A long, hot walk has turned into an unplanned swim. A brief, cooling unplanned swim. The water bracing in Autumn will become even more of a challenge in the winter months. But I love the sea. Gliding on the mill pond ripples. Riding the rollercoaster swells on windier days. The nudging waves that push the swimmer in one direction or another. I stand on the empty beach with only the wind and sun drying my bared, bare body. Waiting to turn from wet to acceptable damp before dressing. No one around but my dog. Water averse and patiently sitting, he now licks my legs as I head for the car and home to a warm, comforting shower. My skin powdered with a salty residue that is, apparently, irresistible.
Salty.
I have a bowl of water. Salted water. Tepid. As salty as the sea. So salty I could almost float in it. But I have already had a dip. A plum purple eggplant... that word would not have made the pages of a Marcel Pagnol memoir, although this recipe might have. For the purposes of this dish, I will defer to the local vernacular. A plum purple aubergine rolls across my chopping board towards the edge of the counter. Its skin shiny, patent, polished. I grab it. My knife. Cool steel. Silver grey. Razor sharp. With casual precision, I top and tail it, removing the residual pale green leafy tips that cling tightly to the skin. I dice the vegetable. Half thumb sized squares, revealing the spongey, creamy interior. The chopping inaccurately quick as the flesh, like an apple, colours. Oxidises. I tilt the board and watch the purple curved corners and ivory cubes tumble into the half-glazed bowl. Into the salted water. I pick up my other aubergine. Au-ber-gine. Cut. Cube. Cascade. A large circular lid from a Dutch oven covers the bobbing blocks, forcing them under the water and out of sight. I walk away. They will sit for an hour or so, the salt water will leech the bitterness, will prevent any taint.
I step out of the kitchen and onto the terrace towards the terracotta pots that contain thyme, bay, sage, rosemary. No Scarborough Fair here. And sadly, none of the basil that authenticity would allow. The sun´s light searing the eyes, the tiles, reflecting the heat, increasing the temperature. My scissors snip a bushy branch of thyme and a couple of bay leaves. Held tight as I return to the shadier, kinder climate of the kitchen. Squeezing the leaves in my hand to release the perfume. The peppered cream bouquet and citrus scent, a ghost of a smell evaporates from my palm as soon as the bay is dropped into the pot. I put them both in the bottom of the Dutch oven. Into the creamy ceramic bowl´s base, stained dark from years of use.
Onion Johnny.
The wicker basket. It contains all the alliums possible. Discarded skins line the base like feathers in a nest and amongst them onions, scallions and garlic. I pick out a large bulb of garlic. The purple and white parchment reflecting the colours of the eggplant. With my thumbs I rub the loose papery layers, flurrying them into the bin. Leaving only the immediate skin to protect the individual segments. I take my knife and cut the bulb horizontally, just close enough to the top to expose the cloves´ flesh. To expose me to the intense garlic aroma. If they could fuse garlic and fried bacon together, my mouth would be dripping like a broken faucet. You may not feel the same way. The bulb sits jauntily with the herbs.
The fridge door rattles as I open it, revealing a host of jars, the contents half consumed and waiting to be finished or, forgotten, turning to mould. There are some eggs, bottles, packets of butter and, hidden behind all of them, a cool metallic tube of tomato purée thumb-dimpled in the centre like toothpaste. NON! Squeeze from the bottom please. I hold the end and with a spoon force the purée up towards the cap. A good measure is squeezed into the Dutch oven to join the garlic and herbs. Then, an act of spite really, I curl the bottom upwards and roll it towards the top to prevent any more unnecessary, upsetting dimples. My smile as wonky as it is smug.
