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Joanne Harris

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Famous Joanne Harris Quotes

“Who is Zozie? I ask myself. Those eyes see much farther than dishes to be washed, or a banknote folded under the rim of a plate. Blue eyes are easier to read, and yet the trick of the trade that has served me so often- if not so well- along the years, for some reason fails to work at all with her. Some people are like that, I tell myself. But dark or light, soft-centered or brittle, bitterest orange or rose cream or manon blanc or vanilla truffle, I have no idea whether she even likes chocolate at all, still less her favorite. So- why is it I think that she knows mine?”

ChocolatesWho Is She
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“But Zozie was already making plans- seemingly unaware of the impact of that casual word- plans for a line of handmade truffles, the simplest of all chocolates to make; and then, perhaps some mendiants- my own favorites- sprinkled with almonds, sour cherries, and fat yellow sultanas. I could do it with my eyes closed. Even a child can make mendiants, and Anouk had often helped me in the days of Lansquenet, selecting the plumpest raisins, the sweetest cranberries (always keeping a generous portion aside for herself), and arranging them on the discs of melted chocolate, dark or light, in careful designs.”

CookiesInventorySweetsChocolates
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“She buys only the best couverture, from a fair trade supplier down near Marseille, and pays for it all in cash. A dozen blocks of each kind, to begin with, she says; but I already know from her eager response that a dozen blocks will not be enough. She used to make all her own stock, so she tells me, and though I'll admit I didn't quite believe it at first, the way she has thrown herself back into the business tells me that she was not exaggerating. The process is deft and peculiarly therapeutic to watch. First comes the melting and tempering of the raw couverture: the process that enables it to leave its crystalline state and take on the glossy, malleable form necessary to make the chocolate truffles. She does it all on a granite slab, spreading out the melted chocolate like silk and gathering it back toward her using a spatula. Then it goes back into the warm copper, the process to be repeated until she declares it done. She rarely uses the sugar thermometer. She has been making chocolates for so long, she tells me, that she can simply sense when the correct temperature has been reached. I believe her; certainly over the past three days I have been watching her, she has never produced a less than flawless batch. During that time I have learned to observe with a critical eye: to check for streaks in the finished product; for the unappealing pale bloom that denotes incorrectly tempered chocolate; for the high gloss and sharp snap that are the indicators of good-quality work.”

BakingChocolatesVianne Rocher
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“Zozie was still watching me with that patient half-smile, as if she expected me to say something more. When I didn't, she simply shrugged and held out a dish of mendiants. She makes them as I do myself: the chocolate thin enough to snap but thick enough to satisfy; a generous sprinkle of fat raisins; a walnut, an almond; a violet; a crystallized rose. "Try one," she said. "What do you think?" The gunpowder scent of chocolate arose from the little dish of mendiants, smelling of summer and lost time. He had tasted of chocolate when I first kissed him; and the scent of damp grass had come from the ground where we had lain side by side; and his touch had been unexpectedly soft, and his hair like summer marigolds in the dying light- Zozie was still holding out the dish of mendiants. It's made of blue Murano glass, with a little gold flower on the side. It's only a bauble, and yet I'm fond of it. Roux gave it to me in Lansquenet, and I have carried it with me ever since, in my luggage, in my pockets, like a touchstone. I looked up and saw Zozie looking at me. Her eyes were a distant, fairytale blue, like something you might see in dreams. "You won't tell anyone?" I said. "Of course not." She picked up a chocolate between delicate fingers and held it out for me to take. Rich, dark chocolate, rum-soaked raisins, vanilla, rose, and cinnamon... "Try one, Vianne," she said with a smile. "I happen to know they're your favorites.”

CookiesChocolatesReminiscentRoux
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“Besides, we have more chocolates to deliver in Les Marauds; coconut truffles for Omi; rose and cardamom for Fatima and her daughters; chili for old Mahjoubi, that warms the heart and brings courage. And one more package, for Inès; tied with a red silk ribbon. The gift that crosses all cultures; that brings a smile to the sourest face; that pulls back the years and takes us to a simpler, sweeter time.”

