On Rue Tatin (15 page)

1/2 teaspoon sugar

1 tablespoon/15ml balsamic vinegar

2 pounds/1kg fresh eggplant, trimmed and cut lengthwise in 1/2-inch/1.3cm slices

2 to 3 tablespoons/30–45ml extra-virgin olive oil

1 cup/10g loosely packed basil leaves

1. Combine the tomatoes, 1/2 teaspoon sea salt, the sugar, and vinegar in a medium-size bowl, transfer to a sieve set over a bowl, and let drain for 1 hour.

2. Preheat the oven to 425° F/220° C/gas 8.

3. Brush the eggplant slices generously on both sides with olive oil and arrange them on two heavy baking sheets. Sprinkle the slices with salt, and bake them in the bottom third of the oven until they are golden on one side, about 12 minutes. Turn the slices, sprinkle them with salt, and return to the oven to bake until they are golden on both sides and tender, an additional 8 to 10 minutes.

4. Arrange the eggplant slices on a warmed platter, overlapping them slightly if necessary. Top with the tomato sauce,
garnish with the basil leaves, and allow to cool or serve
immediately.

4
TO
6
SERVINGS

RUSTIC NECTARINE AND APRICOT TART
TARTE AUX NECTARINES ET ABRICOTS

We are tart fanatics and I make them all the time during summer with whatever seasonal fruits I find at Chez Clet. This style is my favorite, because it is quick and gives a gorgeous result—the pastry is neither chilled nor prebaked.

The oven must be preheated and the pastry rolled out and fitted into the tart tin before the fruit is cut up and combined with the sugar and cornstarch, so you can turn the fruit mixture immediately into the pastry, finish the assembly, and bake it. If the fruit sits, it gives up a great deal of juice, which can prevent the pastry from baking properly.

1 small egg

Pastry for one-crust tart (see Apple and Thyme Tart, page 80)

1/3 cup/65g sugar

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 pound/500g apricots, pitted and cut in quarters

About 5 nectarines/11/4 pounds/625g, pitted and cut in eighths

1. Preheat the oven to 425° F/220° C/gas 8. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg and 2 teaspoons water to make an egg wash.

2. Roll out the pastry to a 13-inch/321/2-cm circle. Fit it gently into a 101/2-inch/26-cm removable-bottom tart tin, leaving the pastry to hang over the edge of the tin. Brush the bottom of the pastry with the egg glaze.

3. Combine the sugar and the cornstarch in a large bowl. Add the fruit and stir until all the ingredients are combined, then turn it into the prepared pastry. Quickly fold the edges of the pastry over the fruit—they will be somewhat uneven but don’t be concerned. Quickly brush the pastry with the egg glaze, place the tart tin on a baking sheet, and bake it in the bottom third of the oven until the fruit and the pastry are golden and cooked through, 35 to 40 minutes.

4. Remove from the oven, place the tart on an upturned bowl, and immediately remove the edge of the tart mold from the tin. Let the tart cool to room temperature, and serve.

6
TO
8
SERVINGS

AUTUMN FIG JAM
LA CONFITURE DE FIGUES D’AUTOMNE

I was first introduced to thick and chunky fig jam many years ago by Danie Dubois and it was a delight. Each year I buy enough figs at the market to make jam, and this is my favorite recipe, a perfect showcase for figs, for it is not too sweet.

NOTE
: I partially peel the figs to eliminate some but not all of the skin, which can be tough but adds interesting texture in small doses—it also contributes to the lovely, deep rosy hue of the jam. Ripe figs are ultra-sweet and need very little additional sugar to make a wonderfully rich jam. Because of the low sugar content this jam must be well-sealed to keep. If the seal is questionable keep the jam in a very cool place and eat it as quickly as you can.

41/2 pounds/2kg figs, trimmed, partially peeled, and cut in eighths

11/2 pounds/750g sugar

1/2 cup/125ml bottled water

2 lemons, preferably organic or at least untreated after harvest, ends trimmed, cut lengthwise in quarters then very thin triangles, seeds removed

Place the figs, sugar, water, and lemons in a large, heavy-
bottomed saucepan, stir so the ingredients are well combined, and bring to a boil over medium heat. When the mixture is boiling cook it until the juices thicken slightly, which will take about 25 minutes. The mixture will still seem thin but will thicken as the jam cools.
Remove from the heat and seal according to jar manufacturer’s
instructions.

