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On Rue Tatin : Living and Cooking in a French Town by Susan Herrmann Loomis
On Rue Tatin : Living and Cooking in a French Town On Rue Tatin : Living and Cooking in a French Town by Susan Herrmann Loomis
Publisher : Broadway
List Price :$14.95
Amazon Price : $10.17
Used Price : $1.99
buy from amazon.com
Avg. Customer Rating:4.0 of 5.0

Reviews for On Rue Tatin : Living and Cooking in a French Town

Amazon.com's Best of 2001
It has been said that food defines a culture. For the French, food is an integral part of their coveted tradition, and Susan Herrmann Loomis's new book On Rue Tatin embraces both. As a young, recent American college graduate, Loomis left the U.S. for France to attend one of the oldest French cooking schools, La Varenne. Her intent was to immerse herself in French cooking with the aspiration of becoming a food critic. Working as the French equivalent of an apprentice, she quickly became intimate with the ways and traditions that define the French culture, specifically its cuisine. On Rue Tatin ("On Tatin Street") is a descriptive narrative of Loomis's first several years in France, her encounters with the local people, and the bonds she formed, as well as recipes she gathered during her time there.

Following her formal culinary training, Loomis returned to the U.S. and met the man who would become her husband. After the couple's first son turned 2, they moved to France where Loomis was determined to launch her writing career focusing on unique aspects of French farming cuisine. She and her husband eventually purchased an old monastery in Louviers in the Normandy region of France. One of the more humorous and memorable stories she shares concerns the landlord of the small rental that they occupied for a year while her husband remodeled the monastery to livable conditions. During that year, the wife of the landlord believed them to be CIA agents and chose to keep a cold distance from the family. Meanwhile the French police suspected them of dealing drugs.

Every recipe featured throughout this memoir comes with an interesting, anecdotal story, and is very much representative of traditional French cuisine. Gateau au Chocolat de Mamy (or Mamy Jacqueline's Chocolate Cake) is a dense, almost death-by-chocolate confection, but served alone or with a fresh fruit coulis, it will bring a smile, as will the sweet explanation of its origin.

Loomis describes experiences and people with much detail, sometimes several times over, and her prose allows the reader to imagine the tempting smells and vivid colors of the countryside. You may find yourself wishing to see pictures of Loomis's home and the quaint village where she lived, but perhaps that was Loomis's intent--she wants to tempt and challenge you to experience the beauty and foods of Louviers and the Normandy region for yourself. --Teresa Simanton --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

From Publishers Weekly
Loomis, an American chef and author of Farmhouse Cookbook and The Great American Seafood Cookbook, enthusiastically recounts every aspect, both intriguing and mundane, of her immersion into the cuisine and lifestyle of northern France. She moved to Paris in 1980 to study cooking and, after a rough start, found her place as a weekend visitor at one family's home in Normandy. After cooking school, she went back to the States, returning to France frequently to visit friends. It wasn't long before she became addicted to Normandy's fresh ingredients goose, garlic, rabbit, wild mushrooms and rich gastronomy, and found herself longing to live there. In 1994, Loomis and her husband moved to the region and bought a dilapidated convent in the small town of Louviers. Her tales of adventures in restoration and run-ins with locals (e.g., the crotchety priest next door, the incorrigibly gregarious rug salesman) are funny, but certainly familiar, especially given that many recent books have told similar stories about ambitious expatriates' forays into rural European life. The cookbook/travelogue/memoir hybrid has become an overcrowded genre, and Loomis's doesn't distinguish itself. Nevertheless, few food writers have depicted Normandy so attentively, and Loomis has compiled an impressive collection of savory recipes that evoke the region's best, including Civet D'Agneau (Hearty Lamb Stew) and Roti de Cuisse de Sanglier (Roasted Leg of Wild Boar). Furthermore, classic Gallic personalities are accurately and engagingly rendered, making this more than just a culinary memoir. (Apr.)Forecast: This work targets Francophilic gastronomes, but probably won't break out of that niche. Nonetheless, the success of Loomis's cookbooks should help boost this title's sales.

Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

--This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

From Library Journal
Here are two culinary memoirs by American women now living in France. The similarities end there, as one author went to France for the food and stayed for the life that grew up around her, while the other moved to France for its own sake and realized that she'd better learn to cook once she became engaged to a Frenchman. In On Rue Tatin, Loomis, a food writer and an accomplished cook, recalls her initial journey to Paris to attend cooking school. Her apprenticeship at La Varenne cole de Cuisine led to a job as an assistant to food writer Patricia Wells and a lifelong fascination with French cooking and culture. Eventually, in 1994, she and her family permanently settled in a medieval convent on Rue Tatin in the Norman town of Louviers. Interspersed with her lyrical descriptions of daily life in urban and rural France are 50 recipes from a simple frittata to a complex pot au feu culled from both famous chefs and the local fish seller. The author prepares most of the dishes in her own home, and American readers should be able to do the same in a well-equipped kitchen though they may have trouble finding a leg of wild boar at their local supermarket. In French Fried, Rochefort (French Toast) writes about how her obsession with French food became a personal one when her French husband-to-be announced that they could not afford to keep eating in restaurants for the rest of their lives. There are a few recipes, most of them for "basics" such as vinaigrette or homemade mayonnaise. More of a general commentary on life in France as seen through its cuisine (one helpful tip for tourists: don't go into a restaurant and order only a salad or a sandwich because this is something you do in a caf ; restaurants are for meals), French Fried is the book to purchase if your patrons are looking for an informal travel guide. Buy both books if you are able; and if you regularly answer reference questions about the cooking of wild boar, you'll definitely need On Rue Tatin. Wendy Bethel, Southwest P.L., Grove City, OH
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
--This text refers to the
Hardcover edition.

From Booklist
Like many Americans, Loomis found herself attracted to France initially by its food. Then she bought a house in Louviers, in Normandy, and she began to appreciate the folkways of the natives in a new way. Avoiding the temptation to recount the details of house renovation as other writers have already done, Loomis writes affectionately of the people who surround her. Although the florists across the street initially resented that the Loomises' restoration of an old house took away their accustomed storage area, a gift of dinner rolls eventually won their respect. But no amount of good will or gifts could break the antipathy of the local priest, whose comfortable habits the American family disrupted. Loomis elucidates the nature of schooling in France through the experiences of her son. An unexpected but deeply welcome pregnancy introduces her to French legal and custom's solicitude and generous material provision for newborns and their mothers. Loomis makes one grateful for decent, inexpensive, readily available American stoves. Recipes enliven the text, and most can be easily reproduced in American kitchens. Mark Knoblauch
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
--This text refers to the Hardcover edition.

Review
"Where many American writers merely love France, Susan Loomis knows it: its smells and people and manners . . . she is as natural a writer as she is a chef."
–Adam Gopnik, author of Paris to the Moon

"Susan Loomis has written a radiant love letter to France–particularly Normandy–its countryside, food, markets, and people. Buy it and settle down for good reading and an occasional sortie into the kitchen."
–Barbara Kafka, author of Soup: A Way of Life

"Susan Loomis shares with us her rich family life, a world of amazing French friendships, and proves, most of all, that each and every dream CAN come true!"
–Patricia Wells, author of Patricia Wells at Home in Provence




Review
"Where many American writers merely love France, Susan Loomis knows it: its smells and people and manners . . . she is as natural a writer as she is a chef."
?Adam Gopnik, author of Paris to the Moon

"Susan Loomis has written a radiant love letter to France?particularly Normandy?its countryside, food, markets, and people. Buy it and settle down for good reading and an occasional sortie into the kitchen."
?Barbara Kafka, author of Soup: A Way of Life

"Susan Loomis shares with us her rich family life, a world of amazing French friendships, and proves, most of all, that each and every dream CAN come true!"
?Patricia Wells, author of Patricia Wells at Home in Provence




Book Description
Susan Loomis arrived in Paris twenty years ago with little more than a student loan and the contents of a suitcase to sustain her. But what
began then as an apprenticeship at La Varenne École de Cuisine evolved into a lifelong immersion in French cuisine and culture, culminating in permanent residency in 1994. On Rue Tatin chronicles her journey to an ancient little street in Louviers, one of Normandy’s most picturesque towns.

With lyrical prose and wry candor, Loomis recalls the miraculous restoration that she and her husband performed on the dilapidated convent they chose for their new residence. As its ochre and azure floor tiles emerged, challenges outside the dwelling mounted. From squatters to a surly priest next door, along with a close-knit community wary of outsiders, Loomis tackled the social challenges head-on, through persistent dialogue–and baking.

On Rue Tatin includes delicious recipes that evoke the essence of this region, such as Apple and Thyme Tart, Duck Breast with Cider, and Braised Chicken in White Wine and Mustard. Transporting readers to a world where tradition is cherished, On Rue Tatin provides a touching glimpse of the camaraderie, exquisite food, and simple pleasures of daily life in a truly glorious corner of Normandy.


Inside Flap Copy
Susan Loomis arrived in Paris twenty years ago with little more than a student loan and the contents of a suitcase to sustain her. But what
began then as an apprenticeship at La Varenne École de Cuisine evolved into a lifelong immersion in French cuisine and culture, culminating in permanent residency in 1994. On Rue Tatin chronicles her journey to an ancient little street in Louviers, one of Normandy?s most picturesque towns.

