The Wild Side of Spring

“You are kidding, right?” I asked my aunt in total disbelief. Since the beginning of February I had been trying to connect with wild asparagus foragers who would graciously show me the ropes and, more importantly, the right places. So when my aunt offered to take me along on an expedition in my very own backyard, I picked up my little basket and trotted along.

In Languedoc foraging for young tender things is almost as big a sport as rugby. But you must know where. I know a chef who gathers purslane on very specific dry stone walls holding the garden terraces around his village. At a recent lunch at their home, Alain and Jocelyne Jougla served, along with a perfectly juicy guinea hen, a watercress salad so vibrant and delicate in flavor and texture, it bore no relation to any watercress I ever had. “We pick it in ditches around here,” offered Alain while his wife quickly corrected “not any old ditch; you have to be careful. This watercress grows along a very clean fresh water spring.”

Following my aunt around the park that surrounds my house, I was stunned at first to realize that what I had disregarded for years as webs of ugly prickly shrubs were actually asparagus ferns. I guess I have been a city dweller far too long! Then I found out that hunting for wild asparagus is not that easy, as they can be quite elusive and have a great talent to hide among and beneath bushes and weeds. They can also shoot up as high as 4 ft and sneer at you willowing in the sun as you take a break from crawling. I did manage (with the help of my aunt) to harvest enough for a light supper.

Wild asparagus are a lot milder than their domesticated counterparts and have a slight pleasing bitterness. The thin stalks are tough and fibrous, and should be discarded. The tips are usually steamed and tossed in light vinaigrette; omelets or scrambled eggs are also classic preparations. I saw a recipe for a soufflé — I think I’ll try it with my next “harvest.” That night, I kept it simple.

Scrambled Eggs with Wild Asparagus

Two servings

• 1 cup wild asparagus tips or pencil asparagus
• 2 tablespoons butter
• 1 small shallot, minced
• 5 large eggs
• 1 tablespoon milk
• Salt and freshly ground pepper
• 1 tablespoon minced chives
• 4 ounces smoked salmon

Blanch the asparagus tips in boiling salted water for 1 minute. Drain and refresh with cold water.

Melt the butter in a small skillet over medium heat. Add the shallot and sauté for a couple of minutes until translucent. Add the asparagus tips and continue cooking over medium-low heat for 4 to 5 minutes, until they are tender.

Beat the egg with the milk, salt and pepper. Pour the mixture into the skillet and cook over low heat for 3 to 4 minutes, stirring gently with a wooden spoon. The eggs should be just set and very creamy. Cook a couple of minutes longer if you prefer them drier.

Sprinkle with chives and serve with the smoked salmon on the side.

 

Campaign Trail

Five days to Election Day for Les Municipales, in which all of France’s mayors and their councilors are up for reelections. This is a time for polemics, seduction and promises – empty or not. The campaign is hitting its stride. And, of course, my small town is no exception. For the first time in 18 years, the incumbent mayor finds himself running against not one, but two opposition lists. After years of bad management, fiscal irresponsibility, cronyism, and essentially running what once was a lovely village to the ground, this is not surprising. Intrigues and public debates have been all consuming, offering at times plenty of comical colorful moments straight out of a Pagnol novel.

Full disclosure # 1: my father is running as a municipal councilor on the independent list.

My father and his twenty-six running-mates have been plotting this moment for a very long time, and for the past several months regular strategic meetings are being held in great secrecy at my house. While I am not privy to what is being planned, I am always invited to the potluck aperitif that follows. It gives me a chance to catch up on the latest village gossip and sample the homemade hors d’oeuvres often prepared by the wife of the head of the list, who we hope will be our next mayor. But I am most intrigued by the homemade wines and liqueurs assembled by the enthousiast male members of the team. Every meeting brings the opportunity to try a new one. Obviously this is a competitive bunch and everyone love to show off the year’s new batch. Cartagène, the Languedocien answer to Pineau des Charentes, and orange and walnut wines are excellent, but I have developed a fondness for the verbena liqueur served in small brandy glasses and savored slowly. On the other hand, I find the quince wine refreshing and light, which can be trouble if you don’t know how to pace yourself. Trust me on that one!

Full disclosure # 2: I haven’t tested the recipes below. I don’t need to. I’m such an appreciative audience that they feel compelled to leave any leftovers behind. My stash is rapidly growing and should last for at least the first year of the mandate. Now, I’m wondering if these artisanal concoctions qualify as kickbacks!

Verbena Liqueur
Makes 1 liter, about 1 quart

• 150 g sugar, about 2/3 cup
• ½ liter water, about 2 cups
• 50 fresh verbena leaves
• ½ liter alcohol, about 2 cups (see note)

Combine the sugar and water in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Remove from the heat and cool.

Wash and dry the verbena leaves. Place the leaves in a 1 liter bottle. Add the cold syrup and the alcohol. Cover and shake well. Let the bottle sit in a cool place for at least 10 days before using.

Serve this liqueur as an aperitif, after-dinner drink or drizzled over vanilla ice cream.