GiftsChocolatesFavorites
Book:Peaches for Father Francis
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“I go back into the kitchen. There are mendiants cooling on a sheet of greaseproof paper; little discs of chocolate, scattered with pieces of crystallized fruit; chopped almonds and pistachios; dried rose petals and gold leaf. Mendiants were always my favorites; so simple to make that even a child- even Anouk at five years old- was able to make them unsupervised. A sour cherry for the nose; a lemon slice for the mouth. Even her mendiants were smiling.”

CookiesChocolates
Book:The Strawberry Thief
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“This morning it was sunny and bright, and Maman was making Easter things. There were eggs, and hens, and rabbits, and ducks, all in different sizes and varieties of chocolate, and Maman was decorating them with gold leaf, and hundreds and thousands, and sugar roses and candied fruit. Later she'll wrap them in cellophane, like fabulous bunches of flowers, each tied with a long curly ribbon of a different color, and put them all on shelves at the back, as part of her annual Easter display.”

EasterChocolatesVianne Rocher
Book:The Strawberry Thief
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“There is a kind of alchemy in the transformation of base chocolate into this wise fool's-gold, a layman's magic that even my mother might have relished. As I work, I clear my mind, breathing deeply. The windows are open, and the through-draft would be cold if it were not for the heat of the stoves, the copper pans, the rising vapor from the melting couverture. The mingled scents of chocolate, vanilla, heated copper, and cinnamon are intoxicating, powerfully suggestive; the raw and earthy tang of the Americas, the hot and resinous perfume of the rain forest. This is how I travel now, as the Aztecs did in their sacred rituals: Mexico, Venezuela, Columbia. The court of Montezuma. Cortez and Columbus. The Food of the Gods, bubbling and frothing in ceremonial goblets. The bitter elixir of life.”

South AmericaScentsChocolates
Book:Chocolat
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“You ought to make something for Easter. You know. Eggs and stuff. Chocolate hens, rabbits, things like that. Like the shops in Agen." I remember them from my childhood; the Paris chocolateries with their baskets of foil-wrapped eggs, shelves of rabbits and hens, bells, marzipan fruits and marrons glacés, amourettes and filigree nests filled with petits fours and caramels, and a thousand and one epiphanies of spun-sugar magic carpet rides more suited to an Arabian harem than the solemnities of the Passion. "I remember my mother telling me about the Easter chocolates." There was never enough money to buy those exquisite things, but I always had my own cornet-surprise, a paper cone containing my Easter gifts, coins, paper flowers, hard-boiled eggs painted in bright enamel colors, a box of colored papier-mâché- painted with chickens, bunnies, smiling children among the buttercups, the same every year and stored carefully for the next time- encasing a tiny packet of chocolate raisins wrapped in cellophane, each one to be savored, long and lingeringly, in the lost hours of those strange nights between cities, with the neon glow of hotel signs blink-blinking between the shutters and my mother's breathing, slow and somehow eternal, in the umbrous silence.”

EasterChocolatesCandiesEaster Eggs
Book:Chocolat
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“I looked into the display window this morning. On a white marble shelf are aligned innumerable boxes, packages, cornets of silver and gold paper, rosettes, bells, flowers, hearts, and long curls of multicolored ribbon. In glass bells and dishes lie the chocolates, the pralines, Venus's nipples, truffles, mendiants, candied fruits, hazelnut clusters, chocolate seashells, candied rose petals, sugared violets... Protected from the sun by the half-blind that shields them, they gleam darkly, like sunken treasure, Aladdin's cave of sweet clichés. And in the middle she has built a magnificent centerpiece. A gingerbread house, walls of chocolate-coated pain d'épices with the detail piped on in silver and gold icing, roof tiles of florentines studded with crystallized fruits, strange vines of icing and chocolate growing up the walls, marzipan birds singing in chocolate trees... And the witch herself, dark chocolate from the top of her pointed hat to the hem of her long cloak half-astride a broomstick that is in reality a giant guimauve, the long twisted marshmallows that dangle from the stalls of sweet-vendors on carnival days...”

