Our local Gastronomy - Foie Gras

In the foothills of the Pyrénées, as I packed up some high quality Foie Gras destined for Ireland, I mused on how, since coming to live in France in spring 2003, I have adopted the French attitude to food.

With a substantial quantity of this gourmet’s dream piled on a sideboard in the cool hallway of our rustic old house, I pondered on the fact that here we have a product considered so luxurious, so deluxe, by people in other countries, that they consider it to be completely exotic, a bit on the expensive side maybe; a fabulous, once a year treat.

It began when friends who spend part of each year over in the glorious olive and lavender growing Provence, were keen to see our totally different – but equally stunning – wild scenery. Here they first tasted the locally produced Foie Gras, bought some to take back to Ireland, where friends tasted it at the Christmas and New Year revels. Voila, the orders commenced and continued to grow each year.

Here in the Grand Sud, Foie Gras is everywhere. People look on it as a perfectly normal food. It is part of all the great occasions of course, but equally it can and does make an appearance at an ordinary lunch. As I became immersed in French life, shopped and cooked using local produce, I fell into the French way of thinking about Foie Gras. Like the mountains, it’s always there.

Nationally, it is considered a very important product and like so many foodstuffs ­­­- the French take these things very seriously - it is protected by law. Legislation designated Foie Gras as part of the officially protected, cultural and gastronomic patrimony of the country. France produces 83% of the world's Foie Gras and apparently eats more than 90% of it.

In most of the farmhouses around me and in small village houses too, it is made for family use. Life without Foie Gras would be unimaginable. Rich, buttery and delicate, it is such a luxurious product, packed with calories, that a small piece is a feast. On a bed of salad leaves, with red winter berries, or in summer, tiny cherry tomatoes, it makes for an opulent plate.

Some countries object to the very idea of Foie Gras and several of the American states put pressure on people to stop eating it. We had the astonishing tale of it being banned in 2006 by the city of Chicago, but the ban only gave the product a ritzy glamour, a new appeal. Demand became high with crazy stories of people enjoying it in ‘Foie Gras speakeasies’. In May 2008 the City Council repealed the controversial ban; back it went on the menus and those who chose to eat it did so, in public. 

Arguments continue with stories of birds in distress, because of the practice of force feeding. Breeders will tell you that the birds simply get used to the process and are not in any great distress, adding that people have been practising the ‘gavage’ as far back as 2500 BC, when the ancient Egyptians kept birds for food and deliberately fattened them through force feeding. The subject can and does inflame passions. 

In the Couseran hills, many people still live from the produce of a smallholding. They are kind and extremely generous, but there is little sentimentality about rearing stock for eating. Memories are long and these people and their ancestors saw very hard times indeed during two world wars.

On a larger scale, David Lemasson has for fifteen years been producing the highest quality duck produce, both fresh and preserved. The ducks are sourced in the neighbouring Gers department, from three farms who maintain the highest standards of animal welfare. Here in Ariège Pyrénées David and his team create a superb range of products, from whole Foie Gras to confit de canard, conserves and pâtés. These are hand-crafted, natural products, without any conservatives or dyes and and as well as in his jewel of a shop, they are found in top restaurants, butchers and discerning outlets.

Allez les Blues - a win in the Aviva!

Here in the hills I watched the Ireland-France match from the magnificent Aviva Stadium in Dublin and was thrilled by the French win, if only by a few points. 

As the French captain (who plays for my team, Stade Toulousain) admitted afterwards, it may not have been the match of the year, but a win is a win, never easy against the current Irish team.

What an excellent sporting day and even if the French managed only one try (scored by Maxime Medard, another Toulouse player) it was easily the best match of the three this weekend. 

And what a year in prospect... more Six Nations matches, then up to Toulouse as we watch the continuation of the battle for the top place in the Top 14 here. 

Tickets for Cardiff in May, hoping of course that Toulouse will make it through to the Heineken Cup final. If not, I have the promise of a Leinster jersey from a pal inDublin who is convinced his team will be there. Then, after a leisurely summer here, the Rugby World Cup from New Zealand and the promise of much middle of the night feasting, as we watch the games from the far side of the world. 

