 01 42 61 93 99.

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-60328204702006808862008-01-23T12:06:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:27.786Z

Something I've learned over time at the Cours Saleya market is that things are not always as they appear.So, with my heart set on trouchia for lunch, I didn't panic when I saw that the producer famed among local chefs for her Swiss chard had laid out nothing more than mixed salad leaves, a dozen lemons and a few cartons of eggs on her trestle table. Sneaking a discreet peek under the table, I

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-68870827375447823682008-01-18T09:44:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:28.794Z

I'm having a hard time concentrating on my chosen subject this morning, so potent are the chocolatey aromas wafting from the oven at Emilie's Cookies. I have set up shop here while some major renovations take place in our apartment, and it's only because I'm meeting a friend for lunch at La Merenda that I have steeled myself while fist-sized balls of dough studded with chunks of finest-quality

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-75122648668821880502008-01-10T15:37:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:29.818Z

Ah, Rome. Where else could you buy cappuccino for €1 on top of a landmark cathedral, sip tea in a room cluttered with pensive statues, or fall madly in love with a dish containing just four ingredients?My weekend getaway in early January with two girlfriends was my second time in Rome, and though this was by far the wetter visit I also got a much broader view of the city. For two nights I stayed

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-58584774911280074912008-01-02T15:36:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:36.242Z

Just when you think you can't eat another cake or drink another glass of champagne (well, ok, I can always drink champagne), the French find another reason to bring the workday to a halt and indulge.The epiphany is a serious culinary event here, lasting not just one day - officially January 6th - but the whole month of January. Pâtisseries vie to outdo each other with their epiphany cakes, inside

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-32817647496139604982007-12-24T11:09:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:36.354Z

Our Christmas menu:Thrush terrine, from the one and only Franck CeruttiPoularde with celery stuffing and winter fruitsPotato and celery root puréeBrussels sprouts and chestnuts - because it wouldn't be Christmas without Brussels sproutsCarrots braised with spicesChristmas pudding with homemade vanilla ice creamLes 13 desserts - my own interpretation of this Provençal tradition, with fresh, dried

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-85957560249823504142007-12-21T10:17:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:41:36.739Z

I'm not the first blogger to discover Dorie Greenspan's all-time favorite World Peace Cookies, but I must add my voice to the chorus of praise from people whose lives have been changed forever by these chocolate sablés.As Dorie herself points out, this recipe is really a straightforward slice-and-bake cookie. The difference is that it comes from Paris pastry chef Pierre Hermé, who has been

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-65210070543980681372007-12-20T10:52:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:41:37.131Z

Would you like this chic little book to be yours?You have only until tomorrow to buy your raffle tickets for Chez Pim's fundraiser Menu for Hope, which this year is supporting a school lunch program in Lesotho. The money raised will help provide two meals a day for 137,000 children, some of them nomadic herd boys as young as seven years old.The winner of my prize, EU01, will not only receive a

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-50423469197509136882007-12-17T14:00:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:37.349Z

Sometimes what I want is not fanciful layers of meringue, mousse and ganache but a crisp oatmeal cookie studded with tiny purple-black currants. Raw mascobado sugar, its soft golden crystals speckled with molasses, streaked these cookies with deeply flavored caramel. They are perfect for a child's goûter and with a mug of thick hot chocolate in front of the fire (or, in my case, the oven), far

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-43935640519813100922007-12-12T09:30:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:37.560Z

Since I started blogging about eight months ago I've realized how powerful this medium can be. For me, blogs have become a daily source of entertainment, inspiration and knowledge. I'm constantly amazed by the talent and generosity of food bloggers - and never more so than when they team up to help those in need.Chez Pim's fourth annual Menu for Hope comes at just the right time of year, when I

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-30082469495469077402007-12-09T15:47:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:40.918Z

Some women buy jewels. I buy pastries. The luxury I allow myself might be relatively small, but I take huge pleasure in every moment of the experience. That's why nothing depresses me more than dour service in a pâtisserie, which goes against my belief that sharing space with chocolate and cakes all day should imbue people with well-being.In fairness, I'm the one who provoked the pastry chef's

