Grazing Through Paris ...

What follows is unadulterated, unmitigated food porn. Bring Zocor.

It was a lazy Sunday spent first dozing off on the RER suburban rail line out to Versailles. Overwhelmed by the opulence, the overcrowding and the realization that we don't really like looking at overly ornate living quarters, we bid adieu to the palace and headed back to the city.

Bob was still jet-lagged so went off or a nap, I went for a walk along the Boulevard Saint-Germaine and stopped in for lunch at Le Grand Bar Cluny.

The weather was perfect, sunny, some clouds, low-70s. So I had a half-bottle of Muscadet with a salmon carpaccio salad and a half-dozen escargot.

The salmon had been prepared like a ceviche in lemon juice, than served with a tossed salad, with a garnish of chopped red peppers and basil. A balsamic vinegar and olive oil dressing was splashed on top.

The escargot were prepared simply, tender, in garlic, herb butter. It was a relaxing meal. A soft breeze moved down the boulevard, it was a quiet Sunday afternoon. Perfectly pleasant.

Common sense is telling me I shouldn't be eating like this; but since when has common sense got between me and a tasty dish? That's just silly.

We had a 7:30 reservation for dinner at another of Jon Bonne's suggestions, the classic Bouillon Racine, just around the corner from the Sorbonne, and only a five minute walk from our hotel.

Founded in 1906, it's a traditional French brasserie famous for both its traditional cooking and its amazing Art Nouveau interior.

The interior was just spectacular, the leaded glass, the flowing arcs and curves, the pale green hue of the walls and the warm wood of the table tops and the bar. Check out the website for the history.

Still, we were concerned the decor and history might detract from the food. Now here Bob and I are split. We ordered each a three-course set meal from the 1900 Menu. Bob started with the Verrine of fresh crab meat with avocado and grapefruit, which while not the prettiest of platings, tasted wonderful.

I opted for the homemade duck foie gras with cherry compote and toast. The compote has the perfect amount of tartness to balance the rich creaminess of the foie gras. It was spectacular.

At the waiter's suggestion, we orded a bottle of the Chateau de la Chaize Brouilly, a 100% Gamay grape wine from Beaujolais, perfect for the main course, the stuffed and spit roasted suckling pig.

Now, this is where Bob and I disagreed about the meal. Bouillon Racine offers up traditional, almost peasant-like meals, as well as more refined fare. In fact, the history on the front of the menu recalls how it grew out of a trend of "bouillon" fast food-like stalls and bistros which popped up at the turn of the 20th Century as more and more workers came to the fast-growing industrialized Paris.

The pork was tender, savory with a bread stuffing, full of un-brined olives, carrots, onions and some dried fruit, possibly apricots. I thought it was a great dish. Bob, however, was expecting something a little more rustic, with the skin crispy and the meat, just as tender, but flakier, like the kind of spit-roasted meats we had in Croatia.

For dessert, Bob ordered the special of the day and chocolate and candied cherry cake. The cake was a dark, not too sweet chocolate and the cherries were folded into a light cream. Not too sweet, but nothing to write home about. I, on the other hand, felt that the foie gras had not introduced enough fat into my diet, so I went with the cheese platter.

From left to right: Roussin au Marc de Bourgogne, a Chevrac du Perigord and a Saint Marcellin. The Roussin's rind is soaked in a brandy, yet the flavor is remarkably mild. The Chevrac was a stronger, creamy goat's cheese and the Saint Marcellin is an insanely creamy cow's milk cheese from the Rhone region that, once you broke the rind, just oozed tart, aromatic cheesy goodness all over the slate cheese board.

Bob finished with a coffee, then we walked back to the hotel in a food coma. 

From Persepolis to Provençal

Our love for Paris is eclipsed only by our love for the Louvre.

To be more specific, it's not so much the art within the museum (though it's a treasure trove of history and beauty), it's the structure itself. We are huge I.M Pei fans, having once trekked to Kyoto, Japan specifically to visit the Miho Museum.

Commissioned by President François Mitterrand in 1984, and completed in 1989, the Louvre Pyramid (technically a large pyramid with three smaller ones, an inverted pyramid and mirror pools) was built in the center of the museums main courtyard, the Cour Napoléon, as the main entrance into the museum's giant underground lobby.

