Backyard Report

Okay, now I've done it. I've taken another step towards, um, suburbanity. A guy named Joe just deposited this on a concrete slab obviously designed to hold such a thing, just off of my deck in the back yard.

I know it's a good one, because I spent hours researching them on the Internet, particularly at an annoying site called Amazing Ribs.com. Everyone I trust in the world of grilling (as opposed to barbequing, a science I leave to ascended masters) says it's a great site. I say it's annoying because it takes a long time to navigate and after a couple of pages it starts hatching popups urging you to join their Pitmasters' Club, and they follow you around the site: "You've viewed 14 pages. Join the Pitmasters' Club!" Hey, buddy, I haven't even bought a grill yet. They're also annoying because their reviews sound positive even when they're not, a critical disease other sites (like the one I went to before buying the digital camera that just snapped these photos) seem to have. I read through the latest list of best grills and was all set to buy a specific one, but the Lowe's near my house didn't have one in stock, so they told me to go to one of their stores that did have one. It was late enough in the afternoon that I knew I'd be stuck in traffic forever if I went so I put it off for the next day, then went back and read the review again and realized that they may have given it an award, but between the lines were saying it was a cheap piece of shit that would have to have parts replaced in a year or so. So I got an entry-level Weber.

And yes, we'll have no theological debate about gas vs. charcoal here. I know charcoal can (key word) make the food taste better. I also know about fire dangers and disposing of ash, particularly the latter, after living in a coal-oven-heated apartment in Berlin. So gas it was.

Feeeed Meeee!

This grill has a feature I'm not sure I need: there's a round bit of the grate that comes out and can be filled with any number of goodies, including this griddle, which comes with it (and undoubtedly needs seasoning before use, although Weber claims not), and optional things like a wok (mmmm, wok hai!), a pizza stone (but it's kind of small and I could probably just lay a pizza stone on there and get it hotter than my oven gets, meaning excellent pizza), a Korean barbeque (no idea how this works), a poultry roaster (ditto), and of course an ebelskyver (ditto twice, although I think it's some kind of Swedish pancakes).

As the Germans would say, "Mit System!"

I haven't so much as turned it on yet, but I think I know what I'm going to cook first, and that needs an accessory Weber doesn't sell.

"The Secret Is..."

Some years ago, I was in Hawaii doing a story on Hawaiian music for a travel magazine and had to go out to a rather remote part of Oahu to interview the amazing Tau Moe, a steel guitarist who, with his wife Rose (one of the greatest Hawaiian singers ever), and, eventually, their family, was on tour for decades, all over the world. (He once performed for Hitler -- well, he could hardly say no -- and I asked him what that was like. "I was scared," he said with typical economy.) My friend Margaret, who was living in Honolulu with her tattoo artist husband and editing a million of those throwaway tourist magazines that litter hotel lobbies there, told me that if I went out that way I should stop for lunch at this burger joint. "It's the best hamburger you ever had," she said. I personally felt that I hadn't come to Hawaii to eat hamburgers, but once I got out there there wasn't much choice, so I did. And above the counter where you placed your order was a sign that said "The Secret is Vermouth." And, after tasting the burger, I knew I had to learn the application of that secret.

All was made clear, coincidentally enough, when I got back to Texas, and the food section of the daily paper had an interview with Mr. Weber, of Weber Grills, where they said they'd heard he was famous for his hamburgers and he gave the recipe which included...vermouth! Oh, and a couple of other things. But I've experimented with it enough that I think I've got it down as well as the place in Hawaii and tonight, perhaps, we'll find out if I have. I'll still have to buy some more stuff at the supermarket, but we'll see. And such a first meal is, when you consider the source, very appropriate.

Wish me luck.

* * *

Last year, a friend in New Mexico sent me a bunch of seeds. Some were for Sandia chiles, big, green, hot-but-not-insane chiles that can be used for rellenos, enchilada sauce, or salsas that I just love, and some were for their local jalapenos, which she claims aren't nearly as wimpy as the ones here in Texas (although a tip to buy at Mexican markets resulted in some with a bit more firepower). Anyway, I planted them and...nothing. Then someone sent me a webpage that said under no circumstances to plant them in peat pots, which is what I'd done, so I just gave up. 

