17 février 2008
Windows of China
There is a land where a window is always more than a window, which is not surprising since the Chinese home is a temple. An opening to let the light in, or to keep it outside, or to let one see it from the outside. A place from which to contemplate the world, a place to dream, a place where the world leans in to see. Eye of the house unabashedly showing poverty or opulence. Blind eye, masked eye, shut eye, wide open to every wind or protected from the sun by pieces of cardboard boxes. A frame for ornaments of all sorts, shop-window-like. Demon-repelling window, draped with auspicious red and gold. Window encased in an iron wire frame bejewelled with magical trinkets. Half-dilapidated window exhaling wisdom, decrepit jewel encased in magnificent, flame-caressed grey Ming brickwork. Drying rack for anything, screen for displaying messages. Tiny window providing light to a tiny house. High window softly masked with white paper. Rippled paper set in a humble frame or richly colored stained glass. Delicate sanded glass flowers or fine lacquered wood lattice-work. I do not know which other country in the world has such powerful window poetry. Each Chinese window tells its own stories.
Streets of Guangzhou
Guangzhou, temple of the Five Immortals
Guangzhou, "historical center"
Foshan, Huang Feihong Memorial Museum
Foshan, Po Chi Lam school
Xiaozhou
Pour Boris.
15 février 2008
Guangzhou: the art of drying things (2)
Soon, I will post here my report of the OFF3 - Omnivore Food Festival in Deauville, but before I can do that, a few things are still hanging up to dry.
Did you by any chance believe we were done with the Cantonese art of drying? Far from it. All the following pictures were taken in December 2007 and January 2008.
Creatively-hung laundry is a Chinese specialty, and some laundry lines are hung up with a peculiar sense of order and beauty, even poetry, that never fails to amaze me. Hairdressing salons, beauty and massage parlors, having washing machines but no driers, cause the streets to bloom with graceful, orderly sets of pink, white or pale blue draperies.
A family, expressed through their clothes, is floating in the breeze on a small courtyard near the Chen Academy, between the shiny ficus trees and a Qing dynasty tiled roof.
Another set of laundry is sitting for posterity in Xiaozhou, a Yuan dynasty village that will be further described in another post.
Xiaozhou. A rare, Ming-dynasty sneaker drying rack in a perfect state of preservation and still in use. Probably one of the most beautiful example of the Chinese art of drying things.
Here is one of the great secrets of Chinese daily life: a deep, profound spirituality built into every moment and into the most humble chores. There always comes a time in the life of a street mop when you must, like everybody else, hang up your head and meditate.
Without departing from the dried stuff topic, let us talk about edible things, so that this blog deserves to be called a food blog and I get invited to food events and festivals. At the market, near Jiang Nan Xi Lu: dried egg noodles and preserved duck eggs.
Cantonese balconies are perfect places to hang anything you'd want to dry at home (if you were Cantonese): clothes, fish, char siu (marinated lacquered pork belly).
Back to the market with a delectable Cantonese specialty: dried duck.
Going a little further, an assortment of Cantonese sausages: short, black (a sort of black pudding), finely ground, coarsely ground. And a dried duck impersonating Ramses II.
The province of Guangdong is famous for its sausages and, in Guangdong, two cities compete for the title of Sausage Capital: Dongguan and Foshan. This cured meats shop was photographed in Foshan. The dark sausages from the top row are truly delicious.
Pretty, colorful and shiny like tapestry silk yarn, these dried and cured bacon strips — some unflavored, some sweetened, some smoked — were seen on a Guangzhou market. Sliced finely and served on top of freshly steamed vegetables, they are quite tasty.
No, I haven't taken you to a puppet show — these dolls are stuffed pig's feet, another Foshan specialty.
Cantonese-style squabs in a shop window near the Chen Academy.
Swallows' nests at Qingpin market.
Not cigars, but steamed and dried ginseng roots.
We finish this anthology of Chinese dried things with soft, dawn-colored dried persimmons.
Guangzhou: the art of drying things (1)
Things drying in Guangzhou. At the windows, in the streets, in shop windows, at home, in bags, above our heads...
It was the week of December 20th. I had arrived on the 20th. Until January 15, the day I left Guangzhou, I was unable to update this blog. The connection was too slow, images would not upload. The weather, that week, was mild, overcast and slightly damp. Nothing, however, that would keep the millenary Chinese art of drying things to flourish all over town.
Liwan Lu area, near the Chen Academy.
Qingpin market.
A chilli pepper at home, Fangcun Dadao.
Also at home: drying orange peels.
