I'm off to the Isle of Wight, where I'll be cooking this soup. Should be just the think for the choppy weather we're expecting.
If you're at a loss for something to read, try this by Mark Bittman in the New York Times: Rethinking the Meat-Guzzler.
And when I get back, I'll see what I can do to get you all weaned off meat.
Le Grenier de Notre-Dame, located on a quiet little street a block from Notre Dame cathedral.
The first time was serendipity. The second, quite deliberate.
During our last visit to Paris, my husband and I happened upon Le Grenier de Notre Dame purely by chance. I wrote about that experience here, a post which gets lots of Google hits from people searching for vegetarian restaurants in Paris—not willing, apparently, to depend upon serendipity to guide them.
So, I was eager to return and see what had changed at Le Grenier in the last two years. The answer was, not much. Upon walking in, I felt right at home. Standing behind the counter were the same waiter, the same owner, an open iBook in front of him (perhaps reading my review?). The same intimate interior, decorated, again, for Christmas. The menu seemed familiar too, though I had a hard time reading it (unfortunately, a vegan diet doesn’t improve the vision). There seemed to be an English description of the plats written, inexplicably, in white type underneath the French version. There were helpful photos, however, for the vision and language impaired.
I ordered L’Escalope de Seitan, a tender piece of breaded and lightly fried seitan. My husband got the paella and our friend ordered Moroccan couscous, served in a proper tagine. We also ordered a couple of starters, and aperitifs of Champagne and kir. The food was wonderful, quickly warming us up on a cold Parisian night, and the atmosphere was equally warm. When we discovered our table candle was fake (a Phillips safety candle) the waiter came over and demonstrated how it worked. By this time, the wine had had its effect and I dissolved in giggles. I guess you had to be there.
The place seems to be popular with Americans, as the other diners all spoke with American accents. We met an old friend of my daughter’s there, a student now living in Paris, who confirmed how difficult it is to get a vegetarian meal in France. Since eating animal products contributes in such a major way to global warming, it’s a shame that more restaurants don’t make it easier to eat lower on the food chain.
Meanwhile, there’s Le Grenier de Notre Dame, and a few others in Paris that cater to vegetarians and vegans.
The next night, after a miserable rainy afternoon, I dragged my husband from a warm hotel room to Le Potager du Marais in Les Halles, near the George Pompidou Centre. I didn’t know it until we arrived, but they serve food all day, a rarity in Paris. We could have gone earlier when we were wandering aimlessly around the district, but instead we waited until shortly after 7 p.m., showing up without reservations. Not a good idea, although they did find room for us at a table reserved for later. The restaurant has one long row of tables, jammed next to each other, seating about 25. You’re forced to sit right next to other diners, a common occurrence in tiny European restaurants. Don’t let that deter you; French diners are very quiet. Still, it’s a little disconcerting to have to pull out the table in order to squeeze in.
The menu at Le Potager is almost all vegan, with a few non-vegan plats. The carrot soup I started with was nothing special—I suspect they simply juiced some carrots and heated the whole thing. For our mains, I had the nut roast, served with under-cooked potatoes, and my husband had a lukewarm gratin of root vegetables. They probably took it out of the microwave too soon, though, at 16 euros a plat, you expect more than microwaved entrees.
The service was friendly; if we’d complained I’m sure those problems would have been fixed. However, the appetizer of mushroom paté almost made up for any shortcomings in the entrees. It was richly flavored, with hints of tarragon and ceps (porcinis). The best thing about Le Potager du Marais is its location and the fact it’s open before 7 p.m., allowing you to dine after you've exhausted yourself tramping around Paris.
But when I return to Paris—and I hope that's soon—I’ll definitely be heading back to Le Grenier de Notre Dame. Although serendipity doesn’t strike twice, good food, fortunately, is more consistent.