This year, I had an inspiration, a voice within telling me to get off to a gardening store and score some MiracleGro Organic potting soil, which is what the anti-peat-pot site recommended, so I did, and threw some of my dwindling supply of Sandia seeds into two of them, using the other two to transplant some basil I picked up at the store. Well, as you can see, there are results. 

Modern agriculture: the triumph!

Those two pots on the left are just bursting with Sandia sprouts, and although the rains we've had have left the basil plants next to them a little ratty, I think they'll gain height and more foliage in the weeks to come and turn out all right. The other two plants are more basil plants, which I got for my birthday in November and seem only interested in having sex at this point (well, it's understandable: they were indoors all winter) and a bunch of oregano, which is just going nuts, and which I had a bit of in a spaghetti sauce of roasted cherry tomatoes, garlic, capers, pine nuts and black olives last night, which made me realize that it does, indeed, have its uses. I believe I have a chimichurri sauce recipe which uses it, too. 

Let's look at those Sandias again! The small pots are the future homes of the jalapenos, I hope.

Which is good, because this new machine opens a whole world I've been absent from for the past 20 years. There are some good reasons why grilling is illegal in Europe (can't do it on your balcony because of the neighbors and because of fire danger), and some bad ones (oppressive food-odor laws, which only get enforced on foreigners, and grilling illegal in parks despite low or no fire risk, but, rather, because in Germany it's a way of making Turks feel unwelcome), but the fact is, you can't do it and I didn't. Now I have to learn all over again, but with a much finer instrument than the funky little bullet-shaped smoker I could never get to work right or (even worse) the occasional hibachi. 

Now I have lots of stuff to learn: I have some remarkable Vietnamese, Middle Eastern, and, of course, American recipes to try out, and I'll be learning about marinades and sauces and salsas. Not, I emphasize, barbeque. There are too many places around here where I can just roll up and pay for that, and I will. But first, Mr. Weber's burgers. Tomorrow, the world!

Les Miettes de Noël

While most of the U.S. is groaning under a blanket of snow, we're getting some rain here for the first time in a long time, which is good, except that I know that there'll be a lot more in the next few months, so the mood will get a bit damp.

Christmas is coming, though, in just a few days, and I'm not looking forward to the holidays much this year because the 24th and the 31st both fall on Thursday, effectively making two four-day weekends in a row. This is not fun, especially when, as I do, you live day-to-day. I just know I'll run out of something over the weekend and, well, do without.

Other signs of Christmas are the Chinese guy, furtively looking from side to side as he illegally vends the stupidest product I've seen sold on the street. I haven't looked too closely since I don't want him to think I'm interested, but it's two chromed tubes, rounded at each end, stuck together. When you toss them in the air, they make a buzzing sound. A whopping €3 will get you one. The Eastern European guys demonstrating a top which has all kinds of LEDs in it probably get the same amount for their gizmo, but at least I can see a kid wanting to play with that. The other thing is so annoying, I can't imagine parents putting up with it for too long.

Down in the Christmas market stretching along the Comédie, canned Christmas music is playing. A lot of Frank Sinatra, and a very familiar melody with French words:

Vive le vent, vive le vent, vive le vent d'hiver/qui s'en va sifflant, soufflant dans les grands sapins verts.

I'm not even going to attempt a translation of that, except the first line salutes the winter wind, which I don't think many people are doing, especially with a warning at the moment that we may get winds of up to 12o kilometers per hour, which is almost 75 mph. In Berlin I'd have been much more depressed by this, though; I know that by March it'll be warming up nicely, and I'm looking forward to that.

* * *

Just because I haven't for a while, here's a picture of this Saturday's market haul:

Not, I'll grant you, as impressive as the summer ones, but for two days away from the Winter Solstice, not bad: some great broccoli, a saucisson sec covered with herbes de Provence (in the lower left corner; not my best photo, either), some chiles advertised as poivrons forts which didn't turn out to be too terribly fort, but made decent salsa, anyway, two kinds of pears, and some onions.

