Home > April in Paris
On Rue Tatin with Chef Susan Herrmann Loomis
Having taken a course with Susan Loomis in Patricia Well’s left bank cooking studio in Paris, it was decided that I would work with Susan and assist her with other classes in Paris and Normandy during the month of November. I would like to share with you some of my experiences with her in her lovely home and cooking school in Louviers, France.
Upon arriving in Louviers, Susan showed me to my room upstairs, and I got settled in. My room was cozy and I couldn’t help but notice the gothic cathedral that stood at the center of the city, outside my bedroom window. I changed into my work clothes, and hurried downstairs to the beautiful French kitchen, I couldn’t wait to start working!
That evening Susan explained the process of setting up for the school and my mind raced with excitement. Every piece of copper gleemed and every utensil, cup and saucer was shined and returned to its coveted place on the beautiful shelves. Susan manicured the terrace and garden and I started on a punch list in the kitchen. We stopped for a delicious dinner of braised endive and a fresh green salad with a dressing made of nut oil. Our dinner was absolutely delightful next to the wood-burning fire in her kitchen.
Saturday morning Susan had already displayed the pristine French pottery teapots and serving dishes on the high shelves over-looking the French-tiled kitchen. We decided to meet early, so that we could beat the crowd at the market. Susan poured me a hot cup of tea, we talked about the adventures for the day and set off to the beautiful outdoor market with our over-sized straw baskets to purchase the fresh ingredients for the upcoming cooking classes.
At the market the air was mixed with the smell of fresh chickens on the rotisserie and the crisp cool air of winter ladened with a tinge of smoke coming from the fireplaces of the ancient story-book like homes that filled the city.
Huge crusty loaves of artisan bread were being sliced with a ragged bread knife and fresh picked apples were being stacked in their wooden crates as Susan told me the story of the proud ‘apple man’ who consistently and passionately shares his delight of being able to offer such great apples to his customers this season. I pictured the apple man as an old man graying and jolly, my vision was quickly interrupted as I zeroed in on the real apple man—a young man in his twenties with a chocolate brown turtle neck and big, smiling eyes. My thoughts of a farmer, will never be the same.
We then made a turn to the left down into the bustling produce area where Susan introduced me to Baptiste, the vegetable farmer who quickly exchanged the xxx—the quick friendly kisses on each cheek the French give upon greeting and departure. I had orders to purchase potatoes, so I quickly returned to business, purchased the pommes de terre and bid my new friend, Baptiste, “Auvoir!”
When Susan approached the cheese display, where everyone knows her well, she requested her selection of cheese and the experts asked when it would be eaten, then several of them hovered into a group as they discussed the best piece for ripeness. I just love France.
I watched as Susan so fluidly asked each artisan for her choice of poultry and meat. Then after she purchased fresh whole rabbit, guinea fowl, pork cheeks and numerous other fresh market finds, we ventured back to Susan’s beautiful home. For some reason, even though all of our bags were overflowing…the bags just seem lighter in France. The rest of the day we prepped for the course that would begin on Sunday.
That evening I took a break and found a place amongst the hundreds of people gathered in the cathedral for a special Christmas program. The church is being totally restored, a young new priest had recently taken the post at the church and according to some of the townspeople, the church had made a real comeback with record numbers of people attending every week. Seeing this special holiday program was a very special memory of this lovely French town.
Back at On Rue Tatin, Susan and I had dinner and then went over more preparations for the class. We decide to meet back in the kitchen the following morning to set up the mise en place, French for ‘everything in its place’ for the cooking class.
Running up the stairs to my room, I was anxious to get to sleep so that I could wake up to the new day. I changed into my pajamas, turned down my bed and turned off the light. As I slid into my bed, I noticed a beautiful warm glow that covered me and poured onto the opposite wall. I turned around in my bed and looked through the wooden elf-like windows towards the mysterious light. I gasped as I saw the clock tower and the towering cathedral shining like a Lambeth method encrusted wedding cake in the night. Tears welled up in my eyes, what a beautiful place. I turned back around and pulled the covers up around my face to warm up. No need to sleep tonight…I felt as if I was already dreaming!
—Aprilxxx
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Spotted Dick, Anyone?
