A FAMILY HOLIDAY in 1961 took Jane, Geoffrey and their young daughter Sophie to Trôo in the Loir-et-Cher for the first time. They returned in following years and, when the opportunity arose, bought a house there. The word house, though, is a poor description. The cliff that this semi-troglodyte village clings to is honeycombed with medieval quarrying caves. Like so many others, the Grigsons’ home was part cave, part house. In the extract from Notes from an Odd Country that follows, Geoffrey Grigson describes their first sight of the village, setting it in its geographical and historical context.
Trôo was far more than just a holiday home or a mere escape from the pressures of daily life. It was here that Jane’s career as a cookery writer began, as is described in the introduction to the next chapter.
Jane’s deep feelings for her French home shine through in the evident pleasure she took in the food, the wines, the customs and the whole life of her adopted part of France. They find expression in many of the recipes in this section and the very personal notes which often accompany them.
We are on the edge of Touraine. Up here on the southern hill at Les Hayes I look back across the river Loir – the Loir and not the Loire – and see Trôo church, a blue circumflex on the parallel hill to the north, towards England.
Past a curly cast-iron wind pump the road goes on quietly southward into Touraine, to the grand Loire, and to the cathedral city of Tours. To the north, beyond Trôo church, dedicated to St Martin, the patron of Tours, are the rather muddy farmlands of the Perche. Not a long way to the west, down the Loir, Anjou begins.
I have stopped exactly where we stopped on this minor departmental road fifteen years ago, on our way from Wiltshire to Venice. Now we have it fixed in our minds – why? because I think there can be no genuine evidence – that the ridge to the east and the west was the favourite walk of Pierre de Ronsard, or gave Pierre de Ronsard his favourite view of the Loir valley. Fifteen years ago we didn’t know we were looking at the Bas-Vendômois, the downstream country of Vendôme, bordering the Loir and enclosed by these northern and southern hills. We didn’t know Ronsard was born a few miles away. We looked down on to the buildings of a farm half tucked into the chalk in a side valley, under the woods, and decided how pleasant a farmstead it would be to own – without an idea that it was called Vaubusson, val buisson, Valley of the Thicket; without an idea that we would come to know the soft-eyed eighty-year-old farmer whose property it has been for fifty years.
I am up here now to draw a distant view of Trôo church beyond a telegraph pole which is very evidently French. The fields are open and hedgeless. We have picked a large bunch of cornflowers, of genuine, deep blue, open-eyed, exceedingly French cornflowers, not to be confused with the pallid scabious of cornfields at home. Or is this at home?
I must explain Trôo: it is the hub of the odd country of these notes, which is a country of the mind and a portion of France. First, it is about 354 km (220 miles) south of England, south of Hastings or Eastbourne. It exists partly on, partly inside a hill of hard chalk, which was mined for building houses. On top are remains – enceinte wall and turrets and gateways, and a bare motte – of a castle which belonged once to the Plantagenets. Also that strong, prominent church, associated with the castle. Along the foot of the hill, dividing Trôo from a smaller village, St-Jacques, flows the Loir. Vendôme is 24 km (15 miles) upstream, making this river country the Bas-Vendômois, as I say; the lower country of Vendôme. The river continues through the widest meadows to the Ile Verte, at Couture, on which Ronsard wanted to be buried. Couture is much visited for this island and for Ronsard’s first home, La Possonnière, which Ronsard’s father covered with Renaissance trickings and such inscriptions as Voluptati et Gratiis, to Pleasure and the Graces.
At Trôo vineyards begin, on slopes which wall the river plain. The climate is warm and dry. The Bas-Vendômois contains neolithic dolmens, neolithic polishing-stones, Gaulish camps, Roman camps, Gallo-Roman place-names, Romanesque wall-paintings, abbeys, priories, commanderies, pest-houses, ruins, drinking tables, wine caves, good restaurants, few factories, and riverside holiday huts on high legs.
On that Venetian journey we had spent the night at Trôo, we had seen the cliff in sunshine, had seen that the cliff contained stone mines and houses. We had walked over the Loir to the black-roofed church of St-Jacques-des-Guerets, and looked for a passing five minutes at Christ in twelve-century majesty and at the hand of God in a curve of a window. That was all.
It was years later that we came to stay, in a rented cave house. The pleasant thing this time which happened on the way, when we were already in the Perche, with about 48 km (30 miles) to go, was seeing Deptford Pinks in the rain. The hedge of an ochre lane was starred with them. Runnels of orange water poured down the lane, under an oak tree, past a gateway where we made a picnic pause. The hundreds of sparks of magenta spelt a newness, a new actuality.
The rain stopped. The sun was fierce when we reached Trôo and drove with timidity down one of the cliff lanes. The ground was hard and dry. [Notes from an Odd Country]
375 g (12 oz) trimmed asparagus
125 g (4 oz) butter
60 g (2 oz) flour
600 ml (1 pt) chicken stock
salt, pepper
2 egg yolks
2 tablespoons double cream
a pinch of sugar
extra knob of butter
Parboil the asparagus, then cut off the tips – which will be just tender – and set them aside. Cut the stalks into 1-cm (¼-inch) lengths. Stew them in half the butter in a covered pan until they are completely cooked. Meanwhile in another pan, melt the remaining butter, stir in the flour and then the chicken stock. Simmer, then moisten the asparagus in butter with some of the stock and liquidize. Pour through a strainer (to catch the last few stringy parts of the asparagus stalk, should there be any). Reheat gently and season.
