There is a lot of fuss in the papers this morning about
This painting of Picasso’s called Angel Fernandez de Soto
(The Absinthe Drinker) which Andrew Lloyd Webber is trying
to sell for $60 million.
I’m afraid all I can see is the absinthe glass.

Yes it is one I have in my collection.

This is blog number 300,
I offer myself hearty congratulations

Since the early seventies I have been cooking variations of this tart which I first cooked it in “The Wife of Bath” in Kent .
The first variation was a Nectarine and Almond one.
I also cooked an Orange and Almond variation there which was very good, the slices of orange being blanched first to lose some of their bitterness, and I think it was there that I first cooked the most classic French version; Pear and Almond.
The tart is truly classic French, one of the most common of all tarts found in French restaurants and Patisseries.
The almond mix is a frangipane cream, as used also in that other classic of French cookery, Gateau Pithiviers.
Yesterday, having some friends for lunch, I made another variation, Plum and Almond.
I am beginning to think this one is the best, especially as there are lots of plums about now, and most of them sold so under ripe as to definitely need cooking to bring them up to standard.
As I also have given some further tweaks to the classic recipe and managed to remember to take a shot of it as I took it out of the oven, I have now decided that the recipe has reached blog (sic) standard.

Plum and Almond Tart

For a 23 cm.(9ins.) tart or quiche tin

Pastry;
110g (4 oz.) Flour
60g (2 oz.) Butter
2 to 3 tablespoons Water

Filling:
110g (4 oz) Butter (preferably unsalted)
110g (4 oz). Caster Sugar
110g (4 oz.). Ground Almonds
2 Eggs
8 to 10 fresh plums
2 oz. Slivered Almonds

Set the oven to Gas 2, 150C, 300F.

Blend the butter with the flour(either by rubbing in or in a food processor)
Knead in the water and use this pastry to line a 12ins. tart tin.

Cover this with tinfoil or some non-stick paper and then with weights.
(I have recently been told that the contents of the penny jar make ideal weights and the metal helps the pastry to cook fast)

Cook with the weights in for about 10 mts. then remove and cook for another 5 to 10 to gently brown the pastry.
The next part can also be easily done in a food processor.
Beat the butter with the sugar until light.
Beat in the eggs, the ground almonds
Pour this mixture into the lined tin.
Quarter the plums and take out the stones.
Push the quartered plums into the almond mixture and scatter over the slivered almonds..
Bake at 150C/300F/Gas 2 for 35 mts.
Test with a skewer like a cake.

Serve warm or at room temperature, with a dollop of whipped cream or Crème Fraiche

In June of last year Darina Allen asked me to be part of a bunch of Irish chefs going to the Slow Food Terre Madre or Mother Earth meeting in Turin in October.
I was delighted to accept.
Then as it got nearer the time and more and more chefs whom I knew dropped out for various reasons, I nearly didn’t go, eventually I plucked up courage and headed off , solo, to Turin last week.
I am so glad that I did.

The first little moment of serendipity happened on the plane on the tarmac in Stanstead.
Who was sitting in the front row but one of my chef heros Antonio Carluccio.
I snuck in behind him, wondering would I ever get a chance to talk to him when the hostess came up, looked cooly at his girth and said; “You’ll need an extension (on his seat belt) you have to find another seat”.
As Carluccio began to protest I saw my chance and said
“You can have my seat Signor Carluccio” thereby making sure that I would at least get an excuse to talk to him.
I did, he is a lovely man.

We were met at the airport by people from Terre Madre and brought straight to
the Oval and Lingotto.
I am still a little confused by which is which.
We are talking about two vast and interconnected buildings, one an ex fiat car factory which has a race track on its roof, the other built for the ice-skating of the winter olympics last year.
One building held the Salone de Gusto, which is like the the stalls in the Spring Show multipied by a hundred and stocking only the finest of foods and wines from the world, the other the Forum for the discussions, the Terre Madre.

To grasp the scale of this here is a few figures.

Represented here were 1600 food communities from 5 continents, 5000 farmers, fishermen and food producers, 1500 cooks and chefs and academics from 250 universities-and this is the official delagate side.
Attending all together were about 250 000 foodies from all over the world.

It was well organised.
Once we hit the Lingotto there were series of tents to take our luggage as all the nations got ready for the grand opening.

Some in their national costumes.

The grand opening itself was celebrated in the
presence of the President of Italy

Senor Napolitano and his wife.

This event is taken extremely seriously in Italy.
The opening was the top item in the news on Italian
television that night

There to address us as well was the founder of Slow Food
Carlo Petrini.

Here I managed to meet up with some of the other Irish Delegates
but discovered that I was alone in my hotel, about 20 kms outside.
That was to turn out not to be such a bummer as I imagined.

