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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LULU ROUGET & THE BIRTHDAY LUNCH

Many years ago, a July offered us a month of rainy days. Black and gloomy, no rest for the weary, rain day in, rain day out. Rain, incessant, insistent rain. Yet we awoke that fateful day, the 23rd of that long-ago July, to a sky painted baby blue. I stepped out onto the street dressed all in white, my wild mane of dark, dark hair against a backdrop of brilliant sunlight, a glorious summer day and we walked to the town hall to be married. A month of rainy days broken by one single day of summer splendor.

This month of January has been little more than a dreary string of comfortless days of rain. We’ve huddled inside for weeks now, staring out the window, watching the world scurry by, hurry through the raindrops slithering down, the rumble of the tramway below matching the grumble of storm clouds. The urge to take a breath of fresh air, a stroll around town has been quashed day after day, as the rain just does not let up. Our moods straining under the outside gloom, we flip on the apartment lights and wonder when this month of January will see a flurry of snow or a streak of light. Yet we awoke that fateful day, the 28th of the month, to the sun peeping through the cracks of the old wooden shutters. Drawing them higher, our eyes squinting against the vigorous, near violent flood of sunlight pushing to get in, a glorious day wished me a very happy birthday.

Truth be told, I almost forgot my birthday this year. Maybe its age, maybe it’s the desire to begin to forget the ticking of time passing, maybe I have simply been too busy lately. But I hadn’t thought about my celebration until I slipped in between the sheets the night before and it suddenly hit me. My birthday. I knew nothing in particular had been planned, but that didn’t really matter; I knew that JP would devote the entire day and his undivided attention to me and only me. And oddly, destiny always has a hand in things, teasing our senses and toying with our expectations, and like a cat, we always end up falling on our feet.

The day began with a walk in the park on the outskirts of the city.

Back home, rubbing the dirt off of Marty and tucking him back into bed, we approach the topic of lunch head on. Alone for the day, we decide to slip on better shoes and nicer jeans and go out for a celebratory meal en tête-à-tête. Ideas bounce back and forth, names of restaurants and lunch joints ticking off our lips like delicate little ping pong balls. We sidle up to the blackboard posted outside of the neighborhood Irish pub and peruse the long list of salads and our choice is made. We push through the door and are politely yet firmly told that all the tables are booked. Ah, destiny, it seems …. Back into the street I suggest Lulu Rouget, which is just down the stairs and across the street. I first heard about this lovely little restaurant at the launching of the 2013 edition of Les Tables de Nantes restaurant guide back in November. Lulu Rouget was one of three local eateries to be named a Coup de Coeur, a favorite of the jury. The restaurant was selected and lauded for its unique and creative cuisine based on the highest quality local ingredients.

Lulu (Ludovic) Rouget (red mullet)

The young owner/chef of Lulu Rouget, Ludovic Pouzelgues is part of the new guard of la Cuisine Française, dedicated and passionate, basing an inventive cuisine on the simplicity, the flavors and textures of only the highest quality, freshest local products. I was truly swept off my feet hearing him speak about Nantes, the city and the region’s gastronomic riches with enthusiasm and devotion. Since November, JP and I have often walked in front of Lulu Rouget. Each time we do, we pause in front of the elegant charcoal walls, the amusing red and white logo swimming across the plate glass window, ogle the menu posted out front and promise ourselves to go one day. And it seems as if destiny has brought us here today.

We are greeted warmly at the door and offered the two seats at the bar, which is perfect as it gives me a view directly into the kitchen and of the chef at work.

There is no à la carte; Lulu Rouget proposes a menu du marché unique for lunch – one starter (entrée), a choice of two main courses (plats), one fish, one meat, and a single dessert. Pouzelgues works only with fresh, seasonal, local products so limits what he offers to the best, to just a few creations.

Salade “canaille” (rascal or scamp) of finely minced pieds de veau (calf’s foot) on a bed of mixed greens dressed with a creamy, tangy, vinaigrette. Never would I have imagined finding myself eating pieds de veau but there you have it, it was that good; the slightly sweet meat playing off the tart vinaigrette and the cool freshness of the greens, the slightly chewy meat complemented by the crunch of the croutons.

