1,000 Foods To Eat Before You Die: A Food Lover's Life List (18 page)

The Jean-Paul Hévin flagship store boasts a lavish array of bonbons.

Bonbon
is a cutesy way to say “good” twice, and an apt name for the mouth-size, chocolate-covered candy that French confectioners do better than any others. Chocolate, preferably midnight-dark and tauntingly bittersweet, enrobes dried or fresh fruits, flavored creams, crunchy nuts, pralines, liqueurs, or brittles, the surprise inside each one a mystery until the eater bites in. For the most serious chocolate connoisseurs, however, bonbons just don’t cut it; only pure bars unadulterated in texture or flavor afford the proper appreciation and evaluation.

But how many of us are that serious all the time? When frivolity is desired, just call a French chocolatier; preferably Jean-Paul Hévin, whose genius is on delectable display in his very first shop, opened on Avenue de la Motte-Picquet in
1988, and now throughout his pretty sweetshops in Paris, Tokyo, and Hong Kong. Among his triumphs are vanilla and crème fraîche truffles and firm, intensely dark ganache-filled chocolate cigars. All of his wares are exquisitely packaged in milk-chocolate-and-royal-blue boxes and tins that match the color scheme of his shops—a combination almost good enough to eat.

In acknowledgment of Hévin’s expertise, the prestigious
Guide des Croqueurs de Chocolat
(Chocolate Lovers’ Guide) noted that “the chocolates by that cocoa bean aficionado feature a bitterness so excellent that even the most finicky of purists will be won over. At the same time, adventurous types will be satisfied with the unexpected flavors.”

Members of that first category will be relieved to discover that Hévin does, of course, trade in the simple bars they seek. In fact, this particular chocolatier’s true gift may be his ability to understand and blend different chocolates from various parts of the world, a talent most discernible in bars such as the woodsy Java, the more mellow Trinite, and the mild Ecuador, the last of which is sure to appeal to children.

So whether it’s bonbons or bars or another form of chocolate, do sample the artistry on display at the very best of French chocolateries.

Retail and mail order:
In Paris
, Jean-Paul Hévin at several locations, tel 33/1-55-35-35-96,
jphevin.com
.

The dish is native to Provence.

It took a full eleven stanzas for Thackeray to express his appreciation of the complex fish stew that he so loved in Paris, a dish he felt could not be equaled in his native England. Oddly, two of the fish that he mentions, roach and dace, swim in freshwater and are commonly found in the English river Avon. To complicate matters, these
aren’t
the fish one typically sees in a bouillabaisse, which today’s purists claim should include only saltwater fish and shellfish—though the matter is shrouded in argument. Some allow mollusks but outlaw crustaceans; all agree on the permanent exclusion of shrimp and scallops (but don’t ask why). One undisputed point is the necessity of a rascasse in the mix—a scorpion
fish with a poisonous spine that must be extracted very carefully. Rascasse adds a slightly viscous tone to the texture, along with a solid, mildly acidic underpinning of flavor.

Whatever the mix, expect an exquisite still life of whole or large chunks of fish, lobster, crab, gleaming ebony mussels, snowy rings of calamari, and perhaps pearly gray ropes of eel—all floating in a magnificent rose-gold broth redolent of tomato, saffron, fennel, perhaps leek and garlic, and, always, white wine. The soup is usually presented first, accompanied by croutons and plenty of rouille (the cayenne-fired sauce that is spooned onto the croutons and into the broth); then comes the fish, with a little broth spooned over it, and maybe a boiled potato or two to refresh the palate.

“Bouillabaisse was invented by Venus to put her husband Vulcan to sleep when she had a rendezvous with Mars,” Waverley Root writes in
The Food of France
—an origin story worthy of such a magnificent dish.

Where:
In Paris
, La Méditerranée, tel 33/1-43-26-02-30,
la-mediterranee.com
;
in Antibes, France
, Bacon, tel 33/4-93-61-50-02,
restaurantdebacon.com
;
in New York
, Aquagrill, tel 212-274-0505,
aquagrill.com
.
Further reading and recipes:
The Food of France
by Waverley Root (1992);
French Provincial Cooking
by Elizabeth David (1960).
See also:
Brodetto Vastese
.

The rose-gold bouillabaisse of Marseille, with its crackling flavor and diverse combination of snowy fish and firecracker-red shellfish, is undoubtedly the world’s most famous fish soup. However, food-loving visitors to the area are often surprised to discover bourride, “the other fish soup,” and to many palates the more elegantly subtle of the two. It is a satiny ivory broth adrift with chunks of three types of firm, white-fleshed fish such as porgy, cod, sole, haddock, or striped bass, but no shellfish.

All are cut into serving portions, but are neither boned nor skinned, ensuring that they retain texture and full deep-sea flavor. Wafting from the tureen are heady overtones of white wine and a vibrant fish stock gentled with leeks, musty-sweet bay leaves, bosky wild fennel seeds, and an astringent strip of dried orange peel. Then comes the alluring addition of the evocative sauce aioli, or garlic mayonnaise.

When it is correctly served for maximum heat and flavor, the broth is ladled into a wide soup bowl over poached fish on a butter-toasted croustade. Aioli is passed to be added at will, as though anyone could ever get enough.