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-12718081029625008292007-12-03T17:49:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:51.437Z

(Sorry about the bad pun, but there is no editor to restrain me.)A task I look forward to every month is translating the newsletter of Olivier Roellinger, an inspired chef who is based in the fishing town of Cancale near Mont St-Michel in northern Brittany. I haven't yet found the right excuse to splurge on a meal at his restaurant Le Relais Gourmand Olivier Roellinger, but the easy-to-follow

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-86097306375937235572007-11-28T09:52:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:52.191Z

I've been doing my best to forget about tomatoes, loading up at the market on knobbly-skinned winter squash, the tender little broccoli known as brocoletti, and skinny carrots the color of beets courtesy of organic market gardener Joëlle. Oh, and lots of local oranges and lemons too, their leaves still clinging to the stems.But on Saturday, at Pierre's stand, tomatoes couldn't help but catch my

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-32694487348380365282007-11-24T10:08:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:52.348Z

Why pumpkin pie, you might ask, when Thanksgiving is over?Well, for one thing, this pumpkin pie is good enough to make just for the pleasure of eating it, and not only as part of a harvest ritual that will leave you far to stuffed to appreciate it. And, for another, it gives me an excuse to talk about a method of making pastry that has changed my life - and just might do the same to yours.I've

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-32359745086866770032007-11-20T07:48:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:52.692Z

Homemade pizza might not seem like a very grand way to celebrate a birthday, but to that I reply: it depends on what you drink with it.Accompanied by a bottle of velvety Taittinger Prélude made only from premier cru grapes, this humble standby became a feast worthy of a momentous event in Philippe's life. We had at first thought of takeaway pizza but decided instead, for the same price, to

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-83670926817584395192007-11-16T07:20:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:53.011Z

Help! I've been tagged by the lovely Lucy. I'm normally a deeply private person but this blog has changed that. Here are a few little secrets that I hadn't yet revealed.Four quirky things about the way I eat (and drink):1. I need to eat at least every two hours or I am impossible to be around. So I am constantly nibbling on fresh or dried fruit, nuts and seeds (and occasionally pain au chocolat

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-86787367499610842062007-11-11T10:21:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:53.248Z

After the sugary excesses of my trip to England I wanted something sweet but not too sweet, healthy but not too healthy. The answer was these butternut squash muffins, which I came across on the Channel 4 website while looking at Jamie Oliver recipes to compensate for British television withdrawal.Butternut rivals potimarron as my favorite squash thanks to its sweet yet delicate taste and

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-49025984973136507042007-11-08T17:42:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:41:53.420Z

A strange thing has happened.I have come back from England without having taken a single picture of food.That doesn't mean that I forgot about food for a few days while riding the tops of double-decker buses with Sam. Far from it. During this trip I made it my mission to introduce him to the things I love best in England: mint Aero, Fry's Peppermint Cream (do you detect a theme here?) and,

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-36799889065062836352007-11-02T09:02:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:41:53.822Z

Sam and I are off to England today to visit my sister and his cousins in Norwich, but I couldn't resist adding a couple of days in London to our trip. Guess what's first on my agenda?

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-85917702243960648742007-10-31T12:10:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:53.990Z

The fantasy:Perfect Mother that I am, baking gingerbread "skeleton" and "pumpkin" cookies with my five-year-old is a breeze, like an episode of Martha Stewart. I assemble the ingredients ahead of time, teaching Sam the importance of mise-en-place. I speak to my son in a sing-song voice, letting him do most of the work as I marvel at his precocious poise and talent in the kitchen. The cookies are,

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-45350786173286506762007-10-30T06:44:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:41:54.302Z

The nights are growing nippy here and it's dark by 6pm, but I'm not complaining. For me, the official end of the scorching Niçois summer signals the beginning of bread-baking season.I've been baking bread on and off for most of my life, but it only started to become a real habit last year. Bread baking, like yoga, is most satisfying if you do a little of it every day - which makes sense, since

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-57550328421588037462007-10-27T08:33:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:54.798Z

