Poulet au Cidre et Panais (Chicken with Cider and Parsnips)

Cider and crepes are a near-perfect pairing, bringing together two of the most quintessential tastes of France’s northwest. Low in alcohol (the brut, or dry, varieties, are about 4.5-5%, sweet ones less than half that) with a light, frothy fizz, cider is indisputably fun to drink. But like a former boy-band member now attempting a solo career, it doesn’t tend to get a lot of respect. Outside of creperies, it rarely appears on menus. Selection is often limited, with little differentation in the stock at wine shops and supermarkets.* And while high-quality, low-yield ciders are still being produced, neither marketers nor food writers have exploited cider’s history, variety and versatility.

Until the mid twentieth-century, cider followed wine as France’s second-most popular alcoholic beverage. But a growing taste for beer, combined with rising production costs, has resulted in severe, if not yet terminal, decline of the cider industry. At stake is a product central to the culinary—and cultural—identity of large parts of Normandy and Brittany and an underappreciated partner for all sorts of food.

It’s hardly coincidental that dry cider (cidre bouché) is at its best with autumnal produce and cooler-weather preparations like soups and stews. It can be swapped for white wine in classic dishes like onion soup or moules marinieres and is an ideal braising liquid—with or without another regional product, crème fraiche—for chicken, pork or rabbit. Served chilled in a tall pilsner glass, it would complement a plate of cheese, particularly hard, aged ones with sharp and/or caramel notes (Comte, Cheddar) or any with a blooming rind (Camembert, Brie, Waterloo). Cidre bouché won’t become cloying alongside inherently sweet vegetables like pumpkin or parsnip, and, unlike wine, can tolerate vinegar or other acids. Its sweet counterpart, cidre doux, is, admittedly, a bit less adaptable. But it seems a natural alongside traditional Thanksgiving pies and most any other dessert featuring autumn fruit.

The following recipe, from the ever-reliable Art of Braising, can be used as a template for any white meat-cider stew. Should sparkling French cider be unavailable, substitute a dry, crisp (hard) cider, with more of the same to drink.

Chicken Braised with Cider and Parsnips
Serves 2
Total time: 70 minutes; Active time: 50 minutes

1 tablespoon olive oil
4 skin-on, bone-in chicken thighs
1 large shallot
2 cups (500 ml) cider
Fresh thyme
3/4 pound (330 g) parsnips

Heat a lidded skillet or braising pan over a medium heat. Add oil. When it shimmers, add chicken thighs, skin-side down. Season with salt and pepper. Turn as needed until browned on all sides, 5-8 minutes.

While the chicken cooks, finely chop the shallot. Remove the browned chicken and set on a plate. Add shallot and soften for a minute, stirring to avoid sticking. Raise heat and pour in cider. Scrape the bottom of the pan, then allow the mixture to boil for 10-15 minutes. The cider should reduce to about ¼ of its original volume.

Peel the parsnips and remove any woody core. Cut into long, thin sticks, about the shape of an index finger. Add the parsnips and thyme to the reduced liquid and place the chicken on top. If the pan is deep, use parchment paper or aluminum foil under the lid to get a tight, close seal. Turn the heat down to low and simmer very gently until the chicken is fully cooked and pulling away from the bone, 30-35 minutes.

Remove the chicken to a serving plate. Taste the parsnips for tenderness and the sauce for concentration. The latter should be sweet and glossy, but not thick enough to coat a spoon. If required, cook one or both on a gentle heat for another 5-10 minutes. Adjust for seasoning, arrange parsnips on the serving plate and pour over sauce.

* In Paris, a wide selection can be found at Breizh Café and Pomze.

Chinatown

Sunday afternoons in Paris can be dispiriting. It’s a time traditionally spent with family, and while I’m surely not the only one without any to hand, it can sometimes feel that way. What to do? Shops on the Champs Elysees have a special exemption to stay open, and outer-city warehouses like Ikea simply ignore the government’s trading restrictions. But if neither of these appeal—and how could they?—there’s not much in the way of retail diversion. All but the most boring museums are uncomfortably packed when the weather is foul, while the quais and parks have little free real estate if the sun emerges. The Marais, where the historically Jewish-owned business have swapped closing days, is a natural destination. Thousands of tourists and residents have had the same idea, though, as the lines for falafel and the slowly-parading crowds on the main shopping drags attest. As for restaurants, perhaps one in ten is serving, none on my must-visit list.

