Duck legs stuffed in dried cherries, sage, and wild rice came next set over a turnip purée. Just a little butter and cream were involved, along with some duck stock for good measure. Flavors come deep with duck, the cherries helping to ease. A Premier Cru Burgundy was called on, offering finesse and soft fruit.
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Dessert was simple, rustic, and true: a plum tart, done with deep purple fruit with no added sugar. Didn't need it. Well, didn't need the whipped cream either, but that didn't stop me. Coffee and cognac had no sooner hit the table before talk turned to next week's meal, all seafood done in a friends backyard, wood fired oven. Always amazes me how full bellies allow for such conversation. But, on it went, and on it will be... To the fire, the octopus, roasted peaches....JPG)
Not sure why it is, but tend to find myself more geeked about somebody else's "party". Don't get me wrong, July 4th will always find me cold beer-ing, b-b-q wolfing, and spitting out the requisite ooooh's and ahhhh's as the sky is mapped out in explosive streaks and color. But stateside for yesterday's Bastille Day found us with two dozen assembled for the Sunday supper, an abundance of food and wines, along with the chance to raise a glass or two to a good guy celebrating a special birthday. The blowing out of the candle marked a fine feast, but also offered a bit of a symbolic salute several thousand miles east to a France more than likely already asleep..JPG) |
| Roasted wild salmon with a sweet corn and summer squash gratin |
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Might be as simple as having more interest in celebrating someone else's special day than your own. In the case of hours spent with tables full, food and wine flowing, and French music in the air, we had the pleasure of raising glasses to a friend who was present, and those back in Charmé.+Bold.JPG)
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As Katie seared off thick cuts of tri-tip, the wine slid over to Bordeaux(Château Beaulieu). Paraphrasing advice once given about the region, "Find 'em young, or let 'em sit." With only a few years in the bottle, this Merlot, Cabernet, Cabernet Franc offered the fruit wanted for the ragoût of sweet peppers and the baked fromage frais that Katie had made that morning, while still holding soft tannins to match up with the beef; served thinly sliced and very, very pink. An initial thought of going with a deep Rhône was easily forgotten. In fact, stayed in the southwest for all three reds, dropping back down to Cahors for an eclectic blend of Cabernet Franc, Merlot, Gamay, and, of course, Malbec, for the cheese and salad. While the cows milk offering was firm and subtle, found my palate drawn to the Petit Gris goat from the Lorraine. Sharp and dense, it lingered, waiting for the wine..JPG)
Although a gratin is normally thought of as a savory dish, Kate's raspberry version hit home. The fruit was blanketed by vanilla custard, then dusted in sugar, and set under the broiler for a light charring. Fresh, rich, and gorgeous. No sooner had coffee and cognac been served, when we were drawn outside by the moon. With the focus and aide of friend Righter, our digital telescope was put into play. Candles in large bell jars sat lit about the garden, although the moon needed no help. Glasses were topped off, turns taken viewing. It wasn't until the last guest left not long before midnight that the reality hit of a too early flight south to family and Newport Beach. So be it! The first night was a good night, one to be repeated.
A challenge when going into a new town is the "where". As in where the hell do you buy anything around here? After arriving at 5:30 a.m. early in the week, we found ourselves in the central Nashville Farmers Market by about 7:30. While we would expand our scope around the city, the love and quality we found at Smiley's Farm, Barnes Produce, and the others made it easy to return daily. Warm crusty loaves of sour dough pulled each weekend morning from the wood fired oven, stacked along the counter at Bella Nashville, were an excellent find there as well. Normally known for their quality Napolitano pizza, the bread goes quickly. Emma was always kind to save enough for our needs.
Cooking for others has never stopped us from feeding ourselves, and strolling the neighborhood of our German Town digs provided some very good options, whether it was cocktails and coppa di testa under the strung lights on the terrace at Rolf and Daughters or tearing into wood fired gulf octopus bar side at City House. Yeah, barbecue figured prominently in the mix, from Edley's in the 12 South district to Martin's out in... Well, damn far out in the country, lets just say. Ate too much at both places, and don't feel bad about it at all! Perhaps the best "feed" we put on while there came via friend Hazem, who snagged us our first night in, taking us over to East Nashville and Lockland Table. In an otherwise quiet residential area of stately elegant homes sits this outpost, where we ate long and we ate well. From corn fritters, chicken paté and roasted bone marrow to trout and hanger steak frîtes, we had many reasons to not order the cheese plate nor the re-worked Bananas Foster. But... We did, all of which contributed to the "waddle" to our walk out to the car.
