20 novembre 2007
La Table du thé (2)
Let us resume our stroll through the pages you will not find in the book. Today, China. Three dim sum recipes, and some boxed text concerning a famous Cantonese food specialty, were excluded. You will find them below, in this post.
Among the photographs, those by Isabelle Rozenbaum were taken on May 25, 2007, during a tea demo and tasting held at the restaurant L'Orénoc, at the hôtel Méridien Étoile, boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr, in Paris, by Jing and Sébastien from the Cantonese company Jing Tea Shop.
On my first night in Canton (November 2006) we dined at Tian Rong, a restaurant near the teahouse. All the dishes were delicious, particularly a crispy lacquered pigeon which was so good that I asked the recipe from the owner of the restaurant, Mr. Chen Weixiong. After he most amiably gave me all the information I needed, up to and including the mysterious herbs that went into the fragrant stock, he asked me about the French ways with pigeon. You may see the famous pigeon below. The chopsticks are Jing's.
Canton-style pigeon at the Tian Rong restaurant, Guangzhou.
"I pick a 350-g pigeon, about one month and a half of age. The bird should be gutted from the rear end, without opening the belly. I make a stock with water and the following spices and herbs: dang gui (Chinese angelica), xiang ye (pandan leaves), cao gua (black cardamom), hua jiao (Sichuan peppercorns), ba jiao (star anise). I boil the stock long enough for the spices to impart their flavor, then I add the pigeon and I poach it in the simmering stock until the juice that runs out of the bird is no longer pink. I drain the pigeon, I hang it by the neck or by the feet, and I air-dry it until the skin is quite dry.
"In a wok, I heat a large quantity of oil. No peanut oil! (Note: in Canton, peanut oil is cold-pressed and is used for seasoning), no sesame oil, but good frying oil. I deep-fry the pigeon in that oil, which should cover the pigeon completely and not be too hot. When the skin is crispy, I lift it out of the oil and I hang it again, or I put it in a colander, then I baste it with boiling oil until the skin is very crispy.
"I have a secret for an even crispier skin: before hanging the pigeon for the first time, I soak it briefly in a mixture of red vinegar and water.
"If dang gui has too powerful an aroma for you, you may replace it with wulong tea - tieguanyin or a Wuyi tea -, or with a rose-flavored pu-erh.
"You may also use this recipe on duck, goose or small chicken."
Photo © Isabelle Rozenbaum
Here are now the three recipes.
Seafood congee
Congee or juk is a Southern Chinese rice soup, generally eaten at breakfast. Rice is slowly cooked in a large quantity of water or broth. Shortly before serving, other ingredients are added.
Serves 4 to 6
Preparation time: 20 minutes
Cooking time: 1 1/2 hour
Teas: all oolongs, red teas, pu-erhs.
Perfect match: keemun, ying de.
100 g long-grained white rice
1,5 to 2 litres water
2 inches peeled ginger
2 cloves garlic, lightly crushed
2 star anise
10 white peppercorns
1 handful dried shrimp
salt, freshly ground white pepper
The seafood garnish
4 plump oysters
8 raw shrimp
4 shelled scallops
200 g cleaned cuttlefish
4 small sole fillets
1 small bunch fresh coriander
soy sauce
2 level teaspoon cornflour
1/2 lime
2 scallions
1 knob peeled ginger
2 tbsp sesame oil
1 tsp Chiu Chow chilli oil
Rinse and drain the rice. Put it in a large pan, add the water. In a muslin bag, put the sliced ginger, garlic, star anise, white peppercorns and dried shrimp. Tie the bag with a string and add it to the rice and water. Bring to the boil, lower the heat, cover with the lid slightly ajar to keep the rice from overflowing. Cook for about 1 hour and a half on low heat, stirring from time to time. The rice should be soupy, like thin porridge. When the rice is cooked, remove the muslin bag, squeeze its juices into the rice and discard.
While the rice is cooking, take care of the seafood and aromatics. Shuck the oysters, keeping any water. Shell and devein the shrimp. Cut the cuttlefish into squares and cut parallel slits onto their surface in a crisscross pattern with a small sharp knife. Cut the sole fillets into pieces. Marinate all the seafood, including the scallops, in a little soy sauce, cornflour, reserved oyster water and a few drops of lime juice.
Clean and finely chop the scallions and coriander. Finely shred the ginger. Arrange them in small bowls.
In a small bowl, mix 4 tbsp soy sauce, the sesame oil and the Chiu Chow chilli oil.
5 minutes before serving, add the marinated seafoods and simmer gently until they're just stiff. Correct seasoning and add 1 tsp freshly ground white pepper.
Serve in bowls with Chinese soup spoons, along with the sauce and the condiments.
Photo © Isabelle Rozenbaum
"Pancake" fried dumplings
This is a little-known variation on jiaozi or gyôza. Dumplings are first pan-fried, then a thin batter of flour and water is poured over it and left to crisp up.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 30 minutes
Cooking time: 16 minutes
Teas: all oolongs, pu-erh.
Perfect match: oolong tieguanyin.
60 g lean pork meat
60 g raw chicken breast meat
6 shelled raw prawns
40 g blanched bamboo shoots, chopped
2 scallions, cleaned
60 g bok choy or spinach leaves, blanched in boiling water, squeezed dry and finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled
15 g finely grated ginger
24 gyôza skins
50 g flour
sesame oil
Special equipment: food processor; large nonstick sauté pan or frying pan with a tight-fitting lid; large, flat serving dish.
