The Day of the Hunted

Still Life at Foire Gastronomique du Dijon

      Today was the Day of the Hunt and Venison at the Gastronomic Fair. The Table of Lucullus, a revolving display which changes daily, resembled 16th or 17th Century Dutch paintings. Those paintings were at once a celebration and rebuke of earthly pleasures. The Chasseurs de France, the national organization which promotes hunting, provided no-less-than-four brochures about hunting and the consumption of game meats.
     The materials drew on a range of philosophical sources: the Spaniard José Ortega y Gasset once said "One doesn't hunt to kill, one kills, sometimes, because one has hunted." Bruno de Cessole goes on to posit a relation between the hunter and the savage animal based on the hunter's respect for the free and savage animal, and for the ruses the animal uses to avoid death. No less than Jim Harrison (Legends of the Fall) and Mark Zuckerberg are cited in support of eating meat you've killed yourself. Besides, game meat is healthier for you than factory raised. No rebuke there.
     The Table is named for the Roman general who ate and entertained lavishly. It is placed near the center of the hall, opposite what used to be the main entrance. At a table next to it, the five highest ranked "terrines de gibier," looking much like those below, except encrusted in pastry, were ready for judges to taste.

Terrines at Table of Lucullus.

     A half-dozen chefs were the judges. I notice Monique Salera, noted Dijon chef and cooking teacher, and watched her at work.

Taste.

Savor.

Analyze.

     When the judges were finished compiling their numerical scores, the audience could sample. Definitely an earthy, earthly pleasure.

     

Dear Molly O'Neill

The Owl (Chouette) of Dijon's Notre Dame Cathedral

     Yesterday, I spent a cold, rainy day walking the streets of Dijon, looking for the houses where food writer MFK Fisher, whom you eulogized for the NYT, lived. In the course of conversations with passersby, I heard of the local tradition to make a wish while placing your left hand on the owl which is carved into the wall of the Cathedral. I found it, and made my one wish.

     I wished for more time for you, and with you. It's a selfish wish. I have only known you for a few years, and in those years I have learned so much from you. About writing, yes, but more than that, about living generously. I want more.

     The owl sees at night, during our darkest hours. My prayer is that your vision carries you through to the dawn of your new day.

100% Cote d'Or Or How the French Become Good Eaters

   

Weekly Trip to Carrefour for my neighbors in Dijon.

     As I left my BnB for the Gastronomic Fair, I spotted my downstairs neighbor unloading his groceries. Ah, I asked if he had just come from the Fair. "Mais non, seulement Carrefour!" Just a trip to the large grocery store. Tins of duck infused cassoulet, terrines of pork with mushroom, toasts, cookies, four different aperatifs...such is life in France. The pleasures of the table, shared with family and friends. He insisted a take a jar of the terrine, and come and visit them some evening while I'm here.

     At the Fair, I gained some idea of how this value is instilled. I seated myself at the cooking demonstration counter of the Cote D'Or. This department radiates from Dijon, includes Beaune and is home to great wines and cheeses and grain cultivators, some quite large.

The size and terrain of Cote d'Or farms warrants large machinery.

     Very quickly, I was welcomed by Stéphane Bescond, who with his wife, has a restaurant, Chez Cocotte, in a village just south of Dijon, surrounded by fields.

Stéphane is an articulate advocate for the products of the Cote d'Or. I watched as he entranced classes of children, showcasing one of the chefs preparing - no - but yes, hamburgers, from 100% local products. Stéphane's method is to break down cooking for children into Lego block pieces. First came the beef: Charolais. The children, like me, had seen them in the tent of animals nearby.

Cote d'Or's favored beef cattle.

    Block #1: Beef should always be cooked "bleu" or "saignant," on the rare side. 

    Block #2: Ketchup de Cassis! The local berries, with vinager and mustard, cooked down to a jam. (MMMMmmmm, can't wait to try making this!)

    Block #3: The cheese. Local: Brillat-Savarin, applied liberally over mustard to a "hamburger roll" from your local boulangerie.