Lieu jaune, poireaux grilles, flocons de sarrasin - a wonder, a perfect blending of smooth sweetness from the creamy, near whipped parsnip purée upon which the pollock was placed, the nutty crunch of the toasted buckwheat scattered atop, meltingly perfect fish, accented by one single lovely, perfectly grilled, organic leek. The whole highlighted by an herbed crème fraîche. No words to describe perfection, nearly impossible to communicate the voluptuous textures, the surprise of the buckwheat, the perfect – astonishing – gentle wave of flavors playing on the tongue .

The perfect île flottante – traditional, artisan, just as the menu claims. I couldn’t resist. Who could? Is perfect too strong a word? How about sublime, in the cool crème anglaise, less sweet than what one is used to, allowing the hint of vanilla to assert itself ever so gently, mellow enough to balance the drizzle of salted butter caramel? How about impeccable, in the ethereal lightness of the poached whites; not moussy, as some are, not dense as are others, nor uneven in their ultimate quality? An extraordinary île flottante – and I’ve eaten many – but how can I be surprised when Pouzelgues was trained by Nantes’ very own Vincent Guerlais, chocolatier-pâtissier extraordinaire?

In the evening, Lulu Rouget offers clients the choice of two menus: 'les yeux ouverts' or 'les yeux fermés' : choose the former – ‘eyes open’ – and you know what to expect. But choose the other – ‘eyes closed’ – and you’ve put yourself blindly, confidently into the hands of the young chef, leaving him carte blanche to prepare whatever he chooses, creating whatever the days freshest products and his imagination inspire. No need to wait for the next birthday, the next celebration. We will be back to experience another extraordinary meal at Lulu Rouget, les yeux fermés.

I needed nothing more this day except a quiet evening in with the family and homemade crêpes, from my husband, from the heart.

Lulu Rouget
1 rue Cheval Blanc
44000 Nantes
tél: 02 40 47 47 98

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HONEY VANILLA MINI MADELEINES

ONE (SUNNY) JULY DAY


Twenty-four years ago we experienced a month of July so similar to this one. It rained and it rained and it rained. Every single day. I was desperate and disheartened for I was planning my wedding. I had visions of disaster, rushing through a downpour to get to City Hall and arriving there drenched. No lovely bride in a flowing white dress, hair perfectly coiffed, gorgeous bouquet of roses and lavender would stroll into the Grande Salle to be joined to her dashing Frenchman. No, I saw ruined shoes, the beautiful violet suede matted and smeared. I could almost feel the silky material of my coat soaked through and bunched up in an unattractive mess, the uncomfortable dampness clinging to my skin. I was horrified at the thought of my masses of thick, curly hair frizzing up into a great black billowing puff around my head, the size of a mushroom cloud, framing a face flushed and splotchy.

Yet I woke up bright and early on that long ago July 23rd to a magical, bright Thursday morning. I allowed the sun to pull me out of bed, an ersatz mother of the bride come to awaken me. We were to be there at 11:00 sharp in that grand golden room, married in the rays of light filtering through the windows. Laughter filled the streets as we, a mere handful of family and friends I had never before met, walked, danced, trotted happily in the warmth of a midsummer day, weather fit for a bride, worthy a marriage day. As I walked alongside my soon-to-be husband, I glanced up at the sky in awe and wondered how I could have been so lucky as to deserve the one sunny day an entire month had to offer. How could I have foreseen this break in the weather those weeks ago when I had stood at the counter in the dark office of City Hall and selected a date to be wed? Luck or destiny or just a mere whim of nature, I have ever appreciated and never forgotten this gift.


