Brussels sprouts hash with eggs and sage

Brussels sprouts yields are down in the UK this year, with a threat of needing to import so that the Christmas-celebrating population can buy the vegetable that no one likes, but someone would miss if they skipped.

Usually just (over)boiled, and served with butter, maybe with perfunctory additions of chestnuts and pancetta, it’s unsurprising that there’s little demand for sprouts outside of late December. It’s a shame, though, as their natural sweetness and crunch lends both to serving them raw and finely sliced in a salad, or keeping the slices equally thin and applying heat and seasoning to get them caramelised, even a bit charred.

David Chang (he of Momofuku) has a recipe for pan-fried sprouts doused in a punchy, fish sauce and chilli-laced dressing, which sounds like a great match for grilled fish or chicken. But for now, I’m stuck on this hash, which I’ve happily eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I’d imagine bacon and/or bacon fat would work quite well here. Goose or duck fat, which I sometimes have on hand, adds a nice savoury note. As for cooking the eggs, you could also poach them separately and place them on top of the hash. The only absolutes: slice thinly, season well and don’t stint on the sage.

Brussels sprouts hash with eggs and sage

Adapted from Serious Eats

Serves 2 for a hearty breakfast (scale up for lunch or dinner)

Total time: 20-25 minutes; Active time: 10-12 minutes

250g Brussels sprouts

1 small banana shallot (or part of an onion)

6 sage leaves

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 eggs

Parmesan

Trim and finely slice sprouts into thin shreds. Dice shallots and half of the sage leaves.

Turn on the grill (broiler) to a medium heat.

Heat olive oil in a large, oven-proof skillet over medium-high heat until shimmering. Add remaining sage leaves and cook, stirring occasionally, until leaves are crisp, about 1 minute. Transfer to a paper towel.

Add the sprouts and shallots to the pan. Season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the shallots are fully softened, and the sprouts have turned bright green, then begin to caramelise and lightly catch, 7 or 8 minutes

Create wells in the vegetable mixture and break in the eggs. Turn down fully, cover with a lid, plate or board and cook for a few minutes.

Place the pan under the grill, cooking until the eggs are just set. Season again, grate over parmesan to taste and garnish with fried sage leaves.

Kohlrabi slaw

I was in a particularly suggestible mood at the farmer’s market last Sunday. It not only felt like summer, with temperatures warm enough in mid morning to make long sleeves unnecessary, but it looked like it too. Tomatoes were finally the right colour, and at a price that encouraged over-buying. Berries were abundant as well, likewise broad beans, peppers, courgettes and cucumbers. Aubergines made their first appearance.

Kohlrabi wasn’t an obvious fit in a basket of  more Mediterranean ingredients, but it got a good talking up from one of the vendors, who compared its taste to radishes and affirmed it could be eaten raw, thinly sliced or grated. And at 70p apiece, it was hardly an expensive experiment.

Once home, a bit of reading confirmed my suspicion that kohlrabi takes well to all sorts of slaw-like treatments. The most popular approach seems to be to combine it with similar quantities of carrot and white or green cabbage in variations on a standard creamy, vinegar-based or mustardy coleslaw. (I think the last of these could be particularly good with an extra spoonful of caraway seeds.)  I was also intrigued by a recipe in which it substituted for celeriac in a remoulade. Another well-regarded combination drew on the kohlrabi’s similarity to daikon and dressed it with rice wine vinegar and sesame oil.

I ended up swapping it out for the green cabbage (hard, crinkly or soft) in a Mexican-inspired salad and served it as a topping for black bean tacos. Should summer be making more than a fleeting appearance in your parts, I’d imagine it would also pair well with spicy grilled meats.

Kohlrabi slaw

Total time: 15 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

Serves 2 generously

Special equipment: mandoline with a julienne attachment

1 kohlrabi

½ bunch coriander

2-3 spring onions

1-2 fresh chillies (preferably red for colour contrast)

lime

salt

Set your mandoline blades to cut julienne slices.  (We used the middle of the 3 julienne blades, but any julienne width should do.)

Cut off the protruding stems from the kohlrabi and peel off tough layer of outer skin. Slice into chunks that will run easily across the mandoline. Using the hand guard, cut the kohlrabi into julienne slices. Add to a bowl large enough for the slaw to be tossed and served.

Remove the largest stems from the coriander and roughly chop. Top and tail the spring onions and cut into thin slices. Add the coriander and the spring onions to the kohlrabi.

Deseed the chilli (depending on heat and tolerance) and finely chop. Add to slaw.

Season to taste with lime and salt and mix well. Allow a few minutes for the flavours to combine before serving.

Coconut

In Malaysia, Java and Bali, coconut comes second only to rice in its ubiquity and centrality to both sweet and savoury food. Even the goats—we came across this one near a beach in Terrangganu, eyeing up a coconut shake—seem to like it.

Young, green coconuts—often described as jelly coconuts—are simply sawed open, the watery, gently sweet liquid drunk through a straw. In the process of maturation, the flesh shifts from being gelatinous and quite bland to a meaty, sweet richness. The flesh can then be turned into milk (made by grating the flesh either on a board of nails or with a threshing-like machine, then pressing it, adding warm water and repeating) or oil (a more involved process which requires long, gentle cooking of the milk, then spooning off and refining the liquid fat which rises to the top), or simply grated, to be used as is, toasted or dry-fried.

