First Day of School

OK, I just have to say it. I have NO idea how chefs do it. My first day of school lasted but 3 1/2 hours, yet I am already exhausted.

Let me start from the beginning. Up at 6AM since I have to be at the school around 8AM. I figured that after a shower and walking to the school from my apartment (it's about 1 1/2 miles away), that I'd probably find a nice little café along the way for a quick croissant and a grand café crème (pretty much a cappuccino) . The light rain that fell yesterday has left the city feeling fresh, and the sun is still not fully up. The air is cool, but in a refreshing way, not cold. Few people are out and about yet, just a few men in each of the lighted cafés and bars along the way having their espresso and a cigarette.

A few homeless people packing up for the day. Perhaps an odd thing to note, but quite a few of the homeless had dogs - but not like those in San Francisco. While our homeless tend to have pit bulls and big wolf-like dogs, every single one of the homeless dogs I saw this morning were cute little dogs - more like you'd find among the old-moneyed on Russian Hill or in Presidio Heights.

So on to my cute little café for my croissant and grand crème. You can find these places all over the city - tiny, with just enough space for a bar and an espresso machine and a few small tables inside and, more often than not, a few outside on the sidewalk as well. I suppose that I should note that most of these sidewalks on the little side streets are little more than 3 feet wide. These sidewalk tables are tiny.

The one I decided on was just down the street from the school on Rue Cambon. Also typical of Paris, one of the walls was beautiful and old rough-hewn random-sized stone, lending an aire of history to the otherwise new and hip bar/café. Warm orangey-red fabric drum lamps hung from the ceiling, also warming up the feel of the interior. I wasn't really looking for the perfect breakfast, just a nice, non-smoky, place to chill with my café and croissant. This place fit the bill.

Walked from there to the school, was met by the woman with whom I'd been corresponding for 3 months (not to worry, honey, just business ;^), Marie Fleur De Cosnac. Friendly, welcoming, and with impeccable English (although I did ask her "Français s'il vous plait", she gave me lowdown on the class, lead me to the laundry deep in the underground warrens of the Ritz to get my uniform, and then on to the classrooms.

In my class of 7 students, aside from yours truly, there was a Malaysian, two Japanese, an Australian (you hear that, Dylan?!), a French woman, and another Californian...but despite being from San Diego, she and her husband have been living in France for 3 years.

The chef, Christophe, was fabulous. Since most of the class were native English speakers, he conducted the whole class in English, but he had an assistant who was French and had lived in Colorado for quite some time, with perfect English as well.


Chef Christophe was beyond competent, gave clear instructions and walked us through all of the steps needed to make veal stock and veal jus, and from those, veal glace, and demi-glace. We also created a crab jus which he then showed us how to make into a bisque if so desired. The main dish we created was a Magret de Canard (duck breast) seasoned with 4-pepper coating and an orange sauce from caramelized orange juice with a balsamic vinegar deglaze and veal stock finished with blanched julienned orange and lemon peel. Finally, we made a mushroom soup with leeks and bouquet garni.

So that's the list. If that seems like a lot to do in one sitting, you're right. It was. Chef Christophe's energy level was unbelievable - constantly on the move for our 3 1/2 hour class. We were all doing, watching, tasting, photographing, and scrambling to take notes as fast as we could. When class was over and we'd all caught our breath and tasted each of the magnificent creations that Chef Christophe had wrought, we packed up little care packages for ourselves of Canard au l'orange, Soupe de Champignon, et Crabe Bisque and headed for the lockers.

We have a great group of people - I think that I'll enjoy working with them all and we've even agreed to get a group of us together this weekend and practice our sauce making skills. In the meantime, I think I'm going to practice napping.

A bientôt, mes amis!

Made it

Bienvenue a Paris, mon amis!

 

Well, I am finally here. Whew.  As if direct flights weren't long enough.  I guess I can't complain.  Getting tickets on Continental using frequent flyer mileage saves a big hunk o' change, so I suppose that dealing with the layover in the Houston isn't really too much to ask.  I did, after all, find a softcover copy of Julia Child's book My Life in France at the Houston International Airport, so perhaps it was meant to be.  Although Julia had the romance of arriving at Le Havre by ship (after what sounded like a truly tortuous crossing), I simply glided into Charles De Gaulle airport watching Ocean's 13 on my little video monitor while simultaneously reading The Economist (just had to throw that in there to give myself at least a skosh of intellectual cred).

 

Both of my flights were, shockingly, right on time both taking off and landing.  Continental, equally shockingly, even served food for which they didn't charge extra on the flight from San Francisco to Houston.  I just can't bring myself to call it George Bush International Airport.  I know it's the name, but after all, I still call that small airport in Washington D.C. "National Airport" - when I think about Ronald Reagan, all I can think about is him saying that "trees cause pollution" and that when it comes to kids getting healthy lunch options at school, "ketchup is a vegetable".  I know that this must seem like a digression, but isn't it cool how I brought it back to food?

 

By the way, Ronnie (and yes, I know that you're on the other side now), ketchup is made from tomatoes...and a tomato is a fruit.

 

OK, back to Paris.

