Macaloony!

No surprises here

2008-06-09T00:35:00.003+02:00

Wow - talk about procrastination. I think I have exceeded even my own expectations, if such a thing is possible. Maybe this post should be titled "Reasons for the Delay Since My Last Post, a.k.a. Character Flaws of Macaloon, Volume 6, Chapter 3 (condensed)". Since we last met, I have graduated from business school, moved to London by way of Singapore and New York, started a new career, met old friends, met new friends, eaten my 100th macaron - and still fear that I have nothing different to say. Or is my fear really one of performance trailing ambition, fear that the words in my head will seem a lot less compelling on screen? Or maybe it is fear that my words will fall on deaf - nay, absent ears, that the tree in the forest will have no audience and therefore be destined to stand for always.

I cannot decide.

What I do know is that unless I publish this right now, I will find another excuse to add to the dozen or so half-written drafts in my account. So bear with me as I issue this public challenge to myself - and see you again very, very soon.

A love letter

2006-09-24T16:56:00.000+02:00

What is it about a macaron that captivates me so? There is definitely something to be said about the actual experience of eating a perfectly constructed specimen - crisp shell yielding under your teeth to an interior that is at once slightly crumbly and chewy; a sudden burst of taste and texture, silky and smooth or unctuous and intense; feeling the last crumbs dissolve on your tongue, leaving a wisp of flavour in their wake.

There is the knowledge that a single macaron is a work of art, a study of patience, a triumph of kitchen science. There are plenty of websites detailing the laborious process by which macarons are created, tips on how to keep the egg whites stiff, discussions on how to achieve the perfect 'feet'. Suffice to say that the delicacy of the macaron is no accident but instead a true labour of love.

Then there is the pleasure of the chase, heightened by the sheer variety of quality macarons in central Paris. There are the obvious variations in flavours or parfums, from the classic to the creative, from the inspired to the bizarre. A dark chocolate macaron will always satisfy, but will almost certainly not intrigue as much as its olive oil & vanilla cousin. But even beyond flavours, there are different interpretations of the model macaron. A caramel macaron can be small, glossy and filled with salted butter caramel in one patisserie; larger, with a denser exterior encasing a cloud-like caramel cream in another.

A macaron is a patisser's identity in a pastry-shell. This, in essence, is what lies at the heart of my obsession, an obsession which has guided me through the streets of Paris in the last few weeks, almost 2 years after my first love came to me in a pale green box embossed with light gold. Laduree's macarons are a worthy and unforgettable introduction to the genre, so unforgettable that they have remained until recently my absolute favourite. They represent French tradition at its most refined, embodied in Laduree's pretty tearooms and well-executed reportoire of standards such as millefeuille and religieuse. While Laduree experiments with seasonal flavours such as ginger & lime and black pepper, its strength lies in its delicate rendition of classics such as lemon, salted butter caramel, pistachio and red fruits. Each macaron is a single shot of flavour, the denser filling of pasty cream or confiture echoed by the airy shell.

In contrast, Pierre Hermé's macarons are bigger, bolder and - dare I say - better. His chocolat macaron is faultless, with the slight bitterness and intensity of quality chocolate, but his genius is at full play in more flamboyant creations such as chocolate & passionfruit, grapefruit & Campari, pistachio & cherry and the aforementioned olive oil & vanilla. I had my first Pierre Hermé macaron (white truffle & hazelnut) 9 months ago, to mark my first weekend in Paris. While intrigued by the inventiveness of his macaron flavours, I remember clinging steadfastly on to the simplicity and directness of Laduree, shunning Pierre Hermé as too complex, fussy and 'modern'. Even the sleek, black-dominated store interior and red-and-white boxes with stark black lettering struck me as less charming than Laduree's old-fashioned pastry counters and pastel boxes tied with satin ribbons.

My macaron assumptions started to crack when I came back to France after the summer break, armed with a magazine article highlighting where to find the best macarons in Paris. I had never stepped into a Dalloyau, Lenotre, Jean-Paul Hevin or George Mulot before, much less sampled their creations, and resolved to find my favourite macaron in Paris. I embarked on this quest with a disappointing purchase from Dalloyau, reputedly one of the oldest, finest and most expensive patisseries in Paris. The Dalloyau macarons I sampled were far from satisfying, although I could not precisely identify why. At this point, I decided against further comparions based on vague memories or impressions - no, this deserved no less than objective scientific methods.

A week later, I found myself in line at the Pierre Hermé in St-Germain, being laughed at by a native Parisien for commiting heresy by bringing in my Laduree paper bag purchased 2 blocks away. I was going to miss my train back to Fontainebleau, but nothing would stop me from brisk walking across the Seine to the chocolatier Jean-Paul Hevin, winner of "Le Meilleur Macaron de Paris 2005" for his chocolat macaron. I did end up having to catch a later train, but now I had the company of 17 petits-fours macarons to enjoy and a taste test to look forward to.

The macaron challenge was admittedly not perfect. Amongst the 3 patisseries, there was only 1 flavor in common, dark chocolate. Between Pierre Hermé and Laduree, however, there was also coffee and caramel; between Pierre Hermé and Jean-Paul Hevin, chocolate & caramel, and chocolate & passionfruit. Imperfect competition aside, the results were clear. To my surprise and initial denial, Pierre Hermé pipped the rest in both taste and texture. Critics be damned, B and I liked the Jean-Paul Hevin macarons the least, which is not to say that they were not decent. The chocolate ganache fillings were rich but sticky, almost like the uncooked batter of a brownie. Coupled with thin, flat macaron shells, the ensemble was tasty in the way all good chocolate is, but lacked sophistication or finesse. Laduree fared better, with airier shells and slightly moist pastry reminiscent of dessicated coconut.

But the Pierre Hermé confections - what a revelation! Bigger and thicker than most petits-fours macarons, with almost perfectly round domes and generous fillings, I feared that they would be loud and flashy compared to the demure and refined Laduree specimens. Biting into one, however, all my reservations were dispelled. The outer shell was indeed crisper and sturdier, but gave way with minimal crumbling to a light and moist interior that had enough body to lend the perfect bite, but steered clear of toughness. The chocolate ganache was luxurious, with hints of smokiness and saltiness that lingered pleasantly in the mouth. As a whole, the macaron was indeed a complex gustatory experience, but of the kind that inspires lip-licking instead of head-scratching.

