The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (7 page)

MOLE AU CHOCOLAT
CHOCOLATE MOLE
MAKES 1 QUART (1 L)

Aside from a seemingly endless quest for water, one of our other cultural differences is Americans’ love of Mexican food. Authentic Mexican products aren’t available here. So like many Americans, I lug dried chiles, hot sauce, and corn tortillas back from trips to the States. Then I prepare elaborate Mexican meals that I hope will impress my Parisian friends.

And how can you not love mole? Here’s my version, which everyone seems to like whenever I make it. Parisians seem to love anything that has chocolate in it just as much as Americans do.

For any of those “If-it-doesn’t-take-ten-hours-to-make-it’s-not-mole” folks out there, give me a break since some of the items aren’t available in Paris. I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got. Because of that, this recipe has about sixty-seven fewer ingredients than the normal recipe and takes a fraction of the time to put together. But it tastes just like the real thing. So if you’re the mole police, please put away your handcuffs.

1. Remove the stems from the chiles. Slice them in half lengthwise and scrape out most of the seeds. Put the chiles in a nonreactive pot, cover with water, set a small plate on top to keep the chiles submerged, and simmer for 10 minutes or until tender. Remove from heat and let stand until cool.
   

2. Put the raisins and chocolate in a blender. Heat the water, then pour it in the blender mixture and let stand for a few minutes to soften the chocolate.
   

3. In a nonstick skillet, heat the oil, then sauté the onion until limp and translucent, about 8 minutes. Add the garlic and cook a few more minutes, stirring frequently.
   

4. Drain the chiles and add them to the blender along with the onion and garlic, sesame seeds, almonds, tomatoes, all the spices, salt, and a few turns of pepper. Puree until smooth. Taste, and add more salt and chile powder if you wish to spice it up.
   

STORAGE:
Mole can be covered and refrigerated for up to five days. The mole can also be frozen for up to three months in a freezer bag. I recommend dividing a batch in half and freezing some since this recipe makes quite a bit.

NOTE:
To easily peel and seed fresh tomatoes, cut an X in the bottom and drop in simmering water for about 15 seconds. Drain in a colander and run cool water over them to stop the cooking. Slip the skins off, slice in half crosswise, then squeeze gently to extract the seeds.

MOLE AU POULET
CHICKEN MOLE
MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS

Corn still on the cob—not those mushy, canned kernels that find their way into everything from Caesar salad to pizza around here—is unfortunately rather scarce in Paris. To me, it isn’t summer without it, and if I do serve chicken mole to French friends, I accompany it with a sautéed mound of freshly shucked kernels, a less messy way to serve corn, which is a sure way to win converts. They’re amazed at how much better it tastes than those from the Jolly
Géant Vert
, another American who’s taken up residence in France.

The word
sauté
in French comes from the verb
sauter
, or “to jump,” which refers to the action of tossing things around in a pan. In addition to a pat of butter and chopped cilantro, some bright flecks of
piment d’Espelette
, the famed Basque chile powder, give the corn a bit of a lift.

1. Put the chicken in a large pot and cover with water. Add salt and bay leaves. Cover and bring to a boil; then reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes. Turn off the heat and let rest 20 minutes.
   

2. Transfer the chicken to a platter. Reserve the cooking liquid. When cool enough to handle, remove and discard the skin.
   

3. While the chicken cools, preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C).
   

4. Arrange the chicken pieces in a baking dish just big enough to hold them all; they should rest against each other with little or no space between them.
   

5. Add some of the cooking liquid to the mole. I find ½ cup (125 ml) of liquid is just right, but depending on your mole, it may take more or less. The sauce is best when it’s the consistency of runny chocolate pudding. (If making rice to serve alongside, use the cooking liquid in place of water; it’s delicious.)
   

6. Spoon the mole over the chicken and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until the chicken is heated through.
   

7. Sprinkle the top with sesame seeds and serve.
   

PALETTE DE PORC CARAMELISEE
CARNITAS
MAKES 8 SERVINGS

The first time I ate at a “Tex-Mex” restaurant in Paris, I scanned the menu, excited to see a burrito on it. Remembering the “tummy torpedoes” we all gorged on in San Francisco, I asked the waitress if the burritos were large. “Oh yes, they’re
huge!”
she replied, her eyes widening to emphasize their girth, as if she’d never seen anything so gigantic in her life.

“Great!” I thought.

When she brought my rolled-up burrito to the table, in the center of an oversized plate was a little pellet of food, roughly the size of a wine cork. I could have eaten six of them. Since Mexican food isn’t especially well represented in Paris, I like to show friends how good it can be, and carnitas are the perfect introduction, since it doesn’t matter whether you’re from here or there: who doesn’t love caramelized pork?

1. Rub the pieces of pork all over with salt.
   

2. Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C) degrees.
   