Selling wheat noodles on a Shanghai market.
Finely chop the pork, prawns, scallions, bok choy leaves, garlic and ginger in a food processor. For a better texture, you may chop each ingredient separately with a knife, then blend them all together briefly to mix them well.
Using the gyôza skins, make small elongated dumplings, dampening the edges of the skins to seal them well.
Mix the flour with enough water to get a thinnish batter.
Cover the bottom of the pan with a thin layer of sesame oil. Lay the dumplings side by side in the pan, sealed side up. Put on medium heat until the oil sizzles frankly, then pour the batter into the pan (not over the dumplings!), cover the pan and, holding the lid with your hand, tilt the pan in a circular motion so that the batter spreads onto the whole surface. Cook on moderate heat for 15 minutes, keeping the pan well covered.
After 15 minutes, the batter should be fried and golden brown like a crêpe; its edges should be curling away from the pan. Pour a little more sesame oil between the crêpe and the pan, cover and cook for 1 more minute.
Turn the "dumpling pancake" over onto a large, flat dish. The lacy crêpe should be on top and each guest should break it with their chopsticks to pick a dumpling.
Shanghai, pork butchers at the market.
Orange-flavored beef balls
The secret in this recipe lies in the lengthy, patient kneading of the forcemeat.
Serves 4 (12 balls)
Preparation time: 35 minutes
Cooking time: 12 minutes
Teas : oolong shui xian, green pu-erh, red teas (keemun).
Perfect match: Earl Grey.
1 strip orange or mandarin peel, dried or fresh (if dried, it should be 2 inches long; if fresh, double the quantity)
3 fresh shiitake mushrooms
10 cl boiling water
150 g chopped lean beef
20 g chopped fat bacon
2 fresh or canned water chestnuts
3 blades of Chinese chives, cleaned
2 cloves garlic
1 tsp cornflour
2 tsp sesame oil
2 tsp light soy sauce
2 tsp oyster sauce
2 tsp Shaoxing cooking wine
3 ou 4 Chinese (Napa) cabbage leaves, only the tender part, leave out the ribs
salt, freshly ground white pepper
Special equipment: food processor, a stainless steel steam cooker or a wok equipped with bamboo baskets for steaming.
Shanghai.
If you are using dried orange or mandarin peel, soak it for 10 minutes in boiling water, then drain it. If you are using fresh peel, carefully remove the white part. Chop finely.
Clean the mushrooms, remove stalks, wipe the caps with damp absorbent paper. Chop finely.
If you are using fresh water chestnuts, peel them and rinse them clean. Just drain and rinse the canned ones. Chop them finely. Also chop the Chinese chives and the garlic.
Chop the beef and the fat bacon in a food processor so that it is very finely ground; blend for a few seconds. The forcemeat should be smooth, but retain a bit of texture.
Mix all the ingredients in a large bowl. Add the cornflour, sesame oil, soy sauce, oyster sauce and rice wine, salt and pepper. Knead by hand for 5 minutes to remove air bubbles and make the forcemeat very soft and slightly sticky.
Oil your hands, or wet them, and shape the forcemeat into 12 round balls.
Line a heatproof plate with the Napa cabbage leaves. Arrange the balls on top, put the plate in steam cooker or bamboo basket, and steam for 10 to 10 minutes. The beef balls should be quite firm. Serve hot with tea.
Shanghai.
Photo © Isabelle Rozenbaum
Photo © Isabelle Rozenbaum
13 novembre 2007
The Athens meat market
I found them again in an old folder, stashed on an old CD. They were taken more than ten years ago, around 1995-1996, with a FG Nikon camera and some Kodachrome slide film. They were scanned on a butane-powered device which, after some huffing and puffing, finally laid its Jpeg after three full minutes. As I rediscovered them, I let out a sigh: so that is how I used to scan photos; and no one ever thought of slapping me? Oh, all that you had to go through before APNs! The pictures have poor resolution, and I have trouble remembering how I ended up with that white balance. Sincerely, I have no idea of what happened to those pictures. Unbalanced, burnt, dark, reddish, they touch me as they are, and I dream of what I could do, now, with the same subject and my present cameras. Except for the fact that it is no longer possible.
These veils, a modern version of the antique velum cast over circus games, are meant to protect the market from the sun. What they hang above is the agora kreaton, the Butchers' Market, in Athens, precisely on Athinas Street, between Omonia Square and the old Agora. This is one of the very last examples of a central covered food market located in a large town. When I took the pictures, rumors of tearing the whole thing down were heard. Fortunately, that did not happen. It would have been a crime, indeed, to destroy this beautiful Neoclassical architectural compound. I have not been to the place since then, but I checked its present state through pictures on the Net: in conformity with EEC rules, all the stalls are now enclosed in glass. Photos will never look the same again. At least, this is a better fate than total disappearance.
This is how the market looked like at the time. The meat was piled up, hanged out in the open, butchers moving between carcasses and tripe like Indians through a rain forest. They ruled over their meat world, knowing all its rules. They had a unique, flamboyant look. They were handsome, rakish, cool and sexy, arousing both desire and fear. They were utterly male. How many rebetiko songs, from the 1920s on, celebrated the hasapakia, members of a mysterious order with ties to the underworld, whores and haschish smokers!
I would like to go back as soon as I can manage it. I would like to know if the butchers, like their meats, have been put in glass cases, safe from the outside world or, rather, saving the outside world from them; if my hasapakia have been refrigerated and adapted to European norms.
