Chapter 4
cafés and bistros
Chapter 4
cafés and bistros
Grilled Ham and Cheese Sandwich with Fried Egg
Citron Pressé, Menthe, ou Grenadine à l’Eau
French Lemonade, Mint, and Grenadine Syrup with Water
Roast Chicken with French Fries
Any café or bistro, in the tiniest country village to the bustling streets of any city, provided us with glimpses into the lives of locals: the postman stopping by for a quick coffee at the bar while on his morning route, traveling salesmen eating alone, workers having a drink at the bar at the end of their day. At the bistros, changing menus sported regional and local specialties for lunch, and sometimes the cafés had hot sandwiches. Savory salads with poached eggs and tender boiled potatoes or baked goat cheese with bitter salad greens and bacon are the salads we looked forward to, hopefully served with a charcuterie plate of pâté, jambon cru, and saucisson. For kids, of course, any version of a grilled cheese sandwich would do, and the French one, a croque madame, is laden with rich béchamel sauce and a fried egg. Drinks, ice creams, and tarts often finished the meal.
As a child I spent idle hours in cafés all across France people watching, and cafés are everywhere. The second we stepped off the plane into the sprawling corridors of Charles de Gaulle Airport, a brief stop at a café was in order—ham and butter sandwiches on baguettes, two Oranginas, and two coffees. The cigarette smoke hung in the air, the smell of perfume wafted from the duty-free shops, and the food and drinks were a stamp of arrival. As I munched my sandwich, slipping it from the cellophane wrapper, I watched people from every corner of the world coming and going. There were African women in flowing batik-printed gowns with luggage carts piled high with things to take home to families far away, and smart Parisian businessmen in tidy suits with briefcases. I could always tell the French stewardesses because they were elegantly dressed, little caps perched on top of their heads and Air France neck scarves perfectly knotted to the side.
My deepest memories of Paris are from days spent in the Jardin du Luxembourg and the rickety carousel that is still there, the iconic metal chairs out for anyone to enjoy, the crepe stand, the infinitely tall, leafy trees that line every pathway, a royal canopy shading a never-ending stream of people, tourists and residents, all sitting, drinking, reading, and watching one another. The café I loved the most was nestled under the trees, tables set out in the dusty, decomposed granite grounds, the bathroom down some stairs around the back, and at the bottom of the stairs a little old woman in a gray housecoat dusted with tiny pink and red flowers, her wispy white hair pulled back in a tight white bun. She was there to collect centimes (French pennies) from us. She wiped down the counters, offered us cloth towels to dry our hands, and smiled sweetly as I spoke to her in imperfect French, mumbling “Merci, Madame.” She seemed so old, older than my grandmothers.
As we left Paris and headed south, the cities became smaller and the cafés were more in the center of town, where moss-covered fountains gurgled up from stone ponds and the cool mist sprayed off the surface, giving relief from the heat. On early evening visits, my parents lingered at the table, sipping wine, with small dishes of peanuts or pistachios that were constantly refilled as my brother and I relished in the menu choices. More often than not I would have thick, syrupy grenadine au limonade, a pure sugar concoction of alleged pomegranate syrup (a good quarter cup worth and a cold bottle of clear lemon soda). My brother preferred the bright green mint flavor, a bit too much like toothpaste for my taste. These café visits or stops were never short, and we never protested, because we always had pockets full of new plastic soldiers or animal figurines, coloring books, and refills of whatever we were drinking. Sometimes, at cafés that were bistros as well, the visit would last so long it was time for dinner, so paper place mats were set, and cutlery and little glass cruets of oil, vinegar, and mustard appeared. Entrecôte de boeuf, salade Niçoise, and poulet frites were among the choices, and inevitably one of my parents would order something along the lines of kidneys in cream sauce or gras-double (tripe in tomato sauce). My brother, normally a very picky eater in California and a fan of white bread and bologna sandwiches, hot dogs, and American cheese, had no fear of the French menu, but he stuck to steak and French fries most days, followed by crème caramel.
—Ethel
The café experience was a must—you couldn’t walk down any street in France without stumbling over the typical wicker café chairs and tables with silver-lined edges on every block. The little épiceries next to the cafés were a quick answer to the larger grocery chains if you needed a few extra necessities for dinner. I saw some amazing things—there were giant baskets of perfect porcini right on the sidewalk, like it was nothing! I consistently heard that Paris was an “assault on all the senses,” which I think describes the café/bistro experience perfectly. Hearing orders shouted through the kitchen, people conversing in quick intonations, sugary and salty delights, the smell of delicious street food when we sat outside, and the smell of butter, chicken, meats, and cheeses when we sat inside, and most important, the comfort of having my mom or dad’s arm around me when I sat close to them in the big bistro booths were all part of the experience.