Since my macaron epiphany, I have discovered another patisser who plays with unusual flavours to great effect. After reading about Sadaharu Aoki in various blogs and discussion forums, I finally picked up a dozen macarons at his Lafayette Gourmet outlet. Sadaharu Aoki differentiates his confections through the use of Japanese flavours such as green tea, black sesame and Japanese plum. However he continues to exemplify the mastery of French classical techniques, not least in his macarons which are texturally perfect but suffer from their overly petite frames.

And so, I remain hopelessly addicted to Pierre Hermé. Each visit to Paris - and there have been many in the last month - starts with a visit to his temple at 72 rue Bonaparte, where I pick up a fresh supply of macarons to last the week, and a pastry creation or two to enjoy in the neighbouring park. On my last visit, the store slipped a tiny fold-out brochure inside my paper bag, announcing the upcoming launch of his Fall / Winter collection. I pondered the return of Japanese-inspired flavours such as chestnut & green tea and chocolate & yuzu with great relish, before I noticed a single page dedicated to a limited run of two new flavours - chocolate & foie gras and eglantine, fig & foie gras.

The mind boggles, but already the heart craves.

Rojak, French style (aka 101 ways with leftovers, #22)

2006-08-23T16:16:00.000+02:00

A little roast chicken goes a long way, especially if you're lucky enough to have your pick of European summer produce. Until an hour ago, the most I had ever done to put together a salad was whisk up a simple vinagrette and drizzle it over a bagful of store-packed salad leaves. Faced with half a leftover roast chicken and a fridgeful of random supermarket purchases, however, today seemed like a good day to experiment.

I am happy to report that the result was extremely encouraging. The salad itself consisted of cold chicken breast, roughly shredded; morsels of gorgonzola cheese, creamy with a blue-veined bite; wedges of juicy allongee tomatoes, crimson with a summer blush; mixed salad leaves, grassy with the occassional kick of bitter rocket; grapefruit pulp, little sacs of citrus tartness; and a scattering of raisins, sweetness concentrated in bursts of textural contrast. Over this went a homemade dressing of red wine shallot vinegar mixed with honey, seeded Dijon mustard and olive oil.

Like a serious sandwich, a good salad strikes me as a contrast of strong flavours, smoothened over by a central theme - in this case, sweet summer fruitiness kept interesting with peekaboo notes of tart and savoury. With flavourful ingredients, a salad needs no more complicated a dressing than a variation on a basic vinagrette. Adhering to these principles, the chicken and gorgonzola salad would make a good base for further experimentation. Fresh grapes insteed of raisins, perhaps, and the additional salty crunch of roasted pinenuts. Springy mozzarella to replace the gorgonzola, or even creamy avocado. The possibilities seem endless.

Reunited and it feels so good

2006-08-22T22:07:00.000+02:00

Anybody who does not believe that absence makes the heart grow fonder has never lost his luggage. Ditto the person who thinks that man can live on bread alone.

If I trace events back far enough, one could make the case that I triggered the tragicomedy myself, on the fateful day I purchased a flight departing from London Stansted instead of Gatwick or Luton. Fastforward 2 weeks to Friday, and B is urging me to buy travel insurance that will cover my check-in luggage. London's airports are on terrorist alert, and hand luggage is restricted to passports, wallets and enough infant formula to feed accompanying babies for the duration of the flight.

Travel insurance for over 10 quid? It takes me all of a second to decide against it. A little nagging voice - let's call it Murphy - reminds me that this could be the break my lucky luggage streak has been waiting for. In the light of student austerity, however, this doesn't seem all that important compared to the grand equivalent of 30 Singapore dollars.

Fastforward another 18 hours, I'm in line at the Easyjet counter with my flight scheduled to leave in 15 minutes, and I'm thinking to myself - wouldn't it be funny if my bags don't make it onto the plane? Just as it's my turn to check-in, the luggage conveyor belt breaks down, and I'm still thinking 'funny' with the naivete of someone who is too used to flying Singapore Airlines.

When I arrive in Nice, airport-approved clear plastic bag in hand, I can barely hear Murphy screaming 'I told you so' amidst the hubbub of fellow passengers complaining about their mishandled luggage. 60 bags do not make it onto Easyjet flight 3107 that night, 2 of which contain my laptop, mobile phones and clean underwear. I remain surprisingly calm, if very testy, possibly because the nice lady at the Easyjet baggage service counter has assured me that my bags should arrive sometime the next day, and given me a telephone number to call and check on their status.

My veneer of calmness lasts through my second trip to the airport the next morning, but unfortunately not my third. Frustrated by the lack of information and the fact that nobody ever answers the aforementioned number, my temper is kept in check only after the English gentleman in front of me is threatened with being hauled off by a policewoman for his outburst. ("Je ne pas comprend! Comprend this! I WANT MY F***ING BAGS!") Instead, I resort to tears, which are duly rewarded with the reassurance that I am not alone as many, many bags have been lost. The downside to this (for there is always a downside) is that the Easyjet staff in Nice are too busy to answer the ringing phone to explain where the bags are. Which is a lucky coincidence for them, as they are also too busy to find out where the bags are.

By the time I make my fourth trip to the airport the following day, I am prepared for the continued absence of my luggage and have (figuratively) packed my bags for Italy. Predictably, my luggage arrives on the first flight to Nice after I leave for Tuscany, which must have caused the Easyjet staff no end of excitement for they take 12 hours to collect their senses before calling on Tuesday morning to inform me. After some discussion, the Easyjet guy agrees to fly my bags to Pisa - am I able to wait until Wednesday afternoon to pick them up, as he has to arrange another delivery to Paris Orly first? The conversation ends with him promising to call me again with details of the flight that my bags will be on.

