Crémet Nantais

PLATED STORIES

Monday Monday, so good to me, 

Monday Monday, it was all I hoped it would be 

- John Phillips for The Mamas & The Papas 

As I now sit day after day in front of the screen pulling memories like rabbits from a hat, playing with ideas and jotting them down before they scamper from my head, I cannot decide if inspiration comes just a little more quickly, that much easier when I have so much more to do or if it is harder to find, spread out as it is over so many surfaces. And now one more challenge to brighten up my week. With so much on our collective plates, why would Ilva and I add one more chore, impose one more deadline, foist yet another assignment on an already overcharged workload that demands time, writing and words or photographs?

Plated Stories now fills our days, our weeks with bold defiance, daring me to find the words to fit the theme that, yes, we ourselves have chosen in a fit of jubilatory glee (or gleeful insanity?). As each week now seems to scurry by in a mad rush, as if Monday is teasing, goading us on, provoking us to put out or give in, we push ourselves to meet the challenge. I desperately feed my own blog all the while pushing forward on my other projects, stories and articles to be submitted, pieces due for this magazine deadline or that, a crazy book project and now this.

But somehow, Plated Stories has turned out to be just what I needed. A blessing in disguise. Boxing myself in with a theme – at once so specific and so open - and a date due seems to bring out the best in me. Or quite possibly it is working with Ilva, a creative dynamo, that stimulates my own creative juices. Working with a photographer gives me a new perspective on a topic, a new way to look at something. It provokes ideas without the risk of overlap. Ilva allows me to go my own way, figure out how each theme touches me, the images it provokes and brings alive in my own head and heart. Sundays are as exciting as Mondays as we pull together the new post, meeting up on a draft to play show and tell.

No ; you are strict, you are ; we must wait over twelve o’clock, 

and get into Monday. 

– Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit

“I just put up the first photos. Tell me what you think. Will add two more once I shoot the recipe.” Music to my ears. We are each so anxious and excited to discover what the other has come up with, yet always sure that my words and her images will somehow go so well together, become a cohesive whole. “I’ve inserted my words, my stories. Hop over and read through and let me know what you think.” And the fun begins.

And Monday morning. “To you the honor to hit publish this week, baby!” I wake up and stumble to my phone to check messages – usually from her. A quick once over, a touch up or two on the story or recipe and I hit the button and share it with all the world.

Plated Stories is a game, the challenge a welcome treat. At Plate to Page, we give our students an exercise meant to open their eyes to new ways to be inspired, to find something to write about out of the ordinary, the way to discover a new angle or a new outlook on what could possibly be such an ordinary or difficult topic. Or simply a way to find inspiration when the mind pulls up a blank. Panicked eyes as we set the timer, the pressure wreaking havoc on the peaceful atmosphere. Then ideas begin to click, the working of 12 brains almost palpable, humming. Plated Stories has become my own exercise: a seemingly random topic placed in front of me, keyboard at the ready, timer adjusted and ticking down to Monday.

And it works the charm.

And Mondays will never be the same again.

Je n'ai jamais eu trop de sympathie pour le lundi, 

ce début de la semaine où l'on reprend la routine. * 

- Alice Parizeau, Une Femme 

This week, our theme is Sieves and Colanders. The recipe is a Crémet Nantais, a regional dessert and a mighty treat. Simple to make, no baking involved, wide open to variations and experimentation, it is a spectacular dessert. Visit Sieves and Colanders on Plated Stories for the recipe. And to be inspired.

What does the theme inspire in you?

* I never had much of a liking for Monday, this start of the week when we begin the routine all over again.

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BOTTEREAUX NANTAIS: Beignets for Carnival

NANTES: PART III


A sea of humankind swims outside the windows of our old apartment overlooking the bustling main thoroughfare of Nantes centreville. From our perch above this never-ending flow of bodies old and young, male and female, rich and poor, we watched as fascinated children staring into a giant fishbowl, endless hours ogling, inventing stories about each one below us, searching the crowds for look-alikes of the famous and infamous, endless hours of entertainment, amazed at such a variety of people all congregated in this one spot, in our city, all coming together for our own private show.