ABOUT
8
PINTS/
4
LITERS

EIGHT
               

A Hair in
the Soup

ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS I noticed about our house that September when we came to claim it was the proliferation of carts and potted plants in the small backyard behind the house. They belonged to the florists at L’Art Floral across the street who, decades ago, had claimed the spot as their storage area. Our front yard had served as the exercise run for the family’s German shepherd, though the florists had been thoughtful enough to discontinue that practice before we moved in.

The plants were something of a problem. So were the elderly women who parked their bicycles at different times throughout the day near the front door and returned some hours later with full shopping bags. And then there were the gentlemen who walked casually into the courtyard looking neither right nor left, headed to an old raised drain with a faucet over it in the corner outside the entry room window, unzipped their trousers, and used the drain as an outdoor toilet.

The notary who supervised the sale of the house was aware of this use of our property, and he had told us in no uncertain terms that we should turn out everyone. I mentioned the elderly ladies to him and without skipping a beat he closed his eyes, turned down the corners of his mouth, and made a wide sweep with his hand. “Everyone,” he said, coldly. “If you do not get them out now, you will never get them out.”

Speaking firmly to the florists and the gentlemen who used our courtyard didn’t bother me much. But how to evict the elderly women?

One morning before we had actually moved into the house, I opened the large metal gate that served as the entry into the courtyard and I came face-to-face with a woman who was wheeling out her bike. Well dressed and cheerful, she greeted me with a hearty
bonjour,
which I returned. My stomach was in knots. I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t. Then, a vision of the notary flashed through my head and I screwed up my courage. “Madame, I am sorry to have to say this, but my family and I now own this house and we will soon be living here and . . .” I trailed off. She looked at me, expectantly. “I must ask you not to park your bicycle here any more.” My face was hot.

“But of course, madame, it couldn’t be any other way,” she said, graciously. She climbed on her bicycle and with a quick
au revoir
, rode off down the street, never to return. I was relieved, but I still had two more women to go. One responded pleasantly, but the other looked hurt. “I’ve always parked my bicycle here,” she said. “Couldn’t I still do so once in a while?” I relented immediately, of course, but she never did. I think she realized that once we had really taken possession of the house, leaving her bike in our courtyard would be a bit like parking in our living room.

I surprised a gentleman at the drain in mid-flow one day when I returned from a quick trip to the store on my bicycle. This was an opportunity I relished. I wheeled in, propped the bicycle against the apple tree, and walked right up to him, my eyes on his. “Monsieur, this is now my home, and you are in my garden. I must ask you to leave.” I’ve never seen anyone zip faster than he did. He hastily nodded his head and hurried off. Neither he nor any of his compatriots ever returned.

The situation with the florists was harder to approach. I knew from observation and from comments dropped by others that they were none too happy to have us as neighbors. A
bonjour
on my part elicited nothing but a cold look and I feared that once they were turned out the invisible cool barrier that ran right down the middle of the street would turn to ice.

It was a shame because we all loved living across from a florist. We could smell the hyacinths and the roses if the breeze blew toward us on a warmish day, and we loved the vividly colored tableau of potted plants and tall bouquets of flowers that spilled out onto the sidewalk creating a sweet, fragrant maze. The shop’s picture windows were filled with funny little accessories I had never seen before, from rustic little benches made of birch bark to delicately wrought porcelain flowers intended for gravestones. There was always a panoply of dewy-eyed plaster elves that swung back and forth from fake trees and fawns that mechanically sipped water. I bought bouquets from time to time hoping to thaw the chill but my money was accepted without expression or comment.

One day I was in our courtyard when Monsieur Taverne, one of the florists, walked through on his way to the back to get plants. I politely asked him to move his wagons and plants, explaining that we would soon move in. He brushed me off with a
“Oui, oui, oui,”
and continued on his way. I wasn’t yet working at the house everyday so I couldn’t keep tabs on the situation, but Michael was, and about a week later I asked if there had been any movement. There hadn’t. Several days after that I saw Monsieur Taverne again and repeated the request. Again I got the French brush-off.

