I have written a good deal about cooking here in Paris, and it occurs to me that someone might be interested in the space in which I do my cooking. [All blogging is a cross between faith and narcissism. But then, faith is a cross between faith and narcissism. I mean, why should I imagine that God is waiting to hear from ME?] So I measured my kitchen. It is 160 by 170 centimeters, which is to say about 29 square feet -- a bit more than five by five. In that space are a refrigerator, a two-burner plaque induction cooktop, a [brand new] dishwasher, a sink, a combination microwave and convection oven, a Paris stone work surface, and storage space above and below for dishes, glassware, pots and pans, food supplies, herbs and spices.
In that tiny space, large enough for only one person at a time, I have prepared duck, rabbit, quail, coquelet, steak, pork chops, boeuf bourguignon, paupiette, dorade royale, turbot, tuna, rouget barbet, swordfish, skate, coquilles St. Jacques, trout, gambas, meat sauce for pasta, French beans, pea pods, white and green asparagus, braised endives, zucchini, mushrooms, steamed baby spinach, fingerling potatoes, linguini, and heaven knows what else.
I am in Paris, one of the magical cities of the world, and yet I can honestly say that some of the happiest hours I have spent here have been in that tiny space a tad larger than five feet square.