Words - Page 158 of 252 - Martin Dwyer, an Irish Chef in France

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My Moules Frites March 3, 2009 10:50 AM Over the last few years I have noticed that the standard, and usually most reliable, Bistro lunch in France has become Moules Frites. Originally common in Normandy, Belgium and Holland it has spread slowly down through France and now is often my meal of choice in the Languedoc. We have in the Languedoc, thanks to the high salinity of the Bassin de Thou, got some truly delicious Mussels but I have also noticed a certain raising of standards here in Ireland and the Mussels I now buy in Waterford are markedly cleaner and plumper than before. This may be because the increase of Bouchot rearing of Mussels here. They are however still cheap, around €4 Euros a kilo which will feed two well. I well remember when the Mussel arrived in Cork- I mean we had them flourishing about the coast but not on the table. Hedli Mc Neice (Louis, the poet’s widow-or at least one of his many widows) opened a little restaurant in Kinsale called The Spinnaker and I remember eating Mussels there in the Sixties, as a young fellow brought out to dinner by my parents. She was in fact a true trail blazer and probably the very first of the new wave of Irish restaurants. At around the same time Myrtle Allen discovered that her serendipitous stuffing of Mussels with garlic crumbs (“Like the snails I had eaten in Paris”) was greeted by a French Gourmet as “Ah Les Moules Farcies”. But why should Moules Frites , this most cumbersome of dishes,have become such a standard in France? To serve Moules Frites successfully you need a large dish of mussels, another large dish for the empty shells, a separate dish of chips, a finger bowl and napkin, and a knife and fork to eat these and also a soup spoon to eat the delicious mussel juice. Its popularity must me due to both its deliciousness and to its cheapness. A couple of weeks ago I asked for a double portion of the Moules Mariniere offered as a starter in a restaurant in Dun Laoghaire and a side portion of chips and thus eat Moules Frites for the first time in Ireland. Delicious! My version of this French/ Belgan Classic (you could even say Dutch also -but then they destroy it by adding mayonnaise to the mix) includes my healthy(er) version of the chip:- the Roast saute potato. My Moules Frites (Mussels with Roast Saute potatoes) (for 4) 2 kg (4 lbs.) Mussels in the Shell (or more if you love them) 2 Medium Onions Bunch Parsley Bunch Thyme Glass white wine, or cider, or water. 8 medium Potatoes 3 Tablespoons Sunflower oil. Throw the mussels into a sink and run cold water over them to remove all surface dirt. Now carefully remove the beard, that is the string they use to attach onto a rock, this sticks out of the side of the shell. At this stage throw away any that are dead, that don’t close when you tap them. Now get the potatoes ready. Peel them and cut them into even sized pieces- I find cutting each potato into six works well but you can make them smaller, or chip shaped if you like. Put these into a pan of cold water and bring to the boil. Boil them until they are nearly cooked but still firm, about ten to fifteen minutes depending on size. Take them off, strain to drain well then spread out on a tray to make sure they don’t stick together as they cool. Pre heat the oven to Gas 6, 200C 400F. As soon as the oven is hot toss the potato in the sunflower oil, season with salt and pepper and spread out on a large baking tray. Bake these at the set temperature for about 15 to 25 minutes or until they are crisp outside and soft within. Meanwhile cook the mussels. Chop the onion finely and chop the parsley, take the thyme off the stem. Put these and the wine or water into a large lidded pot and tip in the mussels then cover. Cook on a high heat, shaking from time to time until all are opened. Serve as they are in large bowls and with more large bowls on the table to take the empty shells. (if you want to be fancy you could put some finger bowls and some napkins for the guests on the table as the best way to eat these is with the fingers.) Serve the potatoes in the middle in a large bowl. Waterford versus Kilkenny March 2, 2009 03:11 AM I am the youngest of seven children of a Cork family with a long tradition of sport. My father played tennis, hunted and played golf, my mother also played golf but when she was younger had played tennis to county level and captained the Irish Ladies Hockey team on many occasions. (In fact as a young man working in Snaffles in Dublin I was brought out of the kitchen and introduced by one capped Irish rugby player to another as ” Frances Dwyers son, she was captain of the Irish hockey team for seven years” the man I was introduced to was Tony O Reilly, now better know as Sir Anthony of that ilk) All of my brothers and sisters played sports, the brothers doing well in rugby tennis and golf, the