Ski Meals: Fondue

We love to ski in the Jura, where mysterious trails wind up into thick forest, then break out to round a peak along the edge of vistas like you've never seen before. After this reward, an exhilarating descent awaits. Another favorite is at Les Houches in the Alps, where you have to get the lift but the backdrop of Mont Blanc is so awe inspiring that you quickly find your rhythm along rippling trails, drenched in sunlight above the clouds. At Villard de Lans, in the Vercours mountain range near Grenoble, they have a great bunch of trails, excellently conceived and full of variety. If you have time, you can actually ski out into the mountain and stay at an Auberge between stations. The auberge features a full style restaurant and rooms for overnight stays. The next day, you can head to the next station.

While a ski picnic is always in order, fondue is a great way to end a ski day. Once the sun falls and you're relaxed after an active day on the trails, something warm and rich is always perfect. In the ski towns, tartiflette is popular, as well as fondue and raclette. You'll always find restaurants that serve them. But doesn't it always seem better to prepare one at home?

Fondue for 4


When we prepare a fondue at home, I don't use corn starch, which apparently makes it thicker and less stringy. We love our fondue to be stringy and stretchy and we like the juice to soak into the bread. The bread for a fondue should be either old bread which you have cut into cubes and left out to dry, or toasted in the oven. In any case, it should be nice and hard, like croutons.

1 clove of garlic
1/3 pound or around 200 grams each of mixed French mountain cheeses, Comte, Beaufort, and Emmanthal, grated.
a cup of a dry white wine, preferably a Vin de Savoie
2 tablespoons good kirsch
a grate or two of fresh nutmeg (optional)
1 egg yolk or two

While someone builds a fire, and still others change into comfortable slippers and drape themselves with woolen shawls and sweaters and look at the books, take out the fondue pot. Appoint someone to choose the music and pour everyone a glass of wine. Crush a clove of garlic, and rub the crushed garlic all over the inside of the fondue pot. In a separate pan like a saucepan, heat the grated cheese and wine in it until it melts, stirring carefully. Fill and light the fuel capsule under the fondue pot, putting on the diffuser to keep the flame relatively low. Put the melted cheese mixture into the garlicked fondue pot and place it in its base over the flame. Add the kirsch and nutmeg if you're using it, and stir it up. Distribute the hardened bread pieces, and begin dipping the bread cubes into the hot steaming melted cheese, using the special color coded spears. If anyone loses their bread from too vigorous stirring or scraping, house rules indicate that they are penalized in some way. You choose that penalty and agree on it with others. Some ideas might be they have to go to the cold dusky cave for a bottle of wine, or they have to put a log on the fire, or something that will make them feel really sorry for having been greedy and pushy with their bread. Really there is plenty to go around. When you have just a little bit left, like a half an inch in the bottom, and even the smallest flame can't keep it from beginning to sizzle, extinguish the flame. Add the egg yolks and stir them into the hot cheese. This will thicken the last bit and make it extra delicious.

Restaurant Dogs

It's true, now that I think of it. Most of my favorite restaurants feature a resident dog or two. Theres the German Shepherd at the Southwest place, and the New Orleans restaurant in the 3rd where I used to go for chili that had a pair of Whippets. Restaurant dogs by nature have to be calm, cool and collected. They never whine or beg, and something really important has to happen if they are going to do anything but disceetly keep an eye on things. These two are often seen at their favorite sentry spot out front at Leon de Lyon. They love it when the paparazzi snaps photos of them on their red carpet.

Menu for Hope 4 - Lunches for Lesotho

This is the fourth year that Pim is calling on everyone to donate prizes to be raffled off to raise funds for people in need around the world, an event called Menu for Hope. This year, in the project administered by the Word Food Program, all proceeds will go a school lunch program for a community in Lesotho, Africa. Pim sent a box of disposible cameras to the community and asked them to take pictures themselves. Go to her blog and take a look at these beautiful photographs, friends. They are are simply stunnng and add a really needed human dimension to our holiday charitable giving.

The genius in this event is that not only can you give to keep these children fed at school, but you can also win prizes! In a nutshell, each $10 donation puts you in the running to win the prize of your choice, from a whole list of great ones donated by chefs, foodbloggers, and food professionals around the world. Think of each $10 you donate as a ticket to win. You choose the prizes! Winners will be announced on January 9th. To see all of the prizes worldwide, see Pim's global list, and to see the prizes donated by European food bloggers, go to see Fanny at Foodbeam, our regional host this year.

Prize No. EU21 - Shipped Anywhere in the World

Imagine this pretty vintage print advertising Beurre de Normandie in your kitchen! I have got to figure out a way to make a photo do this magnificent vintage print justice! Printed on parchment, the document is about 70 years old. This is not a reproduction, but an original document, printed by Lepelletier. Value: priceless! It would add the perfect touch to any butter loving cook's kitchen or diningroom! The document measures 12 inches square (30 x 30 cm), although the image floating in the center itself measures 9" x 10 1/4" (23 x 26 cm).

To bid on this prize or any of the others, go to the Menu for Hope 4 Firstgiving website and click to bid! Make sure to put the prize no. EU21 next to your bid(s) and use a valid email address, clicking the option which allows them to see your email address, so they can contact you if you win!

Winter Greens: Brussels Sprouts

Back in my earliest school days, I had to develop a little category in my mind to classify certain forbidden food subjects, like Brussels sprouts. I always loved them because they reminded me of little Tom Thumb cabbages. One by one as I devoured them from my plate, I imagined these little heads of cabbage set out on bowls made of pearly shells in the middle of little peoples’ dinner tables constructed of spools and playing cards. I always asked for more.

My very best friend was in another class. I only saw her during our recess time on the playground. One day, during one of our meetings by the jungle gym, talk went to Brussels sprouts. This beloved winter vegetable fell into a group of foods like liver, spinach, and asparagus for most of the group. My friend and I had enjoyed Brussels sprouts many times together, so I was prepared to team up with her and defend them. Before I had a chance to profess what I thought was our rebellious love for them and maybe start a club for Brussels sprouts lovers, my very best friend loudly proclaimed that she HATED them too – to a chorus of agreement from other children! So I just listened. She had a certain wisdom for a 6 year old, she knew in advance that there’s no convincing the playground Brussels sprouts haters. I watched them commiserate with a smile and wondered how other kids’ mothers cooked them.

Brussels sprouts are now in their prime and will be with us fresh at the market until late winter. Now is the time to get your sight calibrated on what an ultra fresh Brussels sprout looks like – It is firm and green, and the freshest ones will have a clean white base where they’ve been cut from their stem, not brown or yellowed. The leaves won’t be loose or open, but closed tight like a nut. In France, the Brussels sprouts are smaller than what we find in the states, but they still taste the same. You can’t go wrong at the farmer’s market, where they should be fresh right now.

The key to keeping the good flavor of Brussels sprouts is not to cook them too long. When they’ve been cooked too long, their color fades and they take on a stale bitter flavor. The foolproof way to cook Brussels sprouts is to wash them well, score the base with a cross-wise cut to help them cook more evenly, and parboil them for 5 minutes in salted water. They can be parboiled in advance, and kept until you're ready to bake them. Once they’ve come out of their hot water bath, place them stem side down into a dish that you have coated thickly with butter. They will absorb the butter in the hot oven from the bottom. Top with bacon, roasted chestnuts, or a simple mornay sauce, and protect them with a piece of baking paper. 15 minutes in a 350 degree oven and they'll be ready to take to the table. My favorite quick topping is bacon.

Vin Chaud

We covered confiture and yogurt jars with decorated tissue paper

to give a stained glass effect for the Fete des Lumieres

After you've been out walking, when the chilly night air is in everyone's bones, nothing's better than coming in out of the cold for a mug of vin chaud. Wouldn't you agree? Put on the carols, shuffle off their coats, have some candles or a fire to add points of warmth and light, and hand everyone a mug to warm their hands and hearts.

