HUNGRY GERALD

HG/BSK (plus enchanting Beautiful Granddaughter Sofia) arrived in Paris Dec. 31. The weary trio shopped for some basics and then snoozed for a few hours (HG rented a two bedroom apartment in the Quartier d’Europe, a neighborhood in the 8e that borders the 9e, 17e, 18e and is close to many metro lines). Showered, refreshed and hungry, the destination for New Year’s Eve dinner was Bourgogne Sud on nearby Rue de Clichy. This is a bistro that features cooking from the Burgundy region, a cuisine that is rich, flavorful and makes good use of the region’s wonderful white and red wines. The holiday menu (a steal at 38.90 euro a person) started with a plenitude of escargots. These had been removed from their shells and cooked in a special metal plate that had indentations to contain the escargots and the lush garlic-parsley-butter sauce in which they were bathed. The best snails HG ever tasted. Big. Plump. Juicy. And, not overwhelmed with garlic. There was also a big platter of excellent (reminiscent of New York’s Russ & Daughters) smoked salmon and gravlax. A good baguette to soak up the escargot butter and Poilane bread with the salmon. And, before this gala beginning, the warm and welcoming host, Gilles Breuil, plied our party with flutes of champagne and slices of lovely Rosette salami. Pouilly-Fuisse was the ideal wine to drink with the entrees. For mains, BSK had a generous plate of perfectly grilled scallops. BGS had the signature dish of boeuf bourgignon and HG dove into a big quenelle de brochet in a rich sauce nantua with abundant crayfish. Wine was Moulin-a-Vent from Beaujolais. A trio of pleasant desserts including a chestnut Mont Blanc. Digestif was marc (from Burgundy, of course). The atmosphere in Bougogne Sud was happy and jolly. Gilles Breuil keeps the great traditions of Parisian bistros alive . He is to be thanked. If you are in Paris, don’t miss Borgogne Sud.

Some 35 years ago, HG/BSK were ambling about the right bank of Paris near the Place de Victoires when they were seized with midday hunger. They entered a likely bistro, Chez Georges. Very plain spoken. Motherly waitresses. Lots of mirrors. An old fashioned, down home place filled with delicious aromas and absolutely jam packed with happy Parisians. HG/BSK had no reservation but the boss made us welcome: He installed us near a corner of the serving bar and poured some glasses of excellent Brouilly. Five minutes later, HG/BSK were seated and happily devouring a Salad Frisee. First time ever. A lush salad of crisp frisee with plenty of lardons (crisp bits of fried salt pork) and topped with a runny poached egg. An oil/vinegar/mustard dressing. Oh, my. Chez Georges is still in business serving bistro classics. Unchanged (though under new ownership). Prices, of course, have quadrupled. BSK reproduced this salad for dinner last night. Substituted good bacon for the salt pork. The salad was better than Chez Georges. Maybe it was the freshness of the greens. Maybe it was the perfection of the poached egg. BSK followed this with another classic, not from Paris but from Rhode Island: Squid with spicy vinegar peppers and garlic. HG first ate it at Hemenway’s in Providence. Hemeway’s version features breaded, deep-fried squid. BSK just gives the squid a quick saute in a super hot pan. BSK’s version is better and lighter. HG is a very fortunate fellow.

Liver. A much reviled organ here in America where it is habitually over-cooked into a grey, mealy tastelessness. In Europe, they know how to do calf’s liver correctly. It is served pink and a rasher of bacon is not obligatory but is pleasant. In Paris, a thick hunk of calf’s liver is often sauced in butter and sherry vinegar. HG has also enjoyed liver in Venice: Fegato (liver) Veneziano consists of very thin slices of liver cooked quickly in a hot pan with onions. Goes nicely with a mound of white polenta. HG/BSK never cook calf’s liver at home. Admittedly, it is not a health food and BSK takes great pains in keeping HG alive. But, once in a while, an exception can be made and BSK makes that exception with delightful chicken livers. BSK sautes them beautifully so they are brown and crisp on the outside and pink inside. A very nice lunch consists of these chicken livers with mushrooms, onions and softly scrambled, creamy eggs. HG likes to cook chicken livers in a sauce of sauteed mushrooms, onions, garlic, olive oil and tomatoes which is served over fettucine. HG believes this was a favorite dish of the great tenor, Enrico Caruso.

