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| PHOTO 1 | PHOTO 2 | PHOTO 3 | PHOTO 4 |
|---|---|---|---|
| The elusive little onions, finally found in frozen form. | Boeuf bourguignon: the kind of dish that makes you pretend you were calm the whole time. | Picard logic: the freezer aisle as French culinary support system. | Beef, wine, mushrooms, onions — the holy quartet of “maybe I can do French cooking after all.” |
My first boeuf bourguignon in Aix, a missing onion mystery, and the French frozen-food shop I somehow missed.
I have now made my first boeuf bourguignon ever.
This sentence deserves a small moment of silence, partly for the achievement and partly for all the dish towels involved.
Last year, I swore I would not do French cooking. Not because I don’t love French food. I do. Deeply. Enthusiastically. With butter nearby.
But French cooking felt like one of those cultural frontiers where I might be allowed to admire from a respectful distance, perhaps while holding a glass of wine and saying, “Non, non, after you.” There are things one does as a newcomer in France, and then there are things one leaves to people who know the difference between mijoter, faire revenir, and “why is this pan smoking?”
And yet, here we are.
The trigger was not ambition. It was salt.
The last boeuf bourguignon I bought from my regular place was too salty. Not in a dramatic, table-flipping way. Just enough that a little voice appeared in my head and said, “Maybe I could try this myself.”
This is how danger begins.
The guinea pigs said it was a success
The first tasting panel consisted of my beloved guinea pigs, who ate everything on their plates.
Now, as every home cook knows, this tells you exactly two things:
They were very hungry.
Or they really liked it.
Possibly both.
With my beef stroganoff, I have a stronger data set. People ask for seconds. There are leftovers they ask to take home. There is evidence. There is a full forensic trail of enjoyment.
But this time I made just enough for four. No seconds. No encore. No second ladleful of truth.
So I had to interpret the clean plates like an archaeologist.
Were they satisfied? Were they polite? Were they silently wishing I had made potatoes? Did the wine sauce do its work? Was the meat tender enough? Were they thinking, “This is good,” or “This is dinner, and dinner is here”?
The mystery remains unsolved.
But nobody pushed beef around the plate. Nobody made a sandwich afterward. Nobody said, “How interesting.”
In home-cooking terms, this counts as a victory.
My research phase: Julia, America’s Test Kitchen, and the internet rabbit hole
My first stop was not the butcher. It was recipes.
I checked Julia Child. I checked America’s Test Kitchen slow cooker beef burgundy. I searched the web. Then I watched Julia herself in The French Chef, because if one is going to panic, one may as well panic with the best.
There are two Julia Child boeuf bourguignon episodes online that are very close in spirit: the Season 1 version and the Season 7 version. In the Season 1 episode, Julia demonstrates the major steps: browning the beef, braising it in wine, making the sauce, and preparing the mushrooms and onions separately. (YouTube) The Season 7 version also presents the dish as the famous beef stew with red wine, mushrooms, and onions. (YouTube)
Watching Julia is both calming and alarming.
Calming because she makes everything feel possible.
Alarming because she says things like “just brown the meat properly” as if this is not the emotional centerpiece of the entire afternoon.
Still, I took inspiration from several places and made my own combined version. Not a radical reinvention. More like a diplomatic meeting between Julia Child, America’s Test Kitchen, and whatever ingredients I could actually find in Aix-en-Provence without needing a wagon, a culinary degree, or a second refrigerator.
The butcher knew exactly what to do
My first real-world stop was the butcher at the Saturday Place des Prêcheurs market.
This is one of those moments where living in France is both humbling and wonderful. I arrived with my little plan, prepared to explain myself. I said it was for boeuf bourguignon, and the butcher immediately knew what was needed.
He recommended meat from the leg and said to cook it for about three hours.
He cut everything beautifully into big chunks, just as Julia Child recommends, without me having to ask for that level of detail.
This is one of my favorite things about markets here: when you are dealing with someone who knows their craft, you are not merely buying meat. You are borrowing confidence.
I walked away with a bag of beef and the slightly dangerous feeling that perhaps I knew what I was doing.
Everything went according to plan… except the onions
The beef was fine.
The wine was fine.
The carrots, garlic, mushrooms, herbs, bacon, and all the various bits and pieces of the operation were manageable.
But the onions?