For each bottle of red wine:
1/2 cup of sugar
The zest of one lemon and one orange
2 cinnamon sticks
2 star anise
3 cloves
1 piece of ginger the size of the tip of your thumb, minced
½ teasp. Fresh grated nutmeg
Rum to taste (optional)

The zest is only the colored part from the skin, and it contains the essential citrus oils. Wash the orange and lemon thoroughly, and then use a sharp klnife to remove the zest, recuperating as little of the white rind as possible. Mix all of the ingeredients into a pot and bring slowly to a simmer. Do not boil, but simmer slowly for 10 to 15 minutes. Serve hot, filtering it through a mesh sieve. If it's really cold outside, you can add a thimble or two of rum to each mug just before serving.

December

Sissy and I sit together by lamplight in the wee hours and I sift through my address book. Is this the good address? What are the new children's names? Little paper packets of holiday cheer will be sent around the world to loved ones. With a steaming cup of coffee, sitting in my nightgown, I write out details one by one. The envelopes are covered with stamps in small denominations that I have finally gathered from various drawers in the secretary. I choose and turn the cards over in my hand, think about the people I love. We are preparing for new beginnings, a new year. Thinking of everyone like this bolsters the spirits.

While our window of sunlight is getting smaller and smaller, the city of Lyon has begun to ramp up the glow at night. Preparations for the light festival this weekend are all in full swing. Crews of light specialists and designers are busy on every square, preparing for the show that will light up the whole city with a series of over 90 installations starting this coming weekend. The whole centre-ville will be converted into a pedestrian park within which we will wander in and out of the light exhibits for the weekend. Friends who also live on the presqu'ile will open their homes and we'll enjoy mulled wine and snacks along the way.

It is time to break out the heavy cook pots and begin to look with new interest at roots. They have come to compliment the mix of early winter greens that will carry us through. In the kitchen, I'm working on the perfect quenelle recipe, and unravelling their stories.

Getting closer.

At the market, we can choose between cultivated pale endives or their colorful and fast growing wild chickory cousins. Spinach and lamb's lettuce peek though their windows of opportunity. Scallops and oysters brought in from the coast provide fresh and a vibrant additional flavor to the table. A predominant color now at the market is orange, with big thick wedges of local pumpkin and courge sold by the slice. Thin mild leeks are now sold in small bunches for soups and savory tartes. Herbs like basil and sage are scarce, while suddenly I'm taking a whole new interest in rosemary.

While we get farm raised poultry like duck and rabbit all year, right now is the moment for wild game. My big find in England last month was a colorful game cookbook, brimming with history and lore. I have been taking in recipes and methods, both English and French. Vendors selling wild game enjoy a brisk business, and I happily buy my share. The hunted wild game birds aren't as pretty as their smooth skinned farm fattened counterparts, but they have certainly lived more fully. They deserve special treatment. You can feel the vigor as you work with them, and taste their zest for life when they are served at the table. I give them a place of honor in terrines and stews, and plump out my kitchen notebook with other ways to prepare them. This is eating from the land. This is as close to the real thing as it gets.

The best of last Summer's bounty is now coming out in the cheeses. Wheels of summer mountain cheeses like Beaufort, Abondance, and Comte are just now rolling down from the Alps. A wedge is drenched with the sunshine we're missing now. Perfectly ripened summer Époisses from Burgundy is at its peak. The best of the harvest macerated local cheeses from the Mâcon like the Arome de Lyon, are just now coming plump from their barrels. The cheese plate glows with flavorful perfection at this time of year.

While we prepare for the winter holidays, making gift syrups and cookies for our French friends and family, planning for Lyon's ever spectacular Fete des Lumieres, and bringing out the decorations, December's light is a flame of promise for upcoming gatherings, fanned with Autumn's last golden glow.

The Pheasant Whisperer

They call her the pheasant whisperer.

It was great to spend time with you Mom! Please come to this side of the pond again soon!

Thanksgiving: Generation Y

We really had a great time - and even though the turkey had no legs, it was delectable. We brought a wonderful memory of Thanksgiving back to France after our weekend with family. Lessons learned from Generation Y:

1) Alison was completely laid back about the whole affair - take this as a lesson Aunt Lucy! In fact we had no clue that any preparations had been made at all when we arrived. No lists, no piles of supplies, no pulling out of hair, just calm, cool collected Alison and Tom. These two were as cool as cucumbers.


2) For generation Y, Necessity is the mother of invention. The pumpkin pie was improvised, infusing the spices in boiling sugar syrup since Alison's newlywed kitchen is not yet equipped to crush or grind the whole cardamom, cloves, and nutmeg. She even threw in a few juniper berries. The result was divine.

3) Day-old organic quinoa bread makes an excellent medium for stuffing, in my opinion it might just be better than cornbread. I will definitely try this for game this season.

4) Last but not least, I learned from Tom how to do the best holiday feast potatoes ever. This is a tradition in Tom's family. Pencil this in on your Christmas menus, friends, these potatoes are a must.

Tom's Incredible Feast Potatoes
(as enjoyed at the first Thanksgiving celebration chez Ali et Tom à Londres 2007)

1 pound or 500 grams of mealy potatoes
1 1/2 cups or about 325 ml duck fat
salt as desired (use a bunch)

You can buy duck fat here, or get someone to bring you some from France. Choose a mealy potato like a Russet or Idaho potato, or the Saxon in England. In France, try the Mona Lisa. Wash, peel and cut the potatoes into large chunks. Boil the potatoes in salted water for about 20 minutes. Turn them into a colander, and shake them up briskly in order to fluff up the edges of the potatoes. Heat the fat in a roasting pan or cast iron pan in a hot oven (400F or 200C) for a good 10 minutes. Place the potatoes in the hot fat with room around them, not touching each other so they'll be nice and crisp on the outside, and return to the oven until golden brown, turning once one side is brown. Salt to taste and serve immediately.

The Perfect Day

Sue Gardiner's Black Currant Pie, a perfect ending to the perfect day.

A pie that is prepared with the fruit from your garden is always better than any other kind of pie. This one was perfect. Thank you Sue, for everything you did to make us feel so welcomed and comfortable!

Postcard: Paris

We thought that the rail strikes would be over, but of course when the time came to go to Alison's house in London, our train to Lille to pick up the Eurostar was cancelled. At the last minute, we were wondering if we were going to make it to not only to enjoy Alison's first Thanksgiving, but her first Thanksgiving as an expat in London, and her first Thanksgiving as a married woman. It promises to be one of those lifetime events, not to mention that when I explained the train situation to Mother, who was coming from the states, she said: "If you don't come..." pregnant pause... "I'll be crushed". So the pressure was on.

Loic managed to get someone on the phone at Eurostar and they said if we could make it to Paris, we would have a seat on a tunnel train to London. With the strike, there were about 3 trains leaving Lyon, all to Paris. The problem was getting on one. Loic had the master plan, we'd get up at 4 and be at the station early enough to catch the first train out.

Because I forgot my gloves, we missed the bus, and by chance a taxi cruised by. We managed somehow to get tickets and on the train within the 5 minutes that remained before the train took off. Upon arrival to Paris, we realized that all public transit there was on strike, so we had to walk from Gare de Lyon to Gare du Nord.

Luckily, we passed by the Marche des Enfants Rouge and had a nice Japanese meal about halfway there. I forgot how much I love walking in Paris. We boarded the train to the new Pancras station. The Eurostar took literally 2 hours on its own dedicated track all the way through, not the 3 or 4 hours it used to take when it switched rail systems and went slow through England. The newly rennovated Pancras station was gorgeous, a picture of Victorian beauty.

Le Bouchon des Filles

The story: The girls are indeed old school, having each independently paid their dues at Café des Fédérations for years before finding each other through a common entourage and calling on their old patron, Yves Rivoiron for guidance. They finally acted on their shared entrepreneurial spirit and opened Le Bouchon des Filles.

