We ordered breakfast in the room. The coffee came out all wrong. We had specified the Caffè Crema but a French press with milk arrived instead. We later learned Rabea is off on Fridays and Saturdays. Mystery solved.
Today was Mom’s other do-over. We had taken part of the Le Foodist class last year but had skipped the market portion. So this year we booked the full “Market & Cook” class. 9 AM to 3 PM.
We Ubered over and were running a few minutes late. Our instructor Pablo called my phone to check we were on our way. “We are OTW,” I texted back. Thumbs up emoji.
Our class was a fun mix. Two couples from North Carolina who did not know each other, one from the Raleigh area. A dad from Israel traveling solo. He and his wife have four kids and had decided it was hard to travel as a family, so each of them takes solo trips. This was his first one. He loves to cook as a hobby. Then me and Mom. We made friends fast.
When we sat down before heading out, we mentioned to Pablo that we had done the class last year. He had not known. On the fly he adjusted the menu so it would not be a repeat for us. He added an herbed butter spin to the scalloped potatoes, swapped out the dessert for floating island with strawberry coulis and toasted almonds, and the main was going to be salmon with a beurre blanc sauce.
I thought oh no. I am not a fan of salmon. But I was not about to raise my hand and complain after he just rewrote the menu for us. Time to power through.
Pablo has a background in food history, so the market portion turned out to be a deep dive. He walked us through how the French system works. There is a middleman who collects all the produce from farms and brings it to the market. The whole chain is heavily regulated to keep everything fresh and pure. The seafood works the same way, organized by region.
Pablo selected the Scottish salmon at the fish booth and placed his order. While the veggies and salmon were being wrapped up for his cart, we had a few minutes to wander on our own. Mom bought a scarf with red poppies on it. Then we met Pablo back at the fish booth.
That is when he explained why Scottish salmon matters. Wild salmon get their pink color from eating krill and shrimp. The pigment is called astaxanthin. Farmed salmon do not eat that diet naturally, so farms add astaxanthin to the feed. Scottish farms use natural astaxanthin from algae or krill meal, under strict EU rules. US farms use synthetic dye.
We already know food in the US is unhealthy. We feed our farmed animals corn because it is cheap, even when they are not corn eaters. Salmon get inflammation instead of the omega-3s that are the whole reason to eat salmon, and then we dye it pink so it looks normal. Ugh!
Here is what I learned. The gold standard is Scottish salmon. But that can be hard to find in the US. So look for the ASC or BAP certification on the label. It means the salmon was responsibly farmed, fed properly, and traceable.
Whether you are shopping or out to eat, look for one of three things: Scottish, ASC, or BAP.
Suddenly I am a salmon expert. After a lifetime of avoiding it because I did not like the taste, I now know which one to eat.
Pablo also walked us through the numbering system at the market that lets you track the origin of any fish.
Then we walked down the street for the cheese portion of the morning. Pablo took us into a fromagerie and they brought out samples. So many varieties and methods of aging and crafting that I lost count.
While we walked between stops, Pablo dropped a few French observations. France does not have Costco. Cars in France do not have cup holders. You do not eat or drink while you walk around. You sit. You take a break. You enjoy. The opposite of the American grab and go.
Then back to the kitchen. There we met another couple from Charlotte. Another NC couple!
Back at the kitchen, we got to work. My station this year was the carrots. I used a melon baller to turn them into perfect little orbs. Mom’s station was the leeks. Last year she had done the cauliflower. She also learned how to sharpen her knife while she was at it. Once the leeks were ready, she steamed them.
Next up was the vegetable glaze, which had to be measured precisely in grams. The vegetables, the sugar, and the butter. My scale had reset itself out of grams without me realizing, and I cut up way too much butter. Pablo caught the mistake before I mixed it in. Saved by the chef.
At this point we all took a wine break.
The cauliflower soup was different this year. When Pablo cut into the cauliflower, there was not much underneath the leaves. So it ended up with a little less cauliflower than usual. We decorated each bowl with seasoned cauliflower crumbs and dill. Pablo also told us that French cooking does not use hot spices. Since he is originally from Brazil, he slipped in just a little chili. It did not make it spicy. It just added flavor.
We all sat down and enjoyed the soup with a glass of white wine.
We then prepped for our own floating island, which is harder than it looks. You take a big spoon and shape the meringue into the form of a football. Then you poach it for two minutes, flipping it after the first. We had dessert.
The beurre blanc sauce was last. It takes constant stirring, so we worked on it as a team, rotating through.
The scalloped potatoes had been baking the entire morning and the kitchen smelled heavenly.
After we sliced the salmon, Pablo finished it in the oven. He added a little extra heat to mine.
Then it was time to plate. Last year one of the women in our group made sure every plate looked picture-perfect. This year that responsibility had landed on me. But the veggie team had not followed instructions, so I did my best to repair the plates before giving up.
It did not matter. The food tasted delicious. And I ate the salmon!
Then we all sat down for dessert together, the floating island with strawberry coulis and toasted almonds. Pablo had thought he would need to leave halfway through but stayed to enjoy it with us.
Le Foodist is an awesome experience and we loved every minute of it. I am not a cook by any stretch and they make it easy for everyone.
On the way out, I bought two aprons to surprise Mom and we headed home.
The walk home took a turn. Near Notre Dame, where we were planning to be the next night for the vigil, there was a mob of people. Then it clicked. May 8. Victory Day in France. There would be festivities all weekend, on top of the usual weekend tourist surge.
I turned to Mom. “Time to come up with a plan du pivot.”
Back at Pas de Calais we tried to head straight to the room for a nap. Plot twist: the room had not been cleaned yet. Two for two on hotel housekeeping running behind. Back to the lobby we went for tea.
Once we finally got into the room, I sat down to work on a new plan for the next night. The pivot: a concert at Sainte-Chapelle.
Meanwhile Mom was already complaining about our 9 PM dinner reservation. The French-style late dinner is not her thing. To distract her, I decided this was the right moment to give her her early Mother’s Day gifts. The Le Foodist apron I had just bought, and a pinafore I had found in St Augustine that was made in France and could be worn as an apron. She had been admiring it for ages and knew exactly what it was. She lit up.
The distraction worked. After our gift exchange, we raced around to get ready. Mom wore her new poppy scarf from the market. I wore one of the two dresses I had packed.
Dinner was at Joséphine Chez Dumonet. We had ordered the soufflé with our mains since it needs the time. Mom started with the French onion soup and shared some of my steak.
For dessert, she got the chocolate mousse and I got the signature Grand Marnier soufflé. When it arrived, I told the waiter there was no way I could eat the whole thing. It was so light and fluffy that I did.
The couple next to us were a different story. Older man, much younger woman. Her diamond was huge. Easily six carats. The kind movie stars wear. She made sure we saw it, over and over. My guess was newly engaged, and vacations might have been the only thing they had in common, because that was all they talked about. The Four Seasons. The Ritz-Carlton. Trip after trip after trip, name after name. They never once turned our way. Then karma kicked in. She spilled food right down the front of her designer sweatshirt. After a week of warm, chatty Americans at every other restaurant, this was the contrast.
Happiness is Possible 