I can’t say that the oil was particularly distinctive as a cooking fat, though the less processed oil (used in a particularly tasty meal served, of all places, at a “lifestyle cafe” in the Kuala Lumpur airport’s Low Cost Terminal), did have a certain clean sweetness . The milk, however, drew together all sorts of complex tastes and textures—as coconut rice (nasi lemak),anchoring and giving its name to a popular Malay breakfast spread of chicken curry, fried peanuts, crisp anchovy-like fish, hard-boiled egg, cucumber and a spicy, tomato-based sauce (sambal); in tempering the pungent sourness of curried fish soup (Nyonya laksa, also sometimes known as curry laksa or laksa lemak); and as a relatively neutral medium to float sweet noodles, crushed ice, syrups and gelatinous shapes in cendol and ice kacang.

Coconut also features prominently in desserts that more closely resembled their European counterparts. The best we came across were moreish tarts from Leong Chee Kee, a small bakery owned by the same family for two generations. Justifiably popular, the tarts’ double-crusted pastry are impossibly flaky, the coconut flavour intense, and the overall result not too sweet. Impressively tinged green with pandan leaf, but perhaps less exciting in the mouth, were the thin crepe-like pancakes sold across Bali, filled with a palm sugar caramel and fresh coconut flakes.

A new discovery in Indonesia was the abundant use of grated coconut, sometimes fresh, other times toasted, in cooked vegetable salads. These invariably contained long green beans, chilli, lime, sugar, often also spinach or water spinach and young, just-sprouted mung beans, and were sold under the name of urap sayur (coconut vegetables).

Back in London, I found a Madhur Jaffrey recipe for something named Gudangan which seemed a simpler approximation of what I had eaten. (Some versions also use a fresh spice paste.) Without the energy to bash open the fresh coconuts which are abundant at local Caribbean shops, I settled for rehydrating unsweetened, desiccated coconut. And though Jaffrey’s recipe also called for cauliflower and mung bean sprouts, I stuck to the green beans already in the fridge.

The result was, even without the banana leaf as serving plate, plastic stool and relentless heat, highly enjoyable. And with only six ingredients, it stands a better chance than other vacation favourites of making it onto our table on a regular basis.

Green bean salad with coconut and chili dressing

Adapted from Madhur Jaffrey’s World Vegetarian

Serves 2 amply

Total time: 75 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

I like this slightly warm or at room temperature, but it can also be prepared a bit in advance and chilled.

1 fresh red chili

1 garlic clove

2-3 tsp lime juice

Scant 4 tbsp unsweetened, desiccated coconut

1 tsp palm sugar (use dark brown sugar or jaggery if this is unavailable)

2 large handfuls of green beans (should be about 1 package or farmers’ market container)

Rehydrate coconut in a bowl with just over 3 tbsp hot water. It should take from 45 minutes to one hour to fully absorb the liquid and become soft.

While the coconut is rehydrating, chop the chilli finely (removing seeds if desired). Mince the garlic. Add both to a mixing bowl and squeeze over lime juice. Add palm sugar. (If it’s hard to get out of the container, try microwaving it for 5-10 seconds or using a spoon dipped in boiling water.) Mix to combine.

Cut beans into 1 ½ inch lengths. Bring a pot of salted water to a boil and add beans. Cook until just tender—approximately 4 minutes. Drain in cold water to arrest cooking and leave to cool.

Add the coconut to the dressing and mix through. Add the beans and combine. Taste for balance, adding salt and pepper and adjusting the acidity and sweetness.

Légumes braisés pour l'été (Braised summer vegetables)

After many years without a reliable oven, I have come to regard myself as quite competent at braising. But even though the summer temperatures in northern Europe can sometimes be more conducive to stews than to cold food, my casserole pots don’t tend to get much use until autumn has unquestionably arrived.

It turns out I’ve been missing a trick. For while the youngest and most tender summer vegetables require practically no cooking, many of the most flavourful and memorable dishes I’ve had have been the result of a long, slow simmer. A quick glance around the Mediterranean—where fantastic vegetables are in abundance—shows up scores of summer dishes which are variants on braises: imam bayildi from Turkey, Italian peperonata and caponata and French ratatouille are perhaps the best known.

These are clever dishes in more ways than one. Not only can they be prepared in advance, taking advantage of whenever it is coolest, many taste better after sitting. They also can turn even older, starchier—or just later-season—vegetables into something succulent and sweet. This summer, I’ve been braising lots of beans. Runner beans are too coarse to eat raw, and the kind of quick boil which suits thin French or string beans doesn’t yield much of interest. The same is true of all but the smallest and earliest broad beans. But within thirty minutes, little of it active time, they are slippery soft and richly-flavoured. The colours may not be beautiful, but no apologies are necessary when vegetables taste as good as these.

Haricots plats aux ail, tomates et origan (Runner beans with garlic, tomato and oregano)

This will also work with fat, starchy green beans or what are known in the US as romano beans. I like to serve these alongside roast chicken or as part of a main-meal assortment including things like bruschetta, olives, roasted peppers and cheese.

