This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of French idioms featured so far.

This week’s expression is “Mi-figue mi-raisin.”

Literally translated as “half fig half grape,” it is used as an adjective to mean that a thing, a statement, or a person is ambiguous, or mixed: half good and half bad, half pleasant and half unpleasant, half happy and half sad, half willing and half reluctant, half serious and half joking*… The exact nature of the ambiguity is inferred from the context.

Example 1: “Son livre a reçu des critiques mi-figue mi-raisin.” “His book received lukewarm reviews.”

Example 2: “Elle a déballé son cadeau et nous a remerciés d’un air mi-figue mi-raisin.” “She unwrapped her gift and thanked us with a mixed expression on her face.”

Example 3: “Quand je lui ai demandé s’il comptait démissionner, il m’a fait une réponse mi-figue mi-raisin.” “When I asked him if he planned to quit, he gave me an ambiguous reply.”

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As I mentioned in the January newsletter and on this forum thread, one of my current aspirations is to learn more about Japanese cooking.

I have worked on assembling a good pantry of essentials — always the most daunting step when one tackles a new style of cuisine, I think — and now the real fun has begun, as I teach myself the basics by following trusted recipes.

Maki, whose blog Just Hungry has been around for about as long as mine, has been a great help in that endeavor, thanks to her approachable voice and limpid instructions. Her bento blog, too, is a bottomless source of inspiration.

The sauce is very quickly put together from just a handful of ingredients, and it lends the quinoa a keen, lightly caramelized flavor that is most flattering.

I also have a Japanese friend living in Paris, with whom I have plans to swap cooking lessons: I’ll teach her French recipes and she’ll teach me Japanese recipes, an arrangement for which our respective boyfriends show unrestrained support.

And I have been using a lovely cookbook called Une Japonaise à Paris, written by Kaori Endo. In it this young Japanese woman, who works in the kitchen of the new Rose Bakery location in the Marais, shares homestyle recipes using ingredients that are reasonably easy to find in a city such as Paris.

One of the dishes in this book is a kamo-soba salad that features duck (kamo) magret with leeks and buckwheat noodles (soba), a combination of flavors that is classic in Japanese cuisine, Kaori-san notes. I haven’t yet tried making the recipe in its entirety, but the sauce used to dress the noodles caught my eye, and has become a favorite way of seasoning quinoa.

It is very quickly put together — it can be prepared while the quinoa cooks — from just a handful of ingredients, and it lends the quinoa a keen, lightly caramelized flavor that is most flattering. We usually have it warm when it’s freshly cooked, as a side to grilled mackerel or duck breast for instance, and eat the leftovers at rooom temperature the next day, topped with smoked tofu or soft-center hard-boiled eggs.

I will note that quinoa is absolutely not a traditional Japanese ingredient, but when I consulted Maki, she replied that “it has become more popular recently as a healthy whole grain, or as it’s called in Japanese zakkoku (mixed grains or coarse grains). Quinoa in Japan is called kinua (キヌア) in katakana, indicating it’s an imported food (and word). As far as I can recall, it’s only in the last 5-6 years or so that it began appearing in Japanese magazines and cookbooks. Health-conscious people use it in all kinds of dishes, with Western, Asian or Japanese flavors.”

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This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food and drink. Read the introductory Edible Idiom post, and browse the list of French idioms featured so far.

This week’s idiom is, “Mettre de l’eau dans son vin.”

Literally translated as, “putting water in one’s wine,” it means lessening one’s demands or ambitions, mellowing, deciding to adopt a more moderate stand on an issue or in an argument.

It can be used in a positive sense (being more tolerant, making an effort to reach a compromise*) or, though more rarely, in a negative sense (giving up on one’s ideals, selling out).

Example: “Au début, elle ne voulait pas que son fils joue à des jeux vidéo le soir en semaine, et puis elle a mis de l’eau dans son vin, et maintenant il a le droit de jouer une fois qu’il a fini ses devoirs.” “Initially, she didn’t want her son to play video games on weeknights, but then she put water in her wine, and now he’s allowed to play when he’s done with his homework.”

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Among the many blogs I read enthusiastically is one called Coco&Me: its author, Tamami, sells homemade cakes and chocolates at Broadway Market in East London on Saturdays, and she describes her blog as “the diary of a market stall holder.”

Beautifully illustrated with photos of her displays and confections, it is full of the sort of details I crave when I read about someone’s life and craft: the number of truffles she rolled for the last market day before Christmas, the influence of rainy weather on the sales of lemon tarts, and the delicate art of offering samples.

Tamami-san is just as generous with her tips and recipes — sharing trade secrets is not a decision professional bakers take lightly, so this is all the more commendable — and I had long ago bookmarked the post in which she reveals the secret to her popular Luxury Brownies.

The chocolate flavor is intense, thanks to the combined action of melted chocolate and cocoa powder, which makes this a true chocolate lover’s brownie.

I finally got around to trying the recipe last week for Maxence’s birthday party, though I ended up tinkering with it a bit (you’re shocked, I know), lowering the amount of sugar and fat, replacing part of the butter with almond butter, and adding a touch of salt. I also changed the order of the steps, sticking to the M.O. I use for the melt-in-your-mouth chocolate cake; I am terrified of adding raw eggs to a warm mixture, lest they curdle.

Despite my oven’s vigorous attempts to sabotage the operation — I am plotting the acquisition of a shiny new one (yay!) so it is more mean-spirited than ever — the brownies turned out exactly the way I’d hoped.

The chocolate flavor is intense, thanks to the combined action of melted chocolate and cocoa powder, which makes this a true chocolate lover’s brownie — not a tautology in my book, as I often find brownies to be too strong on the sugar and too weak on the chocolate.

I garnished mine with a mix of organic nuts sold under the name of mélange du professeur — “professor’s mix,” presumably because of the nuts’ brain-friendliness — that contains hazelnuts, almonds, cashews, Brazil nuts, and walnuts, but pistachios, pecans, and/or dried fruits would be good, too. Note that the texture and flavor improve over time, so plan to make this a few hours or even a day in advance.

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