On the windowsill, tomatoes ripen in the sun. I shake the vine lightly to let the ripest drop off. Five tumble in my direction. In every direction. I wanted three. The heady smell of the vine hits my nose. Scents my fingers with a benzine whiff as I test the five for the most ripened. Soft. Squidgy. I select my three and leave the others on the work surface to cut, roast and add to a sandwich later. Turning them on the board, navel side down, my knife´s keen edge makes easy slicing through the centre of the fruit. Yes, it is, isn´t it. Two halves part. I slice each half again making chunky quarters. The wedges face upward as I hold down the flesh with my fingertips and cut under the pulp, my blade horizontal, to remove the gelatinous pippy and pithy parts that are un-cookable. Indigestible. Inedible. I go to work slicing the flesh further. Long strips. Cutting what is left into squares, until I have a roughly chopped pulpy mound. Concasse it is not. Twelve quarters. Six halves. One pile, pale and flavoursome. Using the spine of the knife, I scrape it into the pot.
I take two medium sized onions. Lightening the basket of its abundant alliums only a little. The papery outer layers autumnal oranges and pine browns. Crisp. Crackling. As brittle as fallen leaves. The broken skin revealing the softer, lighter centre. I slice the tips off and turn them around to snip off the hairy roots ensuring that the round, creamy core is removed. I chop. Three slices one way. Four slices the other. The onion chunks reflecting the size of the eggplant. Squared off. Cubed. I cry. Not with joy. I cry more. I leave the kitchen for a while. The brilliant sun for once seems to smart less.
A crunchy capsicum, campanile sized. A bell pepper. Brilliant yellowy red, its skin shines almost as bright in the sunlight as the eggplant. My knife goes to work. Tail first. Twist. Turn. Chop. Taking off the green hooked stem and a rosette of the pepper´s top. I break the flesh away from the green and rest it with the base to one side. I take the red fibrous tube, standing it upside down, I cut downwards through a dimpled crease. Creating an opening. I lay it on its side. The cone of seeds facing me. My fingers gently hold the top as my blade slides through the first pithy ridge, then, slowly rolling the pepper open as the knife continues its cutting mission below. I change position, holding the pepper flat with my palm behind the knife. The last cut releases the seeded cluster and I discard it with a flick. No white pips. No mess. Well, almost. I cube the capsicum, trimming here and there where the knife has missed the pith.
Zucchini. The mini marrow. Courgette, even. Leafy green flecked with yellow. Its long, arched and bulbous shape finishing in a hard pentagonal root. I wash it lightly under some running water. It is organic after all. Patting it dry, I take the knife and top and tail it, revealing pale yellow interior. Three quick cuts with the blade and I up end each of the four pieces. I bring the first one close to me. The knife runs through the centre horizontally. A gentle turn, sixty degrees, but I am eyeballing it. I cut again. Another gentle turn, another sixty degrees. Another cut. I flatten the six wedges on the chopping board and cube them. Like the onion. Like the bell pepper. Just like the aubergine. All complementing the other. I repeat. Cut. Twist. Sixty. Cut. Twist. Sixty. Until there is no more to chop.
I pause.
I lift the lid of the Dutch oven, raising it from the salted water and place it on a draining rack. The aubergine chunks resistant to sinking, bob back to the surface. Placing a large, enamelled colander in the sink I watch the water pour out through the perforations, over and around the cubes. The tinted liquid like weak tisane. A few shakes to get rid of any excess I lay the pieces on paper towel to pat dry. They join the other ingredients.
Unorthodox.
I am no Cézanne, but this cubist medley of vegetables, this nod to Nice, will be art. An Occitan original. A stir up of squares, chunks, tiles that are waiting turns to be fried. There is an order. The approach to this recipe is not traditional, but you will see.
My frying pan is large. The widest one I have. Heavy. The non-stick long gone. I pour, no drizzle here, olive oil to cover the base and slide in the onions. The match strike reminding me of the hissing of pebbles from a wave´s retreat. The gas, the boom of the waves as they strike the shore. Perhaps I liked my swim too much. The oil starts to sizzle as the heat takes. I sprinkle some sea salt to break down the fibres. Generously. Maybe too generously. The heat is lowered to the minimum. Onions like to be eased into hot temperatures. It prevents browning and bitterness. Little is needed other than patience to create translucent flakes. A few flicks of the pan, chef style, to keep the cooking even. That. Is. It.