The photos are red, most of them much too red. But this is partly caused by the subject. In spite of the open skylight, or of the light bulbs and neons in some places, the bright red of meat saturates the light and is reverberated onto every surface. Whatever you do, it will be red.
On the photo above, you may see how carcasses were stacked up to produce that Soutine-like feeling. Or to evoke Dutch painting. In no way could you ever display meat this way anymore. And nobody ever died from that.
There is no way, either, a butcher could now be seen carving a beef brisket while smoking a cigarette.
This is fine lamb, country lamb — arni dopio —, see? The very lamb you rub with lemon juice, salt, pepper and garlic, and slowly roast in a medium oven until melting inside and crispy outside. (I cannot help it if you are hungry.)
Portraits.
In Greece, this gesture means "Come closer." This butcher had something to tell me.
Actually, he wanted both of us to be on the picture and had one of his colleagues handle the camera. As was usually the case in the days before the autofocus, the photo came out blurred.
After taking a few shots, a stop at one of the tavernas located inside the market is recommended. There you may eat everything you have seen on the stalls, only cooked. Well done, Greek-style. You may order a bowl of patsa (tripe soup) in the small hours of the morning, or, at Easter, a mayeritsa (lamb innard soup). This picture was taken under the neons of the taverna To Monastiri. I think the taverna still exists. Oh, hell, I am not sure. I had better go check.
12 novembre 2007
Photo of the month (1)
Luoyang (Henan, China), White Horse temple. Photo by Vincent Hiribarren.
09 novembre 2007
La Table du thé (1)
My book La Table du thé was published in September by éditions Minerva. With photos by Isabelle Rozenbaum, food styling by Lissa Streeter, layout by Laurence Maillet. Isabelle already devoted a blog post to it.
You will also find a very fine article on Thierry Richard's blog Chroniques du plaisir.
The book is based on a simple principle: eating and entertaining over tea, not just for light snacks but for meals in their own rights. Tea offers at least as many tastes, fragrances and flavours as wine does, which makes it a wonderful and much overlooked opportunity for setting up meals, lunches, dinners, brunches, tasting menus, etc. There are examples in several cultures. Such a meal built around a certain number of teas may also be an improved form of tea tasting.
Photo © Isabelle Rozenbaum
Over the years, my travels have taken me to some tea-loving countries: the British Isles, China, Japan, Singapore, Thailand, Morocco, Turkey, the US (indeed, in spite of a reputation earned in other countries from the memory of the Boston Tea Party, North Americans do drink a lot of tea). Tea cultures are not always built on tea alone: in some regions, they include food, and special cooking styles are conceived around tea drinking (kaiseki in Japan, yum cha and dim sum in China, krueng wang in Thailand…). Likewise, the mezze of the Near East and the zakuski of the Russian area, though not originally associated with tea, prove to be excellent tea foods. Whether I was able to draw my inspiration from true traditional tea cuisines or picked dishes that were particularly suited to tea, choosing the recipes for the book was never a problem.
The book contains recipes as well as tea-related tips and tricks, plus a lot of advice on tea-food pairing. I am only beginning to explore that aspect of tea culture, and I hope to work with chefs on that subject. Recipes are organized in chapters based on the main tea regions (China, Japan, Korea, Southeast Asia, India, samovar regions (Central Asia, Turkey, Iran…), British Isles, United States, Morocco). In the final part of the book, you will find menu suggestions and a small list of addresses.
I am happy with the finished work. Isabelle's photography imparts a quiet, warm and cozy atmosphere to it. I imagined it as a starting point for imagination and curiosity, an incitation to venture beyond its contents. Tea is known to help daydreaming, and through daydreaming, poetry and creation. Chinese poets are familiar with that. If some readers decide to organize their own tea parties with recipes and tea tips from the book, and reach that dreamy, contented state that is so typical of tea meals, I will have reached my goal.
There have been two signatures for this book; one at Librairie La Martinière-Le Seuil on September 27, another one at Librairie La Cocotte on November 8 (see flyer below).
I intend to devote a few blog posts to this book, not only to promote it but also to publish (with the permission of my editor) a few recipes that could not be included in the final layout.
Slicing a piece of ankimo (marinated monkfish liver) at Librairie La Martinière-Le Seuil,
during the book signature of September 27.
According to the order of the chapters, I will start with Japan and the only Japanese recipe that could not be squeezed into the book: a recipe for gyôza.
Gyôza
Gyôza skins may be purchased frozen in Asian food stores. Unlike wonton skins, which are square and yellow, they are round and white. The recipe for wonton skins below may be found in the book; it can be used for all sorts of stuffed dumplings.
Gyôza skins
Serves 4 (24 gyôza, 250 g dough)
150 g all-purpose flour
17 cl boiling water
You will need a Chinese rolling pin, which you can make by cutting a 30-cm length of a 3-cm wide round-sectioned unpainted wooden stick.
Add the boiling water to the flour and mix with a spatula, then knead by hand until you get a smooth, firm dough. Roll it into a long, 2,5 cm-thick cylinder, cut it into 2,5-cm long chunks. Using the rolling pin, roll each one into a thin, translucent disk.
If you make the gyôza skins some time ahead, stack them on top of each other with squares of parchment paper in-between, put the stack into a Ziploc bag and freeze.
