Ile Flottante

First published Canberra Times 5 October 2011. It’s a baking hot day in the town of Epfig, Alsace, where the thick crowds thread their way through the festively decorated streets celebrating the spring flea market. Brocante markets are huge in France at this time of year, as people save up their second hand wares through the lengthy winter to set up a stall in their local village at the beginning of spring.  These numbers are boosted by a caravan of purveyors that you encounter at every market, every weekend, across the region.

We are told it’s unusually hot today and this is the first market of the year in Epfig, about 30kms from Strasbourg, where the locals have gathered up from surrounding farms to join the villagers, proudly displaying their precious wares. This market, as with any other of the street markets that rotate through the Alsatian villages in spring, boasts a mouth watering selection of fresh vegetables, bread, cheeses, meats and preserves. Tacky second hand wares jostle with brocante of real interest, in displays that can include anything from clothes to kitchenalia, war memorabilia, ancient bicycles, bad art or kitsch. It can be still in its shrink wrap, antique or just pre-loved.



These markets are taken very seriously, with shoppers appearing in their thousands, parking precariously on the edge of the village, intensely focused on scooping up that killer bargain.

I’m no different, and stroll slowly along the cobbled Epfig streets, scanning both sides for just the right bargains to take home. From mums, dads and kids to the slick antique dealers, the displays of infinite variety extend out of sight down every street and round every corner. It’s taking all my powers of self-restraint to avoid from indulging at every second stall.



An old metal chocolate mould takes my eye on a stall where two grey haired gentlemen are sitting on boxes in the shade and wearing overalls held up with braces. They are selling some items for a friend who has just closed his Patisserie after many years. It’s hard not to detect my keen interest and they bring out extra pieces from their ancient looking truck. They show me old ceramic moulds, metal cake and bread pans, an array of chocolate moulds in a variety of bird shapes and utensils of all description all caked with layers of flour.



I know we’ve only got limited space in our shipping tea chests, so I’m careful to select only the extra special items. We haggle over price and they throw in extras, and more extras, until I can’t possibly carry any more and have to refuse things that you would die to get your hands on back in Australia.



Brocante-ing is thirsty and hungry work so, flushed and heavily laden, we seize one of the last tables under an umbrella at the only available watering hole in Epfig, a half-timbered Winestub. The waitresses, cheeks glowing from the heat, make futile attempts to manage the influx of customers who are escaping the midday sun. The staff are overwhelmed by this invasion, but no one really seems to mind, realising that this once-a-year phenomenon is part of the package and as long as you can get a beer, all is well.  The menu lists the obligatory salads, foie gras, pork knuckle and a range of desserts. What really captures me here is the Ile Flottante, a light cloud of meringue floating in a sea of cool crème anglaise.  The waitress winks knowingly at my order and indicates she’ll be right back.



Although, not often seen in Australian restaurants, French women of a certain generation can whip this dessert up with their eyes closed. It’s no surprise this French classic is a hot little number, as it can be eaten warm or icy cold and still appears on many Bistro menus in France. Our chilled island of meringue was served slightly scorched with a blowtorch, a swirl of caramel and topped with shards of gingered praline.  This quantity makes 6 individual servings.

Caramel sauce and praline 
1 ½  cups caster sugar 
½ tspn vanilla extract 60g sliced almonds

Meringues
8 eggwhites at room temperature
1/8  tspn salt 
¼ tspn cream of tartar 
1 cup caster sugar 
½ tspn vanilla paste


Creme anglaise
1 cup pouring cream 
½ tspn vanilla paste
4 egg yolks 
¼ cup caster sugar


To make the caramel sauce, combine the sugar and ½ cup water in a pan. Cook over low heat until sugar dissolves. Raise heat to moderate, and cook, without disturbing and swirling the pan, until caramel-coloured. Swirl again, and remove from heat. Stir in ½ cup of water and the vanilla, being careful as it may spit. Cook over high heat, stirring, until the caramel is golden brown, this should take about 5 minutes, or until it registers 230F (118C) on a candy thermometer. Keep warm.