Beat the yolks with the cream. Pour in a little of the soup, stirring vigorously, then return to the pan. Stir over a moderate heat, without boiling the soup, for 5 minutes; add a pinch of sugar to bring out the flavour, any extra seasoning required, and finally the asparagus tips, which should be given time to heat through in the hot soup, and the extra knob of butter.
Note: thawed frozen asparagus can be used instead of fresh. It will not need parboiling. Add the tips to the soup before thickening it with yolks and cream, so that they have a chance of becoming thoroughly tender. [Food with the Famous]
150 g (5 oz) peeled, chopped tomato
60 g (2 oz) chopped onion
250 g (8 oz) peeled, diced potatoes
200 g (7 oz) peeled and seeded pumpkin
90 g (3 oz) butter
1 litre (1½pt) water
60 g (2 oz) tapioca
3 egg yolks
½ litre (¾ pt) whipping cream
1 teaspoon wine vinegar
salt and pepper
cayenne
a pinch of sugar
Pumpkin soups in France are often very simple indeed – a slice of pumpkin cooked and sieved, then diluted with milk and water, plus cream and either salt, pepper and nutmeg or sugar. White wine is drunk with it, and little cubes of golden fried bread set off its creamy orange colour. Here is a general vegetable soup with pumpkin predominating, from the Franche-Comté. If you have no pumpkin, substitute little gem squash, courgettes or Jerusalem artichokes.
Stew the vegetables in the butter in a heavy pan for 5–10 minutes, stirring them occasionally and making sure they do not brown. Pour in the water and simmer until the vegetables are tender. Process or put through a mouli-légumes into a clean pan. Reheat, stir in the tapioca and simmer for about 20 minutes.
Meanwhile, beat the egg yolks and cream together. Pour in some of the soup then tip it back into the pan and heat through for 1–2 minutes without boiling. Add the vinegar gradually to sharpen the flavour, and seasonings (the vinegar is to compensate for the blandness of English cream and tomato, but you may not need it, or the sugar).
Serve with toasted bread, covered with thin slices of Comté or Gruyère cheese melted under the grill. [European Cookery]
750 g (1½ lb) tomatoes, peeled, chopped
500 g (1 lb) onions, sliced
150–200 g (5–7 oz) shrimps
white wine
salt, pepper, cayenne
a good beef stock
Whatever the attractions of travel or Paris were for Dumas, he was always drawn back to the sea (he quotes Byron: ‘Oh sea, the only love to whom I have been faithful’). He wrote much of the Dictionnaire at Roscoff in Brittany, and some in Normandy at Le Havre, where he met Courbet and Monet. He loved the shrimps and bouquets roses (prawns) of that coast, and invented this soup for them. In the end he died near the sea.
The entry on shrimps is delightful, with its picture of Ernestine’s establishment near Étretat, at St Jouin (my copy of the Dictionnaire says St Jouart, but I think this must be a mistake). Ernestine herself was wise and beautiful. The place was much visited by discriminating people from Le Havre, and ‘by the painters and poets of Paris who left drawings and poems celebrating her virtues, in her album’.
Judging by a similar recipe in the soup section, this dish was invented by Dumas himself. It should be made with live shrimps. If you cannot manage this, use boiled shrimps (or prawns, or mussels opened with white wine).
Cook tomatoes and onions slowly in a covered pan. When the tomato juices flow, raise the heat and remove the lid. Simmer steadily for about 45 minutes, then sieve.
Meanwhile cover the shrimps generously with white wine, add salt, pepper and cayenne. Bring to the boil, and cook briefly for a moment or two. Try a shrimp to see if it is ready. Strain off the liquid.† Peel the shrimps, setting aside the edible tail part. Put the debris back into the pan with the liquid, and simmer for 15 minutes to extract all flavour from the shells, etc. Strain, pressing as much through as possible. Measure this shrimp liquid, and add an equal quantity both of the tomato purée and beef stock. Bring to the boil, taste for seasoning, and adjust the quantities if you like, adding a little more tomato or stock, or both. A pinch of sugar will help bring out the flavour, if the tomatoes were not particularly good.
Put in the shrimp meats, and heat for a moment, then serve. Do not keep the soup waiting, as this will toughen the shrimp tails.
Note: if you use cooked shrimps or prawns, start their preparation at †, covering the debris very generously with white wine. [Food with the Famous]
7 cooked artichoke bottoms
cooked purée scraped from the leaves
250 ml (8 fl oz) mayonnaise
mustard
fresh parsley, chervil, tarragon, chives
200 g (7 oz) shelled shrimps or prawns
6 prawns in their shells (optional)
A fine way to start a special meal – the flavour of shellfish harmonizes beautifully with artichoke. Mayonnaise adds zest and richness.
Chop then mash one of the artichoke bottoms with the purée from the leaves. Mix with the mayonnaise and add a little mustard, then the chopped herbs. Fold in the shrimps or prawns. Pile this mixture up on the artichoke bottoms remaining and put a prawn in its shell on top of each. Serve chilled on a bed of lettuce.