Fans of poivrons forts will be interested in how my jalapeño garden turned out, and here's the answer:

The euro-cent is added for scale, although you can also figure out how tiny they are by the grain on the cutting board. There were actually four, but two got eaten by a beast of some sort. Are they hot? I'm not sure: I was going to add them to the salsa, but figured I'd pop them in my mouth at some point just to see, so I saved them out. This, I submit, is pathetic, although I suspect that maybe one plant per pot instead of three might produce larger chiles. I'll try again next year, but I suspect the lack of direct sun for most of the day played a part here, too; these are the same size as my friends in Berlin got, with far less sun and far less heat.

* * *

I do think Les Lunkheads downstairs have just signed their eviction notice. The landlord can't evict anyone until March 15, by law, but this is clearly grounds. The other day, I was headed to the store when, on the stairs, I came upon two dogs tethered to the raililng. One of them fixed me with his eyes and started growling. Now, I speak fluent dog and I knew just what he was saying: no further. I knocked on the Lunkhead door and it opened a tiny crack. A Lunkheadette's head appeared and I asked whose dogs these were. "My friend," she said, and went to close the door. The friend, however appeared and said "Ils ne sont pas méchants." Then he closed the door. I took another step and the growling, which had subsided while he was there, rose again. I yelled and the guy came out again, saying again that the dogs weren't bad. But his presence got me out the door. When I came back, they were gone, except for the remnants of a turd which hadn't been as well picked up as it might have been.

Okay, I figured that was that. But Saturday night, it was getting along to my bedtime when I heard someone in the hall talking on a cell phone, quite loudly. "35o euros," he kept saying. Finally he hung up. I went back to my book, and after a while I heard snoring. Then the hall lights went on, and someone started up the stairs. A woman's voice said "M'sieu? M'sieu? M'sieu!" and eventually there was a stirring. Conversation ensued, and I caught the word "dogs" and the man saying something about hot chocolate. Eventually the woman went upstairs and I looked out while the hall light (which is burned out on my floor) was still on. It was the guy from the day before, stretched out on the stairs between my floor and the one above. This didn't make me particularly happy; I've seen this guy out on the Comédie drinking beer with his similarly bedogged friends. Now, it was cold outside, and no doubt it was warmer inside, but I still wasn't comfortable knowing this character and his crazy dogs were only a thin wooden door away from me.

I'm not sure of what happened next, because I didn't catch much of the conversation, but the downstairs door opened and up trooped a huge number of people, ready for a party upstairs at the flat of the French-American girl who lives there. It was 2am by now, and I sure wasn't happy about this. There was a lot of discussion with the bum, and he repeated his thing about hot chocolate, said "I want respect" a number of times, and said that his name was Joán. Apparently an accommodation was reached, because the last thing I saw before heading off to bed at 2:30 was one of the students coming down from the party and giving Joán just what he needed: a beer. After the students went to crank up their stereo, there was a lot of pounding on the downstairs door, which I suspect was Joán's friends trying to get in. The door has a huge panel in it, which, I just discovered, had fallen out. There are guys down there putting it back as I type.

I'm all for the Christmas spirit, but I also know that the likes of Joán are sneaky psychopaths, charming naive kids into thinking of them as victims of something other than their own desires and addictions. Not that I think the Lunkheadette was that naive. I suspect they were bonding over something else from their eagerness to get back to it. The landlord's been missing lately, and he's probably taking a Christmas vacation like everyone else around here. But if he hasn't heard about this incident, he will.

Ho ho ho. Wake me when it's January, okay?

Autumarket

Time for another market post before I head into shopping hell to buy myself an early birthday present with money I don't really have: my CD player has blown up and I'm in the middle of writing an article for the Oxford American and have a new batch of Fresh Air pieces due soon, so I can't allow that to happen.