Serves 2

Active time: 5 minutes; Total time: 25-30 minutes

200-250 grams beans

2 medium-sized tomatoes

2 cloves garlic

olive oil

several sprigs fresh oregano

Top and tail beans and cut into bite-size pieces. Chop tomatoes roughly. Peel and slice garlic.

Heat a thin film of oil in a heavy, lidded pan placed over moderate heat. Add beans, tomatoes and garlic and stir to combine. Add 1-2 splashes of water (depending on the juiciness of the tomatoes), and season with salt and pepper. Lower the heat, cover and cook for 5 minutes.

Strip the oregano from its branches. If leaves are large, chop or tear coarsely. Add to the beans and stir to distribute.

Cook the beans for another 15 minutes, or until the beans are completely soft and olive-gray in colour and the tomatoes have formed a thick sauce. (You may need to add a bit more water.)

Adjust seasoning, allow to cool slightly and serve.

Feves braisés a l'aneth (Broad beans braised with dill)

These are delicious warm or at room temperature, either with simply cooked fish (perhaps mackerel) or as part of a mezze assortment. If preparing in advance, add the 2nd half of the dill just before serving.

Serves 2

Active time: 15 minutes; Total time 25-30 minutes

500 grams broad beans (unpodded)

2 tbsp olive oil, plus more to serve

handful dill

lemon juice

Strip beans from pods, discarding any which are split or discoloured. While podding, bring a pan of water to the boil.

Boil the podded beans for 3 minutes, then drain and cool. When they can be handled, remove outer layer of skin and discard.

Place the double-podded beans back in the pan. Add 2 tbsp of oil and an equal quantity of water. Tear ½ the dill and place on top. Finish with salt and pepper and a squeeze of lemon, cover and return to a low heat.

Cook for 10-15 minutes, or until liquid has absorbed and beans are quite soft. Adjust seasoning, tear over remainder of dill and serve.

Pâté du Champignons (Mushroom Pâté)

Come December, the rafters of Paris’ indoor markets are bedecked with holly, lights and birds. Hung from their feet on butchers’ hoot and still in possession of feathers and beaks, the colourful yet visceral display might be off-putting to a first-time visitor. But a roasted bird is as quintessential to a French Christmas as a turkey is to American Thanksgiving. Turkeys, much smaller than their Yankee counterparts, are on offer, as are guinea fowl (pintade), geese (oie), duckling (canette), capon (chapon) and chicken, including the famous poulet de Bresse. These are well-bred birds, and priced accordingly. The best butchers also sell an equally luxurious range of stuffing, made smooth and rich with liver, studded with chestnuts and dried fruits and lubricated with brandy.

Sadly, neither my budget nor my oven would stretch to a roast, so after due admiration, I left to plot more realistic options. But the idea of stuffing must have remained with me, because I ended up preparing another traditional French variant for my first-ever apero (a casual cocktail party).

L’apero serves a number of functions in French socializing: as a lead-in to dinner at a local restaurant, a first invitation to a new friend, neighbour or colleague or an impromptu get-together. It typically involves drinks (not necessarily very many or very strong) and nibbles, ranging from a bowl of nuts to half a dozen small dishes. (If there’s enough food to fill the stomach, it’s known as an apéro dînatoire.) Depending on the phrasing of the invitation and the company, it can last for an hour or the entire evening.

Homemade gravadlax, served with blini and crème fraiche, provided a small twist on the familiar, likewise warm, roasted cashews tossed with chopped rosemary and smoked paprika. For the third dish, I sautéed minced shallots and mushrooms in butter, then stirred in good quantities of chives and crème fraiche. I called this a mushroom pâté, but it turned out to also be a near-replica of duxelles, a fine mushroom mixture said to have been created by the great 17^th century French chef, François Pierre La Varenne. Used to flavor classic dishes like bouef en croute (Beef Wellington), duxelles are also piped into puff or choux pastry shells. I chose a far simpler—and oven-free—approach, spreading the mixture onto thin slices of baguette.

My guests, already confused by my pidgin French and non-French wine, were further baffled by the appearance of the duxelles/pâté. Either people stopped eating this stuff in the ‘80s, or they just buy it ready-made from the traiteur. Regardless, it disappeared at an almost impolite rate, and was followed by a very polite request for the recipe.

We’ll call this one a reussit.

Pâté du Champignons (Mushroom Pâté)
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen and Melissa Clark
Serves 4-6 for an appetizer (alongside other dishes)
Total time: 30 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

1 large (banana) shallot
Butter
250 grams (just over ½ pound) small brown mushrooms (cremini, chestnut or baby portabellas)
Chives
Crème fraiche

Mince the shallot. Melt a pat of butter on a medium heat in a large frying pan. Add the shallot, season and sauté for several minutes, stirring to avoid sticking. When soft, remove pan from heat.

Clean the mushrooms, removing stems if particularly dirty, and mince. Return the pan to the heat and add mushrooms. Season and cook on medium-high heat, stirring every few minutes, until mushrooms have shed their water and reduced siginificantly in volume, about 10-12 minutes. Remove pan from heat.

