Moving to a foreign country has been in the news a lot lately. But it isn’t always what people expect it to be and it’s not always easy, which I can attest to. (Although it may have been a little easier for me if my name was George Clooney.)

When I see the phrase “Live like a local!” I wonder if people really want to go to city hall to renew visa paperwork or change their internet provider in a foreign language, which in America requires you to just drop off your modem at your provider’s nearest storefront, while in France, it’s a six-month affair. And, you have to pay to quit.

I’ve learned a lot living here after nearly twenty-five years and while moving from one country to another poses challenges wherever you are, France has a lot of unspoken rules of conduct and etiquette, and it’s not known for its “ease of use”…shall we say. Although I was stunned when a very nice woman from the citizenship office called me to say that I made a mistake on one of my forms and wanted to confirm that it wasn’t right so that she could change it for me. France has a way of surprising you.

Some people who come here have a hard time adjusting. So much so that an organization, the Franco-American Community Center in Paris, used to have a program called Bloom Where You’re Planted, a one-day event with speakers to help newcomers learn about, and integrate into, life in Paris.

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Topics covered were health care questions, cultural issues, mental health, accounting and taxes, and immigration issues. For some reason they asked me to speak, perhaps to lighten the mood?…which I did by talking about some of the goofy things that happened to me, or that I did, so people would feel more at ease in their new home and realize that they weren’t the only ones going through a challenging transition.

After I spoke, I took questions from attendees and found out that some people didn’t want to be in Paris. (In spite of what you see on social media, moving abroad can be very lonely, no matter how many pictures people post of croissants.) In some instances their spouses were transferred here, so they had to move their whole family (and lives) abroad. Many were baffled at cultural differences. Others, like me, were at transition points in their lives and looking for a new beginning or somewhere else to settle. Somehow, we all ended up here.

Some had had bad interactions, such as a curt shopkeeper, or they’d been shoved out of the way on the métro. It was especially hard on them because they couldn’t talk to their friends about their emotional difficulties since people would invariably say, “But you’re in Paris!” This was before Emily in Paris arrived, but if anyone expects Paris to be like that, please let the rest of us know where all those hot French guys, who somehow speak perfect English — are.

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In the old days of blogging, to get noticed, you posted a recipe and call it “The best _______[Insert a dish here] ever!” Later, that evolved into “life-changing.” I’m sorry, but a cure for cancer or world hunger is life-changing. A way to cook rice isn’t quite there.

Some food magazines did something similar, charting their course in print to reach “The best way to cook salmon!” I tried that tip of spreading mayonnaise on salmon before cooking it, and it just tasted like salmon with hot mayonnaise spread on top of it.

And don’t get me started on replacing butter on a grilled cheese sandwich with mayo. Grilled cheese sandwiches should not get messed with: no kimchi, apples, sweet potatoes, or mushrooms, and hold the mayo. But I will allow it if you use it to stick extra cheese on the outside to make the exterior of the sandwich extra-crispy with crispy cheese. I haven’t tried it, but I suppose that could be close to life-changing…

In my career, I’ve avoided the term “The Best” since taste is subjective, and I don’t post or print recipes that I don’t think are “The Best.” Why would you share a recipe if it wasn’t the best you could come up with?

It isn’t me who names “The Best” œuf mayo in the world every year. Because I’m not writing for search engines, there’s no reason to lie to you. It’s up to someone else to bestow that honor in France.

For those of you unfamiliar with œuf mayo, it’s a beloved café classic in France. It’s basically a hard-cooked egg served with mayonnaise. If that sounds odd to you, think of it as pre-deconstructed egg salad. The first time I heard of it, it sounded a little strange to me. But now, I order it every chance I get. When I was writing this post, I found an old quote from me in the New Yorker, where I said: “I think I’m the only American who likes that dish.” Thinking about it now, though, we do have our deviled eggs.

(I also came across an article by in the NYT about the œuf mayo, and a number of commenters—by people who don’t live in France—remarked that no one eats this dish anymore in France…which, as you can see by the copious amount of photos in this post, isn’t the case.)

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The dish was falling out of favor, so an organization was founded by a French food critic and a journalist friend in 1990 to save (sauvegarde) the dish; the Association de sauvegarde de l’œuf mayonnaise, otherwise known as the A.S.O.M. You can join for €39, and I probably should. But I’m still waiting for the esteemed Club des Croqueurs de Chocolat, a group of people who gather to taste different chocolates in Paris, to send me an invitation.

I’ve heard they only have 150 places, and someone has to leave before a place opens up, so I’m sure that’s the reason. It’s been twenty-two years, though, so maybe they have another reason. On the other hand, there’s no shortage of chocolate at home for me to taste.

I’m also waiting my turn for the Ordre du Mérite agricole, an honor bestowed on people who promote French agricultural goods, as in, the foods of France, which several of my friends got who don’t live in France, so I’m pretty sure that’s coming. I just don’t know if I can wait twenty-two years, when I’ll be 88, to get it. 🎖️😊

While you can still find œuf mayo on lots of café menus — many of them homely, which is kind of the idea — younger chefs are getting on the Œ.M. bandwagon and coming up with their own unique and updated versions.

The one farther up above, from Le Cornichon, gets right to the point, serving a whole egg with little pot of tartare sauce. It’s a nod to the hard-cooked eggs people snacked on in cafés. Even though it’s a little messy to crack at the table, it’s had not to like the minimalist presentation

The one just above is a gussied-up version of œuf mayo at Soces, a restaurant that specializes in seafood, so Chef Marius de Ponfilly adds trout eggs, putting eggs on eggs. It’s a pretty good rebuke to everyone who thought French cuisine was finished. It’s been refreshed and brought back by a new generation who are having fun with it and not taking it so seriously.

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The version at Grande Brasserie is pretty excellent, which took the œuf honors two years ago. The eggs are topped with a puddly spoonful of mayo, and the celery remoulade underneath it takes it up to 11. Pairing these two café classics is a balance of upscale/downscale that works; the punchy, mustard-spiked celery root salad counterpoints the eggs, which are topped with everybody’s favorite, but lesser-known herb, i.e., chervil. Add a handful of chopped chervil salad and you’ll thank me later. (I’ll also take a medal, if offered.)

The dessert profiteroles at Grande Brasserie are similarly well-prepared. We liked them so much, we put them on the cover of my upcoming book, the revision of Ready for Dessert. And who doesn’t love a dessert where you get to pour your own chocolate sauce over? Is that the grin of a man facing a twenty-two-year wait to be cited for his love of French cuisine?

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I don’t have a photo, but Le Voltaire, a rather expensive restaurant in Paris, kept the œuf mayo valiantly on the menu for years, still priced at 90 centimes, about a dollar. Their other first courses range from €22.50 to €54 ($25 to $62), which may qualify it as the best bargain in Paris, but I don’t think you can just go in, order that, then leave. So the rest of the meal will make up for any shortfall.

Before we went to Orléans recently…

…I was looked up places to eat. We did go to a wine bar à manger (a wine bar with food), Les Becs à Vin, which had very nice natural wines, but it’s not a place to go to if you’re in a hurry.

But I was smart enough to snag a table at Gric. Cheffe Marie Gricourt just took the honors for the best œuf mayo in the world for 2025, and it was kismet that I just happened to be heading to her city.

Cheffe Gricourt and her team were super lovely, and it was nice that she and the two women cooking alongside her in the kitchen were the ones who brought the food to the tables, where they’d take a moment to tell you about them.

Their award-winning œuf mayo comes out separated by tangles of celery remoulade, which I wouldn’t have minded a bit more creamy dressing mixed into it, sprinkled with crunchy roasted buckwheat groats.

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I’m still rooting for the home team, if I’m forced to determine which œuf mayo is “The best,” but the main courses at Gric were terrific. Romain loved his roasted lamb shoulder with green curry and bulgur wheat (below, left), and my gnocchis with ail des ours (wild garlic that was picked by the cheffe’s father), shavings of aged Comté, and the first local asparagus, was the best thing I’ve eaten in 2025.

When I told Cheffe Gricourt that, she told me the year wasn’t over yet. In my mind, let’s give that cheffe a medal for her modesty.

How to Make Œuf Mayo at Home

You don’t really need to go to a restaurant and order a $55 appetizer to have an inexpensive œuf mayo. And you don’t even need to come to France. Even if egg prices are higher than usual, it’s still a thrifty first course. You can serve each person just one egg per serving if you want to be frugal, although I do like how three egg halves look on a plate.

If you want a precise recipe to make at œuf mayo home, with measurements and all that stuff, you can find a recipe in my book My Paris Kitchen.

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But like fixing yourself a sandwich, raise your hand if you’ve ever measured out the mustard or mayonnaise that you’ve spread on the bread?

I didn’t think so.

Making œuf mayo is simple. You want to start with hard-cooked eggs and have some runny, French-style mayonnaise on hand. American brands of mayonnaise can be a little gelatinous — Hellman’s+Best Foods, I’m looking at you…but you can give them a good stir to smooth them out, perhaps adding a touch of milk. You want it to be the texture of vanilla pudding.

Since I discovered French store-bought mayonnaise, I rarely make my own mayo Nymore. The store where I get mine charges less than 3 bucks for a jar, and it’s made with free-range eggs and tastes delicious. Like most French store-bought mayo, there’s Dijon mustard in there to give it some savoir-faire. And for those concerned about eating raw eggs, the jarred stuff makes that point moot.

To make hard-cooked eggs, start with room temperature eggs. Bring a medium saucepan of water to a boil, then reduce the heat a little to settle things down. Gently slide the eggs in, one-by-one using a spoon, so they don’t crack. Cook the eggs with the water at a steady, low boil for 8 minutes. If you like your eggs a little more cooked in the middle, let them go for 9 minutes. I avoid using the word “jammy,” however if you like your eggs runnier, you can cook them a minute less.

Once cooked, drain the water from the saucepan, then jerk the saucepan back and forth with a little assertiveness until you hear some of the eggshells cracking. (But you don’t want to smash them.) Add ice to the saucepan, then fill with enough water to cover the eggs.

Once the eggs are cool, peel them and cut them in half lengthwise. Put two or three halves on each plate and plop a good-size spoonful of mayo in the center. Want to put in on a bed of celery remoulade? Be my guest.

A little greenery on there is nice. Chives are everywhere, so you can use those, but parsley or tarragon or chervil will do the trick. Don’t use sage, rosemary, or mint, which will lead the dish in a different direction. Although I mentioned that some chefs are taking the dish in different directions, keeping it simple is sometimes The Best.

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Although it’s not an official holiday - we have plenty of those in France -, during the first weekend of the month of October, the Journée des Fous de Chartreuse takes place, a day when lovers of the beguiling green and yellow liqueur (informally called Le Club des Fous de Chartreuse, The Club of People Crazy for Chartreuse) gather at Caves Bossetti in the Marais to celebrate and drink our favorite spirit: Chartreuse.

I wrote about the mythical French liqueur in my book Drinking French, which some of us love (and some don’t), but if you’re in the former category, this is the places to meet others who share the same passion.

In my book, I provided some history of the liqueur and its close to thousand-year history in France, but for those who are just joining us, the herbal liqueur is made by Carthusian monks in the French alps, in the town of Voiron. Part of the mystique of the liqueur is that it’s a top-secret blend of 130 herbs and spices that only two monks know the recipe for. They don’t travel together (in case there’s an accident) and only now are they sharing the secret with a third monk, in possible preparation of one of the two monks retiring.

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Over the centuries, the monks have faced a lot of difficulties since they first gathered in the year 1084, including fires, rockslides, problems with jealous neighbors, the French government demanding they hand over the recipe, and eventually being kicked out of France. They’ve had their ups and downs over the years and one of my very favorite food books, The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth, details the food in that region which was served at an auberge (hotel and restaurant) that was run by two women. It’s an amazing story told by a well-regarded food writer (who happened to the blind, which was never mentioned in the book) about the meals he had at the inn, and how they procured ingredients from the neighboring farmers, fisherman, butchers, and spirit-makers.