Gyôza
225 g Chinese (Napa) cabbage, only the tender part of the leaves (not the ribs)
salt
225 g finely ground pork
20 g fresh ginger, peeled
3 large garlic cloves, peeled
1 scallion
3 tbsp strong Japanese soy sauce
3 tsp sake
1 tsp sugar
1 tbsp sesame oil
24 gyôza skins
vegetable oil
12 cl dashi
The sauce
15 g sugar
5 cl rice vinegar
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
1 small red chilli, seeded
15 cl light Japanese soy sauce
1 tbsp sesame oil
Finely chop the Napa cabbage, put it in a colander, sprinkle with 1 tbsp salt, mix well and let rest for 30 minutes. Squeeze it with your hands to expel all moisture.
While the cabbage is resting, make the sauce: melt the sugar in the vinegar on low heat, then let cool slightly. Finely crush garlic and chilli, add them to the vinegar. Add the soy sauce and sesame oil.
Grate the ginger and garlic for the filling. Clean and finely slice the scallion.
Put the cabbage in a bowl, add the pork, ginger, garlic, scallion, soy sauce, sake, sugar and sesame oil. Mix thoroughly. Cover and refrigerate for 1 hour.
Make the gyôza: drop a spoonful of filling onto the middle, bring the edges of the dough together and press them right above the filling to seal them well. Proceed this way until all
the ingredients are used up.
Heat 2 tbsp oil in a nonstick sauté pan or in a cast iron skillet with a lid. Lay the gyôza in it; they should not touch each other. Fry for 2 or 3 minutes on medium heat until the bottom of the gyôza is light golden. They should not burn. Add the dashi, cover and steam for 6 minutes, not more. If the dashi evaporates, add a little more, or a few drops of water. If there is too much liquid, take the lid off and let it evaporate. Finally add 1 tbsp oil and let the bottom part of the gyôza brown for 1 to 2 minutes. Serve with the sauce.
24 octobre 2007
Agadir by night (and part 2 of the restaurant guide)
37 °C today; tomorrow I am leaving for a chilly Paris. More info on Agadir restaurants: after dining at a few places, I can confirm that good, fresh fish is to be found at the harbor.
Now I have been told about precarious hygiene conditions and the fact that those restaurants may be cleaned out sometime — they do not fit into the current projects of turning the local coast into a new Riviera or Costa del Sol. Pray that this does not happen. It is not unreasonable to think that the littoral around Taghazout and Mirleft may be soon covered in concrete. Some say that the fish restaurants may be transplanted somewhere else. But they remain the only place where I had fresh fish and really good food. I do not have any special complain about the hygiene, though I admit that the tiny kitchens are very simply equipped and that the fish market does not particularly smell nice. Does any ever?
Last night, at the beautiful new tapas bar at the new marina where we had just sat down, we were told the restaurant was out of fish. Completely out of fish. Not even a fin or a scale, not one squid tentacle to spare. Now the harbor is two hundred yards to the back, the sea is even closer by. Quite a feat. However, the tapas are okay and the Casablanca beer nice and chilled.
The beautiful tapas bar at the new marina: great décor, good tapas, no fish tonight.
The night before, I had ventured at the terrace of a reputable seaside restaurant I will not name here. I was served an abominable greenish fish soup with a hint of kerosene, marble-hard croûtons, mayonnaise mixed with tomato purée masquerading as rouille, and a twenty-minute wait. Then a mixed fish fry was set before me, definitely less good than the one I had had at the harbor. I did not have the heart to photograph my plates, so I shot something else.
The restaurant next door is proud of its specialty: Alsatian-style snails. Elsewhere, as I wrote before, it's cream and mushrooms and sometimes flambé. Honestly, I have not been everywhere, but I think I can already assert that the concept of cuisine du marché has not reached Agadir yet. It should not be difficult to set up, though, with the wonderful products readily available in the region. Just take a stroll through the great souk Alhad to see for yourself.
Late October: olive and pomegranate season.
Back to the beach. At night, it is not deserted. It becomes a quiet, mysterious place. Gadiris go there for after-dinner strolls and sit near the water to listen to the surf and enjoy the cool breeze.
22 octobre 2007
The Ptipois guide of Agadir restaurants, part 1
The harbor restaurants in Agadir : narrow tables, wooden benches or plastic chairs,
waxed tablecloths — pure happiness.
Until the Michelin guide for the Souss comes out (which should be rather soon ; there is California already), here is a report.
Compared to other Moroccan cities, Agadir’s reputation for being a foodie heaven leaves a lot to be desired. Actually, it all depends on what exactly you mean by foodie. And when I hear that sort of judgement, I prefer to see for myself. It is, however, quite possible to see. First and foremost, Agadir is not history-laden like Fes, Essaouira, Tanger, Marrakech, even Rabat or Meknes. All the antique architecture there ever was — and it does not seem to have had much of it anyway — disappeared during the 1961 earthquake, a date which leaves you to imagine the looks of the recontstructed city. This does not mean, far from it, that Agadir is without grace. But this grace should not be sought the way you might seek it in other places ; it certainly does not leap to your eyes.
