räksallad dröm

boned rolled tied feathered and tarred

This is one of my favorite things to cook.

Start with a chicken you feel good about. I find some of the wording slightly suspicious, the use of the phrase "open air" in particular, I'm not sure what they are getting at. But I appreciate that there are no hormones or antibiotics and, most importantly, no added water, however that's done. The "all natural veggie diet" is not totally clear to me, I bet you it's still cornfed, which is a pity really, besides that I believe that chickens would be happiest if they could eat a couple of worms here and there.

Anyway, this recipe is slightly adapted version of one of the very many things I learned under the wing of Carlo Middione, a thinking-mans chef. when I first learned this recipe it was done with a Capon, which, in case you don't know, is a castrated rooster. I don't really know where to get a capon these days, now that I am no longer a chef, so I found this bird and selected the largest one I could find. Mind you, I tell anyone who listens that smaller birds are the better birds, yet for this particular dish you need a monster, and it feeds something like 12 people rather comfortably. Instead of giving precise measurements I will give you the basic idea of this wonderful dish, the exact recipe is mostly the property of Carlo Middione, though he might not totally approve of some of my additions (ie. cinnamon and clove).

It's a lot easier than it looks and it's surprisingly economical, especially considering how many people it feeds. The chicken was rather special and cost about three dollars a pound and weighed in at five whole pounds. The other ingredients are rather cheap, except for the dried porcini mushrooms, but you really don't need a lot of them.

Obviously the trickiest part is deboning the chicken. Tricky but not really that terrifying so long as you have a sharp tipped knife and a puzzling imagination. The object is to completely debone it leaving the skin intact. Inexperienced cooks often end up with skin tears and such, but if you work carefully it's really easy to achieve. Without being too gruesome, I started with an incision along the spine and started prying my way in from there.

The ingredients at the top are Pepper, fresh thyme, sea salt (ignore that lemon balancing there), Olive oil, (the bottle of Beeren Auslese is there just because it's awesome, but none is used in the recipe); in the small green bowls: toasted, chopped walnuts, golden raisins soaked in brandy, dried porcini mushroom rehydrated in marsalla, squeezed dry and chopped, sauted with minced garlic and salt and pepper, frozen chopped spinach, also squeezed dry and sauteed with diced onions, salt and pepper.


Basically you just evenly distribute everything.


I rolled it up very carefully, my technique is to roll the breast part first so that the outer layer is thigh meat, my belief is that it will stay moist and not dry out. After it is rolled I tie it, you don't have to pull the string too hard it's just there to gently hold the shape. Otherwise you end up with something not unlike the Michelin Man. The roll is then placed onto a large sheet of parchment paper that has been rubbed with whole butter. Drizzled with marsala and brandy (the same leftover juice from the soaking of the raisins and mushrooms) and I am pretty generous with thyme. I also crushed a couple of juniper berries and grated a little bit of cinnamon bark as well as a clove or two. The trick with cinnamon is that if you can detect it then you used far too much, but if you can't tell it's there it quietly haunts everyone who eats it.


This is probably the most difficult step to describe, yet the easiest to do. It's what's called "Drugstore Wrapped" in this case twice, meaning two layers of parchment. It's simply a mater of folds and creases and the way the ends are tucked under ensure that the whole thing is pretty much air tight. I love cooking with parchment, this method allows the skin to actually brown thru the paper and yet keeps everything inside, juices and aroma. It's a weird combination of steaming and roasting.


I actually went over by several degrees because I got sidetracked. It's best to aim for about 165°F (which I think is something like 73°C). I was worried that I'd overcooked it but when I got to the next few steps I discovered that it was perfectly cooked. It might be that my thermometer is miscalibrated, I hardly ever use it anyway.

At this point you call it a night. Let the roast cool, do not be tempted to unwrap it. When it is cool enough, put it into the refrigerator overnight.


The next day, unwrap it. You will find a wonderful rich lustrous deep brownish liquid that is thick with natural gelatin. Thick and wobbly because it is cold. There is the tiniest amount of fat (mostly from the butter) that has risen to the top. Because it is cold it is solid and simply remove it with your fingers, meanwhile scrape all the luscious gelatinous jus into a bowl and set aside. You will notice that I neglected to photograph this bit, sorry about that. Slice the roast into thin even slices.


