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.