Riz au Lait (Rice Pudding)

For a nation which stakes such pride in its butter and cheese, the French take a strangely indifferent attitude towards milk. The supermarkets ostensibly offer some choice, but sterilized UHT* milk, stacked in six-pack cartons alongside the bottled water, makes up 95.5% of total consumption, both domestic and commercial. Although long-life milk is cheaper and more readily available than fresh, it’s not marketed as an economy product and is as likely to top-up the coffee served at the chic Cafe Beaubourg as one in the grungy bar next to my apartment.

Nor do the French see milk as a marginal part of their daily diets. While they may have less of a breakfast cereal culture than either Americans or Brits, I would guess that in a great many households a bowl of muesli—or even corn flakes—with milk has overtaken the croissant. In the mornings, at least, a cafe crème (like a cappuccino) or cafe au lait is very popular. And béchamel (white) sauce is a staple ingredient in filled crepes, gratins, and the ubiquitous cheese and ham sandwich, croque monsieur.

Though my one-time status as a skim milk-user probably undermines my credibility, I nonetheless find UHT milk bland and a bit off-putting. But as the only milk available in small quantities, it’s what I usually bring home when the (rare) need arises—usually for hot chocolate. So when I happened to come across not just farm-fresh, but raw, unpasteurised milk, this past weekend, I was excited in principle, but dubious as to whether I’d either be able to finish it or to appreciate it fully. I briefly considered butter-making, but couldn’t justify it as anything more than an experiment. (After all, Bordier, reputedly the best butter in France, is available just down the road.) The same was true of crème fraiche. Cottage cheese was another option, but eating it has always felt like a chore. I eventually settled on rice pudding (riz au lait), something I’ve loved ever since I ate it at a New Jersey diner in the early 80s.

It can be found dressed-up with all sorts of flavourings and toppings, but riz au lait is generally considered to be a homely, grandmotherly sort of dish, one which old-fashioned bistros serve out of a big bowl, sometimes with a bit of jam or compote. I retained tradition by using a vanilla bean, currants and a big bowl—just for me.

Riz au lait (adapted from Cooks’ Illustrated)

The ever-fastidious CI recommends using medium-grain rice, starting the rice cooking in water and then, when it’s mostly absorbed, adding a mixture of cream and milk. I made the pudding with a medium-grain paella rice and started it off in water, but ignored the cream recommendation. The result was just rich and thick enough, and had the extra benefit of not being too sweet. All the better for breakfast.

Total time: 1 hour-1 hour 15 minutes
Active time: just a few minutes, though be nearby for regular stirring
Serves 3-4

½ cup medium grain rice
pinch salt
2 ½ cups whole milk, plus a bit more for reheating
1/3 cup sugar (though they recommended white, I used granulated light brown, the only thing I had)
½ vanilla pod
small handful moist currants or raisins

Bring 1 cup water to boil in large, heavy pot. Stir in rice. Add salt. Cover and simmer over low heat, stirring once or twice until water is almost fully absorbed, 15 to 20 minutes. Add milk, sugar, vanilla and currants. Raise heat to return to a simmer, then reduce to medium-low. Cook uncovered, stirring frequently, until mixture starts to thicken, about 30 minutes. Reduce heat to low and continue to cook, stirring every couple of minutes to prevent sticking and scorching, until a spoon is just able to stand up in the pudding, about 15 minutes longer.


*Ultra high temperature or ultra heat treated

Les Meilleurs Legumes du Paris (The Best Vegetables in Paris)

Sometimes I get a bit tired of visitors to Paris waxing rhapsodic about the fruits and vegetables found in the city’s markets. True, at nearly every one (and there are upwards of 75 held each week), good—even spectacular produce—is easy to find. And there’s little doubt that even the most rumpled vendors often possess a decorator’s gift for arrangement. Excepting such seasonal specialities as white asparagus or morels, prices are often very low too.