Women in tight jeans and high heels, swags of gold chains looped around their necks, clutching oversized handbags and laden down with elegant, beribboned shopping sacks, les Nantaises scurried by, always in a hurry, affording merely a glance left or right into the glass panes of the less-than-designer boutiques that line the sidewalks of our own humble street. Rebels, homeless or not, dressed all in scruffy black, hair stuck out every which way, backpacks or sleeping bags strapped to their backs, cigarettes dangling from their lips, traveling in packs with dogs trotting at their feet, parking themselves in circles like Scouts around a bonfire, hands out to the passing shoppers, begging, nay insisting, for the odd coin. Teens skulking down the sidewalk, book bags slung over rounded shoulders, hair hanging in their eyes, the newest fad, or moving along in great crane-like strides, gabbing non-stop amongst their gaggle of friends, always busy, forever important. And not to leave out the strange and the unidentified, wandering the streets of this city like lost souls, waiting for the next bus to leave.

We stood at our post year in and year out, experiencing the changing of the seasons from one story up, this distance divided by glass. We watched as the Christmas decorations were hung, great ropes of colored and sparkling lights, garlands twining gaily up lampposts, and we listened to the holiday music piped in, bursting forth from loudspeakers across the tiny square just as the official shopping season began and all the way, day in and day out, through to the end. And two months later we watched as cherry pickers crawled up and down the roadways, yellow-hatted men coming to end the festivities as each light was unscrewed and dropped to waiting hands below. Springtime’s inauguration came with great pots of flowers in reds and yellows and shades of violet, hung from where those Christmas lights celebrated the winter season. Summertime arrived as bar and bistro doors were flung open and tiny tables for two or four were moved outside, turning the streets into lively, noisy terraces, the clatter of cutlery, the clinking of glasses amid shouts of laughter our own warm-weather birdsong.


And parades galore of every kind took to that street and we never missed a single one: Christmas, Carnival or Gay Pride, we stood at our posts, Marty in our arms, and watched, enchanted as larger-than-life snowmen and Santas danced down that road to our old holiday favorites. Or the brightly costumed, tossing candy into the crowds, bright, shiny, feathered peacocks on stilts or gaily decorated trucks, disco music blaring, bodies swaying to the beat, bedazzling the gawking crowds who never failed to join in the songs, allowing themselves to be carried away by the energy and spirit of the festivities. We missed not even one single manif’, those highly charged political demonstrations, monthly if not weekly occurrences in these highly charged times. We watched, heads shaking in disbelief and annoyance, as noisy, rambunctious union members, teachers, students, nurses and doctors shouted and waved their collective fist at the government, demanding reform while refusing to budge, angry slogans sprayed across banners and blasted from bullhorns, time and time again, entire communities spilling down the street in solidarity and determination before wandering off to our neighborhood bars for a cool drink and a smoke.


But we no longer live in that apartment, the hub of the universe. Our axis has shifted from the noisy, busy center to a silent place where few humans roam. From our tall, elegant French windows where we now live all we can see is the back of the Préfecture and the small Place abutting the regal green gates. We watch as, twice a year, the well-dressed upper crust political and military elite sweep through the impeccably tended garden and the grand doors for annual garden parties, or peep over our balcony as M. le Maire, our illustrious mayor, stands at attention in front of the Guard as honors are given on the Fourteenth of July. The seasons now slide one into the next silently with no fanfare, no loud, colorful announcement in the form of a parade or decorations, the only music that seeps in through our windows is the distant, muffled sounds of far-off demonstrations passing in protest in front of the Préfecture, symbol of the government. The occasional pop of a firecracker or the whiff of manure dumped at the end of the road by angry farmers gives us no indication of reason, no sense of time. Nantes, for all of her glory and size, is really just a sleepy little hamlet with an undoubtedly small-town feel and ambiance and here, just outside the magic circle of activity, all lies quiet and peaceful, as time slips by. The seasons punctuated by parades and demonstrations like inked-in reminders on our own private calendar, keeping us up to date, never letting us miss one holiday, one event, no longer reach us in the far-off confines of our new part of town.


