Cocagne

Alleluia
Les Dieux m’ont exaucée alors que je n’y croyais plus.
Le 22 octobre, les bois étaient pourtant accueillants, la petite mousse revigorée par les premières pluies mais pas la moindre trace de champignon, sauf un cèpe incongru, superbe et frais, unique sentinelle.
Alors que j’étais descendue dans le sud, une amie m’appelle et me dit avoir « fait » 4,5 kilos en forêt de X (quelque part en Ile de France, je ne voudrais pas m’exposer pas à ses représailles…) Je trépigne et n’ai de cesse de rentrer à Paris bien qu'on ait annoncé une sortie en Cévennes. Je pourrais monter en Lozère les yeux fermés mais je ne prendrai pas le risque de faire crever les pneus de la Kangoo paternelle juste parce qu’elle arbore une plaque du Gard… Lundi, de retour à Paris, je laisse reposer les bois après les ramasseurs du dimanche (les béotiens qui ramassent avec des sacs en plastique). Quand j’arrive avec une amie mardi à 10h 30, j’enrage : déjà 4 voitures et une pluie glaciale qui se met à tomber. Je croise un ramasseur qui quitte la forêt, il porte au bas mot 6 kilos de superbes spécimens dans les bras, son sac en papier a explosé sous le poids et la pluie…
Trois ou quatre gars maraudent, des sacs pesants à la main, mais je les ignore, je file vers mon coin, à 10 minutes de marche. La brèche dans le grillage de la réserve de chasse a été fermée depuis la semaine derrière, il faut écarter les barbelés et très vite c’est un festival comme on en connaît un tous les dix ans :



Mon amie a la chance des débutants, elle débusque cèpe sur cèpe et découvre l’excitation de cette chasse, je me souviens alors de son amusement incrédule lorsque je lui décrivais ce qu’elle prenait alors pour une autre de mes lubies.


Attention, mimétisme, trois champignons sont cachés dans cette image

Indifférentes à la pluie glaciale qui nous transperce et se rit de nos KWay dérisoires, on en vient même à se demander si les champignons ne diffusent pas quelque substance hallucinogène ou tout du moins hilarantes. Ce sont seulement la faim et les bras qui tirent sous 15 kg qui nous font sortir du bois.



Le temps de se sécher vaguement les cheveux en avalant un panini au comptoir d’une boulangerie et d’acheter des chaussettes de tennis pour essayer d’éponger l’intérieur de mes Doc Marteens, nous repartons pour un autre bois pour encore 5kg en une heure jusqu’à ce que l’effet conjugué de la lumière qui baisse et un ménisque fragile aient raison de notre euphorie :
Devant la pluie, je n’ai pas eu le courage de nettoyer sur place. Trier, nettoyer, trancher et cuire tout de suite les gros et les mal foutus puis trancher et surgeler de quoi remplir en force un tiroir complet de congélateur nous prendra jusqu’à 10 heures du soir.



Je n’ai jamais vu de ma vie une telle concentration de beaux sujets, pas un ver et très peu de limaces, rien à jeter si ce n’est la mousse des gros, une merveille.
Avec les bouchons :
Eplucher et essuyer les cèpes, s’ils sont sales les laver sous un filet d’eau froide avec une brosse douce ou un Scotch Brite neuf. Bien les essuyer.
Les trancher finement et les disposer en rond sur des assiettes individuelles.
Mettre un filet de votre meilleure huile d’olive, un peu de fleur de sel et quelques gouttes de jus de citron.
On a d’abord l’impression d’un champignon de Paris pendant une seconde puis derrière ça explose en salves d’humus et de forêt…sublime…

J’aime les cèpes à la crème mais quand ils ont aussi bons, je les cuis simplement bien à plat sans les serrer ni les brutaliser, en tranches à la poêle à l’huile d’olive ou à la graisse de canard.
A Barcelone, dans les bars à tapas, ils les servent comme ça, dorés sur tranche à l’huile d’olive avec un jaune d’œuf cru à crever au milieu de l’assiette, complètement décadent.
Hier j’ai levé les filets d’une pintade, (j’ai confit les cuisses et les ailes dans de la graisse de canard avec de l’ail et du thym pour un autre jour) et les ai farcis de beurre mixé avec du thym de mes terres, de la sauge et de la sarriette (cueillie la semaine dernière à la tombée de la nuit dans la vallée de l’Argensol près de Saint Ambroix)



Ce petit canyon de la garrigue à sec 11 mois sur 12 peut collecter des crues ravageuses et meurtrières

et entourés de bacon.

