Ingredients & Fine Foods

When we have friends over for Sunday brunch, the bulk of the meal is conveniently store-bought from the small shops around us. A generous cheese platter, a few items from the charcuterie (such as sliced bone-in ham, terrines, and sometimes eggs in aspic for a bit of harmless proselytizing), ample supplies of fresh baguette (usually a mix of plain and multigrain), and a selection of croissants and pains au chocolat (always a difficult thing to get right, as it’s hard to know who will prefer which, so you end up getting one of each for everyone, but you can make croissants aux amandes with the leftovers so that’s okay).

I like to throw in a couple of homemade items too, and for these I usually have wild ambitions. I picture warm quiches, elegant soufflés, golden frittatas, fluffy pancakes, moist yogurt cakes, plump scones, pretty muffins, or perhaps a few crumpets, which I’ve been wanting to make for about three years and still haven’t, for no apparent reason.

But the problem with brunch, really, is that it happens so early in the day — or more accurately, since 1pm is not exactly early, so soon after I wake up. By the time I’ve emerged, showered, hopped out to the bakery, waited in line while admiring the latest bread creations, and walked back home, chewing on the warm crunchy tip I’ve teared out from one of the baguettes, there is usually little time left to bring my edible projects to life.

And this is why, last Sunday, while Maxence was putting together a batch of simple but outstanding oeufs cocotte with foie gras, I decided to play the trump card of convenience, and use the cookie mix I’d been keping in my kitchen cabinet for such occasions.

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[Egg in Aspic]

And today, let me introduce you to one of the quirky wonders of old-school French charcuterie: the Oeuf en Gelée.

It’s a simple preparation, really: a fresh egg, expertly poached into a plump oval, nested in an amber casing of veal aspic, and supported by a few benevolent companions — here, a strip of cooked ham, a bit of chopped parsley, a small piece of tomato and a slice of cornichon.

I am well aware that this may not seem like such a compelling idea, and may even put off more than one aspic-shy eater. I myself turned my nose up at these eggs for years, dismissing them as an obsolete oddity, quite literally congealed in time.

But that was before I actually tasted them (and before I realized you can’t just decide you don’t like something before you’ve even tried it). Maxence had been a long-time fan — it was always a treat when his mother got him one for lunch — and when we started living and food-shopping together in Paris, he persuaded me to give them a chance. I was pleasantly surprised, and quick to join him in his devotion.

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[Macaron from Amiens]

The French macaron seems to have gained international fame in the past few years, but I thought it was time to dispell a common misconception: the delicate confection, made of two rounds of shiny and smooth almond meringue sandwiched together by a creamy filling, is not the only type of French macaron one can enjoy. The one that benefits from the spotlight is the Ladurée-style macaron, sometimes referred to as the macaron parisien, and it is really the tree that hides the forest, if I may use a French expression.

Macaron confections can be traced back to the 17th century, and many French cities have made it their specialty: St-Emilion, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, Boulay, Montmorillon, Lauzerte, Nancy, Châteaulin, Massiac, Cormery, and the list goes on and on. Although there are slight differences between all these macarons, the basic idea remains the same: they are made from ground almonds, sugar, and egg whites, with the occasional addition of honey, sweet almond oil, bitter almond extract, or any secret ingredient that I wouldn’t know about because it’s, well, secret.

All of them have a round shape and a natural color, tan or golden. They are usually baked on a cookie sheet, which gives them a flattened disk shape, and some versions (the St-Emilion one in particular) are baked directly on sheets of ordinary (non-parchment) paper, from which the eater tears off each little macaron. Their surface can be smooth, grainey, or crackled, but in all cases they boast a crispy crust that gives way to a moist, chewy interior.

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[Dry-Cured Duck Sausage]

We had long wanted to try Le Petit Canard, a small restaurant tucked away in a side street of the 9th arrondissement, just a few blocks from us. I had often walked past it on my way up and down the hill, and it looked cosy and warm, with just a handful of candle-lit tables. As the name implies, the menu focuses on all things duck, and I have a weakness for monomaniac restaurants.

We finally made it there last week with our neighbors and my two oldest girlfriends. For starters, we decided to share a selection of duck charcuterie: smoked magret, duck rillettes (a pâté of shredded meat), two kinds of duck terrines (one with port and green peppercorns, one with chesnuts), and slices of duck saucisson, a dry-cured sausage that’s classically made with just pork meat.

All the products served at this restaurant come from a small farm in Haute-Savoie, a region in the French Alps. This came as something of a quirky suprise, because Haute-Savoie isn’t typically renowned for its duck breeding — the bulk of French duck products comes from the South-West. The owner confirmed that this farm, operated by his brother-in-law in a village called Balaison, is the only such farm in the area, but that the ducks fare very well in the cool mountain air. They enjoy the ski slopes, too.

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