Moudardara

This deeply flavorful, earthy dish of rice, lentils, caramelized onions and spices can be found at Lebanese market stalls and restaurants in Paris and is easy to make at home. The ingredients are cooked separately, spices are added and everything is combined at the end, with more fried onions on top. I’ve served it twice recently — with shawarma chicken and with roast quail — and am happy to report that my guests thoroughly enjoyed it.

Moudardara / Rice with lentils and fried onion

Although the version I’ve seen in Paris is Lebanese, moudardara is popular across the eastern Mediterranean. It comes in many variations — different types of lentils, differents types of grain (sometimes bulgur is used instead of rice) — and has a cousin, moujadara, that consists primarily of lentils. It is often served topped with yogurt. An Egyptian version called kushari includes vermicelli and is topped with tomato sauce.

One of the mysteries of making Lebanese-style moudardara is the essential addition of the ‘Lebanese seven spice mix’. But which seven spices? Opinions vary wildly. For the recipe posted here, I chose cumin, crushed coriander seeds, turmeric, paprika, cinnamon, allspice and black pepper. Other recipes may include nutmeg, cloves, cardamom, ginger, cayenne or fenugreek. The only constant seems to be cumin, Mix and match as you prefer.

Another question concerns the best type of lentils to use. I asked the friendly fellow at a Lebanese market stall about this, and before telling me to get lost — ‘I’m to busy to be giving out recipes’ — he said that the proper Lebanese lentils were not available in Paris. So I opted for blond lentils, which seemed like the closest match, although some recipes call for green lentils. Again, up to you. As for the rice, I would recommend basmati.

Moudardara has the advantage of appealing to omnivores, vegetarians and vegans alike. It goes well with a wide range of dishes, from grilled meat to veggies like eggplant, spinach or Middle Eastern salads like fattoush (cucumber, tomato and fried bread). You could pair it, for example, with lamb kebabs or roast chicken, or make it part of a veggie spread with hummus, roasted eggplant salad, chickpea salad, tomato salad and/or eggplant gratin.

Bottom line: While moudardara is known as a poor man’s dish, I can guarantee that you’ll be richly rewarded if you give it a try.

Happy cooking.

Posted in 9. Pasta, Rice, Grains | 4 Comments

Velouté de champignons

Let’s see off the winter with a bowl of creamy mushroom soup, a classic French recipe lightened in this version by using a mixture of cream and milk instead of pure cream. A dash of lemon juice adds tang, and herbs also brighten the flavor. The soup is hearty enough to make a fine main dish at lunchtime, perhaps followed by a salad, and can be served as a first course at dinner or in small glasses as a palate teaser at cocktail hour.

Velouté de champignons / Creamy mushroom soup

This soup is known as a velouté because of its creamy texture. The word, which derives from velours (‘velvet’), has been part of the French culinary repertoire since the 1700s, when it was used to refer to creamy desserts or sauces. The great French chef Escoffier was reputedly the first to create a soup called a velouté, and it was considerably richer than modern versions, being thickened with both cream and egg yolk.

These days chefs sometimes dispense with the cream altogether when making a velouté (as in the recipes for broccoli soup and butternut soup already on this site). Other recipes call for cream in one form or another — heavy cream, crème fraîche, sour cream or, for vegans, coconut cream (e.g. with velouté of watercress or creamy zucchini soup).

Mushroom soup may also be made without cream. For example, there are delicious East European versions that use mushrooms with potatoes, onion, dill and sometimes carrots. But I’ve never encountered a French version that didn’t call for cream.

So, yes, velouté de champignons is comfort food. Never mind the calories, we still need comfort food here in Paris, having just gone through the grayest year in 30 years (see view out my bedroom window of a typical January morning). Météo-France, the French weather service, reports that Paris enjoyed only 1,509 hours of sunshine in 2024. I did the math. This means that the sun broke through during daylight hours only about a third of the time.

