That admirably-spirited poodle caused me to think of Paris for some reason, not that one sees an abundance of impeccably coiffured animals charging about those metropolitan grounds like assiduous, canid chariots. But of late I have been daydreaming about mon petit, specifically about the gray-green water that mediates the city, and the way its inhabitants bustle about wearing neck scarves and pensive moods. Yes, a visit thereto is most assuredly overdue, and nearly anything prompts a wistfulness within that can no longer be ignored. Something must be done.
My last voyage à Paris was at the very zenith of a personal recession. I had just surrended a job with considerable tenure, nullified the lease on a loft space whose liberal breadth any poodle with a cheerful heart and a set of snazzy wheels could have made sound use of, and most grievous, abandoned my beloved city whose serrated peaks and abysmal plunges are flanked by a horseshoe of murky waters. This, a willful attempt to redesign my life under the palm trees and ceaseless blue skies of Los Angeles, CA. Things, thus far, have gone as planned, even that which was not intended.
All that notwithstanding, Paris is a dame whose fairness of wares shall not suffer the bridling of due praise, and it is my most genuine pleasure to oblige.
I planned my sojourn just round the corner from the Tour Eiffel, adjacent a park whose conspicuous signage advised abstinence from public consumption and removal of the resident flora. The apartment, a sublet, was at the crest of a five story walk-up whose stair flights increased in pitch with each floor to such a degree that by the time I reached mon étage, my head was engaged in a mean battle with vertigo.
The chambre was abominably furnished with cheap glassware, soiled carpets and sheets whose economical thread count could have made them a fine stand-in for cheesecloth. But the casement windows, a bank of them, opened to a landscape of copper rooftops long oxidized to a lovely seafoam green, a fair caking of pigeon droppings just on the flaking, blue ledge that framed them, and the colorful awnings of the matinal market below, Thursdays, Rue Cler, Arrondissement 7.
The chambre was abominably furnished with cheap glassware, soiled carpets and sheets whose economical thread count could have made them a fine stand-in for cheesecloth. But the casement windows, a bank of them, opened to a landscape of copper rooftops long oxidized to a lovely seafoam green, a fair caking of pigeon droppings just on the flaking, blue ledge that framed them, and the colorful awnings of the matinal market below, Thursdays, Rue Cler, Arrondissement 7.
Upon arrival and as fully expected, the skies and days were as sooty as any logical Parisian's temperament. The taxi deposited me at the lip of the market whose end stalls were occupied with crates of wine for three euro and five which made those bottles at eight seem extravagant. The affair was in resolute swing, and the essence of La Belle France was evident in a kaleidoscope of offerings carefully displayed o'er tables with splintering wood tops and weary legs that labored under the weight of it all.
I can picture it as though it was yesterday.
The cool tail of winter had towed forth slippery mounds of olives cured by the hands of artisans comfortable in their craft; a variety of tannic-skinned raisins in hues of emerald and poppy, some with jackets as smoky as newly harvested aubergine. There were rabbits strung up by their fleshy haunches, their fetal-pink skins curing in the hollow wind that shuttled along the market's central path, and roasting game birds whose yellow fat bled down in a hot pitter-patter, making for pommes de terres confit in the foil-lined basin just below.
Neat piles of heirloom apples whose meats were dense enough to require the employment of cutlery were carefully selected by the market woman who first sized up her customer, then matched to them the fruit that would most appropriately suit their character and the dish for which they were intended. I bought a few. Partially because I was captivated by the unique blush of their skins, but chiefly by virtue that La vendeuse was in stalwart promise that these pommes rouges held a pedigree no less than aristocracy, and even hinted that they were suspected to be the very variety that had tempted Napolean, and quite possibly Eve.
I was at the market today, macerating in my maudlin sentiment, under the L.A. skies that were less blue than they were austere, and I pretended that I was back at Rue Cler, whose street lamps still flicker against the purple of the burgeoning day, no doubt. I was, and remain, in paradise for having been touched ever so briefly by her hand. Mon Paris.
Oh, and a handful of prunes.
Mince the shallot.
Macerate in the vinegar for at least 10 minutes to tame its bite. Meanwhile...
Rough chop vos amandes...
et des pruneaux.
C'est l'abricot magnifique!
Slice them up.
Get the prunes, almonds and dandelion greens into a bowl. Hold off on the apricots.
Add some olive oil to your jar. Looks like I'm doing a 50/50 olive oil to vinegar ratio, possibly 2:1.
Shake it hard till it's fully emulsified. Yes, by the looks of the finale, definitely 2:1.
Spoon a bit over the components in your bowl, toss, and plate.
I can picture it as though it was yesterday.
The cool tail of winter had towed forth slippery mounds of olives cured by the hands of artisans comfortable in their craft; a variety of tannic-skinned raisins in hues of emerald and poppy, some with jackets as smoky as newly harvested aubergine. There were rabbits strung up by their fleshy haunches, their fetal-pink skins curing in the hollow wind that shuttled along the market's central path, and roasting game birds whose yellow fat bled down in a hot pitter-patter, making for pommes de terres confit in the foil-lined basin just below.
Neat piles of heirloom apples whose meats were dense enough to require the employment of cutlery were carefully selected by the market woman who first sized up her customer, then matched to them the fruit that would most appropriately suit their character and the dish for which they were intended. I bought a few. Partially because I was captivated by the unique blush of their skins, but chiefly by virtue that La vendeuse was in stalwart promise that these pommes rouges held a pedigree no less than aristocracy, and even hinted that they were suspected to be the very variety that had tempted Napolean, and quite possibly Eve.
I was at the market today, macerating in my maudlin sentiment, under the L.A. skies that were less blue than they were austere, and I pretended that I was back at Rue Cler, whose street lamps still flicker against the purple of the burgeoning day, no doubt. I was, and remain, in paradise for having been touched ever so briefly by her hand. Mon Paris.
Les Feuilles de Pissenlit avec des Abricots, Pruneaux et aux Amandes
This turned out to be a lovely salad that I intend to add to my repertoire of regulars. Evidently someone disregarded the warning signs and picked les pissenlits! Here's your place:
A bundle of les feuilles de pissenlit, a few apricots, some raw almonds, one shallot, huile d'olive, and brown rice vinegar. Sherry vinegar works well here too.
Herd the apricots into the same bowl, drizzle a little of the vinaigrette over them, toss to lightly coat, then tuck them into the salad artistically, because this is where you shine.
Et voila! Les feuilles de pissenlit avec des abricots, pruneaux et aux amandes!
Mangia bene, vivi felice!
I love the lead in on the email page. That will draw people in to the blog. And the trip is worthy.
ReplyDeletethanks sister!
ReplyDelete