Interesting, I thought, but the memory of the foufou came back to me and so my wiser self took control and I walked out empty-handed. And then, that very evening, I came upon this recipe, so on Tuesday I was back there, buying that very last jug. And a packet of jaggery which is, in case you didn't know (full disclosure: I didn't) is raw Indian cane sugar.
Into the oven with it for twenty minutes or so, and then ... there wasn't that much left, oddly enough. And then Jeremy insisted that I show him how to make Nepalese fried bread, so that he and Malyon would have something to eat the next morning.
So anyway, Tuesday was Jerry's real birthday, which we celebrated quietly but in style, with roast lamb (with the temperature at night still up in the high 20s, why, oh Lord?) and the aforementioned confiture d'aubergines (whether or not you like it may depend on your garlic tolerance, Sophie found it a bit too much but tough, as far as I'm concerned it was perfect) and salad and stuff. Fortunately, roast potatoes were neither required nor on the menu, given the heat. There were but six of us and we were very restrained, only four bottles and all of those white or rosé.
For reasons best known to herself Stacey owns a pair of pink rabbit ears, such as those to be seen on "Bob's Burgers", and having nothing better to do I though it would be a good idea to wear them as we went off to Carrefour to buy wine and vasty quantities of diots for the party. (Because Jerry thought that perhaps everyone would, now that the proper canicule has arrived, enjoy 100% pig sausages simmered in red wine, along with a kilo of pasta. Going on the evidence, he was not wrong.)
So as it happens, I was still wearing them when we got back and Jerry's guests started turning up, in dribs and drabs. Lucas & Rémi know what to expect and so were not unduly startled, but I think it would have been nice of Lucas to warn his girlfriend ... she might not have choked so much before bravely giving me la bise.
On an unrelated note, it turns out that I had some bastard puff and some powdered almonds about my person the other day, and finding myself to be in possession not only of my wits but also some raisins, and some jaggery powder, it struck me that it would be a Good Idea to make some little pains aux raisins au frangipane, givent hat Malyon was going to be around. As it happens, I was not wrong.
Now for the classic version you would of course use croissant dough, but as it happens there was no yeast in the house (someone will die for this outrage to morality, but I suspect that it might by my fault so let's not be too eager, OK?) and one does what one can ...
Before you get too worried, this is not complicated either, involving as it does just creaming butter and sugar and powdered almonds, then beating in a whole egg and adjusting the thickness by judicious additions of flour or whatever until you have a thick cream. Hence its name.
And just as an aside, I was ambling down rue Metropole the other day and noted, in passing, that outside the little shop that specialises in undertaking and art religieux there was a billboard. Unfortunately I didn't have the camera with me, because although on one side there was a fairly anodyne poster promoting funeral insurance, the other side was advertising gravestones.
And not just any old gravestones either, there was the "Classique", the "Inhumation", and the rather tasteful "Crémation", which is kind of small and, from what I could make out on the photo, came with a handy flip-top lid. The photos themselves were pretty much on a par with what I'd expect from a small flyer advertising the local supermarket specials: at least they didn't have "Promo!" in bold red letters across them.
So I personally am going to slump down in my chair and try to avoid melting into a puddle of grease, until I can summon up the will-power to move, and head home to where the chilled rosé is lurking. Margo, in Birmingham, has probably had more liveable temperatures than us.
Mind how you go, now.