Happiness in St.-Germain

You may or may not know that I loathe Disneyworld, but that's another story for another time. While that kingdom of faux tries to convince us it's the Happiest Place on Earth, I've known for years that this is not true. Now, however, I think I know the place most deserving to rightfully hold title.
It's Ladurée.
What was it that Holly Golightly said she loved so much about Tiffany's? That nothing very bad could happen to you there. Ladurée is my version of that dream. Specifically, the Ladurée Bonaparte, located on the corner of rue Jacob & rue Bonaparte in the Saint-Germain.

On the outside, it is the quintessential charming Parisian storefront. Inside, a beautiful world all its own, where time seems to stand still. The cozy, slightly exotic salon de thé, is tucked up in the back, with an upholstered banquette stretching the length of two walls, heavy wooden tables, and leather chairs reminiscent of my favorite type of fantasy atmosphere: civilized colony.
The boys and I positioned ourselves in the best corner of the room, and ordered hot chocolate and caramel macarons. The hot chocolate is a proper drinking chocolate, so intense that I really could only handle about an espresso-cup's worth. The boys, however, asked if they could add sugar to their cups, most likely because they could not resist touching the natural sugar lumps tantalizingly waiting to be grabbed from a tiny silver bowl on our table. I refused at first, but then softened and allowed them to eat one nugget each.
Ladurée was the ideal place to find ourselves in the late afternoon of a drizzly grey day. We fortified ourselves with the hot drinks and sweets, and I gazed about the room, imagining all the back-stories of those around us, young and old, sharing this heavenly respite from the hustle-bustle. An elderly French couple; four young Parisian ladies, one recently married; an American mother and her daughter; a table full of Japanese visitors; each group unique, with a tale of its own.
It was the perfect pause at the end of a lovely day, and we left smiling and renewed.
An oasis of civility.
And, as it turned out, it was the perfect place to go, several days later when we were back in Paris. Somewhere along the line, it had occured to me that the perfect gift to take home for Troy would be a box of assorted macarons. Even if it hadn't been, a return might have been inevitable, but here we had a very good reason, and I'm so glad we did! We went to the front counter and selected a variety of macarons, all perfect. Caramel, chocolate, blackberry, raspberry, lemon, vanilla, pistachio, and rose petal. The young man who served us knew he was in the best place in the world. You can see it in his smile.

Our business finished, we sat once again in my favorite corner, and this time, I ordered the boys hot chocolate and tarte tatins. For myself, the rose petal tea. The porcelain teacups & saucers were white, with wide bands of soft pastel colors, and the hot chocolate arrived in its weighty silver pitcher. The rose tea was subtle, providing the faintest waft of one of the world's most romantic and beautiful flowers. Just a suggestion. I took a second sip and asked if I could try a bite of Wyatt's tarte tatin.

There it was: the best thing I've ever tasted in my life! Ever. Soft apples, butter, caramelized sweet, slightly salty, and layers of puff pastry. To top it off, a small dish of creme fraiche. It was perfect, the kind of sensory experience you want to bury your face in and inhale so you can try to absorb the whole of it through every pore. I refrained.

Notice how the tarte tatin is moving closer to my place setting.

Nothing will ever compare, and that's okay, because now I know it's there. I will always remember those wonderful two visits with Wyatt and Griffin, in this haven where a person can be, as Holly might say, divinely and utterly happy.

High times

Being in Paris, I was overwhelmed by a sense of time and history. To walk along cobblestone streets that have existed for centuries and tread by some of the most influential people in the world, well, it's almost hard to grasp how many momentous events have transpired at the very points on which you stand.
Can you imagine having a lifetime to explore the city?
My goal in Paris was simple: to have a good time with Wyatt & Griffin, show them some key sights, and please all of us. It was easy to do. They're great travellers, and they gamely go where I suggest.
On our first night, I sought out a restaurant that had been recommended to me by a friend: Le Relais de L'Entrecote.
This was a perfect choice after a long flight and a full day, because there are very few decisions to be made. Sometimes (usually) when I'm tired, I can't make a decision for the life of me. Like, if I'm at a restaurant looking at a menu with a lot of good options, my brain starts to ping-pong inside of my head and I get stuck in a loop of indecision.
Voila L'Entrecote. This is a restaurant where they serve steak and frites, and that's it. My friend had told me that the frites were excellent, and so, going in, I knew that if nothing else, Griffin would be happy.
Another good thing: no reservations are taken. I'm not a big planner, so this works well for me. We arrived before 7:00 p.m., got a nice table by the window, sat down, and made Decision #1: what to drink. Easy: a half-bottle of the house red wine, a San Pellegrino, and two Cokes.
How did we want our steak? One rare, one medium-well, and no steak for Griffin, just a plate of frites.
The absence of decision-making was as good as a tranquilizer; I was like a content communist. I sat back, breathed deeply, and smiled at my two boys. Life was good!
We chatted and the waitress brought us a basket of bread, then green salads, lightly dressed with a vinaigrette, for Wyatt and me. The pace was leisurely, unhurried, yet not painstakingly slow. When our steak & frites & frites arrived, everything was hot, and the steak was dressed with L'Entrecote's "secret sauce." I would guess that it's made of butter and olive oil, onion, some garlic, and thyme. Whatever it is, it was excellent on top of the perfectly cooked, tender steak; and the frites were golden, crispy, and hot. Everyone was happy!