The markets are now filling up with root vegetables that I can't identify. One guy even had a single-purpose stand of black turnips, complete with brochures. They're apparently famous -- or he wants them to be. But there were other turnips, some things that looked like carrots only were a pale yellow color, spheres with purple on the top, and carrots that looked like mutants, although I'm holding out for the carottes parisiens I've seen on occasion, which are spherical. Why? Because they look cool. And before long it'll be time for me to make my beef-and-carrot stew using a cut of beef called plat de côte, which GBD up in Paris hipped me to, and which I saw today: super cheap, but super good.

But that's all for the future. Right now, what I've got here is this:

Starting in the upper left-hand corner, a couple of apples called reinette de something, a heritage variety. I bought two kinds on Tuesday, one small and red, and one large and green, and the red ones almost destroyed my plastic lower teeth. I may get some more to make pork chops and apples with, but they also didn't see terribly blessed with flavor. The green ones were juicy and more easily bitten into. Below them, two kinds of pears, one with a red blush which are for eating out of hand (and one of which will be history by the time most of you read this), and the elongated ones, which I suspect will contribute to a salad with pear, walnuts, and the last of my Roqeufort sometime soon. For that, I've got two kinds of salad mixture, which has just started showing up. The one on the left was labelled "Japanese," while the other was just regular old mesclun. And, in front of the parsley, there's a butternut squash left over from Tuesday's market. I'm not at all sure what to do with this, but after the fiasco of the last orange squash I bought, I'm going to research this one thoroughly. (And yes, I know it makes great stuffing for ravioli, but that's a two-person job, and I'm missing the other person).

It's going to be harvest time soon on the balcony, I think. The jalapenos have come in in number, but they're really small:

I guess there'll be enough for one salsa, though, but I'm waiting for some of the smaller ones, like that guy on the right, to catch up. The serranos are, belatedly, starting to bloom, which is nice because they won't cross-fertilize with the jalapenos, but not so good because we're almost certain to get chile-killing weather before they're anything close to ready.

I'm thinking that there's simply not enough sun at my place for successful agriculture, although the summer heat is nice. Or maybe I have to have fewer than three plants per pot. I'm also going to try to start the seeds earlier next year, probably indoors, which should be fun, since I have no idea where I'll put them. Or maybe I just have a black thumb: the basil came up, produced two aromatic leaves, and turned brown. That was depressing.

Okay, time to gird the old loins and head out to the Odysseum with the other 50,000 people who'll be out shopping there. This will not be fun but it has to be done. Unlike last time, though, I'm taking the tram both ways this time.

Mid-September Miettes

It's been a while since I posted anything about the market, mostly because last week I was consumed with tomatoes and when I woke up on Tuesday, I realized I'd better use some of the stuff I still had laying around before I bought any more. But today I went to the market and got mugged by the realization that time is passing. Gone are the mountains of tomatoes, the heaps of shiny eggplants. Oh, you can still get tomatoes and eggplants there, and I suspect you'll be able to for some time to come, but not in the quantities I'd been used to. I also suspect the prices will go up as the supply goes down.

Instead, there's suddenly a flood of grapes, both green and purple, which is hardly a surprise because the wine-grapes, too, are probably about to get harvested. I should -- and probably will, on Tuesday -- get a bunch of these. I'm a bit prejudiced against them because my grandmother had a small arbor of Concord grapes outside her house, and, well, they weren't very good. Then, in Berlin, there was always a time of year when huge green grapes (with huge seeds) appeared on streetcorners, and they had very little taste, but were consumed enthusiastically nonetheless. Another thing that's appearing is squashes of various sorts, and I'm going to devote a bit of research to how to use them. One farmer today had a few small heads of cauliflower, and various sorts of onions, too, are showing up.

I'm enjoying the discipline of trying to buy all my vegetables at the market and let the seasons guide me in my cooking, which is why I felt kind of stupid returning today feeling a bit resentful that the market was "out of" what I wanted. I still have a ratatouille experiment I want to do, and I'll do it this week, I hope, but the way the nights are cooling off after midnight and the fact that taking a walk in the sunshine doesn't dehydrate me should be clues as to what's happening. As should the date on the calendar.