Not a bad old life?

Memories of Dublin's Trocadero Restaurant

"You lucky, lucky thing!  But you absolute fiend!  And how we envy you.  The frocks are terrific; so classic my dear, black, with that lovely rich purple trim. Those gold crosses and rings. And, when you reach the top, as you most certainly will, you get to wear that fabulous Big Red Hat!"  

One of Dublin’s most beautiful men had announced his intention to join the priesthood.  His ‘goodbye social life’ party was held in the Trocadero restaurant. How we roared when one of his friends, dressed for the occasion as Oscar, complete with green carnation, began his speech with the above.  In my celebration of daft nights in this legendary restaurant, that evening was in a class of it‘s own.

Since the picture of Alan Rickman appeared, I haven’t minded if people were late meeting me in the Trocadero. They could be as late as they liked. That black coat and those eyes.  

But all the pictures are special, as I was reminded the night I was obliged to hastily leave down my knife and fork, when a walking stick was thrust in across my plate. A voice said, "Ah look, I knew it was around here somewhere.  There you are!"  


I looked up to see Ulick O’Connor grinning apologetically as his friend - Ben Kiely - tapped the photo with his stick, said "good evening" to me, and left the restaurant.

The Trocadero decor has been described as being a bit like a theatre. It certainly produces theatrical behaviour.  There was the woman who, fully intending to take a taxi home, parked her car in a tiny lane around the corner. After much dissecting, re-living and hooting at the carry-on at the hunt ball, our fearless heroine decided, at two in the morning, to drive herself home. She got into her sports car, and hey presto, found herself flying through the back door of one of the little shops which front on to Wicklow Street.

There was the night that somebody knocked over a cup of coffee and the ensuing row ended up downstairs in the gents with one person yelling at the other: "you hate me because I'm gay! You've never liked me".  Then the other person shouting back so loudly, that the women in the ladies next door could clearly hear: "I don’t hate you because you're gay. This is a very expensive suit!”  A pause, and then “Jesus, I never even knew you were gay."  

The mid-week night, and a wedding anniversary when my husband had forgotten to book a table and the staff squeezed us in, making things incredibly awkward for themselves really.  They didn't seem to mind in the least.  The atmosphere was just the same, magic.  It certainly wasn't the fault of the Trocadero that we, sadly, divorced years later. 

One evening, a worthy discussion was going on about whether a trek over Indiawould be a valuable, life enhancing experience.  One of the women, running her hand through her magnificent blonde hair said, "Well, yes. I've always wanted to do that, and I would love to go of course.  But then I think, well, what about my roots?”

I once woke up to find myself in the back of a taxi, the driver asking "which road is it now, love? The chap at the restaurant said to drive to the sea and take one of the first turns.”  Large ‘thank you’ card dropped in to Robert and staff next morning by mortified woman with big red face... 

Lord Henry Mountcharles and some friends dropped in one packed night and there were no tables available.  They waited with the rest of the queue. The people at my table were English and absolutely amazed.  They weirdly thought that perhaps someone would be moved around to accommodate the party.  We explained about Henry, his restaurant at that time, the castle, the concerts, and above all, about him being human.  Gasps from the English assembly.

A marriage loomed.  Hearing the words ‘two conventional mothers’, feeling the young bride and groom were perhaps under enough stress, and most importantly, not interested in the slightest in the whole affair, I went to the Trocadero with Bill, old friend through thick and thin. As the first bottle of wine was opened Bill remarked ”you were right; who would want to go to a wedding and miss all this?” Lutz kept the bottles coming. We ended up in the Coach and Horses - closed now - watching an Italian movie. Enough said. Excellent evening.

There was the night I met a charming individual known as Miss Candy; the two of us got tipsy together and I discovered that the only lipstick to use for staying power was Princess Marcella Borghese.  My partner, when he came in to collect me described the two of us as "looking like something out of AB FAB". He went away again and the rest of the evening remains a haze.

