A Gourmet Pantheon of Porridges

Happy Valentine's Day!

Much as Christmas, the time of forgiveness, family and giving has turned into a festival of consumerism and confrontation between family members, so too has Valentine’s Day, the day of lovers, become the festival of loneliness, heart ache and recrimination for some unfortunate few.
So today, buy the flowers, cook the dinner, do the dishes and be on your best behaviour to ensure your partner feels looked after.
I plan to try Duck a l’Orange ce soir, and maybe some crème caramel as well, but since I've yet to make them, I have nothing to report. Instead, I thought I'd turn my thoughts to porridge, that least romantic of all foods.

“Porridge?” you ask. “I came here for high gourmet food, not this load of tripe. What next? Is he going to be telling me about a glass of milk?”
In spite of preconceptions, porridge can be a glamour food, in a warm breakfasty, cereal kind of way. I first started eating porridge after a trip to the GP (the doctor, not the car race) about a sore knee.
“Porridge for a sore knee?” you interrupt again.
When I went and saw the doctor the phantom noise had gone and I appeared to have full mobility. Doctor conversation ensues:

“You took a Nurofen™? In addition to being a pain killer it’s also an anti-inflammatory. There’s nothing I can do.”
‘So what do I do if it starts creaking again?”
“Have another Nurofen™.”
“And what will happen to my knee?”
“Eventually it will give out. The sound you hear is the cartilage balling up, like pilling on a jumper. Just don’t go for jogs or do squat lifting. Kind of genuflect.”
Incensed at not going in for an arthroscopy, I asked for him to do something for me while I was there. He offered to do a full battery of blood tests and a general check up, which I duly had. The phone rang a week later.
“The doctor wants to see you.”
The result? High cholesterol, that 21st Century problem. I think mine’s genetic, apart from the French cooking and butter and what not, as my brother is on pills for his cholesterol. A second opinion was garnered from one of my doctor friends over dinner. He’s originally from Germany and is basically no nonsense.
“What a load of rubbish. What are your figures? You’re not even forty yet, and those figures are only a worry if you are a fat sicky. And you’re not a sicky, are you? Eat what you want.”
Confused, I undertook not to take pills and to moderate my diet with a weather eye to cholesterol. And as part of the regime, I undertook to eat cereal every morning.
I’ve spoken to a number of people, done some research, and it appears that oats are the tip top champion at reducing cholesterol, and that WeetBix™ have the nutritional content of cardboard. Allegedly!! A hippy told me at a BBQ beside a whole roasted lamb we were picking at over the holidays.
The first time I tried making porridge, it was an absolute disaster. Too thick, lumpy, dry and generally crap. I thought:
“How can anyone eat this muck?”
But then I recalled the smooth bowl of warm goodness my Mum used to give me in winter as a kid, and swore me an oath beneath the moon and stars that I would hit all the honky tonks and bars and learn how to make the world’s best porridge.
And in the last year think I’ve cracked it. To whit, Kit’s Gourmet Porridge.

Porridge (for 1!)
* Half a cup of traditional rolled oats. I discovered this morning that no-name oats are not as well “rolled” as Uncle Toby’s™ Traditional Rolled oats, resulting in less of a paste than individual oats-en-porridge (which is probably better for you, but not as glam). So go the expensive rolled oats. (Post-script: someone gave me a razz for bigging up Uncle T's, and remarked that Lowan™ made very good oats... which I just tried this morning and can confirm. Go Lowan!!).
* A cup and a little slosh (about an extra 50 to 100 mls) of milk. I like Rev™.

Combine in pot and bring to a slow simmer. Do not allow the milk to boil. Stir with a wooden spoon. As the porridge blips away on the stove, you can do the dishes from the night before, which is another bonus. It takes around six to eight minutes to get the right consistency. The porridge should start to become a firm paste, kind of like a clingy glob that sticks to the spoon, but not too dry. Decant to a bowl, mix in a *squeeze of honey (have you tried Manuka honey from New Zealand? - apparently it has healing powers) and allow to sit while you finish the dishes. Add a small slosh of milk to lubricate the edge of the bowl and form a skin on the porridge. Eat, preferably with a silver spoon.
It does take a knack and you will need a few goes.
Some people don’t like sweet porridge. Jane prefers a pinch of salt over a squeeze of honey. To each their own and vive le difference.
Once you’ve managed to make standard porridge, a little door opens for you to enter the mysterious world of gourmet porridge.
“Qu’est que si que ca?” I hear Harry Hill ask.
Well, porridge is basically like toast. Once you’ve got the toast you can then add toppings. Here are a few variations.

Variations

Whisky Porridge
I got this, and the next recipe, from Jamie Oliver’s Ministry of Food, a thoroughly tip-top cook book I recommend to anyone, but I include here my own pukka observations, alright?
At the last minute of cooking the porridge as above, add *half a shot a Scottish whisky. I have a bottle of Tullamore Dew™ beside the stove, and can recommend it highly. The alcohol boils off at a lower temperature than water, so you don’t need to worry about it getting you drunk. That said, if you’re worried about letting good ethanol escape away into the atmosphere, you can inhale deeply over the pot as you stir it in and suck up the alcohol through your breathing apparatus. Add to this *a pinch of freshly grated nutmeg. This can be overdone, so no more than about a quarter of a teaspoon. At this point Jamie Oliver adds half a chopped banana, but if you were married to Jane, who has an aversion to all things bananary, you might rethink this and only add if bachelor-ing it up. Mix in honey. Delish.

