Passion, Paris.

This entry will fall outside of the normal for my recent blogs. The pictures won't be in chronological order, I won't tell you what I did (save for a very special meal), and I won't be cataloging any activities.

I'm going to go out on a limb and wax philosophical for a bit.

When I travel, no matter where to, I'm really searching for the feel of a place. Sometimes, this feeling comes swiftly, leaving no trace of doubt over the personality of the city. But in the case of France, and especially Paris, our timeline didn't allow me to catch of glimpse of her inner self until I was already back home, back in my routine.

She moved me. I feel lovelorn over her, like she were some brief glance in a subway shared with a stranger, one that seemed a little too familiar. When people ask me about my trip, I've started feeling a pang of heartbreak over Paris, a feeling that I wish I could have assuaged by staying longer, if only by a day, just one more brief tryst.

I may try to pretend we have some deeper connection, but I never got the chance to know her, and that hurts.

She made me feel, she made me think. Upon reflection, Paris changed me in a fundamental way.

Now, I'm starting to grasp the implications of Paris, the deeper meaning of my journey and what drove me there in the first place.

Passion.

It's more than a feeling, more than a driving force. It is at the core of what I am, and what I want to do with my life. Without indulging in it, working for it, succumbing to it... everything would be a lie. I need to chase this far fetched and treacherous dream, or I will never be whole.

Too dramatic? I dare say not. Passion produces the most spectacular pieces of our world. It carves marble into sculpture, puts ink to paper (or finger to key), and builds cathedrals and pyramids. Passion gives life meaning, makes it our own, makes it worth living and fighting for.

Passion, emotion, and the need to express drive us to change the world around us, to create. It is at the core of being human. I can see and love the inherent beauty in the natural, a perfect strawberry, a prickly chestnut, but passion drives one to an irresistible need to affect these things, to make them ours. Better? No. Different? Yes.

Passion to me is the core of art, that indefinable thing that causes us to feel.

Is the chestnut art?

Is graffiti art?

A photograph?

Is art within the soul of its maker, or does it appear only to the one who experiences it?

Some are driven to the incredible task of building cathedrals, drawn towards the heavens by the mighty aspirations of their earthly builders, an innate need to create. I often stand in silent awe of these works, whether they be paintings, architecture, sculpture...

Or something far more worldly. Who's to say that striving for perfection in the every day is not art? (Piment d'Espilette peppers) Does it not take passion to create something so... humble? Perhaps not on the level of the great artists who built Notre Dame, but to me it is art, nonetheless.

If art is in the heart of the beholder, what does that make food? Sure, we can eat for mere sustenance, but we can eat and experience food for many other reasons as well, and it's hard to deny the effect on our psyches.

Perhaps to you, they're fresh, wriggling crayfish, and nothing more. But the moment I saw them slowly crawling on their final, icy bed, I was a child again, in knee-high rubber boots, pulling them wriggling from the stream near my childhood home.

Destined for butter and garlic, the escargot to me are tiny reminders of a crisp spring evening on a farm in central Italy, I vividly remember contemplating one of their brethren clinging to the dewy wire of a chain link fence.

Art reminds me of the relative unimportance of the self. Something so beautiful, from the hands of an unknown sculptor... so broken, and yet; perfect and complete. She meant so many things to so many, each with their own unique emotions to her. She means something independent of her creator, she was born of passion, and begets passion in those who have the fortune to gaze upon her wind-swept grandeur.

Sometimes art is fodder for postcards and tiny pewter replicas, but this shouldn't detract from its importance, not in the hearts of those who still feel new things from it, who are joyous to be impressed by something so iconic.

The ability to sate such a mundane thing as hunger with something transcendent, something transitive, something surprising.... that to me, is art. And sometimes, great artists open your eyes to every facet of your own passion, by immersing you in theirs.

L'Atelier de Robuchon, Paris.

Carrot and orange soup, with a fresh punch of cumin, and a sprinkle of Piment d'Espilette.

Caviar, potato, smoked eel, horseradish cream.

Heirloom tomatoes, olive oil from Provence, sumac, edible flowers.

Duck fois gras, coco beans, turnip chips.

Mushroom cappuccino, soft poached egg.

Red mullet, pistachio oil, olives, tomato.

Suckling lamb (only fed mother's milk), thyme, roasted garlic, potato puree.

Paris-brest pastries, orange gelee, praline mousseline.

Valrhona Araguani chocolate. Ganache, flake, cookie.

Perfect espresso, rich, chewy caramel candy.

