Continue reading »]]> We discovered that the perfect pairing to that delicious salted duck breast was a Fromage Fondu. In Petra’s words, this is “deliciously gooey” — melting hot camembert, dripping over crusty bread, and so easy to make, but none the less impressive.  Petra recommended La Rustique, the king of camembert, that comes nestling in its own wooden box, something I have yet to find in over Vancouver cheese shops even though it is pasteurized.

Fromage Fondu, La Rustique camembert

You score the top of the camembert, drizzle with a fine muscat, and sprinkle with fresh time and pink peppercorns. Just pop it in a hot oven for 15 minutes and viola, a delectable hors d’oeuvre. Conveniently, not far from Petra’s, there is a fine winery, called Domain du Sacre Coeur and its was this sweet white wine that Petra poured over the cheese. David and looked at one another and vowed to bring a bottle of this muscat home with us.

Fromage Fondu

Next up, Figues au Chèvre et Jambon. You rarely see fresh figs at the supermarkets here, but in France, every market displayed these rich, purple mounds piled high in peaks. We started by trimming off the stems and cutting them into quarters them by slicing vertically down but not all the way to the end. By squeezing the quarters, the little fig opens up wide allowing just enough room for a generous piece of fresh goat cheese. I have never tasted goat cheese like this in Vancouver, no matter how fresh it claims to be. It was all soft and milky unlike our crumbly logs we have here. I even travelled to the goat cheese farm in Chilliwack in search of the same sweet cheese. It is more than just how it is made in France. I believe it is the kind of goat and what it eats that contributes to its luscious taste.

Preparing Figues au Chevre et Jambon

Now, wrap a piece of Serrano, Bayonne, or prosciutto ham and place it on a baking sheet coated on olive oil.  Drizzle with honey and balsamic vinegar, then it goes into a hot oven for about 10 minutes, just long for the ham to be crisp and the cheese to start oozing down the sides.

Salade de Figues au Chevre et Jambon

Meanwhile, Petra made a reduction of her homemade red wine vinegar which she then used to dress the arugula and mint and piled it high on individual plates. Once the figs where ready, they sat upon the mountain of arugula. The first bite was just heavenly. A combination of the salty ham, sweet figs, tangy cheese, and tart vinegar on the mustard greens all rolled in my mouth. I was speechless. Not bad for a first night of cooking.

But we were not yet done. Creme Brûlée. Anyone who knows me well knows that I can’t turn down a creme brûlée or a creme caramel. In fact, my good friends Bruce and Jud gave me a Brûlée torch for Christmas one year. I’ve made it for David a few times but we somehow never got the crispy, crunchy surface quite right. David volunteered to handle the torch, and under the careful guidance of Petra, learned when to tip the torch and pull away. It was perfect and so was this night.

Torching the Creme Brûlée

Continue reading »]]> After lunch at L’Ile Saint Martin, Petra gathered our team of culinary adventurists and took us to her B&B.  As the other students had been with Petra since Friday, this was our first visit to La Souqueto, Chambres d’Hotes and the home of Petra’s cooking school in the tiny town of Mirepeisset. It was everything I expected and much, much more.

The white, stone house stood taller than its neighbours and every bit as majestic. We learned later that it was quite uncommon to have a three storied house in this area. The 300 year-old house had quite a storied past, but it’s last days were not kind to it as Petra discovered when she purchased the all but abandoned villa for a song. Rotting walls had to be replaced, as did the floors and roof top. Anyone who has read Peter Mayle “A Year in Provence,” will remember that what poses as quaint and quirky. quickly becomes expensive to bring to quality. Petra left nothing to chance and turned the old house into a elegant, dignified home that fit the community. The only thing that hinted of it’s previous life was a hole in the dining room which was covered by glass. When illuminated, you see down deep into the original well that supplied the home with water for centuries.

La Souqueto Cooking School in Mirepeisset

We entered the centuries-old home from the side door and into the ultra-modern kitchen. Such a contrast from the Medieval village outdoors. We started the cooking class with a wee sip of sherry. My kind of school. As the first lesson on our “Simply French” menu, Petra taught us how to “cure” a duck breast by burying the breast completely in coarse salt and leaving it for 24 hours in the fridge. Here she is with the two breasts that have been dried carefully and resalted.

Petra Preparing Dried Duck Breast

When ready, you sprinkle them with coarse black pepper. The duck breast becomes firm and dry. You slice it very thinly and add to your favourite salad recipe. It should last up to a week, if you don’t eat it all first.