Time passed. We moved in. November rolled around and with it a huge stock of Christmas trees, all stacked tidily behind our house. “There is a positive side to this,” Michael observed. “We can walk out the back door and choose our tree—call it rent on the property.”

I tried to think of everything I’d ever read about the French mentality and diplomacy. How to go about elegantly turning these people and their plants from our property? Asking them wasn’t enough. What was the turn of phrase that would do it? I became fixated on the situation, dreading it yet knowing there must be a way to proceed that would make them feel good about removing their wares from our garden.

One unseasonably fine day as I was digging out weeds from the garden in preparation for planting spring arugula and
mesclun
, a flavorful blend of lettuces, Monsieur Taverne boldly came through the garden to get his plants. I watched him, impressed with his
culot
, or brio. He obviously felt he had a claim on the property, and he undoubtedly viewed us as a temporary annoyance. After all, he’d been storing his plants and carts and trees there for decades and the previous owner had never said anything.

I watched him return with his wagon full of plants and I was suddenly infuriated. To hell with diplomacy: we needed action here. I put myself right in his path. “Monsieur, I have asked you three times to remove your things from our garden and you have done nothing. I want everything out of here by tomorrow!” I said. Then I turned and went into the house where I fumed for awhile.

We left the house that day as usual at 4
P
.
M
., to pick up Joe from school, and Monsieur Taverne was slouching his way through the yard with an empty wagon. My blood started to boil, but I told myself to forget it, we’d figure out something.

When we returned the following morning to our surprise every plant, leaf, tree, and wagon was off the property. I was impressed. Monsieur Taverne had resisted, but when pushed had erased the habit of thirty years in a mere twenty-four hours. Of course the temperature had dropped a few more degrees when I walked past the shop later that week, but though we didn’t like the situation there was no alternative. I would have liked to have walked up to the florists, shaken their hands, and thanked them, but in truth I would have died rather than attempt it. Besides, it would have been useless. Time would, I hoped, ease the situation.

About two weeks later we had friends—Parisian restaurateurs who had just moved to a new country house near us—over for Thanksgiving dinner. They firmly believe in contributing to the communities they live in, and during the meal they regaled us with stories about their community projects in Paris and in the country. I mentioned the elderly ladies and unembarrassable men, and our situation with the florists.

Claude, one of our guests, put a finger to his mouth and looked at us thoughtfully. “You must understand, it’s normal,” he said. “You’ve arrived here like a
cheveu dans la soupe
, a hair in the soup. No one asked you to come. And, you’re American.”

He reflected.

“Forget about the ladies and the men. They are no problem. Here is what you do about the florists,” he said. “Tomorrow you take them some of these incredible
petits pains
that you’ve made and explain about Thanksgiving and tell them this is a family recipe. That will open the door for you.”

I was skeptical. “You think they care?” I asked.

“Of course they do,” he replied. “They have no idea what you are like, and they only imagine the worst. The food will help.”

I wasted no time. The very next day I bundled up a dozen of my grandmother’s legendary Thanksgiving rolls, which I had had in the freezer and baked fresh that morning. I grabbed Joe by the hand—for courage—and we walked together across the street. My heart was in my throat. I climbed the steps up into the florist shop and practically ran into the two stern-faced, gray-haired sisters, the owners. Squeezing Joe’s hand, I gave them the rolls, told them about Thanksgiving and how I always made them, then offered a suggestion on how best to heat and serve them. I’m sure I spoke in a rush because I was so nervous. Joe, who didn’t really know why we were there, was looking around curiously, his little round face beaming. He has what the French call a
bonne bouille
, or darling face, and I hoped it was softening up the florists. We didn’t linger, however. Once my speech was done and the rolls accepted, we were gone.

When we got outside the shop Joe looked up at me and asked, “Mama, why were you squeezing my hand so tight?” Poor child. I had probably cut off the blood circulation I was so nervous.

I didn’t expect miracles and there were none but the temperature rose slightly, and my
bonjours
were returned by both the women and Monsieur Taverne, who was the husband of one of them. I couldn’t tell which, because I couldn’t really tell the two women apart and at this point it didn’t matter. The important thing was that we had gained some ground. I called Claude to report on the progress, and he cheered me along.

