Yup, yet another food-related meme, for which I was tagged by both Pascale and Jacqueline. This one has you indulge in the reminiscence of five childhood food memories. Here are mine!

Les Nounours à la Guimauve
When we had a little pocket money my sister and I would drop by the boulangerie around the corner from school to buy candy. The display case was visible through the window so we would stand there for a little while trying to decide what to get, for once inside, the boulangère, paper bag in hand and an eye on the growing line of more worthy customers, had little patience for hesitant children. Malabars bi-goût (huge pink chewing-gums that made the coolest bubbles, the bi-goût variety having two flavors), chewy ribbons coated with acidulated sugar (red was my color of choice), edible necklaces, and my all-time favorite: the chocolate-covered marshmallow teddy bear, from which I would bite the head off first — quick painless death for the teddy bear. Maxence and I still buy them occasionally, whipping them out in the late hours of a party and watching everyone’s eyes open wide with childish gourmandise.

Le Poulet Rôti du Dimanche
For lunch on Sundays, my mother would often make her perfect roasted chicken, with sauteed potatoes and green beans. The chicken made plenty of juice, and the much-anticipated treat at the end of the meal was to soak it all up with pieces of fresh baguette. At some point though, my parents decided this wasn’t the healthiest thing you could feed your kids or yourself and we stopped doing it, but I still remember how we all gathered around the baking dish in the sun-drenched dining-room (it’s always sunny in my memory), expertly maneuvering our forks to get the wonderful caramelized bits and salty juices on the thin crunchy baguette.

Les Sandwiches au Nutella
My favorite breakfast for years on end was a Nutella sandwich. Two square slices of white bread would be toasted, one would be spread with the world’s most popular chocolate-hazelnut paste, the crusts would be sliced off and the whole thing cut in two rectangular halves. I loved it and can still feel the thick sensation of velvety chocolate sticking to the roof of your mouth while you chewed on the warm crunchy bread. It wasn’t very big really, but I had a small appetite and often couldn’t finish it. And instead of throwing it out, I had a habit of taking it back to my (very messy) room “for later”. The leftovers were promptly forgotten in the back of a shelf or inside my little desk, quietly getting stale until my mother discovered them days later.

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I was at the charcuterie yesterday to buy a few slices of jambon de Bayonne, an air-dried cured ham from the French Basque country.

Une charcuterie, for those who have yet to be introduced to this delightful concept, is a store that makes and sells all manner of goods derived from our friend the pork (ham, sausages, pâtés, rillettes…) and a wide variety of other prepared dishes (from salads and quiches to choucroute garnie and boeuf bourguignon, from salmon terrine and rabbit in mustard sauce to stuffed tomatoes and leeks vinaigrette), in addition to a smaller selection of cheese and desserts. Sort of a delicatessen if you will. These stores usually feel like Gargantua’s lair, filled with rich and creamy wonders and quirky aspic specialties, and they are a good representation of classic French cuisine — much like the one Julia Child depicted — with a unique blend of old-fashioned charm.

I drop by the charcuterie every week or so for ham (sliced to order of course: I ask for them to be assez fines — rather thin — so the lady will slice one and show it to me for approval before she slices the others), the occasional saucisson, a slice of game terrine, or the eggs in aspic for which Maxence and I have an insatiable fondness. I am not their best customer for the rest of what they have to offer as I find most of the prepared dishes too rich, but half the time the customer in front of me will be a tiny old lady or a middle-aged man who buys a single serving of pot-au-feu or blanquette de veau with a few steamed potatoes or fresh noodles and oh, why don’t you throw in a portion of céleri rémoulade, too.

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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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