Platefuls of passion in Paris

As I write this, in my hands I’m holding a cognac that is caramelized and dignified; its legs elegantly swirl around the thin, crystal glass. The alcohol warms my body and slowly digests the kilo of smelly old Brie I had for dinner and my two and a half weeks of European food sensations. It is cold for Aug. 15 and the rain hasn’t stopped caressing the windows. Is Paris crying for my departure?

It is Sunday and as I look back on my vacation, the cognac seems to shed some light on the best of it all. Two and a half weeks were spent on simply enjoying life. Seeing old friends, meeting new ones; taking the time to read books and walk down cobblestone streets, to reconnect with the world and with one’s self; inhaling the beauty of lovingly farmed vegetables and artisanal cheeses; indulging in extravagant haute cuisine and plunging into hearty, country and home-cooked food. And the wine … oh, yes, the wine.

Europe is intoxicating. Paris for me, it’s almost sinful. This time around I completely ignored what this artful place had to offer in terms of fashion and culture, and embraced my passion completely. I let myself be engulfed in its baguettes, entrecotes, pain au chocolat, escargots, frites, rosé, brouilly… It rained butter on my plain as it’s been raining buckets today. Allow me to share my favorite dishes with a dollop of nostalgia and the slightly mean intention of making your mouths water.

Square Trousseau is a jewel of a bistro. Situated not far from the Bastille area, it is typically Parisian, the walls are covered with fine wood carvings and little Tiffany-style chandeliers. Have you seen the film Gigi? Well, you can imagine Yves Montand and Leslie Caron sharing a flirt and an île flottante in the corner banquette. The menu was simple, but well curated and every single item appealed to me. I had my beau in front of me, a nice Saint Estèphe in my glass and 12 wonderfully tender, butter-infused snails. A freshly made persillade is close to seeing the face of God. Fresh flat-leaf parsley, finely minced garlic and as much butter as you can find. The snails were far from the rubbery poor souls in most touristy Paris joints but were little pillows of perfection. Only true love made me share two pieces with Jonathan. Otherwise I would’ve stabbed with a two-toothed escargot fork any hand that came close.

As if I hadn’t had enough butter and strange slimy things, a plate of the cutest little frogs’ legs were swimming in melting heaven. It was like a tiny mountain of small sexy, firm buns that I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into. The thighs were just the right balance of bite and softness and I couldn’t help but feel a little bit of guilty pleasure as I licked the last drop of butter from my fingers. It was just so good.

Flash-forward to a week later, dressed in raggedy Sunday clothes coming from a somewhat entertaining movie, hunger quickly took over. L’Entrecôte was full of people and all other side cafés seemed unappealing.  We walked and wandered aimlessly as the street was full of “closed for August” restaurants and residential entryways. Almost desperate and half cranked, we came upon the temple of modern haute cuisine: L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon.

In my six years in France, je boudais Joel Robuchon. Bouder in French means to purposely ignore something out of spite. Joel Robuchon, très grand chef, expanded his brand of restos L’Atelier all over the world like a fancy McDonald’s of haute cuisine. You couldn’t go anywhere without seeing his face on frozen food products, pre-cooked dinners sold on the TGV train, books… He was a sellout in my eyes and I never understood the whole shebang around him till that fateful day. In our Sunday’s-worst shorts, polo shirt and sneakers, they gave us two barstools overlooking his workshop.

Today, as far as I’m concerned, Joel Robuchon can put his face on my cereal box and even on my toilet paper if he wants to because when your food is that amazing, you can do whatever you want. Perfectly portioned plates allowed us to do the whole nine yards: appetizer, two entrées, dessert. The wine, oh, the wine … a beautiful Saint Julien. Small bites of langoustine ravioli with confit cabbage and a foie gras cream sauce. A salad of octopus so fresh it was like being in the Greek isles. The most adorable little cotelettes de cochon de lait (suckling pig) so gently cooked I said a small prayer for the baby pig that had such a glorified end on my plate. Quail stuffed with foie gras served with a soy caramel jus, fresh dill and potato purée with summer truffles perched elegantly on top.

For the first time in my life, after reading countless classic recipes, I tried ris de veau. It was such an epiphany. Who knew that the thyroid glands of a calf tasted so good? That such humble parts often thrown away could have so much flavor and texture? It was tossed up in a very hot pan with fresh chanterelle mushrooms and buttery truffle foam, then served on our plates with dainty dill and chervil leaves. We finished with the most sublime strawberries and fraises des bois, the rarest and sweetest strawberries so precious they rot one day after picking. Monsieur Robuchon, I’m sorry for judging you. I will forever be indebted to your craft for this truly fine experience.

On my second glass of cognac now, my bags are packed downstairs with my five kilos of cookbooks, two kilos of fromage and truffled foie gras. I contemplate how much I will miss Paris and all its buttery goodness. I will miss my friends who share the same passions as I do and the mere fact that I’m surrounded by abundant quality and tradition. But the I think of all the things I’ve learned and it excites me to experiment in the kitchen back in Manila for my friends there, share my foie gras and epoisse with my family next Sunday, and try old techniques on exotic tropical ingredients. Ah! Life is a feast. So I hope you enjoy feasting with me.

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You can contact me at http://twitter.com/stephaniezubiri.