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Wow… after a lot of difficulty, I’ve finally participated in my first Daring Bakers Challenge… and I loved it!

The challenge this month was for French bread. “Perfect,” thinks I, “I live in France!” Plus, I figure it won’t be too difficult, considering that I’ve made bread before.

I made my little baby bread ball, stuck it in the oven with the light on (thanks for the tip!) And let my kitchen steam up with the smell of bread dough.

Of course, it wasn’t nearly as easy as I thought it would be. The shaping at the end, especially, proved to be rather difficult, as is pretty obvious from my pictures. The tip in the recipe about putting a pan of water and ice in the bottom of the oven to create steam worked wonders for the crust, and the taste was good, which is what counts.

In the end, I definitely learned something, and I’m feeling much more confident in my bread-baking skills. Who knows… maybe bread will become a new part of my regular repertoire?

I’m so glad I participated in this, my first challenge! Be sure to check out the other Daring Bakers’ posts as well!

I’ve been given the official go-ahead that it’s safe to tell you about my new job! I now work for a site called wcities.com, where I write Paris restaurant reviews. In honor of this announcement, I decided to post a restaurant review that I’ve been meaning to get up here for some time… Le Serpent Qui Danse.

The name of this restaurant is taken from a poem by French writer Charles Baudelaire. It’s in the 11th arrondissement, kind of far away from a lot of touristy destinations, but it’s totally worth it.

In reality, this sort of food is not very Parisian. A lot of food that comes from other places in France has somehow found its way to Paris: the Lyonnais bûchon, the Marseillaise fish house, and the Savoyard raclette and fondue restaurants. Nevertheless, many people who come to Paris want to sample “traditional” French food go straight for the pot of melted cheese… and this is where capitalism settles in for the long haul.

The majority of fondue and raclette restaurants are decorated in a typical Savoyard/Swiss fashion: as chalets. The authenticity stops there. Mostly what you get served is a pot of thinned, melted cheese and a few cubes of bread which, I can tell you from personal experience, is not what is served in the Alps.

At Le Serpent Qui Danse, the raclette cheese is brought out on a traditional melting apparatus. Basically, there are two heaters on either side of the wedge of cheese, which the diners can arrange closer or farther away from the wedge according to their eating speed. Melted cheese is scraped from the wedge onto plates of boiled potatoes, pickles and meats. This is where Le Serpent Qui Danse proclaims its authenticity.

You have a choice of meats including a pork-free and vegetarian version (not too sure what that entails…), but when I was in the Alps I always had ham, so ham is what I ordered. Our waiter, however, was certain that there was something better, and, alongside our order, he brought a free plate of dry-cured beef. He was right.

Britney and I stuffed ourselves full of cheese, bread, meat and salad that day, and while it was a thoroughly overwhelming gastronomic experience, I would most definitely do it again.

Yes, dear reader, I’m back. It’s been an interesting month. You’ll hear all about it in the next few posts, which consist not only of the recipe for Gratin Dauphinoise (finally, Dylan, like I promised), but with stories from Mexico, Toronto, back home in New York, and Paris.

The Canadian’s back, and I can’t help smiling. I made him a huge batch of chili before I left, because he would be arriving in three days to spend three long weeks here alone. It lasted precisely 14 hours. Needless to say, he learned to survive on his own, and I have the pleasure of being cooked for every once in awhile, which is always nice. His favorite thing to make me is stir fry, but yesterday while I was napping off the jet lag from New York, he went out and got me sushi so I would have something waiting when I got home.

OK, enough of this mushy stuff. Back to the food. Or should I say, the potatoes that cause swooning. I had to make two of these casseroles when my mother’s family came for Christmas, and they were devoured alongside the crown roast of pork that my mother prepared for Christmas Eve dinner (yeah, I know, you’re not supposed to have meat on Christmas Eve. I’ve always loved the idea of doing a traditional Italian fish supper for Christmas, and you can bet that when I’m running the holiday, it will be nothing but Zuppa di Pesce and Bacala, but while my mother runs the show, her word is law.)

All this meandering brings me back to the point: my potatoes. This gratin was the first thing I ever invented successfully, and now it’s a staple around the holidays. That being said, it is a staple only around the holidays precisely because you don’t need “cheese with a couple of potatoes thrown in,” as my uncle calls it, every day of the week. Regardless, it’s delicious, and you’re lucky, because if any of my family was web savvy enough to read a blog, this recipe would not be up here: I can’t have my Christmas cooking participation rendered obsolete!

