Well apart from our National anthems, Bro Gozh ma Zadoù (Old Land of My Fathers) and Hen Wlad fy Nhadau (Land of my Fathers), Breton and Welsh also share a love for the auld leek. My rare Breton name, meaning “The Lanky” appears for the first time in 1641 in Ergué-Armel near Quimper… Some say that we might have come from “The land of song”, like a lot of other aborigines from Ireland and England who made their way across to Brittany for a new life since the 5th century.
What on Earth is or even are avaloù? Well nothing too exotic I am affraid, they are just “Apples” in Breton. But I should be careful… Apples are considered sacred in Brittany, there is even a ceremony in the west of the peninsula were an “apple tree” is paraded; Gwezenn an Anaon… “The tree of souls”. But for now, here is the recipe for my apple tart, made by my Great Grand Mother, Grand Mother and Mother… All adding a little something in the process!
“Fleá na bPratai” meaning Potato Festival…
A “Potato Festival” you said? I know, only in Ireland you might think? But the story is a little more complex than that I am afraid. It started in the summer of 1995; my girlfriend had been assigned for a five months placement in Galway Co. Council, water quality department, if you don’t mind, with the white lab coat and goggles… But enough with the romance here, I, had to find a job! Or actually design myself one. My ornithological and wildlife guide experiences wasn’t going to put food on the table, not in the “City of Tribes”, not on this Island, not for now. And before anyone puts anything on the proverbial table, we needed to find a place to live for the summer. 1995, the best, hottest and sunniest summer since ever… I am serious, people still speak about it! And as I am looking outside the window, they probably will do so for another twenty years!
Aaaahhh the joys of summer and the simplicity of its cooking… If there is a veg that was always present on the August table was the green bean, or, like we called it “haricot vert”. My mother and grandmother used to simply boil them for a while ( I like to leave them with a crunch so 5 min in boiling water will do). It often accompanied a pork loin roast, with tomatoes and roasted garlic. To be honest, I just enjoy them like so, with or without meat… With a crumble of cheese at the end. Nice…
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.
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…
Did you know that the first garden Strawberries were first cultivated in Brittany? Yes, I can say that with a proud face, squinty eyes and hair in the wind while staring at the horizon from the bow of my ship; a mixture of Clint Eastwood and Jacques Cartier, Breton explorer, Canada discoverer and Strawberry amateur who brought back some Fragaria virginiana in the hull of his ship… The rest is history.
Ah, summer… Cycling to the beach, sword fights with giant fennel batons, building a tree house (more like a bungalow really) in the shrubs across the house or hiking through the old salt marshes of Séné, July had just started, school was truly over and all these adventures made us all very hungry. There are three dishes that colours the memory of my blessed summers: Dad’s legendary tabbouleh, homemade tomato coulis and of course, my mother’s ratatouille. Not a week without, it has to have had an impact… Tastes and smells? Of course it has! The solid anchors of a happy childhood. Did you ever wonder why they call food comfort?
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…
Hungry Breton 