u m a m i

La Petite pause

               

And we take a break because I have a mountain of reading waiting for my attention and exams to prepare for. Come the weekend we will drive to the sea, to St Malo; let's hope that the sun will be out and we can enjoy lots of Normandy butter and its derivatives.

Above picture is of an apple tartlette from the famous ice cream shop Berthillon on the Ile de la Cite. The scoops that they dispense are so very tiny, after regretfully licking the last drops of ice cream one can look forward to another ephemeral treat of butter, caramel and apples. Bonne vacances!

We do bistros and brasseries too!

               

Eating with the French is always interesting. Since my spoken French is far from fluent, I am quite contented to listen and the topics, well, fascinating would be putting it mildly. How about plastic surgery and french beauties, divorces, matchmakings, saving wayward French hostages, muggings, holidaying in Colombia and grand chefs of Lyon to start with?

The restaurants chosen are also different from where we might tend to go to, you know, the tiny, overbooked under-30 covers place run by an ex-chef from famous 2 or 3 star establishment and his/her spouse and maybe a spare harried waitstaff but which is all mitigated for, hopefully, by food to swoon over. In contrast most of these "dine with the locals" meals have been in larger establishments serving classic foods with comfortable surroundings and brigades of waitstaffs. Such as Montparnasse 1900 last night. The restaurant has existed for nearly 100 years and was run by the same family for a long time before being sold off to someone else. Sitting on a plush leather banquette in the midst of gorgeous Art Nouveau everything (ceilings, walls, lightings, tiles, my tachycardic heart overwhelmed by all the beautiful craftwork), taking in the details such as the luggage racks and coathooks which harks back to the days when passengers eat there after disembarking from their train at nearby Gare Montparnasse, when we think about it all, the food hardly mattered anymore.

               

Not that it was terrible, thankfully it was not bad at all. Cocktail of avocado and shrimps, steak frites, floating islands (île flottante), creme brulée for husband- competent classic dishes, though my steak was too classical in the sense that I had to chew and chew until my jaws ached and my head screamed. So the food doesn't make you go and extol, say, the whimsical pairing of vanilla and watercress but it does allow one to relax, to carry on a civilised conversation, to butter up the baguettes, to finish the kir petillante (sparkly blackcurrant and champagne cocktail) and to raid the chocolate almonds in the sugar basket come coffee time.

               

If one prefers Art Deco, there is also La Coupole further along the same street, or Le Boeuf sur le Toit near Champs Elysée. And then there's always the bistros like Chez George and Bistrot de la Muette; the decor would not be nearly as elaborate, and the tables are closer together but these places are always full of locals as well as tourists enjoying an uncomplicated night out. 

Addresses below:

Montparnasse 1900: 59 Blvd Montparnasse (6th) T: +33 1 4549 1900

La Coupole: 102 Blvd Montparnasse (14th) T: +33 1 4320 1420

Le Boeuf sur le Toit: 34 rue du Colisée (8th)T: +33 1 5393 6555

Bistro de la Muette: 10, Chaussée Muette (16th) T: +33 1 4520 3593

Chez Georges: 273 Boulevard Pereire, (17th) T: +33 1 4574 3100

Artisan Saveurs

               

Last weekend on the way to Bon Marché we passed Artisan Saveurs, a small and charming restaurant/salon du thé on 72 rue du Cherche Midi. Their door and exterior woodwork had just been been painted a fresh layer of vivid red, beckoning us in for a spot of lunch and a cuppa.

               

The lunch menu was short, mostly tasty and straightforward interpretations of home-style dishes like fricassée du lapin (rabbit), millefeuille of lamb sweetbreads, marinated salmon and ragoût de cochon (braised pork) served with a healthy pile of salad and side dishes like polenta, gratinéed potatoes or rice. Comfortable seating, pleasant and cosy decor and attentive service may explain how this place has been in business for nearly ten years.

               

Their tea menu is long and our Darjeeling selections were brewed before being transferred to the teapot which is correct and would have been even better if they had been more generous with the tea leaves. I chose from the fairly large and tempting dessert and pastry menu a Savarin au Rhum, deliciously well-soused and surrounded by ladylike fruit slices.

All in, a genteel and tranquil place for lunch or a shopping pause in the neighbourhood. They also have baking classes if one is so inclined.

Below: a pictobrowser and composite images of home-cooked lunches for those days when I do not have any lunch appointments, some of which have featured on the blog before. To read the notes please place mouse over the word on the bottom right corner.

Acide

               

Since I am in a bit of a sour mood I decided to pick up a box of frÜ Sicilian Lemon cheesecake dessert. It's good if a bit expensive, and their GÜ range of chocolate desserts is not too bad either.

Why am I in a sour mood though? One, all the China-bashing in the press has been dragging me down. The protests against the Beijing Olympics and its associated hypocrisy, overbearing presumptiousness, smugness and bare-faced opportunism have been so unrelenting it's effects have instead waken some latent Nationalist sentiments in myself. My father would be proud of me I think.