Dark Chocolate and Marmalade Porridge
This one is not for every day. It’s a special occasion porridge, when you’re being particularly decadent.
In the last minute of the porridge cooking, grate in *some dark chocolate, preferably Lindt™. How much? Not too much. Remember this stuff is like toast: if you were making a fancy sweet toast with chocolate, how much would you add to a slice or two? I’d suggest no more than a tablespoon, but it’s up to you. Next, add *a teaspoon of seville orange marmalade. Make sure it is a bitter marmalade, as sweet ones tend to overpower the dark chocolate and make the whole thing a bit sickly.
Coco-lishous, and decadent.

White Chocolate and Raspberry Jam
Use the same technique as above, with slightly less jam (half a teaspoon). An experiment of mine, and not as good as the above, but worthy of note. Reminiscent of an Iced Vovo™.

Cinnamon and Brown Sugar
This variation occurred to me one morning after making my great-Aunty Claire’s cinnamon toast which I learnt to make when I was a kid at her crazy flat in Bendigo, with all her orange wigs and light fittings that looked like sugared lollies. She’d get us to make cinnamon toast on white bread with butter; you basically sprinkle on ground cinnamon and plenty of sugar to imitate a cinnamon doughnut.
This porridge is the same concept and, can I add, an unmitigated triumph and worthy of joining the Pantheon of Porridges. Sprinkle around *a teaspoon, or to taste, of dried cinnamon, and *2 teaspoons of brown sugar once your ordinary porridge is made.

Gourmet porridge. Make up your own (and send us the recipe!)! It reduces cholesterol, is simple, wholesome, will make you live longer, improve your bowel movement scenarios, as well as reducing your likelihood of a heart attack or stroke. Porridge. I give it six and a half tentacles.

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Kit's "Surfin' Bird" French Chicken

“Ba na na na na na, now now
Ba na na na na na, now now
Ba na na na na na, now now
Ba na na!
Surfing bird!”

My great discovery this summer was, yet another, recipe from ‘Taming the Flame’ by Elizabeth Karmel, that officiando of all things American and slow cooked with the lid down on your Barbie™ (as opposed to your Ken™), which I tried with great success hosting a party using the Jamie Durie Patio™.

She came up with an adaptation of a recipe by Julia Childs she calls “French Chicken”, and it is simply delicioso. Julia Childs? Who’s she? Visit her in a time machine here. Hilarious and you can’t tell me not the inspiration for the Chef from the Muppets.

The original recipe by Liz features in Vanity Fair here, but my recipe is funnier and has some good tips.


Kit’s “Surfin’ Bird” French Chicken

Serves four to six
Two small chickens (NB small, the timing is all wrong with larger birds) – around the 1 to 1.25 kg mark, free range please!
Half a cup of Dijon mustard
Two tbsps dry white wine
Melted butter 60 g (or three tbsps)
Olive oil ¼ cup
Three spring onions
Teaspoon of dried tarragon.
A pinch of cayenne pepper
A cup of white bread crumbs
Salt and pepper
Two to three tomatoes

Prepare the chickens: Pat the chickens dry with paper towel. Using a pair of kitchen shears, cut down either side of the chicken spine and remove (you can keep the spines in the freezer and use them later for chicken stock). This bit is gruesome and will make you feel like the guy from 'Silence of the Lambs' making himself a new suit.

Turn the chickens breast side up and flatten, breaking the breast bone with a heavy blunt instrument. This is a surprisingly satisfying and primal thing to do, beating your prey into submission on a chopping board. I’ve used, variously, a heavy security guard torch and a knife sharpening steel, but you could just as easily use a candlestick in the library with Colonel Mustard.

You should now have two butterflied chickens (with the wings tucked underneath), if you haven’t gone too far and beaten the chicken into a pulp (in which case scrap this recipe and move to chicken burgers). Season with salt and pepper. Liz suggests grains of paradise, but I have no idea what this is unless it’s an American euphemism for cocaine.

Light the BBQ, heat to medium (180 °C), and put the birds in breast up off direct heat (i.e. middle two burners turned off). Roast for approximately 20 minutes.

While this is happening, make up your mustard mix. Mix mustard with white wine. Melt butter and slowly drizzle into mustard mix with oil, mixing as you go to combine evenly. Add spring onions, cayenne pepper and dried tarragon (Liz uses thyme, but tarragon is the “king of herbs” and makes chicken taste so good and Frenchie).

Return to BBQ, turn breast side down and spoon some of the mixture onto the inside of the chicken cavities. You’ll need some left at the end, so don’t use heaps here, maybe about a quarter of the mix. Allow to roast for another 10 minutes.

Turn chickens back breast side up. Top with more of the mustard mix, a good dollop (about a third at least – but reserve a bit) on the breast, roast for another 10 minutes.

Now, top the chicken breast with most of the bread crumbs (leave some aside for later) once the mustard has baked a bit. This is to make a crunchy bread top on the breast, and probably the hardest thing to master. I’ve found the bread doesn’t brown as much as I’d like without the chicken falling apart. I’d recommend turning up the BBQ here to around 210°C and perhaps lightly drizzling a little olive oil over the crumbs to make sure they crisp; around a further 10 to 15 minutes.