Gratin Dauphinoise

5 large yukon gold potatoes

3 cups of grated cheese (I use a combination of gruyere and emmental)

1 egg

1 cup each whole milk and heavy cream

nutmeg, salt and pepper

Grease a glass baking dish with butter or oil, and then place one layer of thinly sliced potatoes along the bottom. Sprinkle salt, pepper and nutmeg over the potato layer, and top with a layer of grated cheese. Follow with another layer of potatoes, this time sprinkling the layer just with black pepper. Continue alternating layers until you reach the last layer of potatoes. Reserve some of the cheese for the top of the gratin. Sprinkle salt, pepper and nutmeg over the top layer of potatoes. Set aside. In a saucepan, heat the cream and milk together until hot but not boiling, and add another sprinkle of nutmeg. Temper the liquid with the egg, and pour the entire contents of the pan over the gratin. Top the gratin with the reserved cheese. Cover with aluminum and bake at 350 F until the potatoes are soft, about half an hour. Remove foil and turn up the oven to 425. Bake until topping is golden brown. Cool slightly before serving. Note: recipe can be prepared and baked at 350 and the last step can be reserved until just before serving.

When I lived in France, I kind of expected to be eating gourmet food all the time. This was not the case in this working-class family from the North. Sure, I learned my gratin dauphinoise recipe from them (sorry about all the teasing… Dylan has told me I have to share this recipe, and as soon as I make it and have some pictures, it’ll get up here), and they had one of those fun little individually sized raclette machines that everyone over here seems to have, but really, there was a lot of high-quality soup from a box, a couple of pasta dishes thrown together, an amazing cheese platter, a rotisserie chicken on their son’s birthday, and these potatoes.

Sure, when they had them, it was a white porcelain bowl of new potatoes and a side dish of sauce, along with a plate of high quality ham, but it’s the sauce that matters, not the presentation, so instead of serving myself a dainty portion of potatoes, I make one big potato and add the sauce, mashing it up in a bowl.

The French also like to peel their potatoes (Britney recently shared with me that they also peel their nectarines… bizarre), but I like chunks of peel in my mashed potatoes. The family I stayed with looked at me as though I was crazy when I simply poured the yogurt sauce over my new potatoes and squashed them slightly with the tines of my fork, as they painstakingly peeled each tiny potato, slicing them into small chunks on the plate before pouring the sauce over the white flesh, the peels pushed to the very corner.

I like things the way I like them. My heat is off because I’d rather not pay for it, so I’m in my bed wrapped in two duvets, studying for exams. I don’t want to go grocery shopping, and I have to clean out my fridge. Potatoes are what are available, so potatoes I shall eat.

Pommes de terre au yaourt (serves one)

Boil one potato for about 20 minutes, or until a fork goes through without resistance. (Alternatively, you could steam the potato, but I don’t have a steamer.) Meanwhile, combine half a cup of fromage frais (or plain yogurt, for those of you in the states) with a tablespoon of good dijon mustard and a teaspoon of dried chives. Mix with a fork and add the potato. Use the tines of your fork to mash the potato into the sauce. Consume. Leave the dishes for later.

It’s a really good thing I got interested in cooking, or else I would have spent all of last July eating stuck-together spaghetti with a bit of jarred sauce.

Let me explain.

As those who have been following this blog for a reasonable amount of time may know, I spent this past July helping an old French tutor jump-start a language program in Southwestern France. She and her brother bought a house in the tiny town of Paziols, an hour away from Perpignan. She, her nephew Alex, Alex’s sometimes-present father Wolf, four of Anne-Marie’s brightest early-teenage students and I went down to the old vineyard house this summer for the month to experiment, to see what could be done in the area and to make plans for next year, when she will run two programs, one in July, one in August, with the help of Alex, me, and some of the kids who were campers last year.

Tangent. Back to the ratatouille. You see, when we arrived all bedraggled (this was right after my backpacking trip through Western Europe), and drove the hour out to the house, there really wasn’t anything to eat. Alex made a pot of pasta, but didn’t use enough water and overcooked it (can’t blame him… he’s French. His mother has been cooking for him for his entire life). That and some cheese was our dinner, and I knew right away that things were going to have to change. I need my vegetables.

