On Rue Tatin (11 page)

It took Michael a year to finish the room as he built walls, plugged up holes, mixed up pale ochre-colored plaster to fill in between the timbers, pointed the brick chimney, rebuilt the fireplace box, and made the room an elegant work of art. When visitors walk in they are astounded by its beauty. Then, to really wow them, Michael turns on the lights, a hallmark of his work. He doesn’t just install an electrical system, he installs the most complex and efficient electrical system he can, and since he’s not an electrician, and particularly not a French electrician, he’s learning as he goes.

There are twelve switches that control the spots, so the mood can be somber, elegant, or brightly lit. Delighted with the result, Michael loves to give a light show.

Guests inevitably notice the face in the beam. I often catch them looking at it. They assume that it is ancient, considering it one more marvel of this marvelous house. When they find out it is Michael’s work, they realize how much he has made this house his own.

NORMANDY MUSSELS
MOULES À LA NORMANDE

The waters off the coast of Normandy are filled with sweet mussels and we eat them often. I like this preparation with its local hallmark of cider vinegar, which sets off perfectly the sweetness of the mussels. Serve these in Norman fashion, with plenty of fresh bread and sweet butter and hard cider.

6 pounds/3kg mussels

1 cup (about 10g) firmly packed flat-leaf parsley

2 small shallots, sliced in half then cut in paper-thin slices

4 dried, imported bay leaves

1/4 cup/60ml cider vinegar

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Just before cooking the mussels de-beard them. (To de-beard mussels, gently but firmly pull out the byssus, or group of fine threads that hang from their shells.) Rinse them well in cool fresh water and place them in a large stockpot. Coarsely chop the parsley and add it, along with the shallots, bay leaves, and cider vinegar. Shake the pot so that all the ingredients are blended, and bring the liquid to a boil over high heat. When it is boiling reduce the heat to medium-high and cover the pot. Cook the mussels until they just open, shaking the pan from time to time so the mussels cook evenly. Once the mussels are open, continue to cook for an additional minute, checking the mussels frequently and removing those that are wide open so they don’t overcook. If, after 2 to 3 minutes there are mussels that refuse to open, discard them as they are either dead or empty.

2. Transfer the cooked mussels to a large serving bowl, or simply return all of the mussels to the stockpot. Season them generously with salt and pepper and serve.

6
TO
8
SERVINGS

THE FISH MERCHANT’S STUFFED
CABBAGE LEAVES
CHOUX FARCIS À LA POISSONIÈRE

This is a winter specialty from Aline Aubé, owner with her husband, Olivier, of the Poissonerie du Centre in Louviers, on rue Général de Gaulle. Each day Aline makes a half dozen different dishes to tempt her customers, using whatever fish is abundant and in season. One day she offered these tempting little packets, which customers were buying so fast I decided I’d better try them, too. Mme Aubé carefully placed the last two in a container for me, then scooped up the remaining cream sauce intended to bathe them. She looked at them, decided there wasn’t quite enough cream, and added a generous dollop more from a bowl that sits in ice on her fish counter.

I reheated the dish gently at home and we all loved its delicate flavor, such a departure from the traditional hearty meat-filled stuffed cabbage. I asked Mme Aubé what gave her the idea for this unusual dish.

“When you work with fish all day long and love it the way I do, you naturally think about using it everywhere,” she said modestly. “This dish simply made sense to me, and our customers love it.”

Though Mme Aubé bathes the fish-stuffed cabbage leaves with cream for her customers, when she makes them for her family she drizzles them simply with lemon juice. I like a combination of both, first drizzling the little packets with lemon juice, then with a bit of cream. I have adapted Mme Aubé’s recipe by adding a touch of lemon zest to the filling.

Serve this with a lightly chilled Sauvignon Blanc.

11/2 pounds/750g fish fillets, preferably lingcod, flounder, cod, or whiting, bones and skin removed

1 shallot, minced

3/4 cup/180ml
crème fraîche

Sea salt and fresh finely ground black pepper

6 large, pale green inner leaves savoy cabbage

Zest of 1 untreated lemon, minced

2 tablespoons/30ml freshly squeezed lemon juice

1. Place the fish, shallot, half the
crème fraîche
, and a generous sprinkling of salt and pepper in the workbowl of a food processor and process until homogeneous and elastic, which will take a minute or two. Cook a teaspoonful of the filling in a small pan over medium heat and taste it for seasoning. Adjust if necessary.

