Oysters at Harrods

First published Canberra Times 15 June 2011

I can only just reach the kitchen tabletop, which is covered with the usual seersucker cloth. Dad is home for lunch and laid out in front of him are a dozen oysters freshly harvested from the lake, buttered white bread, vinegar and pepper. With my elbows on the table, I watch him intently as he slowly and precisely seasons each oyster. His adam’s apple moves as he swallows, savouring the flavour of each slippery mollusc as it slides down. He offers me one, and I close my eyes. It tastes like I am eating the sea, swallowing gulps of water in a pounding surf. This is my first taste of oysters.

It's a far cry from the serene elegance of Harrods London Caviar House Oyster Bar where we each slide back a dozen cold, briny oysters and share a bottle of champagne. The rococo style decor of the Fish Hall with its real-life fish sculpture that adorns the wall, attracts curious customers. Some turn up their noses in disgust at the briny and fishy odour, while others make it a photo opportunity. The entertainment only intensifies this decadent experience for us.  

Our bubbly Spanish waitress suggests we each go with a mixed half dozen to start with, then choose our favourites for the next half dozen. She carefully selects our oysters, smelling each one before she expertly shucks and plates them.  They are presented to us neatly nestled in their pearly shells, accompanied by a lemon quarter enrobed in muslin and a flute of lively, citrusy champagne.

Our mixed half dozen includes;  Fines de Claires -  cultivated in a ‘claire’ at low stock density and high salinity levels; the Mediterranean -  a rock  oyster from Montpelier; Portland Royals -  large rock oysters grown in Portland, Dorset along with the smaller Princesses; and the Loch Ryan, a native from Scotland.  I go with the Loch Ryan for its distinctive, mineral and salty flavours.  The flavour difference between oysters is surprising; some taste of seaweed and mermaids while others are just plain salty.

Two dressing options are provided, the traditional French Shallot dressing or the classic zingy Japanese style dressing, reminding us of another memorable oyster experience at our own Tetsuya’s restaurant.  

In my observation, oyster eaters (the human, not the bird variety) fall into two categories. There are those that slide them back quickly, straight from the shell, sucking out the juice; and those that treat them like a good wine, a slight chew, aerating to allow the flavours to cross the palate, and then swallow. The distinction also applies to the choice of dressing, with many “purists” believing them an unnecessary accoutrement. The other camp will immediately reach for anything from lemon and pepper to soy, wasabi, Tabasco or whatever; the world is their oyster. For oyster novices, a dressing can help overcome the squeam factor by providing a welcome flavour distraction to a texture that can be challenging. 

Speaking of squeam and the perils of oyster-eating, I am reminded of a birthday celebration dinner at a Canberra restaurant for our daughter some years back. She bravely tries an oyster for the first time and it contrives to wrap itself around her braces like some sort of sea monster. Horrified at the taste and texture, she spends much of the rest of the evening removing the sinew from her teeth and her expensive meal from her stomach. She has not tried one since.

Back in Paris a few days earlier, on a quest for an oyster meal, we seek out the bistro Le Rocher du Cancale at number 78 Rue Montorgueil. An interesting menu is displayed on the window, that includes Cancale oysters, but disappointment rules when we find it is closed tonight.  Our oyster feast will have to wait until we reach London.

The bistro takes its name from the French seaside resort of Cancale, noted for its oyster production, dating back to Roman times. Opened in 1846, this traditional bistro is one of Paris’s oldest, famous for its neo-classical décor and delicately carved facade that includes a wooden sculpture that depicts oysters growing on rocks. The interior walls are decorated with paintings by Paul Gavarni, which he gradually painted each time he came in for lunch. 

An earlier and swankier rendition of this restaurant, located at number 59, was a favourite rendezvous of the Parisian elite, including Balzac, who came here for its specialty oysters. Back then, the Rue Montorgueil was the terminus for carts that hauled shellfish from the north coast to Paris, and Cancale oysters were, and remain among the best. The horses that drew the carts from the coast were exchanged with others at rest points along the way, to ensure the oysters arrived fresh.   