sisters in hockey and tennis. I mean we had our own tennis court at home for Gods sake! Of course I decided at an early age (I would say with some cunning) that if I was going to shine in any way I had better do it in some other way than sport. So I became the family anomoly, a non-sporty Dwyer. Now our house in Cork was situated on one side of the river Lee exactly across from, and with a perfect view of, Pairc Ui Caoimh on the other side. To my shame I never crossed the river to see a match, even though on match days the roars of the crowds would fill the house. Strangely, in my old age, I have ended up with a house backing on to the main pitch in Waterford city; Walsh Park, so our house can still be filled with the roars of supporters on occasion. While we lived in Kent, thirty some years ago, one of the waiters in the restaurant in which we worked, Mike, was an avid fan of West Ham United. He was shocked to discover that a grown man like me had never been to a football match, he told me that the next time they played at home I was going. And I did, accompanied by Mike and young Bruno Waterfield (the bosses son-now the Brussels correspondent for the Daily Telegraph) and had a great day. I can’t actually remember much about the match but distinctly remember the pre-match egg and chips in an East End Cafe. Something similar happened to me yesterday. My friend Donal Moore announced to me that (having previously discovered that I was a Hurley Virgin) he was going to take me to a match and yesterdays Kilkenny versus Waterford League game in Walsh Park was going to be the one. He arrived to collect me a half an hour before the game and complete with blue and white cap and streamer (and to the huge amusement of my wife) we headed off to the game. Well readers I loved it ! In my old age and out of view of The Family I have become a little bit of a closet watcher of sport. I have been known to get emotional during a rugby international and positively hysterical if I have a horse running in the Grand National. None of these experiences however quite prepared me for the atmosphere of the live game. Our Team stand for the Anthem. The skill displayed by these men was quite astounding. I have heard of addressing the ball but these lads were able to make it come when they called. Taking a Free: Ready Calling the ball And up it comes! And best of all, after a cliff hanger of a match, We Won. Finally getting our revenge for the trouncing in Croke Park last year. Thank You Donal, I will return. 2 comments Fionn Son of Cool March 1, 2009 12:06 PM Photo from Caitriona Re-Run of A True Story March 1, 2009 10:20 AM A thought struck me this morning, that it must be around four years since I started writing these pieces for a blog. Sure enough on trawling back through the archives I discovered that it was at the end of February in 2005 when I started. To trawl back so I came across a couple of pieces which were written long ago but which still entertain me. I thereby claim the privilage of an old man and, as I am forever repeating my stories verbally, (ask my wife), will revisit some my written ones from time to time also. This one first saw the light of day from me in June 2005. Make of it what you will, but call my Mother a liar at your peril! *True Story* This story was always told by my Mother as a true family story. I was discouraged from this belief by finding it, or at least a very close approximation of it, related in the Private Eye “True Stories” series of urban myths. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the story originated from my Grandmothers house and,as the protagonists are dead, I suppose we will never know. Myth or truth, the story bears retelling. My Grandmother and Grandfather Daly lived in some luxury in the fashionable suburb of Blackrock in Cork. Their red brick Victorian detached house was on a very smart row of houses known as Ardfoyle Villas and had an extensive back garden, I would say about an acre in size. (Then again I was very little when I last saw the place) The house was on a rise over the garden which had a vegetable garden on one side and the rest was lawn which I remember them using for croquet.. My mother was the eldest of six siblings and her brother Neil was a bit of motor bike fanatic. This incident happened in the late twenties when my mother and Uncle Neil would have been in their early twenties. Uncle Neil, in the pursuit of motor bike perfection, was taking a bike to pieces in the back yard of Ardfoyle. Having stripped it down he was engaged in cleaning off the various bits with cotton waste dipped in petrol when my grandmother got him to clean up the mess as she was having visitors around to play croquet on the lawn. Expediency being the better course he decided to flush the petrol soaked bits of waste down the outside toilet which was also in the yard. Shortly after that , the gardener, seeing that my grandmother would be occupied with the