What leaps to your eyes is that Agadir is blessed with a lovely beach and a fantastic climate. An equation that produces hotels by the dozen. French people do know about it from advertising in the Paris métro, or in the press, or from travel agencies. Indeed the coast is festooned with hotels from North to South. Comfortable, sometimes beautifully architectured places (with the odd young-gifted-architect syndrome, like this gorgeous Accor complex whose rooms have no balconies). Slightly more popular near the city center, to the North. Slightly posher to the South, where new building projects are breeding like bunnies. But only ever so slightly : the comfort level is rather constant all along the beach. What about the food, then ? That is another question. We are in all-inclusive territory, tout compris, and the catering is designed for the tourists. Especially, it seems, for the many Germans that come here. Not that I mean to hurt our German friends, but the imprint of German package tourism on local food habits, whether in the Mediterranean or in Morocco, is generally disastrous. If you do not believe me, just go to a touristy Dodecanesian island like Kos in high Summer and try to find a truly Greek roasted lamb, tender, browned, tasty and crispy. Sure, you may encounter a sign reading ARNI STI SOUVLAS and sigh with relief. But what will be served to you is a plateful of boiled, tasteless, skinless, boneless, stringy meat and a few green leaden bullets called frozen peas, all of that covered in a white gooey sauce. The owner of the taverna, when questioned, will tell you with a sorry look that tourists will not accept anything else. I hear that the all-inclusive system, invented by Americans, also was a serious threat to local cooking styles all through the Carribean as early as the 1950s. Here, in Agadir, the problem is mostly contained in hotels and even there, the situation is not so dire. When you have gone through centuries of unique gastronomic traditions with an ancestral art of spicing and herbing, you would have to try very hard to serve totally bad food. The béchamel syndrome can be regrettable, but there are ways to avoid it. Also, there are lots of French visitors, who are not so keen on flour sauces. But the presence of French tourists is not necessarily a good sign : French people, indeed — so much for the myth —, are just as ready to eat crap as anyone else, and certainly more than some.
Concerning restaurants, the well-known phenomenon of quality going down as status goes up can be witnessed here, as it can be in other places with a strong tradition of good, cheap home food or street food. To be fair, there are good places, for instance terrific côtes de bœuf at the Casino restaurant. Apart from that, the neo-riyad style is the rage : lovely neo-Moroccan decoration, lounge music in the background, stylish waiters, stylish clientele, overcooked defrosted fish served with a cream and mushroom sauce. There is also a more traditional type of restaurant, the one that still used to exist in France back in the 60s and 70s : waiters in white jackets and bow tie serving the same overcooked defrosted fish served with a cream and mushroom sauce — but flambé at your table, mind you.
Last category : holes in the wall. Hope returns. Bars and cafés on the seafront, grillades restaurants (kefta, brochettes, lamb chops, French fries), open-air brick ovens topped with a dozen small tajines, slightly chipped but quite operational and ready to serve ; roast chicken joints, pastry shops, popular restaurants where Gadiris eat nicely for a few dirhams. Those who claim Agadir to be a gastronomic desert never mention those places. To be fair, the presence of words like « gastronomic desert » in their vocabulary is a proof that they are not likely to pay attention to them. Unless it is for a TV show, with Tony Bourdain eating goat testicles to make the girls back home faint from the extatic thrill of the Forbidden.
Since I arrived, four days ago, I have felt attracted to a place beyond the new marina, the harbor restaurants. I had read somewhere that this was the place for fish tajines. When someone confirmed that to me, that was all I needed to hop into a petit taxi and get there.
Who says seaport says fishing, who says fishing says fish, and who says fish says cats. A quick test : what do the cats look like ? Stressed and skinny or happy and contented ? This kitty’s serene and healthy look brings me the answer, as does this other little guy below, taking a nap.
All the photo equipment I’ve brought along is my little Revio Konica, an old camera with a terrific sensor. It will suffice for today. I will bring the Nikon another time, if it’s worth it.
The restaurant area, attached to the fish market, is made of quite a few shacks and taverns with plastic chairs or long benches placed by narrow tables. Each table is connected to a tiny kitchen where you may order more or less the same stuff : fried fish, squid and shrimp or grilled fish like sardines. Some of the kitchens specialize in individual fish tajines. I am quite interested by the tajine but it will be for another time : today, I want what the gentlemen sitting behind me are having : a mixed fry.
Yesterday, I asked : where in Agadir can you be served fresh, unfrozen fish, decently cooked, whole and not filleted, with plenty of crispy and tasty bits ? I got my answer today : two small Dover sole, two small hake, a good handful of deep-fried shrimp and a few squid rings. Everything is very fresh and crispy.
I had forgotten how good fried hake could be ; it had been so long. Not an easy fish to find in Northern countries. The shrimp are delicious, eaten whole, head and all. The squid is firm and tender, the sole is perfect.
Let me bring your attention to the table décor, which may not have the neo-riad touch but sure puts you in a happy mood.
And this is probably the only place in the world where someone thought of naming their restaurant « Titanic ». Nice idea — all around, there is indeed all the rusted iron that you can shake a stick at.
For dessert, a little mint tea with its large sugar cubes.
Sitting at your table, wiping your hands with perfectly nonabsorbent paper, you end up with very greasy fingers. No forks or knives, I forgot to mention that. As usual, the remedy grows next to the disease : a couple of handwash fountains are just a few steps away.
You can choose the color of your soap. A luxury that not even the Raffles hotel in Singapore will offer you.
The handwasher pours a little water on your hands, singing a chant. You rub your hands with soap (I picked the green one), then he rinses them, still chanting, and hands you a towel. For a few seconds, you are centuries back.
Next : fish tajine.
09 octobre 2007
The nam prik pao alert, or Pim's recipe
Everything happens, even a false terror alert with positive consequences. For instance the one that took place in Soho, London, last week. It gave a few more people a notion of what nam prik pao is. This gross mistake has caused the average gastronomic culture in the British Isles — and certainly in France, in other European countries and in the USA too — to take a big leap forward. The news, so it seems, went around the world in no time.