Twenty-four years later and the same July, the same grayness has hung over the city for weeks like a shroud, the same rain spattering down angrily day after day. As my wedding anniversary approached, the same miserable thoughts flit through my head, the same dejection colored our plans. Although no ceremony was planned, no invited guests or fancy outfits to be ruined by a downpour, nonetheless, we were in the mood for festivities. A few days before the date, JP asked, mischievous grin playing on his lips, if I wouldn’t enjoy an anniversary lunch at La Mare aux Oiseaux. He suggested we make a day of it: a drive out to the country, a stroll through Le Jardin du Marais and lunch at this much-talked-about one-star restaurant in the middle of the marais, La Grande Brière, the marshland to the west of Nantes. Now I had long dreamed of eating at La Mare aux Oiseaux ever since I had attended last year’s Les Goûts Uniques and seen the young, talented chef demonstrate not only his talents, but his passion, his philosophy. And a garden? I would have to give him that if he was to bring me to this great gastronomic lieu.

But it was raining and raining every day. We had already been so lucky as to have a break in the weather for our bike trip. Who was I to tempt the forces of nature, to dare request benevolence twice? Each time the sun had broken through the clouds or we had awoken to luminous, blue skies, as soon as we had slipped on our shoes and stepped outside, the gray came rumbling in, clouds dark in anger at our brazen assumption that the day was ours to trifle with as we pleased. And it would begin, once again, to rain. Yet that Saturday morning broke brilliant, a radiant sun wishing us great joy and promising a glorious anniversary day.

As you know, I rarely do restaurant reviews, but La Mare aux Oiseaux was everything we had imagined and deserves to be talked about. Tastefully decorated in cream and chocolate with touches of jade reflecting Chef Eric Guérin’s passion for nature, the dining room was at once bright and airy, subtle and calming. The staff was young, friendly, knowledgeable, accessible and professional, the perfect balance not often found in restaurants of this caliber; there was nothing staid or invasive, no hovering or condescension. The dishes arrived one after the other, each astonishing in their presentation, but this we expect nowadays in a starred restaurant. But each mouthful startled and amazed; the selection of ingredients is at once clean, sharp, natural in its simplicity yet the combination of flavors was utterly astounding, spectacular, completely uncomplicated yet abounding in creativity and imagination, showing both thought and ease. Who would ever have expected the cheese course to be a luscious combination of mascarpone and Forme d’Ambert blue cheese sandwiched in between paper-thin layers of white chocolate crowned with a dusting of truffle? There is absolutely nothing chi-chi about Chef Guérin’s cuisine; his is based not on some trendy mélange of spices or herbal concoctions, there are no puddles, foams or beads of unrecognizable contrivances. Rather he turns to the beauty of nature blended elegantly with his artistic bent. Although each dish surprises, nothing shocks, nothing jars in discord. Whether a dish is traditional or absolutely contemporary, his food, the combination of ingredients is understandable, showing an absolute respect for nature and a search for the best products she has to offer and combining those ingredients to bring out and highlight each. Truly one of the best meals either one of us has ever eaten. (Chef Guérin's menus can be found here and photos of a selection of dishes here)

(please excuse the quality of the photos; they were taken with an iphone)

A perfect lunch to celebrate, we left entirely content, brimming over with compliments for the young chef and his staff, enamored of his cuisine and even promising ourselves to return for a romantic dinner and a night in his small hotel upstairs from the dining room. We even discussed the possibility of bringing Clem and Simon for a family lunch. That’s how much we loved it.

But the day was not yet over. Barely 3:00, we strolled through the village and along the water’s edge as our meal settled, not wanting to hop straight into the car and drive away, savoring the flavors that lingered on our lips and the wonderful experience. The sun was now blazing and we slipped off our coats as we walked hand in hand, enjoying the picture-postcard quaintness of the thatched roofs of the homes huddled together looking for all the world as Breton as they were. We finally headed back to the car and off in search of our next stop, le Jardin du Marais.


Nestled in the marshy zone of the Grande Brière outside of Nantes, the vegetable and ornamental gardens of Yves and Annick Gillen are certainly a sight to behold and a must to visit. Fervent environmental activists, they began their completely organic gardens and self-sustained, natural lifestyle over twenty-five years ago. This passionate couple live not to control nature, but to live in rhythm with it, respecting it and its forces. Energized by solar panels, windmill and zeal, they plant, tend, create in a space dense and green where nature reigns, coaxing up peaches, apples, lettuce, beans, tomatoes, roses and hydrangeas from the earth in joyful union. We spent a delightful, informative and incredibly inspiring afternoon with Yves as he led us and about twenty other souls through the different areas of the garden, soaking up every word with relish as he explains in his spitfire fashion, arms waving, eyes glinting, how everything works, the organic way to garden and to live, how we all, working together, can better the world. His passion and excitement ooze out of his every pore and we are swept away, his humor and emotions infectious. We finally duck out just before the talk on compost in order to dash home to Marty who had been home alone all day.


