As served to the guests in Le Presbytere last night.
This dish haunts me a little as we always had it on the menu in Dwyers restaurant in Waterford and people became just a little addicted. If ever I had the temerity to drop Dauphinoise my customers were apt to sulk and suffer from cold turkey.
Here in France I try and make it just an occasional treat !

This one is pinched directly from my brother-in-law Padraic de Bhaldraithe:

Translation Blunder of the Month

Gerber is now not only known as a famous baby food manufacturer, but also for the fact that it shares its name with the French verb ‘to vomit’ – not a great start when you want to go global. It got worse when they tried to sell their products in Africa, jars of Gerber baby food whereby the label depicts a picture of a healthy smiley baby. Not such a problem until they realised that owing to a low African literacy rate, many companies in Africa used pictures on labels to denote what’s inside – oh dear…

I first came across Gazpacho in Snaffles in the early seventies. There this Spanish classic chilled soup was getting its first airing via the books of Elizabeth David.
There it had a certain cachet but on the whole I think that Irish punters had a fairly severe distrust of a chilled soup, it somehow didn’t mix well with grey Dublin winter evenings.
I have had a bit of a love hate relationship with the soup since then.
Last year, on truly warm summer evenings where we can see the Spanish Pyrenees from the terrace seemed a good moment to give it a try so I made it a couple of times, in my usual fashion, liquidizing onions garlic peppers cucumber and tomato and seasoning these with olive oil, vinegar and salt and pepper. I used to keep some of these ingredients aside, dice them finely and add them at the end for texture.
Now while it was a fine chilled soup it wasn’t fantastic so I decided to back to the drawing board, in this case Sam Clark’s Moro Spanish Cookbook.
He was, I was surprised to notice, particularly fussy and meticulous with something which essentially was a simple peasant dish.
It turns out of course that he was spot on and his version of Gazpacho (with a few tweaks) has become a bit of a standard on the terrace for warm nights.
It is without doubt the most refreshing dish for these Mediterraneanevenings.
Here is my twist on Sam Clarks soup- (be warned it involves three different machines for pureeing- not something I would ever advocate unless it was worth it.)

Ingredients:
3 fat Garlic Cloves
1 sweet Spanish onion
½ Kg Ripe sweet tomatoes halved and cores removed.
500g Gr. Tomato Passata
1 Small Green pepper roughly chopped
1 Small Red Pepper roughly chopped
¾ Cucumber chopped roughly
3 Tablespoons Rough Breadcrumbs- made with stale bread
3 Tablespoons Sherry Vinegar
4 Tablespoons Good Quality Olive Oil
Salt, Black Pepper and a generous pinch of sugar.

First out with the liquidizer (or you could use a stick blender)
Peel and chop the onion and the garlic and whizz until totally liquid.
(This is the secret- there is nothing attractive about chunks of either in the final soup)
Now get out the food processor and pulse together the tomatoes and the Passata, the peppers and the cucumber, the crumbs, vinegar olive oil and seasonings along with the pureed onion and garlic…
Process these well together.
Now for machine number three, the Mouli Legume- basically the old-fashioned method of pushing stuff through a sieve.
Take out about ¼ of the pureed mixture and set aside to add texture at the end.
Put all the other mixture through the mouli legume until all that is left is the seeds and stem sand skins which you throw out.

An effort? Yes
Worth it? Yes

Now put this in the fridge for several hours with some ice cubes to insure it gets very cold.
Taste it just before you serve it, if properly chilled it may need some extra seasoning.
Serve in bowls with a dribble of olive oil on the top.

You could do without the food processor if you pulsed the mixture in the liquidizer and did not let iut get too smooth.

You could also do without the mouli by pushing through a sieve.

For the last three years two Collared Doves, Pierrot and Colombine, have been behaving disgracefully in our Chinaberry Tree, directly in front of our terrace, each evening, without shame and in front of our guests.
They have it seems the mistaken idea that we are a sort of Hotel Paradiso, suitable for short lettings.
We are very relieved to see that this year, after two years of malarky Pierrot has decided to make an honest dove of Colombine and a few days ago started making a nest.
Now it must be confessed that his education in that department was fairly rudimentary, he mainly came with a twig of two in his beak and then let them drop on the tree, or more often on the ground below.
However after several days of this they decided to move in and the picture shows them both squashed onto the “nest”.

