Cowgirlchef » Paris

Behind-the-Scenes: Cookbook Photo Shoot

epierce — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 10:41:34 +0000

Move that salsa. Stack those tortillas. Which bowl? What spoon? Green or blue plate?

It’s all about the details, people.

Last week, my kitchen (along with my living room and the teensy garden out back) was transformed into a staging area for photos (and props,camera equipment, scattered cups of coffee, assorted cookies, and the occasional bottle of vin rouge). It meant getting up at 6 a.m., and cooking often until 9 or 10 p.m., but it flew by so fast, and was actually so much fun that if my book designer and photographer hadn’t hopped back on the big plane for Philly, I’d still be in the kitchen cooking away and who knows what trouble we’d be in by now.

I loved every bit of the time that I spent with these two; we worked together like we’d done this a thousand times before. Amanda Richmond, who’s designing the book, seemed to instinctively know I was trying to achieve, design-wise, and she took us there every day. You know how you have a friend (or two if you’re lucky) who, in some ways, knows you even better than yourself? Amanda and I were like that – in perfect sync from the start.

Plus, no one scatters crumbs like Amanda. She is bread-ripping, tortilla-tearing pro. I love her for that especially.

Steve (aka “Stevie”) Legato captured it all on his big ‘ol Canon, clickclickclicking until we were all in agreement that we had the shot that we needed. Fueled by double espressos and handfuls of peanut M&Ms, and a mix of everything from Bhangra and Blues to Johnny Cash, the Stones, and loads of Motown, we’d know that Stevie had gotten the shot when he’d play the air guitar (he’s in a Rush cover band back in Philly).

Gosh, my apartment is so much more quiet now. Seems strange.

On the last day, we wandered around Montmartre, where we shot what we hope to be the book’s cover, and the Marais, where Amanda and I shopped a tiny bit, and drank more coffee until it was time to swap out the java for some bubbles. We toasted. We giggled and we toasted some more. When we said goodbye, we all felt like it wasn’t goodbye goodbye, merely, `a bientôt…because after all, I’ve already started outlining book #2.

P.S. Check out Amanda Richmond’s take on the photo shoot on her great new blog, Butterologie.

Road Trip: Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme

epierce — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 04:22:29 +0000

Last year, for my birthday, X, Rose and I drove south, so this year, we decided to point our compass north, and go somewhere that neither of us had been before. Someplace that we could get to in two hours or less, and ideally, that would include water and sunshine.

It was summer, after all. And I figured we deserved a day and a half away from Paris. All of us.

So we gased up the car – not an SUV, as you may guess by the price of the gas below, but merely a VW Golf (now perhaps you’ll understand why I’m not more sympathetic about the $4 or $5 a gallon gas in the U.S.), and by 9 a.m. on Saturday, were on the A16, headed towards Amiens.

We drove in the pouring rain for more than two hours. It was around 60 degrees and windy. It didn’t feel like a festive birthday trip.

But we pressed on, and soon we were in the fishing village of Le Crotoy, on the upper part of the Baie de Somme, a small bay off of the Picardie coast, in the department of Somme, just to the east of Normandy.

The sun, it seems, finally got the message.

We walked on the beach for awhile, let Rosedog run and bark at the water, the gulls, and at us for not walking fast enough, meandered through the town, and settled in for some moules de bouchot, which the area’s known for. I had my pick of moules any number of ways: with cream; with Roquefort; with ham, mushrooms and cream; with curry; with escargot butter; with wine wine (which X chose) or Provencal (my choice), and when we saw the sign that said frites maison, we knew we’d found the right place.

After lunch, we decided to drive west along the coast, but before we did, X spotted a van parked alongside the road with a whole mess of baskets, just sitting there, waiting for me, it seemed. Turns out there was a man inside weaving sturdy baskets.

Of course, I bought one. Just like the ones that you see here. You don’t find handmade baskets for sale on the side of the road for 30 euros very often, anywhere.

We pressed on, and visited a couple of seaside towns that were less than memorable — rocky beaches, or no beach at all — and by mid-afternoon, were circling back to where we were planning to spend the night when we met Renaud, a retired British guy on a Vespa who told us that he had a B&B in the nearby town of Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme, where we’d stopped briefly and let Rose run earlier that day, but had neglected to go into the town. Silly us. We nearly missed it.

