Paris, 1 November 2013

Take several handfuls of watercress leaves. Put them in a pot. Add an onion and water. Simmer. Purée. Voila! Watercress soup.  That was the start of dinner at the Café des Musées.


In Spain, they raise small black pigs within an oak forest. Their entire diet is acorns. They are pampered. Their meat and fat taste subtly of nuts. On my plate is the filet mignon of such a pig. It is tender. It is juicy. Surrounded by cloves of roasted garlic. On the side is a ceramic dish of gratin potatoes smothered in cream, or is it butter, and cheese.

Across the table is a Staub cast-iron miniature dutch oven. Inside it are vegetables. Green beans. Carrots. Turnips. Mushrooms. Cauliflower. Pale green, pointy tipped broccoli. Onions, red and white.  They are cooked individually and lightly then layered inside the oval pot. On with the lid and into oven. The flavors meld. And it is our main course number two.


We have eaten here before. The chef does clean honest cooking. The meats are cooked perfectly. Even the steak tartare is just right. The seasoning is moderate. The flavors of the main ingredients speak for themselves. We are happy.

Earlier today we visited the salon de thé of Dalloyau on the rue Faubourg du Saint-Honoré. It was four in the afternoon. Quiet and calm. We gorged on Baba au Rhum and Financier and Chantilly cream.  Everything rich and decadent and what the cardiologist bans. We were happy to flout the doctors advice for the afternoon.




Before the pastry-fest we ate lunch at the Breizh Café. It's owner has come to Paris from Brittany, in the north, and brought with him the special cheese, the special ham, the special eggs of the north which he converts into galettes. A galette is simply a crêpe made with a buckwheat batter. We ate our galettes

and each drank a small bowl of fresh, fermented, hard cider made from the fresh crop of apples.

Is breakfast really the most important meal of the day? Not in Paris.

Marlow and Wes
Paris
1 November 2013