A Fine Meal...

 Under a tangerine sky, the last of the day slipping into the Pacific below, Katie and I recently stepped into Chez Panisse, the venerable Berkeley restaurant. We left very happy.

(http://www.chez-gautier.com)

"Rock Soup"...

 For those familiar with the culinary fable "Rock Soup", a story that speaks of how a weary, hungry traveler is able to convince the inhabitants of a small village to contribute what they can spare to his offering of water and a stone, the making of soup can be easy. Little more than an onion, a bit of butter (or olive oil), and some of whatever vegetable is in season are all that's needed to create a satisfying warm pot. You can dress it up in numerous ways, but the base itself need not be complicated.

 San Francisco and the rest of the West Coast have had it relative easy this Winter compared to those further east, even going so far as to inspire firing up the grills only a couple of weeks ago. This all changed severely this past week as extensive rain swept through the Bay Area, giving way at times to hail and even some snow. A perfect time for a hardy soup or two. I couldn't resist a simple favorite of pureed cauliflower topped with a little mound of roasted golden beets. Just softened an onion in a cube of butter over medium heat, added the head of cauliflower (broken into small segments), covered with some  parchment paper, and let it "sweat"; slowly extracting the moisture of the vegetable, densifying the flavor, and making all more tender. Once soft to a pairing knife, added cool water to cover (using a chicken or vegetable stock would also work well), and simmered until the liquid came to temperature, then pureed with a hand mixer. Roasted the beets in a little butter, olive oil, salt, and pepper, while saving the green tops which were then sauteed in garlic and olive oil. When chopped and combined, the two made a nice topping for the silky white soup. A drizzle of olive oil over all, and... done.
 Soup can be made with nearly ANYTHING. Zucchini, broccoli, mushrooms, cardoons, celery root... Think it, and you can make it. Once set, a recipe can be played with by endless variations... some white wine or dry vermouth; slowly roast the vegetables first to further reduce the natural liquid, and thus intensifying the flavor; or come up with a topping to beak up the routine, etc. As to this last thought, Katie's pureed fennel soup with a crostini topped in Dungenous crab meat tossed in olive oil, lemon juice, and diced chive. In the midst of a great crab season, we use it whenever possible. (Often time's just covering the coffee table in newspaper, and tearing into the beauties!)

 A couple of day's into the storm, with hail bouncing off the roof tops that form part of our city view, Katie went all in: A hardy split pea soup with ham hock.  The result was rich and thick, chopped carrot and onion hidden about the peas, chunks of the smokey pork a treat when found. Little else to do but crack open a bottle of stout, and slice up a dry white cheddar. Soup... It is a good thing. (Recipes on request.)

(http://www.chez-gautier.com)

Of Protests and Lunch... France (Fall Sessions 2010)

 

Time for lunch! 

 Late one morning during the October trip, we made our way down to Angoulême to pick up our niece Kara, a warm addition to mark the close of another fine visit in the countryside. It was her first time in France, and we were anxious to show as much as her limited time would allow. Thus, we were taken a bit back when she called saying her train had been halted on the tracks, just outside a small town I knew to not be very far away. It soon became apparent that there were people laying on the rails, an off shoot of the labor strife that France had been dealing with across the country for several weeks. We'd been relatively untouched, only one day having had to search longer than usual for a functioning gas station. As we rolled into Angoulême's tiny regional gare that day we were more amused than shocked to find not only protesters, but also helmeted, shield carrying riot police, most of whom appeared much younger than they probably were, and not happy at all to be in the present situation.
 Always firmly on the side of any people's right to freely express themselves, we did, however, have a large interest in getting Kara safely in our presence. This seemed in doubt, as an older contingent of police in plain clothes (as much as "acid washed" jeans can be called plain clothes) had shuttered the station to prevent further bodies ending up on the rails. As the stand off stretched into the second hour, a bit of cultural magic took place: lunch! The manager of the café de la gare arrived with boxes of baguettes, cheese, saucisson, wine, and water, telling all who would listen that it was after noon, and as such clearly past time for lunch. On cue, all signs and placards were put down, hands quickly filled with food. The shutters rattled up, allowing for us to slide into the station where four TGV arrived in rapid succession, bodies flowing out as seldom seen in the small space. Somehow we spotted Kara, before bumping and winding our way through the crowd to the car park. It was not lost on us that each of the police seemed to also have lengths of baguettes stuffed full with meat and cheese, evidently an offering made evenly to both sides.
 That was enough to inspire us, as we took to the old, walled part of the medieval city for sandwiches of thick sliced ham and gooey Camembert, cold draft Kronenbourg's within reach. Warmed by a shaft of Autumn sun, we sat on the cobbled side walk before the grand market structure whose glass and iron work reflect the signature of the building's designer, Gustave Eiffel (He of the "Tower" fame.). We had a good laugh over the "drama", and decided on another beer before heading off, choosing to take the "long way" home. Once free of the city, the landscape had a quieting affect, a portrait of the season: Fields being turned by farmers appeared like ground coffee in various hues, broken at intervals by "islands" of woods vibrant in leaves of turning color, all washed in a  warm light. A good thing to share.

(http://www.chez-gautier.com)

"Special Breakfast"... France (Fall Sessions 2010)

 Not sure about that old "most important meal of the day" thing, but I do enjoy a good breakfast. In France, much like in the States, we keep it fairly simple: rich dark roast coffee with a bit of warm milk, whatever fresh fruits are in season, grains like a muesli or steel cut oats, and some yogurt (preferably "live culture"). Oh, there's always room for exceptions if confronted by a warm, buttery pain au chocolate, flaky chausson au pomme, or some other equally difficult to pass up boulangerie offering. Depending on where we are in the world, a steaming basket of dim-sum, a hot bowl of noodles, or maybe (considering what went on the night before) it's a large batch of menudo that's needed.

 One cold morning at the end of October, Katie surprised me with a "special breakfast", so named for a tradition by our sister-in-law Sarah signifying a change from the norm for her brood of three little one's. In this case it was to mark another year of my life, and thus I was treated to veal sausage with morrel mushrooms we'd bought the day before from a very good charcutier in Cognac set upon a bed of braised escarole, the last of our dear neighbor Suzanne's grape tomatoes which Kate had roasted, all topped with a poached egg (kindly contributed from Suzanne's chickens). Some tartine to soak up the bright golden, runny yolk, and I was set. Sitting by a popping fire, there was little else needed to make me happier.

 By mid-morning the sun had well warmed the yard, and it was time to get busy pruning the roses,  cleaning flower beds, and cropping down the lavender. The sound of a tractor making it's way up from the village gave me reason to pause, as it's customary to give a wave to any friend/neighbor who passes. The sight of Monsieur Ives, a remorque brimming in log cut oak, was a welcome sight. With unseasonably cold weather expected for the coming week along with guest arrivals, we'd made a request of the village's go to guy for firewood. Charming and vibrant at 70-something, he'd suggested a "step" (about a cord) of old wood for the Fall, and a couple more of younger to cure for next Spring. He and I made short work of it, stacking the lengths at a fevered pace, me determined to not to be outdone by Ives who worked comme vingt ans (as if still twenty!); a country phrase that never fails to make me smile. The only regret was that it was no where near the noon church bells, and thus difficult to justify a pre-lunch Ricard. He announced one more delivery promised before the mid-day break, and straddled the purring '64 tractor, offering me an approving nod to it's American make. With that he was gone, and I reached for the shears. (Recipes on request.)

Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com