foodaphilia: “bide”

bide (n.m.) : belly, gut (slang)

This past weekend I went to the Slow Food conference in Tours (the biggest city in the Loire River Valley, near all the châteaux).  To say the least, on a bien bouffé- just to the point where Saturday evening I was really quite mal au bide from all the cheese I was eating- but with so many free, delicious repas and a whole salon full of free, delicious, bio European specialties- how could I resist?

So just incase you don’t know, Slow Food = manger bon, propre, juste, et local; “eat well, clean, fair, et local”- it’s a movement that started in Italy in 1986, to protest the opening of a McDonald’s near the Spanish Steps in Rome.  (Why is it always McDonald’s? haha).  The French chapter opened in 2003 and the New York chapter in 2000- so the Italians really were ahead of the game.  Every 4 years there is a particularly large Slow Food festival in Turin, where the siège of Slow Food International is based.

I was there with the CPP (Culture, Politique, Patrimoine – “Culture, Politics, National Heritage”) program from Paris IV (the Sorbonne), because I have a few friends in the alimentation program (who essentially study the anthropology of why and how we eat what we eat).  We were there for the convergence of three events:

(1) There was an academic colloque at the University Francois Rabelais, talking the naissance of regional food identites in France (which was essentially born out of automobile-driven tourism at the début of the XXe siècle, and the creation of new food guides like the guide rouge – the Michelin food guide – first published in 1900).

(2) A Terra Madre (Mother Earth in Italian) conference for youth interested in the Slow Food movement, so we got to meet a range interesting SlowFood characters, including Carlo Petrini, the president of Slow Food International- who is so carrément Italian and charasmatic in his over-the-top-ness that you cannot help but love him.  The most interesting thing he pointed out was that French people within the last 6 years have gone from spending 30% of their income on food to about 13% of their income…a figure that makes me understand why the dairy farmers in France are complaining about how it costs more to produce milk than it does to buy it in the supermarché.  I also got to chat over spiced vin chaud with chef Oliver Rowe, who sources his Kings Cross restaurant with 85% local produce, meat, etc. from within a 25 mile radius of downtown London (essentially the limits of the Tube map). -And that’s including spices.

(3) The Slow Food EuroGusto Salon: this is where the fun really started…and where my bide met its match.  With organic producers from Italy to Slovenia, to Norway, Morocco, Austria, Uzbekistan… – it was a gastronomic tour of the best bio that Europe and its neighboring countries have to offer.  And as far as France goes, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much (or such a large variety) of cheese in my life.

So! (drumroll please) – I present to you les 5 meilleurs mets que j’ai dégusté ce weekend (the 5 best dishes I ate this weekend):

(1) Gwell : this incredible yogurt like product made with lait fermenté has a freshness and a tang that I have never tasted in any other milk product.  (No wonder its name means “mieux” en Bretonne, the local patois of Bretagne -in northwestern France)

(2) Salade de choux à l’huile de truffe blanc : This simple cabbage salade in white truffle oil was just a side dish to an entrée, but I literally could have eaten just that the whole weekend and been happy.  Absolutely indescribable.

(3) La piada romagnola : This flatbread made in Emilia Romagna was simple, warm, and honestly made me never want to see a baguette again (sorry France).  I’m not even a pain person… I have to try to make this myself.

(4) Tourteau fromager au chevre : This blackened goat-cheese “cake” was like the best cheesecake you could ever imagine.  With a texture somewhere between pound cake and ricotta cheesecake, (light and fluffy and dense and moist all at the same time- I have no clue how that’s possible) – it was the most beautiful taste of clean, lactic, cold freshness- like un verre du lait, ice-cold, first thing in the morning.  oh, la vache it was so freaking good.

(5) Vin chaud :  I have never had hot wine before, but this deep red, robust, épicé, sucré concotion was absolutely irresistible.  Even the British chef went back for seconds.  And in the chilly dusk light outside the Chateau de Chambord (known incidentally for the eccentric prince who raises 300 types of tomates on the property) – there was nothing else that could have rendered me more blissfully calm and reconnaissante.