Sorry tomatoes, we had a great time this summer but you are already no more than a distant memory. Squash have caught my eye, their colors and shapes as varied and fascinating as autumn leaves.The first to distract me from your plump sweetness was the courge de Nice, an astonishing vegetable (or, technically, fruit) which starts out as tender, deep green trompette zucchini before swelling to

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-6094506955361645812007-10-20T14:29:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:55.349Z

There is no denying that the Métro strike is irritating: how cruel and inhuman to shut down the only line that leads directly to the Salon du Chocolat at Porte de Versailles.But, somehow or other, Paris always brings a smile to my face.I walked down this street after chatting with Michel Chaudun, who must be the city's warmest and happiest chocolatier. He isn't taking part in the Salon du

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-41196229594646154742007-10-16T09:59:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:55.565Z

Not all creatures find raw quinces unbearably hard and astringent. As I finally cut into the golden fruits that had been filling my kitchen with a delicious floral aroma, I discovered a couple of surprise inhabitants that appeared to be thriving in their inhospitable flesh. Not to be put off, I quickly discarded the damaged portions without examining them too closely - were those really mutant

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-59258685791536485512007-10-14T14:32:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:55.760Z

Buying food couldn't be easier at this time of year, as the market stalls beckon with the voluptuous and bizarre: jet-black trompette de la mort mushrooms, deep-orange, pointy-tipped squash known as potimarrons, fennel with feathery fronds as long as my arm. Finding time to prepare these treasures can be more of a challenge.That's why the most beautiful quinces have been occupying the bottom

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-78483766661384890042007-10-07T15:20:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:41:56.176Z

When I moved to France in my mid-20s I left a life of domesticity behind. I had been playing housewife since I was 19 and it was time to go off on my own, unburdened by the battery of kitchen equipment and glossy food magazines I had accumulated over seven years.In Paris, it became a game to prove that no dish was unachievable with my minimalist equipment: two temperamental burners, a mini fridge

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-91130671228821916342007-10-01T13:19:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:41:56.821Z

In France you are either a pastry chef or a baker, rarely both.Pastry chefs are precise perfectionists who know just how many grams of gelatin it takes to bring structure to an airy raspberry mousse. They are chemists but also artists, who finish off their creations with a single red rose petal or a paper-thin square of white chocolate streaked with gold.Bakers are more instinctive types who

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-41993420076995270562007-09-26T18:57:00.001Z2007-09-26T19:10:40.377Z

Ever wondered whether the chef at that quaint little French bistro has selected his "fresh" ingredients at the frozen food chain Picard? If yesterday's roast chicken has become today's chicken curry? If the price of the day's special is indecipherable on purpose? This video will confirm your worst fears about dining in France.I like to think there are not too many chefs as cynical as this one,

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-30889733069170727662007-09-25T10:28:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:57.335Z

You might have guessed from the title that this is not going to be the most objective post. This month's trip to Helsinki was my third in as many years. Each time I find more to love about this city, which celebrates extremes of light and darkness, heat and cold.I grew up with temperatures that often dipped to eyelash-freezing -35 C or so (not counting the dreaded wind chill), but at least we had

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-67142249508495613492007-09-21T11:03:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:59.682Z

To those who say that writing about restaurants is not hard work, I reply: "Have you ever tried eating six meals in a day?"When I said I would try to post from Helsinki and St. Petersburg, I wasn't counting on the enthusiasm of the Eat & Joy organisers, who put our stamina (and stomachs) to the test with a packed schedule that started at 9am every day and never finished before 1am. In Helsinki we

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-23585060946867468352007-09-13T08:16:00.001Z2007-09-13T08:22:17.571Z

I'm off to Helsinki and St. Petersburg today on a press trip, having miraculously obtained a Russian visa in Paris. This is my third trip to Helsinki thanks to the wonderful Eat & Joy event, which is held every year. Highlights last year were a bear burger (surprisingly juicy), a real Finnish sauna and the herring festival, in which the harbour fills with small fishing boats. How I love herring!I

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-22162639075736795622007-09-12T06:54:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:41:59.912Z