With the benefit of improved judgment, I make a few more futile attempts to contact Easyjet in Nice, then wait until Thursday afternoon to call at Pisa's Galileo Galilei airport, whereupon I am informed that my bags should be coming in on that evening's flight from Paris Orly - and oh, here's a number to call and check whether they have arrived. After a few more unanswered calls, I trudge out to the airport again, fingers tightly crossed.

A quick discussion at the baggage counter. I push my luggage tags over to the lady. She goes into a backroom, I engage in nervous conversation with a woman in the queue who has chased her bags to Milan and back. I catch a fleeting glimpse of the lady moving around in the backroom, holding something in her hands. My breath catches. The door swings upon. For a second, all I see is blue. Samsonite blue, Nike blue - glorious, glorious blue. I clap my hands, jump on the spot, and suddenly I'm on my knees, hugging my bags, grateful that my camera is still intact, grateful that my phones are undamaged, grateful that my laptop is still working.

Most of all, I'm just grateful that my days of handwashing underwear everyday are over.

It's been a long time coming ...

2006-04-30T00:17:00.000+02:00

I have recently been alerted that no new blog entries = no more loyal macaloon fans. A fairly intuitive equation that has somehow managed to slip my mind, along with how to construct a replicating portfolio (useful for calculating the options I gave up by coming here) and how to figure out how much longer I'll have to wait in the supermarket queue (longer than in the queue I just left, no doubt).

Anyways, this is a nice juncture for me to start blogging again. Exams are upon us once more, so in a way, it's almost like picking up right where I left off. (That is, if you discount the last 2 months of new classes, new friends, and new weight gain.) So without further ado, let me leave you with a promise of a post-exam rendevous, and a few words which are long overdue:

aggers - thank you for those Chinese New Year goodies that you so sweetly sent here! Er, 3 months ago! Happy belated birthday, and I expect to see some good discounts coming on a cool set of retro furniture ...

Never trust a Greek man

2006-03-07T18:23:00.000+01:00

How strange is it that the main emotion evoked in me by the Microeconomics final is one of newfound respect for my Greek professor? That was one kickass paper - tricky yet not unnecessarily so, covering fundamental concepts in an applied (read: disguised) manner. One dark, twisted part of my mind actually found it rather fun. Nothing could have prepared me for how difficult it was. Understood what was actually being taught in class? Natch. Did and re-did the exercises? Natch. Breezed through the sample exam? Natch. Aced - nay, completed - the actual final? So not natch.

Hello z-curve! I'm almost inspired enough to junk Finance for Grey's Anatomy.

How low can you go?

2006-03-06T22:11:00.000+01:00

The ignominy of it all! After two wasted trips to pick up the statistics past year exams I had sent to the printer one floor down, I decided to stake out the printer from my vantage point upstairs. Dutifully lined up my print jobs, listened out for the sounds of the printer kicking in, and leaned over the banister like a child waiting for Santa Claus. I'm surprised it took me as long as ten seconds before I squealed at the guy riffling through my printouts. Don't say I don't give people the benefit of the doubt.

Shellshocked

2006-03-06T17:01:00.000+01:00

Just came out of the accounting final - suffice to say that I'm scared shitless enough to head straight to the library. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. It's as if someone just slapped me over the head with a wet tuna, and about time too. Somehow, "I just need to pass" doesn't quite cut it anymore. That's just self-justification and reassurance, when what I need is a liberal dose of wake-up-and-smell-the-euros-you-just-flushed-down-the-toilet. And maybe a good spanking when it's all over.

MIA

2006-03-05T18:02:00.000+01:00

I guess it's pretty obvious from my recent lack of entries that Period 1 exams are finally upon us. I say 'finally' not in the sense of something that comes at the end of a long wait, but in the sense of a deer caught in headlights that is finally put out of its short-lived but undeniable trauma.

In related news, I'm beginning to find financial accounting rather fun. It could be the hours spent holed up in the library with an accounting textbook and a bagful of snacks - through some perverse neuro-reengineering, my brain may have come to associate Accounting with Chocolate. Or it could just be my inner troll talking.

Stopping by woods on a snowy morning

2006-03-02T12:42:00.000+01:00

First full-on snowfall since my arrival, as seen from inside a moving car. Just in time for the exams! It's strange how a couple hundred thousand fat flakes of snow can make me so happy. Stepped out of the house Tuesday morning to a brand new winter wonderland and had to be (self-)restrained from tossing myself, pink coat and all, onto the ground to make a snow angel.

Fast forward one snowless day later, I'm lumbering through an econ mock exam in the library, and suddenly L starts jabbing towards the window. I turn my head to look outside and literally cannot help a big stupid grin from spreading across my face. Hey, it's white, it's fuzzy, and it makes trees look like fantasy confections dipped in icing sugar. Can you blame a girl for childlike wonder?

The games people play

2006-02-15T08:14:00.000+01:00

In honour of St. Valentine's, yesterday was promotion-wide Traffic Light Day. The idea was to wear clothing that would communicate your relationship (non)-status to the community-at-large: green if you're ready to play, yellow if you're not quite sure but are willing to consider what's on offer, red if you're in a committed relationship. A nifty if rather in-your-face idea for introducing some clarity into the social hotpot that is b-school, where breakups-and-hookups are par for the course.

Interestingly, the most common colour worn was red. Probably an accurate indicator of official status, but I suspect that the social / emotional status of many of these would veer towards yellow in all its vulnerable glory. The true greens were mostly in hiding, while the rest of us simply didn't play along. Even in technicolour, it's difficult to wear your heart on your sleeve.

Which is what makes flirting such an alluring and potentially dangerous game. Especially at parties, where a combination of alcohol and limited physical space makes it easier to expand your normal social boundaries. The most extreme example I have seen of this is a girl whose dancing indiscretion is matched only by her indiscrimination towards dancing partners. The fact that few people would have raised an eyebrow at her red outfit yesterday suggests either that there need not be any correlation between your actual and perceived degree of availability, or that she didn't read the memo.

The flip side of this is the difficulty of knowing when flirting has been taken to the next level. Which is the null hypothesis? Our statistics professor might suggest that the worse error would be to wrongly assume that somebody is merely being friendly. But what if you assume the reverse? Depending on your own inclination, either you back off and miss out on some good harmless fun, or you reciprocate to your own peril.

