Epaule d'agneau aux petits oignons

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 flourishes. These farmers are proud to call themselves paysans (which is somehow a more dignified word than "peasant") and you would never catch them doing anything so fussy as peeling individual fava beans or pitting cherries for clafoutis.
It was Loulou, by the way, who recently told me - or should I say ordered me - to make a clafoutis with tart griottes rather than the sweeter burlat, leaving the pits in for their distinct almond flavor. I don't think I'll ever turn back, at least during the brief period when griottes are available.
Loulou is someone I associate more with fruit than vegetables: my fridge would feel empty without a slice of his almond-studded fig nougat, lightly perfumed with anise and lemon zest, or a jar of jam made with his own green tomatoes, mirabelle plums or blackberries. His vegetable production is small but so natural-tasting that on a Saturday I like to visit his stand before I look elsewhere.
I pumped him for details of his lamb recipe but it really was as simple as it sounded, with just the three main ingredients plunked into a roasting dish. My lamb shoulder came from Boucherie St-Antoine in rue Ste-Réparate, though I could just as easily bought it from the orange-tiled Fulchieri around the corner or the tiny but big-hearted Viale a few minutes' walk away. Lamb shoulder is just the right size for four to six people, unlike leg of lamb which feeds a crowd. It takes well to roasting, either deboned and rolled or with the big round shank bone left in, paysan-style, though I more often use it in stews and Moroccan tagines.
Even Sam, who is not normally a big meat-eater, gobbled up every bite of this dish. I could have served it with roasted potatoes, preferably the lovely pink-skinned ones from Loulou, but the natural juice from the meat and vegetables tasted particularly delicious without any starch to soak it up.

Epaule d'agneau aux petits oignons
Serves 4

1-2 bunches spring onions (about 8 onions per person)
2 tomatoes
1 lamb shoulder, with the hip bone removed but the larger shank bone left in
2 tbsp olive oil
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
A few sprigs of fresh or dried thyme

Peel the papery skins off the onions if necessary and cut off the stems. Cut the tomatoes into quarters.

Rub the lamb with 1 tbsp olive oil and season well with salt, pepper and thyme leaves.

Spread out the onions in a roasting dish, toss with 1 tbsp olive oil, and place the lamb on top. Surround the lamb with the tomato quarters.

Roast at 425 F (200 C) for about 1 hour, basting once or twice, until the lamb is well-browned on the outside and barely pink inside.

Set the meat aside to rest for about 10 mins before carving, keeping the vegetables in a warm place.

