Hodgepodge in Epsom

It’s been more months than I like to count.

And a long time ago, before I lived in Paris and wrote in this space, I made an eggplant ragout with more things than you would realize. There was red wine and tomato chutney, thyme and basil, white wine vinegar and caramelized onions, garlic, fresh tomatoes and lastly, lemon and sultanas.

Then I moved house...

... and I heard this: “I’m happy with hodgepodge.”

And I was so relieved to hear that statement.

I took out my hand written recipe book. And from somewhere way before Jamie Oliver’s paprika, raisin and lamb shank amalgamation, and hidden between the traditional Italian Carbonara I learnt to make in Paris and the Vietnamese spring rolls I have recently embraced, I pulled out my old faithful eggplant medley.

We cooked soba noodles, and stirred cumin through homemade Greek yoghurt (yes this is the place I have moved into; where yoghurt is on tap and muesli is made every Sunday fortnight). We turned all the lights off, lit all the candles and opened a bottle of wine for our first flat dinner, two months after living together.

But then this morning I was taken back to my life in Hemmingway’s favourite city. I heard from a dear friend who tells me that Paris is missing the girl in the red coat, the one who wondered along the streets in autumn.

It’s strange really, not being there with you. The streets here aren’t nearly as grey and peculiar, and the language is far less beautiful. Everyone sounds unfamiliar and outspoken, and I can’t meet with you at Bread and Roses near the Luxembourg Gardens. But there is a mountain covered with sheep not far from my doorstep, creamy coffee bought from smiley baristas just three doors down, and a table filled with two wonderful women to cook for.

And so what I’m saying is that the adjustment has not been a bad one. But that I’m also not done with you, you who fill those grey concrete streets scattered with cigarette butts and the crusts left over from stale baguettes.

Slow Cooked Beef Amongst the Big Guns in Paris

I have been enjoying the use of my kitchenette in my apartment recently with the exception of one of my favourite night's in Paris thus far...

Unexpectedly whirly due to the single gin fizz I picked up on the way to the restaurant at a local bistro, which cost an excruciating 12 euros, I stepped off the metro in Bellville in the twentieth. Lightly influenced and sitting across from Frédérick, a Parisian food journalist, I asked him, “So how did you get into it all?” Frédérick’s smile was something to enjoy watching due to the absolute passion he had for his day job. “I just remember my grandmother. You know, it is so rare now in France to have two grandmothers who cook.” I remembered my own grandmother’s soggy carrots and I was starting to realize I was from the wrong country. “I have this memory of when I was three or four. I was out picking griolles in the forest,” I nodded because I prepare crates of these mushrooms each week, “and I picked one up and it smelt of dirt but it had a musty and at the same time, fresh scent and I just remember being amazed that this came from the ground. You can’t do that in France anymore, it’s really a shame, but our fruit and vegetables are just not as fresh as they used to be.”

Frédérick told me about how he had first come to this restaurant ten years ago as a guest of Pierre Hermé, one of Paris’ most well known chocolatiers. This was quite a moment for me. As he continued to set the scene of the evening I thought back to my walk to the restaurant. Rue de Belleville is what I call Chinatown hill. It is covered foot to top with Chinese restaurants. And yet where we where, just off the road, was an insanely traditional French restaurant with exquisite food and an accompanying wine list with wines from all over France. “She is in the kitchen,” Frédérick pointed to a lovely looking women with stiff brown hair pulled behind her as she leaned over the bar, “and her husband stays out here.”

Frédérick’s partner, my friend who had invited me to this evening, had told me over coffee once that Frédérick was the type of person to trail across Paris to get the perfect olive oil for a certain dish. And I knew right then in that moment that he was someone I would enjoy meeting. He pointed at my plate. “This was cooked for 6 hours. It is so appel d’offres,” he turned towards his partner. “How do you say it,” and he raised his hands in front of his face and touched his fingers together and then slowly drew them apart. “What do you mean?” She watched his hands. “You know, appel d’offres.” She looked at his hands. I looked at his hands. And then she said, “Oh you mean tender?” I love how different languages communicate words without knowing them. We are all connected through our mannerisms.

At the end of the night Frédérick stood up and then looking across the restaurant his checks raised and he called out, “Pierre! Ça va?” And then he introduced me to Pierre Hermé, a man worthy of his weight. And all I could think while leaving the restaurant was that I had just had one of my favourite meals in Paris, not because the food was just as he said, exquisite, not because of the full bodied wines form all over the country that I live in, and not even because I met one of the kings of pastry, but because I got to learn about some one who is important to a friend of mine and I got to hear about someone’s passion which I could entirely relate with.