Later on, I spoke with Anne-Marie, cautiously bringing up the idea of teaching the kids how to make some typical French dishes while we were there. She loved the idea and asked for suggestions, and the first thing that my vitamin deprived body thought of was ratatouille. She and I set out for the tiny épicerie, and she picked out some of the best summer vegetables. We got home, she pulled out an apron, and handed it to me.

What?

Apparently, this Frenchwoman considered herself a New Yorker. She made a mean quiche Lorraine, but I was going to be making this ratatouille… if I could figure it out. I started slicing the vegetables semi-confidently, wondering how in the world I was going to pull this off. OK. Think. Think like Alton Brown: food is science.

Onions in first, sweat them a bit, bring out the natural sweetness. A little garlic… hell, who am I kidding? A lot of garlic. I need all the help I can get. Then the eggplant… that takes longer than zucchini… right? Oh well… it’s seared now on both sides and nice and brown, so in goes the zucchini. That’s brown… now some tomatoes. How many? Who knows. I add two, then three, mush them down and try to create some semblance of a sauce. I cheat and reach for the tomato paste because it doesn’t look like enough, and then I toss in a few more tomatoes, just to be safe. Also because I ate half of the first ones while I was slicing them… they were summer tomatoes, and I couldn’t help it. Herbes de provence, salt and pepper. And then Alex is over my shoulder.

“Tu sais cuisiner?” You know how to cook?

“Un peu.” A little. Sometimes I set off the fire alarm, and I’ve undercooked chicken and had to throw it back under the broiler. I keep that tidbit to myself.

“Ca sent bon.” Smells good. It does, like onions and garlic. I wish I could taste it, but the kitchen is too central to do it without anyone catching me, so I feign confidence, prod a piece of zucchini with a fork, and declare it done.

Apparently, the ratatouille went over well: I decided what to cook for the rest of the summer. Anne-Marie taught all the kids to make mayonnaise and salad dressing from scratch, but all summer, my greatest pride was still in that first dinner. I still don’t use a recipe for ratatouille… every time I make it in my tiny Paris kitchen, I remember my experiment in the house in Paziols, and I feel like a real cook… before I burn cupcakes while I’m giving myself a manicure again.

I have to say, I was very, very proud of this chicken. I don’t really know why… maybe it’s because even though I kind of used the recipe for Lemon-Herb Roast Chicken on Epicurious, I kind of realized that I know how to do a lot of things myself, like timing, stuffing the cavity with all sorts of citrusy goodness, and especially with dealing with the kind of chicken they sell in France.

When you buy chicken here, even in the grocery store, there are often a few feathers left on. I find it reassuring… it makes me feel like it’s fresher. But I had to go through with a tweezer and get them off, rinse the whole chicken, and remove the parts they left inside.

Maybe I’m so proud because my friend, who is a self-proclaimed cook of two things: cheese on toast and sausages, stood and watched in awe as I slid the butter beneath the skin, stuffed the cavity with lemons and garlic, and even made a cream gravy afterwards. Seeing her watch me reminded me of watching my mother before I first went to university, trying as hard as I could to glean any tips from her before I had a kitchen all to myself. I think that may have been what Emily was doing as I made chicken and mashed potatoes for her last night in Paris. And I was proud.

I seem to have a thing for this pose.

In other news, I have finally picked this month’s book of the month… Under the Tuscan Sun. This memoir by Frances Mayes, which inspired the movie starring Diane Lane, has two whole chapters filled with recipes, one for summer and one for winter. Because I’m in neither summer nor winter (although it is starting to feel desperately like fall), I’m going to take recipes from both sections. I obviously can’t do some of the summer recipes now, but I’ve found things like Bruschette con Pesto di Rucola, Wild Mushroom Lasagna, Ribollita, Rustic Apple Bread Pudding, Red Peppers Melted with Balsamic Vinegar… So many things to try, so little time! I’m off to the market tomorrow… hopefully you’ll have some new Tuscan recipes shortly! Ciao!