Take some chive stems (4-6 should be enough to add a bit of sharpness and crunch) and chop finely. Add to mushroom mixture and stir through. Take a scant tablespoon of crème fraiche and add, combining thoroughly. (You may want a bit more for a creamier, more adherent paste.) Adjust seasoning and serve on baguette or brioche slices.

I’d imagine the pate could be made and refrigerated a day in advance. In that case, add the chives just before serving.

Polenta aux Choux Fleur et Oignons (Polenta with Cauliflower and Onions)

I was introduced to Italian food—or at least its red-sauce, Italian-American cousin—well before I was sentient. The eastern Pennsylvania town in which I spent my childhood wasn’t a particular ethnic stronghold. It was more the case that Pizza D’Oro and Steve’s Pizzeria were the only places where my family could find vegetarian, kosher-friendly food. Pizza D’Oro was probably the first restaurant I visited, initially in a bassinette, later in a high chair. I even had a dedicated outfit, the clothing in question having become indelibly covered in tomato sauce on my first outing.

Pizza D’Oro’s innovation was a daily all-you-can-eat special. It drew lots of the nearby college’s football and basketball players, who unless they drank as much as they ate, surely generated a net loss. As a spectator sport, however, it was riveting. Steve’s most memorable dish was the exotic-at-the-time white pizza, loaded with a blend of cheeses and lots of garlic.

A good fifteen years before I discovered curry, tacos or sushi, I had learned the difference between penne and ziti and could consume an improbable number of pizza slices. A move during adolescence introduced a far-wider range of eating options, but we remained loyal to Italian-style food, branching out from the old-school eateries to take in the 1990s Californian influences of individual pizzas and pesto.

I traveled a bit in Italy during my early 20s, eating well from Sicily to Bologna. The food I encountered, whether pumpkin-stuffed ravioli in Ferrara or a plate of grilled sardines in Taormina, was instinctively appealing and immensely enjoyable. It’s ridiculous to say that it tasted like home; I’m sure that neither dish has ever been served at my parents’ table. But it was unchallenging in the best sort of way, meaning that it tasted exactly as it should and exactly like what I wanted to eat.

I suspect that Italian food, defined broadly and conventionally, is an unthinking, easy fallback for a great many Americans, who, like me, lack any meaningful connection to Italy. And I also would guess that the comfort, and, most likely, complacency surrounding weeknight pasta dinners or Sunday visits to the local pizzeria means that it’s food we don’t seek to learn about it any serious way. Despite my professed love of Italian food, my repertoire doesn’t extend much beyond a few tomato-based pasta sauces, chicken cacciatore and the odd risotto. And I drink Italian red wine with great pleasure, but with little attention to what can make it distinctive and delicious.

There’s nothing innately wrong with any of this, nor am I likely to challenge the status quo in any more than a dilettantish fashion. For as long as I continue to live in Paris, a hands-on study of Italian cuisine doesn’t present itself as the most obvious of projects. And I also wonder whether there isn’t something I can do in the kitchen which fits more naturally with my background, experiences and day-to-day influences. And yet, in a world where instinctive pleasures are hard to come by, it seems almost perverse not to investigate whether the childlike joy I get when eating a slice of really good pizza or even a simple bowl of gnocchi can somehow be replicated, magnified and, eventually, shared.

All this out-of-character philosophizing was prompted by an improbably delicious bowl of braised vegetables served over soft polenta.

Polenta with Cauliflower and Onions
adapted from Jack Bishop’s Complete Italian Vegetarian Cookbook
serves 2 to 3 generously
Total time 40 minutes; Active time 25 minutes

This cookbook is one of the first I bought and has remained useful even since re-adopting meat. Bishop understands that Italian cuisine celebrates vegetables, starches, legumes and cheese, and that combining them well can make for a wholly satisfying meal.

1 cup medium-grind cornmeal
Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 -2 cloves garlic
1 small cauliflower
1 can whole tomatoes
Fresh rosemary (optional)
Red pepper flakes/dried chili (optional)
Butter
Fresh Pecorino Romano or Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

Bring four cups of salted water to boil in a lidded pot. Lower heat to medium and pour in polenta in a slow, continuous stream, stirring constantly. Continue stirring for another 1-2 minutes as the polenta comes back to a boil and begins to thicken. Lower the heat to a very gentle simmer and cover. Stir every 5-10 minutes. While the polenta will appear cooked after only 10-15 minutes, optimal taste and texture are only achieved after 30-35 minutes.

Once the polenta is simmering, begin the sauce by heating a thin film of olive oil in a sauté pan. Slice the onion thinly and add, cooking on a medium heat until tender and lightly-coloured, about 10 minutes. Chop the garlic and add during the last minute or two of cooking. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Trim the leaves from the cauliflower. Remove and discard the core and stalk and cut or break the florets into bite-sized pieces. If using rosemary, strip the needles from one branch and chop finely.

Add the tinned tomatoes and their juices to the pan, crushing gently with a wooden spoon. Add rosemary and chili, if using. Add cauliflower and simmer on a low heat until soft enough to break with the wooden spoon, at least 20 minutes. If necessary, add a splash of water to prevent the sauce from sticking. Adjust seasoning.

