Paques!

Not being religious, having no family here, and not really knowing what traditions to partake in, Jay and I celebrated Easter in a way I hope to model all following Easters on for years to come. We started with a homemade batch of banana blueberry pancakes, followed by a walk through Montmarte cemetery. Looking and lingering at tombs that are petite examples of gothic, Greek, roman, and medieval architecture, we nearly stumble onto the tomb of Alexandre Dumas. It was all too strange timing-just that morning I had finished reading The Count of Monte Cristo. As Jay put it, “have you ever finished a 900page book by an Author and then topped it off that same day visiting their grave?!?” Strange indeed. After that a visit to a secret garden that under a cherry tree-led to kissing-led to walking back home for a roll in the hay(I can tell you that because I am in Paris with my lover and you can assume an awful lot of that is happening no doubt, it is practically obligatory I assure you).

In time for a peach and coral colored sunset, we grab some room temperature beers(they don’t sell them refrigerated) and go out to the boulevard in front of our house to take in a part of Paris not found on a post card. We live near the Moulin Rouge and it makes for some pretty hilarious “site-seeing” at times I assure you. Full of people watching and making jokes about the Porno shops and Sex shows packed in with horrible hallal shops and cheap Chinese import stores selling 3Euro berets and Eiffel tower key chains.

When the sun goes down and the “working girls” head out wearing their best white plastic platform heels and lycra mini-dresses, we head back upstairs to our petite apartment. Easter dinner is a roasted rabbit sausage on fresh baguette, and we top the day off watching Back to the Future.

Paques. My new favorite holiday.

Printemps

Printemps. Spring in Paris. Time to get busy making beautiful things. That is definitely what I have been doing lately. Making memories, picnics, and of course- lamp shades.With parks packed with rows and rows of perfectly manicured lawns and trees trimmed to horticultural haute couture, Paris is the perfect place to get inspired by the spectacle of Spring. Awakened by sunny mornings, the day blossoms into 76deg. bliss. Up near Sacré Coeur or near our apartment in Montmarte, I sew and shape shades three days a week, and spend the other four exploring and eating my way through the arrondissements with my lover, Jay.

It’s not easy to find time to write when there is so much to imbibe, inspire, and enjoy. To start-Parc Monceau, a natural styled park with many hidden monuments and sculptures enfolded in its foliage. Compared to the Tuileries or Jardin de Luxenbourg, this is a very casual urban respite. Gardens in Paris serve the purpose of allowing our overly-stimulated eyes to find repose and rest for a while. Paris is crazy with architecture, beauty, graffiti, and women’s shoe stores to peruse. It’s a much needed break that comes when-though you are not allowed to trample the grass-you can sit in one of the famous Luxembourg lawn chairs and just space out on marble fountains, topiary trees and…dogs pooping on the perfect lawns. Well, Paris would be far too pristine if not for the occasional gelato covered child careening into you after a soccer ball, dog droppings to dodge, and pigeons to contend with(the huge horse chestnut trees are beautiful, but sit under them at your own risk).

But oh, Spring in Paris. Full of color, flowers, giant-and I mean GIANT-chocolate Easter eggs(joyeuses Paques!). I have yet to unravel the mystery of what fish-shaped chocolates have to do with April 1^st...but stay tuned.

Too bad you can't take a shot of Vin Rouge

Because after the week I have had, yeah, I need a shot. Or three.

Here's how it played out, and NO I am not exaggerating, and YES Paris is perfect, perfect, perfect. But just to get it all out of the way, Paris kicked my ass this week.

First off, week one of having my lover back in town with me was perfect, until we both got horrible colds. (thank you recycled airplane air, French germs like le Colde et le Sniffles). Once we got over our illnesses, we discovered that French brooms are like tiny push brooms and are USELESS AT SWEEPING and what is blue and in a spray bottle is NOT windex- and will leave your windows far streakier than the pigeons that collide endlessly into them.

