French Food Quotes

“What’s that?” said Ron, pointing at a large dish of some sort of shellfish stew that stood beside a large steak-and-kidney pudding.
“Bouillabaisse,” said Hermione.
“Bless you,” said Ron.
“It’s French,” said Hermione.”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

“I spent a year learning how to slice, dice, chop, and taste- perfecting dishes like boeuf bourguignon, cassoulet, filet de porc vouvray, and lapin à la moutarde. I studied fine wines and the difference between a brunoise and a mirepoix. I apprenticed with Jacques Vincent at Le Diamond in the Jura Mountains outside of Geneva. I dined at some of the best restaurants in France. I had it good and I know it. Plenty of people would kill to go to cooking school in France. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.”
― Hannah Mccouch, Girl Cook: A Novel

“The secret of French food," I told Neil between bites, "is that nothing goes to waste. After so many wars, the French learned how to cook everything. Which," I noted, loading my fork with sole, "is usually in a large quantity of butter."
He chuckled. "Everything is better with butter."
"Well, to be technical, there are four mother sauces. But butter goes in most of them. Anyway, the dandelion greens---leave it to a Frenchwoman to decide they make for good eating."
"It was a woman who decided that?"
"Would a man get adventurous with weeds?"
"Good point.”
― Hillary Manton Lodge, Reservations for Two

“Page after page of sauces. Page after page of soups. Bisque of snipe à la bonne bouche. Bisque of crab à la Fitzhardinge, which included adding a pint of boiling cream. Puree of asparagus à la St George involved three dozen small quenelles of fowl and half a pint of small fillets of red tongue. Mercy me.
I flicked on. What on earth was ragout of cock's kernels à la soubise, or ragout of ox palates? At the Tilleys' residence, we rarely ate offal. Mr Tilley was fond of liver and bacon, but Mrs Tilley saw offal as food of the lower classes, for those who could afford nothing better. So our meals were good old-fashioned roast beef, leg of lamb, chops and steaks, with thee occasional steak and kidney pie. These recipes looked horribly complicated: Put about half a pound of cock's kernels, with cold water, into a stewpan, let it stand by the side of a slow fire to remove the little blood they contain, taking care that the water does not become too warm.
I read on. As soon as they whiten... pat of butter... simmer... drain them on a napkin... small stewpan, with a ragout-spoonful of Soubise sauce and a little Allemande sauce...”
― Rhys Bowen, Above the Bay of Angels

“We found a pleasant little café where the men selected a type of pasta, but I chose an omelette. I had always thought that eggs were for breakfast, so I had never tried one, and I was not disappointed. It came up light, fluffy and stuffed with tiny shrimp. Every mouthful was a delight, and I began to see that appreciation of food was a way of life in France. It was accompanied by crusty bread so fresh it was still warm, and sweet butter.”
― Rhys Bowen, Above the Bay of Angels

“I volunteered to go down to the market to purchase fresh whitebait the day of the queen's arrival. Mr Angelo cooked a couple of capons to serve cold with a veronique sauce and grapes. And at dinner that night, we joined the French chefs, eating at the kitchen tables. I have to admit it: the bouillabaisse was one of the most delicious things I had ever tasted. The rich broth, tasting of both fish and tomato, and with a spicy tang to it, and the little pieces of fish and seafood coming unexpectedly on to the spoon. And the crusty bread to dip into it? Heaven.
"How do you prepare the sauce?" I asked. When I found out they started with twelve cloves of garlic, Mr Angelo shook his head. "The queen wouldn't approve, would she? Nothing that would make her breath smell bad," he said. "You know she's always forbidden garlic."
"How would she know?" Chef Lepin asked. "If garlic is cooked well, it does not come on the breath."
Then he came over to me. "And I saved you a morsel of the octopus," he said. He stuck his fork into what looked like a piece of brown grilled meat and held it up to my mouth, as one feeds a child. The gesture was somehow so intimate that it startled me. I opened my mouth obediently and felt the explosion of flavor- saffron and garlic and a hint of spiciness and flesh so tender it almost melted.”
― Rhys Bowen, Above the Bay of Angels