Next, bundle up the slices onto a new sheet of parchment also rubbed lightly with butter. I used more thyme, and a few more scrapings of cinnamon (I found I used too little). Put the gelatinous jus on top or around it. Then rewrap it, "drugstore wrap" method. By the way, it's called "Drugstore Wrap" because in the old days before plastic and tape/stickers, all meat used to be wrapped this way to carry it home.

After this I carried it up the street to a dinner party I was invited to. When I got there I popped it into their oven at about 350°F for about a half hour, and in the meantime I drank just enough wine to totally forget to photograph the finished product. My apologies. You'll have to use your imagination. It was unctuous and glistening and the jus, when hot, was liquid but with a slight viscosity that made it unbearably good.

Say hello to my little pastamaker

Yesterday I was fitted with this little gem of a machine. The city's foremost pastamachine specialist, Emilio, sat with me over a small batch of fritto misto and lemony aioli and plied me with something like twenty questions of what I was looking for and in the end he declared he had exactly the machine for me. He disapeared for an hour to retrieve it, and in the meantime I made a batch of pasta dough. There was a slight panic when I realized that the restaurant doesn't actually have the right mixer attachement for making pasta, a flat-beater it's called. We just have a dough hook at the moment which is exactly what you need to do pizza dough but exactly what you don't need to make pasta dough. So I had to improvise. The moment the eggs hit the semolina though a memory awakened in me, there is a subtle damp aroma that pasta dough yeilds and I had nearly forgotten it. And when I got my hands into it I knew I was going to be alright.

Every now and then I am reminded that all art, all art that I can think of, is just hand movements. If you assemble every artist you can think of; painters, musicians, sculptors, writers, cooks, and take away their tools and their objects you'd see that we're all doing a series of very intricate hand movements, some things, like drumming and fencing use other body parts as well, but if you really think of it in these terms we are all tai chi masters. And over the years, through the generosity of at least two very kind mentors, my hands learned exactly what to do, how to feel, what crumbly texture to aim for, which balance of wetness and dryness. By the time Emilio returned with my new Imperia machine he started to rolll out my dough and he exclaimed like three times what an excellent dough it was. The two things about Emilio are that he does this for a living so he knows a good one from a mediocre one, and he also is a no-nonsense kind of guy who doesn't fling around compliments just to make you feel good.

I had to make the dough slightly differently than the old days because where I used to work there was a monster of a machine, it had humungous rollers and it did all the work for you, little Imperias like mine in the picture need a slightly moister dough and require more folding and rolling, but the end result was very delicious.

I took a pretty girl out to a little place called Flour + Water last night. I have not been completely seduced by their pizza, maybe I'm biased but I think ours are so much better, a month ago I tried two of their pizzas and found them to be a little too dusty for me to enjoy and also underseasoned, but I have heard no such thing as a bad review of the place and I have to say it's rather perfect in so many other ways. Also, it could have been just mine that were served that way. Last night though we dined mostly on pasta and both of us were going nuts at how ridiculously good our two dishes were. Definitely go there if you can, and don't bother listening to what I was just saying about their pizza, I am full of opinions and personality, can't help it. The room is small, yet very stylish, with two paintings on the walls, one of which is very beautiful. Little glass chemistry beakers hold votive candles, the tables are made of a soft and comforting wood. The bathroom has a giant curio cabinet arranged with shells and bones and other objects. I'm a sucker for curio cabinets.

Flour + Water's dessert was much better than I could have done. A Rosemary Panna Cotta with a very loose blackberry compote accompanied by two dainty cornmeal cookies. I don't know about you but rosemary never fails to make me happy, and the way it innoculated the panna cotta was very interesting and the wild foresty berries partnered perfectly. The cornmeal cookies though, I didn't think much of them. I was reminded of my former Chef, Carlo Middione's recipe for Venetian Zalletti, which are much more delicate and light, with a subtly haunting lemony goodness to them.

