Summer Cold Dishes - Poulpe à la Grecque

Boy is it hot outside! We have guests coming and I am fixing some Poulpe à la Grecque. It is great as a cold salad topping or to serve as an elegant appetizer.

Octopus is very cheap from the fishmonger, it's pretty tough in texture in comparison to calamari, which is easily twice the price from my fishmonger. I love to prepare it though, and you don't need too much effort to make it come out tender and delicious. My fishmonger advises that I freeze the fresh octopus I buy from him, to make it more tender. He says that they used to beat it on the docks in Marseille but they don't do that anymore, and freezing it does the same thing.

I took the three small octopuses I had frozen out and let them thaw in the fridge overnight. Last night, when I got home from work and had other things going, I prepared this dish, which is inspired by a french recipe for octopus "a la grecque", although I don't use the same spices nor do I think it is like they serve it in Greece! I washed them well under cold running water, and was ready to start.

300 - 400 g. octopus
1 lemon
1 t. sea salt
2 T. olive oil
one onion
2 cloves
2 t. sichuan peppercorns
2 t. coriander seeds
1/2 cup dry rose (or white) wine
1 lime
salt and pepper to taste

(Note above the ingredients are exactly as I prepared the dish this time, and I think I'm going to continue to prepare it this way, but that doesn't mean that you have to. Feel free to experiement and substitute, I do!)
Peel the skin off the octopus, and empty out the center cavities, and sharp ribs on the inner walls of the pouch.
Cut them into pieces and let them soak for 30 minutes in cold water.

After they've soaked, boil them for 5 minutes in salted water with the juice of one lemon added.


While that's going, prepare your bouquet ball. The original recipe from Chef Jacques Le Divellic, calls for 2 T. coriander seeds. But I felt that the strong flavor of all that coriander overpowered the delicate flavors and it lost important nuance. I've been experimenting, and have wanted for some time to try sichuan pepper corns. So this time, I put 2 cloves, 2 t. sechuan pepper corns, and 2t. coriander seeds in the ball.

Sweat one finely minced onion. When the octopus has boiled for 5 minutes, scoop it out of the water and add to the onion, and let that sautee for a couple of minutes.

Add the ball to the sauteeing octopus and onions, the juice of one lime, and add about 1/2 cup dry rose wine, I've used a cote du provence.

Add another cup of water, and bring to a boil. Lower heat, cover and let simmer for one hour. At the end of an hour, take it off the heat, and let it cool to room temperature. Transfer to a container with the bouquet ball and refrigerate overnight.

Voila, a cool, tender, delicious mouth watering treat waiting for us when we came home from a long hot tiring day. Note on the flavors infused by the mix: The long infused sichuan peppercorns give a distinct floral taste to the dish, a nice suprise. The flavor of the cloves were not perceptible. The peppercorns and the coriander seeds balanced well, and I felt the overall flavor was more balanced and subtle (and more fresh and floral) than with only coriander seeds. The perfect thing to accompany this is a crystal glass of ice cold lillet blanc.

Another idea is to get two or three pots going and have different spice mixes in each pot, like one pot with black peppercorns, one with sechuan, and one with coriander, or mustard. Mix them together just before serving, and then each bite would be a suprise of a different taste...

Bon appetit!

Stop 1 - Vienne

Only now can I say I have come to know what makes Lyon a great food city! It has taken me 6 years to discover the truth. People come here for a weekend and expect that they’ll be able to sidle up to any table in the city and enjoy a great meal. Sometimes they are dissapointed, but those with expectations like that are missing the point, really. What makes Lyon a great food city is not an abundance of superior restaurants, indeed there are only a few here. It is actually a puzzle like a string of secrets waiting in the very fabric of the place. It takes some time to unravel and lay out clearly in words. The clues to this puzzle are everywhere, in the quality of the local ingredients and what lies in the sub-strata, a culture of quality, perpetuating itself, that radiates like a star out into the countryside in all directions. Lyon is planted firmly in the center.

