Looking for a recipe for galette des rois? See this post.

And this year’s galette des rois (read more about the galette des rois tradition) was brought to us by Arnaud Larher, a thirty-something pastry chef and chocolatier who opened his own shop in Montmartre ten years ago, after honing his skills at Fauchon under Pierre Hermé’s direction.

I called the day before to order une galette pour six — ordering is not mandatory for such a standard size, but I sleep better if I do — and went to collect it in mid-afternoon. As I walked home and dropped by a handful of other shops for my dinner-making needs, the paper bag bearing the pastry chef’s coat of arms elicited much commentary from these neighboring vendors, whose facial expression (corners of the mouth pulled down, chin jutted forward, eyes semi-closed, head nodding slowly) indicated their respect for the artisan, and their approval of my choice of purveyor. I hurried home for the wind was picking up, and the threat of rain was a dark omen for my fragile disk in its not-even-remotely-waterproof paper house.

Although Arnaud Larher makes a chocolate galette that can’t possibly be anything but very good, my dinner companions and I all prefer the classic version. In Larher’s case, classic means a moist mattress of frangipane* lightly flavored with orange zest — a subtle and tasteful twist — between two sheets of extra-fresh flaked pastry. The ensemble was neither overly buttery nor overly sweet, and was much enjoyed by all.

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Although bread is without a doubt the carb I’d have the most trouble giving up, the potato is a close second. You can fry it mash it boil it roast it broil it stuff it, and be quite certain you’ll get my vote.

The preparations I most enjoy are sautéed potatoes, especially my mother’s (which, before you ask, don’t have any special ingredient other than her love and dexterity), and potato salads. I like a creamy potato salad as much as the next girl — I certainly ate more than my share at assorted barbecue parties in the US — but I have to say my preference goes to those that simply combine roasted wedges of potato with a well-balanced, olive-oil-based dressing that enhances the flavor of the potato, instead of just using it for texture and as a carrier of mayonnaise.

A good example of the kind I like can be found in the daily selection of that beloved lunch haunt of mine that has recently published a superb cookbook I can’t seem to shut up about. And as luck and Rose Carrarini would have it, the book includes a recipe for one of the potato salads in their rotation, a recipe called Potato Gribiche.

The classic sauce gribiche is a mayonnaise that is augmented by finely chopped hard-boiled eggs, cornichons (pickled gherkins), capers, and fresh herbs such as tarragon and parsley; it is a good accompaniment to fish, shellfish, and, most notably, tête de veau (veal head). I might note in passing that my efforts to locate some sort of explanation as to the origins of the name have only turned up the hypothesis that it comes from the old Normand word gribiche, defined as “a mean woman who scares children.” I love it.

Etymological notes aside, the dressing in Rose Bakery’s Potato Gribiche is in fact closer to a vinaigrette than to a mayonnaise, and this conveniently makes it lighter, more subtle, and easier on the forearms. New variations on that salad appear on their counter all the time and my favorite is the one that involves diced chorizo. But my kitchen was completely bereft of chorizo on the particular day I was inspired to try that recipe, so I reached for the closest substitute, smoked paprika, which I think can accurately be described as the phantom of chorizo.

And this is a fine potato salad, full of flavors and textural contrasts. It can be served either still a little warm or at room temperature, and is hence a very good picnic candidate for when the picnic days return. I advise you to eat it on the day you make it however, as what little I had left had turned impossibly mealy overnight.

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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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[Chestnut Pecan Biscotti]

Because I know you’ve been hanging on to the edge of your seats and I’m not such a bad person after all, here is my report on this year’s batch of edible gifts. The recipe I ended up making on Saturday afternoon — in between a few last-minute errands, but I’m fortunate enough to live in a neighborhood that offers plenty of shops that cater to the disorganized and thus belated present-buyer — was Nolwenn’s, a recipe for hard and crunchy little cookies that the Italians may liken to biscotti di Prato or cantuccini, the Americans to biscotti, and that we French call croquants. In their almond version, these cookies are a traditional — though optional — addition to the treize desserts de Noël (thirteen desserts of Christmas) in Provence.

[A brief aside on the word croquant: it comes from the verb croquer, which dictionaries tell you can be translated as “to crunch”. I respectfully and regretfully disagree, it is but an approximate translation: say both words out loud, can you hear how they describe quite different texture experiences? And don’t even get me started on croustillant, perhaps the most joyful of French words, and for which “crisp” is such a weak equivalent. There are — obviously — superb English words that one can’t express in French, but these two I miss dearly.]

What attracted me to this particular recipe was that it used chestnut flour and nut butter, two ingredients I love and love to use. I realize as I type that I made quite a few modifications to her recipe: I used ground almonds instead of ground hazelnuts; I used almond butter and praline paste instead of almond butter only; I lowered the amount of chestnut flour by blending it with wheat flour (chestnut flour is quite assertive and I didn’t want it to overpower the other flavors); I used just pecans instead of a mix of nuts and dried fruits; and finally, I didn’t add any olive oil because the dough was plenty moist without it.

Once cooled, these croquants, subtly sweet and boasting the sort of earthy, toasty flavor that is just perfect for this time of year, were lightly dipped in bittersweet chocolate to give them the smooth, rich note this treatment adds, as well as a rather attractive lining of dark velvet. They were then packaged up in little crystal bags (from the box of 100 I acquired at Mora some three years ago and can’t seem to make a dent into), along with a handful of the most delectable kumquats I’ve ever been given to taste.

These were a chance inspiration from my Saturday morning run to the Batignolles market, where things were quiet enough for the eve of a Christmas eve. I bought just a few at first, tried one as I went about the rest of my shopping, and soon enough found myself eating them one after the other, like those ladies you see in old movies, sprawled out on their couch and gobbling up chocolate bonbons. Kumquats can be fierce little guys, dry and astringent, but these were just the right mix of sweet and bitter to make them a grownup’s treat, yes, but not a punishment (although some punishments can be quite sweet, but I digress).

My little bag almost empty, I went back to the stall to get more to share, and hope they’ll still have them next week, for I may try making candied kumquats, or kumquat marmalade, or perhaps a kumquat ginger cake.

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