By now the chicken should be cooked and the crumbs crunchy. You can test the doneness of the meat by inserting a thermometer in the thigh, being careful not to touch the bone. It should be 180°C. Another way to test chicken is to see if the oil runs clear out of the join between the thighs and the body, or you could just use your brain and have a look. Pull the chooks out and allow to rest for ten minutes.

While the chickens rest, top the halved tomatoes with the remaining mustard mix and sprinkle bread crumbs over the top. Put on the warming shelf of the BBQ at 210°C and crisp up the bread crumbs (ten minutes).

Serve half chickens with tomatoes and a green salad. Bon apetite, oh la la and yum a gum. Lip smackingly good, though your doctor will, as usual, be doing 360’s in his grave.

As always, your friend

Kit ///

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Yoda Cake

Delicious this was. Posted holiday cake eating it is! Best Yoda Cake Ever! by Cara
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Paris! (with a side order of London)

This episode finds us visiting Gay Paris, capital of France, meeting Matt Preston in some pub toilets in London and getting you the top tips on gourmet culture en Paris by remote control.

Paris. What do you think of when I say that magical word? Hilton? The Iliad? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m talking about the city, la ville. Tsk. What are you like?

The Red Balloon (Le Ballon Rouge) ? That’s better. Monumental walks, that go on forever (perhaps you should have hired une bicyclette)? Large flocks of Americans at the Louvre looking for the Mona Lisa and the Da Vinci code? Maybe even hobos in phone boxes, sleeping on Metro exhaust grates to stop freezing in winter and cooking food in shopping trolleys?

That’s strange. Me too!

But there’s so much more. Food. Art. Fashion. Fancy ladies. People wearing lots of mushroom and brown. Neckerchiefs! Gerard Depardieu everywhere!! These things too await you in the world capital of “oh la la.”


We stayed in “gay Marais”, though on closer inspection we were closer to Temple than the Seine, on the Rue Notre Dame de Nazareth, and the people there didn’t seem happy so much as cold and exhibiting a particular penchant for crotchless lederhosen. We were, however, a short walk from the Pompidou Center, surrounded by spaghetti Metro lines and found ourselves in a pretty amenable part of town.

Apres Lyon, I had, to put it mildly, a jaded palate. Since we were there for a few days, and had a kitchen, I made more than a passing acquaintance with their supermarches. Monoprix(es) are everywhere, and did a very palatable line in pate en croute, stinky cheeses, saucisons and had wine aisles that were full of French wine (!), to which I dedicated thorough study. Needless to say, not all French wine is good wine, but their mid-price Côtes de Rhone Villages, at around 13 Euro, were knock out value.

Champagne Tours
While en Paris it had been a dream of mine to visit the champagne district, particularly with Blue Vapours relationship with the French studies department at the University of Melbourne (Hello Dr Jacqueline!) and Veuve Cliquot.

But since a day tour was 160 Euro, only took in a couple of wineries, and a decent bottle of bubbles like Mumm demands a mere 30 Euros or so, I decided to acquaint myself with champagne if not in body at least in sp… wine (spumante? - Ed).

If you want to find out about the champagne region, stay there for a few days. If you’d like to take a winery tour, however, check out:
http://www.parischampagnetour.com/

Paris was the business end of our trip, where we met our French contact in IT application roll out and financing Peter Savaas, who we were put on to by Austrade (Hi Peter!). Not only was he a font of knowledge on Parisian culture and the IT scene en Francaise, he also had some fantastic tips for where to go in Paris.

Paris Beaubourg
Place Igor Stravinsky

We met Peter at a bar outside the Pompidou Centre (which is itself a great place to pick up art chicks – see ‘the Official Slacker’s Handbook’). The bar is on a small square with a fountain featuring dada-esque sculptures, murals and Michael Jackson mimes. A very nice spot to drink beers as the sun goes down in the heart of happening town.
http://www.centrepompidou.fr/

Six tentacles.


MARAISE
Café Charlot
38 Rue de Bretagne, 75003 Paris
http://www.cafecharlotparis.com/

This restaurant was recommended to us by Peter and was a ten minute walk from where we were staying. Located in an old bakery, it was frequented by a lot of locals. It was, in a word, great. Bustling with patrons, people even had the foresight to put little dogs under their tables. I ordered the most French things I could spot on the menu since we went there on our last night; pate de fois gras on toast, followed by Steak Tartare.

The waiter looked at me strangely:
“Are you sure?”
“I… think so.”
“Oh well.”

I should have known. By the time I’d finished the pate, I was not only full but water proof from lip to my nether regions internally.

Then the steak came, a lump of mince as big as both of my fists combined. Huge! And raw. I got about half way through and “that’s all she wrote.” While the small dogs at surrounding tables looked at me piteously, the extreme richness of their food prohibited their owners letting me feed it to them… no matter how much I begged.

Seven tentacles out of eight!


L’Entrecôte
Peter also told us about L’Entrecote. Apparently, accoridng to Wiki, L'Entrecôte is the nickname of the restaurant Le Relais de Venise – L'Entrecôte, founded by Paul Gineste de Saurs in Paris's 17th arrondissement near Porte Maillot. I think this MAY be it (correct me if I’m wrong Peter!):
http://www.relaisentrecote.fr/

It had previously had a limited menu, but ninety percent of people used to order the same thing – the steak. Now, two generations later, all they do is steak with pommes frites. As you line up for a seat the only choice you get is rare, medium or well done. Who would ever have thought that steak and chips would be a popular menu item?


