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Would you like a crown with that?
Today is the Feast of the Epiphany, or Three Kings Day, and in France it is celebrated with a galette des rois. The tarte-like cakes begin to appear in pâtisserie and boulangerie windows in December and children adore this tradition where the youngest goes under the table and calls out each person's name to receive a slice. Whoever's parte contains the coveted fève - usually a small porcelain figurine of one of the gift-bearing Magi (although there are now many variations, including cartoon characters) - he/she/them will be crowned King or Queen and get to crown his/her/their King or Queen of choice, so every cake is (or should be) sold with two crowns.
The galettes usually contain crème frangipane, an almond cream, but upscale bakers have been creating away with pistachio cream (my current favorite) and other fillings, trying not to stray too far from the original. I've made my own galettes in the past - it's not difficult - and like to serve the cake warm, heated for a short time in the oven, never micro-waved (quelle horreur!) so its crispness remains intact. And did I mention its classic accord is a cidre doux - or second choice, a bubbly crémant? - BPJ
3 hours (or less) from Paris:
London, a skip and hop from Paris, makes a perfect Christmas getaway.
Above: reminiscing and fond memories of The Chelsea Wharf Restaurant
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Reprint from "Throwback Thursday" 11/4/2021
Lobster and prawns Eggs Benedict on a Sunday morning
[Posted November 4, 2021] - The setting was 80's London, and Michael Alexander, who I've
written about before on
this blog, had opened a restaurant, The Chelsea Wharf, to much local
fanfare in the media and otherwise, right on Chelsea Harbour.
In no time at all it became the talk of the town. In the cuisine was enfant terrible
now celeb chef Marco Pierre White, the sole person, it's been said, who
"made Gordon Ramsay cry in the kitchen." With regulars such as George
Michael and Boy George streaming in one would think its success was
guaranteed, but it wasn’t.
Sadly, it was short-lived. Lax management let a party
atmosphere take over and, as Michael would mention more than once over
the years with a sigh, he was, after all, a writer, not a restaurateur.
Sunday
mornings saw a gathering of "friends and allies" - those dearest and
nearest to
him - occupy a very long table for breakfast. As Billy Churchill swayed
away on piano and a soft light seeped in through gothic windows, we'd
regale in bad jokes and good champagne.
Just across the Thames was Saint Mary's Church and almost everyone would order Bloody Marys and the house Eggs Benedict - or rather, as it appeared on the menu, "Eggs Benedict Arnold," so named for the notorious traitor of the American Revolution buried there.
The first - and last - time I pointed this out I was swiftly berated.
“Traitor? From our side of things, Benedict Arnold was a hero!” - BPJ
