It is with unmitigated joy that I announce the release of my new book today!

Clotilde’s Edible Adventures in Paris is a book on Paris restaurants and food shops, in which I share recommendations for my favorite spots — everything from neo bistros and salons de thé to bakeries, outdoor markets, wine shops, and much, much more, as they say — plus all you need to know to navigate the City of Light and Good Food, plus a dozen recipes.

The book is coming out in North America initially (pending the sale of foreign rights, it will be available as an import elsewhere), and I am about to leave on a book tour to promote it — please view the full list of booksigning events and see if you can come and say hi.

You can read more about the book, including reviews and excerpts, on the mini-site I’ve set up, and you should of course feel free to order your very own copy — no, really.

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Our trip started in the most inauspicious of ways.

We could have taken the time, as we usually do, to drop by the bakery on our way to the Gare du Nord, where a train was to take us to Amsterdam in just! four! hours!, but no. Instead, we chose to get ten extra minutes of sleep, and thus found ourselves on the Thalys train at lunchtime, pushed towards the voiture-bar — the car where they sell drinks and snacks — by the complaint of our stomachs.

Now, train food is not supposed to be good, I am aware of that. But one expects it to be edible at least, and the styrofoam sandwiches we bought, which we were forced to order by the ludicrous name of ciabatta poulet, did not resemble anything anyone in their right mind would want to ingest: the one bite I took was the most revolting thing I have ever tasted. So yes, we love the Northern European high-speed train network, but we shall remember to pack our own lunch next time.

The prettier side of the coin, however, was that we arrived in Amsterdam in urgent need of nourishment, and that is a happy state to be in when you’re visiting a city, for hunger is the best of compasses. As soon as we’d dropped off our bags, we went back out again and happened upon a bright and cheerful café called Lunchroom Klavertje 4.

The various types of ham, cheese, and crudités in the refrigerated case bode well, so we sat down and ordered these opulent open-face sandwiches: a pistolet (Belgian-style white roll) with warm ham, Brie, and mustard sauce for Maxence, and for me, two slices of whole wheat bread groaning under a mound of huttenkaas (cottage cheese, which makes such perfect linguistic sense I’m tickled pink).

What this opening lunch hinted, and what subsequent meals confirmed, is that there is excellent food to be found in Amsterdam, food that is sparklingly fresh, prepared with care, and gently priced.

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How to keep greens fresh and happy seems to be the culinary equivalent of keeping one’s skin young: it’s a losing battle, but everyone hopes to find the magic technique.

Wash, don’t wash (we’re talking about greens again now; we’ll address personal hygiene another time), wrap in plastic, cloth, or a paper bag, keep on the counter or refrigerate, and even this one: put the herbs upright in a glass of water and place on a shelf or in the door of your fridge. (That gave my French-sized refrigerator a good laugh.)

I’ve experimented with those ideas to varying degrees of success — mostly on the lower end of the scale — and after throwing out enough wilted herbs to start a compost heap, I’ve finally found the M.O. that works for me, so I thought I’d share.

When I get back from the greenmarket on Saturday mornings, I put my purchases away, sit down for a cup of coffee, then get to work.

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I used to think winter produce was drab, and that the cook’s only option was to wait the cold months out, squinting into the distance, longing for asparagus and strawberries to appear (“Anne, Sister Anne, do you see nothing coming?”).

Now I can’t imagine how I could ever be so blind: what of mâche and winter squash, what of flower cabbage and broccoli, what of endives and leeks and chard, what of this grated carrot and beet salad? Do they count for nothing?

If you’ve never tasted the root of a beet in its raw state, I urge you to give it a try, whether or not you (think you) despise cooked beets.

Perhaps it has helped that the Paris winter has been so mild (again) this year and that — in my memory, at least — the sun always seemed to be out on Saturday mornings, as I vélibed to and from the greenmarket.

Whatever the reason, this is the first year I registered a distinct pining when my habitual provider confessed he would have no more winter pears for me (it’s been such a good season for pears!) and when I saw, a few stalls down, the first crop of fresh peas.

“Oh, no!” I sobbed in my turquoise scarf, “this is too soon! I’m not ready to let go of winter just yet!” And then I thought, “I must write about the grated carrot and beet thing before everyone moves on to greener pastures.”

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