“Cured” Duck Breast

Continue reading »]]>

Many people have asked me what my favourite part of our trip to Europe, and the answer is easy—meeting Petra Carter and attending her culinary school. Nestled in the heart of Languedoc, under the umbrella branches of the plane trees, rests Le Souqueto in the tiny village of Mirepeisset.

This is the home of Petra Carter, chef, food writer, photographer, artist…and perhaps the most effervescent woman I have ever met. I found Petra in my search for a culinary school in the south of France and it just so happened that she was holding a weekend cooking course called, “Simply French” that coincided with our arrival in France.

We took the train to Narbonne from Barcelona where we had arranged to meet Petra. As we neared the train station, David asked me if I knew what Petra looked like. “Not a clue. But I will know when I see her.”

We lugged my big suitcase up several flights of stairs—no elevators at the train station even though you depart on the lowest level platform. We burst into a tiny train lobby crowded by people. Was I right? Would I recognize Petra? No need to doubt. I saw her standing near the door wearing a flowing white dress and sporting a wonderful wide grin that made her whole face smile.  “I see her,” I shouted and rush over to give her an enormous hug. I felt like I was coming home.

Salin de L’ile Saint Martin, fields of pink salt in Southern France

Petra packed us up in her van and drove straight to the market were the other guests were waiting for us. She introduced the other five culinary students—three from Ireland, one from South Africa, and another from Australia—each holding treasures from the market that they had been assigned to track down.

Amy from Australia asked if I was holding a Canon S100 and said, “Isn’t it an awesome camera! Have you tried all the features yet?” Having just bought the camera, weeks before we left Vancouver, my purchase had been validated and we became fast friends as she taught me how to use it.

Lunch at Les Huitres e L’ile Saint Martin

No time to waste. We were off to sight of the Salin de L’Ile Saint Martin, near Gruissan, the home of vast fields of pink Sel de Mer basking in the Mediterranean sun in the shallow waters of the sea. Yes, the home of delicate, pink crystals of salt. Petra announced that we were to stop for lunch here. If this is our first stop, I know that I made the right choice in selecting Petra’s cooking school at La Souqueto.

]]> http://foodorigins.ca/2012/10/28/petras-culinary-adventures/feed/ 0 http://foodorigins.ca/2012/10/14/beautiful-companions/ http://foodorigins.ca/2012/10/14/beautiful-companions/#comments Sun, 14 Oct 2012 22:26:10 +0000 http://foodorigins.ca/?p=260

Continue reading »]]>

One delightful exception to our preconceived objections to cruising was the wonderful couple we met on the first night. We selected the late night seating for dinner at 9:30 pm so that we didn`t have to rush back for the early dinner. On the first night, there awaiting us, were two marvelous people named Ray and Audrey with so much life and fantastic stories to share that we looked forward to our dinners every night just to discover where they had explored that day.Like most people, when Ray and Audrey told us they were from Malta, I realized that what little I knew about the country I learned from Humphrey Bogart in the Maltese Falcon.

New Friends, Ray and Audrey

Ray, the gentle giant, was a former cop in Malta and now happily retired as a security guard in an upscale location and Audrey works for Air Malta. Of course, Ray and I had much to share about the life of a police officer but there was so much more we wanted to learn from him. Ray is a walking encyclopedia of Maltese history and the Knights of St. John. Skip Dan Browne. This is the real thing. David’s history gene was triggered and he peppered Ray with questions about the tiny island.

Audrey is as gracious as she is as beautiful. I appreciated her quiet intelligence and grew to love her decisiveness. We could all learn from the fine Maltese style and manner.

On our last day, Audrey suggested that we go into Naples, rent a taxi for the day, and drive down the Amalfi Coast. Just as we wanted to do but now, ever so much sweeter with our new friends.

We met early and disembarked the ship to a string of taxis each with their drivers shouting, “Special Price.” Ray had mentioned to us earlier that we should leave the negotiations up to Audrey, who speaks fluent Italian and drives a hard bargain.

David and I wandered ahead to give Audrey the space she needed to make the deal. We could hear cries of, “No, no…” and what we assumed was “far too much” in Italian. We watched as she shook her head and start to walk away with Ray at her side. The taxi driver called her back and the negotiation resumed. This process was repeated several times before she was satisfied that we had a good deal. Clearly, I could learn much from Audrey.