And the gray goes on, with cloudy skies as I write. Here’s hoping that, in this grayest of seasons, we will finally start to get some serious sunshine before my next post, when we can lighten up the menu for spring. In the meantime…

Happy cooking.

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Crumble aux pommes

Le crumble is hardly a French invention, yet it has become wildly popular in this country, with apple crumble topping the list of favorites. So in honor of Valentine’s Day I’m offering you this delightful dessert — sweets to the sweet, dear readers. The recipe is simple: peel the apples, chop them, pile into a baking pan, add a butter-flour-and-sugar topping, and bake. When the crumble comes out of the oven, you’ll find that love is all around

Crumble aux pommes / Apple crumble

The apple crumble pictured here came about when a friend came to dinner recently. I had asked him ahead of time what he’d like me to cook for him, and surprisingly he provided the menu (most people when asked say, unhelpfully, ‘Anything’.) Given the wintry weather, Joel said, we should have some seasonal specialties: French onion soup, boeuf bourguignon and apple crumble. Of course he didn’t realize how labor-intensive the first two items can be. I proposed substituting duck breast for the beef. His reply? ‘I love duck!’

I got started a day ahead of time, making the beef broth for the onion soup, which takes about four hours. The next morning I made the soup (except for the topping) and then the crumble, which was quick and easy. (The only problem was keeping my daughter away from it until dinnertime.) When Joel arrived we made a cozy fire in the fireplace. We heated the soup, filled our bowls, topped them with toast and grated cheese, and popped them into the oven. That went down a treat. We took a break while I made the duck (with honey and thyme instead of cassis), and another break to reheat the crumble, which I served with crème fraîche. Joel was so happy with the dinner that he posted about it!

But getting back to the French love affair with le crumble, it’s fairly recent — as I do not remember seeing crumbles on bistro menus when I first moved to Paris in the ’70s. At some point since then it hopped the Channel from Britain, where the crumble is viewed as a national institution. After adopting the idea, the French got creative, and now crumbles of every variety are on offer at eateries from simple bistros to three-star restaurants.

Crumbles are popular with home chefs here too. The magazine Elle, which features excellent recipes every week, has a long list of crumbles in its archives, starting with apple — apple-hazelnut crumble, apple-grape crumble, apple-pear crumble with Calvados — and going on to other fruits (plum, raspberry, cranberries, pineapple), savory crumbles (zucchini-chicken, finocchio, sweet potato, cauliflower-goat cheese), and even a chocolate crumble. One recipe builds a tower of tomato and mozzarella slices topped with a crumble that incorporates powdered almonds, black olives and anchovies. Now, that’s creative!

As I happen to be a big fan of crumbles, not least because they are so easy to make, I’ve posted various other crumble recipes on this site — with blueberries, strawberries, rhubarb and a summer crumble with plums, peaches and black currants. Haven’t got around to a veggie crumble yet, but I just might add that to my list dishes yet to come.

Happy cooking.

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Moules gratinées en persillade

Mussels filled with garlicky parsley butter and baked until bubbly and golden make a great start to a meal. They may be served with cocktails as a palate teaser (amuse-bouche) or as a first course at the table. By taking care not to overcook the mussels, you will ensure that each mouthful not only bursts with flavor, but is tender as well. And this dish is fun to make. Pop the mussels into the oven as your guests are arriving and prepare for applause.

Moules gratinées en persillade / Mussels with parsley and garlic

Here in France, mussels come in two main varieties — moules de bouchot, which are small and are farmed on stakes planted in the sand, generally in the Atlantic, and moules d’Espagne, which are larger and are raised in the Mediterranean. The best for this dish would be the larger mussels, but when there were none available at the market last weekend I used the smaller ones, which worked out fine.

The French love mussels, and make them in many ways — à la marinière (cooked in white wine with shallots), in cream, with curry, in a saffron-flavored soup, as a spicy palate-teaser (no shells), in pasta, in paella and, as here, gratinées, meaning with a baked crust.

