Poireaux aux moutarde et crème fraiche (Leeks with mustard and crème fraiche)

Acculturation happens in subtle, often unnoticeable, ways. But it’s still rare that more than a few days go by without a deep-seated recognition that the country in which I live remains, in ways both superficial and profound, deeply foreign. More than two years have passed, and I am no wiser as to why so many people at my gym can be found outside, smoking cigarettes, immediately after a workout, how even the simplest, most transactional conversation, can shift into the realm of philosophical abstraction or why Parisians see nothing odd about parking on the sidewalk.

When it comes to food, however, the barriers to entry are somewhat lower. I’ve acquired a Parisian’s snobbery regarding pastry, learned how to enjoy steak tartare with élan and made at least a tentative peace with butter and cream.

In my kitchen, olive oil is still the usual fat of choice. And in the last few weeks, as summer approaches, I am even more likely to return home from the market with a bag full of Mediterranean produce: peppers, olives, goat’s cheese and rosé. Yet several days ago, as I stood in line at my regular vegetable stand, shifting to get the warm sun on my shoulders, I could not resist grabbing a bunch of the most quintessential northern French vegetable—leeks.

Though grown year-round, leeks are traditionally used in hearty winter soups and stews, from pot au feu to potage bonne femme. Steamed and served at room temperature with a sharp, mustardy vinaigrette, they could almost pass as a warm-weather starter. But in late May a slow sauté, followed by a dousing of crème fraiche, certainly violates most dictums of seasonality. Yet while I couldn’t recommend it for a genuinely steamy climate, this dish is—and I don’t say this lightly—worth putting aside the tomatoes for one evening.

Poireaux aux moutarde et crème fraiche (Leeks with mustard and crème fraiche)
Serves 2 (can easily be doubled or tripled)
Total time: 35 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

It doesn’t look like much, and I’m sure the key ingredients have been combined with more finesse elsewhere. But for a simple accompaniment to roast chicken, steak or even a fat filet of white fish, I’ve found little to equal it. With so few ingredients, fresh mustard (Dijon, grain or a mixture) and full-fat crème fraiche are essential. Depending on your mood and palate, the dish can either be smooth and almost sloppy, with just a faint bite of mustard, or more aggressive in flavour, with a teaspoon or two of cream to bind. And while the cooking time given can be shortened somewhat, I find that allowing the leeks to soften gently adds significantly to the flavour of the dish.

4-5 medium leeks
1 tbsp butter
1 tbsp Dijon and/or grain mustard, possibly more to taste
Up to 2 tbsp crème fraiche
Salt and pepper

Slice the tops and base of the leeks, cut in half lengthwise and clean under running water. Slice into thin half-moons. In a large frying pan, melt the butter on a low heat. Add the leeks, season with salt and pepper and allow to cook gently for at least 20 minutes. In order to get the leeks to achieve a melting texture and avoid sticking or burning, you may need to add a tablespoon or so of water to the pan at regular intervals. When the leeks are very soft, take them off the heat. Add crème fraiche and mustard to taste, adjusting seasoning as necessary. Serve hot.

I’ve written up this dish for “Waiter, there’s something in my...”, a bistro blogging event being hosted this month by The Passionate Cook. Check back there in several days time for prettier, more elegant and altogether more skilled entries.

Compote d’Abricots á la Lavande (Apricot and Lavender Compote)

Even a mediocre peach is worth eating out of hand, so too a bowlful of less than perfectly sweet cherries. But an underripe apricot—dry, wooly-textured, with almost a tannic bite—has few redeeming virtues. Despite this, impatience and whiff of honeyed perfume have seduced me more than once, only to discover, once home, that the abricots’ rosy-tinged shoulders are only slightly more tender than my own laptop-wrecked ones.

Were it not for the fact that Michelin-class patisserie is available just down the road, I might have attempted a tart. Jam was likewise eliminated, as I doubt I could improve on that supermarket standard, Bon Maman. After a few days on the counter, by which time the apricots were infinitesimally rosier but no softer, I settled on a lavender-scented compote, courtesy of Clotilde Dusoulier’s Chocolate and Zucchini.