Dried orange peels at Qingpin market.
Picking the twigs out of tieguanyin tea at the Guangzhou tea market.
Long jing green tea just out of the deep-freezer (for freshness).
Coiled snakes, Qingpin market.
Seahorses, anyone? Good for manhood indispositions.
Cordyceps (already commented on this blog).
To be continued...
14 février 2008
Bells and whistles, or some thoughts on innovation
"Bells and whistles" is an English expression that I, as a native French speaker, have always loved for its evocative power. It has no good equivalent in French. It sure came to my mind one afternoon of last week, as I sat with my lovely friend A. and a cup of hot chocolate at the Angélina tea room on rue de Rivoli, Paris. The thick, hot liquid was a welcome relief from the cold outside (and from my very bad idea to have lunch in the Jardin des Tuileries, inspired by the bright sunshine of that day).
As we came in, we passed by a large tray of colorful pastries. The one that looked the most like a chocolate éclair was a very pretty thing indeed. But it was not called "éclair", it was called Marc or Antoine or Daniel, or another male name, I forgot which one. My luck, I thought — it so happens that I'd love an éclair, right here, right now, on the spot. And so we ordered that, with a cappuccino, a hot chocolate and a croissant.
That éclair that was not really an éclair inspired today's post, which will (hrm hrm, please bear with me while I drink this glass of water) be on the topic of classicism and innovation.
What makes a thing (work of art, recipe, etc.) become a classic? It is not necessarily a question of style. It is mostly the fact that the thing has proved its own worth; in the case of a recipe, that it has reached its point of completion, whether that completion is of the simple kind or of the complex kind. Take the chocolate éclair as an example: the chocolate éclair is a classic pastry. Why has it become a classic? Because, in its own category, and provided that it is properly made, the chocolate éclair is perfect. One day, it reached its maximum point of development and stayed there. Its perfection has been achieved. No need to add anything to it, or remove anything from it. Of course, if you wish to work on its elements, you may do so as long as you remain inside the limits of its perfect form — choux pastry, pastry cream, icing, elongated shape; it has to remain an éclair. Use different flavorings, for instance: coffee, vanilla. It has been done, and quite a lot. You may even go further: blackcurrant, lemon, raspberry, even violet. Sure, you may make violet-flavored éclairs, and the like. They will not be as plainly classical as the chocolate or coffee éclair, and it will depart from classicism insofar as the experimentation — raspberry, violet, lavender — will not give very satisfactory results. You will hear: "Nice experiment and worth trying I'm sure, but all things considered it is not very good to eat and after all there's nothing like a good old chocolate éclair." (By the way, many thanks to La Maison du Chocolat for fully understanding this fragile, and very misunderstood, notion of classicism and for making the best chocolate éclairs in Paris, sans bells and whistles.)
(Update of October 28, 2008: the éclairs from La Maison du Chocolat, unfortunately, have shown signs of weakness lately. The chocolate éclairs that kick every other éclairs' ass are to be found at the chain stores Cacao et Chocolat. I'll go back to that in one of my next posts.)
The proof of the pudding being in the eating, the eating of this Charles, or John, or Ebenezer — which was not really condescending to be an éclair because it contained so much added innovation, and therefore thought itself much higher — made me think strongly of classicism and innovation. The following evening, I heard someone say this: Innovation kills creativity. I agree to some extent. It does invalidate and even incriminate most of today's discourse on cuisine and pastry, but I agree nevertheless. As time goes by, I feel a more and more frequent urge to cry out to some chefs or pastry chefs: "For God's sake, stop innovating!" And even sometimes I would like to tell them: "Aside from innovating, what can you do?" I am only too aware of the fact that some would have nothing to reply.
Some restaurant guides and a certain type of food journalism are partly responsible for what I call the deviance of innovation, but they are by no means the only culprits. Zeitgeist is the criminal here. Many are brimming with innovation without having, beforehand, asked themselves a few questions about values and basic quality. Once, attending a conference, I heard Cornélius Castoriadis talk about technological or scientifical innovations that, sooner or later, proved to be ethically dangerous. He said: "Just because you can do something does not mean you have to do it, but it seems, these days, that as long as you can technically do something it is enough of a reason to rush to its material actualization." Hear, hear, cooks, chefs starred or not, creative pâtissiers! There are days when the only thing one does not want to find is bells and whistles. When the only thing you want is something classical, and executed the best possible way. Why forget that?
