HUNGRY GERALD

Unless you’re a Russian oligarch, Goldman Sachs partner or Middle Eastern oil sheik, caviar has become unaffordable. HG is talking about the real stuff: Osetra, Beluga, Sterlet or Sevruga from the Black Sea. For HG, a wistful memory. But, all is not lost. HG can still feel regal by indulging in scrambled eggs on buttered toast topped with modestly priced (but very good) red salmon caviar. Proper ingredients are essential: Fresh eggs from a humane hen house, high quality sweet butter, sweet cream, creme fraiche (Whole Foods carries a good quality brand), Pepperidge Farm Thin White Bread and, of course, good quality red salmon caviar (Zabar’s will overnight it to you).

Melt generous amount of butter in your saucepan under very low heat. Gently scramble eggs with sweet cream (HG likes to add a few drops of Tabasco). Add eggs to saucepan (keeping heat low). Swirl eggs in pan, adding a bit more sweet cream. You want very creamy eggs formed into gentle curds. Top the white bread toast with eggs, add caviar and a spoonful of creme fraiche. HG likes this dish with chilled Prosecco or Gruet New Mexico Blanc de Blanc. HG doesn’t want to be a billionaire. HG just wants to eat like one.

Says HG: If you want great at-home dining lease an apartment in a less than posh neighborhood. Expensive clothing stores (Prada, Gucci, etc., etc. ) have pushed out the mom-and-pop bakers, butchers, cheese, etc. shops. In Paris’ 9th and 18th the little guys reign supreme and a baguette, fromage, a roast chicken with roast potatoes are always footsteps away.

London’s takeaway soup and sandwich shops are super good, super cheap. HG likes EAT in particular. Very good pho and hoisin duck soups. When counterman adds some extra chili, London damp disappears from the bones. Tea with scones, clotted cream and marmalade is a London blessing. In American terms, good French wine is very cheap. Britain’s Oddbins wine chain is what US needs.

Parisians have become obsessed with the American hamburger but, alas, they never seem to get it right. Besides scarf tying, Parisians (male and female) are expert in walking very fast while eating a baguette sandwich and talking on cell phone between bites. An American would choke.

Yes, HG is shrinking (vertically) but the French and English are surely getting taller. Very fat people are exported to the USA. One can still eat well in a modest Parisian bistro for a small price. A comparable London meal will cause the credit card to sizzle.

Canned baked beans (and tinned mushrooms!) are part of a proper English breakfast. Everyone must have a minor perversion.

Tourist or native, one is always met with courtesy in London and Paris.

An HG opinion: Paris movie audiences are hip, quiet and polite. Makes movie going a delight.

HG and BSK haven’t been in London for ten years. The changes are immense. The city is shining, crackling with energy, spruced up, diverse. A true world city. Makes Paris look a bit diminished and dingy.

Off to the Victoria and Albert. Wandered the sculpture galleries. Wonderful Rodins and Canovas. Outstanding collection of postwar Britons (Eric Gill, etc.) not seen much in USA. Design section with all of the usual suspects (Mies, Corbu, Aalto, Breuer, Ruhlmann, Hoffman,etc.). Beautiful screen of lacquer cubes by Eileen Gray and one of chrome and mirror by Syrie Maugham. Timeless glamour approached in two different ways by two very different female sensibilities. Came away with renewed appreciation of inventive genius of Israeli/Brit Ron Arad. (HG must confess, however, that nothing tops the bravura rhinoceros bar by Lalanne at the Paris Arts Decoratifs).

Tea. Scones. Clotted cream. Marmalade. Strawberry jam. HG and BSK nibbled it all in the V & A’s civilized complex of cafes. A glimpse at the state of English dining 2011: The cafe has a tea bar, of course, but another counter of French treats like pates, terrines, celeriac and lentil salads, etc. A counter offers some very good looking hot meat pies and steak and kidney pies, British staples. There’s deli, fresh salads, soups, etc. All fresh. All savory. This is London mass feeding today.

Dinner at J. Sheekey, the venerable theater district seafood restaurant off Leicester Square. J. Sheekey is a collection of small, nicely lit old rooms lined with red leather banquettes and theatrical photos. Noisy buzz in the air. Deft, professional (but warm) service. Chiiled Muscadet. HG and BSK shared eight oysters from various spots along the British coast. Better than the best of Paris (but missed those French bulots). Then a dish of two razor clams. The long shells were filled with tender strips of the clam, very thin crisps chips of Spanish chorizo, fava beans, chopped herbs, fragrant olive oil. No garlic. Nothing to interfere with the purity of the dish. This was followed by perfectly done John Dory, moist, firm and flaky. The fillets nested on a bit of whipped celeriac and were topped by sea kale and a few long strips of poached celeriac. This was seafood cuisine that followed the Mies dictums: Less Is More. God Is In The Details. Need HG say more? HG got robust with a Welsh Rarebit (splash of Worcestershire) and a glass of Spanish Tempranillo. Sweet Italian Muscat for BSK. Finale: Salted caramel ice cream.

Home to sleep the sleep of the good, the pure and the blessed.