Time is running out. I think I have just one day left at this current restaurant. And I wonder if I learned all that I was meant to in my time here. One of the newer, younger cooks was having difficulty last week with his buerre blanc. We were busy and it kept breaking, and I saw him struggling with it so I helped him. I made one and it lasted the rest of the night, he even tried heating it up to see if it would break and it didn't. I couldn't actually figure out what was making his fall apart but I told him I think it's because he is scared of it and he admitted that he was. As if the trauma, wherever it was coming from was trembling the molecules of the emulsion, and I remember back in chef school, 14 years ago, it was my turn to make my first buerre blanc and I was scared to death, I couldn't understand how it was made, even though it was explained in detail. Cooking is a mystery, an art and a science, but a lot tends to fall under mystery doesn't it. I struggled for years with this sauce, and it struck me that night I fixed his that I can now do it with my eyes shut, pressed for time and juggling lots of other things. I make brown butter holandaises like it's no big thing, because it's not.. but it is. I make the meanest scallop this side of my boss, and I didn't used to. I know a good foie from a bad one. I have learned a lot. There is a certain sadness with shallots, I have decided. I will miss working with the distinctly French fresh tarragon, Italians don't really use it. I wish I could say that I mastered charcouterie, but I really didn't.

I'm going to miss the chef, his talent is mesmerizing. A year and a half later and I still can't figure out where he gets his ideas from. Last night he made a seared foie with Sancerre soaked melon for me as a going away present.

I worked a single day at the new place on Thursday and really enjoyed it. The menu needs a lot of work, the pasta dishes are in a bad way right now, too mediocre. The draw of the place is clearly the artisnal, authentic pizzas, but I want the other dishes to match that quality. The pizzas are sublime, Giovanni really has the lightest touch with ingredients, he knows exactly how scant to scatter things, and it always comes out right. It's incredible to watch him when it's busy, he juggles eight to ten at a time. We became fast friends. His English is just a little better than my Italian, so we use Spanish instead. One my first day he made me food all day, first a chickpea-flour socca, then a tirimisu, then a peppered veal and gorgonzola dish, and in the evening a pizza, I made him a pasta and a test batch of my grandfathers olives. We made the paper that day: Here (Scroll to bottom).

The kitchen needs a bit of a facelift though, in my opinion, a few shelves loaded with colorful cans of tomatoes and such would do the trick. Giovanni and I sourced a wonderful brand of canned San Marzano tomatoes, the best I ever had. We will use those exclusively on the pizzas and pastas. We also found a dazzling sparkling water whose bottle was designed by the guys who design Ferrari.

I have to work out some dishes by early next week. So far, the plan is to have a slow confit of duck leg, the meat pulled off in silky shards, in a sauce of green olives and duck essence, twirled up with pappardelle that I will make fresh. We are still trying to find the right pasta machine that suits me.

I made something called Pasta Trinacria the other day that I liked. There is an ancient symbol of Sicily, probably pre-Greek, that is an image of the sun, with a somber face, with three legs jetting out. The three legs are meant to represent the three earliest tribes that made up Sicily (the Sicani, the Elymi and the Siculi). The three legs also form an imaginary triangle, which mimics the shape of Sicily itself. But this dish is meant to combine the three main flavors of the island, if you can really narrow it down to three. Swordfish, eggplant and mint. I made a light tomato sauce anointed with garlic and anchovy, and added deeply browned chunks of eggplant and cubes of swordfish, spiked everything with a little mint and tied it all up in fettucine. But my fettucine was far too thin, see thru really, and unfortunately didn't work. I liked the sauce and the idea behind it. I have to work on my dough, I'm a little out of practice.

vizes uborka

Hungarian Summer Pickles, vizes uborka ("wet cucumber"), made in the height of cucumber season and meant to be enjoyed a few days after making, and are not meant to be held to Winter, like the vinegar cured ones. In fact, these would go bad long before that. It's a quick lactic-acid fermentation due to the piece of bread you push on top and natural yeast spores in the air, resulting is a crisp and slightly tangy mild gherkin, more wine-y than vinegary. There are mountains of warty cucumbers at every Farmers Market right now, and they are dirt cheap, so, something like this is a smart thing to make, that is, if you like pickles and can eat them fast enough. To me, there is little more refreshing than a spicy, cold pickle on a hot hot day.

Ingredients:

15 even-sized cucumbers, each 4-5 inches long

1 large bunch of half-dried dill

3 garlic cloves, crushed

15 peppercorns, smacked

1 tsp. dried marjoram

bay leaf

2 shallots, sliced

3 1/2 Tbsp. salt

6 pints water

torn piece of bread

Wash cucumbers thoroughly; sometimes you even have to scrub them with a brush. Towel dry. Cut off both ends. Make a lengthwise incision in the center of each cucumber, then make a quarter turn and do the same. This way you have a crosscut so liquid can penetrate the inside. Be sure not to cut closer than 1 inch from the ends so the cucumber will not fall apart. Do this with the rest of the cucumbers.