Isabelle Comerro, creator of an organization for women in the food business in the style of the traditional fraternal meeting of the Machon in Lyon called Machon des Filles, sought guidance from her entourage. It was actually this channel that brought her together with Laura Vildi, a young woman of the same age who had also worked at Café des Fédérations, although not at the same time. Together, they forged their concept, contacts, and common experiences firmly based in the old style Lyonnais bouchon tradition. They sought out young ambitious talent to execute amusing and interesting refinements to the classics in the kitchen, and voila, Le Bouchon des Filles was born. Their project has success written all over it from the start. Bravo, les Filles, and we lift our glass to you, M. Faz, the man in the kitchen who earned his stripes at Leon de Lyon and Larivoire. We thank the restaurant gods for another winner in La Martinière.

Isabelle Comerro and Laura Vildi, owners

We took the communicating tunnel from the place de la Martinière next to the Halle, where the leaves are still tumbling from the old trees. Briefly sheltered from the wind that had begun to kick up, we talked about where we might eat off the place Sathonay. We turned down the back cobblestone street. Loic had pretty much made up his mind about another place, but there I saw that in the restaurant that used to be called the Gousse d’Ail, a well lit, newly painted sign is up.

Le Bouchon des Filles. The dishes chalked on the board outside seemed typical bouchon fare but what caught my eye were the variations on old standards: quenelle d’écrevisses, a crayfish quenelle in a variation from the traditional pikefish, Tablier de sapeur, blanquette de veau des deux filles, hangar steak with shallots, and blood sausage in a crisp filo pastry served with an herb salad. Interesting, slightly different from the expected, but centered solidly in Lyonnais tradition. Something in my bones said: yes. Loïc got a little mad at me when I immediately opened the door and asked if they had a table. “it’s not sure…” he protested, meaning he hadn’t had a chance to find out what others are saying about this new restaurant. “What better way to find out, my dear, than to try it out!”

He reluctantly followed me in, and of the roughly 30 spaciously placed covers in the front dining room, only about 10 seats were free. The people at the tables looked smug and satisfied, happily launched in various conversations over their tables. There looked to be a table in the back room, that would seat 8 or so, in the area where there was an open kitchen, and a bar in the back.

They already have certain critical elements down pat, like the service. Seasoned and well timed, carried out by the co-owners, Laura and Isabelle. Talkative, pleasant, and sure of themselves. Just as we were being seated, we were presented with a little amuse, a dish of house-prepared cubed jambon persillé with a subtle herbal twist. As we nearly licked the flavorful herb seasoned gelatin from the bottom of the dish, Isabelle came back with the wine we ordered. “Let’s get started”, she said, as she placed, in old school style, three bowls of bouchon entrees on our table.

They were part of the set menu, all familiar to the Lyonnais palate but each a subtle variation: a tarragon seasoned variation on Caviar de la Croix Rousse, a bowl of chilled mustard seasoned gras-double, a Lyonnais tripe specialty, chopped into bite sized pieces to sample, and an interesting twist on a classic in a chilled dish of carrots and kippers (miam miam) with a judicious dose of coriander. This, with a basket of ultra fresh chewy bread that Laura had just cut for our table, and we were on our way.

Before the main dish, another complimentary amuse came out, this one hot, a steaming glass bowl of cream and curry enriched cauliflower velouté, which we devoured in seconds. Loïc began to wax poetically about this humble vegetable, and then said “this is a gastronomic restaurant, not a bouchon”. I sensed the contrast in gastronomic and bouchon he was pointing to, but respectfully reminded him that good food and bouchon fare are definitely compatible. The person in the kitchen no doubt has a careful touch, and at the same time there still persists a wise base in the bones of traditional Lyon bouchon fare. This is someone who knows exactly what they are doing, quite simply put. There’s no reason to jettison them from the bouchon category because they do things well, and we shouldn’t ignore the finesse in what is coming out of the kitchen, either. In any case, the kinks, if there were any, are past tense here, they must have been worked out somewhere else.

The quenelle was stuffed with thick chunks of crayfish meat and was served in a stylish wide plat creuse, graced with a fresh light cream enriched fumet sauce, with a deeply colored steamed crayfish perched at the side, not just for decoration (it tasted great). It was as if a breath of fresh air had been injected into this old standard by dispensing with the stodgy sauce nantua and replacing it with the perfect silky light sauce such a quenelle deserved. Loïc’s blanquette came out in its own cocotte, both flavorful and fortifying, again it seemed, the sauce amazingly light and packed with all the right cuts. His sides included warm pilaf style rice and home-style diced courgettes.

Diners are given a choice of fromage blanc, cervelle de canut, which is a soft white cheese that is beaten and seasoned with garlic, shallots, and roughly chopped fresh herbs, or the cheese plate, which was humble, local, and at the same time magnificent: a St. Marcellin, Brillat Savarin, Rigotte, and a Tomette de Thones.

The desserts on offer were a rose flavored crème brûlé, a delicate frozen Chartreuse soufflé served with a little goblet of the holy nectar on the side (can you guess what my choice was?), soft centered chocolate cake with salted butter caramel sauce, Lyonnais praline tart, or a pear and mint salad.

Le Bouchon des Filles
20 rue Sergent Blandin
69001 LYON
04.78.30.40.44
Menu 24€
Open for dinner and Sunday lunch, closed Tuesdays

Patina

Yesterday when I was developing some further thoughts about Époisses, the idea of how the skin of the cheese turns orange over time took me for a fascinating loop. Somehow, a Cistercian monk, 400 years ago, managed through trial and error to arrive at a formula that resulted in that unique and colorful hue. This, in his mind, I imagine, was a color brought about by the grace of God. No doubt there were monks that devoted their entire will into the ritual of turning and bathing this cheese for more than a hundred years from the time it was developed, thinking the very same thing.

It has a glossy rich patina that now that the times have changed and things have happened just so, we can take it whole as a part of our everyday lives. We sit at the table with it between us and let it sizzle slightly on the tongue. We taste the sour contrast in the stretch and weft of our country bread that highlights the gentle pleasure that this cheese provides us. Time stretches back. This cheese has such a wonderful story.

One of the things that endears me to Époisses is the suspense and intrigue tied into its history. It is a cheese born of hard earned wisdom. Imagine what might have happened if M. Berthaut, when he began his project to breathe life back into the living memory of this cheese, had just given up when faced with adversity? What if naysayers or cynics discouraged him, and he turned his attention to other things?

I have a friend who is going through a difficult trial. Looking back on some of the situations I have managed to survive, although I certainly would never choose to go back and live through some of them again, I can see now that they were important in burnishing my own patina. I know, I know. That’s never what someone in the throes of a crisis wants to hear. But to concentrate on grace, in the midst of a time when life looks like a car wreck in the happening, is sometimes the very best thing a person can aspire to. There is a certain wisdom hidden in that. Years from now, you'll look back on now and be happy you made it.

This is a personal message to you, friend. Don’t let anyone talk you into giving up. The game is not over. It is your move. If you have to stop and think, do it. But don’t stop too long and don’t think too hard. Life is there for the living. Remember who you are. Keep going.

The box on the bottom of the stack was given to me by my father. I keep a watch that he used to wear inside it. The second is from China. It has a faint inscription on the top in Chinese, “prize”. The box was a trophy given in a calligraphy contest. When I received the box as a gift it still had ink encrusted on the inside, its owner had used it for ink mixing for many years. The object on top was given to me by a man I worked for. He picked it up for me while walking in the desert. I save these little things, they symbolize certain benchmarks.

Époisses

The town of Époisses is a two hour drive from Lyon, a nice little day jaunt. You roll along country roads through thick green bucolic pasture land into Burgundy. As you enter the vicinity where this cheese is produced, you start to see herds of cows lazing majestically under trees and colonies of their reciprocal herons. We go there from time to time, basically a little town like so many you might stumble on in France, with flowers growing along main street, a local post office, and a cluster of buildings with a restaurant. You might possibly miss the sign that posts the hours that the public can visit the Berthaut fromagerie. Then again you might be on a cheese pilgrammage.