We would never be able to follow the calendar or even remember one holiday if it weren’t for the bakery goods, the special festive treats that have been baked and sold generation after generation, the traditional confections announcing each and every celebration, welcoming in each season as loudly and clearly as any newspaper headline. Buttercream-rich bûches every Christmas, golden, almond-flavored, rum-infused Galette des Rois for Epiphany, tiny Niflettes or that special XVIIIth century-inspired pistachio-raspberry gâteau for Toussaint, All Saint's Day, Nids de Pâques, luscious cakes piled high with swirls of creamy frosting, dotted with colorful candy eggs nestled on shelves amid the chocolate bells, chickens and eggs of Easter, cellophane-wrapped chocolate fish for April Fool’s Day, every single holiday has her very own traditional patisserie, pastry, confection or treat and they all, each and every one of them, arrive on the same day and disappear as suddenly, all in unison. Simply walk into any bakery or pastry shop in France and peruse the display of cakes and such and you will never need any other seasonal or holiday harbinger again. Although I do love a parade.

Yeast Bottereaux

Merveilles, Tourtisseaux, Oreillettes, Bugnes or Bottereaux, these delectable little beignets, some feathery-light pillows, some crunchy, crispy confections, each and every one is a specialty for this Mardi Gras and Carnival season in France, the name and possibly the shape only changing from region to region. Trays piled high with Bottereaux, the rum-infused beignet specific to my adopted hometown of Nantes, cut into squares or lozenges, freshly fried, dusted with copious amounts of powdered or granulated sugar, begin appearing in bakeries and pastry shops throughout France shortly before Mardi Gras, and remain an absolute fixture through the end-of-March festivities. I recently posted a simpler, kid-friendly (for baking) baking powder version of the Bottereau on Huffington Post, which makes a denser, cake-like beignet, almost like a fried version of a brioche or our own Fouace Nantaise. Here I offer you the more traditional yeast version of this scrumptious, addictive treat. Lighter, airier, more donut like, the cake itself is barely sweet with a subtle hint of rum, the perfect delectable, backdrop for lots of powdered sugar. Eat them while they are still fresh and hot and you may just find yourself wanting this season to last just a little longer.

Baking Powder Quick Bottereaux

NANTES: Part I : La Fouace Nantaise
NANTES: Part II : Le Gâteau Nantais

I’ll be sending this to Susan of Wild Yeast for her wonderful weekly yeastie event Yeastspotting!

Don’t miss the latest From Plate to Page developments! If you are an Irish Food Blogger, you may win attendance at our Weimar From Plate to Page Workshop! Our wonderful sponsors, Bord Bia, the Irish Food Board, along with Irish Food Bloggers Association is holding a competition you just won’t want to miss! Just follow the link to the IFBA competition announcement page for all the delicious details!


BOTTEREAUX NANTAIS
Carnival beignets from Nantes

2 ¾ cups (380 g) flour
2 ¼ tsps active dry yeast
Large pinch salt
2 Tbs (30 g) granulated sugar
3/8 cup (100 ml) milk
9 Tbs (125 g) unsalted butter
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
½ tsp vanilla
2 Tbs rum

Oil for frying
Powdered/confectioner’s sugar for dusting

Whisk 1 cup of the flour, the active dry yeast, salt and granulated sugar together in a large mixing bowl.

Heat the milk and butter together gently over medium-low heat until most of the butter (about two thirds) has melted. Remove from the heat and stir until all of the butter has melted. Touch the liquid with the back of a finger; it should feel warm or tepid which is exactly what you want. Warm liquid activates the yeast while too cold will have no effect and too hot will kill the yeast.

