what's going around... fried food.

LAGUIOLE

VERY NEW

Wonderfully Old

'The new moon cradled in the arms of the old'. That's what I say when that very New contemporary France nestles in the very old ways of la France Profonde.

"Great minds think alike... "- that's what I say when someone scoops me on a good recipe or a new "in" place to visit.

"If you can't beat 'em...join 'em"- if everyone else is talking about socca (not soccer!), or caramels and you have something new to add, then why not?

"What goes around...comes around"- usually said in a disparaging tone of voice when someone has made a false move and will regret the ensuing repercussions.

Not this time! I am jumping on the bandwagon, getting on board and hoping that I can add fuel to the fire of a New old trend. Two words my friends. Fried. Food.

Maybe it started with that Dim Sum Sunday. I must confess, the steamed buns, and dumplings a la vapeur were still around for leftovers yesterday; the fried nems, beignets de choufleur and crispy samosas disappeared too fast! So when friend food writer Ed Schneider sent me a link to an article by Mark Bittman about Fried Pizza, the fried food juices started flowing. And I thought of you.

At the end of October I made a road trip up a little river (Lot) and into the Aveyron for a 3-star pilgrimage to meet and eat the Michel Bras legacy. Staying the extra day to interview the Messieurs Bras (clearly, son Sebastian is the Dauphin here-- hurray for the French sense of continuity!) was a bonus and as luck would have it was Saturday- Laguiole's market day. I love markets.

Everyone that we asked in town had told us the market was at the le parking next to the big Aubrac bull sculpture, an homage to the local breed of all things tasty- cheese, aligot, beurre. "Just look for the bull." And each person added, "mais ce n'est pas comme avant..." meaning that nothing is as it used to be.

I guess they were right. With just 4 simple stalls, this tiny off-season market pales to the number of knife shops in town (at least 2 dozen!) with one very important exception. Here, at this tiny market in the middle of nowhere was someone... cooking. Here, someone was selling something hot and... fried! Here, Mme. Sylvie was offering to cook something just for me (if the market was miniscule, so were the clients!)-- the traditional farcoux- swiss chard and parsley fritters.

For those of you whining about the dwindling dollar power...there are plenty of good things in France for just ONE EURO including these delicious homemade farcoux. Crispy on the outside, soft in the inside, hot, green and oniony, these fat beignets du blettes were just the thing needed to stave off hunger pangs before meeting the ever-so-charming and generous Michel and Sebastian Bras. (more on that... later.)

I found a recipe en francais on the very complete www.marmiton.org site; and tomorrow I'll pop into my own local market and get some chard and parsley to translate the recipe... anon. Now, if I could just duplicate the taste of the hot green fritter in my galley. Anyone else for fried food? 'I'd do offer' a better way to eat your vegetables!

View of Laguiole, the old moon, framed for you by
the very new moon M.Bras.

Road Trip- Destination South-Southwest

This is what I ate.

This is what I wore.

This is who was there.

Where was I?

Truffles- Lalbenque Market Road Trip #2

Lalbenque Tuesday Feb 20 2007 2:20

The town fills fast with cars with license plates that end in 24, 01, 31, 33, 47—the numbers of the French departments. We head straight to the Café Le Lion d’Or to score a table—oops, already too late. ‘No reservation? Sorry.’ Impossible, I think, as I spy a space at the bar. “Ok. Merci. Come on, Pim, let’s have a drink.” But before we have gotten our glass of Vin de Noix and a heaping plate of pistachios, the manager returns, shrugs over his shoulders and gestures to an empty table behind us. I think it was the big camera* that Pim slung onto the bar.

Cou de Canard salad with endive and truffles

(where are you Lucy girl? )
A perfect omelette aux truffes just running out the edges
A little patty of a goat’s cheese from Rocamadour
That Chocolate Walnut Tart in a pond of crème anglaise
Café? no time. the crowds are moving.

The café begins to empty. The street is filling. Little Red-Ridinghood baskets are appearing. The energy increases as does the sound level floating in from the opening doors. Without waiting for the waiter, I head back to the bar to pay. No truffle is going to escape my nose. I quickly lose Pim in the crowd—a sea of black berets, flat caps and winter coats swallows her and her big camera.

The players take their places behind the knee high bench tables. A blue cord is strung down the street to keep the spectators back until the Marché aux Truffes de Lalbenque officially opens at 2:30 pm. Dealers, chefs, négociants and tourists mingle elbowing in for a better look, sniff, haggle. This is as close to dealing on the street that I’ll probably ever get. 400€uros per kilo for the middle quality, less for brumales—the herby smelling less valued tubers, then up to 850€ per kilo for premium top grade Tuber Melanosporum.

One of our lunch neighbors turned out to be Bernard Planche, a walnut merchant who also makes a truffle-scented shampoo and massage oil. Everyone here seems slightly truffle mad. Sticking as close as a Pig to her truffle, I followed Bernard down the line as he chatted with his favorite merchants, the one who catches grives and becasse for him, the one who brings 20 kilos of brumales suitable for making Moutarde aux Truffes and other pungent aphrodisiac products.

The baskets are small, modest, lined with an old hankerchief, a calender tea towel, a chiffon of a red-checked tablecloth. With B.P.’s help, I buy a small basket full of dizzyingly ripe truffles- two walnut sized of good quality, two large brumales and a small moldering little nugget not worthy to train a pig, let alone Bacon. 50 Euros. After returning home, we agree the comparison of the real truffle and the brumales is a lesson well learned. For more truffle baskets treasures check out ChezPim.

The car smells like truffle, the kitchen smells like truffle, I smell like truffle. We eat a simple omelette for lunch and make Marthe Delon’s Lapin aux Truffes for dinner. It's enough.

*The big camera rocks.

Road Trip- aux truffes

I rarely need to leave my beloved Gascony for gastronomic amusement. But when I whispered the word "truffe" during our Winter Gathering Weekend, Pim changed her train ticket and agreed to yet another adventure.

Just to north of the Garonne River Valley begins the vast limestone plateau and hills of the Quercy. This is the home to black-eyed lambs, fat walnuts, Cahors wine and those little herbacious goat cheese called cabécou. This is also the destination for those seekers of black diamonds- les truffes.

The little Clio goes fast. In an hour and half, after a speedy drive up the Autoroute from Montauban, we were spit out onto a country road surrounded by a scrubby truffle oak forest in it's winter brown cloak.

"This is it!"

We had arrived at this portal to Quercy where poor soil and rude climate conditions create the perfect terroir for tuber melanosporum-- the black diamond. Destination- Lalbenque and its famous Marché aux Truffes.