Trocadero stories would not be complete without Frank.  Whether it was a casual meal for two women friends, a romantic celebration, a business meeting or a noisy crowded table, Frank added to the evening, giving it exactly the right note. There he was, dressed in those impeccable black tails, the white starched dinner shirt and bow tie, his splendid white hair perfectly groomed. You knew you were in for a very special night if you were lucky enough to get a booth in Frank's section of the Troc. 

We lived near each other and I often shared a taxi home with him. Frank was inclined to issue warnings to taxi drivers not to dare to drive away until ‘the Lady has gone in her front door, and closed it behind her!’

According to the staff at the Trocadero, his spirit lives on in the restaurant. I agree. When I was leaving Ireland to come and live in France I had one of my farewell dinners in the Trocadero, at a table in Frank’s old spot. It was the best of evenings and in the early hours I tottered happily out, as I had been doing for years. This time, the friends in the taxi waited to see me safely in my front door.

Christmas in the Pyrenees

Where I live, in Ariège Pyrénées, Christmas and New Year are delightful, hearty, warm, and even quirky; just hours after dinner, we have a mid-night oyster feast.

The oysters come from Arcahon and on Christmas Eve, in our local town of St Girons, a charming, timeless picture is one of people, booted and wrapped up incoloured hats, scarves and gloves, collecting their oyster boxes before heading back to the villages and hamlets in the hills to begin the celebrations.

This being the ‘Grand Sud’, tradition is everything; life is lived according to the seasons and oysters and Foie Gras are the big ones for the festivities.

Contrary to what a lot of people think, the French may seem to work shorter hours and take more holidays, but what they don’t do, is down tools for a massive two weeks of revelry at this time of year.

Christmas begins on the 24^th, with dinner very much a family affair. Foie Gras toasts are served with aperitifs and may appear again later, flambéed with fruit. Some people attend late night Mass; others take a stroll around the village. Around midnight, everyone will come together again, often with neighbours, to eat oysters and drink white wine, the feast going on into the early hours.

Christmas day lunch (magically organised, despite the midnight feasting) will have the extended family from grandparents to babies, enjoying a large and lengthy lunch that begins at mid-day on the button. This five course meal, with more Foie Gras, then Guinea Fowl or Capons for main course, will continue until late afternoon.

And that is that until New Year’s Eve. The 26^th is not a holiday here, so it’s back to work.

The 31^st is when family and friends get together for serious partying and for the Réveillon, Champagne is always the drink of choice. Whether a large lavish dinner or a servez-vous buffet, it is splendid, with more Foie Gras on the menu. Young or old, tradition is observed. 

We are in the Couseran hills; this is the land of top quality Foie Gras.  I love the way these customs are preserved here; the respect for old ways and for the food produced in the area.

Living in a remote part of France, the foothills of the Pyrénées, is not for everyone. But the place has enchanted me; I love writing in my little study, with a view out over the hills.

And I’m not the only writer in the room. On my wall hangs a framed collection of notes I treasure. They are from a mega-star writer, who, in her study, takes time out from writing best-sellers to send me encouraging notes. I doubt you know her; she’s timid, not a great talker and has no opinions or advice to offer anyone, ever.

Happy Christmas from my hamlet in the hills. 

After National Novel Writing Month - Art!

Oh, the joy of being finished with National Novel Writing Month. 

I, like all my crazy fellow writers, who hope that having written 50,000 words during the month, will go on to turn those words into something special. Hopefully a full length novel may emerge. Whatever, it won’t be for the lack of effort. 

But now, after all my efforts to write the novel, (or any book) I want to mention a really special book; it takes little effort to read because it takes the reader in straight away, and it gives massive enjoyment from page one.

I had to pack an overnight bag for someone and, feeling it important to shove in a book, I took a novel that promised a good, fast-paced read, set against the background of World War Two. Perfect.  

What if my bag needed packing, I wondered. Would anyone know the right book to pack?

There is only one book - and it’s also my Desert Island Disc book - so that’s sorted when Radio 4 calls.

