Le Premier Glacé du Saison (The First Ice Cream of the Season)

With the perverse logic that seems to guide so many French institutions, Berthillon, Paris' grand-dame of ice cream retailers, chose to close its eponymous shop on the very first warm weekend of the year. But despite the knowledge that the glacé is ever so slightly better at the mother-ship, I, along with thousands of others, lined up this past Saturday afternoon at one of the many stands on the Ile St Louis that also sell Berthillon. Bypassing the caramel and chocolate flavours this time, I chose a duo of sorbets: apricot and raspberry.

The sheer intensity of the fruit and the measured sweetness were just as I had remembered them. But as I ambled towards the Marais and the bus home, I began to wonder how the Berthillon folks managed to produce such a consistently excellent product across the seasons. Fresh apricots are still some weeks away, even in the south, while neither France nor any of its neighbours will harvest raspberries until mid-summer. Do they use frozen fruit, highly-travelled fruit, some kind of secret flavour-enhancers?

Ail Nouveau (New Garlic)

It's a truism that markets change with the seasons. In Paris these days, the winter citrus has (finally) departed, to be replaced with artichokes and fresh peas. Both will be with us for some time, giving me ample opportunity to contemplate whether I feel more confident of sucess with the former, and whether I care to veer off the tried-and-true path of a minty soup with the latter. With the more fleeting spring produce such as fresh almonds, nespole (loquat) and gariguettes, there's little room for such indecision. Leave the city for two weekends and they're gone.

But while I consider myself relatively in tune with these comings and goings, I was nonetheless surprised--and, I must admit, charmed--to discover the first of the new garlic a few weeks ago. When I first found it, at the wonderful but achingly slow produce stand outside the covered market, it was tiny and somewhat lumpy, its umbilicus shooting straight into the air. Inside the cloves were crisp and barely formed, many no bigger than my finger. They tasted mild and sweet, almost milky.

Ten days later, when I went back for more, I found that both the bulb and the individual cloves inside had nearly doubled in size. The skin, though still relatively thick and moist, had begun to dehydrate, while the flavour had grown slightly more assertive.

For once, I'm not wasting any time. Fresh garlic is everpresent in my meals these days (breakfast excluded). There have been lovely soups, including a poshed-up leek and potato redolent with garlic and homemade chicken stock, and this fantastic fennel dish. The recipe, which I adapted from Molly Stevens' All About Braising, is a somewhat more elaborate version of an old favourite from one of the early Moro cookbooks. This one uses the same technique of a thorough saute, followed by a long, slow aromatic bath. Here, though, the fennel is matched with garlic, olives, a bit of anchovy and fresh thyme for a taste that is is rich, round and almost silky.

This will be well worth returning to even once the fresh garlic is all dried up, either alongside some grilled fish, as I ate it, or as a part of an antipasti spread including grilled peppers, salumi and some crostini. But for the moment, I've moved onto another new garlic discovery: wild garlic leaves. So if you find yourself sitting on the Paris metro next to a young woman who smells ever so slightly, if not unpleasantly, like a southern Italian nonna fresh out of the kitchen, do be sure to say hello. And for the rest of you, not Paris-bound anytime soon, hints for getting that garlic smell off my hands would be very much appreciated.


Fennel Braised with Thyme and Black Olives

Serves 2

Total time: 90 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes


1 large fennel bulb

scant 1/4 cup of mild but tasty black olives (I used some purpley Kalamatas)
3 cloves fresh garlic (or 1 of the older stuff)

2 anchovy fillets

1 tsp fresh thyme

splash dry white wine or vermouth

1/4-1/3 cup chicken or vegetable stock

Cut off the inedible top piece of the fennel (reserving fronds, if attached), slice a sliver off the bottom and cut bulb into large, long slivers. You'll get 8-12 depending on the size of the bulb. Heat a film of oil on a medium heat in a deep, wide pan (ideally one with a lid) and add as much fennel as fits easily. Saute without disturbing for up to 5 minutes, then turn and repeat until you have lots of carmelised patches and the slices have softened and begun to turn golden. If necessary, remove and repeat with the remaining slices. Salt and pepper each batch.

