Project: ICE CREAM!

Ever since Caroline returned from a vacation on Martha’s Vinyard last summer, we’ve had ice cream on the brain. While there, she ate the most exquisite homemade batch of vanilla with fresh picked blackberries and since then it’s been on our minds to buy a maker and get churning.

About two weeks ago, we decided to pull the trigger. After consulting cooksillustrated.com, we decided that the best make and model for our amateur venture was an attachment to the KitchenAid mixer. It’s this bowl with lord-knows-what chemicals inside it (perfectly safe, though) that you freeze and then churn the ice cream batter in with these spiffy little attachments. Best of all, it’s $85 on amazon.com and rates highly with those hard-to-please Cooks Illustrated peeps.

The day mine arrived, I immediately started checking out recipes. Here’s the thing about ice cream recipes—there are a million of them! Ones with all these weird sugars and stablizers, ones that use milk and half-and-half, ones that use half-and-half and whipping cream, ones that require massive amounts of egg yolks and ones that don’t. Who knew it was so complicated? I had to make some decisions:

1. I decided on a French vanilla. I thought, if I can make a delicious vanilla ice cream, then I can make just about anything.

2. The quality of the ingredients was my priority. I really wanted to use really fresh and local dairy, which I found at a local cheese shop.

Problem was, my recipe called for half-and-half (the store only carried whole milk) and whipping cream (they had it). So, I substituted the milk for the half-and-half.



Then I started. The way ice cream works is that you have to cook all of the ingredients—in this case it was the egg yolks, sugar (I used superfine), milk, cream and vanilla. The result was really thick.



Then, you let that cool for a minimum of six hours to kill all of the bacteria.

Finally, the process of churning. I wish I took pictures of it but frankly, I was so stressed out the entire time—making ice cream is pretty freaking messy. The result, after 30 minutes in the freezy bowl and the mixer on the lowest speed was like soft serve.


You can eat the ice cream then, or freeze it for at least four more hours for it to get firm. That’s what I did. The only disappointment? It wasn’t as creamy as I wanted it to be, presumably because I choose the less-fatty main ingredient, the milk over the half-and-half. But the flavor was there, super vanilla-y thanks to the two beans I scraped and kept in the batter until it was time to churn.

Next up: Another batch with some fruit and, yep, this time half-and-half. I guess this is the summer I’m finally going to start taking Lipitor. —Leslie

Sunday Sauce and Obama Date Night

So this weekend I was struck by a craving for pasta bolognese...a meaty sauce over fettucini noodles, topped with a thick snowy layer of  parmigiano reggiano, a glass of red wine...

The pot has been simmering all evening, and by the time it's done it will be midnight, but by tomorrow I will have a big pot of delicious sauce, enough for a few meals this week, and tasting even better after all the meat, and carrots, and onions, and herbs, and pancetta have had time to mingle and get to know one another in the fridge.

In the meantime, I'm fascinated by the discussion around the First Couple's New York City date night. In today's NY Times dining blog there is an item by Frank Bruni on the Obama's date night restaurant choice: Blue Hill. His argument: the choice of venue was correct, appropriate, safe, boring. I see what he means, but really, where could they have gone which wouldn't have been scrutinized? And the places he suggests are ridiculous: I like that they didn't pick a celebrity's restaurant (Babbo), or a trendy gastropub (John Dory), or an exclusive celebrity hangout (Minetta Tavern) and imagine if they had picked Cafe Boulud?? French! The RNC would have had a field day (and they are already condemning "date night" as "out-of-touch". So glad I'm not married to anyone on that committee).

And Bruni's other suggestion: fatty lamb ribs at Resto? Really Bruni?  Michelle Obama was in a cocktail dress and updo for goodness sake! She can't get lamb juice on that! Get real.

