(no subject)
Snail Slayer
The near-constant relocating my family did when I was young combined with my undergraduate training in cultural anthropology pretty much ensured an exposure to people of all shapes and stripes and from every walk of life.
Looking back, not a single close friend has had a cultural background or upbringing similar to my own, and most of them were in fact so different from me that a person might wonder how on earth we managed to hit it off at all.
A cargolade (Photos courtesy of: René Gandou)
Yet me and my Louisiana ways and my friends of varying ethnicities always seemed to make a natural - if somewhat motley - crew. We simply got along.
And how lucky for me. Spending time at the homes of these Puerto Rican, Mexican, Thai, Korean, Indian, German or Cambodian friends of mine was roughly akin to heaven for this lifelong ethnic food addict. Yes, indeed, when it comes to cuisine, embracing diversity is what I do best.
Mole and homemade corn tortillas after school? Yeah, baby! Thai black rice pudding? Mmm…Kimchi so spicy it'll knock your socks off? Bring it on! In my opinion, if your eyes aren't watering and your nose isn't running, it just isn't good.
Even for the, ahem, somewhat less 'conventional' dishes I was usually the first in line to have a taste. No, not even an old Anthro professor's favorite dish - a large Brazilian spider roasted in a hollowed-out tube of wood over an open flame (no, it doesn't take like chicken) - sent me running for the door.
Somewhere along the line, I seem to have inherited an anti-squeamish gene. Or thought I had. Until my father-in-law informed us of his plans for our recent Bastille Day visit.
Cargolade.
Not familiar with the term? Neither was I. And a quick look-up in my online dictionary helped not one bit. Zero entries for cargolade, it tells me. Did you mean carbo load? (Ah, Atkins…how you have infiltrated the American culture…)
Well, if embracing culinary diversity is what I do best, making sure his American belle-fille is educated on all things 'South of France' is where my F-I-L wins the gold medal.
Like the time I answered that I wasn't really crazy about the bottle of Banyuls he had given us; a very sweet and heavy red wine from the coast town of Banyuls (akin to a Port or Madeira), I've always preferred dry wines with no trace of the sugary taste that characterizes Banyuls.
'You're drinking it wrong', he tells me. Ah, bon? 'Try it with a good tiramisu or mousse au chocolat, for dessert.' And what do you know? It is good when consumed correctly. Merci, beau-père.
Likewise, my comments about escargot never having been particularly appealing to me (along with most slimy things one might put onto a dinner plate) resulted in a 'you need to try a cargolade'.
A cargolade. One big, giant snail roast. And when I say big, I mean: lots of snails. Lots and lots of snails.
Starting off with a garlicky tomato bread, followed by snails, then a roasted lamb served with a side of yet more snails (like a vegetable!), a cargolade is about as ethnic as one can get. So very French.
From the perspective of one who is fascinated by all things cultural, I will admit that the preparation ritual is something to see. Special roasting equipment is involved. Everyone participates. Getting the snails ready for the grill is an exceptionally interactive event, as hands fly about, sprinkling them with a spicy red pepper mixture - a piment fort - and then a type of 'pre-cooking' takes place with melted lard in a cone-shaped contraption that surely one would have no luck finding outside of the South of France.
(Lard which, in its unmelted state, I mistook for cheese earlier that day. Note to self: Do not randomly nibble on unlabeled fridge contents.)
Finally, the rack is placed on the BBQ and everyone enjoys a glass of Muscat while waiting for the first batch.
Which brought me to a very serious question: What kind of wine should one drink with roasted snails?
Who is Française de Cœur?
If my father-in-law's reaction to my suggestion was something to go by, one should never ever consider drinking white. (Quoi?!) Well, they seem so seafoodish, in my opinion.
But a good red is mandatory when it comes to escargot. As he was quick to inform me, the French have been enjoying cargolades for over 300 years; it is not for his American daughter-in-law to correct them on the choice of wine.
Red it has been, is, and always shall be.
Ah, bon?
