A Francophile in the City

"Jardin d'hiver" by Keren Ann

It is no secret that I am a little bit of a Francophile. I love the food and wine, the clothes, the attitude, the borrowed words…like connoisseur, rendezvous, décolletage, faux pas, patois, soiree. French words just exude this self confident sense of sassy, disguised as flirty little tongue-twisters that tease when they stumble through your teeth and lips, unhurried and impudent, sometimes clumsily, daring you to take that small mental leap into the inappropriate.

The inappropriate….

Without revealing my sources, mind you, this brings to mind a recent, thoroughly enjoyable, French experience that I happened upon…after several missed opportunities…and wearing what looked like an Hermes orange scarf (so said my friend as she espied our covert planning in the corner, all smiles, all double entendre). It was the last night of a string of happy, celebratory days and nights. I was on a high, from too much wine perhaps or from the momentum that had slowly built up over the night's activities even or maybe from the fact that this was the last time to take advantage of a very willing, and very qualified, advocate for the selfish arts of indulgence and gratification. I honestly wasn't sure which. I just know that a cab ride and two glasses of Makers-rocks later, I had arrived at the door of sheer and utter, beautifully inappropriate disbelief.

I do feel like lately I have been enjoying that kind of delicate balance, the one between instant reward and…dancing around it tauntingly. There is something deliciously conscious, purposeful, and patient about it, like a foreplay. It's become this intriguing game of self discipline and self discovery. How long can I keep myself at bay, hold myself at arm's length, how long…with anything? At what point does it turn into a self imposed punishment, of sorts of course? I do know that as long as I am enjoying this slow, patient game of wills, I'll continue to play it.

Back to my Francophilia, there is this French song that I've recently fallen in love with, fittingly called "Jardin d'hiver" (which means "Winter Garden"), and I keep playing it over and over again (every version that I own). It puts me in that soft, unhurried mood. Makes me want to…dally a little, enjoy that extra glass of something, slip into anything comfortable, and lengthen my acute experience, prolong it, whatever it happens to be.

It also makes me want to...enjoy a digestif, one that by its own flavor combo I am forced to drink slowly, almost gingerly. Like a classic cocktail.

Sidecar

The Original from Harry's Bar - Paris

1 1/2 oz. Brandy
1/2 oz. Triple Sec
1/2 oz. Lemon or Lime Juice

Combine all the ingredients in a shaker filled with ice, shake well and strain into a cocktail glass.

For Goodness' Sake

“It’s Amazing” by Jem

No tree, lights, or decorations up in my place, and not because I’m a Scrooge. I love the holidays at this time of year, all of them (Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, etc.). My time has just been otherwise prioritized (i.e., work). This is also my first holiday in a while in a new city, one that is known for being breathtaking and brightly lit during this time of year. Preparations for the approaching history-making inauguration have somewhat muted the regular round-the-town holiday fare, I’m sure, but I can still see glimpses of it in store fronts and on street corners. The city still seems to sparkle.

I can also tell it’s the holiday season by the weather.

We have actually already experienced a few flurries, wispy ones that don’t stick to anything, but could tingle your tongue if you allow them to. And we have had some rain.... Just a few nights ago I was making my way home from apre-late-worknight-drinks, and there was this cold and heavy rain that I had to battle my way through with a small, inadequate, but better-than-nothing, umbrella, bracing myself against the faintest wind that would every now and again sweep the rain sideways and turn my inadequate umbrella into a completely ineffective one. I soldiered on, with my inexplicable (some might even call “idiotic”) half-smile, while others shouldered past me purposefully in appropriate early-winter attire, oblivious to what they would hardly call a sprinkle. Silly southern California girl.

Of course, there are other telltale signs of the holiday season. Everyone around seems to be more positive, more polite, friendlier. Granted, I could be subconsciously feeding into a proverb in the Bible: “He who seeks good finds goodwill.” Regardless, I’d rather be a misguided reveler than any alternative. There’s an insurance company with a commercial that starts out with one person helping someone else out, and another person seeing it and in turn helping someone else out, which is then witnessed by someone else, and so on. The idea of the commercial is not foreign to me. A few years back I remember this movement that promoted random acts of kindness (a popular coffee table book was published on the topic, I'm sure even Oprah touted it, etc.). I remember trying it, a random act of kindness; I sent a “thinking of you” note to an old friend that I knew was very sick and hadn’t been able to be out and about in a while. We hadn’t really been in touch either (in large part my fault because I’m horrible at keeping in touch with anyone). Her response to my note couldn’t have been more warming or more appreciative. I was startled at how my little amount of effort produced such a fountain of positivity and good energy. If I had the discipline, I’d practice it more often (gift-wrapping at a Georgetown bookstore for donations to a not-for-profit doesn’t quite seem as satisfying as working a soup kitchen in South Central Los Angeles on Thanksgiving day, but it was still really fun, and the intention was there, no?).

