Because I'm all about that bread, 'bout that bread (no bagel!)

That is a bold-faced lie.  I love bagels.  It used to be my breakfast of choice when I lived back in the US of A.  I'd put my frozen Lender's bagel in the toaster oven and afterwards spread some margarine on it, sit back on the couch and watch the Today show.  Man, I miss Ann Curry*.  Sometimes I'd add a fruit yogurt to my breakfast, along with juice.

But when I arrived in France I saw just how important (read: obsessed) the French are with bread.  Though you will of course find those who eat cereal and yogurt, the vast majority seem to prefer their hunk of baguette and a bowl of hot chocolate (or a cup of coffee).  And although some will buy "industrial" bread that stays good for a while and is pre-sliced, most folks like to buy their bread fresh out of the oven from their local bakery or from the bakery section of the supermarket.

That image of the Frenchman (in a beret!), riding a bike with baguettes under his arm is not far from the truth.  And I have actually seen people doing that on more than one occasion (ok, minus the beret).  On the TV news here they often refer to the price of a baguette to indicate that flour prices are rising, and it is such a basic staple for the French meal.

Most French people or those who happen to be living in France like myself, have a mental conversation in their heads around 4 p.m.  For me, it goes something like this:

Hmm, do we have any more bread at home?  Maybe a few slices, but they're a bit stale. Ok, when can I stop by the bakery?  Darn, it's closed on Wednesday.  Oh, I'll just pick something up at the corner store.  Or I've got those pre-cooked ones in the cupboard that I can pop in the oven in the morning.  Phew, we're saved...But I still miss Ann Curry.

Purists like my parents-in-law would never dream of buying the pre-cooked demi-baguettes (half-sized).  They have recently had to adapt their bread-eating habits since the bakery in their village closed and the baker who used to deliver to their house stopped doing so.  Now they ask Remi to pick bread up on the way or have to get some when they drive to the supermarket three villages away.

I, however, am covered up with bread possibilities in my little metropolitain area.  There are bakeries in every neighborhood, supermarkets galore and even bread from the frozen foods store that I can let defrost in my fridge.  But, to be honest, the bread from the real bakers is the best, and there is something about a chunk or slice of fresh bread that is still slightly warm and lightly crusty...

Here is the low-down on the bread types in my part of France...

When you go to the bakery, the first thing is to decide what kind of bread you want.  The choices can be confusing!

My favorite is the pain de campagne, a kind of half-whole wheat one.  I generally buy it sliced (coupé), and at a bakery they will cut it for you.

So the conversation would go something like this:
Me: Bonjour (ah, don't forget that or they'll see straight away you're an eager tourist!).
Je voudrais un pain de campagne coupé, s'il vous plaît. (Hello, I'd like some "country-style" bread, please.) 
Baker: C'est tout? (That's all?)
Me: Oui, merci. (Yes, thanks.)


There is also the pain complet, more like a wholeweat. 

But the one that seems to sell the best is of course the traditional baguette.

This can come be white bread or any of the above bread types (campagne, complet).  It can even be dressed up in different shapes like this braided one I found recently.

That floury goodness was just calling for some Nutella.

 Do not mistake brioche for bread.  Brioche is a very buttery version of bread that is often eaten as a dessert (though you can eat it for breakfast, too).  Let's say it's more of a Sunday breakfast thing, just as we Americans might not have bacon and eggs every day. 

When I first came to France my host family insisted that one shouldn't put butter on brioche since it is already very rich.  Jam is ok though, or you can just eat it plain.  Apparently it was this, not cake, that Marie-Antoinette suggested the peasants eat (since they didn't have any bread, it does seem logical that brioche is an option).  Gotta love the girl for trying.

It all just goes to show that the French have been thinking about breakfast for literally centuries.

So what is your breakfast of choice and how do they feel about bread in your location? Do you come from a "white breaded world" (you uptown girl, you).   "Never was a cornflake girl" myself.  And I've never had "kippers for breakfast."  (Bonus points if you can identify those references.)


