First Attempt at a Christmas Bûche

At least it tasted nice!

I've eaten many Bûches de Noël. The revered buttercream sort, the not-so-typical frozen log sort, and all those in between. I've bought them fully adorned and ready to serve, and I've also been known to play God and add a final dusting of powdered sugar snow and a few plastic figurines to the sweet scene. But I had never made one myself, until this year.


The Bûche de Noël, or Yuletide log, is a French Christmas dessert where a soft, thin sponge cake is spread with a whipped filling then rolled, and topped with festive seasonal decorations. The tradition of the Bûche was born in homage to the celebration of the Winter Solstice. Each year, a tree would be cut down and its logs used throughout the entire preparation of the Christmas Even midnight dinner. Eventually practicality won over, and the symbolic Yule log was promoted from the fireplace to our dessert plates.

In France, dessert Bûches usually follow this template: white genoise covered with currant jelly, layered with thick buttercream, coated with chocolate frosting after being rolled, and scored with a fork to resemble bark. Emboldened patissiers may use some chestnuts or praline, but ultimately the sanctity of the bûche, as with any French dessert, is protected. After considering such heavy culinary heritage, but rather untroubled by it, my sister and I began sifting through various recipes. To be honest, neither one of us has the sweet tooth or the ambition to tackle the Yuletide magnificence mentioned earlier. We wanted our dessert to be relatively unfussy and boast lots of chocolate. I finally found this recipe, which wooed me with its "moderately easy" label and no-nonsense appearance. It looks like a log, and incorporates chocolate in both the cake batter and the frosting. I decided that adding a bit of espresso to the ganache would be my own personal touch.

The biggest obstacle to our Christmas dessert rested in the proven fact that neither my sister nor I are particularly painstaking in our cooking habits. I don't have self-rising flour, I used the wrong sized baking pan and I didn't let the chocolate ganache cool long enough... So maybe our bûche did not shine with all the Yuletide glory of bûches past. But it tasted delicious (undercooked dough is one of the happiest accidents I can think of) and chocolate icing is known to cover up just about anything. And I'm eager to try a second attempt next year.

From My Mother's Kitchen: An Endive Soup.

The Goods.

"We have a crate of endives keeping cool in the garage. What should I do with them?"
"Braise them!"
"No, I did that just last weekend. I'll make a soup."
"Uuuuuh, what?"
"Mais si! And I'll add dried cèpes."
"... Do what you want."

So she made endive soup. And I was a complete non-believer. But I have no qualms about admitting defeat to the culinary rebel/creative inspiration that is my mother. The soup was delicious. The endive shined simply in the bitter aftertaste it left, while the dried mushrooms were hearty and woodsy and perfect for a Fall soup. Adding a sprinkling of blue cheese and sour cream at the end also helped round the dish out for the less vegetable-inclined amongst us.

The recipe mirrors exactly what goes on during my mother's cooking adventures, meaning there is very little recipe to speak of. This is good inspiration for me, because although I don't feel the need to abide by every required ounce and teaspoon, I tend to avoid most digression until I have made the dish a few times and determined what I like most about as it as well as what I would like to tweak.

So here it is: sauté some leeks and garlic, add chopped endives and potatoes, cook down a bit, then add the rehydrated mushrooms with their tasty water, as well as some more water. Simmer, then make smooth with the help of an immersion blender. Season to taste: we added more salt, some cayenne pepper, ground nutmeg

Here's to no-recipe recipes!

Anthony Bourdain's Layover in Paris

Paris was the destination de la semaine last night on the Layover, now in its second season on the Travel Channel. Obviously I must be somewhat masochistic to feel such eagerness for watching Tony wine and dine around a city that I partially call home, and yet am not sure to visit for some time. But really, I would rather call it nostalgia and/or anticipation for my next visit.

Pont Alexandre III

Our favorite host, through whom we vicariously live an amazing traveler's life unconcerned with costs and calories, galavanted around the usual suspect neighborhoods of the Marais, Montmartre and the 6th arrondissement. He sprung into various Parisian hot spots, met with French foodies, and was served by renowned chefs. He elaborated on how the culinary scene has transformed in France, and how, as in so many other leading cities, the days of the white tablecloths are gone to be replaced by seasonally-driven, locally-sourced, trend-conscious tasting menus banged out of a small kitchen by a slightly innovative 20 or 30-something year old. I could have asked just about any food-inclined person what Anthony Bourdain would accomplish on his Paris show, and I would have gathered about the same answers. How does one come up with a fresh perspective on Paris, a city known and loved even by those who have never set foot on its cobblestone streets? Will there ever be much more to say about such an established cultural mecca, one that nobody actually wants to see change? Clearly this was a challenge for the production team: the Paris theme has been done to death, and yet it must be done. So what did Mr. Bourdain rant about last night, in an attempt to say something new about the City of Lights?