3. Heat the oil in a large roasting pan set on the stovetop. Add the pieces of pork in a single layer and cook until very well browned, letting them get nice and dark before flipping them over. If your pan is too small to cook the pork in a single layer, cook it in two batches.
   

4. Once all the pork is browned, remove it from the pot and blot any excess fat with a paper towel. Pour in about a cup of water, scraping the bottom of the pan with a flat-edged utensil to release all the tasty brown bits.
   

5. Return the pork to the pan and add enough water so the pieces are about two-thirds submerged. Add the cinnamon stick and stir in the chile powder, bay leaves, cumin, and garlic.
   

6. Braise in the oven for 3 ½ hours, turning the pork a few times during cooking, until much of the liquid is evaporated and the pork is falling
   apart. Remove the pan from the oven, lift the pork pieces out of the liquid, and set them on a platter or in a bowl.
   

7. Once the pork is cool enough to handle, shred it into bite-size (about 2-inch/7-cm) pieces. Discard any obvious big chunks of fat, if you wish.
   

8. Return the pork to the roasting pan and cook in the oven, turning occasionally, until the liquid has evaporated and the pork is crispy and caramelized. The exact length of time will be determined by how crispy you like the pork. It will take at least 1 hour, but probably more.
   

SERVING:
Carnitas ideally should be served with a stack of warm tortillas, bowls of salsa, stewed beans, guacamole, and other Mexican accompaniments so guests can make their own tacos. If I’ve run out of tortillas, I serve it with rice.

STORAGE:
Carnitas can be made up to three days in advance and kept in the refrigerator. Rewarm gently in a low oven.

VARIATION:
If you wish to make pork mole, in step 8, once you’ve shredded the meat, mix in half a batch of mole (page 58), adding any pork juices to make it liquidy. Then rewarm in the oven for 30 minutes, turning the pork pieces once or twice.

MY CLE TO SUCCESS

If you haven’t been to Paris in a while, one thing you can’t help but notice is the startling number of banks that have opened in the past few years. Whenever a business closes, especially on a prominent corner, the construction crews arrive the next morning and gut the interior; shortly thereafter, a generic Société Générale, Crédit Lyonnais, or BNP Paribas opens its gleaming double doors.

Banks in France wield a tremendous amount of power, and if you live here, the bank-issued
clé
(key) RIB is just as vital as your government-issued identity card. The RIB
(relevé d’identité bancaire)
is a flimsy three-inch square of
paper generated by your bank with a gazillion numbers on it. It proves to everyone that you’ve got a bank account. Which in turns proves you’re a person worthy of things like gas, electricity, and telephone service.

Of all the French paradoxes I encountered, this is the one that had me closest to tears for weeks on end. My troubles began when I was compiling the paperwork required for my
carte de séjour
, a long-term visa, which had to include proof of residence. (Which is another paradox: to get a visa to live here, you need to prove you already live here.) So I needed to open a bank account. Except every single bank I visited refused to open an account for me, since I didn’t have a visa. Even the post office, which acts like a bank in France and is known for being incredibly lenient, denied me the privilege of letting them hold my money.

Something Americans don’t understand is that the person sitting at the desk or behind the counter in France has the inalienable right to say
non
for whatever reason he, or usually she, wants. Unlike in America, where everyone’s taught to say yes, in France,
oui
means more work. And if more work sounds as appealing to you as it does to them, you’re beginning to understand a bit of the logic around here.

Not looking forward to deportation, and getting desperate, I was offered an introduction to a banker by a rather well-to-do friend, who accompanied me to her branch in the place de l’Opéra. I brought along a box of La Maison du Chocolat chocolates, which the
bancaire
gladly accepted, after which, she directed me back to a branch of their bank back in my neighborhood. (One bonus of Paris being laid out in a big spiral is that it makes it easy to get back to the point you started from.)

Back in the Bastille, I spent the next two weeks making appointments at various banks, getting all dressed up in tie and jacket, then arriving with my thick dossier of paperwork only to be turned away by the less-than-interested
directeur d’agence.
One by one, I was systematically banished from their branches. With my visa hearing in just a couple of days, I started to panic and could feel my eyes welling after each grueling day of rejections.

Then it hit me. I realized I held something that few Frenchwomen would be able to resist.

So I confidently marched into one of the last banks in my neighborhood I’d yet to visit, without the requisite appointment. I strode through the imposing double doors, almost unable to breathe because of my firmly knotted tie, but was told I’d have to wait.

When my name was finally called, I entered the office of a sternly coiffed
Parisienne
, just like all the others I’d seen, who didn’t seem particularly interested in me or my thick dossier. I sat still, trying not to squirm or say much, while she perused each sheet of paper in my carefully organized folder, flipping through it with a look that I had come to know all too well. When she was done, she sighed, frowned in my direction, and as she parted her lips, ready to speak, I stopped her. This time I was ready.