Twice on trips "out and about" we discovered that there IS indeed an ugly part of Paris, and it exists outside the Metro line at Simplon. Don't go. We promise the rotting fish mixed with dirty water running down the sidewalk into the gutter is NOT "tres jolie ou tres French". It's just tres trashy. Speaking of trashy, want to know what they drink in the ghetto area of Paris? 40's of French biere? Nope. Box wine? Nah. But dirty plastic gasoline canisters of wine SOLD in grocery stores on the bottom shelf? Yep! No joke. Seriously, I couldn't think something this horrific up.

In this same week I survived(barely) an incredibly active bout of what I can only assume to be either food poisoning or le flu. How do you gracefully vomit up your small intestine repeatedly while your lover is 4 feet away in the next(the only) room? You don't. Essentially, as my darling so succinctly put it-the French have devised a way to squeeze a shower into an airplane bathroom, so imagine me cowering between a shower stall 18" x 18" and the pedestal sink while the water heater hovers a mere 3 feet above my head. Now imagine that we live in a studio and my dear one has nothing but the symphony playing out in the bathroom to accompany his slumber at 3am. Well, that and the constant horn blaring from the French drivers in the street below our window.

Side note: THIS I LOVE. I am, and will always be, 100% for blatant and ridiculous use of the car horn. It's flagrant, pointless, and wrathful-and usually initiated by either a man in a pressed suit, or a woman with three kids in the back seat. Completely effective not at speeding up traffic, but sorting out who the real assholes are in this world.

All said and done in a week, I found myself this evening eating a truly wonderful pizza with the man who holds my heart, while watching I Love You Man with French subtitles. This is how I found out that "my jet pack" in French is "mon reacteur dorsale". Told you. Paris is perfect.

San Blas-a Pastry Loving Saint

Nestled in the lush green mountains in the Basque region of Spain is a little town called Eibar. Here the church bells of San Andres ring on the hour and every 15min, all the bars make little pintxos(tapas), and they celebrate a day on the 3rd of Feb. called San Blas. The origins of this day are from a story of a little boy who choked on a fish bone and Senor Blas came along and saved him thus, he was Sainted. Viola-San Blas!

The best part of this day is that you get to eat pastries that have(or have not) been blessed and this will give give you good health of the throat. My family that is from here and I proceeded in a haze of flour and a dusting of sugar to make ten of these such pastries. An aquired taste for some, the main flavor is Anise(licorice taste) and I LOVE IT! I swear these become a quick addiction. I could eat a whole one in a day and they are the size of a plate. And this from a girl who doesn't like sweets.

Here follows the recipe for one San Blas, though, you should tripple it at least because if you don't eat it all, they are wonderful gifts for neighbors who have sore throats. Don't forget the Holy water.

San Blas

(feb. 3rd)

For the pastry:

1 egg

175 g. flour(sorry for the conversions my dears in America!)

75 g. sugar

40g. butter

1 tsp. baking soda

3-4 drops essence of anise

mix all this up real good, kneading it with your hands and flouring your work surface until you get a nicely formed dough. Imagine you are making bread dough, or pizza dough, it's basically that same thing. Roll into a ball and then flaten into an oval with a rolling pin. Pinch the sides to form a decorative border and then put in an oven preheated to about 350deg. Bake until golden brown, approx. 20 min.

For the icing:

50g. powdered sugar

1 egg white

mix the two quickly and very well until you have a smooth white glaze. Once the San Blas comes out of the oven, put a thin coating of icing on top, you don't have to use it all. Move the pastry to a rack to cool, start a pot of coffee, and sit back and relax in your anise scented house.

Albondigas-Spanish Meatballs

Espana! Spain! The Basque country to be specific. Can you say CULINARY CAPITAL?! Si! What a total turn around, from the culinary abis of England with their boiled potatos to one of the worlds true food melting pots. So many inspirations, I don't even know where to begin. Suffice to say, I am here for a month, so will endeavor to report on as many meats, fish, bread and vegetables as one can possibly consume in that amount of time. The first? One of my all time favorites, Albondigas. Meat balls in tomato sauce.