“I spread some fresh goat cheese onto a baguette and bit into it. The bread was flaky and buttery, clearly freshly baked this morning, and the cheese was tangy and tart. For an instant, the cheese, the taste, transported me to my childhood, to the kitchen I remembered- the one with the red-and-white-checked curtains- to many days of happiness, to the cheese I was eating right now. I didn't remember it tasting so good.
"Oh my God," I mumbled with this mouthful of excitement, so delicious it was sinful.
"Ma puce, is something wrong?"
"No, this is the best meal I've had in weeks," I said. "It's sublime."
"Bah," she said. "It's simple. But sometimes simple is the best, non?"
I couldn't have agreed with her more. I wanted- no, needed- simple. Lately everything in my world was so complicated; I prayed for simple.
"Madame Pélissier makes our goat cheese right on her farm- also other fresh cheeses like le Cathare, a goat cheese dusted with ash with the sign of the Occitania cross, as well as a Crottin du Tarn, which is the goat cheese we use for the pizza, and Lingot de Cocagne, which is a sheep's milk cheese. Do you want to do a little tasting of her cheeses?"
"Would I? You bet."
Clothilde ambled over to the refrigerator, returning with a platter of lumpy cheese heaven straight from the cooking gods' kitchen.
"Et voila," she said, placing it down and bringing her fingers to her lips, blowing out a kiss.
There were veiny cheeses marked with blue and green channels and spots, soft cheeses with natural or washed rinds, and fresh and creamy cheeses, like the goat cheese. The scents hit me, some mild with hints of lavender, some heavily perfumed, some earthy, and some garlicky.”
― Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

“The recipes I'd cooked as a child floated in my brain, like making succulent duck and cooking potatoes in duck fat- a standard in southwestern France. From chicken to sausage, pork loin to lamb, duck fat gave savory ingredients a silky feeling on the tongue. Again, the visions I was having transported me back in time, right to when I first tasted Grand-mère's special duck-fat-drowned French fries. I'd been a goner ever since.”
― Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

“CHRISTMAS EVE MENU

Foie Gras with Caramelized Apples

Salmon with Lemon, Cucumber, and Dill, served on Small Rounds of Toasted Bread

Escargots de Bourgogne

Oysters with a Mignonette Sauce

Oysters with Pimento Peppers and Apple Cider Vinegar

Oysters Rockefeller, deglazed with Pernod, served with Spinach, Pimento Peppers, and Lardons

Sophie's Spiced Langouste (Spiny Lobster) à l'Armoricaine

Crayfish, Crab, and Shrimp with a Saffron-Infused Aioli Dipping Sauce

Moules à la Plancha with Chorizo

Selection of the Château's Cheeses

Three Varieties of Bûche de Noël


The kitchen staff walked in as I threw the chalk on the counter. Phillipa snuck up behind me. "Oh my God. That menu looks wicked incredible. I'm already drooling."
Clothilde nodded her head in approval. "It's perfect. You've made your grandmother proud."
"How many bûches do you think we'll need?" asked Gustave, referring to the celebrated and traditional log cakes served in every French restaurant and household sometime during the holiday season.
"Twenty?" I answered.
"Good thing I started on them a few days ago," he said. "Pineapple and mango, chocolate and praline, and vanilla and chestnut."
"No alcohol?" I asked.
"Maybe just a pinch of Armagnac." He held up his forefinger and thumb. Looked like more than a pinch.”
― Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

“A self-serve buffet had been set up with every quiche and tarte salée one could imagine, like a beautiful pissaladière made with onions, shiny black olives, and slippery anchovies, or the one with tomato, honey, and goat cheese.”
― Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

“I was now enjoying the incredibly generous spread between the editor and me: a thick Belgian waffle obscured by a mountain of fresh cream and berries; crepes stuffed with thick, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth Nutella and daintily folded into quarters; and the tarte tatin, traditionally served as dessert after lunch or dinner but the juicy, caramelized hunks of apple baked beneath buttery puff pastry and topped with slightly sour crème fraîche seemed totally appropriate to be on the table before us at 9:00 a.m. If only every day could start this way.”
― Amy Thomas, Brooklyn in Love: A Delicious Memoir of Food, Family, and Finding Yourself

“Monsieur Fernand...took them to a large busy restaurant where they sat at a table outside on the pavement and ordered a meal.

'Snails for the children!' cried Fernand. 'They've never tried them.'