    The rolls with their accompaniment warmed while the beef burgers grilled.

All attention to chef and Brillat-Savarin toasts on hamburger buns.

    

Chef Serves Finished Product as Stéphane (on left) adds commentary.

Antipation!

Satisfaction!

     And that is how Stéphane spreads the message to cook and eat locally: "Fast Food Interdit!"

   

Bon Jour Vietnam

L'Hebdo Dijon's headline for Gastronomic Fair, Vietnam Guest of Honor

     In 1923, André Marie Tao Kim Hai, 18 years old, came to France from Vietnam, to study law, history and poetry. In 1929, he became a French citizen, and in 1939 joined the French Army to defend Poland. But first, he and his family and friends drove to an auberge in the Dordogne town of Brantome, and had a “bombe,” a blow-out multi-course meal, with wine. 

     When the French capitulated to the Germans a year later, and André was sent to a prisoner-of-war camp, the German officers failed to understand how he could be in charge of unit of white men. They did not understand just how much of a Frenchman he was.  After a prisoner exchange in 1941, he worked for the Free French, having at least one frightening encounter with the Gestapo in Marseille. 

     Sent by the French to work at the fledgling United Nations, André came to the United States. In 1946, the year I was born, he and his Cincinnati-born-wife,  Ruth, began contributing to Gourmet Magazine and The New Yorker. André had a great love and knowledge of both Vietnamese and French cuisine.

     Noting that Vietnam was to be the guest of honor at this year's Gastronomic Fair in Dijon, I attend with curiosity. In our year of Ken Burn's Vietnam, what is the status of Vietnamese people and cuisine in France? 

     Some context: France's defeat at Dien Bien Phu in 1954 was the end of a colonial annexation begun by the French 100 years earlier. (Our military involvement began in 1955 and lasted twenty years.)

     André was part of a generation of artists and intellectuals who sometimes chose to remain in France, and who formed the nucleus of a community which currently, at about 100,000, is the largest outside of Vietnam.

     It is the representatives of this community who as guests of honor arranged their section of the convention hall. Selling a range of silk dresses, dried fruits, lacquerware and dolls, booths surrounded a stage and restaurant area of two dozen tables.
     Arriving early for the French dinner I found a seat at a table with a view of the stage.

Vietnamese National Theatre of Song, Music and Dance

     I watched and recalled my favorite performance while traveling in Vietnam a decade ago: water puppets! Since so much of life in Vietnam centers around water---for rice paddy, for transportation, for floating markets, some consider water puppets to be the true national theatre. They are performed by people standing waist deep in water tanks, behind curtains, and manipulating puppets from below the water's surface.

Nam and Bun Bo

     My food arrived, and the performance ended. The crowd began to queue, and the musicians began playing Christmas carols on their instruments to entice sales of bamboo xylophone and clay flute. I relinquished my seat.

     I walked past a calligrapher. He wasn't writing chu nom, the Chinese characters used to write Vietnamese beginning 1000 years ago. In the coastal town of Hoi An, there were still practicioners of chu nom, who wrote poems for special occaisons.

Vietnamese Calligraphy For A French Audience

     I prepared to re-enter the French Gastronomic section of the fair, wondering if this was the best the French and Vietnamese-French could do to honor the culture of Vietnam? Or am I completely out of touch with reality?

     I stopped to talk with a young man tending a booth full of dolls in folk costume. We began our conversation in French, but he switched to English, which he began learning at age 6 in Vietnam. His father, a theatre director, and his mother, a music teacher brought him to France. They could not afford to raise their family in Hanoi. He's now in high school. I mentioned the water puppets, and he pulled out his cell phone to show me some of his favorite performances. I, too, love the water buffalo plowing and the dragons, splashing, fighting and spraying water.

     Then I asked if he was familiar with the Tale of Kieu. This story of a disgraced and heroic woman was considered Vietnam's national epic poem, but I have trouble pronouncing Vietnamese, and people seem not to know of it. His face brightened. Of course he knew it, he'd had to memorize sections in school. 

