On September evenings, the swallows dip and swoop in nervous arcs as if anxious to protect, or preserve, the close of day in its melancholy stillness. A soft light hovers over our little village caught in a pale brushstroke of watercolor blue, a wash that holds the houses together as they wait for an even bluer night. It is no mystery why the painters collected here and amassed works of wonder. Matisse, Derain, de Vlaminck, Rouault, with Braque and Dufy touching in every now and again to have a go at the sea and a pastis in the ateliers of fellow painters.
I knew their colors from art books but did not really know the Fauves as I do now.
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A few nights ago, the sea was red, as red as the Fauves had painted it, and just touched on the edges by a deep Prussian blue that held the soft pink of the sky on its horizon, perched there as if it were a curtain that would lift and expose eternity.
The wind, the tramontane right now, blows incessantly—this ‘violent’ weather my friend, Gigi, complains about so often. But I love it, the changes in the air, in the sky, in the sea. Too much sameness has whetted my appetite for this Catalan clime, unpredictable except by the fishermen who know exactly how many drops will fall on a certain day and where they will land, and how long they will stay. They look out to sea with their honed vision and tell you that at 3pm you’ll need an umbrella, or “il fait beau pour le week-end”, which makes us all happy as this coming weekend is long.
But, then, most weekends are long because of the French passion for holidays, anytime, anywhere, and lots of them. I have strong suspicions that children go to school fewer days than their summer vacation, but I can’t prove it. Still, the French children are lovely and polite and have been taught from birth to say “bonjour” (or at least something like it), when spoken to.
The main meal in our little town is at midday—fish from the seafood market in our neighboring fishing port, where it arrives daily and is displayed on long counters of cracked ice. Rouget and sardines, the famous anchovies of our region that feel silken under your fingers, skinned eel and polka-dotted sole, turbot and sea bass and salmon and tuna and the ubiquitous and historically famous cod, morue.
I buy it salted, desalinate it for a day or so, then make brandade, a creamy paste of the steamed fish, cooked potato, parsley, garlic, lemon juice and olive oil. Of course, this is just the fish. There is, too, another entire room with fish tanks and counters filled with Marenne and Belon oysters, sea snails that one plucks from the shell with a little nail and dips into aioli, tiny red shrimp from Spain, langoustines, lobster, crab, and of course the co*ckles and mussels, alive, alive, o. A cook’s heaven, indeed, especially as one can find here the tiny green crab that start off a perfect soupe de poisson avec rouille (fish soup served over toast spread with a mayonnaise of egg yolks, olive oil, roasted red peppers and garlic).
(Our poissonerie)
To take a little savory trip to the south of France this is what you can do:
Buy a crab anywhere you can find one, steam it and eat most of it for dinner. Also buy a couple of salmon collars, if you can get them and a couple of pounds of fresh filets of white fish. In a large pot, put the salmon collars, all the crab shells (crushed or pounded with a hammer, or cut with scissors into small bits if possible), the fat residing in the large shell, and any residue you have left over into a large pot with 2 onions, 2 carrots, 2 stalks celery, and small head of fennel, all sliced thin. Add ½ bottle of dry white wine, 1 ½ quarts water, 2 chicken bouillon cubes (don’t balk at this, it works wonders!), a thin slice of orange peel, a tiny dried, hot red pepper and a generous pinch of saffron. Simmer this concoction for 30 minutes or so on low heat, then strain the broth into a new pot. The broth at this point should be savory and rich and if it is not, reduce the broth on a high heat for about 5 minutes. When the broth is simmering and ready, put in the chowder fish and simmer for 10-15 minutes, just until the fish chucks are tender. This soup is better the next day, but you may eat it right away if you wish. Before eating, make the rouille.
Rouille
Make a fast foolproof mayonnaise (as long as it’s not raining where you are!):
Put 1 egg into a hand-mixer bowl with a little salt. Add olive oil in a very thin stream until the egg begins to thicken with the oil, about 1 good minute of pouring carefully and slowly. When the mayonnaise base is very thick, add 1 tiny hot, red pepper, 1 sweet, roasted, and peeled red pepper, 2 cloves of garlic, crushed and a few drops of lemon juice. Add a little more olive oil to thicken the mayonnaise again and taste for seasoning.
You may also add the peppers and garlic to commercial mayonnaise, but it’s not quite the same.
Spread rouille generously on toast, place the toast in a soup bowl and ladle the hot soup over all.
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