Oyster Mushroom Salad with Apple and Bergamot

Salade de Pleurotes, Pomme et Bergamote

[Oyster Mushroom Salad with Apple and Bergamot]

Pleurotes, also known as oyster mushrooms or tree oysters, are these large greyish beige mushrooms with a round funnel-shaped hat, that grow in clusters on the trunk of trees — they don’t care much if said tree is dead or alive, if you must know. The flesh underneath the hat (and that part is called the hymenophore, aren’t you glad you came) has deep white gills that go all the way down the curve of the mushroom. The pleurote has a slight aniseed smell and some say an oyster taste, but I can’t say that was too obvious to me — I would think the name originates from the way the pleurote clings to the tree bark like the oyster to its rock.

In French, the name pleurote, I was happy to learn, comes from the Greek pleura which means side, and ous, outos which means ear. “The ear that grows on the side of a tree”. Neat, huh? And also, despite what one might think (or at least what I thought) it is un pleurote and not une pleurote.

I found those mushrooms at the Batignolles market, still clumped up in gritty bouquets right off the tree (which the city kid in me largely favors over separated and cleaned up), and chose one that looked nice and plump with no bruises. In passing, the background on the picture above is the typical brown paper bag that’s used in small produce stores or at the market to package up the more fragile fruits and vegetables, while the robust ones often get the plastic bag treatment (or no bag at all, if you are prudent enough to have come with your own personal basket).

Since the rest of my produce harvest that day happened to include mâche (lamb’s ear lettuce), bergamots and small juicy apples, I made them all play together to create this winter salad: lightly dressed mâche leaves, apple slices marinated in bergamot juice, topped with warm sauteed pleurotes and chopped walnuts.

You will likely find oyster mushrooms in Asian stores, but if you don’t (in France pleurotes are most readily available during the fall and winter), feel free to substitute other mushrooms with the same kind of tender, slightly chewy texture, like shiitake or chanterelles for instance.

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Afternoon Snack (almost) at Pierre Hermé’s

Plénitude

[Afternoon Snack (almost) at Pierre Hermé’s]

Yesterday afternoon I had the pleasure to meet Louisa, my own personal kitchen hero, and Andrea, her charming roommate from Mexico who also works at Les Ambassadeurs. When we discussed time and place, Louisa suggested we meet at Pierre Hermé‘s boutique, as Andrea had yet to discover it. Needless to say, I nodded vigorously (for the sole benefit of my living-room wall, as we were speaking on the phone) and happily agreed.

Pierre Hermé doesn’t have a salon de thé area in which to sit down and gape at your purchases before diving in blissfully. I’d always thought it unfortunate, but now Louisa has introduced me to the unofficial Pierre Hermé salon de thé, and for this she will forever have my gratitude. Just a block from the pastry shop is a café called “Café de la Mairie”. It looks and feels like countless other cafés in Paris (a little drab and flavorless, one has to admit) but for two invaluable things: one, it has a non-smoking room upstairs — an absolute prerequisite if you want all your taste buds to be alert and atiptoe — and two, the waiters will look the other way when you open your precious boxes and use your coffee spoon to savor their content.*

And here is the selection that Andrea, Louisa and myself enjoyed, taking spoonfuls in turn and yumming in unison, discussing our tasting notes and comparing them with the descriptions from the little catalog (the perfect bedside read for guaranteed sweet dreams).

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Parsnip and Chorizo Cake

Gâteau de Panais au Chorizo

[Parsnip and Chorizo Cake]

Yes, another gâteau! But it’s a savory one this time, that combines grated parsnips, little chunks of chorizo and chopped parsley, baked into a warm golden cake, frittata-like and satifying. The parsnips meld into the egg batter to produce a smooth, almost moussy texture, and the chorizo adds a really nice kick to their earthy sweetness. Chorizo is one of my favorite things at the moment, and I’m still looking for something that does not benefit from its addition.

I particularly like the taste of parsnips, but you could substitute other root vegetables (carrots, turnips, celery-root) or better yet, use a mix of several. The recipe as written below serves two to three guests, but you can easily double the recipe — just use a larger dish accordingly and leave it in the oven a tad longer. The gâteau also works well cold or at room-temperature and would make a delightful winter picnic item.

What do you mean, you don’t do picnics in the winter? How sad! Why do you think the phrase eaten with mittens sounds so good?

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Daim Cake

Sometimes I come upon a recipe and I just can’t seem to get it out of my head. Case in point: the Buttercrunch Almond Tea Cake, as baked by Zarah Maria in Copenhagen. The original recipe comes from Lisa Yockelson’s book Baking by Flavor and is a tea cake studded with chunks of Heath bar. Now, I’ve never had a Heath bars as they’re not sold here in Paris, but Zarah Maria had the brilliance of using Daims instead. Daims? That I will do.

