Ptipois

I thought there may be. If there ever was a French chef's trip to Japan that was considered seminal in the shaping of the "Nouvelle Cuisine" concept, it was Bocuse's. I never heard of such a thing concerning Point.

Whether or not the birth of the movement can be retraced to this small event, "Nouvelle Cuisine" as we know it is something quite different from a cuisine nouvelle, a new cuisine of any sorts. It is indeed the brand name of the movement that started in the early 70's. To sum it up roughly, it was short cooking times, crunchy vegetables, pink-at-the-bone fish, unstarched reduced sauces, no serving dishes and everything on large individual plates with (say the meanest) not much on them. It was also the beginning of the assembly-line cooking that became an international style and is mostly prevalent now ("It's so beautifully arranged on the plate", said Julia Child - "You know someone's fingers have been all over it.") Things have changed and other styles have appeared or been adopted, but roughly we're still there. Just think that no one has ventured to propose another "nouvelle cuisine" since the 70's: new concepts all had different names (fusion food, slow food, etc.) but the term Nouvelle Cuisine has remained, to this day, anchored to the Gault & Millau definition. Nobody has come up with something different and called it "nouvelle cuisine" in a way that the 70's model would be replaced. (Of course you may read terms like "nouvelle Italian cuisine" and so on, but it is still the original concept with an adjective added to it.)

The first time I heard the term "café noisette" was in a Paris café in the late 80s. I think it sounded sort of new to everyone present, though I don't know how old it really is. Since then I got to hear it more frequently.

You get it because everyone understands what it means, but I only wanted to point out that this is not the proper café term. Café au lait is something you make at home, most of the time in a bowl instead of a cup, and mostly for breakfast. My grandmother did use to love her afternoon "café au lait" in a big bowl with tartines. The milk-to-coffee ratio is rather large in this case. If you order a "crème" in a café, the ratio is the reverse. A café au lait is pretty much like a caffelatte, but always at home and never in a glass.

As I wrote before, the fact that any chef can bring some innovation in the art of cooking, at any given time and to some extent, and thus produce what may be called "une cuisine nouvelle", is to be distinguished from the historical beginning of what we have known as "nouvelle cuisine" since the early 70s. Indeed Nouvelle Cuisine was partly based on ideas some French chefs had recently brought back from Japan, but Fernand is not considered the starting Point (if I may allow myself) of this trend. As for the notion that each ingredient should be the finest, there is nothing modern about it; and that cooking should enhance the natural flavor, this is only the essence of French cooking.

This is only for breakfast and primarily for breakfast taken at home. The term "café au lait" is usually not heard in French cafés except from foreigners. But waiters know that it means a "crème" (one seldom hears the complete name, "café crème") so they give them a crème. You may have a grand crème or a petit crème, but lately cafés tend to have only one size (large or medium). That's a strange feature of the French language: "café au lait" is home talk, while "café crème" is exactly the same thing outside of the domestic realm. In a Paris café, a "crème" will never be coffee + cream, always coffee + milk (warmed). The days when it used to be coffee with cream are far behind, at least in Paris. There may be a lot of milk or just a little, you can always influence the result by saying "beaucoup de lait" or "pas trop de lait". Most of the time the small amount of milk will not suffice to soften the acrid, bitter and burnt taste of overheated robusta.

At any time, the introduction of new dishes, or even of a slight modification in styles, may potentially result in the use of terms like "cuisine nouvelle". It may or may not result in a massive revolution in culinary habits. There probably have been "cuisines nouvelles" repeatedly since the 17th century. However, the concept of Nouvelle Cuisine as we understand it today was not created before the 1970's (indeed, under some Japanese influence brought in by French chefs) and, though Fernand Point may be a forerunner, he is not considered the direct origin of that movement. Names like Michel Guérard and Jacques Manière rise to the mind; and the formula was, so they say, created by Henri Gault and Christian Millau. This is not to minimize the importance of Fernand Point, this is just to say that if you mention "Nouvelle Cuisine" in a contemporary French context, you're not referring to something that was started by him.

When it comes to describing coffee in Paris, you've seen my manners: I'm an utter brute. So I'd better go all the way: I think that, in most French cafés, coffee sucks. It can be very good in other places, salons de thé not the least of them. And you may get proper breakfasts there, avoiding troquets. I mean, early in the morning when you need gradual adaptation to the cruel outside world, who needs triple-priced croissants, brusque service, watery jelly, tartines spread with 1 micron of butter and, in your cup, the concentrated juice from a thousand dirty socks? At least the baguette is always fresh and the dingling noise of cups and cutlery is cheerful and musical. In hotels they often use the drip method, but their coffee is of the horseshoe type (add more coffee if the horseshoe doesn't float). You could dip a pen in it and write. Hotel people probably believe their clients die at night instead of falling asleep.