To make praline, preheat the oven to 180C. Line a baking tray with baking paper. Combine ¼ cup caramel sauce with the almonds, then spread onto a baking sheet. Bake for 10-12 minutes. When cool, break into pieces.
Lower oven temperature to 120C and line 2 baking sheets with baking paper.

To make the meringues, beat the eggwhites with salt and cream of tartar until frothy. Add 1 cup of sugar gradually, beating at high speed until stiff and glossy. Whisk in the vanilla. Spoon large mounds, about the amount of 2 dessertspoons, on the prepared trays and bake for 20 minutes, or until a tester comes out clean.


To make the creme anglaise, gently bring the cream to a boil in a pan. Remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla. Beat the egg yolks with sugar until pale. Pour in a little of the hot cream and stir to combine, then pour the egg mixture into the pan with the rest of the cream. Using a wooden spoon, stir over low heat for 3 minutes, or until mixture coats the back of the spoon.

To serve, pour the cooled cream into bowls, top with a meringue, drizzle with caramel sauce and top  with shards of praline.

If you are using a fan forced oven, you may need to reduce the temperatures slightly. Photos by Steve Shanahan

Blood orange pudding

Photo: Steve Shanahan  

First published Canberra Times 28 September 2011. Strange but true, it was the hospital system in France, with a kind of gruesome appropriateness, that ignited my passion for blood oranges and blood pudding. I hadn’t tried either of these foods until illness forced a brief stay in a provincial hospital in Saumur in the Loire Valley a few years back. These two foods, linked by name only, were on offer daily to the patients, along with a decadent menu of meals that incorporated fresh, locally grown produce.

Subsequently, during my long, slow recovery from glandular fever, it is the sweet, European, red-pigmented oranges, the size and quality of which is not seen in Australia, that I still crave.  This wonderful fruit is offered three times a day to patients and more often if you want it at the end of each meal.

In a daily menu that would make the gruel served in Aussie hospitals taste like workhouse fare, the standouts were a tender chicken casserole (similar to Coq au Vin), blood pudding, and the fattest, whitest asparagus you’ve ever seen, braised in butter with eschalots. I’m not sure if you could consider it health food, but at least you could die happy.

But it is the steaming morning cafe au lait in large bowls, served with my childhood favourite, Dutch crispbreads, unsalted butter and little ceramic pots of jam that win me over. I am mildly amused that even in hospital, food is one of the main games and is taken very seriously by patients and staff alike. As if highlighting the importance of culinary perfection as an essential part of the cure, the doctors check in with patients during mealtimes to ensure that the food reaches the high standards that they expect.

In keeping with French custom, meals in the hospital are served in a number of small courses and the main meal of the day is lunch, always served with a good wine. Seriously! I am presented with an interestingly dark sausage, potatoes dauphinoise and juicy salad greens that I later learn are called maché. I eat most of the sausage, finding its rich meat deliciously piquant with a hint of nutmeg. It’s only a few days into my stay that I discover what this is!

One doctor is fluent in English and my French is limited, so discussing the finer points of the food is not an option, but I befriend another patient and we manage to communicate. When she points at the veins in her arms and then at the sausage, it all becomes horrifyingly clear. Now I know what I’m eating, I feel there is something not quite right about serving blood pudding in a hospital. I may have been still a little delirious as I imagine all sorts of weird things, but mostly wonder where the blood is sourced from. My focus turns to blood oranges.

Dessert is always served in this hospital, and is generally a fruit pudding or a crème anglaise. My memory of the blood orange pudding has stuck with me - the colour of the fruit penetrates the sponge crumb, creating a rainbow of pinky-orange, making it perfect for a spring dessert.

This recipe calls for orange segments, and I learned this knife technique, also known as supreming, while in France. With a sharp knife, cut off the bottom and top of the orange, so the flesh is exposed and the orange can stand upright on a cutting board. Cut away the peel and the pith, following the curve of the fruit with your knife. Hold the orange in one hand over a bowl and cut the segments out of their connective membranes from each side and let them fall into the bowl. Reserve any juice to use later.

These blood orange upside down puddings are best eaten warm from the oven, served with a berry sauce.

