Yellow broad beans in quick tomato sauce.

One of my favorite times of summer is when the yellow broad beans start showing up at the farmers market and in the garden. It also happens to be around the time that onions are big enough to pick and tomatoes really get rolling. So this dish is a good way to cook straight from the garden especially with vegetables who’s bounty seems to be never ending. Yellow broad beans are dense and sweet and are great to add to soups stir-fry’s and salads. My favorite way is to cook them is with their fellow seasonal vegetables.
This recipe works served hot or cold as a side dish, starter or as a crustini topper to have with your summers favorite summer white or rose wine.


For every generous hand full of beans plan for one medium sized tomato, 1/2 a small white onion and a clove of garlic.
Medium dice the tomatoes, small dice the onion and rough chop the garlic.
You will also need coarse ground pepper, salt, and olive oil

For the sauce:
Heat a cast iron pan or stainless steel pan with two tablespoons of olive oil until it begins smoking you want it to be as hot as possible without smoking yourself out.
When the pan is ready add all the ingredients and stir vigorously for a minute so nothing sticks or burns. Reduce the heat and cook for 5 to 7 minutes and season with salt and pepper.

The beans:
Tip your beans (aka: take the vine end off) and bring a pot of water to a boil, add enough salt so the water is salty like the sea. Blanch the beans for three minutes in rolling boiling water or adjust the time depending on size, they should be soft but still have a little bite to them. If the beans are large and you want them in smaller pieces make sure to cut them after they are blanched. Have an ice bath ready if you intend to serve this dish cold. If you will be serving it hot, when the beans are blanched you can toss them directly into the tomato sauce season and serve.

My first Michelin * Restaurant: La Bastide Saint Antoine- Chef Jacques Chibois

My first experience dining at a Michelin star restaurant was at times overwhelming but provided to be memorable and delicious. There was simplicity to Chef Chibois food that was inspiring; each plate was composed, clean and perfectly designed. The service was impeccable, but at times its formality made me feel that if I sneezed or coughed that service could come to a screeching halt. Everyone spoke in soft murmurs and the breeze rustled the hanging chimes ever so gently creating a relaxing soundtrack to our meal.
The grounds were beautiful, surrounded by ancient olive trees, herb gardens and the fragrance of jasmine wafting across the breeze.


Amuse bouche
Four small tastes:
Cold carrot soup, large toasted couscous with summer vegetables, morel mushrooms with shrimp and tarragon, and cherry tomato confit.

First course:
Langoustine with zucchini, lemon vinaigrette and assorted vegetables

Second course:
Rouget filets, avocado puree and petit zucchini

Third course:
Fraises des bois, mandarin sorbet and jasmine syrup

Mignardises:
Strawberry macaroons, sugar lace cookies, miniature lemon tarts, marzipan squares and sugared strawberries.

Wine: Domaine Des Peirecèdes, Côtes de Provence

La Bastide Saint Antoine

Poisson

Memories have been triggered lately by smells wafting from pots, escaping from fridges or carried across the wind. The memories have given me pause to look at how my time spent traveling, working in kitchens, working in the NYC fashion industry, growing up in rural Maine, living on couches, traveling on public transportation and years wrought with trepidation about the future has led me here.
I have been indulging in memories as I prep letting my hands work as my mind wanders. I recall the subtle details of the moments of smells and stop motion images that play like a flip book in my mind. I have spent a large portion of my week bent over the stainless steel fish sink and a cutting board butchering fish. My hands frigid and pink and my forearms covered in splatters of guts and scales. Boxes of large lemon sole with perfect lilywhite bellies and far away crooked eyes, pounds of Barbue with their raspy white teeth and their large scales and large pink prawns wait to be gutted, cleaned and portioned. The smell of the sea lingers in the sink and the counter well after I’m finished, even after I have cleaned all the stainless steel with warm soapy bubbles. These smells conjure the summer I lived on a tiny island off the coast of Maine nestles in a confetti of islands a couple of miles offshore. I lived in the attic of a tiny red cabin made of plywood with a large yellow heart shingled on the roof surrounded by tall conifers. It was within earshot of lapping waves on the seaweed covered rocks and the constant diesel hum of lobster boats going out to haul their traps.