There was a special table set aside in the hotel for
the Terre Madre delegates.
There I met up with some people with whom I was to spend
most of my time over the next few days.

Right next to me were Fernando and Marlene Divina
authors of the definitive book on Native American food
“Food of the Americas”
Which, if it is anything of the quality of its authors must
be truly wonderful. (I have ordered a copy from amazon.
com, so can you)
There I also met Sandro Scarpa, who was to be our Italian guide,
David Ash, an English man who runs a foodie web page,
day-tripper.net
and the father and son combo of Christopher and John Farrugia
from Malta.
Christopher has a restaurant there called Ambrosia.
Together we made up the magnificent seven.

The following morning I got down to breakfast early.
There were two American ladies at the table before me.
In answer to my questions one told me she was involved
with school lunches in New York.
That immediately rang a bell.
I had just read a fabulous article in the New Yorker about
this fiesty New York lady, Ann Cooper, who was single handedly
taking on the schools in Berkley,surviving school strikes and much animosity
to try and improve the students diet.
Did she know her?
She was her!

New friends Fernando,Sandro and Marlene
(with Ann opening her emails)

That day I toured the stands of the Salone.
A mind boggling experience.
I did manage to bump into a fair few Irish friends
and drink lots of Prosecco in the Enoteka.

That night the magnificent seven ate in a traditional
Piedmontese Trattoria Called La Burnia in Drubiaglio,
at the foot of the Alps.
There Sandro just told the chef to give us what he
thought was appropiate.
We were fed with at least 7 Anti pasti, one after the other.
Then four different dishes of Pasta, finishing with some
delicious gnocchi.
The main courses were lamb and donkey(sic) but not many
of us were able to do them much justice.
The bill for this feast, including copious quanties of the wines
of the region, was €34 per man.

The following day, suffering from food burnout, I went with
Lorraine Mc Ginnis, another food author, and an Australian
living in Ireland, to have a look at Turin.
Lorraine has written a marvellous book called Feasts and Friends
which she wrote while working with refugees in Australia.

She told be some of their heart breaking stories over lunch in a
pizzaria, I distinguished myself in my usual fashion by weeping
into my calzone.

The Turin Shroud was shroudlike

But the Coffee/Cream/Chocolate drink here
was delicious.

The Torinos, as this cake shop window shows,
enjoy their dolcis.

One down point of the trip was a fairly blatant attempt
at pickpocketing that night on the bus.
Luckily my yells scared them off before they managed to
pick anything

That night the Magnificent Seven, now reduced to six
with the departure of the Divinas and the addition of Lola
from Eat Art in Barcelona went to a much more sophisticated
restaurant (from which I have lost the card) where we dined
in an even more magnificent fashion.

Stop Press, I found the card, it is called La Betulla it is in
S Bernardino Di Trana. Click here to see their website

Our main course there, my undoubted culinary highlight of
the trip, was a pair of fried eggs on some thin mashed potato.
As soon as we were served these the Maitre grated a liberal
shaving of White Truffle on the eggs.
Wonderful!

The following day, to work up an appetite for the next
nights eating I went with Christopher and John to view the
Egyptology museum in Turin.

Father and Son

This too was fairly magnificent.

This Sphinx had the most marvellously
human face.

We got back to the Lingotto in time to hear a symposium
on children and their eating education.
Darina Allen was impressive as was the great Alice Waters
from Chez Panisse in California

This is the same Alice Waters-from a distance!
(and at first left)

After this they made all 1500 chefs put on silly hats and pose for an
enormous group photograph.(I’m at top right)

The high moment of the trip was that night.
All 1500 cooks were brought over to the vast Olympic Village
where we were fed by the combined efforts of the chefs of all
the best Italian Restaurants with rivers of superb Italian wines
to wash it down.
As this was all server buffet style I had a great chance to meet
all my Euro-Toque co-chefs who were there too.

Myself, Lola and Christopher

As you can see from my complexion, much
alcohol was consumed.

That was most of it really.

Dr Vandana Sheeva was incredibly impressive speaking
against GMOs at the closing ceremonies the following day.
But then it was time for the long trip home.

Again on the trip home my Terre Madre serendipity did
not desert me and I discovered that my six hour wait overnight
in Stanstead was considerably shortened by meeting Madeline
Mc Keever, an organic seed seller from West Cork.
She was also on her way back from Terre Madre and has
the most marvellous selection of seeds in her catelogue
which she sells as : Brown Envelope Seeds

All in all a great few days for meeting people

No sun
No moon!
No morn
No noon
No dawn
No dusk
No proper time of day.
No warmth,
No cheerfulness,
No healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member
No shade,
No shine,
No butterflies,
No bees,
No fruits,
No flowers,
No leaves,
No birds,-
November!

