Ann Mah's Blog, page 21

A world of pintxos

San Sebastián has a beach shaped like a scallop shell, a bevy of Belle Epoque buildings lining the promenade, a baroque church with a facade as intricate as old lace. But I came here for only one reason: to eat.

In the past decade, this Spanish resort town on the Atlantic coast has become a center of world gastronomy. (Wondering why? How? Articles here, here, and here offer some clues.) I spent hours researching, planning and plotting my attack on the town’s pintxos bars. (Pintxos are the Basque equivalent of tapas.) How many could I visit in 36 hours? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the answer… in chronological order:

1) Paco Bueno – They don’t offer much here, but what they do is done beautifully, specifically tempura-style shrimp. The batter was so airy, the prawns so tender and ocean sweet, I tried to go back at the end of the evening for a fried shrimp nightcap. Alas, they’d already shut down the deep fryers for the night.

2) Al Fuego Nero – More modern and inventive, we sampled a mini Wagyu burger (€3.70), and a dish that matched cured salmon with granny smith apples, crumbled blue cheese and seaweed crackers (odd) (€8). I loved the tortilla (€2.30), with its creamy center. Then again, I’m a sucker for Spanish omelettes in any form.

3) Dakara – We tumbled into this bar because it looked popular and crowded with locals. The minute we ordered a croquette, everyone else gulped down their drinks and split. Said croquetas (€1.70/each) were decidedly mediocre, especially one of ham that turned out to be 99.9% béchamel sauce.

4) Garadarias Taberna – I thought: Why not be brave and order tapas from the menu, even though I don’t speak Spanish? I asked for items one and two on the chalkboard (photo above). The first turned out to be thin slices of meat in a rich sauce, tender and beefy, like pot roast. Tongue, perhaps? (It was beef cheek, I found out later). The second was a layered casserole, mushy, bland, under seasoned, with an odd horsey aftertaste. Later, I found out — it was pig’s feet.

So ends day one.

The next day we drove to Bilbao, which was just an excuse to explore another city’s pintxos scene. The casco viejo (old town) is an easy ride away on the tramway from the Guggenheim museum.

5) At Taberna Basaras I fell in love with an anchovy adorned with a slender red filament of chili (€1.30). Anchovies are usually not my bag, but the pepper softened the salty fishiness, creating a surprising, subtle dimension. I also — surprise, surprise — loved the tortilla, with its tender, moist center (€1.50). I read somewhere that this simple bar is a favorite of Inaki Aizpitarte.

6) At 2pm, Gatz’s kitchen was already closed. We ate a couple of tapas — bits of veg and ham stacked on bread — but missed out on the action.

On the way back to San Sebastián, we stopped in Mundaka, a pretty Spanish fishing village. No pintxos were consumed.

Back in San Sebastián…

7) La Cuchara de San Telmo is decidedly on the beaten path, crowded with gaggles of American college students. All signs pointed to the contrary, but this was actually among my favorite pintxos bars. We ate a small saucer of orzo goat cheese risotto, a succulent bacon-wrapped scallop, and, my favorite bites of the trip: grilled octopus, meaty and tender, scented with rosemary, and a melting braised veal cheek that dissolved under my fork into an unctuous puddle. A quibble: all the dishes came dressed in the same two sauces, which were oddly flavorless, and sprinkled with oversized salt crystals that often masked the actual flavor of the food.

8 ) Bar Zeruko — The counter is laden with the world’s most beautiful and creative display of food — artichokes brushed in gold leaf, balls of cheese studded with flowers, transparent crepes glowing rosy with smoked salmon. Alas, none of it tasted very good. The textures were soggy — like everything had been sitting out too long — the flavors were bland and under seasoned, like no one had tasted the food. I’d read so many wonderful reviews about the inventive, modern pintxos here, but I was very disappointed.

9) La Cepa does not mean cèpe (or porcini mushroom) as one might deduce, even though cèpes (in Spanish, hongos) are a house specialty. So, too, is ham — jamón de jabugo — from a black-footed pig, cut in fine, lacy slices that melt on the tongue into a deep, rich, almost sweet, porkiness. The sautéed mushrooms were golden and garlicky, and the egg yolk was their sauce — break it on the side of the plate and dip accordingly. I loved them even despite their grittiness.