If the artichoke bottoms are on the small side, and there is too much shrimp salad, pile the remainder in the centre of the serving dish and put the artichoke bottoms round it. [Vegetable Book]
In recent years, in our part of France, at least, ceps have become so difficult to find, that one can rarely pick enough to give to guests. Around Giverny in Monet’s time, in the woods that crest the chalk cliffs of the Seine, they must have been abundant, because ceps baked with garlic and oil was a dish that appeared at his hospitable luncheon table in the late summer and autumn.
Ceps – in French cèpe – is the name given to various kinds of edible Boletus. The finest, the cèpe de Bordeux, is Boletus edulis. Two other kinds are yellowish brown, Boletus luteus, and reddish brown, Boletus granulatus; they grow under conifers. But whatever the colour, all the ceps are easy to identify from their gills, which are clustered tightly together in tubes, so that they look like a sponge rather than a circle of pleated cloth. These spongy gills need not be removed in small ceps, or in larger ones for that matter unless they happen to be wet and bruised looking. The plump stalks of Boletus edulis should always be treasured: peel off the outer layer if it looks tough, and cut away any damaged earthy parts.
Sometimes in France you can buy ceps (at a price), but in this country you have to find them yourself, so it would be foolish of me to specify quantities. You have to share them round as best you can. The recipe can also be made with cultivated mushrooms – allow 500 g (1 lb) for 4 – but the flavour is quite different and far less delicious; you may well have to add a very little stock as bought mushrooms are so much less juicy than the wild kinds from field and forest.
To prepare the ceps for this dish, slice off the stalks level with the caps. Peel and trim them, then chop them with 2–3 cloves of garlic and several sprigs of parsley. The quantity of these two items depend on taste: if the cloves of garlic are small, I would use 4 to 500 g (1 lb) of mushrooms.
Sprinkle the caps with salt on the gill side. Turn them upside down on a rack and leave for upwards of 1 hour to drain. Dry them with kitchen paper.
Choose a deep ovenproof baking dish – an oval pâté terrine is ideal – and pour in a thin layer of olive oil. Fit the ceps, stalk side up, in layers into the dish, sprinkling each layer with the stalk mixture and a little olive oil. Plenty of pepper, too. Add no salt at this stage.
Cover the dish and put into the oven at gas 4–5, 180–190°C (350–375°F). Leave until tender – time will depend on the size and age of the mushrooms. Check after 30 minutes, then every 10 minutes. If the juices become copious, remove the lid and raise the oven temperature; a certain amount of liquid is essential, and delicious, but too much will flood the ceps to insipidity. The quantity of juice that wild mushrooms exude can be surprising, especially if the season has been a wet one. You may even need to pour some off, rather than overcook the ceps. In other seasons, dry seasons, you may get very little. Ceps can be very meaty and substantial.
Towards the end of cooking time, taste the juices and a little bit of cep. Add salt at this stage if necessary, and more pepper.
Serve with plenty of bread, either as a course on its own, or with meat and poultry. [Food with the Famous]
6 heads prepared chicory
2 large eating apples
60 g (2 oz) raisins, soaked in hot water for 1 hour
90 g (3 oz) shelled walnuts
125 g (¼ lb) mild cheese, diced
French dressing, mayonnaise or cream seasoned with French mustard and lemon juice
4 large heads prepared chicory
5 hard-boiled eggs
2 tablespoons double cream
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
2 tablespoons melted butter
salt, black pepper
12 black olives
Chicory makes a much better winter salad than floppy lettuce from a plastic bag. It’s crisp and juicy, and can quite well be served on its own with just a French dressing, and plenty of freshly ground black pepper. Of all salad vegetables it combines best with other ingredients, in this respect it even tops celery.
Salad 1. Slice the chicory into 1-cm (½-inch) pieces, and push out the half rings of leaves. Core and dice the apples, but don’t peel them. Drain the raisins. Mix everything together, chill and serve.
Salad 2. Carefully separate and remove the leaves from the chicory heads, stopping when you come to a core of about 5 cm (2 inches). Shell and mash the eggs with a fork, then mix them with cream, parsley and melted butter. This mass should be lightly coherent, not smooth or pastelike. Season it well. Fill the chicory leaves with the mixture, arranging them on a serving dish. Put a few slices of olive on each one, and the tiny cones of chicory in the centre.
Note: 250 g (8 oz) cottage cheese may be substituted for the eggs. [Good Things]
250–375g (½–¾ lb) lamb’s lettuce
1 beetroot, boiled or baked and skinned
1 tablespoon wine vinegar
4 tablespoons sunflower oil
2 tablespoons crème fraîche or 1 tablespoon each soured and double cream
1 large egg, hard-boiled, shelled
salt and pepper
If you happen to be in Normandy around and after Christmas, you are sure to encounter lamb’s lettuce. This soft, tongue-shaped leaf grows in little clumps or bouquets, a number of leaves joined loosely at the base: it is a favourite decoration for meat and poultry but above all it is a favourite salad. The normal French name, often used in this country by nurserymen, is mâche: it has local names, too, pet names almost, such as doucette which refers to its softness, and bourcette from its old-fashioned purse shape. It makes a much better salad than floppy hothouse lettuce, and is usually accompanied by beetroot, one of those classic partnerships. Furthesr south in France, walnuts and walnut oil will be added, or the salad will be served warm with fried cubes of bacon, their fat and the vinegar used to deglaze the pan. Lamb’s lettuce is also mixed in with other greens, dandelion leaves for instance, endive and so on, in the green salad that is always served after the main course in France. This kind of salad comes as a first course, on its own.
