My Tiny Parisian Kitchen, Confit de Canard, Duck Fat Potatoes, Six French Chefs and Many Bottles Of Expensive French Wine

In the middle of Paris. In an old neighborhood. In a kitchen barely bigger than a broom closet. We cooked. We drank. We ate. We laughed. We opened bottle after bottle. And it was simply sublime.

Le Marais, Paris. A labyrinth of narrow, winding streets, centuries-old architecture, and an intoxicating blend of old-world charm. Throw in a flare of modern hipster chic, and you have a quarter that has a surprise waiting for you around every corner. It's the kind of neighborhood that makes you feel like you've stumbled into a secret part of Paris that no one else knew existed. A collection of old bistros, restaurants and local haunts that existed just beneath the surface of tourist traps and overpriced cafes. While I normally enjoy a local hotel to make my stay as effortless as possible, for this trip, I decided to grab an Airbnb as I wanted to get a feeling of “I live here” as I spent time in local cafes, bistros and restaurants in this magical neighborhood that was the beating heart of Paris.

The apartment I leased was everything I'd hoped for. High ceilings, herringbone floors worn smooth by countless footsteps. Windows that opened onto a view of tiled rooftops and wrought-iron balconies that seemed to stretch out into the horizon as far as the eye could see. It was the kind of living space that made me want to throw open the shutters, light a cigarette (even if I didn’t smoke), and pretend I was in a classic black and white French film directed by Jean Renoir. I was excited for the flurry of reservations that I had made for the week in all of my favorite restaurants around Paris, but this evening, I made other plans. Tonight, I was going to cook. I was going to play chef in my own kitchen, in the heart of Paris. Now, let me be very clear. I'm not one for staying in when I travel. The whole point of being in a city like Paris is to experience it, to let it wash over you like a wave of unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells. But sometimes, on certain special occasions, there's something to be said for bringing a little bit of that city into your temporary home. Assuming of course you have a full kitchen with all the necessary tools at your disposal. And what better way was there to bring Paris into your home than by cooking a meal with ingredients sourced from the very streets you're exploring and taking in with every step?

Visiting Paris is always a stroll through the familiar and the newly discovered. It is also an opportunity to meet with friends and colleges that I have known for the better part of my life. All this goes to say that I had a few chef friends in town. They were the kind of culinary badasses who could probably whip up a five-star meal with nothing but a hot plate and a Swiss Army knife, while sitting on a park bench in the middle of Paris. But tonight, I was taking the lead and inviting them into my kitchen. Tonight I was playing the role of chef and sommelier for their pleasure, and mine. The menu, you ask? I had a brief moment on the plane to think about that—Confit de canard with duck fat potatoes. It was a dish that was simultaneously rustic and refined, much like Le Marais. And let's be honest, if you're in Paris and you do not indulging in some form of duck-based gluttony, you're doing it all wrong my friends. And, it’s safe to say that you are also missing out on an amazing culinary experience of deep, rich, country French cooking right in the back yard of where it all started.

While the apartment had everything that I needed to cook my menu for the evening, I still needed to get all of the supplies to actual make the meal. I managed to get a few odds and ends, spices and herbs from a local grocery store earlier in the day. But, I needed to wander out and scavenge up the rest. I stepped out onto the Parisian street in the late afternoon sun and stepped lively across the cobblestones. As expected, dare I say anticipated, and severely missed, the air was thick with the scent of fresh bread and that faint aroma of cigarette smoke that just seemed to linger no matter where you went. It’s that uniquely Parisian perfume that seemed to hang on every corner and in every cafe. Just one of those things that was truly, uniquely, Paris.

