David Lebovitz

There were various responses on my Strawberry ice cream recipe, requesting a retraction of the moniker ice "cream" since it didn't have cream in it. And a respected food writer pointed out that pumpkin was obligatory in Soupe au Pistou. I, too, know that folks will sometimes call something hot 'chocolate' even though it was made with cocoa powder instead of chocolate. And have been served fried onion rings that were actually broken circles, not neat, closed rounds of onions. And don't get me started on thinly sliced fruit being called carpaccio.

So I have seen the error of my ways, and you'll be happy to know that I slavishly followed the recipe for classic Salade Niçoise, as espoused by Jacques Médecin in his book Cuisine Niçoise. (Not this one.) Which everyone in Provence agrees gets the last word on cuisine from their region.

For example, once can not put grilled or seared tuna on the salad and call it a salade Niçoise. Canned tuna or anchovies are acceptable, but not both. And he cautions ""...never, never, I beg you, include boiled potato or any other boiled vegetable in your salade niçoise."

Always on the lookout for classic French bistros, a friend and I recently stopped at Au Petit Riche. I'd eaten there before and found the food decent, but I remember the company a little better than the food. I was dazzled by the stunning interior and the conversation, which should have been a tip off since I rarely forget anything I eat that's good.

Many Americans have become more astute about dining and want to know where the ingredients are from, how they are handled, what part of the animal they're getting. It's part of the farmer's market movement, as well as a number of folks striving to eat locally or at least show some concern for where and how their foodstuffs are raised.

And there's also the do-it-yourself movement, where everything from upstart ice cream shops are opening, and of course the bean-to-bar movement, where every step of the process is carefully tended to. In general, the French don't ask those questions because France has always been a deeply agricultural country, with close ties to their terroir. When dining with friends from the states in Paris, I know they'd be disappointed to find frozen green beans with their steak, or boiled white rice heaped on a salade Niçoise. So I am always careful to steer them away from some of the classic bistros on their lists, ones they may have eaten at a decade ago, or that a friend recommended.

Many people who embark on professional cooking careers, or just interested in having an experience in an French kitchen, are interested in coming to France to do an internship, called a stage.

I posted on Twitter, to find out how people got their stages in France. Here are some of their responses:

• "I walked in and asked."




• "...sent in a cover letter, followed up, and had a contact."




• "Emails and phone calls. A lot."

I always seem to have the supreme misfortune to draw the letter W when playing Scrabble in French, as there's barely one-quarter of a page in the French dictionary devoted to words that begin with that letter. People use "Wu" for Chinese money; although I allow them, it's not in the French dictionary so I'm not sure that's in the official rules. In spite of their high-value, I always am irked when I pull that dreaded W tile.

But I'm not a Scrabble expert, plus the fact the French have all those gazillion verb tenses, which is another reason that I never win. And my request to play in English is still pending.

When I lived in the states, I used to wonder why all the people who lived in New York City would go out of their way to proclaim that they could never live anywhere else, that New York City was the best city in the world. That they could only live in Manhattan, etc..etc.. Then they'd spent three months of the year, during the summer, bailing on the city they claim to love.

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.