Sea Bass stuffed with Fennel

This...is...seriously delicious! The combination of fennel and sea bass is hardly unusual, but here (helped by the judicious addition of a slug of pernod) the flavour, and the creaminess of the stuffing, combined with the  soft flakiness of the fish cooked en papillote is simply sensational. And equally good cold, too....so, excellent if cooked on one day and served as a summer lunch dish on the following day. Apparently, this is a Roux family favourite; and, having tried it, I can readily understand why!

The only tricky part is the process of boning the fish before stuffing it. In fact, as with all boning, the first time you do it, it's largely a question of a good sharp knife, and a careful approach; and after a few times of having done it, you'll wonder what the fuss was all about. With sea bass, the method is as follows:
Go in from the back. Slide the blade of the knife in along one side of the back-fin, and carefully make a cut the length of the fish, feeling the blade against the backbone as you go; once you've cut the entire length of the backbone, go in again but from the other side of the back-fin and repeat the process. Then, reach in and carefully break (or cut with e.g poultry shears) the backbone as close as you can to the tail end of the fish, and starting at that end carefully pull  the backbone out, working your way towards the head (you may need carefully to free the far side of the skeleton, pulling gently, as you go); when you get towards the head, you'll find some rib bones going into the flesh of the fish, and these you should either free, using the blade of the knife, or else snap them off, and remove them later, using tweezers, after you've taken the backbone out entirely. If your fish hasn't already been gutted, then at this point, as you reach the stomach cavity, you should also gut the beast. When you've freed up as far as the head end of the backbone, then break or cut that end as well, and remove the entire bone from the fish. You should end up with a nice clean pocket, ready for the stuffing. If, as is often the case, the fish you get has already been gutted, leaving an opening in the belly, then you will now have a fish which is open on both sides - this doesn't matter, it just means you need to be a bit more careful when it comes to stuffing and wrapping it.


And the recipe...

For two generous servings, and some left over.

Ingredients: 1 seabass, boned as described above (if it hasn't been scaled before you got it, then do so now, or else you risk loose scales ending up on the plate, when you come to serve); half a medium Onion; half a medium fennel bulb; 2 tbs Olive Oil; half a cup of Cream; 1 tbs Pernod; 2 tbs Cornflour; Salt and Pepper.

Method:

1. Very finely dice the Onion and Fennel. Heat the oil in a heavy bottomed pan, and sweat the diced vegetables for five minutes or so, until they have collapsed but not yet started to colour.

2. Add the Cream, raise the heat, and cook for a few minutes, stirring, until the Cream has visibly thickened.

3. In a small bowl, mix the Pernod into the Cornflour and stir to make a smooth paste; stir this into the Fennel-Onion mixture (the Cornflour stops the Cream in the stuffing from splitting when the fish is being baked). Transer the mixture to a bowl and allow to cool down; add salt and pepper to taste.

4. Once cool, the stuffing should be quite dense. Spoon it into the boned fish, to recreate the shape of the fish when whole. With a piece of greaseproof  paper about six inches longer than the fish and deep enough to roll the fish in it two or three times, carefully roll up the fish inside the paper, and twist the ends firmly round, to make a sort of christmas cracker.

5. Put into a roasting pan or onto a baking sheet and into an oven pre-heated to 220 degrees C; for a fish appropriate for two or three servings, the fish should be done in twenty minutes.

6. To serve, cut the 'cracker' open with scissors, and then use the tines of a fork to peel awaythe top skin of the fish. Using two serving spoons, cut into the fish, to lift out each portion, steaming and delicious (the bottom skin of the fish should stay in place as you lift the fish and its stuffing away).

Serve, either with small braised onions, or else with diced salsify, roast in duck fat.

The Earthquake...

came without warning. I suppose, they always do. Had we been concentrating on Italian news broadcasts, then it might have been less of a surprise, since it seems they'd had one several days earlier over in the Gran Sasso region...however, since that hadn't merited a mention on Radio Four, it had passed us by, entirely.