A part from dinners in restaurants there have been breakfasts in bistros and breakfasts at home.

A typical French petit déjeuner at a bistro consists of baguette with comfiture of butter and jam.

A typical French petit déjeuner at my kitchenette table consists of baguette filled with butter and cubes of dark chocolate as well a croissant smothered in nutella.

Recently my kitchentte has also played with the remnants of my trip to Italy. These have been effortlessly carried out with appreciation for the only plant in my apartment. It is now raining in Paris. One of my favourite moments to be a part of. And I am about to start making a fish stew with langoustines and gambas and Cabillaud for this evening’s dinner.

Names were changed for the sake of privacy.

Florentine Favourites and Why I Should be Over for Dinner

“It feels a little strange that you haven’t been around for dinner recently.”

Over here there’s being away and living in Paris; adjusting to a life filled with genuine pastry; walking down streets that in themselves possess the notion of entertainment. There’s seeing new things; popping over to Africa; flying into Bologna; imagining living in Florence, a place filled with calm as well as city, rushing water as well as horses on cobbles, and the best biscotti and seafood spaghetti, that one’s mouth can not even strive to imagine.

I’ve even met this gorgeous boy.

And when she made that comment, she was responding to what I had told her; that living really is just spending time in your homes with you, it’s being a part of your lives so we can figure it all out together, it’s having a meal with you and your husbands, because that is the space I enjoy; being in all your presences.

Mother is here with me now. We have been doing these sorts of things, spending time and having meals together. We’ve eaten the most delicious dessert involving custard. It was called Grandmother, except that it was in Italian.

We had that seafood spaghetti I was talking about, the one outside the Duomo in Florence.

Then there was the swankiest coffee/sandwich/patisserie bar that I have seen in Italy with an Italian standing outside on his cell phone. It seemed appropriate considering our location and so we got the most vegetarian-Italian sandwich you could imagine; marinated aubergine, sliced tomato, soft white cheese and fresh basil leaves.

There was the hugest gelato cone one has ever held, which was surprising considering the bountiful amount of dairies I bought ice creams from growing up in New Zealand. Even more surprising was that the flavour I have most embraced so far has been mint with chunks of dark chocolate.

Then this man here…

He brought out an entire fish for us…

And he prepared it at our table…

And it was wonderful.

But not as wonderful as coming around to yours for dinner.

I knew that before I came here. I know that even more now. And so what I am saying is that it feels a little strange that I haven’t been a part of your lives recently.

And that I am looking forward to that dinner at your place, very much.

Never Too Appropriate to Eat Pasta in Florence

Sometimes when traveling with others you can get that feeling that internally sounds something like this; every day has been an occasion of exploring through someone else’s eyes. And in times like these I like to think that an amble on your lonesome through an ancient city is necessary. This ancient city that is not only wonderful because it is old and tells its history as you walk through it, but because the new has had to learn to live amongst the old as well.

I heard these guys say, as I strolled passed them yesterday looking up at the tops of the buildings, “I’ve seen that girl three times now.” And that is how long I wandered for, pottering along allies that tour guides didn’t walk down, staring up at roofs that were reaching out to each other from across the cobbles and stopping to look at images that seemed out of place against the stone and concrete and marble.

My walking took me to the end of the day which draw to a close over a glass of wine at a recommended Trattoria called La Taverna, only a petit walk from our hotel.

Here you will be genuinely surprised by the bread as it is very good. They also bring a selection of two olive oils to the table; extra virgin and chili. It is because of this understanding that I get along with the Italians; of course we want to dress our own salad. And it was the best looking salad I have ever seen in Italy. Fluffed up in this platter of magic was ripped radicchio, fresh pieces of tomato, shredded mozzarella, salted capers, anchovies and kalamata olives, with a healthy amount of extra virgin olive oil and salt added by yours truly.

Following this brilliant amalgamation was another knock out. It hadn’t crossed my mind before to cook pasta in stock, not water, then at the last minute to stir through sautéed aubergine and tomato with fresh tuna. A little glug of chili olive oil, sprinkle of pepper, and this very quickly became the best meal I have eaten on this trip.

In Italy you must pay to be seated in a café or restaurant. That is why you see people standing outside or beside the cashier with a beer and often even holding a fork and a plate of dessert.