The book also includes some background and history of the monks, and the Chartreuse region. When I wrote Drinking French and was fact-checking it, since I used that book as a reference, a few experts raised an eyebrow at some of the stories about the monks presented in his book, but it’s still a great read and has been very influential to me.

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The book was originally published in 1973 and in a subsequent edition, the author, Roy Andries de Groot, clapped back at people who accused him of making things up after they went to the auberge and found out it wasn’t anything at all like what he described in the book. He defended the book, saying everything in it was true, but the auberge had changed hands, hence the discrepancy between what was written in the book and the visitors experience.

(The current auberge that’s there now makes no reference to the book on their website and when I visited Chartreuse while researching my book, I was surprised no one there had heard of his book.)

I’d marked today in my calendar for the annual meet-up, so put on my socks early this afternoon, and headed over to the shop on the busy rue des Archives. The Marais on a weekend is not a place for those who are looking for a bit of peace and quiet, but I managed to navigate the crowded streets of pedestrians who were spilling off the narrow sidewalks, to find a parking space for my bike, which someone had left their handcuffs at. So if you’re missing a pair, no judgements, but they’re at the corner of the Rue des Archives and the Rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie.

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One of my favorite things to do when traveling to Brittany, which we do at least once a year, is to stop in at bakeries. All of them feature their own versions of Breton treats, which are unlike the creamy, lofty, and sometimes frilly pastries that Parisian bakeries are famous for. The focus of the pastries in Brittany is their famous butter, which is showcased in their traditional pastries.

Due to its windy and brisk climate, hearty buckwheat has been growing in the region since the 15th century. It’s used in galettes (buckwheat crêpes), some pastries, as well as a lesser-known specialty, Kig ha farz, a buckwheat dumpling poached in a cloth sack along with pork and vegetables that’s served either sliced or crumbled with the other ingredients. (There’s also a white-flour version called farz blanc, but I find it less-interesting than the buckwheat version.)

It’s not well known outside the region, even in France, and locals are often surprised that the guy with the accent américain knows what it is. When I mentioned to a local woman who ran an antique shop that I saw a video of someone making it in a micro-onde (microwave), she was both dumbfounded and appalled.

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I love buckwheat in desserts, but as a baker who has feet in several cultures, I was surprised to learn that most French buckwheat flour is refined, not whole grain, whereas in the U.S.*, buckwheat flour is almost always whole grain. Breton desserts are mostly made with white flour, but on this trip to the Finistère region of Brittany, I found more and more made with buckwheat flour.

(Pro tip: If you’re dining in any crêperie in France, savory crêpes are made with either white flour or buckwheat flour, but dessert crêpes are always made with with white flour, called farine de froment. But you can ask for a buckwheat crêpe for dessert in place of the white flour one, which I always do, and no one’s ever refused to do it.)

Breton desserts are made with salted butter, not unsalted butter. Since Breton people use, and eat, a lot of it, butter traditionally was salted to preserve it. When restaurants serve butter, it’s always salted.

Romain’s mother was Bretonne, and he was happy to suit up for some Breton lobster…

Romain’s brother, who was traveling with us, told me he didn’t even think unsalted butter was available in the region, which I didn’t confirm. But the salted butter is so good there—why eat anything else?

Another thing you might come across in France are bakers who’ll “burn” pastries to make them look more appealing (at least to some of us…) and give them additional flavor. In the “You never know what you’re doing wrong until you post a picture of it online,” I’ve posted pictures of French pastries that are darkly cooked, and people will point out that they’re burnt. Too bad for them, because they’re missing out on some delicious food.

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Personally, I don’t argue with people who are preparing my food (or online) because I’ve worked in kitchens and know that you shouldn’t argue with people feeding you. But at most bakeries in France, when ordering baguettes, some people ask for them pas trop cuite (not too cooked), and others, like me, prefer their baguettes bien cuite, well-cooked. It’s just a preference.

Romain’s brother told me that he liked the the gâteau breton, below, that was filled with a sliver of raspberry jam because it was close to burnt. And lest you think he doesn’t have good taste, he’s restored the Mona Lisa.

I saw some bakeries in Brittany selling kouign amann by the color; some were baked and almost white and blonde on top, while others were darkly caramelized, which are the ones I always go for. I actually ask them to rifle through them all to grab the one that’s the darkest.

Here are a few classic Breton pastries, which you can sometimes find at bakeries in Paris and in the rest of France. But truly, the best versions I’ve had are in Brittany…

Gâteau Breton

Depending on your definition of cake (gâteau), you might say this is closer to shortbread. But gâteau breton is usually baked in a larger “cake” shape and cut into wedges, which I’ve read is because fishermen used to take them out to sea with them. (There’s more here on the history of them, in French.) Nowadays, you find them in individual versions, like the ones above…

…or in rectangles, either nature (plain) or filled with jam, prune puree, or salted butter caramel. The texture inside is like a moist shortbread that’s truly mouthwatering, thanks to the flavor—and amount—of salted butter.

I’ve never made one with a filling, but I have a buckwheat gâteau breton recipe in my book, The Sweet Life in Paris, which was a goofy/funny book I wrote shortly after I moved to Paris (my agent said when she read it, she laughed so loud on the plane that everyone turned around to look at her) — Heidi from 101 Cookbooks featured the recipe on her website.

We liked the prune one so much that we went back every day for a slice, but generally bought two…or three.

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Far Breton

We are big fans of picnics when we take road trips. My friend, Combat bar owner Margot Lecarpentier, sent me a text when I posted this video of our picnic on Instagram, saying that I should write a book on French picnics.

After I get done with the two books I’m working on, plus this newsletter post, the next one that I’m working on, and the stack of bookmarked recipes in cookbooks that I want to make, I’ll think about it. But for now, all I can tell you is that, like the media-friendly cliché of the “effortless” beauty of the Frenchwoman wearing her effortlessly tied scarf, French picnics are super simple and, yes, even more effortless than going to Hermès and buying a scarf. And a heckuva lot cheaper too.

The day before the trip, I pick up some sliced ham and maybe a chunk of terrine from the local butcher. (You can use this recipe here, or this vegan one, if you want to make your own.) I pack any bits of cheese we have on hand before we split for our trip, and I might buy some extras, sticking to firmer cheeses like Comté, Cantal, and Mimolette, which are easier to slice (and clean up after) than runny ones.

I hard-boil some eggs, pack some cornichons, slice tomatoes or bring along cherry tomatoes, and for the picnic in the video, I oven-roasted slices of eggplant and summer squash with olive oil, salt, pepper, and a bit of smoked paprika, since I had some beautiful eggplants to use in the refrigerator. I bring along flaky sea salt and some black pepper, and I made a fruit salad for dessert, and since two out of three of us weren’t driving, yes, there was wine. (And kombucha, for the driver.)

For other picnics we had while traveling in Brittany, we always brought along local pastries, including Far breton, a baked custard that’s embedded with prunes that have been flambéed in rum or Armagnac.

Some versions, admittedly, are rubbery and terrible. Avoid any that are unnaturally yellow-orange; if you’re not in a quality bakery, they may have been purchased frozen. It’s not a dessert for everyone, but we are fans of it. It makes good picnic fare, too, since it’s solid enough to slice and not messy to serve. Because I’m more of a stickler for hygiene than others, I bring along an insulated bag with ice in it to keep things like pots of yogurt and pâté cool, and I keep the far breton in that. Although, it tastes best at room temperature, so I unpack it at the beginning of the picnic.

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Oh, and the ice goes into glasses of rosé for the picnic. And yes, I’m also a stickler for ice in cold drinks, so I travel with ice cube trays too. These ones from Oxo are the best for traveling, and they also come with covers. French ice cube trays make ice cubes the size of casino dice, and it takes a whole tray of them to chill one beverage. They also have single-use plastic bags that produce ice pellets the size of olives, which melt by the time you manage to squeeze them out of the plastic bags.

Kouign Amann

Probably the best-known of Breton desserts is the kouign amann. Since I’m two books, a few newsletter posts, and then a book on French picnics away from retirement, I can brag and give myself a little credit for helping introduce them in the U.S. when I wrote about them back in 2005, along with a recipe to make them. In case you don’t believe me, here’s one of my terrible pictures from back in the day, when we all had point-and-shoot cameras and thought our photos were works of art:

After that photo, I’ll stop bragging now… 😆🙈

Times have changed, thanks to people like Romina Rasmussen, who began making them at Les Madeleines in the U.S., shipping them across the country. And just to prove food brings people together, because of les kouigns amann, we’ve become friends, and I leaned on her for advice, and encouragement, when I shared a revised recipe for individual kouign amann in my book L’Appart, about the disaster of buying my first apartment in Paris. Yikes, was that a story…

Making kouign amann is also a bit of a production, and they’re not as easy to make as the French postcards say they are:

Frankly, I don’t know how they managed to write an entire recipe for Kouign Amann in five sentences. If I had that talent, my French picnic book would be off to the presses by the end of next week.

In the meantime, I’m happy to buy them. They’re everywhere in Brittany, sold individually, in cake-size rounds, and even sold by the slab at outdoor markets.

I generally make it a point not to eat French pastries when I’m traveling outside of France. Not because I’m a snob, but I don’t need to take a train to the Upper West Side of Manhattan for a macaron or sit in traffic for hours on the 405 in Los Angeles for a croissant, when I can walk to the bakery around the corner from my apartment here and get one. I save that stomach space for pepperoni pizza in New York and tacos in L.A.

But…if you’re ever in San Francisco and b. pâtisserie has their black sesame Kouign Amann available (which they apparently only make on special occasions), grab one, which is worth the ride on the #24 Divisadero bus.

Palets Breton

Palets bretons are big, buttery cookies. They’re thick and rich with the flavor of salted butter. The ones above are from a little shop called Breizh Cook’in on the port in Audierne (5 quai Anatole France), and they also had some with buckwheat that were so good, I’d go farther than the #24 bus, or the 1, 2, or 3 subway to the UWS, to have them.

Their coy Instagram page doesn’t say much, except that they close at 1:30pm daily, but Google says they close at 8:30pm, and we drove by one night at 10pm, and they were still open. C’est comme ça, as we say in France.

I’ve got a palet breton recipe in my next cookbook (coming out next spring), but wanted to try, and maybe include, a buckwheat version similar to the one that I had in Brittany, which also had a crust of roasted buckwheat groats. So I gave them a go at home.

They weren’t quite right, although it was just a first try. The roasted buckwheat groats I used were too crunchy; I guess there are different types of roasted buckwheat because the kind I generally get aren’t so toothsome.

I wrote up a basic recipe and if you want to try it, let me know in the comments. (UPDATE: I posted the recipe here, and posted a link just below.)

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In the meantime, you can make these sablés bretons, which are Breton cookies that are both buttery and crisp, and also tasty.

More posts on Brittany…

*In the U.S., Anson Mills makes a refined buckwheat flour, which is used to make Japanese buckwheat noodles, or you can pay a lot to buy imported French refined buckwheat flour. (Amazon)

Paris really knocked it out of the ballpark last night. After getting caught up in the wave of skepticism (and grumbling) by Parisians about the Paris Olympic Games, the games are almost over and I had a blast. It was capped off by attending the women’s Beach Volleyball finals, which were medal rounds. And wow—what an event, what a night, and it was incredible to watch the world’s greatest athletes compete in a stadium that was undoubtably the best spot to be in the world last night. I doubt anyone else could top it. Walking into the stadium, which was built right under the foot of the Eiffel Tower, was an unforgettable experience and I was grateful to be a part of it.