I loved how the café/bistro was such a part of life, such a social thing, and at any time of day, especially during mealtime, each café seemed completely packed as if no one worked or time stood still. My sister and I would always order grenadine au limonade because nothing is more exciting than a bright red drink fizzing with sugary madness. Inside the cafés the small tile floors were often cracked and warped from decades of feet shuffling in and out of the social scene, and usually there were mirrors on the walls that showed years of wear and water stains. I was always scared to go to the restroom in cafés—it was a gamble to see if there was a “regular” toilet or a hole in porcelain on the ground between two footpads. Strangely enough, this was one of the things I remember so clearly about the cafés—the fear of the bathroom with a hole in the ground.
There was no need to rush when you were there—you often had to ask for the bill several times before the waiter in the perfectly pressed starched white apron brought it to you. It was like we entered a bubble where time slowed so significantly that you were forced to enjoy a few of the simple things in life—a good glass of wine and a good dose of people watching. As each man and woman passed by our table, I always tried to imagine what kind of life they experienced, what kind of stories they’d pass on, and even what they ate for breakfast. It was a dance of informal meetings every few seconds, again and again, with strangers. I was happy to be a part of these non-meetings, sipping my red drink, staining my white shirt.
—Sara
Ahh, the prix fixe menu, written in white chalk on slate, the French script a bit hard to read but clear enough for me to know I had a choice of two. Charcuterie for the first course or snails. The choice was a difficult one, but either way I would be happy. A platter with slices of saucisson sec or rabbit rillettes, and hopefully a liver mousse pâté, plus rolled slices of jambon cru, all garnished with olives and cornichons, was always a sure bet.
—Ethel
4 thick-cut slices prosciutto (1/3 pound)
Selection of salami-style cured meats (1/3 pound)
2-inch wedge of pâté, country or mousse or both
½ pint cornichon pickles
½ pint mixed olives
1 baguette, cut into ½-inch-thick rounds
Prepare a platter. Cut the prosciutto into 1-inch-thick strips crosswise and arrange on one section of the platter. Continue with precut salami slices or cut ¼-inch rounds from a whole salami and arrange on the platter along with the pâté. Either lay the pickles and olives alongside the meats or place in small bowls on the platter. Serve with the sliced baguette.
serves 4
My first experience with a croque madame was at Genève-Plage, a water park in Geneva right on the border of France and Switzerland. One of our friends asked in broken English if I had ever tried one, and I shook my head curiously. She took my hand and led me to the little snack bodega next to the pool. We ordered, and I marveled at the cute egg on top—a very feminine sandwich.
—Sara
Sauce
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1½ cups milk
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
Sandwiches
2 tablespoons butter
4 slices pain de mie, challah, or other soft white bread
1 tablespoon Dijon-style mustard
4 thin slices boiled ham
2 thin slices Gruyère cheese
2 eggs
Preheat a broiler.
For the sauce, melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. When it has melted, remove it from the heat and stir in the flour to make a roux, or paste. Return to the heat and slowly whisk in the milk until smooth and blended, about 2 minutes. Add the salt and nutmeg. Continue to cook until it has thickened and the taste of flour is gone, about 15 minutes. Increase the heat if necessary to thicken. Set aside.
To make the sandwiches, butter one side of each piece of bread using 1 tablespoon of butter. Spread the mustard on the unbuttered sides of 2 of the slices. Layer the ham and cheese, then top with the remaining slices, butter side up.
Warm a skillet over medium-low heat, then cook the sandwiches for 3 minutes, until the bread is golden; turn and repeat on the other side. Place the cooked sandwiches on a baking sheet, spoon over about ½ cup of the sauce, and place under the broiler until the sauce is bubbling and golden, about 5 minutes. If you have extra sauce, you can freeze it for next time.While the sandwiches are in the oven quickly fry the eggs in the remaining 1 tablespoon of butter. Remove the sandwiches to two plates and top each with a fried egg.
makes 2 sandwiches
Grilled Ham and Cheese Sandwich with Fried Egg
Today I think some version of the Niçoise salad is on most bistro and café menus, but at one time it was a regional specialty. The Niçoise packed in all of my favorite ingredients: Barely hard-boiled eggs with deep golden yellow yolks, salty anchovies, capers, and olives peppered over greens, all marinating in bitter green olive oil and red wine vinegar. It was a mélange far from home, not even a distant cousin to Howard Johnson’s iceberg wedge with blue cheese dressing, which I also found delicious.