But, I've gotten ahead of myself... Before fully diving into summer, Katie wanted that classic taste of a French spring: morel mushrooms done in white wine, butter, shallots, and thyme over her toasted brioche. Finished it with some crème fraîche, a glass of a Marsanne-Roussane blend on hand. With mushrooms meaty and firm, the brioche helped to cut the richness of the dish. From there it was on to a mound of frisée tossed in a whole grain mustard vinaigrette, a poached egg set on top, strips of crispy lardon over everything! Add a bunch of blanched asparagus beside it, and a glass of a firm rosé from the Minnervois... Mmmm..JPG)
The cheese went from a mellow Boucheron to an intense Camembert, some arugula along with a Chinon(100% Cabernet Franc) joined in also. The "sweetie" was a cherry tart with toasted almond crust, a consolation for having to return from France before our Rainier tree could offer any ripe fruit. The cognac was notable in that it came from a female producer, Joan Brisson in Matha, a short drive from us. Solid producer, solid result, making for a good finish to the afternoon.+Deeper.JPG)
The damp seemed to make everything more green, the flowers and blossoming fruit trees exploded, and there was no shortage of snails. Sorry to those without the taste for them, but we seldom miss the opportunity to add to Suzanne's collection cage, an old garde manger where the mass of shells go from shelf to shelf in ghost-like fashion, dusted in the flower that will help to purge. For those that know, and I don't claim to be one of them, there are also mushrooms. Never fails to amaze how they can be found in both quality and quantity within reach. Back here in the Bay Area, when the time is right, there are porcini in the Oakland hills, chanterelles up the coast, and even the afore mentioned morels in the southern Sierra..JPG)
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Comme d'habitude, we buy and eat way too much dairy when we're back in Charmé, cheese of course, but also milk, yogurt, and even butter. Yes, the butter is alive! It does help to have a remarkable dairy farmer, Didier Moreau, so close his barn roof can be seen from the rear of our back field. Twice a day, morning and evening, he assembles the "girls" for milking. When we happened by one day's end to pick up a couple of liters, along with a kilo of his Dad's prized white asparagus, the milk funneled into waiting bottles was still warm from the cows. The smell was rich and sweet in the kitchen as two pots boiled on the stove with milk for the house. Katie passed on this, opting instead to head directly home to rennet, her cheese baskets, and the making of fromage frais. (Interesting note: The rennet can only be purchased through a pharmacy, where precise care instructions are verbally given by the staff.).JPG)
Good and good for you, all that bacteria doing the hard work to keep our bellies sound. When we came upon "live"butter at the Marché d'Aigre one morning, produced from a farm just outside of the nearby village of Villefagnan, we didn't hesitate to have a big chunk lopped off. Having the same rich silky texture we've come to expect in Poitou-Charente butter, there was also the added "medicinal" benefit. Even in France there's the need to be vigilant in securing a sound product, as seen recently by the rumblings out of Normandy(or more likely Paris) about discontinuing live culture camembert. So, clean up those farms that have become less exacting in their standards, tighten up inspections, but never let those gooey rounds fall prey solely to pasteurization. Otherwise... "To the baricades!"
In a flurry of smoke and tongs, lamb chops had their brief time atop the grill, care taken to ensure deep pink centers. Potatoes roasted in sea salt and cracked black pepper joined the plate, and fresh mint, thyme, parsley, and lemon zest set in olive oil was liberally spooned about. Unable to pass up delicate pea tendrils found at the morning's market, they too were grilled quickly, then tossed in a vinaigrette before joining the plate; smokey and warm, but still holding a nice crunchy bite. A Saint Joseph, 100% Syrah, provided the firm hand to handle the meat. So much so that I was reluctant to move on to a cru Beaujolais chosen for the cheese, yet...
