On poached peaches, pho and Pain Poilane

Clearly I am giant nerd. Last night (Saturday) I stayed home, roasted a chicken, glazed some fennel and made this dessert, of which I am kinda proud:


I had some extra rose in my fridge, so I made it into a sweet syrup with sugar, honey, cinnamon and cloves. I used it to poach some blood peaches and figs and then topped them with a little creme fraiche and mint.

I'd ordered a version of this recently at La Table D'Anvers, a restaurant in Montmartre that had served as my first introduction to Parisian dining, but I wasn't crazy about it. The restuarant presented the peaches in a boozy mint syrup that was tinted light greenish-blue and tasted unsettlingly like melted gum (was this Pippermint Get?). But I had been rather pleased with our appetizer, GIANT DOG-SIZED MARROW BONES (that's not exactly how they were described on the menu) sprinkled with fleur de sel and served with a light salad, so I don't hold anything against them for drowning their perfect peaches in gum juice.


I think I have started to burn out a tiny bit on classical French cooking. Already, you ask? Sometimes the food that we cook at school reminds me of wedding catering. Big hunk of meat? Check. Overcooked, salty vegetables? Check. Heavy, buttery cream sauce? Check. When we do work with garlic, or ginger, or curry powder, it's treated fearfully and used sparingly: "Only add a small amount! Many people do not care for these strong flavors!"

I think I can take care of this urge with a few days of non-French food. Right now I'm craving a nice bowl of steamed rice and ginger chicken, or a piping hot stir-fry, or even chorizo tacos with a little hunk of lime and a Corona. How interesting that spending time here has helped me appreciate what American dining has to offer: namely, the sheer, staggering variety of world cuisines available at such low prices. We're going to Amsterdam this weekend, and have no doubt that I am already salivating at the prospect of all that divine Indonesian food.

So, yesterday I puttered around Saint-Germain and had a wonderful bowl of pho at Le Palanquin, after ducking in out of the pouring rain. Granted, it was a $13 bowl of wonderful pho and I am used to paying $4 in Chicago, but such is life here and now. I just try not to think about it too much, and cook at home frequently. Le Palanquin is small and cozy, with a timbered beam ceiling and friendly staff. I felt completely at home there. It was absolutely quiet and all I could hear was the pattering of drops outside as I sipped my jasmine tea.

Then I picked up a quarter loaf of sourdough at the renowned Poilane bakery. It is indeed a beautiful work of boulangerie art, with its deep, brown chewy crust indented with rustic nooks and crannies. At times I taste hints of caramel and woodsmoke. Poilane himself says that the quality of his bread varies widely, and while the sample I bought didn't quite blow me away, I'd certainly be willing to return and give it another go. You know, for scientifc purposes.