While showing off some photos from my trip far, far away, to a friend, on my very fancy shiny new gadget that I cannot name, it became clear that I am more than a little obsessed. Obsessed with taking photos of food. So desirous am I to relive the joys of a juicy Entrecote or the world’s most amazing Duck Breast salad or home prepared cheese plate, I feel compelled to photograph, thus preserving the savour of said delicacy on the hard drive of my unnamed computer, for time eternal (or at least until I upgrade).
Eggs Benedict at Maze Gordon Ramsay in London
I am not one of those, like *cough cough* The American, who spends every last cent she earns touring the world in a Michelin tyred car, eating in Michelin starred restaurants in search of the next most Michelin Starred chef’s, next most amazing Michelin starred dish in the next most amazing hilltop restaurant in the armpit of Spain. Unfortunately, I do not have the requisite Michelin sized budget nor do I wish to become Michelin sized c.f. previous comments on these pages referencing my Bridget Jones Michelin curved thighs.
But so-help-me-God I love eating food glorious food. Even if there is nothing else unequivocally positive that I can say about France, we are blessed with exceptional, seasonal produce for the preparation of exceptional seasonal food.
Moules Frites at Honfleur in Normandy
The very first meal I ate on that balmy August eve in 1992 with my adoptive French family, resident of the paradise of Duck that is the Basquey-Bearnaisy South West of France, is to this day indelibly scratched onto my cerebral cortex. Magret de Canard avec chataignes et sa salade verte. Digital technology being such a recent innovation, I do not have a photo, but I can tell you, I was horrified to eat the poor bird that for the-limited-subruban-Sydney-knowledge-of-the-culinary-world-me, lived only on a lake in a park, at which you threw stale bread for your infantile weekend amusement. It certainly wasn’t stuffed, seasoned and served oh-so-just-cooked with chestnuts and salad. If only I had known then what I know today. Donald, Daffy and Daisy, you are the rosé flesh of the gods. Should I be punished, like a piscatorial Eskimo to savour just one type of flesh for the remainder of my days, it would be quacky you.
Beef Wellington as prepared by the amazing Chris in Sydney
Australia is relatively ahead of the game when it comes to game (boom-boom). Blessed as she is with every kind of rabid, putrid, baby-stealing beast and an indigenous population who essentially invented the barbecue, they’ve perfected the art of catch, kill and char. They have however limited their kill to red-blooded mammals. True they are, red-blooded mammals like Dingo, Deer, Rabbit or Kangaroo that did hold starring roles in children’s television shows# but always carne not dissimilar to the traditional trio of beef, pork and lamb.
In Sarkozy’s realm, rules were made to be broken; rules related to all but food. You can sleep with whomever you like that is not your wife, ride a motorbike the wrong way up a one-way street and piss against any lamppost in the street your manly stand-up-to-pee-self desires, but even La Liberté herself, Marianne, won’t save your soul if you serve Foie Gras with potatoes, eat radishes without salted butter or shock horror, savour crêpes with any beverage other than cider.
Panini and Pinot Grigio in Bologna
The seasons change and so, to a rhythm not dissimilar to that of the reigning monarch of days gone by, do the rules, and thus, the plat du jour.
Summer is the realm of the fruit; Carpaccio d’Ananas, Fig and Cheese Salad and Stone Fruit whatever you like. In autumn, you can’t take two steps but for walking into a blackboard proffering the wonders of Watercress Soup or Duck with Girolles*. In winter, Lamb Shanks^ and everything-you can think of with a Clementine Syrup holds court. Spring, the veritable feast of the seasons flings fresh Asparagus Salad, the most exceptional Chevre cheese and the flesh of every baby suckling animal you could possibly imagine and maybe even some you cannot.
Sirloin in a Newtiown Pub in Sydney
Everyone knows that in France, they eat Snails and Frog Legs. I remember the Wagon Wheel ads that aired when I was at school, ads comparing a biscuit and chocolate snack to garlic snails. Ads that drove home the point that in France they eat really weird s**t. If they can catch it, stew it in garlic and serve it with bread, they will stamp it with a Tricolour and designate it part of their national heritage. The wiser among us know that they just eat their garden pests because they don’t have Kobe (Wagyu) Beef.
Victor Churchills Butcher in Woollahra, Sydney
The Bride, who despite the birth of her son (YAY!!) shall not become “The Mother” but maintain her appropriately sanguine and Tarantino-esque anony-name upon these pages, has challenged me on numerous occasions that I cannot be Française until I eat veal.
French Fries in Kowloon, Hong Kong
Call me a hypocrite. While I have no problem eating the force-fed-fat-poached-creamy-chocolaty goodness that is Foie Gras (translates as greasy liver), I haven’t yet managed to franchise the threshold of morality that is eating animals that are to all intensive purposes, milk drinking babies. The Bride maintains that despite my incessant moaning, my penchant for red wine and my chosen side in this weekend’s Rugby World Cup Finale, I am not French until I can eat, and most importantly, truly enjoy, veal.
Hamburger in Hamburg
I lived in New Zealand for a time. The only thing they love more than their precious thigh-slapping Ka Mate Ka Mate Ka Ora Ka Ora All Blacks is a succulent baby sheep with a touch of Rosemary and Mint Sauce (and they aren’t the names of Auckland’s local Call Girls). I am told that their local ovine produce is truly the best in the world. I, adultatarian that I am, would not know. I am, however, almost certain that my excellent cuisinière and BFF the MicroMasterChef has slipped me a Cotelet d’Agneau disguised secretly as beef just to offset the pain of a disappointing loss for the Crusaders or the All Blacks to the Waratahs or the Green and Gold.
Scallops in Nice
Despite my love for all that is red blooded, greasy livered and delectable, I do have standards, I still don’t eat babies.
#Even in la Republique, they’ve heard of bloody Skippy
* Girolles, a yellow mushroom that I first encountered when I picked it up off the forest floor in a place not far from Lourdes (LINK), and then, contrary to every lesson I had ever learned in school wilderness safety, I ate it.
^ Lamb Shanks, translates in French for some odd reason as the Mouse of Lamb
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