This sub-culture of quality is ever present, but at the same time not always visible. It is certainly not visible on the faces of the somber droves that bustle through the canyons lined with belle-epoch architecture in one quarter, medieval structures in another – it is certainly not felt like a contagious nervous energy upon entering this town, the unititiated don't immediately feel the hum. The power is on a frequency that is so established and historical that one must concentrate and focus to harness it. With time it becomes clear that what is underneath gives the potential for the sublime table in Lyon. The reason Lyon is called the gastronomic capital of the world really has very little to do with its restaurants or dining scene or any immediate star quality we might seek and everything to do with what lies underneath.

I have spent years running my errands through these shadows and dimly lit courses to find the very best sources of every ingredient on offer within the city limits of Lyon. Now the practice has taken a certain momentum - I simply adore discovering the closest thing to perfection in produce as I can at the markets, stalls of the Halles, from local farmers, butchers, and cheese producers. I cover a lot of ground and my path is a well beaten one these days.

This unusual pastime has paid off in flavor. It means learning to visually discern the difference, from a variety of factors, between a cauliflower which has matured with its roots submerged in chemical gel 16 hours away by truck and one grown in the local soil and which traveled less than an hour to market. This means paying attention to what the milk producing cows ate and where. It means knowing what day of the week during the months of May and June a certain fromagère receives a single pallet of fresh Roves des Garrigues. Getting to know people, too. Marking in my agenda the hour and place where I can buy a fresh Poulet de Bresse direct from the producer without leaving town and understanding that this window is open but 3 hours per week. Who raises free range pigs an hour outside, and where this man can be found in Lyon on Wednesdays and Sundays. It means learning what the best restaurants know about who makes the best quenelles and simmers the best snails in the city, and when to ask when there’s something you don’t see. Once you’ve figured it out and tasted the difference, there’s no going back. Now that I have come to a certain knowledge of my city, I have begun to stretch my wings. I am looking beyond these walls and into the valley.


For this summer’s project, I will look to the South and cover the route from

Vienne to Valence.

My call to the bureau of tourism of the town of Vienne did not come at a good time. Mr. Nicholas Combe was kind of busy, with the Jazz Festival starting tomorrow. He did take an interest in my project to discover everything about the best food and wine within pedaling distance from the train station. He promises to receive me this afternoon to let me explain a bit more about my project and help me construct an initial dossier on the first in my itinerary.



Of course, the first thing that springs to mind when a food enthusiast thinks of the town of Vienne in the Rhone Alpes is La Pyramide, the restaurant and hotel created by Fernand Point in 1923. The more I learn about the history of French cuisine, the more often I hear the name Fernand Point, who was someone so passionate about his vocation and so dedicated to perfection in cooking that he became a legend and pillar in the history of French cuisine. His restaurant, La Pyramide, also became a destination for cuisine enthusiasts and VIPs in search of the paragon of haute gastronomy the world over. He was the mentor of the young Chef Paul Bocuse, and was the man who instilled in Bocuse the principles of freshness of ingredients and respect for the natural qualities of local materials, which ended up culminating in the first star chefs in tandem with the Nouvelle Cuisine Movement in France.

Last year, being the fiftieth year since Chef Fernand Point passed away, they celebrated him and his life. Who are They? Today’s owner and chef of La Pyramide, Mr. Patrick Henriroux, organized a gathering of the top names in French Gastronomy to pay homage to Point and his life accomplishments. They had a big delicious party and then they took a train to pay homage to the legendary chef at his grave site. This detail interests me.

I like monuments to great people. I spent my University years slogging through lists and slides of monuments and historic commissioned works of art over the centuries and did not particularly appreciate it fully at the time. When I became a full fledged adult, though, I was able to see the convoluted reasoning behind my settling finally on that choice. Because deep inside, I feel that the monuments and artifacts connect me to the legends and lore that make up a wonderful story, this wonderful thing that mankind alone has been inspired to create and has passed down through the generations over thousands of years. Honoring these monuments is actually the essence of mankind’s existence. So “find the tomb of Fernand Point” was scratched down in my kitchen notebook.