Le Grenier de Notre Dame: 18, Rue de la Bûcherie, Tel: 0143299829
Le Potager du Marais: 22, Rue Rambuteau, Tel: 0142742466
London's Borough Market is foodie mecca, but like Mecca, it gets dangerously crowded on certain days.
Like gorgeous Saturday afternoons, I discovered yesterday. Last time I visited during the week, when the crowds were manageable, but yesterday it was just about impossible to move.
I was hoping to get some great food photos, like the one of the bread at the top of this page, taken about two years ago at Borough Market. But with human bodies outnumbering the bread loaves, it was difficult to get any photos that didn't involve reaching hands or talking heads.
I did see some interesting mushrooms. Several places were selling thick slices of giant puffball mushrooms, which I was too chicken to try. (Click below for the photo.) And for £15 a kilo, you could get a wild mushroom mix, but again, with the exchange rate not in my favor, that didn't seem like a good idea either.
More affordable, and practical, was the produce—smoked garlic, rocket, sage, chiles, Comice pears, smoked tomatoes. An intriguing loaf of twisted olive and thyme bread I bought turned out to be so oily it seeped through the paper wrapper and the paper bag. I also got a cupful of a lentil and bulgur salad, which I'm now determined to recreate at home.
One thing I noticed, since I was primarily looking for Asian ingredients: the market, like London's food scene in general, is very Euro-centric. Olive oil from Spain, Italy, Greece; breads from all over; meats from England and Germany; and the place positively reeked of cheese. But there were no Asian foods except for a couple of Turkish and MIddle Eastern stands. I did see a lonely little stand selling fresh tofu. Compared to the farmer's market in Madison, Wisconsin, where many local Asian farmers sell much more exotic produce than mushrooms, Borough Market is a cultural disappointment.
Take that, London foodie snobs!
The best part of the day was actually visiting Southwark Cathedral next to the market. It was uncrowded, an oasis of calm. An organ was playing, and for the most part, the visitors were respectfully quiet. Such a contrast to the bustling market in its shadow!
More photos below.
The Pavarotti-like proprietor of La Tavernetta in Rome, showing off his porcinis.
It's been more than two weeks since I returned from Rome, and I can't stop thinking about the food. I'd decided to divide my article about Rome into two, one on Rome itself and another on the food, which was almost the best part for me.
And what better way to introduce my new food blog, which I've at long last decided to split off from the main WDIK site?
Enough of the starter; let's get to the main dish:
First of all, a vegetarian has little trouble eating in Rome, and a vegan can easily navigate from the often disgusting* animal parts on the secondo piatto to the primo portion of the menu, where the pasta and risotto are found. And then there's pizza, which can be ordered without cheese—Romans aren't fond of the drippy American style pizzas; they prefer them slim and crisp.
But I wanted something more exotic than pizza or spaghetti my first night in Rome. I headed for Africa, an Ethiopian-Eritrian restaurant near Termini train station. Despite getting lost on the way (we took a wrong turn from inside the station) we were still the first to arrive at 7 p.m. when the restaurant opened. Ordering was easy; we requested two vegetarian meals, which came with an assortment of vegan dishes served in little piles on top of two pieces of spongy injera bread, and a starter of falafel.
By the time we left, the restaurant was full, and so were we. Injera is deceptively light, but the sour sponge fills up your tummy in no time. I guess that's part of its appeal. We loved our food, although I was slightly disappointed that for a while it seemed like I'd never want to eat again in Rome, unless I was willing to give bulimia a go.
Amazingly, after a good night's sleep and a very forgettable
breakfast at the hotel, I was hungry again the next evening. I'd scoped
out Il Margutta,
a vegetarian restaurant I'd read about in the guidebooks and online.
Just to be sure, I walked by that afternoon and checked out the menu.
It seemed affordable to me, contrary to the warnings online, so I made
a reservation for 7:30—opening time—and we came back in the rain,
again, the first customers to arrive.