Perfect. Sun. Cloudless sky. A walk around the Assemblee Nationale to Musee Rodin. Then an amble through the beautiful garden dotted with Rodin masterpieces. HG and BSK were blown away by the temporary Henry Moore show. It focuses on his drawings, maquettes and the bits of bones and shells that inspired this extraordinary artist. The show brings you into his studio and lets you participate in the artistic process. The plaster works are breathtaking. The interplay of interior and exterior and concave to convex is riveting. In many ways, the best pieces are an homage to women.

HG and BSk dined at Rech in the 17th. This is a traditional brasserie, founded in 1925, that had gone downhill. It has been reinvigorated by the brilliant Alain Ducasse (he has also revamped Benoit and Aux Lyonnais). Cut to the chase: HG and BSK had the best seafood meal of their lives. It started with a few bits of salmon mousse (a freebie to whet appetites) and continued with brandade. HG loves brandade, that lush combination of salt cod, garlic, sweet cream and potatoes. This was a brandade that broke new ground. Not a puree (the cod retained its integrity). Not a garlic explosion (a restrained amount). The key word was: Balance. The result: Delight. This was followed by raie grenobloise: A thick juicy tranche of skate swimming in a (once more) perfectly balanced sauce of butter, capers, parsley and lemon juice. Accompanied by a silken potato puree (enhanced by generous thin slices of black truffle) and caramelized endive. Wow!! The wine was our favorite Muscadet. Then the famous Rech camembert ( with glasses of Pomerol). Dessert: Vanilla ice cream enclosed by crisp pastry. The grace note: Warm bittersweet chocolate poured by the maitre d’.

Thank you chef Julien Dumas for your artistry. Thank you Maitre d’ Samy Mir-Beghin for yout warm, deft service. You created dining magic.

Lots and lots of walking today. Started in the Montparnasse neighborhood where HG and BSK walked to the Musee and Atelier Zadkine. Ossip Zadkine was a cubist sculptor and painter whose works mark many Paris public areas (adjacent to Cafe Deux Magots and in the Luxembourg Gardens). HG met Zadkine during one of his U.S. visits in the 1950’s. A lovely man. The museum, studio and sculpture garden are small but beautifully organized. Zadkine’s work holds up — it is strong Cubism, rhythmic and powerful.

HG was sorry to ever see only one work–a painting– by Zadkine’s wife, Valentine Prax. HG was gifted with a beautiful drawing by Prax in 1952. As fresh today as it was almost 60 years ago. Zadkine and Prax are very celebrated in Paris but virtually unknown in the United States. A pity.

After viewing the Zadkines (and the Prax), HG and BSK strolled around the Luxembourg Gardens where forsythia was in bloom. Watched the boules players, the kids on ponies and the other sights of this most exquisite and civilized park. HG and BSK retraced their first visit to Paris footsteps of 46 years ago along the Boulevard St. Germain to Rue Du Bac. Lots of street music along the way. An exuberant, young (not very good) brass ensemble outside the Luxembourg gate and a very good Dixieland group of oldsters outside the St. Germain church. A cliche: Where did the years go? Back to the loft and a chilled bottle of very good Sancerre. Much red wine, pate de campagne, fresh baguettes await at dinner Chez HG and BSK. Hemingway called Paris “a moveable feast.” Surely it is a feast for all of the senses.

The Yiddish word is “haimish.” It means homey, down home, warm, friendly, relax-you’re- with- family. “Haimish” is the apt description of La Boule Rouge, the Tunisian-Jewish couscous restaurant where HG and BSK dined last night. “Dined” is wrong. “Gorged” is more like it. Even Miss Moderation BSK overate. The meal started with the table covered with salads and an unsweetened cake of cheese and hard boiled eggs. Then came a platter of perfect couscous; a caldron of robust broth with carrots, zucchini, turnips, sweet potatoes; a super-big portion of lamb shoulder with chickpeas; black beans in an an unusual, addictive Middle Eastern sauce; pinto beans in another tasty sauce. Bowls of pungent, but not too blazing harissa. The wine was Tavel. The meal ended with mint tea and honeyed, pistachio pastries. BSK staggered and moaned. “I ate the whole thing. I’m going to die.” BSK survived and had some croissants, English marmalade and Greek yogurt for breakfast. The stomach (as Woody Allen commented about the heart), is a very resilient organ.

Friday (Day Seven) started with heavy rain which continued on and off. Not to worry. Hats and raincoats. Unfurled umbrellas. HG and BSK were off to the far reaches of the posh 16th to see the great Monet show at the Musee Marmottan. (A wonderful walk through elegant little parks and squares surrounded by the opulent apartment dwellings of the very rich). All of the museum’s 137 Monets were on display plus works of his pals and mentors—Renoir, Morisot, etc. A startling show. Yes, there were water lilies. But, there were wonderful portraits, caricatures and the full range of his paintings of the pond and garden at Giverny. Flowers. Weeping willows. The Japanese bridge.

Back to Montmartre to Cave des Abbesses for oysters and wine. On the carte tonight at Chez HG and BSK is Italian bufala mozzarellla. Piquillo peppers. Jambon Persille. Jambon blanc. Salad of poached eggs, lardons, lettuce and white anchovies. Palmiers. Creme brulee. Camembert. Pinot Noir. Oh, well. C’est la vie.

