[Watercress and Fresh Sage Soup]

On Saturday morning, at an hour which felt far, far too early to be up on a week-end morning although by any reasonable standard it was really just mid-morning, I met with my chef-friend Nicolas Vagnon in front of his favorite produce stall at the Batignolles organic market.

As we have already done on several occasions with equal joy, we then proceeded to shop for fruits and vegetables, he for his restaurant, I for my more humble home needs. And on this particular morning, the order of the day was also, as you may have guessed, to prepare for tonight’s party, thrown in honor of Chocolate & Zucchini’s first birthday.

Faire le marché with a chef is really a fascinating thing in scale, and I am always in awe of the amount of stuff that he purchases. As the trolley gets filled up with pounds upon pounds of greens and herbs and all manners of goods from the Earth, it gets more and more apparent that the trolley is really laughably under-sized and that we’re going to lug back crates and bags and baskets as well — but Nicolas always makes sure I’m mostly carrying the flowers while he handles the heavier load.

It is also an excellent occasion to observe and learn how to select produce like a professional, as Nicolas The Uncompromising decides at a glance or an expert prod of the finger that no, we will certainly not get these artichokes, whereas look! those salads look like they’ve just come out of the shower. Oh, and I’ve also learnt to make my selection before he does, unless I want to be left with the sorry-looking and the dejected, while he walks away unawares with the lush and the blooming.

And this is how I managed to snatch the most beautiful, fresh and glowing bunch of watercress on the produce stall that morning. It bore the label I have come to look for and love, that says “à nous” (ours), meaning that it is grown by the stall-keepers themselves, an almost unfailing seal of freshness and quality. Later that day, as I had instantly decided upon spotting it, I turned my bounty into this fragrant, softly green soup, made even more aromatic by the addition of fresh sage of identical origin.

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Salade de Sarrasin au Pain d’Epice

Buckwheat has always held a special place in the grain section of my heart, no doubt because of the fabulous galettes de sarrasin we would eat in Brittany when I was growing up.

It is a grain that’s seldom used whole in France, but I like to add it to salads to add more flavor and heft to them. I first made this particular one in the summer, for a delightful picnic on the banks of the Seine, and shared it with my sister and a few friends.

I knew the earthy, nutty taste of buckwheat would do well with a little sweetness and some spices, and I happened to have delicious pain d’épice — the French gingerbread — and a knob of ginger on hand. I also added a variety of finely diced vegetables, to add color and crunch to the softened buckwheat groats.

I have been making it regularly since, and I find it works really well in the fall, too. You can serve it slightly warm then, to make up for the cooler weather.

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[Monkfish Liver on Toast]

I had purchased a can of foie de lotte at the Salon Saveurs last spring, and it had been quietly sitting in our kitchen cabinet ever since, waiting for its turn to get a little attention. We finally opened it for a quick and easy lunch recently, spreading the chunks of liver on freshly toasted bread — just like we used to when I was a child and foie de morue (cod liver) on toasts was an occasional Saturday lunch treat.

Monkfish liver is sometimes referred to as le foie gras de la mer (foie gras from the sea), and quite rightly so if you ask me. The similarity between those two distant cousins is pretty striking : same pale orangey pink color, same soft texture, same peculiar earthy flavor, same sweetness at the back of your mouth.

Monkfish liver turns out to taste very much like cod liver, just a tad more subtly flavored, and is extremely enjoyable on the warm and crispy slice of bread, topped with just a squeeze of lemon and a grind of pepper.

One important thing I cannot stress enough : do not dump the leftover fish oil in the sink, under penalty of having to live with that smell for a week at least. And as much as I adore fish liver for lunch, breakfast is an entirely different matter.

On Saturday night, we had the pleasure of attending the fourth edition of the Paris Potluck, hosted by Alisa and her husband Jean-Yves. This time around, Alisa had suggested that we follow a theme : no more random assortment of everyone’s current food obessions! And as she (and I and pretty much everyone else) had been suffering from terrible Mexican food cravings since moving to Paris, her theme of choice was Mexican, as announced happily in an email with multicolored letters.

As always, I toyed with different ideas for a while, and waited until the very last minute to decide what I was going to make. I asked Alisa what everyone was bringing, and she told me that appetizers and main courses were well covered, so a dessert would round out the menu nicely. I’ve never been a big fan of the desserts they served at Mexican restaurants in California (much less in Paris, where the Mexican restaurants I’ve tried are an insult to Mexican cuisine), so I decided to just come up with my own idea of a Mexican dessert.

So. Mexican dessert… Inspiration struck : chocolate and chili are both very Mexican, right? How about adding ground chili to my dear melt-in-your-mouth chocolate cake? And since this is a very rich cake and my petit-four silicon molds are begging to be used, stomping their tiny little feet in my kitchen cabinet, how about baking mini bites of chocolate and chili cake?

And so after a fabulous Mexican food bonanza — margaritas, three kinds of salsa, guacamole, tortilla chips, two kinds of enchiladas, chicken mole, spicy shrimp, zucchini and corn salad, cactus salad, refried beans, oh how I missed you guys — desserts were brought to the table : a delicious lime pie, wonderful crepes with pecans and homemade dulce de leche, and a bowl of my Chocolate and Chili Bites.

Those little bites are a delightful rollercoaster in taste. You pick one up, study it with curiosity because you’ve been told there’s chili in there, but it looks harmless enough so you pop it into your mouth. At first, all you’re aware of is the moist and intensely flavorful chocolate cake, with its little crusty top. And then, as an afterthought, just when you’re starting to wonder well, where did the chili go, there it comes, and a miniature heatwave invades your mouth. And as your palate tingles, you have to laugh at the spicy little trick that’s just been played on your tastebuds, and hop gaily onto the rollercoaster again.

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