*Ann Curry is a supercool American journalist who was on the Today show for years.  She kind of got ousted or put to the side in the past few years.  She's got more elegance in her little finger than most people do in their whole body.

Me against Charlotte, le Rematch

"Are you sure you want to bring a dessert you've never tried?" asked my husband over breakfast.  I had just told him I wanted to bring the charlotte I'd made last night.  His innocent question spoke volumes.  Hundreds of years of French cooking supremacy had imprinted on my very Gallic mate.  He couldn't help it.  The food imperialism seemed to be passed on genetically for his people.

There was also the ILF- the in-law factor.  My in-laws have a history of being a bit dubious about new food, and some of my desserts which are perfectly fine and tasty have been labeled as "not bad" but a bit "rich" or "my, very sweet".  Maybe my husband was just thinking back about how such casual remarks had hurt me and scared me off from bringing another dessert for the next year(s).

But I countered his foodie chauvinism with decades of watching sarcastic US sitcoms.  I sighed heavily and raised my eyebrows to the roof.   To add a bit of FB-speak I even said the word "Sigh!" out loud.  "It's just a charlotte with chocolate mousse," I said huffily.

My husband didn't know the history between me and Charlotte, as I affectionately call her.  I have been trying for years to recreate that elegant and quintessential French dessert. It's a soft, feminine and often fruity cake that is a delicate explosion in your mouth.  But it's also technically a difficult one to make for me.  Often the fruit versions of this recipe involve using gelatin strips that you must dip in cold water and it never seems to work for me.  But since my mother-in-law (MIL) gave me a charlotte mold for Christmas (at my request), I thought I better give it a try.

So after my past forays into Charlotte's world that had mixed success, I found a recipe that seemed rather fool-proof.  No gelatin, not even fruit this time.  Just basically making a chocolate mousse that you pour into the lady-finger lined mold.  Simple, right?  I forgot that I'm not actually the most experienced chocolate mousse maker.  Something about folding in those egg whites always trips me up. 

But I did put this on my "to do list" for 2015, so I tried my best. Here's how I did it:

• Line your charlotte pan or a medium-sized saucepan with plastic wrap.  This makes it easier to get the thing out later.  

• Dip the side of the lady-finger cookies you intend to be on the outside in some water briefly and line the mold with them. Place cookies on the edge first, then the bottom.

Mmmm, smell that chocolate!

•  Melt a 200-gram ( 7 or so ounces) bar of dark chocolate (or milk chocolate if you prefer) in a bain marie or in a microwave safe bowl.   
• Once it is all smooth and melty, remove it from heat and combine it with 4 egg yolks .  

• Now beat the remaining egg whites (yep, four again, go figure!) until they are stiff.

• Now for the tricky part: delicately fold in the egg whites with chocolate and yolk mixture without totally crushing the fluffy whites.  
• Hmm.  Isn't that supposed to go up to the top?  I started wondering if there was something wrong with my chocolate mousse.  Maybe it would expand overnight.
  
• So I put it on the cold balcony (a minimum of four hours in the fridge is recommended) but the next morning it still looked a bit, well, short. 
• Never fear, I just cut the excess cookies down and folded them over on the top, which would end up being the bottom after all. 

And I'm happy to say it looked almost decent when I took it out of the mold.  And it tasted, "not bad" and even "good" to my in-laws.  And my husband took a second helping.  

However, my MIL did ask me how I made the mousse and suggested I add some water or milk when I melted the chocolate to make it more liquidy and perhaps mix better with the egg whites.  This time I didn't take her comment badly but just in stride.  She does have a lot of experience making pastries after all.

But I don't think I'll be bringing too many desserts over there anyway.  That was enough stress for one Sunday.

What are the desserts or recipes that challenge you?  Do you dare cook for your in-laws?

Beef- it's what's for dinner

Anybody remember that old ad? In my case, it's true because I bought an insane amount of beef from the butcher's today. It's one of those embarassing foreigner moments that I thought was behind me after nearly nine years in France. Like the time I thought the waitress hadn't yet given the chef our order because she'd left the ticket on the table. So I asked if I could change and in fact she was a bit put out because they'd already started preparing the meal. Or, different country but same dilemma, in Holland when I thought I was walking into a regular café. When I asked if they were serving, the lady looked at me strangely and said no, despite the presence of other "customers". The only thing I can figure out was that it was in fact kind of a homeless shelter.