Chocolaterie Galler

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 met Yves Filleul, whose infectious enthusiasm - and surprising chocolates - quickly won me over.
Yves doesn't make the chocolates himself but you would think they were his babies, so lovingly does he present them. He is quick to explain that Jean Galler trained with legendary French pâtissier Gaston Lenôtre, with the result that his pralines are less sweet than those of his Belgian contemporaries (apart from Pierre Marcolini, who can compete with the best Paris chocolatiers). Galler loves to experiment with new fillings but his aim is always to please rather than to shock - as Yves put it, "when you taste one of his chocolates you should want another one."
Having been to this shop alone and with groups, I can confirm that a single chocolate here is definitely not enough. Yves likes to offer newcomers the curry-filled chocolate pictured above, which is the perfect example of how Galler achieves a balance of flavors. Twelve curry spices go into the praline filling, but Galler uses warm spices only so as not to bombard the palate with chilli or pepper. Because the curry filling is quite subtle you can really taste the Java milk chocolate coating.
At the moment Galler is also experimenting with different salts, which are all the rage in France this year. I tried a chocolate flavored with fleur de sel de Guérande, the pure white salt that rises to the top of the water on this island off the Atlantic coast. Combined with Breton butter, it creates a smooth filling with a surprising taste of the sea. If you're feeling really adventurous you can buy this chocolate as part of marine series that also includes chocolates made with black Hawaiian salt, wakame seaweed from Brittany and nori, the Japanese seaweed that's used for sushi.
I was also intrigued by the even more esoteric Kaori chocolates, which come in the shape of long, pen-like sticks for dipping into little "inkpots" of flavorings. Through a great stroke of luck (thank you, Sally), I received these as a gift recently. Philippe, Sam and I sat down for a serious tasting, dipping each of the seven filled chocolates (saffron, cardamom, yuzu, ginger, vanilla and coconut, and strawberry with balsamic vinegar) into the three pots (orange, matcha and poppy seed, and kalamansi, a type of lime). Not every combination was pure poetry but I was surprised by how good the ginger tasted with the green tea and poppy seed powder and I liked the kalamansi syrup with just about everything.
A house classic is the langue de chat (cat's tongue), a chocolate in the shape of a cat's head inspired by the Belgian political cartoonist Philippe Geluck. If you develop a cat's tongue addiction you'll be in famous company: according to Yves, Woody Allen indulges in one every day.
I still have a special fondness for the more austere French ganache-filled chocolates, if only because it's easier to stop at just one (or two). But I'll never walk down the rue d'Aligre again without dropping into Yves' shop and tearoom, where in colder weather you can taste one of the richest cups of hot chocolate in town.
You might be interested to know that Yves, like Jean Galler himself, recommends storing chocolates in the refrigerator in warm weather - it beats letting them melt into a puddle. Wrap the whole box in plastic to protect it from the humidity and take it out of the fridge 20 minutes before serving, if you have the willpower to wait so long.

Chocolaterie Galler
13 rue d'Aligre, 12th, 01 43 40 34 45.

More jam

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. I used the same recipe as for the apricots, first peeling the peaches by pouring boiling water over the fruit - the peel slipped off easily after about a minute. The peaches add a slightly floral taste and fragrance, making this a gentle jam for summer mornings.
This week has been a bit of a turning point in my jam-making - I've finally achieved that sense of "just knowing" when it's done. The one tip I can offer is: if it seems too runny, then it's probably not ready. It thickens in quite a definite way towards the end. Also, don't forget to stir, especially as the jam starts to thicken. At this point it's more likely to stick and burn, which is not what you want!

Really ripe apricots

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 the less flamboyant yellow-orange apricots at a few of the small farmers' stands have more acidity and a deeper honey flavor, one that makes you feel you are tasting the sun itself (whatever you do, don't eat your apricots chilled).
Even when I'm buying from the producers I snub the unblemished apricots: I want the ones so ripe they have dropped from the tree. I don't care if they look a bit bruised and battered, especially if I'm planning to make compote or jam. The riper the apricot the better it will taste, and I'm aware of how lucky I am to be able to buy ripe fruit picked that morning.
I've been buying my apricots this year from an old couple who sell a small variety of not-very-impressive-looking fruit. How unfortunate are the people who walk past their stand without noticing it! They cultivate old varieties of fruit trees, and what the fruit lacks in symmetry it more than makes up for in character.
The apricots on their stand looked suitably ripe for jam, so I asked for two kilos. It turned out the apricots weren't bruised enough - they brought out a supply of really bashed-up fruit from under the table. Even I was a little anxious as they chose apricots so mushy that I would hardly have to cook them to make compote. But, considering the couple's age and experience, I decided to trust them.
"I'll put in a few musqués for the flavor," said madame, choosing some big, slightly less beaten-up apricots from the table.
Back home, I separated the ones that looked like roadkill from those that were still holding their shape, more or less. I decided to make compote with the mushier ones, as I like my jam with well-defined pieces. For the compôte, I used 1 1/2 lbs of apricots, pitted and cut in half, 1/3 cup water, a little more than 1/2 cup sugar, and half a vanilla bean, with the seeds scraped into the pot and the bean placed inside the mixture. You might want to use more sugar, as my apricots were particularly sweet. I brought it all to a boil and let it simmer for about 15 minutes. Nectar was the only word for the resulting compote: I couldn't believe how good it tasted, and I think the mysterious musqués had something to do with it.
With the rest of the apricots I made a traditional jam. One of the producers told me that you can use the almonds from inside the apricot kernels to flavor the jam. If they are bitter you should use only two or three, as they are slightly toxic, but if they taste sweet you can add them all, if you are patient enough to break open each kernel and peel the almond. He told me after I had made my first batch of jam, but I'm now working on a second batch with a few of the kernels, which will add an almond flavour.
I was thrilled, by the way, to finally use my copper jam basin to make this jam. It had been in storage until recently, but it makes the whole jam-making experience seem so much more romantic. Apricots have a lot of natural pectin, so this is one of the easier jams to make.
This is a standard apricot jam recipe, but it's the apricots that make the difference. It's a testament to the fruit, and not to my modest jam-making skills, that this jam far surpassed anything I have bought in a shop. I love its translucent golden color, soft texture and slight acidity, which balances the fruit's natural sweetness.

