In August 2007, I thought I would be more efficient and place all of my personal food commentary online, so as to avoid repeating myself. And one Monday, I decided to see what “blogging” was all about. What developed next was this habit that became almost an obsession where every day I had to post something on the web. If it was food related, it went online. After a while, the frenetic daily posting subsided to a more reasonable rhythm of a few times a week. When I got to France in April 2009, it trickled down to very little… and then nothing.

In retrospect, I grew a lot through the experience of constantly expressing myself online. When people asked what motivated me to keep going for so long, the answer was always that it was my personal therapist. It’s not that I went through particular trauma, but I certainly needed some space and to mould myself during that period of my life. Without realizing it, I often used food metaphors to express my thoughts regarding what was happening in my life and around me. The real experiences that were behind every post were much more profound than just those that seduced my palate.

As I write this post, I am contemplating what the future of this space is going to be. I am still going through a bunch of rather intense experiences, but perhaps because I feel that I have found my place, I feel less of a need to search for answers via my writing. And perhaps I now prefer a less public persona online, but then where would the personal touch I like to convey on the web site come from? Right now, this web site is in its teenage phase, it thinks it knows but it’s still very immature. Last fall I launched a new version of the web site, but it was really a new skin. Now I think I need to be more specific about the content that I am willing and mostly ready to put there.

Truthfully, I want this web site to be a place where I can air my thoughts even if they aren’t food related sometimes. It may have to do with research that I am working on, the stuff that my students are wondering about, the debates I have with my better half, and the occasional tribulations relating to my integration in France. Naturally, food and wine will probably prevail, but maybe I will want to talk about word-of-mouth, or luxury marketing, or even bitch about French administrative processes. I promise to keep the debate open… and I also hope that you as readers will tolerate the process.

One of the first things I noticed in France was how service in a restaurant was a career and not a job that university students to do supplement their alcohol budget. Service is a learned trade and it was refreshing to know that those who brought me plates were as serious about me enjoying what was on them as I was. However, when it is time to clear the table, the French waiter doesn’t ask you: « Comment était votre repas? Cela vous a plus? »

He asks : « Ça été? »

There was a very uncomfortable pause the first time I was asked this question, simply because I was waiting for the waiter to finish his question. Ça été quoi? Was it what? Good? Bad? To my liking? Now I am used to hearing this incomplete formalty of a question, and I even find myself answering « oui ». But every time, I feel like the whole dialogue is very backward.

It is perfectly normal for stores to close every day between noon and 2pm, except on Sundays and Mondays when everything is closed. Some even open at 4pm. While they do stay open until 7pm, they only open at 10am. This rule applies for large supermarkets as well as large department stores. Between the hours of noon and 2pm, outside of the restaurant districts, you might think it’s the apocalypse and you are the only one who didn’t get the memo. It is less disappointing in France to think that stores are always closed than than open.

Every first Wednesday of the month, they test the general security alarm. The first time I heard it, I wondered if the Germans were back… because they haven’t changed the alarm since the war. While we asked around, we still have no idea why they continue to test this alarm. Perhaps the Remois are afraid that their cathedral will be burned, again. Especially since I have yet to see this beautiful monument without scaffolding.

Here, ambulances are not for immediate rescue purposes. Rather, they are used for those who are medically unable to move around. This is also the main reason for taxis.  Emergency ambulances have a specific name affixed to them: the SAMU. They are not the same as the regular ambulances or Pompiers, who can also be called in case of an emergency, but so can the police, who doesn’t do the same work as the Pompiers. The Pompiers don’t just handle fires, they also handle medical emergencies… The police should be called after the Pompiers in case of an emergency because the Pompiers come when there is no chance and the police come to confirm that. The SAMU is when there is little chance and the ambulance when you will certainly survive. And the number to call is 18, not 911. I also would have thought this number would be universal around the world. But by the time I remember the number in an emergency and who is the appropriate service to call, it might be too late.

I would also like to mention non-QWERTY keyboards, the different electricity plugs that rendered all of my appliances useless, and the milk that is purchased in UHT packages on the shelf next to the crackers. And the rabbits that are sold by the butchers, totally skinned but with their heads still on and the eyeballs dangling from the sockets is a wonderful reason to consider vegetarianism. Some things I think one never gets used to. And I refuse to address the Canadian village that made a presence in the middle of town during the month of October. As a fellow ex-pat mentioned to me recently, I would have burned that tee-pee if it wasn’t illegal.

