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French Food Quotes

Browse 48 quotes about French Food.

French Food Quotes

“I spread some fresh goat cheese onto a baguette and bit into it. The bread was flaky and buttery, clearly freshly baked this morning, and the cheese was tangy and tart. For an instant, the cheese, the taste, transported me to my childhood, to the kitchen I remembered- the one with the red-and-white-checked curtains- to many days of happiness, to the cheese I was eating right now. I didn't remember it tasting so good. "Oh my God," I mumbled with this mouthful of excitement, so delicious it was sinful. "Ma puce, is something wrong?" "No, this is the best meal I've had in weeks," I said. "It's sublime." "Bah," she said. "It's simple. But sometimes simple is the best, non?" I couldn't have agreed with her more. I wanted- no, needed- simple. Lately everything in my world was so complicated; I prayed for simple. "Madame Pélissier makes our goat cheese right on her farm- also other fresh cheeses like le Cathare, a goat cheese dusted with ash with the sign of the Occitania cross, as well as a Crottin du Tarn, which is the goat cheese we use for the pizza, and Lingot de Cocagne, which is a sheep's milk cheese. Do you want to do a little tasting of her cheeses?" "Would I? You bet." Clothilde ambled over to the refrigerator, returning with a platter of lumpy cheese heaven straight from the cooking gods' kitchen. "Et voila," she said, placing it down and bringing her fingers to her lips, blowing out a kiss. There were veiny cheeses marked with blue and green channels and spots, soft cheeses with natural or washed rinds, and fresh and creamy cheeses, like the goat cheese. The scents hit me, some mild with hints of lavender, some heavily perfumed, some earthy, and some garlicky.”

SimpleScentsFresh FoodFrench FoodCheesesBread And CheeseFarm To Table
Book:The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux
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“Jane Grigson joined the Observer magazine in the summer of 1968. Her first column was about strawberries. She wrote a recipe for strawberry barquettes-- small pastry boats filled with fruit and lacquered with redcurrant jam so that they looked like jewels. There was another for strawberry brulée in a sweet sablé shell, and coeur à la crème-- a cream pudding set in a heart-shaped mould and encircled with fruit. 'In Venice, in the season of Alpine strawberries...' she wrote, and it didn't really matter what she said next, because you were already in. In most recipes, the introduction serves the recipes. Jane's was the other way around. She wrote about the hybridized origins of modern strawberries in French market gardens, and how they feature in the mythology of the fertility goddess Frigg. After a few lines on the demanding anatomy of strawberry plants, she devoured into Jane Austen, talking about the agro-cosplay fruit-picking of the Regency ball-gown set. She refused to be complacent, especially about the things her readers already thought they knew. 'Strawberries, sugar and cream. The combination allows no improvement, you think?' Well, you're wrong. None of this would've counted for much if the recipes weren't great, but they really were. One week she'd give you smart alternatives to traditional Christmas cake-- rounds of meringue stacked with coffee cream, or Grasmere shortcake with preserved ginger. Another week it'd be the unimpeachable precision of carrot salad, celery soup or a recipe for ice cream flavored with cooked, puréed apples. The cooking was pantheistic and it dealt with everything from kippers to apples, parsley, prunes and fennel with the same care, even love. We get smug these days about how broad our tastes are, and to an extent we're right. But a newspaper now would never run a double-page spread of recipes for tripe. The magic of Jane Grigson is that though she was a smart cook, she was really a skilled purveyor of daydreams-- even if those daydreams were granular and exactingly researched. 'I sometimes think that the charm of a country's cookery lies not so much in its classic dishes as in its quirks and fancies,' she wrote. This included the esoterica of regional pies and rare apple cultivars. Something could be worthwhile without being useful. 'Walk into the yard of Château Mouton Rothschild,' began Jane's recipe for jellied rabbit, 'and you see a scatter of small fires. Some flare into the sky, others smoke as they are fed faggots of vine prunings.' Noisettes de porc aux pruneaux de Tours, crépinettes with chestnuts, carottes à la Vichy, angel's hair charlotte. She drew from the culinary canon as far back as Gervase Markham's seventeenth-century The English Huswife.”