The story of this cheeses dates back to the 16th century, to the monastery which is now a private chateau, visible when the gates are open these days. Legend has it that the monks living there developed the original recipe for this cheese, and produced it solely for their own consumption. Near the end of the 18th century, when the monks left Époisses during the time when many church properties were being seized sold off in France, they left the recipe with some local townsfolk, who began producing it themselves. 30 years later, Époisses came in second, after Brie, in an international cheese competition, an event that put Époisses on the map and encouraged the proliferation of small cheese producers. The gastronome Brillat Savarin who was native to a town on the outskirts of Lyon named Époisses the king of cheeses in the beginning of the 19th century. A hundred years later, the Sydicat de defense de l’époisses estimates from public documents produced at that time that there were more than 300 small farm producers of this cheese in the valley of Époisses.

The First World War destroyed much of the local production of this cheese. Nearly all of the local menfolk were sent to the battlefield and there simply were not enough hands to continue with the cheese production. It fell to the wayside, and once the line was broken, it was difficult to resume production. With the development of other forms of agriculture and industry upon their return from the war, the production of this cheese waned to almost complete extinction during the years that followed. There is no record of cheese production at all during the years 1954 to 1956. In 1956, two farmers called upon the townspeople who carried a living memory of having produced this cheese at some time in their lives to help them. Through a collective work, these important holders of the story of their town’s rich cheesmaking past reconstructed the original recipe and two families began to produce Époisses again. Today there are four producers of this cheese, of which one is a small artisan farm operation.

Since 1991, Époisses has been protected under AOC (Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée) rules. For the production of Époisses, the milk is limited to coming from three local breeds of cow, the Brune, Simmenthal, and Montéliearde. 85% of their diet must come from natural outdoor grazing in herds that include a mixture of both milking cows and young weaned cows not yet of age to produce milk. Of course the conditions of the grazing land are strictly controlled. All fertilization must be organic and the schedule following grazing is tightly controlled. In addition to natural pasture, in the seasons when their diet must be reinforced, Époisses cows are fed on a diet of 80% local dried herbs, and sweet things like washed beets cut daily for their consumption mixed with specified grains. According to AOC rules, because the flavor of the milk might be affected, the cows are prohibited from eating leeks, cabbage, colza (grown for its oil locally), celery roots, turnips, and beet greens.

The milk collected for the production of this cheese is put to use within 24 hours of the time it is collected from the cows. The producer is required to maintain separate channels for milk destined for Époisses cheese production and other milk products. There is absolutely no crossing of paths of the Époisses cheese milk and that destined for other milk products.

After heating the milk to a certain temperature (about body temperature for a cow), a special slow process of coagulation takes place lasting from 16 to 24 hours. After transferring the fragile curds by hand with the ladle method to specially made moulds, the producers then strain the curds, turning them twice before the addition of salt and the transfer of the cakes to the caves where they will be further turned and bathed for 4 weeks.

The cakes are bathed on a regular schedule before they go out into the world in a progressively stronger mix of water or brine and Marc de Bourgogne, according to the individual producer’s method, from one to three times a week, for four weeks. At the end, the bath consists of pure Marc. They keep strict records of every element of production, including a log of every time the cheeses are hand turned and bathed.

You might think that this cheese is colored artificially, from the bright orange patina. The color of the cheese comes solely from the delicate microclimate of bacteria and yeast on its surface which has been washed down over time with Marc and brine. The color progressively develops from white to a peachy gold, to the bright orange that we know when our fromager hands it to us.

Each batch is inspected and judged on a whole matrix of elements broken down into subcategories of visual aspect and flavor, by officials from the association for the protection of Époisses. If a tested cheese does not meet a minimum combined score for both appearance and flavor, the whole batch is rejected and the cheese cannot be sold under the name. Things that disqualify a cheese might be that it has developed spots, or has liquefied in such a way that an empty space has developed under the outer crust. A cheese that is missing a deep enough color is rejected. Too many holes, puffiness, excessive wrinkling, all disqualify an Époisses that is not up to snuff. Époisses that is good enough is supple, creamy and soft, and features a light core. It isn’t grainy, taste too salty or bitter, nor does it have an ammonia or sweet flavor. The flavor of an Époisses that meets standard will taste honest and fruity, with balanced milk flavors, and will be redolent of the pastoral goodness in the terroir that produced it.

Your local fromager takes the product from the producer, and ages it according to his or her training for another 5 to 8 weeks. When is the best time for Époisses? After some time here, you’ll realize that your local fromager might only offer Époisses at certain times of the year. It is at its best in the fall and winter months, starting in November and into December, because that is the cheese that comes from rich early autumn pastures. Early summer Epoisses is also very flavorful and interesting, coming from the first outdoor grazing of the spring. This cheese is a must at our Thanksgiving table and is perfect for consumption, right now.

The Toast

Basically boot camp means that they begin serving large fortified wine spiked aperos before I have had more than two slices of toast and a free prune at the market. Kate mentions having opened a few bottles of wine... Everywhere I turned throughout the day someone was telling me I had to taste this one! Bottles, magnums of wine from three continents, including Australia and America, brought by Mr. Orr. "Those California wines, so alcoholic!" one reveling camper says, while we dutifully taste a glass of each and every one. But dinner made it to the table by a reasonable hour and nobody was seriously burned except David, who was spattered with duck fat.

There were three cassoulets, each using a different bean. One cooked in a gas oven, another in a wood fire oven in the garden, and another just eased up to the cinders of the fire that had been burning all weekend in the huge kitchen fireplace, the fire we gathered around and the one we looked at while we talked. This was the one I adored.


The group, which had grown in number to fourteen, were all at the table and the plates were served. Kate lifted her glass for a toast. We raised our glasses in anticipation. "To everyone -" here here, our glasses all inched up and we awaited the second part of her phrase. "who showed up! To friends, to fires, to Cassoulet!"

Loic and I looked at each other. We were thinking the same thing. We'd been hemming and hawing about whether we were going to have the energy for 8 hours on the road in both directions just for a weekend, and then I had simply insisted. He didn't regret it. I could see it in his eyes.

Somehow the salad came out just at the right moment as a palate cleanser, the Auvergnat cheeses made their round. Then in boot camp style there was a shuffle and a dispensing of empty champagne coupes, which were then ordered to be removed from the table, and out came a parade of glasses full of that comice pear sorbet that David was discreetly putting together on the sly while we were all mesmerized by the fires being lit in various corners of the garden for roasting the cassoulets.

This was the major most wonderful discovery for me. Kate has not only a way with fire, but a relationship with it, she incorporates it into her cooking of course but also in receiving us, it being central to our gathering, and also the thing that makes the difference between this cassoulet and that one. In the morning she kindles the still glowing cinders from the night before and we continue. She shifts from one to the next with a fluidity that embodies her personality and her cadence.

The crusts were all different, the fires each burned with different intensities, and she kept them all going. This was a beautiful thing to see, and appreciate. And David knew, by looking at some fruits at the market, that this moment would arrive. That this sorbet would come as a beautiful counterpoint and the perfect last word to the prayer that was this meal.

To Kate, and her call to gather around the fire!

To learn more about what Kate does, click here and here.

Camp Cassoulet - Saturday Morning Market

The misty autumn morning enveloped us as we barreled through the one lane roads to the bakery in the nearest town. We had volunteered to get the breakfast breads. The people from the town were were shaking hands and had arrived by car, bike, and foot. They looked at us as if they were thinking - who are these people with the Lyon plates? They must be coming from Kate's! I ordered some viennoiseries and some different kinds of bread, placed in my hand still warm. Loic remarked that the pain au chocolat has a different name here, a chocolatine. When we left the bakery, the bicycle was gone, no doubt with a large loaf of hot bread balanced on the handle bars.