Albondigas are an easy mix of ground beef and pan-very fine bread crumbs. For a lb. of beef add in a bowl half a diced onion, some garlic, (I add an egg for holding-together power), and about a 1/2 cup milk. Then mush it all together very well with some seasonings, I use black and red pepper, and a dash or two of salt. Add enough fine bread crumbs(almost a powder) to give the meat mixture a good consistancy to roll golf-ball sized balls.

In a hot skillet add a tablespoon of olive oil and let that heat well before you add 2 cups tomato sauce, 2 thinly diced carrots, and some spices-I use parsely and garlic and a dash of cayenne. It's traditional NOT to brown the meatballs first, instead you cook them thoroughly in the tomato sauce on a med-low heat well covered. Turn a few times during cooking, and let rest for a good hour on low to really meld all the flavors into the meat.

Tear up a good portion of bocadillo-baguette, spoon at least 4-5 onto a plate and with a fork in one hand and a scrap of bread in the other-enjoy!

Please note: don't skimp on the bread. You genuinely need this crusty loaf to be able to swipe up all that sauce on your plate when you have finished your Albondigas. Trust me. It's good for you.

When life gives you a cold breeze, eat lemon torte

While wandering around through Covent Garden, you may find yourself feeling the nip of the cold London breeze blowing through the buildings, and it is then that you will surely need one thing: a pastry. To be more specific, a French cafe so cute and cozy that the wafting air from the oven keeps all gusts of cold air from even coming through the door. And the coffee tastes like it came from a bean and not the Nescafe instant jar. Oh praise the pastry gods! Thank you France for being so close that your sweet hearted love of butter, caramelized sugar, flaky crusts and decadent fillings could cross the channel and make it to my little table in London.

And so I find myself at a tiny bakery, having climbed a little staircase up to a small room with tall narrow windows. Only a few tables and chairs scatter the floor, but the walls are completely filled(not an inch between) with paintings in intricate frames. It's a designer's nightmare and my dream come true. The waitress is kind and brings me coffee, black, without the usual "are you sure?" and eye brow raise I get for not ordering a cup of coffee, white(read: a cup of warm milk that is slightly coffee flavored).

Coming in the front door, I passed the downstairs window-like a jewel box it was filled with quiche, croissants, marzipan and truffles. So many tortes, I glimpsed a plum, apricot, raspberry and pear just as I walked by. Tiered cakes and little cups of mouse, wedges of sweet cakes and square slices of savory pizza. Cheese and berries and butter and herbs...just stunning to look at, let alone devour. Jay and I read a quote from revered Spanish Chef Ferran Adria, "Could you imagine people eating a painting-if they could introduce a painting into their bodies?" That is exactly what this window of food was. A culinary painting, a masterpiece that you could experience with every sense.

I ordered a slice of the lemon torte. It arrived on a little white cafe plate with a real silver fork, quite diminutive in size-just perfect for a delicate treat for a lady trying to regain feeling in her toes, back from the cold. Creamy buttercup yellow, with a tortoiseshell-caramelized top. The crust had that perfect crinkling, flaking crush that to the ear-is an opus, a movement using only the best notes. The smell was citrus infused with vanilla bean, the toasted sugar on top giving a sweet overtone, that mixed with the seductive smell of my coffee was a perfume. The delicate weight of the slight silver dessert fork, slightly tarnished, felt so special in my hand. You do not wield clunky spoons or dinner forks at something so demure as this lemon slice of bliss. With a slow gesture I took the first bite. Beautiful. How can I convey the way the buttery-ness of the crust laid across my palate? A sip of coffee introduced a bitterness that only heightened the bright citrus flavor and caramel quality of the burnt sugar.

Completely forgetting that I am cold, I enjoy the sun coming through the tall window panes, the clinking of tea spoons in porcelain cups, the shouts of bakers and waiters filtering up the stairs...it is a perfect little place. And it makes me so happy that I have this opportunity to visit London, and that soon I will be going home, to Paris.