As soon as the polenta is finished, stir in a pat of butter and spoon into individual bowls. Pour over the cauliflower sauce and top with a good grating of fresh Pecorino or Parmigiano. Serve immediately.

Dijon et Poireaux Vinaigrette

“We lived for almost three years in Dijon, which the Burgundians called without any quibble and only half-hearted contradictions ‘the gastronomic capital of the world.’ We were lucky to… be within ourselves eager, interested, and above all husky-gutted. Most of our orgies were voluntary, but even so I doubt if more jaded livers than ours could have stood the thousand bilious blows we dealt them.” MFK Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

In the world’s northernmost fine wine region, Burgundy’s vineyard owners play an annual game of chance with the weather, hoping that limited sun and heat will produce wines which are delicate, rarified and aromatic, rather than thin and mean. As if to compensate for this, the food is rich and abundant, reliant on butter, meat and wine-enriched sauces. The eponymous boeuf bourguignon is only the most famous of a local repertory which includes coq au vin (with chicken usually taking the place of the traditional rooster), ouefs en meurette (eggs poached in a sauce of butter, red wine, mushrooms and bacon), jambon persillade (a gelee-topped coarse pork paté) and snails with garlic butter (escargot).

Ignoring the atypically hot August weather, I managed a fair sampling of typical Burgundian dishes during a recent visit to Dijon and its environs. At a stylish bistro just across from the Eiffel-design central market, where the waitress sported henna tattoos and Gaultier leggings and the patrons were well-fed and equally well-coiffed, I began with a slice of the local paté. It was true to what I’ve seen at charcuteries across Paris, the only concession to fashion being a green, mousse-like top layer of parsley, instead of finely-chopped leaves throughout. Bouef bourgignon provided a satisfying first impression of the dish, the rich, glossy gravy soaking perfectly into the pommes purees. To finish, a sharp, boozy sorbet made with cassis (blackcurrants) and the local liqueur, crème de cassis.

There was a repeat of the bouef bourgignon the next day, the 12 hours of cooking rendering the beef so soft as to require only a spoon. I was delighted by the presentation in an individual Staub casserole, though mashed potatoes were sorely missed. Here the highlights were a poached egg in a cream of summer truffles, the cheese plate, featuring Epoisses from a producer only 10 minutes up the road and the bucolic setting in the centre of the blink-and-you-miss-it wine town of Gevrey-Chambertin. Eating such a meal—complete with matching glasses of wine at each course—was perhaps ill-advised on a day when I still had some 20 kilometres to cycle in hot sun. But both the scenery and the menu were too good to justify compromise.

Once cold temperatures and company coincide, I hope to pull out my own Staub and attempt Julia Child’s iconic recipe. For now, though, I’m concentrating my efforts on slightly lighter fare.

Poireaux vinaigrette is another Burgundian classic, combining leeks (usually poached or boiled) with a dressing made from local Dijon mustard. Tangy and full-flavoured, it would provide an excellent lead-in to a rich, winey stew. Less traditional, but also less stultifying, would be to make a few more leeks, buy a baguette and follow with some good cheese. Let your liver guide you.


Poireaux Vinaigrette

It’s rare that I gravitate towards more complicated versions of simple recipes. But here the extra steps yield real improvements: tying the leeks with a twist of their greens keeps them intact through two stages of cooking. Likewise, replacing boiling with sautéing and braising dramatically deepens flavor and eliminates any potential stringiness. The sauce’s acidity makes this a poor match for more serious wine; pair with a simple, not-too-austere Chardonnay (like a Macon-Villages)

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma French
Serves 2*
Total time: 35 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

4 slender leeks
Olive oil
3/4 cups chicken stock
1 scant tablespoon grain or Dijon mustard**
Lemon juice or wine vinegar
Salt and pepper
Special equipment: large frying pan; tongs

Trim leeks, retaining the green ends, and split along length. (If they are too long to fit across the base of your largest frying pan, split once across width.) Rinse each under the tap, lifting the layers to remove dirt, but being careful to keep intact. Using a thin length peeled from the trimmings, tie each leek around its middle.

On a medium-high flame, heat just enough oil to film pan. When hot add as many leeks as will fit in one layer. Season with salt and pepper. Turn occasionally until both sides are golden and have spots of deeper caramelisation, about 8-10 minutes. If required, remove to plate and repeat with remaining leeks.

Return all leeks to the pan. Add chicken stock and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook until the leeks are very tender and most of the liquid has evaporated, 10-15 minutes. While they cook, make the dressing, mixing the mustard with just enough olive oil and lemon juice to make a sharp, very thick sauce.

Pour over leeks and check seasoning. Serve immediately or at room temperature.

* While the recipe can easily be doubled, it becomes time-consuming without access to several large frying pans.

** I particularly like this one. The only brand still made with locally-grown seeds, it has an elegant, sprightly flavor. Whatever you use, make sure your mustard is fresh.

