The Green Place - Baile Atha Chliath

One week in Dublin & I came to understand why Irish people drink so much. It was the first week in November, most of Europe was experiencing the dubious delights of global warming, Geneva was basking in 23 degrees when I boarded the Aer Lingus flight to Dublin & less than two hours later I stepped into a furious rainstorm inside what felt like a sub-zero freezer.

My fingers turned to icicles, the toes little ice-cubes. “Winter hasn’t really come yet,” my friend Aileen informed me turning up the car heater on our way into Dublin. Later, she made a hot water bottle for me to take into my bed, made up with fine Irish linens, quilts & coverlets.

I awoke my first morning in Aileen’s beautiful newly renovated house -- all warm woods & glass, in a Dublin suburb near the sea -- to find a double rainbow in a clear blue sky; surely a good sign.

We went for a drive in the country & a long walk beside a shimmering lake in Glendalough in County Wicklow, where all is peaceful & serene & where monks are supposed to have come for quiet meditation. The hillsides were lush green with firs & soft orange from fading ferns. We ate an organic lunch at a farm in the woods, then home for delicious haddock stew which Aileen cooked in her perfect steel & slate kitchen, every detail of which she designed herself. But then the wind began to blow, night came & the temperature dropped about 30 degrees.

The next day Aileen decided we would walk Dún Laoghaire Pier, a long concrete structure jutting straight into the Irish Sea. The wind howled like a banshee. As soon as we stepped out of the car I was attacked by an icy blast that threw me back. I couldn’t believe anyone would walk on the sea in such weather, yet I let her talk me into it. “Everyone does it,” she said, tucking her arm under mine & pulling me along to the bitter end. “It’s good moving air.” And sure enough, brave Irish people strolled along, hatless, gloveless, with only a warm sweater, in freezing wind so strong it lifted me & flung me about. Aileen’s sister, I learned, is one of those polar bears who swim in the sea all year round no matter how cold. Oh, they’re tough, these Irish. Must be the alcohol running through their veins.

I was prepared, however, covered with eight layers: nylon, cotton, silk, wool, cashmere, synthetic, plush, a pashmina shawl & my gortex Patagonia wind-proof anorak zipped tight on top of it all. I looked like the abominable snowman in a black space-suit. Nothing but the tip of my nose had to take the punishment.

The Irish Sea was black & choppy with a rough skin of sharp white peaks; the grey slate sky threatened to open up with a furious torrent at any moment. We had to walk a couple of miles, at least, to the very end before turning back. Not wanting to be an ungrateful guest, I stumbled along, huffing & panting & gasping for breath, but gawd it was awful. Still is, no doubt: http://www.dlharbour.ie/weather/

I had no tourist desires; eating at home, sitting in front of the fire, driving around Dublin in the heated car, visiting Aileen’s friends & family was good enough for me. A few meals out were planned. Dinner at Eden with her family was a great gastronomic event with the best scallops I ever tasted, and the company the finest in the land.

Watching the family get boozed up was amazing; everyone at the table (except me & Aileen) drank glass after glass washing each one down with the next one. Her dad drank 2 hot whiskeys with lemon & spice before dinner at the bar of the Merrion Hotel where we started our night’s debauchery. At the restaurant he drank a white wine apero, god only knows how many glasses of red wine with the meal, then after dessert a good port & a couple more whiskeys. The others, his wife, sons & daughters, drank right along with him. They can take it too; no one got stupid or sloppy & the conversation was always lively & intelligent.

There was a French lunch in a lovely bistro in town who refused to substitute the white wine that came with the lunch special with the red wine I preferred, which I thought was downright unfriendly, although the food was good.

We strolled around the shopping district of downtown Dublin late afternoon on Friday. The streets were crowded, people leaving work, seeking out their favorite pubs. We crossed the River Liffey that runs through the middle of Dublin & gawked at the Spike, one of those astonishing symbols of masculinity that every city worth its salt seems to need. Only 4 million people live in Ireland, one quarter of them are in Dublin, & on any Friday night most are in the pubs slugging down booze like there’s no tomorrow.

The rain started so we ran down the street to Aileen’s private club for tea. There we bumped into some of her friends who came by for a drink -- or two -- before dinner. I must admit I find Irishmen very attractive; something wild & sexy about them, and oh, that accent; can't get enough. On the way home we stopped to pick up fish & chips, which we devoured in the car. I chose the skate wing; a fish which my friend Patrick, in L.A., told me was popular in Ireland, & which I have immortalized in an earlier blog. Bleh! I found it leaden & tasteless, the chips like wet cement, the fish dry & insipid, & the breading having the taste & texture of a baseball glove. Maybe I should have taken the cod.

Irish hospitality is unsurpassed. A surprise drop-in to Aileen’s sister-in-law who, despite 3 kids running around the place, managed to cook up a mess of crab claws with garlic & butter & served with a good glass of wine, which we enjoyed in her great, modern kitchen, reminiscent of Aileen’s. Her brother is a builder & is opening a gorgeous bathroom fixture shop. Good taste runs in the family.

One afternoon we made a surprise visit to Anna Lisa & John who were at home playing with their 2 beautiful noisy little kids. The first thing I noticed was a wall of books and piles of the London Book Review & other intellectual journals, which brought a smile to my face. I knew this was a special home with special people, and when I saw the loaf of good bread on the breadboard in the kitchen I was sure of it.