So I guess all this wasn’t a bad way to spend Thanksgiving…at bit more gastronomic than turkey, gravy, and cranberry sauce (oh my gosh how I miss cranberry sauce!!!)- but since I managed to stuff every available coin of my stomach with delicious nourriture for 4 days instead of one, I don’t really think I can complain.

—vocabulaire—

châteaux > large palaces in the French countryside

on a bien bouffé > we ate well

mal au bide > sick to my stomach (slang)

repas > meal

salon > large room for expositions

bio > organic

siège > headquarters

alimentation > what, why, how one eats

naissance > birth

début > beginning

XXe siècle > 20th century

carrément > perfectly, as in the case of the perfect example of something

supermarché > supermarket

vin chaud > hot wine

lait fermenté > fermented milk

mieux > better

patois > dialect

entrée > appetizer

pain > bread

un verre du lait > a glass of milk

oh la vache > literally “oh the cow” – an expression means essentially “oh my gosh” but can be used randomly in any conversation to describe strong sentiments

tomates > tomatoes

reconnaissante > thankful

coin > corner

nourriture > food

word on the street : “gym suédoise”

gym suédoise : literally, “swedish gym”, a frightening addictive aerobics class

So if I were to tell you that you could whip out all of your worst dance moves, spandex, and guilty pleasure music- in public- all while getting a pretty darn good workout, would you be in?  Bienvenue à la gym suédoise – where all your Olivia Newton John, jazzercise, eighties fantasies come true.  Okay, maybe I’ve exaggerated the spandex/eighties ambiance- but still, if ever there were a place to don the leg warmers…

How did I find myself at gym suédoise?  Well, I was invitée of course.  Somewhere in between sipping on Serbian eau de vie and my performance of an impromptu jazz concert (for a bar plein des étrangers, who only moments before had been enjoying traditional Serbian folk music), my friends Jérémie and Julie m’ont persuadée to join them the following afternoon for a cours gratuit, and well, since I try to say oui to everything…(which is how I ended up in a the Serbian bar in the first place…)

So there we were, gym suédoise, about which I had only been told two things: (1) “ça, c’est un truc des filles” (that stuff is for girls) and (2) “l’instructeur a des fesses incroyables!” (the instructor has a great butt).  Needless to say, I was intrigued.  Ready to get my “bounce” on- because I don’t really think groove applies in this situation – I found myself running, kicking, lunging, and assuming a whole load of comprimising positions on the floor- one of which hysterically resembled a “grinding” yoga-like move I think I once saw in an N*SYNC music video…  In short, j’ai presque mort de rire- and haven’t had that much fun in a really long time.  My french friends are incredibly marrant, and good dancers- shimmying, shaking, and swaying all over the place- which, à propos, is their natural state- even when not at gym suédoise.  And of course, there was the obligatory old lady who was incredibly musclée – and makes you think that there might be something to this swedish jazzercise after all…

Oh, the fesses.  Well yes, by Parisian standards, I guess they were quite buff.  The instructor was carrément Swedish looking, very Ken-like (as in Barbie & Ken), although I assume that’s not a requirement for the job.  As one friend pointed out, il n’y a pas un poil sur son corps! (there isn’t a single hair on his body!) – which suggests that in addition to being incredibly blond and costaud, he probably has done his fair share of épilation.

Anyway- despite all the joking around- I have to say it was an incredibly good workout.  My friends said there are classes which are plus faciles, and that might be a waste of time- but if you go to the advanced class – you leave complètement trempé – and I’m fairly certain my épaules will feel it tomorrow, as even my most frequent jogging has really done nothing to makes my bras stronger.

But in terms of un truc des filles? -Leave your inhibitions at the door, mecs.  It clearly isn’t la musculation, but there were plenty of guys there.  And since when is it a problem to be surrounded by filles in spandex?