London was great! In between my jaunt to the luxury travel show at Olympia, London and my interview with author Michael Booth (whom I will introduce you to later in an article) and after sight-seeing a lot of the touristy type things, involving the Royal family, Borough Market, and Harrod’s, I think my favorite part of my trip was the dinner with new friends, Freya, Sarah, and Emily.
My English friend in Paris, Charlotte, called her three best friends to meet for dinner Friday night, and this did prove to be a great event, indeed. After texting, emailing and phoning we all four met at the famous Sloane’s Square in the heart of Chelsea.
Dinner in London was really great, Freya glowed the entire dinner as she sprinkled our conversation with colorful anecdotes about her recent engagement to her American boyfriend. She said she will have an English wedding in the country in a church with a reception in a beautiful tent in an English garden. I loved talking about her wedding, with weddings being such a large part of my career thus far, she described the table settings and the florals with shades of ivory and green. Her eyes sparkled like her flawless diamond he had given her, her mind wandered when others at the table spoke, I am sure she was having fond thoughts of her beau across the world, at the moment.
Both Freya and Sarah are accountants, and Emily is finishing her Masters degree in Art History. Currently, she works at a upscale fashion auction house, she quietly mentioned how sometimes she and her coworkers like to try on the vintage Chanel, when no one is looking. Then there was the time recently when a local celebrity brought in a huge amount of horrible clothing from the 80’s and 90’s to be auctioned off. Tongue in cheek, the owner of the auction house had to call the woman and ask that she come retrieve the items, for they weren’t appropriate for the auction house’s elite clientele.
Also mentioned at dinner was our trip to Borough Market the following morning, where Emily recounts many times Gwyneth Paltrow has been seen wearing her large, dark shades and picking through the organic vegetables.
As we finished up our dinner, we each ordered dessert. Emily suggested I have the treacle English pudding and I was delighted to have an authentic English dessert.
Later, in a conversation with Charlotte, I found that I actually had the famous English dessert called Spotted Dick. Yes, it’s true. I first learned about this dessert in my readings in Larousse Gastronomique in 1998 and wondered about the reality of this dessert. I just could not fathom someone asking for the Spotted Dick for dessert at a fine restaurant and I couldn’t shake the idea that it somehow must have ended up in the re-runs of bad Benny Hill shows.
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Update on April In Paris
Hi, everyone! I just wanted you to know there will be an updated entry on Thursday, December 4, 2008! I have been in Normandy (with no internet access) assisting an amazing chef and upon returning to Paris, I have been in classes again from morning until night at Le Cordon Bleu. I look forward to updating you on all of the amazing experiences here in Paris and Normandy. I miss you all! Best Regards, April
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How this Journey Began, A Crack in the Ice
It was in October of 2003. I made my usual pass through the front of my bakery to have friendly exchange with my customers. One of the ‘fixtures’ of the bakery—as I liked to call the customers who had created the bakery as their home away from home—Fixture Joe called for me to sit at his table for a moment of conversation.
As a Pulitzer prize winning author, he often winced when I introduced him to a new customer as a Nobel prize winner. He would respond on more than one occasion, “well, April, I would like to be credited with furthering world peace, however,” then I just blushed profusely and laughed nervously—hoping to smooth over my mistake for the fifthteenth time in my exhausted baking stupor.
Most often we would talk about France. I have always had this ‘thing for France.’ When Fixture Joe would talk about his lengthy excursions with his traveling friend, Fixture Bill, I escaped to a totally different place. Unfortunately, after talking about the food and the incredible boutiques and the painfully obvious tourist attractions, i.e. the Eiffel tower and The Louvre…the Eiffel tower and the Eiffel tower…I had no more words. What could I say? I had never been to France. No matter how hard I would like to pretend, I just plain hadn’t been.
I have one word for Fixture Joe—profound. So now I would like to change Fixture Joe’s name to Profound Joe. One thing is for sure, I don’t think Profound Joe ever advertises himself as a prophet, but, somehow I think he always knows the events that will unfold. This particular day, with my signature dark circles under my eyes, I walked out front for my usual precious rounds with my dear bakery customers.