While a gratin crust is often made with cheese, that is not always the case. Here, the gratin is made with breadcrumbs. The mussels are first steamed open, then stuffed on the half-shell with softened butter combined with minced garlic, parsley and breadcrumbs. The mussels are then baked, but only briefly — five minutes max — to ensure tenderness.

Like so many French terms having to do with food, the word ‘gratin‘ has an interesting history. In centuries gone by, gratin meant the tasty bits that stick to the bottom of a roasting pan, for example after roasting a chicken, and that one needs to scratch at (gratter) in order to enjoy. Over time, French chefs brought these tasty bits to the top of the dish. By extension, ‘le gratin’ also means the elite of society — think ‘upper crust’.

There are already many gratin dishes on this site — made with cauliflower, leeks, Swiss chard, Belgian endive and country ham, eggplant, pasta, potatoes, pumpkin and mixed veggies. And let’s not forget le gratinée — the French term for French onion soup. These dishes are often most enjoyed in winter, when everyone needs comfort food.

Getting back to this week’s recipe, the main issue in making a batch of buttery garlicky mussels with a gratin crust is to be sure to make enough. I just asked my daughter, who gleefully downed 30 of them, how she’d describe the dish. Her reply? ‘More-ish’.

Happy cooking.

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Coq au Riesling

Coq au Riesling is chicken in a creamy mushroom sauce made with Riesling, a dry but slightly fruity wine from Alsace. While the dish was traditionally made with rooster (coq), chicken is now commonly used. For one thing, roosters are far tougher than chickens and take a long time to cook. For another, it’s not always easy to find a rooster — even in France, where it’s the national symbol! Meantime, today marks the start of an innovative herbal collaboration between EFC and a climate-aware online garden shop. Details below.

Coq au Riesling / Alsatian chicken in Riesling

Coq au Riesling made with chicken can be prepared in under an hour. The chicken is browned in butter and oil with chopped shallots and thyme, then simmered in wine for half an hour. When the chicken is ready, the sauce is thickened with cream, egg yolk and flour. Mushrooms cooked separately are added at the end. The dish may be served over pasta, rice or mashed potatoes. In Alsace it is generally served over spaetzle (eggy pasta).

If you were to make the dish with a rooster, the cooking time would increase to at least two hours. Maybe that was feasible in the old days when the pot could be left to simmer by the hearth, but now it’s just not practical. Poultry farmers must have recognized the change, for it’s rare to find a rooster, even at the market. My favorite poultry stand offers several varieties of chicken, duck, guinea fowl, quail and sometimes goose, but to get a rooster you would have to order it in advance, and even then you would not be sure to get one.

This decline of the rooster in this country’s cuisine clashes with its eminence elsewhere. France boasts a rooster atop nearly every church belltower in the country. This is said to be because the early morning crowing of cocks symbolizes the passage from darkness to light, with the bird thus also seen as a symbol of Jesus. But the rooster had become prominent in France long before rising to prominence on the steeple.

According to one story, the rooster became identified with France after the Romans conquered Gaul in 58 BC thanks to some mischievous word play by the Romans. Because the Latin word gallus meant both ‘rooster’ and ‘from Gaul’, the victors were able to make fun of the conquered, even stamping the image of the rooster on coins. Once the Romans departed, the kings of France adopted the rooster as a symbol due to its courage and bravado. The bird lost ground under Napoleon, who preferred the image of the eagle on coins, but has since come back into vogue.

As anyone who watched the Paris Olympics may have noticed, the rooster today features proudly on French sports uniforms. The country’s national soccer, rugby and handball teams go into combat wearing the rooster. The cock even has its place at the Elysée Palace, where it sits atop the gates to the palace gardens. But perhaps the most familiar French role of the rooster to those not in France is in the supremely French dish coq au vin, one of the most popular recipes on this site. So now we’re back to cooking.