While you're waiting, pit and half the olives, strip the thyme from its stems, clean the anchovies (if necessary) and chop the garlic. In a small frying pan placed over a low heat, melt the anchovies, thyme and fennel seeds, using a wooden spoon to break up any pieces. Add the wine and boil until reduced by half, about 2 minutes. Spoon any additional cooked fennel back into the main pan, top with olives, the anchovy paste and pour over the stock.

Cover the pan with a lid or foil and bring to a low simmer. Using a diffuser if necessary to control the heat, cook very gently until the fennel has collapsed and gives no resistance to a knife point--at least 1 hour. Adjust seasoning, top with fennel fronds, if using, and serve warm or at room temperature.

I've written this for a Bookmarked Recipes' blogging event. Take a look at other contributor's recipes here.

Rhubarbe Deux Fois (Rhubarb Two Times)

One might think, browsing through the (slim) archives of Les Petit Pois, that I never eat dessert. It's not altogether untrue. Here in Paris, unless I've made a special, cross-town outing to Pierre Herme or a similarly-pedigreed pastry shop, I tend to finish a meal with nothing more than a square or two of good chocolate. In London, the situation is similar, if not more pronounced. Though the city is by no means lacking good cake, it's just not something I make any effort to procure.

More disturbing, though, is that homemade desserts don't feature in my kitchen repertory. Although I long ago realized that I lacked the fine motor skills to have any future as a pastry professional, I nonetheless considered myself to be a baker. The products of my oven would be of the homespun variety--rustic fruit tarts, quick breads and cookies--the stuff, I reckoned, that most people really wanted to eat anyway. I would be the one called on to bring desserts to dinner parties, the one whose experiments would be pounced on in the office break room, and the giver of much-appreciated edible gifts.

The reality has been somewhat different. I can blame it in large part on my landladies, neither of whom saw it as a priority to replace broken ovens. And while this situation forced me to become a master of braising, there is not much except for pudding which can be made without that heated box. I also lacked ready and sizeable audiences. A cheesecake, no matter how good, cannot be consumed by two people. There was one period of frenetic baking, during a brief sojourn at my parents' Washington home. But while at least one occupant of the household eagerly devoured my variations on Jewish bakery classics such as rugelach, hamentaschen and coffee cake, my successes in this area were never repeated.

The truth is that I hadn't--and still haven't--found a focus for my ostensible baking energies. For that reason, today's rhubarb recipes--while both worthwhile to make and to eat--are nothing more than compotes. But while I may not be the most credible authority on this matter, having eaten them plain or with Greek yogurt, believe me when I say that they would be delicious with cake, specifically Claudia Roden's much-copied, never-bettered flourless almond and citrus one. For Nigel's compote, use oranges, for Gordon's, lemons. Let me know how it turns out.

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Forced rhubarb--the thinner, fuschia-hued stalk that appears early in the season--is prettier both to look at and to eat. Some even say it has a more delicate flavour--though I've never been able to tell the difference.

Nigel's Rhubarb

adapted from a recipe in The Guardian
Total time: 30 minutes; Active time: 5 minutes

450g rhubarb
a vanilla pod (optional)
the juice of 2 blood oranges and the zest of 1
3 level tbsp brown sugar

Cut the rhubarb into bite-size lengths and place in a non-reactive saucepan. Scrape in the vanilla seeds, if using, adding the spent pod. Finely grate the orange zest and squeeze the juice into the pan. Measure in the sugar and turn the heat to medium-low. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the rhubarb collapses under the weight of a spoon. Check the sweetness and serve warm or chilled.


Gordon's Rhubarb

adapted from a recipe in The Times
Total time: 45 minutes, including oven pre-heating; Active time: 5 minutes

500g rhubarb
75g brown sugar
1 lemon
Handful of thyme sprigs

Preheat the oven to 200C. Cut the rhubarb into bite-size pieces, first splitting the stalks lengthwise if they are wider than your finger. Place these in an ovenproof dish and top with sugar. Add a few strips of lemon peel, along with a small squeeze of juice, the thyme leaves, cover with foil and place in the oven. Check after 20 minutes, continue to cook if necessary until the rhubarb is tender but not collapsed. Pour out the juices into a small pan and reduce for a few minutes, or until syrupy.