John Whiting

I've responded to this once and it disappeared. I'll try again.I'm not surprised. My first experience of Ma Mere Michel dates from around 1968, when my wife and I were led there by Waverley Root's Paris Dining Guide. Further visits over the next few years; then a long gap, by which time it had disappeared. Jaybee, your further suggestions may well fill up my entire time in Paris. One of eGullet's inimitable advantages is that one gets to know the tastes of particular people in the precise areas of one's personal interests. For this visit, you will be Virgil to my Dante. Edit: Tripe at Chez Denise! I once distinguished myself by polishing off the entire turine that was brought to my table. The waiters gave me a round of applause.

Wilfrid asked: I'm glad you asked that. The Sillfield Farm stall at the Borough Market has excellent mature farmhouse cheddar, mature farmhouse Cheshire, six-month old double Gloucester, parmesano (both reggiano amd ordinary) and sometimes cantal and auvergne bleu. They're all vacuum packed and are frequently marked down to half-price. I regularly stock up well beyond my requirements, knowing that when I open them they'll be pleasantly edible. As good as La Fromagerie? No, but a quarter of the price. I'd rather not weigh my daily cheese allowance on a jeweler's balance.

The word "snob" carries certain associations of publicly humiliating those who don't measure up to one's own standards. "Fussy" can convey a particularity which may border on the precious, but does not necessarily involve poking fun at others. Anyone who bothers to read and post to eGullet is bound to have certain foods which are either loved or loathed. Using one's knowledge and taste as a means of disparaging others, however, passes out of the realm of discrimination and into the shabby area of one-upmanship. Miss J wrote: *Vacuum* packed cheese is very practical and not at all to be disparaged. It allows you to buy more than you need at the moment and open it later, knowing that it will not have either dried out or gone soggy. How many people live so close to an excellent cheese shop that they can time their purchases precisely to their consumption?

Some wonderful suggestions. Maitre Paul I'm already familiar with; I've had the divine poulet and may go back again. Civet de lievre royale -- yes indeed! Had it last summer at le petit Marguery and Chez Gramond, and each was better than the other! I hope the elusive Armenian bistro materializes. Can't find anything close in Time Out, Michelin or GaultMillau. jaybee, do you remember the divine beurre blanc years ago at Mere Michel? Perhaps that's so long before your time as to be insulting, in which case my apologies.

Simon M wrote: Pity *you're* not in [Greater] London!

My lo-carb, hi-fat/protein diet continues successfully and delightfully, with about fifteen pounds off so far. From October 1st I'll be in Paris for a few days. Can lovers of traditional French fare recommend any old-fashioned bistros where they load their dishes with butter and cream as if they were going out of fashion? (Which, alas, they have.) I'm happy to start with foie-gras, minus the toast. Carb-based dishes such as cassoulet are, or course, off limits, but I can enthusiastically tackle fat-laden knuckles of lamb, or meat/fish dishes swimming in calorific sauces, so long as they're not thickened with flour. No bread or potatoes, but that's easily accomplished. And no deserts, but I can dispose of a generous quantity of cheese. All wicked suggestions gratefully received.

In another thread, the Financial Times article on French food was written in response to a totally dismissive diatribe in the Daily Telegraph by their Paris correspondent, Philip Delves Broughton. Published on 23 July 2002, it was provocatively titled, “Who said French cooking was good?” I would provide a link, except that the Telegraph has, for some reason, not seen fit to include it in their website, or even to acknowledge its existence. I would not have seen it were it not for my wife’s excellent clipping service. It begins, After further general insults he launches into a specific attack on Chez Georges: Broughton then metes out the same treatment to several other French restaurants and ends with a description of the “fatty, slimy, cheap” steak tartare he was served at Brasserie Lipp after showing up in a baseball cap “emblazoned with the word Texas”. He had been escorted to the far rear of the dining room, and no wonder.In this thread, a number of members have come out in support of SteveP’s poetic review of Chez Georges and no one has ventured to disagree. So what’s going on in Broughton’s head? The article is illustrated with a photograph of the author being served by an informally attired, rather intellectual-looking bearded waiter. I wonder if he was the unwitting victim of one of Broughton’s vicious attacks.

lxt wrote Don't worry, he's like the devil -- just someone our parents invented to scare us. There's an ironic thread which pulls together this topic and the one proceeding from Steve's genuinely poetic account of his visit to Chez Georges. It goes more appropriately with the latter, and so I'll post it there.