In this regard, I am happy to announce the start of a collaboration between The Everyday French Chef and plant d’Avenir (‘plant of the future’), a nursery near France’s Atlantic coast that grows drought-tolerant plants — including many of the herbs used in recipes on this site. Readers who wish to grow their herbs at home, as I do, may order them from plant d’Avenir for potting on windowsills or balconies, or planting in a garden.

For our first collaborative foray, Katya Lebedev, the dynamic young woman who runs plant d’Avenir, and I are featuring rosemary, which may be planted in well-drained soil in early spring. As a recipe, we chose crisp goat cheese pastries with rosemary and honey. Click here to access the recipe on Katya’s site and see about ordering rosemary from her. She can ship the young plants to any destination in France or Europe (excluding Britain for the moment but she’s working on that).

Katya and I will collaborate on posts featuring culinary herbs four times a year — once per season. Our next will come in April, perfect for planting the herbs that flourish in summer.

Happy (herbal) cooking!

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Grog au rhum

When walking in Paris in winter, one is likely to encounter a café chalkboard proposing grog au rhum, the French version of a rum toddy. This ubiquitous drink is popular not only because of its alleged healing qualities – it is said to be a remedy for the common cold and associated ailments – but also because it is warming and tasty, a great pick-me-up in nippy weather. And the beauty is that it may be made at home in a matter of minutes.

Grog au rhum / Rum toddy, French style

The recipe is ultra simple. Boiling water is poured over dark rum mixed with raw cane sugar or honey, a teaspoon of lemon juice is added, et voilà. Variations abound. Some people add spice — a cinnamon stick, cinnamon powder, star anise, cloves, a vanilla bean or grated nutmeg. Sometimes another type of alcohol is substituted for rum, for example whisky, cognac (brandy) or, in Normandy, calvados (apple brandy).

One question with grog is the proportion of rum to water. When the drink was first invented — in 1740 by Vice Admiral Edward Vernon of the Royal Navy — sailors were ordered to dilute their daily ration of half a pint of rum with a quart of water, making the proportion 1:4. According to Vernon’s notes, the drink was to be consumed twice a day: half in the morning, from 10 to 12, and half in the afternoon, from 4 to 6. (Given that ‘grog’ is the root of the word ‘groggy’, one wonders how much work got done on those ships.)

Indeed over time the proportion declined, with the daily ration of rum to water reduced to 1:6 in order to combat drunkenness. But when sailors got access to the rum barrel, they were known to make what they called ‘a northwester’. Named after the points of the compass, with N for rum and W for water, the proportions were — yikes! –50-50.

As for the name ‘grog’, it too stems from Vice Admiral Vernon, who was known familiarly as ‘Old Grog’ because he wore a coat of grogham, a fabric made of wool and silk. Lemon or lime juice and sugar were added for flavor, and not to combat scurvy as is sometimes said since the evidence that Vitamin C could prevent the disease was still anecdotal at the time — a time when scurvy was decimating seafarers, with thousands of deaths every year.

Despite having searched far and wide, I was unable nail down how grog spread from Britain to France — although one can easily imagine sailors fraternizing if they happened to cross paths at a time when European ships were busy traversing the globe to bring back the bounty of colonized lands. Britain’s rum hailed from Jamaica, France’s from Guadeloupe and Martinique. The American Navy took up the grog tradition, but in due course substituted rye whisky for rum. A stop was put to this in 1862. Surprisingly, the Royal Navy ended the tradition of issuing rum to British sailors only in 1970.

Grog is a close relative of the hot toddy, which is generally made with whisky. Both are deemed useful in treating a cold. The French call this ‘un remède de grand-mère‘ (loose translation: ‘a homespun remedy’). As one French recipe puts it, while the proportions of the ingredients may be varied according to taste, ‘It is strongly advised to drink the grog while sitting on the edge of one’s bed, and to get in the bed immediately thereafter’.

Happy cooking.