That's what I thought throughout the reading of this thread. Every time I have been to Mon Vieil Ami, I enjoyed what I felt to be a nice, generous Parisian bistrot with an Alsatian touch and (at first) a slight weakness on desserts. Sensing an "American" influence could not have been farther from my mind then. I'm not denying that there may be some sort of influence of new American cuisine (mostly NY and California styles) on some aspects of French "nouveau bistrot" cooking but I wouldn't have picked Mon Vieil Ami as an example. I have heard some young cooks and chefs who worked in the US for some time describe what an inspiration the experience was for them: it seems to "open up their minds", broaden their sense of possibility and their gift for associations, but it doesn't give their food anything that could honestly be described as an "American" touch. It seems to concern the mind more than it concerns the food as a material reality. I can also testify that I got most of my interest in food, and the origin of my decision to devote my professional life to food, from living in NYC for a couple of years. That's one thing America does to food-oriented people. But I don't cook much American food, let alone American-influenced food. The experience has only broadened my curiosity to all kinds of cooking. I do understand how a chef, while staying in the US, may get the inspiration to open a restaurant in France and shape the project in his mind. But this by no means implies that his inspiration is "American" in any way. If there is an American influence in the cuisine of "Mon Vieil Ami", then it may be found everywhere and nowhere.

My case among the French is by no means a rule. I am often amazed at what my countrypeople can gulp in and get away with (for me, a Parisian espresso means instant migraine). But I thought I hated espresso coffee before I got a chance to get away from France and go to, say, Italy. That was a long time ago. Now I love coffee but I still hate French espressos. I enjoy coffee when I make it at home, or when I'm abroad, or when I visit a place that makes good coffee (an Illy- or Lavazza- or Segafredo-bar, or the basement at Colette's, etc.). I'm not such a fan of Starbucks (I find it too strong too), but I did appreciate the coffee served in England at chains like Aroma, for instance.

While we're in the coffee department at Monoprix, if you see any Malongo cans, by all means try them. Of course pick the all-arabica stuff, but it is clearly understood by everybody that robusta coffees are low-grade. Those who choose it do so par habitude or because robusta has a lot of caffeine and does give quite a kick. The robusta situation in French cafés (and many bistrots) is not going to change, except in places where there is some sort of coffee consciousness. At other places (brûleries, salons de thé, chocolatiers, good restaurants, etc.) you'll be likely to get pure arabicas. Two other hints to answer the original question of this thread: - Hédiard has good coffees and good coffee advisers. I do like, also, the coffee vendors at La Grande Epicerie du Bon Marché, very reliable and helpful, with a great choice of beans. They even had some Liquidambar maragogype before the plantation was abandoned because it didn't make enough profit (loud cries of grief). - The Water Bar at Colette's (rue Saint-Honoré) has excellent coffee, cappucino and lattes. Call the place hype, but it's very pleasantly designed, has a warm atmosphere, and these guys do make good coffee. Besides, it's so close to Verlet...

Hehe, I agree with this... My personal advice about coffee in France (and in Paris in particular) would be to pick coffee-oriented chains like Illy or Segafreddo, or places like Café de Colombie, where you'll be served only pure arabica coffee. We French have a problem with our coffee supply. Most of what you get in "troquets" (average cafes and brasseries) is brewed from robusta beans, because of our privileged commercial relationships with our former African colonies (Ivory Coast, Cameroun) that grow mostly robusta. This is a unique situation ; most European countries (with a stress on Italy) and America prefer arabica. Now, though some robustas may be drinkable, most of the time they're terribly bitter, acidic and rich in caffeine. This accounts for the characteristic (and, to me, horrid) taste of the French "petit noir". And when the espresso machine isn't properly maintained, the taste is even worse.

I have answers for 1) and 2) but not for 3) and 4). 1) Some of the best coffee to be purchased in Paris: Verlet, 256, rue Saint-Honoré. 2) All their coffees are good, some rare coffees may be bought only at their place. Ask them for advice. They will apply the right grind if you mention you're using a presspot (the best method, according to them).

They could. They're less esteemed in France than on the Iberian peninsula. Here, they're mostly favored by Bretons, and rarely outside of Brittany. It is rather amazing to find pouce-pieds and murex in a Parisian brasserie where, as a rule, sea-urchins and violets are the worst you can get on the list of marine weirdness.

Pollicipes cornucopia or goose-necked barnacles, or pouce-pieds, or anatife, esp. percebes, port. perceve. That's a lot of nice pouce-pieds on the picture! They're hard to come by.

I love the voiture en bois. It's too cute. As for breaking teeth, except in particular situations like French bakeries in a non-French town, you're not supposed to break your teeth on a fève because you know it's there. Notice how French people eat their piece of galette gently and cautiously... In Paris, as far as I know, they only put one thing in a galette. One santon or, sometimes, one fève. The idea is that the person who gets the fève or santon gets to be king, puts the fève in a glass, drinks ("Le roi boit, le roi boit !") and then chooses his queen (reverse genders as needed).

