Tuesday 4 March 1997

Partly sunny and a little warmer today.

After a breakfast of oranges followed by coffee (Maison du Café Brazil from Champion) and a little more shopping at that supermarket, it was time to set out for lunch at the neighborhood restaurant recommended by Mme Laroche:

49 ave Jean Moulin, Paris 14. Métro Alésia.

This small, cramped, crowded and dimly lit bistrot was not prepossessing. But as soon as we bit into a slice of the bread that was already on the table when we sat down, we knew we were in for a nice lunch. A gray, dense and chewy sourdough cut from a big, flattened country-style loaf with a solid crust, this bread could have served as a sustaining meal all by itself. We learned later that it was made by Lionel Poilâne, easily the best-known baker in Paris and a leader in the movement back to the traditional loaf that was one of the glories of prewar French gastronomy. Poilâne bread is available everywhere in Paris nowadays, even in supermarkets.

A fast-moving waitress slapped down in front of us an entire terrine of coarse country pâté, obviously freshly made, with an invitation to help ourselves. That pâté and Poilâne bread—we were in heaven already!

We drank Minervois Paul Durand 1994 (F100), a white wine that appeared in the dim light to have a sherry-like brown tint, but on the palate proved strong and fresh with grapey fruits.

The dining room was crowded. The waitresses moved quickly, but in such a purposeful and organized way that we never felt rushed.

As soon as she realized we were Americans—people generally considered in Paris to be totally ignorant of civilized, or French, eating habits—the waitress took time to make sure we got what we wanted. When Jean contemplated a salt-cod preparation, the waitress volunteered that it would be salty. And when I ordered boudin noir, pork-blood sausage, she asked if I knew that, as she put it, "eat ease peak blot."

Kakoo de porcelet et foie gras en terrine, salade de mâche. Kakoo? Our first thought was—whatever it may be, it certainly doesn’t sound very appetizing! But our misgivings were overcome by the mention of mâche, a small, thick-leafed and delightfully nutty-tasting winter green that has long been one of our favorites and is nowadays increasingly popular in France. So we went ahead and ordered.

Kakoo, it turned out in this instance, was a coarse and aromatic pâté consisting of chunks of pork meat and liver jumbled and pressed together, with crunchy salt in the interstices. The accompanying mâche salad was made up of perfect leaves, lightly coated with a mild white vinaigrette.

Salade de mâche: A plate generously laden with the above, minus the kakoo.

Hachis parmentier de boudin noir béarnais: Rounds of thin-sliced pork blood sausage partly dissolved, or at least softened, in a purée tasting divinely of what it largely was—potato. The dish was served crusted with toasted bread crumbs.

Ah, "peak blot" and potato, a great combination.

Lieu prélé, anchoyade de légumes aux olives noires: A pollack filet served skin side up, attractively topped with deep-green—what? Fern of some sort, we thought at first, reminiscent of fiddleheads. But "prélé" in the title suggests a similar plant, horsetail, for which the French is prêle or prèle (apparently the Academy is still working on the spelling).

With the pollack came vegetables with anchovy-olive sauce and black olives. But, though we are fans of anchovy-olive combinations, we barely noticed this one because our senses were totally engaged by the fish. Perfectly cooked—skin lightly toasted, interior slightly underdone as it came from the kitchen but set to a flaky white opacity a minute after.

Crêpes au sucre façon Suzette. The hot crêpe was served with its orange sauce, not folded as is usual in this dessert, but stylishly rumpled on the plate with the sauce dribbled over.

Véritable gâteau russe des Pyrénées, glace pistache: Little triangular cake slices loaded with nuts, of an intriguing flavor—not sweet, but effectively contrasting with the sweetness of the pistachio ice cream.

Culinary query: What are the associations of this wonderful dessert with Russia, with the Pyrénées?

With coffee and madeleines, the total at la Régalade came to F470.

***

In the course of an afternoon stroll along the left bank of the Seine near the Métro stop Maubert Mutualité, we paused on the Quai de la Tournelle to check the posted menu of a restaurant where we contemplated taking lunch the following day. Restaurant la Timonerie proved more modest than expected, even somewhat shabby. But we were attracted by certain of its menu items such as foie gras chaud sur pommes de terre séchées, so we kept it on our agenda.

Our thoughts turned to our evening meal, which we had already decided to have in the apartment. What to choose out of the multitudinous takeout possibilities of Paris? The answer was waiting for us just around the corner on rue de Poissy, in the Boulangerie Beauvallet & Julien. In its 1930s-style baguette, a stick of bread with the heft of concrete, this small, old-fashioned bakery condensed for us the gastronomical joys that are hinted at in the aroma of an ordinary loaf taken fresh-baked from the oven.

Back in our vacation home, we sliced the medium-brown, medium-crisp crust lengthwise and packed in a lot of mâche to make a sandwich. But the stuffing was secondary—the bread was the occasion.

Was it better than Poilâne’s bread? Inside, the two loaves were similar—dense, gray sourdough. But yes, Beauvallet & Julien’s product was the better if you focus on the crust. The crust makes up more of a baguette than of a country-style loaf, and this baguette crust was appetizingly brown and crunchy.

The bread was the occasion, but of course we also enjoyed the sandwich stuffing. We recalled our first experience of mâche. That was back in the 1970s, before that delectable salad was widely appreciated.

We sat down to lunch at Taillevent, feeling somewhat overwhelmed at this, our first visit to Paris’ most famous culinary landmark. The menu was straightforward, but on the occasion it seemed to demand the same sort of attention as a final examination in organic chemistry.

We were having trouble settling on the right formula, when we saw a passing waiter bearing a magnificent salad—little rounded leaves dark green and glossy under their film of vinaigrette. The waiter placed the salad on a nearby table where two aristocratically slim gentlemen—barons, most likely, if not of blood at least of banks—were engaged in a tête-à-tête. Those noble patrons paid absolutely no attention to the salad. They simply continued their conversation.

"I know what I’d like—a salad just like that," Jean said. Overhearing her, the waiter wheeled about, scooped up the dish from the barons’ table and set it down before her with a whispered "Une salade de mâche, madame."

"They’re talking business," the waiter added in a scandalized tone. Later, we came to understand his feeling. At Taillevent, you give your full attention to food and wine. You do not talk business.

Back then, in the 1970s, mâche was a rarity, but nowadays in season (winter and spring) it is available in practically all Paris restaurants and markets. On our current visit, it was being promoted on billboards in the Métro, in the whimsical visual style that seems to us peculiarly French: a scuba diver is surprised to discover at the bottom of the ocean, not seaweed, but mâche; a woman in night clothes flings open a casement window, not to the morning air but to an all-enveloping atmosphere of…you see the idea.