Olive oil. Another glug. My mosaic of bitter bell pepper bites needs to soften. The gentle heat is lifted ever so slightly. I do not want the skin to burn, blacken, crisp. The softening will take time. So the heated pan will stay reasonably low. The skin slowly puckering, dimpling, will give me a clue to the tenderness. The level of resistant bite. Not too much. The crisp capsicum is slowly persuaded to become pliable. Soft. Sweet.
Courgette replaces the bell pepper, that I have slid into the Dutch oven. Curved sided, squared off, glistening pieces. Beads of moisture dot the cut edges. Sweat like. They will be getting their workout momentarily. The heat comes up. Olive oil shimmers at the base of the pan, the aroma distinct and peppery, inviting the vegetable to coat itself in the grassy, glassy liquid. Unlike the onions the hiss-sizzle of the wedges hitting the fat drowns out any outside noises. I shake, flick, riddle, the pan ensuring that the oil´s invitation is truly accepted. A confetti of salt flakes to help draw out the juices and lightly caramelise the creamy edges. To gently turn tan, enough to give a contrast of colour. I empty the pan, the courgette cascading over the onions, herbs, tomatoes, purée.
More oil. Absolutely. But not so much that it becomes an oily dish. This is not a confit. I just want enough to help the aubergine fry, to gain a light tinged brownness. Awaiting the cue, the rippling oil, the lost viscousness, I take only a handful of cubes, not wanting to crowd the pan, and toss them in. More shaking. More tossing. More spitting, my bare flesh feeling the occasional sizzle. The pan is at its hottest now from so much use. But the aubergine can take it. I toss and wonder why the same culprit cubes land back on the caramelised side. I use a spatula to correct their erroneous ways. All sides done, I use the same tool to flick the spongy squares into the Dutch oven. I take another handful and repeat, checking whether I need a little more oil to fry. I repeat again, and once more. Topping up the oil level where necessary. A sense of urgency as I feel the heat of the pan through the handle, as the frying chunks take less time each round, as I start to sweat, my arms feeling the strain of the work. The final handful fried and flicked into the bowl, I step back and admire the area where the spitting oil has misted over the counter and hob. A monochrome Jackson Pollock of grease. Oh well.
There is a carton of white wine. Yes, I cook with it. It resides with the condiments, the salt, pepper, and vinegars. I find a tumbler. An octagonal bottomed glass, bistro style, appropriately. I fill it. Up to the level just beyond what may be considered a polite measure. Pale straw coloured and lemon scented. An acidity that will help break down the fibres of the vegetables further. Add a depth of flavour. It is tipped into the Dutch oven. With a spatula I stir, mix, combine all the ingredients, ensuring the purée is dissolved. I find the lid and cover the contents.
The oven has been warming up for a while now. Oven? Surprise. Some people do their Bolognese sauce in the oven. I do not judge. Well maybe a little. Gloved, I open the oven´s door, avoiding the blast of heat, pulling out the shelf a third of the way and with a weightlifter´s stance slowly lift and lower the cast iron bowl onto it. Bend the knees not the back! I push the shelf in and shut the door. A choreographed ballet of movement that seemingly takes time but is merely a blink. Heat is barely lost from opening the door. I make a mental note of the time and pour myself a drink. A light break.
Salted.
I have water. Salted water. Cold. This time not as salty as the sea. A mere pinch. A spoon´s tip. I fumble for a match in the bottom of the box. Tricky creatures if you have no length in your nails. I retrieve one. Finger wrestled out. One strike. The blue gaseous ring begins to heat the pan. Rice. Oryza indica. Long grain. Single sourced. Well, sourced from a single supermarket. Life is rarely that exotic. I measure a half cup of polished pearlescent grains. And wait for it the water to come to a rolling boil.