With elbows on the bar, and the detritus of our oyster feast in front of us, I sink deeper into the soft leather of the bar stool. I have sated the craving that had been left disappointingly unsatisfied by Cancale’s and I am reminded of a seersucker covered kitchen table, my dad and my first revelatory taste of oysters. Reality returns as Harrods starts mobilising shoppers for its evening closing and the bubbly waitress clears the dishes. But I have swallowed the sea.

Shallot dressing

2 french shallots, finely chopped

2 tbsp red wine vinegar

sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Combine all ingredients and spoon over oysters. 

Tets’ dressing

Adapted from the book Tetsuya’s

1 tsp finely grated ginger

60ml rice wine vinegar

1 tsp caster sugar

1 tsp light soy sauce

2 tbsp olive oil

90ml grapeseed oil

½ tsp fresh lemon juice

¼ red onion, chopped finely

1 tbsp chopped fresh chives

Whisk together the ginger, vinegar, sugar, soy, oils and lemon juice or shake them in a screw-top jar. Add the red onion. When ready to serve spoon half the dressing over the oysters and put the rest into a small bowl for the table.  Sprinkle with the chives and serve.  Photos by Steve Shanahan

Facing phobias in Alsace - Snails

First published Canberra Times 8 June 2011

Auberge de la Huhnelmuhle feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere, but it’s actually only a few minutes drive from our house. We spot this inviting looking restaurant from the track that leads to the ruins of Ortenbourg and Ramstein Chateaux that tower over the picturesque village of Scherwiller. We make a plan to eat there before our holiday is over. The Auberge is located on the ancient Route du Sel, once a stopover for Roman salt merchants on their way to the Rhine River.

The Auberge is part of an old, double-storey Alsatian farm house located on the banks of a small stream. The sound of rushing water comes from canal diversions running around the farm buildings and provides a clue that this property had a former life as a mill.

We arrive without a booking and join another couple who are seated on the terrace at a table overlooking the stream. The sun is close to setting and a golden, hazy glow settles over the forest, paddocks and vines that surround us. We drink in this gorgeous vista, along with an Alsatian Cremant, embedding it as a mellow memory to take home with us to Australia. The calm beauty of the place only highlights the short time we have left of our holiday in Alsace.

We are greeted warmly by Madame Schmitt, who explains in French and German that she is the owner of the establishment and the surrounding vineyard, Domain Jean-Paul Schmitt. She gives us menus and tells us that the specialty of the house is Carp fritters. We are strangely excited by the unexpected prospect of fish and frites on a Friday night even if it is oversized goldfish.

Two of my food dreads are on the menu tonight and confronting my phobias head on, we order Escargots a l’Alsacienne and Carp Fritters to share. Before this, I had only encountered rubbery, flavourless snails in faux French restaurants and dead carp on the shores of Lake Burley Griffin, smelly victims of sport fishing.

More customers arrive and with the sun now setting we decide to linger on the terrace for our aperitif and entree. Our aperitif is a Cremant, the light and refreshing bubbly, brewed in Alsace, followed by a Muscat with snails, and finally a bottle of Schmitt’s Pinot Gris with the main. Madame Schmitt appears at our table to say she is finishing for the evening and her daughter will look after us, she wishes us au revoir and bon appetit. This friendly and personal touch is one that will have us return.

The snails arrive in a bubbling lava mixture of oil, garlic and herb butter, nestled in their special ceramic dish. The inviting smell of garlic beckons us and we dip our forks in to extract these tasty little morsels. These molluscs are like nothing I’ve had before, tender and succulent with a prawn-like texture bathed in rich French butter. Before we realise it, we’re mopping up the remnants of garlicky butter with fresh, crunchy bread.

