Charleston's 39 Rue de Jean

I was excited to escape the daily routine and get back to Charleston, South Carolina, one of my favorite cities.  Charleston is filled to the brim with a fascinating history, from the founding of the United States to the present, along with fabulous architecture, seaside scenery, old markets, plantations, and mouthwatering restaurants. 

 

I’ve been going to this city for the best part of fifty years and eaten in both the upper crust, coat and tie establishments, and the smoke-filled-sawdust-on-the-floor barbecue joints.  And as my three faithful readers know, I’ve written about several of them in this blog.

 

Lately, when I visited the Holy City…wait a sec, holy city?  Oh, I know you’re begging for some details, and answering that question is a good start.

 

Charleston was established in 1680 (by Royal Charter of King Charles II) and moved to its present downtown location in 1783.  The old site is still well marked, and about a couple of miles north.

 

Since its founding, Charleston’s been known for its tolerance for all religions and boasts many historic churches to prove the point.  The most famous of which is The Huguenot Church, founded by French Protestants who fled France when Louis XIV revoked the Edit of Nantes and revived the persecutions of non-Catholics.  Matter of fact, it’s the only Huguenot church in the U.S. and still uses the French liturgy, but in English.

 

With a French religious flavor, it’s only natural that one of the best restaurants in this well-preserved old city has a French name, 39 Rue de Jean.  As you may guess, it is located at 39 John Street.   If you don’t feel like guessing, it’s still at 39 John Street.

 

But, more than a French name, 39 Rue de Jean has an atmosphere that rivals that of restaurants in another of America’s French influenced cities, New Orleans.

Large, 18^th or 19^th century mirrors line the walls, chairs at the tables have a French café flair, the bar is gloriously dark and long, and best of all, the menu is a compilation of delicious French fare.

I admit to being something of a secret snob.  My companion differs.  “Not so secret,” she says.

 

Well, ok, I admit it, if being a snob means appreciating a well-trained, polite wait staff, dressed in traditional black and white, and who know the details of everything on the menu.  And, perhaps I should mention bartenders who mix from scratch, know how flavors fit together, and in my case, know how to make an excellent Manhattan, served straight up in a delightfully chilled martini glass.

Ok, you’ve gotten the French ambiance of modulated voices, lowered lighting, antique, tinned ceilings, and a wonderful wait staff.  Now it is time to speak of the reason we came to this fine establishment: the menu.  Firstly, we shared a plate of Hunters Gnocchi, featuring house made duck fat gnocchi, rabbit sausage, wild mushrooms, goat cheese, and arugula, all afloat in a buttery wine sauce.  

For the main course, I opt …(yes op is present tense and opt is past tense, despite what the bad news bearers of horrid English proclaim)… for a nearly fork tender, Angus steak with a mound of herbed butter, and crisp frites on the side, along with a delightful glass of pinot noir.

My dinner companion and designated chauffeur ordered trout almandine in brown butter, covered with gently fried almonds, and served over a soft potato purée and crisply tender haricot verts (green beans) on the side.  And, of course, no French meal would be a meal without a fresh baguette, although in the American style, fresh butter was also offered.

Ok, buddy, you thinking, you’ve impressed us with your uncompromising command of French, tossing out words like rue and Jean, and them hardy cut beans.  But, how about the taste!

 

I judge the excellent meal thusly:  if I walk away saying to myself, mighty chef that you are, you couldn’t have done better at home, then it was an excellent meal.  This meal was excellent!  And added to that, the French ambiance, a worthy Manhattan, and superb waiter, Aaron, made this a special evening.  To top it off, we shared a Lemon Cream Torte with strawberry coulis.

And of course we finished with an espresso.

Bientôt encore j’espère! Or, in gooder English, Damn I wanna do this again!

Oh, Those Baguettes!

 

Oh, Those Baguettes!

 

France is known for wine and cheese, but when sipping your wine in a small street-side café and your attentive waiter silently places a small basket of freshly sliced baguette on your table, wine takes a momentary holiday.

 

Baguettes are the quintessential French bread. Yes, even more than the croissant. Baguettes are ubiquitous. Never changing.  And, oh how they bring back the memories, from many sparkling days in Provence to the side streets of Paris’ left bank to the fabulous covered market in Metz.

Each morning, in nearly every town, you’ll see small bread trucks, filled to the brim, with drivers in short brimmed caps and blue, workers smocks, unloading fresh armfuls at restaurants and cafés large and small, celebrated and humble.

But did you know in France there are several types of baguettes?  A larger, thicker baguette style loaf is called a flûte or flute, but it sounds more like flit when the French say it.  Then there’s a shorter, thicker one, called a bâtard or bastard.  And naturally there’s a skinny style called aficelle or string.