Rinse and pick over the lamb’s lettuce, separating the leaves. Leave them to drain. Cut the beetroot into strips. Mix the vinegar, oil and crème fraîche or cream in the salad bowl with seasoning, beating them together. Cross the salad servers on top and put in the lamb’s lettuce. Season the beetroot and put it in the centre. Chop the egg to crumbs or mash it with a fork, season it and scatter it over the whole thing. Toss the salad at the table. [The Cooking of Normandy]
500 g (1 lb) mange-tout peas, prepared
1 level dessertspoon finely chopped spring onion or green onion sprouts
15 g (½ oz) sachet of gelatine
a pinch of sugar
salt
black pepper
a squeeze of lemon juice
250 ml (8 fl oz) whipping cream
2 egg whites, stiffly beaten
melba toast
Set aside 125 g (¼ lb) of the peas. Put the rest into a pan with the onion. Bring 300 ml (½ pt) of water to the boil in another pan, pouring most of it on to the peas and onion, but leaving enough to dissolve the gelatine in when it has cooled down a little.
Cook the peas until just tender, then liquidize or process the peas, onion and cooking liquor. Sieve into a measuring jug. There should be about ½ litre (¾ pt).
Dissolve the gelatine in the reserved warm water and add to the warm purée. Season with a pinch or two of sugar, salt, pepper and just a little lemon juice. Put the purée in the refrigerator.
Whip the cream until very thick but not quite stiff. When the purée is on the point of setting, fold the cream into it, followed by the beaten egg whites.
Chill 16 × 75 ml (2½ fl oz) individual oval moulds lightly. Pour in the mixture and leave to set firmly for several hours or overnight in the refrigerator.
To serve, lightly cook the remaining mangetout and drain. Turn out 2 moulds on to each serving dish. Surround with a few mange-tout and melba toast. [À La Carte]
375 g (¾ lb) mange-tout peas
6 tablespoons groundnut, sunflower or hazelnut oil
4 tablespoons white wine vinegar
6 chicken livers, cubed, with stringy parts removed
salt
black pepper
6 very thin rashers of streaky bacon, cut into strips
bacon fat or extra oil (if necessary)
16 small bread dice
Have 4–6 warm individual serving dishes ready. Top, tail and string the mange-tout. Cook them to the state of tenderness you like best. Drain and put into a warm bowl. Mix the oil and vinegar together and add to the mange-tout. Keep warm.
Season the livers with salt and pepper. Cook the strips of bacon in their own fat, using a little extra fat or oil if necessary. Try to get them crisp and curly. Remove with a slotted spoon, then fry the bread dice until golden. Drain and add to the bacon strips. Finally cook the liver pieces briefly in the remaining fat, adding more fat or oil if need be. The liver should be pink inside. Put the bacon and bread back in the fat for a few seconds to warm through slightly.
To serve, arrange the mange-tout, hot liver, bacon and bread dice in the serving dishes and serve immediately. [À La Carte]
The fashion today is to praise our traditional food and cookery, out of gastronomic patriotism, without much experience of its high spots. Asparagus does not, for instance, appear on every table two or three times a week in May or June as it does in Germany. Oysters are served even less, I would say, judging by our local fishmongers. A pity this, since once they were everyone’s delight from the poorest to the Prince of Wales. Today, however, we only seem to eat oysters in restaurants – foolish if you come to think of it, since their preparation is negligible and it would be far cheaper to eat them at home.
In the matter of oysters, there are two main choices. The ardent oyster-lover with a deep pocket goes for Ostrea edulis, native indigenous oysters which are round and flattish, their shells ridged. In Britain, the ideal might be Royal Whitstables or Pyefleets from Colchester. In France, Belons or Armoricaines or gravettes d’Arcachon. If you are new to oysters, go first for the very best. They are in season over the winter.
The second choice is the cheaper Portuguese or Pacific oyster Crassostrea angulata or C. gigas. Both are longer than the rounded Ostrea edulis and much more frilled and beautiful in their form. They are the oysters you see everywhere in French markets throughout the year: the people’s oysters and, although inferior to the fine-flavoured native, by careful cultivation some specimens reach almost as distinguished a glory.
Marennes and the Ile d’Oléron provide nearly two-thirds of France’s oysters. There had always been native oysters in those parts, but in 1860 a ship with a cargo of oysters from Portugal had to take refuge in the Gironde from storms in the Bay of Biscay. As time went by and the storms continued, everyone became nervous of the state of the cargo. Eventually it was thrown overboard. The oysters were not in as parlous a state as had been feared. They looked around, liked their new situation, and settled down to make a new home. All went well for a century, but latterly disease weakened the Portuguese oysters, so the Pacific oyster has been introduced with great success. As its scientific name suggests, it is a giant oyster, if left to reach full maturity. In fact it is harvested young, at Portuguese oyster size.
In Britain, where the water is too cold for them to breed, Portuguese and Pacific are started off in laboratories and sold to growers as seed oysters. This means you can have the summer pleasure of grilling scrubbed oysters over hot charcoal, flat side up, so that they steam open by themselves.
