A Reminder of Home

A Reminder of Home

     I was a child in the 70's.  I remember playing in the cupboard with my mother's fondue set, but I can't say I ever remember tasting the bubbling cheese mixture that came out of the pot.  When fondue was fashionable in our house, I wasn't exactly a connoisseur of cheese. If it wasn't melted in a sandwich, I wasn't interested.

     These days, things have changed.  Three of my top favorite things are cheese, wine, and bread.  So, to mix those together and serve them in a mountain setting, another of my favorite things, sounded like heaven to me.

     "Let's hike first and lunch later," Patrick suggested.  He was already 20-feet ahead of me and racing to the start of the trail. He leaned forward and marched with his arms pumping by his side.  By the time I had opened my mouth to reply, he had already doubled the gap between us.  I quickened my pace to catch up.  His enthusiasm in the mountains can be overwhelming and hard to keep up with.

     The Matterhorn presided over the scene. Clunky metal bells clanged from the tan and white dairy cows that grazed in the fields, flavoring their milk with sunshine for the forthcoming cheese they would produce.  Our goal was the timber-hewed chalets that loomed in the distance.  We wound our way over the rocky path, passed green fields abloom with wild flowers.  The Queen Anne's lace and buttercups reminded me of home, yet I felt like I stepped into the pages of a Heidi book I read as a child.  I half expected to see a shaggy St. Bernard come bounding over the hills carrying a flask of whiskey attached to its collar.

     It wasn't long into the hike when our stomachs loudly complained that it was time for lunch.  The chalet in front of us was a two-storied A-frame house with window boxes full of red geraniums and a front patio to sit and enjoy the heat of the day. A chimney billowed smoke into the clear blue sky inviting us in.  Our choices were simple.  A man grilled meats in the corner under a willow tree or a woman in the kitchen would send out a fondue.

     "One of each," we both agreed. It seemed like the thing to do.

     Ice formed on the outside of the steins of beer.  Parched from the hike, the frost did not even melt before we had finished our first one.  The second round came with our food.  And there it was; my mother's fondue set.  A heavy red pot sat bubbling above a blue flame.  All of the sudden, I could see my mother in her corduroy bell-bottomed pants and paisley shirt pulling the stand from the cupboard. It was the grown-ups party she prepared for.  We, the children, would have spaghetti.

     I picked up the skewer and stabbed at the basket of crusty bread for my first taste of fondue, some thirty years later.  I lowered it into the bubbling cauldron of cheese, stirring and coating the bread at the same time.  The smell of melted cheese reminded me of pizzas baking in the oven.  The mixture of Swiss cheeses strung from the pick like a waterfall.  I wound the strand round and round like a spool of wool, finally breaking the thin string and able to pop the whole thing in my mouth.

    Comfort overwhelmed my senses.  The warm cheese, the flavor of the wine with just a hint of nutmeg, the chewy bread.  Although, I had never tasted it at home, I felt like I was being transported back to a time when fondue was hip and chic.  It was a time when food meant little more to me than a chance to gather with family at the table and tell the days stories.  And sitting in that chalet, under the warmth of the mountain sun, that is just what Patrick and I did.

    It was the perfect meal for a day in the Swiss Alps and a perfect reminder of home.

Cheese Fondue

1/2 pound grated Emmenthal cheese

1/2 pound grated Gruyere cheese

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 clove garlic

1/2 cup white wine

1/2 cup hard cider

1 tablespoon lemon juice

1 tablespoon calvados, or brandy

12 teaspoon dry mustard

1/4 teaspoon white pepper

pinch of nutmeg

2 loaves baguette

    In a small bowl, coat the cheeses with cornstarch and set aside. Rub the inside of a ceramic fondue pot with the garlic clove, then discard the clove.

    Over medium heat, add the wine, cider, and lemon juice to the pot. Bring to a simmer.  Gently stir the cheese into the simmering liquid to melt.  Stir in the calvados, dry mustard, white pepper and pinch of nutmeg.  Remove from heat and place above fondue flame.  Adjust the heat so the cheese warms but does not boil over the flame.

