New York, Spain and what I'd do again

Travelling makes you hungry. Hungry for life, hungry for new experiences, hungry to learn as much as possible before you return to the ins and outs of daily life. Mostly though, it just makes you hungry for more travel. Language washes over you, seducing you with its unfamiliarity and teasing you with its similarities. Eating in a foreign country, however ‘safe’ your choice of cuisine, is one of the most seductive elements of travelling. And for the cook, travel, surely, is the most useful ingredient of all.

I wanted to get it out now, all in one blurt so to speak, because it’s not the end of the year quite yet. Holidays cannot go on forever, though the days here are warm and sunny enough to encourage that kind of thinking. It’s still spring, people. The Racing Carnival has begun and summer, well, she’s just around the corner. How did it get to be the end of October so quickly? There are things to be done, important things, and they’ll be needing my attention. Relaxed and refreshed, I’m ready for it.

Kathryn, I love you. Invaluable, crackingly good advice, I tell you. Planning a big trip? Please, check out these tips before you do. They made me far more companionable than the last time we went overseas...

It’s been a challenge to write about travel when, as a subject, it’s a little alien. I spent the weekend perusing the pages of The Age and still couldn’t come up with the right formula. So highlights it shall be. It’s a long post, and for that I apologise in advance. You can just scroll on down to the bottom of the page, where there is, I promise, a travel-inspired recipe worth waiting for.

Some highlights. Yes. These are the things I'd do again.

New York: Huge.

The apartment. Upper West Side. Near Central Park. The view from the roof was great; the view from the top of the stairs was vertigo-inducing.

Crying (quietly) in the Jewish Museum over an engraved camp spoon from Auschwitz and being confronted by an actual yellow star. Cheering up enormously over the silver Hanukah lamp adorned with emus and kangaroos.

Stumbling toward lunch on that first day, at Lumi, on the corner of Lexington and 70^th. Halibut on a bed of fennel and tomato, braised until sweet. Topped with shavings of fresh, crispy fennel.

More Rembrandt’s and Vermeer’s than you can poke a stick at in The Met. Meeting a friend on the steps, in the flesh, for the first time. Knowing instantly that this blogging thing has changed my life and added things that are more valuable, more satisfying, than I ever suspected it would. A great Indian lunch, spiced just the way I like it. Thank you, Susan.

Realizing just how confusing it is to navigate The Subway, late, on the way home from a fun dinner on the Lower East Side. Schiller’s three wines come by the bottle and are labeled thus; Cheap, Decent and Good. Honest, eh?

MoMA. UN-believable. Nothing else to say. Just go.

The American Museum of Natural History. A labyrinth of goodies. Oh, my. Dinosaur bones; taxidermed animals hung in a strangely beguiling way; beautiful birds, owls I wanted to revive and take home; American Indian costumes, headdresses, weaponry, all so exquisite; Aztec and Mayan treasures beyond priceless.

The Empire State building at night. A long way up. A Very Long Way Down.

Wandering, barefoot, in the grass in Central Park on our last morning. Eating lunch at the Boathouse beneath the slowly turning fans.

Madrid: Hot, but cool. Very cool.

Flying in while the sun rose; thinking just how hot and dry the place is and how like home the searing sun made me feel.

Narrow, cobbled streets. You don’t realize just how small the old section of the city is until you’ve traversed it, from hotel to Palace, in 30 minutes. Like a slightly smaller Rome, but with a very distinctive flavour of its own.

The plazas, surrounded by bars and restaurants, are empty until about 12.30, when the tourists, unfamiliar with the distinctive Spanish eating hours, head out to (sometimes unsuccessfully) find lunch.

A Paula Rego retrospective at the Reina Sofia (how lucky were we?). Didn’t see Guernica, but then how many times to you need to see that harrowing image? Brilliant.

Walking, albeit briefly, around the exquisite El parque del Retiro.

In our hotel one morning, the waiter pressed a business card into my hand for El Rincon de Esteban (about halfway down the page), an ‘authentic’ Spanish restaurant. Joyful, satisfying and hospitable. Best meal of the holiday. Esteban, a man larger than life and rotund enough to suggest he eats Very Well, kissed me goodbye on both cheeks, embraced me and then gave me flowers as we left. Apparently coming from Melbourne made us popular with both the waiters and the chef. Go figure.

9am: on the doorstep of the Prado for a quick run through. Fast and furious – better without all the tourists that flood in later. Velazquez (egotistical; magnificent); enough Goya’s to make your hair curl. Welling up with tears seeing his final, eerie works.

San Sebastian: A politically active fishing town, overrun by tourists in summer.

Hotel was beautiful, elegant and quiet. The haven we were seeking.

Climbing Monte Urgull, a fort, now crumbling romantically, offering the best view of the city and the shell-shaped beach it rests upon, La Concha. Green and lush vegetation grows wildly, making it seem even more romantic and mysterious. The huge statue of Christ that presides over the town stands at the summit looking down, concerned. Unsurprising given the Basque capital is often referred to as a 'party town'.

his work just gets better and better

Sun on winter-white skin, a local beer in hand and tomato, lettuce and sweet onion bocadillos (sandwiches, Spanish-style) eaten in a sunny plaza – followed by a siesta.