Pour the warm milk and butter over the dry ingredients in the bowl and stir until you have a smooth paste. Add the lightly beaten eggs, the vanilla and the rum and stir until blended. Stir in one more cup of the flour mixture until smooth. Blend in another half a cup flour, forming a dough. Sprinkle the last half cup flour on a clean work surface and scrape the dough out of the bowl onto the flour and knead until the flour is incorporated and you have a very smooth, elastic dough, about 5 minutes.

Place the ball of dough in a clean, lightly-greased bowl, turning the dough to coat with the oil. Cover the bowl with plastic and allow to rest and rise for about 3 hours.

Scrape the risen dough out of the bowl onto a lightly floured work surface and roll out to a thickness between ¼ and ½ inch (1/2 to 1 cm). Using a sharp knife, pastry or pizza cutter, slice smoothly into 2-inch (5 cm) strips. Then cut each strip into 2-inch squares. Heat the oil to 350°F (180°C) then slide a few squares of dough in at a time – you not only don’t want to crowd the Bottereaux but putting in too many at a time will lower the temperature of the hot oil! The beignets will float up to the top of the oil then begin to brown. Gently and carefully turning the beignets over once or twice or so during frying, allow them to turn a deep golden color on both sides. They should also be well puffed up. Using a slotted spoon, scoop up the bottereaux and allow to drain quickly on paper toweling. Continue to fry all of the squares of dough.

Place all the freshly fried, warm Bottereaux on a serving platter and dust with generous amounts of powdered/confectioner’s sugar. Eat warm and fresh.

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LE GATEAU NANTAIS

NANTES: Part II


Le canicule. The heatwave. I stepped off of the train on our very first day as nantais, true residents of Nantes, walked out of the station laden down with bags and boxes, a violin case slung around my neck, my arms dragged down by all of the precious, fragile things that we didn’t want to push into the moving van, and was slapped in the face by the heat. And not just any normal August heat. A sweltering, searing, oppressive heat. Le canicule! Accompanied by Clem, equally weighed down, I took a very deep breath, filling my lungs with steaming, leaden air and tried to orient myself. Clever son exclaimed, “Oh, I know the fastest way to get to the apartment! I did it with Papa when we came to clean.” So off we trudged, me following in his unruffled, adolescent, apparently-immune-to-the-heat wake.

I had absolutely no idea where we were going. As directionally challenged as I am normally, this trip had me totally discombobulated. Weighed down, cases and bags pressing into my already overheated body, onto my sticky, burning skin, I could feel the anger and impatience work its way up from the cobblestones pushing up into my feet, inching its way up gleefully and ready to burst out of the top of my already throbbing skull. Leaving the train station behind us, up and around the Chateau, over the uneven paving stones and through tiny, winding streets barely a jot cooler even in the shade of the teetering ancient buildings, I could contain it no longer and began complaining, the words jagged and sharp, aimed so cruelly at my son who kept reassuring me that he knew exactly where we were going. By the time we worked our way around in a very huge circle, pausing every few steps to rearrange the baggage strapped all over our flushed, feverish bodies, I found myself wondering aloud why in God’s name we had ever considered making this life-changing move, regretting every single, painful step. But we finally made it. Like Robinson Crusoe finally making land, like discovering a cool, green oasis in the middle of the arid desert, we finally unlocked our new front door and dropped our load onto the hideous green carpet and collapsed. Home.


I must explain. JP and I had visited Nantes exactly twice. The first weekend he brought me here to explore, discover this city and decide if we did indeed want to move here. By complete chance, we bought a paper, looked through the real estate section and found the apartment of our dreams: 200 square meters of old office space smack dab in the center of Nantes. To renovate. Completely. Before leaving the city on Monday morning, we placed an envelope in the agent’s hands with an offer and less than one week later she called and said the magic word “Yes.” Our second visit to Nantes found us in the notary’s office signing papers and handing over a check. And this, my third visit, was to stay.