It was a stroke of genius, the design. How could you expand upon the core structures of the building, the former palace of Louis the XIV (not known for his understatement when it came to construction, check out Versailles), without aping a 17th Century style?

By using simple geometric forms, that's how. Some people find it jarring, but Bob and I just love its openness and simplicity.

And the subterranean lobby is bright, expansive and quite timeless in its design, allowing easy access to all the wings of the older building.

This was the fourth time I had been to the Louvre, for Bob, his fifth. We avoided the Mona Lisa because it's usually a madhouse and once you've seen her enigmatic smile and bought the mug/t-shirt/college dorm poster, you've kind of figured out the whole thing.

Winged Victory, or the Nike of Samothrace, is one of the highlights which we usually enjoy when we visit, but sadly this time around she was not on display as the lady at the ticket counter joked, "she is getting her make-up done."

Still, we hightailed it to my favorite part, Near Eastern Antiquities. Ever since I read The Epic of Gilgamesh in college, I've found the ancient world of the Levant, Mesopotamia and Persia fascinating. Mostly because the complexity of the cultures, many which pre-date the Judeo-Christian era, but whose myths and stories inform what we now call the Old Testament.

Also, it was a ruthlessly violent world, and not just in terms of the geopolitical nature of the emerging empires of the time.

The structures, the mythological, magical beings, to me at least, are a testament to ancient man's attempts to put order into their world, with so many of these ideas – Gryphons, sphinxes, the original writings in clay tablets, the tale of Gilgamesh, the baby found in the reeds – just still informing Western society today.

It's also the scope of one man's vision which I find intriguing. Darius 1 or Darius the Great, commissioned two giant halls, called Apadana, in both the Persepolis, the capitol of the Achaemenid Empire, and Susa, a kind of second, administrative center sometime around 510 B.C. Check out the size of the capitals that supported the building's ceiling:

The columns were 62-feet high! And there were 72 of them at the palace in Persepolis supporting ceiling beams, built from cedar trees from Lebanon. Not bad for 2600 years ago, I would say. Amazing.

Above all else, I see the Louvre as this weird shrine to Empire, ancient and modern. When Louis the XIV moved to Versailles, this, his former palace, became home to the art and plunder of his empire. When Mitterrand commissioned the Louvre, detractors said the pyramids were an attempt to enshrine his image like the pharaohs of old.

Bob and I decided to walk through the Tuileries Garden towards the Champs-Élysées, but not before getting a quick photo of the rollerblading gendarmes.

We also stopped to get a photo taken because, as we keep on being reminded, there are few photos of Bob and I together:

We stopped at the Musée de l'Orangerie, a museum on the Tuileries, just off the Place de la Concorde, that is home to Impressionist and post-Impressionist works by Cezanne, Matisse and Renoir. But the highlight are the two elliptical rooms where eight of Monet's Water Lilies paintings grace the walls. Calming and beautiful, it's definitely worth the visit.

We made it back to our neighborhood and had wine and charcuterie. Bob took a nap, I wrote a blog and did some reading. Then, at the hotel manager's recommendation, we headed for dinner to Chez Janou Bistrot in the Marais.

Now this was a packed, local restaurant where people were crammed into tables and the wait staff were run off their feet. A "restaurant Provençal" with a reputation for both great and mediocre meals, a large assortment of Pastis cocktails (81 according to the menu!) and an allegedly rude wait staff, Bob and I appeared to have split the difference meal-wise.

We both had the fish soup, which was a hearty bisque served with croutons, remoulade and parmesan cheese. Tasty.

Bob ordered what turned out to be a very fatty veal chop with dauphinois potatoes (unintentionally cold), in a mushroom sauce (also cold).

I decided to throw caution to the wind and ordered the tagliatelle avec escargots. Now this was awesome, the pasta was cooked perfectly and it was folded, along with the escargot, into a rich butter and cream sauce with toasted pine nuts, chopped fresh basil and star anise.

Pastis is an anise flavored liqueur that's about 45% alcohol by volume, and you drink it with added flavors like orange or melon, diluted with still water. It is, by and large, potent and nasty.

I'm glad I tried it, so now I never have to do it again. 