WindowFrenchSweetsChocolatesCandiedConfectioneryDisplays
Book:Chocolat
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“I spent most of the afternoon tempering the new batch of couverture and working on the window display. A thick covering of green tissue paper for the grass. Paper flowers- daffodils and daisies, Anouk's contribution- pinned to the window frame. Green-covered tins that had once contained cocoa powder, stacked up against each other to make a craggy mountainside. Crinkly cellophane paper wraps it like a covering of ice. Running past and winding into the valley, a river of blue silk ribbon, upon which a cluster of houseboats sits quiet and unreflecting. And below, a procession of chocolate figures, cats, dogs, rabbits, some with raisin eyes, pink marzipan ears, tails made of licorice-whips, with sugar flowers between their teeth... And mice. On every available surface, mice. Running up the sides of the hill, nestling in corners, even on the riverboats. Pink and white sugar coconut mice, chocolate mice of all colors, variegated mice marbled through with truffle and maraschino cream, delicately tinted mice, sugar-dappled frosted mice. And standing above them, the Pied Piper resplendent in his red and yellow, a barley-sugar flute in one hand, his hat in the other. I have hundreds of molds in my kitchen, thin plastic ones for the eggs and the figures, ceramic ones for the cameos and liqueur chocolates. With them I can re-create any facial expression and superimpose it upon a hollow shell, adding hair and detail with a narrow-gauge pipe, building up torso and limbs in separate pieces and fixing them in place with wires and melted chocolate.... A little camouflage- a red cloak, rolled from marzipan. A tunic, a hat of the same material, a long feather brushing the ground at his booted feet. My Pied Piper looks a little like Roux, with his red hair and motley garb.”

MiceEasterChocolatesPied PiperDecorations
Book:Chocolat
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“My hand lingers in spite of itself; a hovering dragonfly above a cluster of dainties. A Plexiglas tray with a lid protects them; the name of each piece is lettered on the lid in fine, cursive script. The names are entrancing: Bitter orange cracknell. Apricot marzipan roll. Cerisette russe. White rum truffle. Manon blanc. Nipples of Venus. I feel myself flushing beneath the mask. How could anyone order something with a name like that? And yet they look wonderful, plumply white in the light of my torch, tipped with darker chocolate. I take one from the top of the tray. I hold it beneath my nose; it smells of cream and vanilla. No one will know. I realize that I have not eaten chocolate since I was a boy, more years ago than I can remember, and even then it was a cheap grade of chocolat à croquer, fifteen percent cocoa solids- twenty for the dark- with a sticky aftertaste of fat and sugar. Once or twice I bought Süchard from the supermarket, but at five times the price of the other, it was a luxury I could seldom afford. This is different altogether; the brief resistance of the chocolate shell as it meets the lips, the soft truffle inside.... There are layers of flavor like the bouquet of a fine wine, a slight bitterness, a richness like ground coffee; warmth brings the flavor to life, and it fills my nostrils, a taste succubus that has me moaning.”

FlavorsChocolatesChildhood MemoryReminiscent
Book:Chocolat
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“Anouk reads a book of nursery rhymes behind the counter and keeps an eye on the door as I prepare a batch of mendiants- thus named because they were sold by beggars and gypsies years ago- in the kitchen. These are my own favorites- biscuit-sized discs of dark, milk, or white chocolate upon which have been scattered lemon-rind, almonds, and plump Malaga raisins. Anouk likes the white ones, though I prefer the dark, made with the finest seventy-percent couverture.... Bitter-smooth on the tongue with the taste of the secret tropics.”

FrenchSweetsChocolates
Book:Chocolat
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“We make the delicate liqueur chocolates, the rose-petal clusters, the gold-wrapped coins, the violet creams, the chocolate cherries and almond rolls, in batches of fifty at a time, laying them out onto greased tins to cool. Hollow eggs and animal figures are carefully split open and filled with these. Nests of spun caramel with hard-shelled sugar eggs are each topped with a triumphantly plump chocolate hen; pie-bald rabbits heavy with gilded almonds stand in rows, ready to be wrapped and boxed; marzipan creatures march across the shelves. The smells of vanilla essence and cognac and caramelized apple and bitter chocolate fill the house. And now there is Armande's party to prepare for, too. I have a list of what she wants on order from Agen- foie gras, champagne, truffles and fresh chanterelles from Bordeaux, plateaux de fruits de mer from the traitor in Agen. I will bring the cakes and chocolates myself.”