This past weekend, on my long walk home with a friend, from the best fried chicken in the city (i.e., The Hitching Post), I was bundled in two scarves, thick mittens, and a long jacket. We were actually passing a garden shop full of what looked like a massive group of carolers inside. I turned to my friend after I noticed that they were all men, and mouthed, “Are they the Gay Men’s Chorus?” since every major city has one (LA’s is one of the best I’ve ever heard). She, one of my trusted DC locals, shrugged uncertainly, so we walked inside to listen to them, and asked who they were. One of the singers responded proudly: “We’re gay.” A round of laughter followed by a: “Yes, we are the Gay Men’s Chorus.” And then they proceeded to share their beautiful, simple gift; they sang carols, lovely, heartfelt, harmonious carols. We were able to stay for two before we had to leave because my friend had a train to catch.

So, all this to say that while my little place doesn’t have any decorations or lights up inside, I still feel the blister of winter approaching as well as the hope of a long break over the anticipated holidays and the sparkle that this city is letting off (another idiotic smile), whether altruistically or intentionally. This is the closest I’ve come in a long time to feeling like it really is that “time of year when the world falls in love.”

Now be good to yourself and fall in love with these holiday cookies courtesy of Bridget Klein from Louisville, Kentucky.


Princess Tea Cakes

To make ahead: Prepare the dough (Steps 2 and 3), cover and refrigerate for up to 1 day. Store the cookies in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 3 days. Roll in the second coating of confectioners' sugar just before serving.

3/4 cup canola oil
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup white whole-wheat flour
2 cups confectioners' sugar, divided
3 tablespoons cornstarch
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 cup very finely chopped nuts, such as pecans, walnuts or hazelnuts

1. Preheat oven to 400°F.
2. Pour oil into a medium bowl. Whisk all-purpose flour, white whole-wheat flour, 1/4 cup confectioners' sugar, cornstarch and salt in another bowl.
3. Mix half the dry ingredients into the oil by spoonfuls. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and add vanilla. Mix in the remaining dry ingredients by spoonfuls until thoroughly combined. (The mixture will resemble creamed butter and brown sugar.) Stir in nuts.
4. Roll the dough into 1-inch balls; place about 1 inch apart on an ungreased baking sheet.
5. Bake the cookies until just set, being careful not to let the bottoms get too brown, 10 to 12 minutes. Cool on the pan for 2 minutes; transfer to a wire rack to cool slightly.
6. When the cookies are still warm, but no longer hot, roll them in the remaining 1 3/4 cups confectioners' sugar and place them back on the rack to continue cooling. (Reserve the sugar.)

When the cookies are completely cool, roll them in the sugar again.

Makes 3 dozen cookies

New in DC

“Dreamworld” by Robin Thicke

Moves are never short of a few hiccups. Mine should have had me at wit’s end, but with my refreshed vision (my relocation to the east coast largely to blame), I’m tending to take hiccups much less seriously now. My priorities seem to be more in the order that I would ideally like them to be in, and I find myself wearing this constant smile. In short, I feel renewed and alive, and I’m eagerly and pleasantly surprised as I look underneath each new rock in this gloriously different city. As is my nature with almost all things new and unknown to me, my curiosity is near unquenchable. And this city is not disappointing me at all.

This city has got me hooked. From the moment I wake up, slowly uncoil myself from bed, and realize that I’ll be stepping out into a completely new neighborhood with refreshingly brisk weather, lined with cobblestoned sidewalks, trees with changing leaves, shiny Vespas, and parked cars that are settled in for the week waiting to be used for weekend trysts... From the moment that I smell the brewing coffee delicately wafting into my bedroom from my cozy, little kitchen, enticing me to gingerly crawl out of bed and endure the cold slate floor so that I can pour a steamy mug to leisurely enjoy while I ease into my morning… From the moment that I know that I will have to wear a jacket and a scarf to wrap up in while I indecisively pick my way through the neighborhood streets to work, passing ivy-covered row houses, international embassies, the National Geographic Society, at least eight coffee houses…