J’ai aussi blanchi puis émincé un quart de chou vert. Avec le bouillon de la carcasse, j’ai fait un petit risotto très classico pendant que les filets braisaient tous doucement. Le chou a saucé le jus mordoré pendant que je faisais sauter quelques cèpes à la graisse de canard et que je finissais le risotto d’une cuillerée de mascarpone de parmesan et d’un tour de poivre…
Pintade, sarriette, bacon, risotto, cèpes…ça fonctionne fort joliment…

Atavisme ou hommage?

Pour mieux comprendre ce que nous sommes, nous ne pouvons ignorer ceux qui nous ont précédés. Je ne sais pourquoi je me retrouve aujourd'hui à Paris, loin de mes ancêtres, en train de ressentir plus fort que jamais et malgré moi l'appel des saisons.
Quelque chose dans l'air, et me voilà en forêt, désespérant de trouver cette année le moindre cèpe... jamais rassurée à la perspective d'être la cible d'un chasseur, (est-ce ma faute si la plus belle châtaigneraie des Yvelines est clôturée et réserve de chasse?).



Je me dis chaque fois qu'il serait plus prudent de mettre une parka rouge et de siffloter ostensiblement 'Biche oh ma biche!" pour ne pas en être prise pour une.
Mais j'aime tant me fondre sans bruit pour en débusquer tout un troupeau, comme ce jour magique en lisière du Désert De Retz.
Pas la queue d'un cèpe, encore moins d'une amanite ou d'une pauvre russule.
Mais des châtaignes superbes, des marrons en fait sûrement issues d'arbres greffés :




La châtaigne a sauvé mes ancêtres cévenols de la famine mais qui aujourd'hui en région parisienne va les ramasser, les éplucher, les cuire puis peler la deuxième peau (en se brûlant les doigts, dès qu'elles refroidissent ça devient impossible) puis les mouliner patiemment alors qu'il suffit de passer chez Picard ?
Pourquoi moi? Je ne sais pas, quelque chose me pousse, ou alors c'est ma mère qui s'amuse, me pousse et me tire de là-haut...
Et c'est pourtant loin d'être fini ; cette purée, je la cuis patiemment avec de la cassonade et de la vanille mais bien moins sucrée que la crème de marrons.
Ensuite, petite formalité : un sablé au beurre salé maison et zeste de citron, une couche de velours de confiture de cynorrhodon (voir post de l'an dernier), un peu de chantilly peu sucrée...
...et pour finir, facultativement toutefois, un peu de chocolat noir fondu avec une petite rasade de crème fleurette...
Tout est dit...

J'ai tant aimé Régal

Une fois n'est pas coutume, je vous parlerai aujourd'hui du dernier livre auquel j'ai participé.
Si l'ambiance, le ton et les images vous rappellent vaguement quelque chose, ne soyez pas étonnés.
Tous ceux qui me connaissent savent à quel point j'ai aimé travailler pour le magazine Régal, auprès de Julien et Nicolas, passionnés et exigeants...
C'est parti comme une boutade et le plaisir de retravailler ensemble nous a vite repris.
L'idée était simple, un sondage pas du tout scientifique sur tous ces plats qui dégoûtent certains et ravissent d'autres. En tête, les abats, du pied à la langue avec la cervelle en champion hors catégorie.
Et aussi tous les produits injustement massacrés à la cantine ou par les adeptes de Monsieur Apert : chou de Bruxelles, endives, lapin...ne pas oublier tout ce qui est moche, qui pue, qui glue ou qui gigote : poulpe, grenouille, fromage puant.
Quelques vedettes de la cuisine canaille nous ont également confié leurs plus bas instincts en matière de bouffe-beurk. Jun Kanra a shooté la partie cuisine avec gourmandise alors que les superbes photos noir et blanc de Tomasso Sartori subliment le sang en superbe graphique (voilà que je parle comme Philippe Couderc!!)
Le livre sort début novembre aux Editions du Rouergue
Vous ne pourrez le manquer, voici la couverture :
De plus je vous mets une petite recette, celle des beignets de cervelle que faisait ma mère, je les ai rendus un peu plus tendance avec une gremolata, hmmm, les traumatisés de la cervelle bouillie me diront merci...