When I have my wits about me, I head to Chinatown. Located in the southern 13^th arrondissement, it isn’t on the way to or from anything. Its architecture—tall ‘70s buildings on long, windswept avenues—has little to recommend it. And the ingredients needed for occasional curries or noodle soups don’t require a special trip here. Come Sunday, though, the neighbourhood has a bustling energy, as eaters and shoppers from all over Paris (and beyond) descend. Dim sum palaces are the destination of many; modest pho joints are also highly popular. The menu at a popular Laotian restaurant, Lao Lane Xang, is unusually differentiated; most establishments would appear to derive their custom solely from reputation and tradition.

The heart of the neighbourhood is a bit further south, in and around a particularly ugly and run-down apartment and retail complex. On the sidewalk, vendors peddle counterfeit DVDs, phone cards and homemade fried snacks. Inside the mall are more restaurants, travel agencies and knick-knack shops. A Buddhist temple can apparently be accessed through one of the underground parking lots, though I’ve never located it.

The main draw is an enormous food shop, Tang Frères. Housed in a old railway warehouse on the avenue du Ivry, it is both the largest Asian supermarket in Europe and the flagship of a highly-successful food import and retail business. In the forecourt, fast food-style vendors offer barbecued pork, noodles and fresh coconut juice. An annex to the right sells kitchenware. The main, hangar-sized space boasts a daunting variety of fresh, frozen and packaged ingredients, ranging from the obvious to the esoteric. There are dedicated rows for fish and soy sauces, sacks of rice bigger than a toddler, even a stand piled with the noxious-smelling durian fruit. The only thing I’ve ever failed to find is fresh kaffir lime leaves; legislation apparently requires them to be frozen before importing.

Some families are clearly bulk-shopping for the coming week, others are in search of one or two speciality items. And at least a few must also be drawn by the cheapest bottled beer (Lao, 65 centimes) and free-range chickens in town. The latter has been fueling a series of home tutorials on butchering. (Though I’m a direct descendant of a butcher, knife skills are apparently not genetic.) Mastery will require a few more chickens, perhaps a cleaver—only 8 euros in the kitchenware shop—and most certainly some more beer.

Tang Freres
48 avenue d’Ivry 75013
Metro: Olympiades or Place d'Italie

Le Square Trousseau

Just down the road, at the edge of large, elegant square, is a turn of the century cafe/bistro so perfectly preserved that it has featured in movies and photo shoots. Inside the L-shaped room, the walls are sepia-toned and lined with leather banquettes and mirrors reflect the light from tulip-shaped chandelier bulbs. On the pavement, small tables and rattan chairs are arrayed so as to best take in the sun, trees and passers-by. No detail is missing: gleaming, zinc-topped bar, waitresses in long, white aprons, even the resident dog.

A bit more polished and expensive than its competitors, Le Square Trousseau nonetheless remains a locals’ joint. I could imagine putting on heels and crimson lipstick and having a decadent dinner there. But its timeless quality might be best appreciated with a coffee in the off-hours. Spring afternoons on the sidewalk-cum-terrace are predictably glorious, angling for the sun on my shoulders, watching after school errands segue into pre-dinner drinks. But I’ve begun to prefer indoors, where the gentle bustle of the square is replaced with old jazz standards and the whir of the coffee machine.

One day last week I arrived late, 11 am or so. The kitchen emitted smells of stew and chocolate cake, and the waitresses were preparing for lunch. On each table they set out a square of brown paper, a pepper grinder, wine glasses, flatware and white linen napkins. Two enormous loaves of bread arrived, a round of cheese was whisked off to a serving table, wobbly tables were righted with the help of lozenge-shaped metal disks.

Seated further down the banquette was the only other customer, a middle-aged woman reading the Sunday magazine supplement. The dog, a white and black Jack Russell, perched on the banquette between us, his posture perfectly erect. As the French would say, tous comme il fait (everything as it should be).