A stroll in the sun. Brief. Weather instantly reversed to pleasant violet-tinged gray. HG and BSK attended to late morning business and then off to late lunch at Chez Grenouille. Fabulous food. A gratin of escargots. Usually, ordering escargots is an excuse to convey a lot of butter and garlic to the mouth. Not at Grenouille. A score of escargots (no shells) in a reduced and fragrant wine sauce, covered with a chiffonade of herbs. Eggs with butter and cream baked briefly in a red cocotte. Slices of wild duck (rare) on a bed of tiny green lentils. The specialty of the house (possibly the best in Paris); Tete de Veau. Not an American favorite (but much loved by HG), this dish is a composite of all the tasty bits in a cow’s head –tongue, brains, cheeks, etc. At Grenouille, these perfectly cooked elements are combined with morels and enhanced by sauce gribiche. There was a big bowl of roast potatoes (flavored with flakes of Maldon sea salt) on the table. For dessert: A gently baked round of camembert with shavings of black truffle. The wine: St. Amour from the Beaujolais region. Perfect.

Movie night at the comfiest cinema in Paris—Pathe Wepler. Saw Clint Eastwood’s “Hereafter.” Flawed but remarkable movie making. Very memorable tsunami scenes. Bedtime snack of Irish smoked salmon, creme fraiche and Sancerre. Just another day at the office, Paris style.

Can it be? Oui!! Mon Dieu!! (end of extremely limited French). Sunshine. A Parisian rarity. A sunny February day. Lunch scheduled at Chez Grenouille (so good… had to go back…a report later). Shall HG and BSK stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens and admire the Zadkine sculptures? Or Place des Vosges? Or Canal St. Martin? Wine authority and journalist/author par excellence Peter Hellman suggests visit to food court at Galeries Lafayette department store for Spanish ham and other outstanding items. His word is HG’s command so a visit is scheduled for Saturday. Tonight is movie night: True Grit. Coen brothers are HG and BSK faves. Delights abound.

Pompidou Centre today. Picasso, Giacometti, Arp, Brancusi, Leger, Braque, Matisse, Balthus, Bonnard, Gris, Chagall, Dufy, Dubuffet and all the other French greats and semi-greats (okay, many were born in Spain, Russia, etc.). Also, a new Rothko acquisition. Some thoughts: French art ran out of steam after Picasso and the Americans took over. Pompidou is wonderful. Beautifully lit and displayed and organized. But, compared to MOMA it is provincial. Balthus’s “Alice” remains shockingly pornographic. Laurens and Duchamp-Villon (not displayed very much in USA) give HG great pleasure.

Annoying dinner mishap. Arrived at Cave Beauvau, much touted wine bar, and found out they were not serving dinner. A mixup. Off to Le Vaudeville for briny oysters, Muscadet, a huge slice of cod with truffled potatoes. The best herring in Paris with warm potato salad. Favorite dessert (you’ll never guess): Ile Flottante. So, HG and BSK demolished hunger pangs in style.

Paris excels in everything but plumbing. However, HG and BSK have lucked out with their Montmartre loft rental. A shower with great water pressure and an abundance of hot water. Other sanitary appliances are also first rate. This is not a Paris common place occurrence. So, after blazing showers, perusing recent e-mail, peeking into the Herald Tribune, HG and BSK went off on a long meandering walk of window shopping and architecture admiring culminating at their arrival at Chez Grenouille., a cozy bistro on Rue Blanche in the 9th Arondissement.

Reports on Chez Grenouille. a.k.a. The Frog, from the Paris critics were good but left HG and BSK unprepared for a knock your socks off, prize winner of a lunch. HG experienced cooking that had the lustiness of bistro cuisine and the creativity of Michelin-starred restaurants. BSK started with a bowl of scrambled eggs (BSK called them softly shirred eggs) infused with black truffle juice and topped with shavings of black truffle. BSK followed that with a roulade of suckling pig interwoven with slices of foie gras. BSK ended with espreso and a biscuit. HG started with a slice of tete de veau (head cheese) that transcended the genre. This can often be a rubbery, vinegary concoction. Not at Chez Grenouille.. This was a voluptuous concoction of delicious chunks of ham and pork bound together with a tasty forcemeat. This delight was followed by a plate of sweetbreads and morels in a flavorful (not heavy) cream sauce. On the table was excellent bread and a big bowl of roast potatoes (there seemed to be a modest hint of duck fat) with crisp skins and tender interiors. HG finished with baba a rhum (a generous snifter of extra rum was provided to give it an extra bang) served with a mini-mountain of whipped cream). HG and BSK’s wine choice was a remarkable Cotes du Rhone.

The meal was then walked off. BSK did some shopping for grandkids. HG read the London Review of Books while sipping a chilled framboise eau de vie at Lux Bar. Then off to Pathe Wepler to see Black Swan. Ms. Portman looks like a sure Oscar winner. Back to the loft for some Tavel and a light snack before bed time.

Hey! This is life. Someone’s got to live it. Might as well be HG and BSK.