I've been to Blue Hill and it has a beautiful ambiance: cozy, downtown, intimate. And the food is thoughtful and special.  I'd go there for a date night any time. Hint...hint.—Caroline

Paris 4: Julia Child, I Love You

One of my favorite days in Paris was when we made a pilgrimage to the famed cooking store E. Dehillerin: le specialiste du material de cuisine. I first learned about this creaky emporium of knives, kitchen gadgets, and pans after reading Julia Child's memoir: My Life In France (a must read, if you haven't enjoyed it already; it' especially fun to revisit when you are headed to Paris and want to walk a bit in lady Julia's size 10 footsteps). Child was introduced to the shop by her chef mentor from the Cordon Bleu cooking school, and she would go there to stock up on her beloved copper pots after visiting the food stalls at Les Halles (which are sadly, no longer).After visiting the Opera House, and seeing it's beautiful Chagall mural and monstrous chandelier (yes, the same one from Phantom of the Opera), we wound our way down the streets of the 2nd arrodisement towards the store. When we reached the area of the Jardin du Palais Royal, we stumbled upon the street where the writer Colette lived, and a restaurant that she and Julia Child both frequented in the 1940s— Le Grand Vefour:
Amazing that a restaurant with so much history still exists, in all it's hushed glory. In her book, Child described the first time she ate there, after coming upon the restaurant by chance one afternoon with her husband; sensing it was something special they went inside for lunch. Even back then, a meal at Vefour broke the bank, but Child describes the stunning service and food, and the witchy Colette walking through the restaurant after dining alone at her private table. 

I ate there many years ago, and maybe if I'm lucky (and discover an extra 500 euros in my pocket) I will be able to eat there again.

After gazing into the dark windows of Vefour, we stopped by the Velac toy shop around the corner (beware of the quiet old man sitting next to the store, he stole our umbrella) and then continued on to Dehillerin on 20, rue Coquilliere.Entering the store was like traveling back into a different century--and you kind of are, since it was established in 1820. In one direction was a long row of knives and spatulas, down another aisle cast iron pans and gadgets. My mother picked up a strange wooden thingamagig with a rooster on it--one of the male uniformed staffers told us it was a butter stamp, so you can decorate your guests' butter pats. Of course we had to by this very essential thing.There were whisks in every size, tart pans in every shape, and a basement full of pots large enough to cook a child in.
A staffer assigned himself to us, following me around, explaining the purpose of every odd thing, and writing down each desired item on a pad of paper. 
You can go crazy in the joint. 
I bought a very beautiful spatula with a heavy wooden handle and a curved slotted head, a tiny whisk, Staub cast-iron gratin dish, and an omelet pan. I wanted a knife as well, but I thought that airport security might frown upon a 12-inch serrated cutter in my carry-on.

What I really wanted to buy was a little copper sauce pan, but they were heavy and a little expensive, so I just admired them hanging on the wall. The set-up on the peg board reminded me of how Julia hung the pots and pans in her notorious Cambridge, MA kitchen (which is now in the Smithsonian). I wonder if that is where she got the inspiration?

The next day we paid one last tribute to Julia Child by visiting her home on rue de l'Universite (or Roo de Loo, as she called it), and her favorite food shopping street, rue de Bourgogne. Yes, I'm kind of a geek, but I loved imagining that I was near where she once lived, before she became the great Julia Child.
Next up--those berries! And a creamy, mustard and cognac sauce to die for.
And not to go without one food item, the vinagrette that I made one night in Paris to go with this radish-topped salad is worth recreating.

Champagne vinegar, shallots, dijon mustard, salt and vinegar, chopped tarragon, pinch of sugar--whisked with one egg yolk--then a drizzle of olive oil until it looks right.
All you need is the salad, bread, cheese, and your done. And maybe a side of peonies.—Caroline

Alan Richman disrespects Jersey pizza!

In this month's GQ magazine, food columnist Alan Richman has ordained what he thinks are the 25 best pizza pies in all of the U.S.A. After gobbling pies from coast to coast, he crowned the country's very best pizzas: from the mortadella pie at Great Lake in Chicago to the margherita pizza from Una Pizza Napoletana in New York City.

I've never been to Great Lake, but I have two thoughts—one positive, one ragingly negative.

After reading Mr. Richman's list (and full disclosure: I used to work with the esteemed food writer and think very highly of his writing and foodie opinions) here are my thoughts:

-I LOVE that one of my most favorite pizza joints (and by joint, I mean joint) made the list: Santarpio's in East Boston, Mass.

I used to work in East Boston, and no offense, but one of the only good things about working in East Boston is being able to stop at the back door of the Santarpio's kitchen (yes, the kitchen)  on the way home from work to pick up a pizza to go.