Back at Kate's, we had breakfast by the fire and planned to go to the town of Neyrac to do the shopping for the fixings. She had made a special order with the volailler and the charcutier, and she already had the beans prepared, well ready for their simmer with a ham bone.

I had my list of things to score - some to share with the group, and some to take home. (Kate, by the way, we left a nice big block of gratons in your fridge by accident, so you should eat them!) Trish picked up several dozen oysters, others got charcuterie of various kinds, and we talked with the man about his prunes, tasted, and got some.

There was a lady selling just a few quail products, I thought these quail sausages looked interesting.

Many kinds of grapes were offered at the market. I wondered about cooking with them in the region. They must do wonderful things with them this time of year, especially with the game birds that were for sale by just about everybody.

Croustade

We describe a Gascon Croustade or a Pastis as a southwestern pastry dessert made with many layers of crispy thin rolled strudel or phyllo like dough. It is traditionally made with apple in Kate's neck of the woods but also can be made with prunes or quince. The flavor of the local Armagnac mingles with a heady sugary flavor. I wonder if there is a local source of the pastry or if the boulanger patissiers roll their own pastry in-house. Kate placed one, in any case, on a plate and warmed it up by the fire the evening that we arrived for Cassoulet Camp this weekend. It certainly made a pretty picture.

Isabelle's Birthday Party

Sunday it was like a gun shot went off at the crack of dawn and we ran down to the market to get everything we needed for our contribution to the lunch at the chateau. It was a surprise party and we would be meeting at the town hall, after which the entire group would proceed on foot through the big gate at the edge of town. We'd quietly walk through the tunnel of trees to the chateau, and take Isabelle by surprise, where she'd be sitting by the fire in the study with her mother!

All kinds of antics took place while we were trying to get ready. We decided to take a bicycle, and went out of our way to the station where there were two available, but when Loïc got his, it turned out to not have a chain! This is a serious problem with the VELO-V, the public rental bikes that have been in place since the year 2005. The rule is that when a person is in a hurry, the only bike available is going to 1) have a defective seat or 2) have no chain. So I hurried down on the one working bike ahead to start gathering ingredients while he returned the bike and reported the problem. Loïc followed up behind at the market, gathering things into the basket as he came along behind me.

We did some herbed sausage puff pastry bites and some tarragon seasoned chicken turnovers, and made a nice big salad. The desserts were wonderful, a velvety white chocolate cake that I begged for the recipe from Seb's sister, and the two variations on the tiramisu that their cousin Perrine brought.

The photo above is of the desserts in her basket, in the kitchen ready to go into the fridge. She says that she just got a nice big recipe book with 60 recipes for (French) variations on the tiramisu. The whole variation on the tiramisu thing is very popular here in France. They were delicious, in any case. I particularly loved the pan holding the one with almonds on top. Everyone arrived with their contributions in woven baskets of various kinds. It was a beautiful thing to see.

Diligent Patience

The Vin de Noix you can prepare at home takes a few months and sometimes as long as a whole year to come into its own, but the payoff is much better than any of that watered down industrial stuff on the market. Stamped with its “seal of approval”, the factory-made corner cut version is eons behind in quality what you can produce by carefully choosing the right ingredients and doing things with quality in mind over quantity or profit. The key is being able to identify what will withstand the test of time, and doing your best to shoot for your end result, even if it won’t fall fully into place for a while. The beauty of this nut wine is that Mother Nature works it, step by step, day by day. Your only work is the often difficult task of choosing quality, then the practice of patience.

Location, Location, Location. After provenance, even if your hands-on work is minimal, the wait and see is very good practice in itself. Do what comes naturally. Set a place aside for your nut wine. Go ahead and actively leave it alone. Set yourself a schedule for other pressing, more important things and practice faith in the choices you have made. Don’t judge a nut wine too early in the process. Don't shake it or stir it. Give it what it needs. Keep it sheltered from the heat, give it a little bit of air but protect it from dust. Eventually, your diligent patience will pay off. In my opinion if you aspire to make great nut wine, and your efforts are rewarded with good cheer even a year later, it is enough motivation in itself to continue on.

Imagine my surprise when we received a family guest from Loïc’s father’s side. She took a look at the jars I had set on a tray that I had removed from the safe, ready to strain and bottle. She told me that Loïc’s father used to do a Vin de Noix, it was something that he did before he and Brigitte had married and before Brigitte brought her mother’s family recipe for Vin d’Orange. It surprised me that he never mentioned this, not once, over the years, when presented with our version. My first reflex was one of puzzled exasperation. Why anyone would fail to mention such a thing? The subject of Vin de Noix is a wonderful topic of discussion as far as we are concerned. But perhaps there is more to the story than meets the eye. Perhaps in his mind it represents something he does not want to remember or reminisce about. Something dark. Sometimes you can tell more about a person by what they don’t say. His lengthy soliloquies are often about much less meaningful subjects. Therein lies a mystery that is worth setting aside to contemplate. It is rich enough to write down to think about later.

This year, I threw some roasted cocoa beans into the mix. It turned out to be a good decision. After a few months with the nuts, their flavor infused into but did not overpower the brew, which was what I was hoping for. It was like adding vanilla, which adds a certain depth of flavor, but does not play a deciding role in the overall theme. I will continue to use the cocoa beans in years to come, at least for a part of the batch.

The flavor of the wine has taken on its full natural nut flavor, with a hint of chocolate kicking in on the palate, like a lingering memory. It is pleasant to sip, even now. Very nice added to coffee. Months from now, when Mother Nature has done her work at mellowing the flavor, I think we’ll have a real winner on our hands. When Loic’s uncle’s family prepares their Genepi, they sweeten after the infusion. This summer, while the green nuts were steeping in their juice, I went to New York for a visit and came back with some real maple syrup. I added a tablespoon or two, just to give it that je ne sais quoi.

I found a Lumocolor permanent glasochrom 108 20-0. This is a permanent, non smear grease pencil that comes in different colors. I can write on my Vin de Noix bottles and it won’t smear off. A couple of experiments later, I had this year’s packaging.

The Mushrooms and the Pharmacist

While my camera is off for a spa treatment, which takes a week, and costs lots of money, I'll just talk a little bit. I won't get into the reasons why I have had to send it off for a soin, but it has something to do with food and my love of taking pictures in the kitchen.

I have mentioned before that the pharmacists here in this country are supposed to be trained to identify mushrooms. I was out gathering information about the communal ovens of mountain villages in the Bugey, and along the way just near Alain Chapel's place, we arrived to an intersection in two dirt roads. I was admiring the silhouette of a copse of oak trees and white cows dotted along the horizon of a field. It just looked magical. I asked Loic if he might stop the car and let me get out and take a longer look.

He pulled over, and I got out of the car and stumbled, a few yards into a field, upon what looked to be white things strewn across the ground. Taking a second look before stepping on them, having been trained in the city to watch my step, I realized that they looked like nice big field mushrooms, glowing white against the dark grass. I sort of broke one off, then another nice large white mushroom, with a kind of snap and fresh wonderful crisp feeling thump. Then I picked up another half dozen smaller ones. They looked absolutely scrumptious. Loic by that time was curious about what I had found. He saw them, and opened the trunk, looking for a basket.

Since we didn't have a basket, I just laid the mushrooms out carefully on the blanket, covered them with another cloth to keep them from rolling around, and we continued on our way. I made it to the towns I was looking for, through winding roads up into the mountains, and we fully inspected the ovens, took notes, and talked to the people there. Near sundown, we got onto a main artery heading back home.

I had nearly forgotten about the mushrooms when we got home, but at the last minute, got them out of the trunk. We were a little bit tired and certainly not going to eat the mushrooms before a good ID. I had the false information age impression that I could pull up some kind of identification database and quickly get them named before we went off to bed. After some fruitless searching with things getting mroe and more muddled, I realized it wasn't going to be that easy. There are a lot of factors to identifying mushrooms.