And I'm not sure if it's seasonal or not, but Montpellier is about to play host to a giant beekeeping and honey conference, Apimondia, which will include, among other things, a working beehive in the Esplanade not far from my house, so I'm hoping my jalapeños bloom (they're working on it) so that the bees can visit my balcony and I can wind up with some chiles!

* * *

As I was walking in town today, a guy came up to me and opened his fist and showed me three bottles of pills he was apparently trying to sell me. He talked so fast I didn't really get what he was trying to say, but it was pretty obvious what was going on. Less obvious, though, was exactly what was going on, although I'd gotten a clue yesterday. He was wearing a white pharmacist's coat, and the pills were candy. It was part of his bizutage.

The word, I'm told, translates as "hazing," and freshmen entering some of the professional schools (including pharmacy school) here participate in it. This explains the group of kids wearing black garbage bags, hitting each other in the face with "pies" made out of shaving cream on paper plates. It explains the group of young men wearing cardboard wings and makeup running up the street, loudly hawking pieces of scrap paper for only a euro each.

I'm really sorry my professor friend has disappeared, because I'd like to know some of the history behind this. With some of these schools dating back a thousand years, these traditions could very well be ancient, although I've never seen any documentation of garbage bags or shaving cream that old.

The sudden return of students, who are suddenly visible by the score, even when they're not doing bizutage, is another sign of the changing seasons, and I guess I welcome it. French students seem incapable of doing anything alone, so they hang out in clumps. In the supermarket, this is great: a line which may look long may, if analyzed, be simply a dozen students buying a couple of 24-packs of beer and some Coke Zero. So you just get in line behind them and you're outta there in no time.

* * *

Finally, a bit of t-shirt watch, before it gets too cold to wear them. The Inno store has apparently got a line of fashion items called Peace Process, which I find amusing, selling bags and t-shirts with Peace Process Needs You emblazoned on them. But the one I really like (don't these people ever find native speakers to check with?) reads I Am A Love Result. (Note: I have yet to see anyone wearing any of this stuff).

But the winner was a guy I saw this morning. You know those t-shirt lines the big brands use that look like rum labels or ads for shipping lines? Kind of a Jimmy Buffett vibe, with tropical stuff like palm trees, and the lettering kind of weathered, in an old typeface. Well, this t-shirt was one of those, but what it said made me wonder if it were sly propaganda or some idiot in China with absolutely no clue. It read Guantanamo Bay: Psychological Warfare.

Market To Table, Plus Plantation Again

As I noted last time I was at the market, eggplants are coming in like crazy, so before heading out today, I spent some time researching things to do with them. Paula Wolfert had an astonishing-looking dish of duck legs with olives and sauteed eggplant which I'll almost certainly attempt next time I have something to celebrate (if eggplants are still in season then), but a more down-home idea was ratatouille, the classic eggplant, zucchini, and tomato stew. I found a recipe in Susan Herrmann Loomis's French Farmhouse Cookbook and made a list.

Weirdly, a lot of the stupendous-looking eggplants that seemed to be everywhere on Saturday were missing today. There were white ones that looked like cast alabaster, and white ones with purplish blotches, but they were missing today. Also, the ones that looked like they were made from obsidian were missing, but there were enough choices that I finally got some decent-looking ones. Without buying anything exotic, I managed to hit my ten-euro limit today. Some representatives of the haul:

More very thin green-beans, one of two green peppers, some heirloom tomatoes of various sorts on the left of the zucchini (one of two), two of the three eggplants, a nice head of lettuce and a couple of the roma tomatoes that would be integrated into the dish.

Because of the amount of cooking involved, and the fact that I had to listen carefully to a record I have just gotten (easily done while going through motions like cutting green peppers into tiny cubes) I decided to cook the ratatouille early in the afternoon and warm it up later. I also wanted to be able to smell it as it cooked: the chronic sinusitis is still with me, and my ability to smell and taste fades suddenly about 8:30pm. I have no idea why this is. Some day I hope to have the money to see the oto-naso-laryngologist just up the hill who's been recommended to me, but it hasn't happened yet.