croquet, decided to take advantage of the break to use the same toilet and also smoke a pipeful of tobacco. The gardener arranged himself luxuriously in the toilet, trousers around his ankles, for his session as my Grandmother entertained her guests on the lawn sloping down from the yard. He lit his pipe, and , as always flicked the match down the toilet. There was an immediate explosion and the gardener was catapulted out of the toilet, trousers still around his ankles, right into the middle of my grandmothers croquet party. He lay there, stunned and totally mystified and looked up at my Grandmother and said; “ Jaysus Mam !, it must have been something I et.” That was the story as my mother told it. It has since gathered various alternative endings. One that was told to me by a cousin also managed to find its way into the Private Eye version. The gardener who was shook and –I have no doubt burned- by the explosion was brought upstairs in the house to be attended to. Deciding that the nature of the injuries were beyond their first aid skills the decision was made to call an ambulance. This arriving in due course the gardener was being carried down the stairs by the two ambulance men on a stretcher (lying on his front one assumes) One of the bearers asked what happened, on being told he collapsed in hysterical laughter, let go of his side of the stretcher, and let the poor unfortunate gardener roll off, and down the stairs thereby managing to add to his injuries by breaking his leg. That ending must definitely be regarded as apochriphal. My mother, who I have never had cause to doubt , told the first half as the gospel truth. Re-Run of A True Story March 1, 2009 10:20 AM A thought struck me this morning, that it must be around four years since I started writing these pieces for a blog. Sure enough on trawling back through the archives I discovered that it was at the end of February in 2005 when I started. To trawl back so I came across a couple of pieces which were written long ago but which still entertain me. I thereby claim the privilage of an old man and, as I am forever repeating my stories verbally, (ask my wife), will revisit some my written ones from time to time also. This one first saw the light of day from me in June 2005. Make of it what you will, but call my Mother a liar at your peril! *True Story* This story was always told by my Mother as a true family story. I was discouraged from this belief by finding it, or at least a very close approximation of it, related in the Private Eye “True Stories” series of urban myths. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the story originated from my Grandmothers house and,as the protagonists are dead, I suppose we will never know. Myth or truth, the story bears retelling. My Grandmother and Grandfather Daly lived in some luxury in the fashionable suburb of Blackrock in Cork. Their red brick Victorian detached house was on a very smart row of houses known as Ardfoyle Villas and had an extensive back garden, I would say about an acre in size. (Then again I was very little when I last saw the place) The house was on a rise over the garden which had a vegetable garden on one side and the rest was lawn which I remember them using for croquet.. My mother was the eldest of six siblings and her brother Neil was a bit of motor bike fanatic. This incident happened in the late twenties when my mother and Uncle Neil would have been in their early twenties. Uncle Neil, in the pursuit of motor bike perfection, was taking a bike to pieces in the back yard of Ardfoyle. Having stripped it down he was engaged in cleaning off the various bits with cotton waste dipped in petrol when my grandmother got him to clean up the mess as she was having visitors around to play croquet on the lawn. Expediency being the better course he decided to flush the petrol soaked bits of waste down the outside toilet which was also in the yard. Shortly after that , the gardener, seeing that my grandmother would be occupied with the croquet, decided to take advantage of the break to use the same toilet and also smoke a pipeful of tobacco. The gardener arranged himself luxuriously in the toilet, trousers around his ankles, for his session as my Grandmother entertained her guests on the lawn sloping down from the yard. He lit his pipe, and , as always flicked the match down the toilet. There was an immediate explosion and the gardener was catapulted out of the toilet, trousers still around his ankles, right into the middle of my grandmothers croquet party. He lay there, stunned and totally mystified and looked up at my Grandmother and said; “ Jaysus Mam !, it must have been something I et.” That was the story as my mother told it. It has since gathered various alternative endings. One that was told to me by a cousin also managed to find its way into the Private Eye version. The gardener who was shook and –I have no doubt burned- by the explosion was brought