Beyond the simple choice that I have described, there is, as you might expect, a world of knowledge and expertise, drama and emotion (as for instance when some disease, such as bonamia, takes out famous oyster beds). My own passion for oysters began when my husband gave me a copy of The Oysters of Loqmariaquer by Eleanor Clarke. She describes her own first acquaintance with oysters during a long stay in Brittany, and weaves in much oyster history and many anecdotes. She is poet enough to attempt a description of the oyster’s special delight: ‘Music or the colour of the sea are easier to describe than the taste of one of these Armoricaines, which has been lifted, turned, rebedded, taught to close its mouth while travelling, culled, sorted, kept a while in a rest home or “basin” between each change of domicile … It is briny first of all, and not in the sense of brine in a barrel, for the preservation of something; there is a shock of freshness to it … You are eating the sea, only the sensation of a gulp of sea water has been wafted out of it by some sorcery.’
My greatest oyster discovery has been that two people in Scotland – and there may be others elsewhere – are trying to get an experience of oysters to everyone. They are John Noble and his partner Andrew Lane at Ardkinglas on Loch Fyne. They will supply them Datapost and have recently circularized thousands of the more likely fishmongers. They already supply restaurants. Their dream is to see oyster bars on the corners of every sizeable town so that this healthiest of fast food snacks is there for everyone.
Allow 6–12 oysters per person. If you do not have special oyster plates, serve on a bed of crushed ice or seaweed. Very fresh oysters will keep quite well if they are kept cool, but as a general rule buy them for eating the same day. Scrub the oysters under a cold tap. Wrap your left hand in a clean cloth (or your right hand if you are left-handed). Take up an oyster, or steady it on the table, flat side up. Examine the join of the two shells as best you can, and where you see a likely separation, insert the point of a knife and wriggle it so that it cuts the attachment of the oyster to the shell. Lever it open.
If the oysters look messy with bits of shell, tip them into a sieve set over a bowl. Swish the oysters one by one in their own liquor and put them back into their deep shells. Strain the liquor through doubled muslin and spoon it over the oysters.
Add wedges of lemon to each plate, then serve with a mignonette sauce made by mixing 140 ml (¼ pt) of white wine with 2 tablespoons of chopped shallots and 2 teaspoons of coarsely ground peppercorns.
Provide good bread, rye, wheatmeal or wholemeal for instance, unsalted butter and a dry white wine. Chablis is the classic but try Quincy, Muscadet or an Alsace wine. Some people prefer Guinness. [À La Carte]
2 onions chopped
a spoonful of lard
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 kg (2 lb) potatoes, quartered
chervil, parsley, chives in quantity
salt and pepper
1¾ litres (3 pt) water
2 medium mackerel, 3 gurnard, piece of conger eel sliced, 2 whiting, 1 bream
1 onion chopped
a lump of lard or butter
a good handful of sorrel
bouquet garni
1 kg (2 lb) potatoes, sliced
salt and pepper
1¾ litres (3 pt) water
1 gurnard, 1 red mullet, 1 garfish, cod, etc.
The fish soup of Brittany; or, if you like, the fish supper, because the liquid is drunk first, as soup, with the fish and potatoes as a main course to follow. The cooking method for the first two recipes is close to that of American chowder. All three come from Simone Morand’s Gastronomie Bretonne. The point of variation between the three, and between so many other fish soups, lies in the different resources of the places where they’re made. For this reason, mackerel is included – an unusual creature in most fish soups.
Cotriades are excellent food for large parties of people. One cooking pot to watch (and wash up), the simplest of preparations, which means that everyone can help, and a lavish result after a short cooking time. The only possible mistake is to overcook the fish. Provide a great deal of butter to eat with the fish and potatoes. (Breton butter is often salted, unlike Normandy butter which is too softly creamy for this kind of food.) Failing butter, vinaigrette will do instead. Provide plenty of bread, too, and toast some of it lightly for the soup. Another essential item is a bottle of full-bodied red wine.
Simone Morand so feelingly implores her readers not to cut off the heads of the fish, that I’m reminded of a Chinese cookery writer who declared that Westerners missed something through feeling unable to look at a fish with its head on, ‘they miss experiencing the delicate taste of fish head’. True.
For the first Two Stews
Cook the onion in the fat until it is lightly browned. Add vegetables, herbs and seasoning, and water. Cover the pan, and simmer until the potatoes are almost cooked, then add the fish, cut into chunks. Add more water if necessary to cover all the ingredients. Bring back to the boil, and simmer for a further 10 minutes until the fish is cooked, but not overcooked.
1 kg (2 lb) potatoes, sliced
4 onions, sliced
6 large tomatoes, peeled, pipped (seeded) and chopped
1 stalk of celery, chopped
the white part of 2 or 3 leeks, chopped
parsley, chervil, thyme, bay leaf
a tumbler of olive oil or melted butter
a pinch of saffron, salt, pepper
firm fish (conger, mackerel, pollack, saithe)
soft fish (sardines, skate, cod, ballan wrasse, etc.)
shellfish (crawfish, lobster, crabs of various kinds, mussels, shrimps)
Belle-Île
The method is slightly different for this feast. First season and cut up the various fish. Put the firm-fleshed ones on a plate with crawfish, lobster and crab. Put the soft-fleshed ones on another plate with mussels and shrimps or prawns. Pour the oil or butter over both piles. Leave while the vegetables cook in plenty of water, with seasoning, herbs and saffron. When the potatoes are nearly done, add the firm-fleshed fish, etc. Boil hard for 5 minutes exactly. Add the soft-fleshed fish, etc., and boil hard for another 5 minutes, not a moment longer. Serve separately in the usual way, after correcting the seasoning of the soup. [Fish Cookery]
1 kg (2 lb) crab, boiled, or 250 g (8 oz) crab meat
salt and pepper
cayenne pepper
3 eggs
250 ml (8 fl oz) cream
1 tablespoon Parmesan cheese
1 tablespoon Gruyère cheese
23–25 cm (9–10 inch) shortcrust pastry case, baked blind for 10 minutes
A great pleasure of French eating is the crab, especially spider crabs, many of which come from British waters (the official view is that the British housewife refuses to buy them). You go into some ordinary little port café in Brittany, and these splendid creatures will be brought to your table, often in a heap of shellfish bedded on ice and seaweed, with a bowl of mayonnaise. An ideal way of eating, since it takes a long time to eat quite a small amount.