Coffee éclairs and I go back a long way, to my first year in Paris when I was four. My memories of that year are vivid, probably because I was learning a new language (I entered the maternelle knowing only how to say "oui" and "non" and came out fluent, at least temporarily) and adjusting to a new culture (in Canada park wardens don't blow the whistle and aim a threatening finger at children who

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-84900239789455624572007-09-06T15:59:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:00.060Z

After a few weeks away it's always a pleasure to come back to Paris. You might think I would be jaded after all this time, but my first glimpse of the city is inevitably a thrill. This time there was quite a lot to catch up on: the city has made thousands of sleek silver bicycles available at stands throughout the city and there is free wireless Internet access in parks and libraries.I wasted no

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-70129337693779964042007-09-02T17:38:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:00.510Z

I have never paid as much attention to flowers as I have to food. After all, with a few exceptions, you can't eat them. In my more domestic days - when I lived in a house with a garden - I grew nasturtiums and marigolds to toss into salads and keep away pests, but that was about the extent of my skills as a non-vegetable gardener.Over the last year or so I've paid too little attention to the

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-45647121222231133502007-08-31T06:49:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:00.719Z

Alain Dutournier, chef at the very chic restaurant Le Carré des Feuillants in Paris, once said to me that he considers it uncivilized to drink without eating. I'm inclined to agree, even if it might sound a bit extreme. What could be more civilized, after all, than the Italian aperitivo with its array of tiny sandwiches and snacks?The French sadly haven't adopted this generous approach and even

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-31991603618627139042007-08-27T11:57:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:07.797Z

While the streets of Nice fill with Parisians anxious for a whiff of basil and a therapeutic dose of sunlight, I head for parts of the world whose names meet with blank stares - last year the Lozère (France's least-populated region), this year Le Marche.I'm not quite sure how the name of this Italian region became lodged in my brain, but I've always wondered why so little is written about an area

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-53190634150914595172007-08-10T19:02:00.000Z2007-08-10T19:18:54.100Z

I used to laugh at the way French people all take their holidays at the same time, like sheep.Now all I have to say is: baaa. I've lived in France for so long - 12 years - that I can't imagine going through a month of August without getting away, even if I do live in the sunniest place in France (by far).I'm off this weekend to Le Marche, Italy. I've been to Italy many times before but this will

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-23780761668739954132007-08-07T09:29:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:08.767Z

The inspiration for this slightly ambitious Saturday afternoon cooking project came from the lovely and talented Fanny, who I am hoping will soon be teaching pastry workshops with me in Nice (stay tuned on the Petits Farcis website). When I saw her version of a Jamie Oliver recipe for caramelle with ricotta, basil and black olives, I had the irresistible urge to dust off my pasta machine and

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-34730310155867003872007-08-02T06:23:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:09.157Z

As I wander through the streets of the Old Town in Nice I try to imagine what they must have looked like 50, 100, 200 or 400 years ago (my building, a former monastery, dates from the early 1600s). The street names recall that these narrow lanes were once devoted to food: rue de la Poissonnerie (fish market street), rue de la Boucherie (butcher street), place de la Halle aux Herbes (herb market

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-89761318898476726362007-07-28T12:47:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:10.936Z

I will go anywhere in Italy at the slightest opportunity, but I have a special relationship with Bergamo. I've been travelling to this small city about 45 minutes north of Milan for about 10 years to visit my Canadian friend Roisin, who teaches medieval Italian history.Italians don't think of Bergamo as the most romantic destination - let's face it, they have Venice and Verona to compare it to -

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-11381654800834635362007-07-23T14:56:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:42:11.069Z

One of the things I love about shopping at the Cours Saleya market is that everything I prepare has significance. Producers want to know how I made use of their freshly picked vegetables and will tell me off for any lapses in judgement. Other shoppers listen in critically, throwing in their own remarks on how best to stuff les petits farcis (little stuffed vegetables) or fry zucchini flowers (the

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-26828631574615837422007-07-19T16:26:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:11.568Z