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Coquilles Saint-Jacques au Champagne

And so we end the year with an ultra French, ultra elegant starter of sea scallops in Champagne sauce to grace your table during the festive season. The scallops are sautéed in butter, deglazed with Champagne, bathed in a creamy, buttery Champagne sauce and decorated with fresh herbs. The amount of Champagne needed is equivalent to about one flute, so you can serve the rest of the bottle to your guests to get the festivities off to a merry start.

Coquilles Saint-Jacques au Champagne / Sea scallops in Champagne sauce

This starter is rich, no doubt about it, so a portion of three sea scallops per person is an elegant sufficiency, as my Grandma Anne used to say. I can virtually guarantee that your guests will ask for more. Best to stop at three, however, as more treats are likely to follow. (See the Holiday Menus page for suggestions). I may serve this dish as the kick-off to this year’s Christmas lunch. It would work equally well on New Year’s Eve. And another possibility would be to serve the sea scallops one to a small glass (verrine) at cocktail hour.

While making this recipe — which, by the way, takes only 15 minutes — I wondered why sea scallops bear the name of Saint-Jacques (St. James) in French. It turns out to be linked to the Way of St. James, a major pilgrimage route to the Spanish holy city of Santiago de Compostela (Saint-Jacques-de-Compostelle), where the remains of James the Apostle are thought to be buried. In the Middle Ages, the pilgrims are said to have decorated their clothing with empty scallop shells, which they used to drink, eat and beg. Mystery solved.

If, like me, you’re a big fan of sea scallops, you can check out three recipes posted previously on this site — sautéed in sweet wine, pan-seared with chanterelles and Brittany style (dusted with flour and sautéed in butter). As sea scallops are in season at the moment, this is a very good time to try them out. And (shh!) if fresh sea scallops are not available where you live, all of these recipes may be made with defrosted frozen scallops.

And so, my friends, I leave you with my very best wishes for a joyful and delicious holiday season. We certainly live in interesting times. Let us hope that 2025 will surprise us all with peace on earth and goodwill toward men and women everywhere.

Happy cooking.

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Cassoulet

Cassoulet, one of France’s most popular dishes, is a specialty of the southwest Languedoc region. Dried white beans are simmered to tenderness, infused with garlic and baked in a slow oven with various meats — sausages, bacon, duck or goose confit, and sometimes pork or lamb. This is French comfort food at its finest. It’s a festive dish for a crowd that could be fun to make over the holidays. Preparation takes time, but it’s worth it.

Cassoulet / Cassoulet

The peasant origins and local roots of cassoulet make it a good example of terroir, a word that conveys the character of a dish emanating from a particular patch of land. This terroir quality is a key to cassoulet’s popularity — I’ll return to this later — but just because the dish is popular doesn’t mean it’s not controversial. Ask someone from the region what meats to include in cassoulet and an argument is sure to ensue. What kind of sausages? Duck or goose? With or without pork or lamb? With or without tomato? Topped with breadcrumbs or not? Even the quantities of the various elements are under dispute.

In an effort to resolve the matter, the General Asssembly of French Gastronomy (this body actually exists) determined in 1966 that the proper proportions of a cassoulet should be 70% beans and 30% meat. But the quarrel didn’t end there. The southwest cities of Castelnaudary, Carcassonne and Toulouse sponsor rival Brotherhoods of Cassoulet that compete to promote their different versions of the dish. Their robed members recite chants to the glory of cassoulet in the local Occitan dialect and hold events such as the best cassoulet eater contest in Castelnaudary (won most recently by a 24-year-old named Jérémy who downed two kilos — four and a half pounds! — of cassoulet in 15 minutes).

This rivalry is so intense that the cities actually argue over how many times to break the crust that forms on the cassoulet while it is baking (seven times according to Castelnaudary, eight according to Toulouse). But the proof of the cassoulet is in the eating, and in fact I very much doubt that any diner in history, even in southwest France, has ever noticed how many times the chef punched into the crust.