I'd just come in from (finally) finishing the new bed beside the South-East pergola, where the sight-lines for the new construction had ended up taking the pergola right over the pre-existing flowerbed, which meant creation of a new bed, and then moving all of the plants (six roses, a deutsia, a cotoneaster, an abelia, and a 'cuckoo' shrub which arrived, unannounced, several years ago from the vivaio, hiding in the pot that brought a magnolia stellata...but which has subsequently grown to become quite a handome whatever-it-is). The day was sunny but cold, and it wasn't tempting to remain outside any longer than necessary. Four-footed was a bit disgruntled, as he believes that once outside, we should stay there until dusk (or dinnertime, whichever comes first). And so, mid-afternoon, I was idly looking at my computer screen (TD doing likewise, on the other side of the desk), and became vaguely conscious of a noise as though somebody was walking heavily over the floor overhead (unlikely, since it is only a low-ceilinged attic) or in the room next door (equally unlikely, since nobody else was in the house); then, there was a sensation not unlike those times at an Islington dinner party, when a Northern Line train passes underneath, with a distant rumble. As the french-windows began to rattle noisily, making the four-footed jump up and stare, and pictures started to do likewise, we looked at each other and said - with remarkable acuity - "My God! It's an earthquake!"...by which time the whole house was shaking alarmingly, with a distinct sideways motion underfoot. Part of me had visions of the thirteenth century walls which tower over us (and don't look in good shape at the best of times) coming crashing through the roof...and part was thinking that surely we should get under the table, or something, but that it would be quite complicated to do, as the stretcher arrangement doesn't lend itself to people and dog seeking refuge there....And as I was still pondering this and wondering if it was going to get any worse, after ten seconds or so, it finished. Thankfully. Followed by an eerie silence, as I imagine the entire city did what we were doing, which was to sit there in mild shock for a moment or two.

Apparently, it was a five-on-the-richter-scale event, and the epicentre was in the Garfagnana. Not very far away, relatively. No serious damage anywhere, though, and no casualties. In fact, really nothing to laugh at, at all. Once is quite enough, though.

Tunisian Octopus

Discovery of this dish was, for me, an unintended consequence of buying Octopus rather than Squid in the supermarket, about a month ago. The Technical Dept took the opportunity to make some comment to the effect that I should wear my glasses more often - the sort of unnecessary remark which should not be dignified by being noticed - but in fact I put it down rather to the 'Stepford Wives' effect that takes hold whenever I enter any supermarket anywhere: the brain closes down, I glaze over, and I go into autopilot.
Anyway...Octopus. I contemplated ploughing on with the intended menu, and pretending that Squid and Octopus are interchangeable, although I know they aren't (generally) and that I risked a much tougher end-result than intended, and then resorted instead for inspiration to Alan Davidson's 'Mediterranean Seafood'. (Actually, I don't know why I say 'resorted', since it is a splendid volume...I suppose because I have a misplaced tendency to regard it as a reference book rather than a book for general browsing.) And I came across this recipe, which is quite simply delicious. And so easy, it barely warrants being called a 'recipe'.
I serve it on a bed of rocket, which cuts the richness and spiciness of the sauce, but I imagine it would do just as well as a pasta sauce, or else stirred (at the end) into a plain risotto bianco.

Sufficient for two generous servings.
Ingredients: 1 Octopus, about 1 kg in weight, and thoroughly cleaned and prepared; 1 onion; Olive Oil; Seasoning; 1 tbs Tomato Purée; 1 tsp Chili Powder (or harissa); 2 tsps ground Cumin.

Method:
1. In a couple of tablespoons of oil, gently sauté the finely chopped Onion for a minute or so.

2. Chop the body and tentacles of the Octopus into half-inch peces, then add to the pan, along with salt and pepper. Cook over medium heat for a few minutes, stirring, until they begin to take colour.

3. Mix the tomato purée and chili powder with a cup of water, and add this to the pan. Continue to cook, stirring from time to time for ten minutes. Then, add enough water to cover, bring to the boil, and then reduce to a low simmer, cover the pan, and leave simmering for an hour and a quarter.

4. Add to the pan the ground cumin, and continue to simmer for a further 15 minutes. Taste and adjust seasoning as necessary.

Serve immediately, in your preferred form, or else leave to serve later, after having reheated over a low heat for about ten minutes.
 

 

It's hard work...