As the sun sinks lower and the view becomes even more impossibly spectacular, the falling temperature signals our move inside. We are surprised at how full the restaurant is now and we are shown to a cosy table in the corner. The interior is traditionally timber-lined, with hefty exposed beams spanning its width. The large open fire in the corner looks big enough to manage the freezing winters that are dealt out here.

Our Carp fritters arrive on a large shared plate atop a warming tray, reminiscent of Swiss and German fare. The flavour of the Carp, with its three dipping sauces, is unexpectedly un-fishy, surrounded by a light and crunchy beer batter. This meal is essentially gourmet fish and potatoes, but very tasty and beautifully presented.

Our grand finale, a shared Souffle au Grand Marnier, was a perfect rendering of that pillow soft, eggy puffiness balanced by a hint of orange liquor. The meal was topped off with surprisingly good coffee, unusual in our experience here.

The food, as we expected, is traditional Alsatian, well presented and beautifully and sensitively cooked. It’s dipped in a spectacularly beautiful setting and accompanied by confident and personal but non-pretentious service. The other highlight for me was squashing two food phobias in one fell swoop.

The French reportedly consume approximately 40 000 tons of escargot each year, making them the world's largest consumers of snails in the world. Much of this is imported, as the French are currently unable to produce enough domestically to meet the demand. Consumption is particularly high during festive times, as escargot is considered a delicacy.

Snail meat is available in a number of ways, fresh, frozen or tinned. It is more difficult to obtain fresh snails in Australia and they require extensive preparation to be table ready. Frozen and tinned are ready to bake without the requirement for further processing.

If you decide to tackle your phobias and munch on a snail, there are a number of online companies or delicatessens selling escargot in Australia. Don’t be tempted by our shelled friends from the garden as they can contain toxins.

Serves 2

Escargots a l’Alsacienne

80g soft, unsalted butter

2 fillets of anchovies, mashed (optional)

2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

half a bunch of parsley, finely chopped

50ml vegetable stock

100ml dry white wine
1 tin of snails, drained, usually contains about 2 dozen per tin
½ tspn pastis (optional)
½ tspn lemon juice
pinch of salt
ground black pepper

Combine the butter, anchovies, garlic, parsley, lemon juice, pastis, salt and pepper and mix well. Flatten the mixture between two sheets of baking paper and chill until hardened.

Preheat the oven to 200C.

Rinse the snails in a couple of changes of fresh water and drain. Combine the vegetable stock, wine and drained snails and simmer for 10 minutes and drain.

If you don’t have a traditional snail dish, arrange half the snails each in two small gratin dishes and top each with half of the chilled butter mixture.

Bake for about 6 minutes in the oven or until snails are warm and the butter is melted and golden on the top.

Recipe adapted from the book, Cuisiner avec la poterie de Soufflenheim, Colmar.

Munster in the fridge

First published Canberra Times 1 June 2011

We arrive at our house exchange in Chatenois in Alsace feeling pretty strung out after a series of near misses on the Paris to Strasbourg rail leg. We drop our bags and check out what is to be our new home for the next few months. I open the fridge and am knocked sideways by an alarming smell of near-nuclear intensity that explodes into the house. We think something has died in there. What we don’t know is that we have a Munster in the fridge.

The odour rushes past us, up the stairs, and we hear shrill accusation and counter accusation of flatulence from our kids who have gone up to unpack. Everyone converges on the kitchen to investigate.

I’m searching for the offending item in the fridge and thinking unbelievably smelly socks, but the only thing in there is a seemingly innocent round of cheese in a plastic container. I’m begged not to open the container in the house, but to take the “thing” outside and leave it there. Smugly pleased that I have identified this smelly perpetrator, the cheese sits outside for a few days until garbage collection day. For some time afterwards, each time the fridge is opened, a pungent reminder radiates into the kitchen. We enter the world of Munster cheese.