Le Stella is a brasserie/bistro on Avenue Victor Hugo in the very affluent, posh 16th Arondissement of Paris. Few tourists among the conservatively dressed, well mannered clientele — mainly residents of the neighborhood who are as conservative in politics as they are in dining habits. No Asian, Italian, Spanish or (heaven forbid) American influences have invaded the kitchen. The menu is pure Eternal France. As one food writer has put it: “The dishes are what Grandma would have cooked (if she was a very good cook) or what would be on the menu if you took Grandma out for Sunday dinner.” Like any proper brasserie, Stella has a vast bank of oysters, other bivalves and crustaceans outside the entry door, manned by guys with striped shirts, fisherman’s hats and shucking instruments (of course, a rugged Breton fisher-guy selling oysters is a clear signifier of the freshness of the seafood). HG/BSK have often launched their dinners there with some oysters and a bowl of bulots (sea snails) with freshly made mayonnaise. If HG wishes a light repast he moves on to pickled herring with potato salad. Then soupe de poisson (with some assertive rouille). Cheese course is rich St. Marcellin (accompanied by a glass of the very nice house Bordeaux). Finale is the sumptuous Ile Flottante. A glass of Vielle Prune (a strong digestif). At other times HG chooses steak tartare with pommes frites; tripes a la mode de caen; blanquette de veau; choucroute (a Wednesday special); tete de veau (admittedly a special taste); grilled pig’s foot. And, there are times when HG switches from an oyster starter to diving into sizzling escargots or the more delicate pleasures of smoked salmon with blini or a frisee salad. A happy choice is to share a carre d’agneau (rack of lamb) with BSK, a lady who is an adventurous eater but has not developed a passion for tripe or the interior and exterior of a calf’s head. Service, under the supervision of manager Christian, is friendly and professional. One warning: On a visit to Stella (without HG/BSK) intrepid SJ ordered the Andouilette, a house specialty. SJ thought this was a spicy, New Orleans-type pork sausage. Wrong. Stella’s Andouilette is a chitterling sausage, a sausage with rather intense barnyard odors and the distinct flavor of pig shit. Like fressing up tiny little song birds, this is one French food passion HG (and SJ) doesn’t share.

When Paris chefs try to create simple American dishes they fail miserably. Paris is in the midst of a hamburger craze and, according to HG’s informants, the Paris hamburger is laughable. It is devoid of that certain tang that is only achieved at the great American burger emporiums like Bobcat Bite in Santa Fe or Burger Joint in New York (strangely located behind a curtain in the lobby of the super-posh Parker Meridien Hotel). There is some disagreement, but HG believes great steak and fries can only be obtained at the renowned New York steak joints like Spark’s and Peter Luger’s. (Severo, a darling of Parisian critics, serves a pallid version in HG’s opinion). In the latest challenge to American supremacy, The Lobster Roll Bar has opened in a fashionable section of Paris. And, how good is their seaside treat? Fuhgeddabout it !!! Discerning American experts have described the roll as too sweet and the binding mixture as insipid. (And the price for their lobster roll is about $32). If you want to know how to prepare a great lobster roll at home check out HG’s post of Sept. 9, 2012 entitled: Attention Must Be Paid. HG’s advice to the French: Stick to what you do best — escargots and silly philosophising about amour.

Advice from HG if a “Springtime In Paris” is contemplated. Bring a good raincoat and walking shoes. Paris is a great walking city and nice surprises lurk around every corner. Rent an apartment. Cheaper than a hotel and you can feast in your own kitchen on all the great cheese, bread, charcuterie and wine that is easily available. Wine is much cheaper in Paris than in the United States, so indulge without guilt. A restaurant lunch is a much better value than dinner, so make that your meal of the day. Always nice to have some oysters (and bulots) in a brasserie in the early evening and then purchase a good roast chicken for dinner in your apartment (The places that sell roast chickens usually have tasty little roast potatoes as an accompaniment). Paris has the world’s best chocolates. Buy some and have them with red wine for dessert. A fresh baguette with French salted butter and cafe au lait should be your daily breakfast. Paris is a movie town and scores of American films are usually on view. Just check to see if the movie is “v.o.”–In English with French subtitles. Be disciplined about museums. Yes, the Louvre, Gare d’Orsay, Pompidou. Musee Picasso, Musee Rodin are great. But, be selective about what you want to see. HG and BSk rarely spend more than two hours at a museum or special exhibit. Beyond that eyes get glazed, feet get heavy and artistic insights diminish. Though New York is really a better and more cosmopolitan food town, the ambiance, sparkle — and affordability — of Paris restaurants remain unique. Your best online dining guides are: Alexander Lobrano’s “Hungry For Paris”; John Talbott’s Paris and the blog Paris Update. If you log into Paris Update you will not only get the latest on dining, shopping, etc., but you can access David Jaggard’s “C’est Ironique,” a witty and perceptive chronicle of life in Paris. Jaggard is a journalist, translator and composer. He’s lived in Paris since the 80’s and is one of the funniest writers around. Don’t miss him. Bon appetit!!