Place half of the dill in the bottom of a 1-gallon jar. Add 1 garlic clove.

Stand the cucumbers on end in the bottom of the jar. Fit them in as tightly as you can, mine were not snug, as you can see, so they bob around. After you have done one layer, add the rest of the dill and garlic and continue with the tight packing of the cucumbers.

Boil 5 pints of water with the salt. Turn off heat and let cool for 5 minutes or so. Be sure to stand the pickle jar in hot water to prevent cracking. Pour the hot water and salt over the pickles. Cover with the slice of bread. Cover the top with cheescloth, I used a coffee filter secured with a rubberband.

Put the jar in the sun or in a warm place for 4-5 days. The aroma of the fermenting vegetables is pungent, but I kinda like it. If the scent is likely to bother you, use the lid rather than the cloth, but cover the jar loosely. It is better to let the pickle ferment in a sunny place of a yard or garden. By that time the pickles should be what is generally referred to as "semi-sour".

Remove everything from the jar. Strain the pickle juice. Put the pickles in the jar again and pour the strained juice over them. After this, store the pickles under refrigeration.

hunger, disguised as art

My three most memorable meals.
Eye opener dishes that broadened my horizons perhaps.
Changed my life.
Key moments.
That sort of thing.

a.) On the eve of my 17th birthday my folks took me out to a restaurant in Singapore (where we lived at the time) called Domus. Domus was an Italian restaurant located inside one of the fancy hotels there called The Sheraton Towers (on Scotts Road, if you are ever there). Domus' name was chiseled into stone above the door in old Roman letters, so, it looked like this: D O M V S , and inside was probably the best Italian food on that small island. I ordered Osso Buco, something I had never had before but remembered my Aunt telling me about it once. Osso Buco is a braised veal shank, braised for all kinds of long, slow hours, barely simmering along with diced onions, carrots, celery and garlic with white wine, crushed tomatoes, bay leaves. The result is a rich sauce that is brown in color, due to everything being browned so carefully, and topping most Osso Buco's, and topping mine at D O M V S was something called a Gremolata, which is minced lemon zest mixed with parsley and garlic (I have since learned that a proper gremolata should contain anchovy as well, but they didn't do that on mine) which was sparsely sprinkled on with a spoon atop the two shanks of osso buco. The waiter brought me a special spoon that is designed for spooning out the marrow from the bones, which was a taste I quickly adapted to. Alongside was soft, fluffy polenta, creamy and rich with the taste of nutty parmigiano. I had never eaten anything like it before, I had no idea how someone would go about making such a thing. It was a brand new taste and several of my taste buds awoke from their seventeen year slumber. The perfection of that dish combined with the innocence of my youth made for an unforgettable meal. It was that evening that I wanted to be a chef, it was that meal. It was that restaurant. The Chef came out into the dining room and made his rounds, he gently approached each table to see if everything was to their liking. He handed out scrolled up paintings he'd done, simple watercolors splashed onto paper and mostly of birds, he was a small, peculiarItalian man. I didn't leave an impression on him like he did on me. I told him how it was probably the best thing I ever tasted, but I was such a kid that a compliment like that didn't have the proper weight, because it wasn't based on anything, it wasn't qualified. The chef also handed out, on another round, scrolled up recipes that I still have today. For desert he made us vanilla ice cream that he extruded to look like strings of spaghetti and topped with a chunky berry sauce so that the whole thing looked like a dish of spaghetti with tomato sauce. Powdered sugar took place of the parmesan cheese. It was cute, but not as breathtaking as the osso buco. I met the chef a year later, I walked into his kitchen and asked if I could work there for free, if he would teach me. He kindly declined.

