5: Feeding myself.
Mentsuyu, salad, and duck in my Paris kitchen.
Billie lies on the floor next to her dog bed. Her snout is not pointed in my direction. Yet, I know every nerve sensor in her slightly wet nose is on red alert for the moment when I start cooking my dinner. Every afternoon, after she finishes her dinner, she grows impatient. She associates the end of her dinner with the start of mine, even though I do not begin preparing dinner for two further hours. It’s the empty dinner plate I set down on the floor for her after I finish eating my dinner that she’s waiting for. If she’s lucky, there will be a little juice or fat for her to lick up. However little, it’s enough to make her pushy as soon as she has cleaned her own bowl. Why aren’t you starting dinner? her body language telegraphs. Occasionally, she will whimper, a pity ploy that always fails. In resignation, she slumps to the floor by her bed.
I can’t blame her, really. In my first two weeks in Paris, I made dinner out of food I didn’t regularly eat back in California, like paté and redolent soft cheese. I have since cut back on the amount of rich food I consume, which makes me sympathetic to her objections. She’s annoyed that I have returned to my old habit of keeping my homemade mentsuyu in the fridge.1 I find nothing more satisfying than pouring the dashi-sake-mirin-soy concentrate, diluted with 6:1 water ratio, over cooked soba or somen noodles, and then topping the noodle and broth with shredded nori, sliced scallion, and a jammy egg. Perfect light dinner. Or I might have dumplings in chicken broth or dashi. Or pan-fried noodles. I owe my stock of Chinese and Japanese ingredients in pantry, fridge, and freezer to the accessibility of Chen’s Market on the Line 3 on the Métro.
When I want a change from noodles, I roam the markets more widely. But I always include fresh greens of some kind or fruit. Most of the lettuce I see in the open air markets and stores here comes from large produce wholesalers outside the city.2 It all looks the same. The voluptuous heads of red-green lettuce or elegant off-white chicory show up in co-ops, like Terroir d’avenir, which buy their produce from small farms. I try not to buy out of season, but sometimes I can’t resist. The other day, I bought some cherries and a small basket of strawberries, neither of which are in season. The cherries, meh. The strawberries, however, tasted like strawberries, to my surprise.
On the day I bought the cherries, I passed a market at the other end of the city, behind the Hôtel de Ville. The produce arrayed on the vendors’ tables looked like the ordinary standard stuff I see at most markets. On the outer edge of the market, however, I came across a vendor selling terrines, smoked ham, cured meats, foie gras, and duck. One perfect, plump half duck boob, longer and thicker than a large hand, lay all by itself on a small plastic cutting board. When the woman weighed it for me, it came to only eight euros, half of what I would have paid back in CA. It was big enough for at least two meals. So, I bought it.
That night, I abandoned my austerity regime. The week’s stressful bureaucratic chores motivated me to cook dinner for myself with especial care. I believe whole-heartedly in cooking for myself as a form of comfort, communion with myself, and meditation. As a soloist, I find nothing gets me down like the prospect of a dinner thrown together just to get it over with. A meal like that is pitiful. I might make something as quick and simple as scrambled eggs, but I prepare them thoughtfully and savor them. I almost never order take-out. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Some people soak in a tub, unwind in front of the TV, have sex, or drink. Not me. Well, I admit to wine before and during dinner. When I’m home alone, which was most evenings in California and every evening so far here in Paris, I relish a nice little meal, wine, reading my periodicals, listening to music, and then ending the evening by reading books or watching something on my laptop (or back in California, on TV). That, to me, is a well-lived life in the dark hours, blended with talking to friends and family. So, I indulged in some forward planning for the half duck breast.
When I got back to my flat, I cut the half-breast in half. I put one piece in the freezer. I scored and salted the other half. Mincing a shallot and slicing the cherries settled the undercurrent of jangled nerves I’ve felt all week. I had the foresight, the day before, to make an easy pot of white beans with sofritto. I planned to add a cupful to the duck3. I opened a bottle of red Burgundy and defrosted a little broth I made from a rotisserie chicken last week. I set the flame to medium. A couple of slugs of olive oil slithered across the floor of the skillet. Once the pan was suitably hot, I added the duck, skin side down. Within 3 minutes, the skin turned golden and crusty. I flipped it over, pressed it down, and nudged it repeatedly to feel when the flesh started firming up. Before a total of 5 minutes had passed, I moved the duck from the pan to a plate and covered it loosely. I sauteed the minced shallot in little more olive oil for a minute, added the cherries, stripped a few twigs of thyme of their leaves, a bit of salt, and added about ¼ cup of broth and almost as much red wine. I let it all reduce for a few minutes. Right before I turned off the heat, I put a dab of butter and swirled it around.4
While engrossed in watching the duck and tasting the sauce, Billie, small and indignant, circled my ankles. I put lettuce in a bowl and shook the bottle of vinaigrette I made a couple of days ago. When I laid the duck slices on the plate, there was more meat than I expected from a quarter of a duck breast. Oh, who cares. If there’s any left over (which there wasn’t), I’d add it to tomorrow night’s salad or soup.
The meal did the job I intended it to do. The meat was distinctly rosy. The sauce and beans were silky. I relaxed. WQXR, the NYC classical station, streamed through my phone. My next red tape project of obtaining private health insurance (including the mandatory repatriation coverage, by the way) could wait until tomorrow. Once I had signed up, I would be ready for my visa appointment on December 31st, in midtown Manhattan, at noon (yeah, let’s not go there yet). For the moment, I had a very nice dinner, followed by a couple of phone calls to family and friends waking up in California and the latest episode of “Shrinking.” Onward.
Kenji Lopez-Alt’s recipe from The Wok.
What little I know about the sources of produce comes from David Lebovitz’s essential Instagram account and Substack newsletter. But, if you’re reading this, I probably don’t have to tell you that.
Judy Rogers’s duck leg braised in red wine with white beans, prunes, and bacon is always in the back of my mind when I make duck at home.
It was at this point I realized I should have added drops of balsamic vinegar, which would have intensified the cherry flavor.
Sally, You make me think that like Lee Miller, I should reopen my cookbooks after I finally finish the book I've been writing for twenty years!! You make it all sound like such fun, cooking and Paris. Can't wait!!