From these simple, yet new and cherished moments…to that moment when I discover a soon-to-be favorite quasi-hidden watering hole full of interesting people chilling to an interesting deejay nestled in between shelves of dusty books in a small alcove spinning interesting music… Or that moment when a tall, mysterious stranger walks past me with his serious and penetrating eyes, thick wavy hair, pressed dark suit, and dangerously deep dimples, and his fragrance faintly reaches my senses, tickles my skin, and makes me blush. And then that moment when suddenly he appears behind me at the door of that dark lounge and follows me in, with a mischievous smile, escorts me up the stairs, and buys me an extra dry, completely dirty, martini… But this is not about him. This is about me, and I cannot devote my attention to any one person or thing because my attention span does not allow it. Let alone some handsome stranger with an exotic accent and an exotic name. Instead I tuck away a business card with an appreciative nod…and find myself drawn to that moment when I’m seated at a cozy dark wine bar that is walking distance to my place and I discover that it serves my favorite varietal of wine, Montepulciano, by the glass. And as I take my first sip, I feel like I’m suddenly moving in slow motion, and arriving at this comfortable nook in my mind where I can sit for a while and mentally pontificate over silly little nothings.

I am falling for this city, completely falling for it. Others have mistakenly compared it to much larger, more impersonal cities. I myself come directly from one of those. But I am not making the same mistake. DC is very much created in its own image with its own personality, and has its own problems with its own glorious moments (i.e., election night, with an energy that I will never forget; I’ll save that experience for another blog). This city is not trying to be anything else, not that I have seen so far. And while it heavily suggests of the northeast, in many respects it also hints of the south. And that is how I’ve come upon the following recipe. It’s an old dish that I loved and enjoyed years ago, and since moving to DC, I have had the hallowed experience of revisiting this dish, rather multiple updated variations of it because, oddly and pleasantly enough, it is served in so many places here.

Ah, yes. Welcome to DC…or as I find myself feeling more and more like saying: welcome home.

Shrimp Grits

Grits, instant or otherwise

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium white onion, minced

1 garlic clove, minced

1 pound andouille or spicy Italian spicy sausage, cut in chunks

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

2 cups chicken stock

2 to 3 bay leaves

2 pounds large shrimp, peeled and deveined, tails on

Pinch cayenne pepper, adjust to personal preference

1/2 lemon, juiced

Kosher salt

Freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

4 green onions, sliced

Follow the instructions on the package for the grits. Place a deep skillet over medium heat and coat with the olive oil. Add the onion and garlic; saute for 2 minutes to soften. Add the sausage and cook, stirring, until there is a fair amount of fat in the pan and the sausage is brown. Sprinkle in the flour and stir with a wooden spoon to create a roux. Slowly pour in the chicken stock and continue to stir to avoid lumps. Toss in the bay leaves. When the liquid comes to a simmer, add the shrimp. Poach the shrimp in the stock for 2 to 3 minutes, until they are firm and pink and the gravy is smooth and thick. Add the cayenne pepper, Tabasco and lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper; stir in the parsley and green onion. Spoon the grits into a serving bowl. Add the shrimp mixture and mix well. Serve immediately.

My Fond Farewell to California

“California Soul (Diplo / Mad Decent Remix)” Marlena Shaw and Diplo

I decided to end my time in California by doing something exclusive to this large and mostly sunny state. I headed up the coast to Napa, the first seriously taken wine region in the country, with some of my closest friends for some good ole winetasting. We visited Artesa, Domaine Chandon, Cakebread, Mumm, Duckhorn, and a random tasting room in downtown Napa; we also had dinner at Bistro Jeanty, a yummy French eatery in Yountville.

In true California fashion, and leading up to this winetasting trip, I managed to fit in a few other Cali-isms: dinner at the Hotel Bel-Air; wine at Primitivo, a cozy tapas and wine bistro; beer at the Otheroom, a dark, LA-trendy beer/wine joint in Venice; homemade margaritas on the sand in Hermosa Beach (thanks, U and W); dancing at Sharkeez, a frat-row-type bar, and karaoke at Fat Face Fenner’s Fishack, a dive-y seafood joint, both in Hermosa. I even managed cocktails at the ever-growing popular J Lounge, a new Asian fusion resto-lounge known for its $3-Grey Goose martinis before 3 p.m. (after 3 p.m. the price adjusts to about $20 each) in downtown LA, and I was able to sneak in a last Super 8 dinner at Rush St., a modern quasi-sports bar/resto that recently hosted a French Tuesday, located in Culver City, the new hot spot for restaurants in LA.

Hmmmm…. My intention right now is not to provide a laundry list of what I’m grateful for in California or what or who I’ll miss. Don’t know how long (or short) that list would be anyway, and I’m not in a mood to get nostalgic right now and confront my last ten-some-odd years. Admittedly I am feeling a little jaded right now. I have a head cold (which I’m sure I can attribute to lack of sleep mixed with a little bit of stress), and I am sitting in an airport waiting to head back east for a permanent time. I am actually thinking that I am homeless right now. I do not officially move into my new place in DC until this weekend, and in the interim I will be staying with family in the south. For the next four days I will be living out of three suitcases and settling final arrangements for my perma-reloke to the east coast.