EasterFood And WineSweetsChocolatesFood PreparationFrench Food
Book:Chocolat
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“Again I linger over the names. Crème de cassis. Three nut cluster. I select a dark nugget from a tray marked Eastern Journey. Crystallized ginger in a hard sugar shell, releasing a mouthful of liqueur like a concentration of spices, a breath of aromatic air where sandalwood and cinnamon and lime vie for attention with cedar and allspice... I take another, from a tray marked Pêche au miel millefleurs. A slice of peach steeped in honey and eau-de-vie, a crystallized peach sliver on the chocolate lid.”

SpicesFlavorsChocolatesAromasPeach
Book:Chocolat
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“But there's always time for hot chocolate, made with milk and grated nutmeg, vanilla, chili, brown sugar, cardamom, and 70 percent couverture chocolate- the only chocolate worth buying, she says- and it tastes rich and just slightly bitter on the back of the tongue, like caramel as it begins to turn. The chili gives it a touch of heat- never too much, just a taste- and the spices give it that churchy smell that reminds me of Lansquenet somehow, and of nights above the chocolate shop, just Maman and me, with Pantoufle sitting to one side and candles burning on the orange-box table.”

IngredientsHot ChocolateReminiscent
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“There's a comfort to be found in this most elementary of rituals: the heating of the whole milk in a copper saucepan; the adding of the nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, chili powder. Guy has taught me that chili was what the Mayans used in chocolate; that cold and bitter forerunner of the drink we enjoy today. Chili has special properties; it's a powerful antioxidant with antibiotic properties, and like Theobroma cacao, it boosts the immune system, lifts the mood and makes the senses more alert. Chili and chocolate are soulmates, just as some people are soulmates, bound together for centuries. Heat the milk to a shiver, then add the grated chocolate: Guy only uses the darkest kind, but I prefer something sweeter. Brown sugar to combat the heat, and cardamom, for freshness.”

IngredientsSoulmatesChiliHot ChocolatePreferential
Book:Vianne
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“First, I see her catch the scent. It's a combination of many things; the Christmas tree in the corner; the musty aroma of old house; orange and clove; ground coffee; hot milk; patchouli; cinnamon- and chocolate, of course; intoxicating, rich as Croesus, dark as death. She looks around, sees wall hangings, pictures, bells, ornaments, a dollhouse in the window, rugs on the floor- all in chrome yellow and fuchsia-pink and scarlet and gold and green and white. It's like an opium den in here, she almost says, then wonders at herself for being so fanciful. In fact she has never seen an opium den- unless it was in the pages of the Arabian Nights- but there's something about the place, she thinks. Something almost- magical.”

ChristmasAromasDecorations
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“Long ago and far away, the Moth King, known for his jealousy, uncertain temper and melancholy, courted the frivolous Butterfly Queen. They were very different. He was nocturnal; she loved the sun. He was sullen and taciturn; she was filled with merriment. Even so, they fell in love, and their wedding was held at sunset on the edge of a bramble wood, with all of their folk in attendance, and with dancing throughout the night and day.”

Once Upon A TimeOpposites AttractKing And Queen
Book:The Moonlight Market
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“Working with chocolate always helps me find the calm centre of my life. It has been with me for so long; nothing here can surprise me. This afternoon I am making pralines, and the little pan of chocolate is almost ready on the burner. I like to make these pralines by hand. I use a ceramic container over a shallow copper pan: an unwieldy, old-fashioned method, perhaps, but the beans demand special treatment. They have traveled far, and deserve the whole of my attention. Today I am using couverture made from the Criollo bean: its taste is subtle, deceptive; more complex than the stronger flavors of the Forastero; less unpredictable than the hybrid Trinitario. Most of my customers will not know that I am using this rarest of cacao beans; but I prefer it, even though it may be more expensive. The tree is susceptible to disease: the yield is disappointingly low; but the species dates back to the time of the Aztecs, the Olmecs, the Maya. The hybrid Trinitario has all but wiped it out, and yet there are still some suppliers who deal in the ancient currency. Nowadays I can usually tell where a bean was grown, as well as its species. These come from South America, from a small, organic farm. But for all my skill, I have never seen a flower from the Theobroma cacao tree, which only blooms for a single day, like something in a fairytale. I have seen photographs, of course. In them, the cacao blossom looks something like a passionflower: five-petaled and waxy, but small, like a tomato plant, and without that green and urgent scent. Cacao blossoms are scentless; keeping their spirit inside a pod roughly the shape of a human heart. Today I can feel that heart beating: a quickening inside the copper pan that will soon release a secret. Half a degree more of heat, and the chocolate will be ready. A filter of steam rises palely from the glossy surface. Half a degree, and the chocolate will be at its most tender and pliant.”