Indeed, bells and whistles were blossoming abundantly all over my Marcel, my Jerome or my Maximilian, which was not an éclair (if you have followed me that far) but was sort of based on one. It was a reinterpretation of the éclair, but watch out — an innovative, creative reinterpretation. One half of the thing — lengthwise, please take note — was covered with chocolate icing. The other longitudinal half was chocolate crumble. The inside, which should classicaly have been filled with chocolate pastry cream, was a hyper-rich, über-dense mousse, with one or two added layers the composition of which I forgot, only because there were too many things inside and outside this piece of pastry. Bells and whistles. Too many elements, too many textures, too many tastes, too much richness, and the whole thing had a way of staying on your stomach. Not that the cake was actually too heavy, but its mental conception was tiring for the mind. There is something about the simplicity — the classic simplicity — of the éclair that relaxes your brain and, I am sure, furthers the pleasure of eating. Why is this equation, simplicity of the concept/sensory pleasure, so frequently overlooked?
I know that some people like that. And it is a good thing. I know that some are truly interested in bells-and-whistles cuisine or pastry. I know that some restaurants may lose or gain one star on matters regarding innovation (<-- cool) or classicism (<-- uncool). However my personal feeling is that I would have preferred, sitting at Angélina's, a good, dumb, well-prepared chocolate éclair than this complicated, artsy pastry.
Am I a despisable reactionary trying to choke our chefs' precious creativity and freeze the course of time?
Or am I only pointing out that there is something sick and sterile in this blind rush forward?
Novelty is permanently sought. It has become an obsession. As Pierre Gagnaire said the other day at the OFF3 festival, creative chefs backed by the Gault-Millau guide in the late 80s did condemn to death hundreds of wonderful cooks who "made terrines". And he sounded really sad about that. When the interviewer pointed out that creative cooking was precisely what he, Gagnaire, was doing at that very period, he answered: "Of course we did. Without thinking. Without ever looking aside, God forbid! But such were the consequences."
Who, these days, asks themselves only once if innovation is really a vital need?
For I realize that true innovators are rare. Even rarer than you think. For one Ferran Adria, how many slightly off-the-point followers? Count them. One egg yolk suspended in mid-air, surrounded by its own white sublimated as a foam or some other textureless, airy thing? Great! What is it for? As for me, whenever I have met true innovators and creators, I identified them as playful and pleasure-loving, not as led by competition or the expression of their ego. And any "innovation" that was not the work of these rare people seemed dull and repetitive to me. The human capacity for innovation is limited and less important than is commonly believed. Man moves and progresses leaning on cultural marks. He easily overestimates his capacity to depart from those marks and enter the unknown, the unmade. Most of the time, as he believes to be treading on virgin snow, hundreds of yettis have already stomped all over the place and yaks have shat in every corner. Man is not that much of an innovator. At least, not so much of an innovator as guidebook editors would like him to be. Innovation means coming up with Citizen Kane, Les Demoiselles d'Avignon or Sondheim's Assassins. You cannot expect the same feats from thousands of cooks toiling under the Michelin's stern gaze. Innovation is not something that is welcome. It is never accepted immediately after it appears. It requires some time to get used to it. It is not something you can expect and certainly not something you can demand. It does not appear where you want it to. And thus it is absurd to promote it as the highest value, a mental automatism which at length threatens the art and culture of cooking — and pastry — and (more dramatically) puts good chocolate éclairs in the category of endangered species.
Do you think I am being mean? Unfair? Oh, do not worry one bit, any more than I do on what this article should bring about. I am certain that its consequences will be very limited and that there will always be a whole bunch of people to celebrate the delightful inspiration that has led a creator to imagine, from a basic and classical (chuckle!) chocolate éclair, a whole sublime palette of tastes and textures, going so far as dividing the éclair in two lengthwise to sprinkle half of it with an exquisite chocolate crumble, and concealing in its choux heart amazing layers of sinful, rich, melting, powerful chocolate, sustained by… (etc.)
Yes, bells and whistles are the thing, no matter what I say or do, which I am thankful for (I'd feel very guilty if it were not so). However I am increasingly wondering about the notion of innovation in cooking, on our true need for it, on its actual value and meaning, if it does have one.
Edit: in a later post on the OFF3 festival, I will resume this meditation on innovative cooking and pastry.
