I have been but a sporadic participant in Wine Blogging Wednesday, the event created by Lenn (read here and here) but it is poor planning that is to blame rather than a lack of interest. And when I found out that the theme he had set for the 12th edition was Drink Local I thought to myself, I just cannot be a proud Montmartre citizen and miss an opportunity to write about the Montmartre vineyards.

Vineyards? In Montmartre? Yup, it is yet another quirky feature of this unique part of Paris I love so dearly.

Long before Lutèce became Paris, the Montmartre area (as in fact a large part of the surrounding valley of the Seine) was planted with grapevine. The Romans had built a temple there dedicated to Bacchus, god of wine, and when an Benedictine abbey was founded on the hill in the 12th century (hence the name of the metro station Abbesses), it included a wine-press that the nuns operated. The abbey was sadly dismantled during the French revolution (the very old, blind and deaf abbess was accused of conspiracy against the Republic and sent to the guillotine in 1794), but the vineyards stayed in operation, producing a white wine (“clairet”) that was sold inside the gates of Paris (the Montmartre hill was outside the city limits back then) and a lesser red wine (“piquette”) sold to the local inhabitants and joyously drunk in the numerous cabarets, taverns and guinguettes of the area.

But in the early 20th century the big bad phylloxera scourged the whole thing, and by that time the development of railway transportation had made it easy to bring better wine from other regions of France into the capital, so the vineyards in and around Paris all disappeared. In the 1920’s however, a group of artists and their friends decided to stop a real estate project on a patch of land in the back of the Montmartre hill, between rue des Saules and rue St-Vincent. They came up with a counter-project, asking that the land be used instead to recreate the Montmartre vineyards. Their project was accepted, and the area was thus replanted with grapevines in 1933, leading to the first harvest in 1934.

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One often hears complaints about how things aren’t the way they used to be, how everything is going downhill fast, how nothing works the way it should and nobody cares anyway, but back in the days, boy, <insert whatever was so great back then>.

I am wary of this kind of statement, not only because hindsight is subjective — ten years from now those same people will surely miss what they have today — but also because it’s a negative attitude, and I prefer to focus on the good things we have now. The past should not be used as an excuse to sit and whine and feel depressed, but as a source of lessons to learn, to preserve what still can be and even recreate the splendor of things past where applicable.

Oh, I have my share of nostalgia, but it is the sweet kind of nostalgia that derives from a happy and protected childhood, and as one moves on and grows up, it is easy to let go. But I have now reached the ripe old age of 26 and something strange has just happened: I have witnessed, with my own tastebuds, the downfall of a food item that simply isn’t the way it used to be.

Let me introduce you to… le chique. Le chique (up until a few hours ago I was sure it was spelled le chic and I liked that better) is a specialty from Les Vosges, a mountain range in the North-East of France where my parents have a vacation house. It is similar to what is called faisselle elsewhere in France, an unsalted soft curd cheese that comes in a double container. The inner container holds the cheese and has holes in it, so the whey can drain out into the outer container. When you eat the cheese, you can choose to make it as dry or moist as you’d like by draining it a little longer, or pouring a little of the whey back onto it.

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I seem to have a particular fondness for the red poppy, its fragile fluttering silhouette and its thread-thin stem, too thin, it seems, to support its flamboyant scarlet petals and contrasting black heart.

I like that it is easily spotted from afar — in the middle of a field, on the banks of a country road or in the most unsuspected places amidst city landscapes — and I like that it is a flower best left unplucked. As tempting as it is to tuck one behind your ear, it will wither away so fast you will feel sorry you did.

Thankfully, there is an alternative way to enjoy red poppies, and it is red poppy syrup.

Flower syrups — lavender, geranium, rose, cornflower, mimosa, violet, dandelion — seem to be a current hype on the French gourmet food market, surfing the wave of the old-fashioned and the quirky, in the aftermath of the whole “cooking with flowers” craze. And these syrups, if used with care and a very light-handed touch, can bring an interesting depth of flavor (and color!) to cocktails, desserts and even savory dishes.

My bottle of sirop de coquelicot I acquired from Izraël, a small store in the Marais that sells a miscellany of spices and cool food products from all over the world.

The syrup is produced in Nemours, a city to the South-East of Paris, where they’ve had a specialty of bonbons au coquelicot (red poppy candy) since the 1870’s. Ten years ago, a
chocolate maker from that city decided to widen the range of poppy-based products and added a vinegar, a jelly, a liqueur and a syrup.

While the scent of red poppy syrup straight from the bottle is vaguely reminiscent of cough syrup (red poppy is an age-old soothing remedy, for sore throats in particular), it takes on a delightful acidulated sweetness when diluted, and its flavor could be likened to a subtle mix of strawberry, cherry and pomegrenate.

This particular dessert I made just a few nights ago to bring to my sister’s apartment, as I was joining her and her boyfriend for a fun and highly relaxing session of Top Model 2005 watching (the French rendition of America’s Next Top Model), complete with take-out sushi and catty comments.

The compote, served with ladyfingers to soak up the creamy juices, was deemed “délicieuse!” by my kind hosts. The hint of red poppy, lending the cream a lovely pink shade, also does an excellent job at bringing out (without overwhelming them) the sweet and tart flavors of the softened peaches and apricots.

I have been reinvited for the next episode on Tuesday.

Izraël
30 rue François Miron – 75004 Paris
01 42 72 66 23

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The minute I read Heidi’s post about making your own ricotta and her comment that “this ricotta tastes and smells like the milk it is made from so use the best and freshest dairy you can find”, I instantly thought what a perfect use it would be for the bottle of raw milk that Christoph and Susanne gave me for my birthday as part of their superb farm-fresh gift basket.

I set to work in late afternoon the next day, slightly incredulous as to whether this would actually work: I mean, heat up some milk and surely what you get is hot milk, not cheese, right? I must say I am pretty baffled by my own tendency to be the St Thomas of food chemistry — I’ll believe it when I see it. Where does that come from? I shall write myself a prescription to carefully read the entire revised work of both Harold McGee and Alton Brown.

And sure enough, everything went according to plan. When the combined milk and fermented milk reached the magic temperature (I was merrily using the candy thermometer I acquired months ago and never ever used, not even once), curds started to gather at the surface: this was my cheese! I carefully ladled first the whey then the curds into the prepared dishcloth and sieve, waited a bit, gathered the dishcloth into a bunch, tied it to the faucet with a string and a shoelace knot, waited some more, and reopened the dishcloth to collect my pretty ball of fresh ricotta. Does it get any easier? I think not.

Later that night Maxence and I tasted it on its own, then spread it on little Swedish crispbreads, and again in the morning on slices of toasted bread under a thin layer of Christine Ferber’s blackcurrant and violet jam, and declared it to be among the best fresh cheeses we had ever had, one in which the real tastes and smells of the milk and the barn and the happy cow all explode in your mouth — a far cry from the muted fluffy thing that they sell as ricotta in grocery stores here.

Maxence requested that I make a fresh batch for him every day.

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