Obviously, our trip to Europe wasn’t all play (take note Australian Taxation Office!). We zooshed over to London on the Eurostar (five tentacles) to visit the British Museum on a strictly hush hush job we’re working on for the Melbourne Museum that’s coming out in 2012! But, can you believe it, while I was there, I learnt some more things about Paris’ food scene! But first, some celebrity spotting…


London, England!
Wossy!
We arrived under the enormous Olympic rings of St Pancras, and walking to the Museum spotted a fantastic old, black Bentley convertible driving with the top down in five degree temperatures. Closer scrutiny revealed it to be driven by none other than Jonnathon Ross, celebrity television and radio host in the UK. He went on to stall his car in the intersection - he must have noticed me noticing him and choked under the pressure. But our star spotting didn’t end there!

Matt Preston – Mr Master Chef gives us his five bobs worth after spending a penny!
For lunch we went to Soho, and settled on the Coach and Horses.
http://www.coachandhorsessoho.co.uk

I tried three cask ales:
* the Gangly Ghoul (a toffee like dark ale);
* London ale (nice, easy drinking); and,
* Green Man IPA (“Indian Pale Ale” – I never knew! - not much chop).

These drinks combined to wash down some palatable fish and chips with mushy peas and is almost unworthy of mention... until we had the second celebrity spot of the day.

“Oh look, there goes Matt Preston, the guy with the cravat from Master Chef,” Jane said from her window seat. “Hang on, he’s coming back!”
The man himself came into the pub and made directly for the toilets. I decided to talk to him as he returned.
“Mr Preston! I hope you’re going to buy a drink and not use the facilities for free?”

He stopped and chatted with us, and was really quite charming. He was on his way to a TV meeting, and was very interested to hear we’d seen Jonnathon Ross (“Where???”), and commented it pretty much put their relative celebrity in proportion: Wossy stalling a convertible Bentley, him sneaking in for a free piss down the pub.

When we told Matt we were staying in Paris, he was full of great tips:

“Ah, you’ll have to look up this Australian woman’s tours of French bakeries. It’s a hundred pounds but absolutely worth it. Called UTE bakery tours.”

Here’s a link, but I see she’ll take you on a tour of anything you like:
http://www.uteinparis.com/WELCOME__.html

He followed it with another tip:
“If you don’t manage that, there’s this gorgeous bakery you have got to try at the edge of the twentieth arondisement. It’s called “of bread, of ideas or something.” Here’s the site:
http://dupainetdesidees.com/

So he did pay for his wee after all, and I pass on to you what Matt Preston passed on to us after passing water. (Hello Matt if you’re reading this!).

One train trip later, we were facing our last day in Paris. But what to do?

MONTMATRE
Mont Matre, where else? It is the highest point in Paris, though admittedly too far away from the beating heart to give you an impressive view.

But it’s a tourist hot spot of food, architecture and art! It’s a long held bastion of artists – who are now all up there begging you to do a portrait or a caricature for only a few Euros (I remember when you could be franc with them).

“I am going to do your portrait.”
“No you’re not.”
“Mais oui, I’m already sketching.”
“I am walking away…”
“The best depiction of a retreating head I have ever done! You, madame, I am doing your portrait…” etc.

This is also the area, however, where they filmed Amelie.
Amélie film location
Café des 2 Moulins
Montmartre, Paris

We thought we’d swan up there, dig the Amelie scene and buy some tourist trinkets for our return and had a very nice time.

Cafe Chappe
8 Rue Tardieu 75018 Paris

We went for our last supper in a café that, on photo, looked similar to that whole Amelie scenario, both enjoying a lunch of the salads that the French do so well. Combined with a rosé, the meal was a fitting finish to our trip and well rounded with a pastis and black coffee.

Six tentacles.


So, bievenue Francaise, and merci beaucoup to you, you lovely person you, for sampling my humble ripailles d’Europe. A short hiatus in entries, as I’m now desperately putting the final touches on a short film for Tropfest, titled La Bicyclette. Never fear though, as I still think you are just wonderful and will send you some summer time eating reads in January! Have a great Christmas and a happy New Year! Au bientot! (your friend) Kit ///

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Lyon: The Two Faces of Food.

From Arles we travel North, via train past lush farms and nuclear power plants covered in paintings of children on the beach, to the culinary capital of “die Welt”. It’s here that Kit keeps running into Paul Bocuse, cream, and discovers that there’s more to food than meets the eye…

Lyon: cosmopolitan, rich, sunnier than Paris. Statuesque ebony women walk by in haute couture, rubbing shoulders with young men sporting military hair cuts and hip hop track suits, traditional old men in flat caps and women in brown scarves. This buzzing metropolis may not be the political capital of France, but it’s definitely the gastronomic capital of a country obsessed with food.

After the sleepy back waters we’d been travelling in, I was google eyed and licking my lips in anticipation of the delights that awaited us. All I could think was “Maitenant nous parlons, baby!”

Gastronomically, Lyon sits firmly north of the olive oil equator: i.e. everything comes in animal fat of one type or another. I also discovered one completely surprising thing about this gastro-capital. There are two types of food in Lyon (gasp!).

There’s the real type; with local markets, and friendly and cheap little restaurants the locals use (possibly with a preponderance of offal).

Then there’s the “theme park” Lyon eating scene, which is like going to Disneyland with a food theme that features cream and heavy going four courses. Painted harlot tourist restaurants ply their wares loudly on the strips, gathered together en force, shouting to jaded tourists “come into my palour”.

