In Paris as in Brookline

As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans. (From A Moveable Feast, Hemingway's recollections of his years as a young man in Paris in the 1920's)

I traveled to the City of Light in August, ready to blog about everything I ate, but I didn't write a word (here is a link to an article I wish I'd written). In Paris, as in Brookline, I was just a mom trying to get through the day — the trip was essentially about parenting, but in better surroundings. I certainly had expected our journey to be food-driven: I downloaded A Moveable Feast onto my iPhone as soon as I booked my seats. I spent hours, days, weeks, researching restaurants. I yellow-highlighted foodie destinations in Zagats and Alexander Lobrano's Hungry for Paris. I ripped pages from the travel section of the NYTimes and the market edition of Saveur. I bookmarked a half dozen Paris food blogs on my laptop. I went into a full-blown panic when I realized that some, possibly many, restaurants would be closed in August and started a flurry of international calls and online reservations. I told my daughter and our traveling companions that, for me, Paris was only about the food. Sure, they could shop and see some art and stuff, but I would spend the week consumed, as it were, with what we'd eat. And so I left for eight days, hungry and excited, ready to walk in the footsteps of Julia Child, Dorie Greenspan, and even David Sedaris. I left dreaming of Hemingway's wine and oysters.

Paris was Paris. It doesn't disappoint. But, I didn't even go to a single restaurant on my list — except for one, L'As du Falafel. And, while we were there, munching on the crispy chickpeas; cool tomato, cucumber, and cabbage; creamy tahini and yogurt; and melt-in-your-mouth fried eggplant, my daughter had some sort of crazed teenage hormone fit. Between bites she regaled us (and most of the restaurant) with a list of the top 10 characteristics she hates about me. It's a testament to L'As du Falafal that the meal still rocked and we went back more than once. I soon realized that just because I was in Paris, it didn't mean I was in heaven or immune to all of the forces that, for better or for worse, run my life back at home.

Other moments of horror: long interludes at Adidas and Sephora on the Champs de Elysées when I kept having to run outside to remember I wasn't in Copley Square, and umpteen stops at souvenir shops to look at yet another metal pink Eiffel Tower and I Heart Paris underpants. As well as various interludes of arguments between the kids or the tensions of being in a foreign city. ("Mom, do we have to have French food again tonight?" Or, "Do you think we could find Grey's Anatomy on this TV?")

But, there were many more moments of joy than agony: coming face-to-face with gargoyles and rooftops at the top of Notre Dame; lounging topless, engulfed in steam and tiles, deep in the heart of a left bank Turkish bath; and overcoming my terror of heights to ride to the very top of the Eiffel Tower (touristy, I know). I was so impressed with myself that once I recovered from the elevator ride I bought a 10 euro glass of champagne selected by Alain Ducasse — the closest I would get to him or any of his restaurants. We had picnics by the Seine, once even with paella we came across at a market on our way to the river.





We were so busy during the day — soaking up the energy of the streets and stones and bridges and paintings — that by the time we were ready for dinner it was 9 or 10 p.m. and I couldn't ask two 14-year-old girls to hop back on the métro to go to L'Atelier de Jöel Rubicon or Cafe Burq. They didn't care that every other post in Paris By Mouth was about the opening of Daniel Rose's Spring. Spring was in the 1st arrondissement and we were in the 4th, and they just wanted to eat, which was unexpectedly fine with me. The only meals the girls really cherished, with the exception of an occasional cheese plate, were a daily Nutella crêpe in the afternoon and gelato just before midnight, when our local gelateria closed.

In the end our greatest joy was our neighborhood. It trumped every second of my wasted restaurant research.


Once we settled into our apartment in the Marais, it was clear that it really wasn't necessary to go anywhere else. So, essentially every day for eight days — with the exception of a dinner party with a friend and one trip to the left bank for fondue — I sat down at one of the many bistros within spitting distance of our apartment, flirted with an endless stream of cute waiters, and ordered steak frites and a bottle of bordeaux. Pretty much without fail.

Okay, once I had moule frites. but that was it.


And I didn't have a single oyster. Or even a glass of white wine. Which, clearly, just means that I have to go back.