Columbine is now brooding and coos seductively on the nest all day while Pierrot is not so much in evidence (I suspect he may be having a bit of a stag with the lads)

Watch this space for further developments and the patter of tiny wings.

This morning I went for a blood test at 7.45- in fact I first attempted to give the stuff away yesterday at 11.30. I arrived into the lab to find they had changed the system and when I queued up as usual Madame snapped at me to take a number and wait in the area until I was called. (I was the only one there)

Eventually she called me; “Numero Neuf S’il vous plait?” and I dutifully handed in my ordinance, my mutuel and my Carte Vital. “You have been fasting since midnight ?” “No” I said dismayed, “Nobody told me” “But it is on your ordinance ” she said examining it. then; “No it is not” so then I got my first smile. “It is not your fault ” she said “The doctor should have told you, come back tomorrow at 7.45”

So I did, and this time I took a number and waited to be called.(the waiting room was full at this time) Eventually Madame called me, big smile and wagged a finger at me as she said “This time you havn’t eaten?” ” Not a thing” I said timidly.
She then shot a question at me that I had not been expecting. “Date of birth ?”

Suddenly my brain cleared of all French numbers and I looked at her blankly. I started to mentally count in French – un, deux, trois, but damn me if I could get past douxe- twelve.
The room got quieter as everyone watched my extreme discomfort as I counted inside my now empty head.
Suddenly it came to me !
Treize ! I shouted Treize! Treize Mars.

The whole room heaved a collective sigh. Madame quickly said “1949- it is written here”- To stop me going off into another mind wrencher.

By the time I actually got to give the blood to the nurse I had calmed down a little and was able to laugh feebly when she told me as she removed the eighth vial from my arm “Its all right I will leave you a liddle.”

The latest and best flavoured cherries, grown by a woman who lives by the Orb at Tarrasac Bridge. This is the third year we have made the pilgrammage and Boy! are they worth it.

I was in the Cash and Carry this morning when I spotted five of these beauties.
(The Cash and Carry has an excellent fish counter)
They are John Dory, usually smaller in Irish waters but grow huge here in the Med, these were weighing in at about a kilo each.
They are called Saint Pierre here due to the thumb print on its side left by Saint Peter when he took one up out of the water on Jesus’s instructions.
And they are quite my favourite fish.

Now I know I have ten for dinner tomorrow so I was sold already.
These five monsters yielded up ten generous fillets, already taken off now and ready to cook tomorrow.

I am not quite sure yet how I will cook them but must include at least some Anchovy in the sauce. Alan Davidson tells us that the Irish Actor James Quin who wowed London in the 1750’s (and whose favourite John Dory also was), settled the question of what sauce suited it best by announcing the banns of marriage between “Delicate Ann Chovy and good John Dory.”

This one is from the sixties.
I had been on a trip to Belfast and was hitching slowly back to Dublin and was stuck by the side of the road about 20 miles from the capital heading south when a car, heading north, pulled up by the side of the road and an anxious Indian gentleman asked me ” Can you tell me please where is Dundalough”. I was mistified but then the penny dropped. ” You mean Glendalough ” I said. he nodded hopefully. ” You are heading in the totally wrong direction” I told him. “Glendalough is in Wicklow, you’ll have to turn around and go back through Dublin and head south from there” He obediently u turned and headed south.

It was only then that the real penny dropped as I looked across the road and saw a sign for Dundalk just a few miles up the road to the north.
It was, of course Dundalk, pronounced as spelled, that the unfortunate man was looking for.
My only consolation was that he would surely find Glendalough much prettier.

Foolishly forgot to collect my Visa Card in the office of our local garage a few days ago.
The receptionist rang to say she found it still in the machine and that she would keep it safe for us.
I ran in today and, surprised myself by doing something very French, I didn’t say a word but slapped the palm of my hand on the side of my forehead while pursing my lips together and raising my shoulders.

She laughed, she understood exactly what I meant to convey, that I was outraged at my own stupidity, handed over my card and I ran out.

Would I have acted the same way in Ireland ?
I don’t think so.

Latest painting acquisition (not true actually- the wonderful daughters bought us one of the rooftops of Beziers for the big Four O but that is in exhibition until September) is of a red barge painted near Colombiers on the Canal de Midi. This is a watercolour painted by Marie-Claude Laurent who sings in Sile’s choir.