ESCOFFIER

“I wouldn’t consider a program to be serious if it didn’t teach Escoffier, or classic French techniques” Julia Child        

                        

  

  Nicknamed “King of Chefs and Chef of Kings”, Georges Auguste Escoffier’s list of loyal followers included royals, writers, movie stars, and divas. In contrast, his portrait shows a grounded man of distinction.  He appears deep in thought, knuckles perched under his dimpled chin, a grey mustache frowns just above his lips.  His other well-manicured hand often times resting on papers, while his fingers hold a fountain pen, he exudes stoic confidence. His name is associated with some of Europe’s most legendary hotels including: the Grand Hotel in Monte Carlo, the Carlton and Savoy in London, and the Ritz in Paris.  And with two culinary schools in the United States, nearly 80 years after his death his presence and teachings continue to flourish.  I wanted to know why.

My curiosity brought me to his home, the Musée Escoffier de l'Art Culinaire.   The afternoon I arrived in the sleepy picturesque village of Villeneuve-Loubet, I was cheerfully greeted by the assistant curator, Julie Durand - no stranger herself to the culinary world as her father is a retired chocolatier from Aix-en-Provence.  Her admiration and enthusiasm for Escoffier is contagious.  Listening to the animated Ms. Durand was the next best thing to traveling back in time.  Walking through his home, she pointed out personal relics that included Escoffier’s hand written love letters to his wife, family photographs and countless notes of accolades from his admirers.  Leather bound books were abundant in his study, which also happens to be the room where he was born.  Here you will find first editions of his own work, Le Guide Culinaire and Ma Cuisine.  

Upstairs the visitor is treated to two exceptional spaces.  One room, located behind a velvet red drape, is devoted to L’Art Pâtissier.  The scent of dozens of edible sculptures will leave your nose happy and your mouth watering.  This space also houses one of the oldest sugar sculptures in the world, a beautiful train that sparkled like fresh snow, dating from the 1920’s.  The second room is the Salle des Menus.  If you appreciate art, poetry, and cuisine, here you will find happiness.  Escoffier’s brilliance stretched beyond his ingenuity in the kitchen.  He saw the design of menus as an opportunity to enhance and prolong the dining experience.  When creating a menu, he set out for it to flow like a poem.  The words became intangible elements, foreplay to the meal, creating anticipation among the diners. The beautiful artwork, fanciful colors, and dainty poetic script were worthy of the gold gilded frames many now call home.  These well-preserved, parchment remnants of the past are quite telling of the time in which he worked, but their beauty took a backstage as I noticed another element of the Belle Époque waiting for my attention.  Maxim’s.

Maxim’s in Paris, these three words alone conjure up images of opulence and excess: rich red walls, gold rimmed mirrors, chandeliers that dripped with jewels, art deco glass floating overhead, fresh roses on table tops, and champagne flowing like its neighbor, the Seine.  If you’ve wished for a tiny glimpse of life at the famous restaurant during the height of the Belle Époque, there is a table reserved at the museum.  Granted, it’s behind glass, but nonetheless, your eyes are rewarded with a true setting from this bygone era.  As I admired the pretty table lamp, topped with a pale pink fabric shade, my guide was quick to point out the significance, the color was chosen because of the pink glow it cast upon diners.  Everyone at Maxim’s wanted to sparkle and dazzle, the rose tinged light from the shades became an accessory that enhanced the beauty of anyone within its shadow.

  

While the books and museum were wonderful in enhancing my understanding of Escoffier, his essence didn’t truly come to life until I tasted one of his most famous creations, the Peach Melba. Armed with a copy of his original recipe, I set out to replicate his creation.  It is a basic dessert, consisting of vanilla ice cream topped with ripe poached peaches and a raspberry sugar glaze.  My first bite tasted like summer.  Refreshing.  It reminded me of the simplicities that accompanied my youth.  This dessert, not unlike Escoffier is memorable, not because of a complicated mixture of ingredients, but the opposite.  They are true to their origins, not attempting to be anything less and not needing to be more; neither demanding nor screaming for your affection, but both bring you back longing for more.  

Georges Auguste Escoffier is buried in Villeneuve-Loubet, but his memory and teachings live…

Paper Peddler

Our nose can lead us to many places.  Some people fall in love with the intoxicating potential of a perfume or cologne, others are led by scents capable of filling their stomachs.  And then there are those possessing noses that hide silently behind the spine of an object laced with the scent of ink. Books.