ChocolateBeansGenus SpeciesCacaoVianne RocherPralines
Book:The Strawberry Thief
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“From the trolley, he picked up a chocolate, rolled in cacao powder. 'These are ganache truffles,' he said. 'The easiest chocolates to make. Even a child can make them. Even Mahmed could, probably.' I took one. It smelt of darkness infused with gold; a scent that both drew and repelled me. 'I don't really like dark chocolate,' I said. 'Just try one. I made them myself, from bean to bar. Nothing artificial.' I bit a piece from the chocolate. It was bitter and powdery, but there were other flavors there, struggling to be released. 'Rest it on your tongue for a while. Eyes closed. Mouth half open.' I did as he said. The bitter scent started to intensify. It's odd; I didn't quite like it, and yet it was evocative. I can taste charcoal, and nutmeg, and salt, and olive, and strong wild honey. It makes me think of incense, and woodsmoke on a frosty night, and the scent of fallen leaves in the rain, and the memory of that night in the church, the warmth of the confessional. I thought I didn't like chocolate. In fact, I never knew it. Those little squares of chocolate I'd had as a child were nothing like this. 'I know. It's different,' he said. 'It's eighty per cent cacao. It might taste a little bitter to you, but that's the nature of cacao: the stuff you get in the shops here is really mostly sugar and palm oil and fat. But this is the soul of the cacao bean. This strength. This bitter potency. And in this form, it has a kick. It sharpens the mind. Gives energy.' I put the rest of the chocolate aside. My mouth was furred with darkness.”

BittersweetEarthyDark ChocolateAll NaturalFirst BiteGanache
Book:Vianne
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“Around the room, the traditional thirteen desserts of Christmas are stacked on glass dishes like pirates' treasure, gleaming and lustrous in topaz and gold. Black nougat for the devil, white nougat for the angels, and clementines, grapes, figs, almonds, honey, dates, apples, pears, quince jelly, mendiants all jeweled with raisins and peel, and fougasse made with olive oil and split like a wheel into twelve parts- And of course there is the chocolate- the Yule log cooling in the kitchen; the nougatines, the celestines, the chocolate truffles piled onto the counter in a fragrant scatter of cocoa dust.”

DessertsFruitsYule
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“Imagine a neon sign, right there, a bowl of noodles in flashing red. Imagine the scent of roasted pork, and garlic, and sizzling vegetables. Imagine the customers crowding the street; faces rosy in the glow of many lights. Imagine the money coming in; the luck of the family turning. Madame Li's face opened up like a flower in a glass of tea. 'Luck,' she said. I nodded. 'Here. I made these for you.' I pulled out one of my little sample boxes from my bag. Green tea truffles, with darkest chocolate and fleur de sel: a flavor that reminds me somewhat of the rising tide in Normandy, where Maman and I spent a summer once, and where I ate crêpes wrapped in paper, with butter and fried sausages, while the waves crept closer and the gulls circled hopefully overhead.”

LuckNoodlesDark ChocolateGreen TeaSea Salt
Book:Vianne
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“A breeze, vanilla-scented, nutmeg milk, dark roast of cocoa beans over a slow fire. It isn't magic. Really it isn't. It's just a trick, a game I play. There's no such thing as real magic- and yet it works. Sometimes, it works. Can you hear me? I said. Not in my voice, but a shadow-voice, very light, like dappled leaves. She felt it then. I know she did. Turning, she stiffened; I made the door shine a little, ever so slightly, the color of the sky. Played with it, pretty, like a mirror in the sun, shining it on and off her face. Scent of woodsmoke in a cup; a dash of cream, sprinkle of sugar. Bitter orange, your favorite, 70 percent darkest chocolate over thick-cut oranges from Seville. Try me. Taste me. Test me.”