upstairs in the house to be attended to. Deciding that the nature of the injuries were beyond their first aid skills the decision was made to call an ambulance. This arriving in due course the gardener was being carried down the stairs by the two ambulance men on a stretcher (lying on his front one assumes) One of the bearers asked what happened, on being told he collapsed in hysterical laughter, let go of his side of the stretcher, and let the poor unfortunate gardener roll off, and down the stairs thereby managing to add to his injuries by breaking his leg. That ending must definitely be regarded as apochriphal. My mother, who I have never had cause to doubt , told the first half as the gospel truth. Modern Parenthood February 27, 2009 19:26 PM Before: After: Photos by Aonghus and Caitriona 1 comment. Climate Control February 27, 2009 11:12 AM I realise that I probably should not air such intimacies in the public domain but I am fascinated by my latest purchase of underpant. On the label it says that they come with Climate Control. Climate control, according to most experts I can find (on Google), seems to be an advanced form of air conditioning where by you preset a temperature and the air conditioning fans click in and out automatically. The good news is that so far, probably because of the low winter temperatures here, my unders have remained obdurately off. What makes me nervous is that they will probably come into their own when I next go south to France. This may well make parts of me extremely comfortable but I am a little anxious how to explain away the whirring sounds from the lower regions, particularly in a foreign tongue. I think perhaps I should have a ready prepared sentence; *Excusez-moi, c’est le climatiseur dans mon slip* would probably do the trick. Still Life with Fruitbasket February 27, 2009 10:43 AM By Balthasar van der Ast from the Gemaldegalerie in Berlin Lost in Translation Thirty Four February 26, 2009 12:06 PM Yesterday in the London Independent Janet Street-Porter wrote an article on how it was impossible to eat well in England, a sentiment, with which, I am rather inclined to agree. There were various comments on her article (very few disagreeing with her) but the comment I enjoyed most came from someone called Broadwood and even though entirely irrelevant to Ms Street-Porter’s article I found it entertaining. Broadwood wrote: Last year I spent some time in Spain. Many restaurants make a half hearted attempt to translate their menus into English. *Here are some of the English translations:* Huevos Revueltos was translated as Eggs Revolting. Then there were dishes such as :- Fresh Crap of the Fisherman. Muscle of the Fisherman. Crabs of the Fisherman. Breast of a Duchess on Toast. Children in the Oven. Boiled Baby in the Sauce of the Nuts. Leg of a Cowboy. Meat of a Cowboy. Stuffed Nun. Raped Carrots. Ribbons of Little Hills. Hot Vegetarian in Pot. Dreaded Veal Cutlet. Startled Chicken. I have definitely been offered the Dreaded Veal Cutlet and have on many occasions been forced to eat Fresh Crap from the Fisherman. Raped Carrots. should, I imagine, go well with a dish of Buggered Peas . which I was offered in Barley Cove Hotel in the sixties but undoubtably my favourite must be the one that caused most anxiety to non-meat eaters; Hot Vegetarian in a Pot. 7 comments Pièce Montée des Grands Jours February 24, 2009 13:01 PM It is hard to tell where all this started, in one way it was in 1966 when my seventeen year old romantic soul was taken over by a French movie by Claude Lelouch : A Man and a Woman (Un homme et une femme.) This was an intense and, for its time, quite steamy, love story starring Anouk Aimée and Jean-Louis Trintignant. I must have seen it about four times. Nowadays it is probably best known by its music, you all know it; Dee Dee Dee Dabba Dabba Dap,Dabba Dabba Dap Da Da Da Dabba Dabba Dap,Dabba Dabba Dap Dee Dee Dee Dabba Dabba Dap,Dabba Dabba Dap Da Da Da Daaah It had everything, beautiful actors , wonderful swelling romantic music, great shots of France (the hero races up from Monte Carlo to Trouville to be with his love) and people with sophisticated lives – he was a rally driver she worked in the movies. Un Homme et Une Femme But that was all forty three years ago and long in my past when the festival of our local area ; Les Nuits des Terrasses et del Catet, came around again last summer. This we cannot ignore as there is always a concert in the Ruelle (called Rue del Catet) by the side of our house. Last summer there was also, in the vinyard that produces our favourite local wine; Le Chateau de Couzon, readings from a novel by none other than M. Trintignant, he whom I had last seen rolling about between the sheets with the beautiful Anouk Aimée some 43 years previously. Jean-Louis Trintignant, last summer. Cut to this Christmas. I am just a little obsessive, friends say that I tend to get a little over enthusiastic about my latest