    Cut the baguette into bite-sized chunks.  Spear with fondue forks and dip onto melted cheese.

Makes 6 servings.

Comfort Food

     My mother is a trouper.  Over the years, I have dragged her to dinners that consisted of raw tuna, when she had never had anything but canned before, and spicy curries from countries she had never heard of.  She would smile and eat what was in front of her, when I knew she would feel more at ease with a chicken breast of a plate of spaghetti.  And although, it all seemed normal to me, I knew the meals tested her comfort level.

     Now, she was in France for ten days and we were stretching all of her boundaries.  I had signed us up for a day of cooking lessons in a French home.  We had started early that morning at the market in Nantes, Brittany.  My instructor, Lars, wound us through stalls pointing out baskets of mushrooms cultivated in the surrounding caves and misshapen tomatoes, red and ripe, picked the day before from the vine.

     "These are the last of the summer peaches," he told us.  They were smushed as flat as a skipping stone; a different variety than mom bought at home, but not so foreign that she couldn't recognize it.  So far, it had all seemed familiar and mom was enjoying herself, that is, until we got to the corner stall.

     There was a line of little old ladies hunched over the table blocking our view.  Neither of us was sure what we would find on the table.  I was the first to spot the proprietor's fare.  I saw, registered, and turned to block, but it was too late.  Mom's face had already corkscrewed to one side.  I could see the vein in her neck bulge.  On the table was a white plastic bucket, no different than one you would mop the floor with.  The bucket itself was not the problem.  It was what was inside.  The bucket was full of shiny black eels slithering over and around each other like slimy snakes.  I watched as mom stole one more, quick glance.  At the same moment, one of the eels lifted his head above the others and opened his mouth to breathe.
 
     "We'll take two," Lars said.

     "I'll wait for you over there." Mom turned on her heel and marched directly out of the market area.  I couldn't blame her.  I stayed to witness the slaughter and skinning, but only out of politeness.  This was stretching my limits too.

     Once we reconvened with mom, we headed to Lars' high-ceilinged wrought-iron terraced apartment to start our lesson.  Lars has been trained in Sweden, but had lived in France for the past eighteen years.  His face lit up as he spoke about French food and creased in concentration as he bent his tall frame over the stove to study the pots.

     "I have a treat for you today," he said in his half Swedish/half French accent. "Do you like frogs legs?"

    Mom was silent.

     "I do," I said, looking nervously at my mother.  She wasn't exactly blanching, but she also wasn't beaming with excitement.  "I rarely eat them.  They aren't exactly...umm...common at home."

     "A treat then."  Lars clasped his hands together in delight.  We both looked over at mom.

     "A treat," she said, with a little less enthusiasm.

     But, as I said, she was a trouper.  All afternoon we chopped, and stirred, and talked, and learned.  Lars taught us how to make local buckwheat crepes, and instructed mom as she stood by the stove stuffing them with ham, grated cheese and eggs.  He switched back and forth from talking in depth about cuisine with me to explaining the history of food in the area with mom.

     "Have you ever tasted homemade vinegar?"  It shouldn't have been surprising.  One wall of his kitchen was shelving like a library lined with dozens of jars of jams and pickles.  Fresh rosemary and thyme were potted in the windowsill and a loaf of homemade bread sat cooling on a wooden cutting board.

     "I make all my own cleaning solutions, too."  These were things she was interested in, much more than frogs legs and eel.

     Once we had cut the eel into unsnake-like pieces and fried it, mom pulled together enough courage to take a bite.  An 'I can get through this' smile stayed plastered on her face.  She even sucked the meat off the bones of the frogs legs.  She didn't balk when we started stuffing duck necks or run screaming from the room when we shucked oysters and slurped them down with Lars' homemade vinegar.  But, just when I thought we had put her through enough, the menu turned.

     Lars' partner, Nirin entered the kitchen for the final instruction of the day.  "I grew up here, eating tart Tatin," he told us as he wrapped the long white waiter's apron around his slender frame.  "You are here at the right time of year."  His eyes were wet and sparkled when he spoke.  "It's apple season."