Thus concludes my eating tour of San Sebastián (and environs).

Lessons learned

–Helpful drinks vocabulary: una caña (a beer), una coppa de vino (a glass of wine), una zurrita (a small beer), txokoli (pronounced cho-koh-lee — a local white wine, refreshing and lightly sparkling).

–Other helpful vocabulary — una ración de jamón (an order of ham, for when all else fails). Or, una media ración (a half order).

–If it’s your first visit to a bar, order just one pintxo. If the quality is good, you can order more. I regret not employing this strategy with Bar Zeruko.

–Late May was the perfect time for a pintxos crawl — not too hot, not too crowded, but with lovely weather for evening strolls.

Addresses

San Sébastian:

Paco Bueno

Naguisia Kalea, 6

Al Fuego Nero

Calle 31 de Agosto, 31

Dakara

Calle 31 de Agosto, 27

Garadaris Taberna

Calle 31 Agosto, 7

La Cuchara de San Telmo

Calle 31 Agosto, 28

(actual location is on a dead-end street perpendicular to the calle)

Bar Zeruko

Calle Pescaderia, 10

La Cepa

Calle 31 de Agosto, 7

Bilbao:

Taberna Basaras

Calle Pelota, 2

Gatz

Calle Santa Maria 10

Pays Basque

When I was a kid, we used to take road trips to visit my dad’s family, driving from our home in Southern California north to the San Joaquin Valley in the state’s center, to the town of Fresno. I would curl up in the backseat with a stack of library books — for some reason, carsickness didn’t bother me back then — and watch the landscape out of the corner of my eye, the twisting path of the Grapevine giving way to startling green farmland parked against a flat, baked backdrop. Halfway through the journey, we always stopped for lunch in Bakersfield, at a restaurant called Château Basque. I still remember the pickled beets and pickled tongue (which I loved for its deep, meaty flavor), and fried chicken scattered with drifts of chopped garlic.

For most of my life, “Basque” meant Château Basque, those hearty meals in a dim, air-conditioned dining room clouded with cigarette smoke. And when I started to research my three-day trip to Pays Basque, this brilliant article on Bakersfield’s Basque cuisine was one of the first things I read on the internets.

But when I got to Biarritz on France’s Atlantic coast, instead of garlic fried chicken and pickled tongue, I found a fish soup called ttoro and small cakes filled with cherry jam. Instead of sheep ranchers, and boarding house-style meals, and skeins of raw wool, I found Belle Epoque-era mansions bordering a stormy sea.

It rained for 36 hours straight during my visit to Pays Basque, a steady pour that explained the green landscape. But from the shelter of my rental car, I managed to visit some of the sites I’d hoped to see, including the town of Espelette, home of the famous piment d’Espelette, brought back from the New World by Basque explorers and cultivated as an alternative to expensive pepper.

  

Strands of dried peppers decorate the buildings, just so no one forgets that this village is the home of the famed, gently spicy, round-flavored chili. By the way, during my visit to a piment d’Espelette producer, I learned that the powdered form should only be sprinkled at the end of cooking as its flavor quickly disappears.

The traditional sweet of the region is the gateau Basque, a buttery cake split and stuffed with black cherry jam or crème pâtissière.

They’d always seemed too dry and sweet, but at Maison Pereuil in the town of Saint-Pée, I found the best version, the cake soft, and yielding, and crumbly, the center a jammy burst of fruit. Mark Kurlansky wrote about this bakery in his book The Basque History of the World. I bet the recipe is still a secret, but I thought I detected a little crunch of cornmeal in the cake, another product brought back from the New World by Basque explorers.

The pottok (plural: pottoka) is a special Basque breed of semi-feral pony and what with the rain and wind, I’d despaired of seeing any of them. But just as we crossed the border into Spain, a movement caught my eye and suddenly a small herd of them appeared!

There was even a small, frisky colt who bolted to and from his mother’s side, a sign of spring, or better weather ahead, or, perhaps, simply proof that Basque culture is alive and well.

Coming soon: I visit San Sebastian and eat my weight in tapas.