Let me recall the facts: on October 3, 2007, in the kitchen of the Thai Cottage restaurant, the chef is preparing a nam prik pao, an operation that involves toasting dried red chillies in a dry wok — a serious toasting since the chillies should exhale some smoke. And indeed the acrid smoke emanating from the wok, spreading around in the neighborhood, leads some to believe there is a chemical attack. Area is evacuated, emergency team runs in, and the search ends up with the discovery of an innocent vessel.
Said the chef, "I can understand why people who weren't Thai would not know what it was, but it doesn't smell like chemicals. I'm a bit confused." So am I. The news spread like a chilli cloud, but it was in the small foodie world that it had the most hilarious effect. Being scared of toasted chilli — how stupid can you get? I got about a dozen e-mails from friends and colleages in that style.
However, if that silly event has a chance to improve the general knowledge of Thai cooking techniques, it's all the better. At least it shed a special light onto the incriminated chilli paste. What is this mysterious recipe that requires hot chillies to be burned, when their natural hotness is already more than most people can take? What is the principle of this Siamese alchemy? Who are you, nam prik pao? For sure, to prove so traumatizing, that must be a hellish, supremely fiery condiment. Or is it? We will see that later.
As for me, I am interested in this phoney terror alert for two main reasons:
1. A Thai restaurant where nam prik pao is made on the premises is an address worth noting, particularly in Europe. Honest versions of the condiment may be bought in jars for a moderate price, all the more a reason to praise the chef for performing such a fastidious preparation in his own kitchen. "Thai Cottage" will be written down in my little notebook in the perspective of my next trip to London.
2. As, naturally, Chez Pim was literally bombed with e-mails and questions, the alert had a miraculous side effect: at last, Pim gave her nam prik pao recipe! A lot of people had been waiting for this, rolling on the floor crying, wishing, dreaming. As she writes, the recipe was no secret but it was tricky proportioning to an average kitchen, since she always made huge quantities of it (the Thai Cottage chef was actually toasting 9 pounds of chillies that day).
So this is how, giving thanks for the antiterror paranoia — for once, the concept of "civilization clash" has some sort of a meaning: Thai chillies meet British nostrils and it goes boom! —, I tried my first nam prik pao recipe the day before yesterday. Carefully reading Pim's recipe, I realize it can be done. Count two, three hours. Fortunately, finding the ingredients will not be an issue, since large Asian supermarkets like Tang Frères have everything necessary, including the prik chi faa hang chillies recommended by Pim.
So what is nam prik pao? It may be described as a chilli jam. It belongs to the large Asian family of oil-based chilli pastes, but it stands apart because of its versatility. Its complex flavor makes it almost universal. It is not so hot as it is claimed to be: taste is its primary quality. It is simultaneously sour, sweet, burnt, garlicky, chocolatey, caramelly, earthy, marine, aromatic, with hot and slightly bitter final notes, and a pleasant funkiness that gives it special depth. You may have encountered it through tom yam gung, a prawn and lemongrass clear soup on which a teaspoonful of nam prik pao is often added before serving. In fact it is so good that you could add it to everything. (Pim has it on toast for breakfast.)
What follows is my version of Pim's recipe. Her instructions are extremely accurate and you may follow them blindly.
Pleast note that the quantities she gives will yield three glassfuls, about 1 pint. Which is perfect for your personal use (nam prik pao keeps almost for ever in a closet), but if you wish to give some around to friends, that is not enough. For a gift-friendly quantity, double the proportions at least.
75 g dried red chillies of the prik chi faa hang variety. Don't panic: I bought mine at Tang Frères in a 100 g Cock Brand plastic bag. Large dark red, smooth-skinned chillies, about 2-3 inches long.
100 g garlic (two large heads, peeled)
150 g shallots (5 medium-sized or 4 large shallots, peeled)
25 cl (1 cup) peanut oil
100 g palm sugar, chopped if of the hard type
2 tbsp Thai shrimp paste
About 1/3 cup tamarind paste
About 3 tbsp fish sauce (I use Tiparos)
1/4 cup water
The first thing you have to do is to toast the chillies in a dry wok, like the chef at Thai Cottage before the cops kicked the door open. I won't describe this process since Pim has done so very well on her blog. Chillies, however, should not be completely burnt but only blackened in patches, and there should be only a little smoke. A little smoke, as you will realize, goes a long way. Its acridity is no joke. While not bad enough to call the cops, it is serious enough to make you (as I did) wrap the lower part of your face in a tightly knotted towel, which makes chilli roasting somewhat akin to robbing banks in the Wild West. Stir continuously with a wooden spatula until the chillies look right (cough cough!). The heat should cause some to bloat like puffer fish. Do not lean over the wok to watch the process. Keep your face and eyes away.
Take the wok off the heat, transfer the contents to a large bowl and let them cool in a corner. Clean the wok.
While the chillies are cooling, finely slice your garlic and shallots separately. I use a mandolin (watch your fingertips!), slicing the remaining stubs with a knife. You may also use a knife for this entire stage. Do not mix the garlic and shallots. Heat the oil in the wok and fry the sliced garlic in it, stirring from time to time, until lightly golden. Do not let the garlic brown, which gives it a bitter taste. Be careful, this happens in no time. Remove the garlic with a slotted spoon and set aside on absorbent paper.
Repeat the same process with the shallots, and then again do not let them brown. They should have a nice golden color. Set them aside on absorbent paper also, leaving as much oil in the wok as possible.