For this tart you can use either kind of crab, or prepared crab meat so long as it contains no cereal filler to bulk it out (inquire firmly). Other shellfish can be used, too.
Set oven at moderately hot, gas 5, 190°C (375°F).
Pick the meat from the boiled crab, discarding the dead man’s fingers; the shell can be used as a flavouring for fish stock. Season the crab meat, then beat in 1 whole egg and 2 yolks, then the cream and cheeses.
Whip the 2 egg whites until really stiff, then fold them into the crab mixture and spread in the cooled pastry case.
Bake in the heated oven for about 40 minutes. The mixture will puff up and turn golden brown in light patches: the final test is the centre, which should just have lost its liquid wobbliness under the crust (it will be creamy, however, not solid). Serve straightaway with brown bread and butter. [European Cookery]
16 fillets of sole
250 ml (8 fl oz) dry white wine: Chablis or Sancerre
60 g (2 oz) butter
salt and pepper
125–180 g (4–6 oz) smoked salmon
60 g (2 oz) butter softened
lemon juice, pepper, salt
500 g (1 lb) mushrooms, chopped
60 g (2 oz) butter
lemon juice, salt, pepper
2 generous tablespoons thick cream
2 large egg yolks
3 generous tablespoons cream
The simple method of baking sole in the oven (or poaching it), can be elaborated into the favourite restaurant dish of paupiettes de soles. Fillets, spread with some delicious mixture, are rolled into a neat shape and cooked in white wine, or wine and stock: the cooking liquor is finally used in the making of a creamy sauce. Although such dishes look pretty and often taste agreeable, I do confess to a preference for sole on the bone; it keeps more of its natural flavour when cooked that way. But I make an exception for this recipe from Les Recettes Secrètes des Meilleurs Restaurants de France. At first the title and ingredients were irresistible; then I found that the smoked salmon adds a most delicious flavour to the sauce, an unexpected piquancy.
Here you have the basic recipe for all paupiettes of fish; it can be adapted to humble herring fillets or varied to make many dishes of sole, lemon sole and turbot. The fish bones can be used to make a little stock to go with the white wine when a larger amount of sauce is required.
First make the salmon butter. Reduce the smoked salmon to a purée in a liquidizer or moulinette, with the butter. Season to taste with salt, pepper and lemon juice.
Season the cut side of each sole fillet; spread with salmon butter and roll up – use cocktail sticks to keep the fillets in shape. Butter an oval ovenproof dish and place the rolled fillets in it, packed closely together, side by side. Pour the white wine over them. Bring the liquid to the boil, cover with aluminium foil, and either place in a moderate oven for up to 10 minutes (gas 4, 180°C [350°F]) or leave to simmer gently on top of the stove for 5–7 minutes, turning the paupiettes once. Whichever method you use, do not overcook the fish.
Meanwhile cook the mushrooms quickly in the butter. Season with salt, pepper and lemon juice. Remove from the heat, stir in the cream and put on to a warm serving dish.
Pour cooking liquid off the sole into a measuring jug; then into a saucepan, and reduce it by half. Beat the egg yolks and cream together, stir a tablespoon or two of the reduced liquid into this mixture; return to the saucepan and cook slowly without boiling until thick. Place paupiettes on the mushrooms, coat them with the sauce and serve. At the Domaine de la Tortinière at Montbazon, where this dish is on the menu, 16 small fish shapes are cut out of a piece of smoked salmon and used to garnish the paupiettes. [Fish Cookery]
6 fish steaks
100 g (3½ oz) unsalted butter
250 g (8 oz) chopped onion
200 g (7 oz) piece of smoked streaky bacon, skinned and diced
seasoned flour plus 1 tablespoon plain flour
150 ml (¼ pt) dry white wine
150 ml (¼ pt) water
150 ml (¼ pt) crème fraîche
1 tablespoon wine vinegar
chopped parsley
salt and pepper
Steaks (darnes) from several kinds of white fish can be cooked in this way, with slight variations of timing according to their thickness and the texture of the fish. Ling (julienne in French) is a favourite in Normandy, but cod, haddock, hake or monkfish are more likely choices here. Try and buy a piece of top-quality smoked streaky bacon, rather than rashers.
Season the steaks with salt and pepper and set them aside. In half the butter, soften the onion. When it is tender, raise the heat slightly and add the bacon dice. Fry them until they are lightly coloured. Push them to one side of the pan, or remove them with a slotted spoon to a bowl. Dry the fish steaks, turn them in the seasoned flour and colour them lightly on both sides in the same pan. When they are almost done but still pink at the bone, remove everything from the pan and keep warm.