Carte postale: Among the pintxos

A zurrita is a tiny glass of beer and there’s none more satisfying than one sipped while standing at a pintxos bar. I just got home from San Sebastiàn, Spain and the Pays Basque and am still sorting through 146 photos from my trip. I’ll be back again soon with a full report of all I saw and ate!

Bon weekend!

Buffet, found

In addition to its anti-aging properties (as Shannon suggested) could strawberry rhubarb compote also bring good furniture-hunting juju? For the very day after I posted about it, I found a buffet! It’s from a French cabinetmaker called Grange, and has two drawers (essential for storing matches and napkins), and plenty of room for dishes below. Unlike the photo, it will be a single color, sort of a distressed pearly gray.

Now that the buffet has been found, I’m on the hunt for a bar cart. The one pictured above is from Grange’s Ermitage collection (with a price also befitting of a royal Russian collection of objets d’art, alas). But wouldn’t it be spectacular in a clear shade of robin’s egg blue?

Strawberry rhubarb compote

Lately, I’ve been loathe to leave the apartment without two things: my rain gear, and my tape measure.

I need the rain gear because Mother Nature continues to pay homage to Glasgow this spring with day after day of wet weather. Sometimes she spices things up with a little hail shower.

The tape measure is obligatory because I’m on the hunt. For furniture. Specifically, a buffet. I never knew how hard it was to find just the right one — not too long, not too short, not too expensive. I also never believed I would spend my days haunting furniture shops and flea markets. Once I stashed flasks of vodka in my purse; now I’ve got a tape measure, a notebook, and a clear plastic rain hood.

To fully complete my transformation into French granny, I’ve started making fruit compote, combining rhubarb and strawberries and letting them soften on the stove. I don’t know what’s more appealing — the sweet fragrance as the mixture bubbles up in the saucepan, or the soft magenta color of the finished compote. I’ve been spooning it over my morning yogurt and last night we ate it with an apple tart, but it would also be delicious with lemon cake, or just on its own, with a dollop of cream.

I rarely cooked fresh fruit before I moved to France. But it’s amazing how a bit of heat and sugar can work magic on a pint of strawberries heading south, or a bowl of mushy apples, transforming them from aging back into excellent. If only I could say the same for the skin on my neck.

Strawberry rhubarb compote

1 lb rhubarb, cut into a 1/2-inch dice

1 1/2 lbs strawberries, hulled, and sliced

1/2 cup sugar — or more to taste

In a medium saucepan, combine the rhubarb, strawberries, and sugar. Over medium heat, gently bring to a boil. The mixture will be rather dry at first, but grow more liquid as the heat softens the fruit and releases its juice. Cook over low heat until the rhubarb is meltingly soft — about 20 minutes. Taste, adding more sugar if necessary. I add a very small amount because of my granny impulses, but the mixture is tart and you may wish to add more.

 

Carte postale: Pizza dreams

After so many years of dreaming, drooling, eating, dreaming and drooling over the artichoke pizza at Pizza Chic, I finally branched out last week and ordered something else. This caprese pizza piled tomatoes, basil, and fresh mozzarella on a warm, chewy-crisp crust, a marvel of simple, perfect ingredients drizzled with fine olive oil. Ladies and gentlemen, I am in love.

Pizza Chic

13 rue de Mézières, 6e

tel: 01 45 48 30 38

Related posts:

Artichoke pizza in all Her glory

Herself, recreated

Pizza Chic, official website

Artichokes and observations

We had a holiday last week, one of four that make May in France a very, er, leisurely month. It was a sunny day, and I took advantage of the rare burst of fine weather by browsing the used books at Shakespeare & Company and meeting a friend for afternoon scoops of ice cream. On my way home, I ran into Kristin Scott Thomas, tiny and beautiful even hidden behind a giant pair of sunglasses, holding the hand of a young boy who I imagine was her son. And then I settled down to cook some artichokes.

I grew up eating round, heavy globe artichokes, dipping the leaves in mayonnaise and scraping the flesh off with my front teeth. The center never cooled fast enough, and one of my first food memories is the sting of burning choke and thistle against my fingertips as I clawed my way to the meaty heart. (Surely that must be a metaphor for something.) Have you ever noticed that whatever you eat after eating artichokes tastes sweet? I remember the glasses of milk I gulped down afterwards, cool and honeyed.