There was also some Dijon mustard on the table, which added the perfect note of zing to my steak. Griffin even tried some.

Our friend had said, "Eat a profiterole for me." So when we had finished our main and our waitress asked if we wanted dessert, I ordered a plate of profiteroles for us to share.

Stuffed with vanilla ice cream and covered with a dark chocolate sauce, the first taste struck the boys as revelatory. Paris was a hit!
We left the warm glow of the restaurant smiling and full, and fueled with enough sugar to propel a brisk walk to the Eiffel Tower.
The boys were really excited, and decided we should scale the tower, like Spiderman.

There were no crowds, and there was no line (benefit of travelling in wintertime). As we rode the old elevator up to the very top, I thought to myself, "Oh, I'm glad I had that wine at dinner. How old is this elevator?" Well, it didn't bear dwelling upon; we were in. At the top, we looked out upon the whole city, sparkling in the cold air, and the boys gasped and said, "Oh, WOW!! AWESOME!!"


It really was.

The infamous couch

Last year, the boys got a wicked stomach bug and barfed all over Venice, but mainly all over the hotel. As a mother, I felt simultaneously sorry for my sons and horrified that they were throwing up on our hosts. The worst case being when Griffin barfed on the red velvet sofa in the hotel lounge.
Ouch.
Yuck.
The staff couldn't have been kinder, I swear, and despite my offerings to help clean up, or pay for any damage, they insisted there was no problem and then they miraculously made it look like nothing had ever happened to this beautiful fabric. I should have asked them for some cleaning tips to use back home on our own furniture, but I was preoccupied with following the boys around with towels and getting them up to bed.
2007: A look back at the beginning of the horror...the horror...


2008: We happily arrived to warm greetings, after which I confirmed that all of our stomachs were A-O.K.

We then bounded into the lounge to check on the couch and order two hot chocolates and one Bellini.
And they all stayed down.


As you can see, the red velvet is still looking bellisima. Whew.

Return to Venice

It's hard to take a bad picture in Venice, it's such a visual treat for the eyes. Everything seems elevated, as if rising to the beauty all around. Walking a dog. Feeding a bird. Drinking hot chocolate. The ordinary can be extraordinary sometimes.
When we arrived at the crest of the Accademia Bridge to look upon this Grand Canal scene, I felt content.

Griffin loved the pigeons of San Marco, he was so happy feeding them and interacting with them, that I see a bird in our future.

One of my favorites: spaghetti with clams. I love the jingling sound the clam shells make.

Hand-made gloves. If I lived in a cold climate, I would be a glove addict.


A candle lit for a friend.




Inside the Palazzo Ducale.

Eating pizza.

Il Dottore!

This is not The Chambermaid's laundry. I can't get my whites that white.

I'm hard pressed to think of any symbol cooler than the winged lion. Pax tibi. Peace to you.



Treasures from the sea, at the Naval Museum.

More pizza.

A room with a view.

Gone wandering...

See you soon!

The Last Word of a Blue Bird

by Robert Frost
As told to a child


As I went out a Crow
In a low voice said, "Oh,
I was looking for you.
How do you do?
I just came to tell you
To tell Lesley (will you?)
That her little Bluebird
Wanted me to bring word
That the north wind last night
That made the stars bright
And made ice on the trough
Almost made him cough
His tail feathers off.
He just had to fly!
But he sent her Good-by,
And said to be good,
And wear her red hood,
And look for the skunk tracks
In the snow with an ax-
And do everything!
And perhaps in the spring
He would come back and sing.

A funny thing happened on the way to the soup pot.

