~aventures du louchette flâneurse: 29ème~

December 14th, 2009

I paced the flat waving my arms in front of me like a crazy Italian, saying, “Oh. My. Goodness.” That’s what butter of French cream speckled with flakes of sea salt that crunch when you greedily snarf it makes me say. To myself. Which after a month alone (save one delightful visit) I will admit I do a lot. I also talk to every living soul I meet in the streets and shops who will share a word. But I digress. Butter is what we were discussing. Rapture-invoking butter.

Tonight I made a soup of cauliflower, celeriac, and shallot, with bay and thyme, as promised, to make good use (via stock) of the remains of my heavenly poulet. The book editing is going especially well today, so I canceled my research outing to trail after the muse, and have only ventured forth to purchase foodstuffs and scurry home. Observe the giant vegetable smackdown:

Among other items, I bought butter, and now I see 1. the soup plan was simply a ruse to grant me (in my own crooked logic) the right to eat a length of baguette with said butter and 2. yesterday when I was inexplicably moved to purchase a lovely Art Nouveau butter knife twined with ivy from the cranky flea people, I was in fact having a premonition.

If there was a single argument for choosing France over all others in EU,  it is this cool, creamy, slightly sweet, slightly nutty butter avec Sel de Mer. (a bag of damp, lovely sel from the Camargue I also purchased for next to nothing at my corner grocery).

Tho I love the experience of living in Berlin, it is not as snarf-tastic as France or Italy. The kitchen is wurst-centric, and the food shops–though there are exceptions–describe themselves as Discount This, and Cheap That. The French, like Italians, seem more concerned with pleasure, joie de vivre, than economy. Perhaps a question of butter becomes a question of religion (Protestant vs. Catholic)?

Meantime, my soup was easily the best I’ve made, subtle, layered, and delish. I tribute the elements.