Courgettes et Fleurs de Courgettes (Zucchini + Zucchini Blossoms)

If the courgettes in your corner of the world have grown huge and out of control, this recipe will have to wait until next year. But here in Paris, I’m still coming home from the market with relatively lilliputian ones. With thin skins and a refined flavour, these require nothing more than a quick softening in olive oil before tossing with fresh herbs and cheese, or combining with eggs. Using mandolin-fine slices, the cooking can be skipped altogether.

Tasty, easy and cheap, variations on courgette frittatas and salads are in frequent rotation right now. But good as they can be, none have approached the practically sublime pasta dish I made recently with sautéed courgette, basil and courgette blossoms. The vegetable base got an extra layer of flavour from chicken stock (obvious, perhaps, though I rarely use it in quick dishes), while the julienned basil and blossoms were thrown in just at the end, allowing them to retain a bit of texture and, more importantly, distinct flavours. Tossed with thin pasta and finished with fresh Parmesan, it was rich and fragrant, the kind of dish that warrants total attention while eating.

Served with an acidic, lightly floral Italian white wine (perhaps a Vermentino or Falanghina), it would make an elegant dinner for two. Yet even without someone present whom I could impress or seduce, it more than justified the (relatively modest) cost and time required. One for the files.

Pasta with Courgettes and Blossoms
adapted from a Chez Panisse recipe by David Tanis
Serves 2
Total time: 30 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

Tanis’ original recipe used corn kernels and scallions. As both of those are hard to find in Paris, I substituted onion and upped the quantity of courgettes. In order to avoid overwhelming the delicate flavour of the blossoms, be sure to use courgettes which are small, firm and virtually seedless. Also, as the flowers will wilt quickly, this is a recipe to make on the same day as your market visit.

1-2 tbsp olive oil
3-4 slim, very small yellow or green courgettes (if your blossoms have tiny courgettes attached, use those in part)*
1 small onion
100-125 ml stock, preferably chicken
300-400 grams dried fettuccine or linguine (I like De Cecco brand)
4-6 courgette blossoms
Small handful fresh basil
Parmesan

Begin heating up the water for pasta. Dice the courgettes (it shouldn’t be necessary to peel them) and onion. Warm the olive oil in a large, heavy sauté pan over medium heat. Add the vegetables, season and sauté, stirring regularly to avoid sticking or excessive browning. When they are soft—up to ten minutes—add a good splash of stock and continue to cook, lowering the heat slightly. Put the pasta on to boil.

Allow the stock to reduce by ½ and the flavours to combine, another 5 minutes. Remove the stems and stamens from the courgette blossoms and julienne. Tear or cut the basil.

Add both to the sauce and toss to wilt. Drain the pasta and add to the sauce mixture, stirring well to combine and coat. Remove from the heat, adjust seasoning and serve immediately with grated Parmesan.

*A wide variety—along with the blossoms—can currently be found at Joel Thiebault’s market stall.

Poireaux aux moutarde et crème fraiche (Leeks with mustard and crème fraiche)

Acculturation happens in subtle, often unnoticeable, ways. But it’s still rare that more than a few days go by without a deep-seated recognition that the country in which I live remains, in ways both superficial and profound, deeply foreign. More than two years have passed, and I am no wiser as to why so many people at my gym can be found outside, smoking cigarettes, immediately after a workout, how even the simplest, most transactional conversation, can shift into the realm of philosophical abstraction or why Parisians see nothing odd about parking on the sidewalk.

When it comes to food, however, the barriers to entry are somewhat lower. I’ve acquired a Parisian’s snobbery regarding pastry, learned how to enjoy steak tartare with élan and made at least a tentative peace with butter and cream.

In my kitchen, olive oil is still the usual fat of choice. And in the last few weeks, as summer approaches, I am even more likely to return home from the market with a bag full of Mediterranean produce: peppers, olives, goat’s cheese and rosé. Yet several days ago, as I stood in line at my regular vegetable stand, shifting to get the warm sun on my shoulders, I could not resist grabbing a bunch of the most quintessential northern French vegetable—leeks.

Though grown year-round, leeks are traditionally used in hearty winter soups and stews, from pot au feu to potage bonne femme. Steamed and served at room temperature with a sharp, mustardy vinaigrette, they could almost pass as a warm-weather starter. But in late May a slow sauté, followed by a dousing of crème fraiche, certainly violates most dictums of seasonality. Yet while I couldn’t recommend it for a genuinely steamy climate, this dish is—and I don’t say this lightly—worth putting aside the tomatoes for one evening.

Poireaux aux moutarde et crème fraiche (Leeks with mustard and crème fraiche)
Serves 2 (can easily be doubled or tripled)
Total time: 35 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

It doesn’t look like much, and I’m sure the key ingredients have been combined with more finesse elsewhere. But for a simple accompaniment to roast chicken, steak or even a fat filet of white fish, I’ve found little to equal it. With so few ingredients, fresh mustard (Dijon, grain or a mixture) and full-fat crème fraiche are essential. Depending on your mood and palate, the dish can either be smooth and almost sloppy, with just a faint bite of mustard, or more aggressive in flavour, with a teaspoon or two of cream to bind. And while the cooking time given can be shortened somewhat, I find that allowing the leeks to soften gently adds significantly to the flavour of the dish.

