David Lebovitz

A lot of us étrangers (and there are some pretty étrange étrangers here..) bemoan the lack of heat and spiciness in the ethnic fare served up, because a good number of the locals have a hard time dealing with the heavily-spiced dishes that our all-American constitutions have no trouble handling. We, The People, have cast-iron stomachs and have become a nation of full-tilt eaters, relishing and exalting things that we can take to the extreme.

One thing I miss sérieusement is la cuisine mexicain, which is so foreign that it isn't even in my dictionnaire Française. I know, I know. I live in Paris, and can understand perfectly why Mexican cuisine isn't well-represented here. (Hint: For the same reason North African cuisine isn't quite so available back in the states.)

But I met my match at Deux Fois Plus de Piment (Two Times More Pepper). We were walking by recently, looking for a place for dinner, when I noticed this joint that just looked right.

I was thinking of having "If you change the ingredients in a recipe, results will vary" tattooed on my forehead, but there wasn't enough room. (Although if my hairline keeps receding at this rapid pace, it may happen sooner than you think.) When I used to teach classes, folks were always wanting to tinker with recipes, especially ice cream, replacing the cream with what-have-you. Or to replace the sugar with something else. I'm not sure why, because I spend an inordinate amount of my life developing and testing recipes to get them just right.

Unless I've personally tested it, it's pretty hard to give my nod of approval and tell what will and what won't work in recipes, especially when it comes to swapping out sweeteners and dairy products since their counterparts behave quite differently than one might think. Ice cream, of course, depends on cream to give it that particular texture and flavor. But I do like and use non-dairy alternatives at home on occasion and saw no reason why I couldn't churn up a batch of ice cream without a drop of dairy.

It's no secret that I'm not a fan of soup. (Well, if it was, it's not anymore.) I just feel odd ordering it in a restaurant, since I'm paying for a bowl of glorified liquid. And I rarely eat it at home, since when I want to eat, I want something more substantial as a meal. And if I eat it as a first course, then it takes up valuable real estate in my stomach for something more interesting.

(Confused? Imagine how I feel.)

However since moving to France, I've seen the value of soup—on occasion. Such as in the dead of winter when it's so cold that only a bowl of very hot liquid will stoke my fire. Yet in the summer, the idea of hot soup isn't exactly appealing. But I've been trying to eat more vegetables lately, and less meat, and the Soupe au Pistou, vegetable soup from Provence, somehow seems okay.

Where did the time go? I wanted to get one quick cherry recipe in before the season ended because I'm always scouting for ways to extend the unfairly short fresh cherry season. Plus I had some red wine leftover from another cooking project, a bulging sack of ripe cherries that the vendors were practically begging me to take off their hands (I know...it was kind of freaking me out, too), and a desire to make them last as long as I can.

So here's how they ended up: in a compote that's incredibly easy to make with the spiciness of red wine, a touch of vinegar to add a little je ne sais quoi, and a few minutes of stovetop cooking to transform them into sticky-sweet orbs with the concentrated flavor of summer cherries.

The good thing is that at the end of the season, they are practically giving away cherries at my market and if you've got the time to pit 'em, then more cherries for you wait as a reward.

Laura Adrian is half of the team behind Hidden Kitchen, a private supper club in Paris that she hosts in Paris with her partner Braden. With a little help from am adorable Boston Terrier that pops his head into the action every once in a while.

Laura worked for one of my favorite bean-to-bar chocolate makers in America, Theo chocolate in Seattle, before moving to Paris. Due to word-of-mouth, and because of the innovative yet familiar cooking, their supper club is deservedly booked months in advance.

One night I was having dinner there, and Laura leaned over and said, "I've been making a cake with the caramelized white chocolate recipe that's on your site. It's pretty amazing."

The sky in North Africa isn't clear blue. It's subdued and hazy. One might say it's laiteuse; blue with a touch of milk, or yogurt. Unlike the beaches of the Pacific, you're not stunned by the sky as much as you are aware that it's relentlessly bearing down on you. The heat can be intense and unlike Paris, where folks scramble to sit in any patch of sunshine that they can find even during the unfiltered heat of summer, in Tunisia, one is always fleeing the heat.

Often that will mean resting in a café sipping a glass of fresh orange juice, or maybe taking a dip in the ocean, or refreshing with a glass of iced wine, all of which I can personally attest to as being equally effective means of beating the heat of Africa.

During my visit to Djerba, a Tunisian island just off the North African coast, come afternoon, when the sun bore down fully on the island, I often found places completely desolate.

Shops roll down shutters and people retreat indoors. Or in my case, head to the beach, where I found myself under an umbrella with a good book, often nodding off while the gentle surf provided the soundtrack for a good snooze.

It never occurred to me to go to Tunisia and most of the people I met there were confounded to meet a real American. It's likely because there aren't many flights from the states, and Morocco is the country in North Africa that most North Americans land in. I toured Morocco a few years ago, which was fascinating (especially Fez, which I'd love to go back to) but the constant harassing by local touts, affixing themselves to your side the minute you stepped out of your hotel, using every possible means of persuasion to get you to buy something you didn't want (fake old coins, cheaply dyed carpets, etc), got old quickly.

During the summer months, when the temperature in Paris shoots up to nearly unbelievable heights, it turns my up-on-the-rooftop apartment into a furnace, and many nights dinner will be enjoyed on the roof, overlooking the city, watching the rest of it cool down after a broiling day. Somehow, my apartment doesn't enjoy the same cool-down period, perhaps its the price I pay for being closer to the sky? Because the roof is quite pitched, I'm always careful about not having a glass of wine with dinner. But if for some reason you ever stop hearing from me, well, c'est la vie.

One of the curious things that's happening right now in the Paris food scene is a spate of what I consider 'anglo'-style cafés opening up in various smaller neighborhoods. There are a few that have been around for a while. But in the past year, casual restaurants that sell leafy salads, made with just-cooked fresh vegetables and greens, house made soups, hand-held desserts like individual carrot cakes and les muffins, fresh fruit juices, and coffee made with care and attention, have been giving the normal lunch of choice for harried Parisians, les sandwiches—including the good ones from the local bakeries, as well as those from the unfortunately popular Subway sandwich shops that are rapidly invading France—a run for their money.

Places like Bob's Juice Bar, Cococook, Bread and Roses, and Rose Bakery are all packed at lunchtime not with homesick Brits or Americans, but Parisians.