Turns out, Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme is a pre-Roman town with loads of history. It was originally settled by the Gauls, then later, by the Franks, and after surviving attacks by the Vikings in the 8th and 9th centuries, it became the site where William the Conquerer assembled his fleets. Joan of Arc was imprisoned here. A few centuries later, Degas, Jules Verne and Victor Hugo had houses here.

It’s pretty. And peaceful.

As lovely as the bay is, I connected with the textures of the place itself, which seemed to tell stories of their own.

Renaud came to meet us on his scooter and led us up the hill to Poppy Cottage, which he shares with his adorable wife, Katie. We barely put our bags down when Katie was bringing us a glass of rosé, and Renaud was on his cell phone, trying to snag a dinner reservation for us at one of the restaurants in town.

Thing is, we would have been happy to stay in our little room at Poppy Cottage and not move an inch. There, we had a full kitchen, two sofas to stretch out on and watch television if we were so inclined, or go upstairs (!) to the loft bedroom, or sit outside in the back garden.

X and I were ready to move in.

The next day, after a loooong walk along the bay with Rose, we hit the Sunday market in town and tried out the area’s famous cake, Gateau Battu, a light and fluffy cake that’s traditionally eaten with rhubarb jam or toasted and smeared with foie gras. It’s an interesting cake — brioche-like in texture, yet very rich – the yellow color comes as much from the amount of butter in the batter as eggs.

I bought a small sack of ouefs de mouette, seagulls’ eggs – candy eggs filled with hazelnut and chocolate, and we ate them in the car, on the way home.

It was a very good weekend, we decided. A very good birthday, too.

Stuff I’m Crazy About Right Now

epierce — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 03:57:36 +0000

It’s been awhile, I know. I’m sorry about that. I’m still trying to find some kind of balance between writing and testing recipes, and some days are better than others. There have been complete, absolute FAILS with recipes that I was 100 percent sure about. Surprises with new recipes that I can’t wait to share with all of you. And of course, the daily effort to get it all down on the page.

See those little Frenchy biscotti up there? That’s a new recipe and it’s a secret, so I’m not going to say anything more, but you’re gonna love them.

Now, onto business.

I wanted to share a few things that I’ve discovered recently that I’m just loving.

First, that coffee that you see up there isn’t just coffee, oh no. It’s not even a cappucino, as it appears. Well, it is – but it’s a COLD cappucino, and I made this myself, with my new, lovely and most wonderful magic milk frothing machine, Aerocino, the sleek, chic plug-in milk foamer that gets you from the carton to barista-perfect foam in just 70 seconds for hot; 60 for cold. Believe it or not, I found this at the Nespresso store down the street, which never had much to offer, as far as I was concerned, save for the George Clooney “What Else?” ads in the window. Anyway, I’m in love with this little thing, and it’s the best 70 euros I’ve spent in a long time.

Of course, I needed new glasses to drink my summer-perfect cappucinos in, and it was my lucky day again – because I wandered into the Conran Shop and found my favorite Duralex glasses – the iconic bistro glass, the Picardie, first made in 1927 — in the perfect 10 1/2 ounce size (see below) – good for everything from coffee, vin rouge, and Dr. Pepper to margaritas, and, well, you get the idea. I actually bought some just like these years ago back in Dallas at Sur la Table, and left them with my mom, thinking, “They’re French, I’ll be able to get some in Paris. I don’t need to pack these!”

But a shaky financial foundation in the last few years meant that Duralex had to cut back on production, and these glasses were apparently some of the first to get the ax.

The good news is the company’s gotten an infusion of cash, and appears to be back on its feet, and I’m happy to report that I’m now drinking out of my favorite glasses again, and with a set of tall 16 1/2 ones, too, just for cappucinos. Well, not just for cappucinos – I found recently that this larger size actually works better than the small one for margaritas.

In other news, I took a walk a few weekends ago in the forest at Rambouillet with X and Rose and found the cutest little fraises des bois (strawberries of the woods). Cute, but still on the sour side. It was too early, I think.

But not for cherries, like these lovely sweet dark ones that I’ve now already bought three times in the last two weeks at the President Wilson market. So far, I’ve made a lime-cherry croustade, two different cherry compotes and cherry sablés with Parmesan. I’m working on recipes for an upcoming story on cherries for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, and for my book.

Speaking of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, I also hopped on this silly old bike named “Road Runner” and toured around Paris with Fat Tire Bike Tours a few weeks ago, and wrote about it here.