Add the rest of the butter to the pan, stir in the flour and cook it for 1 minute. Add the wine and water gradually. Let the sauce cook down quickly, bring the crème fraîche to the boil and add it with a little of the vinegar. Check the seasoning, adding extra vinegar if you like. Put back the fish, onion and bacon and barely simmer until the fish is cooked, about 5 minutes. Transfer everything to a serving dish, sprinkle a pinch of parsley on each steak and serve.
Note: the success of the dish depends on careful cooking in the early stages, never letting the butter burn. This way the flavours accumulate and blend. [The Cooking of Normandy]
1–1¼ kg (2–3 lb) fish bones and heads
1 onion, sliced
1 carrot, sliced
white part of 1 small leek, sliced
a stick of celery, sliced
bouquet garni
10 black peppercorns
450 ml (¾ pt) dry white wine or good dry cider
2 teaspoons white wine vinegar
2 litres (3½ pt) water
Fish stock is simple and cheap to make, and essential for Normandy cooking. Any left over can be stored in two ways: either in conveniently sized pots in the freezer or else in the form of a fish glaze that can be kept for weeks in the refrigerator. To make fish glaze, strain the stock into a wide, shallow pan and boil it down to a tenth or even a twentieth of its original volume, depending on how concentrated it was in the first place. When the liquid is thick and syrupy, pour it into a little container and cover it when cold. A teaspoonful will add flavour to many fish sauces without your having to make stock.
Suitable bones and heads for stock are often available at the fish counter. Avoid oily fish debris – such as mackerel, herring and so on – but sole, monkfish, whiting, cod and haddock are all suitable. If you also include shellfish debris, such as prawn, crab and lobster shells, you have the basis for extra-special soups. Mussel and oyster liquor can also be added.
Put all the ingredients in a large pan, adding the water last. Bring slowly to the boil, skimming until the liquid is clear. Cover the pan and simmer it – fish stock should never boil – for about 30 minutes. Do not be tempted to cook it longer or the stock will taste gluey. Strain the stock through a double-muslin-lined sieve.
Note: salt is not added, since the stock may well need to be reduced if you are making a sauce. [The Cooking of Normandy]
750 ml (1¼ pt) fumet de poisson(page 104)
250–300 g (8–10 oz) boned monkfish, cut in little cubes or strips, or John Dory, weever or Dover sole fillets, cut in strips
6 large scallops
175 g (6 oz) prawns, large shrimps or langoustines
12 mussels or oysters, shelled, liquid added to fumet
meat of a boiled crab or lobster weighing about 500 g (1 lb) or about 175 g (6 oz) shelled crab or lobster meat
salt and pepper
50 g (2 oz) unsalted butter
4 tablespoons plain flour
100 g (3½ oz) mushrooms, chopped
150 ml (¼ pt) crème fraîche or double cream
salt, pepper and lemon juice
A recipe for seafood bound with a rich velouté sauce is a most useful one to know. It can be rolled into crêpes or piled into a large, precooked, flaky pastry case, or spooned into vol-au-vent cases. Most simply of all, it can be served inside a ring of rice or egg noodles.
The quantities given here are enough for six helpings. If you have problems getting one or other of the fish or shellfish suggested, substitute what you can get that is good and fresh: in all you need a minimum of 750 g (1½ lb) total edible weight.
Bring the fumet to simmering point and poach the white fish until it just becomes opaque. Remove the fish with a slotted spoon, season it and set it aside. Slice the white part of the scallops across, reserving the corals. Cook the discs of white scallop meat in the fumet. Remove them, season them and set them aside. Strain the fumet and reserve it. Shell the prawns, shrimps or langoustines, reserving any eggs. When the fish has cooled mix it with all the shellfish and season to taste.
Meanwhile, make the sauce by melting the butter, stirring in the flour and cooking it for 2 minutes. Add the strained fumet and mushrooms. Cook the sauce down steadily until it is thick but not gluey. Mix enough sauce into the shellfish mixture to bind it nicely, and check the seasoning, adding lemon juice if it seems a good idea. Sieve the crème fraîche or cream, scallop corals and shellfish eggs together, and mix in the remaining sauce with salt, pepper and lemon juice as required.
You now have your filling and sauce ready for use and subsequent reheating. Remember that any shellfish is best eaten the day you buy it. [The Cooking of Normandy]
This is so popular a dish in France that I wonder we do not see cans of it in England and America as well as in every supermarket. It is simple to make at home, and good. (Be careful not to get the juice on your clothes as it leaves a searching smell that takes some getting rid of.)
For 6 people – or for 12, if you are serving a mixed hors d’oeuvre or buffet meal – buy 6 fresh, medium-sized mackerel. Ask the fishmonger to cut off the heads and clean them.
Put them into a pan in one or two layers, and pour on water to cover generously. Then tip the water into a measuring jug and note the quantity. You will need half that amount in white wine – Muscadet is the ideal – and half in white wine vinegar. Throw the water away.
Put the wine and vinegar into another pan, with 6 neat slices of carrot, and the rest of a large carrot cut into bits. Add 2–3 cloves, a tiny hot chilli, 1 teaspoon black peppercorns, lightly crushed, and a bouquet garni (bay, thyme, parsley, tarragon and a small sprig of rosemary). Simmer for 10 minutes. Meanwhile, tuck a large sliced onion and a sliced lemon between the mackerel. Put them on the heat and when the liquor returns to the boil, give it a bubble or two, then cover and put aside to cool.