I set off towards Tribolet Alain, a local butcher shop that was recommended to me, and promised to have exactly what I was looking for. I stepped into the tiny, family-run shop and entered a meat lovers nirvana. The shop was a carnivore's dream - gleaming cases filled with every cut of meat imaginable. Sausages that hung from the ceiling like meaty stalactites. The butcher, a lanky Frenchman with a welcoming smile, greeted me with a nod and a wave to come in and shuffle closer. I approached the glass display case with familiarity and apprehension. Knowing that I eventually would have to order in French. My dear readers, my French is what you might charitably call "fucking awful." It's a mangled mess of half-remembered high school lessons, French cinema catch phrases and famous lines, and phrases picked up from dirty French comedians. But I have always believed that making an effort to speak the language when you are in another country, no matter how pitiful, goes a long way and is bound to earn you a great deal of brownie points with whomever you may be trying to communicate with. I took a deep breath, found my words and launched into my request. All at once, my tongue tripped over itself like a drunkard trying to run a marathon. My French speaking attempt ended up as mangled words and phrases spoken like a lisping four year old. To my butcher’s credit, he clearly stifled a laugh and his amusement. But he did crack a smile. He listened patiently, nodding along as if my bastardized French made perfect sense. When I finally finished butchering his elegant language, he took a beat and asked a question that I didn't understand at all. I looked like a deer in headlights, lost in a sea of sounds and intonations that flowed by me in distant recognition, but no familiarity. He nodded and immediately switched to English. "How many people?" he asked. I held up six fingers, feeling both relieved and ever so slightly ashamed. “It’s ok,” he said. “Monsieur, you tried. Pronunciation was perfect. Words, not much. But… c'est bon!”

He grinned widely and selected the perfect duck for my confit that he pre-seasoned the night before. As he wrapped the duck for me, we chatted, my horrible lack of the French language quickly forgotten. A moment of struggle generously forgiven by a man who knew that just trying was the ultimate sign of respect. We talked about cooking various French dishes and preparation techniques both new old. We discussed the best way to render duck fat. We also completely agreed on the superiority of French poultry and the freshness of it as well. By the time he handed me the wrapped package, neatly sealed for my afternoon walk, we were grinning at each other like old friends. “Come back!” he said, as he gave me a fist bump for my effort, a gesture of respect that I was honored to accept with this traditional French artisan.

I set off down the street for my next stop. 38 Saint Louis, a cheese shop that that came highly recommended by locals in the neighborhood. If you are ever looking for the best bistro, cafe or local establishment, ask someone who lives there. While you may get a variety of answers, you will never be disappointed. I pushed open the door, and was instantly hit by a wall of smells. It was that funky, complex aroma that only could come from a room full of carefully aged cheeses. It was like walking into a cave of fermented debauchery made entirely of dairy products. The cheese monger was behind the counter, helping another patron as she gestured for me to take a look around and to give her a moment. She was a tall French woman with sharp eyes, her hair pulled back in that perfect Parisian bun that looked effortless. She bagged the patron’s purchased, thanked them in crisp and delicious French, turn to me and smiled welcomingly. “Oui Monsieur?” she said, staring directly at me. Once again, I took a deep breath, readying myself for linguistic humiliation. But this time, I had accepted my French limitations, and I dove in anyway with slightly more confidence having had a sliver of success with the butcher. I explained that I was looking for a selection of cheeses to serve after dinner, something to pair with wine to follow my confit de canard. Something that was aromatic, gooey, and indulgent. I of course said this in a manner that showed that I had seen a French film or two. Certainly not someone who had any mastery of the French language.

She stared at me for a moment as an awkward silence seemed to fill the room. The silence was so deafening that I could hear the buzz of the coolers around me. And at the same moment, we both laughed. She at me, and me at myself. She, like the butcher, seemed to appreciate my efforts and struggle, and immediately switched to English to spare me any further embarrassment. I instantly knew this was going to the norm for my entire shopping experience in this city. She gestured for me to follow her and led me on a tour of the shop, explaining the characteristics of different regions and the styles of cheese that they produced. To my delight, she began to present sample after sample, which I accepted hungrily. She pointed out the subtle differences in each sample’s texture and flavor. In the end, she recommended four cheeses which I was looking forward to serving and digging into as well. The Saint-Félicien, a creamy cow's milk cheese with a delicate flavor. The Saint-André, a decadently rich triple cream. The Mont d'Or, a seasonal specialty with a woodsy aroma. And finally, the Brillat-Savarin, named after the famous gastronome and so creamy it nearly had the consistency of soft French butter.