There seems to be a competion as to how many hours one spends stirring the roux. When I've the time, I'm prepared to take up to about half an hour. I suspect that, among those Cajuns who make it regularly, it may be even less. As with the Italians and risotto: Valentina Harris estimates that, in their own homes, about eighty percent of those who make it from scratch start with a stock cube. And how many Mexican housewifes still grind the corn for their tortillas? Considering how important the roux is, something should be said about the type and quality of the oil and flour. For instance, stone ground unbleached flour rather than supermarket economy grade will certainly make as much difference in a roux as it does in a loaf of bread -- even if it's not "authentic".

Why are we continually surprised that small restaurants and small farms, which demand devotion to a way of life which requires long hours in return for modest recompense, are both gradually disappearing? Young people simply aren't interested in working long isolated hours for peanuts, in return for the dismissive jeers of their contemporaries. Those who want to be chefs are ultimately after high-profile, high-reward jobs. Ironically, the modest old-fashioned establishments are most likely to see a revival if a serious recession forces many of us back into more modest occupations.

Here's my own adapted gumbo recipe. Half the fun is in the detail. ################################ While I was trying to decide what to do with the chouriço sausage I bought at the BBC Good Food Show, a spam message (appropriate neologism!) arrived from a cookbook hustler, offering me a collection of authentic Cajun recipes he’d learned at his mother’s elbow. As an inducement, he included, ABSOLUTELY FREE, his recipe for Cajun Chicken and Sausage Gumbo. Although emasculated for effeminate sissy Caucasian palates, it included authentic touches such as a warning that YOU MUST KEEP STIRRING OR THE FLOUR WILL BURN. And so I consulted other authorities, went shopping, and installed myself in the kitchen for the rest of the morning. The amended result was as good a basic gumbo as I’ve eaten. It’s even better the next day, cold, which is my ultimate criterion for everything, including marriage. CAJUN CHICKEN AND SAUSAGE GUMBO Start with a FREE RANGE CHICKEN FOR THE STOCK: Skin and bone the chicken. Set the meat aside. In a thick-bottomed kettle or pressure cooker, brown the skin and bones in a little OLIVE OIL. Add sliced ONION, CARROT, and a couple of sliced ribs of CELERY. Fry until limp. Add SALT to help extract the juices from the meat, HERBS to taste, and about a quart and a half of WATER. Simmer covered for an hour, or pressure-cook for twenty minutes. Strain; skim off the fat or pour off through a separator. FOR THE GUMBO: While the stock is simmering, chop an ONION, a GREEN SWEET (BELL) PEPPER, and 3 ribs of CELERY. Cut up the CHICKEN MEAT into large bite-sized pieces. In a Dutch oven or similar heavy casserole, fry them lightly in 1/2 CUP OLIVE OIL, together with 1 LB SLICED STRONG SAUSAGE, SMOKY OR GARLIC. (Minus its skin, the chicken won’t brown without overcooking.) Remove from the oil; get it all out and be certain none is stuck to the bottom--it will give you trouble at the next stage. Add 3/4 CUP FLOUR little by little, stirring constantly. You should have a paste the consistency of heavy cream; if it starts to solidify into lumps, add a little more oil. You should be able to mix any uncooked flour continually to the bottom. Continue cooking and stirring until the mixture turns golden brown (not black!). This should be a long slow process--some cooks deliberately take as long as half an hour. Add the chopped vegetables and stir them well into the roux until they start to go limp. Add as much CHOPPED GARLIC as you think you want; it will become much milder in the cooking. Now add the liquid, which should be incorporated slowly at the beginning, constantly stirring. (The water in the vegetables will have helped to begin the process.) If the flour and oil are properly cooked and you’re not in a hurry with the liquid, you won’t have trouble with lumps. To my taste, this recipe needs the acidity of tomato, and so at this stage I would stir in 1 CAN OR TUBE OF TOMATO PASTE. This in turn invites a bottle of ROBUST RED WINE, together with the CHICKEN STOCK, making about two quarts of liquid in all. Add the CHICKEN and SAUSAGE. Stir in CHOPPED CHILI PEPPERS/CAYENNE/TOBASCO SAUCE in any combination, as much as you like. (If you don’t like it hot, this recipe has plenty of flavor without being mouth-searing.) Add 2 CUPS BROWN RICE, previously rinsed. Add HERBS to taste; some like to add them late in the cooking so that their flavor remains more distinct. Season discreetly with SALT AND PEPPER and check for seasoning near the end of the cooking time. Better to err on the side of caution; strong hot chili can affect your sensitivity to salt. Now comes a long slow simmer, about an hour, or even slower and longer. (This is a wonderful one-pot dish; you can add more vegetables at any time during the simmer. Or prawns. Or practically anything you like.) Keep it covered; stir it often and add more water if necessary as the rice absorbs it. (The thicker the sauce, the more likely that it may stick and burn.) By the end the sauce should be thick, dark and rich. At a slow simmer, the chicken won’t overcook and the brown rice, though soft, will still keep its shape and not disintegrate. If there’s any left after the second day, you should either stick with Heinz baked beans or join a monastic order of self-denial. ©1998 John Whiting, Diatribal Press, London

