As we enter the heart of winter, my thoughts and tastes turn towards France and the dishes served in the bistros of Paris and Provence. I imagine warm, dimly lit places, full of people and the clanking of dishes and the din of congenial conversations over comforting food and good wine. The daubs and roasts call out to my soul. The kitchen and my New York apartment fill with the extra heat and smell of a slow cooked braise while I sip that extra glass of wine for which the recipe didn’t call. Maybe it’s because January is the month when my wife and I first visited the city of lights and I remember the early dark of a winter evening and the welcoming siren’s song of a perfectly roasted chicken. Or maybe it’s because we are all in hibernation mode and our genes push us to seek out soft, comfortable things.
Bistro at Home
Bistro at Home
Bistro at Home
As we enter the heart of winter, my thoughts and tastes turn towards France and the dishes served in the bistros of Paris and Provence. I imagine warm, dimly lit places, full of people and the clanking of dishes and the din of congenial conversations over comforting food and good wine. The daubs and roasts call out to my soul. The kitchen and my New York apartment fill with the extra heat and smell of a slow cooked braise while I sip that extra glass of wine for which the recipe didn’t call. Maybe it’s because January is the month when my wife and I first visited the city of lights and I remember the early dark of a winter evening and the welcoming siren’s song of a perfectly roasted chicken. Or maybe it’s because we are all in hibernation mode and our genes push us to seek out soft, comfortable things.