But I also have many things to be grateful for, many things that are differently wonderful. And as I start my first full year in France, and also start seeing seasons for the second time, I become more aware of who I can be as a person, how lucky I am to be where I am, and even when life seems complicated, there’s always a market open some where in town…

Happy Holidays et Bonne Année!

Bises

A few months ago, I discussed my thoughts regarding heat in a dish. I once read that spicy foods are addictive because of the euphoric sensation one gets after eating them. Something about endorphins post the burn. And once you start eating spicy, apparently your tolerance increases.

I am not sure if this also applies to salt and aromatics however. I can’t imagine that something with sage in it gets more appealing as the dosage increases. I would assume one would experience an increased feeling of revulsion, the cause of chewing on large amounts of floral greens with menthol undertones that overpower. Non merci. An oversalted dish is entirely indigestible and will parch you for hours. That used to happen to me with Vietnamese Pho from those dumpy but cheap restaurants on Lower St-Laurent Street in Montreal. But I know some people who really like sage and other who relish brackish soup daily.

It appears that the quality of seasoning depends on what one is seasoning with and what one is seasoning. Basically, there are some fundamental rules, a bit of logic, but then there is also personal tolerance. Thus a recipes’ seasoning is a base by which most people can be guided successfully. In general, there are few issues with seasoning as they are but simple under or over doses that are tolerable.

Unfortunately however, it can at times feel like the bitter natures of certain aromatics that one would think work well turn out to be complete catastrophe. And regardless of what one does, there is no way to make it ‘right’. Some overseasoning is irrevocable.

Often in theses cases, it isn’t the burn of too much heat that overpowers a dish. In those situations, one can generally still understand the flavours beneath, and is willing to adjust for the next time. When it isn’t remediable, it is like the burn of sodium chloride annihilating tastebuds and scorching the palate. Just like the kind that one feels after eating too many chips. It is that reaction that some people get when too much coriander is sprinkled on their dish and an automatic disgust instantly diminishes their hunger. 

And ironically, those sensations that people get when something is overseasoned for their taste, are rather easy to avoid. It means but asking a simple question to those one is cooking for, something along the lines of: “how do you feel about curry?” or “do you like cloves?” If they answer positively, then one should proceed. If they seem to be more polite than enthusiastic, one should avoid and not insist.

Attempting to forge something fruitful after a palate transgression is very, very complicated and has very long lasting consequences. I would give you personal experiences, but being immersed in a new culture, I have had too many to share in one post (andouillette would be a fine example, the thought of additional butter being spread on a slice gateau Breton would be another ). So I suggest you just ask anyone who was forced to eat broccoli as a kid… that seems to be universal…

This was no ordinary pumpkin. It was French, came from Gilbert’s garden, weighed 19kg, and had the least amount of seeds I have ever seen in a beast of that size. Nonetheless, the pumpkin massacre resulted in many, many tasty outcomes.

After savouring a love-seasoned ‘velouté de potimarron’ made by the master velouté chef I share my life with, I also had my first Montreal melon, right here in Reims.

Six months ago, I stood in the backyard of Gilbert’s garden, deep in the Thierache, and looked in front of me, at two distinct garden patches that were a delightful... brown. As we walked along the rows, I noticed small green and white sprouts and was told which vegetable they would eventually correspond to. Toward the end of the patch, there was nothing.

“Il faut les piquer les melons… les melons, de, euh… Montreal?… ben, des graines que tu nous as donné!?”

I had lived in Montreal for 28 ½ years and I had never tasted the infamous Montreal melon. I didn’t even know what it looked like, smelled like, and tasted like. But I nodded my head, probably said something really wise, like “bien sure, tout à fait…” and we moved on to the potato patch to the left.

Early October, I returned to that garden. In the pouring rain, I filled baskets with tomatoes, green peppers, leeks, red cabbage, enormous zucchini, parsley, and the only Montreal melon left in the patch. The pumpkin was too heavy for me to carry, but it was acquired during the same garden raid. As we left the garden, Gilbert advised us that there were quite a few melons in the patch at the end of August, but they were prized by everyone and disappeared quickly.

