Comfort Food Sunday Lunch

   It was cold enough to light the fire last night and, again, this morning. So obviously a salad, however large, wasn't going to hit the spot. Something cosy was called for, for lunch.
    Winging it, I sliced a container of brown mushrooms, and put some dried ceps to soak in warm water. Next, I melted a large lump of butter in a frying pan, and threw in the fresh mushrooms and a chopped green onion. Lid on, maybe 20 minutes over very low heat.
    Saving the juice, I drained the ceps (through a fine-mesh tea strainer--those little fungi can be gritty), chopped them coarsely and added them to the mushroom mixture along with their juice. In went a squishy clove of roasted garlic--a fridge staple now I've discovered that, wrapped in foil, a head will keep for several weeks. In fact, I bake three or four at a time, usually throwing them in the oven together with the same number of foil-wrapped beetroot. No need to wash them as you're going to slide their skins off anyway.
     Cooked it down a little at the end so there was just enough juice to soak up. And that's what we ate: mushroom ragout, sliced tomato from the garden, toasted baguette. Sunday lunch taken care of.

A Long Lunch in the Third.

Third arrondissement that is. Coming here on the train, I read my way through Pudlo Paris, a book of reviews by Gilles Pudloski, restaurant critic for Le Point. I jotted down names of places that were close, interesting and affordable which is how we came to have lunch today at Au Fil des Saisons. Pudlowski describes it as "snug" and "rustic," seductive adjectives on a rainy day. 

Eventually we found it, or rather we assumed we must be in the right place even though this particular restaurant had no sign or street number. 

Inside were 36 seats. A couple of elderly ladies sat at one. A couple at another around the corner of a huge circular brick column which contained a staircase belonging to another building. At the table next to us was a solitary businessman. Another came later, obviously a regular--he's the one in the shot at the top of this post. 

The menu was written on a large blackboard carried from table to table. Dishes looked simple but inventive and that's how they turned out. Peter began with artichoke flan served with ham from the Vendée and a mesclun salad. I had confited gésiers (gizzards)--chicken rather than the usual duck ones we get in the south. They were mixed in with Puy lentils and lardons with--the unusual element--shavings of Parmesan cheese on the top. It sounded weird but worked. 

Main courses. Peter's was chicken breast with a sauce of ceps and cream, and a little potato flan. My slices of pork fillet were interspersed with smoked ham; the sauce had a whiff of truffle in it. The potatoes, sliced and cooked with cream, were in a small side dish but too rich to finish. As I write this, it's after 8 p.m. and I very much doubt we'll want anything for dinner beyond the baguette, cheese, grapes and wine we bought on the way back to the apartment.