Zaatar is a popular spice blend in Middle-Eastern cuisines — those of Syria and Lebanon in particular –, made with thyme, toasted sesame seeds, sumac, and salt. (Note: The Arabic word also means simply “thyme”, and is sometimes transcribed as za’atar, zahtar, or zatar.)

As with all generic spice blends, the flavor profile of this one will vary according to where its components came from, who mixed them, and how long ago, but a good zaatar should greet you first with an acidulated citrus smell that tickles the nose, before nutty, fruity, and grilled notes join the chorus, reaching further into the back of your mouth with an appetite-whetting effect.

A short stay in the oven turns the pita wedges into crisp and golden versions of themselves that make for a fine appetizer alongside roasted or pickled vegetables, or the dip of your choice.

Zaatar is among my favorite magic wands: it works wonders in grated carrot salads and lentil soups, I sprinkle it on fresh cheese or blend it with yogurt, I use it as an herb crust for racks of lamb or rub it on fish to be baked or grilled, and I’ve been meaning to follow Estérelle’s example and use it in a caramelized onion tart.

But the simplest way to make zaatar shine is to combine it with a good olive oil and produce a thick paste that will be spread on bread dough (manakish-style) or pitas, as described below: a short stay in the oven turns the pita wedges into crisp and golden versions of themselves that make for a fine appetizer alongside roasted or pickled vegetables, , or the dip of your choice.

And for an even quicker preparation, you can just serve bite-size pieces of bread, a cup of olive oil, and a saucer of zaatar, and have your guests dip the bread lightly in the olive oil, then in the zaatar. Easy, interactive, and tasty.

Zaatar can be purchased from Middle-Eastern markets and spice shops; in Paris, look for it at Izraëlor Hératchian. Keep in mind that some blends are more salty than others, so taste yours first and use accordingly.

Continue reading »

[Crapaudine Beet]

It is a common misconception that the wintertime opposes the hurried cook with a dearth of ready-to-eat vegetables that could be prepped and dressed in under five minutes.

But what of endives and young winter greens, what of radishes and kohlrabi? What of lemon-squeezed mushrooms, what of thinly sliced fennel and cabbage, what of carrots and celeriac, which do require peeling and grating, yes, but perhaps you have a basic food processor gathering dust somewhere and it is time to take it and its assorted grating-slicing attachments out of retirement?

To my arsenal of winter crudités I have a few years ago added the beetroot. While you can simply peel and grate young beets for a raw, crunchy salad — do wear gloves and an apron if you’re heading out to a job interview afterwards and don’t want to appear as if you’ve just slayed someone — I prefer to take an even more leisurely path.

I buy my beets pre-roasted from the market or the produce shop, and all I need to do is peel — the skin strips off like those cool exfoliating masks –, slice — the butter-soft flesh offers a sigh and no resistance –, and eat.

The beets I find at the organic farmers’ market are roasted over a woodfire, which accents their earthy flavor, and you can make that point with even more clarity by adding a pinch of smoked salt or smoked paprika. On my last market run I enquired about the kind of beet they used, and was told with a straight face that it was a variety called “red ass.” I smiled privately, enjoying the cheeky name, until I looked it up and realized that it was merely “red ace” with a French accent.

Continue reading »

If you have been keeping an eye on the moblog, you may have noticed that I have just taken a lightning trip to NYC.

The main reasons for this trip were to brunch with Adam in Brooklyn and to buy a mosquito helicopter for Maxence, but I also managed to squeeze in a series of meetings and work sessions with my publicist, to prepare for the upcoming release of my cookbook in May.

Good things are in the works, but what I am most pleased to announce is that we are planning a US book tour that will take me to NYC, Boston, Chicago, Seattle, and San Francisco between May 15th (my “on-sale date”) and May 24th. I will post a detailed schedule of the events as soon as all of them are set, and I also intend to organize a book launch party of some sort in Paris, most likely in June.

In other news, I am currently reading through the proofs of the British edition (note: the cover is being redesigned as we speak), which will also be released in mid-May. This edition will have metric measurements (yay!) and lots of words like neighbours and aubergine. It is the edition that will be distributed in New Zealand and Australia, as well as in British import bookstores in France.

Continue reading »

[Aunt Amélie’s Smooth Chocolate Cake]

None of my aunts are named Amélie, I thought I should make that clear from the start. And if I am to explain the origin of this recipe, I will need to rewind the tape back to early January, when French food writer Thierry Roussillon asked if I would answer a few questions for one of the interviews gourmandes he publishes on his blog.

A few days after I did, a severe bout of procrastination found me browsing through other people’s interviews. I happened upon that of Augustin, of Michel et Augustin fame, who made a passing mention of “le fondant de Tante Amélie, un gâteau au chocolat épatant cuit au bain-marie” — “Aunt Amélie’s smooth cake, a stupendous chocolate cake cooked in a water bath.”

Stupendous? Smooth? Chocolate? And a novel technique? My curiosity itched so badly it had to be soothed with tiger balm. I called Augustin and asked in my sweetest voice if he was willing to share the recipe — provided it didn’t break any sort of culinary omertà of course. He was, it didn’t (Amélie is in fact the aunt of Augustin’s wife, Victoire, which leaves us with a pretty daisy chain of French names), and I gave the recipe a whirl at the first opportunity.

It is indeed an unusual, and very easy recipe that begins with a sirop de sucre (a syrup of equal parts water and sugar) in which you melt the chocolate and butter. As for the hot water bath, its role is to conduct the heat gently around the pan, resulting in a smooth crustless texture that swathes your tongue.

And so I had made the cake and set it to cool, the kitchen counter had been cleared and I was taking a minute to admire the finished product, my head slightly tilted to the right, when it occured to me that something was missing. My cake looked naked.

Now, as regular readers may have noted, I rarely submit my cakes to the suffocating torments of frostings, icings, or glazes: I prefer the looks of a simple cake, and I don’t enjoy the mouthfeel (nor the extra work) of most frostings. But if I was going to serve this one to company — and company was expected any minute — it really needed some sort of headdress.

This is when I remembered that Les Petits Mitrons — a pastry shop on rue Lepic that specializes in beautifully old-fashioned but excessively caramelized fruit tarts — sells a similar chocolate cake that is decorated with a shiny topping of sliced almonds.

I wasn’t certain how they achieved that finish, but I opted for an abricotage, the trick that makes classic French fruit tarts so glossy: you combine two parts apricot jam with one part water, heat gently until thin, fish out any bit of apricot skin, and brush lightly over your tart or cake or body.

I didn’t have apricot jam on hand, but I did have a half-eaten (no: half-full) jar of Christine Ferber‘s strawberry and mango jam, and that worked splendidly. I toasted a handful of sliced almonds, stirred them into the mangofraisage, and spooned that atop the cake, which I served with mango sorbet, to soft moans of approval from my dinner companions.

Continue reading »