In other news, it was 98 degrees last week, which is fine if you’ve got air conditioning, and not so fine if you don’t. Good thing I’d recently picked up a few a-line t-shirt dresses at American Vintage on sale, which got me through our two-day heat wave.

To hold on to my last shreds of sanity, I’m still going to yoga every morning at the crack of dawn, and I’m treating myself on the 20-minute ride to and fro with a good book, many of which I’m reading on my handy-dandy new Kindle. Some that have inspired me, made me think, and made me laugh:

Blood, Bones & Butter by Gabrielle Hamilton
A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan
Made for You and Me by Caitlin Shetterly
The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga
Day of Honey by Annia Ciezadlo
A Tiger in the Kitchen by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

I enjoyed them all, and wrote about why I loved “Day of Honey” and “A Tiger in the Kitchen” in a recent story in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Great reads for the summer or anytime, but especially wonderful on the metro at 6:15 a.m.

Back to work…

French Fast Food

epierce — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 17:57:41 +0000

As strange as this may sound, I’ve been so busy testing recipes for the cookbook that most nights, I look up, it’s after 7 p.m., and I’ve not even thought about dinner. Plus, I don’t even want to think about dinner. Or cooking anything at all.

Sound familiar?

Luckily, we have a boulangerie about 10 yards from our front door, and across the street from that, a little fromagerie, which, besides a very nice selection of cheeses, farm eggs and yogurt, also sells some very lovely San Daniele ham.

This little sandwich, a still-warm baguette*, split in two, smeared with a little fleur de sel butter, and with a few layers of this perfectly sweet, thinly sliced ham, was my dinner the other night – and I expect will be again for many nights to come over the next couple of months, as I near the finish line on the deadline for the manuscript.

Of course you don’t need to be on a deadline to make this sandwich. It is as simple as it gets. It is actually perfect.

*Parisians are famous for eating the ends off of their daily baguettes as they walk home (it’s as close as they get to eating on the go), and I’ve picked up this habit, too — although next time, I’m tearing off the end instead of chewing it off. Bitten the wrong way, that crispy baguette crust can cause an impressive lip bleed.

Spring Herb Garden

epierce — Thu, 26 May 2011 11:19:01 +0000

Last Sunday, it was cool – jacket weather, even – but it was time. Time to hop in the car and drive to the Truffaut in Versailles for herbs, which is about a hundred times easier than trying to find a place to park near the Truffaut in the 13th. Last year, someone ate my basil within a week or so of me getting it in the pots, so I really hope that this year’s a bit better, since I use basil probably more than anything, and according to X, more than I should. But I don’t see the problem. I think basil’s wonderful in just about everything.

My rosemary, thyme, and chives, amazingly enough, made it through the winter, but all of them were rather sad looking – faded, like a pair of old jeans – so I decided to replace them and make a fresh new start, this being spring and all. I also bought sage, which always reminds me of Florence and spinach ravioli, and then makes me wonder – yet again – where on earth I put my ravioli maker, and why I didn’t bring it with me to Paris (a thorough search through my storage unit in Dallas in February was a bust). I know, I can make ravioli the old fashioned way, and roll out the dough by hand, but the ravioli maker makes such nice thin dough, and I keep thinking I’ll find it – so I keep putting off making ravioli, which is silly, really, when you think about it.

I also bought mint, which I use all the time, and wish that it would grow and grow like mint’s supposed to do. I’d love nothing more for that mint to just take over the back garden, but somehow I manage to plant mint that’s ornery and likes to just stay put.

For the first year, I bought lavender, which I’ve been wanting to do every spring. Living here sort of makes you lavender-crazy if you weren’t already — every single soap for clothes or the bath comes in lavender, as do a zillion different lotions and creams, and it really is a lovely, peaceful scent, so I figured I’d just grow some this year, and try to make some lavender ice cream like my pal Michael made last year.

Also, verbena, which I think will be really nice with fruit desserts, and as a substitute for lemon or lime in fish dishes, cooked or raw, like the ceviche that I had at the Paris By Mouth launch party last year hosted by Spring.

And call me crazy, but I’ve planted seeds for jalapenos, Anaheim chiles, serranos and habaneros. Wouldn’t that be something if I could grow just one of these?

I’ll keep you posted on the progress. For now, I’m just trying to keep you-know-who from burying her bones in my newly planted pots.

Le Bistrot des Compères

epierce — Fri, 20 May 2011 10:53:55 +0000

Last week, X told me that he wanted to go out for a burger, and that he’d found just the place — Le Bistrot des Compères in the Marais. I’d not heard of it, I told him, nor had I seen it mentioned on anyone’s favorite burger in Paris list or website, and between you and me, I gotta tell you, I was skeptical.