It kept reminding me of Luka in Cagliari saying: “Well, you could go to the touristy places, or you could go to a place that I’d eat”. And that pretty sums up the restaurant scene here.

GEOGRAPHY
First a quick thumbnail of the town itself. Sprawling in size, at the centre lies the ancient seat of Rome in Gaul on a hill (Languedoc), which was later the habitué of silk merchants in the Renaissance. Beside the old town lies a thriving retail and central business district sandwiched between the Saône and Rhône Rivers. Finally, there’s the new retail section in Part Dieu, around the main railway station next to which is a huge retail shopping centre akin to Chadstone.

There’s a palpable ebb and flow to Lyon society over the week, which climaxes with the mad bustle of Saturday shopping in the city. This gives way to leisurely markets on the river on a Sunday morning, the Sunday afternoon stroll around scenic areas, then the complete shut down of the city on a Sunday evening (“a proper Sunday” – as Anthonie at La Niche would describe it). Then it’s back to business as usual during the week, with the build up to Saturday.

PAUL BOCUSE
How can you write a gourmet’s journey to Lyon without at least mentioning Paul Bocuse? Pardonez moi, mais ce n’est pas possiblement. Basically, Paul Bocuse owns Lyon.

Paul Bocuse is THE celebrity chef of the town. Avuncular, ancient (now in his mid-eighties), jovial, rich beyond the dreams of mere mortals, he made his name as a leading light in nouvelle cuisine, has cooked for Presidents and has been awarded the title ‘Chef of the Century.’

I first heard of Paul Bocuse through the Victorian Executive chefs’ organisation ‘Les Toques Blanches’, who sponsor and train a student to compete in the Bocuse D’Or, the world’s top chef competition.

His Michelin starred restaurant is located outside central Lyon. Those wishing to make a pilgrimage to the great man’s restaurant will need to take a trip by boat or road half an hour up the river. Apparently, he no longer ACTUALLY cooks there, but does come out and do hand shakes and photos with patrons.

Bocuse also has his own market in Part Dieu. I recall watching Maeve O’Meara’s terrific show French Food Safari (avec Guillame Brahimi), where they visited Lyon and “happened” to run into Paul Bocuse at the market. This should have been no surprise, since the man is a media machine and it is one of his private business affairs. Plus they rang ahead.

Want to find out more about the enigma? Visit his official site!
http://www.bocuse.fr

I leave it to you to decide which face of food Bocuse represents (see above).


THE MARKETS
On Sundays, there are markets – real markets - on either bank of the Saône.

On one side of the river lies the art market. Artists could variously be typified as:
“Oi make things out of wire, me!”
or
“Yeah hi, I’m a serious artist and would love to do your portrait if you could come to my studio… Oh her? She’s just my girlfriend, but don’t worry, it’s all art. You’ve got a great form for paint…”
or
“Hats! I’m just batty about felt hats!”

On the other side of the Saône on the Quai Saint Antoine lies a fresh produce market, which is absolutely amazing: chickens on rotisseries, goats cheese sellers, bakers, fresh fruit and vegetables, those yellow skinned chickens with the heads still on, ducks, oysters, you name it, it was there.

The produce market gets eight tentacles out of eight in my squidzy review scale (my first ever). French people, French food, a Francophile (moi), cheap, outdoors, beautiful. I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven.


BOUCHONS
There are signs on every second restaurant reading “original bouchon”, so I thought I’d better look it up just so I knew what was going on:

From Wikipedia:
The tradition of bouchons came from small inns visited by silk workers passing through Lyon in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

According to the dictionary Le petit Robert, this name derives from the 16th century expression for a bunch of twisted straw.[1] A representation of such bundles began to appear on signs to designate the restaurants and, by metonymy, the restaurants themselves became known as bouchons. The more common use of "bouchons" as a stopper or cork at the mouth of a bottle, and its derivatives, have a different etymology.

Since 1997, Pierre Grison and his organization, L'Association de défense des bouchons lyonnais (The Association for the Preservation of Lyonnais Bouchons), bestow annual certifications to restaurants as "authentic" bouchons.[2] These restaurants receive the title Les Authentiques Bouchons Lyonnais and are identified with a sticker showing the marionette Gnafron, a Lyonnais symbol of the pleasures of dining, with a glass of wine in one hand and a napkin bearing the Lyon crest in the other.[3]

The following list, subject to some fluctuation as the certification is bestowed annually, contains most of the certified bouchons: Abel, Brunet, Café des deux places, Café des fédérations, Chabert et fils, Daniel et Denise, Chez Georges le petit bouchon, Les gones, Hugon, Le Jura, Chez Marcelle, Le Mercière, La mère Jean, Le mitonné, Le Morgon, Le musée, Chez Paul, Les Trois Maries, A ma vigne, and Le Vivarais.[3]

Here are some reviews of places we went to that rate a mention. None have websites (quel dommage!), so you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Les Enfants Terrible
58 Rue Merciere, 2nd, Lyon, France
Tel: 04 7842 8813

Disneyland, here we come! Our first dinner was at a little restaurant around the corner, in the midst of many amazing looking restaurants, called ‘Les Enfants Terribles’. I opted for the Menu Gatromonique. From the various choices, I ended up with:
* snails and mushrooms, cooked in cream;
* steak with truffle infused cream and daubes of fois gras;
* my choice of cheese, which ended up being the stinkiest of drippy stinky cheeses; and finally,
* sliced pineapple (I begged for forgiveness from the waiter, and he brought it to me in the shape of my dessert).