Quince Wine
About 1 liter, about one quart

• 2 large quinces
• 1 liter of rosé wine, about 1 quart
• 10 centiliter alcohol, about 6 tablespoons (see note)
• 200 grams sugar, about 7/8 cup

Scrub and wash the quinces thoroughly. Cut them into small pieces and place them in a large container.

Add the remaining ingredients; stir well to dissolve the sugar. Cover, and let it sit in a dark cool place for 45 days.

Strain through a fine mesh strainer lined with cheesecloth and store in bottles.

Note: In France you can buy 90% proof alcohol in pharmacies. Unflavored eau de vie or vodka are good substitutes

 

Boles de Picolat

 

A few days ago, my father picked up a mixture of ground veal and pork from our local butcher. I suspect he had a hankering for either stuffed vegetables or spaghetti and meatballs, two of his favorites. He does that sometimes when he has cravings; like when he came back one day with tender pieces of lamb shoulder and breast for blanquette, except he forgot to purchase the cream and lemon and a host of key ingredients for the dish. I made a faux tagine instead. He liked it. This time, since I didn’t have the right vegetables on hand, and I was feeling somewhat creative, I looked for something a little less pedestrian and found Boles de Picolat, a traditional Catalan recipe of meatballs and olives simmered in a rich spicy sauce.

As always with these types of stews, there are many versions, which means you can play and be as flexible as you want. You can make it with ground beef and pork, or pork and veal, or any combinations of the three. You can even add sausage meat to the mix, depending on how lusty you want your dish to be. Cinnamon is an important seasoning according to Eliane Comelade, the foremost expert on French Catalan cooking — it adds great depth and complexity to the sauce. Just as important are dried hot peppers; they play nicely against the sweetness of the cinnamon and cut through the richness of the sauce. Dried cèpes or chanterelles are often added toward the end of cooking lending an extra layer of flavors. But some cooks prefer to add few pieces of dry-cured ham instead. Last, traditionally, and everybody agrees on this, Boles de Picolat is served with warm fresh shell beans tossed with olive oil and a hefty amount of minced garlic. I didn’t have any and used chickpeas as a subsistute. They worked perfectly.

Boles de Picolat
Adapted from La cuisine Secrète du Languedoc-Roussillon by André Soulier (Les Presses du Languedoc, 1997)

Serves six

• ¾ cup dried cèpes
• 1 ½ to 2 inches day-old piece of baguette
• 3/4 cup milk
• 11/2 pounds ground veal and pork mixture
• 2 small onions, finely minced
• 3 garlic cloves, finely minced
• ¼ cup minced parsley
• 1 large egg
• 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
• Salt and fresh ground black pepper, to taste
• 1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 3 tablespoons flour
• 3 small dried chili peppers, or to taste, minced. You can also use hot pepper flakes, about ¼ teaspoon, more or less according to taste
• 2/3 cup crushed plum tomatoes
• ¾ cup pitted green olives

Soak the cèpes in hot water for 30 minutes. Drain.

In a bowl soak the bread in the milk for 10 minutes. Remove from the milk and squeeze out excess liquid.

In a mixing bowl, combine the meat mixture, 1 onion, 1 garlic clove, bread, parsley, egg and 1/8 teaspoon cinnamon. Season with salt and pepper and blend until well combined. Form mixture into medium-sized balls and set aside on a baking sheet.

Place the flour on a flat plate. Lightly coat the meatballs with the flour, shaking off the excess. Reserve any lefover flour. In a large heavy skillet, heat ½ cup of oil over high heat until hot but not smoking. Fry the meatballs in batches without crowding, until deeply brown on all sides. Transfer the meatballs as they brown to paper towels to drain. Continue until all the meatballs are browned.

Heat the remaining olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the remaining minced onion and garlic, and cook, stirring until lightly golden. Stir in the reserved flour from the dredging and cook for 1 minute, or until golden. Add the tomatoes, hot peppers and remaining cinnamon and cook, stirring, for 2 to 3 minutes. Add the meatballs and cover with about 3 cups of water. Season lightly with salt and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook over medium-low heat for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, bring a small pot of water to a boil. Add the olives; bring back to a strong boil and drain.

Add the olives and cèpes to the pot. If the sauce seems too thick, stir in a little water. Cover and continue simmering for another 30 minutes. Adjust seasoning to taste and serve with warm white beans or chickpeas tossed with garlic and olive oil on the side.

 

Sweet Gems

 

These funky looking things are navets de Pardailhan and, here in Languedoc, we think they are the best turnips in the world. A true product of terroire, the black turnips are cultivated in the red clay soil surrounding the village of Pardailhan in the Hauts Cantons of the Hérault department, at the southern tip of the Massif Central.

Praised for its creamy-white flesh, peppery scent and delicate flavor of fresh hazelnuts, the root vegetable can be traced back to the Middle Ages and, throughout the centuries, has enjoyed a reputation that reached far beyond the region – local lore has it at the king’s table in Versailles, but no one knows for sure!

