It’s a heartening story and speaks volumes about the loyalty of her customers. I, myself, make it a point to buy a new tome or two every time I’m there. Furthermore, it’s testimony to how much the French are enamored by their cultural history. Seemingly, there’s no topic too esoteric for a dedicated work. Gallic fervor aside, I always marvel at how strenuously the French fight to maintain their traditions, their rituals, and their patrimony. In other words, the French are so French!

Have you noticed that, too?

Unquestionably, they are my favorite fungus. While they are appreciated in certain quarters in the U.S., they are positively venerated in France. Yes, there are celebrations at home–morel festivals in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Illinois among other states, where occasionally they are fried and placed in a sandwich–but only the cuisine of France pays the morille proper homage.

They look like small luffa sponges but they taste like heavenly truffles. Certainly the pleasures in foraging for these elusive edibles are great, but the real reward rests en bouche. Any treatment that involves butter and cream is a sure fire hit.

A generous French host will stud them in an omelet or serve them in a cream sauce inside a brioche or over a chicken or turkey breast, scalloped veal, or steak. I’ve had them in soups and risottos where they never disappoint. They are truly magnifique!

By the way, we carry a wonderful Opinel mushroom knife for the next time you feel like going to the forest instead of the market to do your shopping.

Bon appétit,

This spring, however, that entry was more tightly watched, so I had to swarm in with the rest of the foule (300 perhaps) at precisely 11 a.m. Drouot is the everyman’s Sotheby’s. With 16 rooms over three floors, there’s always something on the block for every taste and budget. My latest inspection revealed rare books, paintings, butterflies and bugs, airplane models, 19^th century furniture, all manner of silver, jewelry, hunting prints, black and white photographs of 1950s Hollywood, bibelots, and curios.

Occasionally, when the room gets a little sleepy, you can buy right. However, bargains are tempered by a buyer’s premium of almost 20 percent.

Drouot is a wonderfully democratic institution as the auctioneers or maître priseurs are all independents. These experts have their own “studies” but organize their auctions through the auction house, sort of like doctors with hospital privileges. All told, there are 71 of these independents.

The bidding is usually fast and furious and all in French, of course, so best stay alert. When the auctioneer stands at his/her lectern and looks down at you imperiously through a pair of pince-nez, brings down a long, thin-handled gavel and says the word “jugé,” not a bad idea to have some euros in your pocket.

Bonne chance,

I thought it would be fun to have a little vide grenier of our own to make room for our next shipment. I’ll send you searching in the right direction, but to reveal too much would defeat the pleasure of the hunt. All I can say is that oenophiles searching for la route des vins or wishing une demie provided it’s not corked, cartographers who appreciate the City of Light, those who count their old Francs, or those who just want to know what’s on the menu besides café au lait, should be able to find some surprising deals.

A final note from the Department of Spring, please check out our latest offerings from Opinel in Le Jardin category. You won’t want to trim a rose bush or go morel hunting without one.

Bonne découverte,

I find Paris to be one of the more reasonable world capitals provided you show some modest restraint and creativity.

Sure, you can easily blow the budget with a couple of long taxi rides, a single meal in a Michelin three star, or an impetuous purchase on the Boulevard Saint Germain. However, if you take the Métro, a ticket can cost as little as a $1.40 and it will take you within blocks of just about any address.  That beats the IRT and rings loops around the London Underground.

As for restaurants, bargains abound. They all offer a “prix fixe”, “plat du jour”, or “formule”, prices based on app and main course or main course and dessert.  These deals are clearly on display without having to enter the establishment, and there are never any hidden fees as the Value Added Tax (V.A.T) is included in the price along with the tip.  A quarter or half-liter of house wine won’t set you back either.

Except at the snootiest of addresses, merchants are happy for you to browse and admire their wares. Just remember to say “bonjour madame” and “merci monsieur” as manners count for a lot.

As for entertainment, nothing beats the people-watching from a café along a busy thoroughfare. For the price of a ticket on Broadway, I can sip 50 espressos on the Boulevard Haussmann and observe la comédie humaine.

Have I convinced you?

Tomi de Taxis du Poet, noble truffle dog

Please allow me to introduce a very good friend of mine, Tomi (pronounced: Toe’me) de Taxis du Poet, noble truffle dog.  He lives on a large wine estate near Vaison la Romaine in Provence.

Tomi is only two years old but last winter he found his very first truffle, roughly the size of a large golf ball weighing 300 grams.