2. Prepare a large bowl of ice water. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil over high heat. Add the cabbage leaves and cook them just until they lose their crispness, but not until they become limp, 2 to 3 minutes. Carefully remove the leaves from the water and transfer them to the ice water. Leave them in the ice water just long enough for them to completely cool off. Carefully transfer them from the water to a surface covered with a tea towel, and pat off any excess water.

3. Gently smooth out the cabbage leaves on a work surface. Trim away the thickest part of their stems. Divide the lemon zest in thirds. Reserve two-thirds for the packets, and stir the other one-third into the remaining
crème fraîche
.

4. Divide the fish filling into 6 equal-size portions. Place one portion of the filling in the center of a cabbage leaf. Sprinkle some of the reserved lemon zest over the fish filling, then fold the cabbage leaf over it to completely enclose it. If the leaves threaten to come apart, keep them closed with a skewer. Repeat with the remaining fish filling, cabbage leaves, and lemon zest.

5. Bring water to a boil in the bottom of a steamer and place the packets in the steamer, seam side down. Cover and steam until the fish filling has turned completely opaque and is cooked through, about 20 minutes.

6. While the packets are steaming, place the
crème fraîche
with the lemon zest in a small saucepan over very low heat so that it heats just to the steaming point. It should not boil.

7. To serve, place one packet in the center of a warmed dinner plate. Squeeze about 1 teaspoon lemon juice over the packet, then pour on about 1 tablespoon of the hot
crème fraîche.
Sprinkle with sea salt and serve immediately.

6
FIRST-COURSE SERVINGS

HEARTY LAMB STEW
CIVET D’AGNEAU

This recipe comes from my butcher, Jean-Louis Richard,
and it is an uncommonly delicious treatment for lamb.
Monsieur Richard uses what he calls the “lesser pieces” of lamb like the collar and the shank for this dish, which are ideal
for long, slow cooking because they are fattier and more flavorful than standard cuts like the shoulder or the leg. You can use shoulder or leg, however, but be sure to check the dish frequently and add water as it cooks so it doesn’t dry out. Serve a lush Bordeaux with this dish.

3 pounds/1.5kg lamb, shank and/or collar, cut into 2-inch/5-cm pieces

1 bottle/750ml hearty red wine, such as a Minervois from the Languedoc

2 dried, imported bay leaves

20 sprigs fresh thyme

20 black peppercorns (preferably Tellicherry)

3 tablespoons/45g unsalted butter

2 medium carrots, peeled, trimmed, and cut in very thin rounds

1 large onion, cut in paper-thin slices

3 tablespoons/25g all-purpose flour

Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1/2 cup/5g loosely packed flat-leaf parsley, for garnish

1. Place the lamb in a shallow, nonreactive baking dish, and pour the wine over it—it should be about 1/2 inch/.75cm deep in the dish. Add the herbs and the peppercorns, stir, cover, and marinate for 48 hours in the refrigerator, stirring occasionally so the pieces marinate evenly. Remove the lamb from the refrigerator at least 1 hour before you plan to bake it.

2. Preheat the oven to 425° F/220° C/gas 8.

3. Remove the lamb from the marinade and pat it dry.
In a large skillet, melt the butter over medium heat and
lightly brown the lamb on all sides. Remove the lamb
from the pan and add the carrots and onion and cook,
stirring, until they are slightly golden and beginning
to soften, about 5 minutes.

4. Remove the vegetables from the pan and stir in the flour. Cook, stirring, until the flour is bubbling and golden, at least 2 minutes. Pour the marinade and herbs into the pan and cook, stirring, just until the mixture thickens slightly.

5. Place the lamb (with any juices it has given up) and the carrots and onions in the same baking dish that the lamb marinated in, arranging them in an even layer. Season with salt and pepper and pour the thickened marinade over it. Bake, covered, until the lamb is very tender and can just about be cut with a spoon, 1 hour to 1 hour and 15 minutes.

6. Remove from the oven and let cool for 5 minutes.

7. Mince the parsley and sprinkle over the lamb just before serving.

6
SERVINGS

MAMIE JACQUELINE’S CHOCOLATE CAKE
G ÂTEAU AU CHOCOLAT DE MAMIE JACQUELINE

One of Joe’s friends, Florian, accompanies us on vacation from time to time and his grandmother often sends along a little treat for us all. This cake was an offering once and we tucked into it the minute we arrived at our destination. It was tender and delicious. When we returned, I asked Mamie Jacqueline for her recipe and she scoffed, “Oh, that simple little cake?” When I pressed she rattled off the ingredients by heart. A surefire success whenever I make it, you need only serve it simply sprinkled with confectioners’ sugar.