RomanticWriterFood WritingOld WorldFrench FoodCottagecorePantheistic
Book:All Consuming: Why We Eat the Way We Eat Now
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“Soufflé! Omelets with burnt sugar, like we used to get at Aux Trois Faisons, with our initials burned into the crust. The Tuileries! the wind biting at our coats. We walk and walk and walk (so as to wear out Mrs. Parrish so that when they did return, she was exhausted. She begged off dinner. She began to lose weight, they all did, even though they ate the lunches of duck, creamed Brussels sprouts with lardons, terrine, confit, fromage blanc, steak tartare with shimmering soft-set eggs, brioche).”

LettersFrench FoodMfk Fisher
Book:The Arrangement
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“The soft, smooth substance filled her mouth. Chocolate cream, she thought. The flavor grew richer, rounder, louder with each passing second. It was like music, the notes lingering in her mind long after the sound itself had vanished. He was openly staring at her. "You eat with such concentration and intensity. And, dare I say it, joy?" Joy? The word was so foreign, especially in relation to food. It embarrassed her; she took a sip of the wine and concentrated on the way the flavors changed. She thought of music again. The sweet wine was like the trill of a flute, and suddenly the foie gras, which had reminded her more of pastry than meat, became robust, substantial.”

JoyWineFrench FoodFoie Gras
Book:The Paris Novel
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“A waiter set a small tart of caramelized pears before each of them and added a dab of licorice ice cream. Next came bananas topped with passion fruit and black pepper, little pirouettes of pleasure. The meal was as large and generous as the chef himself, and by the time he was serving them aged Armagnac with a ripe Roquefort, Stella's head was spinning. Although they were now surrounded by people eating dinner, new dishes kept arriving. Petit fours appeared, and then chocolates. A basket of fruit. Jules and the chef toasted each other with fragrant fruit brandies.”

DessertsFruitsFrench Food
Book:The Paris Novel
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“Her Majesty's daughter Princess Helena and her granddaughter Princess Thora are visiting. Here's the menu: consommé aux fines herbes, cheese croutons, poached fillet of sole with parsley sauce and potatoes à la crème, puree of squab à la chasseur, creamed celery, pork chops with apples, red cabbage and duchesse potatoes, iced pudding à la Prince Albert, canary pudding with vanilla sauce, anchovy toast.”

VegetablesPotatoesDessertsMenuSurf And TurfFrench FoodRoyal Food
Book:Above the Bay of Angels
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“I was now enjoying the incredibly generous spread between the editor and me: a thick Belgian waffle obscured by a mountain of fresh cream and berries; crepes stuffed with thick, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth Nutella and daintily folded into quarters; and the tarte tatin, traditionally served as dessert after lunch or dinner but the juicy, caramelized hunks of apple baked beneath buttery puff pastry and topped with slightly sour crème fraîche seemed totally appropriate to be on the table before us at 9:00 a.m. If only every day could start this way.”

DessertsFrench Food
Book:Brooklyn in Love: A Delicious Memoir of Food, Family, and Finding Yourself
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“Phillipa and I had just returned to the kitchen with a full basket of these beautiful mushrooms. I held a dirt-encrusted one up to my nose, breathing in its earthy aromas, happy to have all of my senses back. "What do you want to do with these?" asked Phillipa. "Something traditional and simple so the flavor of the mushrooms isn't lost," I said. "Poêlée de cèpes à la bordelaise?" "Perfectly delicious," said Phillipa. "I'll scrub the beauties down and then grab the ingredients." "You remember what they are?" "Of course. Olive oil, butter, garlic, thyme, bay leaves, flat parsley, salt, and pepper," she said. "And I'm already drooling.”

Food For ThoughtIngredientsMushroomsFrench FoodChefsPanfried
Book:Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars
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“The gallettes were darker, a nut-brown from the buckwheat flour, and folded from a circle into a square, with the savory toppings peeping through invitingly. Rosie saw what looked like goat cheese on Yumi's plate. And maybe ratatouille on Marquis's. And over on the plate between her and Henry- ugh, a fat yellow egg stared back at her. Rosie still hadn't forgiven eggs for the whole omelet debacle. "It's called oeuf miroir," Henry said, poking the yolk with his fork almost reverentially, as Marquis and Yumi debated whether or not they should wait for everyone to get their food before they started eating. Yumi, her cheeks full of goat cheese, was firmly on the side of not. "It means egg mirror. Or mirror egg. I think. It looks kind of like a mirror, yeah? And then there's ham and Gruyère underneath. Here, you can have the first bite." Rosie loved Gruyère. The flavors exploded in her mouth. Buckwheat flour was a revelation- nuttier than she'd expected, not like a nut, really, but she couldn't think of any other way to say it. It had a subtle flavor all its own, crisp edges from where it had been seared on the hot pan, and a perfectly soft, almost spongy texture within, where the Gruyère melted into the salty ham, and before Rosie knew it, she'd eaten three bites.”