So I bundled up in a couple of layers, this being spring and all, and off we went.

I know y’all won’t believe this, but I wasn’t really in the mood for a burger that night, so I got the salade de chèvre chaud and X ordered the burger.

Which, of course, I instantly regretted. Look at the size of that big boy, will you?

Our server didn’t know for sure, but the beef tasted so good that I’m quite certain that it had to be Charolais. Plus, there was a big ol’ schmear of goat cheese with herbs on top of the burger, which I really liked, and bonus! – bacon – hiding underneath.

I’m so glad X shared his burger with me.

And the mi-cuit chocolat (below) with white chocolate ice cream.

It was all good – not fancy, not too expensive, either — just an easy little neighborhood bistrot. My only suggestion is that they get a handle on the pommes frites component — three wedges of a potato, no matter how cute they look on a plate, do not an order of fries make — so the burger experience can be more complete.

I loved that the place was on a quiet little street, and a quick walk from the metro. It was sort of like not being in the middle of Paris, which, when you just can’t get away to your country house for the weekend, or if you’re like me (ahem), don’t have one, is a very good thing.

Le Bistrot des Compères
16 rue Charlemagne
75004
01 42 72 14 16
Metro: St. Paul

Chambord May Day Brocante

epierce — Tue, 10 May 2011 09:25:02 +0000

When I was having lunch with my friends Debbie, Jen, and Betsi a couple of weeks ago at Paris’ newest taqueria, Candelaria, between bites of tacos carnitas, they said to me, nearly all at the same time, “We have an extra spot on our annual Chambord brocante trip on May Day – want to come?”

In my head it went like this: BROCANTE! CHAMBORD! ROAD TRIP!!

I’d just have to be crazy NOT to, wouldn’t I?

Turns out, there was eight of us altogether, piled into two vans so we’d have plenty of room for all of the treasures that we were destined to buy. We left on Saturday afternoon, and two hours later, we were sipping Vouvray outside at a little hotel right across from the Loire Valley’s most famous chateau, and passing around sacks of potato chips that we’d bought at a little shop few kilometers back.

After a reeeeally mediocre (and I am being kind) dinner, we turned in, and set our alarms for 6 am.

Precisely one-half hour later, we’d showered, dressed, and were out the door, headed for the bar next to the hotel, that thankfully, was open for coffee and croissants.

Now people, do not do this at home, this turning upside-down of the croissant. Debbie told me that this is considered BAD LUCK in France, and bad luck is not something that one wants to summon before hitting one of the country’s largest flea markets with a fanny pack of euros and an oversize green stripedy shopping bag, so I’m so thankful for this tip, and from this point forward, promise to never put my croissant on the plate like this:

Within minutes, the coffee and croissants were gone. “I’ve got to get in the field!” Debbie said, eyeing the waiter for the tab.

The sun, after all, was coming up.

And there was junk to buy.

With everyone’s cell numbers programmed into each other’s iPhone, and a mental list of what everyone else was looking for (three of us were looking for cake stands, which are impossible to find here, because there are no cakes – there are tarts), we were off….

This group has been coming for six years, and they make the hotel reservation for the next year each year upon check out. It’s this good.

Every year, there’s seems to be a theme, the girls told me, and from what I could tell, mannequins and heads seemed to be a hot ticket at this year’s brocante.

Human heads? Seriously? Gosh, that’s just what I was looking for!

The morning started out so cold that our hands were tingly, but by 9 am, it was sunny and hot and looked like this:

See the man with the wheely cart? Now that’s someone who’s thinking. I need to remember to do this next year. Because you just never know how many of those Texas license plates – sigh – that you’re going to want to take home.

There are literally thousands of vendors here, selling mostly smallish stuff, and a lot like what I hunt for at the Porte de Vanves flea in Paris, but for prices far, far lower – I’d guess, overall, the prices were about one-fourth that of what you’d pay in Paris.