I arrived back to our room as full as the proverbial. A strong six and a half tentacles with a recommended dose of antacid powder, Metamucil and a possible colonoscopy or heart bypass chaser.


Le Musee
2 Rue des Forces 69002 Lyon
Tel : 04 7837 7154

Le Musee – rated a marionette bouchon, was the top rated restaurant in Lyon by Trip Adviser. It was shut when we tried our luck. It was small, unpresupposing, and looked kind of homely, completely unlike the other larger more touristy restaurants nearby.

I suspect high tentacles and would recommend it to anyone who wants to go to a bouchon…


L’epicerie – Bistrot à tartines
2 Rue Monnaie, 69002 Lyon, France
Tel: 04 7837 7085

Frequented by young uni types, l’epicerie is a bistrot that specialises in “tartines”: basically toast with toppings, that you have with a salad and chase down with a dessert and coffee. It’s cheap as chips.

They had a couple of soups, and very French drinks (pastis, Cinzano cocktails), etc. It was simple and excellent. Jane had a chicken coleslaw on toast (with corn and mayonnaise), I had the pork spread traditional with cornichons, and we shared a green salad, half bottle of rosé, and washed down the lot with a coffee, and fantastic tart with cherries and blackberries, and a calvados.

The really nice thing here was the atmosphere: great service, young and upbeat, and a young, skinny, and local crowd – it felt more like what you would expect a bouchon to be. Cheap, friendly, warm, local and traditional.

Pukka. Six tentacles, an extra tentacle for the laissez faire environment, and a great idea for anyone thinking of opening a restaurant here in Melbourne.


So, sated (and with colds), we packed our bags and fell toward the finish line of our trip, Paris, trundling our bags onto the Metro and departing to the ‘Fuck You!’-s of a beggar (I told you it was a cosmopolitan city).

Next episode: Gay Paris, Capital of France!

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Eau d’Arles? Oh, Darls!

In our last installment, we were in Alghero, in the north of Sardinia. From that Mediterranean island jewel we travel now, on Ryan Air bizness class (innit? – five knicker extra!), to Francaise, the home of “haute”, “nouvelle”, and “lean” cuisine. We landed in the famous port of Marseilles, drug importation capital of France… and then quickly clicked up the train line a few kilometers to the west to find ourselves in Arles.


“Bonjour! Ca va? C’est bon! Et moi? Tres bien, merci!”

At last we’d arrived, en Francaise. Did I ever tell you I’m a Francophile, particularly when it comes to food? Mais non? Bien sur, certainment!

France. Home of “viva” and “la”. Birthplace of Asterix and Gerard Depardiou. Repository of baguettes, and inspiration for great songs like “Fou de Fa Fa”. I was rapt.

Unfortunately, my year ten French was indecipherable to most native French people. I’d say “Bonjour” and nearly everyone would reply “How can I help you, M’sieur?” or just do the traditional lip spurt while holding their hands up, elbows “akimbo” (def: touching their hips - take note Age journalists).

Arles
Our first stop was Arles, en Provence. Picasso was a fan of Arles, probably because of the strong Catalan influence (an influence we spotted in Sardinia). There are Catalan colours in the Provence shield. They also have a strong bull fighting culture with bull fighting bars - showing bull fights on screen – and in the old town the ancient forum is used today for bull fighting.

Arles bullfighting is different from the Spanish style; they don’t kill the bull in the arena but pluck rosettes from its shoulders with pitchforks instead. After THAT they go out the back, kill it and have a steak dinner.

Speaking of famous artists and Arles, there’s a museum to Van Gogh in a former lunatic asylum where he was locked up. I’m not sure how much a mental sanatorium contributed to the career of a painter who ate lead based paints, but years after he was dead and famous, they built a temple to him (just like Jesus and the Romans!).

As a centre for famous artists, there’s a strong arts tradition in Arles, with art shops, art museums and a stack of arty graffiti that would make Banksy proud. But a strong art history also means something else. Retired Americans!

Flocks and flocks of people in their retirement years are lead around ancient sites by people waving hankies in the air, a daytime tourist crowd that disappears at night. There’s a reason older people are drawn to these destinations. They’re sick of doing it tough and just want the highlights. Well, if that’s your taste, you’ll love Arles as it has it all; luxury, taste and ease.


Our Hotel – Le Calandal

Jane did an excellent job as tour guide operator, and booked us into Le Calandal, un hotel connected to a day spa which was based on an ancient Roman bath with modern facilities (wet sauna, massages, giant spa pool, etc.). It was located smack dab in the centre of the old town, and the giant spa looks out on the forum. The pool is just like a James Bond set.

The hotel itself was old with incredibly thick walls; we had a three-foot deep windowsill. It’s a real rabbit warren, a kind of amalgam of different buildings. The corridors are windy, and we had to go up two flights of stairs, round a corner, and down another flight to get to our room, a bit like the University of Melbourne Club (hello Melbs!).

Like the rest of Arles old town, the clientele were predominantly in their seventies, and there for the lymphatic drainage and some wine.

I sat making these notes in our yellow room, the Provencal style window open, listening to children play at a local school (it sounded like a riot going on at the zoo), replaced by somebody very competently busking with a saxophone.