I decided to change gears and broke out my copy of Celebrating the Wild Mushroom, written by Sara Ann Friedman. I snuggled in under the covers, and by the bedside lamp, as Loic drifted off to sleep, I began to read about the love of mushroom hunting that has swept up many a gourmande in America.

I skipped to the chapter on identifying a few of the most common species, and read there:

The next section describes six of the most common toxic mushrooms and all of the deadly species found in North America. It lists their edible look-alikes and tells you how to distinguish them. You should always, of course, also check with your field guide if you are even the least bit suspicious.

I shuddered at the possibility. The mushrooms were safely tucked into a bowl in the refrigerator. Could they be deadly poisonous? Was there a possibility that somehow a mistake could be made? What a frightening prospect!

The other four deadly Amanitae - verna, virosa, bosporigera, and ocreata - are whiter, a bit taller, and more slender than a death cap. They are difficult to tell apart from one another and justly deserve their collective name: the destroying angel.

Ai yai yai. This was going to be an adventure indeed. I turned over in the bed, dragging the covers with me, and said to Loic, waking him up, that we'd better get the pharmacist involved if we planned to eat them. He was laying there with his eyes half open and glazed over. His mouth was opened slightly, and I didn't hear his breathing. His face seemed greenish in the light. I suddenly felt the urge to shake him! He smiled sleepily and said "you don't mean you're afraid to eat them?" I knew he was teasing me. I turned out the light.

The pharmacist knows me very well. She has my information on her computer and has seen me through every sniffle and sprain since we moved here. She has a staff of three. They are all pretty young but knowing the system here they have been preparing since grade school to be pharmacists. The young man on staff really gets into his job and loves being a part of the community. He likes to really get involved and explain things in great detail, and give all kinds of advice.

We went throught the pleasantries. "How is your back Madame Vanel?" I thanked him and told him it was doing much better.

"Tell me, I understand you can identify mushrooms, is this correct?" I asked, watching for any hesitation in his gaze or any sway from meeting my own. I was taking no chances. His face froze for that slight instant, that little fraction of a second, before relaxing again into a smile. I think I was his first mushroom customer. "But of course, Madame Vanel. Why don't you bring them in and I'll take a look at them." I said I'd be right back with my pickings, so he could identify them.

My place is just around the corner, and I rushed up the stairs and put the booty into a paper sack and returned to the pharmacy. He was nowhere to be found. I took a look at the shampoos and herbal teas, thinking he'd be out in a moment. He came out and I held up my bag. He glanced in my direction but then looked as if he didn't see me. He took a beeline for his colleague who was discussing some kind of pill schedule with an elderly lady who was seated at the other end of the pharmacy and at once looked deeply involved and interested in the conversation. The lady was basking in the joy of having two pharmacists at her beck and call.

The head pharmacist came out and she warmly greeted me. "It has been awhile, Madame Vanel", she said. "What brings you in today?" The young man was off the hook. "I have these mushrooms here, we found them in a field while out in the country yesterday".

"Ah, it is the season," she beamed. "We used to get a lot of people asking but these days it is rather rare," she said. Lets see what you've got. I brought out the largest one. "Ah." She silently turned it over in her hand and stroked the little skirt around the stem. Just as quickly as that she said, "Madame Vanel, these mushrooms do look like magnificent specimens. But what has me nervous is this little skirt here. I would say non." She pursed her lips and went back into the bag and pulled out the smaller ones.

"Non?" I repeated, meekly. Death angels. They were death angels.

"Non." She repeated again. I waited for her to continue, to say what kind they were, or to say something else. Non was the last word.

A slight wave of relief came over me and I smiled and thanked her. I did not even entertain the idea of eating them at that point. On the way home I chucked them in a garbage can. I did open the bag and let them tumble out, and watch them cascade in a beautiful heap down into the bin, remembering the beautiful excursion the day before, feeling a bit dizzy.

"Do you believe her?" said Loic, when I recounted the tale of my visit to the pharmacy. I just looked at him, since his question did not deserve an answer. "What did you do with them?" I lied to see the expression on his face. "Well, I didn't think they should go to waste, so I made an omelette for the widow who lives upstairs. I'm pretty sure the pharmacist was wrong, Loic. She seemed fine when she left." I tried to keep a straight face, but he wasn't fooled for an instant.

I just hope that a freegan didn't go fishing around in the garbage bin near the P'tit Casino at La Martiniere.

Do Your Chestnuts Justice

Along the route to school at the top of Circle road, it was considered supremely auspicious to come across a chestnut on the path. The reason for this was that although there was a tree, the neighborhood's squirrel population made it pretty unlikely for a kid to find one of these outide of their prickly shell, a mysterious nugget that looked like a shiny river smoothed stone. As a child I had no idea that they were edible, we just considered them good luck. I carried one in my pocket for months when I was in the second grade.

Here in Lyonnais region, the chestnuts are at market, and we see that the producers are again this year offering their sweet chestnut spread to tartine onto morning toast or to use in any number of home desserts. The glacier Nardonne, on the Saone quai, does a chestnut themed sundae that includes, in a silver chalice, the nuts in a special house prepared ice cream, the paste, candied nuts, thick hot fudge and chantilly. It is enough to put even a gourmande into a chestnut coma, and should be followed by a strong cup of coffee if you've got anything planned later in the day.

On the rue de Brest, the traiteur La Minaudière, owned by Cellerier at Les Halles, slow roasts them in sugar until they are glowing transparent candied gems that they stack in pyramids in the shop window, and remove one by one at the customer's request with silver tongs. They wrap some in golden paper. These go for a pretty penny, and the market supports it since these particular candied chestnuts from this particular traiteur are etched in stone as a must for hundreds of Lyonnais families at the Christmas holidays. If you go down the narrow side street beside the traiteur, you can peer through arched stone windows into their kitchens while they work.

Peeling chestnuts is a tiresome activity for me, ranking up there with pitting cherries or olives. This is a task I endure every year at Thanksgiving. I always prepare a chestnut and bacon dish. The idea comes from the first time I tasted a savory pork spiked chesnut puree, in China, of all places. I introduced this idea to the Thanksgiving table our first year in France, given their easy availability, and my special memories. Now, when I bring out my lists and sit down with Loic to plan the meal, he always insists on that dish. It has become a steadfast tradition and I don't think we'll ever cross it out.

Everyone has their tips and tricks for getting these nuts out of their shells. Some score and boil them, some roast them first, etc. Chestnuts are known to explode when heated in the microwave. Be careful too with your knife, it has to be ultra sharp when you peel chestnuts. The duller the knife, the more you risk injuring yourself. I remarked to one man who grows the nuts that I still had not found an easy way around this task. He brought out a pocket knife, and lickety split, peeled one of his in front of me. If it were only that easy for me! I dread the task every year but the fruit from my labor is always worth the struggle. I investigated the idea of purchasing shelled chestnuts at one time but found that industrial methods of removing the skins involve soaking in toxic acids. Needless to say I choose to do it by hand these days.

How are the French using chestnuts in savory cuisine? In Provence, specifically in the Var, you might run across farinettes (little crepes) with chestnuts, eggs, and a sauce Choron, a tomato seasoned bearnaise sauce. In the Lyonnais region, you can find chestnuts in pumpkin soup with aged Beaufort, chestnuts and bacon, or tender glazed Cantal pork ribs, served with split pea purée sauce and chestnuts. In the Aquitaine, in the southwest, you might find veal sweetbread escalopes served with brasied endives and chestnuts. In Cahors, one restauranteur starts dinner with an appetizer called the "Crème Esau" with lentils, chestnuts and truffle seasoned whipped cream. In Cannes, they're eating chestnuts with Mediterranean sea bass. In the Lorraine, slow braised chestnuts are paired with wild boar. Katie has prepared a nice dish with butternut squash with the nuts she found. The possibilities are endless.