—vocabulaire—

Bienvenue à la gym suédoise > Welcome to the swedish gym

ambiance > ambiance

invité(e) > invited

eau de vie > a type of hard alcohol, spirits

plein des étrangers > full of strangers

m’ont persuadé(e) > persuaded me

cours gratuit > free course

oui > yes

j’ai presque mort de rire > I almost died laughing

marrant > funny

à propos > by the way

musclée > buff

carrément > totally, typically

costaud > buff/ripped

épilation > waxing

plus facile(s) > easier

complètement trempé > totally drenched

épaules > shoulders

bras > arms

un truc des filles > a thing for girls

mecs > guys

la musculation > weight lifting

filles > girls

foodaphilia : “la bonne chère”

la bonne chère : good food

So in all my philosophizing about bibliothèques, misprononciations, and Mac Do, I realized that j’ai complètement oublié to talk about my trip to Lyon!  Lyon, “ville de la bonne chère” (city of good food), according to every gastronomic text I’ve laid my hands on, did not disappoint me in terms of la bouffe- and thankfully, my over-stuffed bide has lived to tell about it.

If I described every morsel that I ate in Lyon, I think I might start to feel ill (or ashamed), so instead, I’ll raconter the most memorable edible moment of the trip (and the most typically lyonnais), my visit to a bouchon.

For starters, what is a bouchon?  Well literally, it means “a cork” (as in tire-bouchon).  However, during the time when people traveled from city to city on horseback, a bouquet de paille would be placed outside the auberges where you could drink wine, and another word for this little bundle of hay was a “bouche”, later known as a “bouchon”.  So essentially, a bouchon, is a cozy, rustic little restaurant in Lyon where you can (and should!) drink wine.

They say you’ll never eat a bad meal in Lyon, that it’s the town to go all-out and faire la bonne chère, but I wasn’t expecting to encounter one of the most outstanding (and filling) meals of my life when I walked into Café des Fédérations.  With its simple red and white checked nappes and kitchsy-memorabilia decor, it almost reminded me of an old-school diner à la française, with a dash of my grandmother’s kitchen thrown in.  And in fact- right next to our table was a photo of la bonne dame herself, the grandmother of the owner- and creator of the original recettes, still used by the chef at Café des Féds.

We were immediately asked if we would like an apéritif, and were served a basket of gratons-a lyonnais specialty- which resemble walnuts, but are actually fried pork skin/fat (and terrifyingly delicious–I actually bought a tin of these to bring home to my family for Christmas because they were so good).  We then waited for the serveuse to provide us with a menu, but she never did, which made us a bit suspicious.

Suddenly, an appetizer course arrived at the table across the room, and then at the four-top just to our left.  A bit confused, we continued to guiltily grignoter on our gratons, as an intriguing and rich scent filled the room.  Finally, it arrived- oeufs meurette- and what a specimen it was!  A perfectly poached egg in a complex, heavenly wine sauce (complete with onions, bacon and the house secret- fond de veau).  I literally would have licked my plate if I wasn’t in a restaurant.

Maison Fondé ici depuis bien longtemps = "Restaurant Founded A Really Long Time Ago"

But that was only the beginning – We ordered a bottle of red wine (you had the choice of the house red- Beaujolais or Côtes du Rhône- or white wine), which arrived with the second course : a salade frisée aux lardons, charcuterie, et une salade des lentilles verts (frisée salad with bacon, a sliced-meat plate, and a green lentil salad).  By this point, I knew for certain the restaurant was exceptional, but when the owner, himself, walked over and placed a terrine de sanglier (wild boar terrine) on the table, as a preface to taking our order for the main course- I almost keeled over with joy.  (Have I mentioned I love all things sanglier?  Gamey-meats are my favorite!)

J’ai commandé the quenelle lyonnaise and Robert, my travel buddy, sprang for the joues du porc (pork cheeks).  It was a difficult decision for me, as the other option I was considering was boudin aux pommes (blood sausage with apples), but as the quenelle is a famous lyonnais dish, I decided the boudin could wait.  To be honest, I didn’t know what a quenelle was, but just that it was local and the chef said it was one of his grandmother’s most famous recipes.