There is no doubt that Munster is formidable, described as having a farmyard aroma, and is not for the feint hearted. It’s taken us some months to get beyond its teenage-boys-dirty-socks pungency to truly appreciate this washed rind cheese, seeking it out wherever we can. Don’t let the smell discourage you. This is a truly delicious cheese.

To have a closer look at the production process, we contact the Ferme du Saesserle dairy in Breitenbach and arrange to rendezvous at Auberge Reid, a farm inn, located in Erstein, six kilometres from the town of Munster, high above the Munster Valley. We arrive at the agreed time, and again as a result of our poor French, find we are a day too early for the cheese-making. However, by fluke, the Auberge is celebrating the Transhumance festival and we are invited to stay for the festivities.



Le Sonneurs

 Transhumance is the celebration of the yearly migration of the dairy herd from the valley to graze the higher mountain spring pastures. The locals dress in traditional garb and walk with the herd up the road, stopping along the way to perform rituals that date back to antiquity.

Synchronised bell ringing by the well-drilled “Sonneurs” is followed by a trio of mountain horn players who herald the herd’s arrival and departure for the next waypoint on their journey up the mountain. The cows are resplendent, wearing large bells on decorated leather straps around their necks. Festivities at our Auberge ramp up at the arrival of the herd. The
accordion band swings into jaunty polkas and waltzes and icy cold beer and Alsatian wine flows to wash down mountains of bredzel and kugelhopf.

With the oompah music, beer, bredzels and a pink-cheeked boy standing next to me wearing lederhosen, I’m having trouble believing I am in France instead of Germany or Switzerland.

A solo horn player then moves up into the centre of the herd and plays a call and response with the other two horns. The cows lift their heads and appear to understand that their move for the next higher pasture has been announced.

Munster cheese has been made in Alsace since the Middle Ages, initially by monks who were prohibited from eating meat for long periods of time. It must have been a very fragrant environment, with the combination of unbathed monks, dung and the pungent aromas of Munster cheese making contained within the cloistered walls. Without thermometers, cheese-making was a pretty hit and miss affair. Temperature was measured by sticking a finger into the warm milk which introduced many rogue bacteria into the process.

Traditional Munster is made in Alsace by only a handful of dairies that still use raw milk and follow a prescribed series of steps. Its production centre is the pretty village of Munster, set amid pastures and vineyards. The cheese is rubbed by hand with a solution of rock-salt and water to develop the growth of bacteria, giving a strong flavour to the cheese and preventing mould from forming. The young Munsters are then transferred into caves next to old Munsters, and every second day they are washed and brushed.

A young Munster cheese has a thin but firm, pinkish-red rind with white paste. As it matures the rind turns to a darker russet colour with a deep straw-coloured interior. The interior is soft and supple filled with small holes, and as it matures the paste becomes creamy in texture. The maturation time is usually two to three months.

Certain Munsters are protected origin designation cheeses, meaning that they must be made by dairies in a particular way to be labelled and sold as Munster. By protecting these Munsters, it is hoped that the culinary heritage of the cheese will be preserved for generations to come. Traditional Alsatian Munster should not be confused with cheese varieties with similar names, such as muenster, adapted for milder tastes and made in other parts of the world.

We have tried Munster in a number of ways. It is commonly sprinkled on Tarte Flambée, and is an important ingredient in the Tourte de la Vallée, a traditional Munster pork and veal pie. It’s also used in a number of tarts and commonly added to Alsatian potato dishes. While these are all tasty and unique, they are very heavy and rich.

For me, I believe that the flavour of Munster is best enjoyed when served simply - on a cheese platter and sprinkled with cumin seeds. It also adds another dimension to a spinach salad or added to hot pasta, but always accompanied by a fruity Gewürztraminer

Munster cheese is available through a number of online suppliers in Australia; just ensure you order Munster from Alsace.

Photos by Steve Shanahan roamingredbox.blogspot.com