A couple of weeks later Michael began decorating the house for Christmas. He hung cedar boughs over every door and window then wove tiny white lights through them. He lit up our gnarled apple tree and hung multicolored lights in the three tiny paned windows in Joe’s room. I made and hung a giant wreath on our gate, festooning it with gold beads and a big red bow and we put candles at all the windows. Since our house is right in the center of town across from the church we felt a certain obligation to decorate sumptuously.

Once the outside of the house was done we put up a tree (which we didn’t buy at the florist, because we were too cowardly) and decorated it and the rest of the interior by hanging decorations and boughs from the raw beams, on the ragged brick fireplace, and the not-yet-plastered walls. Our windows have tiny panes in them and most are curtainless, so the golden glow within was easily observed from without, and the house looked like a fairy-tale dwelling, standing out starkly from the shops and apartments around it, which were more modestly decorated. We knew it was appreciated because we saw cars slow down and necks crane, and more than one person came with a camera and stood out front clicking away.

I have always baked a variety of cookies for Christmas and being in France didn’t change that, even with the wealth of bakeries at our fingertips. I’m a firm believer in tradition—ours and others’—and I didn’t see how it would be Christmas without Christmas cookies. Joe and I took an afternoon to mix, roll, and decorate. Then we filled several gaily decorated cellophane bags and delivered them to the florists, the café owners, the crew at the Chez Clet, Brigitte, the owner of Laure Boutique next to the florist, and the family who ran the real estate agency across the street, along with an explanation of their place in our Christmas tradition. I was taking Claude’s suggestion seriously.

Two days before Christmas while I was baking, Michael was working, and Joe was playing in the chilly entryway. Suddenly Joe ran to get me. “Mama, there’s someone at the door, those two ladies,” he said with his lisp. I went to the door, wiping my hands on my apron. Michael, in his studio, had heard Joe and he emerged as well. It was dark already, and I switched on the outdoor light and opened the door. There, framed by the light in our doorway, were the twin sisters, a huge bouquet in their hands. They didn’t say anything and just stood there. I was stunned and unsure of what to do, so we had a standoff for a moment, then they handed me the bouquet. I had tears in my eyes and they did, too. Michael, standing back just a bit, was equally moved. We didn’t say anything. Finally, I said
“Merci”
and they said simply
“Bon Noël
.
”
They handed Joe a little gift, shook our hands, and were gone. We stayed in the doorway looking after them.

I looked at Michael, who looked back at me. “The rolls and the cookies. They worked,” he said, smiling. We all felt as if a miracle had occurred, a cultural breakthrough that would improve the quality of our daily lives. Our first Christmas on rue Tatin couldn’t have offered us more.

That Christmas was a watershed, and none of us have ever looked back. Over the subsequent years we’ve developed a close relationship with the florists and found them to be warm and loving neighbors. Year-round they bring us bouquets of flowers that they can’t sell but that still have many days of life in them. I take them cookies, or cakes, or whatever it is I’m baking when it’s something really special. Their grandchildren come over occasionally to play with Joe and I’m even nice to Jonquil, their German shepherd, though in my heart of hearts I’m sure she’s going to attack me one day.

Ironically, last Christmas found us urging them to store their Christmas trees in our backyard, as their usual storage area was damaged. It’s easier now, of course, since we all know and appreciate each other, but still I had a quiet laugh about it.

MONSIEUR TAVERNE’S EVERYDAY
FISH WITH TOMATOES
LE POISSON DE TOUS LES JOURS

Monsieur Taverne, the florist who lives across the street from us, has described this as one of his favorite dishes during the summer tomato season. This dish is so fast and easy you’ll be surprised what an elegant presentation it makes. I suggest cod or halibut because in Normandy they are the obvious choice, due to their abundance. You can use any white fish. Just make sure it is the freshest possible. Of course, you need a really ripe tomato with some acidity and character. As for herbs, use the recipe as a model and choose the herbs you prefer. Capers are also a welcome addition here, tossed over the tomatoes just as you remove the dish from the oven. Serve a delicate, lightly chilled Sauvignon Blanc with this dish.