Le Square Trousseau
1 rue Antoine Vollon 75012
01-4343-0066
Open daily from early to late, limited café seats during peak eating hours

Bánh mì

Reading through Gourmet’s recent reports on the best street food worldwide, I thought about tacos and why Paris didn’t merit mention. It was, to be fair, hardly an egregious oversight. There are half a dozen falafel stands in the historic Jewish heartland of the Marais (most famous is the Lenny-Kravitz-approved L’As du Felafel), serviceable crepe stands in parks and tourist areas and forgettable filled baguettes on nearly every commercial strip. This limited quality and variety reflects a culture which is still adapting to changing eating habits. While the midday three-courses with wine is increasingly giving way to lighter and faster fare, excellence at lunchtime is somehow not altogether expected. And consuming a meal while standing up, walking down the street or riding public transport remains suspect.

But in the city’s outer arrondissments there’s an authentic quick eat with great potential to go mainstream. It’s even served on a baguette.

Bánh mì (literally sandwich on French bread) originated mid-century in Vietnam, then under French colonial rule. At first, it was a luxurious foreign import, a baguette lined with cured meats, butter and cornichons. But after France’s ignominious retreat post ‘54 it was transformed into a thoroughly local, immensely popular, cheap meal. Baguettes had remained, and the local paté was not a huge departure from the original. The Vietnamese touches came through in the garnishes—pickled vegetables (carrot and daikon) and fresh herbs—and the inclusion of some chili heat.

Still served at street-side stalls and mobile restaurants throughout southern Vietnam, the bánh mì also migrated west during the 1960s and 1970s, providing a taste of home (and entrepreneurial opportunities) for refugees resettled in southern California, Paris or Virginia. Here, it has undergone another series of adaptations, spurred by ingredient availability and acculturation. As well as the classic paté, fillings now include Chinese-style roasted pork, chicken, meatballs, even sometimes tofu. And some are experimenting with upmarket or avant-garde treatments. But whether in Belleville or Brooklyn, the bánh mì remains the quintessential lunch on the go: available for a handful of change in a fluorescent-lit setting ill-suited to lingering.

Real estate may be the only thing preventing the bánh mì from dominating lunchtime trade. Here in Paris, it can just be found in the two “Chinatowns”, each a good 20 minute journey from the city’s commercial heart. The physical proximity of Manhattan’s Chinatown to downtown offices makes the bánh mì more accessible to New Yorkers, though I’ve never seen one above 14^th Street. And in London, the search for a bánh mì would likely extend until afternoon tea.

For now the answer—which also conveniently resolves any qualms about eating super-cheap meat—is to make it at home. But should anyone be looking for a new business partner, remember who gave you the idea.

Bánh mì

Outside of Vietnamese population centres, it’s almost impossible to find made-for-purpose baguettes: slim, light and constructed partially with rice flour. Here, though, otherwise inferior fluffy baguettes come into their fore. If necessary, crisp them before serving and/or remove a bit of the interior. And while I’ve only encountered chicken bánh mì with plain steamed meat, the marinade ingredients are all used in other Vietnamese poultry dishes.

Adapted from Food Woolf and The Traveler’s Lunchbox
Serves 2
Total time: 2-4 hours; Active time: 30 minutes
Special equipment: mortar and pestle

Chicken
2 chicken breasts
1/3 star anise flower
1 large clove garlic
1 small finger ginger
Pinch 5 spice powder
Chili (dried or fresh, to taste)
1 heaping tbsp brown sugar
2 tbsp fish sauce (nam pla)
Splash rice vinegar

Sandwich and Filling
2 small carrots
1/8 cup rice vinegar
1 tbsp brown sugar
1/2 cucumber
1 baguette
Mayonnaise (to taste)
Sricha chili sauce (to taste)
Small handful cilantro (coriander)
Lime juice

In advance:
Rinse chicken breasts, remove any skin and/or fat and place on a large plate or shallow dish.