Max stared at his portion in horror and could not bring himself to touch them. But Anna, encouraged by Francine, tried one and found that it tasted like a very delicious mushroom.”
― Judith Kerr, When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit

“We had a creamed turnip soup followed by a terrine that was composed of delightful layers of goodness knows what. Then a poached fillet of sole with pommes dauphine and finally a baba au rhum and coffee. All this was accompanied by a crisp white wine, and I was frankly ready for a nap when we returned to the Rue Cambon.”
― Rhys Bowen, Peril in Paris

“They're the finest of salicornes, green beans from the sea, from Brittany, très exotique. I thought you'd adore them."
She holds out a large bag and, without even opening it, the scent envelops me and I'm no longer in the restaurant. I'm running by the ocean, powdery sand sticking in between my toes, waves crashing around me as I dive into the sea with reckless abandon. The water swells into a froth, whipped like freshly made Chantilly. My body glistens with water droplets.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“The flames of drunken shrimp flambéed in cognac sparked in my memories, which, as I recalled, we served over a terrine of chopped tomatoes, avocado, and strawberries, along with a creamy Parmesan-lemon risotto.”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“Menu

Amuse-Bouche
Biscotte with a Caviar of Tomatoes and Strawberries


Entrées
Chilled Zucchini Basil and Mint Velouté
Ou
Pan-Seared Foie Gras served on Toast with Grilled Strawberries


Plat Principal
Gigot d'agneau, carved tableside

Served with your choice of Pommes de Terre Sarladaise or
Mille-Feuilles de Pommes de Terre

Served with Greens and Lemon Garlic Shallot Vinaigrette and
Multicolored Braised Baby Carrots
Ou
Lemon Chicken Tajine with Almonds and Prunes

Served with Couscous and Seasonal Vegetables
Ou
Panko-Encrusted Filet de Limande

Served with Wild Rice and Grilled Seasonal Vegetables
Ou
Quinoa, Avocado, and Sweet Potato Timbale (vegan)

Served with Rosemary Potatoes”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“Phillipa placed one tray of appetizers after the other on the table---the jambon sec-wrapped chipotle figs with the cocoa-balsamic glaze; the crab cakes with the rémoulade dipping sauce; the varying star-shaped canapés, the bottoms buttery, toasted bread topped with different ingredients and garnished with chopped fresh herbs; the verrines filled with bœuf bourguignon and baby carrots; and the smoke salmon, beet carpaccio, and mascarpone bites served on homemade biscuits and sprinkled with capers.
Everybody dug in, oohing and aahing.
"I don't know which one I like best," exclaimed Marie, licking her lips. "They're all so delicious. I can't choose a favorite child."
Phillipa winked. "Just wait until you see and taste Sophie's plat principal," she said, turning on her heel. She returned with a large pressure cooker, placing it on the table. She lifted the lid, and everybody breathed in the aromas, noses sniffing with anticipation. "This is Sophie's version of pot-au-feu de la mer, but with grilled lobster, crab, abalone, mussels, and large shrimp, along with a variety of root and fresh vegetables, a ginger-lemongrass-infused sauce, and garnished with borage, or starflowers, a smattering of sea salt, a dash of crème fraîche, fresh herbs, and ground pepper.”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“Phillipa and I had just returned to the kitchen with a full basket of these beautiful mushrooms. I held a dirt-encrusted one up to my nose, breathing in its earthy aromas, happy to have all of my senses back.
"What do you want to do with these?" asked Phillipa.
"Something traditional and simple so the flavor of the mushrooms isn't lost," I said. "Poêlée de cèpes à la bordelaise?"
"Perfectly delicious," said Phillipa. "I'll scrub the beauties down and then grab the ingredients."
"You remember what they are?"
"Of course. Olive oil, butter, garlic, thyme, bay leaves, flat parsley, salt, and pepper," she said. "And I'm already drooling.”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“CHRISTMAS EVE MENU

Foie gras with Caramelized Apples

Salmon with lemon, Cucumber, and Dill, served on Small Rounds of Toasted Bread


Escargots de Bourgogne



Oysters Three Ways

Oysters with a Mignonette Sauce

Oysters with Pimento Peppers and Apple Cider Vinegar

Oysters Rockefeller, deglazed with Pernod, served with Spinach, Pimento Pepper, and Lardons



Sophie's Spiced Langoustes (Spiny Lobster) à l'Armoricaine
AND
Crayfish and Shrimp with a Saffron-infused Aioli Dipping Sauce
AND
Moules à la Plancha with Chorizo”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“So many different kinds of fruit and vegetables! Eggplants of all sizes, in every shade of purple, white, and black! Dozens of onion-scented things that weren't the traditional farmhouse variety: leeks, scallions, long green onions, calçots, chives... Ten different kinds of peaches! Remi felt drunk on the sweet, sugary smells that wafted up from the fruit as the sunlight hit it.
He almost fell to the ground when he came to the fromageries.
The combination of fine cheeses being sold from those booths was too much for his refined nose, which was already a thousand times more sensitive than a normal rat nose. It was like he was eating by breathing, like he was swimming through an ocean of fromage.”
― Elizabeth Lim, A Twisted Tale Anthology