(Thomas Hood 1844)

I had to produce a vegetarian brunch this morning.
It also had to be a hearty one as my daughter and her vegetarian boy-friend are good healthy eaters.
I got a notion to make some Huevas Rancheros, this being a Mexican dish of eggs on a bed of tomatoes on a tortilla.
Having decided to produce this dish I then set about thinking about how I could change it to suit my ends.
As I love a touch of potato for breakfast the tortilla quickly became a potato pancake, a bit of a marriage between the Swiss Roesti and our own Boxty.
The tomato part of the dish, just onion and tinned tomatoes, with a touch of chilli peppers seemed a bit aggressive for breakfast (given that one would not have spent several hours rounding up steers prior to eating it) so I decided to make this element more of a Ratatouille, in the French style and add some sweet Peppers and Aubergine and to use fresh tomatoes instead of tinned.
Of course there was no way I was going to find Monterey Jack cheese so a block of our own vintage Kilmeaden seemed a good substitute
At this stage I began to realise that I was no longer making Huevas Rancheros. In fact I was in severe danger of making a fusion dish with traces of Switzerland, France and Ireland imposed on a fast disappearing Mexican base.
However I decided to live with this, and the end result was so good I now realise I made a good decision.
To acknowledge the shift away from Mexico I have also changed the name.

Ranchhouse Eggs
(for 4)

6 medium Potatoes
Bunch Chives, finely chopped
2 Eggs
Olive oil for frying
2 Medium Onions
1 Green Pepper
1 Red Pepper
1 Aubergine
450 g (1 lb.) Ripe Tomatoes
1 Tablespoon Red Wine Vinegar
110g (4 oz.) Vintage Cheddar.
4 Large Free Range Eggs
Salt and Pepper

First make the potato pancakes.
Peel the potatoes and grate them coarsely.
Chop the chives, beat the eggs and add these and a liberal seasoning of salt and black pepper to the grated potato.
Have ready a good frying pan oiled with a little olive oil.
When the pan is very hot drop about two tablespoons of the egg and potato mix on the pan and then flatten with a fork or a spatula.
Let this cook until it is brown and crisp at the edges then flick it over and cook on the other side.
If your pan is big enough you should be able to cook two or three of these at a time.
This mixture should give you eight or more pancakes.
As they are cooked put them on a baking sheet to be reheated later in a hot oven.

Chop the onion into little cubes and do the same with the green and red peppers.
Fry these together in a little olive oil.
In a separate pan fry similar cubes of aubergine in oil until they are tender.
(They take longer to cook than the other vegetables and are not good if undercooked)
Blanch the tomatoes in boiling water to remove the skins then halve them, scoop out and discard the seeds and dice the flesh.
Add this to the peppers, add in the aubergine also and season with salt and black pepper and the vinegar.

Before the brunch.

Reheat the potato pancakes on the tray in a hot oven.
Have the ratatouille hot in pot on the stove.
Coarsely grate the cheese.
Put on a large frying pan of water with a tablespoon of vinegar to poach the eggs.
When this water is simmering slip the eggs in gently(it makes this easier if you break these into a cup first)
Poach these for no longer than two minutes.

Put one or two of the pancakes on a warmed plate.
Put a mound of the ratatouille mix on the pancakes and make a hollow in the centre of this with a spoon and slip a drained egg into this hollow.
Sprinkle over the cheese and serve.

I went into a local supermarket this afternoon just to get a few things for dessert as we are having some people to dinner tonight. I got to the check-out with ground almonds, eggs and crème fraiche in my basket.
Now I have a certain very minor recognition factor going for me within the centre of Waterford city, in that area where the local free paper, Waterford Today, is distributed, as I do a weekly recipe in it and it by-lines the recipes with my photo.
There was a woman packing the bags for the ISPCA and she gave me a knowing look and said “Any chance of a few recipes?”
While I was giving my best effort at a smile both modest and self depreciating the check out girl, totally ignoring me, turned to the ISPCA lady and said;” I was wondering, with him being a man and all, getting them things for a cake, and then I recognised him”
I had obviously had a very narrow escape.

This reminded me of an incident about twenty five years ago while I was working in a restaurant here in Waterford.
The gents had gone out of order so we had to send the gents to the ladies until all was fixed.
The local gynaecologist, being taken short was sent off to what we presumed was an empty ladies.
It wasn’t.
He came back rocking with laughter.
He had burst in upon a lady, who turned out to be a patient of his, in situ in the toilet.
She had screamed first, but then recognising him had sighed with relief and said “Oh its alright, Its you doctor”
Obviously she felt her gynie wasn’t seeing anything he hadn’t seen before.

Sile and I on the Honda 175 on our honeymoon.