So let’s get down to the nitty-gritty — how to make cassoulet. Despite all the mystique, preparation is simple. You soak the beans, simmer them with onion, carrot, garlic, herbs, bay leaf and a slab of bacon, brown the meats of your choice, layer the beans and meat into a baking dish (preferably earthenware) and bake for 90 minutes. This process took me four hours from start to finish, but I actually spent only an hour or so in the kitchen.

Cassoulet is one of the few grand classics of French cuisine that I had not yet posted on this site, the main reason being the difficulty of obtaining the ingredients if one does not live in France. But I believe I’ve found a way to make cassoulet accessible to home cooks everywhere, thanks in part to the online availability of French products these days.

The recipe I’m posting today contains all of the various meats — you can choose which to include or not — and is closest to the Toulouse version. A key ingredient is saucisse de Toulouse, which resembles Italian sausage minus the fennel and spicing. The nearest American equivalent is probably Wisconsin-style bratwurst. Chipolata sausages, while thinner, also resemble saucisse de Toulouse.

Another key ingredient is duck confit (pronounced cone-FEE). Widely available in France, this may be purchased online elsewhere — or you can make the confit yourself, using this recipe. (You’ll need to plan ahead, however, as making confit is a two-day process.)

An advantage of including confit in your cassoulet is that the smooth white fat clinging to the preserved duck will melt as you brown it, providing a source of duck fat for browning the other meats and for spooning over the dish just before it goes into the oven. You can also purchase duck fat online or, in a pinch, substitute olive oil.

Some non-French food writers propose more extreme substitutes, such as chicken instead of duck. My advice? Don’t go there. It wouldn’t be authentic. Julia Child, whose cassoulet recipe (dismissively titled ‘French baked beans’) covers seven pages in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, skirts the ingredients issue by leaving out the confit and sausage entirely, although she does mention them in her section on regional variations.

To sum up, making cassoulet takes time, it may be hard to obtain the ingredients and it’s not exactly diet food. So why bother? Given all of the above, what explains the popularity of this dish in France, where it regularly figures on lists of the country’s ten favorite foods?

I think that part of its appeal is the terroir aspect. Like Proust’s madeleine, cassoulet summons up memories of the past, a nostalgia for simpler times when farming households worked the local land and brought its bounty to the table. It’s a dish that seems to say, this is the real France, la France profonde (deep France), where each region has its own distinct cuisine, untouched by globalization and far superior to supermarket food.

But there’s another reason for cassoulet’s huge popularity — it’s just plain delicious.

It’s true that making cassoulet is a bit of a production. Think of it as an adventure, with a pot of golden beans at the end. With the holidays approaching, this is a good time to check out the recipe and gather the ingredients. You’ll be all set to head to the kitchen, put on your apron and create a beautiful, festive dish for Christmas, Hanukah or the New Year.

Happy cooking.

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Choux de Bruxelles à la française

With Thanksgiving arriving and Christmas not far behind, this may be a good time to try your hand at Brussels sprouts, French style. This savory dish — in which the sprouts are halved and sautéd with bacon, with carrots, with both or with neither — bears no relation to the version you may have been served as a child. Garlic and herbs brighten the flavor, and the sprouts retain flashes of lovely green by being cooked just enough, uncovered.

Choux de Bruxelles à la française / Brussels sprouts, French style

Brussels sprouts, which are an integral part of Christmas dinners in Britain and often feature on Thanksgiving tables in the United States, are perhaps one of the world’s most controversial veggies. If overcooked, they become gray, mushy and bitter. In years gone by they were served this way in many homes — including by my mother, an otherwise excellent cook — and in school cafeterias, as a British friend was quick to confirm.