Traditional apricot jam
Makes 4 jars

2 3/4 lbs apricots (1.3 kilos)
2 lbs sugar (900 g)
Juice of 1/2 lemon

The day before you want to make the jam, pit the apricots and cut into large chunks. Place in a large bowl with the sugar and refrigerate overnight.

The next day, bring the apricots and sugar to a boil in a large saucepan or copper basin with the lemon juice. Turn the heat down, letting the mixture bubble vigorously without spattering. Place a small plate in the freezer. This is one recipe where you don't have to skim the foam - just keep stirring and it will incorporate itself back into the mixture.

To sterilize your jars, either place them in boiling water for 10 minutes or use a sterilizer for baby bottles (if you have one!). I sterilize mine by washing them well and placing them, still wet, in the oven at 375 F (180 C) for about 20 minutes, but not everyone believes in this method.

After about 1/2 hour, you should see the mixture visibly thicken. Take a small spoonful and pour it onto the cold plate. If it looks thick and doesn't spread when you tilt the plate, your jam is ready. If not, let it cook a little longer and keep testing every couple of minutes.

Transfer the jam to the jars using a funnel if you have one and seal while still hot.

Sorrel

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, slightly floppy green leaf that loses its vivid color as soon as it comes into contact with heat. I love it for its lemony tang, particularly in my simplified version of the Troisgros classic saumon à l'oseille (I promise to share the recipe here one of these days), but have always watched in despair as the bright-tasting leaves turn a muddy green. Not only was this ruby variety even prettier than ordinary sorrel, it didn't involve any aesthetic compromise. There was only one bunch left so I grabbed it before any sharp-eyed chefs came along.
At home, I nibbled on a leaf and recognised the sharp taste of sorrel, without the tooth-stripping feeling that comes from a high concentration of oxalic acid (this is what makes it hard to eat garden variety sorrel raw). I had a few of Pierre's multicolored tomatoes left and decided to use the sorrel as a lemony accent in another salad of tomato chunks, this time with grassy Baux-de-Provence olive oil and a very small splash of balsamic vinegar. I'm not a big believer in using balsamic vinegar indiscriminately, but here I felt that its sweetness would balance the sorrel's tart quality. A good sprinkling of fleur de sel and my simple but refreshing salad was complete.
I'll be mixing the rest of the sorrel in with other young salad greens and perhaps cutting it into thin strips to garnish a soup - I know it's summer, but I think that anytime is a good time to eat soup. There is so much left that I might even try cooking with it, just to see if the leaves can retain some of their gorgeous color.

A Saturday tomato brunch

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 (the early bird catches the tomato in Nice).
Just a few of the 100 or so varieties that Pierre is cultivating were on display today, but this season looks like a promising one indeed. The géante de Renneberg (I'm not sure of the spelling) is an orangey-red tomato so big it seems to burst out of its seams. Cut into the ananas, or pineapple, and you'll discover yellow-pink hues reminiscent of a spring sunset. The green zebra tastes much sweeter than its striped skin suggests, creating beautiful contrast in a salad. There were also orange and yellow beefsteak tomatoes, the green-tinged noire de Crimée and a couple of others whose names I never learned as Pierre was so busy handling the flurry of customers.