Honestly, if I were to think about what I’m leaving behind as I head back east I might start to seriously reconsider what I’m doing. Well, no, I take it back. I wouldn’t. I’m very conscientiously making this decision, and without regret. I could wax on about how excited I am to have seasons again and live in an area where mass transit is taken seriously. I could, but again, I won’t.

Instead…if you will forgive me for reneging on my earlier statement about not getting nostalgic, I can’t help but smile as I fondly remember just a few of my favorite Cali-patois, and thus give myself the closure that every girl needs in a long relationship that has finally ended…hopefully healthily. Much of these are most likely targeted at southern California, Los Angeles, to be specific, a city where most of its residents are not homegrown, but from everywhere else, and a city where these same residents both love and hate it…with a decided passion--and yet they find themselves unable to leave it. My move is not unprecedented, but it is still infrequent enough to be considered unusual.

Okay already. I bid adieu to some of my Cali-faves: al fresco dining—year-round, the best resto wine lists west of the Rockies (probably east, too), sunshine 350 days of the year, an underrated music scene, beach volleyball nets as far as the eye can see, tailgating with one of the top college football programs ever, seeing movies before anyone else does, valet parking, beautiful people everywhere, a respectably growing resto/foodie scene (that includes two of my fave chefs: Govind Armstrong and Suzanne Goin), Pinkberry, the ability to snowboard and surf in the same day, Vegas close enough to be an occasional playground, the 6-Man Beach Volleyball tournament, my hula family, really good Mexican food (even though I’m not a big fan of Mexican), really good sushi (and I am a big fan of sushi), earthquakes, the strongest business school network I’ve ever come across, Peter Pans (young and old), movie studios, talent agencies (a la CAA and Endeavor), area codes making an impression, carpooling, multiple social hubs, multiple business hubs, awards ceremonies, beach cities, In-n-Out served protein-style-animal-style, the Hollywood Bowl, late-night Roscoe’s chicken and waffles.

I need to stop and take a breath…and go ahead and end this by (I think) aptly borrowing from the classic George Burns and his wife Gracie Allen: “Say goodnight, Gracie. Goodnight.”…oh, and include one of my favorite flavor combos (burrata, tomatoes, and basil), done best by one of my favorite chefs.

Govind Armstrong's Burrata, Japanese Tomatoes, Panzanella, Wild Arugula

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling

3 sprigs thyme

1 large clove garlic, smashed

3 slices rustic sourdough bread, torn into tiny pieces

Sea salt and cracked black pepper to taste

2 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar or red wine vinegar

2 pints mini Japanese heirloom tomatoes, blanched and shocked, then peeled

1/4 hothouse cucumber, split lengthwise, seeded and very thinly sliced

1/2 small red onion, thinly julienned

3 sprigs flat-leaf parsley, leaves only

1 sprig basil, leaves only

4 medium-ripe Japanese beefsteak/heirloom tomatoes, thinly sliced in rounds and kept together

1 (16-ounce) tub fresh burrata cheese

1 large bunch (about 6 ounces) wild or baby arugula

Begin by preparing the olive-oil-fried croutons. Heat a heavy-bottomed sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add 1 cup of the olive oil, the thyme, and garlic. Once the oil has been seasoned for approximately 1 minute, remove the herbs. Add the torn bread, and gently fry while stirring occasionally until thoroughly golden brown and crisp, about 5 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, remove the bread from the pan, drain completely on paper towels to keep the croutons from becoming soggy, and season with salt and pepper. (You may reserve the oil for up to two weeks for similar uses.)

In a small bowl, whisk the vinegar with a small pinch of salt until dissolved, then whisk in the 2 tablespoons of olive oil and set aside.

Just before serving, to keep the bread salad from becoming soggy, place the peeled mini tomatoes in a small bowl, add the cucumber, red onion (to your liking), parsley leaves, basil, and the croutons. Dress the salad with approximately 3 tablespoons of the vinaigrette.

Fan a few of the sliced tomatoes just to the left of the center of each of 8 small plates. Drizzle the slices with some of the remaining vinaigrette, then place a small pile of the marinated mini tomatoes to the right of the slices. Spoon out the burrata right between the two, fluffing the plate with the arugula as garnish around the outside. Drizzle the burrata with extra-virgin olive oil, and season the plate with sea salt and a few turns of the pepper mill.

N.B. To blanch and peel tomatoes, first cut an X in the end opposite the stem, then immerse in boiling water 10 to 15 seconds. Transfer to a bowl of ice and cold water, then peel.