I distract myself with fish. Sea bass. Cleaned but not filleted. Skin as silver grey as my knife. My fish knife. It is pliable. Bendy. Sharp. I lay the fish down, its dorsal fin towards me, the head to my right. Its cold, dead eye staring. Staring at me. It. Was. Not. Me. I slash. Behind the gills and under the fin. A merciless, deep slicing movement. Down to the spine and through the flesh of the belly. I make a small cut at the tail, a finger´s width from the end. My palm holding the fish down, the blade flat, I draw the knife down, from behind the head, and using the spine as my guide, towards the tail. I pull off the fillet and trim the edges, setting it aside to await the other. I turn the fish over, its frame touching the board´s surface, its head lolling onto the counter. It is deliberate. The fish is flatter, easier to cut. I repeat the slicing process. Removing the fillet, trimming it, bagging the frame in a freezer bag for stock. Tweezers. I rummage for fish tweezers in my knife roll, remove the most evident of bones.
Time.
Time is important now. Time. There was I time when all I could cook was the meal I am now putting together, without the fish. That and egg, boiled or fried. A garret in Paris. Sounds romantic. It was not. I cooked it badly. It took years to un-learn my dislike of this Southern French stew. Thank goodness the job I had then provided lunch.
The water is gurgling, rolling. Boiling. I let the rice fall into the pan, a shower of grain, and stir it clockwise to avoid sticking. The clock is ticking. I dress my hands in oven gloves and open the oven´s door. A sudden cloud of vapour hits my face. Blinds me in whiteness. I forgot to remove my glasses. I count to ten then, in a crouch pull out and lift up the weighty iron casserole that holds my meal and place it on a hob ring next to the boiling rice, slamming the door with my foot. I lift my glasses, then lift the lid. Ha! I want to check that the liquids have evaporated enough. That the vegetables have melded and have become a tangle of flavours. It is slightly wetter than is traditional but then, that is why I have the rice. I place the lid back askew, it will allow the contents to stay warm, and stir the rice. Clouding water, some frothy scum, is tipped into the sink. I tilt the pan and drain the rice through a sieve, putting the sieve in the pan and a lid on top.
Under the counter, amongst plates, gratin dishes, roasters and some baking trays, I pull out a pasta style bowl. I put it into the still hot oven. The frying pan, used for the various stages of this concoction, is wiped with a paper towel and placed on the still lit hob the rice was boiling over. I wait.
With a cupped hand, I gently rub a small amount of olive oil on each fish fillet. Scatter a small drift of sea salt over the flesh side and hold my hand an inch above the frying pan to check the heat, although the sweet aroma from its previous use gives me enough of a hint. It is hot. Steak searingly hot. I place the fillets skin down into the pan. The hiss and crackle eases and is overtaken with the scent of the sea, ozone and fish. A catering friend taught me this trick and I am forever grateful. I watch the fish´s flesh turn slowly to white around the edges. Just enough. Like a highlighted edge framing the fillet´s whole. I flip them over and remove the pan from the heat. A minute. No more.
I grab a timbale, lightly greased, and fill it with some rice. Firming it down with the back of the spoon, I pull the bowl closer and turning the mould over, slam it onto the surface. Then gently lift the metal casing away. I have a mound. I rummage in a drawer for an antique ladle. Removing the Dutch oven lid, scoop up some deliciousness and carefully place it around the pile of rice. I swear it´s going to go. Finally, I lift out the fillets of sea bass, turning them over on a board to reveal the lightly browned flesh. I slice one into three, the other into two, and arrange them over the vegetables. Some parsley garnish, just a small scattering. It is done.
A touille. A stir up. Ratatolha.
Ratatouille.
You've done it again: More evocative food stories and pithy one-word sentences Great stuff!
Fabulous Louis! Like a painting in words! Well done! 👏👏😘