There was a lot of grousing during the last year about the Olympics, part of the usual pessimism in Paris. I shrugged it off and figured I’d avoid it; living in the 11th arrondissement, I wouldn’t be inconvenienced by the events since nothing was going on in our neighborhood, and I smugly told people I’d just go to local shops and stay close to home for the few weeks the games were in town. And that would be that.

My plans were thwarted when I got a notice that I had to go to an official procedural meeting (#france) adjacent the Seine, the day before the opening ceremonies, which were fenced off and heavily guarded. The city was taking a huge risk having the ceremonies on the Seine, and they invested heavily (1,4 billion euros, around 1.5 billion dollars) in cleaning up the river so swimming events could be held there. There were also heightened security concerns and strict controls, so I had to fill out a form to get a QR code to pass through the barriers for my meeting, which took several nail-biting days to finally get approved.

If you read my August newsletter, you know that I wasn’t quite a fan of the Opening Ceremonies, which wandered away from the athletes and dove into the history and culture of France in, well…unusual and unexpected ways.

The driving, drenching rain didn’t help the ceremonies succeed, but one thing Americans do well, and love, is having fun…and the ceremonies (to me) were anything but. And weren’t very effective at capturing the spirit of what the Olympics is about either. There were good and not-good things about it, which I talked about in my newsletter, and rumor has it they’ve been retooling the closing ceremonies ever since, so we’ll see what happens. I think it’ll be a lot better, and…yes, a lot more fun.

The stifling crowds never appeared in Paris. Many blame the hotels raising prices 300%, and sky-high airfares. Plus there was the usual exodus from Paris by locals for their summer vacations, which happens every August, removing thousands of people from the city, many smug that they were escaping just in time before the nightmare began.

Too bad for them. For us who stayed, Paris turned into one big party and by all measures the 2024 Paris Olympics was a hit.

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One of the oddest things you’ll find in France is the traversin, a round pillow that’s specifically designed to not make you sleep. I’ve never understood the square pillows in France since most people move their heads from side to side when they sleep, as you do on rectangular pillows, whereas with square pillows, you can only move up and down. I’ve not slept with a lot of people so can’t say for sure, but I think most people move side to side. (I could ask Romain for permission to do more research, but I’m not that kind of guy.) When I brought up the square pillow conundrum, a number of people mentioned they were for decoration:

Speaking from (previous) experience(s), that’s not true: 90% of the beds I’ve slept in here have square pillows. But when you’re traveling in la France profonde, deep France, often you’ll arrive at your gîte (rental place) pull back the covers, and find—instead of some comfy pillows (hopefully rectangular)—a thick, hard bolster that’s at least 10-to 12-inches (25-30cm) round, and impossible to sleep on…unless you don’t mind sleeping with your neck at a 90º angle, perpendicular to the bed.

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I once read that in the old days, people thought if you slept on your back, you’d die in your sleep. Like the belief that air-conditioning will give you pneumonia—which is why in the summer, across the U.S., and in other countries, emergency rooms are packed with people suffering from pneumonia—I don’t know if anyone believes sleeping on your back, or your side, is lethal. But I do know that it’s impossible to sleep in any position on a traversan.

I’ve taken to traveling with my own pillow, just in case I pull back and sheets and find one of these insomnia-boosting bolsters lurking under there, and use the traversin as a body pillow, a concept that (as far as I know, since I don’t sleep around) hasn’t taken off in France. But as a friend of mine once said, “The pillow game in America is strong.” And I certainly agree. We have all kinds of pillows, from soft pillows and buckwheat pillows to pregnancy pillows, feather pillows, pillow for planes and trains, pillows made of polyester, pillows that remember you, duck feather pillows, goose feather pillows, sexy pillows (which I’m not linking to), bamboo pillows, pillows with speakers and even political pillows. But we don’t have traversins.

So far, no one I’ve asked can tell me how (or why) one sleeps on a traversin, especially in 2024 with sleep innovations continuing to move forward, not back. But if you’ve got the answer, let me know…because I’m losing sleep thinking about it.

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Ever since coming back from our trip (don’t worry - part 2 is coming up) I’ve been woefully under the weather.

Usually colds and maladies last about a week, but this one is hanging on. My doctor told me there are lots and lots of viruses going around right now, and she also told me to test for Covid. Thankfully I was negative but whatever I have has worn out its welcome.

Romain has also caught something different than what I have, and my two-year old Macbook Pro was given a terminal illness diagnosis by the Genius Bar the other day, so there’s been a slow-down here regarding work while everyone (and every thing) works on getting better.

Yesterday a doctor came to our apartment—yes, in France, there are organizations of doctors who make housecalls, such as SOS Médecins and UMP. You can also go on Doctolib and find a doctor using the search filter for same-day availability or to find one that’s has an opening in the next three days. Most people in France have a designated médecin traitant (primary care physician), but they aren’t always available and sometimes you need medical care right now, such as on a Sunday, rather than a week from now.

Doctolib has been a game-changer in France for getting doctors appointments. Before it came along, you’d spend quite a bit of time on the phone trying to get through to your doctor (many doctors in France don’t have assistants or receptionists, and their offices are in apartments) and while France tried for years to come up with an online appointment system of their own, Doctolib did it well.

Some doctors don’t want to be on it for a variety of reasons; Some say it’s capitalistic as it’s a private (French) company and not part of the French health care system. Others don’t want to pay the fees associated with being on it. A few alternatives have sprung up, such as Maiia, but Doctolib does the job so well that it’s hard to compete. Another upside to Doctolib is that you can upload all your health care documents so they’re all in one place, which you can send to your doctor, although France has come up with a similar system, MonEspaceSante.fr, and in the latter, you can choose to share that information with your medical providers, or not, to comply with the strict medical privacy laws in France. (However there was just a health care-related data breach in France, not related to the apps, and the data of up to 33 million people, about half the population of France, may have been compromised.)

Unlike the U.S., when you get an x-ray, MRI, scan, or have a blood test in France, it’s you that keeps the results and x-rays, not your doctor. So you have to have a system for filing them, and you’ll have to carry them around with you to various appointments. The French health care system is considered one of the best in the world but it comes with quite a bit of paperwork, and there’s a lot of organization involved. I had minor surgery in the Fall and spent days organizing all the paperwork, downloading documents, and had to submit justicatifs, proof on paper, to various organizations and clinics in advance, before I could have the procedure.

On my morning of arrival at 7am, the intake nurse told me I couldn’t have the procedure because I was missing a piece of paper. After frantic calls to the doctor, the doctor informed me that she’d alreadly sent it via email, which the person at the clinic couldn’t comprehend. In spite of modernizing the system, many people aren’t used to anything digitized and will insist on actual paper.

Employers and self-employed people pay into the Sécurité Sociale system (which is not the same as Social Security in the States), in what are known as “social charges,” which can be hefty, but everyone in covered. If you are a French resident or citizen, you have the right to healthcare. It’s not a political issue in France. However the system runs at a pretty large deficit (for 2024, that estimate is €15 billion) and there have been severe cuts to the system, and there are active debates on how to handle that, namely how to cut costs while providing adequate care. There’s currently a shortage of 50,000 nurses and the nurses that are working say they’re overworked and underpaid.

French citizens all get a carte vitale, a green card that proves they are in the system which has cut down substantially on the amount of paperwork. France expects to digitize that in 2025.

Here’s a basic overview of how the French health care system (called the Sécurité Sociale, or the Sécu) works…

A few notes…

-No one tells the doctor what care you can and can’t have. The Assurance Maladie doesn’t say whether you can have a procedure or not; your doctor decides. Coverage does vary by procedure and some things are considered more elective than others. Most dental care isn’t covered, or well-covered, by the health care system. And experimental treatments and drugs sometimes fall outside of the coverage.

-There are three different levels of doctors in France; Sector 1, 2 and 3.

Sector 1 doctors are doctors who are conventionné (conventional), who adhere to the set (base) rates of the French health care system. For example, a standard doctor’s visit is currently €25 ($27). The system will reimburse the doctor for 65% of that and you (the patient) will be responsible for the rest.

A Sector 2 doctor charges what they’d like, called honoraires libres (differing rates). So she or he may charge, say, €40 or €80 for an appointment, and the system will reimburse them the same amount as if they were Sector 1, which would be the same 65%, and you’d be responsible for the rest. Sector 3 doctors (who are often sought-after specialists) charge what they’d like—in Paris, a specialist may be €150—and the reimbursement rate is low. But there are talented specialists who work in the public hospitals and I recently had one who was Sector 1 conventionné. It may take longer to get an appointment with one that’s Sector 2 or 3. Interestingly, after my procedure, he told me he’d trained in Seattle and Southern California.

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-In order to pay the difference in what the French health care system covers, and the patient is supposed to cover, people in France buy private mutuelle insurance coverage, which pays the gap. Mutuelles are big business in France and they offer tiered services, depending on how much you want your monthly payments to be and what you want covered.

Fun fact: Few people have nice things to say about their mutuelle in France and many resent paying for it as it’s part of the capitalisme of health care. One of my doctor’s said that no media outlets will do exposés on them because they spend so much on advertising.

The differences in monthly fees can depend on how much you’re reimbursed to whether you’ll get a private room if you’re hospitalized. Payments range between €35-€150 per month. People of limited means can apply for a complémentaire santé solidaire to get it covered.

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-There are medical centers in France that are groups of doctors who operate as conventionné where the doctors are salaried and the costs fall into the Sector 1 category. At some of them you can get a same-day appointment or walk in, but at others, especially sought-after ones that specialize in dermatology (it’s very hard to find a dermatologist nowadays that’s accepting new patients), it can be weeks or months to get an appointment.

-Many visitors, especially from the U.S., are shocked (and delighted) when they go to a doctor or hospital in France and come out with a bill that’s only €35 or €80. The reason the bill is so low is that medical providers don’t have a mechanism to charge people fully for the actual cost of treatment. They are changing based on the what the French health care system charges (see above), which depends on French residents and citizens making contributions (i.e.; paying into it). It’s like an HMO health insurance co-pay in America; you’re making payments into the private insurance and that co-pay amount doesn’t reflect the actual price of the service.

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-France is facing a loss of doctors, in addition to nurses. If you live in a secondary city (not a big city, like Paris, Marseilles, or Rennes), there are a lot less of them, especially specialists. And if you live in the countryside, there are even less. My doctor told me many young people aren’t going into medicine since the pay is low. Starting salary is around €55,000/year in France whereas in the U.S. it’s $112,000. (The cost of living in France, however, is 30-37% less in France than it is in the U.S.) However some doctors want to continue to work within the public part of the French health care system, such as working at a public hospital, because the system has paid for their eduction and they want to remain a part of it.

-The hospitals in Paris have a website now that tells you how long the wait to see a doctor or a nurse at a hospital is, in real time, including how many people are already there waiting. I haven’t had to use it but would be interested in knowing how accurate it is.

-Pharmacists have a big role in French health care and almost every street in Paris seems to have a pharmacist on it. In France pharmacists are given a lot more leeway in France than they are in the U.S. While they can’t write prescriptions, they can diagnose you and carry out first-aid procedures as well as administer vaccines. People have close relationships with their pharmacists in France and it’s well-worth getting to know one in your neighborhood as they can give you valuable advice, including recommending health care providers in the neighborhood. In France, there are far fewer over-the-counter medications, such as cortizone and antibiotic creams, than their are in the States, that either require a prescription or aren’t allowed to be sold anywhere except at pharmacies. There’s a national obsession with Paracétamol (acetaminophen) which is only available in pharmacies. They tried to pass a law to change that so it could be sold elsewhere, but the pharmacists when on strike to protest, and won.

-Health care in France is not free. Employers pay social charges for each person they employ. If you’re self-employed, you are responsible for paying those charges. The rate varies depending on what kind of business you are in. It’s extremely confusing and very few people fully understand the intricate system. If you have a critical, long-term illness, you’ll may be able to get a special card that allows you to bypass all the paperwork and you won’t pay any co-pays or charges for healthcare.

