Essays

[My Recipe Book]

Six or seven years ago, I started a little recipe book. At that time, I still lived at my parents’ and hardly ever cooked, except when they were away, and then there would be the obligatory calls to my mother for the recipe to gratin de courgette or quiche lorraine, and how do you cook potatoes again?

I bought a spiral notebook with three sections, and neatly labeled them “Salé”, “Sucré” and “Divers” (savory, sweet and miscellaneous). I then proceeded to ask my mom, once and for all, about her oft-requested recipes and cooking tips. It took a few sessions in the kitchen, with her preparing dinner, and me sitting on a stool, asking questions and taking notes.

I hardly added any recipe to the notebook after that, new ones were filed on my computer or in a clippings file instead, but I always kept it with me, and it really helped when I started to cook in the US and couldn’t call my mother at the drop of a hat. After a while of course, I didn’t even need to open it anymore, because I knew most of those recipes by heart.

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Last Saturday, it was my great pleasure to have two American friends over for a late morning cup of coffee. Ruth, a coworker from my California days, was visiting Paris with her partner Pia, and she had contacted me to know if I’d like to meet up. We had the loveliest time chatting together and catching up.

It should be said that Ruth and I have been through special times together : she and a few other coworkers (namely Marni, Geoffrey and Marcia) had made it a habit to play Boggle in the office kitchen (roomy and warm, bright orange and blue, how I miss that kitchen) during lunchtime. You know, Boggle, where you shake sixteen dice in a plastic box (rattle rattle rattle) then let them settle to form a grid of letters, and try to find as many words as possible on the grid before the sand timer runs out.

I gradually joined in the fun, and became a real Boggle enthusiast. It was a fabulous way to learn a bunch of tiny improbable English words, which I can never get enough of, and I loved the mood we played in, cheerful and relaxed. People would walk in and out of the kitchen, hover over the game (hints were highly fordbidden of course, but they would make a big show of pretending to see 7-letter words), the wonderful Mark C. would unfailingly make his favorite “it boggles the mind” pun, and we would chew on our sandwiches between each game, comparing lists and counting points.

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In my post about Pissaladière, I alluded to my father’s signature vinaigrette. Such a teaser could not go by unnoticed, and many of you expressed an eager curiosity. The request for more information was passed on to my father, and I will now step aside, and let you read his reply :

Yes, perhaps the time has now come for the secret recipe of CDV (“Clotilde’s Daddy’s Vinaigrette”) to be revealed to the astonished (and expectant) world. To be secretive is one thing, to be selfish another. This has been a family secret from times immemorial, handed down countless generations from Father to Son. But I have only two (lovely, bright, charming and adorable) daughters, and no son to take over the heavy burden from me. So here we go.

First, let me say that making a Vinaigrette is not only an art, it’s also a science. You must carefully consider:

– the list of ingredients
– their quality
– their quantity, both relative and absolute
– the size, nature, form and shape of the bowl and of the spoon

There are many other significant parameters, of course, which we will ignore at this stage, since this is just Vinaigrette Making 101, after all. For the record, let me mention:

– the room temperature
– the atmospheric pressure
– the direction of the wind, and its force (you can’t very well use the same vinaigrette method in a leisurely south-westerly breeze, and in a severe northern gale force 9, imminent.)

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Some people have all the luck.

Maxence’s company recently relocated to Belleville, in the 10th arrondissement of Paris. Not only are the new offices in a rehabilitated workshop with frosted glass windows and exposed beams, nested at the very back of a series of small rickety courtyards, it is also right at the crossroads between North Africa and Asia.

You didn’t know such a geographic wonder existed? Well it does, as communities from both regions of the world have taken up residence on either side of the place de Belleville.

And this means that my lucky boy gets to conduct stupendous explorations trying out every possible hole-in-the-wall, travelling from Vietnam to Morocco by way of Thaïland, from Tunisia to China, from Korea to Turkey, and back again – all during his lunch break.

Thankfully, he is the generous kind, and from time to time he’ll suprise me with a selection of local Belleville goodies. Like for instance, those huge and delectable poppyseed bagels…

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