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Chef Alain Ducasse’s Restaurant Le Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower
As we took the elevator to the second level, anticipation overwhelmed me. My parents, whom were my dinner guests, celebrated their 48th Anniversary this year, what more reason could their be to celebrate? We were led around the glass restaurant until we were seated at a perfect table with a view of twinkling Paris at night, more than 400 feet above the city.
Originally, when making the dinner reservations, I was concerned about choosing a restaurant in a high traffic area for fear of it being too touristy—beautiful view with overpriced disappointing fare. When I came across Le Jules Verne in my research, it proved to be the perfect match for our special birthday outing. Science fiction meets French Master Chef and the resulting experience was not one soon to be forgotten.
Everything in the restaurant had been custom made for the Le Jules Verne down to the NASA-like chairs that allowed the guests to seemingly levitate above the floor. The artist’s modern palette of dark purple with silver and white accents was dramatic against the backdrop of the stellar city. The futuristic ‘organic forms’ plates by JL Coquet, lay face down on the table and the design was coordinated with the 3D design of the ceiling.
Beginning the meal, the server offered an amuse bouche or ‘mouth pleaser’ from the chef to the guests of the table, free of charge. Often the amuse bouche is an example of the chefs cuisine to come, and this was no different—simple and delicious, exactly what Michelin six star Chef Alain Ducasse is famous for. The amuse bouche was a parmesan profiteroles. Next, we savored une petite portions of a warm lemon butter cream with perfect vegetables in tiny glass ramekins with tiny glass spoons.
A sea salt pastry, a whole wheat or crusty sourdough roll was offered at the table with fresh butter, there was no doubt the butter was fresh from Brittany. The service was ideally comfortable and not too fussy or overbearing. The crowning moment of service was when three servers delivered our entrees to the table and each placed our plate in front of each guest at the same time, then proceeded to pour the sauce or au jus in unison onto our perfectly painted plates.
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Ritzy School
Chef Didier walked in and introduced himself to me and the others in our culinary class. The director over the chefs in the Ecole Ritz Escoffier, chef Didier is definitely one to be commended and revered. Didier is a fantastic chef and by the time I finished my coursework with him, we had gone over my favorite part of the culinary world: bread making and viennese pastry. The perfect French delights that no other culture has been able to duplicate or even come close to, precisely the reason I came to Paris.
Each morning started with a delightful coffee and pastry break served by Charlotte, Didier’s assistant. Thanks to Charlotte, the entire course was translated from French to English, just for me. She was schooled in English, but, I am convinced she will be in hospitality before it is all over with. She has a kind demeanor, an amazing gift for multi-tasking and makes everyone feel as if they are the only person in the room.
After our morning break, we would typically have an introduction to the day by lecture. Then after going over the basics, baking history, baker’s percentages, wheat varieties, temperature, humidity and timing we were off to the kitchen. Each day was spent mixing, shaping, baking, and experimenting with different techniques and exotic flavors.
Part of the day we would stay in the Ecole pastry kitchen and the other part of the day we would spend in the boulangerie (bakery) of the Hotel Ritz taking turns using the steam injected brick oven and stealing glimpses of the baker’s French baking secrets.
Even though the baking foundation was similar to my Culinary Institute of America background and my bakery experience, I value the many differences in techniques and nuances in artistic expression that I learned from Didier. All of the professional chefs that I have had the privilege and honor to work with in my experience all have perfected their own ‘system’ over time. It never fails that these ‘systems’ have priceless techniques that are unique and helpful in countless ways and cannot be found in a book. Didier is a plethora of passionate pastry knowledge.
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Ode to a Guinea Fowl
In cooking class last week, for some reason, I volunteered to butcher the guinea fowl. Fortunately, I had a cooking partner and we took turns chopping vegetables for the main course and butchering the bird. The two fowl were purchased earlier at the outdoor French market. As I unfurled the yellow paper and revealed the interior, in my hands lay the whole, featherless bird complete with large claws and the head.
My first thought was of Saturday mornings at the bakery. Sometimes the pretty birds with black and gray feathers peppered with white spots often ran and squawked outside the front of the bakery, early in the morning when the dew was still on the grass. Today the guinea chattered no more.
