Destination: Dessert

I have been a little wary of giving too much attention to old favourites in Paris on the grounds that Paris 2002-3 = le long gone and Paris 2007 = le now. Testament to this is the fact that my former favourite bar in Paris, La Patache, which was conveniently located on the ground floor of my apartment building on rue de Lancry, has changed hands and thus changed. Alas. (Nerdly aside: If books were written on my favourite places in Paris, Fisher Library would categorise them under the subject heading De la Rue, Trixie -- Homes and Haunts -- Paris. Someone, please, write a book and make it so.) This said, it was never really in question whether I would return to Le Cannibale, a very, very fine bar on the rue J-P Timbaud in the 20th arrondissement. It boasts lamps made from superannuated concertinas and over the bar hangs a great Goya-esque painting of a demon apparently eating a child. The ceilings are vaulted and hold up dim chandeliers; candlewax drips in the window-sills; there are big mirrors in gilded frames on the walls and the clientele reflected in them is, happily, the anti-chi chi – at least by over-groomed Parisian standards. The bar staff look like they have been flown in from Berlin and should actually be plotting artistic upheaval somewhere else; miraculously, they are quite sympa as well.

Le Cannibale is a bar, so you can drink whatever you want there, a good thing, in my opinion. It’s a bar in Paris, so you can also eat there. In fact, the food is entirely excellent, and the cheese and charcuterie plates alone constitute a reason to visit. Admittedly, nuestros amigos españols have got bar food sorted out in the form of tapas and pinchos. Still, I’m mighty partial to the assiettes de fromage et de charcuterie. A few slabs of pungent cheese and some bread on a plate are indisputably superior to chips and wedges and stodgy spring rolls and so on. Same goes for a board arrayed with slices of pâté and terrine, a dose of good old saucisson ancien (with apologies for the tautology) and some cornichons? Fingers crossed that by the time I return to Sydney, cheese and/or charcuterie plates will be standard bar tucker. Unlikely, methinks.

So, to recap, everything thus mentioned about le Cannibale – the décor, the staff, the location, the booze, the food – is generally excellent. The desserts, on the other hand, are just too fabulous for words; mere superlatives do not suffice. I had mentally stamped Le Cannibale in my mind as a Great Place for Desserts and would not have coped well with disappointment. Happily, memory did not deceive me. Le Cannibale is where I first encountered le marquis au chocolat, a truly extraordinary dessert. If I have never cooked a marquis au chocolat for you, hassle me to do so when I’m next in a kitchen near you, although bear in mind that French Chefs Do It Better (but only because they have better butter and cream). It is a little like… a mousse without the egg whites? A solid buttery chocolate custard? A really really rich brownie without the flour? I ate many desserts here which left serious impressions – the benchmark tarte tatin, a crème brûlée aux poires, lots of Berthillon icecream... This time around, there was no marquis au chocolat, but there was a fondant au chocolat meringué, that is, a melting chocolate cake with chocolate meringue baked on top.The pepperminty crème anglaise did get a little skewed in the transition from waitress to table. It would be churlish to deduct marks for presentation, particularly as the ripples were at least a third my fault, and even if I did, this would still be a perfect dessert. It was a flourless chocolate cake that I was disinclined to share, floating in the kind of custard that soothes all ills, I gasped, but I’ll swear on Finnegans Wake, I did not hallucinate: it was real.

Right at the beginning of the meal that terminated in this magnificent dessert, a round of kir was ordered. We were more than three, but three kirs nonetheless found themselves before a grainy Marc.

The inevitable cry resounded, ‘Three Kirs for Marc!’
I echo the cry, ‘Three Kirs for Le Cannibale!’

Cold, sweet, creamy

I think I’ve already mentioned Berthillon ice cream a couple of times. That’s because it’s the best ice cream in the world and its home is on the Ile St Louis. Uninitiated Sydneysiders, forget the showdowns between Pompeii and DeLuca and Messina and whatever Melburnian blow-ins are the saveur d’hiver. My experience of Italian frozen delights is admittedly limited, but Berthillon is far superior to any gelato I’ve eaten in Italy, or elsewhere for that matter. The flavours are intense but not overwhelmingly sweet; the ice cream is smooth without being watery or milky or drippy.

This is me looking uncharacteristically aloof when faced with raspberry and passionfruit ice cream in the one bowl. If your gestural lexicon provides no expression suitable to the pleasures before you, look blank.

And here is a cornette with one scoop of caramèle au gingèmbre and one of rhubarbe et fraise. Unfortunately, the rhubarb-strawberry is hidden underneath the ginger caramel. You do see, however, unadulterated Left Bank in the background.

I’m smiling here because I’m about to eat a coneful of butterscotch and cherry. The gentilhomme who took this photo will soon have his own blog through which to rhapsodise his pain aux épices and cassis.

The best flavour of this summer? Definitely the butterscotch. The French name for this, caramèle beurre sâlé, hints at the snappy salty aftermath to the caramel. So good. My passionfruit and John’s blackcurrant tie for second place. Actually, I think I could find a reason to nominate any one of the flavours above for first, second, and third place all at once. If this was a horse race, I’d put a bet each way on all of them and hope that the odds were, for once, in my favour.