I have dreams about the tangy delicious tomato sauce that topped their perfect crusts.

Interestingly enough, Richman noted the sausage pie, which is very good, but I think the plain pie is just as worthy of our adoration.

The next time you land at Logan Airport, take the last exit before you head through the tunnel into the city proper, and go to Santarpio's for a cheese pie— it's better than a pot of baked beans I assure you.
Now for my complaint, where's the Jersey representation!? What the friggin frick!
I mean, come on.
Providence, RI gets 2 pizzerias!
New Haven, CT gets 2!
NYC gets 5 (and didn't include the original Patsy's in East Harlem)!
Michigan gets 4!!!!
San Francisco 3?
Philly gets 2!
And Jersey...0
Come on. New Jersey has a fine, and very well-respected history of pizza making, specifically of another regional specialty known as the bar pie.
This weekend we went to one of the best: Star Tavern in Orange, NJ.
Their specialty--the eggplant topped pizza (see photo up top).

Fried pieces of eggplant on a thin-crust pie, sharing real estate with crispy circles of thick pepperoni— it's bar pie perfection.

And how about Kinchley's in Ramsey, NJ?

Richman claims to have ventured into Jersey--but where did he go?

Were these establishments overlooked?

Not good enough?

Does it just come down to an affliction towards anything bridge and tunnel?

Yes, I'm hardly objective. I have a deep love for the Jersey pie because it's in my blood and my credentials run deep. I grew up eating at the great pizzerias of Essex County, NJ: bar pies in the back room of Bunny's; delivery from the Reservoir; sicilian slices on the way home from school at Four Brothers; Friday night pick-up pies at the King of Pizza on Springfield Avenue (before the place was suspiciously blown to smithereens--Jersey!).

But I feel this neglect by Mr. Richman is unjust--Jersey may not have squash pies topped with pine nuts or rosemary sprigs, but they still have something special. Really.

So what's your favorite pie?

Did it make the list?

—Caroline

Pavlova: The Disaster Dessert

I had my own showdown with egg whites this weekend. Let’s just say it wasn’t as successful as Caroline’s rhubarb tart (see below).

I attempted to make a pavlova, an Austrian pastry (named after the Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova) that’s a meringue crust topped with whipped cream (I made lemon curd) and then fresh fruit. It was a recipe from Gourmet, a magazine which never fails me as far as giving recipes that consistently produce delicious food.

It started out so promising. Look at my meringue. Glossy and thick—perfect! (Maybe it’s hubris. I remember thinking I was a total badass as I was taking these pictures.)


Here’s the deal with a pavlova: You cook it for a certain amount of time in the oven until golden and then you either reduce the heat gradually or let it cool in the oven with the oven door ajar. I guess the idea is to dry out the stupid thing. My final product was not golden. It was brown. My final product was not crisp. It was sticky. My final product appeared to have acne.


Even my lemon curd got all messed up when I accidentally whipped a bit of my non-pasteurized, locally-produced, $6-for-one-liter whipping cream INTO BUTTER. This has never happened to me before. This is what happens when you are faced with real, barely messed-with dairy products, something I had clearly never experienced. I was stunned that I took a picture.


I am humbled.

What went wrong? Anyone, anyone?
—Leslie

Memorial Day Rhubarb Tart

Like most holiday weekends, we are spending this Memorial Day in rural New Jersey....OK, not exactly rural, but there are farms here, and horses.  I also now consider it my job, as unofficial ambassador of the Garden State, to let people know that there is more to N.J. than housewives with "big bubbies"(see Real Housewives of New Jersey). Although there are plenty of those too.
OK, I digress, back to the topic at hand—rhubarb.
Every year around this time, my family's neighbor hands over an armload of rhubarb stalks from her garden--there is so much of this hearty vegetable plant that something clearly has to be done to put it all to good use.

In the past, I have mixed the rhubarb with strawberries (also now in season) for the classic pie; I've also stewed it and made a compote for ice cream, and topped it with oats and brown sugar to make a crumble. This year, I decided to make a tart. Inspired by a recipe from the Rose Bakery cookbook for rhubarb meringue tartlets (and also a citron tart that I ate in Paris which was topped with a bruléed meringue roof —I will never forget it). I dusted off a large rectangular tart pan from the cupboard, washed some strawberries from the local farm, and had at it.