Since I won’t be able to eat at La Pyramide this summer, nor do I suspect I’ll have the means to do so any time soon, I do think it would be nice to investigate some of the local producers of the stuff that provides the potential for Chef Patrick Henriroux and his team to turn out fabulous French meals there. So on my list for the city of Vienne, I have also written : Local suppliers to La Pyramide. Local Specialties. Cheese. And then there’s the Cote Roti – with it’s own bullet point. Alright. I think that is a good start.

All Aboard! Train leaving for Vienne!

This is installment two of what started as a short project called Vienne to Valence but which has expanded into something bigger. My bike tours of the upper Cotes du Rhône region continue as weather permits, and I will once again be including some of these installments on the blog.

Summer Project : Vienne to Valence

Finally getting things prioritized and after clearing the agenda somewhat, ideas are beginning to flow again!

This is how it happened - The other day Loïc and I got out on our bikes and began riding up the Saone on the bike trail along the bank. This is not something we do very often. We take the bikes out once or twice a year, in fact since moving to our apartment a couple of years ago, our only sport outings have been to ski. The bikes had been languishing in the "concierge" room downstairs. We got all excited, pumped up the tires and promptly began our little voyage north along the right bank of the Saone.

We started out on the bike path by the river and just kept going. I figured the path would end soon but it continued as far as we rode on it. The cars thinned and the ride changed from interesting city riding to agreeable riverside discoveries. Lots of stuff going on along the river. Before we knew it we were miles outside of Lyon. We stopped for a picnic which was a monster wild boar pâté sandwich with polish dills and leftover salad from the night before. We rested on a blanket in a park by the water. When it was time to get up, I realized that there was no way I was going to be able to make it back without some serious suffering. My back was hurting, legs shaky, ouch when I sat on the seat, etc. I had already decided that I was not pedaling back into Lyon if I could help it.

We enjoyed, despite a few quiet back spasms here and there which I concealed quite gracefully, a nice little excursion through the back streets, over cobblestone, and through cute little neighborhoods in a little town. Cool houses with turrets and luxurious gardens. A wonderland in it's own right. Oh how convenient, a little train station! After carefully reviewing the timetable (one sheet of paper stapled to a post near the track) while Loïc tugged my arm, I saw that there were two trains that could take us back to Lyon that afternoon. I proposed that we relax and continue to enjoy this little town and consider returning on the train.

Loïc hadn't ever taken his bike on the train like that, and was hesitant. I knew my tired aching body would not go back up that hill we went down about 20 minutes after we passed Paul Bocuse. We settled into our chairs at the cafe by the river and when he ordered a Panache I knew things would be fine - it meant he agreed. We flipped through he pages of a few real estate ad pamphlets I had picked up outside an agency. Nice to dream. How about a quiet place in a little French town? A mini-storm rolled in and it began to thunder. We quickly bundled up and made it to the train track just in time! We paid for the ticket once we were all aboard. 3 Euros! It stopped raining and the sun was out in the city. In 20 minutes we were back in Lyon.

The train dropped us off right in the city center, a hop skip and jump to our home. As we cruised along the smooth narrow back streets full of life and architecture and shops and people, I told Loïc that although a house in the country is a nice idea, life in the city does have a certain charm. In fact, the contrast and majesty of the city of Lyon was extraordinary.

I put my glasses on and sat down at the table by the kitchen when we got home, and took out my kitchen notebook. The adventure had me thinking and full of inspiration. I have done a bit of research and in prioritizing my summer projects, one of which is to explore and add variety to my writing, I'll be doing some touring. I wonder how many vineyards are accessible from the stations winding down through the wine country? Every town has a local specialty. I intend to begin by scratching the surface of Northern Cote du Rhone wine trail. Vienne to Valence. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? It is time to discover the region, and get this down in my notebook. Branching out. This time I will take my camera along.

