Tuesdays with Salinger

If there is an amateur reader left in this world - or anybody who just reads and run - I'll ask him with untellable affection and gratitude to split the dedication of this book four ways with my wife and children - Raise high the roof beam, Carpenters, J.D Salinger

I ventured out on a sunny Tuesday afternoon with the intention of grabbing some books from the library on my way to the supermarket for baking ingredients. Elated at having found the Salinger books that I came for, I delved into the book at the next available opportunity I had - today's one include squinting at the book's fine print as I walked toward AMK hub, though I later regretted terribly choosing to walk instead of hopping on the bus. Someone up there decided to reward my sudden motivation to exercise at every given opportunity with yet another one of the torrential downpours we've been experiencing so often these days.

But, really, you know you're partial to Salinger when even his dedications at the beginning of the book begin to sound very thought provoking. I for one can never read and run. If I like a book, like really love it, I have the tendency to research it to death. To squeeze the book dry of any experience it might be depriving me of. I have to know everything. Did I miss a nuance in character? Did a certain dialogue go right over my head when in fact it should have lighted an imaginary light bulb within me?

I think a lot of the persistent urge to rape a book of all it has to offer has to do with wanting to understand it better. I don't know. Please do not assume that I come into blogger with my thoughts all so organized, just waiting to be arranged into essay form. No, I think as I type, the thoughts file into my head in as haphazard a manner as you see before you. I think that when you love something, you want to understand it better. Perhaps it is in a bid to understand why you feel so passionately for it, to articulate your emotions. To reason, to rationalize your feelings into phrases such as 'unique style' and 'masterful storytelling'. Is it so hard for us to like a book just because, well, just because we like it, and not be forced to explain why?

I've always had this rather romantic fancy that when something is truly beautiful, when it touches something deep within you, it is quite indescribable. It's a silly little theory I had when I was younger (oh, much younger, and so naive) that should I venture to ask the guy who loves me, why he loves him, he'll stare at me quizzically, with a look of utmost affection, and say "I don't know, I just do." Its the same with art too. Art, beautiful art, should resound within you. It should make you gasp with breathless wonder. Your attention shouldn't have to be brought to the expert use of lines, or the clever play of colours before you can appreciate beautiful art. Beauty is an organic experience. We shouldn't need to be taught how to identify beauty. Am I before ridiculously naive? Is this merely a lame excuse for my complete inability to appreciate anything? Oh, it's not that you have no taste or preference, Rachel, you just haven't seen real beauty yet. Haha, how convenient.

Apple Tartlets from Poilane

I got out of bed today to be greeted by one of Rouen's gloomy weather; the sky pitch black at 7.45am in the morning and a suspicious pitter patter could be heard at random intervals outside the window - Is is raining? Darn it, surely it can't be! No, wait, perhaps its simply the raindrops gathered from yesterdays downpour pattering on the ground as the wind (bloody wind!) rustles the leaves, yes? Sigh, you would think that perhaps for once I would be granted a warm, dry day in Paris, but no - it showered in Dieppe, drizzled in Bayeux, poured in Honfleur, and so it will rain today.

A strange sense of looming regret struck me yesterday evening as I read David Lebovitz's blog chronicling his life in Paris. It seems like such a pity that having been in France for 3 months, the number of times I've actually been to Paris is embarrassingly low. So fueled by a frenzied rush to make up for lost time, I had planned to visit 2 patisseries, 1 chocolatier, and 1 bon bon boutique and, oh before i forget, a visit to the museé d'orsay just so I won't get the 'What!?! You went to Paris just for pastries??' response, and of course, to move the digestion along cause one does need a little rest between pasties.

The morning started off to a delicious start with an apple tartlet from Poilåne; a nice flaky pastry hugging slices of golden baked apples sprinkled with sugar. Absolutely delish. This is one of those brainless apple desserts I dream about. You just sink your teeth into the pastry and let the buttery goodness of the puff warm your soul, but wait that's not the best part yet. The best part of the tartlet is the apples themselves. No kidding. I'm not a fan of apple base dessert, most of them are rather too tart for my liking. I've been living in the apple paradise which is Normandy for 3 months, but if its anything, I've grown more in love with its pears than its apples. But, these! These are no ordinary apples. These wrinkly slices of baked apples nestled inside Poilane's apple tartlets defy physical laws. It is simply impossible for brownish slices of unappealing fruit to be so darn juicy. Non, c'est pas possible. Yet, bite into a slice of these apples, and sweet apple juice just seeps into your mouth. And, the awesome thing? No, cringe inducing tartness!