     Mom perked right up.  "We are making apple pie?"

     "A French version."  Nirin nodded.  "This one is more like an upside down tart."

     Mom blew out a sigh and smiled.  "I do like apples."

     We laughed and commenced the recognizable task of peeling the fruit and rolling dough.  Once again, I looked over at mom.  She was relaxed and enjoying herself.  She looked like she belonged in this French kitchen.  Maybe, when she went home and told stories of how brave she was to taste eel and frogs legs, she would also tell a tale about how French food wasn't all that different from the comfortable familiarity of good old apple pie.

Tart Tatin

8 Gala, Fiji or Golden Delicious Apples
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons water
1 teaspoon lemon juice

Pastry:

1 cup flour
1 tablespoon sugar
6 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons ice water

Mix flour and sugar in a bowl.  Add the butter and rub together with your fingers until the butter is incorporated.  Drizzle the water over the mixture and combine until the dough is evenly moist and begins to come together. Transfer dough on a floured work surface and shape into a 6-inch disk.  Wrap with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 hours.

Preheat oven to 400

Peel, core and cut apples into quarters.

To make filling, set a 10-inch cast-iron pan, over medium heat.  Sprinkle the sugar evenly over the surface of the pan.  Distribute the water and lemon juice to evenly soak the sugar and continue cooking until the sugar melts and turns amber colored, 3 to 4 minutes.  Shake and swirl the pan frequently to redistribute the sugar for even melting and caramelization.  The sugar will be extremely hot.  Be cautious and do not touch the bubbling sugar.  Remove from the heat and set over ice water to immediately cool the pan and stop the sugar from continuing to cook and burn.

Arrange the apples, core side up, in a circular pattern in the caramel in a snug, even layer beginning with the outer rim.

Uncover the pastry round.  On a floured surface, roll the dough out to fit the pan, slide both hands under the pastry round and carefully place it on top of the apples, tucking in around the edges and being careful not to burn your fingers.  Bake until the crust is golden brown, and apples are tender, about 30 minutes.

Transfer the pan to a wire rack and let cool for 5 minutes.  Place a large flat serving plate upside down on top of the pan and invert the pan and plate together.  Lift off the pan.  Slice and serve warm with vanilla ice cream.

Serves 8

Victoria Allman

Crackin' Crabs

     Splash! Splash!  A tarpon jumped and flopped back into the still intracoastal waters to the left of us.  I could barely avert my eyes from the food in front of me to see the ripples in the water.  On my plate, sat six more succulent stone crab claws.  The juice of the first crabs rolled through my fingers, their shells piled high in a bowl by my elbow.  Patrick and I did not speak, could not, we were too busy sucking the sweet meat from the cartilage.  The river was quiet that night, devoid of the normal yacht and dingy traffic cruising past. The only sound that filled the air after the splash was the continual zit, zit, zit of the cicadas in the mangroves across the water.

     "I'm going to need another plate." Patrick's pile of shells was even higher than mine.

     It is stone crab season in Florida, a time that makes me thankful the yacht has returned to this part of the world.  We have just come back from a year and a half in the Mediterranean, and although seafood abounded, I had missed stone crabs. When most people think of Florida, they think of Disney, the beaches, and the endless strip malls.  But, when I think of Florida, I think stone crab.

    Stone crab are unique to the warm waters here.  They are found from the southern tip of Florida to the Keys and all along the Gulf of Mexico.  But, what makes them so special is that they are a renewable resource.  The crabbers in the area drop their baited traps in the water.  When they pull them up, the crabs have two claws.  The crabbers carefully remove only one of the claws, then release them back into the water.  The crabs are unharmed and over the next year they regenerate the lost claw and are ready to be caught again.  This makes them a sustainable seafood that is well managed.  There is no by-catch and little habitat damage, a fact I like when I serve stone crabs on the yacht.

     That night, as many in the past, we went to Billy's for our first taste of stone crab this season.  We ordered margaritas, coleslaw, hashbrowns and all-you-can-eat claws.  It was a ritual, for us, and many others.  This year, in particular, the claws were mouthwatering and rich.  It was not fancy, but it was tasty.