The slender bunches of artichokes I’d bought at the market that morning were not globes, but a pretty, purple, baby variety called poivrade. And it was a good thing it was a bank holiday, because I’d completely forgotten how long they take to prepare.

First you snap off all the tough leaves — careful not to prick yourself, artichokes have thorns — and throw them away. Keep snapping until you reveal the tender, delicate, yellow leaves underneath, as in the photo above. Unlike their protective outer siblings, this hidden layer is supple and edible.

The first time I ever prepared baby artichokes was in Bologna, Italy. I didn’t know that artichokes stained almost everything they touch. Soon, my cutting board, apron, and white t-shirt were all smudged black. My fingertips looked like they’d been booked and printed at the local precinct.

Once you’ve stripped your artichoke to its silky underwear, slice off the stem and the top two-thirds of the leaves, as in the photo above.

  

With a vegetable peeler, pare off the bumpy, fibrous bits of the stem-end, then rub a lemon over the cut surfaces. This supposedly prevents the artichokes from oxidizing and blackening — as does the bowl of acidulated water in which the cleaned chokes rest — but in reality there’s no stopping Mother Nature. Despite my best efforts, my hearts always darken.

Slice the artichoke in half. Aren’t they pretty? I love that soft fuzzy center, the colors of creamy pale yellow, and secret flash of violet. In a (mostly futile) effort to maintain the color, I usually rub more lemon over all the cut surfaces.

Now, take a small spoon and dig at the fuzzy thistle in the center of the halved artichoke. Scrape it all out, using a bit of firm pressure.

Et, voila — a cleaned artichoke heart!

Quickly, drop it into a bowl of acidulated water, where it will bob as you finish preparing the others. And when all the hearts are clean…

Slice them finely for braising (as in the recipe below), or eat them raw in a salad with arugula and shaved parmesan, or use them as a pizza topping, or, or, or…

Artichokes + chili + mint

10 baby artichokes (called poivrade)

2 tablespoons olive oil

3 cloves garlic, peeled and finely sliced

1/2 teaspoon crushed chili flakes (or more to taste)

1 cup water

Large handful fresh mint leaves, chopped

Clean and prepare the artichokes, as illustrated above. Slice them finely. Warm the olive oil in a sauté pan over medium heat. When it shimmers, add the garlic and sauté for a minute, to release its scent. Add the crushed chili and sliced artichokes, stirring to coat them with oil. Add the water and mint, bring to a boil and lower heat to a simmer. Cover and cook gently, until the artichokes are soft and very tender, about 15 minutes. Add a dash or two of more water if the pan seems dry. Season to taste.

I like to toss the cooked artichokes with 250 grams (half pound) of penne, adding dashes of pasta cooking water to keep everything fluid. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve with a healthy sprinkle of parmesan cheese.

Victor Hugo’s Guernsey exile

Here in France, there is a new president elect. But I’ve been wondering, if Victor Hugo was alive, who would he have supported in the election — Sarkozy, Hollande… or exile?

You see, last summer, I was lucky enough to visit the Channel Island of Guernsey, where Hugo, a fierce critic of the Second Empire, spent over 15 years. And, last Sunday — election day in France — I was so chuffed that my article about retracing the writer’s footsteps appeared in the New York Times!

As I wrote in the article, Hugo spent his exile in Guernsey unleashing a prolific outpouring of writing, as well as decorating his home, Hauteville House (photo above). He had an imaginative eye, combing the island’s junk shops for ordinary items, which he repurposed into ornamental elements. But he didn’t decorate alone. By his side was his faithful mistress of fifty years, Juliette Drouet, who had accompanied Hugo to Guernsey (along with his wife, children, and small band of followers).

On the island, Juliette lived in a series of rented rooms and houses. Among her first stops was this pub and boarding house, the Ship & Crown.

I easily found another of her rented residences, Hauteville Fairy, pictured above, a modest building located down the street from Hugo’s home. But another, La Fallue, seemed to have disappeared without a trace.