Audrey introduced us to Giuseppe would spoke little English but would take us to Amalfi, Positano, and Sorrento for the day for only 60€. Deal. In minutes, we are barreling down the Amalfi Coast – literally. The narrow road twisted and turned uphill and down while Giuseppe talked with his hands in the quick staccato rhythm of southern Italian speech. Evidently, Ray knew enough Italian as I heard him crack a few jokes and egg Giuseppe on as he gave the other drivers Hell for driving too slowly. In a rare moment of fear, I saw David hold on to the door handle as we wound around a cliff, all the while Giuseppe was laughing and gesturing with the fingers of his right hand clutched together as he waved it up and down to prove a point. Ray and Audrey burst into laughter.

Amalfie Coast

It truly is a marvel to me to listen to people converse in multiple languages. Audrey and Ray laughed with Giuseppe in Italian, chatted to one another in Maltese, and translated their conversations in to English for our benefit.

The Amalfi Coast is known for its extraordinary scenery and its iconic medieval cliff side Mediterranean fishing villages, but nothing prepares you for its breath-taking beauty. It is as God painted on the sky before you. 

Huge Lemons from the Almalfi Coast

In Amalfi, Audrey knew the area well and directed us to the place that sold the local speciality, Limoncello, an Italian lemon liqueur mainly produced in Southern Italy, especially in the region around the Gulf of Naples, the Sorrentine Peninsula and the coast of Amalfi.

It is made from lemons literally the size of grapefruit – literally. It is traditionally served cold as and after dinner aperitif. Along the Amalfi Coast, it is usually served in small ceramic glasses themselves often chilled, the Amalfi coast being a center of both ceramics and limoncello production.

I found a wonderful ceramic jar, just like the blue jar I ordered from Italy many years ago with big lemons painted on its side and filled with Limoncello. Well, I also had to buy the matching tiny cups to match and these salad tongs.

Then, Audrey took us to the best Limoncello ice cream shop in the land. Ray and I bounced up and ordered a scoop each for breakfast. Ice cream for breakfast. What could be more heavenly? 

Continue reading »]]>  

Coast of Italy seen from the cruise ship

We must confess that although this cruise ship is far superior than the ship we took to Alaska two years ago, we remain firmly, and resolutely, not cruisers. There is little appeal in being crammed in a supersized boat with 4500 passengers from 71 countries where the objective is simply to sell you something—all day long. We find it too commercial, noisy (“It`s bingo time!), with too many lame shows in the evening. Gone are the days when this was an elite form of travel with top flight entertainers like Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett sang and there were lineups for top Broadway acts.

It now is cheap jewelry, watches, and knockoffs lining the promenade level and the likes of Saturday Night Fever and Dancing on Ice were the top ticket items.

I dread the “This is Tuesday so it must be Rome” approach to travelling where you are herded into buses and sent to the tourist “factory” to witness the “authentic” production of the local specialty. We choose instead to sneak off the ship, find the nearest taxi and head to the first street we found on Google maps.

One bright spot was Christopher, our “personal valet.”  Christopher greeted us every morning with a huge smile and warm hello and seem genuinely interested in what we had planned for the day. If we needed anything, he was only too pleased to assist us.

In the evening when we returned from dinner near midnight, we were delighted to find a little surprise on our bed or cocktail table.  Christopher would wrap and twist our towels into a mischievious monkey, donning our sunglasses or reading glasses. One night searched the cabin for something of great value, only to look up and see our little monkey, smiling at us wearing my necklace.

Despite our displeasure with this style of travelling, it certainly was lovely to bask in the sun on your balcony at cocktail hour sipping our contraband wine…

Continue reading »]]> The last time we were in Rome, we decided to visit the Vatican one rainy morning. We arrived to a sea of people watching the Pope give mass on multiple outdoor screens around St. Peter`s Square. Ah, right. This was Sunday. Not going to happen…

So this time, we got off the cruise ship, took the train to St. Peter`s Square, and joined a tour group to see the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel. Worth the wait.

After the tour, we wanted to see the progress of the excavation of the ancient Roman city beneath the modern Roman city and Circus Maximus. We grabbed a taxi and told the taxi driver to take us to the Synagogue in the Jewish Ghetto District.

As I was telling David the tale of how we discovered a little restaurant somewhere around here, David led me down cobblestone alleys, past the ruins, and down a little hill. Before I could finish sharing my fond memories of the restaurant, David stopped and pointed. There it was. It was his surprise to me. He had tracked it on Google Earth and guided me right to the front door of the La Taverna del Ghetto `Kosher`. Glorious.