b.) Years later, 1991, I entered Chef School, and on the first day during orientation they sat us down for lunch. We were sat in an immaculate dining room that had been converted from a deconsecrated Jesuit seminary from the turn of the century and served by students who were further into the curriculum and ate the food of students further still, directed by a chef who would instruct us later down the line, in another year and a half. But for now, we were only sat there to eat, to see, to get a glimpse of what we were in for. The students serving us, uniformed as waiters, with aprons and bow ties, served us in the Russian manor which I had never even heard of at the time. In Russian Service there is a server for each guest, a tradition surviving from the opulent days of the Czars. So, behind every one of us was our own private servant. All food in Russian service is elaborately served. For an appetizer, each waiter brought out one plate each and set it in front of their guest. Each plate was concealed by a cloche (meaning bell) - a rounded silver cover that fits over each plate and has an elegant handle. When all the plates are set, each server keeps one hand poised on each handle of each cloche and waits for a signal from the head waiter, a slight pause, they all make eye contact with him, then he gently nods and each cloche is swooped off in unison, unveiling each plate. We were served frog legs in buerre blanc which I had never encountered before. They were mild, yet nutty, and very delicately moist. We were served wine with every course. And the soup was brought out in tureens. Set in front of us, after the frog legs were removed, were empty soup bowls, and the waiter would ladle the soup into your bowl without smudging the rim or spilling a drop. All along the instructor of the dining room staff , the same instructor we would later have a year and a half later, a Czech man with bushy eyebrows and thick curly hair, a man who had been a professional waiter his entire life, including a stint on the Orient Express, a man who looked more like a composer than anything else stood with his back to the wall, slightly distanced, with his arms folded and watching every waiter like a hawk. One thing I remember from him, something he taught us when we finally made it to his class, "Coffee older than ten minutes is POISON!" to ward off any student who was tempted to get the task of making coffee done ahead of time, he insisted it not be started until the table is nearly done with their entree's. For entree, we students were served Côtes de Veau Pojarski (Veal cutlet "Pojarski" named after or in honor of Dimitri Pojarski, a Russian patriot who fought the Polish invaders, back then, if you did something like that you'd get dishes made to honor you). Pojarski is a cutlet of either veal or pork, depending on your choice I suppose, and it is removed from the bone and ground up and mixed with seasonings. The bone is cleaned carefully of any meat so that is it completely clean, then the seasoned meat is packed and shaped around it so that it looks like a chop again. The whole thing is wrapped in something called Caul Fat which is a very succulent beef fat that looks like netting, it is wrapped in this thin net and roasted. Caul fat is preferred for it's melting qualities. The net melts while in the oven and ends up basting the meat it is on. Someone at the table, a fellow student - though we hardly knew eachother then, chuckled, "Porksicles!" and we all laughed nervously. When we got to that class, that kitchen, we were taught that same dish and cooked it for students on their first day. When the plates all came back to the kitchen, we collected all the bones and washed them with soap and water and drilled holes in them and made them into keychains that we all dangled with pride from our key rings for a while. Like sailors who pierce their ear when they cross the equator, we earned these porksicle-keychains.

But, as you can probably tell, that meal of bewilderment was more to do with the spectacular way in which it was presented, that opened up the floodgates of what service and the experience of eating could be like. That experience taught me service and dining room splendor have a lot to do with the luxury of a meal. I have always felt at home in a dining room, in a restaurant, well, perhaps not always, but for as long as I can remember (my mother used to take me out for afternoon tea in Singapore, she taught me how to enjoy it). There are many people who get visibly nervous in a dining room, I know that, I understand that, but it makes me sad because I find it very fun and important. Anyway, the frog legs were good, delicious I think I said, and the Pojarski was also well done, very tasty, but neither shattered my world or sent me to another realm of the senses like that dining room did or the service there-in, so I now feel it is appropriate to pick another dish that moved me.