All in all, it was a perfect 24th wedding anniversary and we were happy, tired and well pleased with the entire day. And thrilled that the weather had been so kind to us, a gentle yet well-appreciated gift from the heavens.

And a little, tender gift to my husband who has stuck by me through thick and thin, taking the brunt of the worries on his slender shoulders. In exchange, I try and make him laugh everyday and bake for him as often as I can before he cries “Uncle!” 24 years and counting: I swore to him that we still had at least 30 more together.

Ce soir j'attends Madeleine
J'ai apporté du lilas
J'en apporte toutes les semaines
Madeleine elle aime bien ça
Ce soir j'attends Madeleine
On prendra le tram trente-trois
Pour manger des frites chez Eugène
Madeleine elle aime tant ça
Madeleine c'est mon Noël
C'est mon Amérique à moi
Même qu'elle est trop bien pour moi
Comme dit son cousin Joël
Ce soir j'attends Madeleine
On ira au cinéma
Je lui dirai des "je t'aime"
Madeleine elle aime tant ça

- Jacques Brel

(nota bene: Although the sun was shining on that long-ago wedding day, the breeze warm and gentle and not a drop of humidity was to be felt, the bride’s hair did indeed frizz up into a great black billowing puff around her head, alas, much to her chagrin.)



La Mare Aux Oiseaux, Parc National de Brière - 162, Île de Fedrun
44720 Saint Joachim FR - Tél. +33 (0)2 40 88 53 01

Le Jardin du Marais, Hoscas - 44410 Herbignac Tél : 02 40 91 47 44
Open from mid-May to mid-September/Ouverture : mi-mai à mi-septembre


HONEY VANILLA MINI MADELEINES
I have adapted this classic recipe from one in my December 2010 issue of (French) Saveurs

This recipe makes about 60 mini-Madeleines (1 ¾ - inch / 4 ½ cm at their longest point).

9 ½ Tbs (135 g) unsalted butter
2 large eggs
Scant ½ cup (1/2 cup – 1 ½ tsps / 90 g) granulated sugar
1 Tbs (30 g) liquid honey
Scant ¼ cup (1.35 fluid oz / 40 ml) milk
1 cup – 2 tsps (135 g) self-rising cake flour
1 vanilla pod
Pinch ground cardamom (optional)

Prepare the Madeleine batter the night before baking:

Melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat. Continue heating until the butter turns a dark hazelnut brown color and smells nutty. Remove from the heat and allow to come to room temperature.

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, honey and the milk until homogenous. Using a small, thin-bladed, sharp knife, split the vanilla pod down the center and scrape out all of the seeds. Add the seeds to the batter. If you don’t have a vanilla pod, simply add about a teaspoon of liquid vanilla extract.

Sift the flour onto the batter and whisk to blend. Whisk in the melted brown butter: try not to add the dark dregs the settle to the bottom of the pan.

Cover the bowl and refrigerate overnight.

Prepare the Madeleines:

Preheat the oven to 410°F (210°C). Lightly butter the shell-shaped cavities of a mini-Madeleine mold (the easiest way to do this is using a pastry brush and either softened or melted butter).

The batter right out of the refrigerate will be thick and easy to work with: simply place about half a teaspoon (if using bigger molds, simply fill each shell no more than three-quarters full) in each shell cavity.


Place the Madeleine tin directly on the oven rack and bake for about 8 minutes. Do not overbake the Madeleine or they will be dry: take them out when puffed up and the center forms a large bump, the edges are golden but the center is still pale.


Once out of the oven, very gently lift the Madeleines from the molds using a knife and place on a rack to cool.

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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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