I’m not certain when or how it happened, but over the last few years I’ve developed a habit.  I visit independent book shops.  In the beginning, it was by accident that I would stumble upon these pint sized gems, but over time, I began to search their existence.  My fascination isn’t only with books, it’s the souls that choose to make book peddling a full time job.

Rodney’s store is called The Fine Bookshop.  It was an accident I tripped over while meandering around a cobblestone pedestrian street in Palma de Mallorca.  Entering the open doorway, I noticed a disheveled man with wild grey hair and metal rimmed spectacles perched behind a desk engrossed in a football game being played on a black and white, palm sized TV.  His attire seemed to mimic his hair, washed in shades of pale grey.  The button down shirt only made half an effort to be tucked in and his trousers looked like they would run in fear if an iron ever graced their presence.  This man was beautiful, although his greeting wasn’t exactly warm.  Moving past Rodney, I noticed scattered haphazardly various pieces of framed art and maps, vintage phones, typewriters, and globes older than Rodney.  All of these fragments, combined with his collection of rare and used books left me intrigued.  I wanted to leave with a remnant of this labyrinth; so I asked if he had any books by Robert Graves, a poet who lived and died in Mallorca.  With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he showed me the way.  As we passed stacks of books, challenging me in height, Rodney snickered to himself, recalling the times he would drink with the author. This wasn’t difficult to imagine.  I could easily see him swigging a shot with classics like Graves, as much as I could see him partying with the likes of Bill Wyman. There’s just something that screams he’s “been there, done that”.  No questions asked. Telling him I was on a budget that compared to his palm sized TV, he handed me a tattered parchment colored hardback that was a first edition of poems.  It was so small, I could fit it in my back pocket.  Not unlike the bookshop and its owner, my new book wasn’t perfectly intact, it too appeared to have stories that stretched beyond the coffee stained cover.  I loved the tangible element I could take with me of the whimsical disheveled mess I’d stumbled upon in Palma.  Both Rodney and his collection affirmed that the world of independent bookshops are wondrous and filled with elements a Kindle could only dream of, a heartbeat along with ink stained pages. 

Recently, while in the south France, my fascination with independent bookshops brought me to three different locations.  I sipped cappuccino while thumbing through books in a wonderful two story shop, Bar in Book while in Aix en Provence.  The owner, along with her employees were welcoming and accommodating.  After purchasing my new book companion, I found myself running back inside to ask the owner if I could snap her picture.  Like a proud mother hen, she insisted to be photographed with all her prized employees.  Next on the list was a jewel of a town called Valbonne, where I found myself in a quaint shop called The English Book Centre.  The space was the size of a Texas walk in closet (which also happens to be where the owner is from, Texas, not a closet).  What it lacked in space, it made up with in charm.  Like a refreshing Mint Julep on a hot summer day, these two shops offered a cool dose to quench my thirst for knowledge. 

But the third was the best surprise.  The store’s location is known more for the percentage of billionaires, than books.  Glitzy, glamorous Monaco.  American, Siri Khalsa had the fresh glow that normally accompanies mothers of a newborn. Her newest addition won’t be wearing milk stained bibs or babbling words from lips.  Siri’s newest addition is the Book Boutique of Monaco (also known as BOMO). Before stepping in the doorway, I knew this store was going to be different from all the others.  And I was right.

Most independent book shops ooze with old world charm, like Shakespeare and Company in Paris.  These places pride themselves, rightfully so, not only on their collection of books, but the architectural space their books call home.  Many shops in Europe are housed in buildings predating the French Revolution.  With the exception of books, Siri’s boutique lacked most of the qualities found in the other independent stores.  Not unlike the owner, the shop exudes grace.

Walking up to the structure, you're struck by the glistening windows and the fresh streamlined blue and white logo hanging over the entrance.  No lopsided signs here, nor was there a book out of place or dust among the pages. The space didn’t scream old world, more like it whispered with a crisp, confident sense of clarity, “I’m here, therefore I am”.  Like a new born baby, all it needed to do was lie still and allow others to inhale its natural beauty.  The snugly corner location offers plenty of light filled windows.  The space feels smart, yet accessible.  Nearly a quarter of the store is dedicated to the future readers of the world, children.  I enjoyed watching my five year old dash for the playful tent filled with puppets, while her older sisters reminisced about their favorite childhood books and their dad and I perused the shelves.