interests from time to time. This seasons interest is a French Poet/ Songwriter/ Pop Singer called Thomas Fersen. Now this man is just bound to be a favourite of mine as he spends most of his time writing about food. His song Croque I have already written about and even translated into English here. This is the most recent of his works which I have purchased. It is titled: Pièce Montée des Grands Jours Nothing would do me but I decided I should translate the title track on this CD into English. For once I have been foiled, and principally by the title. M. Fersen is as I have intimated a man as obsessed with food as I am. This song is set in a prison where the prisoners are digging their way out and about the attempts to bring in useful tools for the job hidden in various large food dishes, it would be taken for granted that to fit these tools the dishes would have to be large and elaborate; what the French called Pièces Montées Now these pieces were great classics in the nineteenth century made famous by chefs like Careme and would often consists of large dishes of food like Sole made into elaborate wedding cake like constructions. Probably the only remaining popular piece now is the French wedding cake:The Croquenbouche. (our own three tiered wedding cake would also qualify) A Croquenbouch (and I ) photographed at friend Isabel’s wedding a couple of summers ago. These pieces montees would have easily concealed the necessary tools and ropes needed for the prison break. Fersen lovingly decides which tool should go in each piece- The ten metres of cord in the Dinde aux Marrons. the pick (pioche) -of course- in the Brioche et cetera. Unfortunately after some time trying to think of ways of translating the concept of the Pièce Montée into English I had to admit defeat. Now another pecularity about this song is that Thomas Fersen does not sing this song alone. He is joined by a woman called Marie Trintignant. Marie Trintignant. The surname caused a bell to ring faintly in the recesses of the Dwyer brain. Could she possibly be something to Jean Louis of Un Homme et Une Femme ? Google confirmed that indeed she was. But then Google also threw up a sad story about this unfortunate soul. Mlle. Trintignant was indeed a daughter of Jean Louis and had become an extremely successful actor herself, having been on several occasions nominated for the French Oscars The Cesars. She had produced four sons from four different French celebrities and in 2003 was living with Bertrand Cantat , the lead singer in the french hit rock band, Noir Désir Bertrand Cantat He accompanied her to Vilnius where she was filming. they had a row, he hit her and she fell hitting her head off a radiator. She died the following day. He was sentenced to eight years for manslaughter, served four and was released last Autumn. What a strange and sad end to the lady who sang so well in the song I was trying to translate. I will leave you with the words of the song I found intranslatible : Pièce Montée des Grands Jours C’est une nuit conventionnelle, Un chien aboie, une chouette hulule, Les prisonniers dans les cellules Rêvent de creuser un tunnel. Mais avec une petite cuillère, Il faudrait être un peu naïf, La prison n’est pas un gruyère, Si au moins j’avais un canif Je vous fais porter une brioche Fourrée avec une pioche Dix mètre de corde environ Dans la dinde aux marrons, Si vous goûtez la mortadelle, N’avalez pas la pelle. Ce n’est pas tout car j’ajoute Une lime dans le pâté en croûte Et dans le petit pot de beurre, Une pince-monseigneur Dans la purée pas de grumeaux, Seulement le chalumeau Dix mètres de corde environ Dans la dinde aux marrons, Un vilebrequin dans le ragoût, Ca lui donnera du goût Mais un poil dans la choucroute Moi franchement ça me dégoûte. Filez avant que le jour se lève Si vous trouvez la fève. C’est une nuit conventionnelle, Un chien aboie, une chouette hulule, Les prisonniers dans les cellules Rêvent de creuser un tunnel. Je cherche sans y parvenir une position pour dormir Aboie le chien, hulule la chouette,: Je m’allume une cigarette, J’imagine un cigare qui fume, Une pâtisserie qui vaut l’détour, Une danseuse avec une plume Dans la piece montée des grands jours Pourvue d’un pistolet en sucre, Dotée de pièces en chocolat, Bonnes à manger, pas pour le lucre J’les cacherai pas sous mon matelas Je vous fais porter une brioche Fourrée avec une pioche Dix mètre de corde environ Dans la dinde aux marrons, Si vous goûtez la mortadelle, N’avalez pas la pelle. Ce n’est pas tout car j’ajoute Une lime dans le pâté en croûte Et dans le petit pot de beurre, Une pince-monseigneur Dans la purée pas de grumeaux Seulement le chalumeau Dix mètres de corde environ Dans la dinde au marrons, Un vilebrequin dans le ragoût, Ca lui donnera du goût. Mais un poil dans la choucroute, Moi franchement ça m’dégoûte. Filez avant qu’le jour se lève Si vous trouvez la fève. 2 comments
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