Where:
In Nice
, L’ Ane Rouge, tel 33/4-93-89-49-63,
anerougenice.com
.
Further information and recipes:
The Food of France
by Waverley Root (1992);
The New Making of a Cook
by Madeleine Kamman (1997);
cookstr.com
(search bourride with aioli).

Few ingredients with gourmet status have origins as humble as those of the dried salt cod known as
morue
in France and
bacalao
(give or take a few letters here and there) in Spain, Portugal, and Italy. Valued for centuries as a reliable winter fish eaten on meatless fast days, this product of Northern Europe was so essential to the Catholic Mediterranean that it fostered close commercial and political ties between the two regions: Along with herring, salt cod was the main cargo that financed the ships of the north’s powerful Hanseatic League, formed by merchant associations in 1241.

Over time, salt cod has transformed from basic necessity to connoisseurs’ treat, whether in the form of English codfish cakes (see
listing
), New England fish cakes, or Portugal’s crisp round croquettes, or in its Spanish incarnation, mantled with a silken parsley-and-garlic green sauce (see
listing
). In Italy, salt cod may be simmered with tomatoes and spooned over pasta, or used in a Venetian version of
brandade
known as
bacalao mantecato
, meaning “worked by hand.”

The luscious appetizer
brandade de morue
is one of salt cod’s most elegant presentations. Well-soaked, carefully poached fish is whipped up with warm milk, splashes of golden olive oil, and plenty of garlic and black pepper. Electric blenders or food processors generally do the whipping these days, but old-timers will tell you the fish should first be worked smooth with a mortar and pestle. (While they are at it, they’ll also probably warn against the addition of mashed potatoes to the mix, a common infraction.) The result, a mousselike spread that is creamy yet retains the intriguing underlying chewiness of the fish, is usually served with slim points of toast or toasted baguette and black olives; at its gourmet zenith, shavings of black truffles may be added as well.

Further information and recipes:
Roast Chicken and Other Stories
by Simon Hopkinson (2007);
French Provincial Cooking
by Elizabeth David (1960);
cookstr.com
(search brandade de morue);
foodandwine.com
(search brandade de morue).

Made of raw cow’s milk (although the highly prized
Brie de Meaux
is sometimes made with pasteurized milk), an authentic brie will hint of nuts, mushrooms, garlic, and, according to some food writers, fried eggs—a
lot of flavors for one simple cheese to deliver.

Perhaps because it is easy for Americans to pronounce, and seems so quintessentially French, it’s a name that is thrown around to describe all manner of flat, ivory disks of runny, creamy cheese. Oddly, brie is not among France’s name-controlled cheeses (those bearing the Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée mark assuring that their point of origin, ingredients, and processing are protected by French law). But authentic bries from the Île-de-France—
Brie de Meaux
and
Brie de Melun
, which have both been granted A.O.C. status—are far from supermarket fare. In fact,
they
should be considered the standard: They’ve been setting the bar for flavor since 774, when Charlemagne was reputed to have tasted his first slice. The cheese became a favorite of his, earning it the title
le roi du fromage
(the king of cheese).

There is actually very little resemblance between real bries and their imitators. The latter are generally gooey when cut, whereas whole disks or large wedges of true brie bulge, but do not run. As for flavor, the imitators are largely bland affairs, chewy versions of butter with little to no complexity. Sadly, locating one of the A.O.C. bries stateside is no easy task. U.S. Federal Drug Administration laws require that raw-milk cheeses be aged for a minimum of sixty days; because brie is unaged, only pasteurized Brie de Meaux can be imported. The moral of the story? When a real brie is found, savor every bite, edible rind and all.

Remember that once a brie is cut, its ripening process comes to a halt. When shopping for uncut brie, avoid any cheese that sinks around its edges, and look for an intact bloomy white rind with beige flecks. Serve the brie at room temperature, with simple, traditional accompaniments like a chunk of crusty rustic baguette or water biscuits and a dry sparkling white wine.

Further information:
French Cheeses
by Kazuko Masui and Tomoko Yamada (1996);
Cheese Primer
by Steven Jenkins (1996).
Tip:
Look for Rouzaire’s pasteurized Brie de Meaux.

Communal brioche and diminutive brioche à tête.

It’s not surprising that two great French painters thought the light and spongy brioche beautiful enough to be the subject of still lifes. The first, Chardin, rested a plump brioche on a white cloth and crowned it with a spray of pale spring blossoms. Years later, Manet made a similar painting, relying on his characteristic chiaroscuro, or black-and-white contrasts, and sticking a white rose in the center of the large round breakfast roll. Both painted the big communal brioche that is divided among many; more usual now are the individual versions called brioche à tête, topped with a knobby head of crusty pastry.

Usually baked in a fluted mold, the airy, eggy, gently sweet bread-cake is a near second to the croissant as a favorite French breakfast. Plain or braided, it’s a light and absorbent bread that is perfect for fluffy, sunny French toast or equally good with a dab of butter and a dollop of jam. Happily, the soft brioche dough also lends itself to many other preparations. Without sugar, it makes a crust for sausages or enfolds delicate pâtés. With sugar and baked in a cone or ring form, it is translated into luscious desserts such as juicy rum-soaked babas or cream-filled Savarins.