Daims are a Swedish bite-size confection of milk-chocolate-covered crunchy caramel with specks of almonds. Originally made by a company called Freia Marabou, they have been a popular treat in Scandinavia since 1952. The French discovered them by way of IKEA, who was the sole importer for quite a while. Purchasing a bag of those red-wrapped candies was an efficient way to ease the stress and tension of building whatever piece of furniture you had also acquired, and it is harder to snap at your spouse — or whoever your assistant builder is — for misplacing the screwdriver when your jaw is stuck together by caramel.

It is harder to snap at your spouse for misplacing the screwdriver when your jaw is stuck together by caramel.

Kraft Foods acquired Freia Marabou in 1993 and started distributing Daims more widely on the French market, selling them at regular grocery stores, introducing them as a larger-sized bar, and even working with le MacDo to produce a Daim McFlurry (vanilla ice-cream mixed with Daim crush-ins). I myself enjoy them very much (caramel, chocolate, and almonds: what could go wrong?), although with a little more restraint than the average consumer who, according to a study conducted by Kraft Foods France, usually eats nine (nine!) Daims in a row.

Anyway. Zarah Maria had tempted me in an inescapable way, so I hunted for the original cake recipe (Amazon’s “search inside” feature? very convenient) and made it, in addition to the gingersnaps, when my cousins came over for tea and cakes last week. In addition to the Daim substitution I changed a few other things, using almond flour instead of slivered almonds, all-purpose flour and baking powder instead of cake flour, omitting the almond extract and allspice, lowering the sugar content, and using yogurts instead of milk and cream.

The resulting cake was simply wonderful, fine-crumbed and moist, and it reminded me a lot of the coffee cakes I love to make. The Daim chunks had mostly fallen to the bottom (admittedly, I neglected to toss them with a little flour as Lisa recommended) but this formed a stupendous ground layer of caramel goldness, encouraging the eater, as I was able to observe on my enthusiastic guinea pigs, to enjoy the cake from top to bottom and keep the best for last.

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Chez Panisse Gingersnaps

Chez Panisse Gingersnaps

Gin·ger·snap (noun) :
1. a thin brittle cookie, round or rectangular, sweetened with molasses and flavored with ginger (and optionally other spices). Close cousin: the speculoos from Flanders.
2. one of these viral recipes that occasionally spread like magic through our little world of food blogs!

And we have Renee [2010 update: she was the author of the now defunct blog “Feeding Dexygus Seconds”] to thank for this one. Renee had applied for a pastry cook position at the renowned Berkeley restaurant Chez Panisse. At the end of the tryout and interview, sensing she wouldn’t get the job, she decided to cut her losses and asked if she could have the recipe for the gingersnaps she had been served at the end of staff lunch. The interviewer (possibly Alice Waters herself?) obliged.

I love that story. It’s a great illustration that there is something to be gained from any situation, and it also goes to show that there is never any harm in asking for a recipe, however prestigious the owner. Apparently I wasn’t the only one to be touched by the story and tempted by the cookie: a dozen food bloggers subsequently baked these gingersnaps and posted about their success — each of their reports only heightening my desire to join the ranks of CPG fans.

The occasion finally arose last week, when a few of my cousins came over for a Sunday afternoon goûter. This was my first time baking with molasses, despite my having bought a jar of organic mélasse over six months ago — one of these purchases I sometimes make with the dim notion that some exciting recipe calls for it, then promptly forget about. Molasses is a byproduct of the sugar refining process, it is the thick syrup you get when you boil down the sugar cane juices to extract sugar. When carefully produced, molasses retain most of the sugar cane’s nutritional elements: minerals, iron, magnesium and calcium.

And since I seem to have so much interest in sugar and its healthy versions lately, allow me to share with you my favorite word for today: mellifluous, which my good friend Merriam-Webster defines as “having a smooth rich flow (a mellifluous voice)” or “filled with something (as honey) that sweetens”. End of vocable interlude, thank you for your attention.

This was also my first time baking gingersnaps (or eating homebaked ones for that matter), and I was suitably wowed. They had a deep and complex taste I attribute mostly to the use of molasses, a pleasant hint of petrolousness (Merriam-Webster has yet to learn about that one) wonderfully ignited by the spices’ heat. As for the texture it was just perfect, offering crispness to the bite, then tenderness to the chew.

Sadly, this texture didn’t survive a night in my lousy non-hermetic tin box and they had gone soft the next day. They still tasted great of course, but they had definitely lost the “snap” in gingersnap, and looked somewhat disconsolate and droopy. But the good people on the C&Z forums were able to offer advice and I trust this won’t happen again — in the meantime I froze the leftovers and plan on giving them a glorious new life sometime soon, possibly reincarnating them into a cheesecake crust.

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