...being a tourist. When you put your mind to it, I mean, rather than merely drifting in a daze round somewhere that isn't entirely familiar. And I suppose that was part of the reason why neither of us had been 'tourists' in Paris for such a long time - although, after a certain point, any place becomes sufficiently familiar that it no longer seems relevant to be 'doing' the headline things, and instead you focus on the everyday stuff, like eating and drinking and shopping and laundry and seeing friends and going to the cinema. Technical Dept largely finished being a tourist in Paris sometime in the early seventies, and I suppose my last burst of it was around 1981 (Malmaison, Les Invalides, and the Rodin Museum...) And, as a result, there were some gaps to be filled. Effectively, we had an 'I've never seen Star Wars' week (which, by the way, I haven't ...but that's a different matter entirely), and spent much of the time filling in long-empty gaps.

Tuesday was spent at Père Lachaise, which was quite wonderful. Under a leaden January sky, we  wandered for hours along the rambling paths, and struck out from time to time across the peaks and valleys of the hinterland of the cemetery, beneath a skyline dominated by the stark profiles of crumbling mausoleums. Elizabeth Demidoff's massive tomb was memorable, as was the avenue of  the tombs of the Maréchals de France; Hèloise and Abelard, in their mock-gothic splendour; Piaf (and the youthful greek who shared her grave....was he her husband or her son?); Modigliani (and why did his mistress die on the day immediately after he did?); Gertrude Stein (why is her grave covered in old metro tickets?); what was the 'Dixmuthe' disaster?; who was Countess Harriet della Gherardesca, and why did she end up here in solitary splendour? (della Gherardesca is a old Pisan family, hence our interest). Endessly fascinating. It was only after about five hours, and the incipient onset of hypothermia that we were forced to seek the warmth of the metro, where we gradually thawed out during the length of the journey back to Reamur-Sebastopol.
The Egyptian Galleries in the Louvre took up much of Wednesday, after we'd also 'done' the exhibition there of the late Raphael (which was frankly a bit ho-hum - an awful lot of 'studio of' rather than the man himself, and a number of items where the attributions looked distinctly iffy), and the excavations of the fourteenth century walls of the original Louvre, which had been built by Charles V. Mesmerising. Although it pains me to admit it, the Louvre, these days, has the BM knocked absolutely into a cocked hat - and especially so since Neil Magregor has turned the latter into a form of theme park, apparently aimed at eight year olds.
On Thursday, we 'did' Versailles. It's been on  my list ever since I turned up there, only to find it closed, sometime around 1980, and the TD's last visit had been in 1972, so it was overdue for a re-run. When I say we 'did' the place, I mean we really did it: King's Apartments; Queen's Apartments; State Apartments; Dauphin (and Dauphine)'s Apartments; the Gardens; Grand Trianon; Petit Trianon; and all the bits in between. Splendid overheard in Marie Antoinette's bedroom, where she-australian was reading out to he-australian from an information placard:
She: "on the night of October 6th 1789, the Queen fled through the concealed door to the left of the bed, and took refuge in the King's Apartments..."

He: "Oh." Pause. "Who was she fleeing from?"
She (carefully reading verbatim from the placard): "The rioting crowd". 
He (displaying polite interest, but with a vague idea that Marie Antoinette was the name of the hairdressers in  Wollombooga Springs): "Oh." (Exit, to State Dining Room)
Overall, the Chateau was impressive (if not actually oppressive), the Trianons were charming, some of the garden treatment was intriguing, and the astronomical price of the macaroons in the café at the Petit Trianon was enough to inspire another round of revolution, and certainly an interesting play on "Let them eat cake!"

And on Friday, we actually did a non-Star-Wars thing, and went instead to the Musée Nissim de Camondo, in rue Monceau. A time-capsule house, and of its kind a perfect gem. The kitchen, as historic kitchens often are, was completely mouth-watering.

And talking of mouth-watering, we were perfectly situated, at the southern end of rue Montorgueil, within fifty metres of a fishmonger, two butchers, three boulangeries, half a dozen wine merchants, three small general stores, and (had we wanted to use them) a couple of dozen restaurants, brasseries, and bars. Being on the fourth floor, without a lift, had its moments - especially when carrying half a dozen bottles of mineral water, and two bags of provisions - but the apartment was comfortable, had an excellent kitchen, and was blissfully quiet. And friends who arrived for dinner had the additional benefit of a full work out by the time they reached our floor (eighty stairs exactly - I counted!).