There is something a bit primitive about the kiwano. This spiky vegetable (or is it a fruit?) belongs in a tropical jungle, not in some aseptic supermarket. Where else would I have come across it but at Pierre's stall, where it looked right at home next to stripy green tomatoes and miniature yellow pumpkins?Looking like a cross between a cucumber and a hand grenade, the kiwano sat in my fridge

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-23520808799836915112007-07-16T07:10:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:42:11.733Z

I had great plans for my bag of fregola sarda, which I bought at the Italie à Table show on the Promenade des Anglais back in early June. I meant to thoroughly research this Sardinian pasta, which looks like overgrown couscous grains or coarsely ground almonds that have been toasted until golden.But then I was hungry, I had some diced raw eggplant leftover from the previous day's ratatouille and

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-74751736748964397212007-07-13T15:38:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:11.863Z

Living in the home of ratatouille, this is not a recipe that I take lightly. I make it only in the height of summer with eggplant whose skin is as flawless as a baby's, tomatoes that have basked luxuriantly in the sun, pale green zucchini so fresh that their yellow flowers are still open, and peppers whose skin gleams red or yellow.The US release of the Disney film Ratatouille - which comes to

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-20635740405926178322007-07-11T07:38:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:12.044Z

For many years I never understood why French people take their holidays en masse, hitting the highways and airports like so many sheep. I made a point of staying in Paris over the summer to enjoy the plummeting stress level and traffic-free streets. Summer is the time for champagne picnics on the banks of the Seine, for parties on the pedestrian Pont des Arts, and for cycling the wrong way down

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-59557925042671491472007-07-09T15:00:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:12.319Z

If there were a prize for the most exuberant farmer at the Cours Saleya market, Pierre would be a shoo-in.To celebrate summer's bounty, he held an open house on Sunday with games for the children, a potent tropical punch made with real vanilla bean (it's a good thing someone else was supervising the kids), African drummers and plenty of nibbles that showcased his organic vegetables and fruit.Some

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-75060503916643143132007-07-05T15:26:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:12.554Z

You know you've lived in France a long time when strawberry tart with crème pâtissière starts to seem banal. In any pastry shop in Paris you'll find this classic, the scarlet berries perched on an eggy cream and glazed with red jelly. I like it, but it's not something that I've thought of ordering in years (well, would you, when you could have Pierre Hermé's raspberry, rose and lychee tart or

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-17477003655775188992007-07-02T07:14:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:42:13.692Z

I've lived in France for so long that I rarely get sentimental about Canada, to the universal bafflement of the French who can't understand why I gave up the comfort and natural beauty of my homeland to live in cramped medieval conditions.It so happens that I like hanging up my laundry on the vertiginous clothesline outside and trying to imagine who lived in my apartment 400 years ago (monks,

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-39839631735647255792007-06-28T08:07:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:13.858Z

This dish started with a big bunch of spring onions, their papery skins just starting to form. Producer Louis Berthon, affectionately known to us as Loulou, saw me eyeing them at his stand. "Roasted with a lamb shoulder and a couple of tomatoes they are fantastic," he said.I can always count on the producers at the Cours Saleya market to give me recipes that are free of time-consuming frills and

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-89084019329873973812007-06-25T08:39:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:13.977Z

Like most people who have spent a large chunk of their lives in Paris, I'm a bit snooty about chocolate. I walked past Chocolaterie Galler in the boisterous market street rue d'Aligre many times before deigning to go inside, simply because it was a Belgian chain. I've long preferred the sober intensity of French ganache fillings to the nutty sweetness of Belgian praline, or so I thought until I

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-30624351720025990072007-06-22T07:25:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:42:14.074Z

Here is my latest batch, this time made with apricots and pretty dubious-looking peaches. I hadn't set out to buy peaches, but I don't argue with producers when they offer me heaps of blemished fruit for next to nothing.I usually stick to a single fruit for jam and wondered how peach and apricot would work together, but if anything the flavor is even more marvelous than that of the apricots alone

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-80744073080016392742007-06-21T06:20:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:14.269Z

I can buy perfect apricots at the moment at the Cours Saleya market. Big, sexily curved and deep orange, they have a rosy blush that almost looks painted on.The truth is, though, that these apricots don't really interest me. Oh, I'm happy to bite into their sweet, sunset-colored flesh from time to time. But for me they are too perfect, maybe even a little suspect. I've learned over the years that