The first part of the recipe entails roasting the cut up rhubarb stalks in sugar and orange zest to soften it and create a rhubarb-y syrup.

Once this was done, and the mixture had cooled down, I added the thickly cut strawberries.

Meanwhile there was the pastry dough, and as I've documented in the past, pastry dough is not my forte. I never feel like I know what I'm doing. But I keep trying. I used a relatively simple recipe for an Italian sweet pastry (pasta frolla), also from the Rose Bakery book, which can be manhandled more than French pastry dough (good for me).

Rolling out proved to be a challenge--every time I tried to lift it off the board with my pin the sheet of dough crumbled into large pieces, like continental shelves cracking off and drifting their separate ways.

Yes, I floured everything. Didn't matter.

So I just ended up pressing the dough into the tin.

Next was the meringue-my favorite part:

To decorate the tart I jerry-rigged a pastry bag by scooping the meringue into a large baggie, cutting a small snip from one of the corners, and pressing the glossy white stuff out into a wavy pattern. This is what it looked like out of the oven.
Once the tart had cooled, I cut in--the filling had a beautiful scarlet color, and the meringue sat nicely above, providing a little crunch and then lightness to the melty fruit.
After everyone had had their piece, we evaluated. Belle loved the meringue--it is just fun to eat, like combining a marshmallow with whipped cream. The recipe had called for a lot of sugar in both the meringue and filling (so much so that I think it might have been a mistake in the printing) so I had almost halved it--but my mother still thought it was a bit on the sweet side.
And the pastry wasn't bad--although our rhubarb neighbor thought it was a bit too thick (true, true), could have been pre-baked a bit longer, and used even less sugar— I still need to work on my finesse. 

All in all though, a beautiful dessert, although next time I am going to try the lemon curd filling. What did you make this holiday?—Caroline

Paris 3: Café Time

What is an afternoon in France without coffee? A delicious café creme, served with a pitcher of steamy milk, served in a glistening porcelain cup? It all feels very Marie Antoinette--with the cake.
I've recently read that cafe culture has been waning in Paris—apparently less hours to frit away debating Balzac— but I don't want to think that this is true. Yes, I noticed the Starbucks outposts on strategic corners, but they looked sad and depressing. And irrelevant. The neighborhood cafes that we visited were still full, their potent brew flowing, the conversation sparkling.
Here is one of my favorite cafes—La Palette, which is located on a sunny corner across the street from the Ecole des Beaux Arts.

We spent an afternoon here and it was so lovely soaking up the sun along with the carefully disheveled art-students, gallery owners, and locals.
The waiters were young and friendly, and the beers were cold.

On another afternoon we visited Ladurée, a patissier and salon de the that is famous for it's macarons in many flavors.

Apparently they're so special, they need to be protected from paparazzi (the woman in the photo above is saying "No, madam! No photos!).
The most popular (and crowded) location is on rue Royale, but there is a newer and quieter location on 21, rue Bonaparte. The front has a store where you can buy the precious macarons that come in flavors like pistachio, lemon, and even deepest, darkest, black licorice. If you walk through the store and then go to the left, there is a little restaurant that serves breakfast, lunch and tea.
After a day of walking, walking, walking, sitting in the "Oriental"-decored room, sinking into a velvet banquet and eating a raspberry tart is bliss.
And since we are on the topic of macarons, we made it a habit of trying them wherever we went. Here is one from the high-priest of chocolate, Pierre Herme (he has a shop around the corner from Ste. Sulpice). This flavor is salted caramel.

This one is my favorite flavors, citron:
And this deep violet one is cassis. As you can see they are a very portable pastry/cookie, we would open our stash in parks or cafes or wherever we were and eat them.
The neighboring cafes of Deux Magot and Cafe de Flore are infamous since when Hemingway frequented them, and everyone seems to have a favorite. I'm a Flore girl. It is touristy, and the waiters have an air of being over it, but the location next to Eglise Ste. Germain des Pres is lovely and the snacking is terrific. Especially the ice cream sundaes, which come with a cookie spoon.