Tonight's Dinner:

Haddock Mousse, with a lemon butter sauce.
Boudins Blancs Truffés (thanks to the butcher in rue Montorgueil); Turnip Gratin.
Apple & Almond Tart.

I spoke too soon...

The Technical Dept could have carried on 'being busy' for a great deal longer, and it wouldn't have interfered with our travel plans one jot. As it was, we departed in good time for our flight, travelling through gloriously sunny streets on the way to the airport...and arrived to find that it was closed....'due to fog'. What fog? Where? The sun shone with undimmed brilliance, and bemused people could be seen wandering outside the terminal building from time to time to check for themselves that they were indeed correct, and that we were indeed enjoying a gloriously bright and clear mid-winter day. Which we were.

Whatever. Nobody was being allowed to go through security, and as more and more people arrived for more and more flights that were apparently not going to go anywhere, the departures hall got more and more crowded and chaotic. And, as the incoming flights that were circling somewhere miles overhead, unable to land (because of the 'fog') had to hive off to find other places to land before they ran out of fuel (generally either Genoa or Bologna), then the departing flights they were then supposed to become leaving Pisa once more were racking up as 'cancelled' on the departures board. One by one by one.  Although ours didn't. I checked, and saw that the incoming flight from Orly had been cancelled - which meant it must have been re-routed elsewhere - but the outbound flight we were still hoping to catch was still showing as 'live' on the departures board. It was possibly even encouraging that it then showed 'delayed' from 14.20 to 14.55...since this clearly implied it was still alive (to some degree) rather than unquestionably dead.

And then, at around 14.30, they suddenly opened the security gates once more, and everybody proceeded painstakingly slowly through the security chicane. By the time we were through, the departure time had shifted again, from 14.55 to 16.00 - but that wasn't too bad, since it implied we would arrive in Paris in plenty of time to get to our dinner in rue du Fauborg St Denis. So, we sat and waited at the appropriate gate.
And even when the sign on the gate suddenly announced that the gate was now for a flight to Malta instead, this didn't seem too bad, when the departures board indicated that we would still be leaving from the same gate, but at 16.30 rather than at 16.00, as previously advertised.

Only after that did things go irreperably pear-shaped.....when the departures board did a major hiccough, and now showed our flight leaving at 19.05 .....and again, ten minutes later, when 19.05 changed into 19.30. By which stage, we'd been at the airport already for nearly five hours, and there was no way we would be joining our party for dinner before they were already wielding pudding spoons, if not actually fending off waiters brandishing those things they use to scrape up breadcrumbs and general debris at the end of dinner. We considered ditching, and just going home, instead - but since this would have had a knock-on effect with future travel from Paris to London at the end of the week, we stuck with it. And sat there, as flights from gates all around us were taking off, regular as clockwork, to Bari and Munich and London ....and even, indeed, Paris (but not the flight we were on).

By the time we eventually boarded the plane, the cabin crew - who clearly viewed themselves as being on a rescue mission, and expected to be greeted with open arms by pathetically grateful crowds, pressing flowers on them in abject thanks, if only we could - found themselves with a plane-load of deeply (and justifiably) grumpy French. And, believe you me, the French can do 'grumpy' like nobody else, when they put their minds to it. Before take-off, some lumpy cabin steward chose to remove himself to a place of greater safety, somewhere up near the cockpit, after he'd been verbally attacked by a whole group of disconsolate passengers in the middle of the cabin, who expressed in no uncertain terms their level of unimpressedness with the way we had all been treated. And the sole francophone crew member on board - a girl called Lucy, who is probably perfectly nice in her own way - foolishly took it upon herself to try and  justify Easyjet's performance to irritated and lucid passengers who were Not Happy, and perfectly reasonably chose to tell her so as she moved down the aisle trying to flog something or other, or to collect rubbish.