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-If you have an emergency in France or in Europe, you can dial 112 (European emergency number)

For medical and ambulance service, dial 15

For the pompiers (firemen) who respond to accident calls and are highly competent, and work with medical authorities, dial 18

If you don’t speak French, when contacting a health care provider, ask if they have an English-speaking person on staff if you need one, especially if it’s an emergency. (Some will not automatically switch to English if you’re trying to speak French, even if they speak English, to be polite. So don’t be afraid to ask.) Many medical providers either speak some English or work with someone who does.

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In France, you sometimes don’t know how it’s going to be when you walk into any sort of business, and things can go either way. That’s changed in the past few years, but returning something (which is a cherished way of life in America) can be challenging—at best, depending on the mood of the clerk.

When I quit my internet provider in the States, they apologized that I had to come into their office to bring in the modem and thanked me for my years of business. When I closed my bank account, the staff lined up at the door to say goodbye. I recently had to disconnect my internet service in Paris when I moved, and they informed me it was going to cost €49 and sent a lengthy list of items I needed to return, including obsolete phone cords, before they could determine if I’d get my deposit back…which they’ve been holding onto since 2011.

Thankfully, the next generation in France is changing things and is more user-friendly. (I’m one of the few people in France who likes their banker, and doesn’t dread going into La Poste.) But whether young or old, I’ve always found the genuine artisans in France to be very open about what they do and happy to take time to patiently show and explain to you what they do. I recall when I went to visit Dolin vermouth, the owner showed me the family recipe, written in a quill pen in the 1820s. When I asked if I could take a picture of it, he replied, “Mais oui! It’s not like you’re going to start your own vermouth factory.”

Last summer, we vacationed in the south of France. Since they close for the month of August, when everyone goes on vacation, I’ve always been unable to visit Poterie Not Frères. But since we were winding up our vacation in early September, we managed to make it just after they reopened for the rentrée. (The return or “re-entry” of everybody in France after their vacances.)

It’s located about 45 minutes from Castelnaudary, known for its cassoulet—with its own organization to protect it. When we walked inside the poterie, almost immediately the owner, Jean-Pierre, beckoned us to come back to the studio where he throws the pottery.

Seated at a wheel next to him was his son, Romain, and both welcomed us as if we were old friends, even though we’d never been there before. I told them that I’ve wanted to visit ever since I read about them in an old issue of Saveur magazine (in 2007), and they were happy that I finally made it. And after all that time, so was I!

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And there we were, finally, standing in front of the two potters, mesmerized while they transformed a lump of clay into cassoles, the traditional dish for preparing cassoulet in, one after the other. They were calmly going about their work, and every cassole that came off the wheel was a work of art. I wondered aloud if they took on apprentices, and they replied, “Sure!”

Jean-Pierre and his son, Romain, sat behind their spinning wheels, each in front of their own window with gorgeous filtered light spilling in, everything around them covered with splattered clay. Part of me wanted to tidy things up, but a bigger part of me didn’t want to touch anything.

Each cassole took less than a minute to create, and the father and son team certainly made the job look easy. I remember when I tried to learn to make the vrai (true) buckwheat galette (crêpe) from Brittany at Breizh Café, which is made with only buckwheat flour and water (no eggs, no milk, no wheat flour), and my attempts on the round, flat billig (griddle) were an unruly mess, and the batter flowed whichever way it wanted to, despite my trying to rein it in with the wooden spatula.

They told me not to worry, that it took about a week to learn how to make them, as I slunk away, only slightly less embarrassed by my efforts when they told me that.

The history of Not Frères dates back to 1857, and it is now the only handmade pottery in the region. Emile Not and his brother-in-law, François, bought the poterie in 1959 from another family after a devastating fire. With Romain now working with his father, the fourth generation of the family is still making each and every piece of pottery that they sell.

Since we had a bit of a drive ahead of us, we originally planned to make a quick stop at the pottery after going to the market in Mirepoix, which is a lovely village, but I had a disappointing (which is being kind…) version of cassoulet for lunch:

It made Jean-Pierre wince when I told him about my unfortunate lunch*. In the end, we spent 2 1/2 hours at the pottery (and about 2 1/2 days to digest that cassoulet), not only talking to Jean-Pierre and Romain but also marveling at the pottery that was everywhere, in all ranges of colors, shapes, and sizes.

I didn’t go there just to say hi and meet the family; I went to shop. Over the years, my friends Forest and Kate have brought me a few pieces of pottery from there, but I wanted more…and it was hard to resist buying at least one of everything.

I’d done a massive clean-out before moving apartments last summer, and while I vowed not to get anything else, who could blame me for not stocking up?

Romain and I don’t have the same taste in colors, and he kept handing me ivory-colored pots while I was stacking up blue, green, and mustard-yellow ones. I just find the colorful ones more cheerful.

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One thing the fellow who was glazing the pottery told me when I asked was: “We don’t have seconds.” So all the pots, dishes, and jugs retain any irregularities such as glaze skips and drips, droopy spouts, and minor bumps and bruises. The cassoles (above) are sold in very good condition, but you’ll want to take a look at anything you plan to buy that’s stacked up inside or out. I don’t mind having unique pieces; each piece of handmade pottery has its own personality.

That was especially true of the mini-cassoles, below, which were only €5 each. (€5!) Each one was definitely a one-of-a-kind, and I now own at least eight-of-a-kind.

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When all was said and done, I wasn’t ready to go, but leave we must.

Jean-Pierre did an A+ job packing everything up (#experience), and Romain tucked it into the trunk, then we drove away, heading back to Paris on the autoroute.

When I got home, I unwrapped everything and gave the new additions to our home a good cleaning. And now, we’re using them every day, and I’m glad to say that they feel like part of our family.

Poterie NOT Frères
1851 Route de Labastide
Mas-Saintes-Puelles 11400

Tél: 04 68 23 17 01

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Opening hours are Monday through Friday, 8am to noon and 2pm to 6pm. Closed weekends and during the month of August, for a week or so before and after Christmas, and the first few days of September.

(Note that hours are subject to change, and you should call first before arriving to confirm their opening hour or check their Instagram page.)

-The pottery doesn’t accept credit cards for payment (checks from a French bank are okay), and they don’t ship.

-The pottery can be purchased at Languedoc Céramique in Montferrand and L’Atelier de la Poterie in Castelnaudry. (Pro tip: While I’m sure none of them ship out of the country, if you’re visiting France, perhaps you can put in an order and have them ship it to your hotel or a friend in France.)

-In the U.S., Crockett Pottery and Coyote Pottery make and sell handmade cassoulet bowls.

-One thing we did discover about the pottery after we started using it, is that the bottoms are quite rough and unglazed, and will scratch surfaces if dragged across them. Romain sanded a few of them down, but I recommend you place them on a cloth or something similar if using them on a table or surface that you want to protect.

-Follow Not Frères on Facebook and Instagram. Unfortunately, their website name was scooped up when they let the URL expire, and the “poterienot/fr” website is not associated with them.

*Jean-Pierre gave me the address of Hostellerie Etienne in Labastide d’Anjou for cassoulet, which I’m definitely going to go to next time around. If you want to give making Cassoulet a go at home, my recipe is in my book, My Paris Kitchen.

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Re: France. While most people, and cookbooks, focus on Paris and Provence, the other regional cuisines of France certainly deserve time in the spotlight, too. But with publishers looking to publish what will sell, the other regions are just too small a topic for a cookbook. Fortunately, in the past, editors and publishers were more willing to take a chance on other regions of France, publishing books on Basque cuisine, with its use of dried peppers, chocolate, cornmeal, and smoked cheese (what’s not to like about any of those?), and Gascony, where duck fat reigns supreme.

In France, regional cookbooks are easier to come but when a book is translated into English, there are often issues; ingredients may be unavailable and a translator may not get the substitutions right, and metric conversions can be tricky; I once saw a translated recipe that called for 5/9ths of a teaspoon of an ingredient. (I know of two highly anticipated cookbooks that were nearly recalled over multiple incorrect metric conversions.) And sometimes, the recipes just weren’t well-tested in the first place.

Chef’s cookbooks and cookbooks from famous restaurants are some of the first books to get translated due to their global appeal (they’re generally profitable for publishers as the restaurants sell the books to patrons, so there’s an assured audience), and those books are notorious for recipes that don’t necessarily crossover well for home cooks. Dishes prepared in restaurant kitchens and baked at professional bakeries, require quite a bit of work to get them to work in home kitchens.

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I have a pretty extensive cookbook collection, which I’ve whittled down over the years, keeping only the books that I truly cherish and that I use. I have a special love for vintage French cookbooks, and it’s fun to look back at those books whose photos evoke a particular time and place in the country and its cuisine, with recipes for those of us who wanted to re-create the dishes at home. Prompted by a reader’s suggestion, I’ve compiled some of my favorites here.

A few notes:

-Some of the books mentioned here are out of print. Good places to find vintage cookbooks are Kitchen Arts and Letters, Bonnie Slotnick Cookbooks, Librarie Gastéréa Wibaut, Omnivore, and, if you come to Paris, Alain Huchet bouquiniste. There’s also Abe Books, EBay, Wob, and Cookbook Village. Individual sellers on Amazon also are sources for used cookbooks, along with a few shops listed here. For all books, I tried to link to the author’s website where their books may be available, but it wasn’t possible in many cases.

[Note/disclosure: Some Amazon links are affiliate links, but I don’t earn a commission if you buy them through the links in the newsletter that is sent by email.]

-In Paris, Librarie Gourmande has a very good selection of French-themed culinary books, mostly in French, and in Beaune, Burgundy, Athenaeum has a very good selection of French cookbooks, too.

-While most of these books I do own, a couple of them I don’t, but am familiar with them and find them worthwhile as they are considered solid resources for the various cuisines.

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The Cuisine of the Sun by Mireille Johnston is considered the classic book on Niçoise cooking in English. Born in Nice, Johnston lived in the U.S. and her book reflects that, with her knowledge of U.S. ingredients and substitutes. Cuisine Niçoise was written by Jacques Médecin, who has a colorful history as the former mayor of Nice. The book is quite opinionated about staples like Salade Niçoise and Pan bagnat and was translated from French into English.

Lydie Marshall lives in Nyons, France, and wrote A Passion for My Provence focusing on Provencal home cooking from the south of France. American author Georgeanne Brennan was schooled in Province, and has a house there, and is known for her solid recipes. Her books include The Food and Flavors of Haute Provence and French Beans, exploring the bean cuisine of France.

Provençal French cooking is always popular, and Richard Olney captured the spirit and recipes of Lulu Peyraud in Lulu’s Provençal Table. The Peyraud family runs Domaine Tempier and Lulu Peyraud, and her cooking inspired Chez Panisse. I refer to this book often, both for the recipes and for the nostalgic glimpses (she passed away at 102 years of age, in 2020) of her cooking at home.

Arguably the best food writer of our generation, Richard Olney had a deep understanding of French food (and wine), and his seminal books, Simple French Food and The French Menu Cookbook, are beautifully written and wonderfully instructive. (Provence: The Beautiful Cookbook is one of his few books that was photographed.) If you’re looking for “fast and easy” French cooking, these aren’t necessarily the books for you. But I learn something with every line of every recipe that Olney presents, and his writing is indeed masterful.

Some say Olney was envious, others say irked, at the success of Julia Child, who successfully translated French cooking for America. (The Gourmand’s Way: Six Americans in Paris and a New Gastronomy chronicles some of their differences, along with M.F.K. Fisher.) Over twenty-five years later, Mastering the Art of French Cooking is still in print. The recipes are famous for their reliability, and it’s hard to go wrong with any of them. While the organization of the book, co-authored with Simone Beck and Louisette Bertholle, isn’t by region, there are regional specialties in the book.