Beignets de cervelle de veau, gremolata d’agrumes

1 cervelle de veau
150 gr de farine
15 cl de bière
1 oeuf
1 citron et & petite orange non traités
2 gousses d’ail
½ bouquet de persil frais
1 c. à soupe d’huile d’olive
huile de friture
sel, poivre


Tamiser la farine dans un saladier. Séparer le blanc du jaune et le rajouter à la farine. Saler et mélanger au fouet en incorporant petit à petit la bière pour obtenir une pâte bien lisse. La laisser reposer au moins 2 heures.
Eplucher l’ail et le hacher finement. Rincer et éponger le persil, l’effeuiller et le hacher au couteau. Râper le zeste du citron. Mélanger l’ail avec les zestes et le persil.
Mettre la cervelle dans de l’eau fraiche avec une rasade de vinaigre et la laisser dégorger ¼ d’heure. Oter délicatement la membrane et les filets sanguins puis séparer les deux lobes et couper la cervelle en dés de 3 cm de côté environ. La mettre dans un saladier avec la moitié du hachis et l’huile d’olive, saler et poivrer.
Au dernier moment, battre le blanc d'oeuf en neige ferme et l’incorporer délicatement à la pâte. Faire chauffer l’huile de friture. Tremper les morceaux de cervelles dans la pâte et faire cuire jusqu’à ce qu’ils soient blonds. Egoutter sur du papier absorbant et servir immédiatement avec le reste de gremolata et des quartiers d’orange et de citron.

Astuce : Comme tous les abats, la cervelle est fragile et ne supporte pas d’attendre. Cuisinez-la le jour-même.

P.S : Pour d' obscures histoires d'incompatibilité de fichiers et de formats, je n'ai pu afficher les photos originales. Le livre a été photographié au Iphone sans lumière, envoyé sur Iphoto via ma boîte mail, les photos retouchées grossièrement...

Les photos d'origine sont superbes car il y a des gens dont c'est le métier, heureusement...

On fame, 15 minutes of celebrity and lies

What is fantastic about the USA is that whatever you buy or eat happens to be “the best of the world”, nationally acclaimed" or “world famous”.
Yesterday morning, as I just stepped out of the Austin Chicago plane, I was starving -I woke up at 4:30, it was 9:45 and they had only offered us a drink (did I mention I bought my ticket on Cheapoair?)- so I grabbed a few pecan caramel cinnamon baby buns on the terminal G. I could hardly believe my eyes, they were “famous all over the world”! Wow!


Obviously the world must be reduced to USA, or Illinois maybe, or even Chicago airport terminal G?
BTW, the baby buns dough had not risen, the caramel goo with pecans was nicely sticky and it had more cinnamon than even a German bakery could use in a year (but I kind of expected that).
Where was I? Fame! The French believe Sylvie Vartan is famous in LA, that Alain Delon and Sophie Marceau are stars in Japan, are they really or is it an urban legend?
We all heard about these French chefs being famous abroad. I remember a pastry chef bragging of to me about opening a shop in Shanghaï, and me answering naively : “How funny, I am leaving next week to Shanghaï, is it somewhere near the Bundt?”,then he mumbled :” actually this is some kind of a project…”
I can tell I am really famous in my village. When I went to the bakery and the grocery after my mother’s funeral, everybody paid respect to me saying : “Oh, you must be Mimi’s daughter, the one writing cook books in Paris ? Your mother spoke so highly of you! She lent me a book of yours, I should buy it for my sister (my mother-my daughter), where can I find it?” Then the next day, when I sorted her belongings, in her sewing machine table drawers, I found every single magazine I had been published in for years, some as old as 20 years (she had them put aside at the local news stand, they receive only one of each decoration or food magazine), with written all across the page in large red block letters: “Blandine, page 26, ne pas jeter”
Of course my parents don't have a computer, even less Internet. My brother used to print my blog for her to read. I found a whole stack with notes from her hand, she had spotted and highlighted with a fluorescent pen every reference to my childhood, every wink and homage I was sending her…
Yes, I was famous in her heart, and for much more than 15 minutes…