But apparently even knowing the language well doesn't mean you'll glide through every situation. Like today when I decided to check out the "hard discount" supermarket. Or as the French say, "ahrd diss-KOONT". Yes, they sometimes inexplicably use English terms for stuff. Then when you ask them what a "discount" means in English class, they don't know.

For those of you who don't know the concept, this type of supermarket is a no-frills place where the food is supposed to be quite cheap, in part because they don't spend much money at all on ads on TV, they don't play music in the store, and the merchandise is just put on fairly basic shelving. You don't find too many brands either. I checked out ALDI today, which I think you can also find in the US. There I was all proud of myself to get out of the store for only about 42 euros minus most of the meat. There was an in-house butcher for that. So I stood in line and waited my turn to ask about beef for a beer stew recipe (carbonnade) I've been wanting to try.

I'd written down the quantity of meat needed (1.5 kilograms) and the cuts that could be used. But I couldn't find my list right away and just mentioned the recipe and amount I needed. The saleswoman suggested the "gîte" meat, and I said, ok. Someone in the back started cutting it and then she brought it out and weighed it. It was 1.8 kg in fact, and as I saw the price per kilo come up, my eyes literally popped out of my head. 25 euros! Yikes. I mentioned that this looked like a lot of meat, and she volunteered to remove some. At first I said, no, then I said, on second thought, yes, please. So she brought it down to 1.2 kg and 18 euros.

Even though I did work in a lab and should feel at ease with metric, I guess I had a brain fart today. Because 1.2 kilos is a bout 2.6 pounds. That's a lot of beef, people! Even for a big recipe for six people (which is apparently the number of people my recipe can serve, if I'd looked more closely). But I'm also going to blame it on not knowing all these cuts of meat (gîte à la noix is in fact top rump) and the fact that the price wasn't displayed in front of me when she suggested this particular kind.

Luckily, after nine years, I take these things a little more in stride (despite a brief urge to run to the car and cry). Even when I heard the saleswoman ask her boss discreetly if it was ok that they were putting back some meat, I thought, well, better that I do this than end up with a colossal amount of meat in my freezer. In the end I think I'll just freeze half and prepare the other half for three people.

And next time I will certainly ask the price before!

Let me be frank

Author's Note: I'd published this Thursday night but Blogger had problems and removed posts published after a certain time of day Wednesday. Along with some comments, too! Sorry, Jennet and Deirdre. I did publish your comments on Abba-Mania but they disappeared. Also Crystal who had already commented on this post before it got wiped. Here's what I could piece back together from my post, as some of it was saved in draft form.

The French are known for being frank. Well, actually, no offense, but they're known for being rude. I'm starting to wonder if it's really just that they are brutally honest. And they think it's probably for your own good. Constructive criticism gone a bit too far. I'm sure I've told you already that Google in the Silicon Valley likes hiring Frenchies because they're not afraid to give their opinion and shake up things a bit. While this may be great in a creative environment like Google, it's not always welcome in my living room.

Picture it: last week after I'd prepared turkey burritos and plain cous cous that got way too sticky (I've got starchy food issues, sometimes. Maybe I should see a specialist.). While I was munching down on my tex-mex, saying, in Crystal style, love me some mild spicy food, I casually asked Remi what he thought of the meal. Not exceptional, he answered. I'm sure he could tell by the frown/raised eyebrow/evil stare down that his answer wasn't going down well. So he explained that he's not too fond of Mexican food.

Fair enough. But where I come from (smiley, friendly US of A), we would have said things differently. Like, well, it's not bad, but a bit spicy for me. Call it sugar-coating, if you like. But I, for one, like sugar. It helps the medicine go down (sing it with me, Mary Poppins fans: medicine go dooooown).