Cafe Pouchkine: Charlotka & Napolean

Rouen's weather has been a sneaky little bastard of late; tricking me out with its warm sun and clear blue sky, only to have the sky turn a menacing grey just minutes out of my room. I had to brave the wind's constant harassment as I made my way to Pain 9 to get my weekly (no, scratch that, daily) fix of crumble poire, tarte amadine poire, or whatever is new on the shelf. Today, that happen to be a tart cremeuse banana and a banana chocolat muffin. I'm all set for dinner and supper.

Just barely a week left before I leave the pastry paradise which is France. I've been spoilt really. Having tasted creations from the likes of Cafe Pouchkine, Jean-Paul Hevin and Jacques Genin, it'll be impossible to look at pastry the same way again. I have to kick my pastry habit pronto, Singapore doesn't yet have enough patisseries to support my pastry addiction. But I'll leave going pastry cold turkey for when I'm back home, right now, there's still so many pastries I have to tried. Here's a much delayed review of Café Pouckine.

Café Pouchkine is one of the very few patisseries that I've visited more than once. Mianly because its do darn convenient located in Printemps just minutes away from Gare Siant-Lazare; hop off the train from Rouen, brisk walk on an empty stomach to Printemps, because you're smart enough to have skipped breakfast in preparation for the calorie loaded day ahead, stare at the gloriously baroque looking pastries on the shelves of Café Pouchkine, spent 10 agonizing minutes choosing, re-choosing and then almost always returning to your very first choice, slide onto the high chair at the counter, dig in and....mmmm.

The pastries at Café Pouchkine are quite unlike any other pastries I've seen in France. While the creations of Pierre Hermé and Jacques Genin have a classy French sensibility to them, always elegant, very demure, Café Pouchkine produces pieces which are just the opposite. Extravagant, lavish architectural wonders; gold dusted eclairs, mysterious looking globes of orange balance atop fancy dishes fashioned out of feuille; a feast for the eyes basically.

On my first trip there, I sampled the Charlotka. I usually delve into a pastry without fully knowing what main ingredients feature in it. Mainly because the little description cards are all written in French, and it'll be a little embarrassing spending five minutes squinting at the tiny print, trying to decipher what it says in my less than stellar french. Apples feature very prominently in this piece. Thinly sliced apples are arranged atop a biscuit shell encompassing spiced apple and quince cubes. The biscuit ring is absolutely fantastic. Subtle wafts of vanilla flavoring, just the right balance of crispiness that it doesn't disintegrate when you fork cuts into it but instead simply splits open. Don't you just love it when your pastry cuts cleanly and doesn't make a mess with crumbs and what not? It might be my OCD speaking but I feel a curious sort of joy when I cut into a pastry and it just gives in, no resistance, no mess.

That said, although aesthetically impressive, I am not bowled over by its taste. The star anise spiced quince and apples does land the pastry a unique taste but, other than that I don't think there's much to rave about. Perhaps I'm a little prejudiced when it comes to apple based desserts. To me, apples are meant to be homely, comfort food. Mixed into tarts your grandma bakes or mashed into pies. You know brainless desserts that you gobble down without having to ponder about nuances in flavoring. Café Pouchkine's Charlotka doesn't work for me because it seems to be straddling two different areas; on one hand the inclusion of star anise spiced quince and apples snuggled in paté gives the piece a very exotic touch, on the other, apples have a familiarity in taste which is quite inescapable. Frankly, the Charlotka is not nearly as exotic enough or comforting enough to pass on either front.

A more interesting piece would the Napolean. The same lovely biscuit shell encapsulating vanilla cream sitting atop orange infused paté. The picture below displays how beautifully the Napolean cuts; see, no stray crust or crumb flying onto your lap, just a crisp break to reveal the glorious vanilla cream. Oh, and how glorious the cream is. Just the right density- not too cloying as to overwhelm you taste buds and not too light as to come to nothing. And the vanilla! The little description card for the Napolean described the cream as being parfumed with vanilla, and what an apt word that is! Spoon a glob of that cream into your mouth and you'll feel as though you were eating vanilla air. Is that even possible? Vanilla air? But yes, so subtle in taste yet ever present...vanilla air.

So yes, as I begin to prepare for my trip back home, a problem which has kept me up for the past few nights is what to buy back to Singapore? Should I get Clementines from Un Dimanche a Paris? Chocolates from Jean-Paul Hevin? Should I attempt to transport Café Pouchkine's Napolean back home? Argh, decision, decisions.