Don't go see the Eiffel Tower. Just don't. It's not worth it. The Louvre? The Arc de Triomphe? Meh. Stop. Stop and slow down.

And this is actually what I tell people too, when they ask me what they should do while in Paris. If there are things on your bucket list that you must do, that you would beat yourself up about on the plane ride home should you bypass them, by all means go. But keep this list to a minimum. The real charm of Paris is in its crooked streets you will inevitably get lost on, the cheeky graffiti on the side of several hundred-year-old building, the sound of the evening news coming from the open window of a ground-floor apartment. You have to invite surprise, even call to it, in a city like Paris where it is all too easy to follow a hackneyed itinerary. Set the guidebook down, and start walking. Turn right, then go straight, then take a slight left. Stop in a café. Repeat. Because Paris really will surprise you. You just can't be standing in line for the Eiffel Tower.

Photos from my own wanderings in Paris.

And don't forget the sacred apéro hour, a celebratory transition from day to night. And definitely get a Berthillon ice cream cone.

Berthillon Cones - Cassis (blackcurrant) and Nougat.

For the guide and pictures for this week's The Layover in Paris, check the Travel Channel link, here.

A Transatlantic Thanksgiving

Red Pepper Marmalade

Honey and Jalapeño Cornbread

My family does not celebrate Thanksgiving in the traditional sense. For some reason this assertion is often met with surprise by my American friends, who might be convinced the entire planet takes a break on the third Thursday of November to gorge on green bean casserole and pumpkin pie. But even our close kin the Brits don't have Thanksgiving. I would know because I cooked a first-ever-Thanksgiving-dinner for my entire floor when I was abroad in England, which actually became more of an attempt at defending the merits of cornbread (Putting on a British accent: "But this is just cake with an identity crisis!") At least dessert was successful.

As much as our Thanksgiving features very little family and friends, and even less of the staple dishes that seem to flood every food magazine this time of year (Sweet potatoes with marshmallows? What?), I would never miss an opportunity to cook up a dinner in honor of my favorite season. Pass the Brussels, please.

My Hydration Station

So no, we haven't served turkey for years, and we don't prepare some grandmother's stuffing recipe in reverence every year. We didn't even celebrate Thanksgiving on the official Thanksgiving day (I was working a double at the restaurant). But we did make some fantastic food. Here is menu, never again to be replicated. I want more squash next year!

Endive and beet salad (adapted from this recipe)
Glazed ham, because we got tired of cooking an extra large chicken
Roasted Brussels sprouts, mushrooms and red onion
Braised red cabbage (adapted from this recipe, using red instead of Savoy cabbage and holding the mustard)
Braised parsnips (recipe here... Yes I did see it as a commercial for Fisher nuts!)
Garlic mashed potatoes (lightened up recipe here)
Jalapeño cornbread to set your mouth on fire (recipe here)
The crowning glory: red pepper marmalade. Spread it on your bread, on your turkey, on your veggies. It's seriously amazing, and next time I'm adding in some chiles. Thank you San Francisco Chronicle!(recipe here)

Hope you all had just the kind of Thanksgiving that fits your style and makes you smile!

The Pissaladière: An onion, olive and anchovy tart

Don't even ask my dad to retain the name of this dish, let alone pronounce it. The deal with my family is, my mother is French and my father is American. Whereas my mom, sister and I are perfectly fluent in both languages, my dad lags a bit behind. He understands a lot (unless he puts his I-don't-comprehend-French blinders on) but his speech does not venture much past "bonjour" and "merci beaucoup." How this happened in a French-speaking household with some of the best teachers he could ask for, I'm not sure. But I do know my dad loves my mom's French cooking, as we all do.