After parting ways with Julia Child, Simca Beck went out on her own. She didn’t believe in “dumbing down” recipes or making cultural considerations, which were some of the reasons that she and Child stopped collaborating. She went on to write Simca’s Cuisine, as well as two other cookbooks. I haven’t had success with the few recipes of hers I’ve tried (she notably tussled with her editor, Judith Jones, and I think Jones may have tried to steer her in a little…), and a few other cooks also found some flaws. Still, the books are classics and may be worth being on your shelf for inspiration. (Or maybe I just need to give a few more of her recipes a try?)

For those looking for authentic French cooking by French authors, two French cookbooks, La Bonne Cuisine de Madame E. Saint-Ange (originally published in 1927) and Je Sais Cuisinier/I Know How to Cook (published in 1932), are both considered standard recipe books in France and have been translated into English. Think of the books as The Joy of Cooking and The Fannie Farmer Cookbook, for France. Both are generous-sized cookbooks filled with classic French recipes and have provided recipes, information on cooking techniques, and cooking advice to generations of French cooks.

Jacques Pépin has written over twenty highly regarded books (his memoir, The Apprentice, is a favorite food memoir of mine), and his books La Méthode and La Technique were updated and compiled in Jacques Pépin New Complete Techniques. They meticulously detail French cooking techniques, but my favorite of his books are The Art of Cooking, Volume 1 and Volume 2, mostly because I got to cook with him when they came out, so I have pangs of nostalgia when I open them. Both are out of print, but findable.

Another good instructional book on French cooking is Anne Willan’s La Varenne Practique, a well-illustrated guidebook to the basics of French cuisine. Especially useful are the guides to French cuts of meat, which don’t correspond to cuts of meat in the U.S., as well as many other French ingredients. The book is also out-of-print and has been released as a series of e-books (which gives the author royalties), but you can find the original book sold on websites selling used cookbooks.

Veering myself back toward French regional cooking…

Normandy is known for its butter, cream, butter, cheese, apples, and butter, and The Normand Table: The Traditional Cooking of Normandy, and The Cuisine of Normandy: French Regional Cooking with Princess Marie-Blanche de Broglie both explore the regional cuisine, in English.

Made in Marseille by Daniel Young captures the cooking of this rough and tumble city. With its situation by the sea, there are a number of seafood recipes, including the most famous dish: bouillabaisse. Other France-based books by Daniel Young include The Bistros, Brasseries, and Wine Bars of Paris: Everyday Recipes from the Real Paris, and The Paris Café Cookbook, offering recipes from the cafés of Paris.

Basque cuisine deserves lots of time in the limelight and The Basque Kitchen: Tempting Food from the Pyrenées by Gerald Hirigoyen is an easy-to-follow cookbook, featuring food from a region that stretches from mountains to the sea and straddles the French-Spanish border. The Basque Table by Teresa Barrenechea is another book worth checking out if you want to take a deeper dive into Basque fare.

Susan Herrmann Loomis’ The French Farmhouse Table is a truly useful and comprehensive (and hefty) guide to French regional cooking across l’hexagone. Susan has lived in France for decades and has a deep understanding of French foods and traditions. I frequently refer to this book for the well-written recipes.

As the New York Times wrote when she passed away, Madeleine Kamman “gave Americans a taste of France.” Kamman and her books were hugely influential to me, with classics like When French Women Cook (which came out in 1976) and Savoie (featuring the cuisine of the French alps), and all written with her distinctive voice of authority and meticulous recipes.

Located in the French alps, the Valley of the Grande Chartreuse (yup, where the famous herbal liqueur is made), The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth is one of my very favorite food books of all time. (I wrote more about it here.) It’s the story of two women who opened an inn, foraging for ingredients in the countryside, to make miraculous meals for their guests. Roy Andries de Groot spent several years in their kitchen, and in their dining room, compiling this book. It made me want to move to France.

Clotilde Dusoulier captured the cuisine of Paris in Tasting Paris, highlighting recipes from the nation’s capital, as she calls it, “a cliché-free Paris that reflects the way real Parisians eat today.”

The late, great Saveur magazine had a reputation for authenticity, and a favorite French cookbook in my collection is Saveur Cooks Authentic French. The assurance of the subtitle, “Rediscovering the Recipes, Traditions, and Flavors of the World’s Greatest Cuisine,” reflects how much they, and we, revered French cuisine. The book is gorgeously photographed by Christopher Hirsheimer, who pioneered a more casual method of food styling (unlike Gourmet magazine, which never had a crumb out of place), which set the path for how food is still being photographed today.

Gourmet magazine was known for its travelogues, and while some of the writing in the days of yore could be overly lofty, Bouquet de France: An Epicurean Tour of the French Provinces (1952) and Gourmet’s France (1982) cover the regions of France by chapter, from Chicken in Vin Jaune (the local Jura wine, which gets its unique, nutty flavor from being aged under a veil of yeast), made by Franche-Comté, to the hearty fare of the Auvergne. The publisher of Gourmet’s France noted in the introduction to the book that “…France has changed—what place hasn’t—in the twenty-six years since Bouquet first saw publication” and explained they decided to ask eight writers to cover the regions to which they had a special affinity for, which included Burgundy, Paris, Corsica, and Brittany.

The recipes in Bouquet de France aren’t as detailed as modern recipes; for example, “Line a tart pan with short pastry,” and the Cassoulet recipe covers only two-thirds of a page, compared to mine in My Paris Kitchen, which covers 2 1/2 pages. But both books are evocative travelogues and snapshots in time, with photos. If I had to choose one book over the other, I’d get Gourmet’s France, which is more contemporary, and the recipes, such as Smoked Goose Tongue and Liver in Aspic, Pork and Prune Pie, Caramelized Cream Puffs, Fondant au chocolat, and Honey & Almond Tart, offer more guidance. As one online reviewer noted: “The book is still worth the price!”

Known primarily for her North African and Mediterranean-based cookbooks, Paula Wolfert’s The Cooking of Southwest France: Recipes from France’s Magnificent Rustic Cuisine, Paula Wolfert takes her meticulous turn through the southwest region of France, where Cassoulet is king. A reviewer for the LA Times said one of the Cassoulet recipes took her four days to prepare and cost $91, which was back in 2006. (Another Cassoulet recipe in the book calls for 9 pounds of fresh fava beans!) My friends rave over the beef roulade with anchovies, which I’ve yet to make, but the prune croustade I did give a go, and mine wasn’t as artfully presented as it is in bakeries in Gascony. (Which was my fault, not hers.) No one say Wolfert’s recipes are necessarily simple, but they’re authentic, and this is an enticing presentation of the cuisine from this very special region in France.

If you’d like to focus squarely on Cassoulet (…and I won’t judge you if you do), Kate Hill, author of A Culinary Journey in Gascony, wrote a single-subject book from her 18th-century farmhouse kitchen in Camont, France, Cassoulet: A French Obsession that covers every detail of the dish.

Hungry for France by Alexander Lobrano provides a proper overview of France. Alec is a wonderful travel writer and the former Paris correspondent for Gourmet magazine. It’s easy to be captivated by his writing, but the seventy-five recipes by Jane Sigal are just as solid (I made one here) as his stories of traveling, and eating, his way around France.

(Jane Sigal wrote Bistronomy: Recipes from the Best New Paris Bistros and Normandy Gastronomique, the latter of which is part of a series of books published in the U.S. in 1993 that included books featuring the cuisine of the Dordogne, the Loire, and Brittany.)

For Parisian bistro cooking, Patricia Wells’ Bistro Cooking is excellent, and some of the first books I bought on Parisian cooking were the stylish books of Linda Dannenberg, Paris Boulangerie-Pâtisserie and Paris Bistro Cooking.

French Pastry Made Simple by Molly Wilk and Pâtisserie Made Simple by Edd Kimber are both very good books on making French desserts, with easy-to-follow instructions. (I made Parisien Flan from Molly’s book and Edd’s Far Breton.)

For those who want to take a deeper dive into French pastrymaking, Mastering the Art of French Pastry by Bruce Healy and co-author Paul Bugat, who owned Pâtisserie Clichy in Paris, presents the basics of French pastry, as well as classic French desserts, such as gâteau Opéra, Charlotte Fraises (strawberry charlotte), and Savarin aux Pêches (yeasted cake with kirsch syrup and peaches). Each chapter begins with foundations to help you build the cakes of your dreams…if your dream is to make cakes as swanky as the ones in the showcases of classic Paris pâtisseries.

Baking Chez Moi and Desserts by Pierre Hermé by Dorie Greenspan are both great and very approachable baking books, the latter translating the recipes of Pierre Hermé for American ingredients and pan sizes, and audiences. Paris Sweets is Dorie’s compendium of dessert recipes from favorite bakeries around Paris.

Bernachon pastry shop in Lyon has also been making its own bean-to-bar chocolate for generations. In A Passion for Chocolate, Rose Levy Berenbaum took on the task of testing all their recipes for classic French pastries, for the English-language edition of the book (published in 1989), with the clear instructions she’s known for in her own books, including The Cake Bible.

While French people don’t bake at home, as avidly as their counterparts elsewhere, Gâteau: The Surprising Simplicity of French Cakes by Aleksandra Crapanzano features the simple cakes of those who do.

Other authors, including Elizabeth David, M.F.K. Fisher, Larousse, Escoffier, and Christophe Felder have covered France as well, and there are many more books out there. Let us know your favorites in the comments!

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I never fully grasped the importance of mustard in France until I was riding the bus home from grocery shopping and a woman of un certain age (about where I am now) leaned over and said to me, “Monsieur, that mustard is very good. And very strong!” while pointing to the jar of Amora mustard visible in my string bag. I got one of those when I moved to France, thinking it would make me look very French. But they hardly hold anything, and worse—and sometimes embarrassingly—people can see everything that you bought, especially things that you don’t want people to see that you bought. (And I’m not talking about mustard…)

On the internet, it’s never in one’s best interest to make absolute statements. But I’m going to do it anyway: There is nothing more French than Dijon mustard, and I dare anyone to prove me wrong. (Condition: You must be French or live in France, so I get a fair chance.) To make my point, I’d estimate that 100% of people in France have a jar of mustard in their refrigerator or pantry. Although with the current pénurie (shortage) of mustard, on that you might be able to prove me wrong.

Dijon mustard is at its best the moment you open the jar. That’s when it’s as sharp and as flavorful as it will be. I like it so hot that it slightly singes my sinuses and brings little tears to my eyes. But not everyone likes strong mustard and even iconic brands make a doux (mild) edition for those with more delicate palates. People in France aren’t famous for their love of highly spiced or hot food, but I guess there’s a market for it. And right now, most will take what they can get. If they can get it from all…

One misconception that people might have is that the French don’t hoard. During our big lockdown in March 2020, someone was buying all that flour, chocolate, and sugar (and most carbohydrates), that were wiped clean off the shelves. Luckily I was prepared with plenty of flour and sugar, but I had to rely on the kindness of my local bakery, who gave me a few kilos of chocolate to tide me over. (In exchange for homemade ice cream, for their kids.)

But we Americans seem to be the champs at making sure we’re well-stocked 24/7, and Romain was stunned when I brought home three bags of groceries just before the lockdown, which seemed more prudent than selfish. I didn’t think I was buying all that much, but his eyes widened considerably (as did my neighbor’s) when they saw me with not one…but three (!) cans of tuna, several tins of sardines, a few jars of beans, an extra bag or two of pasta, more cheeses than I normally buy, and a few bottles of sterilized milk, which I never buy. My neighbor told me that she just couldn’t shop for things a few days in advance. “C’est pas possible,'“ she confided, when I mentioned that she might want to grab a few extra things to have on hand, just in case.