Our street in Nantes after being bombarded in 1943

Our stree after renovations

And we moved. Two days spent packing and loading up the moving van, a day for Clem and I to head over to Nantes in order to be up at 8 a.m., the fourth morning to greet the van and begin unloading. JP, Simon and Kikka (our beloved boxer) would drive over later that day in our car. And we managed all of this sans air conditioning anywhere (house, apartment, car) during the height of the most famous of European heatwaves, the four hottest days of what seemed to be the hottest summer ever. Clem and I slept on the floor of the new apartment with little more than a couple of single futons, two sheets, an ice chest filled with rapidly melting ice and every window flung open. The apartment was like an oven, there wasn’t even the suggestion of a breeze, the temperature hovering somewhere north of 40°C and pressing down on us, strangling us. I was grumpiness herself, complaining, kvetching, but doing everything I needed to do to get our new home ready for our belongings and our new life.


Everything arrived, we set up what would eventually turn into a two-year long campsite, the weather finally began to cool down and we settled in.

The next two years were spent discovering our new city, renovating our new home, the first we had ever owned! Our huge office building plate glass windows overlooked the hub of this charming city, the main drag, and day after day we would stand watching life go by, mesmerized by the movement, the diversity of people who populated our town, and this was the best entertainment we could possibly have, hours spent watching, laughing, better than TV could ever be! We wandered the streets, getting to know every sidewalk, every cobblestone, watching as the bright, clean Chateau was unveiled after 15 years of renovation, exploring her new museum and learning all about the history of this exciting city; watching as Nantes herself was renovated, an immense, ambitious project, from the center out, renovated, beautified, sections of the city brought back to life more lively and stunning than before. As our apartment evolved, walls knocked down, carpets ripped up, wooden floors refurbished back to their original beauty, walls painted deep autumn orange, gold and sage, sexy charcoal, luscious raspberry and cherry red, the kitchen was installed and the bathroom made livable, so did Nantes, buildings knocked down, new, gorgeous, fascinating buildings erected in their place, gardens planted, artwork sprinkled here and there, made lovelier and more livable as well. We grew as our city grew, our apartment evolved into a home as our city evolved into something just as beautiful, just as lively, just as comfortable and well-known, and we loved both more every day.

The view from our apartment

We have since sold our apartment five busy, long years later, and now are once again happy renters, always ready for a change, always open to possibilities. Nantes fits us like an old, worn sweater, is as familiar as an old friend. In these seven years, we have grown and changed just as our city has. We’ve learned lessons, we’ve lost and we’ve won, we’ve suffered heartbreak and frustration, we’ve felt love and joy. We’ve watched our sons grow and change as well, living through rough patches yet emerging as generous, adventurous adults, slowly finding their “sea legs” in life. Things happen by choice and things happen by chance and we have experienced the clashing of the two together, meeting unexpectedly like strangers bumping into each other on a street corner as evening falls.

I present to you the Gâteau Nantais, Nantes’ Cake, the second in my series of local gastronomic traditions. The Gâteau Nantais is an invitation to travel, a densely satisfying cake drenched in West Indian rum, kissed by a subtle hint of almond and sweet with the perfume of the South Seas. Cloaked under its familiar, elegant white icing, the Gâteau Nantais has been pleasing the locals since the 18th Century when rum was king with its intriguing flavor and drunken bite. Sweet and sassy to be eaten just a sliver at a time, the Gâteau Nantais quickly becomes addictive. And like this magnificent city that lends her name to this elegant pastry, the Gâteau Nantais is easy and smooth, infused with the flavors of the past yet oh-so rich with a modern, exciting kick, a hidden secret savored by those who know her and love her so well.


This recipe for Gâteau Nantais was given to me by our former neighbor, Mme. R., une Nantaise born and raised, who changed and adapted the traditional recipe to fit her own personal taste. You will notice that the icing has a hint of brown rather than being perfectly white; this is because Mme. R. replaces the water in the original icing recipe with yet more rum to heighten the overall flavor. The Gâteau Nantais is simple, dense, moist and luscious, and even those averse to the flavor of rum will find it oh so very difficult to stay away from this delicious, intriguing cake. To be eaten in moderation.


LE GATEAU NANTAIS
Will serve 8 to 10 people.