My friend Julie's recent analysis of Mireille Guiliano's book French Women Don't Get Fat really inspired me. I was at the market the next day, and was struck by how gorgeous all the produce looked. Everything was bursting with color, looking fresh, bright, and healthful. So, I bought leeks, for the cleansing leek soup promoted in Guiliano's book, and I also bought a lot of fruit and some beautiful radishes and lettuces.
A few days passed, and my distractions prevented me from making the soup. Today, I realized that I had better get to it, or I'd have to toss the leeks into the canal for the fish!
I retrieved them from the fridge, trimmed & rinsed them clean, and chopped them all up.
Suddenly, I remembered one of my favorite recipes from my Patricia Wells Bistro Cooking book. This is one of those books I hold dear to my heart. It was by my side in the kitchen for a long time when I was learning how to cook, and I adore Patricia Wells as a result; I feel like she taught me how to cook!
Thus, it was a slippery slope when I next remembered that I actually had creme fraiche (that doesn't happen all the time), as well as some thawed sheets of puff pastry. What do you know -- I also had Gruyère.
The soup was but a memory as I proceeded to sautee the leeks in butter, grate the cheese onto the puff pastry, and beat a couple eggs with a spoonful of the creme fraiche.
Mm, mm, that's right. Butter, cream, eggs, cheese, puff pastry, and -- oh yes -- leeks!
Terribly wrong for not getting fat, but it looked so beautiful when it finished baking. All puffy, golden, and rich.

The polar opposite of detoxifying leek broth, I realize, but it simply had to be done. Bon Appétit!

Karma at the Cafe

It has been said that the sour times in life make the good times seem all the sweeter, and I do believe that. Sometimes, we can't make sense of the bad events (big or small) in life, but later, when happiness returns, we can truly feel the impact of the juxtaposition. And I think that makes a happy experience just a little more meaningful.
A recent dispiriting exchange with a "tosser" (new word I've learned) at my favorite cafe left me in tears, and I was buoyed by some very thoughtful words and support from my friends, who set me straight again.
So. A new day, and I returned to my favorite cafe.
I was sitting outside, when someone quite familiar-looking walked by. My eyes popped, my jaw dropped, and I gasped excitedly: "IT'S HER!" Luckily, I had thrown my camera in my handbag before I left the house, and so I quickly grabbed it and shot up out of my seat.
"Excuse, me," I said, and the woman turned around and I could feel my face lighting up with joy as I reached for her hand.
It was Marcella Hazan!
I couldn't believe it! I introduced myself and told her how much I love her books and how my friends and I admired and appreciated her so very much. And I asked her if she would please take a picture with me.
She agreed, and was quite good-natured about my babbling. I don't know how often she gets bothered in public, and couldn't tell if she was used to it or if I startled her. Probably both!

I've never acted like such a fanatic, but I have to say that, as an Italophile, this, to me, was really fantastic. Furthermore, Marcella Hazan lives part-time in Venice, my favorite place in the world (I chattered about that, too). I wish I would have told her how, about a month ago, I'd been obsessed with making her Bolognese sauce and had such fun following her recipe, but in my excitement, I plum (tomatoes) forgot!
After I thanked her, and returned to my table and my puzzled mother-in-law, I saw that I was so excited my hands were shaking. The waitress shrugged and said to me, "I didn't know she was so famous. She's just Marcella to me."
I wish I could call my mother and tell her, because she was also a fan, and would have been so delighted at this lucky chance encounter.
After explaining what the hell had just happened to Madame X, who had been left trying to figure out who this woman was I'd bolted to stalk, I went on to enjoy one of the best platefuls of gnocchi I've ever eaten.

Light, with a strikingly simple tomato sauce. Perfect. (I wonder what Marcella ate.)
Griffin finished his meal with a delicious panna cotta, which, as we know, is similar to a flan, but better...with less EGGINESS!

What a great day! I am still smiling about it all.

Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking

Cappuccino art IX

"Popeye"

Happy Valentine's Day!

Let there be you,
Let there be me.
Let there be oysters
Under the sea.

Let there be wind,
An occassional rain.
Chile con carne,
Sparkling champagne --

Let there be birds
To sing in the trees,
Someone to bless me
Whenever I sneeze.

Let there be cuckoos,
A lark and a dove,
But first of all, please --
Let there be love.
-Ian Grant, Lionel Rand

Always after me Lucky Charms!

This morning I caught Monster eating Lucky Charms on the countertop.
It's not so much that I mind him eating cereal...