In Defense of the French

People have a tendency to give the French a hard time, mostly because of the way they speak French; with disdain, noses pinched, with the corners of their mouths turned down.

Back home, a bulk of the Republican party dismiss the French as effete and cowardly, pilloried in the press for thinking war is bad and that communal rental bikes on the streets of Paris is nothing short of Communism.

But I will give credit where credit is due: Yes, they use communal rental bicycles, but you know what they don't do? They don't wear helmets. Simply Bad Ass.

And they ride them while smoking, too.

In fact, in a country often held aloft as the paragon of European Nanny State tyranny, it's pretty obvious that the French are too busy living to worry about second-hand smoke, emphysema or cancer. No, it's not uncommon to see kindly French grand-meres taking a mid-afternoon cafe or a glass of wine, cigar or cigarette in hand.

Take the food – and, by God, we have – it's a cardiologist's nightmare: brie, camembert and assorted other cheeses offered to end a meal, to have for breakfast, to put on a baguette with a bit of ham at lunchtime.

They've more charcuteries and boulangeries than Manhattan has Starbucks. Seriously, cakes and croissants and baguettes, they're like a food group here; the base on which the French built their Food Pyramid, with sausages, roasts, bourguignons and confits next supporting a clutch of hearty stews and soups with wines, aperitifs and digestifs at the their proper place at the pinnacle.

And Mayor Bloomberg's worried about Big Gulps?

No, this is a city – a country – that's got its priorities straight.

So, while I am pretty sure there's probably an annoying supermarket chain that –  like Whole Foods or Trader Joe's – wants to make me feel guilty for not using a recyclable hemp tote bag to bring home my organically grown fair trade coffee, organic vegetables and tough-to-cook ancient grains, it's thankfully not anywhere near our hotel.

Restaurant Jadis

In a city with thousands of restaurants, bistros and brasseries to choose from, I turned to longtime friend and SF Chronicle Wine Editor Jon Bonne to nail down a couple of suggestions. The first on the list was Restaurant Jadis, a small affair in a very quiet part of the 15th Arrondissement a couple of miles from the heart of Paris, west of Montparnasse.

First off, apologies for the low lighting; just got a new macro lens and I can't figure out how best to shoot. Also, I hate using flash because it makes all the other patrons stare ...

Referred to as a neo-bistro, Chef Guillaume Delage's take on food appears to be combinations of simple flavors that enhance, yet don't overwhelm each other.

The first dish was a braised tomato, seeded then stuffed with seafood and served in what looks like a cold vegetable emulsion or soup (they referred to it as a "flan".

It came with a side salad made up of the vegetables used to make the broth, topped with the same seafood as what was in the tomato, tender squid. Refreshing and tasty.

Bob ordered the duck breast, served medium rare and I had the chicken liver and foie gras mousse served with langoustines and a parmesan crouton in a wonderful, buttery broth.

Rich, savory, with the mousse being light as a feather, I can't recommend it enough. And it was the perfect first meal of the trip. We were tired, a bit jet-lagged. We had walked around the city for a few hours, quaffed wine and people-watched a bit earlier, and we didn't want something weighing us down.

Now a chicken liver and foie gras mousse is a complex preparation – as was the seafood soup and salad –and while Bob and I loved it, we have to admit, the simplicity of the grilled duck breast, accompanied by a side of braised (they called them "glazed" carrots and turnips, kind of knocked it out of the park.

The root vegetables were cooked to al dente, tender to the fork, where just a hint of the bitterness of the turnip remained and blended perfectly with the natural sweetness of the carrots. I mean, the perfect Fall side dish. Seriously. We ordered a second side dish, it was that good.

The surprise of the meal was the prune liqueur sorbet; not too sweet, with an almost licorice finish.

After an afternoon of imbibing, Bob and I opted just to have a couple of Kir Royals with the meal, and we split a carafe of the house Bordeaux, nothing too crazy. The desserts were nice, too. I had the Jadis Mystery, a frozen piece of architecture where what appears to be a malt honeycomb-center (covered in dark chocolate) is encased in vanilla ice cream, which is rolled in toasted hazelnuts and then served with a warm, unsweetened chocolate sauce.

It's a mystery I didn't have a stroke, what with the armagnac ...