A choice selection of info-morsels and opinions about, inspired by, or vaguely related to le Parc des Buttes Chaumont

• It is my favourite Parisian park.
• According to mon oncle, a repository of remarkable historical factoids and curiosities, Buttes Chaumont was used for public executions before the revolution.
• The park was revamped by Napoleon III and transformed into a sumptuous romantic fantasy, complete with concrete wood, a waterfall, and a cliff-top folly where the gibbet used to be.
• It is the biggest park in Paris. (Père Lachaise cemetery looks bigger on a map.) It is also the steepest park in Paris.
• Back in the day, this was a frolicking ground for the Surrealists.
• Rumours abound about a nudist sub-section of the park. That noted, I have wandered every which ways around Buttes Chaumont and never once stumbled across a bunch of naturists.
• It has a great view in several directions. Voilà Sacré Coeur!
• Rollerblading, football kicking, pigeon feeding and ghetto blasting are forbidden. You are, however, allowed to walk all over the grass.
• It was the site of a joint celebration of my 26th and Antoine’s 27th birthdays.
• When I went there last week, I was reminded that the French expression for fairy floss is la barbe à papa, Daddy’s beard. Te he he.

Behold the forbidden lawn!

There are many reasons why Parisian parks are fabulous. One of them is the proliferation of these signs.
A pelouse interdit sign like this one is telling you to keep off the grass. The declaration of a lawn in a park out-of-bounds strikes me as being in the worst tradition of No Fun irksome over-regulation. Sure, there are nice park benches to sit on, and yes, dogs and small children and high heels can damage a nice piece of turf, but don’t most prime park activities involve sitting or lying or walking on the grass? Obviously, the function of the pelouse interdit sign is not fabulous. What makes these signs so very appealing is the literal translation of the injunction. Pelouse interdit means something like ‘Forbidden Lawn!,’ or ‘Prohibited Lawn!,’ both terms which I find extremely amusing insofar as they turn a lawn into something slightly sinister and foreboding. To me, the designation ‘Forbidden Lawn’ holds the suggestion of dire peril should one allow one’s pedals onto the green. I consider this very funny indeed. I realise this may be a minority opinion. Nevertheless, if there should come a time when a pelouse interdit sign doesn’t make me laugh, something is very wrong in the state of Pike.

Off the air

Friends, I have much to write - of Paris and of the bucolic splendour in which I find myself - but alas, I will have next to no internet access until the 7th August. There will then be a deluge.

Must off. There are wildflowers to be a-plucked.

Great things about French Cuisine #29

Le Salade au Chèvre Chaud
Bitter salad leaves, dressed with a sharp, mustardy vinaigrette, punctuated by a few rounds of flash-grilled chèvre-topped baguette. This is an almost failsafe option at French restaurants. The quality of the chèvre can vary, the crispness and acidity of the salad might waver, a few redundant walnuts may be sprinkled on top (and find their match in walnut oil in the vinaigrette) but whatever happens, a salade au chèvre chaud – in France – will rarely disappoint. Most other countries have different ideas about goat’s cheese to the French, raw milk and fat content being the contentious issues, and hence it is a less reliable selection outside l’Héxagone.
I ate this salad chez Thoumieux, a restaurant in the 7th arrondissement that has been dishing up worthwhile far since 1928. This was billed cabecous en salade, cabecous being the cheese in question. Here, the conventional proportion of cheese to salad is tilted distinctly in favour of the cheese. I see no problem with this.

Queen of Pies

Mitzi called the 22/7 Pie Day. I answered that call, mes amis, and ate this pie in solidarity.

Purists may insist that this is a tart, or even a tartelette. This may be so as far as the subsets go, but I believe a tartelette may be factored into the greater food-group that is Pie without controversy.

Specifications: A sweet and crumbly tart shell, filled with vanilla-flecked crème patissière, on top of which a noble tower of raspberries was built.

Verdict: Délicieux.

Sideline: The menu advertised raspberries for dessert,with the option to eat them au naturel, melba or en tartelette. I love French restaurants.

Heave away

Le beau travail de notre ami ne cesse passe à Paris.
Paris might be the home of existentialism, but Sisyphus has clearly not been granted a ‘Friend of the Philosophers’ work exemption.
Not even out the front of the Louvre.

Weird things about Paris #113

Laundromats

All Parisian laundromats look like this. They are like an acid-trip into Mondrian-land. Fluorescent lights flicker. Cycles spin. First-timers fumble at the coin slots. Polygons complete with circles. Glamorous Parisians glare at other people and stare into the vortex of the washing machines. Mysteries of French intellectual life - le nouveau roman, existentialism, deconstruction, l'ecriture feminin - make sense. Clothes get washed.

You'll never get information like this from guidebooks, will you?

Parochialism

The poet occasionally known as Tom See caused these oysters to be eaten in the apartment of the artist occasionally known as Fergus K. Grabbledang. These Atlantic oysters, courageously shucked in the bath, were delightful. They were not, however, a patch on Sydney rock oysters. That is because Sydney Rock Oysters are the Best Oysters in the World.