It arrived steaming hot, a beautiful baked mound of flour, butter, eggs, and milk, surrounded with a creamy langoustine (crayfish) sauce.  The only thing I’ve eaten with a texture even similar to this was my father’s pop-overs on Sunday mornings or my mother’s yorkshire pudding.  It was crusty, and then inside, moist and doughy and fluffy – all at the same time.  The sauce was extremely rich, with a lobster-bisque-ish flavor, and I literally can still remember the taste of it now, as I write this.  Sadly, I could really only fit half of the quenelle in my stomach.  Robert ate all his joue du porc, which was tender and succulent in a brown flour-and-meat-drippings sauce, and I really thought we might die.

And then came the cheese.

Oh, as only the French can do- just when I’m ready to mourir, s’evanouir because I have totally overeaten- they bring me fromage and suddenly it’s as if I forget the past five courses…
We had fromage blanc avec ciboulettes (a yogurt-like cheese with chives), Saint-Marcellin (a famous semi-soft goat cheese from lyon), Picodon (a firmer goat cheese), and last-but-not-least, a cheese concoction I cannot even being to describe.  The trucmuche (atleast, I think that is what it was called- literally “thingamajig”)- it was a super-fragrant, almost putrid mixture of all the cheeses we had eaten separately.  The first bite was a shock.  But the second and third bite were incredible.  It was spicy and salty and assertive- almost like goat cheese and good parmesan cheese mixed with anchovies and cracked black pepper.

Anyway, eventually they took away the fromage and the trucmuche.  And then we had to eat dessert.  For which I felt ironically revived (thank you cheese plate!), but Robert was fading fast.  I had a tarte praliné (a pink almond and sugar tart -lyonnais specialty) and he had a gateau du chocolat fondant (like a gourmet chocolate lava cake…bad idea when you’re already more than répu).  I don’t think I could really even appreciate at that point what dessert tasted like, and was definitely happy when the coffee came to burn a hole in my stomach.

Speaking of (not) burning (a hole in my pocket)…that entire meal, wine included, cost just around 30 euros per person.  Which is absolutely incomprehensible.  If bouchons existed in Paris, I would be in real trouble.  Thankfully, the food in Paris is a bit more expensive (or the portions are smaller…that feast would have been at least 60 or 70 euros in Paris)- which prevents me eating the way we did in Lyon on a regular basis.

All jokes about the fact that we trop bouffé aside, that meal was easily one of the top 5 I’ve ever had in my life.  The partially preset menu actually reminded me of one of my favorite meals ever–a jaunt to a tiny hole-in-the-wall in Ravello, Italy where a little old lady told me- “you no choose what you eat, I choose what you eat”– because sometimes if you just let chefs cook what they want, you’ll eat so much better than if you had chosen each course yourself.  And in comparison with the big-city, busy feel of many Paris restaurants (where waiters have a tendency to be either too polite or not enough by my standards)- this chaleureux trip into the gastronomic heart of France, where the owner and his family teased you incessantly while serving you plate after plate of incredible food- was just what I was hoping for.

Bref, Robert kind of summed it up when he told me : “I’m going to make my parents take the 2 hour train-ride both ways, just so they can eat at this restaurant”.

—vocabulaire—

bibliothèques > libraries

j’ai complètement oublié > I completely forgot

la bouffe > the grub

bide > belly

raconter > to tell a story

lyonnais > typical of lyon, coming from lyon

tire-bouchon > bottle opener

bouquet de paille > bundle of hay

auberges > hostels or hotels

faire la bonne chère > eat well

nappes > tablecloths

la bonne dame > the good woman

recettes > recipes

apéritif > before dinner drink

serveuse > waitress

grignoter > nibble

fond de veau > dried/powdered veal stock

J’ai commandé > I ordered

mourir > to die

s’evanouir > to faint

fromage > cheese

répu > full

trop bouffé > ate too much

chaleureux > warm, welcoming

Bref > In short