The Beginning of the End

In French, “bonne femme” refers to a grandma-like figure or someone from the countryside. I would give some examples but the “gardienne” might get upset if I refer to her as such!

When I think of western grandma cooking, I imagine lots of butter and lots of love. But mostly lots of butter, which is exactly what the recipe for “Filet de Sole Bonne Femme” (sole filet with “bonne femme” sauce) calls for. A ton of butter. And cream.

Given my history of getting viciously poked by grandmas of all nationalities to encourage me to eat more (no need – I love to eat already!) and my experience of getting yelled at by the chef because I scraped off half the Béchamel sauce from my soft-boiled eggs, I thought I would hate this dish. Way too rich.

Unfortunately for my figure, one bite into the tender white flesh nesting on top of a bed of finely diced shallots and mushrooms cooked in a white wine broth was all it took to convert me. The unbelievably rich cream and butter reduction broiled to a beautiful golden crust finished me. I took another bite. And another and another… Chef’s belly, here I come!

Just Another Sunday

It’s the little things that get me every time. After an uneventful Sunday morning doing apprentice chef homework, which funnily resembles the monkey work I used to do at Lehman, I spent the noon hour whipping up some home-style Taiwanese food. Fried chicken, sautéed veg and rice. Mmmm…

I then canceled my afternoon swim lesson because I still have a bit of difficulty breathing due to a cold and “bronchite” from 2 weeks ago. Not being able to breathe in the pool would be a bad thing because your normally courageous reporter has a panic button that tends to overreact in the pool. And to think I was actually considering taking up surfing…

Anyway, I used the extra half hour for a cozy nap and moseyed over to church to sing in the worship team (band) for the first time since high school. This is definitely a year of firsts, or first-time-in-a-long-times. When I got there we realized there were no instrumentalists but thanks to a lot of prayer and pep talks we finally worked something out. I got thrown in the deep end and didn’t really even know some of the songs but it was still a great experience and I’m glad I was scheduled to start this week when there was a need for extra bodies.

The day ended on a sweet note when still warm from communion wine, I got a ride home on a super luxe scooter under a drizzly Parisian sky. It was the first time I noticed the “dame de fer” dressed in her latest designer robe – red and blue skirt and silver top, illuminating the autumn night. I truly am a lucky lady, huh?

Une Vrai Parisienne (sometimes)

The Paris-based American pastry chef and food writer, David Lebovitz (who I met!!), declared that he realized he had become a real Parisian when he felt the need to get properly dressed to take out the trash because after all, you WILL be judged on how you look over here. I, however, feel most Parisian when shopkeepers recognize me as a “regular”. It first happened at “my” café across the street with the cute bartender, which I had to ditch when it got bought out and gained 20 years in a day. I was also a regular at an Asian traiteur (deli / caterer) in Passy (I know I know) and a brasserie by my old office. The sad thing is when I walk into my new café (young and hip like me, ha!) and they immediately know what I want to drink, which usually isn’t water…


Today I stopped by a little Italian traiteur on the way home from class. The chef was there and coerced me into having an espresso like I used to do after my physical therapy sessions last year. I’m such a granny with my injuries (from classical ballet and charging at people with a sabre) and old habits sometimes! It’s so nice to be treated as a “valued customer” in Paris, where I usually feel like I’m intruding if I dare to want to buy something. I bought some stuffed foccacia, crocche, arancino, baby bread and green bean salad and he didn’t even charge me for the coffee! Or maybe he just forgot. Hmm…