In France, cooking is a serious art form and a national sport.
If you drop the lamb, just pick it up. Who’s going to know?
But my favorite remained the basic roast chicken. What a deceptively simple dish. I had come to believe that one can judge the quality of a cook by his or her roast chicken. Above all, it should taste like chicken: it should be so good that even a perfectly simple, buttery roast should be a delight.
It seemed that in Paris you could discuss classic literature or architecture or great music with everyone from the garbage collector to the mayor.
To think that we might easily have gone through life not knowing each other, missing all this free flow of love and ideas and warmth and sharing...
The German birds didn’t taste as good as their French cousins, nor did the frozen Dutch chickens we bought in the local supermarkets. The American poultry industry had made it possible to grow a fine-looking fryer in record time and sell it at a reasonable price, but no one mentioned that the result usually tasted like the stuffing inside of a teddy bear.
Our bodies hummed with contentment.
After we’d moved into 81, we had placed an order for a phone, and waited. First a man came by to see if we lived where we said we did. Then two men visited to make a “study” of our situation. Then another man appeared to find out if we really wanted a phone. The process was very French, and made me laugh, especially when I thought of how quickly such a transaction would have taken place in the States.
I suddenly discovered that cooking was a rich and layered and endlessly fascinating subject. The best way to describe it is to say that I fell in love with French food- the tastes, the processes, the history, the endless variations, the rigorous discipline, the creativity, the wonderful people, the equipment, the rituals.
The Parisian grocers insisted that I interact with them personally: if I wasn’t willing to take the time to get to know them and their wares, then I would not go home with the freshest legumes or cuts of meat in my basket. They certainly made me work for my supper – but, oh, what suppers!
I was in pure, flavorful heaven at the Cordon Bleu.
In fact, I didn’t like traveling first class at all. Yes, it was nice to have a bathroom in a hotel and fine service at breakfast... but none of it seemed foreign enough for me. It was all so pleasantly bland that I felt as if I were back on the SS America. I don’t like it when everyone speaks perfect English; I’d much rather struggle with my phrasebook.
Of course, an old wine is like an old lady, and traveling can disturb her.
Ooh, those lovely roasted, buttery French chickens, they were so good and chickeny!
You never forget a beautiful thing that you have made,” he said. “Even after you eat it, it stays with you – always.” I.
The service was deft and understated, and the food was spectacular. It was expensive, but, as Paul said, “you are so hypnotized by everything there that you feel grateful as you pay the bill.
If a tourist enters a food stall thinking he’s going to be cheated, the salesman will sense this and obligingly cheat hi. But if a Frenchman senses that a visitor is delighted to be in his store, and takes a genuine interest in what is for sale, then he’ll just open up like a flower.
The spectacle of this lovely nation, with its great agricultural wealth and its cultural riches, continually stepping on its own toes, made me wonder if France suffered a kind of national neurosis.
An asbestos mat, if necessary.
If it weren’t for Julia Child, I might never have moved past brown rice and tofu. Worse, I might still be afraid of being less than perfect.
I like to cook for 2, or for 4 or 6 at the most 8 people. Beyond that you get into quantity cooking and that is just not my field at all. The last time we had 12 for a sit-down dinner and I did all the cooking, and Paul and I did all the setting up, serving, and washing up afterwards, I said never again. I’ll do a buffet, but I don’t consider that civilized dining; it is feeding, and I like to sit down at a well-set table.