Jewish Artichoke

We sat at a little table out in the sun, just as we had done five years ago. I ordered the very same meal we had last time: zucchini blossoms filled with sea bass, fried artichokes—Jewish style, and fresh beef Carpaccio with rucola and balsamic reduction. I can tell you that I have been thinking about those zucchini blossoms for five years.

Beef Carpaccio

I told the waiter that we had been here five years ago and he had served us the same meal. He pretended to remember us and treated us to a glass of Limoncello.

Continue reading »]]> Next stop. San Gimignano. This is the village I have been waiting to visit. Fifteen years ago, I visited the Medieval village of San Gimignano and was fortunate enough to be given a tour of the village by the mayor’s daughter. I fell in love with its rich history of dueling families, each competing for the title of owning the tallest building. Known as the Town of Fine Towers, narrow chimneys dot the skyline, reminiscent of the 72 towers some as high as 230 feet. Now just 14 towers remain in this walled 12^thCentury in this charming picturesque town.

Towers of San Gimignano

It was here I remember seeing an ancient olive tree surrounded by mosaic tiles and a rope which prevented people from being able to touch the tree. People quietly circled the tree in procession in reverence to the original olive tree of Italy.

I was on a pilgrimage. But I was deeply disappointed.

The streets were so crowded with tourists, I could barely walk the street without touching someone. Where I remember quaint shops with local food specialities made from wild boar, magnificently coloured tiles, and animated shopkeepers, were now replaced sanitized versions of the past. Boar was no longer on the menu.

Stuffed Wild Boar’s Head

All that remained was a stuffed head of a boar that had tourists lined up to get their pictures taken beside.The ceramic shops carried tiles with numbers and letters of the alphabet, perfect gift for a tourist who could spell out their name or street address in Italian tiles. I missed the little bookstore where I bought a book about the towers, all in Italian, but the shopkeeper was so charming and insisted that this book was far superior to the one I held. Of course, that conversation was entirely in Italian of which I speak not a single word, but still gave me such a joyous memory.

Beautiful Olive Grove

I hunted for the olive tree but to no avail. I asked the local people but they kept stirring me toward the long line ups for the museums. I seem to remember that the tree was perched high above the town, so we climbed to the top of the cathedral and my heart leaped when I saw row upon row of trees in an olive orchard. But no single tree was preserved.

We heard that the local gelato shop had the best gelato in all of Italy. As a pacifier to my bruised ego, I lined up with the rest of the tourists for something sweet and soothing.

Disappointed, we returned to the ship and shared a bottle of wine by pushing in the cork on our stateroom deck.

Perhaps my memory has some gaps, and the tree that I see so vividly was not here, in San Gimignano, but rather in my heart.

Continue reading »]]> Just outside the Medieval of San Gimignano is a bustling winery called, Tenuta Torciano Winery, where we had one of the most boisterous and entertaining wine tasting. The energetic patriarch of this 400-year-old wine estate is Pierluigi (Luigi) Giachi who walked us through the art of wine.

Luigi Harvesting the Grapes

First he instructed us to raise our wine glass and examine its shape and explained that a proper wine glass must be 4½ cm across the mouth of the glass, 5 cm from the mouth to the inside bowl of the glass, and 8 cm tall.

He demonstrated by pointing two fingers into the glass on an angle until they reached the bulbous frame. There is a reason. You need a glass large enough to swirl the wine and reach in with your nose to breathe in the wine for more than two seconds to allow the flavours to be released.

We began with a little antipasto paired with a white wine. We were advised to savour the moment and notice how the wine changed with each mouthful of meat or cheese.

This is a family run estate and it was his daughter and son who served us, and Mama cooked the meal. When the salad arrived, the red was poured into a second glass. None of the formality of gently pouring the wine into the glass without touching the rim. No, his daughter plunged the wine bottle into the glass bowl and the wine splashed into the glass with a satisfying glug.

Next course, Ratatouille, and more red wine. “Hurray up. You drink too slow,” shouts Luigi. We tasted 6 red wines and 1 white, each from one of his four wine estates. With each wine, we learned of its heritage, what to look for in the flavour notes, and especially how to drink it.