CheeseFrench FoodEggCrepesGalette
Book:Love à la Mode
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“Phillipa placed one tray of appetizers after the other on the table---the jambon sec-wrapped chipotle figs with the cocoa-balsamic glaze; the crab cakes with the rémoulade dipping sauce; the varying star-shaped canapés, the bottoms buttery, toasted bread topped with different ingredients and garnished with chopped fresh herbs; the verrines filled with bœuf bourguignon and baby carrots; and the smoke salmon, beet carpaccio, and mascarpone bites served on homemade biscuits and sprinkled with capers. Everybody dug in, oohing and aahing. "I don't know which one I like best," exclaimed Marie, licking her lips. "They're all so delicious. I can't choose a favorite child." Phillipa winked. "Just wait until you see and taste Sophie's plat principal," she said, turning on her heel. She returned with a large pressure cooker, placing it on the table. She lifted the lid, and everybody breathed in the aromas, noses sniffing with anticipation. "This is Sophie's version of pot-au-feu de la mer, but with grilled lobster, crab, abalone, mussels, and large shrimp, along with a variety of root and fresh vegetables, a ginger-lemongrass-infused sauce, and garnished with borage, or starflowers, a smattering of sea salt, a dash of crème fraîche, fresh herbs, and ground pepper.”

SeafoodSeasoningsAppetizersFrench FoodSauces
Book:Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars
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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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“The Rognons de Veau à la Bordelaise did not taste like piss, no matter what my mother says, because I cleaned them with my deadly boning knife, and because the beef marrow conducted a two-pronged attack with the finishing sprinkling of parsley on any holdout pissiness- extinguishing it between fatty, velvety richness and sharp, fresh greenness. We ate it with a wine that I bought in the city that is cloudy and dark and tastes a little like blood. The lady who sold it to me called it "feral." Like me. For dessert, some creamy smooth Reine de Saba and Season 1, Episode 2, Buffy.”

KidneysFood And WineBuffy The Vampire SlayerChocolate CakeFrench FoodTastesJulie Powell
Book:Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously
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“She took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth, straining to identify the flavors. Cherry, she thought. Licorice. Thorns. She imagined a forest in late autumn, damp leaves on the ground, a blaze of color. She took another sip. The man--- he must be Robert--- set a dish in front of her and she looked down, dismayed. What could it be? She'd never seen anything like it. It glistened up at her, a red-black sausage bursting from a shiny case. She inhaled the aroma: It was exotic, mysterious, almost intoxicating. "Taste it," he urged. It was pillow-soft, very rich, laced with spices. She identified the prickle of black pepper, the sweetness of onions. Parsley, she thought, nutmeg, and... was that chocolate? Bite by bite she chased the flavors, but they kept skipping away. "Did you like it?" Robert was back. She gestured at the empty plate. "It was wonderful. What kind of meat was in it?" "Not meat, exactly." He watched her face as he said, "That was blood sausage.”

WineFlavorsFrench FoodEarthyBlood Sausage
Book:The Paris Novel
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“CHRISTMAS EVE MENU Foie gras with Caramelized Apples Salmon with lemon, Cucumber, and Dill, served on Small Rounds of Toasted Bread Escargots de Bourgogne Oysters Three Ways Oysters with a Mignonette Sauce Oysters with Pimento Peppers and Apple Cider Vinegar Oysters Rockefeller, deglazed with Pernod, served with Spinach, Pimento Pepper, and Lardons Sophie's Spiced Langoustes (Spiny Lobster) à l'Armoricaine AND Crayfish and Shrimp with a Saffron-infused Aioli Dipping Sauce AND Moules à la Plancha with Chorizo”