Throw game theory into the mix, and everything gets kicked up a notch. What should you assume the other party assumes, and how should you react to motivate the desired response? Short of economic and statistical modelling, Traffic Light Day might just about be the next best but wholly inadequate guide to social interactions.

Oh my god! They killed Kenny! Those bastards!

2006-02-08T13:19:00.000+01:00

Got my first ding from a consulting company yesterday. Blah-blah-your-qualifications-are-very-impressive-too-bad-they're-not-good-enough-for-us-to-even-bother-speaking-to-you-in-person-blah-blah-why-don't-you-come-back-at-the-end-of-the-year-blah-blah-you-suck.

Hmph.

Green Suede Shoes

2006-02-05T04:58:00.000+01:00

How's this for a tale of two sandwiches? Had a very fruitful trip to Paris yesterday, bookended by lunch at Paul's and dinner at Quick, the French McD's. S and I managed to get an early start by staying over at VLS (the boys' place near the train station) after Picard and cheesy movie night (a classic for the books: "Man, there are a million fine girls in the world, but not all of them bring you lasagna at work. Most of them just cheat on you.") We hit Etam, Benetton, Printemps and Galeries Lafayette in quick succession, where I managed to put my newly acquired carte bleu through rigourous interval training.

French sales are the real deal. Storewide discounts of 30% and over, with further reductions during the last few weeks. My lack of proclivity for designer fare means I don't get the greatest benefit from these sales, but I still did pretty well this time. Pretty well to the tune of €180. My fave purchase? A gorgeous pair of Benetton dark green suede knee-high boots with little tassles just below the top - an absolute steal at €50 after a 70% discount!

Laden with (my) shopping bags, S and I moseyed over to an ex-colleague's place for a small Chinese New Year gathering. Unexpectedly, I thus stumbled into a social situation which would force me to parle the most francais since arriving in France. It started as a joke - bemused by my pronunciation of the French word for green, vert, a Frenchman in attendance tried to teach me the proper way to spit it out. This soon expanded into an experiential lesson on French grammar and the pronunciation of other words such as euro, which I managed to thoroughly enjoy despite my obvious embarrassment. I don't know when I'll get my next opportunity to practice French in such a non-threatening atmosphere, but in the meantime, S - you've been warned!

One Quick cheeseburger and train ride later, our day ended with VLS' inaugural party. The highlights for me were the opportunity to tinker around with P's DJ software and rocking music collection, and the chance to go a little crazy in the company of trusted friends. Still a far cry from the get-stone-drunk-and-happy experience I think I'd like to have at least once in my life, but good fun nevertheless.

What's the forecast for the week ahead? I'm not entirely sure at the moment, but I see a pair of chaussures vertes de suède in my immediate future. Hope I said that right!

Guess who's coming to dinner?

2006-02-03T01:34:00.000+01:00

Dinner parties are an integral part of the social calendar here, where village life offers little in the way of affordable, casual places that encourage lingering. It seems almost easier to invite random virtual strangers into your home than to ask them to meet you at the pizzeria downtown.

Over the last two nights, I've had the opportunity to co-host two thoroughly enjoyable but vastly different dinner parties. The first, which I like to think of as the Picard Party, was an impromptu bash for my groupmate's birthday. On the verge of panic at the prospect of having to feed a dozen people at short notice, I shelved my pride and raided the Picard store across the street. (Picard is a store filled with freezer upon freezer of pre-cooked food, pastries and confections.) Without my planning it, I had stumbled upon the French equivalent of my convenience food mecca, Marks' and Sparks'. Party foods of different national complexions, from mini croque monsieurs and blinis topped with smoked fish, to xiao long baos and tandoori drumlets; from quarte formaggi pizzas and provencal quiches, to tiramisus and creme brulees. Confining myself to the sale selection, I managed to pull together a meal totaling all of €20, including outstanding goat cheese puffs which I fully intend to reacquaint myself with within the next week.

The Picard Party was the first time S and I have had such a diverse group of people over to our house - 2 Singaporeans, 1 Indian, 1 Portuguese, 1 Greek, 1 Trinidad and Tobagan, 1 Italian, 1 French, 1 New Zealander, 1 Australian and 1 Brit. Conversation flowed quickly and easily, flitting around random topics like national foods and career aspirations. The night ended with a game of darts (I lost) in a bar downtown, and I woke up today feeling like I had finally started to chip through my social shell.

Tonight's dinner was held at the boys' place in Veneux-les-Sablons, with the usual gang sans S gathering for a three-course dinner prepared by an overly ambitious lecoqsportif. I cleverly decided to make a shopping list this time, which I promptly left in the car before putting a somewhat bedraggled L through an hour-long grocery run in Champion. Between being confounded by French labels and distracted by French chocolates, supermarket trips are still mini-adventures to me. Against all expectations, dinner was ready by the time friends started streaming in after 8.30 p.m.. On the menu tonight: cream of mushroom soup, made from scratch with a recipe I have kept from the FridaySaturdaySunday restaurant in Philadelphia; roast shoulder of lamb with tian of potato, tomato and aubergine; molten chocolate cakes with vanilla ice-cream ala Jean-Georges Vongerichten; and a discussion on the merits of Kevin Smith and Mel Brooks films. The Vongerichten recipe (at the end of this post) is a definite keeper - restaurant-quality chocolate fondants with minimal fuss and a comfortable margin for error.

And what happened to S tonight? She had dinner with a random bunch of students, courtesy of her Israeli sectionmate, and came back flushed with conversations on international politics, sports and relationship philosophies. The stuff of late-night sharing sessions over wine and cheese, and if you're lucky, break-time chats by the free coffee machines in school.

With a little more practice and determination, I may just about become a better cook and a more versatile conversationalist by the end of the year. How's that for a €43,500 education?

Warm, soft chocolate cakes by Jean-Georges Vongerichten

1/2 cup unsalted butter, plus more to butter the molds
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate
2 eggs
2 egg yolks
1/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons flour, plus more for dusting

1. In the top of a double boiler set over simmering water, heat the butter and chocolate together until the chocolate is almost completely melted. While that's heating, beat together the eggs, yolks, and sugar with a whisk or electric beater until light and thick.