...I just wish he wouldn't always pick out all the marshmallow bits. Who's going to want to eat that cereal now?

Snoop-Dog

Things had been going so well. I started the new year feeling phoenix-like, having risen up from the ashes of what we'll call "Mom's House" project and the rather annoying holidays. My mom's house was sold; Christmas came and went; and then it was all over.
"Now what?" asked my subconcious.
"Indeed," I replied. "Now what?"
And so I returned to the idea of getting a second dog, and ended up with a "Beagle-mix" from a rescue North of Tampa.
Boo Bear was his name. That's a name packed with implication. You hardly have to say it out loud to imagine a sort of cuteness that makes women and children squeal in appreciation at how utterly adorable one named Boo Bear must be.
And he was.
Sort of.
Well, on his picture page on Petfinder, which is sort of like Myspace for animals, he did look like a very cute Beagle mix. His ears flopped backwards and he had brown eyes and a masky face.
So I took the boys and we met Sue, the rescue lady who had been more than willing to meet me and let me adopt. She didn't want references, like the other rescue groups. "How refreshing!" I said. "You seem like a nice person," said Sue. "I can tell."
Sue and I met in the parking lot of a bank. I'd brought along a new, bright red collar and leash. When I pulled up, she was walking Boo Bear, and I broke into a wide smile at the sight of his prancing gait.
"He's CUTE!" I exclaimed to the boys, who were along for the ride.
After a cursory inspection and some chit-chat between Sue and I, Boo Bear was handed over.
"The vet says he's part Beagle, part hound," she blurted out as I loaded him into the car. "Okay," I said, thinking "Why did she say that just now?" We cheerfully waved good-bye and headed home.
Once there, we introduced Boo Bear to the rest of the family, half of which approved. Wyatt stared suspiciously at Boo Bear from across the room. Monster the cat puffed his tail and hissed at Boo Bear. But Boo Bear didn't care, and proceeded to romp around the house, attacking various plush animals with a cheerful zeal.
Troy and I sat outside, quietly observing the puppy.
"He's cute," said Troy. "He kind of looks like a pit-bull though."
I froze and pursed my lips. Boo Bear, who was four-months-old, was supposed to be a medium-sized dog. I had taken note that his paws were rather large, and, frankly, he was already the size of a Beagle. His head was a bit wide, his body a bit longer than a Beagle's, and his tail curled upwards into a curly-cue. He seemed like a good dog, albeit a bit independent. I imagined he'd had a hard life, out in the rural area where Sue had rescued him from a high-kill shelter. He was a scrapper.
The conversation was aborted because I had to leave to meet Troy's mom, who was bringing me our dog crate which had been stored in her garage. We agreed to meet at a coffee house, and I took Boo Bear along for the ride, and sat outside waiting for Madame X. Wyatt came along too, my largely silent companion.
"Mom," he said from the backseat, "Boo Bear's attacking my coat."
Madame X was smiling as she approached our table, Boo Bear perched beside my chair.
"Aww, he's cute!" she said, sitting down to join us. She petted him and noted that his ears were not as soft as Lucky's, but that he was very well-behaved. He was!
"He kind of looks like -- what's that dog? Oh, you know...a pit-bull."
I stared at her in disbelief.
"That's what Troy said," I told her.
The cafe manager walked up and started petting Boo Bear. "He's cute! He's gonna be big. Looks like he's got some pit-bull in him."
Now I was annoyed.
I had not seen it. Granted, the website pictures did not show his full body, only his little face, which was bigger now. But I had to say he did not look so much like a Beagle now as he did a pit-bull. I wasn't feeling too good about this whole thing, and although Sue had told me that I could return him if things didn't work out, that option had not crossed my mind. Until now.
I drove home and told Troy what his mom and the other lady had said. It was pretty obvious by then that my Beagle was no Beagle.
Now. I know the pit-bull can be a nice dog, and I know that there are nice pit-bulls. But I don't feel comfortable having one, and, as nice as Boo Bear was, I wasn't willing to take a chance on him. Troy and I told the boys that Boo Bear was not going to stay with us; that he was going back to Sue. Griffin took it the hardest, crying and burying his face into a pillow.
"It's like you're having a party...and it gets cancelled," he summarized.
It was. I felt horrible, having been the instigator, the one who had brought this excitement and now disappointment to my family. It was my fault that the boys were now sad and crying, and I couldn't have felt any worse.
I took Boo Bear out into the backyard with Lucky, and they started jumping around, playing. Or, at least I think they were playing. Boo Bear started growling and going for Lucky's neck. I didn't know if they were jockeying for position in the dog pack or play-fighting or what, but with a raised eyebrow, I resolved that Boo Bear was going back to Sue.
Sue's husband met me in the bank parking lot early Tuesday morning. He proudly told me that they had placed 100 dogs in the past year, and that he rehabilitates dogs. He pulled up his shirt-sleeve and showed me his arm covered with scabs, presumably from dog bites. He then told me that people are ignorant of dog breeds, and said that "there are no bad dogs." Steve said he was a big fan of Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer.
"Haven't you ever seen Cesar's dog, Daddy?" Steve asked me.
"I have," I nodded, remembering seeing Daddy when I watched Cesar's show once, and that Daddy scared the shit out of me.
Steve told me that they'd already found a home for Boo Bear.
"Oh, really?" I asked, sort of surprised, "Who?" Steve changed the subject and talked more about how he and Sue got Boo Bear on the day he was going to be killed. Steve talked with a gentle voice and a smile, which was kind of odd because everything he said seemed aimed at making me feel bad, guilty, or stupid. It didn't matter, though. I was happy for Boo Bear if he had a good home lined up. He was a good dog, and maybe he would always be a good dog. But he wasn't the right dog for me and my family.
I gave Boo Bear a kiss on the forehead and said good-bye, wishing him well.
I have always loved animals, and I admire the people who foster and rescue the dogs and cats needing homes. But I don't think it's right for people to lie about a dog to get him placed; and while dog-training goes a long way, it's foolish to ignore genetics and breeding. I have to think about that, when bringing another animal into our family.
And so, after several months of exploring the avenue of rescue operations, most of which make it harder for a person to "adopt" a dog than to have a baby, I've decided that I'm done for now; I'm not going to get a second dog for a while. Lucky and I are going to enjoy our time together, and we'll continue going to our favorite outdoor cafe, watching the world go by.
And I won't have to worry about wearing colors.