     I love the closing lines: 

If yours a drifting fate, be resigned to it,

Bắt phong trần, phải phong trần,

If yours a noble fate, be complied with it.

Cho thanh cao mới được phần thanh cao. 

     I gave him my card, and said good night.

     When I woke up the next morning, my new friend, TANG Than Long had emailed me samples of water puppet performances and the new English translation of The Tale of Kieu. All of which I tell you to show that this Gastronomic Fair of Dijon is as much about people and their stories as it is about food. And I hope to capture many more of them.

   

In Which We Miss the Fair, Spend an Afternoon with the Gendarmerie and Receive a Gargantuan Gougere

The Enormous Gougere courtesy of Boulangerie-Viennoiserie Éric Febvre.

     Yesterday was meant to be spent observing Monique Salera make dishes inspired by Vietnam. She's a Dijon chef and teacher of cooking.

     Alas, the fates determined otherwise. Arriving in Dijon, my spouse was pick-pocketed. According to him, it was a clean kill. He had purchased a tram ticket using his Swiss bank card and its six-digit code. Apparently, this was skimmed from the ticket machine. As he descended from the tram, with a suitcase in one hand and brief case in the other, the person in front of him moved slowly and he felt someone behind him. When he got to the BnB, he looked for his wallet. Disappeared! There followed an hour of trying to contact the usual card companies and banks, along with a call to the police.

     Meanwhile, a check of our Swiss bank on-line showed that the thieves had quickly purchased a set of headphones and drained the bank account at the nearest ATM.

     The police instructed us to go to the Dijon headquarters of the Gendarmerie National to make a formal complaint. After a half hour forced march without lunch, we were allowed to enter and complete preliminary paperwork. And wait, and wait, and wait. Each of those waits was accompanied by a surprisingly good, cheap cappuccino from the police office vending machine. I asked if we would be seeing an identity theft expert. He is, "of habit," was the reply. "Habit of theft identity?" I wondered.

     Finally a bespectacled gentleman appeared and ushered us into a borrowed office. Would this be Inspector Clouseau or Chief Inspector Dreyfus? It mattered not, because the main actor would be the ordinateur and a Microsoft program for recording the facts. As Clouseau once said, "Facts, Hercule, facts. Nothing matters but the facts. Without them the Science of Criminal Investigation is nothing more than a guessing game." Our Inspector was on loan from the municipal court. He began typing the facts from the preliminary paperwork. He repeated everything aloud as he two-finger typed. Listening to his repetitions was a sort of French lesson. Our job was to answer "D'accord."

   After an hour and a half he produced a first person account of the crime for the victim to sign. This in turn was printed, signed, sealed and handed to us. 

     What doesn't kill you makes a good story. In this one, we were kept busy well beyond the French hours for luncheon. We were hungry, but the café-brasserie kitchens were closed. We sought a boulangerie for sandwiches, and found the shop of Eric Febvre, well-respected baker of Dijon. When we explained we'd had no lunch because we'd spent it with the police, the kind young man gave us an enormous gougere, the specialty of the shop. He offered that the Place de la Republique tram stop was frequented by gypsies. The good news and happy ending was that since the cafés were only serving drinks, we found one, ordered two kir and devoured our sandwiches and gougere.

How Lucky Can You Be?

Ancient Site of Dijon Foire Gastronomique 

Poster from 1939 Foire.

     As you can see, my imaginary of Dijon's Gastronomic Fair is fixed in the time before I born. Would I find that plus ça change, plus ç'est la meme chose?

     Certainly, the building for the event looked different. I walked through blocks of stately old and ugly new housing, light industry and then around the stadium-like edifice. Once inside, I passed through the International component, which is furniture and rugs, to the Gastronomic section. 

     Immediately I was overwhelmed by the memory of high-tech trade shows where I demonstrated software 30 years ago. The Gastronomic section was divided into hundreds of booths or stalls. I heard a cacophony of chattering vendors and a symphony of cutlery and glassware. 