3/4 cup/100g cake flour

Sea salt

7 ounces/200g bitter chocolate,
such as Lindt 70%

8 tablespoons/125g unsalted butter, softened

1 cup/200g sugar

4 large eggs, separated

Confectioners’ sugar

1. Butter and flour a 91/2-inch/24-cm round cake pan. Preheat the oven to 375° F/190° C/gas 5.

2. Sift the flour and a generous pinch of salt onto a piece of parchment paper.

3. Melt the chocolate in the top of a double boiler over medium-high heat. Transfer the chocolate to a medium-size bowl and whisk in the butter until the mixture is smooth. Vigorously whisk in all but 1 tablespoon of the sugar, then add the egg yolks and whisk until the mixture is smooth. Using a wooden spoon, stir in the flour mixture 1 tablespoon at a time until combined.

4. In a large bowl whisk the egg whites with a pinch of salt until they are foamy and begin to thicken. Add the remaining tablespoon of sugar and continue whisking until they form soft peaks. Fold the egg whites into the chocolate mixture, then turn it into the prepared baking pan and bake in the center of the oven until the cake springs back, 20 to 25 minutes.

5. Remove the cake from the oven and let it cool to lukewarm in the pan, then turn it out onto a rack to cool thoroughly. To serve, sprinkle it with confectioners’ sugar.

6
TO
8
SERVINGS

SIX
               

Mornings in
Louviers

LOUVIERS IS MAGIC in the mornings. In winter when I wake up and walk downstairs I look outside at the church, which is a mass of shadows and shapes against the dark blue sky. Our little garden is snug in front of the house, the apple trees snaky forms against the dramatic backdrop. A few early risers drive by on their way to work. Part of the magic is that the house is warm inside, something I never take for granted having lived here before the furnace was installed.

Our stairways are wood except the very last step, which is made of local white stone. I love walking barefoot down the cool wood stairs, hitting the cold stone stair, then putting my foot on the brushed concrete floor, which is warmed from underneath by coils of hot water. The contrast feels luxurious.

We all breakfast together in the dining room. If it’s very cold, either Michael or I build a fire and its flames flicker on the beamed walls as though we were eating by candlelight. Michael buys a fresh
baguette
every morning and we eat it slathered with Breton butter that is crunchy with sea salt, and either fresh lavender honey or homemade jelly or jam. Many mornings Michael makes hot cereal with a wonderful blend of grains called Mixepi, and we usually have a bowl of
café crème
or tea, and Joe has Banania, a French powdered drink made of chocolate and bananas that is mixed with hot milk. We linger over breakfast until finally it is time for Joe to put on his socks and shoes—we all walk barefoot on our heated floor—and by 8:15 we are usually out the door.

Light is just beginning to brush the winter sky as we walk through the center of town, past Alà Page, the bookstore where the owner, Monsieur Fontaine, and his staff can aways recommend the right book. Down the
rue piétonne
, or pedestrian street, past Le Petit Restaurant, a tiny affair where I read the menu posted outside every day to see if there are any changes. Parents and children are approaching the school from all directions either by car or on foot. The traffic is terrifying as cars swing in and park this way and that, disgorging their charges. I’m always amazed that everyone makes it through the morning alive.

In the springtime after I’ve dropped off Joe I like to walk home through the Place des Halles, the square in the center of the commercial district just down from Monsieur Richard the butcher, for it is planted with ornamental cherry trees that turn it into a fluffy bower. My favorite pharmacy on the square is just opening and if I need anything I go in then, before it becomes crowded with customers.

Pharmacies in France do a land-office business, as French doctors have a penchant for prescribing large quantities of medicines for the slightest ailment. Our family doctor, a homeopath, is in Paris so we visit him just twice a year for checkups. The rest of the year I call him for advice and treatments, which are always reasonable. For the little incidents of daily life we consult a local doctor who is both a homeopath and a conventional medical doctor, and when Joe is sick in the middle of the night we rely on the doctor on call who comes to the house.

I take any prescription into the pharmacy to discuss it with the pharmacist, whom I’ve come to know quite well since I see her around town and at school where she drops off and picks up her children. She and her staff are exceptionally warm and friendly and they smile when they see me come in with a prescription, knowing I’ll choose not to take most of what is written on it, and often agreeing with me. Sometimes I arrive when they are having coffee and they never fail to offer me a cup.