Once at home, the melon was scrutinized. It looked just like a small honeydew and smelled like it too.  Once opened, it seemed no different – perhaps it had a touch more spice in terms of aroma. A slice and a bite confirmed the previous interpretation of the gustatory profile of the melon, honeydew with chutzpah. But there was another flavour to that melon. Something slightly bitter, with a final hint of sugar. It was...nostalgia.

There is a reason why we call them roots. I have roots in Montreal, it’s where I grew up, and it’s where I defined myself. And just like the pumpkins I knew there and the ones I discovered here, even if it’s the same seed, it doesn’t have the same outcome in another land. The hardest part of changing soils is adapting without comparing. The final product, in my case, is regularly sweeter or more delicious than what I had previously known. But that realization is always prefaced with a reconditioning as well as an acceptance that everything is different. Different customs, different expectations, different friendships, different time constraints, different differences! And every once in a while, I get tired of dealing with different, and often being different.

The Montreal melon was a brief return to something I left behind, and a representation of a place I will always yearn for because that’s where my roots took place. And transposed as I am, even though I flower more than ever and my leaves are a brighter green, I am keenly aware of where I sprouted.  My accent may fade and my customs may morph, but my essence will always be Montrealaise. And I only hope that like those melons in Gilbert’s patch, I can introduce those in my new lieu of residence to new flavours and aromas.

It wasn’t so long ago that I got into oysters. Everyone goes through a phase when they just don’t find oysters appealing.  Some grow out of it like Brussels sprouts; others just keep a distance forever. I thought I would be in the second camp but a few years ago I chose the alternative path. If I could isolate what made me look at the grey-white-sandy living organism with the hairy ends and slimy texture and then have the idea to put it in my mouth, I would let the world know. It seems like I took a very silly risk to do something completely against human nature but I’ve never regretted it.

Now that I live in France, I have access to some of the best oysters in the world. Coming from Canada, I’ve tasted some of the sweetest as well. My first oysters were Malpeque from Prince Edward Island. I then had some Fine de Claires from France. Last October I went to the centre of town and bought a lot of Gillardeaus and enjoyed them with a line up of Chenin Blanc and Savagnin based wines – a very interesting exercise. Last March I sampled some oysters from the Alaskan coast, some from Japan, and some from Virginia in the USA, all sold by a Normand fisherman living in Montreal. This summer I had briny oysters in Cancale that were as large as my hand and tiny flat oysters at Prat-Ar-Coum on the Western tip of Brittany where they make some of the best converted oysters. This summer I also learned why oysters are not at their best in the non-ber months. They are in their reproduction cycle and at times, very, very milky and bitter…

What I like about oysters, other then their gustative properties, is their strong character and precocious nature. Once an oyster tenses its muscle, getting it open is not the easiest thing to do. I had to use both hands to pry open the monsters we ate in Cancale. And even once you open it up, you have to know where to slice the muscle and how to hold it so the liquor doesn’t run out of the shell. Careful handling and attention will result in a delectable experience. Once open, oysters lend themselves wonderfully to a panoply of situations. They will sing when eaten raw, warm, and cooked, on the shell or in a stuffing, and which ever way you like them. 

Tough and rugged on the outside but soft and fragile on the inside… I know people who share the same profile. And just like oysters, these are also the people that I have the fondest affinity for and an ever growing desire to be with and around. If everyone was like a mussel, it would take but a brisk tap to break their shell and paralyse them, a day or two in uncomfortable situations and they would turn, and put them in a heated situation? They open up almost instantly, spilling all their secrets. Oysters may be harder to approach, and more complicated to loosen up, but once they show what’s inside, there is simply no contest and only a willingness to know more. And if you’re lucky like me, the main oyster in your life is all that and a pearl…

Two years ago I canned tomatoes with a real Italian mama, who’s only word throughout the day was ‘Aspeta!’ On a Saturday in mid-September, I saw an unholy number of nearly too ripe Roma tomatoes go from whole to sauce. A few days later I was in possession of 12 jars of fabulousness that I enjoyed during the coldest months of the year. I’m still dreaming of the wild goose, orange zest, kalamata olive, and basil tomato sauce over spinach tagliatelle and topped with a duvet of pecorino cheese.