Using the mortar and pestle, grind the star anise finely. Peel the ginger and garlic and chop the ginger coarsely. Add and grind. (You may find that coarse salt helps the mixture to coalesce) Mix in a pinch of five spice powder. If using dried chili, add to paste and grind. Fresh chili can be chopped finely and then combined. Stir in brown sugar, fish sauce and rice vinegar. Taste for a sweet-salty-sour balance.

Pour marinade over chicken, turning to coat. Cover and refrigerate.

Grate the carrot coarsely using a grater or food processor. Combine rice vinegar and sugar in a large bowl, adding about ½ cup body-temperature tap water. Stir to dissolve. Add carrots, stir and refrigerate.

Just before eating:
Heat grill or grill pan on a medium-high heat. Remove chicken from marinade and cook, turning when firm and cooked. Remove from heat and let rest for at least 5 minutes. Slice into cubes or strips.

Cut cucumber into long, thin strips. Slice baguette in half, opening up to make 2 sandwiches. Place desired quantity of mayonnaise in a small bowl. Season with Sricha and spread on bread. Drain carrots and add to sandwich, along with sliced cucumber. Tear or cut coriander into small sprigs, discarding stalks. Add chicken to the sandwich. Finish with coriander and a good squeeze of lime juice.

Dijon et Poireaux Vinaigrette

“We lived for almost three years in Dijon, which the Burgundians called without any quibble and only half-hearted contradictions ‘the gastronomic capital of the world.’ We were lucky to… be within ourselves eager, interested, and above all husky-gutted. Most of our orgies were voluntary, but even so I doubt if more jaded livers than ours could have stood the thousand bilious blows we dealt them.” MFK Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

In the world’s northernmost fine wine region, Burgundy’s vineyard owners play an annual game of chance with the weather, hoping that limited sun and heat will produce wines which are delicate, rarified and aromatic, rather than thin and mean. As if to compensate for this, the food is rich and abundant, reliant on butter, meat and wine-enriched sauces. The eponymous boeuf bourguignon is only the most famous of a local repertory which includes coq au vin (with chicken usually taking the place of the traditional rooster), ouefs en meurette (eggs poached in a sauce of butter, red wine, mushrooms and bacon), jambon persillade (a gelee-topped coarse pork paté) and snails with garlic butter (escargot).

Ignoring the atypically hot August weather, I managed a fair sampling of typical Burgundian dishes during a recent visit to Dijon and its environs. At a stylish bistro just across from the Eiffel-design central market, where the waitress sported henna tattoos and Gaultier leggings and the patrons were well-fed and equally well-coiffed, I began with a slice of the local paté. It was true to what I’ve seen at charcuteries across Paris, the only concession to fashion being a green, mousse-like top layer of parsley, instead of finely-chopped leaves throughout. Bouef bourgignon provided a satisfying first impression of the dish, the rich, glossy gravy soaking perfectly into the pommes purees. To finish, a sharp, boozy sorbet made with cassis (blackcurrants) and the local liqueur, crème de cassis.

There was a repeat of the bouef bourgignon the next day, the 12 hours of cooking rendering the beef so soft as to require only a spoon. I was delighted by the presentation in an individual Staub casserole, though mashed potatoes were sorely missed. Here the highlights were a poached egg in a cream of summer truffles, the cheese plate, featuring Epoisses from a producer only 10 minutes up the road and the bucolic setting in the centre of the blink-and-you-miss-it wine town of Gevrey-Chambertin. Eating such a meal—complete with matching glasses of wine at each course—was perhaps ill-advised on a day when I still had some 20 kilometres to cycle in hot sun. But both the scenery and the menu were too good to justify compromise.

Once cold temperatures and company coincide, I hope to pull out my own Staub and attempt Julia Child’s iconic recipe. For now, though, I’m concentrating my efforts on slightly lighter fare.

Poireaux vinaigrette is another Burgundian classic, combining leeks (usually poached or boiled) with a dressing made from local Dijon mustard. Tangy and full-flavoured, it would provide an excellent lead-in to a rich, winey stew. Less traditional, but also less stultifying, would be to make a few more leeks, buy a baguette and follow with some good cheese. Let your liver guide you.