Thus, I slowly sauteed onions in olive oil, followed that up with the green peppers, then the zucchini, all while the eggplant cubes, tossed with oil, were roasting in the oven. After the sauteeing, there was a bit of boiling as I took a pound of roma tomatoes, peeled them, cubed them, and put them in a pan with some garlic and some thyme. Here, minus the still-roasting eggplant, is the result:

Clockwise, from top left, peppers, onions, tomatoes, and zucchini. Dig how tiny my stovetop is, too. Cooking here is a true pain in the butt.

The tomatoes and the eggplant were done at the same time, and I had a surprise: the eggplant was crisp, airy, almost weightless. I mixed everything together, and here's what it looked like:

I'm not at all sure about this, though. I took a couple of spoonfuls to see if it needed salt or something, and the eggplant was weirdly textured. I'm thinking that perhaps roasting it wasn't the best idea, or perhaps the oven was too hot. Another good reason (besides the flavors blending) to leave it sitting for a while is that some of the moisture from the other stuff can perhaps leach into the eggplant. I'm definitely going to research a couple of alternative recipes for the next time I do this: this is a quantity that'll last for a couple of dinners, after all (it also works as a side dish to an appropriately strong main dish), and I don't like the idea of dreading my own cooking.

Ms. Loomis notes that this should be served with a Côtes de Languedoc or Côtes de Provence rosé, and, as the astronauts used to say, that's a big can-do, ma'am. I think I'll also score a baguette.

Meanwhile, the growing-stuff-at-home experiment continues, and just check out the huge advance since my last posting. Once again, tomatillos at the top, jalapeños on the left, serranos on the right. I still don't anticipate a harvest before September, but I'm very encouraged by how quickly these things are growing.

Plantation

The market is closed today, something I should have thought about when I saw the date: today is Bastille Day, of course! So we'll have to wait until Saturday for pix of those tiny strawberries.

And, of course, there are things the market still can't give me, which is why, when I was back in Texas in March, I bought some seeds. Jalapeño and serrano chiles, and tomatillo seeds. I can get green chiles from Thailand at Wei Son, the "exotic products" store down the street (other exotic products include lemon grass and tofu, as well as sesame oil, Vietnamese rice, and Indian spices), but they're not quite the same as jalapeños: there's that green taste on top of the hot that's missing because the Thai chiles aren't as fleshy.

I have a small balcony just off my bedroom, and was monitoring it pretty much all winter long to see if it got any sunshine. It doesn't get a lot, because the surrounding buildings are so tall, but it started to get more as spring approached, so I took the plunge and bought the seeds. A friend with a much larger balcony gave me a few pots and a couple of window boxes, I bought a bag of soil, started the seeds in a few of those throw-away pots, and when the sprouts got big enough, I transplanted them.

As of Saturday, here is the result:

Just looking at the picture four days later makes me realize how well I'm doing. That's the jalapeños on the left, the serranos on the right, and the tomatillos on top. The basil that went into the windowboxes is steaming right along and I'm really going to have to go in there and thin it. Sadly, it's the big-leaf variety, not the super-spicy local variety. Next year, I'll know better.

All of the plants in the picture are bigger right at the moment, and they also have more leaves. This came after a period of inactivity during which I assume they were sending down big roots. Now, I suspect, the leaves will keep on coming, and we should have fruit on the chiles, at least, sometime in September, when the weather will still be fine. I expect to be harvesting basil all along and freezing pesto for wintertime consumption. Tomatillos are still a mystery area for me. I know they're physalias, and I've seen physalia plants, but don't know how long they take to fruit or exactly when the tomatillos are ripe and not over-ripe: they tend to go yellow, at which point their flavor is, allegedly, not very pleasant.

Expect more pix from this ongoing agricultural enterprise as the summer continues.