Last year I went a bit overboard with fresh tomatoes. Every Saturday Vincent at the Birri stand would put together a sampling of his favourites and the freshest from the garden. I devoured the teardrop tomatoes, tossed the baby black cherries into any and all salads, and was amused by the yellow Roma. I don’t know how many recipes I made with tomatoes between the months of August and September, but surely it is best not to calculate the scope of my seasonal compulsive food obsessions.

I would really like to say that the third year was a year of redress, but alas this was not the case. It would be wrong to blame the significant other because that would not be accepting my own fault, but his equally large love for tomatoes did not help my cause. And unfortunately, now that we are two fanatics, the damage was much, much heavier… about 8kg worth in one evening…  

At the organic market in the centre of Reims, there are a few colourful individuals who grow some rather remarkable veggies and fruits. And perhaps it was the Indian-summer heat, but we were swayed last Friday by the general frenzy of the market and the enormous selection. As we stood in line and waited patiently at our respective stands, we exchanged glances filled with silent code meant not to alert those ahead of us of the impending ravage:

He: Nods to his left and mouths silently “Tu veux les Green Zebra pour faire des sauces?”

She: Nods, squints as she looks over the shoulder of the man in front of her and replies, also silently “Il reste des petites Crimées”.

The anticipation is palatable and the thought that we might not get our treasures horrifying. Finally, we have the attention of the farmer. And we proceed to unleash our bewildering order: 1kg of Green Zebras, 1kg of yellow tomatoes, all of the Andes variety, at least another kilo of the pink tomatoes, and yes, we would like the five ripe Black of Crimea. And what are those orange monsters in the back there? Pinapple tomatoes? We’ll take them all. At the next stand we took at least a kilo of a variety mix of cherry tomatoes, representing about one third of that vendor’s offer. The gasps of horror behind us were deafening as the next customers in line realized the supply had just been greatly depleted.

It was only after purchasing the beautues that we realized that we had taken our bikes and the road home was full of cobblestones.

After a flurry of cooking and preparing, we are now in possession of five different tomatoes sauces, each representing a different tomato variety, a bowl full of eating tomatoes for salads and other immediate uses, a Tupperware filled with slices of dried cherry tomatoes in every color, and a jar of dried cherry tomatoes in top-quality olive oil to drizzle over everything when we need a boost of sunshine this winter.

This year the tomato fiasco, it was a combination of the two previous years – a blend of learning, know-how, and the desire to capture the seasons. However this time we did it in every permutation and with new methods and varieties. But the most amazing part of the experience this year was having it with someone else and knowing that we would enjoy these fruits of our labour together for the rest of the year. Finally I understand why the Italians call the tomato the ‘love apple’…

In fact it’s not just the clouds moving fast in Champagne that signal the seasons, it’s the markets. And among the numerous insights that I have had with regards to my new country, I have become more aware of the gradual seasonal effect that I was never privy to in the land of extreme cold and harsh winters.

My description of the weather in Montreal was always eight months of bitter cold, two months of sweltering humidity (to much surprise), and two months of anything in between that was rarely consistent or predictable. There wasn’t a gradual sensation of seasons or time to enjoy them much – they just happened and we managed. The key indicators were the first 30 centimetre dump of snow or the first day at 25 degrees celcius with a humidex of 39.

In consequence to these weather conditions, in the summer at the Jean-Talon market, Mr. Birri would explain how the weather wasn’t quite hot enough one week, and then it seemed like every one of his shelves was overflowing the next week and for about 3 weeks, and then it was over. So bland exported produce there often was in my kitchen during the year… unwillingly so…

When I arrived in France in mid-April, the weather was sunny, a bit brisk, and the markets were just starting to show off their products. White asparagus was around for a couple of weeks, then as the weather got warmer, they got a bit greener, and by the time the end of May came around, I was just about saturated with asparagus, white, green and wild, and happy to move on to radishes, lettuce, and white cabbage.