I opened Professor Ernst Gombrich’s The Story of Art, began to read the preface, and a breathtaking, wonderful feeling told me that this book had been written for me. That was as a teenager, back in the seventies, when I was, at least according to my own sense of style, ultra trendy, permanently dressed in black, smoking Consulate on top of buses, beginning to collect hats and doing an Art course at night.

The book is part of my life and is always near to where I sleep. First published in 1950, The Story of Art has outsold every book in the genre, and today the Professor continues to introduce students, artists and scholars to the world of art and the artist.

One of the greatest works ever written, by one of the world’s greatest authorities on the art world, the Professor’s way of approaching his subject has enlightened millions of us, as he draws us into the world of art and the artist. Following him, our lives are enriched.

This remarkable, unassuming man, with his conversational style, his constant use of the word ’we’, gives us the impression that he too is learning, is accompanying us on this great journey.

It is a very, very clever approach and by using it, he creates a feeling that we are standing together studying the great works, as we companionably walk through the ages.

Starting with early drawings in the caves of southern France, we study the Egyptians, the ancient Greeks, travel through the centuries, through the Renaissance years, right up to the late 20^th century.

We feel we are in the easy company of someone who, even though we know his knowledge is way beyond ours, is inviting us to look with our own eyes, to think for ourselves.

The Professor explains how human life evolved through the centuries, illustrating, through the world of art, how societies developed. Without ever ‘dumbing down’, he suggests how man, from our origins, lost in the mists of time, came to where we are today.

This book goes much further than merely describing works of art. Using some of the greatest masterpieces ever produced, be it a Mayan alter stone, a Rembrandt self portrait, or a Jackson Pollock action painting, Gombrich takes us on a thrilling journey,  inviting us to delve into the world of the creative spirit with a view to understanding.

While we are being educated about the lives and works of the great artists, the writer suggests that for the greater good, we might accept and tolerate the beliefs and ways of others.

My interest in art and the world increased as I studied everything from the ancient to the modern. Along the way I naturally felt an affinity to some, and found myself less than interested in others.

Professor Gombrich meant The Story of Art to be for teenagers, an age group just beginning to look at that world. He had reckoned that that particular age group would quickly detect any pretentious jargon or bogus sentiment, and so he avoided using such language. His rallying cry to students - the very reason so many found him liberating - was: ‘There is no such thing as Art, only Artists.’

Even now, years later, the Professor still nudges me to examine again some of the works I did not study in sufficient detail, to look anew at something I may have decided was not for me.

The Story of Art has been with me a long time, although the volume I treasure now is not my original. That one I foolishly lent to someone who promised to look after it carefully, saying ‘Art is my God.’ They then disappeared, trekking to the East in an effort to find themselves.  I never saw or heard from them again.

This copy is not for hire, lend or sale because I need this book near me; I read and re-read this much loved, cherished work of art (which it is) more than any other.

My Imaginary Dinner Party - a welcome break from Novelling

I signed up for the lunatic craziness that is November; National Novel Writing Month. So, for all of this month, every day is busy, fun, gruelling, back-aching, but very, very rewarding as the word count goes up each day. By mid-night on the 30^th, all of us ‘Wrimos’ aspire to have 50,000 words written; a possible novel in the making.

It is a solitary pursuit, but something I love doing. Writing is never a chore to me and here in the hills of the Ariège Pyrénées, I try hard to make the time to write, and not allow too many interruptions during the month. (I learned to do this from my last disastrous effort, when writing took second place to everything else, and I ended up with the word count done, but what a load of rubbish it was; I never wanted to see it again.)  

This month - two more days and we’re half way there - is going so much better; it was worth making the effort to move my writing up to the number one spot.

When the word count has been achieved each day, I tend to sit back, blink a bit and do nothing more than think about what I will eat that evening. Since I live in a fairly remote part of southern France, my nights tend to be simple, quiet affairs. With the big oak shutters closed, a merry blaze in the wood burning stove, a bottle of red open and my television programmes for later chosen; all is well with the world.

Or is it? I’m doing other writing projects as well, and I am determined to get them all off my desk before year end. I need to be spurred on, by a few heroes and heroines. I feel a mad urge not to have quiet evenings. Au contraire, I am in need of a large table, full of people I have long wanted to meet. 