I thought to myself, I cannot appear to be bothered. I have to do this. As I peered at the featherless bird on the French tiled counter, my eyes kept meeting the birds’. I had flashbacks of every pet I’d had since I was a child—-even my pet hamsters, Annie FeFe I, II, and III. I pictured the guinea being jerked from its little girl’s night out date in front of the bakery—-a mean trick. And then before I could give it a name, I said out loud, “The head has got to go.”
I thought back to my grandmother, how in the world did she ring a chicken’s neck? No wonder she was so thin.
After chopping off the neck, I cut the wings and legs off at the joints. Then I ran the sharpened knife along the backbone to release the breasts and to my hidden dismay, I was ordered to leave the large claws on, in the name of authenticity. I trussed the neatly cut guinea pieces, so that they would cook evenly and put them on a beautiful French ceramic platter. I could not wait to cut the oranges.
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Salon du Chocolat Style Show 2008
This year the Salon du Chocolat once again paired famous chocolate houses and the best chocolatiers with Paris’ most acclaimed haute couture designers to create fashions made with and inspired by chocolate.
My instructor Chef Didier Stuedler labored extensively with Xuan Thu Nguyen haute couture fashion designer of Paris. Working day and night until completion, tonight their efforts would be unveiled at the opening night of the Style Show for the Salon du Chocolat.
She was dripping in chocolate. The model stepped out onto the runway and cocked her head at the audience with a striking gaze. As if a chocolate dam had been pierced, this audience of chocolate connoisseurs poured out applause and shrieks of delight as all of their chocolate fantasies literally came to life.
As women draped in chocolate swung from a trapeze, men spun on the stage in life-size rings, and whimsical glittering fairies on stilts danced about, the show continued to wow the onlookers with an exotic circus theme. Each person was perfectly painted with chocolate designs and sparkles on their gleaming faces. Their costumes were finished in shades of white, milk and bittersweet and accented with peach, gold and iridescent pearl.
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Paris Politicking
The number one question proposed to me since arriving in Paris is “Who are you going to vote for in the U. S. presidential election?” Not surprising, the French have a definite opinion. The overall consensus here is that the perfect majority of those whom inquired said they would vote for Barack Obama, if given the chance.
Then there was that obscure moment, when people first asked where I was from. Realizing I was from Texas, they either mimed someone galloping on horseback waving a lasso in the empty air or they analyzed me in an awkward silence honoring their sixth sense that I must be personally related to George Bush.
In one discussion, a young man said, “the United States needs a big change.” While others began to affirm his opinion by nodding their heads, another interjected, “Yes, the United States definitely needs change. The U.S. economy is bad and that makes things bad for us.”
If this was only a select group of people and one experience during my stay, I might think this was an overstatement. Not so. This was quite a cross section of people with representation from diverse age groups, income levels, and education. Taxi drivers, waiters, chefs, managers, coworkers, professionals and educators in a variety of realms both personal and professional all cried, ‘Obama for president!’
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Is April from the bakery going to be Ratatouille?
Elizabeth, a loyal customer and friend could hardly hold back her excitement as she told me the story about her toddler son’s conclusion about April from the bakery. She explained to little Trent that April, who made his birthday cakes every year, was leaving to go to New York City and to Paris. A few days later, making sense of it all, Trent questioned proudly from the back seat of the car, “Mommy, is Miss April going to be Ratatouille in Paris?” I stood on the sidewalk of Rue Cambon. I was at the entrance of the Ecole Ritz Escoffier and for a moment the world seemed to stand still. Finally, I had made it to this place I had dreamed about! I entered and showed security my ecole i.d. and passed through the heavy door to the staircase that led below. Walking down the long corridor, the smiling faces of the ‘Ritz employee of the month’ framed photographs greeted me as I arrived at the place, I would soon come to adore. Mitsuko, the lovely liason for the school was versed in three languages, she met me underneath the Ecole Ritz Escoffier sign to escort me to get my chef’s uniform. We went two and a half flights below to the lingerie cave and then back up to the school level to have opportunity to see some of the school. After so patiently going over pass codes and helpful hints, she showed me back to the changing area and left me to sort through my uniform. I finished changing and glanced in the full length mirror. It felt so nice to be in my professional chef’s uniform again. I wandered back down the hall to the class room, looking in each open door as I passed hoping to see a little bit of the Ritz ‘magic in motion’ as I passed.
