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

“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

“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

“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

“Without love, my work felt a bit meaningless; just as when I cooked for myself -- the food never tasted as good.”
― Ann Mah, Mastering the Art of French Eating: Lessons in Food and Love from a Year in Paris

“For our final meal we decided on a blow-out dinner at the rustic and chic le Boeuf et le Cochon, where Quebecois chef Luc Roy brings fancy French peasant food to the Montreal masses by making it both comforting and extremely decadent. Like foie gras poutine with squeaky curds from his own dairy farm and seared duck breast with foraged chanterelles, all set amidst a simple room of rough-hewn beams and exposed brick.
After much deliberation, here's what we ended up ordering:
•seafood tower featuring crab legs, oysters, clams, shrimp, mussels, snails, and conch--- much of it culled from the nearby St. Lawrence River (The furry conch shell was a tad challenging.)
•foie gras poutine (The consensus was "disturbingly delicious".)
•two-pound lobster stuffed with fall vegetables and doused in Béarnaise (Lilly's favorite" "Can you make this for me on my birthday?" she asked between mouthfuls. I'll have to remember. It'll be a nice surprise.)
•hanger steak with a sidecar of mushroom Bordelaise (Trish's favorite. She's super into protein these days.)
•lamb shank with green lentils ("Unappealing color combo" was the verdict.)
•pouding chômeur (Warm, mapley heaven! New favorite dessert alert!)”
― Amy Rosen, Off Menu

“The owner saw the way I ate and refilled my bowl without asking: the stew was rich with saffron and oil, and green anise, and orange. It's a cheap dish to make in Marseille: rockfish costs almost nothing. Mussels, too, are cheap, and squid, and the rock crabs that cost so much in elegant Paris restaurants are vermin here, good for nothing but stew. Food has a strange way of leaving home as a beggar and coming back a rich man, so the things we used to forage for free-- wild greens, razor clams, wild garlic, herbs, shellfish, rock crabs, even snails-- have been made into elegant dishes by chefs attempting to pique the jaded palates of those who lack nothing.”
― Joanne Harris, Vianne

“Panisses, those chickpea fritters sold by vendors on every street corner, and served with harissa, tomatoes, or roasted halloumi, or grilled sardines; navettes, the little orange-flower biscuits Louis serves with coffee; fougasse, that crispy Provençal bread, enriched with olive oil and herbs; pieds paquets in spicy tomato sauce; olive tapenade with salt lemon confit.It feels good to learn, and Louis admits that I may have an aptitude. He has grown warmer towards me. The customers are happy. I am even allowed officially to handle the book of recipes.
Each one has a story. This tapenade is the first thing she made, when she was only eight years old, in her grandmother's kitchen. This is her mother's clafoutis, made with the fat yellow cherries from the tree at the back of the garden. And these pomponettes are what she made for the guests on her wedding day; scented with orange blossom and sprinkled with nuts and sugar. Orange is the scent of hope, she writes in hasty handwriting. A promise of something small and sweet. A vow, built from spun sugar and dreams, melting in the sunlight.”
― Joanne Harris, Vianne

“So simple in concept, ratatouille exists in many variants. Like a folk song, it has crossed continents, and found its way into a hundred different traditions. Marguerite's recipe calls for tomatoes, sweet red peppers, aubergines, onions, garlic, all combined with bay and seasonings, and a good splash of olive oil. Served with grilled red mullet, it makes a simple, wholesome dish, a dish that comes with a line of verse from Margot's favorite poet: The greatest love can only grow beside a dream of equal size. Food is love in Margot's world: simple, warm and constant.
As for myself, I am almost two thirds of the way through her book of recipes. I can make madeleines, brioche, pieds paquets, pomponettes, leblebi, chickpea stew with merguez, Marseille-style pizza, aioli, navettes, and fiadoni, the Corsican cheesecake so beloved by Louis' regulars. I know the difference between pâte brisée and pâte feuilletée, fougasse and pissaladière. I know how to fillet rockfish; how to keep the heads for stock; how to stir red saffron through rice to make the most luscious risotto. Cooking has become a joy, an unexpected talent. Domestic magic is humbler, perhaps, than my mother's glamours and tricks, and yet it makes a difference.”
― Joanne Harris, Vianne

“Jane Grigson joined the Observer magazine in the summer of 1968. Her first column was about strawberries. She wrote a recipe for strawberry barquettes-- small pastry boats filled with fruit and lacquered with redcurrant jam so that they looked like jewels. There was another for strawberry brulée in a sweet sablé shell, and coeur à la crème-- a cream pudding set in a heart-shaped mould and encircled with fruit. 'In Venice, in the season of Alpine strawberries...' she wrote, and it didn't really matter what she said next, because you were already in.
In most recipes, the introduction serves the recipes. Jane's was the other way around. She wrote about the hybridized origins of modern strawberries in French market gardens, and how they feature in the mythology of the fertility goddess Frigg. After a few lines on the demanding anatomy of strawberry plants, she devoured into Jane Austen, talking about the agro-cosplay fruit-picking of the Regency ball-gown set. She refused to be complacent, especially about the things her readers already thought they knew. 'Strawberries, sugar and cream. The combination allows no improvement, you think?' Well, you're wrong.
None of this would've counted for much if the recipes weren't great, but they really were. One week she'd give you smart alternatives to traditional Christmas cake-- rounds of meringue stacked with coffee cream, or Grasmere shortcake with preserved ginger. Another week it'd be the unimpeachable precision of carrot salad, celery soup or a recipe for ice cream flavored with cooked, puréed apples. The cooking was pantheistic and it dealt with everything from kippers to apples, parsley, prunes and fennel with the same care, even love. We get smug these days about how broad our tastes are, and to an extent we're right. But a newspaper now would never run a double-page spread of recipes for tripe.
The magic of Jane Grigson is that though she was a smart cook, she was really a skilled purveyor of daydreams-- even if those daydreams were granular and exactingly researched. 'I sometimes think that the charm of a country's cookery lies not so much in its classic dishes as in its quirks and fancies,' she wrote. This included the esoterica of regional pies and rare apple cultivars. Something could be worthwhile without being useful. 'Walk into the yard of Château Mouton Rothschild,' began Jane's recipe for jellied rabbit, 'and you see a scatter of small fires. Some flare into the sky, others smoke as they are fed faggots of vine prunings.' Noisettes de porc aux pruneaux de Tours, crépinettes with chestnuts, carottes à la Vichy, angel's hair charlotte. She drew from the culinary canon as far back as Gervase Markham's seventeenth-century The English Huswife.”
― Ruby Tandoh, All Consuming: Why We Eat the Way We Eat Now