Eggs - Meaning and Method

My mother is a collector of Rabbits. Mother of five. Mrs. Moody, family friend and professor of English theory and other long and interesting explanations who lived up the street from my childhood home, collects Owls.

I collect Birds. Song birds, the ones that are wild, the ones that fly, have rather slender wings, migrate and have that non-predatory esprit de vivre that domesticated ones don't have - those that pipe up without provocation and live through a certain stylism, seeming long and thin because they fly so fast we only see them streak by.

Up until a few years ago I thought it was because I was fascinated with the idea of migration, maybe running away but now that I have come to realize who I am, returning, visiting a place again and again but all the same covering vast spaces across the globe. Since the beginning I've been on the move, really.

I go to that staid place home again and again. Perhaps this act of cyclic returning gives my collection more meaning. I derive pleasure from this migration symbolized in the painterly aspect of certain small work of art, the hand in the multitude of little statues, old prints and representations of these kinds of birds making a certain kind of sense in my mind. Making sense as I choose them one by one.

Maybe it's what birds produce. The way they can expel a life project and separate it from themselves, hover over it with devotion, distinct, able to leave it be for a moment and then return, tend to it, incubate it with their own heat, and eventually, with enough devotion, see it through to becoming something on it's own.

My father poached me an egg for me the last time I saw him well. He knew it was what I needed. I had gone home to see him searching some advice, the kind I had always expected to receive from him. I was going through one of those rough spots that inevitably show up during our late 20s, almost staged as I presented it to him, strange because we had already developed an important adult respect between us, and yet at this time I needed his parent/kid advice for this one thing.

There I was, addressing him adult to adult with a real kid's life problem and there he was, comfortable oscillating within that strange mix, in his wisdom, just the man he was but at the same time everything I expected him to be - I'd laid the situation out for him to consider and was wondering what was coming next.

He cleared his throat, and said: "Well, Sugar, I think right now is a good time for me to poach you an egg." For some reason, and I guess for reasons that John Sellers the ad man knew, like the ingenious campaigns that constructed the logic of the transmission of his ideas of life, family, and the philosophy of the world in his mind - that which made us follow him reverently - he knew that all I needed, in my blurred hour of young adult need, shadowed in the passion of my childhood, brought to light in the angst of events that were making me older, sheltered in the simplicity of his wisdom, was a poached egg.

How could he know? That was his genius. Oh how a poached egg prepared by my father made me feel whole again that day, even as I faced the fact that no one had the answer to all of life's problems. And how he quietly stood ground, knowing that one day maybe I would take the whole and small into consideration.

Every time I poach one now, I still think of him, with fondness and devotion.

How to poach an egg

Fresh eggs are paramount to a good poached egg. If the egg is not absolutely fresh, the white spreads out all over the place in a filmy mess. A fresh egg will keep its form and the white will remain firm and cradle the yolk just right. Bring your eggs to room temp (this will not kill you, I promise - it should take about a half an hour on the counter. You may even leave the egg out for longer, or less time. Just consider that if you are to serve poached eggs in the morning, pull them out before you put the coffee on). Put about 2 inches of water into a small saucepan and bring it to the boil, then reduce the heat to low, so it just barely quivers. Add a teaspoon or two of vinegar to the water (that would be about 1 tablespoon each litre or quart of water). Crack the eggs one at a time into a teacup, and transfer them with as little splashing as possible into the simmering water. Let the egg poach for about 3 minutes, cooking the white through while maintaining the yolk nice and fluid. Carefully scoop your poached egg out of the water with a slotted spoon and transfer to the plate. If you plan to reserve the eggs for service later, dunk them in cold water to stop the cooking.

Note, the Salade Lyonnaise features poached eggs, bacon, and croutons on top. I make a reasonable version of this salad at home, because one egg, some smoked bacon and a few garlic croutons is enough. Sometimes if you order a Salade Lyonnaise at one of the restaurants here they bring out what appears to be an entire salad bowl sized vessel brimming with meat, several eggs, and a mountain of croutons and place it before you! I once made the mistake of choosing a Salade Lyonnaise as the appetizer in a menu (when you choose an appetizer, main dish, and dessert for a fixed price, very common here in France). I'll never do that again!