The Calandal has a good restaurant which serves lunch. The menu positioned itself as a macro-biotic-organic restaurant. In the courtyard garden I had the lamb salad (meat too tough, but tasty), a bottle of red, finished with a coffee, Calvados, and a “gourmet café” dessert which included a coffee ice cream, and some various other cakes including a macaroon (a dessert which is WAY to trendy these days by half, a treatise for another entry).

The lunch? A five and a half tentacles out of eight.

Want to see more? Visit:

http://www.lecalendal.com/


Food
There are hundreds of restaurants in Arles. But not THAT many good ones; I recall seeing the word Pizzeria a few too many times for comfort.

Arles is famous for its salt; it’s in close proximity to giant salt farms on marshy land to the west where French cowboys roam (assumedly rustling salt). Gourmet salts are sold profligately everywhere. I wanted some as gifts, but decided to wait till I got to Lyon or Paris. Don’t make the same mistake. It’s most easily found at the source.

So, where else did we eat?


L’Andaluz
A matador themed restaurant, so I chose the steak. The meat was too tough (again); it had been machined, not enough, but was still wonderfully tasty. It came with potato gratin (fantastic), mediterranean veg, and a simple green salad. Jane had a creamy chicken dish, and commented:
‘I should start my own journal and write: “Today I finally got to eat chicken”.’ (…which was all she wrote in her journal on our back packing trip in our twenties).

I couldn’t eat it all, but insisted on a coffee, a pastis (Ricard), and some lovely mini desserts that came as a selection.

Five tentacles out of eight.

http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g187211-d1325866-Reviews-L_Andaluz-Arles_Bouches_du_Rhone_Provence.html


Lou Caleu
We had dinner at Lou Caleau, the most authentic restaurant among a clutch of bistros in an old town back street near a convent, where we talked to two retired Edinburgh teachers for an hour who lolly gagged around after they’d finished dinner to have someone else to talk to.

You get a bit fatigued only having the same person to talk to in your own language, so it must have come as a relief for them to have someone else to talk to (I, of course, always had you, dear reader). They were a nice couple, but again this demonstrates the kind of feel of the whole place.

I had the tourist menu, choosing the bouillabaisse style soup (blended, i.e. without any “chunks” of fish), into which you immersed small pieces of toast with an orange sauce and cheese. This was followed by the best rabbit I ever ate, the usual gratin and mediterranean veg, chased down by a bottle of white wine, then a “Baba” desert swimming in a pool of Grand Marnier with coffee.

A strong six and a half tentacles out of eight.

http://www.provence-hideaway.com/602.html


Petite Dejeuner?
A last note. We went to a creperie as we had a while till the train came to take us to Lyon. The guy behind the counter, when I asked him “ca va?”, shrugged and pointed around him, as if to say, “well, I’m still here”.

I asked him for petite dejeneur.
He was sorry, they didn’t have any croissants.
I asked him if they did crepes?
He asked his wife, who was having a conversation beside the counter to another woman, and she snapped “non”. He replied “in about fifteen minutes”.
How about some coffees then?
He thought about that for a while, and then decided that should be OK.

Phew! They managed to turn away another four tourists while we were there - they have a creperie that doesn’t make crepes opposite the forum. Basille Faughlty? One tentacle out of eight… with a view of the forum.

But hang up your hassles with you hair, my friends, we were heading off to the gastronomic capital of France, if not the planet.

Next episode: Lyon… Maintenant nous parlons, baby!

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Alghero – Something Fishy in the Air! (Hooray!!)

Alghero! Seat of Catalonian culture in Sardinia, ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ themed lolly shops and an old town for pedestrians only. It’s also home to a massive marina loaded with millionaires’ toys, and features old men gathered in huddles on the broad boardwalks under palm trees doing absolutely nothing but talking.

The Costa Smerelda (Emerald Coast) on the north east coast is the place for the rich and famous (obviously we didn’t go there since we weren’t qualified), whereas Alghero is more the main port historically you needed to invade to take over the entire island.

Located in the north west corner of Sardinia, Alghero is the gateway port to fabulous islands and beaches, and is famed for the seafood which feeds off the constant ring of seaweed that grows outside the town (P-ew!) and may be the basis of the town’s name (Alghero, “the place of algae or seaweed”, don’t ask me what languages, like everywhere in Sardinia, everyone’s been here…).

Shall we take a dip?

I went for a swim on the local city beach a fifteen minute stroll down the road, nice but a bit too sea weedy and loaded with people with dark, tanned skins that looked a bit like handbags. Further up the coast beckon crystal clear waters, while tour boats offer day-long adventures to isolated beaches where you can escape the volleyball and on beach cafes with hire recliners.

The further you go from the old town, the more you run into our old friends “the abandoned properties of Sardinia” – this is a place looking for canny and far sighted investors.

Alghero was also where we found Jane’s much looked for iconic Sardinian chicken crockery and where I bought one of their famous handmade knives which is an absolute demon at slicing salami. Ask me for a demonstration!

The Old Town
A word of warning to those driving to Alghero: if you stay in the old town (recommended), you can’t drive your car in. We got as close to the walking district as we could, and found ourselves driving around in circles down little lanes through wandering herds of tourists with cameras, and driving multiple times past the same old man standing on a corner. With no map of the town, or an address of where we were staying, we parked near the sea and did a wiggly walk into the old town, where I heard the magic words:

“I know this square, I’ve seen it on Google Maps!”

