I am dedicating this blog to a town in central France,
Brive-la-Gaillarde, the "strong" land of the
foie gras (and my favorite condiment, the violet mustard), and the macarons home baked not "designed," sold during open market days. We had stayed in Brive over the holidays, and the fillings and the condiment inside this sandwich I made this morning were all parting gifts from our hosts there - the most hospitable people on earth! - where from the moment we stepped in their door potatoes cooking in duck fat permeated the kitchen; welcome wines never ever sold outside Brive flowed like honey; and wheels of cheese slowed the pace of our hearts for their goodness' sake. Brive is a "state of (food) mind." I remember a dinner conversation with our hosts - about cuisines of the world - and appreciated the argument made that, except for French and Italian food, the world's other flavors and cooking techniques were "good," but were not "
FOOD." To explain what this meant, I have to digress and talk about the first salad I was served that time, simply with arugula and onions, yet dressed with olive oil infused with pistils of an African orchid. The combination of vanilla essence in olive oil essence was so distinct a taste it seemed to me a deliberate meditation on food-making/alchemy. And that's when I got the meaning of the "proverbial" argument. That FOOD, especially French, was not for eating, but for the visceral surprise pleasure to the appetite and mouth; that it didn't undergo cooking but
acting; not served but
performed; definitely not black and white, but
noir. And I wasn't in a fancy restaurant to understand it. I was at the
home of the brive. Therefore the sandwich I made, in this New York - terrine, mustard, vanilla oil - is a classic!
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