If I have time in the mornings I love to
lécher la vitrine,
which literally means to “lick the window,” or window-shop, at the
parfumerie
, or perfume shop, a boutique with slick, colorful wares. From the minute its doors open it is busy as customers buy their soaps, perfumes, the multiple skin treatments that help French skin look so lovely.

Applying a unique scent is an innate French skill, shared by men and women. I never fail to be fascinated when, for instance, a plasterer friend comes to help Michael work on the house and I catch a whiff of his perfume as we exchange our obligatory four kisses—two on each cheek. Parents as they walk their children to school leave a sweet scent behind them, as do baby-sitters and truck drivers, café owners, and the mayor.

Next to the
parfumerie
is a
graineterie
, a throwback to another era. Half of the quaint old store is filled with animal cages where hamsters and guinea pigs (and sometimes mice) scratch and snuffle or birds chirp, and aquariums where languid fish swim to and fro. The other half is filled with beautiful packages of flower and vegetable seeds, which hang from Peg-Boards. I go in each spring to buy seeds and generally emerge with enough to fill a small farm, my eyes bigger than our garden. Depending on the season, the
graineterie
has tiny lettuce plants outside, or cabbages, or spinach, peppers, or tomatoes alongside flower bulbs and flowering plants, garden tools, pet accessories. We don’t have a dog, but if we did we would probably go to the
graineterie
to buy its collar, rawhide or plastic bones, leash, or a tiny plaid coat with four little sleeves for its limbs. Dogs are royalty in France and nothing, but nothing, is too good for them. In fact, Louviers has two grooming salons for dogs and a third in the planning stages, and they administer everything from nail clippings to haircuts.

On Wednesdays when school is out and our regular bakery, Aux Délices de Louviers, is closed, we go to the bakery kitty-corner from the
graineterie
and buy their
pain passion
, a heavy, sturdy crisp-crusted
baguette
that costs a fortune, for it is sold by weight, but which we love. The bakery is so busy it has lines of hungry people outside in the mornings and just before mealtimes as people buy their breads,
quiches
, sandwiches, tarts, and flaky pastries. Some Wednesdays we go to yet another bakery whose
baguette
is also delicious, behind the church on the rue du Quai. The pastries there are tempting and occasionally I buy
chouquettes
, tiny cream puffs with sugar crystals embedded in them, which are a national favorite for a four o’clock
goûter
, or snack. When Joe comes with me he chooses a
beignet
filled with raspberry jelly; a
pépite
, or croissant dough filled with custard and tiny chocolate chips; or a
patte d’ours
, a puff pastry bear claw filled with apples tossed in
butter.

When I need organic food, or grains, or naturally scented beauty products, I go across the main square, past the convent of the Sisters of Providence right behind our house, and through the Place des Pompiers (formally known as the Place de la République but since the fire station is there, too, everyone calls it Fireman’s Place) to the Maison des Simples, an
herboristerie
, or herb store.

I love opening the old wood and glass door there for it causes a tiny bell to tinkle into the hushed atmosphere, which smells like thyme, lavender, and rosemary. Perhaps it’s the effect of the intense herbal aroma in the shop, but everyone inside the Maison des Simples is exceptionally calm.

La Maison des Simples, which means the House of Healing Herbs, isn’t easy to describe. It has been at this site for several generations and is a combination of a health food store, a church, a doctor’s office, and a place to visit with friends. Many people come in with ailments that they describe to the owner Babette Dewaele or her colleague Marie Thuliez, both trained herbalists, who go right to the old, deep wooden drawers that line an entire wall and begin selecting the dried herbs within. They mix these in a large bowl, which sits on an old-fashioned brass scale, then carefully tip them into plain brown paper sacks. As they explain how to use them to make a tea or a tincture, they write the methodology and dosage on the sack and the client walks away happy and relieved. Nearly half the store is devoted to organically produced food, from baby cereal to fresh vegetables to smoked tofu, and another corner offers organic beauty products with luscious aromas.

When I go to the Maison des Simples I love talking with Babette, who is passionate about food. She and her husband, Jean-Lou, are both remarkable cooks. They are primarily vegetarians, and their delicate and refined food gives vegetarianism a good name. I am particularly enamored with Jean-Lou’s vegetable
nems
(spring rolls) and Babette’s savory
galettes
and citrus marmalade.

Babette and Marie are both friendly, and their warmth as well as their expertise in healing herbs encourages confidences. I often hear customers confiding in them about health and family troubles and I am constantly amazed at the patience with which both women listen. I once asked Babette if it didn’t drive her crazy that so many people poured out their physical and emotional troubles to her. She looked at me and shrugged lightly. “Sometimes it is hard to listen to people’s troubles, but it’s not just the herbs that heal. People often just need to talk.” It doesn’t matter what the ailment is, whether a diaper rash or a sore throat, Babette or Marie can offer a treatment or advice.