After World War II, as farmers left their land to more lucrative jobs in nearby cities, the turnip of Pardailhan almost disappeared. About ten years ago, a handful of producers created the association Lou Nap dal Pardailha to save the venerable root and bring it back to its former glory. You now can find them from October to early February at local farmers markets and on the menus of some of the best regional restaurants. The production is still very small and most of it remains within Languedoc’s boundaries.

In the kitchen, I discovered that the Pardailhan turnips prefer the stage to themselves. Throw them in a vegetable soup and they tend to loose their distinctive personality amidst the chorus of flavors. They can be enjoyed cold in salads either raw or blanched, and in gratins. But they shine most when cut in thick wedges, pan-roasted in duck fat and served with a braised pork or veal roast, or roasted duck. Local cooks recommend adding a pinch or two of sugar to underscore their sweet nutty flavors. Personally, I deem that their goodness doesn’t need any embellishment.

 

Braised Veal Roast with Turnips de Pardailhan

Serves 6

• 6 garlic cloves, peeled and quartered
• 1 2-pound veal roast
• 8 large shallots
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• ¼ cup white wine
• ½ cup chicken broth or water
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 large sprig of rosemary
• Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
• 6 to 8 turnips de Pardailhan, depending on the size (see note)
• 3 tablespoons duck fat

With a sharp knife, make eight incisions on all around the roast and insert a piece of garlic in each one.

Peel the shallots and halve or quarter them depending on the size. Mince the remaining garlic.

Heat the oil in a heat cast iron pot. Season the roast with salt and pepper and sear it on all side over medium-high heat. Remove from the pot and pour off most of the fat from the pan. Deglaze with the wine and broth or water, and reduce by half. Add the rosemary branch and the bay leaf and return the roast to the pot along with the shallots and minced garlic. Season with salt and pepper. Cover, reduce the heat to medium-low and cook for 30 minutes, for medium rare. Remove the roast from the pot and let it rest, loosely covered for 10 minutes. Discard the rosemary sprig and bay leaf. Keep the shallot sauce warm.

Meanwhile, peel and rinse the turnips. Halve them crosswise and cut into thick wedges.

Heat the duck fat in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the turnip wedges, season with salt and pepper, and toss to coat with the hot fat. Cook for 15 to 20 minutes, until the turnips are lightly golden and soft.

To serve, slice the roast and arrange at the center of a serving platter. Surround with the turnips and serve immediately with the shallot sauce on the side.

Note: Chances are that you won’t find Pardailhan turnips where you are. If you do, let me know. Although not exactly the same, you can substitute black radishes or even purple top turnips caramelized in 1 to 2 tablespoons of sugar, according to taste.

 

 

The Wild Side of Fall

 

The mushroom season is late this year. Since September, forager friends have made few runs to their favorite secret spots in the Haut-Languedoc and came back empty handed. Then one day in Beziers, in the middle of the very crowded Friday market, I spotted them – the first cèpes of the season. Although due to the scarcity, this year’s prices are high, as a former New Yorker shopping at Dean & Delucas, Fairway or Union Square’s Farmer’s Market, the 23 € a kilo tag didn’t faze me, for I planned to pick up just enough for a main course for two. I was carefully making my selection when the stall keeper pointed to a stash on the side, and casually mentioned that since it was almost 1pm, closing time, and these cèpes wouldn’t keep longer than a day, I could have them for 10 € as long as I promise to consume them right away. Was he kidding? I came home with about 2 kg.

That evening, in order to sample the pure flavors and textures of this year’s harvest, I prepared half of them very simply — en persillade. Cut lengthwise into thick slices and seared in olive oil (duck fat is also excellent), then cooked until golden for 15 to 20 minutes over gentle heat and showered with a good amount of minced garlic and parsley in the last few minutes of cooking. The following day, I prepared one of my favorite dishes, daube de cèpes, a recipe I learned from André Daguin while working on our book, “Foie Gras, Magret and other Good Food from Gascony.” It is an amazing dish with great depth of flavors and character, and is often served as an accompaniment to a roast. I can make a meal of it on its own, followed by a garlicky frisée salad, some semi-aged goat cheese and fresh walnuts.

Daube de Cèpes

Serves 6

• 3 pounds fresh firm cèpes
• 3 tablespoons duck fat
• Salt to taste
• 1/4 lb pancetta, finely chopped
• 6 garlic cloves, finely chopped
• ½ cup finely chopped parsley
• 1 ½ cups dry white wine
• 1 cup hot water
• Freshly ground black pepper to taste

 

 

 

Heat the duck fat in a heavy pot over medium heat. Place the cèpes caps upside down in the pot and cook over medium heat for 30 minutes. Remove from the pot and season with salt.

Finely chop the mushroom stems and add them to the pot with the pancetta, garlic, and parsley along with a pinch of salt. Stir well and sauté over medium-high heat until the mixture starts to turn golden. Add the wine to the pot and season with salt and lightly with pepper. When the wine starts to boil, add the hot water. Carefully arrange the caps in the pan and cook, covered, over low heat for 1½ hours. The mixture should not be too dry. Add some hot water to the pan, if necessary, to moisten it and prevent from burning.