The deliciously sweet, pale-fleshed, dark green-skinned melons served at breakfast. Between broken Spanish, Basque and English, I still can’t figure out what it was…

Reading (Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie - stunning; Vegetable Pleasures by Colin Spencer, and the sadly less-than-thrilling Chez Panisse Vegetables), writing lots (giving a project some space to grow; nutting out some worries, both general and specific; wholefoods and food politics; just getting words on paper) and drawing were what we wanted. San Sebastian, then, is the perfect, laid-back place in which to get it all.

Swimming. The surf beach, to the left of La Concha, was more like the beaches we’re used to – real waves that toss you about and leave you gasping for air – and became a favourite for people watching. The deeply-tanned man who strode confidently up and down the beach wearing nothing but a pair of dark designer sunglasses caught our attention on a number of occasions. Who was he?

The older Basque men in their berets, ambling along like the thick-waisted older Picasso; the middle-aged women in their tight leopard-, tiger- and zebra-printed clothes. Often all at once.

Eating? Neither the artist or I are big drinkers (any more), so late nights in the pintxos (tapas, pronounced ‘pinchos’ in Basque) bars were increasingly less interesting. The Japanese we ate twice was a magnificent contrast to the heavy, oily Basque food. We ordered a couple of magnificent Roija’s while we were there (all great, Deb). I desperately wanted a Spanish rice dish (to no avail) and would have given my right arm (and my left too) for a dish of vegetables, just once. Spain ain’t the place for a vegetarian. My advice is to eat the fish which is outstanding, and try to make up for it when you get home. Otherwise, you WILL starve.

Complaining? Not me. But here’s something I would have liked to eat. It’s a re-working of something from last year, simplified, improved, adapted and all vegetarian. God, how I missed vegetables. Being away I realized how infrequently our meals contain wheat flour – we are the wholegrain freaks.

Millet paella with saffron, tomatoes and asparagus - for 4

Toasting the millet before rinsing it is a trick gleaned from Rebecca Wood’s The Splendid Grain. It makes the millet wonderful, taking away the hint of bitterness that tends to accompany this incredibly healthful grain. The Spanish smoked paprika is non-negotiable. It is one of the most intensely flavoured spices and is especially useful in vegetarian cookery because of its ability to simulate some of the smoky qualities associated with bacon and ham.

1 cup of hulled millet
1 ½ tablespoons of olive oil
1 onion, peeled and finely sliced
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and finely sliced
1 large pinch of saffron
2 teaspoons of smoked paprika
1x 400g tin of tomatoes
Sea salt
1 teaspoon of tamari (or soy sauce)
2½ cups of boiling water
12 juicy black olives
¼ preserved lemon
1 bundle of asparagus, woody ends snapped off
A handful of sugar snap peas
Chopped parsley, to serve

Place the millet in a large frying pan and toss constantly over a medium heat until it pops and starts to smell nutty. Rinse well and drain.

Heat 1½ tablespoons of olive oil in a very large lidded frying pan and fry the onion and garlic over a medium heat for about 5 minutes.

Reduce the heat and add the millet, saffron, paprika and tomatoes, breaking them up with a wooden spoon. Stir, then add a pinch of salt, the tamari and the boiling water. Cover with a lid and cook until the liquid is absorbed and the millet is cooked, about 35 minutes. If the millet still tastes a little raw, add another ¼ cup of boiling water and cook until it’s absorbed.

Pit the olives and roughly chop them. Thinly slice the preserved lemon. Slice the asparagus into thirds and, with the whole sugar snap peas, simmer for 3 minutes in a pan of salted water. Drain well.

Lift the lid and arrange the olives, lemon and vegetables on top of the millet. Replace the lid and cook for a further 3-5 minutes, just to warm the vegetables through.

Sprinkle with parsley and eat. Gratefully.

And you know what? I even missed blogging.

Confession

Oh, the shame!

After all this time; after all the effort to cook and eat responsibly.

Wasted on 'fresh' chantarelles and beautiful, but aptly named, trompette de la morte. From France.

The food miles. The hideous expense.

I am deeply, deeply ashamed...

Spring herb tart

Away from the kitchen for more than a couple of weeks and these fingers start to itch, this brain begins ticking, whirring slowly into gear and then, oh dear, food itself becomes the very topic of dreams. Eating out every night in Spain, every day, too, had its charms (no washing up for starters) but the subconscious was not-so-subtly letting me know what it was craving. In lieu of actual cooking, dreaming about cooking took me by surprise.

Being surrounded by delicious salt cod and tuna dishes, inventive and awash with the most beautiful, grassy olive oil, anchovies both white and pink so succulent as to silence us on more than one occasion, snaffled up, alternating one pink, one white until the plate was empty was both wonderful and inspiring, yet each night, drifting off to sleep, vegetables, herbs and wholegrains took hold of my thoughts. Perhaps there’s something Freudian in that.