—Ethel
4 eggs
¼ pound French haricots verts or other small green beans, stem ends trimmed
6 small yellow, red, or white potatoes, peeled
2 tablespoons olive oil
½ teaspoon Dijon-style mustard
1 teaspoon red wine vinegar
¼ teaspoon sea salt
1 (5-ounce) can high-quality canned tuna, packed in olive oil, drained
3 ripe medium tomatoes, cut into 1-inch wedges
12 black, salt-, or olive oil–cured olives, pitted
6 fresh marinated anchovy fillets or oil- packed fillets, patted dry
1 teaspoon capers, drained and rinsed
Place the eggs in a small saucepan and cover with water. Over high heat, bring the water to a boil, turn off the heat, and let stand for 10 minutes. Remove the eggs from the pan and run them under cold water to halt the cooking. Once they have cooled enough to handle, peel them and cut them crosswise into ½-inch rounds.
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Fill a large bowl of water with ice cubes and set aside. Slip the beans into the boiling water and cook for about 3 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, remove the beans from the water and transfer them to the ice water. Return the water to a boil and cook the potatoes until tender and easily pierced with the tines of a fork, about 15 minutes. Drain the potatoes and allow to cool, then cut into halves. Remove the beans from the ice water and pat dry.
In a large bowl, whisk together the olive oil, mustard, vinegar, and salt. Add the tuna, tomatoes, potatoes, and beans and gently toss together. Add the olives, anchovies, capers, and eggs, gently fold into the salad, and serve.
serves 4
Cafés in France are for people of all ages and all walks of life: a quick coffee on your way to work or the grocery store, several hours reading quietly alone, or an afternoon spent with friends and family. As a child, the excitement came from a special drink. In California it was the Shirley Temple, served in a dimpled plastic glass with, hopefully, two maraschino cherries at the bottom. In France it was sweet grenadine or mint syrup two inches deep, a stir stick, and my own personal pitcher of chilled water. The trick was to fill the glass with water, then refill it every time it dropped an inch, making the drink last as long as possible.
—Ethel
½ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
Pitcher of chilled water
¼ cup sugar
Grenadine syrup or mint syrup
Put ¼ cup of freshly squeezed lemon juice in each of two glasses with a pitcher of chilled water and a dish of sugar on the side. Mix together until sweetened to one’s liking.
For the Grenadine and Menthe à l’Eau, pour ¼ cup or less of the syrup, depending on desired sweetness, into two tall glasses and add cold water as needed. Stir and enjoy.
serves 2
Hôtel Relais Notre Dame, in the lakeside village of Quinson, is not actually on the lake; its terrace overlooks a wheat field flanked by vineyards. The owners, a brother and sister, have a fish tank off to the side and behind the kitchen, a large one filled with eight- to ten-inch-long trout. If you order le plat Truite Amandine, you get to choose your fish. To do so, you need to run quickly and carefully across the road, as the terrace is separated from the hotel and restaurant by a busy road. However, in my child’s mind, the restaurant did not overlook a wheat field, but the lake and the tank were just outside the terrace wall also overlooking the lake. I am always surprised when we return that my dusky view is not rippling pools but golden-topped grain stalks, violet from the sunset. I was sure this restaurant was on the water.
—Ethel
2 whole fresh trout, cleaned, scales removed
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon coarse sea salt
2 whole lemons
6 sprigs fresh thyme
1 tablespoon canola or other vegetable oil for the grill
Prepare a charcoal grill or heat a gas grill to medium-high temperature.
Rinse the fish and pat dry. Rub the fish all over with the olive oil and salt. Cut one of the lemons crosswise into ½-inch slices. Divide the lemon slices between the 2 fish, lining their insides. Lay the fresh thyme on top of the lemons. Rub the fish all over with the olive oil and salt.
Brush the grill with the canola oil and place the fish on the grill. Cook until the fish pulls easily from the grill, about 6 minutes; turn and cook the other side. If it sticks let it cook another 2 minutes and then turn. Cook another 6 to 8 minutes—the fish should be firm to the touch.
serves 2 to 4 (1 fish per person or ½ fillet)
Up until the time I was ten years old or so, before there were any supermarkets in the villages near our house, we bought our fish from “the fish man.” When we heard him honk on Wednesday afternoon, we’d run out the front door and find him there on the narrow road, flinging up the sides of his gray van to display big trays full of crushed ice spread with neatly arranged fish. Whenever he had mussels, my mom and Marie bought them, and we cooked them together in Marie’s kitchen in a big pot, adding the wild thyme that Aileen and I had gathered, along with fresh bay leaves from the neighbors down the road. The kitchen aroma wafted though the whole house, and I could hardly wait to dip my bread in the broth and to pick the plump orange mussels from their shells with my fork.
