I’ve never been to Provence. From what I’ve read about it, I have the feeling that if I ever went there, I’d not want to leave. That’s not so far from the situation that Anne-Marie Simons found herself in some ten years ago. After a career as a journalist in Washington, DC, Simons and her husband, Oscar Rodriguez-Rozic, opted for an early retirement in France. The essays of Taking Root in Provence grew out of their ten years in Aix-En-Provence. It is part tour guide, part cultural sociology, and, thanks to Oscar, part cookbook. MidLifeBloggers is pleased to offer you a chapter from Taking Root in Provence as well as one of Oscar’s recipes. I loved reading the book–and it made me hungry for the South of France and French cuisine! If it has the same effect on you, buy the book here.
“Cooking Secrets”
by Anne-Marie Simons
Food is important in this country and everybody cooks well, men and women alike. All social life takes place around the table, where one talks about food above all else. Recipes are exchanged, addresses offered, and recommendations made. It soon becomes apparent that not all market stalls are alike, not all farmers sell home-grown produce, and not all truffle vendors are honest. Of course, restaurants are not forgotten and recent discoveries are either praised or viciously attacked.
In asking for advice it is important, however, to consider the source. For example, a Parisian friend with a house in this area responded to our request for restaurant suggestions by saying, “In Aix? On ne mange pas à Aix.” (One doesn’t eat in Aix). A bit severe, we thought.
Food debate is not limited to the dinner table, and it is not uncommon to overhear discussions like this one at the markets: “Potatoes in brandade de morue? Jamais de la vie, Monsieur! Oh, your mother did? Where are you from? Alsace? Well, perhaps they do over there, but not in Provence. No sir! Just make sure you use a good olive oil. Now, what are you going to serve with that? Soupe au pistou? Excellent idea. You’ll want the three kinds of beans, onions, basil, carrots and tomatoes, this, that and the other…” while the other customers not only patiently wait but begin to participate. “You may also want to add courgettes, monsieur” says a woman in line. “And make sure you add lots of garlic,” says another. “My wife doesn’t like garlic but she doubles the parmesan cheese at the end” says a man. “Curieux,” says another with eyebrows raised. And so goes the daily market…
The fishmonger never fails to ask you how you plan to prepare your fish. Broil or barbecue? He won’t scale them. In the oven? He’ll give you extra fennel. Not sure? He’ll make a recommendation and insists you tell him the next day how it was. To the cat owner he’ll give fish heads, to little old pensioners an extra free portion. To all, his non-stop cheery chatter from behind the counter which is piled high with finned or shelled or tentacled sea life on ice and half a swordfish whose sharp sword is blunted with a lemon.
When it comes to cooking, advice is plentiful and everybody is willing to part with some. One day, our mason Charlie, a seventy-year old authentic Provençal who built our cave in the dark, vaulted, seventeenthcentury dungeon that is our basement, shared with us his mother’s secret for preparing snails—the ordinary garden variety that he collects by the bucketful after a rainstorm. The trick, said Charlie, is that you have to tire them before cooking. Yep… il faut fatiguer les escargots! He then showed Oscar how to stroke them one by one to coax their head out of the shell and relax them. Then you drop them in lukewarm water and bring them slowly to a boil. Never throw them in boiling water because that makes them tighten up and harden. I suspect that restaurant chefs dispense with the stroking, but I do admit that Charlie’s snails are among the best I have ever tasted.
This reminds me of the elderly mother of my friend Gaby who had similar convictions. After putting the escargots in lukewarm water she would talk to them and say “Je vais à la Messe maintenant” (I am going to church now) before putting the lid on the pot and turning up the heat. Let’s hope their last memories were pleasant: a good massage, a lukewarm bath, a soft voice in your ear—and sleep.
Soupe au Pistou
Soupe au Pistou is a seasonal soup, made with ingredients found in the summer. It is important that the beans and the basil be fresh. Accompanied by a baguette or some good farmer’s bread, this soup constitutes a healthy, solid meal without any fat. [Pesto and pistou are similar but not the same. They may have similar origins that go back to Roman times—mixtures of garlic, herbs, and sea salt in olive oil—but pesto contains grated cheese and pine nuts while pistou only has the basic ingredients: fresh basil leaves, garlic, olive oil and sea salt.]
Ingredients for 6:
For the soup:
- 500 gr. (roughly 1 lb) fresh red beans in the pod
- 500 gr. fresh white beans in the pod (soaked dried beans are not a good substitute)
- 250 gr. fresh green beans (haricots verts)
- 2 medium white or yellow onions
- 4 very ripe tomatoes (or an 8-oz can of peeled tomatoes)
- 1 tablespoon of tomato paste
- 3 carrots
- 2 zucchini (if you follow the zucchini school)
- 250 gr. small dry elbow pasta
- 1 liter of vegetable broth (approx. 1/3 gallon)
- Olive oil, salt, pepper, a pinch of sugar
For the pistou:
- A whole plant of small-leaf basil (or 3 cups of large basil leaves)
- One large head of garlic or ten garlic cloves
- Olive oil, sea salt
Preparation:
Cover the bottom of a large pot with olive oil and simmer the finely-chopped onions until translucent. Add the red and white beans and the finely-diced carrots, and simmer for one or two minutes. Add the fresh tomatoes (previously peeled and chopped) or the canned ones and the broth. Add a pinch of sugar to neutralize the acidity of the tomatoes, if necessary. Simmer on a low fire until the beans are just soft (approx. 20 minutes).
While the soup is cooking, prepare the pistou as follows: Put the garlic cloves and sea salt in a mortar (stone or ceramic are preferred) and grind them with the pestle into a puree. Add the basil leaves, a few at a time, and olive oil and grind them also, mixing them well with the garlic paste. Continue adding basil leaves and olive oil until you obtain a paste the consistency of mayonnaise. Set aside half of the pistou in a bowl. Add the other half to the soup and add the dry pasta. Cook until the pasta is al dente. Some people like to add grated parmesan cheese at the end, but this is not “authentic.”
Serve with bread and pass the bowl of pistou to those who want a stronger flavor.
Jane Gassner
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