The onions became a quest.
Julia uses small onions in her show, though to my eye they look larger than the “pearl onions” I had in my American imagination. In English-language recipes, the phrase is usually pearl onions. In French, the useful term is often oignons grelots — little round onions often used in stews, garnishes, and classic preparations.
Or so I thought.
I searched high and low.
At the supermarket.
At the market.
At the little fruit and vegetable shops along Rue d’Italie.
I found some smallish white onions, but they looked tired. Not “rustic and full of terroir” tired. More like “I have seen too much” tired.
They did not feel fresh. They did not inspire trust. They did not say, “Put me in your first ever boeuf bourguignon.”
So I did what one does in a culinary emergency.
I continued without them.
I coarsely chopped 200 grams of white onions instead.
The boeuf bourguignon was made. The guinea pigs ate it. The plates were clean.
But I knew.
Somewhere out there, the right onions existed.
A library errand becomes an onion breakthrough
As fate would have it, the day after I stopped by the AAGP English lending library to drop off some books I had borrowed — and some that the honeymooners had borrowed before leaving Aix, perhaps until next year or the year after.
There is something sweet about returning books that have passed through other people’s French lives. A borrowed book becomes a little witness. It has sat on someone’s table, gone into someone’s bag, waited beside someone’s coffee, and then returned to the shelf with a few more invisible crumbs of Aix attached to it.
While I was there, I asked the main person involved with the library where I could find des oignons grelots. I asked her because she has lived in France for about 50 years, which in expat terms makes her not just a source but an institution.
She said she had never really seen those little onions at the markets or supermarkets here.
Then she said the word that solved the mystery:
Picard.
Picard!
I had never heard of it.
This is one of those moments when everyone who has lived in France for a while suddenly looks at you as if you have announced that you recently discovered chairs.
Picard, I learned, is a very popular French frozen-food chain. It sells frozen ingredients, meal components, individual dishes, and ready-to-share foods. Picard’s own site lists prepared frozen onion products, including petits oignons blancs entiers épluchés — small whole peeled white onions, blanched and frozen — which is exactly the kind of thing a person needs when the fresh onion trail has gone cold. (Picard)
I will write more about Picard in a separate post, because clearly I have wandered past an entire French institution without knowing it was there.
In my defense, it is a shop full of frozen food. It does not shout. It hums quietly behind glass doors.
A 100°F onion expedition in Aix
It reached at least 100°F that day in Aix-en-Provence.
This is not ideal weather for an onion mission.
This is weather for closing shutters, moving slowly, and saying things like “Il fait une chaleur écrasante” while pretending that makes it better.
But after leaving the library and catching the bus back from the Mairie Annexe, I mapped the closest Picard.
It was not more than a ten-minute walk from me, just along the ring road surrounding centre-ville.
Ten minutes is nothing.
Ten minutes in 100°F heat is a philosophical exercise.
Still, I went.
When I arrived, I was greeted with a happy bonjour. I returned the greeting and asked where the onions were.
And for once — for once! — my pronunciation seemed to work.
I asked for les oignons grelots, and the woman understood me immediately. She guided me to the freezer case and pulled out a bag.
There they were.
The missing onions.
Not fresh. Frozen.
Not romantic. Practical.
Not from a rustic wooden market crate under a striped awning, but from Picard, the frozen-food oracle of modern France.
Merci. Merci.
Only one day late.
But now I have them for any future onion-and-mushroom garnish I need to make.
And, apparently, I am now the sort of person who says things like “future onion-and-mushroom garnish.”
France changes a person.
What I expected, and what changed
I expected French cooking to feel like trespassing.
As if I were wandering into someone else’s inheritance and knocking over the copper pans.
But this first boeuf bourguignon felt different.
It was not effortless. It was not quick. It was not one of those weeknight meals where you toss things together and hope the cheese negotiates peace.
But it was understandable.
The butcher helped.
Julia helped.
The market helped.
The library helped.
Picard helped.
And somewhere between the sizzling beef, the smell of red wine reducing, and the final search for the missing onions, I realized that French cooking is not one thing. It is not only white tablecloths, grandmothers, culinary school, or perfect copper pots.
Sometimes French cooking is asking a butcher for advice.
Sometimes it is admitting that you cannot find the onions.