Cheese Pilgrammage: Thônes

Driving up towards Bourg-en-Bresse and then hanging a left at Nantua, we cruise by the small roads into the Savoie region and visit with friends in Thônes, about 20 minutes outside of Annecy.

Our first stop in town is to the co-op, where they sell the cheeses from surrounding producers including all locally produced Reblochon, Raclette, Abondance, Beaufort, Tommes of various sizes and kinds, and one of the rare pressed goat milk tommes called the Chevrotin. We find their cheeses on display in their shop where the cave is built right into the rock with cheese stacked on old wood shelving in a controlled environment, the shelves visible through glass walls.

What is a Tomme de Savoie? This cheese is not standardized by AOC because there are so many hundreds of producers each with their own methods, although it is certified as coming from the Savoie region with its own special mark. The Tomme is the Alpine mountain cheese that has the longest history of any of the uncooked Savoie cheeses, historically made from small quantities by the milk farmers with their leftover milk. The cheese for the Tomme is coming from the milk of the Tarine and Abondance (see photo above) cows that dot the countryside of the region.

Nowadays in any grocery store in France, you can get some really forgettable industrial tommes with catchy names implying they come from Savoie. More often than not, they come from big city suburban factories that make absolutely no distinction in the origin, i.e. the cows, that produce the milk that gives way to these cheeses. Lowest price wins, don't care what they're fed, when and how, and the cheese, well, not so interesting.

On the other hand, when you are in the Savoie and happen upon the really good stuff that's been properly made and handled and aged in the right caves, you will be doing yourself a great favor to note the name and place of the producer, ask questions, and appreciate it. You will find that the best examples of this cheese can really be outstanding. A return visit will work its way into your itinerary the next time you pass through the town where you had it the last time - simple. Little by little you will locate the best cheeses and little by little you will be able to tell the difference, and judge.

At the co-op in Thônes, the local farmers have several novel variations on the Tomme theme on offer, one of which I fell in love with, the Tomme au Fenouil. The fennel grains (Anise seeds?) impart such a beautiful flavor and this also adds some interest to the cheese plate. This is one kind of cheese I would eat in thick slabs on bread all day long if I could.

Chazay, Rhone.

Les fromages de Colette et Pierre Meunier

You have to wonder about those city people who get out of their cars to take photos of cows. I tried to look as if this was something I do all the time, and I recall that in my mind I was thinking that I would plead eccentric artist if ever interrogated by the townfolk that I imagined would be coming around the corner any minute. The cow pulled a Sissy (the cat)- feeling a bit odd about being focused on so intently, she tried to act casual by scratching her ear, then she posed. I called this similarity to cats' behavior to the attention of my husband who murmered something I didn't quite hear.

The perfect excursion: Leave Lyon by car heading west in the afternoon, and as you roll along through residential areas on the outskirts of town, the stones begin to turn a golden color. The more golden the colored the stones become, the smaller the towns become and the more the space between them grows. An hour by slow winding country roads, the little yellow and black ones, some backtracking, and some roads dotted with green, and the color of the stones has deepened to a profound golden mustard color that glows in the afternoon sun. I would not call this France profond, but it is far enough away from our life in centre ville Lyon to feel like we've gone away.

We entered the town of Oingt. The name of the town got me joking with my mother, something Loic was not catching, because in French it is pronounced something like "Wa" which is respectable in every way (some things just don't translate). We pulled over in a municipal lot to locate ourselves on the map and saw that there was a door open and a sign advertising wine and cheese inside. Why not give it a try?



We purchased 8 bottles of wine, a package of aperetif cheeses, and a mi-chevre for the cheese plate. The aperetif cheeses, called Py, are simple and honest and taste of the fresh mild curds they are. The mi-chevre is creamy and tangy.