It is now time to take care of the cooled chillies. Slit them lengthwise with a sharp knife and remove seeds and placenta. Put the chillies in a food processor and blend to a powder. Keep this powder in a small bowl.
Process the shallots and the garlic, blending them to a powder, or rather to a thick, oily and — mmmmmmm — fragrant paste.
Shape the shrimp paste into a flat ball and fry it in the oil until slightly browned and fragrant. Crush it with your spatula, adding the powdered chilli (I used all of it, plus a little Korean powdered chilli pepper which I thought had a similar smell), and mix well, crushing the shrimp paste and mixing it with the chilli. Keep the heat low, you have done enough chilli burning as it is.
Add the tamarind, the garlic and shallot paste, the palm sugar and the fish sauce. Mix briskly to get a smooth paste. The sugar palm helps that by melting, and so does the small quantity of water that you add at that point. When the paste is smooth and bubbling gently, taste it; as in many Thai dishes, the taste balance has to be corrected at that near-final point. You should experience a harmony of sweet, salty, sour, funky (sorry I can't find a better term), then the smoky, hot and chocolatey tastes as final notes. If the paste needs salt, add fish sauce. If it needs sourness, add more tamarind. Boil on low heat until jammy but not too thick, as it thickens when cold.
See the result above: a dark, gooey jam with brownish red hues, covered with a thick layer of bright red oil. The smell is bewitching, appetizing, it seems to encompass everything that is nice in cooking. Not you are ready for glorious breakfast toast (Pim-style), tom yam kung, soups, rice and noodle dishes, wok stir-fries, and some pretty incandescent fried eggs — etc.
Spoon into jars, close, wipe clean, store: you're rich.
01 septembre 2007
Brins photographiques
Today I would like to attract your attention to this blog of my friend Annick's, Brins photographiques, which I just discovered (she has been very discreet about it). She takes great pictures (proof 1), has a special talent for jams and preserves (and speaks fruit language fluently, proof 2), and she even has snail friends (proof 3).
Proof 1
Proof 2
Proof 3
29 août 2007
Working for butter
When asked about the secrets of fine cooking, Escoffier would reply: "There are three secrets: butter, butter and butter." Today, we will investigate the deeper secrets of fine cooking. We are going to work for butter.
In French, "working for butter" means "working for nothing", which sounds to me regrettably inaccurate, for butter is not nothing. Butter is a treasure. Working for butter is a noble job.
Get lost, Grande Épicerie, luxury lipids for food snobs, media-cherished butters that distract the attention from more modest but no less remarkable foodstuffs. For me — a Norman, i.e. someone you can't fool when it comes to butter —, the ultimate butter was to be found in some supermarkets of South Finistère (Brittany). I had discovered it a couple of years ago, double-wrapped in paper, which seemed like an indication of special care. Nevertheless the discreet packaging did not reveal anything of the treasures inside: a light, airy texture, of a natural matte yellow with buttercup tones; the welcome crunch of a few grains of sea salt, and above all a taste — rich, fragrant, flowery, slightly musky, reminiscent of warm brioche. A butter of such quality I had only found years ago, in a fortified farm in the Bessin (Normandy), not far from the D-Day beaches which are not generally visited for butter. Fortunately, the Breton address was on the wrapping paper: someday, I promised to myself, I would visit the GAEC (agricultural compound) of Saint-Coal and learn more about that butter.
It was not particularly easy to approach the farm: first, I was naturally reluctant to disturb people while they're working, unless they invite visitors to do so in a "green tourism" program. Also, organizing the visit from Paris was not easy. This butter is rare and apparently produced in small quantity. There is very probably a fragile balance that I should respect. I found it preferrable to proceed gently. A famous Parisian chef, to whom I had told about the butter, did not manage to have any shipped to him. Then one day, in this month of August, after a phone call, the lights suddenly went green.
So, off we go to Guilligomar'ch.
This is not milk but sweet, tasty buttermilk straight from today's churning.
The farm of Saint-Coal is, as Fulbert-Dumonteil would write in his cheerful purple style, "nestled in a casket of lush greenery". Slightly silly as it is, the expression is justified. This emerald-green, hilly, magnificent landscape feels like you have been brought a few centuries back. Intact bocage, unspoiled countryside, the clean fresh smells of nature and farm animals, peace and serenity: why this butter is so exceptional, we seem to have the beginning of an explanation. The compound is surrounded by a large surface of grassland and cereal fields, all belonging to the farm. Seventy Prim'Holstein cows graze in perfect tranquillity a thick, fast-growing, vitamin-rich grass. In Winter, they feed on a large quantity of hay mown on the farm and of cereals equally grown on the premises. No fodder is bought. Through self-sufficiency, a thorough control of the quality is achieved.
After being separated from the milk, cultured and matured, the cream goes into a mechanical churn to be turned into butter. In this churn, you may see the product of one day's milking — forty-four kilograms, slowly kneaded by the paddles and by hand. This butter, which has already been rinsed and salted, is now undergoing the draining process.
The water pouring out of the churn drain has the grey color of coarse Guérande sea salt used for the salting.
The last handful of salt is added right before the end of the kneading, just for the crunch.
A little more handling and the butter is ready.
The contents of the churn are scooped by hand into three buckets...
... to be carried to the conditioning room where the butter will be moulded and wrapped.
Here is one of the traditional wooden moulds where the Saint-Coal butter loaves will be shaped. Two sizes — 250 grams and 500 grams — are used.
The base and the body, made of two pieces, are assembled.