The $200 Pizza

Fuggedy fug fug fug!
I just got pulled over whilst on my way to get a pizza* for dinner. Going 70 in a 55 m.p.h. zone.
"Do you know the speed limit on this road?" asked the kindly sheriff.
I had to admit that no, I did not.
At least this time, I could find the car registration.
And my driver's license was up-to-date.
And my tags weren't expired.
Of course I got a citation, and although I expected it to be hefty, I literally gasped when I flipped the yellow ticket over and saw the fine. $188.
OUCH!
Every year, there's some chef in Manhattan who makes a million-dollar burger, with foie gras and truffles and other high-cost ingredients, and it's sort of a ha-ha -isn't-this-cute kind of feature story. Well, here you have it, a look at the World's Most Expensive Pizza, but I'm not laughing:

Sadly, it wasn't even very good.

*No, they do not deliver.

Jolie-Laid

I'm really not a baker, and now it's confirmed: I won't be working at
Ladurée in the new year.
I set about making macarons today, and everything went well up to a certain point. The ingredients are straightforward-spaz-out fare: sugar, nuts, butter, and egg whites. I couldn't find my pastry bag, so I used a Ziplock to pipe little rounds onto the baking sheet. I didn't have parchment paper, so I used foil, thinking they would be easier to remove. In hindsight, I should have just piped them right onto the baking sheet, because it's new and coated with layers of high-tech junk designed just for this purpose.
I should have also baked them longer, but they were in the oven for 11 minutes and starting to look toasty on the edges, and the recipe said they would be "set but not dried out" if I baked them for 12 minutes maximum.
The buttercream filling turned out really well -- just confectioner's sugar, ground almonds, and butter -- nice & fluffy.
But here is what happened next...

The cookies were too soft, and definitely stuck to the foil. No utensil trickery or finesse worked to successfully free them, and so they were just rumpled. I proceeded, and sandwiched the buttercream between them anyway.
(This is why I mostly focus my kitchen activities on one-pot meals.)

Is that the ugliest little macaron you've ever seen? I'll answer that: yes.
Of course, it still tasted really good, so all was not lost. Yet for all of the effort, I thought it might be just as effective to pour this bag of sugar down my throat. These cookies are off the glycemic index chart.

In more successful baking news, last night I made the chocolate-marsala cake from HTBADG, and it turned out just fine. My bro was in town and so we served it up for him, in honor of his upcoming birthday. He loved it, and so did everyone else, so we were all happily chocolate'd.

As for the macarons, I will stick to buying them.