 

Where did the baguette originate?  No one seems to know, but lots of stories persist. Some say Napoleon insisted bakers invent a loaf that was more easily carried by soldiers.

 

As I suspect, even my drunk and unruly readers realize the baguette is not only prevalent in France and French speaking regions such as Belgium, and Switzerland, but around the world.  In Vietnam (once a French colony) they add rice flour. In the U.S. you can find multigrain and sourdough perversions!  “Mon ami, I spit upon this ignoble bowing before the world of fashion.”  

 

In today’s commercial world baguettes have become well known all over. You don’t have to be French or speak the language to enjoy them, or to make them. 

 

But, until now, to get the best baguettes you have always had to travel to France. No longer!  I will show you the true path that you can follow in your own kitchen, be it ever so humble.  Vive la baguette!

 

Faisons un Baguette ou Deux!

(Let’s Make a Baguette or Two!)

 

Few choose to believe, but I don’t make any recipes that are very difficult.  And this recipe is no exception to my code of simplicity.

 

Four Ingedients

 

3 cups unbleached all purpose flour, or use bread flour

1 teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon yeast

1 ½ cups very warm water

 

I use my food processor.  Put in the flour, salt, and yeast.  Pulse to mix the dry ingredients.  Now add the very warm water.  Turn on the processor and mix until a dough forms.

Put the dough on a well floured surface and cut into two equal parts.  Form into two baguette shapes and then flatten them out.

Fold the two long halves into the middle and shape.  Spray a baking sheet with oil, add both baguettes, and cover with a dishtowel.  Allow to rise for a few hours.

 

Note:  I put the covered baguettes in my oven and turn on the oven light.

When the dough has risen, you may find that it has spread.  Just tuck in the sides to reform and put some slashes across the top.  Heat the oven to 450ºF or about 232ºC

 

When the oven is hot, put a pan of hot water on the bottom rack.  Put the baguettes on the top rack and check after 20 minutes, add more time if necessary.  

 

Note:  The water helps to crisp the crust.

 

Now, assuming you have already opened the second bottle of wine, it’s time to bring out the cheese tray and few grapes.  But let the baguette loaves rest for 15 minutes before slicing.  The French don’t butter their slices, but I do!  Á votre Santé!  Cheers!

Russell Thomas Highpoint a very short story

 

Russ, whose full name was Russell Thomas Highpoint was never called lazy, at least not to his face, and never by the men and women who worked for him.  Although his lack of attention, even to the personal, saw him still sipping a cold first cup of coffee late into the afternoon.  Had he been a dreamer, he could have spent the time toiling over how best to market his company’s next product, or something else to do with business.  But, Russ was not a dreamer, at least not in the conventional sense.  A better description of how he spent his time would be tarry.  He tarried enough to be the winning contestant in a Rip Van Winkle attention span contest.

 

Punctual and dedicated to routine, he definitely was, arriving at eight in the morning and leaving promptly at five in the afternoon.  Lunch was a tuna fish sandwich on toasted whole wheat. Daily.  It arrived on a bamboo tray with silver handles and corner pieces, brought into the office by his secretary, along with a bottle of Perrier, half of which had been poured by her into a clear, eight ounce glass. Normal Perrier, never contaminated with lemon or lime.

 

The secretary, ancient well beyond her years, matched him exactly. She was a worrier about things that were none of her business, such as people spending too much time on this and that she found to be an improper use of company time.  This she thought her duty to report to one and all. Her pet name by the employees was Fuck You Sally, most often abbreviated to FYS.

 

Once she had the audacity to post a note in the break room:  Coffee Time is Wasted Time. Someone had inked over it, FYS is wasted space.  Another had written:  Please refrain from relieving yourself in Sally’s desk drawer until after close of business.  An irate Sally removed the sign and seldom left her desk. 

 

Russ held business meetings that were as interesting as counting the individual hairs on a barbershop floor, and lasting longer than winter.  These occurred on Fridays at three o’clock until exactly five in the afternoon, a time when beer and the weekend dominated employees’ rambling thoughts.  Russ thought it brilliant of him to give people something to think about in their free time.  It would have been brilliant except the interminable meetings invariably offered a clean plate of nothing worth thinking about.  The placement of chairs so the janitorial service could best sweep the floors. The proper use of paper towels to avoid excessive cost, including a fifteen-minute demonstration by a supplier.  A discussion of various shades of beige for the repainting of the walls in the underground garage.  Whether or not it was really necessary to replace the break room’s coffee machine and a PowerPoint presentation of various alternatives, complete with graphs of price comparisons of possible replacements and more graphs of long term maintenance costs.