    At one end of the hall, collections of tables and small kitchens offered visitors meals of regional specialties. I'm intrigued to discover how these are represented---thank heavens, there's 10 more days of fair.

     Next came booths of individual foods and wines. Here's where I got lucky. 

Volaille de Bresse is featured!

     Fate made my new love---no, not Olivier Laboute, although he is charming---Volaille de Bresse, the product of the day. Olivier's salad of chicken, wine, mustard and cucumber was a light take on our American mayonaisse heavy version.

     And then I met a producer! In the heart of Bresse, Jean Claude Marquis raises his chickens from eggs. I learned that there are several different kinds: chapon, poularde, poulet. Chapon is a chicken castrated and grown large. Poularde are fed a rich diet, delaying egg production. Poulet are the youngest. (Or as French wikipedia tells us:

poulets (quatre mois et d'un poids minimum de 1,2 kg),

poulardes (cinq mois et 1,8 kg),

chapons (huit mois et 3 kg).)

Wait, wait, there's more luck involved! Around four o'clock, I spotted this sign:

Do you know what a bréchet de poulet is?

     Intrigued, I spoke with the vendors, who were just cleaning up for the afternoon. Trust me, these could replace wings as the next craze. For my protein dinner, I bought some and took them home. Bréchet de poulet are wishbones, cooked in butter, wine and parsley, and they are quite wonderful. The chickens they come from Bresse grown, but they don't qualify with AOP regulations.

Dozens of wishes!

     Fortified, I will be back at the Fair today. I have not even begun to fathom the role of Vietnam as the guest of honor! Plus ça change, plus ç'est la meme chose?

   

Culinary Reconciliation?

From my new favorite cafe, The Morning Glory, Dijon

     Here I am in Dijon, where MFK Fisher's desicatted heart resides, in the midst of Burgundian wine, mustard and jambon persillé, ham in aspic with parsley. 

     And I am freezing, literally hovering a few degrees above. Last night, my taxi driver told me the farmers welcome this, for the sake of killing off bad microbes, so we shouldn't complain. 

     Sleepless from a mixed up travel day and a new bed, I was up at 4:30. As soon as it was light I ventured from my BNB apartment for coffee and breakfast. It's a dry cold, and there is a hint of woodsmoke in the air. I have no mittens. After a brisk walk into the center of town, I warmed my hands over an Americano and croissant, all the time wishing for an egg or some yogurt. 

     I'm here to observe the 87th Gastronomic Fair of Dijon, but as I stumbled into Dijon's central market, that was secondary to shopping for breakfast. That market wasn't open when we were here last summer. Several vendors have the famous poulet de Bresse, at a much more reasonable price than Lausanne. I'm tempted to cook that on Sunday when my husband joins me, but then again I got instructions from the vendor of larded beef on how to cook that. Who needs a gastronomic fair when they have a grand indoor marché?

     Shopping done, I still needed some solid breakfast immediately. I found the Morning Glory café, which does a coddled egg with toast points and scones/biscuits with house made jam of apricot slices as big as your thumb.

     Now I'm ready to study the Foire Internationale at Gastronomique de Dijon.

The Foire began in 1921, because November was a slow period for business in Dijon. November is also the month after the harvests are over. The Foire continued until World War II. 

     Local merchants started it up again in 1949. In 1961, Canon Kir, heroic resistance fighter, Catholic priest and politician opened the event, and gave his name to the cassis tinged drink, made strictly with Burgundian aligoté. 

     When I arrived last night, the father of my host told me that the Foire is much changed from the old days. Once gastronomy and agriculture were the sole focus. Nowadays, all manner of things related to the kitchen and home furnishings are displayed. I doubt if MFK Fisher, in the 1930s, could have imagined that Vietnam would be the invited guest of this year's Foire. 

     I can't wait to see how much of that old grandeur of French cuisine is presented, and of course to taste it.