ChocolateOrangesSeductive Power
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“There are strawberries growing among my bulbs. Wild ones, seeded from God knows where, poking their pale little fingers among the tulips and crocuses. Wild strawberries are invasive; not quite as invasive as dandelions, but those little heart-shaped leaves conceal a powerful hunger for conquest, sending their runners everywhere, each one an outpost preparing itself for a future invasion. And yet I cannot bring myself, père, to curb their cheery exuberance. Though more or less worthless in terms of fruit, the little white flowers and pretty leaves make excellent ground count cover, keeping the thistles and ragwort at bay without suppressing my daffodils. And besides, in summer, there may be enough of the tiny red berries to put on a tart, or flavor a glassful of sweet white wine. That is, if the birds do not steal them first. They too enjoy their sweetness. Those strawberries will creep, Reynaud, said Narcisse's voice in my mind. Let them stay, and in a month, your beds will be nothing but strawberries.”

Wild StrawberriesInvasive
Book:The Strawberry Thief
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“I want to put joy into the world. I want to help my friends, to build a future for my daughter. This is the time to put aside those things that try to hold us down. Time to say goodbye to the dead, and to celebrate the living. Everything is ready now: candles from the market, lined up in wine-bottle holders; incense from my own supply, ready to sweeten the troubled air. My mother's cards in their sandalwood box. And a dozen little red sachets, made from scavenged scarlet silk, one for every month in the year, and filled with a combination of herbs: lavender for peace of mind; marigold, for friendship; strawberry leaf for good fortune; hawthorn for protection; mandrake for power; cedar for strength; and in each, a scrap of paper with a secret invocation to the dead: a prayer for future prosperity; a light against the darkness.”

IncenseVianne RocherRitual MagicHerbal CuresSpread Happiness
Book:Vianne
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“I know you,” said Maddy. “You’re -“ “What’s a name?” Loki grinned. “Wear it like a coat; turn it, burn it, throw it aside, and borrow another. One-Eye knows; you should ask him.” “But Loki died,” she said, shaking her head. “He died on the field at Ragnarok.” “Not quite.” He pulled a face. “You know there’s rather a lot the Oracle didn’t foretell, and old tales have a habit of getting twisted.” “But in any case, that was centuries ago,” Maddy said bewildered. “I mean - that was the End of the World, wasn’t it?” “So?” said Loki impatiently. “This isn’t the first time the world has come to an end, and it won’t be the last either.”

NamesEnd Of The WorldLokiRagnarok
Book:Runemarks
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“It was one of those red-gold early October days, the air crisp and tart as heady as applejack, and even at dawn the sky was the clear, purplish blue that only the finest of autumn days brings. There are maybe three such days in a year. I sang as I lifted my traps, and my voice bounced off the misty banks of the Loire like a challenge. It was the mushroom season, so after I had brought my catch back to the farm and cleaned it out, I took some bread and cheese for breakfast and set out into the woods to hunt for mushrooms. I was always good at that. Still am, to tell the truth, but in those days I had a nose like a truffle pig's. I could smell those mushrooms out, the gray chanterelle and the orange, with its apricot scent, the bolet and the petit rose and the edible puffball and the brown-cap and the blue-cap. Mother always told us to take our mushrooms to the pharmacy to ensure we had not gathered anything poisonous, but I never made a mistake. I knew the meaty scent of the bolet and the dry, earthy smell of the brown-cap mushroom. I knew their haunts and breeding grounds. I was a patient collector.”

AutumnMushroomsNatures BeautyTrufflesTypes
Book:Five Quarters of the Orange
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“It's not just the taste, she will try to explain. The rich dark truffle, flavored with rum; the hint of chili in the blend; the yielding smoothness of the center and the bitterness of the cocoa-powder finish... none of these explain the strange allure of Yanne Charbonneau's chocolate truffles. Perhaps it's the way they make you feel: stronger, perhaps; more powerful; more alert to the sounds and scents of the world; more aware of the colors and textures of things; more aware of yourself; of what's under the skin; of the mouth, of the throat, of the sensitive tongue.”