I really wasn’t looking for anything in particular, except for this pottery known as cul noir – black-bottom in French – so-called because of the dark brown undersides. I first found two serving pieces of cul noir at the annual fall Sevres citywide brocante about a year ago, and loved their eggshell-crackle front and brown bottoms, and overall, a heavy, rustic aesthetic. There seems to be a bit of a vague history about this pottery, which was first made towards the end of the 18th century. Although a bit of research shows that it was first made in Normandy, in Forges-les-Eaux, I’ve seen some pieces that are stamped from Orleans, too. But an antique shop owner told me that this pottery, which isn’t delicate, prized porcelain, was used every day and was often tossed out rather than handed down in families – which is why it’s not that easy to find, and even more difficult to find without large cracks running through it.

I was, and always am, looking for great, textural torchons, too, and any kind of glassware, or tabletop anything that speaks to me — in other words, this sort of flea market is the most dangerous kind. There is a bit of everything here.

We shopped like hell for nearly four solid hours, and then met back at the hotel for more coffee and croissants. I’d already filled one bag and emptied out my wallet. I gulped down my coffee, hit the ATM, and went back out to do the last one-third of the market.

Turns out, I didn’t really need to. I picked up a few more smallish things, but had already found that what I was looking for — three pieces (!) of cul noir, and some beautiful torchons. The rest was simply a bonus.

In fact, the shopping itself was really secondary, as much as I’ve gone on and on about it. The best part about this trip was the road trip itself, eating chocolate chip cookies at the rest stops right out of the packages, washed down with cans of Coke, and getting to know some already great girlfriends a little bit better.

I can’t wait ’til next year.

Philou

epierce — Sun, 08 May 2011 07:06:50 +0000

Lately, each weekend, it seems, I’ve been hopping on the metro and heading to the east side of Paris – to eat Italian, or Spanish, or in this case, some wonderful and well-priced bistro cuisine (three courses for just 30 euros).

Chef/owner Philippe Damas opened Philou, near Canal St. Martin, last fall, and I’m really sorry that I missed the cepes season with him. But I’m so happy that I timed my first visit with spring.

The Denton posse and I came here one night for dinner and it was one of those nights that still had a chill in the air, so we sat inside, but by now, it would be great to sit out on the patio.

I don’t know if you can fully appreciate this by the photo below, but this is a thick – and perfect – slab of foie gras, served with a couple of petite slices of pain d’epice, which had been lightly toasted, yet was still moist in the middle from the honey. Now, I don’t know how many of you have tried pain d’epice, but most of what I’ve eaten over the last four or five years has been dry, crumbly and fairly tasteless. This was something else entirely, and I knew then that I was in for a treat.

Which I was. We all shared bites of our entrées -Karla’s white asparagus was incredible, too, and perfectly paired with a piece of crispy piece of pork belly.

For the plat, I had the bar served over sliced, roasted cauliflower — which I’m now inspired to do at home, since I’m always looking for new ways to get cauliflower in the meal. Melanie ordered the melty-in-your-mouthy braised beef cheeks, and Karla and Beth both had the roasted pintade with fresh sweet peas.

It was all so simple, so fresh, and the sort of food that you wish you could eat every day. For dessert, we had the poached rhubarb with frommage blanc ice cream, and a moelleux aux chocolat for two (which became for four), with mint granita on the side.

The vibe is easy here, and it feels like a comfy neighborhood joint, where regulars come each week. Since we don’t have anything like Philou in my neighborhood, I’m going to have to continue to crash the party on this side of town.

Philou
12 av Richarand
75010 Paris
01 42 38 00 13
Metro: Goncourt

Spanish Tapas in Paris: Caves Saint Gilles

epierce — Mon, 02 May 2011 07:22:39 +0000

When I return to Texas, one of the first places that I go to for Tex-Mex is Mazatlan, a family-run place that’s in an old Dairy Queen in Denton. When I’m back in Paris, usually the first week or two after a trip away, I come here, to Caves Saint Gilles, for Spanish tapas. Now I know what you’re probably thinking. Spanish food? Really?

Si.

On one of my first trip to visit X in Paris, now seven years ago and some change, we came here for lunch one day, and sat outside and ate fried calamari (the best I’ve ever had – still), tortilla, and drank lots of red wine.

I guess I’m a bit sentimental. Caves Saint Gilles a place that we always can go back to, and in some small way, go back to that time, when we were still hoping on planes to visit each other, and our relationship was filled with hope and romance, instead of trips to BHV to for bathtub caulk and mice traps.

We sometimes order the fried baccalao, which I did last time, and am so glad that I did – there’s a tiny bit of nutmeg in these that’s just the right touch. X almost always gets the calamari with black ink, too, which is wonderful.