When I saw him a couple of weeks ago, he had just returned from an outing with his master. No truffles. Lack of rain in the fall has made this an especially difficult season. Consequently, truffles are selling for 900 Euros per kilo at a local purveyor in Uzés.

For the past couple of weeks, the ground has been frozen in Tomi’s country. His master tells me that he and Tomi expect to go truffle hunting later this week when the weather warms.

If Tomi digs up a few of the precious Tuber melanosporum, I know he won’t let success go to his head.

He is one of the most loving and loyal dogs I know.

Bonne chance, mon ami.

Michel Chaudun's

Paris is a city designed for walking.

I often prefer walking with no view in mind of where I’m going, but last Thursday I had a pilgrimage to make. I traversed the chocolate-rich neighborhood of the 7^th arrondissement, bypassing La Maison du Chocolat on the Blvd. Raspail, skipping Jean-Paul Hévin at avenue de la Motte-Picquet, and headed straight for Michel Chaudun’s wondrous little shop near the end of the rue de l’Université (”rue de Loo” as Julia called it).

Usually, I allow my mind to wander when some historical point of interest resets the time machine of my imagination, but this day the old stones along my route really were mute. I could only think of Chaudun’s ganache pavés, perfect little cubed pavers of chocolate intensity. Great chocolate can have that sort of obsessive effect on a man and Chaudun’s is simply the best I’ve ever tasted.

I bought a small number of jewelry-sized boxes for Valentine’s Day (possibly there’s one for you if you’re intrigued by my offer).

Mission accomplished, I returned to my wandering ways, free to observe Paris in reverie as I usually do.

Lamb tagine dinner

Two nights ago I had dinner in Haute Provence, which incidentally has the lowest population density of any French “department.” Perhaps that is why so few restaurants were open in Forcalquier along the Via Domitia, the old Roman road. Only the Vietnamese and Moroccan restaurants were open. I chose Le Jam, a warm, intimate place specializing in couscous and tagines.

Dining alone in France is not a solitary experience. The waiter engages you, fellow diners acknowledge you, and you feel part of a community of eaters.

I ordered a chicken tagine. When the waiter ceremoniously removed the lid, a great plume of steam escaped revealing a dish of tender chicken infused with lemon and smothered with onions, olives, carrots and potatoes, all in a broth of many spices.

Delicious and transporting!

Only the cooking vessel itself, a drab metallic affair, was disappointing. I felt like selling them one of our Terafeu Terafour tagines…

Bon appetit!

Deux Chevaux

…back to France.

Yes, there are more things to scout for and more experiences to collect, but it’s deeper than that.

I have to go to renew the bonds of friendship. If I stay away too long, the winemakers, chefs, café proprietors, book dealers and artisans will fear that I have forgotten them. The French are very sensitive. They need reassurance.

My friend Gérard, self-described the laziest antiques dealer in France, laments that 30 percent of his fellow dealers have retired or gone out of business in the past year. I have to go to his remote little village to make sure he continues to “pick” for me.

I have to go because I miss Mary-France Latour’s gratin de courgettes and her husband’s estate bottled Cotes du Rhone.

If it’s warm, we’ll play a game of pétanque.

I have to go to see what’s new at the Maison et Objet trade show in Paris.

I have to go because I have a foot in each country and the one in France will lose sensation if I neglect it too long.

I have to go to renew my spirit as much as my inventory and to rediscover what I already know, namely that it’s necessary to see everything again with fresh eyes. That’s how you find the best stuff.

I have to go!

How Saint-Vincent became the patron saint of the vine, however, is a more full-bodied discussion. He’s also the patron saint of negociants, oenologists, wine inspectors, vinegar makers, and café proprietors. Some believe that the first syllable of his name provides a clue but by that reasoning, Saint Arthur would be the patron saint of the arts. The manner of his martyrdom, evocative of grapes being crushed by a press is not a happy association for such a pleasant profession. The journalist Bernard Pivot believes the answer lies with some of Saint-Vincent’s relics, a few of which found their way to a small wine-making parish in Paris. The monks invoked Saint Vincent to protect their vines from frost and hail and from that point his reputation spread. Centuries later the abbey would change its name from Saint-Croix-Saint-Vincent to Saint-Germain-des-Prés. No wonder a glass of red at the Brasserie Lipp, Les Deux Magots and the Café de Flore is so pricey.

A la votre,