SeafoodOystersChristmas EveMenuFrench Food
Book:Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars
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“Menu Amuse-Bouche Biscotte with a Caviar of Tomatoes and Strawberries Entrées Chilled Zucchini Basil and Mint Velouté Ou Pan-Seared Foie Gras served on Toast with Grilled Strawberries Plat Principal Gigot d'agneau, carved tableside Served with your choice of Pommes de Terre Sarladaise or Mille-Feuilles de Pommes de Terre Served with Greens and Lemon Garlic Shallot Vinaigrette and Multicolored Braised Baby Carrots Ou Lemon Chicken Tajine with Almonds and Prunes Served with Couscous and Seasonal Vegetables Ou Panko-Encrusted Filet de Limande Served with Wild Rice and Grilled Seasonal Vegetables Ou Quinoa, Avocado, and Sweet Potato Timbale (vegan) Served with Rosemary Potatoes”

VeganVegetablesStrawberriesMenuFrench FoodFrench LanguageEntreesAmuse Bouche
Book:Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars
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“CHRISTMAS EVE MENU Foie Gras with Caramelized Apples Salmon with Lemon, Cucumber, and Dill, served on Small Rounds of Toasted Bread Escargots de Bourgogne Oysters with a Mignonette Sauce Oysters with Pimento Peppers and Apple Cider Vinegar Oysters Rockefeller, deglazed with Pernod, served with Spinach, Pimento Peppers, and Lardons Sophie's Spiced Langouste (Spiny Lobster) à l'Armoricaine Crayfish, Crab, and Shrimp with a Saffron-Infused Aioli Dipping Sauce Moules à la Plancha with Chorizo Selection of the Château's Cheeses Three Varieties of Bûche de Noël The kitchen staff walked in as I threw the chalk on the counter. Phillipa snuck up behind me. "Oh my God. That menu looks wicked incredible. I'm already drooling." Clothilde nodded her head in approval. "It's perfect. You've made your grandmother proud." "How many bûches do you think we'll need?" asked Gustave, referring to the celebrated and traditional log cakes served in every French restaurant and household sometime during the holiday season. "Twenty?" I answered. "Good thing I started on them a few days ago," he said. "Pineapple and mango, chocolate and praline, and vanilla and chestnut." "No alcohol?" I asked. "Maybe just a pinch of Armagnac." He held up his forefinger and thumb. Looked like more than a pinch.”

ChristmasSeafoodOystersMenuFrench FoodCakesCrustacean
Book:The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux
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“She browned onions and garlic, and from the pot on the windowsill, chopped a few winter-sad leaves of tarragon. The smell was green and strong, and she thought of spring. Spring in Dijon, when she and Al would hike into the mountains with the Club Alpin, the old women forever chiding her tentative steps, her newborn French: la petite violette, violette américaine. She would turn back to Al, annoyed, and he would laugh. Hardly his delicate flower. When they stopped for lunch, it was Mary Frances with the soufflé of calves' brains, whatever was made liver or marrow, ordering enough strong wine that everyone was laughing. The way home, the women let her be. If she wanted calves' brains now, she wouldn't even know where to begin to look or how to pay. She and Al seemed to be living on vegetables and books, tobacco, quiet. She blanched a bunch of spinach and chopped it. She beat eggs with the tarragon, heated the skillet once again. There was a salad of avocados and oranges. There was a cold bottle of ale and bread. Enough, for tonight.”

SpringReminiscingFrench CookingFrench FoodOffalMfk Fisher
Book:The Arrangement
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“The market smelled of hay and roasted nuts; she bought a newspaper cone of almonds from a woman stirring them over an open fire. She bought thick sandy leeks, a rope of garlic and a pound of tomatoes; she bought a long batard of sourdough bread, a dozen bluish speckled eggs, a jar of cream, because now she had a refrigerator and could keep such things for more than an hour or two. She lifted the paper lid of the cream and tasted it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand; she remembered the pillowy clouds of Gruyère grated onto her piece of waxed paper at Les Halles, the cheese maker young and handsome and milk-fed himself; he tried to teach her the French for being in love with him: mon cocotte, mon chouchou, ma petit lapin, Madame, s'il vous plaît. She walked the stalls, and on the edge of the market, a fishmonger laid out his catch on two blocks of ice: strange curled squids and spider crabs, silvery piles of sardines, their eyes still sparkling, thick slabs of some white-meated fish, its head as big as a dinner plate.”