    

The Fruits of Their Labors: The Temple of Heaven Visits Ruins of Chinese Agricultural Villages in California

     19th Century Chinese settlers inaugurated the cultivation of many of the fruits and vegetables which make California famous.

     The settlers were driven out in the 1890s. Archeology of their dwellings reveals much-loved-porcelain, typically decorated with symbolic fruits and vegetables. 

     Lucey Bowen accompanied a model of the Temple of Heaven, the chief monument to successful planting and harvesting, on a tour of these sites. Her art works and video were created in 2015 to celebrate the Chinese contribution to California agriculture, as well as to Chinese ceramic tradition.

Strawberries

Cabbage

Wine Grapes

Hops

Citrus

Pears

Peaches

Pomegranites

Peaches

Dried Fruits

Why an Art Movement began in a Cafe or Monday in Zurich

Morning Coffee at Cafe Odeon, one of homes to Dada Art Movement.

     In Switzerland, the Museums are closed on Mondays. So whilst my spousal unit lectured at the University, I re-enacted Art History. Zurich has a half dozen cafés and taverns that are associated with the short-lived but influential artists movement called Dada in 1916.
     In case you don't remember Dada, Wikipedia will tell you that its practitioners included Hugo Ball, Marcel Duchamp, Emmy Hennings, Hans Arp, Raoul Hausmann, Hannah Höch, Johannes Baader, Tristan Tzara, Francis Picabia, Huelsenbeck, George Grosz, John Heartfield, Man Ray, Beatrice Wood, Kurt Schwitters, Hans Richter, and Max Ernst. And that the movement influenced later styles like the avant-garde and downtown music movements, and groups including surrealism, nouveau réalisme, pop art and Fluxus. Dadaist artists expressed their discontent with violence, war, and nationalism, and maintained political affinities with the radical left.
     The Dada artists used cafés, taverns and their soirees to share ideas and performances. Feeling I could use some of that inspiration, I drank, ate, wrote and painted in two of the cafés for 5 hours. I've discovered as I become more and more serious about writing, that the thing that keeps me from writing is loneliness. In Switzerland's cafés I can be surrounded by strangers and still concentrate on writing or drawing.
     The food reflects the changes of the 100 years since World War I. At Odeon I happily ate an omelette filled with cheese and bacon. Happy because French influenced Lausanne limits breakfast to croissant and other breads, and I'm a protein breakfast kind of gal. At the Terasse, now hopelessly bourgeois with ladies lunching and tea-ing, I indulged in a hamburger of flavorful Swiss beef.

Bronze Heating Ducts at Odeon.

     I am hopelessly bourgeoise, and 100 years younger than Dada. I have difficulty appreciating how a anti-materialist Art Movement could begin in such comfortable surroundings!

#ILoveLausanne III: A Good and Bad Day @GoodFestival

Mise en place for dinner tonight!

    Above you see the results of a mad dash up to the Wednesday Market before madly dashing down to the Olympic Museum. It reminds me of the blessings of good food and good friends to eat it.

     At the Good Festival, I continue to be overwhelmed with the resources available to structure businesses to do good and be profitable. Ernst and Young sent Chiari Rinaldi to talk about investor's increasing interests in "ESG:" the environmental, social and governmental impact of businesses. Phillip Mantell, of SINA, an organization that works in Uganda, spoke about the mis-fit between post-colonial education and countries where employment is difficult to find. SINA addresses this with a process that turns victims of the situation into victors, through coaching into entrepreneurship.

     I did not know that crowd funding has risen to a high art, but it has, and before you do it, you ought to avail yourself of its arcania.

    And then came the downer: Olivier Kennedy of Enigma, a marketing group. 

    I suppose I should not have been shocked. My journalist father once worked for a trade publication in the advertising business. He'd written an award winning biography of play write Eugene O'Neill and they wanted heroic profiles of the 1960s greats of the New York City agencies. In the end, he concluded they were all whores for large corporations. Hard not to make that conclusion, given the tobacco giants of the day. But you saw it all on television's "Mad Men."