Combine 1 stick room temperature butter, 4 tablespoons herbes de provence, 3 large garlic cloves, minced, and 1 1/2 tsp of lemon peel in small bowl and stir to blend. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Preheat oven to 450°F. Rinse 6 1/2- to 7-pound roasting chicken; pat dry. Slide hand under skin of chicken breast to loosen skin form meat. Reserve 2 tablespoons herb butter for gravy. Rub half of remaining herb butter over chicken breast under skin. Spread remaining herb butter over outside of chicken and some in the inner cavity. Season chicken inside and out with salt and pepper. Stuff the cavity with one lemon, cut into wedges, and one garlic clove. Place chicken in heavy large roasting pan. Roast 20 minutes, and then reduce oven temperature to 375°F. Roast chicken until juices from thigh run clear when chicken thigh is pierced with skewer, about 1 hour 15 minutes. Lift chicken and tilt slightly, emptying any juices from cavity into roasting pan. Transfer chicken to platter. Tent with aluminum foil to keep warm. Note: Cooking times are always approximate. Make sure you check it early so it doesn’t overcook. If you’re not sure, use a thermometer: it should read 175 when inserted into the thigh.

Pour pan juices into large glass measuring cup. Spoon fat off top. Add 1/4 cup white wine to pan. Place pan over high heat; bring wine to boil, scraping up any browned bits. Pour wine mixture into cup with pan juices. Add enough chicken broth to same cup to measure 2 1/4 cups liquid. Melt reserved 2 tablespoons herb butter in heavy medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Add 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour; whisk until smooth and beginning to color, about 3 minutes. Gradually whisk in pan juices. Boil until thickened to sauce consistency, whisking occasionally, about 7 minutes. Season gravy with salt and pepper.

OK… I know I shouldn’t have fallen victim to a trap like this, but I had to. I know, I know… it would have been so much cheaper to just buy berries by the pint… but it just looked so cute! At the market on Rue Cler, they call this a Berry Bouquet. I bought one and ate it for breakfast with fromage frais (this French yogurt-ish stuff that I’m a little bit obsessed with). I guess it’s a bit of a last vestige of summer…

Pastis is a common drink here in France, especially in the South (it originates in Marseilles). It tastes strongly of anise (although not quite as smackyouintheface liquorice-y as Sambuca.) As you can see from the picture, it is typically served with water, which when added turns this pale amber liquor a cloudier color. Formerly a drink predominantly for men, it is now commonly drunk as an apéritif (apéro in slang) by the young people in France. (Apparently this practice hasn’t traveled too far north, because when I ordered a tomate in a café here in Paris, the bartender was so surprised that I was ordering his signature drink that he paid for our whole round.)

Which brings me to the pastis cocktails. While pastis was always drunk with water, now that the young people have moved in, they have put their own spin on it. (These cocktails were known before, but are becoming more and more popular now.) There are at least a dozen cocktails made with pastis, but these are the three that I have tried. The first is my favorite: the tomate. This is pastis and grenadine served with water. Not only do I love the sweetness that the grenadine adds, but I also like the fact that the drink turns bright pink.

The second cocktail is the perroquet, or parrot, so named for its bright green color, which it gets from crème de menthe. While this one is very pretty to look at, I am not personally a fan… the mint and anise together just remind me of medicine.

The third cocktail is known as the mauresque, which is pastis with orgeat, which I don’t know how to say in English, but is a liquor made from barley. Because I found the perroquet too medicinal, I was surprised when I actually liked the mauresque. It’s sweet, but not as sweet as the tomate, and it tastes vaguely herbal.

Of course, if you’re not into cocktails, you can always go for pastis the traditional way. My favorite pastis is Ricard, which is delicious served with just a carafe of cool water.

Whoa… found these pictures archived from the day I got to Paris and forgot about them.

The day I got to Paris, I tried, as I always do, to avoid jet lag by acting as though it didn’t exist. I walked around my new neighborhood, the 7th arrondissement, getting a feel for what was around. I found Rue Cler, my new foodie home, which is a pedestrian street within spitting distance that has all variety of foodie shops. I picked up a few things… some bread, cheese, pâté, the ever present tomatoes, onions, and garlic, and of course some wine, before walking back to my new apartment… and crashing.

For some reason it didn’t work this time, and jet lag crept up like the bad guy in a slasher film. I woke up around 8, disoriented, groggy, and starving. I walked over to the fridge and filled a plate with pâté and goat cheese, grabbed jars of cornichons and mustard, broke my baguette in two, and poured myself a glass of wine. And there, on my new couch, I had my very own French picnic.

So I’m sorry for the quality of the pictures of my first dinner in France, but I was too tired to adjust the lighting to make them pretty. What counts is that it was all delicious, and I liked the wine so much that I’m keeping the bottle. I am a walking stereotype, and I love it.