NeoTexNippo cuisine, “passage à vide” and other miscellaneous thoughts on Texas

I am leaving Austin today. I will spare you all the whining I have been unloading on my friends compassionate ears through the Internet all the week : the scorching heat, the dreadful jetlag,the windows you can’t open even at midnight because you still feel like you just opened the oven in a kitchen restaurant, tada, tada…

After we toured all the genuine tacos joints, walked every alley of Whole foods, raised my cholesterol level to an alarming rate in “Salt lick” (and tested my tolerance to Nashville meets Jimmy Hendrix solo guitar-cowboy. Besides, I can’t just believe my jeans shrunk in my friend’s stupid American drier), we went for the ultimate Bobo experience. In Mexico bobo means stupid, in Paris, well, you know…

A purist sushi worshiper would never enter such a place as UCHI, they would call it a sacrilege, a sin against Japanese sacred temple cuisine.

As I can tell by the numerous press exerts posted on the walls including Zagat’s, Tyson Cole is rated among top chefs in USA nowadays. The dishwashing student turned neotexnippo chef really had to carve his way through Holly Sushiland where Caucasian cooks are really frowned upon.

The place is jammed packed every day with a loud yuppy crowd.

We went for “omakaze”, the chef’s choice which happened to be the extensive list of “today specials”. Much to my liking, I was lucky enough to find the menu on the website http://www.uchiaustin.com/ and copy it, the waiter couldn’t wait, he described the dishes much too fast for us to even catch half of the ingredients.

And good it was, sometimes amazing, it reminded me in some ways the great menu I had in HongKong at the fanciest chef (I still have the pictures and have been procrastinating the posting for nearly 2 years now! Will be a great challenge to my memory)

UCHI TODAY

nightly specials

july 29, 2009

tsukiji sushi selection

two pieces each: isaki٠madai٠shima aji $35

Directly flown from Tsukiji market in Tokyo (see my entries on Japan) 3 kinds of what I would rate as the best sushi of my life, 3 white fishes, one of which lightly smoked, paired with the most delicate jewel like shaving of citrus, leek?, ginger, wasabi and an even more delicately touched with a feather like addition of infused oils or vinegar.

I now regret I didn’t try popping into the kitchen and ask the chef what kind of rice he used for the sushi. This one was long grained, soft but not mushy ; unlike most of the rice sushi I had, it served the fish rightly, not overwhelming but not disappearing either

uomaaru ebi

maine lobster٠fried egg٠lobster mushrooms٠herbs $24

A mildly disapointing salad, in fact a corean bibimbap style : warm beansprouts, lobster, mushroom, fried egg??, with tasteless lobster, in spite of a tangy citrus and basil dressing

hirame usuzukuri

thinly-sliced flounder٠smoked sea salt٠yuzu zest٠daikon٠quinoa candy $18

WOW! Fresh and cristal clear

shun no kaki

norumbega oysters٠wasabi٠ponzu $4/24

My friend loved them, I had only two oysters in my life, one raw, one cooked with leek, nearly forcefed by my friend Julien, editor at Regal, needless to say it was a big token of my affection

wagyu yaki

wagyu shortrib٠cucumber٠shiso٠shrimp $25

Chabada, I am going to replicate that one : juicy marbled brown seared outside and tender inside boneless beef shortrib (slowcooked then barbecued?) paired with translucent marinated cuke, great heirloom beefsteak tomato with a hint of truffle oil, minced shiso and a gravy made from : (for this one the waitress was patient enough), pork belly, tomatoe, shrimp (crushed shells, I can feel it), much alike a concentrated version of a creamless Nantua sauce base waken uo with jalapeno, I am still drooling writing this…

kai jiru

maine mussels٠tomato water٠celery٠basil blossoms $16

A little disappointing, nice but far from being as sophisticated as the other dishes

isaki crudo

baby japanese bass٠fennel٠lemon zest٠olive oil $20

Yeeees, I am going to buy a Japanese mandoline, nowww…

usagi nuta

countryside farms rabbit٠pistachio٠brown butter $24

We didn’t get this one, I love rabbit but this is definitely neither Nippo neither Tex, but would have loved to try

foie nigiri

seared foie gras sushi٠peach٠basil٠jalapeno٠bacon $8

RESPECT RESPECT RESPECT

Brown seared foie gras, tied to rice with a strip of basil instead of the traditional seaweed, with the lightest touch of a paintbrush of a peach jalapeno sauce

Anxiously looking around to see if nobody from PETA was lurking around I rudely and “peasantly” wiped the last drop of fat that remained on the empty plate just as the waiter was grabbing it away from me.

shun no sakana

wild char٠shiitake٠corn٠lemongrass٠thai chili٠cilantro $21

A WOW again, the flesh is firm and not too cooked inside, the skin looks deepfried, so yummy, the creamed corn with miso sweet as baby cheeks, a discreet citrus gastrique giving the right zing to it.