Il Margutta is located in possibly the poshest part of Rome, on Via Margutta, a back street lined with antique shops and art galleries. It's between the Spanish Steps and the Piazza del Popolo, a tidy walk from our hotel, but that, I was beginning to discover, was a good thing.
Perusing the menu was like glimpsing heaven, pages and pages of vegetarian, dormouse-free delights. In addition to the a la carte starters, primo, secundo, and desserts, there were several 5-course meals designed by the chef. The vegan meal was only €36, while my husband's cheesier selections were around €45. Not bad for five plates of food, each of them innovative and impeccably prepared. Mine featured seitan kebabs—seitan so tender it melted under my fork—floating on a shallow pool of chickpea cream. The remaining courses were also delightful, and I heard no complaints from my husband on his side of the table.
The olive oil they served at the table deserves a special mention. I was on a mission to find fresh-pressed olive oil, which I'd read was available in the fall months, and at Il Margutta I was pretty sure I'd found it, so I asked where I could purchase it. The owner, who was constantly prowling around the main dining room, made me a deal: two bottles for ten euros each. But by the time we were ready to leave several hours later, our server had left and the two who replaced him were busy with the now-packed restaurant. We had enough trouble getting our bill, much less the olive oil I had so wanted.
Ah well. Did I mention the sorbet?
The next day I made a beeline to Campo de Fiori, the largest open air
market in Rome. My beeline included getting lost at the Presidential
Palace, a visit to Trajan's Markets, and a quick tour of Palatine Hill,
so I got there around noon-thirty—they close at 1:00, although it was
nearer to 1:30 when they started pulling down the marquees. I was on a
quest to find the elusive fresh olive oil, and fresh porcinis, which
I'd never even seen before.
Fresh porcinis are huge, a real giant of a mushroom. Not sure how they'd make the trip back in my suitcase, I only got two. I also picked up some squash blossoms, but they didn't survive the trip. One seller convinced me to buy some fresh capers—much larger than their jarred cousins, about the size of small olives. They weathered the trip just fine, and made a fine Pasta Puttanesca when I came home.
The olive oil I found at a shop nearby, from a seller who spoke a
little English. His prices were much better than at the touristy shop
nearer the hotel, where I also stopped for Limoncello. Lugging all this
around made me very hungry, of course, so I stopped in a pastry shop on
Via Veneto, where I had some tea and some roasted almonds I'd bought on the street near the Spanish Steps. (The roasted chestnuts sold on street corners would have been a good option too.)
That night we had dinner in Frascati, a suburb of Rome, in a restaurant with ancient wine cellars we were allowed to tour. We saw no wine, just some puzzling signs in German that indicated you must only drink the water. Or something like that. The meal was arranged by the conference my husband was attending, so I didn't get much say in the matter. Still, it was atmospheric, even if the white wine did taste like water. (Possibly a ploy to fool the Germans.)
The last day our flight was at 9:30 p.m., which meant eating in a normal restaurant was impossible: they all seem to open at 7:30. But with the help of the hotel magazine, I found a place famed for the owner's resemblance to Pavarotti, as well as the fact it was open all day, from noon.
Lovely. We headed straight to La Tavernetta Sistina, Via Sistina 147, right off Piazza Barberini. The owner was holding forth in the main dining room, but we were led to a cozy back room, filled with Americans who couldn't wait until a properly late hour to eat. The plate of grilled vegetables we ordered as a starter made us forget it wasn't yet dinner time. My fettucini with funghi was my last, adoring taste of porcinis, a fine end to the ultimate foodie trip.
(For a more challenging foodie travelogue, you can read A Vegetarian in Paris. For more on eating in Rome, try 101 Cookbooks' recent post or Herbivoracious' report on Roman food.)
*A note of warning: Modern Romans eat much like their ancient forefathers, loathing to waste any part of the animal. And as I discovered while waiting to board the plane, dormouse (known as glis glis in the UK, found only in a triangle in the Chilterns after once being brought over by Roman invaders) is considered a rare (and illegal) delicacy, so I was on my guard.
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