My group will inspire me, egg me on, boost my confidence, entertain me with hilarious stories, play music, dazzle me with their sparkling wit, be glamorous, lovely to look at, and the one or two I might be in awe of, well, they would surely have a humbling effect; never a bad thing?

So, my twenty people at my imaginary dinner party reads - in alphabetical order - Maya Angelou, Melvyn Bragg, Gay Byrne, Billy Connolly, Jilly Cooper, Judy Dench, Frankie Dettori, Edge, Stephen Fry, Ian Hislop, Richard Ingrams, John Inverdale, Joanna Lumley, Oprah, The Queen, Maggie Smith, Keith Richards, Meryl Streep, Terry Wogan, Keith Wood.

When I look at that list, put together fairly quickly, it occurs to me that perhaps I’m up there with the great Elsa Maxwell. When it comes to mixing a group of people, as well as a decent Martini, I’m not too bad.

In the group, although I didn’t intend it, are people who will immediately find they have things in common, can plunge right in and chat away.

Let’s start with the Queen. She meets people all the time and has done so all her life. She is at ease everywhere and even if she wasn’t, the chances are she has already met lots or even all of my guests. Perhaps Frankie has been to Windsor for lunch? We can safely say that Her Majesty will not feel out of place with this lot, having met everyone who matters in the world during her wonderfully long life.

I‘ll take one end of the table; Joanna can take the other. I’ll have Melvyn and Billyon either side of me, and we’ll put big John and big Keith, the two rugby men, on either side of Joanna, to keep her safe from Ingrams and Wogan. 

Obviously Maggie and Judy will entertain us with tales from the theatre; just hearing their voices is heaven to me. And Jilly and Stephen will no doubt, feel the need to exchange and maybe give us, some juicy bits of gossip over the aperitifs.

Two of the world’s greatest guitarists will surely have lots to discuss, hats included. 

If Maya Angelou and Oprah haven’t an affinity with each other, then I’m a Banana, as Ian famously remarked back in 1989, when we all dug into our pockets and sent money so that Private Eye could keep going.

The most sued man can congratulate Richard on his soaring readership over at The Oldie. The link continues, with Joanna having (ridiculously!) been voted Oldie of the year. Introducing her at the lunch was someone she freely admits to adoring, as we do, the great man, Sir Terry. The connection carries on with Terry knowingGay from years back, having worked with him in Irish Radio.

Gay Byrne. What’s left to say? Except that he brings my table full circle really, in that he is right up there with the Queen, having met everyone of note during an illustrious career spanning decades. It’s a fact of Irish life that if Gay ran for President, the other candidates might as well stay home. He will be unfailingly polite and have a word for everyone, but, and it’s a big but, with Meryl there, I don’t fancy anyone else’s chances of a long chin-wag.

The Black Princes of the Ariège

Brilliant news - the article below featured in the November issue of Ireland's Horse and Pony    The magazine (Ireland's only monthly journal for the horsey world) is available at Eason and Tesco outlets. 

The piece is about the Mérens, the beautiful breed of black horse native to this region of France; the glorious Ariège-Pyrénées

 

Two of the Savignol families magnificent ponies

 

Where I live now, in the foothills of the Pyrénées, southern France, the hilly, rocky landscape sometimes reminds me of the west of Ireland, if on a much larger scale.

Just like Connemara, a special breed of horses, native to the region exists; the beautiful, jet black Mérens, known as the Black Princes of the Ariège.

  

Their origins can be traced back to prehistoric times, through thousands of years of evolution. In the famous cave of Niaux there is a drawing of a horse which is said to represent a Celtic pony and it does look extraordinarily like one of the splendid, Black Princes.

In Oughterard, a long time ago, I was lucky to meet the Geoghegan family, who, with passion and years of knowledge, bred wonderful Connemara ponies.

Here in the Ariège a very special family dedicates their whole existence to the breeding and conservation of the Mérens. The Savignol family own the stunning Haras Picard Du Sant, the only Mérens horse breeding farm in France to be classed AB (Agriculture Biologique).