For our brunch several kinds of tomatoes went into a giant salad drizzled with Alpes de Haute-Provence olive oil courtesy of Nadim and sprinkled with fleur de sel and torn basil leaves. We also had ewe's cheese from producer Jean-Luc, whose sheep are about to stop producing milk for the summer, a tomme de chèvre (hard goat's cheese) and fresh figs from Pierre's trees. No French picnic would be complete without wine and Pierre, in keeping with his open spirit, provided Australian Shiraz for the occasion (I noticed a pot-bellied local cop who appeared to be on duty indulging cheerfully).
At lunch I recreated the same salad - well, what else would I do with such colorful tomatoes? - embellishing it only with mozzarella di bufala. Sam and his little friend Quentin ate up every bit along with a few slices of silky Parma ham, and I was feeling proud of their good French palates until Quentin asked politely:
"So, can we go to McDonald's now?"

Marie Quatrehomme

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 branches of legendary fromageries, Androuët and Quatrehomme. Much as I loved popping into Marie Quatrehomme's charmingly cramped, stone-walled boutique in rue Mouffetard, sometimes for a hard-to-find hit of crumbly English cheddar, no fromagerie in Paris makes me happier than her main shop on rue de Sèvres.
Marie herself deserves much of the credit for this. Youthful looking, with a healthy glow that can only come from eating the very finest dairy products every day, she is unfailingly gracious to regular customers and one-time visitors alike. I saw definitive proof of this the day a group of 18 foreigners from a tour bus were herded into her shop on a busy Saturday morning by a tour guide who cut Marie off in mid-sentence with the words "Can I talk now?". Trying to fit that number of people into a typical Paris food shop is akin to stuffing the population of Delhi into a phone booth, but Marie, to her great credit, remained polite and unflustered.
I can't help but remark that several of the city's best cheese shops are run by women: besides Quatrehomme, there is Marie-Anne Cantin, Josiane Molard in rue des Martyrs, and Virginie Boularouah of Chez Virginie in the 18th, to name just a few. Then again, there are some pretty talented men in the milk business too, such as Philippe Alléosse and Laurent Dubois. Marie came to this profession by marriage after working in early childhood education, but in the past 15 years has established herself as one of the top fromagères in the country: she was the first woman to win the coveted Meilleur Ouvrier de France title, awarded to artisans who succeed at a gruelling competition.
So what makes her cheese so good? Well, first of all, she knows her producers personally, which means that she understands what they are trying to accomplish. This allows her to finish the ageing process in her own cellars with a real respect for the cheese. Her marque de fabrique, or trademark, is slow ageing in cool cellars to reduce the risk of the cheese going "off." One of her treasures is 36-month-old comté from producer Marcel Petite, a cheese from near the border with Switzerland that develops crackly crystals and an ever-more-complex nutty flavor as it ages (I never leave her shop without a chunk of this). She also has a soft spot for monastery cheeses, explaining that in France it was monks who originally taught farmers how to make cheese. Her shelf of goat cheeses is remarkable and following my visit last week I ate my way through an entire pot of her emerald-green "mousse" made only with fresh goat cheese and pesto. The bakery next door had the perfect baguette à l'ancienne to accompany this, which I think was called the Authentique (someone correct me if I'm wrong!).
Unlike many French fromagers, Marie respects the cheese of other countries and even has a whole shelf devoted to foreign cheeses - a rare sight, believe me. When I visited her shop with a couple from Texas she was able to talk to them about the state's best-known cheese maker, Paula Lambert. Marie has warm memories of the time she has spent in the United States, which is why she always takes the time to greet American customers. "Everyone was so kind to me, I'd like to give something back," she says. Her cheese is a gift in itself, but her ready smile makes it taste even better.
Fromagerie Quatrehomme, 62 rue de Sèvres, 7th, 01 47 34 33 45.