The French are Smokin'

Arrived on time, 7:40 a.m. local time, taxi-ed in from the airport, checked in to the hotel, the Best Western Jardin De Cluny, and took a nap.

Charlemagne

Got up at 2 p.m. and wandered through the Latin Quarter, across the Seine, past Notre Dame, the Hotel De Ville, past the Centre Pompidou (hasn't aged well at all), through the Marais and stopped at a brasserie to relax and people watch.

Protesting for the return of two journalists detained in Syria at Hotel De Ville

Paris is such a people friendly walking city. Bob and I haven't been back since 2000 and it's seen some wear and tear. Casual culture, especially among the teens and people in their 20s, has taken hold, like almost every major city, which is a little sad, but the city is far more multicultural than we remember, which is cool.

The facade above the main doors at Notre Dame

But it's amazing the number of people who smoke here. I mean, it's got me jonesing big time. It's funny, the petite young mom with her months-old baby in one of those pouches, was just chatting away with her male friend who chain smoked hand rolled cigarettes, oblivious he was exhaling into the baby's face.

Kid didn't seem to mind, though ...

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Continent ...

While waiting for our flight to board, I receive an email with the header, "30 Years Later". And it's from my long lost high school buddy Gerry Lanigan, from St. Paul's College, asking if I'm "that" Anthony Duignan.

Why yes, Ger, I'm coming home. Hope to see you soon.

Istria: Land of Good Wine

It's a testament to the resilience of the Croatian people that over its history a majority of its settlements were fortified or walled, what with almost every major empire of the last 3,000 years running roughshod over the place. 

Now the battlements are silent, yet hordes of Russians, Germans and Italians, joined by busloads of Americans, Chinese and Japanese, crisscross Istria, looking for a taste of the Mediterranean "as it was." Visa and Mastercard accepted. 

Istria isn't the largest part of Croatia, but it's easily one of the most beautiful, with its dramatic coastlines and steep rolling hills dotted with the region's famous vineyards and olive groves. We can't recommend visiting here enough.

Poreč Marina

After we bailed from hotel hell, we checked into the Hotel Laguna Parentium a mile north of downtown Poreč. We used Booking.com and got an amazing last-minute deal. The place had only reopened in August after a major renovation. 

The resort takes its name from the Latin name for Poreč and it's part of a much larger string of hotels which dot the isthmus below the town. It's a huge, beautiful, modern development. Some of the hotels offer private marinas, there is water skiing and a large, open air venue for concerts. The development is owned by the Plava Laguna company. Very impressive.

Exhausted from the previous night, we blew the rest of the day lounging by the pool, swimming in the Adriatic, enjoying local sparkling wines. Sybarite, it's Latin ...

That night we dined at a local haunt called Dvi Murve, just north of town. We started with the minestrone, an order of raw clams and oysters and an order of the Istrian boškarin beef carpaccio. The beef was wonderful, served with slim slices of age, smoked ricotta cheese on top, on a bed of arugula and drizzled with olive oil.

Bob had the grilled langoustines, which, while cooked beautifully, were really, just too much work. They are little lobsters, so you can imagine wrestling through a half-dozen. Tasty, though ... I had the grilled squid, and it was perfect. Light, tender, not chewy. 

On Thursday, we drove south, forty minutes, to Pula. Istria is small, you can easily traverse the region, north to south, east to west, in a day. In less time if you drive like a Croatian.

We visited the Roman Amphitheater there. It’s an impressive monument to Rome’s reach and rule with the final stone structure completed in 68 AD. 

It had all the amenities of the time: seating for 22,000-plus, awnings to shield people from the sun and an impressive basement under the arena floor proper where gladiators, entertainers and animals were kept prior to the events. Two small side tunnels allowed for dead animals, as well as critically wounded or dead gladiators to be dragged from the arena. This space now houses the museum, showcasing amphorae, as well as olive oil presses from the period.

It’s funny the museum literature quoted Pliny the Elder saying that Istria’s wine and olive oil are only second to Italy’s. We’re not going to argue that one, but will say that it’s a close, close competition.

Some of the marble and limestone was used for construction during the middle ages, but today the amphitheaters stands and looks much as it did to 2000 years ago, only know it seats about 5,000 and hosts concerts and a movie festival in the summer.