Transfer the mackerel to a serving dish, with the neat carrot slices, and 2– 3 lemon slices, plus the chilli, the bay leaf from the bouquet garni, and a few fragments of onion if they are not too tatty. Add fresh peppercorns. Cover and leave to marinade in the refrigerator for 2–4 days. Serve with bread, butter and Muscadet, or whichever wine you used, to drink. [European Cookery]
6 brioches or baps
150 g (5 oz) unsalted butter, melted
24–30 oysters, opened, drained, liquor reserved and strained
300 ml (½ pt) whipping cream or crème fraîche
cayenne pepper or Tabasco sauce
salt
freshly ground black pepper
lemon juice (optional)
samphire
julienne strips of carrot
Cut the lids neatly from the brioches or baps and take out the crumb, leaving a strong wall. Put 3 tablespoons of the butter into a small non-stick frying pan about 20½ cm (8 inches) across. Use the rest to brush out the inside of the brioches or baps; any left over can be brushed over the outside. Put them on a baking sheet into the oven preheated to gas 7, 220°C (425°F) until they are crisp and nicely toasted. This takes about 10 minutes but the lids can catch easily, so be prepared to remove them after 5 minutes. Switch off the oven and leave the door ajar.
Meanwhile, stiffen the oysters briefly in the 3 tablespoons of butter. Scoop them out and cut them into halves, if large. Tip the oyster juice into the pan and boil it down to a strong essence. Stir in the cream or crème fraîche and bubble steadily until you have a thick-looking sauce. Taste occasionally. If there is a lot of oyster liquor, you may need extra cream – alternatively you can stir in some extra unsalted butter at the end. The sauce should be strong but not belligerent. Add the cayenne or Tabasco, seasoning as required, and add a few drops of lemon juice if you like.
Place the oysters in the sauce and heat briefly. Divide them between the crisp brioches or baps, replace the lids, garnish with the samphire and carrot, and serve, sprinkled with cayenne. [À La Carte]
a little oil
1 kg (2 lb) tailpiece of salmon
150 ml (¼ pt) dry white wine
about 1¼ kg (3 lb) bones, heads, etc. from salmon and sole or other white fish
1 onion, quartered
a generous bunch of parsley, about 30 g (1 oz)
1 litre (1¾ pt) water
1½–2 teaspoons gelatine (if necessary)
a generous bunch of chives
a bunch of chervil
a small bunch of tarragon
salt and pepper
½ litre (¾ pt) mayonnaise or crème fraîche
a little tomato purée
1 tablespoon small capers
salt, pepper and lemon juice
Most of the salmon on sale in France, whether fresh or smoked, comes from the coasts of Norway these days. Often the quality is so good that it is difficult to distinguish it from wild salmon. The main herbs of Normandy cooking are chives and parsley (I was told that half the parsley sold in French markets and shops comes from one village to the north of Carteret). People grow chervil in their gardens and tarragon in particularly warm and sheltered corners.
Preheat the oven to gas 8, 230°C (450°F). Lay a large piece of foil on a baking sheet. Brush it in the centre with oil. Put the salmon on top, pour over the wine and season the fish. Fold up the foil to make a baggy parcel and bake the salmon for 15 minutes; then check and see if it needs more time. This will depend on the thickness of the piece: remember it will cook further as it cools. Leave the whole thing in a cool place until it is tepid; then transfer the fillets to a plate and remove the skin and bones. Strain the juice into a bowl. Put the fillets and juice into the refrigerator.
To make the jelly, put the bones, skin, onion and the stalks of the parsley into a pan. Add the water, bring it to the boil, cover the pan and simmer it for 30 minutes. Strain the stock into a measuring jug and then boil it down to just under 750 ml (1¼ pt). Remove the oil from the salmon juice and add the juice to the fish stock. Put a tablespoonful into the refrigerator to test the set: if it is on the weak side, and if you wish to turn the terrine out for serving, dissolve some of the gelatine in a little of the stock and then pour it back into the main part. If you do not wish to turn the terrine out the jelly need not be too stiff (which also means it will taste nicer). Season the stock.
Rinse the herbs, keeping them separate. Set half of each bunch of herbs aside. Plunge the rest into a pan of boiling water. After 1 minute, tip them into a sieve and run them under the cold tap. Dry them on kitchen paper, liquidize or process them to a purée and keep them for the sauce.
Chop the remaining herbs and put them in a basin. Flake the salmon and mix it in, with seasoning to taste.
If you intend to turn out the terrine, pour a layer of the stock into the terrine or soufflé dish, making it a good 5 mm (¼ inch) thick. Leave to set in the refrigerator. Then mix the remaining stock with the salmon and herbs; spoon this into the dish and chill until set. If you don’t intend to turn it out, pour most of the liquid into the salmon and herbs, but reserve enough to make a smooth final layer about 5 mm (¼ inch) thick. Leave to set firmly in the refrigerator.
Now complete the dish, by adding the salmon and herbs and remaining liquid, and by pouring the last of the liquid over the top to make a smooth final layer if you are not turning it out. Chill until it is set and you are ready to serve it.
For the sauce, add the herb purée to the mayonnaise or the crème fraîche, along with the remaining items. Serve with a light brown bread.
Note: the precise quantity of herbs will depend on what you like, and what you have. The dish should be well speckled with green. [The Cooking of Normandy]