2. Beat together the melted chocolate and butter. Pour in the egg mixture, then quickly beat in the flour, until just combined.

3. Butter and lightly flour four 4-ounce molds, custard cups, or ramekins. Tap out the excess flour, then butter and flour them again. D ivide the batter among the molds. (At this point you can refrigerate the desserts until you are ready to eat, for up to several hours; bring them back to room temperature before baking.)

4. Preheat the oven to 450°F (230°C). Bake the molds on a tray for 6 to 7 minutes; the center will still be quite soft, but the sides will be set.

5. Invert each mold onto a plate and let sit for about 10 seconds. Unmold by lifting up one corner of the mold; the cake will fall out onto the plate. Serve immediately.

Bushwhacked

2006-02-01T11:30:00.000+01:00

'cos we'll all need more drinks to be this stupid.

The Usual Suspects

2006-02-01T02:53:00.000+01:00

Singaporeans, Southern style:
S, PW, PC
F, K, L, JJ

Dashing through the snow

2006-01-30T13:42:00.000+01:00

What a great start to the week - just coming out of a lovely (semi-)domestic weekend, and the weather's finally warm enough to pull on a skirt and my new high leather boots. Didn't get anywhere near as much work done on the weekend as I had planned, but it's the fault of the damn recruiters I tell you. (OK, so there was only one application due, but it was hard work for someone who's never written a cover letter before.) (OK, so I only ended up spending an hour on it, but gosh darn it sure sapped a lot of my energy.)

Anyhows, here's a quick breakdown. Braved the whipping wind on Saturday to run with S. Never thought I could run comfortably for an hour, but the combination of brisk weather and gorgeous running trails (witness above) has done wonders for my stamina. Back home for a wonderful solitary meal of toasted baguette, scrambled eggs, duck mousse, pork rilletes and my precious Epoisses. It's early days yet, but right now I would be happy to graze on bread, pate and cheese everyday. Certainly helps that I've managed to find some pretty decent stuff in the supermarkets and can highly recommend the Fleury Michon brand of mousse pur canard (recette par Joel Robuchon!).

Quick run to the supermarket - more chocolate - and it was back home to prep for Chinese New Year dinner at Chez S&K. Nothing fancy, P. came over and we whipped up bak kut teh, honey chicken and brownies (new recipe) for a cosy group of 7. Just something to line the stomach while we headed out to the Seven Sins party at chateau Villecerf. I can't imagine what it would be like to live at one of these chateaus - to host half the school in every inch of shared space available, with a DJ and open bar and, in the case of the Villecerf folks, bonfires and fireworks in the backyard. More outrageous costumes, kissing of cheeks and the occassional grabbing of waists. The downside to these parties is that they never fail to remind me how crap I am at networking. Put me in a group of friends and I'll gladly ham it up for everyone's amusement, but leave me next to a stranger for 10 minutes and I'm making excuses to go to the washroom. That's definitely top 5 on my list of lifeskills I need to pick up in the next year. Freshly taken off that list is driving - especially after witnessing the pileup of cars on the icy road back from Villecerf.

Woke up ridiculously late on Sunday, went for another run, and back home to prep for another potluck CNY dinner - this time with the entire Chinese community at Chez School Cafeteria. S. convinced me that we should don our qipaos, which turned out to be good fun, thanks to the other folks who turned up in kungfu costumes and Mao jackets. Couldn't keep my hands off the roasted duck and char siew, and now JJ has the photographic evidence to prove it. Ah well. I know this might sound lame, but I really enjoy hanging out with the Chinese community here. Not that I'm not mixing with non-Asians, but there's always so much to laugh about once people start trying to speak in their not-so-native Cantonese and Mandarin.

Got home just in time to work on my internship application. (The astute amongst you will note that this was the chief reason why I had so little time for schoolwork.) Sent it off 5 minutes before the deadline and duly rewarded myself by whipping up my first-ever batch of Nutella triple-choc cookies. I foresee being on very friendly terms with the size-of-your-head-I-kid-you-not tubs of Nutella in every French supermarket.

So, another weekend has passed in a blur and the week ahead is loaded with group work. Before I run, here's a picture of my first snowfall in Fonty, taken with my trusty Nokia N70. A tout a l'heure!

This song is dedicated to ...

2006-01-27T01:48:00.000+01:00

It's 1.56 a.m. on a schoolnight, I'm plodding through tedious Economics revision for a quiz in 6 hours' time, and I'm happy. Jack Johnson is singing about Cookie Jars and Rodeo Clowns, and I'm actually relishing the solitude of being the only person awake in a house of four. Fiddling around on my laptop, immersed in my Sennheiser world, I'm reminded of how important a role music played in my previous professional life, when a Beethoven symphony or india.arie ballad would sometimes be the only thing keeping me from keeling over in sheer boredom, or freaking out at moments of high stress.

Music has a wonderful way of breaking down barriers and bringing people together. Some of my most enjoyable moments in France so far have been spent around the dinner table, jumping from one iTunes song to the next, finding common musical ground with new friends. It's hard to explain why it gives me such great joy to find someone who has listened to 'Girl from Mars' on repeat for an entire car journey and can hum a song by the Boo Radleys; to drive through Paris with a carful of people singing along to Jack Johnson; to exchange iPods with someone who has both Kayne West and Leo Ku on his.

I'm reminded again of friends dear and far - of AG and her obsession with Ash and Jay; of B. and his phenomenal music collection in at least four different languages; of D. and his 'mix tapes'; of W. and his tireless attempts to teach me about classical music. I remember headbanging to Fountains of Wayne while stuck in Beijing traffic; sitting at Cafe Iguana, singing 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' in between laughing and gasping for air; looking up Guns n' Roses videos on the internet with N. and G.; sitting around for hours after the office X'mas party for a group '80s-singalong.

There's plenty of new music I have yet to discover, and I'm looking forward to learning from my friends.

Another point of view

2006-01-26T22:35:00.000+01:00

JJ the secret squirrel has been pulled out of his closet. Read about his exploits here.