FrenchSeafoodFrench FoodFarmers MarketMfk Fisher
Book:The Arrangement
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“There is something about the first frost that brings out the caveman--- one might even say the vampire--- in me. I want to wear fur and suck the meat off lamb bones, and on comes my annual craving for boudin noir, otherwise known as blood sausage. You know you've been in France for nearly a decade when the idea of eating congealed blood sounds not only normal, but positively delightful. When I was pregnant, my body craved iron in silly amounts. I could have eaten a skyscraper. It's a shame that it's not on the French pregnancy diet--- forbidden along with charcuterie, liver, and steak tartare. It's true that boudin noir is not the sort of thing I'd buy at any old supermarket. Ideally, you want a butcher who prepares his own. I bought mine from the mustached man with the little truck in Apt market, the same one I'd spotted during our first picnic in Provence. Since our first visit, I'd returned many times to buy his delicious, very lean, saucisses fraîches and his handmade andouillettes, which I sauté with onions, Dijon mustard, and a bit of cream. I serve my boudin with roasted apples--- this time, some Golden Delicious we picked up from a farm stand by the side of the road. I toasted the apple slices with olive oil, sprinkled the whole lot with sea salt, and added a cinnamon stick and a star anise to ground the dish with cozy autumn spices. Boudin is already cooked through when you buy it, but twenty minutes or so in a hot oven gives it time to blister, even burst. I'm an adventurous eater, but the idea of boiled (or cold) boudin makes me think about moving back to New Jersey. No, not really. I admit, when you first take it out of the oven, there are some visual hurdles. There's always a brief moment--- particularly when I serve the dish to guests--- that I think, But that looks like large Labrador shit on a plate. True enough. But once you get past the aesthetics, you have one of the richest savory tastes I can imagine. Good boudin has a velveteen consistency that marries perfectly with the slight tartness of the roasted apples. Add mashed potatoes (with skin and lumps), a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and wake me in the spring.”

SausageSavoryFrench FoodFood CravingsBlood SausageBoudin Noir
Book:Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes
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“The secret of French food," I told Neil between bites, "is that nothing goes to waste. After so many wars, the French learned how to cook everything. Which," I noted, loading my fork with sole, "is usually in a large quantity of butter." He chuckled. "Everything is better with butter." "Well, to be technical, there are four mother sauces. But butter goes in most of them. Anyway, the dandelion greens---leave it to a Frenchwoman to decide they make for good eating." "It was a woman who decided that?" "Would a man get adventurous with weeds?" "Good point.”

French FoodWaste Not
Book:Reservations for Two
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“The caneton took long enough that by the time it showed up, I was hungry again. It was two ducks, actually, tiny and crisp and snuggled tight on a silver tray, swimming in a sauce spiked with brandy and caramel, surrounded by little boats of carved orange peel. It looked exactly like it had in Our World, only better because it was mine. It was the first thing I'd ever eaten where it smelled so good, I tasted it before it hit my mouth. The skin cracked like spring ice. The flesh was almost too salty, almost too sweet, but instead it was perfect--- so tender, I didn't even want to swallow. I just wanted to hold it in my mouth and let it melt. I ate both ducks and knew I'd never be the same. By then I was drunk on butter and salt. But when Jean-Louis brought out a frosted tureen of chocolate mousse, I didn't think of saying no. He slapped it onto my plate like a mason laying down mortar and topped it with a dollop of whipped cream. I licked my plate clean. I didn't think I could stand and was very grateful when, instead of asking me to haul myself out of there, Laurent poured me a little glass of crème de cassis.”

OrangeDessertDuckFrench FoodDinner DateChocolate Mousse
Book:To Kill a Cook
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“And then Henry saw it. The tart. It was small, so small it could fit in the palm of his hand, and filled with some kind of fruit- apple, probably, or maybe pear or some kind of stone fruit- but the fruit was sliced so thin that Henry couldn't tell what it was. Each slice was arranged like the petal of a flower, so that the tart looked exactly like a rose. A buttery, sugary, edible pastry rose.”

DesignRoseFruitFrench FoodPastryTart
Book:Love à la Mode
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“Rognons de Veau à la Bordelaise is simplicity itself to make; no different, essentially, from Poulet Sauté, and no different, especially, from Bifteck Sauté Bercy. In fact, making it that night felt like falling into a time warp- I stood before the stove, melting butter and browning meat and smelling the smells of wine deglazing and shallots softening- but the dishes changed before my eyes, and I heard Julia warbling, "Boeuf Bourguignon is the same as Coq au Vin. You can use lamb, you can use veal, you can use pork....”