     On the yacht, I am reluctant to serve cracked claws as is.  I shudder to think of guests dripping shellfish juice down their Versace gowns.  Instead, I do all the work for them.  I scrape the meat from the claw and mix it with just a little lime juice and Greek yogurt to make a crab salad.  I form the mixture in a ring mold and top that with avocado mousse and a tomato salsa.  On a yacht, it is all about pretty plates.

     But, at Billy's, it is all about flavor.  And, as I dipped into my second round of all-you-can-eats, I could think of nothing better than having the juice of the stone crab roll down my elbows.

photo by: Suki Finnerty, Broad Reach Productions

Stone Crab and Avocado Tower

2 pounds stone crabs, cracked and cleaned

1/4 cup plain Greek-style Yogurt

2 tablespoons fresh orange juice

2 tablespoons olive oil

1/4 cup red onion, finely diced

1 teaspoons sea salt

2 drops hot sauce

2 avocados

1 teaspoon fresh lime juice

2 teaspoons sea salt

1 egg white

1 red tomato, finely diced

1 yellow tomato, finely diced

1/3 cup red onion, finely diced

1 tablespoon cilantro, finely chopped

1/2 lime, squeezed for juice

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 teaspoon sea salt

1 drop hot sauce

     Combine the first seven ingredients in a bowl, taking care not to mash the crab too much. Taste for seasoning.  Adjust the amount of hot sauce if necessary, keeping in mind it is the crab you want to taste.

Set aside.

     In a clean, stainless steel bowl, whisk the egg whites until stiff.  In another bowl, mash the avocado with the lime juice and sea salt.  Pass the avocado mix through a fine sieve to make sure there are no lumps. Gently fold together egg whites and avocado to form a light mousse. Taste for acidity. Adjust the level of lime juice if necessary.  Note: Avocado discolors quickly, do this step right before serving.

     Combine the last eight ingredients for a tomato salsa. Taste.

     In a stainless ring mold, build a tower of crab, three-quarters of the way up the side, in the center of the plate. Top with avocado mousse.  Spoon three piles of salsa around the outside of the tower. Garnish with cilantro.

Serves 6

Under the Shade of The Hazelnut Trees

     "Here is a good place," Stefan, our truffle-guide told us as we entered the forest.  We were just outside of Alba, in the Piedmont region of Italy.  We had spent the last few days in wine country, staying in a 19th century Gothic castle, and discovering the simple, rich food of the area.

     Kira, our guide's English pointer bounded ahead of us.  The enthusiasm of her five years almost equaled our own.  Patrick's blue eyes shone as bright as Kira's black ones.  If it were not rude, he would probably hang his tongue out the side of his mouth in excitement of what was to come.  We had waited a long time to come to Piedmont and hiking through the hazelnut and oak forests in search of the elusive truffle was the ultimate gourmand experience.

     Black truffles are an uncultivable mushroom.  They are more common than the highly-prized white truffle, but their habit of growing underground, away from sight, limits their numbers.  They are held in the highest esteem by chefs and foodies alike, often called the "diamond of the kitchen".

     We were being guided by Kira's sense of smell. She led us under the canopy of trees.  Fallen branches crunched underfoot, a wet mossy smell lay heavy in the air.  "The rain last night will have made good truffles today."  Stefan was confident. "They like the cool and damp."  The crisp, misty morning air reaffirmed his belief that today we would be successful.

     And, just as soon as Stefan had said it, Kira stopped and buried her black nose in the earth.  She sniffed and moved on.  She zigged and zagged between trees.  At the fourth trunk, under a hazelnut bush, her slender white paws scratched furiously, flinging leaves and loam out behind her.  Stefan scurried to the base of the tree and gently pushed Kira aside.  With his right hand, he swept away the remaining earth to reveal our treasure--a black truffle the size of a golf ball.  He pulled it out of the ground and held it delicately between his thumb and forefinger for us to see.  The black knobby ball didn't look like a gem, but we knew we had found gold.  "A good place," he reiterated and passed it to Patrick.