My first "real" restaurant job was an apprentice at a French restaurant in Saratoga, California back in the early nineties. The Culinary Institute of America's program send students off half way through the program to find jobs, an internship. We are asked to find paying jobs in the food business, the place must be approved by the CIA (the schools initials) and we are to stay employed for at least six months. I actually landed two jobs while still in NY all done by fax and phone and the U.S. post (this was the quaint pre-internet days that you hear about every now and then). I was accepted by a place in Athens, Greece called Bistro Seven Steps and The Fairmont Hotel in San José, California. I really wanted to go to Greece, but the whole deal sounded extremely shady, the owner agreed to pay me the equivalent of $1.30 and hour (which he said goes a long way in Greece) and I would live in his spare room. I will always wonder what my life would have shaped up to had I chose that road. after much deliberation I chose The Fairmont, I forced myself to accept that I was in fact going to school to learn how to be a chef and that I already knew how to be a vagabond and a globe trotter (though, I liked it). So, The Fairmont offered a dream of a job, they were going to rotate me all through their hotel, from the butcher shop to their Asian restaurant called Pagoda and their French opus called Les Saisons, etc. I worked there, in the French restaurant for exactly a month when I was laid off. It was the month of December, so they made me work on Christmas and New Years day with the knowledge that I would no longer be employed there. So, for the new year I began to hit the pavement to find a job. The first place I walked into was La Mere Michele, in Saratoga. I walked in and was hired on the spot by the owner/chef Josef Masek (also a Czech). I worked with Mr. Masek for close to a year (then returned to school. I worked for him again after I graduated -a year later- and was unable to find work anywhere else). He was a tyrant, very cruel, often on the verge of physical violence. He would throw things at me, shout and scream. He would ridicule me and abuse me to the point of tears but...as they say so often, he taught me an awful lot. He gave me the worst treatment that he spared the others of, there were only three others, a loyal dishwasher, a sous chef who had been with him since the opening day 20 years before, and his son Marc. But, none of them worked under the chefs wing like I did at that time, though I was lousy at just about everything I tried to master, I kept coming back each day. Anyway, all this useless information to bring me to Josef Masek's Goulash, a dish that is seldom spoken of with glory or reverence. He taught me how to make it, he showed me how to trim the meat, how to toast the paprika, a trick no one seems to know, he used extremely good paprika from Zagreb, and after it was done, he made spaetzle and topped it with this goulash and wiped the rim then handed it to me and said "Clock out and take a beak. Eat this. " and he pointed at the swinging kitchen door and started to work on something else, my cue to get out of his site. I ate in the darkened dining room, we were not open at that hour. The chairs were still stacked on the tables, the room was quiet and lonely and unlit. Just a light from the doorway and a few from streetlights streaming through the window. On the wall was a reproduction of that Renoir painting in that movie Amelie, I forget the name of it, but the Masek's commissioned a painter to paint one but to place the Masek family members in the painting. The girl drinking the water was his daughter. The light strewn across that painting, and I watched it as I ate. A complete contrast of the splendor of the other dining experience I explained, but the dish sang to me, Josef taught me his secret ingredient of caraway seeds, which he explained cut through the masking qualities of paprika. The meat was super tender and juicy and the sauce was rich and luxurious. That was the best goulash I had ever had, and it is now my own, though whenever I make it I think instantly of Josef Masek and my somewhat miserable time at La Mere Michele.

c. Cassoulet. I grew up with a family heirloom of a recipe for something called Braciole, it is, and always has been my favorite meal, my family and I make it a few times a year usually for Christmas and for my dad's and my birthdays. That should rank as one of the dishes on this list, but since I grew up having it, and will likely die having had it many more times, it doesn't qualify with my original guidelines of what three have changed me. I was born into this family, so I never had a choice there. Broadened my horizons, braciole was my horizon. So, for that reason, I do not include it. Cassoulet from Absinthe, I still remember the first time I tried it. My then flame Amanda had taken me to Absinthe once for my birthday. I never forget a meal. If you asked me what I ate three months ago on a Tuesday, I would be hard pressed to answer, but somewhere in my memory lurks highlights from everything I have ever eaten. Amanda chose an entree of lobster with drawn butter and an appetizer of smoked salmon. I had a goose liver paté and Cassoulet. I had never had Cassoulet before, but have always (at least in my professional lifespan) known of it. It's a complicated dish from Castelnaundary (Languedoc region, home of my favorite French wines) that takes four days to make. It consists of three meats: confit of a duck or goose leg; Toulouse sausage; and a shoulder of pork. Everything is mixed with cannelini beans, aromatic vegetables and herbs and baked in a slow oven for something like 12 hours. My birthday is in January and this is one of those perfect cold weather meals. Absinthe makes a fine one and they only serve it in the winter. It’s served in a wide casserole dish, which is why it gets the name it has, and the surface browns and carmelizes, and beneath that the beans are so soft they’re creamy and the meat is so luscious and my goodness I am hungry..


Dishes that did not make the list but came awfully close: Spaghetti coi le Sarde (Spaghetti with currants, toasted pine nuts, fennel fronds and garlic, a smidgen of tomato paste and grilled fresh sardines); Croque Monsieur from a Paris street vendor in the early morning hours; Chanterelle mushrooms foraged by me from the Swedish forests sauteed in butter with new potatoes dug from the earth minutes earlier. A superb Blanquette de Veau eaten at midnight one chilly evening