Tuesday 28 September 2010

Poireaux Vinaigrette

You say 'Poirot'; I say 'Poireaux' (photo: ITV)

Last week I read this post on Orangette, and the words have been ringing in my ears. Not exactly the words of the blog itself, but those of my meres Francaises. I count myself immeasurably lucky to have had more than one.

The first was Mme. S. As an impressionable sixteen-year-old, I spent an unforgettable and all-too-short week with la Famille S. in the small town of a few thousand people called Arcangues, or Arrangoitze, in the Basque country, near Biarritz. Mme., as far as I could tell, derived immense pleasure from feeding me and watching my facial expressions convey what my limited French could not yet fully express--not that the daily motions of her explaining what we might do that day in her Spanish Basque accent and me staring blankly back, nodding and smiling, utterly clueless, did not have their own charm.

Mme. S. had a lemon tree in the backyard and made a lemon meringue pie the likes of which I continue to dream about and have never tasted since; lunches, of course, were a three-course affair; and dinner proceeded at a similar pace, featuring local terrines, confit de canard with wild honey, Jambon de Bayonne, local dessert wine, and inevitably concluding with me red-faced and totally, utterly content. In one week my waistline ballooned with the vigor of choux pastry.

Years later, when I was to bring my parents and brother to meet la Famille S., we were treated to yet another epic lunch, about which we still often rhapsodize: the savoury final course was what sealed the deal for my parents--local foie gras as silky and rich as one has ever had accompanied by two bottles of a coveted dessert wine, made by a neighbour whose annual production never exceeded more than fifty bottles. And this time I was able to translate the accolades with relative accuracy, though, again, I think our faces and primal noises of delight said more.

My second mere Francaise was Mme. V. I arrived on her doorstep as a twenty-four-year-old having spontaneously landed my first job in Paris and desperate for a place to live. She and Monsieur V. were most gracious and caring. So long as I refrained from cooking anything with onions and garlic--'ils puent'--and did not, under any circumstances, bring a man back to the house, I was invited to be 'chez soi'. Mme. and I would talk about food, religion, politics, art, my alternately expanding and contracting waistline, her hopes for her children, marriage, and everything in between. When I finally gave in and replaced my two morning croissants with a double shot of espresso, she proclaimed after a few months' time that I had become 'une vraie femme Parisienne'. My fondest memories in that house were sitting at the dining table over a tisane of lemon verbena from the garden, warmed from baked endive, and chatting into the night.

Alors, en l'honneur de mes deux familles Francaises, here is my version of poireaux vinaigrette:


1 leek, washed, outer layers removed
(keep the root intact while washing and cut off the tip only when on the baking tray)
20 cherry tomatoes, washed and halved
1 egg
8 Tbs. basic vinaigrette
*
Olive oil
White wine vinegar
Salt
Pepper

*1 tsp. Dijon mustard; 2 Tbs. white wine vinegar; 2 Tbs. vegetable oil; 3 Tbs. olive oil; 1 tsp. herbes de provence; salt and pepper to taste

Prepare leek, ensuring to rinse away any dirt and grit. Cut the leek in half, lengthwise, and then cut the root tip of the leek and place on a foil-lined baking tray. Douse in vinaigrette.

This recipe yields leeks that are soft towards the root and crisp and chewy towards the tips; you will need a sharp, serrated knife to tackle the fibrous tips. For an all-around softer texture, blanch the leeks in boiling water for at least two minutes, and then pat dry before roasting.

Toss halved cherry tomatoes in olive oil, salt and pepper, and arrange on the baking tray, ensuring that they're not overcrowded. Place baking tray on an upper rack of the oven whose broiler is preheated to 220C. Cook until you think they are done (at least 15 mins.), and then let them cook a while longer. The leeks will turn like languid sunbathers and respire before going limp. They should be browned and soft. By this time your tomatoes should be roasted as well, but keep them in longer for further caramelisation, if desired.

While the veggies are roasting, boil a pot of water with a dash of white wine vinegar thrown in. When the veg has just five minutes to go, put some sliced ciabatta (drizzled with olive oil, salt and pepper) into a lower rack in the oven. Now poach the egg in the boiling water.

Arrange all components in a shallow bowl, drizzling the egg with a bit of olive oil, the leeks with a bit more vinaigrette, and garnishing with chives (optional). Rub the toasted bread with a raw garlic clove and enjoy!



Tuesday 14 September 2010

Wonder Bread


There is a gale outside. Rain is slapping the roof and whistling wind is seeping through my leaky, single-paned Victorian sills.

Apparently, Hurricane Igor is bearing down on Bermuda.

Yet, down in the kitchen, a preheating oven is helping a 7g packet of yeast work magic. That flour, water, sugar, fat, and yeast can create something so basic yet so intricate in structure is, to my mind, rather miraculous.

Baking bread was not a culinary exploit I entered into lightly...or wantonly, for that matter. I found a defeatist attitude was safest. That, combined with some research.

My quest for fool-proof, fail-proof tips brought me to Felicity Cloake's June article in The Guardian. The perennial questions are entertained--to knead or not? If so, how long? How long a proof? What about slamming, pummeling, and all other motions that get the anger out in the name of a light, billowy loaf?

I studiously followed Cloake's tips, spending as much on a small jar of vitamin C tablets as on the entirety of the other necessary ingredients. I crushed the requisite half-tablet with a mortar and pestle, fearing that my curry pastes were to be forever tainted by undertones of orange concentrate. Thankfully, no taste of Tango has come through--not in the curries, nor in the bread.


Repeat trials have yielded consistent, infinitely pleasing loaves of bread. There was a giddy sense of anticlimax that came over me as I stood in front of my first loaf of homemade bread, which was perfectly articulated by my housemate: 'Wow! Did you make that yourself? It looks just like you got it from Marks & Spencer!'

Therefore, with an ounce of new-found confidence and wholemeal at my back, I now come to white bread. For this recipe I used 650g of organic white bread flour and 50g of organic wholemeal, combined with a 7g sachet of yeast, 1 tsp salt, 2 Tbs olive oil, and 1 Tbs honey. 30 minutes at 210 C et voila.


The result was an even crumb, springy texture, nice hollow sound, and a balanced sweetness--decidedly and deliciously un-M&S-like.

Cloake's article opens with a quote from Margaret Costa: 'Beware of making that first loaf'...

So true.