Of Bulk and Budget

When I was living in a 16 sqare meter (172 sq feet) studio apartement in Paris, I had a mini fridge with three shelves and a freezer that was hardly large enough hold a box of frozen peas, but it was plenty large for me.  In fact, most of the time, my fridge was half empty.  I went to the market or the grocery store every 3rd day and bought produce that was fresh and appealing.  My fridge was half empty because it was filled mostly with dairy with an occasional cut of meat and the typical condiments that one keeps refridgerated.  I kept most of my fruits and vegetables out on the counter to use either that day or the next.  It was a simple life without large wholesale warehouses and gigantic supermarkets.  I went to the market and bought what was in season (and thus resaonably priced).  And for some reason, I was able to cook for myself without having to worry about leftovers or rotton produce.

Now, I have a large American refridgerator equipped with a meat/cheese compartment, an egg tray and a little place to hide the box of baking soda (to hide the smell of that tupperware filled with who-knows-what).  My refridgerator now would be the size of my kitchenette in Paris.  It is huge!  And yet, strangely enough, (while my mini fridge in Paris was always half empty), my big white American fridge is always full.  There is a 5-pound bag of carrots on the bottom shelf, far too many eggs for my egg tray, a extra-large jar of peanut butter and everything else you can possible think of.  The shelves are literally overflowing.  It is more food than even I can eat (and believe me, I can eat freakishly larget amounts of food).   And yet, I still find myself going to the grocery store as if the food I already have is not enough.

As I was searching through my fridge the other day, digging through the 5-pound bag of carrots, it hit me: I had become a bulk shopper.  It is after all the economic solution.  I can buy twice as much for exactly the same price.  It’s the mentality of the hundreds of people who crowd the nearby Costco store every weekend.  I jump into my car and head to costco where I can buy a pound of blueberries, a 10-pound bag of potatoes, 8 porkchops + 2 free, a pound of sliced provolone cheese, a box of 24 (yes, 24!) frozen pizzas  and condiments and spices to last me a lifetime.  It is really quite thrilling…that is until I go home and try to fit everything in my fridge.  And then the real adventure begins: consuming everthing I just bought.  I open my freezer and frozen porkchops fall on my head.  No matter how many carrots I eat, I still seem to always have half a bag left.  And frankly, after eating 2 pounds of carrots, I can hardly even stand the sight of the orange, pointy roots, let alone the bland, stale, refrigerated taste.  I make a disgusted face at the food in my fridge and go, yet again, to the grocery store.

It is a vicious cycle, but I am beginning to realize that buying bulk may not be the most economic way to shop on a budget.  I do, after all, end up throwing away at least 2 pounds of spotty, mushy carrots after a few weeks.  My meat tastes like freezer burn and everything has lost its fresh flavor. I buy and I eat and I believe I am saving money, but I wonder if I have sacrificed quality for the quantity.  I can eat and eat; I can warm up frozen pizzas, pop some frozen pot stickers in the microwave.  But I am no longer satisfied.

I think back to my days in Paris, in my small Parisian kitchen (if you can even call it that) and the pleasure I took in eating.  I didn’t have a microwave.  My freezer could hardly hold a small box of frozen peas let along 8 porkchops or 10 frozen pizzas.   Everything had to be fresh; there was no other way.  I would have never been able to fit a Costco-size anything into my little mini-fridge.  And so, I went grocery shopping more often and as a consequence, I often had fresh, staisfying meals.  I bought fresh asparagus in the spring, tomatos in the summer and rich squash in the fall and the winter.  And food made me happy.

Because I think I was healthier in Paris, I am slowly trying to empty out my Bulk American fridge.  I am trying to revert to half-empty refrigerator syndrome and eat as fresh as possible.  And I might even be able to save a dollar or two in the process.

L’As du falafel

And now for your tummy-growling, mouth-watering enjoyment, the long anticipated review of L’As du falefel (or the best falafel in Paris).