Part of the genius behind the perfect meals I've experienced at three of Chef Robuchon's restaurants now is the incredible team he has pulled together to create and execute these amazing meals. Every single one of their staff exudes passion, and I can only hope to one day be able to make people who eat my food feel the way I did while eating theirs.

Passion.

Passion is the driving force that compels me to go out on a limb, hop in an airplane, exhaust every option, and yearn for the future. It can make me so frustrated, with myself, or the world. I exalt in my triumphs, and brood in my defeats, and yet, none of the travails have made me less wont to strive for the highest goals I can imagine, even if I am never so fortunate as to reach them.

In the end as well, I have a love for people. The beings who share passion with me, in all its myriad forms. Whether I have known them for all my life, or met them in passing, they're beautiful creatures, even at the times that I may despise individuals of them.

We share, we unite, we hurt, scorn, love, inspire, and every other possible action, and that is what makes us so incredible.

And they're all so amazing.

Until next time, ciao.

The pig trotter excursion, or; our first day in Paris

On our last day there, I was pretty sad to be leaving Lyon. The hospitality of its people, the richness of the food, and the charm of the city had fully pulled me into its embrace. After the visit to the vineyard, and the antique bookstore, I really felt like the place had everything a girl could hope for, though the as yet un-materialized promise of Parisian glamor beckoned me to depart.

Wednesday morning, we had our final class at the Bocuse Institute. We were excited to cook, and I think that no one in the group wanted to leave. We started right away, to be ready for an early lunch, because we had a train to catch right after class.

We started by making these elegant quail egg and artichoke filled raviolis. This was a really great process, as the dish utilized the artichokes in several ways.

The pasta dough got its elegant color from a spinach puree that we incorporated into the dough. For the artichokes, we trimmed them down to the tender hearts, then cooked cooked them suer, a method where you basically slowly sweat and steam vegetables or meat in their own released juices. We then pureed the hearts until they became silky smooth, with a little chicken stock.

We saved the artichoke leaves, and sauteed them with garlic, and olive oil, then added water to the pan to make a "stock". Usually the inedible leaves get thrown away, so it was really cool to use them for another purpose. The finished liquid was reduced, and then mixed with some veal demi-glace to make the pasta sauce. We also thinly sliced some baby artichokes and tossed them with olive oil and salt for the garnish.

When we rolled out the pasta, we made a well in the center of the spooned on puree, then placed the quail egg yolks in the center of the well. When the ravioli was sealed and cooked, the yolks remained runny, and added to the luxuriousness of the sauce.

I got to fabricate the fish; John Dory! This type of fish is rare to see in the U.S., and it's pretty expensive in Europe as well, so it was something I had never gotten the chance to work with before. The chef complimented my fish fabrication skills, which was really nice, (I've done many fish, but never one shaped like this) and I was glad to impress someone. The filets were sauteed in brown butter, and topped with bits of sun-dried tomato and Jamon.

We made a macaroni with mushrooms, potatoes, and carrots to go with the fish, but we cooked the noodles with the risotto method, using chicken stock in place of water. The result was super flavorful and creamy, and I'm definitely going to be making this recipe again for weeknight dinners.

Dessert was a citrus parfait, which I decided not to eat because of my allergy to oranges. It's not a terrible allergy, (the juice gives me hives, and eating oranges makes my lips swell a little) but I had had a couple dishes with orange the day before, and my stomach was still recovering with the aid of some Benadryl. I try not to eat them unless I feel like I must try the dish or I will regret it.

After class, we received our certificates, and a book of Paul Bocuse's most famous recipes as a gift from the institute. Our hosts seemed genuinely sorry to see us go, invited us back, and asked for copies of all the pictures we took.

We left, sadly, then went directly to the train station so we could head to Paris.

The train ride was only a couple of hours, which most of us used to nap and relax. When we arrived in Paris, we checked into our respective hotels. My hotel was across the street from the rest of our group, as I had signed up for the trip at the very last moment. It was nice to have my own room, even though I really did love my room mates. (I already miss them.)

But it's okay, behind my hotel, there were the ruins of a Roman amphitheater, now a public park!

And when I stepped out onto my balcony (from which I could see Notre Dame) I noticed that all my friends were out on theirs too!

A few minutes to change clothes, then we went to dinner. We were dining at Au Pied de Cochon, famous for their pig's feet. I really, really loved the opulent, very old-fashioned interior of this place, it looked like it hadn't changed since the beginning of the last century!

And anyplace that serves creamy pork rilette in place of butter for your bread is fine by me.