As spring lead into summer, I barely realized that jeans turned into skirts, long-sleeved shirts into tank tops, and walking shoes into flip flops. Simultaneously new potatoes became shallots which became baby beets, fennel, carrots, zucchini, and then cucumbers. We will avoid discussing lobster season which came after the start of the Buchot mussels because a trip to Brittany in August made me seriously overdose. I am now officially ready for wild game and willing to be more carnivorous in September.

This morning the windows of our home had dew on them and I was cold even with my first sweater of the season.  I can’t wait to wear scarves and jackets, but I also won’t feel like I didn’t get the most out of my summer clothes because I wore almost everything in that season’s wardrobe in multiple permutations.

And while waiting in line at the market for bell peppers, baby eggplants, ripe quetsches and the first pears of the season, it was then that thought about asparagus and realized that I would have to wait another eight months before seeing them at the market. Ironically, just like my spring jacket and my summer skirts, I don’t miss asparagus. How can I when I have so many recipes I need to try with Mirabelle plums from Lorraine or green zebra tomatoes from M. Philippot?

At the market in Reims, it’s not about a rush for time and maximizing what’s available by canning and preserving, it’s about savouring many times over but only once a year the gifts from the garden. It’s just like that blouse I like to wear, except here I have time to wear it with jeans and with khakis before it gets too cold. And it is in moments like this morning when I realize that my new market is rather tailored to my needs.

It has been a while since the last post, and there are many reasons for this. Based on appearances, faithful readers will note that the layout has changed, as has the navigation. But the content and the philosophical approach, features that will reveal themselves over time, have as well.

A few months ago I decided to make changes to just about everything in my life and with the planning and the integration that are inherent to an intercontinental move among other happy modifications, I also decided to take some time to enjoy my new life (and visit a few cellars). Furthermore, I needed some time to consider and reorganise this URL, which deserved a re-branding befitting my actual perspective.

This blog, which started as a means of expression and sharing, also became during its first two years, an output for me to put in words and often resolve my interrogations regarding the numerous facets of the life. Food with a Point was my version of a therapist’s chair. There are very few people, situations, places that I dealt with that didn’t get mentioned on this web site, either directly or via epicurean metaphors. And I am thankful for this site, which allowed me to have a freedom of expression and in consequence, make sense of the person I was carving out. And it is because of the (at many times harsh) honesty that I often divulged on this site that I was likely more confident to take major decisions that had as a result my move to Reims.

Now four and a bit months later, after my short ton of goods arrived, I have a bit of a different vision for this web site. Rather than it being regional, I’d rather it be global, and even more so accessible. My experiences with food, wine, people, and places in Europe and elsewhere can’t be that different than those that I used to have in Montreal. And the reality is that they also can’t be that different from the ones that other people are having, but I can’t have them all, and some people are better at having them than I am in many ways.

As such, Food with a Point is now a platform, one where people can share their experiences regarding gastronomy, the art of wine, and this by putting it to words or telling it with images. This is an open call to all those who have a desire to share (you may even select a pseudonym) – let this web site be your forum. Simply send me your contribution (nathaliespielmann@gmail.com) and we can decide together where best to place it and when. I encourage you to concoct your contributions just as Julia Child would describe what ideally happens in a kitchen: “You don't have to cook fancy or complicated masterpieces - just good food from fresh ingredients”.

Ce site est aussi bilingue car maintenant que je suis Rémoise, le français redevient ma langue maternelle. De plus, la langue française se prête si bien aux éloges épicuriens... La gastronomie a point ou Food with a Point – as you wish.

And for those who are curious, the content that was in the previous version of the site is still available on the site, it has either been moved into a new section of the menu or can be found in the ‘Retro’ folder.

Hopefully this new vision appeals and encourages those who wish to read it as well as those who wish to participate.

Au plaisir,

Nathalie

940kg. Almost a metric ton, a litte over a short ton. That’s the official weight of the shipment of things I brought over from Montreal and have been attempting to place in my new home over the past week. In my defence, there was a couch, a table, and some other heavy pieces of furniture. There were also seven full boxes of books. But what I think surprised the movers the most, was the comparable seven bigger boxes of kitchenwares, dishes, glasses, accessories, pots, and pans.