She wrapped up my selections as she asked me where I was visiting from. And as I paid, she gave me a conspiratorial wink which again made both of us smile and laugh. "Your French," she said, "it's not so bad." She pursed her lips in a tight smile, and nodded as though she was giving me the official French seal of approval for my struggle. I received a trophy for trying. I thanked her profusely for the samples, for her recommendations, and for her patience with me. I gathered my bags and headed out for one final item for the evening. My final stop was La Cave du Barav, a wine shop that I'd researched extensively before I landed in Paris this morning. This time however, all knowledge of French aside, I felt like I was on home turf and very familiar ground. Wine, after all, was a universal language. I strolled into the shop with a great deal more confidence than my previous two visits. Instantly, there was an aroma of oak and resting wine bottles that was noticeable in the air. The shop was clean, but had that slight oder of dusty, resting wine bottles about it. The shop owner, a dapper gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard and horn rimmed glasses, greeted me warmly and shook my hand in a tight, welcoming grip. This time however, I did not need to stumble, fumble, and struggle with my severely broken French. To my relief, I did not participate in the butchering of the French language in the middle of this wine shop. Instead, the gentleman greeted me in English, and I was a little happier for the reprieve. I explained what I was cooking this evening and the cheeses that I'd selected. He nodded approvingly, and gestured for me to follow him through the shop.

"Ah," he said, "for this, I have something extra special for you.” He led me to two bottles — a 2020 Domaine Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet 1er Cru Les Combettes and a 2015 Drouhin Chambertin Clos de Beze Grand Cru. I could barely contain my excitement. These two bottles weren't just good wines, they were exceptional. Wines are generally subjective. Palate and price point being the main driver for choices and purchases. For tonight, my friends and I shared similar palates and pleasures, and we knew a good bottle when we tasted it, especially these bottles. “Oh yes.” I said. “I’ll take two of each s'il vous plaît.” He smiled as he rang up my purchases, whether from my attempt at French or my selections of wine, I will never know. However, the experience was fun and exciting. It was also always an absolute pleasure engaging with another oenophile. We chatted about the vineyards that these bottles came from, the vintages, and the subtle differences in terroir. It was a conversation that transcended my terrible knowledge of the French language, fueled by a shared passion for great wine.

I made my way back to my apartment through the winding streets of Le Marais, my arms full of the makings of a truly spectacular meal this evening. The shopping experience in Paris was a guilty pleasure that I would recommend anyone to try, just once. Those far too accustomed to American grocery stores might not appreciate that certain something, that “Je ne sais quoi” that a French cheese shop or a butcher shop can give. But I will tell you dear readers, it was truly something spectacular. True, my French was embarrassingly atrocious. Yes, I probably made a complete fool of myself stumbling over my pronunciations as my tongue just got in the way. However, in each conversation, in every stumbling attempt to connect with locals in their language, I discovered something truly remarkable. It was a genuine connection with the people who all made this unique neighborhood so damn special. And that, was worth every euro I spent.

The sun was just beginning to set as I strolled along the cobblestone streets. It cast a warm, golden glow over the old buildings that rose up around me. It shimmered off of the glass windows and created a rainbow along the narrow alley. As the Parisian lights just started to flicker to life, the streets were just beginning to stir, slowly coming alive with the evening crowds - locals heading home from work, tourists searching for the perfect dinner spot, groups of friends gathering and enjoying after-work aperitifs. I passed by bustling cafes and chic boutiques. The unmissable smell of fresh bread, roasting meat, and freshly pulled espresso wafted from the open air bistros, as people all crowded together on small round tables, sitting, sipping, chatting and enjoying a slow Parisian evening.

I turned onto the street leading back to my flat, and suddenly, with my arms weighed down with my purchases for this evening’s dinner, I didn’t feel life a tourist anymore. I was just another person heading “home” to cook dinner, carrying my grocery bags through the streets of “my” neighborhood. The fact that this neighborhood happened to be one of the most beautiful and historic in Paris? Well, that was just a bonus, for me anyway. I buzzed myself in to the building and climbed the stairs to my Airbnb, already planning out my mise en place. I inserted the old skeleton key into the lock of the door as my mind drifted to the sizzle of duck fat in the pan, the pop of a cork of each bottle, the aroma of the food in the apartment, the scent of the wine in our glasses and the laughter of friends around a warm table full of food and love. I pushed open the door to my temporary home, throwing the groceries on the kitchen island and began to arrange my purchases. The apartment welcomed me back like an old friend, its worn floorboards greeting me with a constant creaking beneath my feet. I pulled out the wrapped duck from Tribolet Alain, the selected cheeses from 38 Saint Louis, and of course, the bottles of wine from La Cave du Barav, their labels glinting in the slowly setting sun that was piercing through the open curtains of my apartment.