4-5 medium leeks
1 tbsp butter
1 tbsp Dijon and/or grain mustard, possibly more to taste
Up to 2 tbsp crème fraiche
Salt and pepper

Slice the tops and base of the leeks, cut in half lengthwise and clean under running water. Slice into thin half-moons. In a large frying pan, melt the butter on a low heat. Add the leeks, season with salt and pepper and allow to cook gently for at least 20 minutes. In order to get the leeks to achieve a melting texture and avoid sticking or burning, you may need to add a tablespoon or so of water to the pan at regular intervals. When the leeks are very soft, take them off the heat. Add crème fraiche and mustard to taste, adjusting seasoning as necessary. Serve hot.

I’ve written up this dish for “Waiter, there’s something in my...”, a bistro blogging event being hosted this month by The Passionate Cook. Check back there in several days time for prettier, more elegant and altogether more skilled entries.

Les Secrets du Paris en Août

I’m not quite sure what it is, but Paris seems a bit meh of late. It could be August, when half the city is closed, and the other half is too full of people who still need to eat, shop and take the Metro. It could be the weather, which is neither so awful as to warrant a sense of injustice, nor so consistently lovely as to enable me to look anything other than pasty. It could just be that summer (or indeed any season) is more easily enjoyed a deux, and, perhaps, somewhere with a real beach.

Whatever the cause, the joie de vivre could stand to be kicked up a notch. My list of August-enhancers isn’t all food-related, but I’m hoping that one of these might do the trick.

1) Croissants from Pierre Herme. Yes, they are just as good as the macarons.
2) White peaches from one of the fruit stands still open at the market.
3) Sampling the perfumes at Diptyque.
4) An Americano at Le Fumoir.
5) The vista of the city, framed by two outdoor Picasso sculptures, on the 5th floor of the Centre Pompidou.
6) Iced tea made with the thé vert aux fleurs from La Graineterie du Marché
7) Cycling on the cobblestone roads lining the Ile St Louis and Ile de la Cite.
8) A warm salad of yellow courgettes fried with garlic and topped with fresh mint and feta.
9) Beginning a meal (every meal?) with gougeres and a glass of rosé.
10) Company, and a few days in Marseille at the end of next week.

Yellow Courgettes with Mint and Feta

This doesn’t really require a recipe—just an assembly plan. And while I tend to stick to these ingredients, it could easily be adapted: plain old green courgettes (though not too bulbous, as they tend not to fry down well); basil in addition to or instead of the mint; a creamy, rindless goats cheese in place of the feta; textural contrast and some extra complexity from pine nuts, red onion (chopped fine or sautéed) or mild black olives. A few hints, though:
-Slice the courgettes in thin even rounds or half-moons, and make sure the pan has enough room for them to soften, brown and even catch slightly.
-Serve the salad warm, not hot. You’re not looking to melt the cheese, just to meld the ingredients.
-Finish with a drizzle of good olive oil and, if you like, a squeeze of lemon juice.

Ail Nouveau (New Garlic)

It's a truism that markets change with the seasons. In Paris these days, the winter citrus has (finally) departed, to be replaced with artichokes and fresh peas. Both will be with us for some time, giving me ample opportunity to contemplate whether I feel more confident of sucess with the former, and whether I care to veer off the tried-and-true path of a minty soup with the latter. With the more fleeting spring produce such as fresh almonds, nespole (loquat) and gariguettes, there's little room for such indecision. Leave the city for two weekends and they're gone.

But while I consider myself relatively in tune with these comings and goings, I was nonetheless surprised--and, I must admit, charmed--to discover the first of the new garlic a few weeks ago. When I first found it, at the wonderful but achingly slow produce stand outside the covered market, it was tiny and somewhat lumpy, its umbilicus shooting straight into the air. Inside the cloves were crisp and barely formed, many no bigger than my finger. They tasted mild and sweet, almost milky.

Ten days later, when I went back for more, I found that both the bulb and the individual cloves inside had nearly doubled in size. The skin, though still relatively thick and moist, had begun to dehydrate, while the flavour had grown slightly more assertive.

For once, I'm not wasting any time. Fresh garlic is everpresent in my meals these days (breakfast excluded). There have been lovely soups, including a poshed-up leek and potato redolent with garlic and homemade chicken stock, and this fantastic fennel dish. The recipe, which I adapted from Molly Stevens' All About Braising, is a somewhat more elaborate version of an old favourite from one of the early Moro cookbooks. This one uses the same technique of a thorough saute, followed by a long, slow aromatic bath. Here, though, the fennel is matched with garlic, olives, a bit of anchovy and fresh thyme for a taste that is is rich, round and almost silky.

This will be well worth returning to even once the fresh garlic is all dried up, either alongside some grilled fish, as I ate it, or as a part of an antipasti spread including grilled peppers, salumi and some crostini. But for the moment, I've moved onto another new garlic discovery: wild garlic leaves. So if you find yourself sitting on the Paris metro next to a young woman who smells ever so slightly, if not unpleasantly, like a southern Italian nonna fresh out of the kitchen, do be sure to say hello. And for the rest of you, not Paris-bound anytime soon, hints for getting that garlic smell off my hands would be very much appreciated.