SteveP wrote That's one of the Six Impossible Things that an optimistic capitalist must believe before breakfast.

At the top end of the consumer market, which is where we are, novelty is now much more highly valued than familiarity. With this predominant mindset, it's impossible to fix responsibility on any one link in the circular chain.Edit: Steve, you're puting words into my mouth yet again. I said repeatedly that I was not making a value judgement but simply describing a state of affairs. "Progress" has indeed brought us the benefits you list; it is also exhausting the planet's resources. I have never suggested retreating from science; it is impossible to "un-know" what we have learned. In a world in which immediate return on short-term investment takes precedence over all other considerations, I suggest that you continue to enjoy as many good meals as you can cram in before "Mother Nature" submits the final invoice. Further edit: And where did I ask France to grow better beans than Kenya? You just make it up as you go along.

With Greek food I have drunk retsina with pleasure. But then, as a child I used to chew on coagulated pine sap.

It was the brains of their slain enemies, and it was only the women and children who ate them, the choice bits having been consumed by the adult males. It was the fact that only the women and children contracted JK which provided the first clue as to the probable cause.

In France, different appelations may require different percentages of the dominant variety. For instance, in Bandol, Lucien Peyraud was instrumental not only in creating the appellation but in gradually raising the proportion of Mourvedre from 10 to 50 percent and, in the case of special cuvees, 80 percent. Edit: In Alsace, Edelzwicker is usually made from the grape extractions that are left over after the permitted varietals and blends have been vatted or bottled. Depending on the vineyard and the year, an Edelzwicker can be very good indeed.

SteveP wrote It was not always thus. For centuries, except during periods of major instability from various causes, stability could result from doing the same thing well in exactly the same way, year after year. Constant growth is the engine of capitalism -- only *capitalist* stability requires constant growth. If indeed constant growth is a necessary state, whatever the economic system, then the exhaustion of planetary resources is inevitable. Why do I let myself get into these discussions? Bux wrote What he meant was that mediocre musicians -- i.e. those with nothing to say that's worth saying -- are becoming more and more technically proficient. Some would argue that there is also more and more flashy food that's just not worth eating.

Steve the Impaler wrote: Because I would *be* the food? No -- you would find me unpalatable.

Bux wrote Bux, that's about as clear as it can get. Unemotively, it simply states what is actually the case. With regard to the rising generation of virtuoso pianists, a highly respected musician of an older generation put it less neutrally: "The standard of mediocrity is rising all the time."

I wrote in the subjunctive mode; i.e. condition contrary to fact.