Maille, the French Dijon style mustard, which has been produced for 266 years, has an essential place in HG and BSK’s pantry. Although it is far better than the Made-in-the-USA Grey Poupon, the Maille mustard available in the better American groceries is not as pungent and flavorful as the Maille HG buys in Paris. It has been toned down for American tastes. To be walloped by the real Maille taste you have to go the Boutique Maille in Paris (it’s very close to the Madeleine church on the Right Bank, the church that resembles a Greek temple). At the Boutique you can buy mustard the way Paris foodies do — straight from a tap and consumed before time can steal any mustard power away. You can taste some interesting mustard flavors like chablis, honey and grape juice; white wine, apricot, blue cheese, walnut and rose. The obliging clerks provide little pretzels for tasting purposes. The basic Maille mustards (not all are exported): Dijon Originale (the smooth mustard one usually associates with Dijon); Whole Grain Old Style (great with cold cuts); Honey Dijon (nice with liver sausages); Mustard with Horseradish (try it with a choucroute); Rich Country With Cinnamon and Ginger (HG likes it with grilled Tandoori-style chicken). Americans usually think of mustard as a condiment to be squeezed or spread onto hot dogs or ham-and-cheese sandwiches. The French, however, use mustard in scores of sauces and dishes — including desserts. None of the Maille products works with Chinese food. For Chinese purposes, HG mixes Keen’s English Mustard Powder (been around since 1742) with vinegar or water. And, when HG is in the USA and powerful French Maille isn’t available, HG uses Russian or Polish mustard. These say “Hot and Spicy” or “Extra Hot” on the labels, It’s truth in advertising. These mustards stand up to the most garlic and pepper laden sausages.

Lots of turmoil in Europe about adding horse meat to hamburger (and not telling consumers about it until they whinny, of course). HG presumes the French are amused. They have been eating horse meat for years and there are loads of horse butchers in Paris. Horseflesh fanciers claim the meat is healthier (less fatty) than beef and has a pleasant flavor. HG has had horse meat carpaccio (lean raw slices with a bit of olive oil and shavings of Parmesan) in Italy and found it very tasty. HG has never said neigh to seconds of this delicacy. HG has also had donkey stew in Italy (long simmered in wine and served with polenta). HG does not share the American anxiety and antipathy concerning the consumption of horse, donkey, rabbit, frog, snail, animal (and bird) innards and heads. HG has had opossum and squirrel in some southern stews (burgoo and brunswick). Gamy and good. There is a line that HG will not cross — HG will not eat anything that barks or purrs. So there will be no noshing on the dogs and cats that are considered delicacies in some parts of China. And while we are at it…No to rats and snakes. HG is just too much of a wuss.

Yes, when HG is in Paris for a two week stay there are moments when HG becomes tired of French food (admittedly, it takes a lot of French food to make HG tired). Diving into other cuisines in Paris isn’t so simple. Obviously, Algerian, Tunisian and other Middle-Eastern food is commonplace and delicious. Reasonably priced Italian restaurants are awful: Pasta is overcooked. Risotto is gummy. The really good Italian places are astronomically expensive and, of course, totally lack the jolly, noisy ambiance of good Rome and New York Italian restaurants. Pizza? Fuhgeddabout it. One taste of Paris pizza and you know you’re not in New Jersey. Chinese food? There are some snob joints that are pricey and very ordinary. Good, simple Chinese eateries are in obscure neighborhoods and one has to shlep endlessly for a good meal. Vietnamese is another story however; cheap eateries can be found in abundance in Belleville, the 13th and in the outskirts and are lifesavers for students, backpackers, taxi and truck drivers. But, they don’t compare to the top flight Vietnamese restaurants in New York, California and — surprisingly — Denver. Paris is now in the midst of a hamburger craze. Better than Burger King but costly and just passable. Parisians tout Severo as a great steak house. It’s not. Not in the same class as Palm, Spark’s and other top New York steakeries (Must admit, however, the Severo’s steak tartare is world class and tops any in New York). HG’s Paris sources tout two unusual ethnic restaurants that will please foie-jaded palates. One is a very quirky, tiny Izakaya restaurant, a Japanese specialist in sake and tapas (plus a tasty sukiyaki). Run by a gentleman named Takamoto, it is Cave 27 located on Rue Lamarcq, Montmartre. Takamoto is a very versatile guy. Expert equestrian. A flamenco guitarist and singer. Flamenco artists often come in and perform. The other ethnic place is El Nopal, a few blocks from Canal St. Martin. Mexican, Tiny (two stools). Americans who have tried it say the tacos, burritos, quesadillas, salsas are the real deal. HG will pass on this one when in Paree. It seems ludicrous for a New Mexico guy to be eating a taco in the City of Light.