Poireaux Vinaigrette

It’s rare that I gravitate towards more complicated versions of simple recipes. But here the extra steps yield real improvements: tying the leeks with a twist of their greens keeps them intact through two stages of cooking. Likewise, replacing boiling with sautéing and braising dramatically deepens flavor and eliminates any potential stringiness. The sauce’s acidity makes this a poor match for more serious wine; pair with a simple, not-too-austere Chardonnay (like a Macon-Villages)

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma French
Serves 2*
Total time: 35 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

4 slender leeks
Olive oil
3/4 cups chicken stock
1 scant tablespoon grain or Dijon mustard**
Lemon juice or wine vinegar
Salt and pepper
Special equipment: large frying pan; tongs

Trim leeks, retaining the green ends, and split along length. (If they are too long to fit across the base of your largest frying pan, split once across width.) Rinse each under the tap, lifting the layers to remove dirt, but being careful to keep intact. Using a thin length peeled from the trimmings, tie each leek around its middle.

On a medium-high flame, heat just enough oil to film pan. When hot add as many leeks as will fit in one layer. Season with salt and pepper. Turn occasionally until both sides are golden and have spots of deeper caramelisation, about 8-10 minutes. If required, remove to plate and repeat with remaining leeks.

Return all leeks to the pan. Add chicken stock and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook until the leeks are very tender and most of the liquid has evaporated, 10-15 minutes. While they cook, make the dressing, mixing the mustard with just enough olive oil and lemon juice to make a sharp, very thick sauce.

Pour over leeks and check seasoning. Serve immediately or at room temperature.

* While the recipe can easily be doubled, it becomes time-consuming without access to several large frying pans.

** I particularly like this one. The only brand still made with locally-grown seeds, it has an elegant, sprightly flavor. Whatever you use, make sure your mustard is fresh.

Pan Bagnat

John Ash tells of being invited for lunch by the great food writer MFK Fisher. As they chatted, she prepared a large sandwich, wrapped it tightly and handed it to him with instructions to sit upon it until it was time to eat. After an hour or so it was retrieved from its resting place and served in thin, neat slices with cornichons and Californian Pinot Noir.

According to Ash, lunch that day was a ham and cheese sandwich, bound together with a tangy mix of mayonnaise and mustard. But it seems likely that Fisher, who spent many years living in the south of France, borrowed the melding technique from the classic Nicoise sandwich, pan bagnat. Best translated as "bathed bread", a pan bagnat sandwiches tinned fish, hard-boiled egg, tomato and condiments in a large roll, using weights, time and good amount of olive oil to turn the whole into a deliciously marinated mess.

Sturdy and able to keep, pan bagnat makes perfect picnic food. So when the idea emerged to spend an afternoon cycling in the parks surrounding the Chateau de Versailles, I knew exactly what we'd be having for lunch. By chance, the one local bakery selling ciabatta had reopened the previous day, and we had discovered a particularly tasty brand of oil-packed anchovies. I made the sandwiches early in the morning, layering on the tuna and anchovies, egg and sliced tomato and seasoning with herbes de provence, the remaining oil and a splash of lemon juice. Double-wrapped, the sandwiches went into my backpack under 4 bottles of water and other paraphernalia. By the time we had dragged the bikes out to Versailles and found a sunny spot facing the Chateau, they were nicely squashed and moist throughout.

I was distracted from taking photos by the swarm of alcoholic wasps who also attended our picnic, eventually meeting their demise in a half-bottle of Saumur Rouge. But the sandwiches, along with what wine we could retrieve and a bag of Reine Claudes, provided sufficient ballast for several hours of charging through the woods and gaping at the grandeur.

Pan Bagnat
Adapted from the New York Times
Serves 2
Active time: 30 minutes; Total time 3-10 hours

2 portion-sized or 1 large ciabatta, either olive or plain (substitute a small white country loaf)
1 medium-size tin tuna packed in olive oil
1 small or medium tin of anchovies packed in olive oil
1 tomato
Small handful olives (optional)
Basil leaves or a small handful of rocket (optional)
Herbes de provence
Lemon juice
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Hard-boil eggs according to preferred method. Split the ciabatta, removing a bit of the interior if desired. Open the cans of fish. Spoon a bit of the residual oil onto the bread. Add the tuna, followed by the anchovies. Slice the tomato and place on top. Stone the olives, cut in half and add.