02 février 2008
Les Petites Sorcières, Paris
It began coldly, on a dark and chilly January day, somewhere around the rues Froidevaux, Daguerre and the Cimetière de Montparnasse. I was trotting to meet my friend and dear dining companion John on rue Liancourt, a quiet street in the neighborhood. Now what reason could there be to visit such a sleepy street on such a cold day? Well, having lunch at Les Petites Sorcières ("Little Witches"), a bistrot recently acquired by former Ledoyen chef Ghislaine Arabian. It is by no means a new bistrot and has had the same name and location for more than ten years. I remember Les Petites Sorcières from my long-gone days as a researcher for the Guide Lebey des restaurants parisiens, a Paris restaurant guidebook. The place was then run by a Mr. Christian Teule and the food was not bad at all. I particularly remember a very nice vouvray perlant served in a carafe. But today, doing my best to wrap myself into my thin coat, I am hoping to reach the bistrot before I drop dead frozen.
I was curious about Les Petites Sorcières under their new owner because I had no experience of Ghislaine Arabian's cooking, except from reading enthusiastic prose about it, mostly from the pen of respected critics like Claude Lebey and the like. I have never been to Ledoyen while she was there. I enjoy the food and setting at her former husband's bistrot, Le Caméléon. My expectations are rather on the positive side. And I'm freezing, friends, I'm starving too, so let's eat.
While sitting at our table, we are slightly astonished by the fact that the chef is not in her kitchen. She is doing the service, helped by one waitress. Well, we suppose, or rather we hope, that she gets things right before lunch service begins, and that she relies on a solid-gold kitchen team.
Here comes the first course. John's poêlée de palourdes (a very simple marinière of clams with chopped leeks) is just okay, and my cream of cauliflower is one of those heavily creamed restaurant soups that seem to give you a gag reflex after the third spoonful. It is actually thick cream slightly flavored with cauliflower. The soup is not only heavy, it is also quite dated: that kind of dish used to be common in the early 90s, then it passed. Not here, seemingly. Our wine is an unremarkable bordeaux. So far, nothing worth reporting. We are waiting for our main courses to begin discussing the contents or our plates. And we are ready to take any alleviating circumstance into account.
And, at this very instant, the Salt of the Earth enters the room.
Enter Anton Ego.
If you are still wondering who Anton Ego is, you haven't seen Ratatouille. He is the bespectacled, twig-thin, somber and stern food critic who terrorizes all of Paris restaurants. Now some French critics believe he was modelled after them (wonder why); actually he is a combination of several of them, and not only French ones. And his fictional dimension should not be overlooked. However, the one who just entered Les Petites Sorcières was certainly among the models for the Anton Ego character. A bit rounder, a bit less dry (shall I say slimier?), not so tall, but the likeness is undeniable. Hence the name.
Was he expected? I give a quick look around and my experience as a food researcher and reviewer instantly answers my question: a spare table has been set right before the bar counter. This means there very probably was a phone call that went like this: "Hello my dear Ghislaine, sorry I am calling so late; do you still have a little room left? Ah, we'll make some. Thank you very much. See you in ten minutes then."
This arrival of a criticus ex machina will have important consequences on our meal, but also on everybody else's meal in this dining room. From the very moment the ineffable postérieur critique touches its chair, the whole kitchen falls into a strange torpor. Nothing comes out of it. Everything sleeps. There must definitely be something like a spell, or some witchcraft at work, for all of a sudden we are in a Sleeping Beauty scenario. We wonder what we would see if we opened the kitchen door. Everybody snoring, propped on their standing Bamix or leaning on their pans? Everybody dead?
Ah, but the door opens twice — not to reveal the presence of any witch or fairy but to make way for Anton Ego's plates.
Fine, but nobody else gets their food. Most customers having entered the place roughly at the same time, it means that everybody will wait for their main course about 40 minutes. Precisely 45 minutes, I'm being told, but I did not check that. Hunger pangs and cheap Bordeaux are making my head spin ever so slightly.
But Anton Ego is chewing, looking very satisfied, all eyebrows raised, while a good twenty to thirty stomachs, nearby, are growling. "There definitely is a problem", says John after the first thirty minutes. "I'm starving", says I. Then, watching Ego's mastication, I realize what is really happening. In the kitchen, every activity has stalled, until the Master is properly catered to.
Forty-five minutes waiting for a dish is a long time. Very long, you can take my word for it. I know by now that we'll have to wait for Anton Ego to finis his lunch before the kitchen starts working for the mere mortals again. As for the landlady and former chef, she hovers around him, sits at his table for a five-minute chat, and seems totally oblivious of her other clients. But the best things have an ending and Anton Ego finally wipes his lips with his napkin, stands up, salutes and leaves without paying any check. I take a deep breath and think that we're going to see our main courses, at last.