KidneysSmellsFrench CookingFrench FoodJulia ChildJulie Powell
Book:Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously
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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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“Page after page of sauces. Page after page of soups. Bisque of snipe à la bonne bouche. Bisque of crab à la Fitzhardinge, which included adding a pint of boiling cream. Puree of asparagus à la St George involved three dozen small quenelles of fowl and half a pint of small fillets of red tongue. Mercy me. I flicked on. What on earth was ragout of cock's kernels à la soubise, or ragout of ox palates? At the Tilleys' residence, we rarely ate offal. Mr Tilley was fond of liver and bacon, but Mrs Tilley saw offal as food of the lower classes, for those who could afford nothing better. So our meals were good old-fashioned roast beef, leg of lamb, chops and steaks, with thee occasional steak and kidney pie. These recipes looked horribly complicated: Put about half a pound of cock's kernels, with cold water, into a stewpan, let it stand by the side of a slow fire to remove the little blood they contain, taking care that the water does not become too warm. I read on. As soon as they whiten... pat of butter... simmer... drain them on a napkin... small stewpan, with a ragout-spoonful of Soubise sauce and a little Allemande sauce...”

RecipesFrench FoodMeatsOffalCookbooks
Book:Above the Bay of Angels
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“The plate the waiter now set before her looked like an abstract painting: vivid green shot through with bright-coral slashes. "Taste!" he urged. It was clearly a fish but so sweet she did not recognize it. Looking at the color, she hazarded a guess. "Salmon? Or maybe not. It doesn't taste like salmon." Troisgros looked very pleased. "That is because it was caught just this morning in the Allier, our local river. But also because we preserve the color by slicing the fish very thinly and searing it for just a few seconds." "So it's almost raw?" She wasn't sure about this. "In Japan they eat their fish raw." She took another bite; the herbal sauce flirted with bitterness. "The flavor is so green I feel I'm eating color." "Sorrel." He gestured to the waiter, who removed the plates and then set a single small bird surrounded by sliced fruit in front of each of them. "Sarcelle aux abricots," he announced. "Sarcelle?" Stella did not recognize the word. "It's a freshwater duck," said Jules. "I can't remember the word in English." "Teal," Troisgros supplied. Stella closed her eyes and tried describing the flavor. "It tastes wild." She began to dream herself into the dish as if it were a painting, imagining a golden field in the sunshine, feeling the air rush past, hearing the sound of her own wings. Circling in a great joyous arc, she spotted a tree covered in tawny fruits, breathed their perfume in the air. "I wanted---" the chef was watching her--- "to give you the essence of the animal. To let you taste what the duck ate on her flight through life.”

DuckColorfulFrench FoodVisualizeGastronomieRaw Fish
Book:The Paris Novel
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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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“So many different kinds of fruit and vegetables! Eggplants of all sizes, in every shade of purple, white, and black! Dozens of onion-scented things that weren't the traditional farmhouse variety: leeks, scallions, long green onions, calçots, chives... Ten different kinds of peaches! Remi felt drunk on the sweet, sugary smells that wafted up from the fruit as the sunlight hit it. He almost fell to the ground when he came to the fromageries. The combination of fine cheeses being sold from those booths was too much for his refined nose, which was already a thousand times more sensitive than a normal rat nose. It was like he was eating by breathing, like he was swimming through an ocean of fromage.”

French FoodRemyLiz BraswellFromage
Book:A Twisted Tale Anthology
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“The good thing about starting your Thanksgiving feast with Oeufs en Gelée is that everything afterward is going to taste pretty goddamned great by comparison, and by the time we'd gotten through the gorgeously crisp and moist goose, the prunes stuffed with duck liver mousse, the cabbage with chestnuts, the green beans, and the creamed onions, aspic was largely forgotten, and we didn't even mind much that I had begun the Thanksgiving preparations with the absolutely insane idea that I would make chocolate soufflé for dessert once we were finished with dinner. This, of course, being the delusion of a diseased mind.”