Everyone who owns a Paris tour guide has read about the famous restaurant in the Marais apparently recommended by Lenny Kravitz. I don’t know anything about Lenny Kravitz but I do know about the restaurant that so proudly displays pictures of this so-called Mr. Kravitz. The restaurant is L’as du falafel.

On the rue des Rosiers in the Marais, there is no lack of falafel restaurants, every single one claiming to have the best falafel in Paris.  Because of the typical long line outside L’As du falafel, I have been known to give into hunger and try the falafel sandwich from the place across the street, down the street, around the corner and a few blocks down.  Hell, I have also been known to give into my falafel craving in the touristy Saint-Andre-des-Arts neighborhood known for an over-abondance of mediocre restaurants (both take-out and eat-in) and camera-touting tourists.  It seems that the further you wander from the Marais, the worse the falafel.   But despite all my falafel adventures in Paris (both good and bad), I always end up at the same falafel joint.  Believe me, there is no falafel like the falafel from L’as du falafel.

So what sets L’as du falafel apart from the rest?  It is all in the layering, my friend.  A good falafel sandwich usually consists of some combination of the following: falafel balls, marinated cabbage, other assorted vegetables in salad form, hummus and if you are lucky, a variety of sauces and the to-die-for fried eggplant.  The layering technique at L’as is apparent as soon as you walk up to the take out window.  The falafel artist (I will call him) slices open a warm piece of pita bread and begins layering the ingredients with a precision and technique unmatched by his competitors.  First, he slops on a good serving of hummus onto the pita, then adds some cabbage, some salad, and 3 or 4 warm, well-seasoned falafel balls.  Lather, rince, repeat.  No, just repeat.  After the 2nd layer, he adds the fried eggplant and spoons a white sauce over the top layer of falafel balls.  Then he asks the essential question to which the answer is always a resolute oui.  “Sauce piquante?”  “OUI!”  The sauce piquante is the perfect blend of spices and spiciness and is the perfect finishing touch to the falafel special.  The sauces seep into the falafel balls and the pita.  There is rarely a part of the pita sandwich that is too dry or bland and I attribute this balance to the layering of ingredients.  And like I said, no falafel stand layers the falafel quite like L’as.

Another reason L’as stands out in the falafel district of Paris is quality of the ingredients and the blend of spices used in the falafel balls.  Each falafel restaurant has its own chick pea goo recipe that it sqeezes into balls and plunges in frying oil.  The chickpea fritters come out crisp and delicious.  The falafel balls at l’As are particularly garlicky (and in my book, the more garlic, the better).  The hummus is als very smooth and tasty.  The vegetables are always crisp and fresh and of course, the ’sauce piquante’ adds the certain je ne sais quoi to an already well layered falafel sandwich.

I never go to Paris without getting my falafel fix.  Unfortunately, since my first trip to Paris, the price of falafel has gone up quite remarkably.  In 2003, I chomped dwn my first falafel special at a mere 3.50 euros for a falafel to-go (and this was back in the day when we were bemoaning the 1.20 dollar to 1 euro exchange rate).   In 2006, the price had already climbed to 4 euros and by the summer of 2007, the price was  a whopping 4.50 euros.  And in January 2008, the prices rose to jaw-dropping 5 euros (with a tamper-tandrum-throwing exchange rate of 1.47 dollar to 1 euro).  L’as du falafel did do a renovation of the restaurant interior (for those of you who prefer not to have falafel juices running down your jaw as you walk through the Marais) which now is far less cramped than before.  The prices, however, have remained fairly stable for in-house dining  (6.50 for a falafel special.)  It almost seems worth it to pay that extra 1.50 euros to eat in the restaurant, out of the rain,  with a carafe of water and as much sauce piquante as your heart desires.   But then again there is just something about the falafel to go experience: the sauce running down your cheek, the napkin balancing act (try throwing an umbrella into the mix), the cool Parisian drizzle and the stories of falafel-eating in old Jewish quarter of Paris.

*Suggestion:  If you aren’t full after a falafel (as is often the case with me and my bottomless stomach), a nice crepe nutella always makes for a good post-falafel snack.