Yummy Falafal (even on a bad day)
adapted from The Flexitarian Table by Peter Berley

1/2 c chopped cilantro (or parsley if you're one of those annoying people who insists that cilantro tastes like soap, even though it's really parsley that tastes like soap. You know who you are.)
3/4 c dried chickpeas soaked and drained
1 1/2 t lemon juice
3 T chopped red onion
1 garlic clove chopped
1 t cumin
3/4 t salt
1/2 t ground coriander
1/2 t baking soda
1/8 t cayenne pepper
4 grinds black pepper
4 - 6 c canola oil for frying

In a food processor pulse the cilantro/parsley until finely chopped. Add chickpeas until finely ground (cracker crumb consistency). Add the lemon juice, onion, garlic, cumin, salt, coriander, baking soda, cayenne, and black pepper and pulse to combine. The mixture should hold its shape when squeezed. If it doesn't, process for a few seconds more. Transfer to a large bowl and toss well.

Fill a medium heavy sauce pan or Dutch oven with at least 3 inches of oil, attach a deep-frying thermometer to the side of the pot, and heat the oil to 360 degrees (don't let it drop below 350 after the falafal is added). Line a platter w paper towels.

Moisten your hands and divide the falafel mixture into 12 equal portions (about 2 scant T each). Form each into an oval about 2 inches long and 1/2 and inch thick, moistening your hands as needed while you work.

Fry the falafal a few at a time, turning halfway through until well-browned, about 4 minutes per batch. Transfer to the paper-towel-lined platter to drain. Return the oil to 360 degrees between each batch. Serve warm on pita bread with: tomato, cucumber, yogurt, tahini, red onion, pickles, etc....

Blue Skies, Green Sauce

Well, dear readers, while Janetta stalwartly kept you entertained this summer, plying you with recipes for delectable food and thoughts about life, I found myself struggling mightily to wrestle the school year to the ground. It. Would. Not. Die.

Not that I don't love my job; I do. But the moment of feeling free and clear, ready to recharge, just took longer to arrive than I would have liked. But arrive it did: I can now report, most happily, that—just as I am readying myself for the upcoming school year—I am grabbing some moments to revel in these last, beautiful days of summer. I am done with exams, grading, meetings, reports, and much of the other business involved in finishing up yet another school year, and poised to start all over again. But for a few days now—at long last—I feel free to turn my thoughts from blue books to blue skies.

I look forward to sharing what I cooked and ate and thought about this summer. I have a backlog of recipes and food-related thoughts and adventures to write about—among them, a recent spate of meals chez moi consisting of various mezze perfect for warm summer and early autumn days. But for now I will (finally!) deliver the recipe for the enchiladas mentioned by Janetta a few posts ago. I made them for our school’s Diversity Potluck last spring, and, dare I say, they came out pretty tasty—in the words of my Nana, muy sabrosas.

A note about the recipes I am giving you…. My mother is Mexican, and she makes a mean enchilada. I could give you her recipe. But as I prepared to make my batch for the potluck lunch, I realized that her recipe is not written down, and I would have to calculate quantities for the recipe when I wrote it up… so for a baseline set of measurements I consulted my favorite Mexican cookbooks, a few each by Diana Kennedy and Rick Bayless. And then I trolled through a number of other, more general cookbooks. In the end, perhaps oddly, I decided to use the distinctly not-Mexican Mark Bittman’s recipes for both green sauce and enchiladas; his recipes are a bit more streamlined than the others, but much the same… and they yield a dish of authentic, well-rounded deliciousness.

Enchiladas verdes, green enchiladas, are the best kind of “peasant” food—simple ingredients that blend satisfyingly into a whole greater than its parts. I encourage you to seek out the best ingredients you can when you assemble these. You don’t need to make your own corn tortillas (I didn’t), but buy good ones that aren’t over-processed, but rather look golden and grainy. I actually like the ones you can buy at Trader Joe’s, and the organic ones at Whole Foods. And, if you are looking for one-stop shopping, Whole Foods will also yield up the other important bits: queso fresco and queso cotija, a salty artisanal Mexican cheese, as well as the requisite tomatillos, peppers, cilantro, and so on.

I love salsa verde. So much that is so, well, green goes into it. Just looking at the pile of ingredients makes me happy. And cooking with tomatillos (sometimes called tomates verdes, or green tomatoes) always proves interesting. Their papery hulls are fun to peel off (especially for the likes of Sam), the oddly sticky quality of their skin fascinates me, and they pack a nutritional wallop: low in calories, they contain a large amount of potassium and good bits of vitamin C, folic acid, and vitamin A. And their tangy, lemony flavor complements chiles (moderating their bite) and more. (Interestingly, they contain a substance much like pectin, which thickens sauces or salsas as they cool.)