Flore is also where I always have my first citron presse when I arrive in Paris, because it's where I had my very first one when I visited Paris with my grandmother years ago.
Belle was initiated into the concocting of the presse. Pouring the water into the glass of fresh lemon juice:
Mixing in the sugar:

And stir:
I'm not done with you yet, Paris! Up next: dinner and following in the footsteps of Julia Child.

Happy Memorial Day weekend! Will you be having a bbq? What will you be making?

—Caroline

From Sarah's Garden: Red Mustard Greens

Every Friday, Leslie's friend Sarah sends dispatches from upstate New York where she tends her organic garden.

The drawing of feathery red leaves on the seed packet prompted an impulse buy. I really second-guessed myself too. I thought, I don't cook mustard greens; they won't get eaten. But I felt down, needy. What if I saw that picture in real life on the bottom floor of my garden, casting lacy shadows on the rocks? That sure would be nice.

It is. See?

When picked young, friends and I nibbled on handfuls of young leaves, and turned them into salads dressed with only salt and oil. Flavors of mustard and pepper made us goofy, delirious; these greens were hallucinogenically alive. I tasted hot Chinese mustard, horseradish firecracker mustard, sun-dazzled mustard mustard; I'd never tasted greens like this; I had never tasted mustard. As they aged, they required cooking—stems chopped tiny, cooked low and long with garlic til tender. The results were more like any other green, but still said quietly, mustard.

Now I wonder about all those other vegetables I planted just to look pretty. What other senses will they satisfy?

How To Eat Alone

Last weekend when I was in Vancouver, I was invited by some of my colleagues to have dinner. I joined them for a drink but politely declined the invitation. I had a date with some Kumamotos at Rodney's Oyster House, just down the road from my hotel.

My colleagues, they were shocked. "Eating alone! You poor thing," cried the lovely Brit. "And oysters! God that sounds depressing."

Actually, it really and truly wasn't. Am I the only person who loves eating alone? It's total freedom for me. I don't have to talk to anyone. I can sip my wine and read my book and THINK. Not talk. Relax.

However, there are rules to doing it. Below, my four:

1. Don't sit alone at a table. If the restaurant you choose doesn't have a bar, find another restaurant. It is ONLY acceptable to sit alone at a bar. I found a little perch between two lovely Canadian couples—who later became my best friends (more on that)—with a fantastic view of the shucking.

2. Speak only when spoken to. Maybe it's me, but I don't eat alone to make friends. I do it when I don't feel like cooking or can't find anyone to join me. However, this being Canada, Land of Friendly People Who Can Hold Their Liquor Like Nobody's Business, I was soon chatted up and given wine. The were intrigued that I was taking photos of my food. So much so, that they offered, insisted and DIDN'T FREAKING UNDERSTAND when I said I didn't want to get my photo taken. I lost that battle. Example below.

3. Make friends with the bartender (even if he's wearing a "suck me off" T-shirt). Do I even have to explain? My wine glass was never empty.

4. Days to never eat alone: religious holidays, Thanksgiving and Valentine's Day. NEVER eat alone on Valentine's Day.

I doubt that these rules work for men, but given that I make 72 cents to their dollar, I'm not going to sweat it. —Leslie

Paris 2: Time for lunch

Dejuner in Paris is sort of a loosey-goosey thing for me--basically the second of four, possibly five meals, that occur during a typical day visiting Pairs that goes something like: breakfast, pastry, lunch, pastry/chocolate, coffee and ice cream or a beer, then dinner. And since my game plan on this trip was to save my euros for a restaurant meal every evening(and for those of you who think I'm just a yogurt-loving berry-eater, wait until you see my post on the meat consumed at Chez Georges...) I have done my best to find lunch options that are more scrappy but still delicious.
The meal above was enjoyed at Cafe de la Marie, what I consider to be a Parisian version of a diner. Yes, a diner. No, there are no jukeboxes on the tables or pink-uniformed waitresses slinging hash (in fact, it is almost impossible to find a waitress in a café in Paris), but it does serve food that is quick and very satisfying with an ambiance that is very no-frills and local.