     Olivier Kennedy's memo is that although the days of television and newspapers are gone, the new methods and media of the 21st Century can be used to shape belief. His group can do this for you. 

     Hello The Hidden Persuaders, it isn't nice to have you back again. 

     Oddly, he did not want to discuss the spontaneous facebook campaign, #MeToo. But politicians? Yes. I am sure that agencies in the United States are offering similar services. 

     Memo to self: 1. Quit being so naive. 2. Re-read Marchiavelli.

     Back to the good stuff: 

*Steffan Raetzer reminding us and himself to use your anger and outrage as fuel.

    

*Mary Mayenfisch, an Irish woman after my own heart, is a Human Rights lawyer who assembled and extraordinary panel who spoke about leading for change:

Caroline Puffrey of UNIL

Veerle van Wauwe, Transparence SA, who has created a clean gold supply chain.

Daniele Gostell Hauser of Amnesty International

Natalie Wilkins of Thriving Talent

     The last presenter before I headed home to rest my weary brain was Jonathan Normand of B Lab (Switzerland). B Lab has a methodology for measuring who well a corporation scores on the "ESG" goals I spoke of several paragraphs ago.

     Happy to say that today will feature techniques to help these entrepreneurs of good sustain themselves. I'm going to sustain myself tonight by cooking dinner and having a great conversation with strangers! More tomorrow!

#ILoveLausanne II: The Good Festival

Focus on Food at The Good Festival

     If you are like me, you wonder if the forces of evil aren't winning in battle for the world. I'm feeling a smidgen more hopeful today.
     Fortune smiled on me when I wrangled an invitation to the third Good Festival, at the Olympic Museum, on the shore of Lac Leman. I applied and received a call from Rajiv Srivastava, one of the founders. I explained my interest in culinary history, and in particular the reception of immigrant cuisines and immigrants. He assured me there was a great interest in food issues among participants, and indeed there is, as you can see from the flip-chart notes above. 

     A hazy autumnal morning on Lac Leman, viewed from the Olympic Museum, goes well with an espresso. I drank both in and listened to English, French, German spoken all around me. I overheard snippets of conversation about projects from Africa to Nepal.

     Then Rajiv laid out the plan for the day and days ahead. The Festival operates as a fast vehicle to #GetGoodDone. Coaches and participants describe and practice the elements that make for sustainable innovation that is a force for good. We quickly put the first steps to building diverse teams into action, clustering at points of interest like Food, Education, Arts and Culture, Environment etc. We shared our concerns and projects.

     In my three months here, I've read and seen much interest in food purity and security. "Bio" is a watchword in both major supermarket chains, Co-Op and Migros, as well as at the Wednesday and Saturday Markets. These were part of the issues raised by Anna DeCosterd of mysweetmoette, whose goal is to connect city dwellers with local food producers. Jason Papadopoulous has a vision for building the ability to grow food and medicine from food wastes through urban, indoor farming. Flavia and Vlad have created Foodcrafters to showcase producers who adhere to integrity in their products and business practices.

http://beta.dmafb.me/en     

     We broke off our ice-breaking conversations for rapid-fire presentations on the fundamentals of a sustainable business doing good, from people who have done so, or coached others to do so. Professors from EPFL's business school, PriceWaterhouseCooper accountants, founders; each offered nuggets of wisdom.  If I had to choose the one that resonated, it would be Don Difang's Domeafavorbuddy. This is an app that enables people to "pay it forward" in real life.

     Back to food. Anna, Jason, Flavia, Vlad and I and Flavia Spasiano, one of the coaches, coached each other, offering our thoughts on their projects. We could see the value of looking from diverse perspectives. The next step for them will be composing a short video, what I've come to call an elevator pitch, for their projects. I'm glad to help, and hope there will be some time for them to comment on my questions about immigrants and immigrant cuisines.