Torta di Spinaci Like an Italian Grandmother

My nieces Amy and Alison have Italian grandmothers. I do not. I say grandmothers because their grandmother has a sister. She looks almost exactly like her, and is a sister at the hip. Each a gorgeous sister filling in and rounding out one other, they have made a natural progession in their lives together. It has manifested in one fabulous personality we call Sadie & Ethel. We never see them apart. My sister married when I was quite young, so they were fixtures in my life throughout my childhood. When they entered our lives in the year 1976, they dressed alike, wore identical long black Farrah type hair styles, used the same makeup, spoke certain phrases in unison, traveled often to New York City, and represented the ultimate in class and style in Syracuse New York. They were in the clothing business. They now live in connecting condos in Florida, and I don't know what they are cooking these days. But in their days in Syracuse, they had a joint repertoire of some of the most delectable dishes and desserts I was to experience in my youth. I adore them. They are the only Italian grandmothers I know. They never prepared any kind of torta, from my recollection. But while preparing this with what magically appeared in my hands yesterday, with the greens I had on hand, and some pastry crust from the night before, I thought it might be nice to name this after the Italian grandmothers of the world.

Torto Spinaci Like an Italian Grandmother
Serves 6 as an appetizer of 4 as a main dish
you can have this on the table from start to finish in 40 minutes

For this recipe, if you cannot find this lovely cured pork belly called ventresca, go ahead and use streaky bacon, or if you do have an Italian imports shop in your neighborhood, get some pancetta and use that.

1 batch of basic savory crust, here's a recipe or use your own
3 ounces, about 100 grams, or 6 thin slices of of ventresca, pancetta, or bacon
1 shallot
1 pound or 500 grams of spinach
1 large bunch of garden arugula
2 tablespoons of white wine (see note)
salt and pepper
2 fresh eggs
3 fresh sage leaves

Very important note on the wine: Don't use it if you don't have a glass of white wine in your hand while you are cooking. It is as simple as that. I splashed a couple of tablespoons into the pot while I was cooking but would not have done so if I didn't have the wine in my hand. Please follow suit and don't go out of your way to find wine, pour wine, or open a bottle to prepare this recipe.

- Prepare your pastry dough in the manner you pefer or according to this recipe. Set it to rest.
- Rinse and dry your greens, both the spinach and arugula.
- Take three thin slices of whatever pork belly you have, and remove the strip of skin off one side, leaving the strip in once piece. Slice the three slices of belly perpendicular to the grain and make little matchsticks with them.
- mince the shallot
- heat a pan to hot, put the ventresca in, with the strips of skin, and lower the heat to medium low. Render the fat from the ventresca slowly, for about 5 minutes.
- remove the strips of skin, and add the minced shallot, and sweat it for about 3 more minutes.
- roll the spinach and the arugula into cigars and cut across them, making thin strips.
- raise the heat again to high.
- add the spinach and arugula all at once, and toss it with the shallot and the ventresca. Splash a little bit of wine from your glass into the pan and let it steam up into the greens. Add a little bit of salt as needed and a generous gind of black pepper. Keep tossing them and pushing them around until everything wilts considerably. Evaporate the liquid. Remove from heat.
- beat the two eggs, and reserve 1 tablespoon of the beaten egg for the end.
- divide the dough into 2/3 for the bottom, and 1/3 for the top.
- roll out the 2/3 sized part of the dough and line a small but deep baking dish.
- pile the spinach and arugula into it, don't worry if it mounds up above the top, spread it evenly in the dish, it should fill it completely.
- pour the eggs (except that one Tblsp. you have reserved) over the spinach, and tap it on the counter to make sure it flows down into the spinach and arugula.
- spread the remaining slices of ventresca over the top of the spinach.
- Roll out the 1/3 sized piece into a circle to cover and meet the edges of the tourte, so you can pinch it closed here and there.
- with a little knife, carve three holes in roughly the shape of sage leaves, and pop a leaf into each one. Place the dough you have removed wherever you think it will look nice on the top of the crust.
- brush the top with egg yolk.
- Cover lightly with foil, and bake at 190C / 375F for about 30-40 minutes, removing the foil after 15 minutes.
You can serve it hot or cold, it is very good either way. If you are a vegetarian, you can omit the meat.

The Italian Connection

At lunch last week, I was craving Italian, so I went to Roberto's place. He works alone in a little open kitchen near the St. Vincent fresco, where he prepares food from his motherland.

He shakes the other neighborhood chefs' hands on the street, takes his breaks on the square in front of the fresco, and people go to his place to enjoy his Italian market menu at lunch and dinner. I hit the tail end of his lunch service that day, so he sat down with me to talk. He told me a little bit about what it's like to serve foreign food in France. The thing that kills him is what many of these pizza joints are presenting as Italian food. "They're giving Italy a bad name", he said in his quiet way, looking a bit worried. "The creamy sauces, and the things they're passing off as Carbonara..."

I assured him that this is done the world over. My observation is that every culture seems to have its own take on the rest of the world's cuisine. If someone adjusts a recipe to cater to the tastes of the host country, a descending spiral leading to the destruction of an imported culinary identity takes place. Then there's the supply chain. Local substitutions added to recipes that were once authentic dilute the formula even more. People like Roberto are rare. His food gets its reputation because it is real and honest market cuisine, done according to his training.

I asked him about Italian imports. There are a few bijou boutiques, you know, that place in the Croix Rousse where you can get a nice Italian fennel sausage. Then there's that place at Les Halles, the one that specializes in ravioli. A boutique near Cordeliers has a nice selection of vinegars. There's the shop that just opened five months ago down on rue de Charité across from Cap' Epices, a little Casino called Cas'Italie, that looks like a popular chain of grocery shops called Casino, but actually is stocked completely with popular grocery products direct from Italy.

Roberto seemed amused at my obsession with finding authentic Italy in Lyon. I told him that the place I grew up has an established Italian community. Its simple. The American version of Italian is different from the French version. In short, when I am craving that authentic fennel sausage from the Italians here in Lyon, it's because I'm really looking for a little bit of home. It is rather strange and convoluted, isn't it?

Yesterday at the end of the day, I went to a quiet cafe to write some notes. The cafe is actually not far from Roberto's place. When I was coming out, I saw him standing at his door, and waved. He motioned for me to come over. When I stepped inside, he was already in the kitchen.

"I have something for you", he said, turning around with something in his hands. He placed things one by one on the counter. "Here we have a cheese I made myself. It is called Marzolino, a goat cheese. A strong cheese. We make it in the month of March, when the goats have been grazing on strong winter herbs. And here, a sausage I also made, with peppers like Espelette but not Espelette, orange zest and fennel seeds. You will see. You mustn't cook that. And some Ventresca. You can use this in cooking but also you can eat this just like this. This is from my home." He smiled and quickly bundled these things into a sack and put the bundle into my hands. "This is for you."

I thanked him profusely and scurried off in the direction of my own kitchen. I barely heard what my neighbors were saying. They were standing out in front of the building, looking at the facade, talking about EDF (the electric company). There was the question of an extra 4 meters of wire and who was going to pay for it. Their brows were furrowed. I had this bundle of neighborly good will in my hand, and it was like a good luck charm. I bustled through, surrounded by my beaming aura, and went directly upstairs.

He said I mustn't cook the little sausages. I sliced off the end and popped it into my mouth. A feeling of warmth filled my heart. I poured a glass of wine and prepared a torta, with some greens I found at the market a big bunch of garden grown arugula, and some of his Ventresca.

His gifts to me.

Spiced Pêche de Vigne Streusel Cake with Toffee Glaze

My approach to baking is a bit strange. It is difficult for me to ever start with a recipe to execute and shop for it. I just don't have that kind of vision. I begin with something that catches my eye at the market or in the dry goods shop, and then sit in a modified lotus position and ask the ingredient what it wants to be, hiding the knife behind my back. Having a basket full of little pêche de vignes direct from a vinyard keeper in a bowl on the buffet to remind me that I had to do something with them, they began to nag. 'cake! cake!' they chanted, each time I passed.