Tonyfinch wrote: That's because the price for the prix fixe menu is so low that breaking it up proportionally would hardly cover overheads. If you were trying to run a restaurant with reasonable prices and within the limits of the 35 hour week, how much earlier or later do you think you could afford to open? First, just how much demand is there for no-smoking areas, aside from American tourists? I would like *all* parts of *all* restaurants to be non-smoking, but I don't flatter myself that I am even in a majority. And most small restaurants/bistros are laid out in such a way that a non-smoking area would either require expensive alterations or be merely an empty gesture.In other words, moderately priced French restaurants are running a ballancing act in which they try to provide such good value for money that locals will eat out habitually rather than just on special occasions. Precisely. And it would take a silk purse full of Euros to create the bistro of your dreams.lxt wrote: I'm not promulgating anything, I'm merely stating cause and effect. For better or for worse, insofar as people around the planel come to resemble each other in their tastes and demands, globalization is a threat to *everyone's* identity. You simply have to decide whether or not you think that's a good thing and then govern your life so as to maximize those values which you most prize, independently of how many others happen to share them.

Whatever one's philosophical, political or economic orientation may be, it's obvious that the world has become a place in which constant change is a prerequisite for prosperity or even for solvency. The great strength of French cuisine at foundation level was always that you you could go to a particular region -- or even a particular restaurant -- and know exactly what would be on the menu and what it would taste like. The old Blue Guides used to include recommendations of hotels and restaurants -- complete with prices -- knowing that they would still be reliable when the the book was falling apart. In today's world the very foundation of French gastronomic reliability has been devalued. Dignified gastronomic elder statemen must climb up on their tables and tap-dance. *Everyone* is doing it, no one is being let off the hook. Being the best yesterday just isn't good enough. Every diner asks the proverbial New York question -- "Yeah, but what have you done for me lately?"

SteveP wrote: We don't seem to know the same Jews! I'm off to Paris for a few days from October 1st. Steve, you've convinced me that Chez Georges must be on my shortlist. I am of the opinion that if we shared a meal and never exchanged a word, but merely pointed at the food and registered approval, enthusiasm, indifference or disappointment, we'd dine in perfect harmony. If only we spoke different languages. . .

Perhaps unfairly, I respond differently to an informal seafood establishment spread out on an ample hillside overlooking a New England harbor as opposed to shoehorned into a giraffe's coffin in the middle of Greenwich Village. For me, the pinched ambience affects the generosity of the flavors. I'll wait til I'm back in Bar Harbor.