“Talk of saffron and Phoenician trading routes had left her thinking about bouillabaisse and dipping bread into ochre-colored aioli. She saw herself standing over dishes of pork cooked with prunes, chicken flecked green with tarragon, and jewel-like pears poached in red wine.”
― Caroline Scott, Good Taste

“CARAMELIZED ONION AND ANCHOVY FLATBREAD
Pissaladière

This is a classic at Provençal buffets and apéritifs. It may be the perfect food: sweet, salty, doughy, and portable--- who could ask for anything more?”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“There is something about the first frost that brings out the caveman--- one might even say the vampire--- in me. I want to wear fur and suck the meat off lamb bones, and on comes my annual craving for boudin noir, otherwise known as blood sausage. You know you've been in France for nearly a decade when the idea of eating congealed blood sounds not only normal, but positively delightful.
When I was pregnant, my body craved iron in silly amounts. I could have eaten a skyscraper. It's a shame that it's not on the French pregnancy diet--- forbidden along with charcuterie, liver, and steak tartare.
It's true that boudin noir is not the sort of thing I'd buy at any old supermarket. Ideally, you want a butcher who prepares his own. I bought mine from the mustached man with the little truck in Apt market, the same one I'd spotted during our first picnic in Provence. Since our first visit, I'd returned many times to buy his delicious, very lean, saucisses fraîches and his handmade andouillettes, which I sauté with onions, Dijon mustard, and a bit of cream.
I serve my boudin with roasted apples--- this time, some Golden Delicious we picked up from a farm stand by the side of the road. I toasted the apple slices with olive oil, sprinkled the whole lot with sea salt, and added a cinnamon stick and a star anise to ground the dish with cozy autumn spices. Boudin is already cooked through when you buy it, but twenty minutes or so in a hot oven gives it time to blister, even burst. I'm an adventurous eater, but the idea of boiled (or cold) boudin makes me think about moving back to New Jersey. No, not really.
I admit, when you first take it out of the oven, there are some visual hurdles. There's always a brief moment--- particularly when I serve the dish to guests--- that I think, But that looks like large Labrador shit on a plate. True enough. But once you get past the aesthetics, you have one of the richest savory tastes I can imagine. Good boudin has a velveteen consistency that marries perfectly with the slight tartness of the roasted apples. Add mashed potatoes (with skin and lumps), a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and wake me in the spring.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“Eden plates the shrimp stew and adds a bit of orange zest on top for a hit of refreshing citrus. The shrimp--- now a beautiful bright red amidst roasted garlic and fennel--- radiates steam. The soup itself is more of a sauce, hearty and thick and zesty.
Next is the coq au vin. She's prepared a smaller batch in light of the fast serving time. It's as traditional as they come, but Eden honestly can't think of any way to make it 'her rendition.' She's added a side of white rice and places a savory chicken thigh atop of the mound, broth soaking into each individual grain.
The mousse is a pain in the ass, but Eden doesn't give up. As much as she loves to eat desserts, she has a hell of a time preparing them. Eden just doesn't have the patience. Mousse itself takes forever to whip up to the right consistency, and considering the fact that she has a million other things to worry about, she can't get it quite the way she likes. She tops it off with a healthy dose of whipped cream, sprinkling bits of hard chocolate overtop to cover up the fact that it isn't the prettiest thing to look at.”
― Katrina Kwan, Knives, Seasoning, & A Dash of Love

“On the platter before her there was a bowl of beef bourguignon, the sauce dark with merlot; the corner of dauphinoise potatoes, gruyère-crusted top browned, bubbled with heat; there was a small plate of girolles, black kale, and white beans, scattered with breadcrumbs, mushrooms like trumpets; a sliver of a golden tarte tatin, confit garlic pressed onto the pastry like tear drops; a ramekin of pink-grey pâté, finished with a flurry of chives; there was a slice of fresh baguette that felt steamy to the touch, and a curl of butter imported from Isigny-sur-Mer at Cecelia's instruction, accompanied by a wooden bowl of fleur de sel.”
― Lottie Hazell, Piglet