 

Several employees remained comatose long after these meetings were over, reviving barely in time to avoid a call for an EMT. In one such meeting, EMT was called to restart a heart that had simply grown tired of beating.

 

Russ, of course remained oblivious.  He was also oblivious when he walked through the parking garage and was hit and killed by a delivery truck.

 

It happened on a Friday, so celebrations didn’t begin until Monday.

Mission to Paris, by Alan Furst

 

Mission to Paris, by Alan Furst

 

Mission to Paris is one of those all too rare novels that strips away the characters’ coats of armor to revel real people, pushed and transformed in the awkwardness of real situations.  

 

I get so tired with the ho-hum triteness of perfection.  I think you know what I mean; characters always knowing the perfectly clever replies, making the right moves, with perfect timing, always choosing the best wine, staying in the best hotels, getting the girl, and forever being one step ahead of numerous adversaries. 

 

Frequently tucked into the clutter of plot, there’s also the triteness of heavy-handed romance.  Boy gets girl, loses girl, gets girl.  Even reminding yourself of the pattern makes you want to toss the book hard enough to dent the wall. 

 

Alan Furst, in all his novels, and definitely in Mission to Paris, avoids those careless blunders of perfection and the lack of them is the key to chiseled characters, dented and scratched by age and experience and inexperience, that glued me to each page.  This novel, that purports to be a spy novel, is more a study of humanity, supported by an intriguing and ever shifting and intensifying plot.

 

It is autumn of 1938 and the setting is Paris, a Paris straining under the threat of war.

 

To refresh your memory, in 1933 Hitler came to power in a Germany still seething over its treatment by the Allies at the end of World War I.  In many German political minds, France was the mastermind of this villainy.  While peace was now in hand, Germany burned with the need for white-hot revenge and the object of that revenge centered on France.

 

In 1938, the Germans were playing political poker, holding their cards tightly and making the world guess.  Would there be war?  Should France rearm?  Surely everyone wanted peace, n’est pas?

 

Despite this Parisian world of intrigue and uncertainty, Warner Brothers wants to film a movie, staring Fredric Stahl, Austrian by birth, but now a Hollywood heartthrob.  Stahl is mostly non-political and simply wants to make the movie and get back to America.  He speaks his native language, German of course, but also English and French.  He is also a star of some magnitude, making him the perfect chicken to be flavored, stewed, and served to an array of politicians and plotters of all the major players.

 

And while he innocently meets old friends and enjoys his favorite city, the pot begins to boil. Stahl is not immune.  He feels the heat building.  And suddenly the plot intensifies to heart stopping intensity.

 

The beauty of the writing and finely drawn characters alone carried its own joy, transporting me to that time and place.  Then the carefully crafted plot, carried me into the caldron of passionate intrigue and nail biting intensity.  This is a book that will haunt you and even make you doubt your own courage, as you’re engulfed in the rising flames of war.

 

Pick up a copy of Mission to Paris, by Alan Furst, and like all his other spy novels, you won’t want to put it down.

Harry’s Seafood Bar and Grille In St Augustine, Florida

 

Harry’s Seafood Bar and Grille In St Augustine, Florida

 

St Augustine (1565) proudly wears the title of America’s second longest continuously occupied settlement of European origin. Only San Juan Puerto Rico (1521) is older.  And although the Spanish ruled the region for some 200 years, it remained a battleground between Spain, France and Britain, until it was finally ceded to the United States in 1819.

 

As you might guess, Spanish influence is still evident on nearly every street in this beautiful old colonial city, including remnants of city walls, old building, and the national monument of Castillo de San Marcos, which overlooks the harbor.

 

Of course I have greatly abbreviated the history of St Augustine because I know the limited attention span of my three faithful readers.  Instead, I’ll tell you about one of the best restaurants I’ve visited in quite a while, Harry’s Seafood Bar and Grille.  Hey you’ll get some history!  The historic Spanish fort is right across the street!

 

Now let’s talk about Harry’s Seafood Bar and Grille.  Think of New Orleans, another French influenced city, and you’ll get a mental picture of the restaurant’s lovely courtyard and sumptuous menu.

 

Let’s start with a delightful cocktail.  I certainly did!  The Royale is a smooth blend of Crown Royal’s apple whiskey, elderflower, and ginger beer, with a squeeze of lemon.  It came with a recommendation from our waiter, Greg.

 

It’s here I need to show off my snobbery.  Any restaurant, independent of décor or price, depends on its food as a calling card.  But also very important to me is a pleasant and well-trained wait staff.  I don’t go to a restaurant to make a BFF, but I value civility, a solid knowledge of the menu, knowing which side to serve from, not stacking dishes on the table, and a firm grasp on when to interject and when to silently keep a proper distance.