Monsieur and Mme Fichot at the café across from our house run a thriving, smoke- and coffee-fueled business. A well-dressed and prosperous-looking couple, they spend their days behind the counter of their neo-classic bar pulling
café exprès
or draughts of beer, making deliciously rich hot chocolate, and selling stamps, candies, and pack after pack of cigarettes. Cars are constantly shrieking to an illegal halt in front as driver or passenger jumps out, runs in, and emerges with a pack of Gauloises or Camels. I often see children run in and come out with cigarettes for their parents, and whenever I go in I am immediately surrounded by a warm swirl of choking smoke. The clientele is varied:
habitués
who languidly play pool at one end of the café
,
businesspeople who stop in for a quick
exprès
, groups of teenagers who nurse Oranginas or
cafés crèmes.

I go over there when we run out of coffee and are desperate for a cup, or to buy the occasional stamp. We have a friendly relationship with the Fichots and Madame is forever asking me for recipes or giving me one of hers. Her background is Portuguese, which is noticeable in her jet black hair, beautiful white skin, and stately proportions, and in her food, which is fresh, lively, and unusual. We often talk with each other through the gate as she passes our house on her way to run errands or take a breath of fresh air. She doesn’t like the smoke-filled atmosphere of the bar but shrugs and says if she wants customers she has to let them smoke.

Across the street and next to the florist is a boutique so tiny it’s easy to miss except for the tumble of baskets on the sidewalk that almost obscures the front door. To walk up its two steps and inside the door is to step into a wonderland of
cadeaux
, everything from fine and fragile porcelain de Rouen with its lacy gold and deep blue designs, to stuffed goslings and doll house miniatures. The owner, Brigitte Tois, a cheerful, pretty woman of about fifty who grew up in the store and has literally worked there all her life, has become a good friend. She is always outside in the morning arranging baskets on the sidewalk and when I walk by she carefully removes her glasses and we exchange
bisous
then discuss the weather, the neighborhood, what she will cook for herself and her husband, Alain Pitette, that day.

The shop is called Laure Boutique and it is crammed from floor to ceiling with merchandise. I always find something to buy when I go there—I’ve purchased glass-topped gilt boxes for graduation gifts, plaster Easter bunnies, chickens and eggs for baskets, Christmas decorations, postcards, gorgeous cut-glass vases from Czechoslovakia, New Year’s crackers from Britain, and first-Communion cards. Brigitte has literally everything, and finding it in the shop is never too much trouble. Sometimes she has to pull out a ladder and climb halfway up to the very high ceiling to pull down a tiny little box, or make her way back into her firetrap of a storeroom where she will emerge with the perfect basket, the ideal apron, a wonderfully ridiculous child’s toy. Brigitte is the unofficial tourist bureau for Louviers and dispenses free maps of the city as well as plenty of advice on where to go for a picnic, get your hair trimmed, buy a box of matches or a phone card. Once I was looking for an American flag and after twenty minutes of searching she pulled out an old one from a drawer underneath the cash register. “I remembered I had this somewhere,” she said as she handed it to me. It was yellowed and delicate with age. When I asked the price she said, “No, I don’t want any money. I must have been saving it for you.”

Because our house is located in the center of town we often have unexpected visitors, friends who are doing their shopping and have a few moments to spare or want to check on Michael’s progress with the house. I hear them crunch over the gravel as they cross the courtyard to knock on the wooden front door. Michael, who is usually downstairs working, answers the door and if I have time I run down to see who it is and say hello. If it’s a relaxed day we usually take time for a coffee, sitting outside if the weather is fine, or standing around the kitchen if it isn’t. In this way we keep in touch with friends and get to know our neighbors or the local merchants.

We have a varied and eclectic group of friends and acquaintances. Patrick, our neighbor, works for the French phone company and he walks by every day with his tiny dog, Lola, usually on his way to buy cigarettes at the café or a chop at the butcher’s. If we’re outside he says hello and stays to have a glass of wine. Nadine, who is married to our friend Christian, an architect, and is a very close friend, comes by after the market on Saturday, usually with one or the other of her four gorgeous and now grown children. Babette, the small, rail-thin, and very pretty owner of the
herboristerie
in
Louviers, comes over on her way from the bank and usually stays long enough for a cup of coffee and a conversation about recipes.