North or South you won’t go wrong. Just enjoy!
Wine Paring – Poulet à l’Andalouse
30 Wednesday Jun 2010
Posted Are you from Gib?
in30 Wednesday Jun 2010
Posted Are you from Gib?
inNorth or South you won’t go wrong. Just enjoy!
27 Sunday Jun 2010
Chicken Sautéed with Shallots, Garlic and Cognac
25 Friday Jun 2010
Posted Columbia Valley, Coteaux d'Aix en Provence, Val de Loire
in
24 Thursday Jun 2010
Posted fantasy, thermale cure, Vichy, WWI
inBeyond a Vichy Cure
The moment had finally come when, for once, I listened to my Doctor and agreed that I must leave Paris and head south to Vichy. It’s not because I was no longer wanted by the City of Lights, far from it, I was leaving for my liver’s sake. Leave as soon as possible; those were pretty much his words not leaving too much open to interpretation.
When doc Alain suggested a “Vichy cure” I almost laughed in his face, well actually I did laugh but not to his face. I asked if he was suggesting I work my way through 2 or 3 cases of bottled Vichy water or maybe Bordeaux as a cure to my feeling run down, a bit out of sorts and a few other assorted ailments that seemed to have surfaced. It was the doctor’s turn to laugh (tie ballgame) and no, Monsieur Smart-ass Americain, au contraire. This little bit of a doctor with his neat gray crew-cut and grey closely trimmed mustache gave him a certain military air about him; in fact he had a picture of father on the desk a silver haired military officer with a chest full of ribbons. The picture was taken in 1918 just before the end of the war. In any event, military doctor Alain was suggesting that I present myself at a health institute, one that he knew personally and would vouch for, in Vichy. The doctor earnestly hoped for a miracle.
My good and learned, white coated friend was of course leaning on years of accumulated medical experience with the curative powers inherent in Vichy Celestine. Like thousands of doctors before him, doc Alain firmly believed in the magic of the “waters” which contain Alkaline salts such as sodium bicarbonate, calcium and magnesium carbonates and other trace amounts of chemical constituents commonly found in ground waters and near nuclear plants (just kidding). The Vichy cure has long been prescribed for chronic complaints of the liver and digestive organs, kidneys, gout, perhaps lost memory, bad politics and more. It seemed to be right up my alley. I was going from the proverbial frying pan into the spa.
I decided to spare myself a little aggravation by not driving the A10 south to Orléans opting instead for the TGV, high speed train. It was by a saner choice and there was no one standing on their horns and shaking a fists as they whizzed by me. On the train I read all about Vichy and the curative power of the waters. I wanted to get some insight. I knew enough about Vichy and the war but not about Vichy and the curative waters.
Vichy is located in central France, on the banks of the River Allier. As far back as 50 BC, people have been hopping in and out of the Vichy waters and touting their health effects. The Romans came along and built formal baths because they are a people obsessed with clean bodies and bath daily. Once they lounged in the baths for a few years, they realized the curative powers and went on to conquer a few more continents. But it seemed that the waters were really made famous during the reign of Louis XIV who regularly had bottled Vichy water carriaged up to Versailles. On the train, dozing, I had this vision of a team of 16 horses pulling a long carriage emblazoned with a red Vichy for Life logo on the side. The driver dismounting in his working blues, a little ID patch on his shirt with Bernard in neat script, buckled shoes and white stockings as he begins to wheel the first of many cases of Vichy into the royal Xanadu. “Yo butler is the King around, I need a signature?” he would ask. Sometime later, after his delivery, the driver is seen relaxing with a smiling wench who appears to be spilling out of her, whatever they spilled out of back then, and he throws back a cold one and looks directly into the camera: “Vichy: Not Just for Kings Anymore!” Scene fades away. I wonder if Madison Avenue would be interested.