I was at the time focusing my creative efforts on jewelry making as well as my tentative teenage romance with an island boy. I had moved out to the island at the beginning of the summer to work as a part time apprentice at a jewelry studio as well as work at a restaurant on a neighboring island half a mile away. It was a tourist destination and a haven for the likes of Martha Stewart and the New England elite. The restaurant was on the end of long deepwater dock, a New England style building flanked by the classic graying cedar shingles aged by the sea. It’s doors painted a dark blue gray, the color mirroring the water lapping beneath. Next door to the restaurant was a locally run lobster coop that at times was as busy as a Harlem bodega. The fisherman would bring their lobsters, bi-catch and other larger fish to the coop to sell and unload. The catch would then get processed, packed and then shipped all over the world. Being a restaurant positioned right next door to a fisherman’s coop, we had the pick of the litter of fresh seafood. Most of the time the fish, shellfish and crustaceans we got were so fresh they were still alive. They hadn’t been weighed, tagged and banded for more than 3 hours before they were in our kitchen.

I cooked lunch, feeding the fisherman daytime tourists and locals out to catch up on gossip. I was 19 pretentious, tan and totally unaware of the can of worms I had just opened by entering the crazy culinary industry. I had been working in kitchens for the last couple of summers but the responsibility had never been placed on me to be in charge of the line and all its prep. I was flying solo and I remember the high I felt the first time the board was full of tickets and I was humming along. As the summer rolled on I was given more leeway with the menu. I made fish tacos, Vietnamese fish soup loaded with scallions and ginger, double layer chicken sandwiches with pesto mayonnaise, crab cakes with spicy remoulade sauce and steamed muscles laden with shallots and white wine.
I was hooked addicted to the buzz I caught from the adrenaline and the instant gratification, but I was caught in the middle of my own conflict of ease and expectation. My own deep slicing self-criticisms of my life’s trajectory had reared its ugly head. My drive was to be an artist it was my identity. I told myself over and over that cooking was just a fun and easy way to make money to fuel my artistic endeavors. But through out this I continued cooking. I realize now that was the beginning even though I didn’t know it and even though it took another eight years, culinary school and constant support from the people closest to help me to comprehend and accept that cooking was my art. It was the beginning of scars, of a knowledge base of taste memory, the beginning of my evolution. I will never forget what really fresh halibut tastes like, how short you really have to cook mussels so they open and display their plump yellow gems and opalesant broth, or how incredibly stupid I felt after an argument with the owner in the middle of a rush left me fired.

Tonight it is 8 years later and I am standing at the pass of the restaurant in the Château in France and cooking won.
I have three beautifully cooked lemon soles to be de-boned and plated in front of me. I handle them gently, carefully lifting one side and then the other off the bones placing them on the plate. They get little to no garnish and are whisked away almost as soon as my spatula leaves the plate. I scrape the remaining flesh from the bones and scoop it into my mouth it is so tender and fresh with just a hint of the sea still lingering on its flesh. I get caught in a momentary tangle of the past as the flavor of the fish lingers on my tongue. The moment passes and I come to feeling honestly content standing here hot tiered and smelling of fish.

Snapshots of Provence

Three layer fruit and nut brownies

Brownies

5 oz Bittersweet chocolate
1/2 cup Butter
1 1/2 cups Sugar
1 cup Flour
4 eggs
Pinch of salt
1 Teaspoon vanilla
1 Teaspoon orange zest

Over a double boiler melt the butter and chocolate. Remove the bowl and whisk in the egg, sugar, vanilla, salt and orange zest until it is well mixed; fold in flour at the end.

Pour into a buttered and floured pan, bake at 350 degrees for 10-15 minutes or until a knife comes out clean.


Fruit and nut paste

1 cup dried apricots
1/2 cup pistachios
1/2 cup hazelnuts
1-tablespoon orange blossom water
1-tablespoon honey

In a food processor chop the pistachios and hazelnuts until they are in reasonably small pieces then add the dry apricots, honey and orange blossom water and blend until it is well mixed and sticking to its self forming a ball.

Roll the paste between two sheets of oiled parchment paper until it is an even thin layer, cut to the size of the pan and place on top of the warm brownies, let these two layers cool completely before adding the ganache.

Ganache

1-cup heavy cream
1-cup bittersweet chocolate

Warm the heavy cream in a pan until small bubbles begin to form on the side of the pan (just until its hot) in a bowl pour the cream over the chocolate and stir until it is completely mixed and has a glossy appearance. The chocolate should be only slightly warm when you pour it over and spread it over the other two layers. Cool completely in the fridge and then cut and serve.