Anna Lisa made us a nice steaming-hot cuppa tea & we sat in the living room & talked. John disappeared into the kitchen for a little while and then came out inviting us to eat dinner with them. We said no thanks but he pretended not to hear & went back into the kitchen. With two clamoring kids we didn’t want to add to their burden. John came back & told us it would be ready soon. Aileen & I kept saying no but he went on & soon announced it was time to come to the table. Aileen insisted we were leaving, but when she took a look at what he’d put down on the table she changed her mind quickly. Me too.

Even as we protested we sat down obediently. There was a pile of warm grilled slices of that good bread, a plate of thinly sliced raw ham, so fine & delicate I thought he must have a slicer around. He’d roasted, skinned & marinated some yellow peppers, pan grilled zucchini slices with slivers of garlic & olive oil, chopped up good black olives sprinkled with chili pepper, & there we sat, happy as can be, eating bruschetti as fine as it gets. When I complimented the food & how quickly & easily it came out of the kitchen he smiled & said he had "prepped" earlier that day. There’s the secret: professional training.

After we’d polished off the bruschetti John served us each with a plate of steaming broad noodles covered with a light tomato meat sauce, and passed a bowl of freshly grated parmesan cheese. As fine a meal as one could want and completely unexpected.

The kids carried on, the boy dipped his pasta into a glass of water to wash the sauce off, stuck his fingers into bowls of food & made all kinds of loud noises, but none of this mattered. We ate like royalty in the finest dining room, enjoying every delicious mouthful, teaching me about the blessings of sitting down with good people & eating good food. Forks & knives don’t mean a thing when everything else is right & the hearts are in the right place. It was more than all right at John’s table. We wiped our mouths on the backs of our hands & left soon after, thanking them for the delicious, surprising dinner, prepared with skill & served with love.

~~

back in los angeles

safe & sound, happily sleeping in my own warm bed & cooking in my own sweet kitchen.

from the heart...

Unseasonably warm weather these days – French radio talks about Al Gore’s film which is making a big impression here. The Mistral is blowing hard today but the sun shines on the vineyards & olive trees of Provence like a blessing from above.

I wanted to buy some special olive oil to bring home but the good stuff is no longer on the shelves. ’05 is sold out & they’re crushing the olives now for ‘06. Friends tell me that AOC isn’t necessarily what it should be; a scandal in France; the producers cheat & mix in cheaper oils; one must learn from insiders which oils are not blended. Meanwhile, I visited a local producer where the olive oil master told me that olive oil does not keep; it must be used right away. “We only produce enough for one year,” he said. “It’s fruit juice, after all.”

The wines are good, however; haven’t tasted one I didn’t enjoy, & the olive oils, blended or not, are delicious. I won’t mention the bread anymore. I’m bringing that home on my hips, & what I put on the bread on my belly.

Last week at the farmers’ market in Uzes I spotted the fresh mushroom stand & stared at the ugly, gnarled, gigantic cêpes that had been picked in the forest that morning. 19 Euro for a kilo! The season, I’m told, lasts but two weeks, so one must eat them now for best results, or wait until next year, so I did not hesitate. I watched an elderly man select half a dozen particularly large ones & asked him how he prepared them. Not only did he tell me but he helped me pick out two of the large creatures, with heads the size of cabbages, for myself. His hands were dark, knobby & gnarled like the cêpes he turned over & examined carefully; his pale blue eyes twinkled with the pleasure of helping a stranger to enjoy the great produce of his country. He nodded & smiled assuring me that I was getting the best advice.

At home later, I followed his instructions; brushed them clean, placed them in a baking dish upside down, that is, head down & stem up, with a little butter & olive oil & baked for about 30 minutes.

He told me to sprinkle them with parsley, which I forgot to do but I’m sure it didn’t matter. The result was brilliant; pure mushroom, like none I had ever tasted. The accordion-like underside of the cap had turned into a soft spongy soufflé of mushroom; the meaty flesh of the cap & stem was tender & tasted of pure mushroom essence; the juices that oozed out & flowed into the butter & oil were intoxicating mushroom elixir. It ate my feast slowly, with a knife & fork, my eyes closed in ecstasy.

And as if that wasn’t enough, I had also purchased some fresh scallops at the market that morning. They came with the little orange morsel that’s so tasty too. I sautéed them quickly with some of the juices from the cêpes’ baking dish, & that, with a small green salad & a glass of red, was dinner.

The smooth, buttery textures of the cepes & of the scallops were similar; both slid over my tongue & melted in my mouth imparting distinct flavors of earth & sea. Coarse salt from the Camargue, rich fruity olive oil from Les Baux, a glass of Côtes du Rhone Villages from what is practically my own back yard… a great meal from the heart of Provence.

sour grapes

Spoke to the chef; a very busy man who speaks perfect English. He apologized for the mistakes in the English version of his book; said he gave it to the publisher in French & they did the translation; no one had ever told him about this before. To my offer to send him corrections he said, please don’t bother, but then he gave me his email address in case I felt like bothering; said he’d pass the information on to the publisher. He seemed pressed for time; answered my questions politely but did not invite me for lunch.

I know what I’m missing but he does not.

Call this sour grapes if you like: among his rich, creamy vegetable recipes Chef Charial gives one for Confiture d’oignons (Onion Jam). And guess what? He pours sugar and grenadine syrup into it. So you see… it never would have worked out between us anyway.