Un Diamanche a Paris and Hugo & Victor

I really ought to be more diligent with my blog updates. If there's any time to be totally self-engross and disillusioned about the importance of my life (so much so that it requires minute day to day recording), it is now! For I am sure that accounts of my pastry romps in Paris is decidedly more interesting than accounts of my mental battles with inconsiderate passengers on the MRT. Not that I'm not looking forward to going back to Singapore. I am.

But in the mean times, there are 38 top pastries to cover, only 2 down, 36 to go. I posted up Pierre Herme's Tarte Vanille in the last post, attempted to do a review before completely side tracking and turning the entire post into some sort of self-examination. Lol, I'm sorry, my bad. I have the tendency to do that sometimes. Anyhoo, I not about to do another review on that Tarte Vanille. As I've said, it was well...nice? Nothing mind blowing, just pleasant to taste.

Besides Pierre Herme we also managed to find our way to Un Dimanche a Paris where we tried the much raved about Choux Pistache aux Fruits Rouge; a lovely croustillant au grue choux pasty sandwitching a swirl of pistachio Chantilly cream, over a base of fruits rouge. France has been my initiation to pastry heaven. I've found so many different types of pastries that I've never got to try back home and croustillant au grue is my best discovery yet. There's something amazing about a croustillant au grue choux pastry. You bite into the choux, expecting it to be soft and billowy, only to have it crumble ever so slightly into your mouth. Like one of those addictive oatmeal cookies that you have to munch on incessantly. The croustillant crumbs don't just disintegrate into nothing, they have a little bite to them which lends the choux an amazing medley of texture. Delish!

Un Dimanche a Paris's Choux Pistache aux Fruits Rouge's croustillant choux was wonderful, if not just a little wanting of bite, but that's just my preference. The pistache Chantilly though, was a little bland to taste, if it wasn't for the little nibs of pistachio dotting the chantilly swirl, and of course, the cream being a very distinctive green in colour, I would be hard press to tell that the Chantilly was pistachio flavoured. In contrast, the fruits rouge were perfectly done, just the right balance of acidity and tart sweetness. All together, the Choux Pistache aux Fruits Rouge was a pleasant dessert but not particularly memorable.

Hugo and Victor's Chestnut Mousse Dome was a slightly more impressive affair. I am not completely sure of this piece's composition but from what I can discern, it consist of a dome of chestnut mousse resting atop a circle of chestnut nibbed sponge, and finally glaze with a thin layer of milk chocolate. Nestled within the dome were small pieces of sugar glazed chestnut pieces.

I was pleasantly surprise by the chestnut mousse. The mousse had a certain complexity to it which unfolded slowly in your mouth. Tasting vaguely of milk on first bite, the subtle taste of chestnut is slowly discernible only after you let the mousse linger slowly on your tongue. Although, the chestnut sponge provided a good texture contrast to the creaminess and smoothness of the mousse, I would have liked it better if the contrast was more pronounced; a nice crunchy base made of crushed chestnut cookies would have been delightful.

Might I add that blogging about pastry in the middle of the night is doing nothing for my diet.

When in Rouen..

Is it strange that a simple Tarte Amandine Poire from a little shop at the back alley of Rouen gives me more satisfaction than Herme's Tarte Vanille?

There's just something very comforting about the tarts from Pain 9. Now, how do I put this... I must say that one thing these 3 months have taught me is that I do not have a career in food review! The words just do not come to me so here, I'm going to do this the primitive way - What do I think of Pain 9's Tarte Amadine Poire: mmmmm.... *smacks lips*

Haha does that count as a constructive review?

Well, with this tart don't expect a medley of flavours or textures to explode in your mouth. This tart does not belong with the sophisticated pastries you see displayed behind the tastefully lit counters of Un Dimanche a Paris, instead this is what I'd imagine my mom to bake. Hot out of the oven, shooing her children's hands away as we attempt to devour it straight, a little time in the fridge, and then out on the table for dessert in the evening. These tarts are comforting, they're homely and they warm my soul.

I know Normandy is famous for its apples but its their pears I'm falling in love with. Again I'm at a loss for how to describe the Normandy pears, I know, I know, you're beginning to hate me for this, but really, I do try, but nothing comes out. When you bite into a slice of Normandy pear, it is slightly, just ever so slightly, hard on the surface. And then as you teeth sinks in further, it becomes so soft that the sweet juice just explodes in your mouth. Really, I'm serious, it explodes! Ok, maybe not literally, but ya, there's an 'explosion' of flavors.

I'm beginning to notice a trend here, and I'm sure I've talked about this before but I'm going to rattle on again anyway, but somehow, the restaurants that really strike a chord with me aren't those fancy establishments serving dainty pieces of meat on fine china plates, but those little corner restaurants I stumble upon, hesitant at first to go in and then later, so damn glad I did.