Passengers: "Why were we stuck in that dreary terminal for all that time?"
Lucy: "The Plane was diverted and had to land instead in Bologna"
Passengers: "Et alors? It's a ten minute flight from Bologna to Pisa...we know; we've done it. Why did the plane not just proceed to Pisa once the weather had cleared?"
Lucy: "Well....the weather changes all the time, you know" (Risky business, this flying lark...it's clearly touch and go that one will ever arrive anywhere planned...what with this weather thing being so changeable, and all)
Passengers: "The airport was working again perfectly well from 3.30...all of the other flights managed to arrive and leave again on time. Why not this one?"
Lucy: (With a sincere tone appropriate to the gravity of her statement) "Ah, but you see, Easyjet is above all concerned with the safety of our passengers" (As though nobody else is, of course. Bless - the girl thinks that Dan Dare up at the front in the driving seat is actually intrepidly battling the forces of nature as he guides his craft through the silvered skies, and is constantly making split-second decisions on which the lives of his passengers depend...whereas any fule no that he's just driving a bus, and does what he's told to do, from time to time,  by air traffic control people sitting in relevant control towers....duh!). "And, anyway - by the time the weather improved, the crew were out of time"  (After an additional ninety minutes on their shift? I don't think so!)
Passengers: "No, Lucy. Easyjet is above all concerned with its bottom line - and we were left to moulder in Pisa Airport for six hours because some cretin in Easyjet's management made a crap decision, and we took the brunt of it."
Lucy: (Slightly snappishly, getting visibly rattled, and a little red in the face, as we were supposed to be being appeased by these soothing explanations from our own little Angel of Mercy):"Well, if you're unhappy, then you should contact Easyjet and talk to them" 
Passengers: "Oh yeah.....like Carolyn McCall ever actually anwers emails!"   (Roll of eyes indicating pointless discussion is now concluded...leaving the hapless Lucy to go and do whatever it is she's supposed to be doing  somewhere else in the cabin, and doubtless get harangued all over again by another group, as she does. NB Lucy, love...another time, when faced with passengers such as this, it would be better for all concerned were you merely to mutter that you're only a hired hand, employed to flog coffee and train tickets, and you really don't know nuffink about anything else. Leave the PR to the PR people - they're paid to get beaten up for lousy performance.)

Anyway, the upshot was that we eventually trundled through the deserted corridors of Orly airport at around 10.00, and were ensconced in Rue Montorgeuil sometime after eleven. Far too late even to think of joining the birthday dinner which had been our whole reason for travelling anyway...and so we went instead round the corner to Au Pied de Cochon,  where we dined not badly on foie gras and pig's trotters, and raised a glass of excellent gewurztraminer to absent friends.

And the lesson to be learned from this? Well, there isn't one really, as a passenger...except to understand that, although Easyjet manages to deliver reasonably well, a lot of the time - as long as they don't have to deal with adverse conditions of any kind or to make any decisions on the fly - they are LOUSY, when something untoward happens, and they have to try and apply a brain function of some kind to addressing an immediate problem. Their's is the lesson to be learned...although it would take a major leap of faith to think for a second that they actually might do so!

And Christmas Past...

In fact, I'm not quite sure where it went to. Not five minutes after the tree had gone up, it seemed, it was coming down again (and is now planted over near the white grape arbour - although the apparent absence of any roots to speak of suggests both that this is an act of significant optimism, and that the tree appears to have managed to look as good as it did for the three weeks it was decorated and in its pot in the barn was more by luck than judgment!). Ebufana has come and gone, and now everybody has heaved a sigh (either of relief or of appetites satisfied) and the World, as of this morning, is now going about its business once more.

  In a period significantly dominated by Pheasant, and Partridge, and Guinea Fowl, and Tarte au Chocolat, and Marron Parfait, and Christmas Pudding, and Caramel Sauce, I did actually (probably necessarily) get a reasonable amount of garden tasks out of the way. Not only pruning all of the new fruit trees (which takes only minutes, since they're so small - but gratifyingly provides a sense of job-done at the expense of very little effort), but also managed to prune the large pear tree. This is one of the jobs I hate - it takes ages, and is very fiddly, and ends up causing back-ache and neck-ache, with significant risk to life and limb, as I clamber around amongst the upper branches. Fortunately, the Seminary next door is deserted at this time of year - had it not been, then I suspect some adolescent italian vocabularies would have been enriched by a variety of good old anglo-saxon expletives, by the time I was eventually finished. Until this time next year, at any rate.