Thanksgiving DinnerFrench Food
Book:Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously
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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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“For our final meal we decided on a blow-out dinner at the rustic and chic le Boeuf et le Cochon, where Quebecois chef Luc Roy brings fancy French peasant food to the Montreal masses by making it both comforting and extremely decadent. Like foie gras poutine with squeaky curds from his own dairy farm and seared duck breast with foraged chanterelles, all set amidst a simple room of rough-hewn beams and exposed brick. After much deliberation, here's what we ended up ordering: •seafood tower featuring crab legs, oysters, clams, shrimp, mussels, snails, and conch--- much of it culled from the nearby St. Lawrence River (The furry conch shell was a tad challenging.) •foie gras poutine (The consensus was "disturbingly delicious".) •two-pound lobster stuffed with fall vegetables and doused in Béarnaise (Lilly's favorite" "Can you make this for me on my birthday?" she asked between mouthfuls. I'll have to remember. It'll be a nice surprise.) •hanger steak with a sidecar of mushroom Bordelaise (Trish's favorite. She's super into protein these days.) •lamb shank with green lentils ("Unappealing color combo" was the verdict.) •pouding chômeur (Warm, mapley heaven! New favorite dessert alert!)”

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Book:Off Menu
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“They're the finest of salicornes, green beans from the sea, from Brittany, très exotique. I thought you'd adore them." She holds out a large bag and, without even opening it, the scent envelops me and I'm no longer in the restaurant. I'm running by the ocean, powdery sand sticking in between my toes, waves crashing around me as I dive into the sea with reckless abandon. The water swells into a froth, whipped like freshly made Chantilly. My body glistens with water droplets.”

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Book:The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique
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“To Merveilleuse's surprise she comes across a large ram in a clearing, with gilt horns and a garland of flowers round his neck, reposing on a couch of orange blossom beneath a pavilion of golden cloth. But still, a ram, with his nose like an ink blot, flies on his white lashes, wool the color of curds. Around him a hundred gaily decked sheep graze not on grass but coffee, sherbet, ices, and sweetmeats, whilst partaking in games of basset and lansquenet. Soon he takes her into a cavern, which is a gate to his underworld kingdom. It has meadows of a thousand different flowers; a broad river of orange-flower water; fountains of Spanish wine and liqueurs. There are entire avenues of trees, stuffed with partridges better larded and dressed than you would get them at the finest Paris restaurants; quails, young rabbits, and ortolans. In certain parts, where the atmosphere appears a little hazy, it rains bisque d'écrevisses, foie gras, and ragout of sweetbreads. His palace is formed by tangled orange trees, jasmines, honeysuckle, and little musk-roses, whose interlaced branches form cabinets, halls, and chambers, all hung with golden gauze and furnished with large mirrors and fine paintings.”

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Book:The Modern Fairies
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“Panisses, those chickpea fritters sold by vendors on every street corner, and served with harissa, tomatoes, or roasted halloumi, or grilled sardines; navettes, the little orange-flower biscuits Louis serves with coffee; fougasse, that crispy Provençal bread, enriched with olive oil and herbs; pieds paquets in spicy tomato sauce; olive tapenade with salt lemon confit.It feels good to learn, and Louis admits that I may have an aptitude. He has grown warmer towards me. The customers are happy. I am even allowed officially to handle the book of recipes. Each one has a story. This tapenade is the first thing she made, when she was only eight years old, in her grandmother's kitchen. This is her mother's clafoutis, made with the fat yellow cherries from the tree at the back of the garden. And these pomponettes are what she made for the guests on her wedding day; scented with orange blossom and sprinkled with nuts and sugar. Orange is the scent of hope, she writes in hasty handwriting. A promise of something small and sweet. A vow, built from spun sugar and dreams, melting in the sunlight.”

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Book:Vianne
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“They were all there for the food, the drink, and the ambience, even as everyone devoured plates as disparate as Korean bibimbap and French vichyssoise. "I'm going over there." Ana pointed to a midnight-blue food truck that was known for having the best bao, steamed Vietnamese buns, in Denver. Which, given the popularity of the southeast Asian cuisine in the city lately, was more of an accomplishment than it might have seemed. "What about you?" Rachel asked Melody. "I'm having what you're having. You never steer me wrong." "Then A Parisian in Denver is the way to go. Come on. I want to say hello to Lilia." They found their way to the end of the line in front of a food truck painted in red, blue, and white, and Rachel craned her neck to feet a better look at the chalkboard that proclaimed the day's specials. There was French street food like crepes and merguez sausages alongside trendy favorites like duck confit pommes frites.”