The Institut’s grounds were spectacular and immaculate, neat as a pin with nothing out of place. The lawns looked trim and well kept. Whoever had the maintenance contract was bringing in beaucoup Euros. I looked around the gardens hoping to catch a glimpse of the other guests who, like me, were here for health reasons be they physical or spiritual. I imagined I would see someone playing a spirited game of croquet or boccie ball, perhaps enjoying a nice therapeutic walk or possibly having tea in a shaded part of the garden somewhere. I was wrong. I saw no one, rien, personne. I knew somebody must be around as I heard the faint sound of music floating from somewhere as if being played on one of those old Victrola’s one sees in the movies. I stopped and listened for a moment. It almost sounded like an early rendition of Maple Leaf Rag by Scott Joplin but very scratchy, an old record obviously and not a high quality recording either. Obviously the action was taking place in the house where they were probably enjoying a nice dinner, good local food and wine or possibly enjoying a spa treatment. I caught up to nurse Flo just as we reached the front of la grande maison, a massive stone structure which must have been built around the turn of the century. If I had seen a few “Grognards” – those old soldiers from WWI -lounging around the gardens, or maybe some “flappers” it would have been quite fitting and I would not have been the least surprised. The house had a certain look and feel to it as some old houses often do. I believe houses can talk to you and one can feel the energy -good and sometimes bad; I truly believe that and I’m not even in the real estate business. In this case, I sensed a lingering sadness which seemed to cling as tightly to the house as did the vines; refusing to relinquish its past to the present. Looking up at la grande maison there were three floors, each with large bay windows overlooking the courtyard and the gardens beyond. I imagined it was a wonderful view. The last set of windows on the very top floor, all the way to the right, were shuttered tight as a drum which threw the whole picture out of balance. As a result, one’s eyes gravitated to that side of the house. I thought I remembered seeing those shutters open with the lace curtained windows when I peered through from the front gate. I was obviously mistaken. Four marbled steps led to a set of double French doors each with heavy opaque glass and before I could pull down the intricate brass door handle, Nurse Flo unlocked the door and without a word, ushered me inside. As she left, I said Merci Beaucoup, Madame and was greeted with a vacant stare that looked through me not at me, as if I didn’t exist. I’m not in the hospitality business but it seems to me that first impressions along with a friendly and helpful staff can make or break even the bests of hotels or restaurants for that matter. I decided I would have a word with the management.
Well, I had arrived, safe and sound and would make a call from my room once I was checked-in. I thought I heard a door close, a key turn and the sound of footsteps coming down.
23 Wednesday Jun 2010
Posted Chicken Sautéed with Shallots, Garlic
inThis recipe, adapted in part from Patricia Wells wonderful Bistro book, is a solid first cousin to the Poulet aux Quarante Gousses d’Ail a spectacularly tasty dish that I made a while back. The house, having finaly aired out from forty cloves of garlic dancing around and having thoroughly rid myself of all my garlic necklaces, I believe I am now ready for the next perfumed onslaught, this time with a battalion of 60 échalotes or shallots which have deep and lasting medicinal value, something like French wine. Yes, I did say 60 and you probably already have your gas mask on, in the trenches and ready for the whistle to go over the top. Who followed that last thought? This blog, after all, is all about cooking with a sense of history gently folded in and more than a few dashes of stories – real or otherwise; so I beg your understanding, kind indulgence and other such nonsense that would lead you to think, well, that I care. Just kidding of course.
20 Sunday Jun 2010
Sautéed Veal Scallops with Brown Tarragon Sauce
18 Friday Jun 2010
Posted Côte de Beaune Villages, Chino, Gigondas, Samur
inSautéed Veal Scallops With Brown Sauce Estragon
Now who would have thought that a little veal and ‘ol Estragon himself could cause such a flurry of activity in the vineyards? Well I for one am surprised but then again you don’t have to get up that early to fool me. Just simple folk, bringing a little bit of French Bistro cooking to both family and friends -both still remain to tell a tale – which is a good sign for me, I think. This meal is going to be a beautiful marriage, in every sense of the word, and what’s even better is that it’s not going to be a shotgun marriage with Papa and his itchy trigger finger –hmmm, just like hunting lapins! We are gathered here today to bring this lovely piece (of veal) together with this wonderful flavor of Tarragon aka Estragon on the Continent. Like any festive occasion you pull your hair out over the selection of wines to choose from. This is no different. I have laid out a couple of wines for your humble consideration but I would be hard pressed not to go with any one of these actually. Now remember Estragon has that special and quite distinct flavor (not always a winner with some folks, so just in case prepare a kids table next to the adult table.) So you need a wine that’s going to keep up with Estragon and not run over the veal and brown sauce. How difficult to choose and how wonderful a problem.
Les Vins de Sélection
Bourgogne –Côte de Beaune Villages is a different appellation. Wines from all the Côte de Beaune area can substitute their local appellation with this regional type of appellation. This light fruity red wine is a great selection.
Vallée du Rhône – A Gigondas wine is robust, well-balanced and aromatic. At the risk of repeating myself, this wine can be seen as an alternative to that Pope and his expensive new Château.
17 Thursday Jun 2010
So I read from my notes now:
The Food: All is laid out on the grand table in the dining room. Amazing what good help can do. What do have to eat?
East meets west in Paris with smoked chicken marinated with Chinese black tea and spices then served on a bed of lettuce with Asian chilli sauce, soy ginger sauce and lime. For a moment I was transported to another continent. Chilli and ginger sauces and lime with the smokey flavored chicken. I had to review this dish several times in order to fully appreciate the complexity of East meets West.
The Drinks were equally impressive and if you hung around the bar long enough you might even make it through the entire sampling. I could not. Raymond had told me that he was planning to offer his guests a walk through the vineyards of France. I think he may have succeded. I will just list a few of what I remember as being top of the line.
