This piece- with relevance to Les Copains- originally was published in August 2007.

In August in Thezan we were joined by one of my oldest friends Michael, I use the phrase judiciously, for not only has Michael been a friend since we were at school together(some fifty years ago) he also served as my best-man in 1973 and he celebrated a certain significant birthday last week with us in Languedoc.

In the course of the day we fell upon this quite dotty pair of Hurdy-Gurdiests who were in the town of Capestang on the Canal de Midi.

They handed out song sheets so that other dotty idiots could sing along with them.
I was immediatly suckered, the song sheets were full of terrific French Chansons.and there I spotted my favourite George Brassens number which on request the played for me.
Of course Michael and I joined in the singing.
It seemed very suitable to have the two ancient friends together in France celebrating their dotage by singing Les Copains d’Abord

I was just put on a 24 hour monitor by my Cardiologue this consisted of attaching electrodes all over my chest and attaching these to monitor which I had to wear like a shoulder holster.

He checked out the readings today and declared the results “impeccable” then at home I just checked out my Stat Counter and found out that the hits to my site at martindwyer.com had just passed the quarter of a million mark- 250003 to be exact, and got an email from the restaurant critic of the Irish Times telling me she had managed to squeeze a nice little mention of Le Presbytere into her review on next Saturdays paper.

Good News Week.

This is I think the architypical street food in the south of France, you can still pick up a warm and delicious slice in Pezenas market on Saturdays, Elizabeth David talks about grabbing a slice for breakfast in Antibes in the thirties.

I hate to insult the whole of Italy but have no doubt that it predates the pizza, just think of what the principal ingredient of a pizza is and when Columbus brought these fruits over from the US of A for the first time.

Also unlike the pizza it doesn’t here (in French markets at any rate) come with any variations (sorry Donal) but is made with caramelised onions, anchovies and black olives only.

I get whole anchovies from Collioure and fillet them myself, they are much meatier than the tinned fillets.

That said I fairly inevitable make my otherwise traditional version with a short crisp base rather than traditional bread dough- this is because I am serving it as a starter and don’t want to fill up my guests.

Here is the version I call my Languedoc Pissaladiére :

Base
225g (8 oz.) Flour
110g (4 oz.) Butter
1 Egg
1 tbs Water

Topping:
3 tablespoons Olive Oil
4 Large Onions sliced thinly

2 oz. Anchovies (1 small tin)
2 oz. Black Olives ( stoned)

Base:
Make the base like you would make shortcrust pastry.

Either rub the butter into the frour by hand or in a food processor.
Bind into a dough with the egg and the water.
Leave this for an hour in the fridge to rest.

Roll this out to line an oiled 12″ round pan (or a swiss roll tray)

Set the oven to 200C 400F gas 6.
Cook the pastry base at this temperature for 15 mts until brown and crisp
(I find there is no need to weigh this down)

Topping:
In a large pan cook the sliced onions-covered- in the olive oil on a low heat until they are soft and melting.
Then remove the lid and cook fast until the brown but not burn (stir from time to time)
Spoon these over the dough base.

Slice the anchovies in two along their length and make a lattice on top of the onions with them.Into each square put a stoned olive.
Cook in a moderately hot oven (190C,375F,Gas 5) for about 20 to 25 mts..
Serve this hot or at room temperature.

Yesterday, while friends Finola and Suzanne were staying we set off to tour the saltworks in Aigues Morts , we soon found out that- to Síle’s delight, the whole trip would take place in a Petit Train

As we travelled out into the salt flats we got a terrific view of the walled town, surely one of the best preserved in France.

The salt gives the water a distinctive pink tone.

The salt hills were impressive, like alps should be.

And the high salinity means there are plenty of brine-shrimp and their predator the flamingo

It was down by the banks of a clear flowing stream
That first I accosted that comely young game
And in great confusion I asked her her name
Are you Ora or Flora or the famed Queen of Tyre
She answered I’m neither, I’m Síle Dwyer

Go rhyming rogue, let your flocks roam in peace
You won’t find among them that famed golden fleece
The tresses of Helen, that Goddess of Greece
Have harked round your heart in a web of desire
Be off to your Speir-Bhean, said Síle Dwyer

May the sufferings of Sisyphus fall to my share
And may I the sufferings of Tantalus fear
To the dark land of Hades may my soul fall in air
Without linnet in song or an ode on the lyre
If I ever prove false to you Síle Dwyer

Oh had I the wealth of the Orient store
All the gems of Peru and the Mexican Ore
Or the hand of a Midas to mould o’er and o’er
Bright bracelets of gold and of flaming sapphire
I would robe you in splendour, my Síle Dwyer

And yes, this is a genuine old ballad that coincidentally shares my wife’s name.
I am not certain whether the Síle in question was an actual inamorata of the poet or, like Roisín Dubh a personification of Ireland
I came across it six years ago.blogged it then and give it to you again today
.

In the year 1972 when I was 23 years old , in a house called Naoimh Treasa in Baile ns hAbhann in Conemara, I kissed for the first time young Síle Ronayne (aged 20), 40 years ago yesterday.

A friend who deals in things electronic was speaking to some clients in Paris recently, there was an ad hoc component, he explained to this particular tool, meaning one specifically designed for the purpose.
His Parisian client was silent and obviously mystified.
‘Why?’ he demanded ‘does it come with a fish’.
Monsieur had of course heard ‘addock, or as we say it haddock, a word the French use for smoked haddock (unsmoked being églefin ).

This in turn reminded me of a time when one of my sisters was au pairing in the Charante district.
I appeared to her that all of France came to her and said ‘Ah, you are Irish- N.S.E. !’
What these mysterious letters meant or how she was supposed to react was totally beyond her.
Eventually the code was cracked.
The French were merely acknowledging that the premier maker of Cognac, which was made in that region, was of Irish stock- Monsieur Hennessy, or as they said N.S.E.

Thus we can see that we can get lost in translation without translating anything.

25C here yesterday on the terrace, first time we have had dinner there in March. It was nearly as hot in Dublin last weekend. Summer?

With Catherine Cleary and Jane Travers- both published authors- in the Book Centre.

It was a great thrill to be asked to this session on food writing and I don’t think anyone notice the fraud in their midst, as I am still without a publisher.
We got a terrific attendance, a lot of old and new customers, friends and even some ex-employees.

Any notions I might have had about myself were soon shattered as soon as I got off the train.
A garbage truck pulled up beside me “Will you look at what the cat brought back !- There’s the man who pulled out in time !- How’s Mrs. Dwyer ?”

I was back in Waterford- and it felt good.

Be Warned ! Under the headline “Surgeon sang as he worked on my heart ” and this picture, in the Health Section of todays Irish Times is the story of my recent heart flutter.
It is, on their website, one of the editor’s choices. I have now become a professional invalid.

Santé.