Notes from my journal this year are dotted with references searching for the perfect recipe for an all wholemeal (wholewheat) pastry. So often the dough is leaden, shrinks to nothing and tastes of cardboard. Holiday reading has happily fixed that. The idea of a tart, with a crumbly, buttery fibre-rich crust, filled with spring herbs, was sown.

Chervil is a pretty, wispy, girly sort of herb with a pale green, fern-like head of hair similar to, but finer still than, the feathery tops of baby carrots. It’s a spring tonic; a subtler version of parsley with the just the vaguest hint of anise. The classic use for it, then, is fines herbes a combination of equal quantities of finely chopped chervil, parsley, tarragon and chives. Sprinkled over a dish of perfectly cooked spring vegetables lightly drizzled with olive oil or topped, still-warm, with a spoonful of unsalted butter is reason enough to grow your own. I, however, am the chervil-killer, having tried to grow it unsuccessfully a record five pathetic times now. And it goes to seed as soon as you turn your back, before you can even utter the words, ‘I hope I don’t manage to kill this one before the holiday’s begun…’ Needless to say Prahran Market was able to oblige.

Holidays are marvelous, and there’s much more to tell, but it’s nice to be home.

Spring herb tart for 6-8
This is a Tarte aux fines herbes in essence, but as I can’t stand buying a bunch of herbs and using only a measly tablespoon or two (and watching the remainder wither away on the bench) it’s very herby and a little rougher around the edges than the classic-sounding name suggests. Spring herb tart it is then, and just the way home-cooked should be.

1 prepared tart shell (see below)
1 large bunch of spring onions
3 cloves of garlic
1 tablespoon of olive oil
4 large sprigs of tarragon
1 handful of chervil leaves
1 handful of parsley leaves
1 handful of chives
4 eggs, free range (you know the drill)
250ml of double cream, preferably organic
Pepper
1 large handful of grated cheese (Cheddar, Gruyere, Manchego, whatever)

Slice the spring onions thinly, greens and all, and crush the garlic. Heat the oil in a frying pan over low-medium and add the spring onions and garlic. Cook, stirring often, for about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside.

Strip the tarragon leaves, discard the stalks, and chop them finely. Chop the chervil and parsley finely, snip the chives into short lengths and add all of the herbs to the cooked spring onions and garlic, stirring well. Cool.

Beat the eggs lightly with the cream and plenty of pepper. Add three-quarters of the cheese and mix well.

Spread the spring onion-herb mixture evenly over the base of the cooked pastry shell. Gently pour in the egg mixture and top with the remaining cheese.

Bake for 20-30 minutes at 180 C (375 F) until golden on top. Rest for at least 5 minutes before slicing and serving. Good hot, cold or somewhere in between, with a salad.

Wholemeal (wholewheat) tart shell
From an idea in Colin Spencer’s Vegetable Pleasures. Don’t feel that you need to use this particular pastry – by all means use your own shortcrust – it’s just that I had a eureka moment and thought you might be interested. It will crack and misbehave and you’ll end up with a patch-worked tart shell, but it’s worth the effort. The secret is the lemon juice (which helps to develop the gluten) instead of water (which is why pastry shrinks). Bear with me.

150g (6oz) of unsalted butter
300g (a fraction less than 12oz) of wholemeal (wholewheat) flour
Pinch of sea salt
1 lemon

Measure your butter and then wrap in foil and freeze for 30 minutes or longer.

Sift the flour into a bowl and tip any bran left in the sieve into the bowl. Add the salt and mix. Using a box grater, coarsely grate the ice-cold butter into the pastry and, working quickly and lightly, crumble the mixture between your fingers, or use a pastry cutter if you happen to have one, until it resembles breadcrumbs. (This takes more effort than with white flour, but be patient).

Squeeze the lemon and add all of the juice to the bowl. Using your knuckles, pummel the mixture into a crumbly paste and form into two balls. Again, be patient – it will be crumbly, but this is desirable. Wrap in greaseproof paper and pop in the fridge for 30 minutes – 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 200 C (400 F).

Remove both balls of pastry from the fridge. Roll out, one at a time, as thinly as you can (about ½ cm is the thinnest I got to) and yes, it will shatter and break. No matter. Place as many whole pieces as possible on the base of a tart tin with a removable base. Fill the holes and cracks in between with enough pastry to completely cover the base and sides. Any leftover pastry should be kept – this is important.

Cover the base generously with a sheet of baking paper and fill with dried beans or ceramic baking beads, whatever you have. Bake for 10 minutes, then remove the beans and paper and return the shell to the oven for a further 10 minutes.

When the shell comes out, the base will reveal cracks and even holes. Fill these, as you would a cracked wall, while the case is still warm, with the leftover pastry bits and cool completely before filling and continuing with the recipe.

This is my entry for the 105^th week (can you believe?), of Weekend Herb Blogging, and event created by Kalyn Denny and hosted this week by my friend Susan, the Well Seasoned Cook.