Our appetizer: a deep bowl of fresh goat cheese. Seemed a little much at first, but I had to stop myself from consuming all of it. The cheese was so fresh and fragrant, with the bits of sun dried tomato and artichoke hearts, it made a really great starter smeared on extra-crusty baguette.

And the piece de resistance: pig trotter! Braised until the fat and skin were silky smooth and gelatinous, and little bits of the tenderest meat barely clung to the knuckle. Excellent pommes frites, and a spicy dijon mustard made this the tastiest (and only-est) foot I've ever had the pleasure of munching on. I was at an Asian market earlier today, and was tempted to buy the pig's feet I saw there for dinner, but I was pretty sure something like this might have freaked out my boyfriend a tad too much...

Dessert was... strong. Like, "straight-shot-of-brandy-with-a-scoop-of-sorbet-plopped-into-it" strong. The foil wrapped biscuit did little to temper the alcohol in this one, and I had to check to make sure I hadn't grown a little chest hair after eating it. Ouch.

After dinner, there was a brief period of sleep. Alas, still no rest for the weary, as tomorrow was another full day. However, I shall have to write about it another time, as I have stock to skim and duck legs to cure for confit tonight. (I like to slow-cook a bunch of stuff on my slow days, so when I come home from class tired, all I have to do is re-heat delicious, love-filled food.)

I have some good news from earlier today, though... I have stages (try-outs, basically) on both Thursday and Saturday, at Robuchon (3 Michelin Stars) and Thomas Keller's Bouchon (1 Michelin Star)! Even if I don't get the jobs (they may not even have positions open) just being in such highly acclaimed kitchens will be amazing. I can't wait, though I'm very, very nervous.

Ciao!

Lyon, day three

Our second day of classes was just as educational as the first. We got to work with ingredients that are fairly rare in the States, which was a real pleasure.

The first course we made was glazed, seared foie gras, with a citrus puree, fresh figs, veal reduction, dressed frisee and arugula. It was as delicious as it looks.

We then made a rich risotto of asparagus, spinach, morels, and parmegiano reggiano cheese. Of course, there was a ton of butter in there too.

Dessert was a fried bananas coated in coconut, layered between vanilla cake and white chocolate, with lemon mousse and a passion fruit coulis.

We then drove to a very small vineyard south of Lyon, a tiny appelation. They weren't used to anyone but locals visiting, and were so thrilled to have us that they even brought someone from the local chamber of commerce to translate for us (even though we had our own with us).

It was a beautiful place.

It was harvest season, and there was wine fermenting in the tanks when we arrived. He showed us some of the pressed grapes that were adding their pigment and tannins to the juice.

Then his wife drew off some of the days-old wine into a plastic pitcher for us to try. Usually, this is a special treat for the vingerons and their friends during harvest parties. It tasted fresh and juicy, like alcoholic fruit punch. We tried at least six other of their wines as well, and they showered us with cured meats, local cheeses, and home-made pate en croute. It was a really special experience, their hospitality and pride were so authentic, and they put so much love into their endeavor.

We then went to a fresh foods market in the city, an indoor hall filled with amazing things. Above were juicy, tart red currants, rarely seen in the markets here.

A very small sampling of the local cheeses, so much variety. I wish I could have tried them all!

Fresh meats of many kinds, including the Bresse hens. The chickens are fed a mixture of cornmeal and fresh milk, and they are supposedly the best tasting chickens in France. The heads and the feet are left on, so that the buyer can be assured of authenticity.

We changed quickly, then returned to Saisons, the student restaurant at the Bocuse Institute. The chef in charge of the restaurant held a Michelin Star before becoming an instructor, and his influence was strongly felt. We were seated in an ornate and lovely private room, done in a very classical decorative theme.

Our amuse bouche; cantaloupe soup made with champagne, a ham madeline, and cheese grougere.

A delicious, savory pumpkin creme brulee, with chestnuts in veal demi-glace on top.

Macaroni timbale, with crayfish mousse quenelles, sauteed shrimp, and baby vegetables. The shellfish flavor was so fresh, and this presentation was really pretty.

A duo of pork, with a braised then crisped belly, and the roasted loin. This was served with a small potato gratin and glazed vegetables. The belly was really great, but I found the loin just a tad dry. It was still flavorful, though.

The cheese course. From the top: Sainte Maure de Tourraine, a Loire Valley goat milk cheese, Lavort, from Auvergne, sheep's milk, and Livarot, a cow's milk cheese from Normandy.

And the rich chocolate mousse cake from the day before. With a cup of espresso, this was a nice finish to an excellent meal.

Again, by the time we got back to our hotel, we were completely exhausted. There was one more class left, which will be the subject of my next entry.

Ciao!