The brioche version topped with candied fruit is more common in Southern France. In this case, it is called "gâteau des Rois". As for the aguignette, it is made of puff pastry, not brioche pastry. Made with light, excellent buttery Norman flaky pastry for which Rouen used to be famous for, it is a true delight. I wonder if they still make it. It is, most of the time, bird-shaped. Rather than being a regional pastry that evolved into something else, it may be considered a smaller version of the traditional puff pastry galette. I think there are enough occasions to eat apple pastries all year round, why denaturate the galette concept with apples? Just a personal opinion. Why doesn't your friend try the unfilled galette ? Exit the fatty filling problem.

Galettes des Rois systematically filled with almond cream or frangipane are a rather recent item in France. Originally, unfilled was the rule (and it was delicious). Filled galettes started appearing sometime in the 70's and gradually took over. Some people, however, still insist on having them unfilled, and a few pâtissiers still sell those. I like galette with a good filling (I have fond memories of Jean-Luc Poujauran's crème d'amandes) but when the filling's oversweetened or too bitter or with a large proportion of crème pâtissière (urk!), I much prefer an unfilled galette. Munching on an aguignette from Rouen (a small buttery puff pastry in the shape of various animals with a currant eye, traditionally made there at New Year), when you're lucky enough to find one, is a perfect reminder of how wonderful a traditional galette can be. It is probable that the pithiviers-type of galette (i.e. the filled galette) originally came from Belgium. By the way, a pithiviers is, strictly speaking, a cake based on almond cream between two layers of puff pastry. If there are pithiviers de boudin or pithiviers of anything else, this should be understood as a manifestation of the recent fashion of naming some chefs' creations after a traditional dish with untraditional ingredients (like strawberry tiramisu, pithaya gaspacho or ostrich strogonoff). But a pithiviers is not really a puff pastry cake filled with you-name-it.

Some French mont-d'or are better than others, some Swiss mont-d'or are just the same. As a rule I fail to see the difference between Swiss and French mont-d'or. They're the same traditional cheese, made in the same region. Vacherin fribourgeois, on the other hand, is very different. There were sanitary problems with mont-d'or a few years ago (I don't remember if it was Swiss or French cheeses), but it came out that they were caused not by the milk but by the thin ring of larchwood that holds the cheese together.

In a Parisian context, vacherin is a meringue-based dessert. A composition of ice cream or sherbet, meringue, whipped cream and sometimes fresh fruit. Personally I would not have swapped it

I think I can see where his confusion comes from: there are, on one hand, mont-d'or on the French side of the Jura (officially called "mont-d'or" or "vacherin du Haut-Doubs") and vacherin mont-d'or on the Swiss side of the Jura. And these two cheeses are just like Bux describes them, i.e. very similar, I'd say almost identical. And there is, on the other hand, "vacherin suisse" or vacherin fribourgeois (made in the Fribourg region) which is a hard Swiss cheese of the gruyère type, very good for making fondue. He probably does not know that there were three types of vacherin, and that the Jura alone had two of them, that are nearly identical. The remaining one, indeed, is totally different. You can stuff the news down his mouth next time you see him.

Don't worry, I have the same problem, and (when I am in a reasonably good mood) I don't believe I'm ready for the plastic bag yet.

I'm sure I'd like it a lot. I actually wish those old-fashioned desserts would really come back in style. Right now they're at the peak of their unfashionableness. They're from a past era when it really meant something to say "privé de dessert !" to a child. That was the time when cookbooks were actually meant to be used (oops, there she goes again...) and were full to the brim of omelettes soufflées, îles flottantes, puddings (lighter than their British counterparts), babas, charlottes, diplomates, crèmes and entremets. The French families living in Indochina before the fall of the French colonial empire must have been particularly fond of those desserts that helped to strengthen the cohesion of the expatriate family around their dinner table or to bring out a feeling of "just like being home" in a restaurant. Cuisine coloniale is the French translation and adaptation (which I did) of David Burton's book French colonial cooking. Both are great reading (the English edition having more text and the French edition having nice illustrations) and I recommend them. While working on it, I kept wondering all along why this fascinating subject had been covered by a New-Zealander and no one in France had the idea to do it. Well there may be several reasons but there you have it. Besides, the French edition of the book didn't sell well. The French are not that interested in culinary history, including their own. Pity.

When I read the words "scrambled eggs", I instantly thought they must have been scrambled eggs "the American way", i.e. an omelette by French standards. Therefore I do believe that this mysterious dessert was an omelette soufflée au rhum ou au cognac ou à whatever spirit there was on hand. It most certainly was a traditional French dessert (and one that isn't commonly seen anymore, at that), there is no such thing in the Vietnamese repertoire of sweet dishes, however influenced by the French colonial presence.

In my experience one should be careful with Pierre Hermé products, they don't keep well. I know of some people who had to take back to the shop the macarons they had bought the evening before (and brave a totally incredulous greeting). My personal advice is that you should eat this bûche right away (as a pre-Christmas treat) and get another bûche for the real Christmas. After all, it's only a bûche. It's not sacred.