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-54946457169001861362007-06-18T07:07:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:14.407Z

This big bunch of red-ribbed leaves caught my eye yesterday at the stand of Jean-Louis and Katy, whose organic produce at the Cours Saleya market is consistently fresh and beautiful. I thought it might be a kind of chicory, or perhaps baby beet leaves, but Katy told me matter-of-factly that it was a type of sorrel. "You eat it raw, in salads," she said.I previously knew sorrel only as a big,

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-59430851603619492292007-06-16T11:01:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:14.763Z

Tomato season is here! You can safely assume that I'm not talking about mealy hothouse tomatoes or even the tasty little Merinda variety from Sicily that has been available in France for the past few weeks. Today was the day that organic producer Pierre unveiled his tomato collection for the summer, and a few of his most loyal customers celebrated the event with a casual tomato brunch at 8.30am (

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-17519101997995718392007-06-15T13:04:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:15.448Z

If lovingly aged cheese from every remote corner of France is not so easy to come by in Nice, Paris positively oozes with cheese possibilities. When I lived in rue Monge (home of several of the city's top bakeries, notably Le Boulanger de Monge, Eric Kayser and the lesser-known Boulangerie Grégoire), I could count five cheese shops in my neighborhood alone. Two of these were impeccably run

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-18376150840471612622007-06-13T06:02:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:15.598Z

One of the things I love about Nice is the Italian influence in the food. But it wouldn't be entirely accurate to say that Nice adopted Italian cooking during its time under the rule of Piedmont and Sardinia, which ended in 1860. Rather, the ever-resourceful people of the Comté de Nice (the city and surrounding mountains) made Italian specialties their own.Porchetta, which in Italy is a whole

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-12934788639620719712007-06-11T08:21:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:15.880Z

I'm not obsessive about eating organic but I like to buy untreated food as often as possible. In Paris only a privileged few (the likes of Catherine Deneuve and the Barefoot Contessa) can afford to shop at the hippie-chic Raspail organic market, but the Cours Saleya in Nice is slightly more democratic: the organic producers don't charge a lot more than the other small farmers. They are also the

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-575828329137959082007-06-09T14:18:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:16.402Z

The story of the French and English has not always been one of deep understanding and mutual admiration of one another's cuisine.That is changing thanks to Paris cafés such as Rose Bakery and the similarly named but unrelated Bread & Roses, which are patching up centuries of misunderstanding by displaying homey scones and crumbles next to chic lemon tarts and quiches.I'll seize any opportunity to

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-62587285252405425892007-06-05T13:54:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:42:16.713Z

My favorite Paris bistro at the moment has an American chef.To me there is nothing really surprising about this. After all, I'm Canadian and teach Niçois cooking, much to the initial alarm of the market vendors at the Cours Saleya (who have now accepted and even occasionally embraced me).Former philosophy student Daniel Rose has solid credentials, having worked with the likes of Yannick Alléno,

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-14236535965554509832007-06-03T12:10:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:16.959Z

When my friends Kathryn and Tristan announced they would be getting married in Tuscany on June 1st, I didn't even hesitate before offering to bake their wedding cake. Tristan was one of my very first friends in Nice, and Kathryn and I hit it off instantly when I met her two years ago. A frequent assistant at my cooking classes, she shares my capacity to talk endlessly about food, whether French,

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-37279872149040799912007-05-30T08:56:00.000Z2007-05-30T09:05:04.327Z

15 pounds of carrots4 dozen eggs20 packets of cream cheese5 pounds of sugar5 pounds of flour2 1/2 lbs of walnuts2 1/2 lbs of butter1 heavy-duty mixer1 food processor with grater attachment4 vegetable peelersA packet of drinking strawsA palette knifeThis is just a sample of what I'm taking to Tuscany for the wedding of my friends Kathryn and Tristan on Friday.Guess who's baking the cake?And guess

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-889757299816081152007-05-27T08:24:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:17.108Z