I was sorely tempted for a moment, while I flipped through my favorite fruit dessert book, to poach them in wine. But they were already blood red inside. The whole color gradation thing would be lost.

I hit a recipe on page 184 that used plums, and by twisted logic (the real peche de vigne is no larger than a plum), I had pretty much made up my mind. Spiced Plum Streusel Cake with Toffee Glaze. Sound's good, huh? Would it be alright as a Spiced Pêche de Vigne Streusel Cake with Toffee Glaze? I had no problem with peaches and almonds. Why not? But what is a streusel? What does a streusel look like? Is it going to look pretty? I had guests coming!

I did a little google image search. Stodgy boring options slapped me across the face, and it stung. Hmm, maybe I won't do a streusel. I even searched the name with the German word for cake, hoping for inspiration from this dessert's motherland. The flat, boring, grey looking shadows in brownie pans hovered in the shadows like evil hobgoblins, frightening me.


But then I thought of David. Everything coming out of his kitchen is elegant. He didn't spend 12 years in the kitchen of Alice Waters to serve boring plain desserts. One really must trust. I scanned the recipe again. Cardamom. I thought to myself, if I have cardamom, this cake was meant to be. I had the pods, and this in itself told me that all was right with the streusel. The gods had given me a green light. I opened the pods and took out the insides. I crushed the cardamom in my mortar and pestle, not having the ground spice.

Out of expat technical instinct, I used the flute in my pan, because since it was a recipe for American kitchens, I had a concern about French flour. French flour, even the common type 155, is ground with a different method and sometimes American cake recipes won't work correctly here in this country. I have found that French cake recipes translate beautifully to American flour, but American recipes sometimes get lost in translation coming the other way to France. Using the flute made it so that the cake would cook all the way through.

Well, this streusel, using the little plum sized peche de vigne, was indeed elegant. Elegant in just the style I adore, simplicity, with the perfect spices, and the almond and fruit are a winning combination after all. Isn't it wonderful how something so simple can be so perfect? The sliced almonds in just the right ratio. The toffee syrup was as easy as one two three.


I thank the pastry chef for this elegant and simple recipe, which was noted in my kitchen notebook just as soon as the guests had kissed us and each other and dissapeared with smiles on their faces into the night.

Breaking up the Crust

This photo was taken at night but I wanted to

give you an idea of what it looked like when it was done.

With an afternoon spent doing other things, I turned the oven down to 300 and just let the thing bake, uncovered, for another 3 hours. Every hour I brought it out and pushed the crusty top layer into the juice. When I was getting ready to take it out to the table, with 5 people waiting, I took a taste and almost fell over backwards. The crust, which behaved itself and stayed just on top, was delcious and chewy and tasted like duck cracklings, and had a balance and a tang that went perfectly with the beans. There was plenty of juice left in the part underneath, and I spooned each person a part of the crust, some beans and meat, and then made another pass to add some juices. The couenne had dissolved and had mingled with the beans and meat. It was heavenly. Luckily we had five people there, otherwise we would have all eaten more of our share and felt guilty. We served a St. Emillion 2005 with it and followed it with a salad, local cheeses, and then dessert with a 2006 Bourgogne Aligote. It was really a very nice dinner.

One thing that really made a difference was that I used that mushroom stock. The mushroom stock began as duck stock, was reduced quite a bit, then went through the transformation with the wild mushrooms, reducing it a bit further. It was quite a concntrated stock to begin with. It gave a wonderful flavor to the beans. I will use the couenne again for this type of dish.

A First Pass - Bean Ragout

This has only had one first pass in the oven, and will spend

a few more hours there before Marie-Annick arrives.

In France, there are some regional dishes that possess a certain inviolable sanctity, and with some time here, you begin to realize which ones they are. Cassoulet is one of those dishes. You can tell by the way people argue about it. In practice, while the whole world gets away with plays on words and ideas when they prepare a Parmentier, sometimes omitting the potato altogether, or a Tatin, using everything from endives to foie gras and still calling it a Tatin, or a mille-feuille, where anything stacked is fair game, people don't mess with the Cassoulet. They may be inspired by it, but then they change the name.

I went back to read Paula Wolfert's wonderful story of how she came to uncover the many nuances of this dish the Cassoulet, on a delicious treasure hunt through Southwest France. She is driven on an oddysey through the region that has her talking to chefs and home cooks, tasting all along the way. In her book The Cooking of Southwest France, as a preface to a few different recipes, she animatedly recounts the vehement opinions and taboos, still reminding us that the ones who insisted so strongly can also change their minds over time if effectively convinced. This, in my opinion, is the beauty in France's resilience in their quest for the truth on many matters, and what makes arguing so fun here. Paula's way of getting to the crux of the matter at best and the elements that she reveals from that search is hands down one of my favorite stories, and I can read it again and again. I was happy to see that there is a recipe using fresh beans in Paula's book, and like I often do, I read it carefully, keeping in mind the mention of duck gizzards in her story, something I had just picked up from my volailler. The great thing about Paula's recipes is that I can visualize each step. The recipe for André Daguin's fava bean Cassoulet is fresh in my mind.

Kate and I have just got off the phone. She grew her own beans, of course. She told me about how this is a dish that began as one of those where the women of the town would bring it from home to the baker's oven and leave it to cook there. She surmized that the crust itself, that thing that is broken however many times during the process of cooking, is actually the process ot taking the back of a spoon and pushing the beans at the top back down into the liquid to ensure that they stay moist.

Since Loic's aunt is coming, I want to make good use of these beans, and gesture in the direction of a Cassoulet. I won't even pretend to come close, my friends. With Paula and her beautiful story and recipe as inspiration and Kate's reassuring voice over the line as a guide, last night I put my beans in to bake, and have pulled them out again, having been convinced by Kate that I must bake it much longer, to build up the crust, it just tastes so much better that way.

First Pass Bean Ragout - I won't even pretend this is a cassoulet
to be served to Loic’s Aunt Marie-Annick tonight, and to Christen the Cassole from Kate.

About 2 cups (shelled) (Kate said with the Fresh beans about 2/3 up the side of the Cassole is good)
One onion
Two shallots
1 clove of garlic
1 Tbs. Duck fat
1 pound of confit duck gizzards
One Lyonnais saucisse de couenne (which contains mostly ground pork skin, a little bit like the Gascon loafs they call gratons)
A bay leaf
A branch of celery, diced
Parsley
Thyme
About 3 ounces of fresh pork belly
3 cups of any stock you have on hand. (I am using my excellent mushroom stock from the other day)

- Take a tablespoon of the duck from from your gizzards confit, and heat it in a pan.
- Remove the remaining fat in your way (what I do is remove what I can and reserve that in my duck fat jar for another use, and then I run them under warm water to remove the rest of the fat, then let them dry in the colander). Return to a cool place to wait for the next step.
- Sauté the onion, shallots, and garlic in the duck fat until transparent.
- Add the fresh pork belly, and sauté for another 5 minutes.
- Add the mushroom fumet, the beans, the celery and the bouquet, and simmer for 30 minutes, adding water if necessary.
- Heat the oven to 300/160.
- Remove the skin form the couenne and spread the contents of the sausage onto the bottom of your cassole.
- Arrange the gizzards over the couenne.
- Remove the bouquet from the beans and transfer the beans and pork belly to the cassole over the gizzards with a skimmer or slotted spoon, saving the liqueur.
- Pour the liqueur from the beans over the gizzards and beans to cover.
- Cover the cassole with foil and bake, for one hour, ensuring that there is enough liquid to cover the beans from time to time.
- Remove from heat and let cool to room temperature. Refrigerate over night.
- The next day, return it to the oven for several hours, pusing the hardened beans at the top down into the juice with a spoon. Top off the juice if it reduces too much.