Sile and I got married in 1973, around the time they were just beginning to realise that there might be a relationship between cigarette smoking and cancer and that there also could be a connection between drunkenness and car accidents.
At that time we had a flat in Ailesbury Park, at the very end of Ailesbury road, that road where, just because it was the second dearest in Irish Monopoly, all the Ambassadors had their residences. To get from my place of work, Snaffles on Leeson Street, to our flat I had to drive down Ailesbury road, usually at about midnight.
Because of the ambassadorial residences the road was enormously over populated with bored members of the Garda Siochana.
As I was driving a motor bike, a Honda 175, and therefore suspect, they used to frequently relieve their boredom by stopping me and asking me the usual series of inane questions trying to discover if I was either drunk or a terrorist.
If I had managed to be bought a drink in work I took to taking another route home.
It happened that about a week before the wedding Sile and I decided to make a concession towards tradition by having a drinking session with our friends.
This time was at the height of the women’s liberation movement so to be all emancipated (not to mention self righteous) we decided that rather than give the usual Stag and Hen parties we would hold a combined Cock and Doe (Groan!) party in the Waterloo House at the end of Waterloo Road.
I think it was probably a good night.
With Sile on the back of the bike we headed back to the flat.
I was sufficiently cute to realise that it would not be a good idea to go down Ailesbury Road so I put together a devious itinerary home which I imagined would avoid us having any embarrassing meetings with the Guards.
I failed.
As we came out of Herbert park en route to Ailesbury Park I realised that the American Embassy was directly and unavoidably in front of us.
Furthermore, possibly due to a protest over the Vietnam war, the Embassy was crawling with the men in blue.
I realised immediately that the most important thing was that I keep my head and then we would be fine.
“We’ll be alright Sile” I said “so long as I drive really slowly”
I began to crawl past the embassy.
The inevitable occurred.
The speed we were travelling lacked sufficient momentum to maintain our perpendicular position so, slowly and ignominiously, just outside the embassy, we fell over.
We were surrounded immediately by crowds of bored and caring guards, most of them obviously from either Cork or Kerry.
With cries of “Oh you poor unfortunates,God love ye, are ye OK?” and even
“Ups a daisy now” they lifted us both back on the bike and pushed us off in the direction home.

I think it was the following morning before I realised how fortunate we had been.

In 1963, when I was about fourteen and in second year in Christian Brothers College in Cork, the class teacher informed us one day that Christian Doctrine, which was what our religious education class was called, was on that day going to be taken by a visiting priest.
At the appropriate moment we were taken over by an elderly and, as I remember him, rather ethereal, priest.
For the next forty five minutes he gave us a talk about the birds and the flowers and yes he even mentioned the bees.
I distinctly remember he spent a particularly long time telling us in great detail about how flowers were pollinated.
Every word he spoke passed lightly over my head.
It is a wonderful monument to the way us children of the fifties were raised that we had not a single notion that the man was actually attempting to teach us the facts of life.
That is all except one of us.
There was one boy in the class who was particularly small, so small his mother had kept him in short trousers while all the rest of us were swaggering about in “longers”.
This particularly child had a father who was a lecturer in the university and this status had kept him from the more advanced bullying techniques practiced both by the boys and the brothers.
When the strange priest had finished his oblique lecture he surveyed the class with satisfaction and James, as I will call the short trousered boy, broke out into loud hysterical tears.
This astounded the rest of the class, who had assumed that they had just attended a natural history class, but was totally appreciated by the , now gratified, priest.
He put his arm around James’ shoulder and murmuring soothing words led him out to the class teacher.
The rest of us boys were left even more mystified.

The following summer a fourth year boy, in two or three brief sentences, gave me a thoroughly accurate description of the details and consequences of the sexual act.
I didn’t feel in the least like crying.
It was several years after that again when it suddenly dawned on me what the priest was trying to achieve on that day.
I don’t think he had any idea that he had communicated his message to only one boy.

I read in today’s Independent that two Pakistani cricketers have been sent home for failing a drugs test for performance enhancing drugs.
For cricket!
I have fond memories of watching cricket in the Mardyke grounds in Cork as a child, and again as a student in London spending sleepy afternoons watching matches on Putney Heath.
I always thought it the most soothing of games to watch, I have a friend who loved to listen to the sonorous tones of John Arlott on the radio, this without understanding the first thing about the game, but just for the wonderful feeling of soporific heat that came over him listening to the game’s lazy unfolding.
What on earth would one take to improve ones performance of such a game.
I also see in today’s paper that an Australian was sent home in disgrace in 2003 for taking a diuretic.
Was he that desperate for an excuse to grab a few moments off pitch in the pavilion?
Was he so bored by the match that he needed a cast iron excuse for a fag break?
Maybe the “performance enhancing” drugs taken by the Pakistanis were to prevent just such an eventuality, could they have been tranquillizers?