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If you keep an eye on my book list, you may have noticed I am currently reading Michael Ruhlman‘s recently published, orange book*. In The Elements of Cooking, he proposes to break down and discuss the building blocks of the cooking craft, like William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White did for writers in their classic little volume The Elements of Style, to which the title and format are a homage.

It is an engaging and educational read that retains a strong sense of the author’s voice and idiosyncrasies, unlike other reference books like, say, The Food Lover’s Companion, which I consult regularly but wouldn’t think to read from cover to cover.

The bulk of the book consists in an Acid-to-Zester lexicon of concepts, techniques, preparations, and ingredients, which Ruhlman prefaces with a section in which he lays down his founding principles, addressing such themes as salt, heat, and finesse.

In his essay on tools, he begins by asking the reader to “imagine the kitchen as a white box with nothing more than a stove, fridge, countertop, and sink — not a single other element for cooking in it — and then to pose a hypothetical question: if you were asked to outfit the kitchen with as few items as possible, the absolute minimum you could possibly get away with and still be able to cook most things, what would those items be?”

This question is of particular interest to me as it conjoins two topics I find endlessly stimulating: the desert island question (if you could only bring along five books/CDs/articles of toiletry, what would they be?**) and the neverending battle one has to wage to keep one’s home and life clutter-free.

So I’d like to submit the question to you: if you could only have five tools (pots, utensils, cutlery, and let’s add appliances) in your kitchen, what would they be? Note that we are considering your cooking needs only, setting aside the question of baking equipment. (If you’re the playful type, I suggest you come up with your own list before scrolling down to see Ruhlman’s and mine.)

* The book was sent to me as a review copy.
** Great car game, too!

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Happy New Year! As we slowly ease into 2007, recover from the holiday season and draw up virtuous resolutions we’ll promptly forget so we can unearth them in December and have a good laugh, let us take a moment to bid a fond farewell to 2006 (where do years go when they’re over?) and reflect upon the good things it has brought. Here’s my Best of list:

Most Inspiring Cookbook: Rose Bakery’s Breakfast, Lunch, Tea. Contenders: Mes Recettes pour votre ménage and The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating.

Favorite Fancy Meal in Paris: Lunch in the gardens of Le Bristol. Contender: Dinner at Le Sensing.

Favorite Fancy Meal Elsewhere: Dinner at Cordeillan-Bages, where Thierry Marx officiates. Contender: How could I not mention El Bulli in Roses, Spain?

Favorite Simple Meal in Paris: a côte de boeuf pour deux with garlic potatoes at Corneil.

Favorite Simple Meal Elsewhere: The Crack’d Conch in Key Largo, Florida.

Favorite Soup Recipe: Beet Soup with Anchovy-Walnut Paste

Favorite Main Course Recipe: Le Poulet de Muriel served with Chicken Family Green Beans.

Favorite Addition to my Baking Repertoire: Gâteau Sirop.

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Update, spring 2004 : Le Troyon is now closed, but the same team now runs Caïus at 6 rue d’Armaillé in the 17th (01 42 27 19 20).

[Very surprisingly, Le Troyon does not give out little address cards like most restaurants do, so I don’t have a picture for this entry!]

Last Monday, my parents invited Maxence and I to dinner at Le Troyon, Maxence’s favorite restaurant in Paris. This was our fourth time eating there, we had raved about it to my parents, and they were eager to try it. The setting is elegant but intimate, and the service is professional yet friendly. They have a three-course menu that runs at 33 euros and changes every day but for some signature items.

As is the style in a lot of Parisian restaurants, the menu is hand-written in chalk on blackboards, that the waiters carry to each table for diners to read, propping it up on your table, or balancing it on a chair or a shelf close to you. I like the dynamic of that, because people squint, they turn their necks, they comment on the spelling, wonder about a word that they can’t quite make out, and is it “cul” or “col“, and they’re all looking in the same direction, instead of being isolated behind their own menu.

When you are ready to make your choice (or not, as is more often the case), the waiter will stand next to the board and answer questions, decipher the handwriting, describe dishes, give advice, discuss the choice of products. I love that part because that’s when I get to enquire about what this or that is served with, and how is it prepared, and do you recommend it, and will I like it, and does the chef like it, and where do you buy the bread, and what’s a good wine pairing, and how’s the business going, and can I work here? Until I feel everybody’s getting impatient and I just shut up already.

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Or : The Return of the Polar Bread Sandwich

I made myself another yummy sandwich on polar bread for lunch today. This time, the filling was this : a can of quality sardines packed in olive oil (drained and patted with paper towels), a shallot – chopped with my friend the chef knife, a handful of flat parsley – chopped with my other friend the mezza-luna, 100 g of cottage cheese, a small spoonful of harissa (this is a red chili garlic paste from Tunisia), salt and pepper. Mash all this together with a fork, spread on one slice of polar bread, top with the other, and cut in halves.

This filling is a variation of the “Mousse de sardine à la harissa” recipe from my cookbook “Moi, je cuisine solo ou duo”. I have made it a few times in the past and people have raved about it. It involves the same ingredients (except a “petit suisse” – a small carton of plain thick yogurt – is used instead of the cottage cheese), but it is mixed in the food processor. I would call it a spread rather than a mousse, really, and it is delicious scooped with crackers or veggie sticks, or as a filling for flaky dough dumplings.