What can be disappointing is the conformity. Even the appealingly dirt-speckled carrots at my favourite stand are bought wholesale from the Rungis market, just like their counterparts all over town. And while heritage varietals of tomatoes and potatoes have become increasingly commonplace at British and American farmers’ markets, the supply system for Paris’ markets ensures high standards but (relatively limited) selection. Only two markets—both organic and high-end—have from-the-farm producers, known as “maraichers” or “producteurs.”

Perhaps Parisians get their fill of field-to-table food during their long summer holidays in the countryside. Or maybe, despite the obvious discernment of many market customers, they don’t attach the same importance as their food-conscious Anglophone counterparts to cutting out the middleman, or to meeting the person who harvested their food. It could even be—and here I tread very carefully into the realm of total bullshit—that contemporary French identity has retained some kind of cultural connection with the land (terroir), thus obviating the necessity of “reclaiming” it through a middle-class affectation for expensive, wormy apples.

I suspect that Rungis, the heir to the historic central market at Les Halles, will continue to be the “stomach of Paris” for many years to come. But Joël Thiébault’s produce, grown just 7 kilometres from the Eiffel Tower and sold weekly to some of the city’s best restaurants, has developed the same kind of cult status as Anne-Marie Cantin’s unpasteurised cheese, or Hugo Desnoyer’s meat. And in a city like Paris, that’s not faint praise.

A third-generation farmer, Thiébault reputedly cultivates up to 1500 varieties of vegetables and herbs (a bit of fruit is grown in high summer). About 100 of them are sold at his weekly market stand in the tony 16th arrondissment. Arriving mid-morning this past Saturday my choices including flowering chives, five varieties of carrots and three of beets, heaps of compact lettuces and herbs which I could not identify by sight or smell. Prices are curiously low. At 70 centimes apiece, salads cost no more than the half-rotten ones sold at the far end of my market; choosing with care, it’s possible to assemble a week’s worth of vegetables for about 10 euros.

It was only by exercising extreme restraint that I managed to come home with just two varieties of herbs, a head of lettuce, bunches of golf ball-sized new onions and radishes, waxy salad potatoes, a multicolour array of carrots and an enormous candy-striped beet. In the past 36 hours, the carrots and radishes have been eaten as crudités, with the remainder of the carrots braised with some of the onions and herbs. More of the herbs were chopped into an egg salad, and the lettuce, tossed with a simple vinaigrette, anchored a oozing disk of milky goats cheese.

I have some work to do in perfecting the salad du chevre chaud, but the other dishes—while both exceptionally simple—are ready to be shared. And while great produce will make these simple preparations shine, a trip to Paris is not required. (Though it may be for some of Cantin’s legendary unpasteurised cheese.)

Herbed Egg Salad (adapted from Amanda Hesser)

In this recipe from her first book, The Cook and the Gardener, Hesser deconstructs the classic egg salad, serving it over greens dressed with heavy cream, mustard, tarragon, chervil and chives. I put the dish back together again, substituting good store-bought mayonnaise for the cream, omitting the mustard (which appears in small quantities in French mayonnaise) and using good quantities of fresh chervil and thyme. Served slightly warm, alongside a hunk of coarse bread and some peppery radishes, it was both rich and sprightly.

Total time 15 minutes; Active time 5 minutes
Serves 2

4 eggs
1 tablespoon or more good mayonnaise
At least 5 healthy sprigs chervil
1-2 sprigs fresh, leafy thyme (don’t use it if it has begun to dry out or become gritty)

Boil the eggs until they are moulleux (creamy in the centre, but no longer oozing). Chop the herbs finely. Peel the eggs and crush coarsely, mixing through the mayonnaise. Add the herbs and season well with salt and pepper.

Braised Young Carrots and Onions (adapted from Mark Bittman)

New York Times food writer Mark Bittman is currently spending a few months here in Paris. Last week he wrote about braising some carrots purchased at his local market with shallots, tarragon and a bit of butter. It was, he concluded, “an amazing dish, almost but not quite too sweet, simple, easy, and honest.” I swapped the shallots for new onions and the tarragon for chervil (which subtly echoes tarragon’s aniseed notes). Since I had some mild, homemade chicken stock, I used that instead of water.