We also orderedfrom the regular menu, 2 kinds of maki, definitely fusion :

Yellowfin, avocado, cilantro and Cie with an hoisin sauce laced with chili oil and toasted sesame, I could hear purists yell in my ear but I loved it

We also had an other Tuna based maki, served with a mayo ketchupy relishy sauce, yum, yum

okashi

chocolate : crunchy٠frozen٠powder٠soft $9

I am not much of a chocoholic, the “9 ways” association of mousses, ganaches, powders were more an inventory of technics. I wish we had the fruit and sherbet plate our neighbours got. We would have asked extra dessert and an espresso had the impatient waiter not braught the bill along with the dessert, which was kind of gross. The crowd was trepping for next service, the high pitched voice of girl parties getting loose on 100$ sake bottles was getting louder and louder, it was time for us to leave and have our espresso next door, on 1^st avenue famous Joe’s Café.

I am quite familiar with waiting manners in USA but that night the service was really a caricature. Yes, French waiters are arrogant, yes they treat tourists badly, yes they scare/cruise sensitive foreign female customers, telling them they are "charmantes", yes, asking for tap water makes you feel like you are the cheapest person on earth, BUT it is very difficult for me to feel compassion because waiters in North America are 5 times more numerous than in France for a similar amount of work.

As a teenager and a student I worked for years as a waitress in a very touristic southern France-turned hell tourist city in summer-village, Vallon Pont d’Arc, 2000 people lost souls in winter (including goats and straydogs) and 100 000 in summer. In the 70s, the village exploded, every peach grove and vineyard was erased to start campings and canoe rentals. Every garage or goat shed was turned into a “hand made local pottery” from a Spanish factory, original local craft from Bali, pizzeria, salad bar or icecream parlour. They catered for throngs of German, Dutch, Swiss and Belgian tourists 3^rd degree burning on scorching sun and canoeing at day then getting drunk at night and indulging on pizza Ardéchoise (topped with industrial pasteurized goat cheese from a Normandy milkplant). All of us college students went to work there, mostly as waiters.Each of us waited up to 100+ sittings each at night (a little bit less at lunch), I remember going through the haze of pain and exhaustion, the excruciating leg pain at night when we slept on camping beds in the storage room. I remember a young cook, arriving each year early July chubby and loosing 40 pounds during the season, hysterically working and melting by the hell pizza stove then spending nights on all kinds of drugs (light and not so high) and boose, exactly what Anthony Bourdain described in Kitchen Confidential. I remember being fired once for stealing a popsicle with an other waitress. For weeks, we had being working 14 hours a day and fed 2 weeks old postdue stew forgotten in the bottom of the fridge while the owner and his family were eating fresh food at the same table. I was also nearly fired when I refused to give a gross 200FF fake bank note to the next innocent German who would pay with a 500FF as I was asked. All this for the miserable minimum salary, the filthy food being charged away from your paycheck, and the tips so miserable because we are asked to kick people out because others were standing in line.This is where I learned on the spot the “no passage à vide” rule, you don't have to got to Ecole Hotelière to learn that, noooo, you learn it the hard way on the spot :

In restaurant hell, you can never afford to walk a single step with empty hands, and I mean not even one. On you way to the kitchen you always grab an empty bread basket, take an order or two, pick up dirty dishes. On the way back you run and skate on the greasy floor with 2 Coke on your left hand, 2 Ardéchoises and a Complète (salad, pizza, pancake, whatever) swinging on your right forearm, yell “chaud devant” and find time to bitch back at the sweating lunatic chef who just told you to tell the client who had a special request just to go and “fuck off and introduce all kind of od objects up his ass”.