God bless the internet (I never thought I’d write those words)! Then we found the building, and rang the bell!

Our Hotel
No answer. That was a low point. You know when you’re really tired? Like getting off an international plane when you expect there to be a driver to pick you up and they’re not there? It was one of those moments. We had about ten Euros between us, the car was miles away, no phone card, no phone, and no pen to write down the number to have someone come and let us in to our room. If I’d been twenty years younger, I would have collapsed, drunk heavily and then found the nearest backpackers and booked in there.

However, with some basic compass orientation we worked out where the car was, got a parking spot outside the battlement walls (about twenty metres) from where we were staying (despite there being double parked cars everywhere), bought a ticket from a ticket officer to leave the car there all night, got a pen, got the number, found a phone booth, and called “the guy” Giovanni. Giovanni was very slick, with white teeth and brilliantined doormat hair which made me immediately suspicious of Don-Lane-like extra-curricular activities. Ten minutes later we were in, showered and enjoying a glass of wine in what I’d have to say was one of the most excellent B&B’s I’ve ever been to. You can visit it at:

http://www.bblaterrazzasulportoalghero.it/home-en.html

Note: The next morning moving the car I was approached by a suit wearing Italian-speaking Jehovah’s Witness, so it was nice to know we’d finally arrived at an international locale: even the JW’s have got it on the map.


Alghero Cuisine – Seafood Specialities Ahoy!
As a Catalan influenced fishing port - distinct from wider Sardinia with its goats, cheeses, and kidnapping midgets - there are a number of fish dishes specialised to the town. These include:

• Allada de peix: a red sauce made from tomatoes, garlic, and chilies, cooled and poured over small fried fish.
• Capunada: a fisherman’s lunch featuring a potato and cucumber salad with softened salted fish and fresh tuna.
• Cassola de Peix: a local fish soup with fried octopus, dried tomatoes, ground garlic and parsley base to which fish, crabs and whatever else they’ve caught is added. Served with toasted or day old bread soaked in the sauce.
• Bogamari: local sea urchins, raw with bread and wine or served with pasta.
• General grilled fish: whole or in steaks.

A Quick Word on Bread at Table with Olive Oil
I like bread. I like Italian and French breads. I like bread on the table while I’m waiting for the waiter (how aptly named) to bring me my food. And I love it with olive oil and some fancy salt on the side to wiggle it in. May I make a note here, if you are similarly inclined, that nowhere in France or Italy, at the high or low-end restaurants we visited, did I have one place serve olive oil with the bread. How disappointing, and a big tick to Melbourne!


Dining
We were in town for only a couple of days, but visited the restaurants recommended to us by Giovanni (always get a local’s advice then follow your nose), who recommended we avoid the port and stick to the old town for food.

Osteria Machiavello
Our first stop was to plunder (“Arrrrrr”) a seafood dinner at ‘Osteria Machiavello’. It was one of the first places I spotted on our walks along the battlement walls next to the sea and I was delighted to hear it recommended to us.

The staff were old school pros, but not chatty and bright – we had a grumpy old guy and a girl who wouldn’t know a joke if it bit her on the bum – but the seafood was excellent with an antipasto misto di mare, featuring most of the dishes listed above, followed by a whole grilled catch of the day which I cleaned myself having watched one of the waiters do it for some Germans at the next table. This was all washed down with a bottle of Sardinian white and coffee and liqueurs – I think Jane had a mirto.

Top marks for food and views, a deduction for stuffy waiters, I give it six and a half tentacles out of eight. There was even a wandering accordionist!

http://www.osteriamacchiavello.it/


Martini con olive?
The next night before dinner we tried to hold off going to a restaurant until a normal time (locals tend not to eat until after nine), so had an aperitif at a small café and read the Italian newspapers: Italy qualified for the European Cup by beating Northern Ireland 3-0 (who said “mi non parla Italiano, e tempo de vai, e questo con trove?”).

I ordered a vodka martini, reminiscing about the excellent one I had in Cagliari. When I asked the man at the bar if he made them, he smiled and said “si, una vodkatini!’ I asked for it “con olive” and it promptly arrived with a peel of lemon in it, with a side order of olives (!), but was excellent in every way.

Posada del Mar
In spite of the time wasting, we were still too early for tea (the worms were biting), so went to eat shortly after eight regardless, ahead of even the German tourists. The shame!

On the Via Roma, the Posada del Mar is, compared to Machiavello, a simple restaurant that still covers the local specialities (e.g. octopus in ink, squid in tomato sauce, etc.) and has a nice local feel inside. I had the pasta with scallops and eggplant, and would have taken the tourist menu, but we would have been there all night.

We found out the name of the home made semolina pasta as made by Angela at the farm stay – Malloreddus (a bit like a semolina gnocchi usually served in a tomato and sausage sauce); which Jane commented was very close to malodorous. At the time I thought she meant it was similar to another Italian word, but it transpired she was referring to an English one, which is often used in relation to yours truly!

Tasty, friendly, not too shabby, I give it a five and a half tentacle squidzy review. Visit it at:
http://www.posadadelmar.it/


Like to find out more?
It’s easy! Literally. They’ve got a magazine guide to Alghero called “easy alghero”. You can check it out online (the English is not as good as in the hard copy) at:

http://www.easyalghero.it/en


Next Stop: Francaise et Arles! May the Francophilia Commence!

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