 

Landed at CDG right smack on time...no...actually, we were 15 to 20 minutes early!  But. There always has to be a but, huh?  After exiting the plane and walking into the terminal, we were funneled into a hall that lead to customs (Douane) and baggage claim.  But there was a backup in the hall.  At first we were walking, but 100' down the hall we stop behind what looks like an endless line of people.  Although nobody bothered to announce the problem to us, apparently somebody had abandoned (or forgot) a bag in the customs area and they were waiting for the police to come and take it away for disposal.  What was the effect?  Nearly 500 people were standing in this hall for nearly 45 minutes.  Grrrr.

 

OK - so they wave us through customs quickly - that was nice.  Baggage claim was just what it is everywhere, slow, but the bag did eventually show up - and not even the last on the conveyor!  From there, I buzzed right out to get some cash using my nearly worthless US dollars and find my way into Paris.  Waited on line for the ATM about 10 min...only to have it go offline as I walked up. Double-grrrr.  Finally got it working and pulled out a stack o' Euros for the cab.  Now I was supposed to meet the property manager for the apartment I rented at 11:30, but even though I got in at 9:20AM, the 45 min wait in the hall, the 15 min wait for the cab, and the 6MPH traffic all the way in to Paris meant that I was nearly an hour late to meet her.  I suppose that I could have used the French GSM phone that my friend Bill lent me to call and let her know that I'd be late, but...er...well...I guess I forgot the phone back in SF. DOH!!!

 

After all that, I did find her, I hauled my bag up the old stairs to the apartment, and found that when you access Google from a French IP address, it always comes up with google.fr.  No duh.  Maybe I just need that nap.

 

Pierre and Sophie's Favorite...and ours too!

OK, haven't left the states yet, but already I feel like I'm in Paree. Our friends Michael and Iana are getting married this weekend and Iana's far-flung famille have crossed the oceans to be here. Among them, plusieurs Parisiennes. Yesterday, I took two of her cousines on a quick tour of San Francisco and we discovered, to our mutual amazement, that we both had the same favorite restaurant in Paris...Chez L'ami Jean (see the link).

Now l'ami Jean has been written up in the NY Times (after, I should note, Katy and I went there for my birthday last year), so it's not really a secret. But it's also not really well known - even by Parisians. An unassuming Basque pub-like restaurant, it's hidden away on a dark and quiet street in la septieme (7th) arronidissement, not far from the Eiffel Tower. Walk in and you'd think you were just in a noisy and smokey neighborhood bar. But sit down for some food...zut alors! If you can get a reservation, you're in for a treat.

Sophie and I waxed philosophical about l'ami Jean's respect for terroir and the sophistication of their preparation. What really blew me away was that Sophie actually worked there for a while as a line cook! Wow. What a job. What a coincidence. She's my hero.

Although l'ami Jean looks like a smoky pub, the food preparation and presentation are more like you would expect in a Michelin 2-star restaurant. The problem with the whole star rating (and Sophie would back me up on this), is that Michelin factors in sophisticated service and room design into their ratings. So what happens? The highest-rated restaurants tend to be hush-hush quiet and reserved, elegantly designed, and...well...frankly, not that comfortable - you just can't relax and enjoy your food and your company and exclaim "Mon Dieu! Cette foie est magnifique!!!". Or however you would properly say that in French (my apologies to all true francophones).

Ahhhh...I am definitely looking forward to a dinner there with Pierre and Sophie while I'm residing dans la cite d'amour in a few semaines! Merci Iana!

Why start Mrfrancophile's blog now?

Because ma famme has been most generous and has given me the freedom to pursue a lifelong dream to pursue training as a chef. I love to eat, so why not cook - then you can definitely get it hot off the stove. I've put this off for years with one excuse or another...can't take the time off work...can't afford it...can't speak French. But my wife, just like our good friends at the Nike megalopolis, said "just do it."

So I am.

Right after my sister-in-law gets married on Oct 27th to her gourmand partner-in-crime, I jet off for gay Paris for the six-week César Ritz course at the Ecole Ritz Escoffier, off the dark back alley behind the ritzy Ritz hotel on the Place Vendome. I'm a little intimidated due to my limited knife skills, short attention span, and abysmal command of the lyrical French langue, but the classes are translated into English and there are no tests! I believe the French term that best describes that would be "boo-ya!".

Ever since I was 8 years old, I loved to bake. Since my mom wasn't really into baking, someone had to pick up the slack. Over the years, I worked my way up from yellow cake (no, Mr. President, not that kind of yellow cake) to flourless chocolate tortes, crème anglaise, and mocha hazelnut dacquoises. Yup, me likee the bakee. What's not to like? Butter, oeufs, chocolate, sucre. All the good stuff. The 3 food groups, actually. Fat, Sugar, and Caffeine.

But mon amour is a little bit more focused on health.

So now we buy only organic produce and dairy whenever possible, cook most of our meals out of Cooking Light (which are actually pretty spectacular recipes, for the most part - very flavorful while less fattening than your typical Gourmet or Bon Appétit fare) and all around don't bake that much anymore. So what does this mean now that I'm heading to the Grand Temple de Cuisine? Well...

OUT Plan A: Pursue Certificate de Patisserie

IN Plan B: Pursue Certificate de Cuisine

Hey, what the hell. I figure that if I'm a better cook all around, it works out better for everyone, whether it's super light and healthy or pork belly stuffed in lobster wrapped with bacon in a raspberry citrus brown butter (oh sure - it sounds gross to you now, but just wait until I make it!).

So now it's just pay the bills, pack the bags, arrange for the taxi at Charles de Gaulle, and spend some quality time with the girl before I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Details as they happen, mon amis!

J