—Ethel
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
½ yellow onion, chopped
5 pounds mussels, scrubbed and debearded if necessary
1 cup dry white wine
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves or several sprigs
1 bay leaf
3 cloves garlic
In the bottom of a large pot, combine the olive oil and butter and place over medium-high heat until the butter foams. Add the onion and sauté until translucent, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the mussels and pour in the wine. Rub the thyme between your hands over the pot, allowing it to fall over the mussels. Add the bay leaf and then grate the garlic over the mussels. Cover, lower the heat to low, and cook just until the mussels open, 10 to 12 minutes. Uncover the pot and turn the mussels in the broth. Using a large slotted spoon, scoop the mussels into individual bowls, discarding any that failed to open. Ladle a little broth into each bowl and serve at once.
serves 4
“Poulet frites!” I’d yell every time we went to a restaurant. My parents would look at the menu, discuss the different possibilities, and then decide to be adventuresome. I, on the other hand, always knew exactly what I wanted—delicious crisp chicken and a heaping mound of thin French fries, crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside, served with the rich, creamy mayonnaise that tasted nothing like home.
—Sara
1 (3½-pound) chicken, cut into quarters
2 cloves garlic, peeled and lightly crushed
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 to 1 ½ tablespoons sea salt
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Frites
4 large russet or Kennebec potatoes
Canola oil or other vegetable oil for deep-frying
1 teaspoon salt
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Rub the chicken quarters all over with the garlic. Place the pieces, skin side up, on a baking sheet. Rub them all over with olive oil followed by the salt. Bake for about 20 minutes, then using a butter knife, spread 1 tablespoon of the butter over the tops of the chicken pieces. Continue to cook, basting once more with the remaining 1 tablespoon of butter. Cook the chicken until the juices run clear when pierced with a knife, about 1 hour.
While the chicken is cooking, prepare the French fries. Peel the potatoes and trim them to make a rectangular block. Cut the potatoes evenly into batons or sticks ¼ inch wide by ¼ inch thick. Place in cold water and continue to change the water until it is clear. Dry the potatoes completely with a towel.
In a deep fryer or a Dutch oven fitted with a candy thermometer, heat the oil over medium heat until it reaches 325°F. Add the potatoes, only a few handfuls at a time, being sure not to overcrowd them. Increase the heat to medium-high and fry until the potatoes have formed a skin and are faintly golden, 6 to 7 minutes. Remove to a paper towel–lined platter. Repeat until all are cooked. Let rest for 15 minutes to 2 hours before the second frying.
When ready to serve, heat the oil again to 350°F. Fry the potatoes in handfuls as before until they turn a warm golden brown, about 5 minutes. Sprinkle with salt.
serves 4
Roast Chicken with French Fries
I’m sure I had this many times when I was a kid, but my best memory of this salad was a few years ago, when I randomly happened upon an adorable café in the thirteenth arrondissement that was completely empty. I picked the café for no other reason than it was the closest one near the apartment I was staying in, it looked comfortable, and it had that traditional, almost clichéd French look I couldn’t resist. Five minutes after ordering, I was delivered the most beautiful lettuce I’d ever seen, bright green, strong, and sculptural, with what looked like hand-painted radicchio. I felt like a culinary artist as my fork sliced into the eggs, mixing the yellow with the green and bits of purple. I chomped down on the crunchy fresh lettuce; the sound made a symphony with the sounds of the city: the click of high heels on the sidewalk, French children just out of school laughing and running, and the bustle of motor scooters on the busy Parisian streets.
—Sara
1 small head butter lettuce
1 head radicchio
8 new white, red, or yellow potatoes, peeled
4 (1-inch-thick) slices rustic country bread
5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic, peeled and lightly crushed
1 tablespoon champagne vinegar
½ teaspoon Dijon-style mustard
1 teaspoon finely minced shallot
½ teaspoon coarse sea salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon fresh tarragon leaves
1 tablespoon coarsely chopped fresh Italian parsley leaves
4 fresh eggs
1 clove garlic, peeled
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Remove the leaves from the lettuce and the radicchio and discard any tough or damaged leaves. Trim the stems and tear the greens into 2-inch pieces. Wash and dry with a salad spinner or pat the leaves dry after washing with a clean dish towel.