Before leaving, I pulled a book from Siri’s suggested title shelf by an unfamiliar author. With a genuine smile she treated me to a tutorial that rivaled a mini university lecture, a sneak preview of why she admired the woman I would soon explore on my own. Siri was a beautiful reminder of the wisdom and wonders that can only transpire by walking through the doorway of an independent book store.  The books are brilliant, but the heartbeats that glow within are the real classics.

And for those who read my last article, “Turning Lemons into Oranges”, Falling in Honey by Jennifer Barclay was just as delicious as the title! 

Long live the book peddler, and their followers…

Turning Lemons into Oranges

A few months ago, our family booked a dream vacation to the tiny Greek island of Santorini.  It was surreal to imagine what I had always admired in the glossy pages of a magazine would become a reality. We found a chartered flight on Condor Airlines from Brussels, booked a traditional white cave residence and had our car rental reserved.  I even ordered a wonderful book about a woman that travels and decides to stay in Greece, Falling in Honey.  My book arrived three weeks before our scheduled departure, the same day we received an email from Condor Airlines.  Apparently they had not only changed our travel dates, but also the final destination had been changed to Crete.  We were told our option was to cancel and receive a full refund or go with their changes and find our own transportation from Crete to Santorini (a seven hour ferry).  We chose to cancel, not because Crete wouldn’t have been wonderful, I’m certain it is, but because Crete wasn’t the dream, nor was the seven hour ferry crossing.  The book’s title seemed to mock the situation.  Like the gooey offerings from a bee, this vacation was becoming a sticky mess.  The Condor reservation agent said this change was rare, but it didn’t feel like a rarity when it happened to us.  I took this as a proverbial Greek sign…the Gods were not ready for our family to descend upon the Greek Isles.   With only three weeks until our vacation, it was time to find an alternative.  Goodbye Santorini.

I found myself rummaging madly through the library’s travel books, asking neighbors for suggestions, all while listening to our four daughters’ opinions.  Our family of six agreed on one thing, it must be sunny and warm. It’s an odd problem to have when our location in Belgium gives us such rich access to so many wonderful destinations, most at reasonable costs.  We looked seriously at the three M’s:  Madeira, Morocco, and Malta; but after much thought, my husband and I agreed, they just didn’t feel right for this vacation.  While it was important (especially for our girls) to be in a location that offered warm doses of sunshine, it was just as important to their dad and I to be in a place that was easy.  We didn’t want this vacation to be full of logistics and timetables.  We wanted to relax, which is why we decided to go back to a place where we found both relaxation and discovery.  

We traded our Greek lemons for the orange orchards of Provence.  And it feels right.  We not only found a beautiful house that is walking distance to a cafe, bar, and morning newspaper, but also has a pool for the girls.  For nine lovely days we’re staying minutes outside the perfume capital of the world.  Grasse, France. 
 

We’re a quick 15km from Cannes, where we’ll get a sneak peek at where glitz and glamour will unfold in May, as the Hollywood star studded Cannes Film Festival will descend weeks after our departure.  And with Nice also a short drive, we’ll catch a Saturday football match at the Allianz Riviera Stadium and enjoy the visual eye feast of walking along the Promenade des Anglais.  A few other adventures planned, include a trip to Aix en Provence to trace the footsteps of Cézanne and M.F.K. Fisher and visiting the homes of two culinary legends.  As I write, I’m reminding myself to squeeze in relaxing!

Our vacation plans are not turning out as I envisioned, potentially, the reality will be even better.  The Greeks gave me a lemon and I choose to make…orange juice. One day the Greek Gods may pave an easy path for me to discover the bounties of their land, in which case, I’ll jump and happily go.  Along with my travel plans, my new book’s title has taken on a different meaning.  I no longer see a sticky situation, but one with sweet potential. I still plan on packing the memoir I bought about Greece, but I’ll read it in the Provincial sun with a pastis to quench my thirst, instead of an ouzo.

Table for One

I’ll never forget the day I booked a table for one.  My inspiration, my sister.  One night over a glass of wine she confessed how tired she was. Working full time as a teacher while raising three young kids zapped her energy. In a low voice, as if admitting guilt, she whispered, “I fantasize about checking into a hotel room for one night, alone.” Having four kids myself, my sister didn’t need to explain her guilty desire to be locked away in the quiet comforts of a room, alone.  My mind raced to a scene in the movie Date Night (starring Tina Fey and Steve Carell).  Tina Feys character, in a moment of exhaustion seemed to verbally express what so many parents feel at the end of the day, or at least what my sister and I felt...