Rabbit rabbit

As I stand at the stove (taking the time to brown the liver carefully for the farce I’m making) I think about how few people get to see their meat so intimately. I trace the contours of the rabbit’s body with my eyes. The muscles, the blood, how pink it is. The carcass is still intact with its jellyroll red lungs and small dense olive sized kidneys. Its face looks calm, eyes like a glass of watered down Pastis. It was a living creature and now it’s on my cutting board. I have a greater appreciation for what I do and eating in general when I get the chance to break down full animals, fish or crates of produce. It’s grounding to have the dirt from vegetables on my hands or smell the iron rich air of fresh blood. You can leave the restaurant reviewers their neatly organized white china and polished glass wear on the periphery. Here I have product in front of me that was life; it grew for months or years so that I could break it down, season it, fry it, braise it, blanch it or mash it.

Butchering rabbits and other small animals takes extra care and precision. Their bones are sharp and brittle, the muscles small and their skin as thin as cloth. I start by removing the organs first so I can brown the livers and cool them while I break down the rest of the body. I remove the head tracing the line of the shoulder, careful not to nick the loin. I remove the front legs, one and then the other. The hind legs are next; I pop the joint and make a slit to detach them from the body. The rabbit is so fresh the bones are still blue. The last step is to remove the two small loins with the belly flap still attached. I trace my knife down the spine freeing the light pink meat from the vertebrae. The flesh is so delicate it tears easily like tissue paper.

Today I’m making rabbit roulades. I stuff them with a deep gray farce of its own liver emulsified with foie gras and I sous vide them very gently to preserve the tender white meat. Many hands touched this rabbit before it got to my board and then to your plate. It’ll only take a few minutes to see it vanish into hungry mouths.
Glad to know you Mr. Rabbit.

Cherries and wine before noon.

There is a calm that I feel when I smell dry hot earth, animal shit and chlorophyll.
This morning I went to visit an organic farm that provides a selection of produce for the château. It is about 20 kl from the château and is run by a large local family their extended family and neighbors. The drive way was rocky and worn and on a slight angle giving you a good perspective of the wide terraced fields that make up the farm farther up the hill. The road is flanked with fields of Cote de Rhone grapes and half a dozen or so olive trees short and windswept with their beautiful two-toned leaves. This is so typical of what I have constantly fantasized I would see in France that I feel transported thought a dream.
As we arrive at the barn there is a wide rectangular pen right in the middle of the driveway. It is divided into smaller squares that house various types of poultry; they all have small hand built houses and shallow murky watering holes that are so picturesque I feel like I am looking at a Painting. Nestled in the bushes on the side of the driveway are several rabbit hutches housing 5 to 10 rabbits each. Closest to the barn is an open roost for pigeons. As I step out of the car I can here their loud cooing emanating from the cage. To top the menagerie there are two peacocks patrolling the perimeter of the poultry cages stopping every so often to turn their small bald-heads to the sky when a hawk or large bird flies over.
Chef Barnard and I are greeted by one of the sons who helps run the farm, who instructs us to head across the farm down a dirt and grass road to the cherry trees where the families matriarch was picking. We walk down the long rows of shiny dark leaved trees with branches so heavy with fruit they almost appear to be groaning. We meet her with a basket hanging half full of cherries from her waste. She is high on a ladder with her head in the leaves.
I am inspired by the universal pride of ones crop that bypasses language. Held in her worn knobby hand she offers me a perfect cherry so shinny and red it almost looks fake. I thank her the best I can in my broken French and pop it into my mouth, it is still warm from the sun. There is so much juice in it that when I bite it the juice runes out the corners of my mouth. I have been lucky enough in my life and travels to be around fresh fruit and vegetables straight off the vine, plant or tree. Summers on the farm in Maine meant plump raspberries shoveled by the handful in to ones mouth and yellow plums so juicy you had to extend your butt out and your arm far away from your body so as not to be drenched completely in their warm sticky nectar. And now I am here experiencing it again in a field in France, it never gets old.
As we moved on in our tour of the farm we hopped into a banged up Toyota Helix with no seatbelts and a passenger seat with no locking mechanism. We drive up the windy bumpy road the seat rocking back and forth on its rails, turning me into a bobble head. We arrive at the strawberries; four long rows flanked with straw. The plants are a foot tall with huge leaves creating perfect shade for the ruby red berries below. We grab some small wooden crates and join one of the sons in picking. The berries are for the most part are small but the flavor is concentrated they are sweet and juicy and smell wonderful. I help pick a few crates and after a few minutes the patriarch tells me its time to stop and have a drink and to rest. We wind our way back down the hill to the barn.
Inside amongst the farm equipment is a small dusty table and chairs. On the table is a silver tray of misses matched jars and glasses, a bottle of wine, a bottle of Pastis and a jug of ice water. The wine is opened the Pastis is poured, everyone sits back in there chairs gossiping about the topics and news of the day. Although the conversations are in a language I barely understand and I am thousands of miles away from home. I feel such comfort and happiness in the dust the smell of farm animals and the slight buzz I am catching from the wine and the handful of cherries all before twelve o’clock.