With lyrical prose and wry candor, Loomis recalls the miraculous restoration that she and her husband performed on the dilapidated convent they chose for their new residence. As its ochre and azure floor tiles emerged, challenges outside the dwelling mounted. From squatters to a surly priest next door, along with a close-knit community wary of outsiders, Loomis tackled the social challenges head-on, through persistent dialogue?and baking.

On Rue Tatin includes delicious recipes that evoke the essence of this region, such as Apple and Thyme Tart, Duck Breast with Cider, and Braised Chicken in White Wine and Mustard. Transporting readers to a world where tradition is cherished, On Rue Tatin provides a touching glimpse of the camaraderie, exquisite food, and simple pleasures of daily life in a truly glorious corner of Normandy.


From the Back Cover
"Where many American writers merely love France, Susan Loomis knows it: its smells and people and manners . . . she is as natural a writer as she is a chef."
–Adam Gopnik, author of Paris to the Moon

"Susan Loomis has written a radiant love letter to France–particularly Normandy–its countryside, food, markets, and people. Buy it and settle down for good reading and an occasional sortie into the kitchen."
–Barbara Kafka, author of Soup: A Way of Life

"Susan Loomis shares with us her rich family life, a world of amazing French friendships, and proves, most of all, that each and every dream CAN come true!"
–Patricia Wells, author of Patricia Wells at Home in Provence




About the Author
SUSAN HERRMANN LOOMIS, the author of five cookbooks, is a regular contributor to publications such as the New York Times and Gourmet. She owns and operates On Rue Tatin, a cooking school. For more information about the school, consult www.onruetatin.com.


Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
One

The Beginning

The story of our adventure, our move to Rue Tatin, began some thirteen years earlier, when I first went to live in Paris. Of course back then I had no idea that I would fall hopelessly in love with Michael Loomis, and then with France. Nor did I ever imagine longing so heartily for the French countryside, the French language, the thousands of things that make French life what it is, from dozens of varieties of bottled water to the sweet cream butter. There wasn't any way to know then how deeply and irreversibly seduced I would be by the markets, the restaurants, the French lifestyle that takes its cue from the meal and the table.

The suitcase was big, and it was heavy. It had everything I thought I would need for a year in Paris, including a little wire contraption that worked on 220 currents and would boil water instantly, my favorite earthenware Melitta coffee maker, and a Le Petit Robert Dictionnaire de la Langue Francaise French dictionary, the best I could find.

After months of planning, applying for and getting a student loan, packing, and moving, I was finally in Paris for a year's experience as a stagiaire, or apprentice, at a cooking school for English-speaking students. It sounded like a dream--working all day at the school, taking cooking classes at night with French chefs, and living in Paris to boot. I was beside myself with excitement. And fear. I didn't know a soul. I'd only been to Paris once before, for a short week when I was barely twenty. I'd studied French for years in school but had never really spoken it.

Already concerned about just how I was going to make the $2,500 loan I'd gotten stretch for a year, I decided on arrival to take the metro rather than a cab from the airport to the city. That meant heaving the suitcase up and down stairs, through archaic turnstiles (all of which have been modernized since to accommodate luggage), in and out of metro cars. It was several very rough hours before I arrived at the apartment where I was to stay with a young woman who had just started working at the cooking school and had offered me her spare bedroom. The apartment was in the ninth arrondissement, not far from Montmartre. I would stay there just long enough to find a place of my own.

No one was at the apartment and I was in a hurry. I dropped my bags, took a deep breath, and immediately ran back out the door to renegotiate the metro and report for work.

The apprenticeship was set out in six-week stages, the first being that of school receptionist, which meant sitting behind a desk, answering the phone, greeting visitors, and dealing with mounds of paperwork. My ideas of a romantic, food-filled year hadn't included such stultifying work; the only thing that kept me going was peeking at the cooking classes going on in the adjacent room and knowing that two nights a week I would join the other stagiaires for cooking classes.

I could hardly wait for the first class. When my workday was finished and the door to the street locked, I followed the other stagiaires to the kitchen. They explained the system to me, which sounded too good to be true. There was a list of perhaps a hundred required recipes to work through during the year, calculated to teach the basics of classic French cuisine and to prepare us for the year-end exam. All we had to do before each class was to choose the recipes we wanted to work on, in a certain order that went from simple to complex. All of the ingredients would be ordered so that on the night of the class we simply had to run downstairs to the cave, or cellar, where they were kept, and bring them upstairs. We paired up to work and kept the same partners throughout the year, to the extent everyone's staggered schedule would allow.

Once I had traded my phone and typewriter for a chef's knife and covered my street clothes with a long white apron, I was in heaven. Hours to cook, good company to cook with, fabulous ingredients. Never had I imagined produce so gorgeous, so intense in both appearance and flavor. Though my culinary education was relatively broad--I lived in England and Germany while growing up and had a mother who was endlessly creative in the kitchen and rarely made the same dish twice--it was not sophisticated.