Paris cuisine

During my recent trip to the book store, I decided to satisfy my word palate by perusing the cookbooks. I am quite aware that the pages of books are hardly edible and pictures of good food will hardly do anything but exacerbate hunger and craving, but I find a sort of solace in the pages of cookbooks. Each plate is described with a palette of rich and savoury words, each appetizer resting on a bed of lucious, fresh adjectives. Just looking at colorful food brings tears to my eyes. Food is poetry. And I love great poetry (especially when it’s garnished with a sprinkling of parsley and served with a tasty culinary style).

On this particular visit to the cookbook section of my favorite independent bookstore, I decided to browse the international cookbooks. A self-proclaimed francophile, I was immediately drawn to the books on French cuisine. Some people say that French cuisine is the foundation on which all fine cuisine is based. I happen to disagree but I still enjoy French cookbooks because they are oftentimes filled with pictures of French people taking grand pleasure in eating. I also love seeing pictures of open-air markets with rows of fresh produce crying out, “Eat me!” From the comfort of the local bookstore, I was taken on a journey into culinary France across the countryside and into the terroir (or soil), the origine of all rustic French cuisine.

The French do, after all, have an certain attachment to their soil/land/earth (however you would like to translate terroir) in a way that usually escapes Americans. It is from the land that all good things come. In fact, each region in France defines itself not only by its culture and traditions, but also by the foods it produces. The local products are then used (with great care) to create local specialties that are savored and enjoyed (with much pleasure). French cuisine is enrobed in this tradition, this attention and attachement to the land and soil. It’s the passion for the terroir that gives French cuisine its classic touch. And this passion makes for some good lunchtime cookbook browsing.

French cooking being based largely on regional specialties de terroir, I was quite suprised (or rather bemused) to find a fairly large selectin of books about Paris cooking. Does Paris even have a terroir? What do people believe to be Parisian specialties, anyway? There is, of course, the soggy, onion-y broth (or French Onion Soup) that some people often crown the must-taste specialty of Paris or the classic steak-frites with poorly cooked steak, mediocre fries and if you are lucky, a few overy cooked (and thus, smushy) string beans. These so-called specialties don’t really even have Parisian origins. What soil there once was has been paved or built over. True, there are a few gardens on Parisian rooftop terrace and Montmartre prides itself not only for its white basilica on the hill, but also for its “vineyard” which boasts the famous “Clos Montmartre” wine (which apparently very few people have actually tasted); but in truth, mostly everything in Paris (including many Parisians) comes from other parts of the country.

So why this interest in Paris’ cuisine? The thing is that every part of France seems to converge on Paris in some way. Paris concentrates (for better or for worse) every region, every terroir, every specialty in France (and elsewherem it would seem). And while the crepes made at a crepe vendor in Paris may pale in comparision with the crepes in Brittany or Normandy, you can have your crepes in Paris, you can have your choucroute, your bouillabaisse, your quiche lorraine. Paris offers variety. Paris, with its name and renown, also seems to attact a certain number of budgeoning chefs. With innovative chefs comes innovative cuisine. True Parisian cuisine is based on invention, bringing together the tradition and the rich terroir and adding a certain flare and spice. It is about taking the influences of the urban landscape and transforming it into something that makes your tastebuds dance with pleasure.

So the verdict: did the Parisian cookbooks offer inventive recipes that incorporated French terroir? Unfortunately, with the exception of a few books about luxury restaurants in the city, the Paris cookbooks were hardly refreshing. Most of the books offered recipes for the classic bistrot dishes: croque-monsieur, (la fameuse) soupe a l’oignon, an omlette here and there and the occasional quiche. Apparently, Paris cuisine means bistrot cuisine, means mediocre fare. I guess if you want a mishmash of classic French fare, you can throw the umbrella term ‘Paris cuisine’ over it, but what a waste.

However lacking the French cookbooks were, they still offered a certain solace to a foodie like me. The photos are always beautiful and there is nothing better than seeing images of people, fork and knife in hand, taking great pride and pleasure in eating. It still brings a smile to my face.