“The soft, smooth substance filled her mouth. Chocolate cream, she thought. The flavor grew richer, rounder, louder with each passing second. It was like music, the notes lingering in her mind long after the sound itself had vanished.
He was openly staring at her. "You eat with such concentration and intensity. And, dare I say it, joy?"
Joy? The word was so foreign, especially in relation to food. It embarrassed her; she took a sip of the wine and concentrated on the way the flavors changed. She thought of music again. The sweet wine was like the trill of a flute, and suddenly the foie gras, which had reminded her more of pastry than meat, became robust, substantial.”
― Ruth Reichl, The Paris Novel

“She took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth, straining to identify the flavors. Cherry, she thought. Licorice. Thorns. She imagined a forest in late autumn, damp leaves on the ground, a blaze of color. She took another sip.
The man--- he must be Robert--- set a dish in front of her and she looked down, dismayed. What could it be? She'd never seen anything like it. It glistened up at her, a red-black sausage bursting from a shiny case. She inhaled the aroma: It was exotic, mysterious, almost intoxicating.
"Taste it," he urged.
It was pillow-soft, very rich, laced with spices. She identified the prickle of black pepper, the sweetness of onions. Parsley, she thought, nutmeg, and... was that chocolate? Bite by bite she chased the flavors, but they kept skipping away.
"Did you like it?" Robert was back.
She gestured at the empty plate. "It was wonderful. What kind of meat was in it?"
"Not meat, exactly." He watched her face as he said, "That was blood sausage.”
― Ruth Reichl, The Paris Novel

“A waiter set a small tart of caramelized pears before each of them and added a dab of licorice ice cream. Next came bananas topped with passion fruit and black pepper, little pirouettes of pleasure.
The meal was as large and generous as the chef himself, and by the time he was serving them aged Armagnac with a ripe Roquefort, Stella's head was spinning. Although they were now surrounded by people eating dinner, new dishes kept arriving. Petit fours appeared, and then chocolates. A basket of fruit. Jules and the chef toasted each other with fragrant fruit brandies.”
― Ruth Reichl, The Paris Novel

“The plate the waiter now set before her looked like an abstract painting: vivid green shot through with bright-coral slashes.
"Taste!" he urged.
It was clearly a fish but so sweet she did not recognize it. Looking at the color, she hazarded a guess. "Salmon? Or maybe not. It doesn't taste like salmon."
Troisgros looked very pleased. "That is because it was caught just this morning in the Allier, our local river. But also because we preserve the color by slicing the fish very thinly and searing it for just a few seconds."
"So it's almost raw?" She wasn't sure about this.
"In Japan they eat their fish raw."
She took another bite; the herbal sauce flirted with bitterness. "The flavor is so green I feel I'm eating color."
"Sorrel." He gestured to the waiter, who removed the plates and then set a single small bird surrounded by sliced fruit in front of each of them. "Sarcelle aux abricots," he announced.
"Sarcelle?" Stella did not recognize the word.
"It's a freshwater duck," said Jules. "I can't remember the word in English."
"Teal," Troisgros supplied.
Stella closed her eyes and tried describing the flavor. "It tastes wild." She began to dream herself into the dish as if it were a painting, imagining a golden field in the sunshine, feeling the air rush past, hearing the sound of her own wings. Circling in a great joyous arc, she spotted a tree covered in tawny fruits, breathed their perfume in the air.
"I wanted---" the chef was watching her--- "to give you the essence of the animal. To let you taste what the duck ate on her flight through life.”
― Ruth Reichl, The Paris Novel

“To Merveilleuse's surprise she comes across a large ram in a clearing, with gilt horns and a garland of flowers round his neck, reposing on a couch of orange blossom beneath a pavilion of golden cloth. But still, a ram, with his nose like an ink blot, flies on his white lashes, wool the color of curds. Around him a hundred gaily decked sheep graze not on grass but coffee, sherbet, ices, and sweetmeats, whilst partaking in games of basset and lansquenet.
Soon he takes her into a cavern, which is a gate to his underworld kingdom. It has meadows of a thousand different flowers; a broad river of orange-flower water; fountains of Spanish wine and liqueurs. There are entire avenues of trees, stuffed with partridges better larded and dressed than you would get them at the finest Paris restaurants; quails, young rabbits, and ortolans. In certain parts, where the atmosphere appears a little hazy, it rains bisque d'écrevisses, foie gras, and ragout of sweetbreads. His palace is formed by tangled orange trees, jasmines, honeysuckle, and little musk-roses, whose interlaced branches form cabinets, halls, and chambers, all hung with golden gauze and furnished with large mirrors and fine paintings.”
― Clare Pollard, The Modern Fairies