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French Market Tour with Le Cordon Bleu Master Chef
The open air markets of Paris represent the gastronomic soul of the city, according to Le Cordon Bleu. Paris boasts 82 markets and we would visit one this morning with a Master chef as our guide.
Primary colored tents lined the French street brightening the overcast skyline. Walking in between the rows of produce and amazing food displays, it was as if we had walked behind the curtain, if you will, of an amazing performance.
The shopkeepers were no doubt ‘characters’ with their joie de vivre and robust pride for their goods. Each shop was full of energy displaying, butchering, wrapping or sampling their wares. Some stores had been owned by the same family for many generations, creating a rich heritage and way of life.
Endless time and doting care went into the meticulous presentation of the merchandise. The farmers laid out their bounty of grape varieties and root vegetables and cherished each piece of fruit as if it were their last. To quote Sacre Cordon Bleu, “to the French every tomato is an heirloom tomato.” Vibrant splashes of natural color washed over the scene in every direction. Moving through the market, each shop displayed their offerings in their own signature way. Huge displays of whole, fresh fish, glistened full of color as the fishmongers prepared the fish according to the customer’s specifications. The patrons waited patiently as the butcher finished butchering a hen or leg of lamb so intricately, it was a work of art. The customers did not mind waiting in the aisles painted with red, blue and green striped backdrops. Why not wait kindly, when the best of everything is right here at your very whim?
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Better to Speak the Language, Part 2
(Continued from part 1)
I didn’t know what else to do but turn on the bathtub and totally submerge my head under the water. In America, this would have been a grand idea, but, in France, the water pressure is similar to that of a water gun (and not near as fun). I couldn’t get the soap out of my hair fast enough as I envisioned being platinum blonde—or perhaps, blonde like the little tow-headed babies everyone adores. I did not look in the mirror, I just twisted my hair into a towel on top of my head and decided to relax in a hot bath, to let my feelings pass. Well, whatever the verdict, it’s me now. I’ll just put on my makeup and smile a lot (which is typically what I do, when I find myself in a fix). As I toweled off and put on my pajamas, I checked the color of my hair in the mirror with somewhat relief. It definitely stripped my last dye job, but, a few highlights never hurt anyone, right?
Trying to forget the whole hair and soap situation, I decided to tidy up the kitchen before turning in for the night. As I strolled down the hallway to put my clean dishes away, I saw what looked like water pooling around the corner. My mouth dropped in disbelief.
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Better to Speak the Language, part 1
I arrived at Rue Saint Honore at 11 a.m. and lugged my fully packed suitcase with wheels (which did not help by the way) up five lovely flights of French steps to my French apartment. After accomplishing the mountain of steps with my suitcase and back pack, I tried not to suck in air like someone who had just been hit by a car.
I greeted the lovely French lady who was waiting to give me a tour of my new apartment. She gave me my key and proceeded to go over helpful information. Unfortunately, her kindness spoke exclusively in French, which I did not understand one word. She pointed at the dishwasher, washing machine, bedroom and bathroom. After I smiled and nodded a few times, she bid me “auvoir” (a kind farewell). How hard could it really be to operate a dishwasher in France? At this point, I probably would have been better off had she bid me bonne chance (or good luck)! I spent a little while unpacking as I opened the delightful windows to my apartment, listened to the beautiful French chatter on the street below and looked at every book, painting and pillow in my new apartment.
A few days after my arrival, I decided to wash my hair before I went to bed. Remembering I had used the rest of the shampoo from the hotel, I resorted to the offerings under the kitchen sink. I remember as a child, washing my hair once with Palmolive dishwashing soap, it couldn’t be that bad. I found a bottle that resembled Palmolive and ventured back to the bathroom. I hovered over the sink and quickly rinsed my dark brown hair. I began to lather the soap and put my head under the faucet. I watched as the crystal clear French water washed through my hair and suddenly turned to dark brown.
At first my mind shifted to the walking tour of the underground sewers in Paris, then I screamed out loud a sobering, “The water is DARK BROWN!”