Two, the métro station closest to my school is closed until mid-June so I am not liking this inconvenience.

Three, I just spent a whole morning reading this rubbish book called Doggy Bag by a French writer Philippe Djian. He tries to write in a chick flick meets American prime-time series format and fails abjectly: the plot never moves along, earthquakes mix uneasily with alcoholism and preoccupation with sex, one third of the way through and I still couldn't tell the characters apart. I should have saved my 8 euros for an Asterix comic or settle for yet another translated P.G Wodehouse caper. 

Four, I was walking along the streets and at the corner of Ave George V and Ave Pierre Charron I spied from the corner of my eye a tall suited Caucasian man walking at cross angles and mentally calculated that at the speeds we were both walking along we would definitely bump into each other. In the past I would have stopped, or veered to the side but I was in a mutinous mood. Why should it be me who gives way? The French would never do such a thing, if they bump into you they pretend it didn't happen, if I bumped into them first I would be "tsked tsked" at. Husband says only the Chinese and Japanese do the zig zag walk, and bearing his words in mind I walked straight ahead and hoped for the best. The tall white man in the suit stopped, if he was a cartoon car he would have slammed onto the brakes and screeched to a halt. Whew, I quickly walked away, but not before hearing him say "Pardon" in an English accent. I felt a little bad, but also pleased. Which also explains why when I was perusing the dessert shelf in Carrefour I shunned all the French brands and went English instead!

The Olympics flame passed our street junction

 

Last night it snowed. It was the last thing I expected when I drew the curtains for bedtime. At first I thought it was so strange that the rain was pouring in a horizontal direction, then my eyes registered the flurries and dances of the flakes by the light of the streetlamp. It was mesmerising and beautiful. We wished hard that the snow would settle, from our window we could see husband's car getting a fine dusting, and hoped that the next day V would wake up to see snow. Alas, in the morning it had all melted and the weather was cold and chilly though not in an unwelcome way, looking at all the green trees and jaunty flower beds we are definitely putting winter behind us.

In the afternoon I was interrupted by the sound of helicopters circling overhead. It's not an unusual thing in this neighbourhood, the helicopters come out at the slightest reason- a marathon, Bastille Day celebrations, Veteran's Day, inauguration of the President, a state visit etc- and we are usually grateful if they do not also close the metro stations and/or block the roads. Still, the helicopter was so loud it was practically outside, when I popped out to check, it was actually above us. Looking into Place de Beyrough I saw that Avenue Marceau was completely blocked to vehicles other than police vans.  People from the opposite building came out to observe on their balconies, and traffic came to a standstill.

It was the passing of the Olympic flame, though I was clueless at that time and did not keep an eye out for a runner bearing a torch. Oops, I've just read that the torch was extinguished three times and they had to put it in a bus. Apparently 3000 policemen were deployed in this exercise alone, although  most of them who passed our junction were sitting safely in a van instead of facing off with the protesters. By the time the bus came round I saw and heard only one protester, and a handful of press photographers, contrary to what is reported elsewhere. Also, does this mean that if the Chinese don't do what the protesters want, the games would be boycotted and the thousands of sportsmen who trained so hard have to put their dreams on hold and miss out on the medals.

            

Still, one may ask, what has all these events, fascinating as they may be, have to do in a food blog? Nothing. But I do have a picture of a roasted leg of milk-fed piglet which I bought for a Saturday lunch from the market butcher . The meat was milky and tender, delicious, we finished the lot in one sitting and the dogs got to chew on the bones so they too were happy.

          

Too right says Mimi. Now if only someone could explain to her why the helicopter is still around even though it is nearly 10 p.m The protesters are not tired yet?

Also, I am updating my Twitter more frequently, see column on right hand side.

Eating Fish in Istanbul

It's easy enough to associate Turkish food with kebabs, but fish is a whole different kettle altogether ain't it? Perhaps it is not that common in the rest of Turkey but Istanbul is surrounded by water on at least three sides, with the most beautiful body being the glittering sapphire of the Bosphorus Sea. The catch is often so fresh that fishmongers display them by showing off their vibrant red gills. The cats prowling the neighbourhoods would no doubt be satisfied by the quality as evidenced by their ample girths.

               

We were advised to visit Dolmabahce Palace along the Bosphorus Sea. It is a showcase palace, full of tributes from other countries and is decorated to the hilt with the best craftsmanship and materials of its time. The view was not too bad either.

               

Above, a detail from a bathroom of the alabaster floors.               