The year was 1966, HG and BSK were off on their first European trip. Five days in Paris. Five days in London. They were accompanied by two-year-old Lesley, their remarkably precocious, articulate (and, needless to say) beautiful daughter. The dollar was strong. Stayed at the Hotel Pont-Royal on Rue du Bac in Saint Germain des Pres. The hotel was arty, picturesque, nicely shabby (and cheap). Now it is super posh following numerous expensive makeovers (there’s a Jöel Robuchon restaurant on the premises). Steeped in intellectual nostalgia for the Existentialists HG and BSK’s first stop was at Cafe Flore. During the German occupation, intellectuals gathered at the well heated Flore rather than their pre-war cafe-of-choice Deux Magots, the other great St. Germain cafe, because Deux Magots was favored by German officers. (Little did HG and BSK know at the time that they needn’t have traveled far for their nod to intellectual greatness as the basement bar of the Pont-Royal was the hangout of the most advanced intellectuals, political engages, writers and philosophers. It was where Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir held forth when they were not pontificating at the Cafe Flore.) Little Lesley had her first Croque Monsieur. Loved it and subsisted on those sandwiches for the entire Paris visit. HG and BSK were enthralled by the style and elegance of the Parisians. It was April in Paris. The costume for young women was a vivid, clingy sheath and a short leather jacket. (These items — plus a tweedy topcoat — were immediately purchased by BSK and, of course, BSK was the height of casual chic.) In order to fit into the Paris scene, HG visited a Boulevard Saint Germain shop for some stylish suits and a blazer. The welcome to HG was cool. Then HG had an insight. HG spoke to the store manager in Yiddish. Everything changed. HG was treated like a long lost son. Received a discount. Clothes were instantly altered and delivered within a few hours. Stylishly clad in their new duds, the duo dined at the famed Laperouse, a restaurant renowned for high cuisine and discreet private rooms for amorous gourmands. HG and BSK ordered badly. Heavy, heavy cream and butter sauces. BSK became ill and was laid up for a day. HG and little Lesley explored the lovely streets and squares of the district, pausing before many enticing shop windows. Naturally, there were many stops for Vin Rouge for HG and un chocolat chaud for Lesley. Once BSK’s health and appetite returned, the trio was off to museums; Luxembourg Gardens (Lesley was delighted by the puppet show); a stroll through the Tuileries to the Louvre; a visit to a toy store an the Champs Elysee, etc. On the last night in Paris a baby sitter took Lesley to a carousel (and a dinner of a Croque Monsieur and hot chocolate, naturally). HG and BSK dined at a Left Bank bistro. A bottle of very good, young Beaujolais. The waiter brought a platter of thick, white steamed asparagus (first of the Spring) wrapped in a linen napkin. A big bowl of Sauce Mousseline (better than Hollandaise). Heaven. This was followed by gigot, rosy slices of young, roasted lamb. An abundance of perfect pomme frites. Next course was a small green salad with a wedge of ripe camembert. Dessert was bowls of wild strawberries with creme fraiche. Then, strong demi tasse and (for HG) a snifter of cognac. It was the perfect meal.

London was not an anti-climax. HG and BSK had smoked salmon and Dover sole at Wheeler’s. Traditional roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding at Simpson’s in the Strand. Afternoon tea at Brown’s. A visit to the National Museum. Strolls in the beautiful parks. An amplitude of fish and chips. For Anglophiles like HG and BSK it was the culmination of many childhood dreams. This was the time of Mod London and so a visit to Carnaby Street, the center of Mod fashion, was obligatory. Here, the proud parents kitted Lesley out in striped bell bottom trousers and a vivid safari jacket. There was universal agreement that she was the hippest, cutest little girl in Britain.