AwarenessChocolateFlavorsTruffles
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“We begin with an onion soup as smoky and fragrant as autumn leaves, with croutons and grated Gruyère and a sprinkle of paprika over the top. She serves and watches me throughout, waiting, perhaps, for me to produce from thin air an even more perfect confection that will cast her effort into the shade. Instead I eat, and talk, and smile, and compliment the chef, and the chink of crockery goes through her head, and she feels slightly dazed, not quite herself. Well, pulque is a mysterious brew, and the punch is liberally spiked with it, courtesy of Yours Truly, of course, in honor of the joyful occasion. As comfort, perhaps, she serves more punch, and the scent of the cloves is like being buried alive, and the taste is like chilies spiced with fire, and she wonders, Will it ever end? The second course is sweet foie gras, sliced on thin toast with quinces and figs. It's the snap that gives this dish its charm, like the snap of correctly tempered chocolate, and the foie gras melts so lingeringly in the mouth, as soft as praline truffle, and it is served with a glass of ice-cold Sauternes that Anouk disdains, but which Rosette sips in a tiny glass no larger than a thimble, and she gives her rare and sunny smile, and signs impatiently for more. The third course is a salmon baked en papillote and served whole, with a béarnaise sauce. Alice complains she is nearly full, but Nico shares his plate with her, feeding her tidbits and laughing at her minuscule appetite. Then comes the pièce de résistance: the goose, long roasted in a hot oven so that the fat has melted from the skin, leaving it crisp and almost caramelized, and the flesh so tender it slips off the bones like a silk stocking from a lady's leg. Around it there are chestnuts and roast potatoes, all cooked and crackling in the golden fat.”

SoupSalmonFood And DrinkFrench FoodChristmas DinnerFoie GrasGoose
Book:The Girl with No Shadow
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“The owner saw the way I ate and refilled my bowl without asking: the stew was rich with saffron and oil, and green anise, and orange. It's a cheap dish to make in Marseille: rockfish costs almost nothing. Mussels, too, are cheap, and squid, and the rock crabs that cost so much in elegant Paris restaurants are vermin here, good for nothing but stew. Food has a strange way of leaving home as a beggar and coming back a rich man, so the things we used to forage for free-- wild greens, razor clams, wild garlic, herbs, shellfish, rock crabs, even snails-- have been made into elegant dishes by chefs attempting to pique the jaded palates of those who lack nothing.”

SeafoodSeasoningsFrench FoodBouillabaisse
Book:Vianne
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“I make the very best halwa chebakia. With mint tea, or qamar-el-deen- you can take some home to your family." Such an offer cannot be refused. I know this from experience. Years of traveling with my mother have taught me that food is a universal passport. Whatever the constraints of language, culture or geography, food crosses over all boundaries. To offer food is to extend the hand of friendship; to accept is to be accepted into the most closed of communities. I wondered if Francis Reynaud had ever thought of this approach. Knowing him, he hasn't. Reynaud means well, but he isn't the type to buy halwa chebakia or to drink a glass of mint tea in the little café on the corner of the Boulevard P'tit Baghdad. I followed Fatima into the house, making sure to leave my shoes at the door. It was pleasantly cool inside and smelt of frangipani; the shutters closed since midday to guard against the heat of the sun. A door led into the kitchen, from which I caught the mingled scents of anise and almond and rosewater and chickpeas cooked in turmeric, and chopped mint, and toasted cardamom, and those wonderful halwa chebakia, sweet little sesame pastries deep-fried in oil, just small enough to pop into the mouth, flower-shaped and brittle and perfect with a glass of mint tea...”

SpicesSeasoningsFood LoveMiddle Eastern CuisineMint TeaCultural Compatibility
Book:Peaches for Father Francis
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“It had withstood the years. His knife sliced it open and the cork was still intact beneath. For a moment the scent was so immediately pungent that all he could do was endure it, teeth clenched, as it worked its will on him. It smelled earthy and a little sour, like the canal in midsummer, with a sharpness which reminded him of the vegetable cutter and the gleeful tang of freshly dug potatoes. For a second the illusion was so strong that he was actually there in that vanished place with Joe leaning on his spade and the radio wedged in a fork in a tree. A sudden overwhelming excitement took hold of him and he poured a small quantity of the wine into a glass, trying not to spill the liquid in his eagerness. It was dusky pink, like papaya juice, and it seemed to climb the sides of the glass in a frenzy of anticipation, as if something inside it were alive and anxious to work its magic on his flesh.”