               

Another place that we were advised to visit is Bebek. It is about 20-30 minutes drive from Taksim Square and is a whole different world altogether. Of luxury yatchs, elegant tea salons and villas with fantastic views, reminding me of Sausalito and other upscale waterside neighbourhoods. It was pouring madly the evening we visited, and we took refuge in the nearest fish restaurant, because well, one has to visit Bebek and eat fish, and found ourselves in Bebek Balikçi, an old-school and rather grand restaurant with a covered deck jutting into the sea. Even on a wet weekday night it enjoyed a good turnover with businessmen, couples and the occasional tourists like ourselves.

The menu was very short: starters to choose from a tray that the waiters, in black vests and long aprons, bring over to our table, option to have salads or not and then one's choice of fish simply cooked and served with maybe some boiled potatoes or steamed vegetables. We skipped the salads and enjoyed our Turkish wine with fat marinated sardines and marinaded vegetables. The fish prices were by no means cheap but heck we've came out all this way so we decided to live dangerously. I had fried turbot, my very first time eating turbot which even when I was studying in London I came to understand was a revered fish usually served with great ceremony. The fish is flat and generously oval in shape, and studded with barbacle-like protuberances which makes eating a bit fiddly yet the flesh is fine and very sweet. Husband had bluefish, a local favourite, it was fleshy and delicate in flavour.

On the way out we noticed an article pinned to a wall, in it was a list of the top ten fish restaurants in the city. Bebek Balickci was third. Korfez which we had reservations to but did not go in the end because I was too tired, was number 10. Number 1 was given to Kiyi which we did go to, on a beautiful sunny Sunday. Everyone was out to soak in the sun, and our taxi crawled painfully slowly for nearly an hour before we reached Tarabya Bay.

A word about the taxis in the city. First, the driver should use a meter. If there is a meter it should start at 2 liras unless it is night when the night rate start from 3 liras. The meter should not jump too fast, example from Eminonu to Taksim is less than 10 liras and from Taksim to Bebek is less than 20 liras. We knew we were conned when a journey from Taksim to Ortakoy which should cost less than 10 liras ended up as 25 liras, the meter was jumping in an erratic and unpredictable manner. The surest way to be conned is to hail a taxi which is waiting in front of a hotel or a tourist attraction. The driver will pretend that the place we wish to go is closed, or he will 'forget' to turn on the meter or take a long route. We fell for all of these tricks and learnt after a while to only hail passing taxis and to keep a close eye on the meter.

So there we were, enjoying the beautiful scenery of the blue sea, the Bosphorus Bridge and families out strolling or fishing along the coastline stretching to the bay while the taxi kept getting stalled in the one-lane traffic. The meter doesn't seem to tick much when the car is stationery and the driver had to resort to driving against the flow of traffic a few times, very dangerous, at those times the only thing to do is to close our eyes and hope for the best. Finally we reached the restaurant and husband gave him a good tip for his trouble. The driver must have appreciated it because 5 minutes later he returned with my umbrella which I had carelessly left behind.

               

Our lunch was superb. We ordered quite a few appetisers because it all sounded good- fried calamari, fried mussels, stuffed mussel (yes, just the one) and tarama. The waiters didn't speak much English but they were ever so helpful, telling us which fish was available -about 3 on the day of our lunch- and giving good advice, e.g. No, not the lobster because it is wildly expensive, and recommending cooking methods.

                

Above: tarama with toast. Pale orange, briny, delicious, worlds apart from the pink paste one finds in supermarkets. Also a giant prawn grilled to perfect succulence, a dish of tiny shrimps sauteed in spicy Turkish peppers and a whole grilled seabass. Not a wrong note anywhere, breads were replenished without us needing to ask, fresh cutlery supplied with every dish (we ended up with a stunning collection of unused ones), the waiters standing by yet not in the way and generally being totally sweet and accommodating. We cleaned our plates with a bit of regret, considered ordering more food, drank up our chilled white wine and were blissfully contented. The fact that we were sitting next to the window with a dreamy view of the boats floating in the marina did not hurt either. 

               

We still had room for desserts. TWO desserts in fact. Of poached quince with milk ice cream. Oohlala it was good, the fruit on the bottom fresh and yielding while the compote on top firmer, jammier and a little spicy.

               

Steamed pumpkin with more of that incredibly rich milky ice cream and a shower of fresh chopped nuts. With some coffee to help us sober up for the trip back to town.

                              

But not before joining the teenagers and kids with balloons on the marina for a little stroll. And then it was off in a taxi where I dozed a bit and opened my eyes just in time to see a big sign saying "Kanyon" which I have learnt from my friend the Internet is a trendy shopping mall. The words "please, please stop here" blurted from my mouth and he stepped on the brakes. We spent the rest of the day wandering its eerie lonely corridors, watching a lousy Hollywood movie (The Flock) and eating rubbish food at Wagamama.

Thus concludes our Istanbul eating adventures. Husband is still remarking on how good the food was, all the kebabs and baklavas that we'll meet in the future will have a hard time measuring up. If I am fortunate enough to return, I would spend my days along the coast doing nothing much at all, just whiling my time until the next meal comes along. That would be simply perfect.