 “I fantasize about being alone.  There are times when, on my worst day, I’ve thought about just leaving our house and going someplace quiet, like checking into a hotel.  Checking into a room all by myself, in a quiet, air conditioned room, sitting down, eating my lunch, with no one touching me-drinking a diet Sprite, by myself. Every day I get up, make breakfast, go to work, come home clean the house, pick up the kids, take them to soccer, pick them up from soccer, cook dinner, clean up, give the kids a bath and get them into their pajamas which is a fight every night—it’s a BIG SURPRISE to everyone every night that they have to wear pajamas!—and then after I have washed everybody else’s food and boogers off of me, I use whatever energy I have left to physically put myself into bed…”. 

Like chiming church bells, those words along with my sister's rang loudly through my brain. Putting guilt aside, I mustered up the courage to ask my husband to gift me one night alone in a hotel room. We’ve been married 17 years.  Gasp! As soon as I asked , I could feel the bitterness of guilt gurgling inside me.  What was I thinking?  It was too late; the words had already left my reluctant mouth.  To my surprise, my husband was not only understanding, but supportive.  It turns out I’m not exactly a silent sufferer, he knew it had been a long summer entertaining our four energized girls.  Without questioning why I needed a break, he said two words, “Book it”.

I knew exactly where I wanted to spend my gifted night alone, Brussels.  It’s an easy 35 minute train ride from where we live. The goal was to find a hotel that whispered urban sanctuary and was easy walking distance to the Grand Place and Central Train Station.  I wanted the security of being within a short stroll to museums and sites.  Finding a place that catered to my vision wasn’t an easy task.  Brussels is geared, rightfully so, to the business traveler.  Most of the hotels I found seemed to scream corporate, not soothing.  Upon lots of Goggling, I found my 24 hour retreat.  Without a second thought, I booked it!

Hotel Le Dixseptième.  This lovely boutique property consists of 24 rooms and suites.  At one time it was the Spanish ambassador’s residence.  It sits quietly on a tree lined street outside the Central Train Station.  The neighborhood is home to numerous art galleries and antique shops.  Perfect!  Upon entering the hotel I was greeted with a warm smile by the hotel’s receptionist, Josephine.  Josephine was courteous, professional, and accommodating.   She was a great first impression. With my room key in hand, I headed up the beautiful 17th century oak staircase. Opening the door was a breath of fresh air.  The colors were cool, calm, and serene. Shades of grey, cream, white, with subtle splashes of lavender were easy on my tired eyes.  My nest for the night was refreshing and quiet.  I was beginning to feel a sense of relaxation.  If it weren’t that I had called a head for a dinner reservation, I could easily see myself slipping into the plush white robe and black L.D. monogramed slippers waiting beside the bed, but I had a table for one waiting.

The restaurant I chose, La Roue D’Or (The Wheel of Gold).   It sits off an artery road from the Grand Place.  Entering is a feast for the eyes.  The ceilings are painted sea foam green with drifting puffy white clouds.  The chandeliers add a touch of grandeur and offer a nice contrast to the dark wood.  If you’re a fan of the surrealist painter Magritte, you will be in heaven.  The entire restaurant is filled with touches of whimsy.  Behind the bar you’ll find paintings of numerous men in bowler hats with striking blue eyes peering over a ledge.  They seem playful and taunting.  The visual feast continued as my meal arrived.  The fish soup I ordered was accompanied with homemade butter toasted croutons made from French bread.   The broth was think, rich, and filled with clams and tender white fish.  Crumbling the buttery croutons into the soup was comfort in a bowl, whimsically delicious!  With a smile on my face and a full belly, I strolled back to my quiet oasis.  I nestled in with a great book, before falling asleep.

The next morning I splurged on room service.  It was well worth a few extra euros to have coffee and fresh bread delivered to the room.  Breakfast was included in the room rate, but that would mean I needed to get dressed and head down to the dining room.  I really wanted the luxury of having time to enjoy my robe and slippers before having to leave them behind.  As I sat reading my newspaper, enjoying my hot cup of coffee with frothy steamed milk, all I could think was how wonderful it all felt.  There was no more guilt, just simple pleasure.