I reached into my bag and on cue I pulled it out: a copy of my first cookbook, one filled with dessert recipes. Even more important, it was complete with full-color photos. I handed it across the desk to her with an explanation that this was my
métier.

You would have thought I’d told her Johnny Depp was dumping Vanessa Paradis and was on his way over, ready to take her away from this drudgery on his private yacht, to spend the summer sailing the Côte d’Azur. She became visibly flushed as she started flipping through the pages, admiring the sleek gâteau Marjolaine layered with ribbons of shiny chocolate ganache and nutty praline. She grazed her hands over the pictures of buttery cakes glazed with pinwheels of maple-caramelized pears, and sighed with pleasure at the trembling soufflés, oozing chunks of dark chocolate.

She was so excited that she called in her coworkers, who clustered
around her desk with a chorus of
“Oh la la, monsieur!”
as they turned the pages, each causing more of a fuss than the previous one. (When I wrote the book, I was worried that I was paying too much for the photos. I now know for sure that it was money well spent.)

After the commotion died down and the women all went back to their respective cubicles, she turned to her computer keyboard, still so excited she was practically bouncing off her seat, looked over at me, and asked,
“Quelle est votre adresse, monsieur?”

The moment her manicured fingers started tapping away on the keyboard, I realized that my first triumph in France had nothing to do with my fiscal fitness, but instead hinged on my culinary qualifications. I’d found my
clé
to success around here. And the future was looking a little bit sweeter for me.

MOUSSE AU CHOCOLAT I
CHOCOLATE MOUSSE I
MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS

Some people think of
mousse au chocolat
as something fancy, when in fact, it’s a very typical, everyday French dessert. This one was made for me by Marion Levy, who lives in the Marais, but spends many of her winters skiing in Méribel. One night after we tackled the slopes she put together this incredibly simple
mousse au chocolat
, which I thought would be delicious with a shot of Chartreuse in it, similar to the
chocolat vert
(hot chocolate with a shot of the regional herbal liqueur) served in the chalets that kept me warm and happy trying to keep up with her on the slopes.

When I whipped it up at home, I brought some to my Parisian neighbors with the warning there were uncooked eggs in it. They looked at each other, then at me, completely perplexed, and asked, “How
else
would you make chocolate
mousse?” If you’re concerned about raw eggs, use pasteurized ones, checking to be sure that the whites will be suitable for whipping.

Or move to France, where no one seems to worry about it.

1. In a medium-sized bowl set over a pan of barely simmering water, begin melting the chocolate with the water and Chartreuse, making sure not to let it get too hot. Take the bowl off the heat when the chocolate is almost completely melted, then stir gently until smooth. Set aside.
   

2. In a clean, dry bowl, whip the egg whites with the salt until they form stiff peaks when you lift the whip. They should still be smooth and creamy, not grainy.
   

3. Stir the egg yolks into the chocolate, then fold one-third of the whites into the chocolate to lighten it up.
   

4. Fold the remaining egg whites into the chocolate just until there are no visible streaks of whites. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and chill for at least 3 hours. (You can also divide the mousse into individual custard cups, ramekins, or goblets before chilling.)
   

SERVING:
Although you can serve
mousse au chocolat
with whipped cream, I prefer it just as is. For some reason, to me,
mousse au chocolat
is best enjoyed straight from the serving bowl, with friends and family sharing communally. You can also freeze it and serve it frozen. Dip a spoon or ice cream scoop in very hot water for easy scooping.

STORAGE:
Mousse au chocolat
will keep in the refrigerator for up to five days. It can also be frozen for up to one month.

VARIATIONS:
You can use another favorite liqueur, such as Grand Marnier, rum, or Armagnac, or omit it altogether, substituting coffee or water for the Chartreuse.

MOUSSE AU CHOCOLAT II
CHOCOLATE MOUSSE II
MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS

For those concerned about raw eggs, here’s an alternative recipe for
mousse au chocolat.
As in the previous recipe, you can swap another liqueur, or espresso, for the Chartreuse.

1. In a medium-sized bowl set over a pan of barely simmering water, heat the chocolate, butter, Chartreuse, and water until melted and smooth. Remove from heat.
   

2. In a separate bowl, beat the cream with a whisk until it’s thickened and forms soft, droopy peaks when you lift the whisk.
   

3. Fold about one-third of the cream into the chocolate mixture to lighten it up, then fold in the remaining cream. Cover and chill for at least 3 hours. (For storage and serving tips, see preceding recipe.)
   

CHOUQUETTES AUX PEPITES DE CHOCOLAT
CHOCOLATE CHIP CREAM PUFFS
MAKES ABOUT 25 PUFFS