Heels over head

2006-01-24T18:38:00.000+01:00

I seem to have a talent for doing things backwards. Like how I'm taking a study break now before I've even started studying. I'm sitting in the library with P. and S., my Corporate Finance and Economics textbooks stacked neatly next to me, a huge yellow Stickie on my computer screen reminding me of the dozen other things I'm supposed to be doing before tomorrow.

Things have really started to hot up around here, with intensive recruiting starting this week and group project deadlines looming around every corner. It's barely been 2 weeks off the starting block, and my first internship application is due this Friday. Naturally, in classic lecoq fashion, all that means is I've had to quadruple the time spent on bitching about how crazy the schedule here is. I've heard several times to expect barely enough time to breathe in my first 4 months here, and believe you me, that is turning out to be no great exaggeration. Between readings, meeting for group assignments, company presentations and a heavy opt-in social calendar, it sometimes feels like the only time I have for myself is in the shower.

Thankfully, I've found a constant companion to be my anchor through the craziness. Chocolate. Chocolate in all its splendiferous incarnations. Chocolate at its most fancy, dressed up as a French tart, all darkness and danger. Chocolate as wholesome girl-next-door, wrapped around caramel and biscuit, robed in a golden Twix wrapper. Chocolate with European chic, flavoured with creme brulee and lemon meringue. You can tell the sophistication of a country by the number of Lindt flavours on an ordinary supermarket shelf. At the rate I'm going, half of them will be in my bedroom by the end of the week.

I'm in deep now.

Ball sense

2006-01-18T23:56:00.000+01:00

You can add that to the list of things I don't possess. Along with a head for numbers, a passing grade in the French exemption exam, and the ability to curb my appetite for all things doughy. It's pretty amazing what you can find out about yourself in 1 day at business school, and this isn't even the stuff I paid to learn.

In spite of these ego-shaking revelations, the day turned out pretty well. A special 4-hour long module on Ethics in the morning was a blast. The entire promotion (minus the several who have already started cutting classes) gathered together to listen to discourses on and to debate issues of ethics in business. I found my break-out discussion group particularly invigorating. A small Italian guest professor in an immaculate 3-piece suit had formulated the key issues in a rather arresting manner - "Can a leader keep his hands clean?" Extremely articulate with a PhD in political philosophy, he peppered the discussion liberally with references to seminal ideas in philosophy, psychology and anthropology. Sitting at the back of the classroom and taking in his words on Plato and Hannah Arendt, I felt the same curiosity that had compelled me to get through my 'A'-level Economics Special Paper by studying issues of methodology and philosophy ("Why do economists disagree?") rather than 'practical' and quantitative issues.

The contrast was even starker as I struggled through the afternoon's Corporate Finance class. Somehow, calculating NPVs of future cash flows just doesn't strike a chord with me. Doesn't bode well for the rest of my year here, but I'll have to manage somehow. Came out of class to find out that I was the only Singaporean who didn't pass the French exemption exam, went downtown to subject myself to the incompetence of French banks for the third time in 2 weeks, high-tailed it to my favourite boulangerie for a consolatory baguette, and ate a third of it on the short walk home.

Oh, and what about the lack of ball sense? No better way to find out than joining a practice session for the women's football club! Had a lovely dinner after at Le Petit Alsace - my first French meal in Fonty, ever - with the South-East Asians, which effectively turned out to be 7 Singaporeans, 1 Indonesian and 1 Thai, the latter 2 of whom were at Penn the same time as me. There'll be plenty of time later to meet new people - for tonight, I was happy just to be in the company of laughing, familiar faces.

Moral hazard

2006-01-17T22:19:00.000+01:00

My heart sinks a little every time a professor announces that class participation will count towards your final grade. In a room with almost 80 people, that guarantees at least a handful who will take this as an incentive to make comments ranging from the inane to the know-it-all to the plain rude. You know the sort -

(names and events have been changed to protect my identity)

Professor: "Good morning class. By the way, call me Tom. I hate being called professor."
(Edward eagerly raises his hand)
Professor: "Yes, Edward?"
Edward: "Professor, good is a relative term. Also, it's unclear whether you're telling us that it's a good morning, or whether you're wishing us to have a good morning. Perhaps you can be more specific and say "I hope you'll have a productive morning" instead. I should know because I used to work closely with senior management in a top investment bank, and I greeted them this way every morning. By the way, you can call me Ed."
Professor: "I can think of several other things I'd rather call you."

My statistics professor has the right idea. You cannot earn points for class participation; you can only lose them. Asking pointless questions to show off or to somehow show up the professor is one good way to do so. Or should I say, productive.

Wireless and fancy-free

2006-01-10T11:42:00.000+01:00

Yay! I never realised wireless access would feel this good. I've just gotten all the appropriate authorisations in place for campus access, so now I can get it anytime I want, at home or at school, in the privacy of my room or even on the go around campus. All I need is two free hands.

The Russian has landed

2006-01-10T00:32:00.000+01:00

And now we are four. Three girls and one guy, a complete reversal of the male to female student ratio at school. The small proportion of females in the student body means that some workgroups have two females (out of five students in total) while others have none. Apparently every group with female members has a minimum of two to ensure their 'safety'. Hmmm. I hope my new housemate doesn't feel his safety threatened.

In other news, I still have yet to find baking powder in this country. A trip out to Carrefour this afternoon turned up 50 designs of bedroom slippers, 20 flavours of Lindt, 15 brands of mineral water, but still no baking powder. Surely those gateaux don't rise on their own?

Bonjour!

2006-01-09T08:20:00.000+01:00

It occurs to me that I have not properly announced my arrival in France. So here I am, sitting at my brown wooden desk in my cosy little room in a proper French maison on a street not 5 minutes walk from campus, nursing a big bowl of instant expresso mixed with fresh milk, and nibbling on chunks of a baguette bought from a local boulangerie, slatered with Monoprix butter (gourmet! with Guerande salt!) and wild strawberry jam. I can see the sunrise from the single window in my room, and it's gorgeous. Shiny, peachy new sky streaking across a dusky morning blue. Boulevard Andre Maginot leads directly from the A6 expressway from Paris to rue Grande, the main shopping street in Fontainebleau, so I can already hear a constant stream of traffic outside. No singing of birds or the bustle of morning activity from neighbourhood shopkeepers - it's not exactly the French morning Belle wakes up to in Beauty and the Beast, but it's mine and it's good.

