I am usually off on Mondays and yesterday, I was determined to do something positive about it. I mean, I feel the summer is disappearing like sand between my fingers, , a sad metaphor on life you might say but hey, that’s the way I feel. I was hoping, shall I say determined even, to head west for the day. I have been meaning to go back to the Burren in Co. Clare to take some pictures of wild orchids, since June now… No luck. Sadly, after looking at the Irish Weather forecast that morning, driving 2hrs under mediocre weather seemed to be a bit of a waste of everything; I sighed and went to plan “B”…
Bouffe: ( pronounce “Boof”) French slang for “Food” in general, family or friends gathering involving food… Like we say in Ireland: ” Quelle Surprise”.
“What do French people eat on Bastille Day?”… I was first asked this question during an interview on TV3 in the summer of 2002. I was clearly not prepared for this question, to the obvious disappointment of the interviewer ( who was also a weather man). ” Well sir, there is not really such a dish, a merguez or paté baguette while we all go drinking and dancing?”. That answer fell flat on its face; depending of the region, meals can probably be quite different. All I can remember is street food, we tend to go out, enjoy the fireworks and some music. In my case, we didn’t celebrate the whole thing too much to be honest, a bit like asking an Irish man if he celebrated St George’s Day… We are proud people, no offence.
Duck Confit
But if I was going to do something, it would probably be Duck confit. It taste of the South West, very versatile, with Sarlat potatoes, simply sliced spuds gently melting in duck fat, with a crush of garlic at the end and a hand full of freshly chopped parsley… Too hot for this? Shred the duck and include it in a salad of roots, spinach and a bit of walnut and blue cheese…
I remember the very first day I tried blue cheese. One remembers those things I guess or maybe I am one of those people who remember everything? Elephant Man my blue eyed girl calls me… It was one of this family Sunday lunches, maybe it was a roast, or paupiettes or even my mother’s legendary ragout… To be honest, I can’t recall. The main course was always followed with cheese, raw milk camembert for Mum, with a little bit of mustard on the side (don’t ask), and my father had a piece of Roquefort that he kindly shared with me. He even explained the mould that makes the blue, the penicillium, the fungus… What honesty! Not even scared…
Saturday night is a bit of a downer for me; spending nine hours talking about cheese, wines and other delicacies, advising and sharing recipes, debating about the weather, local news and gossips or the scheduled 5th end of the world since 2012. What I really like about my day job is the people; so colourful in so many ways, from so many different backgrounds, cultures and ideologies, I wonder sometimes if my food world landing was not just a mere excuse. After such a busy and intense – almost choreographed – day, when six o’clock comes, sitting at the wheel of my car, I can actually see the tumble weeds rolling across the road…
Every year in Ireland, something magical happen. Under the initiative of Birdwatch Ireland, each county around the Island celebrates the return of our migratory birds, all the way from Africa. The local avifauna seems to be the loudest, with our Robins, Tits, Blackbirds and the unusual Yellowhammers.
As a child, growing up on the south coast of Brittany, I remember how rare the winters with snow were. Like the native Inuit or Yupik around and within the polar circle, we have several words referring to rain but only one describing snow. It’s a native people thing I guess. Saying that, I get overwhelmed every time a heavy wintry shower makes landfall on the midlands of the isle of Ireland; finding an uncontrollable need to get out there. Geared up with my camera and fitted with recently purchased removable spiked snow boots (yes, I owe a pair), I got out there, taking it all in; “the heavy salted peanuts knowing a cool beer is waiting for you” syndrome, exposure to the elements knowing that some comfort food is waiting for you.
I used to know that French chef; arrogant, aggravating, a “je ne sais quoi” of rudeness and a pinch of sarcasm. The whole package. No country and no town were ever good for him, so his judgemental ways forced him to be of the nomadic kind. He rang me one day with the news I have been dreading: “Hello, how are you? Guess what, I am in Ireland!”… Great. Thankfully, I never had to work with him but we did share an interest for food and we met the odd times in the local pub. It wasn’t long before he started criticising the local cuisine. He had developed a particular hatred for Coleslaw, something that was alien to most French people then, but like bacon and cabbage, we had incredibly similar things! I pointed out that “Macedoine” was one of them, a medley of cooked carrots, peas and beans, mixed with lots of mayonnaise and served rolled inside a slice of ham ( now I think about it, it was pretty gross…). The other one, much closer was “remoulade”, thinly sliced strips of raw celeriac, served as a crudity starter; it delivered quite a punch of flavours. He shrugged his shoulders in dismissal and finished his pint.
My mother’s short enough life didn’t get off to a great start. Thinking about it, it didn’t end like a fairytale either, unless you count some of the Grimm Brothers’ work she loved so much, on technicality it qualifies as one.
Born a couple of years after the end of the Second World War, life was tough for most. Beautifully illustrated in Jacques Prevert’s poem “Barbara”, Brest had been levelled by the allies, as well as Lorient, the city where she was born. Raised by her grandmother, her own mum had gone for a brave fresh start in Paris. To make ends meet, my great Gran made pancakes while my mother would deliver them, on foot or with her bicycle. Sometimes, I believe, people would even come in the kitchen of the small dwelling to enjoy the notorious crêpes. The stories of this small enterprise gave my sister and I great entertainment at bedtime; the little girl, who through hardship by selling crêpes with her grandmother, grew up to become a teacher.
That was it. I finally got there, woken up from an uncomfortable sleep. The nasal call screech from the bus ‘speakerphones announced my arrival to the antechamber of the “Big North West”; after reading all the books, attended conferences and Dervish like audiovisual slide shows. My Bus Eireann ride was laboriously one point turning and reversing into its terminus allocated space; A skilled job well done. While the warning lights and the monotonic Morse code like reverse gear of my ride were still on, I took my green and yellow rucksack as well as a couple of unmatched travelling bags from the hold. It was late and pitch black; no amazing landscape I got drawn to a few months back, just the warning orange beacons of a 45 sitter on wheels, and the olfactory welcome of a turf and coal shandy, spewing from chimneys of the neighbouring terraces. I was only three hundred yards from my friends’ home, a safe house, a warm bed and a line in the proverbial sand that was going to be a brand new life. We all have to begin somewhere; Sligo Town was to be my Starting Blocks and I never looked back.
If I was to be asked about Irish Optimism, my left eyebrow would probably rise ½ an inch higher than it would normally sit. While my – normally placid – face would stare at my interlocutor, I would find very hard to swallow the fact that February 2nd is, to some, the beginning of springtime. I have, to my advantage, a strong case to present. Exhibit 1./ A giant poster of the Moon that saw me growing up. Exhibit2./ A light globe that has been at my bedside table for the best part of my youth… Exhibit3/. The fact that there is still a lot of snow on my townland and that the lovely lady from RTE TV Irish weather forecast, warned us that our area could reach a possible- 8c tonight; With a potential risk of snow. Call me weird, but when it comes to Spring, I am more of a March 20th kinda guy.
Hungry Breton 