At our house the word "Georges" is pronounced with the same reverence that others might reserve for "God."Georges gives me reason to get up in the morning. On Saturdays, he gives me reason to get up especially early, by 7am without fail.I first heard of Georges about a year ago, around the same time that I first met Franck Cerutti, chef at the Louis XV in Monaco. After introducing me to his

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-53100277682585677122007-05-25T05:54:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:17.182Z

Some days I have to think, and even agonize, about what to cook. And some days the ingredients just seem to leap into the pots and cook themselves, leaving me feeling almost like a spectator. With the change in season this is happening more and more often.Don't get me wrong, I love the produce that winter has to offer in Nice: citrus fruits straight off the tree, their shiny green leaves still

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-85115287098173343522007-05-24T07:39:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:17.384Z

Some days I just want chocolate cake. Not a fondant cake, or a mousse cake, or a runny-centered cake, or even a Carrément chocolat cake from Pierre Hermé in Paris, but a good old-fashioned sponge cake. Yesterday was one of those days. I was entertaining six five-year-olds for Sam's birthday with a picnic in the Parc du Château, and it was in my interest to keep the chocolate/sugar rush to a

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-90976698051036174222007-05-20T17:05:00.001Z2008-12-09T21:42:17.537Z

Sam and I might be different in some ways - the Power Rangers aisle at the toy store is not my idea of paradise - but we basically think alike. He loves cakes of all kinds and so do I. Both of us see birthdays first and foremost as an opportunity to eat cake, and preferably more than once. My parents' visit in honor of his fifth birthday later this week provided the perfect excuse for a little

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-82241402613808192242007-05-19T08:34:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:18.356Z

Every Saturday I look forward to visiting Pierre's stand at the Cours Saleya market. Pierre is one of several small producers who come to the market only on weekends. His products are all organic and he describes them with boundless enthusiasm. Pierre is never more passionate about his vegetables than in the summer, when he grows up to 100 different tomato varieties, from the stripy green zebra

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-43459292504635675222007-05-16T05:46:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:18.529Z

I'll never forget my first taste of oysters in France. I had eaten oysters a few times in Canada, but they had always travelled too far to have any life left in them. Then I moved to France and spent a few days in Brittany, where I visited the fishing town of Cancale in the Mont St-Michel bay, home of genius chef Olivier Roellinger. I didn't have the means to eat in his restaurant (and have still

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-23368178000240320222007-05-15T15:40:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:18.627Z

A friend of mine, quoting her mother, likes to say, "Never eat anything bigger than your head." Sam appears to be breaking that rule here. Maybe the picture makes the tart look slightly bigger than it was, but it was big enough to make people stop in their tracks and stare as he devoured it just outside his school. Tarte au flan, or flan for short, is Sam's favorite afterschool treat. It's a kind

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-78149122452226868422007-05-14T07:08:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:18.779Z

Students in my cooking classes are often surprised to hear me say that it's hard to find fresh local fish in Nice. Surrounded as we are by the azure waters of the Mediterranean, you would think that fish would be plentiful. Sadly, though, few of the colorful fishing boats moored in the Nice harbor are actually used and I know of only one fisherman who sells his own catch, at the far end of the

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-22511586450690074262007-05-11T05:05:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:18.971Z

It's easy to take salt for granted. That is, until you've discovered coarse gray sea salt and fleur de sel from France's Atlantic coast. I've known for years that the first gets its color from clay and the second floats to the surface of the water, but had never given much thought to how they were actually harvested. All that has changed now that I'm on the Ile de Ré, one of three islands or

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-47148058699822372722007-05-09T06:26:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:19.173Z

Like the Auvergne, the Ile de Ré has a potato fetish. But here what they celebrate is the spring potato, the sweet and dainty pomme de terre primeur de l'Ile de Ré. It has an official season - from early May to the end of June - and sells in Paris and Nice at the luxury price of around €12 a kilogram (about $8 a pound). What makes it special is the island's unique sandy terroir combined with the

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-77542077621486461722007-05-07T06:22:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:19.304Z