More or less, the weather has been good. In Belforte, where we were for three days over Christmas itself, we spent days shrouded in fog, and stayed indoors, toasting the season in venerable vintages, and ourselves beside the blazing fire. Back down in Pisa, we've had days of intense calm and winter sunshine. Four-footed has had endless hours of chasing tennis balls, and getting himself gloriously dirty, as I've dug the new flowerbeds alongside the South Pergola and he has 'helped' - followed by a daily bath, which he adores...particularly the bit after he has patiently lifted his paws to be rinsed, each in turn, and then gets enfolded in a towel and energetically rubbed down.

The camellias are just starting to come into flower - and should remain so through March - but, apart from the blossom on the lonicera frangrantissima, everything else in the garden is resolutely dormant. I'm torn between wanting spring to get a move on, and wanting to have enough time to complete all of the 'winter' tasks which yet remain. Actually, I'm nervous that we'll have another cold spell like last February, when it was impossible to do anything other than stay indoors, and peer at the iciness beyond the frost-rimed windows. Oh, well - nothing one can do about it, either way....

Tonight's Dinner:

Is at the Brasserie Julien, in the rue du Faubourg Saint Denis. (If we manage to get to the airport in time - Technical Dept is deep in something else currently, so it might be a close-run thing!)

Christmas..

seems to have begun early, this year. By Friday morning, even shut away as we are from the World, a holiday calm had perceptibly descended on the town, and lots of shuttered windows on the Piazza suggest a general exodus has already happened...with a lot of people probably not planning to return until ebufana, after Twelfth Night. This fortnight is always a wonderfully ramshackle period in Pisa, with some shops and restaurants open on some days, but not reliably so, and even those which are open seem to be in mellow, party mood...business only being a side issue, somehow.

The sun came out. Which was welcome after the generally damp and dismal December we've had up until now. Slightly soggily, I finally managed to plant all of the arabis caucasica - which means that that part of the garden has been transformed from primal nature reserve into something which now resembles an unruly

allotment; the idea is that by June it will be a dense carpet of small white flowers - and I've also put in ficus repens against about half of the posts on the new pergola. Which is finished! (Well, all apart from half a dozen posts, which Technical Dept says he'll have to move, as GianCarlo ruefully admits he made a pig's ear of his measurements on that section, and TD thinks the thing might collapse under the weight of the grape harvest, come September.)

For the most part, though, it looks splendid, and I'm itching to get on with planting a whole new batch of climbing roses and clematis which are due to arrive in January.

As well, of course, as moving all of the plants which are now in entirely the wrong place, as - when I planted them when we first started this garden, three years ago, now - I had to guess more or less where the pergola posts were going to be be, and sightlines and geometry have revealed that I didn't always get it right. I have one complete bed of roses which is going to have to move in its entirety three feet to the west of its current position, and next spring is going to see a magnificant display of tulips right where a path is intended to go, under the South Pergola. Oh well: Rome....built...day...etc

We had a splendid dinner with the Brancolis on Monday, at a new place they've found in Lucca, in Via del Moro. Excellent wine, good food, an over-garrulous patron , and a bill at the end of it which was so low that there's no way the business can survive at that rate! We plan to go again, soon, while it's still there and we can.

And we've managed a couple of evenings round the fire in the barn, with the requisite mulled wine, mince pies, sausage rolls (made with Luganega Sausage, which is spicy and delicious, and perfect for the task), and chestnuts roast on the glowing embers. The locals probably think we're completely nuts, to be sitting outside in late December, wrapped in coats and scarves (them, not us....we're much more British and hardy about it all...perhaps going as far as a sweater and a pair of socks) as we hug the fire and glug gluwein. But then, as a celebration of cultural diversity, there are definitely less self-indulgent ways of doing it!

Tonight's Dinner:

Fish Ravioli

Scaloppine in Orange & Rum Sauce; pommes allumettes

Pineapple Sorbet