And it got me to thinking that perhaps his response was perfectly fine for a French marriage where each is used to this kind of honest exchange. Where talking about and criticizing food is a national passion (French food recently got UNESCO World Heritage Status). But in a mixed marriage like mine, it opens up worlds of misunderstandings and hurt feelings (on my side at least). I tried to tell him that, in a non-confrontational way, but it really bummed me out last week. I'm not trying to make this a husband-bashing post, (if I'd written it last week you could have felt the anger spittle on your side of the screen). But I'm wondering how many other cultural differences like this we'll keep discovering. And maybe others in mixed relationships like myself have some advice on how to deal with these things. We might discover world peace along the way. Who knows how many international conflicts could have been avoided if we'd just known that the smirk from the opponent was NOT an invitation to warfare.

Like Rodney King said back in the day, can't we all just get along?

The day after

I think the most searched phrases on Google on Christmas night in France are “how to get red wine stains out of your tablecloth” (the answer is apparently salt but it didn’t work 100% for me) and “how to cure indigestion”. There was so much food, so much talk and catching up with my guests: Crystal (Canadian) and Caroline (Singaporean) and her French husband. It was a fun Christmas Eve dinner, but by the end of the evening the French husbands were still nursing the red wine bottles and the girls were resting on the couch watching pop videos and dreaming of their beds.


The next day was yet another Big French Meal with Remi’s parents. There the menu was slightly upgraded from my simple fare. There we ate escargots, a hot seafood mix cooked in brown ramekins, tender deer meat, potatoes, cooked apples, cherries, chestnuts and mushrooms. Followed (of course) by cheese and two desserts!
Then there are the presents from all those generous family members. Juliette doesn’t yet realize how very spoiled she was from both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. So many wonderful, colorful books, toys, clothes! And we were equally spoiled, too.

So now we’re in that transition phase. The mountain of dishes is finally done. The wrapping paper that tempted us has now been ripped off and is waiting to be thrown out. We have enough chocolate to survive a nuclear war. Remi said we might need to move again to accommodate all of Juliette’s toys. The sun is shining and only a few spots still have snow on the ground. I don’t think I have any lessons next week, so I’m gonna try to catch up on some projects like finally getting Juliette’s baby pictures in albums! She is, by the way, doing better after her bout of bronchitis. When I see her throwing tantrums again I know she’s doing ok.

Merry after Christmas Day to you all!

Big French Meal

Not the first and certainly not the last. It was Easter this weekend, so we had a big lunch. As a starter there were these filled pastry cups. A creamy chicken/mushroom type filling. These are easy for me to finish. As the main meal, belle-maman (mother-in-law) made duck à l'orange. So tender and not overwhelmingly orange. A lady had given her the duck in exchange for a big rhubarb plant. Not sure who got the better deal here, though everyone knows a rhubarb plant is the gift that keeps on giving. Belle-maman does make a mean rhubarb pie.

Of course, this was served with steamed potatoes and green beans. I succesfully fended off their attempts to give me more meat, ensuring that I could actually finish what was already on my plate. Then cheese, of course. I opted for the spreadable cream one with garlic because I was pretty sure it was pasteurized. I'll tell you more about the difficulties of cheese-eating while pregnant in France another day.

Then, the dessert. Usually my favorite part. This year it was a cake with a light chocolate mousse filling. They call this cake a "nest" or nid since it's for Easter and there are little egg decorations on it. Those leafy like things you see are hiding orange persimmon fruits. They're so deliciously tangy. Anyway, belle-maman gave us huge, and I mean huge, portions. Everyone except grandad had trouble finishing their piece. I left part of the gooey chocolate end and was gonna go back to it later. Then I saw that she was preparing pieces of an ice cream cake, Viennetta style tiramisu. Without thinking or censoring, I said, "you're trying to kill us!" Luckily she took this in stride and said with a smile, "in every possible way."

French hubby and I barely survived all this sugar, and he's got a big sweet tooth as it is. Then on Michel Drucker (Sunday variety show), they were talking about Abba. I like their music, but after about four songs, I felt the same sugar overload as from the cake. All I was craving that night was a big piece of lettuce. And to think we're going to a restaurant next Sunday...