I must confess to being a bit jealous of Clotilde’s fame. But it’s undeniable that her recipes not only work, but tend to offer a creative twist on the simple, market-driven French food I like most. The compote is a perfect example: judiciously used, the lavender adds sophistication and complexity, while an intelligent use of heat (and butter) creates an unctuous glaze for the fruit without turning it into mush.

The recipe suggests serving this alongside butter cookies. I usually have it alone or over yogurt, but it could easily dress up some good vanilla ice cream or buttery cake. And should unsprayed lavender be hard to find, either dried verveine (lemon verbena) or even a bit of fresh thyme might make interesting substitutions.

Compote d’Abricots á la Lavande (adapted from Chocolate and Zucchini)

Serves 2-3

Total time: about 20 minutes: Active time: 10 minutes

1 tbsp unsalted butter

1/8 cup granulated sugar

Small pinch sugar

Just over a pound of apricots, stoned and halved

1 tsp dried unsprayed lavender flowers

Gently melt the butter in a frying pan big enough to fit the apricots in a single layer. Add the sugar and allow to melt without stirring for 3-5 minutes, by which time it should be lightly caramelised. Add the salt and abricots and stir to coat. Cover and cook on a low to medium heat until the fruit is just tender, about 8 minutes.

Remove the fruit with a slotted spoon and set aside. Sprinkle the lavender over the remaining pan juices, turn up the heat to medium-high and cook uncovered until thick and syrupy, about 4 minutes. Lower the heat and return the apricots to the pan, stirring gently to coat. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Les Bon Addresses

Parisian women are said to have a closely-guarded list of bon addresses, the trusted suppliers of everything from the smoothest blowdry to the tastiest profiterole. With just two years in Paris, I haven't developed a full complement of resources. But I can boast of a few noteworthy finds which, unlike the natives, I'm happy to share.

Breakfast
Parisians may be willing to travel across town for a box of macarons. But come breakfast, excellence must be found in a smaller catchment zone. For those within a 15-minute walk of Bastille or the Place du Vosges, the best pastries can be found at Au Levain du Marais. The croissant is textbook-perfect, the chausson aux pommes (a triangle of puff-pastry encasing a not-too-sweet apple compote) a messy delight.

Booze
Finishing a meal with a sip of Armagnac always makes me feel terribly sophisticated. And buying it from Ryst Dupeyron, where the shelves are lined with wax-sealed bottles dating back to World War I and the monetary transaction is conducted ever-so-discreetly, just adds to the feeling of glamour. Prices are not nearly as ruinous as the setting might suggest, with a 70 cl bottle of the Napoleon blend (aged for a minimum of 6 years) costing just 36EU.

Browsing
There's no better way to understand the city's relationship with food than to visit one of its 75 markets. And few better combine quality, variety and atmosphere than my local, the Marche d'Aligre. At the entrance is a raucous strip of fruit and vegetable stands, where the vendors try to outshout one another in a mix of French and Arabic. The square holds a more serene (and expensive) market, in which dowagers line up to buy well-aged cheese or meat for a pot au feu. Surrounding it all are pavement cafes, including a particularly popular wine (and in season) oyster bar, Le Baron Bouge.

Bonbons
For years, the artisanal truffles and sweets made by Jacques Genin were only available to restaurants and hotels. But now, the likes of passion fruit caramels and chocolates flavoured with pu er tea are on offer to anyone able to find his elegant, minimalist shop, located in a nondescript strip of clothing wholesalers in the northern Marais. The adjoining cafe serves an unctuous hot chocolate and provides mignardaise with every hot drink.


Au Levain du Marais
28, blvd. Beaumarchais 75011
M; Th-Su

Ryst Dupeyron
79, rue du Bac 75007
M-S

Marche d'Aligre
place du Aligre 75012
T-Su
(Both parts of the market are open from breakfast until lunch; the covered market reopens around 4 pm.)

La Chocolaterie
133, rue du Turenne 75003
M-Su

Gâteau Rhubarbe et Polenta (Rhubarb-Cornmeal Cake)

When asked where I live, I often respond that I spend 85% of my time in Paris, 10% in London and the remaining 5% on the Eurostar. While I have been known to board the train without my computer adaptor, cell phone or British credit card, I rarely travel without at least one bottle of inky, spicy southern French wine, a few jars of tapenade and a sack of cheese which grows ever-stinkier as London draws near.* Good wine and cheese can certainly be found in London, if not with comparable ease. But I’ve come to enjoy the pre-travel ritual of rounding up treats in my local shops and the post-travel one of a picnic-like Friday night dinner, together, watching some silly TV.