I arranged my mise en place, as any good chef should do before being their meal prep, and dove in head first. I pulled out old pots and pans, familiarizing myself with the quirks of this unfamiliar kitchen. I arranged the knives and began sharpening them in preparation. A head chef in a kitchen long ago, once yelled at me for letting my knives get dull. After that, it never happened again. My knives were always ready for battle like an experienced samurai. Quickly, with every swipe, I brought the old dull knives in this apartment back to life. I lit matches and turned on the gas stove, marveling at the magic as the old white stove sputtered to life, its blue flames dancing in front of me. This tiny French kitchen, with barely enough room to swing a cat, let alone a duck, was where I planned to create this evening’s bit of French alchemy.

Confit de canard. It's a dish that screams decadence, indulgence and debauchery. It’s a middle finger to your cardiologist, and a testament to the French culinary genius of countless amazing chefs that have made and remade this incredible dish. The duck legs, rubbed down with a mixture of salt and herbs that would make a medieval apothecary proud, were pre-seasoned by the butcher with patience and love. As the process generally takes 24 hours, I was extremely happy that the butcher had prepared them yesterday. As I have often said, good things come to those who wait, and great things come to those who wait…. while drinking wine. Outside, the last rays of sunlight were fading in the distance, replaced by the warm, orange glow of Paris’ streetlights. The sounds of the neighborhood drifted up through my open window - the clatter of dishes from nearby restaurants, the murmur of conversations, the occasional bursts of laughter. It was the soundtrack of a Parisian evening, a melody that once experienced, could never be forgotten.

With my pan searing hot, I began melting down enough duck fat to make the cardiologist that I flipped off earlier weep. All at once, the kitchen smelled like a duck's last day on earth, as the fat liquefied and created a vision that I could only explain as alchemy. Lowering the cured duck legs into the molten fat, they began to cook low and slow, as they slowly transformed from tough, stringy meat into something so tender it would make you question everything you thought you knew about poultry, or any meat for that matter. The aroma wafting through my shoebox of a kitchen was utterly intoxicating. It was a smell that could make a vegetarian seriously reconsider their life choices. The duck was cooking away, slowly confiting in its own fat, becoming a version of itself it never knew it could be.

As the duck slowly cooked away in the pan, I turned my attention to the potatoes. Let's talk about duck fat roasted potatoes. If confit de canard is the main act, these spuds are the backup dancers that would steal the show. We're talking crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and infused with enough duck fat to make your arteries cry uncle. I peeled and chopped, and started to parboil these golden bad boys. It was like giving them a spa treatment before I subjected them to the inferno of the oven. I wanted them just tender enough that a fork slid in with a little resistance. Think al dente, but for potatoes instead. Once they were parboiled, it was time for the fun part. Time to rough these potatoes up a bit by shaking them in the pot like I was auditioning for a maraca player in a salsa band. This created little nooks and crannies for the duck fat to nestle into, ensuring maximum crispy yumminess.

And, while we were on the subject of the duck fat, it was time to get that liquid gold heated up. And when I say heated up, we're talking smoking hot, hotter than the surface of the sun. I wanted these potatoes to sizzle the moment they hit that succulent duck fat. I threw the potatoes in haphazardly, and the transformation instantly began. It was like watching ugly ducklings turn into swans, except, of course instead of swans, they were transforming into golden, crispy nuggets of pillowy potato perfection. The smell was mesmerizing. It was a mixture of earthy potatoes and rich duck fat that could make a crowded noisy room fall silent, every nose turn up into the air, trying to breath in as much of the wafting aroma as possible.

As I cooked, I found myself falling into a rhythm. It was a dance between stove and counter. A waltz between pan and plate. There was something always so deeply satisfying about preparing a meal. For yourself or for somebody else. Something so soulfully fulfilling about transforming carefully selected ingredients into something greater than the sum of their parts. While alchemy was happening in real time across my oven and stove, I took the opportunity and opened one of the bottles of white wine, pouring myself a glass as I cooked. The Puligny-Montrachet splashed into my glass like liquid honey. It was everything I'd hoped for - crisp, complex, notes of citrus and minerality that danced on my tongue with every sip. It was the kind of wine that was literally a liquid embodiment of the French art de vivre. I leaned back against the small kitchen counter, my chef’s apron tight around me and swirled the wine in my glass slowly, enjoying the aromas drifting up and into my waiting nose. While I sipped and took a moment to relax, those potatoes just did their thing. I let those babies roast until they were golden brown and crispy all over. Cooking is a game of patience, my friends. You can’t rush it. The laws of physics don’t change from one stove to the next. Good things come to those who wait, and great things come to those who wait for duck fat potatoes.