Whispering to Luigi – No Red Wine on My White Clothes

Luigi called for a volunteer and I leapt to the challenge. Luigi describe the sweet dessert wine that would be our final wine to taste. I realized that I was wearing all white and feared a mishap with a glass of red wine so I whispered to him, “No red, please.”He dipped a biscotti in the dessert wine while telling the story of how a man should woo a woman, then ran the biscotti, drenched in sweet wonder, down the side of my nose and into my mouth.Now that would make it seven wines that we enjoyed in just an hour. Needless to say, Luigi made good money that day as the crowd clamoured to buy wine. Including us. We expect to see six bottles arrive any day now.

Continue reading »]]>

Stairway to the Light of the Piazza del Priori in Voterra, Italy

We had no internet on the cruise ship and spotty connections during our two week stay in Provence. Melissa Hartield from Fine Lime Designs who helped me set up my food blog before I left warned me and she was so right. The IPad proved to less than satisfactory. I couldn’t add posts or pictures. Damn frustrating. Finally, I found an Apple store in Barcelona and explained the problem. Apparently, I could only access WordPress by downloading an App which proved to be far inferior to posting from a computer. I decided to write my stories and post when we got home.

Sad to say, but there was another disaster.

I had carefully recorded every meal, bottle of wine, and the name of every restaurant we went to in a small notebook that I carried around with me everywhere. However, I think that during the wine tasting in Volterra, I believe I left the notebook on the table, which just proves how good that wine tasting was!  Plus, we shipped six wine bottles back to Canada.

When I discovered it missing once we got back to the ship, David and I sat down in the Schooner Bar, had a Martini, and tried to extract from our memories all the places we visited. From that point on, I carried a large Hilroy spiral notebook in a large Cote d’Azur satchel that I knew I would not leave behind. I also took pictures of the restaurant, wine bottle and food so if the satchel went missing, I would at least have the photos to work from.

Now, I’ll just pick up from where I left off…

Continue reading »]]> Our cruise ship was too large to dock at Nice so we docked at the little seaport, Villefranche, and took a shuttle boat to port, then the city bus into Nice.

It was raining, of course, so much so that we had to get an umbrella for David as mine was to small to cover both of us. The dashed through town and finally found a supermarket that had umbrellas. By that time, we were drenched with water soaking my jeans right up to my knees. We took refuge in a little cafe to regroup.

We saw the Musee d’Art Contemporain from the cafe in the Place Garibaldi. It was closed on Mondays. in fact, we discovered all the museums and most restaurants we closed on Mondays. Funny, the cruise ship declined to mention this in the morning announcement.

We roamed the streets of Vieux Nice, the old part of town. I stopped in a store that featured a grand old olive press and many types olive oil, dented with everything from bergamot to lavender to quince. I commented to the store owner how lovely her store was. We stepped out and into a square line with restaurants with signs that touted, “Specialite de Nicoise” and a light wanted on. I ran back to the lady in the olive shop and said that my favourite Salad was Salade Nicoise and I just realized that it was the salad of Nice. I always thought it referred to the type of olive in the salad. What a revelation! I was hoping for a good laugh, but instead she asked me where I was from and why you idiotic tourists don’t take five minutes to understand something about the cities or countries you visit. When I said that we had, she proceeded to tell me that I could possible know anything about her city. She could tell from my stupid question. She expressed this with such vehemence that it felt like I had been hit in the gut. I walked around stunned and silent.

David grabbed me and suggested we go back to Villefranche and find a restaurant. Food is always the best solution. We found one near the shore called, “Palmiere.” I ordered one glass of red wine and it was so good we decided to buy a bottle to calm my nerves. It worked.

I ordered Moules Provencial and David had the linguini with fresh garlic, tomatoes and basil. As we waited, I watched as the local man at a table beside us as he ate his mussels.

He had a technique that, in hindsight is obvious, but I had never seen before.

He used his small fork to remove the mussel from the first shell.

He then used the now empty shell as a tweezer and pinched out the next mussel from its shell.

As soon as my mussels arrived, I tried it. It worked like a charm!

On the way back to the ship, we decided to visit the Citadelle de St-Elme, an ancient fortress that surrounds much of Villefrance.

We discovered a museum deep in a cave that was dedicated to the sculpture of the female form.

Beautiful! We emerged into a square that lead to a lovely garden. The sun had finally arrived, so before we left, we strolled along the sea wall eating a gelato.

We returned to the ship and sat on our sunny deck. We decided to have one of those wines David smuggled in. Never could understand why my suitcase was confiscated and his was not. However, we now had a dilemma – no corkscrew. Every university student learns how to solve this problem…push the cork down into the bottle and voila!