A few weeks ago, having made the wine and cheese rounds, I stopped in at a local pastry shop to buy dessert for that evening’s meal. I selected what I thought to be a sturdy tarte aux poires and asked the saleswoman to package it for a train trip. To my surprise, she asked how long the journey was and whether I planned to eat the tarte in transit. When I explained that I was taking the Eurostar to London, she shook her head firmly and explained that the item would not be at its best after 3 hours. I tried again with a tarte citron, but this too was rejected. Finally, we agreed that I would be allowed to purchase a sack of financiers, unadorned, ingot-shaped cakes tasting of almonds and very good butter.

While the proprietor was undoubtedly a bit overprotective of her wares, in this season of picnics and "staycations", it is perhaps worth considering a few other cakes able to make it to their destinations intact. One obvious candidate is gâteau au yaourt. Often the first cake a French child learns how to make, it gets its name from the glass pot of yogurt which moistens the batter and provides a handy measuring cup for the other ingredients. Not too sweet, it could be eaten any time of day and takes easily both to adornments like coulis or whipped cream, as well as nuts, fruit or bits of chocolate.

Nigella Lawson’s rhubarb cornmeal cake, which was eaten far too quickly last weekend to be road-tested, is in fact an Anglo-Italian variation on this classic. Cornmeal or polenta, substituted for half the volume of flour, provides crunch and heft, while small chunks of rhubarb add hits of sweet-sour tang. The most significant variation—in structural terms at least—is in creaming soft butter with eggs, rather than using liquid fat. (Vegetable oil is traditional in the French recipe, most likely because it is easier and less messy than melting butter.)

Perfect just as it is, the recipe could certainly be adapted to other ingredients: creme fraiche (thinned with a bit of milk), sour cream or buttermilk in place of the yogurt, other seasonal fruits and more prominent seasoning instead of, or in addition to, the vanilla. Come September, plum-hazelnut cake with a bit of nutmeg would be wonderful. But for now, I’m just hoping that the rhubarb sticks around until that next Eurostar journey, at the end of which is a functioning oven and someone who, despite his protestations, appears to enjoy a good piece of cake.

Rhubarb Cornmeal Cake (adapted from Nigella Lawson’s “How To Be A Domestic Goddess)

Serves 8
Total time: 1 hour 20 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes

While I’ve left the original proportions below, I adapted this to fit an 18 cm (7 inch) pan, cutting everything in half except the bicarbonate and salt. It took about 50 minutes to bake.

500g rhubarb (these should ideally be even-sized, not too thick stalks; the cake will be prettier if they are more pink than green)
300g caster sugar
150g plain flour
155g fine polenta or cornmeal (I used instant polenta without any problem)
1tsp bicarbonate of soda
¼ tsp salt
2 large eggs
125g unsalted butter, room temperature
1 tsp vanilla extract OR ½ a vanilla pod
250g plain yogurt, either full fat or lowfat
Special equipment: 23cm springform cake tin, greased with butter and base lined

Preheat the oven to 180C. Trim the rhubarb and cut into 1/2cm slices. Macerate in a bowl with 100g of the sugar while preparing the other ingredients. Mix the dry ingredients (flour, cornmeal, bicarb, salt). Place the butter and sugar into a large bowl. With either a wooden spoon or a hand mixer, cream the mixture until light and fluffy. Crack in the eggs one at a time, mixing gently. Add vanilla extract, if using.

Add the dry ingredients and yogurt to the butter-sugar-egg mixture in alternating batches, mixing as little as necessary to combine. If using the vanilla pod, scrape in the seeds. Fold in the rhubarb and any juices that accumulated in the bowl.

Pour into the greased tin and put in preheated oven. Bake for approximately one hour or until the top is springy and a skewer comes out almost clean. You may need to cover the cake after 40 minutes. Let it cool, in the tin, on a wire rack. Due to its high moisture content, the cake should keep well-covered for several days.

* I used to bring bread as well. But the loaves being baked at this local Brixton deli are as good as anything I can buy in Paris.