In my previous apartment, I had one bedroom, a bathroom, a living/dining/office room, and a kitchen. Even when I include the big pieces of furniture within each room that crossed the Atlantic, the most valuable part of my shipment, the material things that represent me, originated from my kitchen. To some, that may seem insane. To me, it’s entirely logical.

On average, I eat two meals a day at home. That means I spend 30 minutes in the morning and at least an hour in the evening, usually much more, in the kitchen. When I am not preparing something for immediate consumption, I can also be found there preparing a lunch, a snack, prepping ingredients, concocting desserts, pouring myself a glass of something, etc. I like being in the kitchen. A lot happens in that room. And while other rooms have their qualities, I find that what is revealed in the kitchen is much more important than in other spaces.

I learned a lot about myself in my kitchen in Montreal. For seven years I feed my soul and my friends, I cleaned out my actual and personal pantry, I endured failed recipe attempts and relationships, and I lived all of those moments knowing that I could in that room, and this regardless of what was happening, find comfort in something as simple as two scrambled eggs.

Through the discovery of new ingredients, I found different ways to prepare dishes. With the incorporation of new materials, I was better able to pull together my meals. With sharp knifes and utensils, I honed my preparation skills, even if they caused me a few stitches and a concussion. And each one of those proficiencies (except those painfully acquired) I shared with others afterward.

So if I wanted to share the same things with others and uncover other facets of myself in France, it wasn’t a question that the contents of my kitchen would have to follow me. One could argue that what I created in my Montreal kitchen I technically shared at my table, but I would retort that the very same table was also in the shipment... The best part is that now, rather than using the contents of my kitchen alone, I get to use them with someone. Every day, I see him make his own revelations, uncover exotic and sometimes even bitter flavours, marvel at the greatness of a three ply aluminum saucier, and learn first finger that steel knifes from Japan are indeed quite sharp.

For the past four days, I have reunited with and am thankful that I made the wise investment of bringing my kitchen to my new homeland. I have since made meals using recipes from back home with ingredients from France and can only claim that what was set down at the infamous table and shared was a perfect communion of all things right in my life and that makes the whole moving experience seem perfectly rational.

Below is the press release (yes, I am a marketing practitioner):

Les Vins d’Ailleurs – On voyage aux Caves du Forum

Reims, le 19 mai 2009 - Il y quelques mois, un vent d’ailleurs est passé à la cave. On ne sait pas pourquoi ou comment, mais ce courant a allumé une étincelle et un désir d’ajouter une nouvelle dimension aux Caves du Forum.

La philosophie reliant toutes les activités des Caves du Forum est que chaque bouteille est personnellement sélectionnée avec une grande attention. Il n’y a pas seulement des belles bouteilles, il y a aussi et avant tout un désir de connaître les gens et les passions, et une motivation de faire partager la beauté de ces synergies lorsqu’on la découvre.

Comme extension de cette approche, nous sommes fiers de vous présenter la gamme des vins d’ailleurs, maintenant disponible aux Caves du Forum. Plusieurs mois de travail nous ont permis d’élaborer un éventail de produits qui sont des références par style, par région et par cépage–des produits que nous considérons comme de beaux joyaux de la viticulture. L’aboutissement de nos explorations est un premier recueil de plus de 1300 bouteilles qui regroupent près de 50 références issues de 18 régions dans 11 pays.

Avec cette première sélection, nous vous invitons à voyager avec nous et découvrir des vins d’exception, des vins qui sont exclusifs (niveau départemental, national et des premières européennes), tels que:

•- le txacoli rouge d’Espagne (seulement 140 caisses produites par an),

•- le cidre rosé de Michel Jodoin (Québécois d’inspiration champenoise),

•- le rotgipfler de Karl Alphart en Autriche,

•- l’aligoté du vignoble La Bête en Orégon,

•- et encore... http://www.lescavesduforum.com/vins-dailleurs/

“Jamais en vain, toujours en vin”, nous vous attendons afin de partager avec vous les plaisirs de beaux territoires inconnus, de nouvelles sensations gustatives et les émotions qu’elles peuvent faire naître...  

Vinifiquement,

Les Caves du Forum

Fabrice PARISOT et Nathalie SPIELMANN

Tél: 03.26.79.15.15
Fax: 03.26.79.15.16
contact@lescavesduforum.com