All this long digression to say that, noooo, I am not the French chauvinist,”we are soo good on the other side of the pond”, but yesterday we had as I wrote earlier the most blatant example of the other side of waiting manners :

First we were greeted by 3 cute chicks side by side, chearing at the top of their lungs : “Hi, guys, how are you, great to have you tonight!!” I felt like a long time no see cousin, they nearly jumped to my neck, I was embarrassed. Answering “fine, thank you” without showing all my gums made me feel like I was the lonely girl in the schoolyard who didn’t want to play the uncredibly funny game everybody was having so much fun with.

Then it didn’t stop, the waiter was so proud to unwrap for us the marvels of the menu, shrieked with happiness when we ordered what happened to be “his favorite food”, what a coincidence! Every time he took an empty plate away, he raved about “how fantastic” and “uncredible” it must have been, therefore turning us out from even starting saying so. He even shed a few tears when I admitted (after he asked where I came from, I still didn’t figure yet why all waiters mistake me for an Irish?) owning a country house 30 minutes from Avignon. Usually, when I am abroad I refrain from bragging about Provence being my home land, to be more accurate Languedoc, l’Isle sur Sorgue is so overrated, let’s talk Uzes, guys! To dry their tears, I usually tell them I don’t know Peter Mayle and that the high unemployement rate in south of France forced me to expatriate from paradise ages ago.

There is a legend that every waiter in Hollywood is actually an actor wannabe, this one really needed acting lessons and Clooney has not much to worry aboutcompetition yet!

Thirteen waiters were traffic jamming all over the restaurant, most of the time with empty hands, each of them in charge of 3 tables max, about 10-12 customers every 2 hours. With a minimum of 100$ each and 15+% tip, we are talking a 150-180$ every 2 hours, let’s say a rough 500$ for a 6 hours shift, more than a week wages for the average french waiter. Not bad …And I guess the Philippino cook at Uchi threw a pretty decent curry for the staff lunch. And, last but not least, I could hear no one yelling in the kitchen.

Now, next time you complain about french waiters, would you consider that : outside of Paris, where a few of them make a decent living, they are yelled at, are charged for food you wouldn’t give to a dog, and get misery wages. The good side is they don’t wait tables to pay for their Uni*, in France education is still free most of the time, thank God…

*This is a special wink for Akiko.

An other day in Austin or how to survive on 109°F* * 42,8°C

First of all let’s pay a tribute to the homeland of Whole Foods (this paradigm of Boboland turned paradise that will be the subject of a full next post soon) by starting the day with an organic blueberry-pineapple-keffir-valencia-shake with the last fad : hemp powder to protect our stomach lining from what is to come later.

The green stuff on the side of the glass is not henna but hemp, (free of cannabinol, this is no space drink!).

Then, let’s follow the French motto : « Comment ne pas bronzer idiot » , (how to tan without looking stupid). Before getting into the idea that we are going to commit a crime against the planet, i.e. eating more animal proteins than an indian family in a week (or rather a year ? or a life for vegetarians, of course) therefore hastening deforestation and ozone émissions, we stopped by Fritz Henle exhibition in University of Texas. You might not know him (I didn’t) but as early as in the 30s this versatile photographer pionnered most of what we take for granted now in terms of fashion, ads and landscape photography aesthetics.

Mexican Henle's muse called Nieves 1935

Coming in and out of any air conditioned building is like getting a blow right in the face as you gasp for air. The scorching heat forces you to pace down and resign to producing the slow irritating flip-flop of sandals one can hear all over every hot place on the planet, from Caracas to Bali and Miami to Bangkok…
Then we headed for « Salt Lick » (named after the block of salt Texans give their horses to lick), which is rated among top 5 barbecues in USA. It is nestled in an oak wood, a 30 minutes drive away from Austin among huges ranches. Don’t expect to see anything like cattle or cowboys, all you can spot are wood fences, some properties can be as big as several thousands acres and you can drive hours without meeting anybody or a single cow.
« Salt lick » is an institution, catering for thousand customers every day, in you want digits, just look at the website : http://www.saltlickbbq.com/, it is BIG.
Crowds of locals wait patiently for their numbers to be called or rather « flashed »,( you are given that little device in many US restaurants now), quietly drinking at picnic tables beers they are retrieving from their own coolers (this county is « dry », selling alcohol is forbidden in restaurants premises but you can bring your own, call it hypocrisy ?)
For 90 minutes we waited on the shade, sipping on fresh lemonade while listening to a guitar playing cowboy. At first, acoustical Jimmy Hendrix was not bad at all but after an hour, the happy medley started taking a toll on my european ears and my rumbling stomach. Like every weekend, at 5pm more and more patrons were gathering, with the local sheriff and his boys directing the non stop traffic of hundreds of very expensive cars into the parking.