Fennel Braised with Thyme and Black Olives

Serves 2

Total time: 90 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes


1 large fennel bulb

scant 1/4 cup of mild but tasty black olives (I used some purpley Kalamatas)
3 cloves fresh garlic (or 1 of the older stuff)

2 anchovy fillets

1 tsp fresh thyme

splash dry white wine or vermouth

1/4-1/3 cup chicken or vegetable stock

Cut off the inedible top piece of the fennel (reserving fronds, if attached), slice a sliver off the bottom and cut bulb into large, long slivers. You'll get 8-12 depending on the size of the bulb. Heat a film of oil on a medium heat in a deep, wide pan (ideally one with a lid) and add as much fennel as fits easily. Saute without disturbing for up to 5 minutes, then turn and repeat until you have lots of carmelised patches and the slices have softened and begun to turn golden. If necessary, remove and repeat with the remaining slices. Salt and pepper each batch.

While you're waiting, pit and half the olives, strip the thyme from its stems, clean the anchovies (if necessary) and chop the garlic. In a small frying pan placed over a low heat, melt the anchovies, thyme and fennel seeds, using a wooden spoon to break up any pieces. Add the wine and boil until reduced by half, about 2 minutes. Spoon any additional cooked fennel back into the main pan, top with olives, the anchovy paste and pour over the stock.

Cover the pan with a lid or foil and bring to a low simmer. Using a diffuser if necessary to control the heat, cook very gently until the fennel has collapsed and gives no resistance to a knife point--at least 1 hour. Adjust seasoning, top with fennel fronds, if using, and serve warm or at room temperature.

I've written this for a Bookmarked Recipes' blogging event. Take a look at other contributor's recipes here.

Pretty in Pink

Somewhere between an endive and a radicchio, and a perfect match for my kitchen counter. I found this palm-sized lettuce at the market just before closing and have never seen its like since.

New in the Kitchen

Cooking, marketing—even eating—have all been a bit quotidian of late. The market is in a state of transition. Tomatoes, figs and courgettes have been relegated to the cheaper vendors of non-French produce, while at the upmarket stands, the mushrooms have curiously disappeared, the (Spanish) citrus still has a greenish tinge and little besides pumpkin seems at its prime. At home, along with the citrouille and potimaron (two squash varietals), there has been lots of bowl food: ragout, rice pudding, endless soup and applesauce. Though comforting on these longer, chillier nights, it’s a bit too reminiscent of invalid fare. More than that, though, my palate and I both seem to be suffering from ennui. Certain things which should be great—the marron glacé ice cream from Berthillon, Cambodian curry from perhaps the best South Asian place in town—have merely been very good, and no amount of salt, pepper or ras al hanout has succeeded in giving the food coming out of my kitchen a real savour.

In the meantime, though, I’ve indulged in a bit of retail therapy. The expeditions have spanned food halls at two major department stores (Gallerie Lafayette and Le Bon Marche), a vast, two-story Chinese supermarket and a restaurant-supply store hidden near Les Halles. Takings have been modest—my frugal genes generally kick in when faced with luxurious condiments or shiny cookware—but nonetheless included a bottle of walnut oil from Huilerie Artisanale LeBlanc and a small, non-stick DeBuyer frying pan. The most exciting purchase cost only 10 euros but probably weighs half as many kilos: a green-grey stone mortier et pilon (mortar and pestle) carried home with great care from Chinatown on a wet, blustery Sunday afternoon.

The oil has already enlivened a simple bowl of haricot verts and toasted walnuts, while the pan has enabled the most component omelette ever to grace my stovetop. In less time than it took to cook the pasta, the mortar and pestle beat the ingredients for a sage pesto into submission.

I first tried this pesto a few years ago, using my then-roommate’s enormous mortar and pestle. The taste was intense and almost spicy, though the memory is marred by the knowledge that I spoiled it by the (recommended!) addition of water. This time, I chose it over the more traditional basil variety simply because I had a surplus of walnuts in the freezer. Though perhaps less versatile, it could provide a tasty topping for roasted root vegetables. In a recent article for The Times , Gordon Ramsay also puts a dollop of a similar paste atop his vegetable soup.

Sage Walnut Pesto (adapted from Epicurious)
Total time: 15 minutes
Active time: 15 minutes
Serves 4-6, although extra portions can be frozen sans fromage

1/3 cup (1 small handful) fresh parsley
3-4 tablespoons fresh sage leaves
1/2 garlic clove
large pinch salt
1 cup walnuts
ample 1/3 cup olive oil
the same quantity of freshly-grated Parmesan or Pecorino

Lightly toast the walnuts in a dry pan or warm oven until they begin to change colour, about 5 minutes. In a mortar and pestle or small food processor bowl, combine the herbs, garlic and salt, mixing until they form an even-textured paste. (In the mortar and pestle, the salt should be added first, to help "grip" the other ingredients.) Once the walnuts are slightly cooled, add them, in batches if necessary, to the herb paste, blending until the nuts have fully broken down. Add olive oil until the mixture is thick but flowing, then grate in the cheese and taste seasoning.