     Patrick cupped the precious find in his hand.  I gathered the hair from my face and lowered my head. An intense aroma filled my senses and started my mouth to watering.  I breathed in the musky smell of wet earth.  This was sweeter than what I had smelt before from truffles in the markets.  "It is fresh," Stefan said while brushing the soil over the hole.  "The smell will start to change within a day."

     For her part in the discovery, Kira jumped up and pawed at Stefan's vest.  With his free hand he produced kibble from a pocket.  "Good work always gets rewarded."  Kira wagged her short tail in delight. "Vai! Vai!" Go! Stefan said and Kira raced farther into the woods, sticking her nose under every tree she came to.

     Patrick tried to hand the truffle back to Stefan.  "No, you take this."  He pushed Patrick's hand away. "Heat some olive oil and butter.  Half half.  And shave this over cooked pasta. Thin thin."  He brought his fingertips to his mouth and emulated a kiss.  "Bellissimo."

     Patrick and I both smiled widely.  Stefan was right.  This is a good place.

Stefan's Pasta with Fresh Black Truffles

500 grams of tagliatelle pasta
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 black truffle

     Cook the pasta in highly salted water to al dente. (usually 12 minutes, but check the directions on the package)  Melt the butter and olive oil in a saute pan over medium-high heat.  Toss the drained pasta in the butter and mix to thoroughly coat all strands of pasta.
     Plate the pasta.
     With a truffle shaver, thinly slice the black truffle over the top of the pasta.

Serve with freshly grated parmesan on the side, although it does not need it.

Serves 8

victoria allman

Discovering Pesto

Discovering Pesto

   For the past year and a half, the memory of one dish of pasta has haunted me.

   It was our first and only night in Genoa, Italy.  We arrived tired and worn from a long day of traveling by train.  We lugged our bags, heavy from everything we would need for the next two years of travel on the new yacht we were joining, down narrow streets to the busy port.  Frustrated by lack of taxis and grumpy from empty growling stomachs, we stopped at the first restaurant we came to.

   It was nothing special, just a few plastic patio tables and chairs overlooking the commercial port. A laminated menu translated a handful of pizzas and half a dozen pastas into a comical form of English. Smelly Blue Cheese seated on Linguini was the one that made me smile.  But, I opted for a simple dish of Pesto Pasta that I ordered with Drink Water.  I was too tired to try and think of anything more exciting.

   When my dish arrived I was surprised by the color.  When I make pesto, a dark green paste is produced.  It is strong and bites with the licorice taste of basil.  This, in front of me, was creamier and a softer green.  I took a bite.  It was not as sharp as my version.  It was rich in flavor, but smooth and well-balanced.  With each bite, a taste of what I could only describe as green, filled my senses.  I ate the dish with wonder and relished each bite.  I wish I could have eaten more.

   We left the restaurant and sailed away the next day, but I have not forgotten that one perfect pesto dish.  It has played in the back of my mind every time I have made pesto since.

   This week, the boat returned to Genoa.  I was dancing on my toes with excitement to go and find the secrets of the regions most famous dish. I started at the market, where all good food discoveries begin.  Italian men in stretched and misshapen white tank tops called out their greetings to me.

   "Buongiorno," I replied, trying out the few words of Italian I could remember from our last trip.  "Basilico?"  I raised my eyebrow, hoping they would understand.

   "Si, si."  A man, wearing no more than a white apron over his faded baby blue boxer shorts and the bright orange clogs that Mario Batali made famous, waved me over.  He handed me a bunch small-leafed emerald green basil.  The tiny delicate leaves meant the plant could be no more than a few days old.  He broke off the heart of a stem and rubbed the leaves between his thick rough fingers.  He brought them to his face and breathed deeply, shutting his eyes and smiling. He was lost in thought.  Slowly, he opened his eyes in a dreamy lulled way and waxed on lyrically in Italian for the next three minutes.  I did not understand a word he said, but his voice sounded like music. I smiled and nodded.