And so we are, after another five minutes our plates appear by the grace of local fairyhood. John's skate grenobloise is skate allright, and not a bad one I reckon (he disagrees), but it cannot decently be called grenobloise for lack of croûtons, lemon slices and a reasonable number of capers. My hachis Parmentier does even less deserve its name. It is actually a small quantity of beef stew, probably a beer carbonade, onto which a ladleful of lumpy mashed potatoes have been casually thrown with a spoonful of sauce added, and down into the oven for five minutes. Inacceptable. We exchange a sorry glance. We pay our check and leave without ordering dessert. Why bother?
Later, I read that Claude Lebey has praised this bistrot as "the best of its kind". Now I realize that there's some ambiguity with the word "kind" and that, not being able to judge the terms within their context, it is not easy to figure out what "kind" he is referring to. But there are strong chances his review is a positive one. However, if he was treated the way I believe he was — which means just the same as Anton Ego —, there is positively no need to wonder.
02 janvier 2008
Happy New Year 2008
Happy new year to all of you who read this blog, and to everybody else!
In 2008, always remember to look straight towards the future.
For those who should be wondering where I came across these weird-looking fish, I will reply that you can find everything on Guangzhou markets. Everything.
This blog is taking some time off
I have been in Guangzhou (Canton) since mid-December and have been trying to update this blog. Unfortunately, the Internet seems to be powered by butane gas and uploading pictures takes for ever. Therefore we will resume business when I return to Paris, around mid-January. Until then, take care, happy holiday, etc. — and now I have to go and buy some crocodile at the market. See you soon.
10 décembre 2007
Menu For Hope 4: Ptipois' in.
This year, Ptipois takes part in Menu For Hope 4, an annual raffle in support of the UN World Food Programme, created and organized by my friend Pim Techamuanvivit on her blog Chez Pim. To know all about it, go to Pim's blog where everything is clearly explained (hey, you can even win a baby goat!). You should also visit Foodbeam, Fanny's blog — Fanny takes care of the raffle for Europe and there is a lot of important info on her site.
Here's a summary:
For $10, you get a raffle ticket that may make you the happy owner of a prize of your choice, offered by one of the participants — restaurateur, producer, food writer or journalist, or any foodie that has something to share. The more you give, the better your chances of winning are. See the prize list on Chez Pim; frankly it is quite amazing.
The collected sums entirely go to the WFP — United Nations World Food Programme, the world's largest food aid agency.
This year, the funds raised by Menu for Hope 4 will be earmarked for the school lunch program in Lesotho, Africa. Providing food for the children not only keeps them alive, but helps them stay in school so that they learn the skills to feed themselves in the future. The program also supports local and community farming. Promoting local agriculture and food production using sustainable agricultural methods — and thus improving world environment — makes this program particularly interesting and, needless to say, quite fitting for a foodie raffle.
The prize
Ptipois' blog, this year, as a mirror blog to its French original version Chez Ptipois, chooses to donate the author's (yeah, well, my) latest book, La Table du Thé, which has been commented here and elsewhere. I will, of course, send the prize by mail to the happy winner.
One word of warning though: since I am about to stay for one whole month in a distant country, I will not be able to send the prize before January 15, 2008.
Practical info
Virtual raffle tickets should be purchased between December 10 and 21, 2007.
The code for this prize is EU29.
To purchase your raffle ticket, go to this page. Donation is done by credit card.
Other prizes are displayed here on Pim's blog.
07 décembre 2007
At last, Love Apple Farm has a blog!
In case you didn't know already, I am happy to inform you that Cynthia Sandberg and Love Apple Farm — that really cool biodynamic vegetable garden associated with chef David Kinch's Manresa restaurant in Los Gatos — have their blog at last, Grow Better Veggies.
Do not fail to visit it regularly. You will find a lot of vegetable eye candy, Cynthia's adventures as a passionate vegetable grower, and plenty of useful tips and information on the lovely art of growing good things.
Here at Ptipois' we're all fans of Love Apple Farm and Manresa. Below are links to this blog's posts that are dedicated to them:
1. The Spring's serial: Alain Passard at Manresa
2. The way of the radish
3. The leek's path
4. Vegetable portraits
5. The tao of carrot
I also should add that the Manresa-Passard saga is far from over on this blog. See you later, then. Meanwhile, go drool with desire while viewing the heirloom tomatoes on Cynthia's blog.
This wonderful world
Paris, rue Saint-Dominique, Nov. 30.
I just read that sea-urchin larvae were shaped like Eiffel Towers.
I did not indulge in illicit substances, I found it on Wikipedia.
Apart from that, everything OK?