During my sojourn on the island, it sometimes felt like I was retracing Juliette’s foosteps, as well as Victor Hugo’s. I kept asking about La Fallue, but no one knew anything about it. But then I queried my guide, Gill Girard, and her response sent chills down my spine.

You see, the hotel where I was staying, The Pandora — located a few doors down from Hugo’s Hauteville House — had been created in the 1970s or ’80s from a cluster of old houses, now connected by rambling, wonky hallways into a sprawling hotel slightly reminiscent of Fawlty Towers. Gill told me that La Fallue, Juliette’s home, had been one of the original houses, and now formed the part of the hotel where I was staying.

From the window of my room, number 14, I could see a glass conservatory — Hugo’s third-floor office and bedroom, which he called “the lookout” (photo above). According to the Victor Hugo biography by Graham Robb, every morning the writer would signal from his eyrie to Juliette, tying a white handkerchief  – a “torchon radieux” — to the railings to indicate he was awake. Is it possible that my room in The Pandora had been part of Juliette’s house?

I can only say that I slept like the dead in that room, unusually well for someone who is a bit of a nervous traveler. Perhaps it was the ghost of Juliette, Victor Hugo, or both, who ensured my rest.

Read the full article in the New York Times, and check out the accompanying slideshow of beautiful photographs.

 

Rodin’s garden

Last week an afternoon stroll brought me to the Musée Rodin where, for the price of one Euro, I entered to flâner in the garden. For a little while, I enjoyed the sunshine, statues, and peonies.

And then…

I cowered under the awning of the café for at least twenty minutes, watching the rain and hail pummel the ground. Occasionally a fat, icy drop fell on my head. It was a beautiful, messy, inconvenient, spectacular interlude. Eventually, the rain lightened enough for us to dash out and buy an umbrella. By the time we had finished our transaction, it had stopped. Isn’t that always the way?

On Labor Day, a little udon

Workers of the world, unite! You have nothing to eat but your noodles! Happy May Day, mes amis!

After I wrote about Kunitoraya a few months ago — a Japanese noodle bar in the 1e that is the solitary luncher’s haven — a friend told me about another shop, newly opened. “It’s the best udon in Paris,” she said.

Because said friend is A) Japanese, and B) a food lover, I took her suggestion very, very seriously. However, locked in a battle of epic proportions with my manuscript, I didn’t have time to visit Sanukiya until two weeks ago. Now, I’ve already been back a second time.

The setup is familiar: A long counter that runs along the edges of the room. A small team of cooks catching fat noodles in a fishing net. A steamy atmosphere scented with mirin, and seaweed, and a light undertone of fryer oil. On my first visit, I had the tempura udon (15€) a bowl of noodles in a clear broth crowned with two gorgeous fried shrimp. The soup lapped at the crisp coating of the tempura, softening some bits into a delightful contrast of crunch and sog.

At lunchtime, five extra Euros turns any order of noodles into a lunch set. You get the friture of the day — in my case, some toothsome nuggets of fried chicken — a crisp little salad of shredded cabbage, two slices of tamagoyaki, the lightly sweet Japanese omelette, and a small bowl of toki-gobogohan (which is really fun to say), rice steamed with mushrooms and bits of chicken — a few heavenly mouthfuls of Japanese comfort food.

On my second visit, I splurged on the tenzaru-udon (18€), a swirl of fat, chilled noodles that you dip into a salty broth of dashi, mirin, and soy sauce, before slurping them up strand by strand. Eaten cold, you can better appreciate the toothy bite of the house-made udon. A dish of vegetable and prawn tempura gets splashed in the same sauce; I loved the selection of lotus root, eggplant, pumpkin, and not just one but two jumbo shrimp, but found the batter a bit too heavy, slightly greasy and thick.

It would be easy to choose Kunitoraya for tempura, and Sanukiya for noodles, but that would ignore the menu’s wide selection of pork and miso-enhanced variations, its garnishes of fried burdock root, or crunchy bits of tempura batter, designed to contrast with the squidgy pasta, or to coat the noodles in a unctuous, salty glaze. I hope to return to try them all, one by one.

Sanukiya

9 rue d’Argenteuil, 1e

tel: 01 42 60 52 61