Although our primary purpose in visiting Paris was to find antiques, we kept one day for Andy's least favorite activity--searching for batterie de cuisine. Entire days and weeks and sometimes months were spent antiquing, circling the city and outside areas for the best of the best, usually found in the worst of the worst situations.
A visit to Dehillerin, a gourmet cook's fantasy with devices that must be carried home for the American kitchen is a need. Having first read about the haven for cooks and would be cooks, nothing would do but I would visit and yes, buy. Andy would give up and take a nap in a park close by while I went over the shop with a fine toothed comb. From the beginning I knew I must visit and revisit this shrine which has been serving top-notch chefs for over one hundred fifty years and they NEVER have a sale! (Their prices, however, were half of what the items cost in America...shhhh) Don't look for courteous treatment or advice in Dehillerin which is located at 18 Rue Coquilliere. I ask for Franc because he speaks English and works on commission and does not care that I am American...and, by the way, I don't care that he is French. For years Andy and I went the long convoluted way to Dehillerin and then one day while I was in Paris alone at Le Louvre des Antiquaires at Palace Royal, I found a side street that I could walk, and there, sitting like an odd shaped rose among the thorns, was Dehillerin.
The building is a warehouse, really, with no frills but every cooking device fit to put in a kitchen is on display. A whisk the size of a car length hangs from the ceiling. There are bins and bins of knives, choppers, clippers and zesters. There are mandolines that can julienne your little fingers off. The cacophony of languages stuns the ear while everyone is speaking importantly of food. I escaped to the basement where the shelves are filled with colorful le Creuset. I had to have some of those pots. (I imagined I could hear Andy groaning from afar.)
I am not finished. I leave the shop and make a sharp left going down a narrow street which dumps me into another street of dreams. All cook and tableware...the entire street lined with windows featuring dried shittake mushrooms, spices, vinegars, and oils of every kind. By now my arms are pulled from their sockets and the bags on wheels have developed a mind of their own smacking anyone who dares to walk near them.
On the way to the park to pick up Andy there is a brick pathway lined with restaurants of every kind, all with indoor and outdoor accommodations to suit the season. Colorful umbrellas and potted plants line the way. Andy and I decided to try out one of these restaurants before heading back to the hotel with our booty. We read the menus as we meandered (meandering is difficult with heavy wayward bags) along trying to decide where to have lunch. Big iced trays of remarkable seafood catches our eyes and then we read about dim sum and duck a la cantonese. But, by this time we are really looking forward to something big and cold--never enough iced things in London or Paris. We decide on the Chicago Meat Packers restaurant. English is spoken and pitchers of iced beverages are passed. We can let down our guard after days of posturing and pretending to understand French. We are weary of sophistication and crave the familiar. So, we slip on the bibs and dig into the mountains of American ribs washed down with frosty beer or chilled champagne. These days are among my favorite French memories and I cherish the items bought on those easy, happy, days as I use them over and over, remembering as I cook.