Sometimes it is being told by a woman with 50 years of France under her belt, “Try Picard.”
Sometimes it is walking in brutal heat for frozen onions because now, inexplicably, this matters.
The line I can now say is:
“Je cherche des oignons grelots pour un boeuf bourguignon.”
I’m looking for pearl onions for a boeuf bourguignon.
This may not be poetry.
But in my life in Aix, it is progress.
Vocabulary for the onion-curious
Boeuf bourguignon
Beef Burgundy: beef slowly cooked in red wine, traditionally with mushrooms, onions, bacon/lardons, carrots, and aromatics.
Oignons grelots
Pearl onions or small round white onions. The term to try when searching for those little onions used in stews and garnishes.
Petits oignons blancs
Small white onions. Picard’s product description uses this wording for their whole peeled frozen white onions. (Picard)
Surgelé
Frozen.
Mijoter
To simmer slowly. A key French cooking verb and also a good description of how long-term adjustment to France works.
Faire revenir
To sauté or cook briefly in fat, often until lightly browned.
Une garniture
A garnish or accompaniment. In this case, mushrooms and small onions cooked separately and added to the finished dish.
C’est prêt ?
Is it ready?
A dangerous question when asked too early.
French learner tips: asking for ingredients without panic
A1
Start simple:
Bonjour, je cherche des oignons.
Hello, I’m looking for onions.
A2
Add the specific kind:
Bonjour, je cherche des oignons grelots. Vous en avez ?
Hello, I’m looking for pearl onions. Do you have any?
B1
Explain what you’re making:
Je voudrais faire un boeuf bourguignon, mais je ne trouve pas d’oignons grelots.
I’d like to make boeuf bourguignon, but I can’t find pearl onions.
B2
Ask for an alternative:
Si vous n’avez pas d’oignons grelots, qu’est-ce que vous me conseillez à la place ?
If you don’t have pearl onions, what would you recommend instead?
Advanced
Ask like someone who has accepted the onion journey:
Je cherche de petits oignons blancs, plutôt pour une garniture classique avec des champignons. Vous pensez que les surgelés conviendraient ?
I’m looking for small white onions, more for a classic garnish with mushrooms. Do you think frozen ones would work?
Practical note: where to look for oignons grelots
Based on this little Aix adventure, I would now check in this order:
A good produce stand or greengrocer, especially in season.
A butcher or market vendor, because they may know who carries them.
Picard, especially for frozen peeled small white onions.
Supermarket frozen sections, though selection varies.
Small white onions as a substitute, but only if they look fresh and firm.
And honestly? The frozen ones may be the most practical choice.
They are already peeled. They are ready when needed. They do not require a separate emotional negotiation with onion skins.
This is not defeat.
This is maturity.
The bigger French lesson
The real mystery was not only “Where are my onions?”
It was also: How do you learn a food culture from the inside?
Not by mastering everything at once.
Not by pretending to know what every cut of meat is called.
Not by refusing help.
You learn it one small interaction at a time.
A butcher who cuts the beef properly.
A recipe that gives you courage.
A friend at a library who knows the practical answer.
A shop assistant who understands your French.
A freezer case that quietly saves the next dinner.
And a table of people who clean their plates, leaving you to wonder whether they were very hungry or whether, just maybe, the boeuf bourguignon worked.
I choose to believe it worked.
But next time, I’m making enough for seconds.
Sources for further information
For readers who want to go deeper, Julia Child’s The French Chef episodes on boeuf bourguignon are still wonderfully useful, especially for seeing the technique rather than just reading a recipe. The Season 1 boeuf bourguignon episode shows the classic method with Julia’s usual mix of precision, confidence, and cheerful permission to keep going even when things look messy.
Picard also lists frozen small white onions on its French site, which is helpful if, like me, you discover that oignons grelots are not always easy to find fresh at the market or supermarket: Petits oignons blancs entiers épluchés — Picard.
For a broader recipe comparison, I also looked at Julia Child-style versions, America’s Test Kitchen’s slow-cooker beef burgundy approach, and general French recipe guidance online — then adapted the method to what I could actually find in Aix-en-Provence.
Your turn
Have you ever searched all over France for one very specific ingredient? Did you find it at the market, at Picard, in a tiny épicerie, or only after giving up completely? Share your best ingredient-hunting story — and bonus points if it involves onions.
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