Photo: Steve Shanahan

Pudding

125g unsalted butter and a little extra to grease

5 large blood oranges, peeled and segmented

175g caster sugar

1 tbsp water

2 large eggs

125g self raising flour, sifted

1 vanilla bean, scraped or 1 tsp vanilla paste

zest of 1 orange, finely grated

2 tbsp blood orange juice

Berry Sauce

300g mixed berries, frozen or fresh

150g caster sugar

juice of 1 orange

Preheat the oven to 180C. Butter 6 or 7 small pudding moulds, depending on the size. Toss the blood orange segments with 50g of the sugar in a small bowl.  Heat a wide pan over a high heat and add the blood orange and sugared segments with 1 tbsp of water and cook for a minute or so until slightly softened but still holding their shape. Spoon them into the prepared moulds, along with the juices. Set aside to cool while making the sponge mixture.

Cream the butter and remaining 125g caster sugar together in a bowl until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at the time, adding 1 tbsp of flour with the second egg. Beat in the vanilla and orange zest. Fold in the rest of the flour in two batches, and then finally the orange juice until just evenly combined.

Spoon the mixture into the moulds to two-thirds filled, and smooth off the tops. Stand on a baking tray and bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until risen. Test by inserting a thin skewer into the centre, it should come out clean.

While the puddings are baking, make the berry sauce. Put the berries, sugar, juice into a wide pan and stir over a high heat until the berries have burst and softened. Cook for 10 minutes or so, until the mixture is thick. Transfer to a bowl to cool.

Once the puddings are cooked, leave them in their moulds for a few minutes, then run a thin knife around the edge of each one to loosen. Invert them onto individual plates, serving with a spoonful of berry sauce and a drizzle of cream. Photos by Steve Shanahan

Aunt Kitty's Tomato Pie

First published Canberra Times 16 September 2011. 

I’ve just returned from a weekend on the south coast and a visit with my good friend Jen, an incredibly talented and intuitive cook. She vehemently denies this, but continues to produce all manner of amazing heirloom dishes, mostly from old family recipes, which she prepares in her cozy cottage kitchen. Jen conjures the best roast pig I’ve tasted.

As I wind my way down the Clyde Mountain to the coast, I know another one of her famous “swine nights” is in the offing.  It takes all my concentration to keep my trusty Skoda on the straight and narrow and my mind off the delights to come. 

Jen plays mother hen to many of the local waifs and strays, who feast at her kitchen on perfectly cooked pig, crunchy baked potatoes and crispy pork crackling. You will regularly find a tribe of friends at Jen’s kitchen table, gathered there for swine night, being fed and wined with gusto, while she holds court on the other side of the kitchen bench.

One of her more unusual, but well-honed side dishes that accompany her roasts, is her great Aunt Kitty’s Tomato Pie. Jen’s family hail from the wilds of Goondiwindi and the dish has been cooked by the females in her family for generations. She insists that this pie needs to be almost charred to intensify the burnt umami flavour of the tomato and apologises for the amount of butter it uses.  In her defence, I maintain that it’s the butter that actually provides that special je ne sais quoi!

This tomato pie is great as a side dish to accompany roast meats or with a green salad as a light lunch.

1 medium onion, sliced

6 ripe tomatoes, sliced

3 slices of wholegrain bread with crusts

3 tbsp softened salted butter

parmesan cheese

sea salt flakes and ground black pepper

2 tspn brown sugar

Preheat the oven to 200C. Smear a medium sized pie dish very liberally around its base and sides with the softened butter. Tear the bread into small one inch pieces and roughly cover the base with a third of the torn bread. Cover the bread with a third of the onion rings and then a third of the tomato slices. Sprinkle the tomato with a good pinch of the brown sugar and season with salt and pepper.Dab nut sized pieces of butter over the top of the tomato. Repeat the layers two more times, ending with a layer of bread pieces on the top. Sprinkle the top layer of the bread pieces with the parmesan cheese and finish with the dobs of butter.

Place in the oven uncovered for 1 hour. After cooking for 30 minutes, push the layers down with the back of a spoon to flatten the pie. Continue baking the pie for another 30 minutes until blackened around the edges. Remove from the oven and serve hot or at room temperature. Photos by Steve Shanahan