I don't have much time as I have to be on campus in 45 minutes. Registration for last names beginning with 'C' begins at 9.30 a.m., and already I have been warned that this will probably be the latest start for me in the first 2 months. So instead of a prolonged recount of my first weekend in France, I leave you with a list of new experiences I will have to get used to, in no particular order, and to be continued:

1. Waking up starving and craving breakfast.
2. Jogging in the cold with nothing more than a sweatshirt and track pants on, hands tucked into pockets to avoid the same frozen fate as my exposed ears.
3. Not being able to find baking necessities in the local supermarket.
4. Taking an hour to find everything else, since labels come in every European language except English.
5. Friendly service from the French. (I forgot to get my apples weighed, and the checkout counter guy simply waved me through. I've been told it's not a sure thing though, since the odds are that I will be served by a crusty French grandmere at some point.)
5. Hiking up and down 4 flights of stairs to get from the basement, where the kitchen and laundry facilities are, to the 3rd floor, where the rest of the apartment is.
6. Sticker shock. Shelling out close to €5 for a pair of tweezers (a bargain compared to €8 everywhere else) really drives this home.
7. Being social.
8. Not being able to relieve myself before a bath without running down the hallway. I will never understand the French habit of building their WCs separate from their bathrooms.
9. Addressing everyone as 'madame' because that's the polite thing to do. I always thought that 'miss' would be a safer bet than 'aunty'.
10. Reminding myself that I don't have to scarf down 3 macarons everytime I pass a patisserie, because there will be another one right around the corner.

Alrighty, it's off to school I go. Wish me luck!

€60.90

2006-01-08T23:56:00.000+01:00

That's how much it costs to feel Parisian for a day. More precisely, that's how much it cost me to 'do French things' on my first day trip to Paris as a semi-resident of France. For that princely sum, I got myself by train from Fontainebleau to Paris and back (50% off since we jumped the return train without punching our tickets); had a wonderfully thin and crisp Breton crepe at Creperie Josselin in the Montparnasse area; procured my first beauty product (if facial moisturiser counts as one) from French brand Avene; gaped at the variety of deli products and foodstuff in La Grande Epicerie of Bon Marche for the cost of a box of Lindt Pyreneens; stood in line for five precious macarons and a jar of Christine Ferber confiture from the much dreamed-about Pierre Herme; took away a tarte au citron from Legay Choc (all puns intended); and drank my first cafe creme standing at the bar counter of a French bookstore. The afternoon amusements of watching my housemate get picked up by a French policeman, and taking in the beat of the city along the Left Bank and across the Pont Neuf on foot, came free.

All things considered, €60.90 was a small price to pay for an adventure that finally helped me settle a question that has plagued me for some months now - Pierre Herme macarons aren't better or worse than those from Laduree, simply different.

For Dee

2006-01-02T18:28:00.000+01:00

While I have been baking the occassional cheesecake, brownie or muffin for quite a few years now, I have never attempted making my own cookies until a few weeks ago. (OK, so there was that one rather unfortunate time in college when I tried to salvage an overly viscous apple cake batter by shaping it into one gigantic cookie. That cookie-monster turned out to be a barometer of true friendship, since it was eventually polished off by my boyfriend and another male friend who was nursing a crush.)

For some reason, cookies have always seemed to me an insurmountable challenge - a result, embarrasingly enough, of my simple laziness to procure baking sheets. I have however been tempted in the past to try the Neiman Marcus cookie recipe of urban legend, which has appeared in various guises on several websites. Chancing upon the recipe on the Neiman Marcus website itself finally prompted me to run out and buy (disposable) baking sheets and parchment paper.

The chocolate chip cookie I aspired to was more Mrs Fields than Famous Amos, although I adore both. I wanted a moist and chewy cookie that was rich without being dense, with a medium-crumb and slightly airy texture. The Neiman Marcus recipe, which I have included below, distinguishes itself by the addition of coffee powder, which seems to deepen the flavour of the cookie. The recipe also calls for a lower oven temperature and longer baking time than other cookie recipes I have come across. The result, in my own experience, is a chewy but very thin cookie, since the batter has more time to spread in the oven before it starts to set.

To obtain a thicker cookie with more bite, I adapted a recipe from 'The Best Recipe'. This recipe uses an extra yolk as fat to keep the cookies moist without being too runny. While the original recipe calls for melted butter, I used softened butter since creaming this allows more air to be incorporated into the batter, resulting in 'spongier' cookies. I also reduced the original 1/2 cup of white sugar, and used Kahlua instead of vanilla essence to enhance the coffee flavour. Stick to the original specifications if you would like a slightly sweeter, denser cookie.

NM Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe
Ingredients:
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, softened / 1 cup light brown sugar / 3 tablespoons granulated sugar / 1 large egg / 2 teaspoons vanilla extract / 1-3/4 cups all purpose flour / 1/2 teaspoon baking powder / 1/2 teaspoon baking soda / 1/2 teaspoon salt / 1-1/2 teaspoons instant espresso coffee powder / 1-1/2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Cream the butter with the sugars using an electric mixer on medium speed until fluffy (approximately 30 seconds).
2. Beat in the egg and the vanilla extract for another 30 seconds.
3. In a mixing bowl, sift together the dry ingredients and beat into the butter mixture at low speed for about 15 seconds. Stir in the espresso coffee powder and chocolate chips.
4. Using a 1 ounce scoop or a 2 tablespoon measure, drop cookie dough onto a greased cookie sheet about 3 inches apart. Gently press down on the dough with the back of a spoon to spread out into a 2 inch circle. Bake for about 20 minutes or until nicely browned around the edges. Bake a little longer for a crispier cookie.