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In my defense, part of my job is to hoard. When I wrote my ice cream book, I was buying liters (quarts) of milk and cream, as much as I could carry at a time, and always surprised supermarket cashiers when I placed twelve cartons of eggs on their conveyor belt. Sugar and flour in France come in puny 1kg (2.2-pound) bags, so a bag will last me about a day. And I do make sure my cabinets are well-stocked with nuts and dried fruits, which I buy in bulk, rather than the teensy bags in the baking aisle at the supermarché. The one below is 50 grams, which is 1.8 ounces, about 1/3 of a cup. What kind of baking recipe uses only 1/3 of a cup of nuts?

I’ve been known to make 3 to 5 trips to the grocery store in a single day when I’m testing recipes…and not to buy nuts, which I buy at the Arabic market. If I had to buy them at the supermarché, I’d go nuts.

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If you live with a Frenchman, you know how fast they can blaze through condiments. It’s a good thing I make a lot of jam because I’d go broke keeping up with mine. And while I have made mustard, most of the time, I buy it. But now we’re facing a shortage of mustard. French people don’t like being told what to do—except when they do—but telling someone to not put 1/3 of a jar of mustard on the side of their lunch plate doesn’t really work in my household.

At first, the shortage was attributed to the war in Ukraine, which seemed odd to me since most of the mustard seeds come from Canada. I don’t know if the mustard companies wanted the public to know that, so perhaps they were blaming the war. But 80% of the mustard seeds in France come from Canada, which had a bad crop last year, hence the pénurie.

Every country has their umami and without ever talking about it, mustard is the French umami. It’s a must to add a dash to vinaigrette, and a number of iconic French dishes rely on mustard. Interestingly, I’ve had people from the U.S. comment on my social media when I post a charcuterie pic, “Where is the mustard?!” Right now, with the pénurie, I could say, “That’s what we’d like to know!” But in Paris, mustard isn’t regularly served with ham or pâté, or charcuterie.

That’s something I learned very early in my French life, because I made the newbie mistake of asking for some mustard shortly after I moved to Paris at a wine bar, to go with the charcuterie plate we ordered. The owner looked at me, with a bit of indignation, rebuffing me with, “Our charcuterie is too good to put mustard on.” Lesson learned! And ditto with sandwiches; butter or mayonnaise is the spread of choice, although I have been known to add a swipe to a ham and cheese sandwich, which I’ll enjoy in the privacy of my home, so I don’t get caught.

One of my favorite brands of mustard is Edmond Fallot. Last year I was in Beaune and went to their factory shop, which was packed with tourists. I wanted to take the tour, but those were all booked well in advance. Their mustard is made with seeds grown in Burgundy, as is Martin-Pourait, whose mustard is a bit more challenging to find, even in normal times.

While I wasn’t willing to wait in the lengthy line last that I was at Fallot, on the same trip I did stop at a rather grim supermarket in a small town in Burgundy and saw they had Fallot mustard at €1,20 per jar, on sale. Romain made fun of me for buying three, yes…three jars (!)—but who’s laughing now? I haven’t seen any Fallot mustard in weeks.

For some strange reason, though, at my locals Marché U supermarket the other day, I did come across Moutarde de Meaux, a particularly perky mustard made with whole mustard seeds, that was - get this, on sale. Can you imagine if they put toilet paper on sale in the U.S. when people were panic buying and shelves were wiped clean during the start of the pandemic? It’s nuts, I tell you.

There were seven jars of Moutarde de Meaux innocently sitting on the shelf, which nary a panicky shopper in sight, so I bought two, which will last you-know-who about a week. I could have been American and bought them all, but left the other five for someone else who lives with someone who doesn’t know the meaning of the words “please eat it judiciously.”

But now that I’m French - I’m on team Amora. It’s good, and inexpensive, and to me, it is the quintessential taste of France. And while I don’t love using plastic, the squeeze bottle allows me to relax at the lunch and dinner table as I know the pot de moutarde isn’t bathing with ickies since people routinely dip the pieces of meat on their fork in the mustard pot, even at bistros and cafés, and people roll their eyes and think I’m hyper about germs when I speak up.

However my job as a restaurant cook was to make sure customers didn’t get sick, and I still take that responsibility seriously. However I can’t monitor every mustard pot in town nor the jar in my refrigerator. So to keep my blood pressure in check, I get the squeeze bottle.

A few weekends ago, we went to Angoulême to pick up the beautiful countertop for our kitchen, made by a local artisan.

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Paris Apartment, part 6.5

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4 years ago · 281 likes · 104 comments · David Lebovitz

It is a solid piece of oak and weighs a ton. It took four of us to heft it onto the roof of the car and it was a twelve-hour drive, round-trip, going there to get it and back.

A friend texted me when I returned, asking if I had a good vacation. I don’t know about you, but hefting a large, thick, solid piece of wood on top of a car and driving it across France, isn’t quite the summer vacation I had in mine. But I appreciated her thoughts and there were a few highlights to the trip.

We got to spend the night at the house of some friends, and we hit a local gardening store, since we don’t really have many of those in Paris. Now that we have a yard, we need all sorts of things that I never thought I’d be needing in Paris, like water hoses and anti-oiseaux netting to keep the birds away from our fig tree. I also bought a water sprinkler to run through when it gets hot, which I guess isn’t a thing adults do in France because Romain didn’t understand why I was insistent on buying one, even though I really wanted one of those inflatable pools, but…plastic.

The fun thing about the gardening stores in the French countryside is that they have all sorts of things, like canning jars and earthenware jugs to make vinegar in. As we headed to the checkout with my sprinkler, I noticed the store had a few shelves of foods, and right in front were five jars of Dijon mustard, right in plain sight.

I put two in my handbasket and suggested my friend, who lived nearby, buy one or two, and she waved me away, saying mustard was readily available down there. I did mention to the cashier that I was surprised to find mustard since there was a shortage, but only after I paid for them and put them in my bag 😉 She just said, “Bah oui?” (“Oh really?)

I prodded my friend one or two more times to get a jar, and for good measure, I put an extra one in my basket in case she changed her mind. She didn’t, so now we’re pretty good for mustard, at least for a while. And we’ve got a kitchen counter now, too, which is also something to be thankful for.

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I’ve been getting a number of questions about whether or not people should come to France. Life is seemingly back to normal for most people and France is reporting a 30% occupancy rate for hospital beds at the moment, and 28% of those tested for Covid are testing positive. (Source: Sortira Paris) So while I can’t tell you whether to come or not, here’s some information:

As of mid-March, masks are no longer required outdoors or indoors in France except on public transit and in health-care facilities. A few businesses, however, may request/require people to wear them, but a wide majority don’t. Some people are still wearing masks, however, which are widely available at pharmacies and grocery stores and are inexpensive; I’ve seen boxes of 50 standard surgical masks selling for as low as €3 a box, and the more effective, K95- and KN95-style masks, known as FFP2 masks in France, selling for around €15 for a box of 30-40.

With an impending (and contentious) election coming up, with a lot at stake, no one is racing to re-require mask-wearing and enact other precautions or closures. The first election round is April 10 and the second round is April 24, which happens if no candidate gets a clear majority between the two highest vote-getters. It’s improbable any of the policies in France will change until (at least) after April 24, if they do.

You are no longer required to have a pass vaccinal or show proof of vaccination to eat in restaurants, go to bars or cafés, or visit tourist sites. Most vaccinated travelers do not need to show a negative test result to enter France anymore. Entry requirements for visiting France from other countries are provided here. (Which are subject to change.)

So…should you come?

No one can see the future, and I can’t tell you whether or not to come. Much depends on your personal comfort level with the risks involved and how nimble of a traveler you are, and how “adaptable” you would be should things change. That’s a question you can only ask yourself. Infection numbers have been climbing very rapidly in France, and some are speculating that the “let ’er rip” policy in some countries, including France, may not be the right strategy.

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(Last week, the seven-day average number of cases in France was 136k cases per day, and after a dip a few weeks back, cases began to trend steadily upward again. Eighty-one percent of the French population has received at least one dose of the vaccine. More statistics here.)

Some people are wearing masks in France, but the majority aren’t. If you want to wear a mask, though, you would not feel awkward as some people are indeed wearing them. You won’t be made to feel uncomfortable if you do. Some shops are requiring their staff to wear them but they may not be required for customers. If in doubt, enter wearing a mask and ask if they’d like you to keep it on.

If you do come:

1. Although it likely won’t happen soon, like anyone traveling these days, anywhere in the world, you should be prepared for a possible lockdown, which we’re seeing in other parts of the world. In France, lockdowns have historically been announced days or weeks in advance, which would give travelers time to head home if they wanted or needed to. Depending on how the current wave goes, and subsequent ones, anyone traveling these days should be prepared for anything.

   
   You don’t have to go overboard, but it’s helpful to have a backup plan for travel, such as if a train voyage or part of a trip, or tour, gets canceled. Travel to and in France has historically been disrupted by strikes, for example, so it’s best to come with a flexible schedule…and mindset.

2. Be sure to have enough funds to cover an extra week or so of staying put, just in case you can’t make it out if you get infected and/or can’t travel for another reason. While I don’t see that happening, things change, and some countries are letting non-vaccinated people back in, while others are still requiring negative tests or proof of vaccination. (You can buy rapid antigen tests at most pharmacies and some grocery stores in France. I bought some at €3 a pop.)

   Many pharmacies still offer the swab tests in tents outside or inside, which cost about €25 for a rapid test and €45 for a PCR test if you’re not in the French healthcare system. (I’ve had great luck getting PCR tests with rapid results at this laboratory.) If you need PCR results fast, wherever you get tested, ask if they can expedite it. While airports have testing facilities, to avoid waits and for your peace of mind, I strongly recommend getting tested before heading to the airport. Wherever you go, there is a little bit of paperwork to fill out so bring a pen and your smartphone, as you may need to download a QR code. If instructions are in French, usually someone at the pharmacy can assist you in English, if you ask.

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3. If you book a tour, buy airline tickets, or make hotel reservations, make sure they’re refundable or transferable and read the fine print to see and understand the conditions. If you have questions about cancellation policies, ask first and retain any communications on the subject. Using a credit card to pay may help if you have difficulty getting a refund, but it’s always better to contact the business first before canceling a charge on your credit card or asking your credit card company to intervene.

4. Strongly consider travel insurance and check its Covid coverage. Due to the ongoing pandemic, many insurance policies now include Covid coverage, but not all. Be sure to know what your policy (and health insurance plan) covers and what it doesn’t.

5. Speaking of cancellations, if you have restaurant reservations in France and for whatever reason you can’t make it, please cancel if you can’t come. Restaurants are having a lot of problems with no-shows (from locals and visitors), and since many have limited dining space, it’s polite to cancel so they can fill the table, which they can usually do even if it’s at the last minute.

6. In Paris, cafés and restaurants will be allowed to rebuild open-air terraces again this spring. (Neighbors in some parts of town aren’t happy about them due to the noise of last-night revelers and parties.) Restaurants and cafés in France tend to be quite small with tables close together and little to no ventilation and even in the summer, windows may be kept closed as people are generally wary of courants d’air, or drafts. (Same on public transit.) So you should expect to be seated close to other people if dining indoors. If you’re more comfortable dining outside, if available, let them know when you arrive or when you reserve. Note that smoking is prohibited indoors in restaurants and cafés but not on terraces, so expect cigarette smoke if dining outside.

7. Keep an eye on Covid indicators in France. The New York Times tracks those here, as does the French government here (in French), which you can filter by region. Read advisements from the U.S. Embassy in France and follow them on Instagram, where they post the latest travel information, although more is available on its website. U.S. travelers can also enroll in STEP alerts to be informed of any changes or emergencies. The official French website in English is helpful as well, although sometimes things change quickly and the website can take a few days to reflect any changes.

