Kitchen Dispatch 2

Soffritto preparation

Last night I slept badly, and this morning I woke early, while it was still dark. As the sun rose, the kitchen was bathed in a green light the colour of menthe-a-l'eau, thanks to the rather ineffective and offensively-coloured fleece curtain the owner of my studio has put up. When I drew the curtain the light was no better - it was to be a grey day in Marseille (couldn't resist the rhyme), which I hadn't known was possible before now. 

I made coffee with my little red Bialetti: it's a struggle to use on the induction hob, which doesn't seem prepared to acknowledge its existence - I have to put inside a pan, which then goes on the hotplate. It is always quicker than I expect and every morning without fail my outfit is inaugurated with a unique pattern of coffee spray; this is my fault, I demur, as I love to open the lid just to check it's done (even when it's angry sputters are clearly audible from the next room), and to smell it.

Coffee'd and dressed, I walked to Noailles on the recommendation of my colleagues. There was a drizzle, but it wasn't too cold; it was good to be outside. Noailles is nicknamed the "ventre du Marseille" (stomach of Marseille), and there is a daily market there where multiple stalls sell fruit and veg, on the rue de Marché-des-Capucines. When I went, there were people clamouring at every stall, and it took some courage to go up and pick things out, and then try to make myself noticed by the stall-owner. Embarrassingly, before I'd even opened my mouth, he guessed that I was English - probably due to the deferent politeness with which I let almost everyone go in front of me in the queue to be served. 

I bought oranges - huge and knobbly, as if straight out of a Renaissance botanical treatise - and smooth and shiny persimmons. I wandered around while I ate a persimmon, which was juicy and sweet and strange, as they are: slightly slimy with unexpected segments.

On the Rue Longue des Capucins, less than a minute's walk from the market, are various shops selling more fruit and veg, as well as herbs, spices, olives, nuts and dried fruit. I bought some fresh herbs - dill (which the man behind the counter told me was called "shabat", in French, which, I've later learnt, is really not the case, and I now wonder what conversation we were really having), mint and thyme. The best of the spice shops is Saladin - a veritable emporium of spice, with so much I'd never seen before (there were three different types of za'atar). I bought some harissa - they had two varieties, one apparently hotter than the other; I bought the hotter one, he let me try it right there, taking a pinch off the spoon with my fingers - and some green lentils, and some za'atar. I would have bought infinitely more, but the shop assistants are somewhat reluctant to serve, and given I speak not nearly as much French as I would like, I mostly try to stay inconspicuous. I will return. 

The ruby of that harissa....

The harissa is I think one of the best things I have ever tasted: it is smoky and hot and salty, warming and flavourful with a really, really decent kick, but not so much that you're running around for hours feeling like all the skin has been stripped from your tongue. It is perfect. This evening I fried up some red cabbage and chard (I know - why? - but I had it left over) and mixed in some of the harissa in the pan; it is the solution to all my boring-greens woes - even the dullest, saddest, back-o-the-fridge-use-up cabbage was made to sing with its addition. The only thing is to ensure your extractor is on (if you're lucky enough to have one) or you can open the window while you cook this - the chilli-infused steam becomes lethal; I endured several coughing fits in the making of this meal.

A red sun, here lasso-ed, to accompany my red harissa, and red wine

To accompany the redemption-narrative that was this evening's greens, this afternoon I cooked the green lentils I bought: very simply simmered with carrots, onion, garlic and celery. Unlike in England - where you buy celery in a small plastic package, sadly stripped of all its abundant verdancy, naked and pale - the celery I buy here can barely fit in my fridge; every time I shut the door I am forced to wrestle its unruly fronds into submission. So, I chopped up some of the leaves to add to the soffritto (Wikipedia tells me this is called a "mirepoix" en français), which I think were an excellent addition - I suppose they are much like parsley, with the freshness of the latter, but a little more bitterness. There was also thyme in there, which seems like an essential with green lentils. 

  

I sat and read my book while the lentils cooked - I am trying to be a more patient chef, since my attitude to food in London was mostly: fast as possible, cheap as possible, nutritious as possible - a worthy aim, but one which tended to lead me mostly to a bowl of various greens + fastest protein available (e.g. tinned chickpeas, feta, tahini). Not a bad meal, but not a particularly inspiring, satiating or heart-warming one. Whilst I have time to spend, therefore, I must spend it - this is my opportunity to get good at waiting stealthily for the moment of optimum flavour, which often can take a while. So, as I said, I sat and read my book while the lentils cooked, on a low heat, for quite a long time (precisely how long, I couldn't tell you, if I'm honest - my book was absorbing).

Bon appetit, I suppose