The food is unpretentious and hearty. Service is always so heart warming. Despite my horrible french, the owner usually takes the time to tell me about the dish I'm eating and ask me what I thought of dinner, and that makes my night.

One such restaurant I chanced upon was Mes Mets, located at 37 Rue aux Ors. I remember walking by the quiet unassuming restaurant 3 times before deciding to try my luck. It was here that I first tried escargot done in creme fraiche. Absolutely fantastic. I cleaned up the cocotte afterwards with what remaining bread I had left. Since I was about the only one dinning at the restaurant that night (and please don't let that deter you from going to Mes Mets), service was extremely personal. I had a delightful conversation with the owner on our love for escargot and how we can't understand why some people might be afraid of this delicious snail. And well, since I am usually an epic failure at making connections with strangers, any conversation is a delightful conversation.

My main course was not too shabby either. Pan fried sliced pork with what I believe are red pepper. This is plate of very deceptive pork. They looked so dry outside, so I couldn't believe how tender and juicy when I landed my first bite. Ahh, the memories. I should go back to Mes Mets. And I would go back if not for the fact that there are so many other restaurants in Rouen and so little time. I'm a girl on a mission. A very fattening one.

We're having mussels for dinner tomorrow at Le Rocher. I can't wait.

An Education in Pastry

Spent a lovely day in Paris today trying out a few of the pastries listed on Paris Pastries Top 38 list. Had a very engaging conversation with Ryoka on the train to Paris about Art; the definition of good art, the difficulty of relating to impressionism, Japanese traditional art. Is is strange that after an hour of such stimulating conversation I felt a slight pain throbbing at the side of my head? Could I have been deprive of good conversation for so long that participating in one causes my mind to over exert itself? That sounds pathetic, and if its true, its such a pity. Ryoka surprises me with her quiet intelligence sometimes. She's good company. Its rare to find someone who shares the same interest as I do; art history, food, dessert.

We walked along the streets of Paris making our first stop at Pierre Herme's Bonaparte boutique. I am embarrassed at how I'm reduced to a giggly girl of 14 when faced with rows after rows of chocolate glazed pastries, macaroons, tarts. We eventually gave up trying to decide which pastry to choose and simply confessed sheepishly to the charming French man behind the counter - "We've actually made a list. Do you have any of these pastries available now?"

Most of the pastries were seasonal, the only item available on our list was Herme's Tarte Vanille. Ok then, Tarte Vanille it is, we mustn't deviate from the list. The guy behind the counter approved, good choice, he said. Flattering isn't it? Good choice. As you can see, my ego is very easily boost.

How was Herme's Tarte Vanille? Well, this is the hard part. I don't really know. Reading about how Adam waxes lyrical about the Tarte on his blog, I expected to achieve a dessert epiphany, yet all I felt was 'hmm, ok...". That has always been the problem with me, hasn't it? I don't feel anything. I don't feel anything when I'm faced with the beauty of rows after rows of trees, ablaze with the colours of autumn, I don't feel anything when I look at famed paintings, my heart doesn't move any differently within the confines of a grand gothic church. These past months, I feel like one of the characters in Fringe. You know the one who was incapable of feeling happiness so he goes around sucking the happy memories of other, normal, humans. Me, instead of collecting memories, I'm collecting feelings. I'm teaching myself how to feel. I ask Ryoka, what do you feel when you see a Monet?

Is that even right? Teaching myself how to feel? The correct way to feel. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel right to have to tell myself that in the face of impressive architecture, the right emotion should be awe. But I want to be moved. I want to be able to look at a painting and go "Its beautiful isn't it?", I want to be able to say "Botticelli's my favourite, I adore him', I want to be able to give an answer other that "It was really cold' when asked how Prague was. I want to experience intense emotions, and yet I cannot. I want to be able to appreciate art because it truly resounds with my heart and not because its the cultured thing to do. Oh what the hell, he was right, I am like wood.

I want to write a blog post. I feel like writing but somehow the words don't seem to flow out.

Is it the lack of things to talk about?

No, I don't think so. If anything, I have so much to say. Two weeks of traveling around Europe makes for very engaging writing material; I've seen new places, tried new food, found out aspects of my character I never knew existed, understand old aspects of myself. There're tons to write about, but somehow, I don't feel like talking about these things. Perhaps its because I've talked about them so many times; in my postcards, in my conversations with people I trust enough to allow them a little peek into my psyche, running them over repeatedly in my mind. I don't wish to visit these topics now, at least for the time being.

What can I blog about then?