Yield: 2 dozen cookies

Thick and Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe (adapted from 'The Best Recipe')
Ingredients:
12 tablespoons (1-1/2 sticks) butter, softened / 1 cup brown sugar / 1/4 cup white sugar / 1 large egg + 1 extra yolk / 2 teaspoons Kahlua / 2 cups plain flour / 1/4 teaspoon baking soda / 1/4 teaspoon salt / 1-1/2 teaspoons instant coffee powder / 1-1/2 cups chocolate chips

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees (approx. 160 degrees Celsius). Cream the butter with the sugars with an electric mixer.
2. Add the eggs and Kahlua and beat until blended.
3. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, salt and coffee powder. Fold into the butter mixture using a spoon until just incorporated (over-mixing will result in a tougher cookie). Stir in the chocolate chips.
4. Chill cookie dough in the fridge for 15 minutes (a colder batter will spread less in the oven). Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper. Using 2 spoons or your hands, shape the cookie dough into balls slightly smaller than golf balls and place on the cookie sheet about 2 inches apart. Bake for 15 minutes. Cool the cookie sheet under running water before reusing it.

Yield: 2 dozen cookies

A Christmas Homily

2005-12-25T05:57:00.000+01:00

"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them" - Isaiah 34:14

It was in the middle of a dinner party a few nights ago that I first heard the story of Lilith - demonic seductress, bringer of wet dreams, killer of babies and (most contentiously) the First Wife of Adam.

There is a passage in The Alphabet of Ben Sira, a medieval Aramaic and Hebrew text, that tells of how God created a woman from the earth, at the same time that he created Adam. This woman, Lilith, essentially got Adam rather miffed by refusing to assume the missionary position. ("She said, 'I will not lie below,' and he said, 'I will not lie beneath you, but only on top. For you are fit only to be in the bottom position, while I am to be the superior one.' Lilith responded, 'We are equal to each other inasmuch as we were both created from the earth.'")

Lilith, in the first recorded assertion of female rights, packed her bags and left for the Red Sea, leaving Adam to turn to God yet again to satisfy his most basic of needs. This time, God fashioned Eve from Adam's rib in the hope that all future domestic disputes could quickly be settled by reminding Eve that she was indeed born into a lower position. Not content to leave well enough alone, Adam begged God to bring back Lilith, who by now had found less demanding consorts in various demons who inhabited the Red Sea. God sent three angels after her, threatening to kill a hundred of her offspring for every day that she did not return. Still unmoved, she did not return to Adam's side. (At least until after the debacle with the serpent and the apple - some sources believe that when Adam swore off sexual intercourse for a hundred years in repentance, Lilith started to visit him in his dreams and have her way with him, collecting his semen to make young 'uns of her own. Who said test-tube babies were a modern invention?)

Lilith, ever vengeful, also swore to kill the offspring of Adam and Eve, unless the names of the three angels were invoked in protection. Hence she is thought to be responsible for cot deaths, although this part is conveniently downplayed by feminists who hold Lilith up as a symbol of female independence and equality.

A gentleman at my dinner table wisecracked that the story of Adam and his two wives is a good reminder that man was never meant to be monogamous. The learning point I'd prefer to take away is that if a man disrespects a woman and wants to take up with somebody else, it may well cost him a body part.

Is that the hand you were eating with?

2005-12-24T15:23:00.000+01:00

A good friend once mused about how nice it would be to set up a cafe which featured film screenings alongside a menu of homey food and desserts. Well, a restaurant in NYC has already done one better, bringing foodporn to more literal heights. Chef, it sounds like they're really enjoying your food out there ...

Enchanteé, ma petite

2005-12-12T10:58:00.000+01:00

It's been years since I've left junior college, but every now and then, I can still hear the voice of my favorite tutor intone: "enchanteé, muppetete". I always wondered what a 'muppetete' was but never asked, thinking it to be some cutesy form of addressing a younger person. Finally, sitting in French class almost a decade later, the words came to mind again, this time settling into their natural, separate order.

"Enchanted, my dear" is a charming phrase that the French often use to mean "delighted to meet you" or "delighted to hear that". And so, this post will serve as an introduction to my blog, which aims to do no more than describe episodes in my life. I used to be incredulous at the idea of writing such a blog - admittedly, half out of fear of having people ask, "who cares?!" (and half out of fear of having people reply "only she does, that narcissistic cow"). Then a friend of mine started her own blog, and through it I followed with interest various amusing incidents in her daily life, incidents which might be too quickly forgotten to make it into our next conversation, but knowledge of which gives me a greater sense of being in touch with her.

With my impending move to pursue my MBA in France, I figured that this might not be such a bad way to stay connected to my friends. Even so, there will always be a place for personal e-mail, since this will not be one of those blogs which are used as a carthartic forum for the owner's personal affairs. With more talent and greater diligence, I would have loved to turn this into one of those wonderful foodblogs stuffed with reviews, recipes and gorgeous photography. I may post the occasional recipe or recounting of a culinary adventure, but one of those foodblogs this is not. Neither will this be filled with clever commentary on current and social affairs, simply because I cannot bear the responsibility (or criticism). (I sometimes wonder whether bloggers like Xiaxue write solely about trivia because they would otherwise be paralysed by an overwhelming need to be accurate, objective and reasoned.)

Anyways, for those who are interested, I hope that this blog will help us keep in touch. Feel free to leave a comment or drop me an e-mail - it would be delightful to hear from you too.

Baby steps

2005-12-09T20:54:00.000+01:00

It's done.

After weeks of indecision, hesitation and sheer laziness, I've finally gotten down to starting my own blog. A non-event in any scheme of things, but one that will certainly lead to more indecision and hesitation. Many questions left to answer - the most pressing one being, unfortunately, what I could possibly have to write about ... but hey, I've christened my blog and picked a pretty template, and there's a good chance that's all I wanted from this anyways.

Why macaloony? Quite simply because I'm nuts about macaroons, or macarons, and I can't wait to get my sticky paws on some in gay Pah-ree. On a deeper level, if you must, because I'm currently sandwiched (ahem) between two phases of my life, and busy filling the interlude with random things such as baking. And if that's still not enough, because I'm about to make the jump from PC to iBook (otherwise known as a ?).

And that, dear folks, will not be the last groan you will utter at these pages. On y va!