Forays and Food

I’m determined to get out and about a lot more in 2007 than I did in 2006. I’m actually more than a bit ashamed that I’ve seen so little of my surroundings this last year. For instance, I’ve never seriously contemplated getting myself up to Dunkerque which would only take about 40 minutes on the train or, perhaps, 1 ½ hours to the North East and I could be walking around Antwerp or Bruges as the Belgian border is literally just 15 km or so up the track. If I was to hop on a TGV, a few hours later I could hop back off again in Brittany, Normandy, the foothills of the Alps or, well, practically anywhere in mainland France but, to my shame, I’ve done none of this! I went to Arras (pictured, hoping to dodge being caught on camera as usual - I hate photos of me! The far prettier one in the LR blue duffel is Mum) to see the Christmas Market a few weeks ago whilst my Mother and Brother were over visiting but Arras, 40km to the South West is a far as I’ve managed to get! Yes, I’m ashamed and I’m definitely going to do better!

I also started off last year by getting out and about locally a lot more. Every Sunday morning, just 10 minutes’ walk from my kitchen, there’s a typically-French produce market on a cobbled square known as Place du Concert (pictured). All the stuff you’d expect to be there is there in abundance, from the meats, pâtés and sausages of all shapes, colours and sizes, all manner of fish and shellfish, to more types of breads and cheeses than you can shake a stick at… (I tried… the stick broke). There are flowers of largely familiar types but the fruit and veg stands invariably offer some unidentifiable fare and mushrooms of apparently extra-terrestrial origin. There are bewildering selections of wines, bizarre snacks and biscuits, cakes and honeys whose imperfections mark them out as special and homemade. For a quick bite whilst you shop, perhaps a crepe or waffle, cooked as you watch and washed down, perhaps, by a plastic tumbler of the freshest and most pleasant real, pure orange juice I’ve every tasted (perfect to cut through what ails one on a Sunday morning just 7 hours or so after one’s return from one of the many pleasant bars in Vieux Lille). I’m going to get myself back into the habit of going there again as, as much as the quality and range of foods in Carrefour is generally excellent, it’s all a bit impersonal and uninteresting for someone, like me, who finds food shopping and cooking a real pleasure.

Something which has really struck me about the markets and something which I find a little disappointing, perhaps a disillusionment, is the ever-presence of the lorries which are, in effect, just great big ovens on wheels with sides which, once raised, reveal enormous banks of rotisseries on which are skewered literally hundreds of whole chickens at a time, rotating and roasting in the open air and beneath which, benefiting from the juices, are heaps of potatoes, peeled, cut and sizzling away. These chickens invariably account for the longest queues of customers at any market and the fact that the trucks are back time and again with the same quantities of chickens on board suggests that, even though each lorry appears to have more chickens on it than the country as a whole could eat, they consistently shift them all and countless hundreds of people go home and woof their chicken and roast potatoes for Sunday lunch. It’s clear that the quality of this stuff is good, cleanliness standards seem high enough (they obviously get thoroughly cooked and not many germs could live through that kind of heat – great to stand close to on a winter morning and the smells are incredible) but my sense of disappointment comes from the legends we’ve all grown up with in England about the French and their cuisine. We’ve never questioned the notion that France is a nation of people who, further to their appreciating fine cuisine are, as a general rule, somehow born able to create it themselves. As good as this chicken looks and smells, it is just that – chicken. Not “Chicken-à-la-this” or “Poulet-de-that” or “Coq-en-the-other”. It’s just chicken…made hot and golden. Hardly a high-powered plat. I wonder for how long this has been happening. Lorries didn't always exist. Are we at a point in French history where they no longer crave the dishes which the rest of the World thinks they all love to eat and know how to make? Is our view of the French and their superior culinary prowess no more factual than their view that we Brits eat fish & chips followed by jelly and evaporated milk seven nights a week? Maybe we could attach the same explanation to the fact that the "French" are no longer "all chefs" (if, of course, they ever were) to the fact that fish & chips was long-since overtaken by "something else" as Britain's favourite takeaway. What could be easier to cook than roast chicken? Maybe the general decline in English people’s ability to cook is being mirrored over here. If so, it’s a real shame but I guess that’s just the way of the World. To me, a takeaway meal is not a treat. It's me simply admitting to myself that, this particular evening, I can't be arsed. Further, I very rarely stop at the aisles of ready-made meals in supermarkets as I love cooking and can easily beat anything you can buy ready-made. My stuff always “lives up to the picture on the box”!

I’ve taught myself heaps of nice French recipes this last year and, after having tried out several preliminary versions on myself, I’m always happy to get the chance to cook them for someone else too. A friend, a Mum etc! Navarin d’Agneau, Boeuf Bourguignon, Noix de Veau Sauce Maroilles, Magret de Canard, Carbonnades, Tartiflette, Cailles aux Cerises and many more besides. (I really must get round to finding the right girl for myself – all that cucking I could do).