Nachos? Not here.

If you are prone to food cravings, it's probably best NOT to live in the UK. Alright, I have TRIED to be optimistic. Drinking their white tea, sourcing food flavors from the Turkish delis and restaurants, accepting that on average, everything I eat will need salt and pepper(actually chili powder I carry around in my purse). BUT enough is enough! I have finally lost it thanks to a two day bout of homesickness and rainy day #17 irritation. I decided the only thing to cheer me up would be NACHOS.

Now, please understand that I realize my geographic location is approximately 30 latitude lines North of Mexico City and about a hundred latitude lines away(no really, I checked, MC is like 99deg. W and London is .o7 or some such). But I am NOT requiring an authentic mole sauce or enchiladas in green sauce with a side of roasted-corn-husky cradled tamales, I'm talking nachos-corn chips with cheese on them and hopefully some salsa too. Well, here's how that went last night at 8:45pm:

A bus ride up and down the street quickly confirmed that I was indeed correct that the closest thing to Mexican food in Hackney, Shore ditch and Wood Green was Turkish food(don't get me started on the latitude and longitude between these countries). Turkish food, if you don't read my blog-contains lemon, tahini, pistachios, cayenne or red pepper and lamb. Mexican food is primarily based on corn tortillas, chipotle or habanero or anaheim or poblano peppers, and lime. I am aware that they both make use of tomatoes, garlic, onion and that they both serve food with rice, but the flavor profiles are NOT close enough to quell a craving.

So I turned to the supermarket.

About 23min. into the hunt: (it's hard to say because I began to black out for whole minutes due to hunger/strange grocery store/can't find what I'm looking for RAGE. After looking through TWO AISLES of crisps(read Potato chips if you are American)-including shrimp flavored, Marmite (yeast) flavored, Welsh Rarebit, Scottish Haggis and Garlic Baguette-I stormed around the corner saying OUT LOUD "fuck this fucking country and its spiceless, seasonless weird food!" (because garlic baguette and Marmite are synthetic flavors NOT actual spices). Not to my surprise the proper British took no notice of one more American having a tantrum in their grocery stores that sells vegetables shrink wrapped in plastic, and have an endless supply of candy bars that EXCLUDES the most holy of holy: Snickers.

So, my search for tortilla chips only succeeded in turning up a giant bag of "Roast Chicken and Mash(potatoes) Doritos". Next on the list was salsa. NO salsa, so enchilada sauce, no canned tomatoes and jalapenos, not even any fresh peppers or packaged chili powders I could mix with fresh tomatoes to MAKE salsa.

Onto the meat. Pre-made, prepackaged meat products including Scotch Eggs, beef stew, beef wellington, or two small packages of the fattiest grayest ground beef I have ever seen. No. Thank. You.

No beans unless you count the endless aisle of baked beans the Brits like to put on their wretched toast.

Like I said no fresh peppers, scallions, chives, etc. Oh wait!!!! A bag of 3 tiny sad onions for 4 British pounds!($5.50).

No sour cream, but I do score a lovely block of English cheddar that I can shred and melt on top of the "Steak and Ale pie" flavored air I will be making my nachos out of.

No olives or pickled jar of jalapenos

So. The moral of today's story is, unless you live next to the one organic, ethnic, large scale grocery store in London- you better not get any food cravings. And next time you are in a bad mood, be endlessly grateful you can walk to your nearest gas station and buy a bag of Tostitos and a jar of salsa.

*this is a rant. Please do not respond with comments of "when in London eat cod and chips" or tell me when you lived here 18 years ago you could find such ingredients at the Holborn Street Sainsbury's. I don't care. The craving is over(not really), and I will in fine spirits eat an under seasoned portion of meat pie. Now, where did I put my secret stash of chili powder.....

** YES. That flavor of crisps DOES say "Cajun Squirrel"