125 g (9 Tbs) salted butter, softened to room temperature *
150 g (3/4 cup) granulated sugar
125 g (4.4 oz or @ 1 1/4 cups + 1 Tbs) ground almonds
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
40 g (1/3 cup) flour
100 ml (3/8 liquid cup) rum
100 g (7/8 cup, 3.5 oz) powdered/confectioner’s sugar
1 cup syrup **


* salted butter: do not forget that Nantes is in Brittany where salted butter reigns


** Syrup: Place 75 g (6 Tbs) granulated sugar + 155 ml (2/3 liquid cup) water into a saucepan with a tight-fitting lid and, over medium heat, bring to a rolling boil, stirring constantly. As soon as the liquid comes to a rolling boil, remove the pan from the heat, fit the lid on the pot and set aside until cooled to room temperature.


Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter a 22 cm (8 ½ inch) cake pan (no bigger, no smaller, it must be 22 cm), line with a circle of parchment paper then butter the paper lightly.

In a large mixing bowl, cream the softened butter with the granulated sugar with an electric beater until blended, light and fluffy. Add and beat in the ground almonds.

Beat in the beaten eggs in 3 or 4 additions until well blended.

Add the flour and 1/3 of the rum to the batter and beat just until smooth and blended.

Pour and spread into the prepared pan. Bake for 45 minutes. Cover lightly with a sheet of aluminum foil during the last 10 or 15 minutes if the cake looks to be browning a bit too quickly. The finished cake should be a deep blond/golden color and set in the center.


Your sugar syrup should now be cool. Stir 4 tablespoons of the remaining rum into the syrup.

As soon as you remove the cake from the oven, slide a knife around the edge to loosen the cake from the sides of the pan then carefully turn out onto a rack, peel off the parchment paper then flip upright onto another cooling rack. Immediately brush generously with about half of the rum-spiked sugar syrup. Allow the cake to cool completely.


Once the cake is cool, brush again with the remaining rum-spiked sugar syrup.

To make the icing, simply stir the rest of the rum into the powdered/confectioner’s sugar until very smooth. Using a spatula spread the icing over the top of the cake, allowing it to run down the sides if you like.


Let the Gâteau Nantais sit and macerate, the icing solidifying, for a day before enjoying.


The Gâteau Nantais should be served in thin wedges.

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FOUACE NANTAISE - a taste of home

NANTES, Part I


He places his index finger on the map spread out on the table in front of me and traces a careful line from the northern coast just below where land meets Channel south to La Rochelle. He wants to be closer to the ocean in a greener, quieter place than mad Paris and her lonely, dark suburbs. Closer to the ocean so this city boy born and bred can spend weekend mornings with his toes buried in the sand watching the waves crash up onto the beach, something that soothes and calms him. He wants to bring us to a friendlier place, somewhere, anywhere better for the boys yet somewhere modern and innovative where we, too, can have a productive life. We were starting over, leaving it all behind, job, home, friends, schoolmates and heading west. A new start, a new life.

We did our research. It had to be right. We were a couple without a land, homeless stragglers ever wandering the globe, looking for excitement and adventure, living on an island unto ourselves, so we really only had ourselves to please. We looked high and low, studying each and every city along the coast, listening for the one that was calling our name. And then we stumbled upon Nantes. Oh, husband had been there many times, but had never thought of it in terms of a place to rest his head and raise his family. But it had everything we desired: a city small enough to be friendly and green yet large enough, resourceful enough, innovative enough to be our hope for the future.

Mention France to any American and immediately Paris comes to mind: Eiffel Tower, Mona Lisa and Romance with a capital R. Or Provence and her luxurious rolling green countryside, fields of lavender, quaint villages, her rich, garlicky, Mediterranean cuisine. Short on time and dollars, few tourists venture outside of these well known, well-trod vacation spots. But then again, maybe one reason we chose Nantes was her lack of tourist crowds. Yet Nantes is a city with a fascinating and rich history full of powerful women, war and upheaval, struggles against foreign invaders, a playground of revolution and commerce, the birthplace of the Edict of Nantes and Jules Verne both. Fascinating, indeed.


