Crémerie photographed in Marseille by Boris Drenec.

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Browse the list of idioms featured so far.

This week’s expression is, “Changer de crémerie.”

Literally translated as, “changing creameries,” it means taking your business elsewhere when you’re unhappy with the current (and possibly long-standing) arrangement.

Example: “Certains généralistes se sentent obligés de délivrer des ordonnances même quand ce n’est pas strictement nécessaire, de peur que leurs patients changent de crémerie.” “Some family doctors feel pressured to write prescriptions even when it’s not strictly necessary, out of fear that their patients might change creameries.”

(Cultural note: this sentence is to be understood in the context of France, where patients typically feel that they didn’t get their money’s worth if they come out of the doctor’s office without some kind of prescription. It is one of the factors that explain the considerable deficit of our health system, since the cost of these not-so-necessary medications is covered in part by the sécurité sociale.)

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

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My biggest heartache as a temporarily nomadic cook, traveling from kitchen to kitchen while my own is being renovated, is that I’ve had to put my bread baking aspirations on hiatus.

I’d been baking a weekly loaf of pain au levain since I first got my sourdough starter two years ago, so not being able to do so leaves a gaping hole in my routine.

And while my starter Philémon marks the days on the wall inside the fridge (poor thing), I’ve had to go back to bakery-bought bread.

The flavor of this bread is unlike any rye bread I’ve ever had, thanks to the genius pairing of the malty aromas of rye with the umami sweetness of red miso.

You might think that would be bliss, living in Paris and in an arrondissement where bakers win more awards than in any other. But the truth is I’m quite particular about my bread, and we’ve suffered through a few disappointing loaves, including a rapidly staling Paume that had evidently not been baked on the day I bought it.

Fortunately, our friend Gontran Cherrier, whom we’ve known for a few years, had the brilliant idea of opening his bakery right in our neighborhood last December, and his breads have shed a much happier light on our breakfast tartines.

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In preparation for a recent article in ELLE à table, the French cooking magazine in which I write a column, I did some research on the range of ingredients that are derived from the coconut palm.

Beyond the pulp of the fruit (the white flesh that is consumed fresh or dried), its water (the clear liquid inside) and its milk (the liquid you get from pressing or steeping the pulp), I was especially interested in coconut oil, which is widely used in Asian cuisines but hardly ever in French cooking; coconut flour, a cream white powder made from the dried and ground remnants of the pulp after the oil has been extracted; and coconut sugar, an auburn sweetener that is obtained from the sap of coconut flowers.

Various virtues are associated with these products, including the fact that coconut flour is gluten-free, and that coconut sugar has a lower glycemic index than most sweeteners. But in truth, I was much more interested in playing with these new-to-me ingredients.

These muffins are slightly crusty on the outside, with a smooth and satisfyingly dense center, a mouthfeel I would situate somewhere between a cake and a truffle.

As a little challenge to myself, I decided to try and create a recipe that would use all three — coconut flour, coconut sugar, coconut oil* — and came up with these rather stupendous chocolate muffins, which happen to be dairy-free and gluten-free.

I was particularly pleased with the texture: they are slightly crusty on the outside, with a smooth and satisfyingly dense center, a mouthfeel I would situate somewhere between a cake and a truffle.

The coconut flavor is present, but not overwhelmingly so: the coconut oil I got is not deodorized, which I prefer, so it does flavor the muffins, but the effect is quite different from the one you get when you use grated coconut. As for the coconut sugar, it tastes nothing like coconut — it tastes rather like faintly burnt caramel, and who can resist that — and coconut flour is only subtly coconutty.

The batter is very quick to whip up, and I have found that the muffins freeze particularly well (though in these situations what we should say is that they thaw particularly well, since that’s the only part we really care about, no?), making them a worthy option for your emergency treat kit.

I’ll also point out that I’ve been using silicone muffin liners (such as these, though I got mine from Habitat) for a few years, and I am very happy with them. I like the reusability, and the fact that the muffins or cupcakes pop right out of the liner, as opposed to paper liners that always peel off a layer of crumbs from the base of the cakes, kind of like band-aids and body hair.

* All three ingredients can be found at natural food stores or online; I ordered mine from this French site. I recommend you seek out an extra virgin coconut oil, preferably organic, that is neither hydrogenated nor deodorized.

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“La découverte d’un mets nouveau fait plus pour le bonheur du genre humain que la découverte d’une étoile.”

The discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a star*: this aphorism is the ninth of twenty that Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin lists as a prologue** to his book, The Physiology of Taste.

It is not quite as famous as aphorism number four (“Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai ce que tu es,” usually translated to “you are what you eat”) but it rings just as true, and I was reminded of it a few days ago, when Maxence and I jointly discovered our new favorite instant snack.

A drizzle of very good olive oil from Provence and an enthusiastic grind of a fruity black pepper on a section of baguette sliced in two resulted in a mind-blowingly good tartine.

We were hungry and we had some fresh baguette, but neither butter nor cheese on hand. We did, however, have a little canister of very good olive oil from Provence, and a pepper mill newly stocked with a subtle and fruity black pepper. A drizzle of one and an enthusiastic grind of the other on a section of baguette sliced in two resulted in a mind-blowingly good tartine.

It is simple in the extreme, and I’m certainly not claiming we are the first to think of it. But in my (almost) thirty-two years on this planet I had never eaten exactly this combination of ingredients in exactly this form, so in my universe it is very much like (or even better than, Jean Anthelme would say) the discovery of a new star.

To be specific, the baguette was a Piccola, our long-time favorite from Coquelicot. The olive oil is Hortense Meynier’s, as sold by Ecomusée L’Olivier (formerly Première Pression Provence). The black pepper is an Indian one from Malabar.

What about you: any recent stellar food discovery to share?

* M.F.K. Fisher‘s translation.

** Brillat-Savarin actually uses the term prolégomènes (prolegomena in English), which I wish people used more frequently, possibly as a name for their baby girl.