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You Tested Positive in a Foreign Country. Here’s what you should do. (Washington Post)

I’ve been meaning to write about these unusual biscuits for several years and now that I’ve got this more expanded newsletter that you’re reading right now, it’s time to share them with you. I first discovered Oboles de Lucerne when a friend’s mom in Paris offered them during apéro hour. Since then I’ve been hooked on the uber-thin, crispy wafer that nearly melts in your mouth, but has enough resistance and crunch to feel as if you’re eating something more substantial, if that makes sense. The fact that they have little tiny seeds in them just adds to their appeal.

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The apéritif snack aisle in the French supermarket can be overwhelming, including bags of potato chips flavored with everything, from salted butter caramel and oysters, to aïoli, poulet rôti (roast chicken), onion confit, salted butter, and even one that’s new to me, sheep’s milk cheese and cherry, which my friend Jennifer kindly brought to my attention on Instagram. Uh…thanks?

Other salty treats on that aisle (which nowadays as as long and varied as the yogurt aisle) also includes pretzels, nuts, mini-sausages, peanuts, popcorn (usually sweetened), cheese puffs, crackers, and “3-D Bugles” which I admit, like the lady below, I enjoy partager-ing a moment with, when I see a bowl of them at a party…

There are even peanut-butter flavored Curly Chips, a curiosity in a land of people who don’t especially like peanut butter. But I guess when it’s deep-fried in a crunchy snack, it gets a pass.

Now that I’ve made it clear that the French do like to snack as much as anyone else, getting back to the topic at hand, Les Oboles de Lucerne are in a class by themselves, and are found in the more upscale aisle of les supermarchés, rather than by the lowly peanuts and pretzels.

However a fairly comprehensive search online turned up nearly zéro information on them, including their history. France celebrates its culinary traditions proudly, and every town or region with a specialty product has built a museum dedicated to it, delving into the history and lore of everything from apple cider and milk, to honey and prunes. And yes, I’ve been to the prune museum.

[Pro tip: The best part of those museums are invariably the gift shops, although the milk museum may not be a good place to stock up on milk unless you live nearby.]

But les oboles? Pas beaucoup. (And dang it, there’s no museum either.) The recipe comes from Switzerland - so perhap in hindsight I should have expanded my search online to include Italian, German, and Swiss-German…but English and French are my limits. The little I found online said the recipe dates back to the end of the 19th century, 1877 to be exact. And that ends our Oboles history lesson for today.

The company that makes these, Albert Menes, makes them in several flavors. And even those are shrouded in a bit a mystery:

I do understand Emmenthal cheese as well as poppy seeds, two other flavors they come in, but the cumin/caraway conundrum (above, and below) eludes me.

The label in French says “cumin” but the ingredient list in English says caraway seed, called graines de carvi in French, not cumin. Hmmm…

Caraways seeds are relatively unknown in France, although perhaps in Germany-adjacent Alsace, they’re more familiar. But in Paris, you’ll get blank looks when you mention the curvy little carvi seeds. So maybe the company decided cumin was a better selling point than carvi and took some language liberties. I can’t say.

These are mysterious biscuits indeed. No one seems to have any idea how they came to be, and where exactly they came from (or how they’re made), but suspect there’s a machine that transforms the “very liquid” dough (as the description above says) into the remarkably crisp, crackly, extremely pleasant apéritif biscuit that I love. A recipe might be hard to come by for Recipe, Please! crowd, but they may be made similar to communion wafers, however I don’t know if anyone ever makes those*, as these sisters do.

The sister’s dough is so liquid I’m going to make the call and say that it’s more of a batter.

All I know at this point is that it’s hard not to keep eating these biscuits. An entire box of them is only 3.5 ounces (100g) which, without me getting my scale out and weighing them (Romain is constantly baffled by me weighting things like 10 chocolate chips or a medium clove of garlic…but he doesn’t have a food blog…), I’d guess the whole box weights about the equivalent of 5-9 potato chips.

At the risk of being Debbie Downer, a friend worked for an internationally-known diet system once told me that on day 1, they’d put a bag’s worth of potato chips in a blender, turn it on, and show the attendees how the chips quickly break down into a thick, greasy sludge. Now, every time I eat potato chips, I think about that. (Still, I occasionally eat and love potato chips, but the visual in my head has definitely worked in curbing my formerly insatiable appetite for them. Merci, Madame Craig…) So I’m more inclined to eat these biscuits at apéro hour, whether flavored with cheese, poppyseeds or cumin, or caraway,** than some of the other snacks in the apéritif aisle.

(Although I’ll admit those salted butter potato chips do have a certain appeal…)

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Oboles de Lucerne are available at most supermarkets in France and supermarkets sometimes have a dedicated “Albert Ménès shelf,” or they’re available via the Albert Ménès website. (This isn’t a sponsored post and that link is just for your information.) I couldn’t locate them outside of France but check my post How to Find Foods Online for search tips as you may have more luck than me.

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*I did find recipes for communion wafers online but they don’t look like the very thin, very crispy ones I’ve seen.

**I didn’t show the expectorated seed, nor the picture I took of it (you’re welcome…) but I let one of the seeds roll around in my mouth for a while, and when I “deposited” it into my hand, it looked mighty similar to a caraway seed. The more biscuits I ate, the more I felt the slight sharp burn of carvi in my mouth, a tasted memory I still have due to all the rye bread I grew up eating. So unless anyone knows otherwise, I’m going to call it and say those are caraway seeds in there.

When I lived in San Francisco, the joke was that you only could tell what season it was because of what you saw at the market. Living in a city where the temperature doesn’t waver much during the year, Paris is a different story. Summers can be very hot and winters can be very cold (neither of while I was told about before I moved here…), but fall and spring are ideal for being outside. We’ve had a few chilly nights this week that have tempted me to unearth my winter comforter, but I’m trying not to go *there* just yet.

The upside is that the markets are transitioning nicely, from summer to fall, with a few stragglers like Reine Claude plums and black figs. One sure sign of autumn are wild mushrooms, which will get more plentiful as the weather changes and it gets damper.

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Above are girolles that Romain insisted we buy. (They were €8, so it was hard to disagree.) But I go back and forth trying to figure out why in France they’re girolles, and in the US they’re chanterelles. Kind of like why first courses are called entrees in America, when in France, the entré is served at the beginning of the meal, which makes sense since entré means “enter.”

Nowadays I embrace differences in cultures, which is a nicer way to live and saves a lot of time trying to figure all those things out. One thing we do agree on, at least in our household, is that we both love wild mushrooms. The girolles/chanterelles got sautéed by Romain with some garlic, parsley, and thyme. Another cultural difference (sorry!) is that Parisians aren’t all that fond of garlic. They don’t mind it, but don’t want to taste it. Happily Romain loves l’ail and cooks with it as much as I do.

Okay…another difference are table grapes. Seedless grapes have become almost de facto in America whereas grapes avec pepins (with seeds, in the muscat grapes below) are the standard in France. Since Romain discovered raisins* sans pépins in the States, he’s not that interested in going back to picking out pépins.

*I said I wasn’t going to talk about differences anymore, but raisins in French is the word for fresh grapes and raisins secs are…raisins. Just another fyi.

Since I promised not to talk about differences anymore, I won’t mention how beets in France are sold already cooked. That goes back to the days during wartime when farmers got extra rations for energy so they cooked the beets for customers, which makes sense. I see people nowadays at the market buying 1 (one) turnip and I wonder if they turn their ovens on for an hour to roast a lone turnip? So it’s not surprising they still carry on that tradition with beets, to save energy.

I was on team ‘pro-precooked beets’ for a while until I started buying raw beets and roasting them myself, which were better-tasting. When you find fresh ones, market sellers will ask if you want to keep the greens on they’ll hack them off for you. Not everyone wants to bring the greens home, so a resourceful friend of mine always asks for them from vendors when she seems them heading toward the waste bin at the market stalls…and cooks them up.

My favorite way to serve cooked beets is to make a simple vinaigrette and cut the beets in cubes, and toss ‘em in the dressing. Walnut oil with salt and pepper is another favorite, and goat cheese is the ideal accompaniment. The former San Francisco restaurant critic, it was rumored, was so fond of beets and goat cheese together that restaurants made sure the combination was on the menu at all times in case he came in. Heck, if the combination was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.

And that’s a big nope…those above aren’t beets. They’re radishes. People are familiar with French ‘breakfast’ radishes, which I hate to break it to you, but no one in France eats radishes for breakfast. At least not in my orbit, which admittedly is usually just Romain. The classic way to eat radishes in France is with a swipe of butter and some sea salt, so perhaps someone out there is replacing their morning toast with radishes? I clearly need to wake up with some other people (but I’d better run that by Romain first…)

You don’t easily find radishes like the ones above, but in the last 5 years, the selection of produce in Paris has become vastly more varied. Fifteen years ago I bought a knob of fresh ginger at the supermarket and none of the cashiers knew what it was.

The producteurs at my market, the Popincourt Market, surprised me the other day with this big basket of chiles at their stand. Those ones are the left are - yes, jalapeños - and I did a public service to my fellow North (and Central) Americans, and let people know on Instagram to come and get ‘em.

Contrary to popular belief, you can find chiles - the hot kind - in Paris, in multicultural neighborhoods like Belleville and the quartier Asiatique in the 13th. They go by the name piments antillais, which the internet tells me are habaneros. But chef Robert Mendoza at Vivant sent me a big remercie/gracias for heading him towards those jalapeños and they still have them by the basketful.

A must-stop stand are the cheese ladies, as we call them. There are two women at the Popincourt Market that always have a vast selection of cheese, piled one on top of the other, which they accompany by signs that say “Genial!” or “Super agréable!” That, coupled with their well-priced cheeses - and their efficiency at making the long lines move quickly, makes them the most popular stand at the market.

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I’ll admit, when it’s my turn, it’s hard not to buy a lot of cheese; I always include a slab of Comté, above, and a goat cheese wrapped in a chestnut leaf called Mothais sur feuille. I often feel like a dope when I post pics of cheeses I buy on social media because I never remember the names when people ask me (heck, I hardly remember what I had for lunch an hour ago…), but also sometimes the cheeses are just called something like “La Tomme Blanche” which basically means “White cheese,” and doesn’t sound as enticing in English.

Things are definitely revving up for winter vegs, including savoy cabbages (below) and squash. Frankly, I’m not sure what people in France do with cabbages. In spite of all the Instagrammable photos of charred cabbage with turmeric-kefir reduction and fermented chai butter emanating from the US, I prefer cabbage raw, thinly sliced, with shredded carrots and a sharp dressing that’s heavy on the Dijon mustard and vinegar and perhaps chives of chervil tossed in for good measure.

Winter also means it’s oyster season again - yay! For those of you learning French, oysters come in a wooden box called a bourriche. We eat a lot of oysters, sometimes by the bourriche, and while I’m shy about asking, Romain isn’t and asks for a taste before buying a dozen. He’s either a lot more charming than I am, or more French. (Which basically is the same thing.) Either way, he always gets one to taste…and makes sure I get one, too.

There are a lot of different oysters from a lot of different places and it’s best to ask the person at the stand which ones meet your parameters of pleasure. As you can see, they usually offer up several white wines that pair well with oysters, and if you’re charming, they’ll often throw a few lemons, which even I get when I’m not with Romain, making their stands a one-stop-shop for a perfect winter dinner of les huitres, which I see more of in our future, especially around the holidays when the frenzy for les huitres hit its peak.

Not to brag, but I sometimes am surprised to know more about regional French cuisine than those born in France simply because many don’t look outside their region. That’s not a criticism, just something of interest, and explains why (to visitors) you can’t get bouillabaisse, cassoulet, or socca readily in Paris. And if you do, you might be disappointed.