Nantes is a city of history, both past and present, reveling in her tumultuous past while carving her own future out of exotic wood, aluminum, glass and daring. Her marketplace and monuments breathe France and her traditions, yet innovation has always been a sure sign of her personality. Henri IV selected Nantes to be the signature city of his famous Edict in 1598, an order of tolerance and religious freedom; former capital of Brittany, Nantes was the home of Anne de Bretagne, Duchess of Brittany, married to two Kings of France yet a woman who managed to keep power and control of her duchy firmly in her own hands while assuring its future unification with France. Like all French cities, the light and dark clash, a never-ending struggle in the history books; her valiant resistance during the French Revolution or the World Wars stands elbow to elbow with her turbulent role in the Commerce Triangulaire, the Slave Trade. Once one of Europe’s richest, most important port cities, she built her fame and fortune on this trade of men for goods, vanilla and spices, tobacco and rum, and her shipping magnates became very wealthy indeed.


Nantes is a city of sadness, a city of hope. Only the shadow of those former dark times whisper to us from her streets, the heartbeats and tears of how many men and women held captive pulsing up through the sidewalks where wealthy merchants sauntered, ghostly water lapping up against the sides of ships where captains once shouted orders and goods were unloaded onto the bustling, crowded quays. The streets we walk over were once this river, now sand and asphalt and tar, filled in and paved over in an effort to forget. The sidewalks still groan under the weight of the majestic white apartment buildings, elegant swirls of dark ironwork against the pure, snowy white stone, homes now buckling under the weight of time, the same once built for those proud merchants in the Glory Years of the 19th Century, apartments still paneled in wood, ceilings graced by rosaces and French windows overlooking what was once their river, luxurious buildings from which, day after day, they would step out of right into the river from which their wealth flowed.


Now these old buildings, still elegant and proud, reminders of her turbulent past, stand side by side new, gorgeous, contemporary buildings, signs of her future, all iron, wood, glass and cement, astonishing in their colors, silver, blue, orange, black & white, buildings that twist and turn and bend at odd angles, buildings that curve gracefully, buildings that incorporate the old and the new, buildings sprinkled higgledy-piggledy all over this modern town that we have grown to love so well. Gardens bloom throughout the city, Japanese gardens on the Ile de Versailles, exotic gardens built under the graceful metal vaults of former smelting works on the Ile de Nante or sprouting from iron, cement and steel of what was once the city’s shipyard. Nantes is an exciting city that lives and breathes her history every single day, this former proud capital of Brittany, home of Kings and Queens, yet equally a city that embraces everything that is new and modern, a city that has successfully and harmoniously wedded the past and the future in more than just her architecture, having given birth to such diverse festivals as La Folle Journée (classical music), Les Rendez-Vous de l'Erdre (Jazz), Utopiales (Science Fiction) and La Festival des 3 Continents (the Cinema of 3 Continents: Asia, Africa & Latin America). Nantes is the home of the outlandish machines of the world famous Royal de Luxe theatre bringing the futuristic stories of Jules Verne to the streets. Nantes was the birthplace of such forward-thinking, socially innovative yet traditional industries as LU, the world famous cookie factory and was the city of the first public transport system in the world with the creation of public omnibuses and the first city in France to have a public tramway system.


I will be offering you a 3-part series, a glance at my adopted city, Nantes. Three peeks at a beautiful city followed by three sweet recipes. You will notice that the one ingredient that ties these three recipes, these three very special, traditional treats together is rum; Nantes built her fortune on trade with the French West Indies, former trade partners, former colonies. Ships based in Nantes would be sent to Africa where their captains would exchange European goods for men and women who would then, in turn, be brought to the Caribbean to work on the sugar, tobacco and spice plantations. The ships would then return to Nantes, bringing back vanilla, pepper, ginger, cinnamon, things tropical and exotic, along with the tobacco and cane sugar, adding, in the 19th Century, rum to their cargo. Rum, that earthy, amber-colored, magical brew, shimmering like gold. Rum, dark, woodsy, exotic, heady with the scent of the West Indies, rich with the flavor of far-off lands did so intrigue the people of Nantes that it became part of their culinary repertoire, enriching the gastronomic pleasures of this part of the world. It is difficult to find a local sweet specialty that isn’t spiked with either rum or Muscadet, her own local wine.


