Petite Cuisine

Since the last time I visited Paris, in 2002, the value of the dollar has shriveled. This summer I was met with costs that nearly doubled those of my already expensive Los Angeles. Had I stayed in a hotel, I might be feeding on cold sandwiches or baguettes and cheese (which, come to think of it, might not be so terrible). But I was clever enough to impose myself on the good graces of my friend, Julia, and so had access to a kitchen. Thanks to the incredible outdoor markets we were able to piece together simple meals without having to interfere with the ingredients very much.

What little cooking skills we applied, however, were tested by the munchkin proportions of our Paris kitchen. There's a photo of Julia Child, 6'1", towering over a tiny burner that barely passed her knees when she was studying French cuisine in Paris. At roughly nine inches shorter I can still relate to the claustrophobia she must have felt; still there's something virtuous or at least exciting about making do within these types of restraints.

With a few prepared items, like pate, prosciutto, good cheese, and olives, one or two easily assembled salads (we did a simple green and a tomato cucumber using the same dijon vinaigrette), and some fresh baguettes, we had the impression of abundance with no more effort than cutting and assembling our ingredients. On the little flat burner Julia sauteed some garlic and made a simple hot succotash with leftover courgettes, canned corn, and fresh tomatoes.

The resulting feast for four cost much less than a night out at even a modest restaurant in Paris. As the late sun set and the room dimmed, we drank the last of the cheap wine, sopped the dressing from our plates with the butts of baguettes, and leaned back into our chairs with smiles and full bellies.