In Bordeaux, raw oysters are sometimes served with grilled sausages, which is a fantastic combination, but draws disbelieving looks when I mention the combo to Parisian friends. Romain’s mother was from Brittany and she didn’t believe me when I said you could cook oysters. She was shocked! (She was also shocked when I made mousse au chocolat and did the usual warning about raw eggs. She was perplexed, and said “How else would be you making chocolate mousse?”) I know about oysters and weenies from my days cooking at Chez Panisse, which may have been from Jean-Pierre Moullé, the chef who was from Bordeaux.

We’re also on the cusp of scallop season. French coquilles Saint-Jacques are sold and often served in their shells. For those learning French (me included), if they’re not in their shells, they're called noix Saint-Jacques. Noix means walnut, which likely refers to their size, just like a café noisette (hazelnut) refers to a hazelnut-sized dollop of steamed milk on top, or…the color of the coffee when the milk is added, depending on who you ask.

The internet loathes absolutes but I’ll risk its wrath by saying that I dislike cooked fennel, but will do a 180º and say that I love raw fennel. Go figure. I enjoy the slight anise taste and the pleasing crunch. Adding a handful of thinly sliced fennel to a green salad perks it up like there’s no tomorrow. On the same track, I I generally dislike anise…except anise seeds when they are whole in cookies and biscotti.

Figs seem to be on the wane, but apples and pears and quince are ramping up. Food writer Ed Behr noted in his highly enjoyable and informative book, The Food and Wine of France, that French apples are great for baking but aren’t great eating apples, which I never thought about, but after reading his observation, I tend to agree. I like sharp, acidic apples, and French apples are incredible for baking as they’re full-flavored, especially the ones at the markets which are à l’ancienne, or heirloom varieties, and are hard to beat in tarts, including the classic tarte fine aux pommes and French apple cake.

We’ve almost had to say goodbye to questches (above), which I’ve held on to as long as possible by roasting them…

David Lebovitz Newsletter

Honey-Roasted Plums

I’m sorry. Sometimes I think I spend half of my time apologizing for, well…everything. Okay, half of everything. The other half of the time I’m doing something constructive, like cooking and baking, which admittedly is a lot more fun…

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5 years ago · 46 likes · 26 comments · David Lebovitz

…but I’m happy to say hello to pears!

France has some excellent pears, from wine-like Comice pears that need to be handled gently, to aromatic Williams pear, which famously get distilled into Pear William eau-de-vie, and are also excellent for baking and eating, as well as Conference pears, which are related to Bosc pears and are perfect for poaching. I’ve got a bunch ripening now in my kitchen, to do just that.

Market Info

Pictures were taken at the Popincourt Market.

A list of outdoor markets in Paris, provided by the city of Paris, are here. There are markets every day across Paris, except on Monday.

Some favorite markets are the Bastille market (Thursday and Sunday, although Sunday can be very crowded after 10am) and the Marche d’Aligre, which is open Tuesday through Sunday and there’s also an interesting flea market in the center of the market. The Barbès market is not for the timid but if you want to dive in and see another side of life in Paris (watch your belongings!), that market is quite the scene.

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The moment it’s warm enough, everyone in France makes a beeline for café terraces the nanosecond the weather turns hospitable. A pressing issue for 99.98% of the people during last year’s lockdowns was how quickly they could get back to the café terraces. And most have been packed since restrictions were lifted and everyone could return. And return they…

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Proof that one can grow - and learn - from the past, this weekend I was excited to find out that I could convert my CDC vaccination card to conform to the new Pass Sanitaire the French government rolled out, which as of now, is necessary if you want to go into museums and other government-run monuments…and starting in a few days, if you want to eat or drink at cafés and restaurants, or take a train within France. (You can take a Covid test and carry around those results and use those if they’re negative.) The government knew exactly what was most important to French people - cafés and vacations - and while not everyone is pleased, c’est comme ça.

The Pass Sanitaire is part of the Anti-Covid app and once vaccinated, you get a scannable QR code on your phone that ostensibly you’ll be able to show employees at restaurants, train stations, and so forth, to gain admittance. Right now there is a paper of some sort to show at the airport if you arrive but several recently-arrived friends have told me no one asked them to produce that document, and they went right through. So we’ll see how the passes (or test results) go. Several friends who have restaurants in Paris have told me they have no idea either how they are going to monitor that as everyone who works for them already has their hands full.

As a good citoyen, and a survivor of the previous pandemic, I want to conform to the protocols, but couldn’t upload the QR code I got from being vaxed in the States to the French app in the comfort of ma maison.

Zut.

But a hopeful post online popped up the other day that told me it’d be a snap to convert my U.S. card and its QR code, to a French one, which didn’t work out the way it did for the author of the post. As advised, yesterday I went to the vaccination center at the Hôtel de Ville (the main city hall in Paris) which was bustling with people lined up to get vaccinations. The author of the post (who is a friend of mine, and was just reporting from their experience) said to talk to one of the nice folks there and expect to be in and out within 10 minutes. Yay! Soon I’d be all set!

But, nope.

Paris is composed of twenty arrondissements, and since France is a country of fonctionnaires (public employees), each neighborhood has their very own city hall with their own staff. The folks who work at my city hall are very nice and helpful, belying the reputation of the French. (However no one, French or otherwise, is eager to go to the prefecture on the Île-de-la-Cité, where people go to get visas renewed and engage in other less-fun activities. They’re rather stern over there.) But on a more local level, everyone is friendly and does their best to help the public.

I learned a lesson many years ago when I had to get official pictures to attach to an official government document, which need to conforme aux normes, which means they need to be a certain size, taken from a certain angle, and you can’t crack even the slightest bit of a smile. If there are any teeth showing, or you show any sign of being happy (or have hipster glasses), your photo will get rejected. Here are some dos and don’ts…

Fortunately, the machines where you take official photos give you several tries to get it right, because for me, it’s impossible not to smile and I end up looking like I just choked down a raw salmon head while looking straight-on at the camera.

To get pictures, a few years back I went to Monoprix, a supermarket/department store chain with stores across France that try their best to be hip. There’s a photo machine in each store, which one needs exact change for, which is extremely valuable in France. I went to several cashiers to ask for a few of their precious coins to use the machine and was sent round and round, from one cashier to another, each in a different part of the store. (No, their stores are not circular, but sometimes they feel that way when you’re trying to find something. I’m sorry but I still feel that the canned tomatoes belong in the tomato sauce aisle, not the canned vegetable aisle.) Alas, no one would break a €5 note and give me five €1 coins, including the one “special” cash register they had in the store that would allow the cashier to give change. (I’ve learned where to find canned tomatoes, but having just one cashier who can give change will always be a new one on me…)

Exasperated, I headed down to the supermarket in the basement and made a purchase to get change. When the cashier handed me back bills, and a few tiny centimes, I asked if she could give me €1 coins instead for the machine, at which point she slammed the drawer shut and told me she didn’t have any change, while the noise of all the change being jostled around the drawer could still be heard in the background. The French guy behind me got a laugh out of it - because, honestly…what else can you do?

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When I got home, Romain told me that I just should have gone into the métro stations, where they also have photo machines, and the people there will gladly give you change. I didn’t believe him since public servants in France aren’t always known for being the most accomodating, but they were (and are), and I got my change for the photos. (Unfortunately one stereotype about France that is true is that when a machine is broken, no one is racing to fix it. All the photo machines in the métro stations around me were en panne, or out of order.)

Bref…

It was pretty hot yesterday, a Saturday, when I hoofed it over to the Hôtel de Ville to get my code. The day before, on Friday, I decided that maybe I’d head over to the vaccination center at the city hall in the 3rd arrondissement, which is quick 15 minutes walk from chez moi. When I asked about converting my CDC card to a French QR code, the folks at the desk looked at me as if I’d asked them which métro station was the closest that would take me to Mars. Indeed, they told me, I needed to go to the Hôtel de Ville vaccination center.

“Pas ici, monsieur,” said the young man in the white vest that said Assistance, which turned out to only be partially true. “Not here.” The poor fellow in front of the Hôtel de Ville vax center was being barraged by questions in French and in English. He was very nice, in spite of his lot in life that particular day. I’ve been here long enough to know that non doesn’t necessarily mean non. But in this case, after insisting that I could, I realized that I couldn’t. I decided to cool myself off (mentally and physically) with a scoop of dark chocolate sorbet at the nearby La Glacerie de Paris, before heading home.

What the boule de sorbet actually did, though, was give me the courage to return, which I did.

When you hear “non” in France, sometimes you just need to ask someone else, which I did. A young man with a Red Cross shirt was hovering far enough away from the other guy (who admittedly, was tangled up with some other confused individuals), but when asked, told me the same thing. Like the young man before him, directed me to go to the city hall back in the 3rd arrondissement, the one I’d been to the day before where they said Non, too.

I think that Paris is intentionally designed as a spiral because you’re often directed to go back to where you came from. I said I wasn’t going back, so he told me that I could also go to the Porte de Versailles, the 216,000 square meter (about a mile) convention center that’s a conglomeration of buildings located on the very fringe of Paris. Aside from the fact that there’s probably no ice cream out there, it was a major expedition and one that I suspected was going to have me directed right back to where I was now standing.

Bref…

Bref is a très courant word you use when you want to change the subject. If your ear isn’t tuned to French, you may miss it. But suffice it to say, I decided to head back home once and for all. Before I did, there was a young American man outside the vaccination center on vacation, who said he was turned away from a museum with his U.S. CDC card. After talking his options through (I wasn’t going to send him out to the sprawling Porte de Versailles on his vacation…) we decided that he was only here 3 more days and to not spend them on a wild goose chase, a phrase my French dictionary doesn’t have a translation for, but probably should. There were plenty of other things to do we agreed.

During my expedition, I posted some highlights of the day in my Instagram Stories and the next 24 hours was an onslaught of messages from people, many were about their tries and fails, with some successes. A few others said the museums they went to allowed them in with a CDC card. I did tell that young man to go back later and see if someone else was at the door. But suspect he had had enough and should just enjoy Paris, and stay outdoors.

Like some of my IG followers suggested, France24, an official television station of France, reported that you may be able to convert your CDC vaccination card to QR codes at pharmacies, even though the U.S. Embassy in France had more cautious words.

Of the people DMing me about pharmacies in Paris that would or could generate the QR code, many (including my sister) sent me links to a well-known Instagrammer in Paris who got hers at a pharmacy that was charging €20 to do the deed. Like giving change in the métro station and directing people around town to other vaccination centers, one of the benefits of having an accessible public health service is that it’s not about money. The overall mindset is different.

Consequently, I was a little surprised to hear they were charging to do it. When I told another French/American friend who has lived here for a long time, who was also looking to get a French QR code, that a pharmacy was charging to generate the QR codes, she replied “That sounds sketchy.” But…bref, whatever works, I guess.

(My pharmacist stared at my CDC card for a moment and shook his head from side to side, before handing it back to me with an apology for not knowing anything about it.)

I’m a little concerned for incoming tourists as France has welcomed them to come and wants to give them a bon accueil, a nice welcome. I don’t think they want them to arrive to closed doors. So hopefully this’ll get straightened out soon. Much of this is uncharted territory for everyone and there are bound to be snarls and snags before it gets resolved and I’m not worried. Americans are used to things going a certain way and while the French government had to quickly backtrack on the program to give free PCR and antigen Covid tests to travelers, which lasted about a week before they backpedaled, I’m confident they’ll find a solution to this one.

While I’m counting on that to happen, I’m being très zen, as they say, and will try again next week. If I’m not successful, there’s always ice cream. The shop I went to had a lot more flavors on offer that looked interesting. But while I’d like to give them all a try, I hope that I don’t have to.

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A very common question I get is, “Can I freeze that?” When I wrote my ice cream book, I assumed that that would be a question that I didn’t need to be answer. But then I got asked, “How long can I keep ice cream in the freezer?” That never even occured to me as most of us don’t have trouble going through a pint or quart of ice cream, often in record tim…

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