We spent the morning in Pula, then the afternoon at the hotel by the pool. That night we dined in town on the marina at the popular Sv Nikola. Boškarin beef filet with black truffles was the main course.  Bob had his with a wonderful asparagus and mushroom sauce over fresh tricolor pasta. Wow. I had a hankering for fried potatoes, which were served in a mushroom pinole nut sauce; unexpected, but tasted great with the fries.  

As an appetizer, I ordered the house special, a white fish and octopus carpaccio. Both were tender and tasty, nothing flashy, but what stood out were the raw prawns served with the dish, sweeter than any Ebi I’ve had at any sashimi restaurant, including the stalls in Tokyo’s fish market. 

MMmmmm, skrimpses ...

On Friday, our last full day in Croatia, we headed into the hills, to the medieval hilltop fortress of Motovun, through the wine country.  Now, most, if not all of Croatia’s vineyards are family affairs, with wine grapes growing on lots only a an acre or two in size to maybe on average, 50 acres. In the countryside, people make wine and olive oil, often using cooperative facilities to press the oil and grapes for private production.  

Motovun on the hilltop

For those who produce wine for the marketplace, though, many eschew many modern wine production techniques to keep the wines as organic as possible. Still, modern farming techniques have improved consistency of crop yields, though many bottle have a “eco” symbol on the label. 

Driving in Istria, despite the modernity of the roads, is difficult. It’s hilly, the roads are narrow, the locals are pushy and impatient, but the countryside is beautiful and as you drive up and down through the center of the land you can’t help but marvel at the fortified towns and fortresses which crown the hilltops. Motovun is particularly impressive, both as a challenging hike and for its beautiful view of the valley below and the hills beyond.

The view from Motovun

The streets are lined with small shops, some selling their own wine and/or olive oil; others offering tastings of truffles, wine and oil. Everything is for sale;  it’s tourist-y, but not cheesy.

I give a lot of credit to Bob for this amazing trip. I was busy with work and Bob handled all the planning. Yes, the agri-tourism inn was hilariously bad, but we landed on our feet and we have a fun story to tell. Plus, there was spit-roasted suckling pig: We call that a win.

So far, we had picked restaurants based on tour books, top 10 websites, concierge recommendations and taking a chance based on hotel proximity and, of course, wild beast roasting on a spit. For the final night, Bob picked the slow food restaurant Toklarija, located a few miles outside the town of Buzet.

Toklarija in the hamlet of Sovinjsko Polje

And by a few miles, I mean a long and winding road up a tiny hill. A road so narrow that we had to reverse back 50 feet to let a tiny Renault go by us at one point. This place gives new meaning to the phrase "out of the way." It's in a 600-year-old olive mill.

Inside the restaurant.

We had tried to get a reservation the night before, but it was sold out. Which was weird, because on the night we dined, Bob and I appeared to be the only guests. And we had the chef and owner Nevio Sirotic waiting on us as well as preparing the meal. He chose the wines – we started with a Teran-based aperitif, then a white wine, a Malvazija, followed by the red, a Teran, both grapes indigenous to Istria – and he just brought out the five courses at a leisurely pace. 

Grilled figs with aged ricotta and wild mushrooms drizzled with olive oil. Grilled figs? Who grills figs? I mean, I didn't know they were flowers and not fruits until a week ago. Amazing:

Minestrone soup for two. Croatian's take pride in their version of this hearty staple. It's richer than the Italian version, and seems to have a lot more pork in it:

Mushroom carpaccio on arugula and grated parmigiana. The chef had marinated the mushroom, but when we asked what with, he wasn't telling:

Croatian pršut (prosciutto) and cheese ravioli. Bob hates ravioli. But not this one:

Roasted pork and potatoes. This was savory and juicy and slow-roasted for God knows how many hours. Two Zocor chaser, please:

Chocolate cake and grilled ricotta on fig marmalade. The cake was a rich, with luxurious chocolate cream icing, but it was the cheese which was truly surprising and delightful: 

We arrived at 6:30 and didn't leave until almost 10 p.m. And we were the only customers. It was easily the best meal of our whole trip. And the perfect way to end our stay in Croatia. We can't recommend it enough; the people, the scenery, the food and the wine. Don't forget the wine. I didn't ... ;-)

Next stop? Venice.