Place the potatoes on a steamer rack in a saucepan with at least 1 inch of water. Cover and bring the water to a boil over medium heat. Cook the potatoes, adding more water if needed as it evaporates, until fork-tender, about 15 minutes. Set the potatoes aside to cool, then cut into halves.
Brush all sides of the bread slices with 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and rub all sides with the crushed clove of garlic. Place on a baking sheet and cook for 3 to 4 minutes in the oven, until brown. Turn and cook another 3 to 4 minutes, then remove from the oven.
In a large bowl, whisk together the remaining 3 tablespoons of olive oil, the champagne vinegar, mustard, shallot, and half of the salt and pepper. Add the salad greens, tarragon, and parsley. Do not toss together until ready to serve.
Bring a large skillet filled with water to a boil over medium heat. Crack the eggs, one at a time, into a small bowl and gently slip each into the water. To cook the tops of the eggs, gently spoon water over the tops several times and cook for 3 to 4 minutes.
Add the cooled potatoes to the salad and toss to coat. Divide the salad equally among four dinner plates and using a slotted spoon, remove the eggs from the poaching water and place one on top of each salad. Sprinkle the eggs with the remaining salt and pepper, and serve each salad with a slice of toast.
serves 4
The glossy plastic laminated menu boards parked out front most cafés sent our ice cream– obsessed minds spinning, and if it was on a bistro menu it meant it would be a choice for dessert. Mikado, Cornet, and Magnum bars, just to name a few, swirled on the Day-Glo menus, ready to be pulled from the freezer below and placed in our hands. Occasionally a café would have something special on the board: frozen, hollowed-out lemons and oranges filled with sorbet and capped with the stem end of the fruit rind. Next to push-up Popsicles this was haute cuisine, and its elegance and sophistication seemed out of place on the menu board.
—Ethel
8 lemons
1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon vodka
To prepare the lemons, cut a quarter off the stem end. At the opposite end, cut just a thin slice through the rind only from the bottom, not cutting through to the fruit. This will keep the lemon level when serving. From the stem end trim away any fruit, leaving a small yellow “cap” about the size of a quarter and set aside.
Using a spoon, gently scoop the flesh from the lemons. Place the hollowed-out lemons upright on their stem ends on a baking sheet and put into the freezer.
Using your hands, squeeze the removed pulp to extract the juice and pass it through a fine-mesh sieve. You will need 1 cup of juice.
In a saucepan, stir together 1 cup water and the sugar, and cook over medium heat until the sugar is completely dissolved. Place in the refrigerator and let cool for at least 1 hour and up to 24 hours. Stir in the cup of lemon juice and the vodka. Pour into a baking dish large enough to hold the liquid and freeze for 24 hours. Alternatively, process the sorbet in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions. Fill each chilled, hollowed lemon with the sorbet, top with a “cap,” and place in the freezer to chill for at least 2 hours and up to 1 week.
serves 8
The flaky pastry crumbled under my fork and the sweetness of the sugar-coated toasted walnuts and almonds reminded me of my grandmother’s pecan pie, though not as sweet and sticky but more fragrant and salty. It must have been the butter. Although usually a winter dessert, occasionally this nut tart pops up in early summer before stone fruits have exploded onto the market. Once we bought a whole one, and I ate it for three meals a day until all that was left were sticky nut crumbs stuck to the cardboard pastry round.
—Ethel
Pastry
1½ cups all-purpose flour
¼ cup granulated sugar
½ cup unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch chunks
1 large egg
Filling
2 tablespoons butter, melted and cooled
½ cup firmly packed light brown sugar
2 large eggs
½ cup Cointreau
One 1-inch piece of vanilla bean
1½ cups walnuts and almonds, lightly toasted
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
To make the pastry, stir together the flour and granulated sugar. Add the butter and work it in with your fingertips until the mixture becomes crumblike. Add the egg and mix it with a fork. Tightly pack the dough into a ball. Press the dough evenly into a 10-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Refrigerate until ready to use.
To make the filling, combine the melted butter, brown sugar, eggs, Cointreau, and vanilla. Beat until well blended. Stir in the nuts and pour the filling into the tart pan. Do not overfill.
Bake until the crust and the filling are golden brown, about 50 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool. Remove the pan rim and slide the tart onto a plate. Serve warm or at room temperature.
serves 8 to 10