Other things to do with tomatillos? You can add them raw to cold soups or stir-fry them in a little bit of oil or broth with some onions, garlic, salt, and pepper. And a simple yet delicious way to eat them is as part of a salsa crude, or raw salsa, to eat with chips or on the side of any number of meals: mix together chopped tomatillos, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños, and cilantro, then season to taste with lime juice and salt.

Bueno. Without further ado, the recipes. Buen provecho!

Salsa Verde

(Cooked Tomatillo Salsa)

Adapted from Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything Vegetarian

Bittman suggests that for milder sauce, you substitute poblanos for the hot chile. For “in-your-face heat,” leave the seeds in the jalapeños or add even more, to taste.

I heartily endorse Bittman’s suggestion to add salsa verde to scrambled eggs; very tasty.

20 to 24 tomatillos, husked and rinsed

6 T neutral oil, like grapeseed or corn

4 large onions, diced

10-14 cloves garlic, minced

4 medium poblano or other mild fresh green chiles, roasted and cleaned (See note below. And do know that even though the roasting and cleaning do add some time and labor, they are well worth it—you’ll relish the added layer of taste you get from the roasting.)

2 or 3 serrano or other hot fresh green chiles, roasted and cleaned if desired; otherwise, just chopped

2 t dried oregano, preferably Mexican

2 c vegetable stock or water

1-2 c chopped cilantro

½ c freshly squeezed lime juice

salt and pepper to taste

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Put the tomatillos on a baking sheet and roast until the skins are lightly browned and blistered, about 20 min. Remove the tomatillos; when they’re cool enough to handle, chop them finely, along with the chiles, saving their juices.

2. While the tomatillos are roasting, put the olive oil in a large deep skillet over medium heat. When hot, add the onions and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until very soft and lightly browned, about 10 min. Add the tomatillos, chiles, oregano, stock, and a large pinch of salt and pepper; stir and bring to a low simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is slightly thickened, 10 to 15 minutes.

3. Stir in the cilantro and lime juice and taste and adjust the seasoning. Purée salsa in the pan using an immersion blender, or cool and purée in a blender or food processor.

The quantities listed here constitute a double recipe of the salsa, yielding about 4 cups—plenty for the enchiladas, with a little left over for your scrambled eggs in the morning.

Enchiladas Verdes

(Cheese Enchiladas with Green Sauce)

Makes about 8 servings.

Neutral oil, such as grapeseed or corn, for frying

24 small corn tortillas, plus more if any break

5 c shredded Montery Jack or cotija cheese, or a combination

½ c crumbled queso fresco for garnish

½ c chopped red onion or scallion for garnish (I like to use both, just for the color of it)

½ c chopped fresh cilantro for garnish

Lime wedges for garnish

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Spoon a thin layer of the salsa verde into the bottom of a 9- x 12-inch baking dish. Put about ½ inch of the oil in a large, deep skillet over medium-high heat. When hot but not smoking, cook the tortillas, one at a tine, until softened and pliable, about 10-15 seconds. Add more oil to the pan as needed. Drain on paper towels.

2. Sprinkle about 2 T of the Monterey Jack (or cotija) in the center of each tortilla, roll tightly, and put the enchiladas in the prepared dish, seam side down. The rolls should be packed in snugly against one another. Cover the top with some more salsa and bake for 25 minutes or until the enchiladas are warmed through and the cheese has melted. When the enchiladas come out of the oven, sprinkle them with the queso fresco, onion and/or scallions, and cilantro. Serve with lime wedges on the side and pass extra salsa on the side. For a fuller plate, you could serve the enchiladas with a side of black or pinto beans, and a small chopped salad of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, and radishes, with an olive oil/lime dressing.

Note on roasting peppers: Bittman describes two methods. I generally broil the peppers. But you can also skewer them on a long fork and roast them over a gas burner—very attentively, as they can easily burn.

To roast or broil: Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F or the broiler and put the rack about 4 inches from the heat source. Put the peppers in a foil-lined roasting pan. Roast or broil, turning the peppers as each side browns, until they have darkened and collapsed, 15 or 20 min in the broiler, up to an hour in the oven.

To grill: Heat a charcoal or gas grill until hot and put the rack about 4 in from the heat source. When the fire is hot, put the peppers directly over the heat. Grill, turning as each side blackens, until they collapse, about 15 min.

When the peppers are done, wrap them in foil (if you roasted them in the oven, you can use the same foil that lined the pan) and cool until you can handle them, then remove the skin, seeds, and stems—doing so is a little easier under running water. Don’t worry if the peppers fall apart.

I wish everyone a safe Labor Day weekend, and a lovely last taste of summer!

