Perk-to-being-friends-with-a-chef #326 : he will teach you how to open scallops!

This in turn allows you to jump the line at the fish stall, because the people in front of you need to have their scallops opened and cleaned (ha!), but you ask politely if you can just buy yours and go. And you know it’s just a figment of your imagination, but you like to think that they, as the fish guy, look at you in awe and think “wow, this girl opens her own scallops!”.

And here’s how you do it: hold the scallop shell horizontally in your left hand, flat side up, round edge facing you. Insert the end of a round-tipped knife in the opening to the right of the shell, and work the knife towards you, rotating it on itself to open the two halves just enough for you to slip the meaty tip of your left thumb in the gap, and maintain it open.

This is when you start to feel how very much alive the scallop is, as it struggles with all its might to keep that trapdoor shut. Thankfully you are the mightiest of the two, this is what we call an ecosystem.

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[Artichoke and Smoked Tuna Tart]

…and here is the tart I made with Pascale’s pâte brisée!

Slices of artichoke hearts and strips of smoked tuna, on a bed of roquette leaves and a smooth layer of mascarpone cheese. The artichoke’s tender sweetness, hand in hand with the salty strength of the tuna — I cannot recommend the pairing enough.

I found the smoked tuna in the smoked salmon aisle at my grocery store (“oh wow, smoked tuna!”, she exclaimed to herself), and I used frozen artichoke hearts bought at Picard, the all-popular French frozen foods store.

And of course, if you’re not too horribly pressed for time, a homemade crust is a must (and she rhymes!).

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As surprising as it may seem, this is the very first savory crust I make from scratch in my entire life. Before that, I would hop gaily to the nearest grocery store for a ready-made, and conveniently pre-rolled dough.

In truth, savory tarts and quiches had sort of fallen out of fashion in my kitchen, because they are so ubiquitous they just didn’t excite me that much. But my recent return into the world of tartes salées, after more than a year of tragic disaffection, was met with rave reviews (I have kind friends) and converted me back.

So when Marion came for dinner last week, I thought I would make another tart. I could have used the last portion of the hazelnut-thyme dough in the freezer, but I have solemnly promised my neighbor Patricia that I would use it in a tart for her and I am a woman of my word, so that was out.

Instead, I decided to try my hand at a simple, straightforward pâte brisée, and started looking for a recipe. You’d think the world could reach a consensus at least on such a simple question, but oh no. No no no. Every new recipe was different from the previous one, my head was starting to spin, I was on the brink of discouragement (and let me tell you, I have seen more comfortable brinks), when suddenly I saw the light. And in the light, I recognized a familiar, friendly face: it was Pascale! Of course! Pascale was sure to have a reliable recipe for pâte brisée!

And indeed she did, complete with the helpful and thorough instructions she always takes the time to give. And that dough was a breeze to make, so soft and fresh it felt alive (oh my god it is alive!). It proved laughably easy to handle and roll out, and the resulting crust wowed us with its delicately flaky texture and wonderful taste. Merci Pascale!

[As for the tart that was made with the crust, read on!]

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Finally!

Finally, I have acquired a pestle to go with the marble mortar my dear grandmother gave me as a birthday gift last summer.

Okay, I make it sound like I’ve been searching high and low for one but it’s not quite true. It’s been on my mind all that time, I was thinking well, isn’t it a shame to have such a marble beauty and just use it as a vide-poche, a catchall for keys and loose change — but for some reason a part of me could not believe anyone would ever sell me a pestle without a mortar : who in the world would they then sell the pestle-less mortar to? (Well, whoever holds hostage the pestle that should go with my mortar, that’s who!)

So in fact I never gave the quest a real chance, until just recently when I found myself (an utter fortuity, I swear) at Dehillerin. I enquired about mortar-less pestles, preferably wooden, and the salesguy shook his head no. But his colleague, overhearing the conversation (they’re always eavesdropping on each other’s sales pitches, contradicting whatever is said or adding their two centimes, it’s fun to watch) said they did in fact have one left. He even went so far as to fetch it and hand it to me — probably they don’t see too many 25 year-old female customers.

Holding it in my hand, feeling its nice, balanced weight and waving it around a bit (causing the salesguys to look at me with alarm and take a half-step back), I had the sudden, almost magical certainty that this was a perfect fit for my lonely marble friend. This was confirmed when I got home and placed the pestle in its hollow, where it nested itself with an audible sigh.

They go everywhere together now, and look so happy it’s a joy to everyone who sees them. Ah, matchmaker to the cooking utensils, there’s a new career to consider!