My personal interest in cooking had come rather late in life. It wasn't until I was in my last year of high school when both of my sisters, who seemed to spend hours in the kitchen baking cookies, were out of the house that I realized I had a passion for cooking. That year and all through college I cooked whenever I had free time. When I wasn't cooking I was reading about it, planning my next meal, designing my next dinner party. After earning a degree in communications and working at newspapers and in public relations, it dawned on me I could incorporate food into my professional life, which is what had led me to La Varenne. I wanted to be a food writer, but first I had to learn how to cook.

So here I was in 1980 in a two-hundred-year-old building in Paris, near the Place des Invalides, basking in the world's best butter; the fattest, most pungent pink garlic; spinach whose leaves were so firm and meaty they stood up on the table instead of lying flat; brown eggs whose yellow yolks tasted as rich as they looked. I thought I knew good apples, fragrant strawberries, juicy pears. But never had I tasted the likes of the fraises des bois I had on a tart at La Varenne, and the pears I sniffed made me want to fold them into cakes, slather them with chocolate, poach them in fragrant herbs and spices.

The food was so whole. Chickens came with head, feet, and pinfeathers, and so did the pigeons and quail; the fish looked at me with big, dreamy eyes as I took them from the cooler; the lettuce still had soil clinging to it.

Once my onerous receptionist stint was finished I moved on to washing dishes at cooking demonstrations, a job I much preferred. At least I was in contact with food. I lived in a blessed cloud of ecstasy about the food, the flavors, the techniques I was learning. I jumped at the chance to run errands to the market, the cheese shop, the bakery. When I wasn't at La Varenne I took jobs cooking for embassy families, catering bar mitzvahs, making canapes for special occasions. Anything to be with food. Whenever I could I went to spend a day at a bakery or patisserie, often getting up at 1 a.m. and arriving when the baker did, so I missed nothing and could still get to work on time.

The chefs on duty with us for our evening classes--all of them terribly handsome in their crisp whites and with their Gallic attitudes--would yell, scream, cajole, flirt, pinch, and generally try to pummel us into cooks of some merit. After several hours of cooking we would sit down late in the evening to sample and critique our creations. I always raced through whatever my required dish or dishes were so that I could jump ahead and make something else from the list, usually in the dessert category. I always toyed with these extra recipes, embellishing and transforming them by adding ground walnuts to a gateau Breton, for instance, and pate sable to a chocolate charlotte. It was more fun than I could have imagined.

Being a stagiaire at La Varenne was a unique experience, not always easy but invaluable, a sort of boot camp for cooks. All those long days doing the bidding of the chefs and the hours spent in the basement peeling garlic for a cooking demonstration, or in the office writing or rewriting something for one of the school's books that were produced there, were ideal training for the life of a freelance food writer.

I had expected, while doing my apprenticeship, to travel on weekends. Before arriving in France, I'd joined an organization called SERVAS, which is set up to further international goodwill by supplying travelers with names of host families in countries where they want to visit. The idea is that the traveler stays with the host family free of charge for up to three days and must, in exchange, be willing to participate in whatever the family is doing, be it harvesting grapes, taking care of children, or touring the countryside.

I looked through my list and found a family that wasn't too far out of Paris and called to see if I could come out the following weekend. They were busy but their daughter, who lived nearby, said a visit would be just fine. Early Saturday morning I climbed on a train at Gare St. Lazare and was on my way to my first weekend in the French countryside.

When I arrived at the train station in Normandy I was met by a tall, thin, harried-looking woman who drove me to her large stone house. We entered a huge courtyard with its sculpted privets and riotous dahlias and I saw the image of all I love in France. Solid and square with graceful proportions, it was a maison bourgeoise, its facade a parade of tall windows each hung with a different antique lace curtain. Geraniums and pansies spilled out of window boxes, an antique bicycle leaned against the wall, the wicker basket on its back fender overflowing with petunias.

She said something to me I didn't understand, pointed to her three chubby, gorgeous golden-haired children, and took off in the car. I was alone and the children immediately started fighting. I searched frantically for words like "be quiet" and "go to your room," but of course, nothing came out. I finally yelled "Arret." They stopped, looked at me with their big, wide eyes, and all started to giggle and point their fingers. I searched in the cupboards looking for something to give them to eat and found only one box of organic biscuits (I now remembered that the description of this family included "vegetarian"). What else had it included, I wondered, as I chased the children through the freezing, massive, stone-floored house.

My hostess finally returned, fed the children, giving each a heaping plate of steaming noodles with Gruyore cheese, and put them all to bed. They were crying, but she simply shut their doors and went downstairs. We had a quick lunch of the same pa...


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