The butter is kneaded into the mould and the surface is levelled. A flower pattern is engraved into the flat bottom part of the mould. When the body will be removed and the flat bottom turned over, the raised pattern will appear on the surface of the butter.
Voilà!
Conditioning is a fast process: it takes the crémier only a few seconds to mould a loaf of butter and a few more for the lady farmer to wrap it up in the first sheet of paper. It all goes so fast that I have trouble taking clear pictures.
A crate is filled in the course of a few minutes.
After the 500 g loaves are all wrapped, 250 g loaves are taken care of. I now understand why my Parisian chef was unable to order that butter: he should have come all the way to the farm to fetch it. Saint-Coal has a refrigerated truck of small capacity, and does not deliver beyond the limits of two départements: Finistère and Morbihan, and mostly in supermarkets (or directly at the farm), with other products — lait ribot (cultured buttermilk), crème fraîche, yogurt, fresh farmer's cheese and gros lait (a type of refreshing, slightly gooey sour cultured milk).
One restaurateur, so far, has been serving the wonderful Saint-Coal butter (and proudly mentions it on the menu): Loïc Le Bail, at the hôtel Brittany in Roscoff.
Through this post, I meant to attract your attention on the fact that the most exceptional products are not necessarily the ones with the largest media exposure. Unknown by the world of luxury food travel, they are not often raved about by rich food tourists and glossy food magazines. They are not stylish and their makers do not wish them to be. Half-hidden in the heart of the countryside, wonderful stuff is produced, and if you are not extremely attentive, if you are not ready to accept that some inconspicuous wrappings around supermarket items may conceal miracles, you are likely to miss some of the best things in life.
I also meant to share with you my admiration for the work done at Saint-Coal, for these people's love of taste and quality, the care they bring to every detail. I was struck, as I discovered the farm, by the way the means were accurately adapted to the results: a large piece of land to produce enough hay and cereals to feed the cows, the cows have plenty of room to roam and feed on what they please, their unharried lifestyle is good for the milk. No insane growth objectives, no hubris, and no fake touristy folklore either. Above all, no concessions are made to the urban taste of the ruling classes, which is not only fickle but also, frequently, flawed (as an example, hardly any "baguette traditionnelle" ever tastes traditional for who has known the taste of true traditional baguette). A fragile balance had to be achieved to maintain this quality; it certainly was not easy to reach it and I am sure it is not easy to maintain: the people at Saint-Coal should be praised for that. That day, I had not only come to the farm to learn about butter. I also learned one or two things about wisdom.
17 août 2007
A gift, and a Homeric home remedy made from it
Isabelle is back from the island of Amorgos (Cyclades), with a present that moved me deeply. It showed how much she understands me, or how much we are alike. Gathering wild plants for me on a Mediterranean island is the kind of attention that makes me melt with gratitude. Isabelle's gift is a large bunch of Amorgian wild sage. This is priceless; not just the thought — the plant also.
It is an exceptional kind of sage, with a powerful and sweet aroma, deeper and more complex than that of common garden sage. It grows all over the island but the best is found in the Western part, in the Langada hinterland. Another interesting plant, Origanum tourneforti, is also common there: small-leaf oregano, better than common oregano. Saying that Greek islands are rich in aromatic plants is a truism. On one of the Small Cyclades — I forgot which —, a baker sprinkles his bread with wild sesame seeds gathered on the hills nearby. The flora of Ikaria gives the island a unique smell — and celebrated honey. But this sage, with this characteristic smell, I found only on Amorgos.
Back home, I spread the sage sprigs on a cloth and let them dry for an hour or two. But I soon decided to strip them of their leaves: even if the plant is not completely dry, its richness in essential oil acts as a preservative. Not wishing any of this manna to go to waste, I prepared a tea with the leafless stalks in a Lebanese briki.
The fragrance of this tea reminded me of a recipe I wrote down the last time I was in Amorgos — years ago.
Shortly before I left the island, I went out for a walk in the hills to stock up on herbs. On my way, I met a restaurant owner and his wife. Like me, they were gathering their herb supply for the Winter. We started chatting about plants, and they told me this particular sage was a powerful medicine for the respiratory tract. And the gentleman gave me a recipe for an old home remedy.
"Take one paximadi, pour some strong sage tea over it and wait for the bread to soak it in. Then ligo meli, ligo ladhi — goodbye sore throat."
Paximadi is a thick slice of wholewheat bread which is cooked in pre-cut loaves especially for that use. They are dried in a low oven like rusks and sold in packs. Hard as a rock, a paximadi is always soaked with some liquid (wine, oil, stock, vinegar, vegetable juice from a salad) before being eaten. It is an extremely old type of food, described by Patrick Leigh Fermor in his book Mani — Travels in South Peloponnese. Ligo meli is a little thyme honey. Ligo ladhi is a little oil, from the sea of silvery olive groves covering the hills down to the shore.
Paximadi, sage, honey and olive oil. The recipe must have been there for thousands of years. Each one of those ingredients was already known in the days of Homer. They played a prominent part in the basic diet, the xirofagia ("eating-dry") that was the daily sustenance of Helladic islanders from the Bronze Age to the tourist invasion — a lifestyle that modern marketing techniques have made profitable through the so-called "Cretan diet". Let us not linger on that. I prefer to remember, through this age-old remedy, the story of that old Greek man who was asked by a Roman visitor how he got to remain so strong and so handsome at such an old age. This was his reply: "Olive oil and honey inside; olive oil outside."