They are the first Mérens breeders in France to use organic farming practices; the entire philosophy of the Savignol family is based on preserving the race and original characteristics of the breed. Everything is done in harmony with nature and is to the advantage of the horse, not the owners. No chemical intervention whatsoever is used; the horses are treated with osteopathy and homeopathy and raised following the principles of the Pat Parelli method.

During winter this area gets heavy snowfalls and temperatures drop, but because of their general sturdiness and heavy coats, whatever the weather the Mérens remain outdoors all year round, with foals being born in spring. Just hours after birth each foal is handled, so it grows accustomed to a human presence and touch, resulting in a healthy, gentle and docile horse.

Jean Louis with one of his foals

As they are growing, they are handled for about four hours each day. Such close, regular human presence ensures that the human becomes like a familiar animal to the horse. 

High summer, when the grass dries up with the heat, is a time of great adventure. In early June, the Mérens are brought right up to the high mountains for summer grazing. This is called the Transhumance and it takes three days to walk them up to the mountain pastures. It is a spectacular sight to see the Black Princes, walking mostly in single file through the countryside, using ancient paths, old roman roads and high mountain trails, headed for five months when they live in complete liberty in the mountains.

Now a natural hierarchy develops within the herd, as the dominant horses teach the younger animals the basis of how to behave in their society. Once each week the breeders make the trip up to check that all is well.

The Savignol horse farm sits in a pure picture postcard, hilltop village in the Ariège region, in the heart of the Midi-Pyrénées and on a sweltering afternoon just before the Transhumance, Jean Louis Savignol took me on a tour of the surrounding countryside to see their horses. I first met one of their stallions, some mares and foals and on our arrival in the field, most of the horses immediately headed for Jean Louis.

After a bit, I too handled the foals, was playfully nipped by them and nudged by the mothers, and all the time the Stallion stood, quietly grazing, hardly taking any notice of us. Pure serenity at high levels.

Just a few kilometres away, we found the bulk of the herd - no foals or stallions here – in a massive field, standing under some enormous oak trees, finding shade from the intense heat. 

Once again, most of them came straight over to nuzzle up to Jean Louis, who explained to me that the horses choose to be with humans, not the other way round. They are not afraid, nor are they looking for treats; neither he nor I carried any ‘rewards’ I our pockets. I was obviously accepted too and suddenly I was in the middle of the herd; the feeling was pure magic.

I was ecstatic with delight; I might have been seventeen again and I was catapulted back to a day, in Connemara, having climbed into a field, when a pony suddenly appeared, crashing through jungle-like green and gold high ferns. The shiny coat, the strong, muscled body, the striking head held high, with long black mane and tail flying made an awesome sight. This wasn’t your usual, ordinary pony; but a pure star, still unbroken, the stuff of dreams and, even in those days, worth a fortune. He had the magic; it seemed as if he possessed the spirit of all that had gone before.

Now, in the foothills of the Pyrénées, daft as it sounds, I felt the same spirits, the same magic, surrounded as I was by thousands of years of history.

Having witnessed, over the years, so many different ways of getting a horse to do what we want, it was extraordinary to me, to hear Jean Louis explain the Savignol family’s approach, and indeed their success. Nothing, he assured me, absolutely nothing is done to interfere with the natural life of their herd of Mérens horses.

The Haras Picard Du Sant sells ponies for riding and driving; each one is entered in professional competitions to validate its potential as a leisure horse. They already have the characteristics of being dependable, loyal and trustworthy, with solid strong bodies and big generous hearts. They possess a quiet assurance and a calm approach, are sure footed and patient.

How thrilling to find these beautiful, magical animals here, linking me with a memory of a wild landscape and another ancient breed of horse; a special, fairy-taleConnemara pony.

I thank the Savignol family for allowing me to use the stunning pictures of their horses. They, and their herd of Mérens can be found at:

Peyroutets

09230 Lasserre 

Ariège-Pyrénées

France

Tel : (33) 05 61 66 65 34

www.merens-ariege.com
contact@merens-ariege.com