 

Greg is an outstanding waiter and when, after reading this, you rush for St Augustine and a visit to Harry’s, ask for him.

 

So what else did Greg recommend?  The she-crab soup.  I’d heard that before and was not disappointed.  Matter of fact, I injured myself hurrying to get the second spoonful to my mouth.  Using the word ‘delicious’ doesn’t do this heavenly concoction of crab and wine and cream justice.  You will quickly forget the already fading memories of any other crab soup you’ve tasted.

For me there is always an appetizer I can never pass up:  Fried calamari. Harry’s serves their version with a very light panko batter and fried green beans, with a remoulade sauce on the side.  I like my fried foods crunchy and the use of panko made it delightful so, and the calamari were tender.

 

So, what else did I order?  Pan fried slices of eggplant, interlaced with lump crab meat and topped with sautéed onions and a very flavorful cream sauce.

For restaurant food, my code is simple: if I could have done better in my own kitchen, then next time I will.

 

At Harry’s Seafood Bar and Grille, I could never do better, and the menu was topped off with service that competes favorably with anything to be found in a French bistro.  For me, that’s high praise and I add another kudo for Greg, our waiter!

 

Sure, go to St Augustine for the culture, the history, the shopping, but never forget to visit Harry’s Seafood Bar and Grille!

 

 

Soft Love

 

He never asked how old she was, but she wore the still fresh-faced look of late youth.  They met almost by accident and soon began to sit at the same table in the same small coffee shop.  Seemed like months ago and probably was.  He never asked her where she lived or what she did.  Instead, they talked about neutral things like music and art, both of which she knew little about.  But, she expressed a curiosity that he admired. 

 

One day she looked a little sad.  “Lost my job,” was all she said.

 

Then he did something he had never done. He took Tommisa to the south of France and onward to the Italian Rivera, where he treated her as if she were his daughter and she pretended to enjoy chatting with him more than with the rich and strikingly handsome Italians who flocked around her on the beach.

 

What was this all about?  Damned if he knew.  He had no pretentions of lasting love, or love at all for that matter.  Tommisa had grown up in the middle of America and he had the bright idea to give her a glimpse of the world.  He was well travelled and could show her views she’d never imagined.  His attraction to her was not about seduction.  Had he looked at her with the eyes of a lover, he would have been ashamed of himself.

 

He took her to Venice and Florence.  They shopped in expensive shops and he told her about Leonardo and the Renaissance.  Part of Tommisa’s education.  Real education, not something presented as interestingly as wet gravel, by an aging professor who was bored because his ego was broader than his knowledge and the things he knew so well had grown tiresome. 

 

You can’t understand the power of David by looking at a photo, or the taste of wine from a Iowan wine bar in place of an ancient trattoria with moonlight glimmering across the slowly flowing Arno, without seeing the waiters in black and white livery speaking the soft tones of Italian, and matching your taste in wine after listening to you only once.

 

They went shopping on the Ponte Vecchio and she had such fun searching for the perfect gold bracelet, slender and gleaming.  He insisted on having her purchase the matching necklace.  

 

He taught her phrases in Italian and she learned more quickly than she thought she could.  “I hated school,” she told him.  Of course she did, he thought.  After the elementary level, school compresses a wealth of knowledge into a rotting corpse that kills the desire to learn like a beetle squashed under the heel of a boot.

 

He let her do the ordering now and at first the waiters smiled indulgently.  Soon, however the smiles turned to respect.

 

One day, out of the blue, she said, “I really can’t stay too much longer.” He saw the look of sadness and tried to brush it off.

 

“I know you can’t, but this has been wonderful.”  He followed with a happy smile, although sadness crept through him like an adder about to strike.

 

That night she crept into his bed and curled around him.  “You don’t have to,” he whispered.

 

“I know that.  But, I want to.” 

 

He saw it as the only way she knew how to thank him.  “You are a beautiful young woman,” he whispered, kissing her lightly on the top of her hair.  Should he give in and accept her passion, he knew it would be the end and he didn’t want it to end.  “I always want us to be friends and not an episode you’re afraid to tell your family. By the way,” he asked, “what did you tell your family?”

 

She laughed.  “I’m thirty years old.  I do what I want. But, to satisfy your curiosity, I told them I was going to Europe.  Now, are you going to let me stay here next to you, or not?”  She said it with a soft laugh, and kissed his neck.

 

“You’re thirty years old.  You can do what you want.”

 

“I want to stay another month, if it’s ok with you.” One hand slid from his chest up to caress his cheek.