La Taverna

Via Cimabue, 1r

055.234.25.55

Apparently Italy's Food Capital...

It’s what they say about it, this place of towers and seven churches all in a row, that this is the city embodying the title; Italy’s food capital. And so of course it required a visit. However, august pilfers the evidence for this confident claim. Because here in this hot summer month, corrugated iron doors hide these restaurants, cafes and markets as all the pure breed-Bolognians desert the city for a more noble summer spent by the seaside. And we, stomachs half empty, step out off our Ryanair flight, exclusive of everything between take off and landing, and into a food starved and culinary desolate concrete maze of solace and quiet after a hectic holiday in Morocco.

We managed to catch a glimpse to what this town looked like in January and February and so on. It’s their thing here; like the baguette walk and nibble is to France, the hanging dried meat on the bone is to Italy, from the ceilings and walls and staircases, anything with height. And we’re ok with this, you would be too as long as you could gladly endure the intoxicating smell of proschuitto in every deli.

We asked for a restaurant, one that was open, that they would recommend, and they sent us to Ristorante Cesarina. Why? On looking back we’re not entirely sure, except that they kick it old school there, with male servers in penguin suits who bring your meals out on a table-clothe-lined trolley and add the final touches in front of you.

Mother ordered risotto ai funghi porcini (porcini mushroom risotto).

And myself; tortellini di saggina e ricotta (tortellini stuffed with ricotta in a burnt butter sage sauce).

It wasn’t everything you would want it to be. However, when you ask for just one glass of wine they certainly do you justice by filling your already over sized bulbous bowl right to the top.

Bologna’s medieval canal

In Italy’s capital of food it is only appropriate to create your own gastronomic tour, even with the very little ‘open’ opportunities considering the season. Walking shoes were tied and maps pulled out and we found more hanging meat…

and more cheese than you could throw a stick at (that was for you Jo), including this incredibly large but appropriate bowl of mozzarella.

And in between the in-and-outs of delis and cheese chops, and after last night’s heavy pasta meal, we sat down to a picnic under the arches of Piazza San Stefano, the most beautiful piazza in Bologna, with a couple of our finds from our gastronomic adventure. Goats cheese, ewes cheese and cows cheese, avocado, cherry tomatoes and Italian bread that was almost worth justifying, as it is difficult to find quality Italian bread.

All was followed by a Mai Thai and an antipasti platter of mini brushetta and sticks of halloumi, cherry tomatoes and cured ham whilst sitting outside seven churches all in a row.

Moroccan Bucket List

“How lovely to be in a city without a local drunk yelling malicious remarks wrapped up in a French accent,” has been a thought that is playing itself around my head since I’ve been here. The only time one can even see the word beer here is when it is written into the phrase; Non-alcoholic Beer, found only on the menus of high class restaurants, aka, Elite Cafe. It is in these occasions that one chooses a Pineapple, Citron and Mint Cocktail, sans l’alcool, bien sur.

There has been a Moroccan Food Bucket List that may have been created a few months ago. And there has been a pen that has taken rather fervently to that fine piece of well-researched paper. It started with Lamb Tagine and was closely followed by Fresh Dates, which we crossed off without lingering. And then my pen made three new lines this evening. So what I am saying is that it was always going to be a pretty outrageous night. And so we sat here and regarded for close to three hours:

Over looking donkeys pulling tourists; dark men with whitened stubble lying in carts; evening food markets selling Moroccan salads of minced tomato and red onion; a casual young man with a lead that tied to a monkey in a green singlet; women walking in black robes holding syringes filled with henna; and we sat there listening, not so pleasantly, to the music played by men on silk carpets charming their slothful snakes.

After dinner, my pen drew through Tagine with Prunes and Almonds.

And dangling nicely underneath that was Lamb Kefta.

I’ve still to decipher the triumph or defeat in this last line ruled; Sweet Moroccan Patisseries. However I know it’s not fair, I live in Paris.

The triumph lies in the comparison of this outrageous evening with last night’s meal; which was down from this terrace, right out amongst the well walked on stone tablets, under those white lights, passed the wee monkey on his lead, at the beckoning of the boys biding for your choice of dinner and nicely packed in to the rows of tables at the evening food markets.

If you come here, to this place of world-renown tagines and where everything has been well paid for when it comes to attention to detail, do not choose what we chose to devour at these hectic markets of restaurants on carts.

However, from the bottom of my heart I would recommend to you the meat or chicken skewers, as they were the matters of order envy towards the people pushed up beside us.