I had plenty time to « jaw drop » at the gargantuan pit, cheerfully invited by the staff to come backstage in the kitchen to shoot as much as I wished as I was starting to drool with anticipation.

The origins of grilling meat on a pit if the object of much controversy but we know for sure the smoking and the pork (hence the sausages) is due to turn of the century German immigration.
Here beef brisket is served, sometimes ribs also but pork spare ribs and sausages are very popular. Every barbecue has its secret dry rub spiced mix and/or special basting sauce. Sauces are mostly ketchup based, with different proportion of sweet and sour and chili addition.
We went for « family style », all-you-can eat barbecue with Tex Mex sides : coleslaw, potato salad, beans, brioche like bread with sesame seads, differents sauces, raw onion and tear inducing jalapenos.


The pork ribs melted in the mouth, the sausage was addictive, the brisket rightly smoked and not too fat. The coleslaw and potatoes were very mildly sweet, which can be considered a miracle in the South.
I tried to follow a friend’s advice (thank you P.) : « Put down your fork between two bites », « bring food to you mouth and not the opposite », « chew and enjoy »
I only had meat and coleslaw and when I bravely pushed away my plate I could still move (I was actually very proud of myself, maybe it also had something to do with seing throngs of customers three times my size gulping down a whole herd of Texan cattle).
We were wise enough not to have dessert and had a pecan pie wrapped to go for breakfast next morning.


Don't expect anybody to cook with butter here, Crisco is the King of shortening, it gives a pale and crumbling dough which leaves that margarine feeling on the tongue. The filling happened to be not too sweet or fat, a rather good surprise.
On the way back, we stopped by a huge indian temple and ashram just a mile away from the temple of carnivores.
We silently removed our shoes and tiptoed into a very kitchy praying room. Surrounded by posters of the guru taking dozens of dramatic poses in a flashy coloured indian studio (was he mimicking Mahabharata ?), a few devotees were uhmmmmpaduhhmming in the cool room. Was it some kind of ceremony on the remembrance of the holy Texan slaughtered cows that were so nicely filling our stomachs with bliss ?
I wouldn’t tell…

And, to paraphrase a dear friend of mine who will recognize himself :
"Now, where did I put that PeptoBismol?"