‘One of my worst memories of my childhood was being fed Brussels sprouts boiled within an inch of their life,’ he recalled. ‘They spoil Christmas for me. I cannot bear to eat a sprout ever since.’ When I offered to make the French version for him, he said he would happily eat the bacon, carrots and garlic but leave the sprouts behind. And yet, and yet…

Brussels sprouts cooked properly are mild, slightly sweet and tender. In this recipe, they are first cut in half, exposing their beautiful yellow centers. The halves are boiled to the al dente stage, the key being not to cover the pot so that they remain bright green. The sprouts are then sautéd in olive oil with the addition of garlic, herbes de Provence and, if you like, lardons (bacon sticks) and/or carrot rounds. In the final stage, a little water is added to braise the sprouts and blend the flavors.

Brussels sprouts, a member of the cabbage family, take their name from the Belgian capital because they began being cultivated intensively there during the Renaissance. Garden plots outside the city walls had been used for growing cabbages, which require a lot of space. As the population grew, farmers switched to sprouts, which grow vertically.

These days Belgians have been surpassed as producers of Brussels sprouts by the Dutch and also the British, possibly due to the Christmas connection. Brussels sprouts have pride of place on traditional British Christmas tables along with dishes like roast turkey, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, red cabbage and flaming plum pudding.

In the States, if you’d like to add a French touch to your Thanksgiving in addition to the sprouts, you could check out the following recipes: roast turkey, French style, sweet potato purée, sweet potatoes with herbs, Georges Blanc’s pumpkin gratin, pumpkin purée with parmesan, green beans, French style, and walnut tart. But you don’t need a holiday to enjoy Brussels sprouts, French style. They’re good any time of the year.

Happy cooking.

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Soupe aux lentilles corail

An earthy soup of red lentils with coconut milk will brighten your table in these dreary days of November. In Paris, where’s its been gray and cold for weeks, we actually had November in October and now we’re having December in November. My neighbors across the way have already strung out their Christmas lights, and I’m seriously considering lighting a fire in the fireplace tonight. Just to create some cheer in this dismal season…

Soupe aux lentilles corail / Red lentil soup

The funny thing about red lentil soup is that neither the lentils nor the soup are actually red. The French for ‘red lentils’ — lentilles corail, or ‘coral lentils’ — is more accurate for the uncooked lentils. But when cooked they turn ochre, and in this recipe the addition of turmeric heightens the yellow. The soup is also flavored with fresh ginger, cumin, coriander, cayenne and coconut milk. Fresh cilantro adds another burst of flavor.

This healthy soup is similar to India’s masoor dal, but here the lentils are briefly pulsed — you pulse the pulses (sorry, couldn’t resist) — and you add the coconut milk. It makes a great lunch dish on a raw day, perhaps accompanied by a watercress salad (also vegan) or melted cheese on toast, or followed by roasted winter vegetables or a cauliflower gratin.

I was surprised just now to find that I have posted very few Indian-style recipes on this site. This is odd, because Indian cooking is very popular here at home and appears quite often on our table. My go-to book is Mahdur Jaffrey’s Indian Cookery, which was given to me many years ago by a British friend and is now out in an updated 40th anniversary edition. Favorite recipes include tandoori-style chicken, Gujerati carrot salad (with black mustard seeds, delicious), rogan josh (spicy lamb stew) and prawns with courgettes.

While I love Indian and other Asian cuisines, and post about them occasionally, most of the recipes here are French or French-inspired — because that’s what this site is about. Yet one need only walk the streets of Paris to see how passionately the French have embraced the food of other cultures. Within a 250-meter (yard) radius of my home, there are restaurants featuring the cuisines of Thailand, Italy, Spain, Korea, Japan, China, Vietnam, Russia, Cuba, the Antilles and, yes, India.

Very often these far-flung cuisines are presented with a French touch. Wine is always on offer, and the dishes follow each other in typical French style — starter, main course and dessert. The price of a three-course meal at lunchtime can be as low as 15 euros. In this chilly global season of conflict, I feel blessed to live in a city with such abundance and openness to things foreign — a city that, at least for now, remains at peace with the world.

Happy cooking.

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