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Book:The Saturday Night Supper Club
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“Monsieur Fernand...took them to a large busy restaurant where they sat at a table outside on the pavement and ordered a meal. 'Snails for the children!' cried Fernand. 'They've never tried them.' Max stared at his portion in horror and could not bring himself to touch them. But Anna, encouraged by Francine, tried one and found that it tasted like a very delicious mushroom.”

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Book:When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit
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“Soon, things were heating up in the kitchen. The first course was a variation on a French recipe that had been around since Escoffier, Baccala Brandade. Angelina created a silky forcemeat with milk, codfish, olive oil, pepper, and slow-roasted garlic, a drizzle of lemon juice, and a shower of fresh parsley, then served it as a dip with sliced sourdough and warmed pita-bread wedges, paired with glasses of bubbly Prosecco. The second course had been a favorite of her mother's called Angels on Horseback- freshly shucked oysters, wrapped in thin slices of prosciutto, then broiled on slices of herb-buttered bread. When the oysters cooked, they curled up to resemble tiny angels' wings. Angelina accented the freshness of the oyster with a dab of anchovy paste and wasabi on each hors d'oeuvre. She'd loved the Angels since she was a little girl; they were a heavenly mouthful. This was followed by a Caesar salad topped with hot, batter-dipped, deep-fried smelts. Angelina's father used to crunch his way through the small, silvery fish like French fries. Tonight, Angelina arranged them artfully around mounds of Caesar salad on each plate and ushered them out the door. For the fifth course, Angelina had prepared a big pot of her Mediterranean Clam Soup the night before, a lighter version of Manhattan clam chowder. The last two courses were Parmesan-Stuffed Poached Calamari over Linguine in Red Sauce, and the piece de resistance, Broiled Flounder with a Coriander Reduction.”

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Book:Angelina's Bachelors
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“Catherine de Medici brought her cooks to France when she married, and those cooks brought sherbet and custard and cream puffs, artichokes and onion soup, and the idea of roasting birds with oranges. As well as cooks, she brought embroidery and handkerchiefs, perfumes and lingerie, silverware and glassware and the idea that gathering around a table was something to be done thoughtfully. In essence, she brought being French to France.”

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Book:The Arrangement
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“Eden plates the shrimp stew and adds a bit of orange zest on top for a hit of refreshing citrus. The shrimp--- now a beautiful bright red amidst roasted garlic and fennel--- radiates steam. The soup itself is more of a sauce, hearty and thick and zesty. Next is the coq au vin. She's prepared a smaller batch in light of the fast serving time. It's as traditional as they come, but Eden honestly can't think of any way to make it 'her rendition.' She's added a side of white rice and places a savory chicken thigh atop of the mound, broth soaking into each individual grain. The mousse is a pain in the ass, but Eden doesn't give up. As much as she loves to eat desserts, she has a hell of a time preparing them. Eden just doesn't have the patience. Mousse itself takes forever to whip up to the right consistency, and considering the fact that she has a million other things to worry about, she can't get it quite the way she likes. She tops it off with a healthy dose of whipped cream, sprinkling bits of hard chocolate overtop to cover up the fact that it isn't the prettiest thing to look at.”

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Book:Knives, Seasoning, & A Dash of Love
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“I volunteered to go down to the market to purchase fresh whitebait the day of the queen's arrival. Mr Angelo cooked a couple of capons to serve cold with a veronique sauce and grapes. And at dinner that night, we joined the French chefs, eating at the kitchen tables. I have to admit it: the bouillabaisse was one of the most delicious things I had ever tasted. The rich broth, tasting of both fish and tomato, and with a spicy tang to it, and the little pieces of fish and seafood coming unexpectedly on to the spoon. And the crusty bread to dip into it? Heaven. "How do you prepare the sauce?" I asked. When I found out they started with twelve cloves of garlic, Mr Angelo shook his head. "The queen wouldn't approve, would she? Nothing that would make her breath smell bad," he said. "You know she's always forbidden garlic." "How would she know?" Chef Lepin asked. "If garlic is cooked well, it does not come on the breath." Then he came over to me. "And I saved you a morsel of the octopus," he said. He stuck his fork into what looked like a piece of brown grilled meat and held it up to my mouth, as one feeds a child. The gesture was somehow so intimate that it startled me. I opened my mouth obediently and felt the explosion of flavor- saffron and garlic and a hint of spiciness and flesh so tender it almost melted.”

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Book:Above the Bay of Angels
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