Pearl Oyster Bar is quintessentially American in cuisine, ambience and social milieu. This is the review I wrote after visiting it in April 2001: Pearl Oyster Bar “Come for lunch,” says Time Out’s Annual New York Eating and Drinking Guide, “when sunlight floods the narrow space. . . .When you . . . stare out at tree-lined Cornelia Street and tip back yet another succulent oyster, you’ll realize that it’s moments like this that tether you to this frantic city.” But it’s six in the evening and I’m tethered to New York for a scant week. Mary is too jet-lagged to be hungry, so this first night’s the time to brave the crowds and wait for one of the 24 bar stools. The Pearl Oyster Bar, according to its chef-owner Rebecca Charles, is “a sliver of the Maine coast in Greenwich Village.” Sliver is right. There’s one lone table in the window and two rows of stools – one with backs, facing the bar, and the other, backless and viewless, along a narrow ledge of marble with a blank wall, inches away, for company. The diners plus the hopefuls pack the space and the sidewalk outside as tightly as the cod that once populated New England’s waters. Age-wise most of them are mere codlings – they could be my grandchildren. I’m in luck, the hostess tells me. Only half an hour’s wait for a single. That leaves me free to stroll around the Village and pick up a Village Voice. A few blocks’ observation satisfies me that I saw it all in San Francisco’s North Beach half a century ago, and the items of interest in the Voice’s present incarnation, minus the interminable pages of sleazy ads, would slip easily into my watch pocket with room left over for Big Ben. And so, gratefully, back to the Pearl. The space now available consists of three wall-facing stools. A waiting couple whose turn has also come up asks me which end I’d like – or, straight-faced, would I prefer the middle? Cool. I end up furthest from the door, with just enough space for my book bag on the floor at my feet and my coat draped over the stool for me to sit on. Just like the army – take what comes and forget what doesn’t. A quick perusal of the menu reveals the famous “lobster roll”, which, according to Time Out, “rivals the one in your favorite dockside joint in Maine”. Waiting briefly for my order to arrive, I listen to the boy next to me telling his girl friend about the half-dozen small yachts he’s in the process of rebuilding. He could buy me out and not even make a ripple in his cash flow. On my other side a huge bucket of steamer clams arrives. It was listed on the blackboard behind me but not on the menu. I shouldn’t have ordered so impulsively: steamers are one of life’s great experiences and totally unavailable in all of Europe. My first course consists of half-a-dozen little neck clams on the half shell in a bed of rock salt. Delicious but, compared with the steamers, a mere amuse-gueule. The freshly-made cocktail sauce which accompanies them, however, is a triumph of spicy tomato-y glop – if they serve shrimp cocktails in Plato’s Heaven, this must be the key ingredient. My lobster roll arrives. It proves to be a generous quantity of excellent lobster meat, but smothered in mayonnaise and piled onto the sort of bun you get wrapped around a hot dog. What a waste! Next to it is a spiky fright wig of ultra-thin shoestring potatoes, a tasty exercise in conveying a maximum of crisp fat in a minimum of starch. The waiter asks if I’d like ketchup with my fries. No thanks – but could I have some more of that cocktail sauce? He looks surprised but brings me another cupful. Who would choose the commercially bottled stuff over this scarlet ambrosia? I could eat it with a spoon. Meanwhile, a whole boiled lobster, together with a serious array of surgeon’s implements, is brought to the girl on my left. She stares at it and asks her companion plaintively, “What do I do with it?” “Honey, let me show you,” I want to cry out, but slurp up my sloppy lobster roll instead. One of the two dessert choices is a praline parfait. That’s a fancy name for an ice cream sundae. It’s just like what I used to have at the soda fountain in Adams Pharmacy on Commercial Street in Provincetown, more than half a century ago. Who says nostalgia ain’t what it used to be? Fast turn-around here. After opening at six, most of the tables continue to empty on the hour throughout the evening. Without feeling rushed, I’ve finished my coffee and am back on the street within fifty minutes, a couple of pounds heavier but fifty dollars lighter. With added sales tax of 8 ¼ % and an acceptable tipping level of 15-20%, not to mention eyebrow-lifting prices for beer and wine, eating out in New York is not as cheap as it may look on the menu in the window. So what have I learned? Pearl’s Oyster Bar is one of the most universally recommended eating places in New York – where chefs go on their night off. The ingredients are ocean-fresh, the preparation simple, the presentation unpretentious. But there are certain conditions that ultra-popular restaurants must now fulfil. A whole generation of factory-farmed kids has reached maturity; and so, just as classical music must be sold to them as though it were pop, real restaurants are increasingly obliged to serve a few dishes which ape the reassuring fast food on which the moppets are weaned in early childhood and which will then see its addicts to the grave. “[Pearl’s] fried fish sandwich is the best!” proclaims a young New York chef. “And their home-made tartar sauce is unbelieveable.” A few days later my theory is confirmed by our very helpful, informed and sophisticated young waiter at Gramercy Tavern. When we tell him that we’re going to lunch at Gramercy’s sister-restaurant, the Union Square Café, he recommends their tuna burger. In The Union Square Café Cookbook, the founder/owner Danny Meyer writes, “This is one of our menu’s most successful children. . . . One day our friend Pierre Franey asked if we had ever considered doing tuna burgers. [Franey’s distinguished career culminated remuneratively in his appointment as executive chef for Howard Johnson’s – JW] We worked up a recipe which has been a signature dish ever since. The tuna burger is so popular that we actually now have to cut into our fillet mignon supply to meet the demand.” It’s a shame that this pop art product should interfere in any way with the café’s otherwise distinguished cuisine. The MacTuna Deluxe turns out to be a pan-seared mixture of ground tuna, garlic and Dijon mustard on a brioche hamburger bun, with a glaze of ginger, garlic, teriyaki sauce, honey, mustard and white wine vinegar, topped with a generous portion of shaved pickled ginger. The burger’s lid is rakishly askew and there’s a sort of classy cole slaw on the side. The top quality tuna screams in agony at having been thus desecrated and the pickled ginger sings a drunken chorus of If You Knew Sushi Like I Knew Sushi. The cole slaw remains silent, like the p in swimming. ©2001 John Whiting