And, after 45 minutes of hearing those perfect, yellow cube pillows sizzle. After 45 minutes of one addictive aroma after another drifting from my kitchen through the small apartment, and probably into the next apartment and the next, and the next, they potatoes were done. Golden brown, crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and infused with the rich flavor of duck fat. These weren’t just potatoes. They were little nuggets of crispy, duck-fat-infused heaven. Addiction, wrapped in a crisp skin of caramelized duck goodness. As I took another swig of wine from my glass, I set it down and turned my attention back to the duck, which was nearly done now, its skin crispy and golden, the meat beneath tender and succulent. It was a perfect pairing to the potatoes.

No matter where you might find yourself. No matter where your travels take you. If you have a kitchen at your disposal, take my advice—use it. Take the time to get the supplies you need from the local shops, not the supermarkets. Gather your ingredients, and make something truly amazing. Skip the restaurants and chef up something fucking delicious. In the middle of Paris. In an old neighborhood. In a kitchen barely bigger than a broom closet. Take that, fancy restaurant kitchens, go fuck yourselves. It’s a labor of love. It’s an immersion of culture. Its an experience that you will never, ever forget.

I plated and placed all of the food on the table, arranged the glasses and bottles, and aligned the plates and cutlery. I was just putting the finishing touches in the kitchen when the buzzer on the apartment intercom suddenly rang to life. “Allô! Allô!” Rang over the speaker as I hit the button to answer. From the sounds of the rowdy crowd downstairs, my dear friends made a pit stop along the way to my flat and had a glass of wine, or two, or maybe three. As one does of course. I pressed the button to buzz them in and opened the front door to give them full access as I waited, arms crossed, glass of wine in hand. I heard them filing up the stairs, singing merrily as they trudged up the old staircase. They burst through the tiny front door of the apartment with open arms, and a couple of bottles of wine in tow. And as kisses on both cheeks were exchanged, warm embraces and laughter experienced, there was an instant exclamation of amazement and a stuttering of curses, in the best way possible. “Ouah! Je n'en reviens pas!” Came the exclamations over the aromas that filled the apartment. And all at once, we surround the table, as if no time had passed since we’d last seen each other at all.

We all gathered around the table, a motley crew of culinary misfits in a tiny Parisian apartment. The conversation was a mixture of English and French, of industry gossip and travel tales told over wine pour after wine pour. We talked about ingredients and techniques. We argued about favorite meals and kitchen disasters. But most importantly, we simply enjoyed each other's company, savoring the food, indulging on the wine, and losing ourselves in moment after moment. With the tables sitting completely empty, except for the dirty plates, fueled by good wine and even better conversation, we rose and moved from the dinner table to the living room, then out onto the small balcony, watching the nightlife of Le Marais unfold beneath us. The night streets of Paris were still alive, filled with people from nearly everywhere enjoying the mild evening, their laughter drifting up between the rising buildings on the warm air. And as the evening hours melted away before we knew it, slowly, my friends began to depart. We never really said goodbye to one another. Simply a nod, a kiss on both cheeks, a crushing embrace and a quick “see you” was uttered with every departure.

When you have fellow chefs come for dinner, they always leave a spotless kitchen in their wake. The plates were washed and cleared. The glasses and cutlery all rinsed and put away. The pots and pans all scrubbed and placed neatly back in the cabinet. Really, they were the best dinner guests anyone could ever hope for. The clock in the flat struck midnight. I walked out alone on to the balcony as Paris stretched out before me. This glittering tapestry of lights and shadows stretched out in the horizon, as far as the eye could see. In the distance, as I squinted, I could just make out the tip of the Eiffel Tower, peeking out above the rooftops. I took a final sip of wine from my glass, savoring the last notes of the exceptional Chambertin, the dry chassis and raspberry flavors coating my mouth. I savored the last sip as the flavors of the duck, potatoes and cheeses all intertwined and lingered on my tongue. Tomorrow, I would venture out again, exploring more of what this incredible city had to offer. But for now, I was content to simply be here, on this balcony, in this moment, in this neighborhood that had so quickly, so easily, so incredibly, and so effortlessly, suddenly felt like home.