     And on to dinner, at the Jeunehotel. Over veal and rosti, and joined by my significant other, I spoke with a Vietnamese MBA student from Zurich. Gourmet Magazine introduced me to Tao Kim Hai, the first Vietnamese writer for Gourmet as well as the New Yorker; a perspective on France and Vietnam from 75 years ago. She is writing her dissertation on creating a clean food supply chain for the vegetables used in Vietnamese cooking. The Swiss government has found excessive pesticides in those imported from Southeast Asia. I am excited to speak further with her; the Invited Cuisine of Honor at the Dijon Gastronomic Fair is Vietnam. 

     And now I'm off to the Wednesday market and the back to the GoodFestival. Stay tuned for more!

The Great Smith Island Cake Disaster

Shock and Awe: Celtic-Roman Stonework from Neuchatel.

     It began innocently and with good intentions: food historian Michael Twitty suggested a sacrificial dish for my specific sin of over-complicating things. Making the multi-layered Smith Island Cake from Tidewater Maryland sure proved complicated for me.

     It is only a slight exaggeration to say I'd never baked a cake. The Smith Island was not the one to start, not with a strange oven with metric temperature settings, with instructions in ounces and cups, and implements in liters. Did I mention too small cake pans?

     

Still she persisted.

     If we must conduct a postmortem, the first fatal error was not measuring out the batter into ten equal portions. The second was leaving wrinkles in the parchment lining of the pans. This resulted in lovely unintended flutes around the completely uneven layers.

    On the upside, I can say that the purest darkest eating chocolate from Switzerland can be substituted for unsweetened and semi-sweetened.  

    The cake's fate should be to be fed to the fishes, helping me to dispense with my sin. Instead my husband will have a slice, and then take the rest to be shared with faculty and students at the University.

    I have only one question, and I'm afraid it suggests I'm willfully persisting in my sin. Wikipedia gives the first mention of a Smith Island Cake to an early 20th Century cookbook. Does anyone know more about it?

     

The Great Smith Island Cake Disaster.

   

Novel Food

         Novel Food, hosted by food writer and pasta master Simona Carina, is a wonderful event. You cook a food from a favorite novel.

         Les Grandes Meaulnes, the story of love lost and regained, and a mysterious chateau in the Cher region of France, has been a favorite of mine since college.

         The hero, Meaulnes, wanders into a gala wedding party and is entranced by the sister of the groom. Suddenly all the festivities end; the bride has changed her mind. Our hero resolves to find her. If you don't know the book, you should. In English, it's called The Wanderer by Alain-Fournier.

          I could not find a description of the exact food for the noces (night before the wedding) feast. I consulted sources for the period, pre-World War I France, for the upper classes. No joy.

          The novelist George Sand did describe the wedding customs for the region, including the tradition of hanging a cabbage from the highest rafter. In China, it's customary to hang a lettuce within leaping distance of the lion-dragon. I decided to pursue a cabbage recipe.  Everything at today's Wednesday Market, and sweet-sour that I love!

         

Cabbage with Apples, Walnuts and Goat Cheese

Ingredients:

2 teaspoons canola oil

2 small red onions, thinly sliced

1/4 cup walnuts

1 clove garlic, minced

1 small head red cabbage, shredded (about 4 cups)

2 Tablespoons balsamic

2 Tablespoons chopped fresh oregano

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper

1 apple (Mcintosh style) cut in 1/2 inch pieces

2 1/2 ounces or more crumbled goat cheese

Heat the oil over medium heat. Add onion, walnuts, garlic. Soften the onions, toast the walnuts. (5-7 minutes)

Add the cabbage, balsamic and oregano. Cover. Stir. (12- 15 minutes)

Salt, pepper.

Remove from heat and toss with the apples and goat cheese. 

Cabbage for Noces, Le Grand Meaulnes peasant style.

It's not that hard to find MFK Fisher, if you walk.