When I find myself in the Montparnasse area in Paris the first thing I usually think of is crêpes, since this is the area where most of the city's Breton population settled (it seems they got off the train at Montparnasse and never left the area). I know I'll be eating a few crêpes this week as I'm on my way to the Ile de Ré, an island off the Atlantic coast near La Rochelle, for a week's holiday

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-49233834909522957612007-05-03T07:32:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:19.446Z

After a day in front of my computer I'm like a little mouse emerging from its hole, blinking in the sunlight and talking with a squeaky voice. May 1st being Labor Day in France, I forced myself to leave my desk and took a walk up to the Parc du Château (don't look for a castle, it was destroyed in 1706), where I soaked up the spectacular views and felt happy as always to be back in Nice.

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-35361642830132563902007-05-01T13:04:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:19.606Z

I always enjoy spending time with my favorite French hedonist Annie Poussielgues. She is full of ideas, loves to travel (she and I once went to Japan together and share a special fondness for southern India) and has that innate French sense of style that I admire. The other night she invited me to try a new way of eating that perfectly reflects the modern Parisian lifestyle. Première Etoile,

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-14851166351321132532007-04-28T16:06:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:19.767Z

I met with pastry chef and blogger extraordinaire David Lebovitz yesterday to have a chat and interview him for the book I'm currently working on, Gourmet Paris (to be published in English this fall by Editions du Mont Tonnerre). We mostly talked about ice cream, which is the theme of David's latest book, but one of the places he mentioned was a new bakery on the Square Trousseau, Blé Sucré.

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-16328988884405716682007-04-26T14:02:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:20.319Z

Like Jacques Chirac, I’m borrowing a Paris pad from a friend for the next few months (part-time in my case). Mine doesn’t overlook the Seine but a leafy courtyard in a quiet street near Porte de Champerret, a part of the 17th I had never thought to explore. It’s proving less sleepy than I expected: impeccably groomed women in sundresses and high heels and dazzling men in black suits and crisp

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-83334111527723401722007-04-25T16:15:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:20.562Z

I first spotted Patricia Valliccioni at the Raspail market, standing behind a stall of little cupcakes that looked like nothing I've ever seen in a French pâtisserie. I was intrigued. It's unusual enough to see a woman pâtissière, let alone one who has invented a new style. I didn't have time to talk to her for very long that day but tasted her pistachio-raspberry cake, whose moist, nutty crumb

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-63140684763703576562007-04-23T16:11:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:20.717Z

My kitchen would be a sad place indeed without fresh herbs. In summer it's big bunches of basil and mint, while in winter I make up for their absence with bushels of Italian parsley. Thyme, rosemary and bay leaves come in a pretty, paper-wrapped bundle, their leaves nearly dry from the arid climate in the mountains behind Nice. Thyme sprigs and bay leaf go into nearly all my stewed dishes, either

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-49318260013916991912007-04-22T12:42:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:20.914Z

Not all foods can be blessed with good looks, like the emerald pea pods or deep orange gariguette strawberries that keep jumping off the market stalls straight into my basket this week. At its best poutine is translucent and silvery, but more often it's simply a grayish mass. A close look reveals hundreds of sardines so tiny and undeveloped that they are almost transparent (the word for these is

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-12003590462550956292007-04-21T10:55:00.000Z2008-12-09T21:42:21.051Z

I thought I knew the Cours Saleya market inside out until I did the rounds with Franck Cerutti. As chef at the Louis XV restaurant in Monaco and previously at the Don Camillo in Nice, he has been shopping at this market at least five times a week for the past 15 years or so. A friend who lived next door to him introduced us about a year ago, and Franck immediately offered to give me his personal

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5928754436992490761.post-11030760916023044912007-04-19T08:06:00.000Z2007-04-19T08:29:52.524Z

I'm old enough to remember when answering machines were new technology. I wasn't the first to get one, but I eventually gave in. Then mobile phones came along. This time I resisted a little harder, but again the lure was too strong. So it is with the blog. I told myself I was too busy, that I might have nothing interesting to say, that without an editor I might inadvertently offend someone with

Rosahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12010394263374216145noreply@blogger.com4