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Book:Blackberry Wine
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“Rose fondants, made with Turkish rosewater; coated in 70 per cent couverture chocolate from hand-sorted Porcelana beans. I remove the embryo myself in order to limit the bitterness. Eighty-five hours conching; then tempered on marble, my favorite way, then dip the fondant, leave to set and add a crystallized rose petal on top. The result smells like roses; chocolate-red; full-throated; the petals like the bloom of a grape.”

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Book:Vianne
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“I know all their favorites. It's a knack, a professional secret, like a fortune teller reading palms. My mother would have laughed at this waste of my skills, but I have no desire to probe farther into their lives than this. I do not want their secrets or their innermost thoughts. Nor do I want their fears or gratitude. A tame alchemist, she would have called me with kindly contempt, working domestic magic when I could have wielded marvels. But I like these people. I like their small and introverted concerns. I can read their eyes, their mouths, so easily- this one with its hint of bitterness will relish my zesty orange twists; this sweet-smiling one the soft-centered apricot hearts; this girl with the windblown hair will love the mendiants; this brisk, cheery woman the chocolate brazils. For Guillaume, the florentines, eaten neatly over a saucer in his tidy bachelor's house. Narcisse's appetite for double-chocolate truffles reveals the gentle heart beneath the gruff exterior. Caroline Clairmont will dream of cinder toffee tonight and wake hungry and irritable. And the children... Chocolate curls, white buttons with colored vermicelli, pain d'épices with gilded edging, marzipan fruits in their nests of ruffled paper, peanut brittle, clusters, cracknells, assorted misshapes in half-kilo boxes... I sell dreams, small comforts, sweet harmless temptations to bring down a multitude of saints crash-crash-crashing among the hazels and nougatines....”

Sixth SenseVianne RocherPeople PersonChocolatierPredictorPersonality Strategy
Book:Chocolat
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“She handed me one of the finished mendiants. A fat black cherry made for the nose; a candied lemon slice for the mouth. She had made all her chocolates into little faces. Features added in gold leaf; almonds, raisins, poppy seeds. All of the chocolates different, all of them marked with her signature: Love me. Feed me. Free me- And all of the chocolates were smiling.”

DaughterChocolateCookiesToppingsAnouk Rocher
Book:The Strawberry Thief
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“So simple in concept, ratatouille exists in many variants. Like a folk song, it has crossed continents, and found its way into a hundred different traditions. Marguerite's recipe calls for tomatoes, sweet red peppers, aubergines, onions, garlic, all combined with bay and seasonings, and a good splash of olive oil. Served with grilled red mullet, it makes a simple, wholesome dish, a dish that comes with a line of verse from Margot's favorite poet: The greatest love can only grow beside a dream of equal size. Food is love in Margot's world: simple, warm and constant. As for myself, I am almost two thirds of the way through her book of recipes. I can make madeleines, brioche, pieds paquets, pomponettes, leblebi, chickpea stew with merguez, Marseille-style pizza, aioli, navettes, and fiadoni, the Corsican cheesecake so beloved by Louis' regulars. I know the difference between pâte brisée and pâte feuilletée, fougasse and pissaladière. I know how to fillet rockfish; how to keep the heads for stock; how to stir red saffron through rice to make the most luscious risotto. Cooking has become a joy, an unexpected talent. Domestic magic is humbler, perhaps, than my mother's glamours and tricks, and yet it makes a difference.”

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Book:Vianne
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“We will be making pancakes. Oh, not for now, of course. But for later, we have crêpes aux mille trous, and harira soup, with lemons and dates. At Ramadan, everyone fasts, but we think about food all the time; we buy food, we prepare food, we offer food to our neighbors, we even dream of food- that is, if this wind allows us to sleep. I will bring some Moroccan sweets; some macaroons, and gazelle's horns, and almond meringues, and chebakia.”

Food For ThoughtPastriesSweetsMoroccan
Book:Peaches for Father Francis
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