The Railroad Station at Chexbres, Canton Vaud, Switzerland

     Walking up the hills of Lausanne rewards me when I get to the Mon Repos swimming pool. What if, I thought to myself, I walked up through the vineyards above Saint-Saphorin. We see them from the train along the lake. I had read that M.F.K. Fisher's home below Chexbres Village and Saint-Saphorin no longer existed. Someone wrote a long post about their unsuccessful attempt.

I found a photograph of it, but wasn't at sure of the date. 

     Replicating my father's photographs of the Hudson River taught me a few things about finding the location from which a shot was taken. First, buildings, as rectangles whose lines are converging in the distance, can be captured in a simple sketch. Particular features of the landscape, such as unusual trees, sometimes outlast buildings. And finally, road signs and mile markers, which are maintained by local authorities, will remain.

Le Paquis, date unknown.

I'm on the right track.

Checking the view.

The Canton maintains road signs.

With those clues, on foot, my climb was rewarded. M.F.K. Fisher means little to the Swiss, but I wonder if the owners know that something other than grapes grew here.

Le Paquis, 2017; window treatment remains.

Le Tour de Tout Cochon or the pork from head to tail...

     Sundays in Lausanne are a limited menu. Museums are closed, cafés close early. It's still quite warm. We decided to head up into the mountains. School is in session, autumn is at hand, tourists are fewer. An hour of fast train got us to Martigny, on the Rhone, above Lac Leman. Another hour, first on a Swiss funicular, and then on a French one, got us to Chamonix-Mont Blanc.

     The scenery is the sort that makes you laugh with delight. Pure verticality everywhere you look: Slopes stripped in shades of green below mountain tops lapped in permanent ice and snow, sunlight playing on clouds as they play with the peaks.

     Chamonix in summer is like any ski town in summer. The streets are lined with postcard shops, and stores selling clothing with labels like Sun Valley. By now it was hours since breakfast. We ambled off to a side street. Eventually we saw a sign for a restaurant with local specialties---this is France, Savoie region, in particular. Examining the Maison Carrier menu, we noted two things. The restaurant had been awarded Michelin's Bib Gourmand category---googd value, worth a detour. More importantly the price for a three or four course meal was about half than an ordinary restaurant in Lausanne. 

     A table was available at noon. We waited in the garden, drinking kir royales and citron pressé and reading the menu. Once choice was Tout Cochon - the whole pig, including the trotter, something I'd heard a lot about, but never eaten.

If not here, where?

     Even before the terrine arrived, we were presented with an enormous pat of butter, bread, dried charcuterie, mustard and a crab paste. Somewhere I read a plaintive explanation of American bar-b-que: when you cannot dry meat easily, you must smoke it, and serve it with a sauce to replenish some of what's lost in the heat of the smoker. Well, I come down on the side of smoking, and this region comes down on drying. Ah, well, they make up for this fault with their cheese.

     In any case, the terrine was, to employ that overused word, unctuous. The chicken liver added some oomph.

Homemade terrine with chicken liver,
onions candied in the balsamic and mushrooms in vinegar.

                

     Next came the black pudding. So rich, so delicate. I'm used to it having a sausage casing and being a bit dry, this was not in the least. The bacon, pear and onions with the sautéed potatoes, just the sort of sweet and sour to cut through the richness.
   





So there she blows, the pig's trotter. A lovely crust. I'm ignorant of how to proceed, and pretty sure I went about it all wrong. Fork in left hand, steak knife in the right, all I seemed to do was produce bones, with no meat adhering to them at all. A great deal of work to extract a few morsels of deliciousness. There really was no need for the gravy boat of Béarnaise, do you think? 

Grilled pig's trotter with béarnaise sauce

    The main course was a very nice piece of pork, which had been cooked in the manner of a daube, and then scorched a little. The tomatoes and olives again added some sour to the dish. However, as good as the accompanying gravy was, I will go for some pulled pork bar-b-que, if you care to send some to this realm of air-dried-sliced-shoe-leather.

Slow cooking pork filet mignon with olives and tomatoes,

mashed charlotte potatoes with virgin oil.