They make a great, spicy tomato sauce that comes with the patatas bravas, but I ask for it on the side with my tortilla, and they’re always happy to oblige. (A special order! Paris people, did y’all take note of that?)

What’s nice, too, is that Caves Saint Gilles is on a quiet street, and if you go early, which we like to do, its pretty easy to get a table outside — something that gets harder and harder to do the prettier the weather gets around here.

Caves Saint Gilles
4 rue Saint Gilles
75003
01 48 87 22 62
Metro: Chemin Vert

Best Pizza in Paris

epierce — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 16:24:15 +0000

At the end of the week, after I’ve tested I don’t know how many recipes, I’m often in the mood for something simple. Like a good pizza.

You’d think that with Italy being right there, good pizza wouldn’t be a hard thing to find around here, but it is. It’s not that easy to find good Italian anything here (unless you count Nutella), which is odd when you see how much shelf space is devoted to pasta in the grocery stores. Just like the U.S., pizza’s an easy frozen convenience food, and the stinky Franprix and other grocery stores are filled with cardboard boxes stuffed with cheapo cardboard-tasting pies. (Full disclosure: Picard, the kinda fancy frozen food store, also has pizza, and for research purposes, I once tried the sundried tomato/spinach/ricotta/red and yellow peppers one, and it wasn’t half bad. It was also less than 4 euros, which is more than what you pay for coffee in my neighborhood.)

While there aren’t any decent pizzerias in my neighborhood, I’ve found a few that are just a short metro ride away.

I discovered Maria Luisa near Canal St. Martin a few years ago after I’d taken a salsa class with some friends. I loved the pizza, but somehow this place dropped off my radar – but only recently did I learn that X has been secretly coming here without me.

The nerve.

So on a recent Saturday night, we – together – revisited Maria Luisa, sat outside along with people from the neighborhood, and the pizza was wonderful. I ordered the quattro formaggi with arugula added, because that’s the way that I used to eat it when I lived in Florence for awhile, and I love it best that way. Here, they serve along with the pizza two different oils – one’s a basil oil, and the other, a very spicy pepper oil — and it comes straight from the oven, super-duper hot. So hot that I burned the roof of my mouth and am still recovering nearly three weeks later. But as you can see, it didn’t stop me from gobbling up the whole pie.

The other place where I go for Neopolitan-style pizza is a place that X and I discovered about a year ago while we were actually looking for someplace else. When we discovered that the restaurant was closed, we popped into a wine bar, had a glass of wine and asked the proprietor if he knew of a good pizzeria in the neighborhood. That’s how we found Trattoria Pulcinella.

We’ve been coming here ever since. The dough is crisp and tasty, and the cheese isn’t too heavy, either. There’s a bit of the smoky scamorza on the quattro formaggi, but always in the center is a scoop of homemade ricotta, which I just adore.

It’s a small neighborhood place and it’s usually packed by 8 pm, so we often try to go a tiny bit early to grab a table outside. Be warned, though. The outside tables are on a bit of a slope, and last time I was there, I put my wine on the sidewalk so it wouldn’t slide off when I cut my pizza. To avoid any spills, I guzzled my vin rouge as quickly as possible. Naturellement.

Al Taglio is something else entirely – a Roman-style take-away pizza place, where they slice up enormous, 2 kilo flats of pizza with scissors and sell it by the slice, by weight (each slice is about 3-7 euros, depending on the topping). I suppose one piece could be enough, but for me, it never is, and for the purposes of research and thoroughness, X and I ordered one of just about each of the five different varieties offered on a recent Saturday night, starting with the carrot puree/ginger pizza, with sundried tomatoes and San Danielle ham.

Lucky for us, they’d just made their signature pizza, potato with Alba truffle cream. Sigh. I don’t even know where to begin.

This slice alone is worth taking the metro for, no matter where you are in Paris. Even if it’s crowded, as it was the other night. It’s just crazy-good stuff.

But wait. There’s lots more. Behind the truffle madness is a pancetta-Brebis pizza, and below, that’s a mixed champignon-scamorza pizza and a Margarita, too.

And get this, pizzaheads: In May, Al Taglio is opening a second location in the Marais at 27 rue Saintonge (yes, near Candelaria – can you stand it?); Maria Luisa’s second store, at 52 rue Saint Maur in the 11th, will open, too.

So I can’t really complain anymore about the rotten pizza in Paris. There’s great pizza here.

Just not in my neighborhood, and I’m going to continue to complain about that.

See how Parisienne I’m becoming?