Wallowing: Linguini with Clam Sauce and Chilis

When you break up with someone (or they break up with you), what do you do with the food? You know, the food that you loved to cook and eat together. The food that meant something — although in hindsight, you're not sure quite what. I guess if you hate that person, you just don't eat it anymore. It becomes repellent, like the time I got food poisoning after eating salmon and had to avoid it for several years. Or, even worse, when I was 17 and drank gin for the first time and threw up for 12 hours straight. That was in 1982 and I think it was just a year ago that gin revisited the bottom of my glass.

But, what if you don't want to avoid it? Because you still love the food. Because you still love the person. What if you didn't want to break up. They just chose someone else. So, you're not so much broken up as just broken. Do you give up the food then? It's not like it makes you sick like salmon or gin, but it doesn't make you feel particularly good either, and your friends have been telling you for years (yes, years) that you need to get over it already. You're supposed to heal. In order to heal, do you need to give up the food?

I have a friend who is currently married with two beautiful girls. But there was a time — before the married and way before the girls — that she wallowed for several years about someone else. At one point, just a couple of months before the wallowing came to a close, we made a fire in her parents backyard and burned all of the stuff that he had ever given her. Anything that meant something — shoes, photos, letters.... I'm not there yet. If I purged my house of this relationship, it would be empty. I'm already empty enough. But my fridge is still full.


Tonight I made linguine with clam sauce — one of the last things we ate together, when we knew that it was the end and every moment needed to count. I don't know what makes this recipe I found in the April Saveur so much better than every other linguine with clam sauce recipe I've ever made, but it is. Maybe it's the serrano chile, half of which you stir in with the pancetta and garlic; half of which you sprinkle raw on top. The chile makes it hot — ideal for extra exciting kissing, or for dulling the pain.

I didn't premeditate the meal. Or if I did, I told myself that I made it because S just left for two weeks of summer camp, and she refuses to eat clams. So, I ate them alone while watching Friday Night Lights. In episode one, the gorgeous star quarterback who's sure to take the team to the state championship is paralyzed after a tackle gone wrong, and by episode four, his best friend is sleeping with his girlfriend. That's worse than me. At least I can walk. And then when the new quarterback's dad, on leave for two weeks from Iraq, sees that his 16-year-old son is not only playing football and going to high school, but also earning the rent money by slinging soft serve and burgers and single-handedly taking care of his alzheimer's-ridden grandmother who's locked herself in a closet, he decides to go back to the war and sends his son to live in Oklahoma with a relative. That's worse than me. Way worse. I've never even been to Oklahoma. So, with the help of fictional characters in crisis, I made it through the linguine intact.


Which leaves me with the rest of the food. Do I forgo spicy pork and eggplant? And oysters? And Cuban take-out? And what about the places? Do I stop going to the Cape? Because I'm going on Friday. And, chances are, I'll eat some oysters. Maybe it's a coincidence; maybe not. Maybe I just need to wallow a little bit more. And wallowing is better in the summer by the ocean. With the salty brine of an oyster to wash the memories away.




Linguine with Clams and Chiles
adapted from Saveur, April 2010

kosher salt, to taste
1 lb. pasta, preferably linguine
1/3 c extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
4 oz. pancetta, minced
2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced crosswise
2 serrano peppers, stemmed and thinly sliced crosswise
30 littleneck clams, scrubbed clean
1/3 c dry white wine
3 T chopped flat leaf parsley

1. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add pasta and cook, stirring occasionally, until just al dente, about 6 minutes. Drain pasta, reserving 1/2 c pasta water, and set aside. Meanwhile, heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add pancetta and cook, stirring occasionally, until just crisp, abt 5 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer pancetta to a paper towel and set aside.

2. Return skillet to medium heat and add garlic and half the peppers; cook, stirring often, until garlic is golden brown, about 3 minutes. Add clams and wine, increase heat to high, and cook, covered, swirling pan occasionally, until clams open and release their juices, 5 - 10 minutes. Using tongs, transfer clams to a plate and set aside. Bring sauce to a boil over high heat, return pancetta to pan, and add reserved pasta and 1/4 c cooking liquid. Cook, tossing pasta occasionally, until sauce clings, about 2 minutes. Sprinkle in some more of the cooking water if it seems too dry. Add 2 T parsley, season w salt, and toss to combine. Transfer pasta to a serving bowl, arrange clams over pasta, and pour over any clam juices from the plate. Drizzle with more olive oil and garnish with remaining serrano.

Wallow if needed; otherwise, just enjoy.

