Joe Ray

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Duck Quackery

Thanks to a dinner at a friend’s house in Barcelona and another at one of my new Paris faves, l’Escargot, I’ve recently been lured back into loving confît de canard.

Crunchy on the outside, melting and moist on the inside, these two dinners reminded me why the dish is a classic.

This afternoon, however, at Le Petit Fer à Cheval – a Marais classic in its own right and a place that prides itself on the dish – I remembered why it’s been so long.

Allow me to work through my plate in reverse…

Yes, it’s winter and the selections at the vegetable stands are pretty grim at this time of year, but this was particularly depressing. There was a vague wave in the direction of seasonality with some cabbage, and there was even a bit of variety, but everything either squeaked on my teeth or was mushy.

C’mon guys…live a little and drizzle some olive oil on the steamed broccoli, try finishing the green beans with some butter and shallots or just punt and swap the veggies out for a salad. I love being in the Clean Plate Club, but not today.

The potatoes next to the veggies were hand cut and crunchy on the outside - Hooray! - but more than a few were crunchy on the inside, too. Ick.

Finally, the duck itself reminded me why I hadn’t had this dish in so long – it was crunchy on the outside (though I almost wonder if, considering the laziness of the preparation for the rest of the dish, they just crisped it up by throwing it into the Frialator with my spuds), but inside it was lifeless.

What’s frustrating is that I like this place – the well-dressed waiters, the U-shaped bar that gives the restaurant its name, the big wall clock that goes backward, the good Parisian feeling that you get here – but I think it’ll be a while before I come back.

I lied unconvincingly when my waiter asked me how it was but the kicker, and a good part of the reason why I’m writing this, was the ridiculous price tag: 20 euros (!!!) or the equivalent of 26 bucks. At L’Escargot, where I would eat it again and again, their confît comes with a potato puree with truffle oil and a beautiful salad for 17 euros.

Expensive and good I can deal with. Expensive and bad just makes me angry.

“Really?” I blurted out to the poor bartender.

“The duck is the specialty of the house,” he said.

It has nothing to do with the guy behind the bar, but quit insulting me.

L’Escargot MAP
50, rue de la Villette
75019 Paris
+33.1.42.06.03.96

Le Petit Fer à Cheval MAP
75004 Paris‎
+33.9.62.09.23.38‎

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Thursday, January 15, 2009

Knuckles, Onions and a Man Alone

Put to the test on where to go in the neighborhood to fulfill a French onion soup quest, the team at La Cave à Jojo floundered.

“That’s tricky around here,” said Jojo, batting ideas around with clients at the bar, before smiling. “I’ve got it.”

We walked back into the night, skirting the base of Montmartre and bringing our bodies down to the right temperature for soupe à l’oignon.

On the way to our table, a man alone ate oysters from a raised platter, following each with brown bread and sweet butter, then luxuriously washing it down with some white wine; we were in the right place.

I’ve known this – the one-man reward in a bistro - and seeing the man made me think of doing the same several years ago, filing a story at some ungodly hour and heading to Au Général Lafayette for pig knuckle, choucroute and beer. Similarly, every year when I get a new carte de séjour, I straight from the prefecture to the Petit Fer à Cheval where I order steak tartare, silently toast my grandma and thank God I don’t have to renew the damn thing for another year.

Back at Wepler, the breeze blowing through an open door shook me from my reverie – Paris city air sweetened with the sea salt it picked up blowing across the oysters kept outside.

Inside, three men who have ordered two coffees look up as the waiter arrives.

Garcon smiled, placing the coffee on the table and slipping a chocolate to the guy who didn’t need any more caffeine.

In this temple of consumption, the thought of it all made the conversation better, made me hungrier.

We ordered soup, my friends agreed to split a chèvre chaud, but they stared at me funny when I ordered a pig knuckle.

I raised a silent toast to grandma and dug in.

Brasserie Wepler MAP
14, Place de Clichy
75018 Paris
+33 1 42 93 70 84
www.wepler.com

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