Arctic char tartar at La Mas Tourteron

I had the pleasure of dining at La Mas Tourteron in Gordes France,
with two great friends last week. It was an amazing dining experience
that lasted hours and left us giggling with glee at the beauty
and simplicity of the food put in front of us.
Here is what I ate.

May 11th 2011

Whipped avocado with Serrano pepper and olive oil, served with bread.

Sweet and sour pickled vegetable salad
Fennel, carrots, onions, celery and red pepper

Arctic char tartar
Radishes, romaine hearts, brunoisie of vegetable
And citrus vinaigrette

Sesame seared Dorade zucchini “pasta”
Celeriac puree, dry cured tomatoes, artichokes
and beuere blanc

Lemon merrange pie, strawberry soup
Mouscat

Madalines, dark chocolate mignardises


As we walked out of the restaurant through the ivy archways, fruit trees and jasmine to the car, we stopped and grabbed some dark red cherries that were still warm from the sun for the road.

They were a perfect close to the night.

France gets under my skin

France has started to set in and my brain feels less scrambled.
I’m relaxing, enjoying absorbing the new culture, eating, listening
to people speak and watching them work. I see at least two parallels
between France and New Orleans; the love of leisure & pleasure and
the importance of food in daily life. Lunch with girlfriends here
feels like the all day crawfish boils we have at home. It is a complete
giving of one’s self to the subtle pleasures of enjoyment.

The workweek here is different from stateside. Chefs,cooks and serving
staff’s weeks are capped at thirty-five hours. They take a three-hour
break during the day and for meals everyone sits down to eat. For me
it’s been an exercise in slowing down that at times goes against my
nature. I’m used to running around sweating, keeping my pockets full
of snacks to eat on the run and trying to make sure that the seemingly
never-ending prep list at work is completed. Being in any kitchen feels
like running to catch a train during New York City rush hour. Am I going
to make it? Is the subway running on time? Do I have all my luggage?
But it’s that constant feeling of adrenaline and the satisfaction of
making it all happen that keeps all of us in the service industry going.
This drive exists in the south of France but it feels as though everyone
is pacing themselves for a lifetime of this work.

It’s been a slow start to the season here so the kitchen has been pretty
laid back in comparison to what I'm used to. I’ve spent my days working on
various components of the Sunday Jazz brunch I’m responsible for, cutting
mirepoix, making sauces and stocks and doing lots of recipe conversions.
Its been wonderful practicing this new pace of cooking, getting back into
perfect knife cuts, picking fresh herbs from the château garden and I just
have to taste,taste, taste everything.

Integrating into the kitchen at the Chateau hasn’t been as difficult as
I had imagined. Folks are kind and patient and there are a lot of hand motions
to explain tasks and words. The kitchen staff here is small, Chef de
Cuisine Barnard, Sous Chef Arthur, Tournant Ari, Pastry Chef Milton and
two young cooks, Robin, 16, and Wilfred, 18. Despite their youth, Robin and
Wilfred are motivated and knowledgeable which is good since they’re
responsible for the majority of the prep that happens in the kitchen.
Robin has been my best translator, always laughing at my badly pronounced
French but very helpful. I am fascinated with the culture of apprenticeship
that seems commonplace in French kitchens. A lot of time and energy is put into lifting up new generations of cooks. It feels deeply rooted in French culture
to encourage young people to be chefs. There is pride in this profession here.

Sunday is when it all culminates with the grand example of pleasure:
Jazz brunch. A groaning, fifteen foot table is replete with cold salads
brimming with white and green asparagus, heaps of shrimp with various
dipping sauces,an amazing garde manger display of a whole salmon coated
with white aspic and decorated with bright vegetables.Soups, large roasted
meats, overflowing sausages, roasted potatoes and cauliflower gratin, seafood
stew,sunnyside up eggs on crab cakes and what seems to be a never ending
supply of raw oysters.
On a smaller table there is an equal overflow of handmade desserts.
The corner of the patio houses the jazz band, led by a sweet white haired
octogenarian who still plays his trumpet with vigor. The band provides a
perfect soundtrack for the leisure, pleasure and SUCCESS of brunch.