The pissaladière is a tart originating from the south of France and Italy. You'll find that French cooking, as well as its cultures, traditions and dialects, are actually very permeable to influences from neighboring countries and immigrant populations. Now of course I don't mean high-end French gastronomy, practiced esoterically and defended fervently by a chef elite. I mean your family's home cooking. In the south you'll find distinctly Spanish and Italian flavors, with lots of red peppers, garlic and olives being used, but then as you travel north toward Germany and Belgium the food gets progressively more carb-heavy. And in between, quite a few native cooks have become familiar with preparing North African staples like couscous and tagines. Ultimately, I think French cooking is a lot more varied and diverse than is expected...

Now, to get back to the pissaladière. This is a quick and easy weekend dish that my mom often puts on the menu, and is seriously fool-proof. Sauté some onions, add garlic and earthy herbs (thyme, bay leaf) and maybe a touch of mustard and white wine, spread the browned mixture over store-bought pastry dough and top with anchovies and black olives (the flavorful kind, not the nacho topping kind). Don't be intimidated by recipes that call for making your own dough. Knock yourself out if you like, but don't be fooled into thinking every French home cook makes their own pie crust. It is far from being the case. Here is a recipe I thought was most helpful in its simplicity and directness. Serve with a vegetable side and a green salad, and you've got a French lunch that's impossible to pronounce!

Rant of the Day

Last night I saw something on TV that resonated with me. I was watching the LAST EVER episode of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations, which explored New York's now ridiculously trendy borough of Brooklyn. While visiting Gloria's, a casual Italian restaurant beloved by many locals, Tony was chatting about the distinction between Italian food and Italian-American food. His guests readily agreed that the born and bred Italians overseas would surely be appalled by what was being served at Gloria's: its side of spaghetti, over-zealous seafood combinations and gargantuan portions. But they owned it. To them, Italian cuisine has spawned sub-styles which are equally delicious to the original. So why is it that more people don't celebrate such transformation and reinvention, fastening instead to a long disproven claim that they're the real deal?

For my part, I have to admit I am a little irked when I run into French toast made "extra French" by using brioche slathered in maple syrup and cinnamon -- French toast is nothing distinctly French, brioche was surely not intended for a resourceful meal of repurposed old bread, and neither maple syrup nor cinnamon are commonplace flavors in French cooking. Same thing happens when I hear my foodie friends rant about how French their cheese plate was because it featured fig jam and crackers -- sweetness is not a traditional component in cheese plates. Seriously, the cheese has more than enough flavor. Ever try slathering quince paste on Pont-l'Evêque? No. Not to mention that cheese is only ever eaten with bread in France, and water crackers don't exist.

America fosters innovation and reinvention more than any other country I know. There's no shame in adapting old favorites to new ideas and fresh palates. I just wish this were reflected in how American cuisine is treated and presented. It can be just American, and just as tasty at that.

Apéros in the South of France

I want to share with you, as a first post, a quintessentially French tradition. One that I look forward to every year upon returning to my second home country during the months of June through August.

Summer is a time for hot weather, chilled drinks and outdoor dining, preferably in the excited company of friends and family equally as eager as you are to be on vacation already. A time to forget the formal declination of courses served around a seated table, rather butterflying between conversations and finger foods for long, leisurely hours. The French make a point of this in their apéro, short for apéritif (Side note: don't mess with a French person's relaxation. Vacations are to put your feet up, not to spend hours standing over a stove). The apéro is a preface to dinner, a time to drink rosé and nibble on olives, nuts, cherry tomatoes and toasts topped with olive tapenade. Or anything you have on hand really, because all that matters is that you ease gently into what comes next. This is not the time to fuss about food, but rather open your appetite on some favorite summer nibbles.

To establish a comparison, one significantly tainted by my American college experience, the apéro is like a pregame. A pregame in the sense that it is technically meant to set the mood for later festivities, though such preparation may ultimately become the main event. Yes, after a few glasses of wine people tend to get excitable, and banter resonates from every direction. An innocent apéro veers toward debauchery around the time the costumes and musical instruments come out. To be sure an amazing meal will still follow, with salads, grilled meats and fish, cheeses and fruits. But it will only serve to settle everyone into food-induced languor, best remedied by an afternoon nap and espresso. Or, in extreme cases, by a walk through neighboring vineyards and a dip in a pool along the way whose water was far too turquoise, not to mention unguarded, to resist.

So don't be fooled by its effortless and spontaneous pretenses, nor its label as a pre-show to the main event. The summertime apéro is where the fun really happens.