The Wine Selections:
Now about the guests? First a drink.
15 Tuesday Jun 2010
If you are tired of waiting for Estragon, fear not the little dragon has arrived.
Sautéed Veal Scallops with Brown Tarragon Sauce
Ingredients
12 veal scallops, boneless 3/8 in. thick
3 Tb shallots
2 Tb oil
½ cup dry white wine or 1/3 cup vermouth.
1 Tb fresh tarragon
1 cup beef bouillon
2 Tb butter
1 Tb cornstarch blended with 1Tb water
Directions
Dry scallops thoroughly, the meat will not brown as well if damp.
Cover and heat for 4 minutes without boiling.
Remove to a platter. Swirl 2 Tb butter into the sauce. Swirl in 1-2 Tb fresh minced tarragon. Spoon sauce over the veal.
Serving suggestions: Serve with rice, noodles, sautéed potatoes and peas or green beans.
14 Monday Jun 2010
Principal Inspecteur Lambert could smell it. Much like fish gone bad in the heat of Provence. He didn’t know how or why but he felt it in his professional gut that this investigation spelled trouble. He’d been on the force long enough to know when something was heading south and in this case he thought it already had. Something didn’t feel right. Not that he hadn’t held his nose on more than one investigation that was, after all, part of business, you expected it, it came with the territory down here: beautiful people with far too much money for their own good; much of it going up their noses or to support various non-civic oriented amusing distractions. Each year he saw more and more and each year it got worse, it got uglier, nastier and more violent. Lambert had seen his share of ruthless crimes on victims both young and old, bodies dumped in almost every imaginable place from Nice to Cannes and back and that was just for his little part of the coast. Murder, drugs, ruthless gangland slayings as well as nasty crimes of passion; it was all part and parcel of that seedy underbelly that framed his world and his professional career as an officer of the law. If ever there was a good time for him to retire it was right, right at this moment and he should have handed in his badge and walked away. But he didn’t.
This little affaire was different. One thing he knew for sure was that for one reason or another, it had somehow caught the attention of Paris and was now on someones radar and whoever that “someone” was, they seemed more than a little interested in this case and the late Monsieur Moshberg. Within twenty four hours of taking over from the Municipal Police, Lambert took a call from a “Monsieur Bertrand” who identified himself as being with the Ministre de la Défense “Direction Innovation” a rather benign sounding name. Not the Police Nationale or the Gendarmerie Nationale as he would have expected but the Ministre de la Défense. Bertrand could not have been more polite, very polite, almost too polite as if the next words out of his mouth might be was under arrest or regrettably, would be facing a firing squad. Bertrand expressed his admiration of Lambert as an officer of the law with a sterling service record, all above reproach, someone who evidently had worked long and hard to ensure the safety of the citizens of la Republique Française; and so close to retirement especially with that lovely little retirement home. Bertrand concluded, he must indeed be looking forward to a quieter life. Lambert felt the unmistakable squeeze of a pro and took note of this calculated politeness. Why did the Ministre de la Défense want to play in his back yard and why these veiled insinuations and who in the hell was this Bertrand? Lambert thought most likely here was some slick little bureaucrat who had nothing better to do then screw around with people and their lives, someone an over-inflated sense of self-importance and probably at this very moment, angling how to take some beach time and enjoy the sights. Maybe, Lambert thought, the stiff in the morgue was perhaps related to one of those slow moving creatures who would, on occasion, slug their way down south to Cannes or Nice and pretend to be on important matters of state when all they wanted was to find a young Russian beauty for a long work-related weekend. He’d seen enough of them and sadly more catch-and-release than putting them behind bars. Yes, more was coming he could smell it, he could sense it; a cop’s gut never lies. Things were starting off on the wrong foot and this was not going to be a marriage made in heaven.
As expected, Lambert was advised that Bertrand was coming down for a full briefing. His boss already knew it, in fact everyone it seemed in his jurisdiction knew about the second coming except for Lambert and maybe his dear wife. He would check that. The way he figured, Paris, having been caught once again perhaps with their proverbial pants down, screamed at someone in the Ministry of Defense to make it right yesterday who then screamed to someone in a Bureau tucked away somewhere who then picked up the phone and screamed at his boss who then directed him to bend over backward for Paris and not hold back on any level of cooperation “we can’t be too thorough on this one, I assure you, Lambert.” There are certain things that are guaranteed to always flow downhill and Lambert felt he might be the one at the bottom of the hill, arms wide open to catch it. Professional cooperation on the investigation, yes fine of course, this meant “Bertrand of Paris” could flash his special security badge at Lambert and stamp his foot like a two year old or petty bureaucrat whatever shoe fits and he would be expected to run for coffee. If Bertrand wanted to be a real salaud he could make his life miserable. Some traits in human nature come naturally others are developed, over time into a real skill. Lambert knew that.