Marie is located in the 6th, on the Place St. Sulpice, overlooking the fountain in front of the mysterious church of Saint Sulpice (if any of you are Da Vinci Code fans, this church plays a significant role, it's where the albino monk does in the wily nun). The thing to do at Marie is work your way through the cafe terrace, past the stand-up bar where the publishing dudes are taking a coffee, to the back room and up the narrow steps to the upstairs dining room. From here you can still see the lovely fountain, but it is also has a neighborhood clubhouse feel, with everyone from moody young men, to exacting Parisian mothers and their children, intellectual types tapping at their laptops, and us--the Americans--eating salads and sandwiches.

I always order the same thing, the salade avec crotin chaud (Poilaine bread with warm goat cheese on top). Also important is the side plate of fresh grated carrots and a tiny bottle of vinaigrette. 
And don't forget the other great thing about lunching in Paris:
Wine. You don't have to feel at all guilty about having a big glass of burgundy in the middle of the day.
If you are staying at an apartment, then you can easily recreate this meal, using the abundance of chevre at the local markets or at a cremerie. The only thing to know is if you prefer a more fresh (young) goat cheese, or one that is aged with a little more flavor.
You could also buy your wrinkly ball of chevre and do what this lovely couple had arranged by a fountain in the Jardin Luxembourg: picinique!
They had quite a spread of cheese, saucisson, bread, and wine. I think Paris calls for at least one picnic if the weather cooperates. 
And you can do it anywhere, on the pedestrian Pont des Arts, on the water along the walkway around Ile de la Cite (which has more of a Marlboro, baguette, red wine, dirty/artsy youth vibe). Or in any of the beautiful squares or gardens, like the grande Jardin du Palais Royal, or this smaller playground in the Marais, Square Ch V Langlois:
We went to this playground in the shadow of another beautiful church after brunch at Rose Bakery. And by brunch I mean we combined a full breakfast with lunch, here are the square vegetable tarts we consumed, this one with beets, cheese, cauliflower, and goodness knows what else:

So obviously we were full, but we planted ourselves on a park bench so Belle could work off her pancake sugar high and get chased by a little French boy wielding a branch. While we were digesting, everybody else there was eating pitas. People would magically appear off the street holding overstuffed pita sandwiches filled to the brim with falafel, hummus, lamb and tahini. 
As you may know, the Marais is the Jewish area of Paris, and it's main street (rue de Rosiers) is dotted with many Middle Eastern pita places, where on a Saturday, the lines (or forget lines, the famished mobs) form outside the entrances for pita sandwiches to-go. This one seemed to be the most popular:
Look at them waving their tickets! It's like a stock trading floor for pita!

My other favorite lunch of the trip was back at that 16th arrodisement market where this man was making, not only the very delicate French crepe, but also the more swarthy galette. Like crepes, galettes are a type of pancake, but the batter is made out of buckwheat, which makes it more toothsome, with a spongy texture perfect for holding savory fare like eggs, mushrooms, sausage and cheese. 
Look at the galette gentleman showing off his batter pouring skills:
And here he is deftly swirling this very clever wooden trowel like thing, which he quickly used to move the batter around to evenly cover the circular griddle:

You can find galette makers at other outdoor markets, but this man was clearly a master, as the line began to grow longer and longer at lunchtime. Here's Belle with her first lunch in Paris, a galette wrapped around French ham:
And while Belle munched her galette, this is what I ate, a bag of potatoes:
No ordinary potatoes, these were scooped out from the bottom of a giant chicken rotisserie, where they had cooked in the drippings of 40 chickens. They were the best potatoes I've ever had(food porn alert): a crispy shell around a buttery inside, moist with chicken juice. Why haven't any of the rotisserie chicken places over here thought of putting potatoes down there? I mean, they basically cooked themselves, and the vendors were selling them like nobody's business. Here they are again later that day at second lunch with a little salad:

And one shouldn't forget the perfect post-lunch dessert. 
Ice cream from Berthillion on Ile St. Louis. Now this place is the most famous ice cream parlor in Paris, on a sunny afternoon it will be swamped, so don't feel bad about going to any of the other ice cream places in it's immediate orbit that sell the exact same ice cream but with half the line (we did). This cone's mine: a scoop of cerise (cherry) over a scoop of salted caramel:


Coming up in my next post: the most delicious beef dish I've ever had, more berries, a best macaron contest, and Julia Child's old stomping grounds.—Caroline