I offer you this first recipe, a specialty of my city of Nantes. La Fouace Nantaise, the Nantes’ fougasse, is a brioche-type bread, gently sweetened, redolent of rum, shaped like a macaron or a 5- or 6-sided star. This butter and egg rich treat was created in the 19th century in the neighboring town of La Haye-Fouassière (“fouassière” comes from the word “fouasse” or “fouace”: “fougasse”), a town nestled in Muscadet country amid the vines and producers. The fouace was traditionally dunked in the local wine and now takes pride of place at the annual fête des vendanges, the yearly grape harvest festival where it is accompanied, of course, by a glass of Muscadet.

In researching this very old recipe, I gathered about 5 different versions of it, including one from my Larousse Gastronomique and a few from sites listing the gastronomic specialties of Nantes. Each one was just too different from the next in either ingredient quantities or procedure that, relying on my intuitive nature and using my bread baking skills finely honed over many years of trial and error, I came up with this recipe and it worked like magic! My fouace nantaise was light yet tender and slightly dense and chewy like the perfect brioche, barely sweet, eggy rich and heady with the aroma and flavor of rum, just a hint of orange blossom. Perfect and moist for the first day or two, use this brioche when slightly stale (or even fresh!) for wonderful pain perdu (French toast, of course) or a decadent bread pudding. Enjoy!


This rum-spiked brioche is perfect for this month’s Bread Baking Day, our favorite monthly bread-baking event created by Zorra of 1x umrûhren bitte. BBD #33 is being hosted by Baking Powders who chose the theme Breads With Booze.

I will also send this fouace nantaise to Susan at Wild Yeast for her weekly yeast-baking event Yeastspotting.


FOUACE NANTAISE

1 lb (500 g) flour, divided, plus more for kneading
2 ¼ tsp (15 g) active dry yeast
½ cup (115 ml) milk, warmed to body temperature
large pinch of salt
¼ cup (50 g) sugar
7 Tbs (100 g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
1 small juice or wine glass of rum, about 3 oz (90 ml)
1 Tbs fleur d’oranger (orange flower water)
4 eggs, lightly beaten
1 additional egg for egg wash, lightly beaten


Place 1 cup (125 g) of the flour in a medium-sized mixing bowl with the yeast and 1 teaspoon of the sugar. Add the warm milk and stir briefly just to wet all of the dry ingredients. Allow to proof for 20 – 40 minutes or until doubled in size, puffy and bubbly.


While the yeast mixture is proofing, place the rest of the flour into a large mixing bowl with a large pinch of salt (about ½ teaspoon), the remaining sugar, the softened butter, the glass of rum, the fleur d’oranger and the 4 lightly beaten eggs. Stir with a wooden spoon until all of the dry ingredients have been moistened and the mixture is well blended. Add the proofed yeast mixture and stir the together until well blended. It will be very sticky, too sticky to handle.


Scrape the dough onto a well-floured work surface. Knead the dough, adding enough extra flour until the dough is no longer sticky and it is soft, smooth and homogenous. Carefully divide the dough into 5 or 6 equal parts, form into balls and place one in the center of a parchment-lined baking/cookie tray. Place the other balls of dough around the outside of the center ball to form a star shape. Don’t worry if there are gaps between the balls of dough. Cover lightly with a piece of plastic wrap then a clean kitchen towel and allow to rise until doubled in size, 1 ½ to 2 hours.


Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Brush the dough with the beaten egg and bake for 40 minutes. The fouace will have risen and be a deep golden brown. The “branches” of the star will have started to pull away from the center ball of brioche.


Now pop the cork on that chilled bottle of Muscadet and enjoy!

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