   Maybe he knew I didn't understand him.  Instead of repeating, he cupped his hand gently behind my head and held the basil out for me to smell. It was a sensual act.  I leaned in, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

   This was different than the basil I had known.  It was sweet-smelling, but mellow.  I smiled with the same hazy look he had had. "Due."  I held up two fingers to make sure he knew what I wanted. As I walked away, in search of the parmesan and pine nuts I needed to complete my dish, the man broke into song.  His deep baritone voice reverberated an Italian opera through the market. It could not have been a more Italian scene if it was set up by a director.

 

   No wonder the pasta here tastes so good.  Here, there is life and love in everything.

Pesto

2 cloves garlic

1/4 teaspoon sea salt

1 1/2 cups basil

3 tablespoons pine nuts

1/2 cup parmesan

1/2 cup olive oil

   To create the soft creamy pesto of Genoa, grind the garlic cloves and salt in a mortar and pestle (hence the name pesto).  Add the basil leaves and press until a rough paste is achieved. Add the pine nuts and parmesan and press to incorporate.  Slowly add the olive oil to emulsify into the mix.

   You can also use a food processor for larger batches, but the blades will bruise the basil leaves and the color will darken.

Makes 2 cups pesto

   Trofie is an Italian pasta made by hand-rolling a flour and water dough in your palms into little squiggles with pointy ends.  It is the perfect match for a pesto sauce, but usually only sold in Liguruia.  It can be substituted with other small shapes in other parts of the world.

The Colors of Summer

My friend, fellow blogger, and former yacht chef, Cristina Topham posed a question yesterday.

"What do I do with all these beautiful heirloom tomatoes that I have?" Cristina had recently left yachting and moved to Oregon to work on her forthcoming book and write about food for the Crew Report.

I remember the long days of August in the Pacific Northwest. Tomatoes of all colors hang heavy from the vine, perfuming the hot air with their fragrance. There is little need to do any "cooking". I used to pick them, salt them, and eat them. No gourmet tricks or recipes needed. A feeling of meloncoly swept over me. I miss those days. I envy Cristina and her new adventure.

The feeling didn't last long. A trip to the market in Cannes reminded me that we are in tomato season here in France too. Market tables sag with the colorful produce. Red tomatoes, the color of fast cars, lay beside stripes of lime green and lemon yellow balls of varying sweetness. Emerald green basil blooms vibrant. Deep purple, almost black, eggplants shine next to oblong zucchinis. A smile came over my face. I knew what to suggest to Cristina.



My first chef, Lawrence Bangay of The Next Wave Restaurant, told me something that has vibrated through my head ever since.

"When you have perfect products, it is your job as a chef not to screw them up." He was right. The chef's version of Keep It Simple Stupid.

Here, in the Mediterranean, the best tomatoes only need the best olive oil, the best soft cheese, and a light sprinkling of flaked sea salt.

Voila! The perfect summer meal.

South of France Summer Book Tour

There is nothing more posh than the south of France in the summer. It is the playground of the elite and powerful. The beaches are sprayed with bronzed bodies and the restaurants overflow with women dressed in Roberto Cavalli and men in Armani white linen pants.

Brad and Angelina can be spotted sashaying down the red carpet at night or leading a gaggle of children around town during the day. From a balcony above, Bono's voice can be heard reverberating through the narrow alleyways of a Roman hill town overlooking the Mediterranean sea. It is the place to see and be seen.

So, it has thrilled me to no end to see my first book, Sea Fare: A Chef's Journey Across the Ocean, displayed on the shelves of the English bookstores in each port we have visited this summer. But, this week I caught a sight of Sea Fare that made me smile.

We were at anchor just off St. Tropez. The sun was floating low on the horizon, throwing a golden light over the deck of the boat. The owners of the yacht were enjoying the view with a bottle of rose wine and a platter of figs and blue cheese when they asked for a copy of Sea Fare to show their guests. There, in the midst of everything lavish, sat Sea Fare, on a 15 million dollar yacht, with St. Tropez in the back ground.

What other book gets that kind of promotion?



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