Iron Chef: Lobster Roll

I chose to coast through college — selecting subjects that came easily to me and working just hard enough to secure an A, without ever worrying about actually learning something. I figured there'd be enough time for the details later. Well, later is now, and my lackadaisical ways and middle-aged memory loss have left me feeling slightly behind the curve.

Oh sure, I can be entertaining enough at dinner parties and book groups, but, in my work at a highly competitive high school, I'm reminded daily of my gaps in knowledge. Instead of choosing a profession where the coffee break conversation might be what's new with the Kardashians or the "octo-mom," I find myself surrounded by intellectuals who can breezily discuss any number of topics: linguistics, John Updike, Medieval China, or quantum mechanics. It can be daunting to say the least. After 45 years on the planet, the only subject I feel I can discuss with total confidence is the lobster roll. I try to work lobster facts into my repertoire whenever possible, asserting my intellectual prowess as best I can. "Did you know the tomalley serves the function of both the liver and the pancreas?" or, "Did you know that lobsters are the arachnids of the deep?" That sort of thing.



Since my childhood in Maine, I've sampled lobster rolls up and down the east coast. (I would never order one anywhere else; even inland New Hampshire is pushing the boundaries, and Vermont is out of the question.) I'm definitely a go-to person if you need a recommendation on your next trip to New England. Red's Eats: yes! Summer Shack: no! I've had $7 rolls Downeast, $24 rolls in the North End, and $32 rolls in the South End and loved them equally. I've had a long string of $15 rolls that should never have been on the menu (see Summer Shack above). But, I'm hard to please. And it's so easy to make a mistake: too much celery (or including celery at all); too much mayonnaise; not enough mayonnaise; using lobster that's been out of the ocean too long; not letting the lobster salad sit for at least an hour for the flavors to meld; serving it on a cold roll; over-chilling resulting in a watery and tasteless mess; experimenting with strange herbs (dill? really?); using a side-cut bun. The list goes on and on.... Most people shouldn't even bother.

Neptune Oyster lobster roll: best in Boston

A few years ago, when I was even more rigid than I am now, I found myself discussing favorite meals with Jean, then a new foodie friend. She's an artist and an expert on many things — I happily let her show me how to throw a pot and teach me the difference between cerulean and cobalt blue. But when it came time to discuss lobster rolls, I feared the friendship might come to a swift end. She's from New Haven. I don't know if you have any friends from New Haven, but they tend to be a bit braggy about all the food they claim New Haveners invented: the bagel, the cheeseburger, and the only thing I give them credit for, the clam pizza. Apparently when someone makes a lobster roll in the Elm City, they do away with mayonnaise altogether and top the chilled lobster with melted butter alone. Hmmmm.... I've already touched upon the risk of too much mayonnaise, but with only melted butter, you might as well just be eating a cold boiled lobster with a Parker House roll. What's the point? But, Jean refused to betray Connecticut and its strange ways, so we did the only thing two foodies can do when they disagree: compete. We arranged to meet at her house in Cambridge the following Saturday for a lobster roll cook-off.

The details aren't important. The only thing you need to know is that I won. My light, homemade tarragon mayonnaise was the perfect accompaniment to the succulent arachnid and buttermilk onion rings. But you don't have to take my word for it. Here: contrast and compare for yourself. Butter or mayonnaise? To be honest, I like a little of both.

Lobster Roll, Classic with Mayo

1 egg
1 T fresh lemon juice
1 t Dijon mustard
1/4 t salt
1/4 t pepper
1/2 c canola oil
1/2 c light olive oil
1 T chopped tarragon
The meat from one 1.5 lb lobster, torn into large chunks
Butter
Top-cut hot dog bun, preferably Pepperidge Farm

Blend egg, lemon juice, mustard, salt and pepper in a food processor. While processor is running, pour oil in a slow steady stream. Blend until thick and smooth.

Combine 2 T (or to taste) mayonnaise with lobster meat and chill, covered in plastic wrap, for at least two hours.

Just before serving, melt butter in a pan or on a griddle. Do not burn. When bubbling, sear the bun on every side until a light golden brown. Flatten just a little so the opening is wide enough for a lot of lobster.

Place lobster salad inside bun and enjoy! Onion rings are a particularly tasty side. As is a very cold beer. And, it's usually best to eat the lobster roll outside. By the ocean.

Elm City Lobster Roll

The meat from one 1.5 lb lobster, torn into chunks
Melted butter
Top-cut hot dog bun

Griddle bun as described above. Toss lobster with butter and insert into bun. Enjoy slightly less than you would the classic roll above.