As reality set in, I jerked my head from under the sink my hair still soapy and drenched with water. The water lines had not been crossed.
“Oh my gosh, my hair, the soap! What kind of French soap is this, is there bleach in it?” I asked myself stricken as I shook the bottle violently and zeroed in on the label with French words that I didn’t understand…
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Welcome to Paris
A few weeks ago a dear friend and I were talking about transitioning in our lives when I blurted out, “I have found in my life that the things that cause me the greatest amount of fear are often the very things that allow for life’s greatest rewards.”
Well, here I am.
I can’t really explain how I feel. I am very excited, grateful and exhilarated. I am also shy, nervous (I can’t remember a lick of French from my intensive French course at Baylor), and well, a little scared of the unknown.
I didn’t sleep a wink on the eight-hour flight across the Atlantic with the 5,187-mile distance to destination miles. I had to be separated from my bag with all of my documentation that proves my existence. So, I made myself comfortable watching my favorite movie of all time, “Chocolat,” (set in France, of course) while keeping an eye on my bag. Upon landing, I averted two of my non-French speaking concerns, uh well, actually worries. I found the baggage claim and successfully hailed a taxi. My journey from the Charles De Galle airport to my hotel ended with a big sigh of relief.
The Hotel Claude Bernard was in the Latin Quarter at 43 Rue des Ecoles. The red awning out front touted the traditional interior and quaint ambience. I was greeted by a handsome Algerian named Mamun whom I wondered if he had a mysterious double or if he really worked 24-hour shifts. My room was perfectly to the point with the amenities with my favorite detail being the glass doors that opened to the balcony revealing the beautiful French street below. I showered and decided to sleep off my jet lag in my wonderfully inviting French bed.
I awoke at 3 a.m. like a good baker should and flung open the French doors to the French balcony to remind myself that I really was in Paris. Immediately, I was overwhelmed by the aroma of fresh baked baguettes and sweet pastries pouring into my room. I staggered and looked around. My eyes narrowed. I wondered if I was still asleep and perhaps in a lifelike dream. The freezing air whipped at my nightgown. I was definitely awake. I imagined people in their nightgowns being drawn in a hypnotic trance down French streets and over French bridges towards the indescribable perfume of buttery brioche and pain au chocolat. I pressed myself as far over the banister as I could, to search the dark streets for the source of the intoxicating fragrance. Did I fall victim to an unassuming bread truck making its morning deliveries precisely before I flung open the doors? Or could it be that this is the true Parisian experience in the wee hours every single morning? Chills speckled my arms as I fell back onto my bed and allowed the thick aroma to wash over me and everything in my beautiful French hotel room. Thoughts swirled in my mind like the ingredients in a copper pot for a creme anglaise. I could see the patissiers (French pastry chefs) and boulangers (French bakers) with their white hats gently cutting through the flutter of flour in the warm, kitchen air. The meltingly soft pastries being lovingly brushed with apricot glaze. The thick crusted breads crackling as they came out of the centuries old brick oven.
I laid there in my sugary haze on my French bed. A baker’s out-of-body experience. I am forever changed. What a welcome to France. I peeked, and yes, the carpet in the hallway was red.
Latest comments
April, WOW~! What a life of adventure!This whole trip has been an amazing short story of your memories in France. I know you have learned so much and we look forward to hearing more!
... read the full comment by Jennifer | Comment on On Rue Tatin with Chef Susan Herrmann Loomis Read On Rue Tatin with Chef Susan Herrmann Loomis
April, it’s obvious that you are having the time of your life! Jack and I are really enjoying hearing about all your adventures. It’s almost like being there! Thanks for sharing. We miss you! Mary Jo
... read the full comment by Mary Jo Gorden | Comment on Spotted Dick, Anyone? Read Spotted Dick, Anyone?
We miss you!
... read the full comment by Zeb | Comment on How this Journey Began, A Crack in the Ice Read How this Journey Began, A Crack in the Ice
Saw your Dad the other day, back from their wonderful trip to see you! Wish i could be there! When you get back, I want a French butter croissant with Valrhona chocolate!
... read the full comment by Sid | Comment on How this Journey Began, A Crack in the Ice Read How this Journey Began, A Crack in the Ice