Once sufficiently cool, peel eggs, slice and add to fish and tomato. Top with leaves. Season to taste with herbes de provence, lemon juice, olive oil and salt and pepper.

Wrap sandwiches in a double layer of foil, place on a plate and refrigerate, using a heavy pan or some canned goods to compress. Bring to room temperature before serving. Sandwiches will keep for at least a few hours outside the refrigerator.

Chez Moi

With too much time on my hands these days, it is tempting to explore making more things from scratch. I heard recently that canning is achieving new-found popularity. Why not make some jams and chutneys with the last of the summer produce? Or yogurt—homemade is meant to be excellent, and cheap too. Ice cream and bread are out due to lack of equipment, but many of the things on my fridge door—ketchup, curry paste, tapenade—could be attempted.

Yet while my homemade jam is perfectly nice, it falls short of even good-quality supermarket brands. Tapenade prepared in my mortar and pestle boasts an appealingly rustic texture, but it’s expensive, messy and has a shorter shelf-life. As for yogurt, I don’t share the French passion for eating it multiple times a day, which would seem necessary to make it worthwhile. Ketchup is only called into service for steak tartare; Heinz works just fine there, additives be damned.

Undoubtedly, a more skilled jam-maker or a larger household might reach different conclusions. But for me, these types of projects seem justified only if undertaken for the pleasure of the process; good results are strictly a bonus.

Boredom may yield some additions to last year’s stash of homemade plum chutney (a bit too sharp, and less versatile than I imagined). At least I’ve found one made-from-scratch project which is impressively simple, cost-efficient and tasty:

Homemade gravadlax involves nothing more than topping a salmon fillet with some greenery and seasoning, then weighting it down in the fridge for a few days. Given the length of the lines at my local supermarket, the initial preparation takes less time than visiting the chilled fish aisle, plus I’m able to buy two or three times the quantity of fresh fish for the cost of a small packet of cured. After two or three days in the fridge, homemade gravadlax has a brighter, fresher taste than its commercial counterpart. It is also easy scalable; anything from a 200 gram (1/2 pound) fillet to a whole side of salmon can be cured.

Sliced into strips, piled onto blini or thin toast and topped with sour cream, the gravadlax makes an elegant starter. Though its texture is less dense and oily, it can also stand in anywhere smoked salmon is used: eggs, salads, sandwiches. Most recently, we served it whole as a main course, accompanied by potato salad.

So, at the risk of sounding like one of missionary types who wants you make your own jam, I can only say: buy the salmon. It’s worth it. And have I mentioned that it’s easy?

Gravadlax
adapted from Cooking for Engineers
Serves 4 as a starter or 2 as a main (can be easily doubled or tripled)
Active time: 10 minutes; Total time: 2-3 days
Special equipment: mortar and pestle

1 salmon fillet, about 200 grams (try to find one of equal thickness throughout)
1 scant tablespoon coarse sea salt
1 heaping tablespoon granulated sugar (I used light brown)
1 heaping teaspoon black peppercorns
1 heaping teaspoon juniper berries (optional but recommended)
Handful fresh dill

If possible, peel or cut skin from salmon fillet. Examine for pin-bones by draping over hand, removing any with fingers or thin tweezers. Place fish in the center of a double layer of foil.

Measure salt and sugar in a small bowl. Grind peppercorns and juniper berries coarsely in a mortar and pestle and add to sugar-salt mixture. Stir to combine. Spoon mixture over both sides of fish, pressing gently into flesh.

Place dill fronds under and on fish fillet, snapping off protruding stems. Wrap fish into a tight package with the first layer of foil. Repeat packaging with second piece of foil. Place in a shallow dish and weight down evenly with cans and/or a heavy pan.

Turn 2 times/day, leaving package wrapped. After two or three days, unwrap package, brush or rinse off any excess cure and serve. Unused fish will keep covered for another week or so.