These days, when I get to the Batignolles farmers market on Saturday mornings — as early as I can but not as early as I’d like — my first order of business is to dart upon whatever rhubarb is left at my favorite produce stall.

My strategy is not 100% proper, I’m afraid.

The pile of stalks is usually found a third of the way down the length of the stall, wedged in between, say, a basket of short cucumbers and a crate of tiny new potatoes, and by the time I get to the greenmarket (see above), there’s barely enough left for my needs.

So rather than wait until the line moves up enough that the rhubarb is within my reach, or worse yet, until it’s my turn to get one of the attendants’ attention, I squeeze in between two customers in the line, all smiles and apologies and “I’m just here for the rhubarb” assurances, and gather the stalks I want, picking the ones that are firm and blemish-free. Only then do I get in line, an armful of stalks bunched up in one of my trusty produce bags, reclining contentedly in the knowledge that we’ll be eating poached rhubarb all week long.

I have a particular soft spot for rhubarb, and there are very many things I like to do with it — including this rhubarb tart with lemon verbena and this butterless crumble — but for my everyday consumption, rhubarb compote is what I crave.

For years and years I’ve cooked it softly with a bit of sugar until the rhubarb chunks collapse into feathery strands, but this year I’ve adopted an entirely new approach I like even better: I now poach my rhubarb.

The idea is to prepare a syrup (just a fancy word for water that has sugar in it) infused with some fresh vanilla, bring it to a simmer, add small amounts of rhubarb to it, and cook it every so briefly — just one minute after the syrup returns to a simmer — so that the chunks are cooked through, but still retaining their shape.

You repeat this process using the same syrup with however much rhubarb you have to cook, and you get this lovely compote that requires a little more human intervention, but is considerably more presentable than its baby-food counterpart.

I like to eat a small bowl of it for breakfast or as a snack, with optional granola mixed in, and it is a well received, homey dessert, too, with sablés on the side and perhaps a little crème fraîche.

The bonus of this method is that you’ll likely have rhubarb syrup leftover once you’ve eaten all the rhubarb chunks, and you’ll get to use the soft pink liquid to sweeten plain yogurt, to cook rice or tapioca pudding, to imbibe your babas, or to make la-di-da cocktails with sparkling white wine.

What about you, what are your favorite ways to cook and eat rhubarb?

Continue reading »

Photography by Astrid Berglund.

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, “Mettre les bouchées doubles.”

Literally (and awkwardly) translated as, “putting the double bites,” it means doubling your efforts.

Example: “Il va falloir mettre les bouchées doubles si on veut boucler le projet avant la fin du mois.” “We need to double our efforts if we want to complete the project before the end of the month.”

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

Continue reading »

When Maxence and I went to Japan last year, one of the items I was determined to hunt down and bring back was a bag of shiso seeds to grow my own.

Shiso (pronounced “she-so”) is the Japanese name for an annual herb called Perilla, which belongs to the mint family. Other aliases include beefsteak plant (which makes little sense, if you ask me) or Japanese basil. It is used in quite a few Asian cuisines, but the shiso recipes I’ve encountered have mostly been for Japanese dishes.

Shiso comes in green or purple leaves with a slightly prickly texture and pointy, jagged edges, and it has a unique and vibrant taste that I could describe as herbaceous and citrusy. Like most leafy herbs, I find it is best used raw, the leaves whole or chiffonaded.

The green variety produces more tender and more flavorful leaves than the purple variety, but the latter makes up for that with a potent dyeing action: it is what gives umeboshi its color.

We did find shiso seeds in a deserted gardening section on the very top floor of a Tokyo department store, and I planted them in a pot outside my bedroom window as a cure for travel nostalgia when we got back. They sprouted with very little prodding, and soon developed into a bushy plant* from which I excitedly plucked leaves throughout the summer.

I hadn’t used all of the seeds, so I was able to plant a new batch this year, and while I wait for the teeny green leaves to shoot up from under the soil, I wanted to discuss possible uses for this lovely, lovely herb.

The simplified rule of thumb is that you can use shiso pretty much anywhere you would normally use basil or mint, but I thought we could go into a bit more detail.

As I’ve done before with sage and sorrel, I called out for suggestions on Twitter, and because you’re such an inspired bunch, you came through with great shiso recipes, which I’m listing below along with my own. Thanks to all of you who chimed in, and the comment section is wide open if you want to add more!

See also:
– 45 Things To Do With Fresh Sage,
– 50 Things To Do With Fresh Sorrel.

* I’m an enthusiastic but inexperienced gardener and I put in too many seeds, so some of the smaller seedlings never matured in the shade created by the bigger ones. Live and learn.

Continue reading »

At a C&Z anniversary party three years ago I met David, a reader from L.A. who was spending a few months in France. We’ve been in touch on and off since then, and when David came back to Paris for a vacation in late spring, he very generously brought me a gift.

What he brought was a bag of honey dates grown in Indio, California by Dates by Davall, and a pound of dry roasted hazelnuts from the Freddy Guys orchard in the Willamette* valley in Oregon. He included a note to explain that he gets the former at his farmers market in Santa Monica, and discovered the latter while in Portland.

This struck me as a textbook example of the perfect gift.

I’ve been savoring those dates and hazelnuts sloooowly, trying to make the supply last as long as possible.

Not only are the dates and hazelnuts spectacularly good — the dates soft and caramelly as toffee, the hazelnuts crisp and light as popcorn, and vividly flavorful — but the combo of the two is the ultimate treat. Throw in a square or two of dark chocolate and angels come out from behind the clouds, playing their tiny trumpets.

Beyond the sheer good taste — literally and figuratively — of the present, I love the elegant simplicity of offering ingredients that reflect the work of fine growers I might never have come across otherwise. I love that they come with a personal story, too, and that I get to imagine David visiting those market stalls, sampling the fruits, going cuckoo for them, and buying extra to give out to friends so they could share in his enthusiasm.

Continue reading »