Bittman’s original post didn’t include a precise recipe. Saturday night I made the dish just for myself and drank wine instead of watching the clock. So please take quantities and timing as approximate only. But while I like the vegetables soft, the one really important thing is to get the liquid to reduce into a sweet glaze.

Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

Serves 2

Tasty carrots, enough to feed two amply
About 2/3 the quantity of new onions
A generous sprinkling of chervil
1 tbsp of butter
A few tablespoons of gentle stock (or water)

Cut the carrots into bite-sized batons. If any of the onions are bigger than a golf ball, cut them in half. Place the vegetables in a heavy-bottomed pot or lidded sauté pan, add the butter and a bit of liquid. If you’d like, include some of the chervil now. Season, cover and cook on a gentle heat, checking liquid levels occasionally, until the vegetables are soft (particularly the onions), but not falling apart. If needed, you can add extra liquid in very small quantities. If there is extra stock in the pan at the end of cooking, reduce it for several minutes on a medium heat, or until the vegetables are lightly glazed. Adjust seasoning, add the reserved chervil and serve warm, perhaps alongside roasted chicken.

Things I Miss

Inspired by Alex Lobrano’s blog about New York food he craves when he’s in Paris, I thought I’d put together my own—considerably more lowbrow—list of the ingredients, dishes and restaurants I miss from the 3 cities where I’ve lived as an adult: New York, Oxford and London. For while Paris is a great eating city, sometimes I just want what I can’t have. Specifically:

-the exceptional pizza pies served here and here, and the perfectly serviceable pizza-by-the-slice sold in dozens of Manhattan joints (often named Joe’s). Hazardous to eat while walking, but otherwise the ultimate street food.
-Moro: My special-occasion restaurant of choice for 10 years now, it has stupendous bread, meat and fish from a wood-burning oven, a friendly waitress who always recognizes me and a bar where a glass of salty-dry sherry, free refills of that amazing bread, and some slabs of tortilla española make a cheap and wonderful treat, no birthday or anniversary required.
-Montgomery’s Cheddar: As English cheese prices have risen sharply in recent months, I’ve experimented with some cheaper alternatives. But nothing comes close, and I’m yet to find a French cheese which combines sharpness with sweet and salty notes.
-New York’s Greek diners: not for the coffee, which is almost uniformly weak and acrid, or the eponymous salad, usually spoiled by sharp dressing and indifferent olives, but for the pancakes, round-the-clock hours and wise-alecky service.
-Lunchtime in Oxford’s covered market. Whether a ciabatta lined with cheese, pesto and marinated veg from Fasta Pasta, or the ultra-healthy but delicious salad served by the hippy-dippy staff at Alpha Bar, lunch hasn’t been as good—or as cheap—since.
-It’s certainly not true that all New Yorkers use their ovens only for storing shoes. But I’m yet to meet one who doesn’t know which Chinese restaurant in their local delivery radius not only does the best version of their favourite dish (i.e., tofu and broccoli with spicy garlic sauce) but throws in free beer too.
-I know that people make a big deal over fleur de sel, but I prefer Maldon every time. Although I do store it in a French jam jar…
-Celeste: Because it’s infinitely useful to have a local Italian restaurant whose pasta dishes are much, much better than you could ever make at home, but where dinner doesn’t cost that much more than a takeaway.
-Bagels: Ideally from the bakery on 107th and Broadway in Manhattan. (Damn those university friends who have an apartment upstairs and three small children occupying their former guest room.) In truth, I’d happily settle for H+H, or even the little ones sold at the far end of London’s Brick Lane, because while baguettes and croissants make great breakfast food, they fall short as an accompaniment to the weekend New York Times. (Note: I have no similar attachments to Philadelphia cream cheese. Bring on the chevre.)
-The bhel puri, a sweet-tart, crunchy mix of chickpeas, potatoes, chutneys and little fried things served by all of the vegetarian South Indian restaurants on Drummond St, near Euston Station, or their less convenient, but more authentic, counterparts in Tooting.