Welcome to Texas

Dear readers,
As you probably noticed it, I have been largely neglecting my blog recently.
I could say I had so much work, a book after an other, I could say I spent months down on my knees or up a ladder turning a slum apartment back into a clear office/studio/pied à terre in Paris but the truth is I really needed a break.
And a break it is : right now I am typing on my MacBook on flight CO11 to Austin via Houston with 115 minutes battery left. In about 9 hours, I’m gonna be in a man’s arms, my cosmic brother’s, as I call him.
I can recall clearly the day Eric stepped into my life, or should I say my caterer kitchen in Montreal. It was a day of 1991, I don’t think it was one of these -25°C February days where we had to break the ice that formed on the door to open the shop. I don’t think either it was one one of this scorching humid NewYork like summer days where the staff was on the verge of fainting by the stove and where I would pray for the fridges not to die.
I like the idea that the day I met Eric was a sweet day. Next think I know, after 5 minutes, he had put an apron and I was showing him how to make mayo for a crowd from…Oh my God …RAW eggs, i.e. a lethal French specialty coming from the Old World, a filthy land where nobody has never heard of Hellman’s mayo and even less of Kraft Foods
Eric was born in NewBrunswick, from his chilhood’s house he could spot the whales. He told me about his gourmet father who was begging the fishermen not to throw the scallops roe to the sea as they usually did. He also told me how the same fishermen would crush the kingcrabs who dared entering lobster traps and angrily throw them back to agonize in the sea, about the rivers hosting more salmons than water (so numerous they could have been caught with bare hands), boiled by locals into a pulp in a huge vat of insanely boiling water with starchy potatoes and a handfull of salt.
That day Eric and I started that bottomless foodies conversation.
There was a time where we both burnt our hands and brains in different kitchens but we never lost contact. For catering years he was eating like cooks do (and like I did for years), helplessly, hardly seating, wrenching ones guts, anything from lasagna, half cooked chicken from the pan to whipped cream licked from the whisp.. He started to grow a nice belly on balloney sandwiches from a jewish hole in the wall at the corner of Clark and St Joseph called Willensky. The staff over there used to bark the thin rye « special » sandwiches at your face. There was a large sign saying something like : « No changes for special, don’t even bother ask for no mustard, we won’t do it ». There were also used books for sale. They were covered with decades of greasy dirt and nobody ever dared touch or even dare buy one I believe.
Then Eric turned vegetarian, then vegan, lost his little Buddha’s belly, became slim and lean by feeding on cucumber crush. Now he is back to pleasure and reason, even if he stopped coffee and can give me lectures about the benefit of that uncredible organic japanese tea he buys from Whole Foods for the price of gold and drinks by the gallon. He became a very discriminating foodie who can get a kick from gulf shrimps as well as tacones from a wheelcart. With his Mexican wife Ana he can’t wait to show me around while we passionately discuss the line between Tex and TexMex.
Our paths parted but not our hearts, we swore to eachother that if we happened to be both alone in our old days we would grow our food together, in my house at the feet of Cevennes.
Ok, now, back to flight C011. I just had the "less worst" plane chicken and mashed potatoes of my life, was happy to realize that Continental Airlines understood that nobody could possibly slaughter a pilot with a plastic spoon and provide toy like but real stainless knife and fork !
Then I hear the French : « Austin ? What ? », Texas food ???
Enough with prejudiced ideas, a US food trip is a real food trip, this is not Kazakhstan (OK, I have to admit my opinion on Kazakhstan is a little bit Borat biased).
For those who believe chili is a mexican dish and that Lina’s invented pecan pie, who buy chiken wrap in Lafayette gourmet and guacamole in Picard…for the others who take Buffalo Grill and Indiana Café for Tex Mex …
For those who call four plastic wrapped merguez, 3 fluorescent pink and charred chipolatas and 2 shriveled lamb chops a barbecue, fasten your seat belt and grab to whatever you can :
Chipotles, pecan, mesquite, Sunday evangelist BBQ, chimichangas, beanless chili, tacos, Whole Foods and sorts, fancy Texan Japanese fusion and greasy spoons of all sorts, here we go…
And for 3 weeks from now, my blog will be in English, ça vous fera des devoirs de vacances, voilà et bon appétit…

First stop, first breakfast, on Austin Ist street, a hilly road lined with fancy hippy sheds turned trendy eateries and decoration shops. This institution taqueria reminds me of Yucatan, the noise of the sea replaced by the endless traffic of pickups driving downhill.
Inside and outside, the walls are covered with decades of arty, thriftshop paraphernalia with a tropical beach meets California meets Vermont laidback cafe style feeling.

Breakfast tacos and migas

Wheat tortilla with scrambled eggs with bacon and cheese, differents salsas on self service :
traditional "pico de gallo", tomato, onion, lime juice and cilantro or salsa verde : crushed jalapeno, lime and cilantro and "migas" : corn tortillas filled with...I am lost already
Let me explain : for 2 days already, I have been trying to understand the difference between Mexican and Tex Mex Food, Ana is Mexican from Vera Cruz and Eric Canadian, they have been living in Texas for years .
The discussion has been passionate and what I understood basically is :
Texans took the mexican cuisine and "muted" it, erasing the tastes, making it milder and duller
Mex use a little bit of fresh cheese but Tex drown the food in melted Kraft style cheese.
Mex favour fresh corn tortillas (made from crushed and boiled corn that has been soaked overnight in caustic soda solution to loosen the corn skin) over flour tortillas because they are much denser and flavourfull.
Mex make "queso fondido" they scoop with tortilla when Tex invented "nachos" : fried tortillas topped with beans, tomato, onion and melted grilled cheese (it seems real Mex laugh hard when they serve this dish to american tourists in Cancun).
Tex mix everything in tortillas : beans, ground meat, cover with cheese, put it under the grill (Mex never grill) and call the dish chimichangas.
Mex prefer slow cooked meat they shred and put on tortillas and always get some "zing" from sharp fresh toppings such as cilantro and lime. Basically Mex is fresher, tastier, sharper...
Difficult to tell because this 2 cuisines are deeply intricated geographically.

Queso fondido with chorizo and smoked dried chilies