______________________________________
Feel free to email FdC at: fdc@expatica.com
The full Française de Cœur blog can be found at:
www.francaisedecoeur.com
July 31 2006
Copyright Expatica
The near-constant relocating my family did when I was young combined with my undergraduate training in cultural anthropology pretty much ensured an exposure to people of all shapes and stripes and from every walk of life.
Looking back, not a single close friend has had a cultural background or upbringing similar to my own, and most of them were in fact so different from me that a person might wonder how on earth we managed to hit it off at all.
A cargolade (Photos courtesy of: René Gandou)
Yet me and my Louisiana ways and my friends of varying ethnicities always seemed to make a natural - if somewhat motley - crew. We simply got along.
And how lucky for me. Spending time at the homes of these Puerto Rican, Mexican, Thai, Korean, Indian, German or Cambodian friends of mine was roughly akin to heaven for this lifelong ethnic food addict. Yes, indeed, when it comes to cuisine, embracing diversity is what I do best.
Mole and homemade corn tortillas after school? Yeah, baby! Thai black rice pudding? Mmm…Kimchi so spicy it'll knock your socks off? Bring it on! In my opinion, if your eyes aren't watering and your nose isn't running, it just isn't good.
Even for the, ahem, somewhat less 'conventional' dishes I was usually the first in line to have a taste. No, not even an old Anthro professor's favorite dish - a large Brazilian spider roasted in a hollowed-out tube of wood over an open flame (no, it doesn't take like chicken) - sent me running for the door.
Somewhere along the line, I seem to have inherited an anti-squeamish gene. Or thought I had. Until my father-in-law informed us of his plans for our recent Bastille Day visit.
Cargolade.
Not familiar with the term? Neither was I. And a quick look-up in my online dictionary helped not one bit. Zero entries for cargolade, it tells me. Did you mean carbo load? (Ah, Atkins…how you have infiltrated the American culture…)
Well, if embracing culinary diversity is what I do best, making sure his American belle-fille is educated on all things 'South of France' is where my F-I-L wins the gold medal.
Like the time I answered that I wasn't really crazy about the bottle of Banyuls he had given us; a very sweet and heavy red wine from the coast town of Banyuls (akin to a Port or Madeira), I've always preferred dry wines with no trace of the sugary taste that characterizes Banyuls.
'You're drinking it wrong', he tells me. Ah, bon? 'Try it with a good tiramisu or mousse au chocolat, for dessert.' And what do you know? It is good when consumed correctly. Merci, beau-père.
Likewise, my comments about escargot never having been particularly appealing to me (along with most slimy things one might put onto a dinner plate) resulted in a 'you need to try a cargolade'.
A cargolade. One big, giant snail roast. And when I say big, I mean: lots of snails. Lots and lots of snails.
Starting off with a garlicky tomato bread, followed by snails, then a roasted lamb served with a side of yet more snails (like a vegetable!), a cargolade is about as ethnic as one can get. So very French.
From the perspective of one who is fascinated by all things cultural, I will admit that the preparation ritual is something to see. Special roasting equipment is involved. Everyone participates. Getting the snails ready for the grill is an exceptionally interactive event, as hands fly about, sprinkling them with a spicy red pepper mixture - a piment fort - and then a type of 'pre-cooking' takes place with melted lard in a cone-shaped contraption that surely one would have no luck finding outside of the South of France.
(Lard which, in its unmelted state, I mistook for cheese earlier that day. Note to self: Do not randomly nibble on unlabeled fridge contents.)
Finally, the rack is placed on the BBQ and everyone enjoys a glass of Muscat while waiting for the first batch.
Which brought me to a very serious question: What kind of wine should one drink with roasted snails?
Who is Française de Cœur?
If my father-in-law's reaction to my suggestion was something to go by, one should never ever consider drinking white. (Quoi?!) Well, they seem so seafoodish, in my opinion.
But a good red is mandatory when it comes to escargot. As he was quick to inform me, the French have been enjoying cargolades for over 300 years; it is not for his American daughter-in-law to correct them on the choice of wine.
Red it has been, is, and always shall be.
Ah, bon?
______________________________________
Feel free to email FdC at: fdc@expatica.com
The full Française de Cœur blog can be found at:
www.francaisedecoeur.com
July 31 2006
Copyright Expatica