Paris - good taste, good taste, bad.

La Grande Epicerie in Le Bon Marche, makes me want to move to Paris.  That, Pierre Herme's praline millefuille, and a million other reasons.

I think it might be my favourite food hall.  Dean and Deluca in New York is great but always too crowded at the front.  Eataly is spaghetti Disneyland, but you could lose your mind in there.  Harrods is full of people who shop at Harrods.  Besides, I've never seen a purple eclair at any of the aforementioned: jolie, or what? 

This cake looked a little Blue Peter, but I admired the lack of restraint nonetheless:

But really it's the produce that dazzles:

The produce and the wall of butter.

You know I'm partial to a little too much butter. 

Other things Paris does with some style - flowers:

Stairs:

Staircase up to the gazebo in the new Mandarin Oriental hotel

Parks:

Jardin du Luxembourg

But strangely not handbags.

I have a lot of time for ironic cats, truly I do.  Nonetheless this monstrosity is a bridge too far / too fur.  (Can I get away with that pun?)  And it costs over 750 euros. 

Makes sense when I tell you that it comes from Colette.  I've said everything that needs to be said about Colette in Pear-shaped.  Emperors-new-clothes, except the emperor couldn't afford them.

The Pierre Herme Praline Millefeuille - worth the remortgage

 The absolute best cake in the world - mythical, ridiculous, the stuff of dreams.  I once had a two day migraine and the only thing that cured it was one of these:

This slice of super-awesomeness is worth walking an hour across Paris for, it is worth queueing round the corner when you get there for, and it is worth the money: 6 euros and 90 cents.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that small cake is nearly £7, so I do not say the above lightly, yet it is true.  He is joined here today by his compadre, the Infinitely Vanilla Millefeuille - who is perhaps better looking:

and certainly none too shabby in the eating:

Regardez - his luscious, vanilla pod-flecked cream.

Nonetheless it is the Praline Millefeuille (aka 2000 Feuilles) that has the edge: super flaky, crisp, golden-to-the-point-of-caramelisation thin pastry, trying to keep in check the world's most rampantly divine praline cream, scattered with feuilletine - crunchy little shards that cut through the thickness and offer up a holy trinity of texture - flaky, creamy and crunchy. 

Don't these two make a pretty pair?

So good we tried to eat the cardboard PH on top, even after we realised it was cardboard.

The best house in the world

Just got back from a short trip to France, staying in the loveliest house in the world.

This is the house that features in Pear-shaped, when Sophie and James go to France.   It belongs to my friends Sophie and Sean who very generously let me stay there and make up all sorts of rude shennanigans*. The house has this cool window onto the swimming pool that I am a bit obsessed with.

It's in a tiny village on the river Aude, in the Languedoc - very pretty:

But more importantly home of some exceptional wine, like this bone dry pale rose Pinot Gris from Gerard Bertrand.   Bertrand is an ex international rugby player, looks like super-fox Vincent Cassel and is one of France's best wine-makers, working in an area called La Clape (insert cheap joke here.)

We went to his vineyard and restaurant, L'Hospitalet, in the hills above Narbonne, for lunch.

The chef there sure likes to gussy up a tomato:

But not as much as the chef at the place we went to for dinner, La Distellerie (both meals excellent.)

But here's what I like to do best with a tomato:

Sprinkle salt on it and eat alongside a piece of still warm freshly baked baguette, a thin spread of butter and a slightly thicker spread of Boursin style garlicky cream cheese.   Then retire to the pool with a Kate Atkinson, a cold glass of wine and the anticipation of The Thick of It on DVD for when the sun goes down.  Simple pleasures.  Simple pleasures with butter and Malcolm Tucker.



*When my mother found out I was returning to this house, she asked if I was going to be gallivanting around naked and getting involved in weird Barbie doll role play, as per the book.  Aside from the fact that last time I went to the house was with my mate Mavis, with whom there was zero nudity, my mother seems convinced that everything I write is true.   I'm not sure whether to be insulted or flattered: does my mum think I'm entirely lacking in the powers of imagination, or is it some sort of backhanded compliment - my writing is so vivid she cannot BELIEVE it is not real.  Hmmm.  Wait till she reads the scene I've cooked up with Vincent Cassel, Alec Baldwin and me in a hot tub, in book two. Then I'm really going to get an earful...

The Waterside Inn: Back to '89

Actually more like back to '84, when Duty Free was the raciest show on TV, and Banjo bars were a regular feature in my life.  Pure mid 80s time warp: that's what it feels like walking in to The Waterside Inn.  Not in a bad way; just in a major way.

The Waterside Inn has held 3 Michelin stars longer than any other restaurant in the UK.  It is run by a Roux (Alain - cousin of Michel Roux Jr. from Masterchef, son of Michel Roux Sr - who along with his brother started Le Gavroche - my favourite posh restaurant in London.)  The Waterside Inn is in beautiful surroundings on the Thames, in Bray, even in the rain:

and it is breath-takingly expensive for the a la carte menu (£103 for a main course, anyone?)  However, it does have a set lunch for £58 - a comparative / veritable bargain. (It was my birthday.  Besides, you also get temporary use of a colourful array of pashminas to protect against the cool August wind.  You don't get that in Nandos now, do you?)

And, the food is amazing - amazing, and stuff I would never be able to make at home.

For canapes you are served these beauties:

which in close up look like this:

There's smoked eel, a very salty anchovy cheese straw, something with capers and tarragon on a lettuce leaf - all delicious.

Then for a starter: a duet of salmon gravadlax and tartare with beetroot salad and wasabi sauce.

A main of super rare spit roasted beef rump fillet, garnished with a terrine of braised shin, potato and girolle croquette, and a red wine gravy, sorry, jus....

A pudding of creme brulee (where are the acute accents on this thing...grrr) with praline, and almond ice cream.  So a perfect, rich, vanilla cream, with hidden swathes of posh Nutella running through, alongside a dense, perfectly white fragrant ice cream that feels like dense snow against your teeth.

And finally an array of beautiful petit fours, and coffee (included in the price.  And I did have 5 cups of coffee to get my moneysworth.  And to sober up from the two bottles of Michel Roux rose wine - delicious and only £30.)

A lavender macaroon, just about one of the prettiest things ever, and on Justin-Custard-Doughnut-Man's menu for his final supper.:

But not as beautiful as this mini raspberry tart, which is a lot like the one in Pear-Shaped that Sophie wears on her head for the Tarts party...  This one went straight in the mouth - unfortunately in the mouth of my companion...

Everything we ate was utterly delicious.  Plus the service was phenomenal, and the waiters flirted with us just the right amount.

It's the perfect place to go with your in-laws / an old aunt / anyone who loves food, on a special occasion. 

The St John Custard Doughnut - all hail the master

As previously discussed the St John Custard Doughnut is a mythical creation, a thing of beauty,* and one of the best treats in London. It does things to your tongue and your brain that are illegal in several American states.**

It is also proof to me that there is a God, in this case a pastry God, in the form of Justin Piers Gellatly, Executive Baker and Head Pastry Chef of the St John empire. Starting out at 15 washing dishes, he’s worked in the business for 23 years, the last 11 of them with Fergus Henderson at St John.

As well as being in charge of St John’s legendary breads, now served at over 30 top London restaurants, Justin looks after all their baked goods. He recently did a spot of catering for a certain royal wedding – 2000 rolls – toasted rye, white sourdough and raisin - plus some buttery buns for the morning after bacon sarnies. And he is the inventor of THAT Doughnut.

First things first, Justin wanted a brioche-inspired, buttery dough. He uses Lescure, a French butter with a low water content and drier texture, to ensure perfect consistency. The finished dough combines strong white bread flour, butter, salt, sugar, eggs, yeast, water and lemon zest, which lifts and offsets the dense rich custard inside perfectly.

Strong white bread flour.  Great packaging, no?

Justin trialled around 50 doughs over 6 months in development, encountering over-exuberant yeast and exploding doughnuts along the way.

The custard was a different story and he nailed it first time. He mixed 50% Crème Patissiere (to chefs, what concrete is to builders - Raymond Blanc) with 50% Crème Chantilly (double cream mixed with sugar and vanilla.) The result is a luscious thick, rich yet light vanilla dream. It has a fullness to it that feels as satisfying on your tongue as a water balloon in your palm.

When Justin presented the finished prototype to his boss, there were nearly tears in Fergus’s eyes.

Justin and his team now bake 500 donuts at a time for St John Bakery in Bermondsey on a Saturday morning, and another 100 for St John Bread and Wine in Spitalfields on a Sunday morning.

St John Bakery at the end of the Saturday shift, not a doughnut left in sight...

The dough is prepared the night before and given a 24 hour bulk fermentation (the doughnuts are kept as one large lump of dough, so that the flavour can develop fully.)

Tomorrow's bread, proving today

The custard is made in the wee small hours of the morning. The dough is divided and rolled into 47g balls, left to double in size in the prover for two hours, then arranged in batches of 25 per proving tray – then fried quickly in vegetable oil.

Justin, Executive Baker, with a proving tray, which holds 25 dough balls

After a brief pat with a paper towel, each doughnut is given a good roll around in sugar, left to cool, then hand-piped to bursting, full of custard.

At close of play there are never any doughnuts left. Not one. Ever.

If I worked in this bakery I’d be fired on day one for eating the stock. How often does Justin allow himself a taste of his own confections? Turns out he hasn’t eaten a custard doughnut for a few months. That’s the thing about gods; way more will power than us mortals.

‘I crave cornichons!’ he says by way of explanation. It does make a certain sense – a salty, acidic, sour counterbalance to the richest, creamiest sweetest puff of joy imaginable.

If you are brave and want to try recreating these at home, the recipe can be found in Beyond Nose To Tail. If I were you, I’d leave it to the doughnut masters. Just get here early.

Mini Q&A with Justin, the Doughnut Master:

Perfect accompaniment to a St John Custard Doughnut: A glass of champagne

Favourite London restaurant, aside from St Johns: Anchor and Hope, Waterloo

Last supper:

Guests – My wonderful wife Louise Jane Gellatly

A few glasses of Krug with some crab meat toast

Wine with the meal - a chilled red (Brouilly)

Starter – Confit Rabbit Nicoise salad (Anchor and Hope)

Main – Grilled Onglet, chips, watercress salad and béarnaise sauce (very heavy on the tarragon )

Dessert- Custard tart

Cheese- Roquefort , Water Biscuits and Ruby port.

Earl Grey Tea, violet macaroons and chilled Poire William

Calvados and cigars

* Keats, who wrote Endymion (first line ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever…’) used to live a stone’s throw from St John Bakery, in Tooley Street.
**Did you know it is illegal to own a ferret as a pet in California and Hawaii?