The Catalan Rabbit

I bought a large rabbit at the traveling market yesterday here in Maury. This marché arrives in a small van with cheeses, chicken, rabbits and eggs. He also has a portable rotisserie spinning whole chickens and pork loins.
My rabbit was complete with head, kidneys and a very large liver. (Fresh rabbit is always sold here with the liver. It is said if the liver looks healthy, the rabbit will be good to eat. The butcher lifted the rabbit and displayed it’s interior for me to approve. ) My first thought was to grill it but when I told my son, Morgan about the rabbit and it’s liver he reminded me about using the liver to make a “picada”, a Catalan “sauce” or, rather, a thickener and flavor enhancer so I proceeded to make the following:


Lapin à la moutarde avec une “picada” de son foie
Rabbit braised in mustard with a “picada” of it’s liver

Preheat oven to 375º

One rabbit, 2.5-3 pounds

Cut off the head and discard. Cut off the hind legs and the fore legs. Season with salt and pepper and set aside. Cut off the long part of the body and debone. Discard the back. Flatten the body and season with salt and pepper, skin side down. Season the two kidneys with salt and pepper and lay them in the center of the body. Sprinkle with a bit of fresh thyme. Roll and tie the body with the kidneys inside. Tie at one inch intervals. Season the outside with salt and pepper.

Heat:
1/4 cup olive oil in a large lidded skillet. When it is hot, but not smoking, cook the rabbit pieces until brown. I always sprinkle more salt and pepper on the rabbit as it cooks. Remove rabbit pieces and set aside.

To make the picada:
Add more oil if necessary to the skillet and cook:

5 large cloves of garlic, whole
Rabbit liver
Two 1/2” slices of French baguette

Cook until the garlic is golden and the liver firm ( do not overcook the liver!)and the toast golden. Put in the food processor and whirl to a paste. Set aside. This technique is wonderful used with chicken, too. And the bread can be replaced or combined with almonds or hazelnuts, if you wish.

Heat two tablespoons of olive oil in the same skillet and cook until golden:

One large onion, sliced

Add and bring to a boil:
3 tablespoons of Dijon mustard
3 cups of rich, homemade chicken stock
One cup of white wine
Three sprigs of fresh thyme

Return the rabbit to the skillet with the onions.

Stir in the liver Picdada. Cover the skillet and bake for 35 minutes in the oven.
Remove the lid and continue to cook for another 35 minutes or until the rabbit is tender and the sauce is reduced.

-Ann Walker

The Road to El Bulli

Roses is a pretty little town. Especially now in April with the spring light clear and lucid on the beach and surrounding mountains. The harbor hangs in a half circle, fronted by a clutter of bars, cafes and small hotels, not yet in high summer dress. The only hint of things to come is the occasional white-shirted, black-aproned waiter on the sidewalk, directing a battalion of mostly empty tables or staring at the sea, as if customers might come walking across the water at any moment.

Roses has been a destination for Costa Brava tourists for several decades but in the past few years, another sort of pilgrim can be seen. These pilgrims barely see the Mediterranean. The guide books they carry have little in them of hidden beaches or best views; rather the panorama of dining room and kitchen. They are bound for El Bulli, or as it is now called elBulli.

It is, most likely, the only three star restaurant on the planet named after a dog. The original founders, Dr. Hans Schilling and his wife named the restaurant, which they opened in 1964, after the French bulldogs they owned. The present owner, Ferran Adrià, came to elbulli in 1984 when the restaurant already had one star. But never mind. If you are a proper pilgrim, you already know all this history.

We had spent the night L’Escala and were thinking of having a look at Cadaces. It turned out that Roses is on the way to Cadaces and the chef, who was driving the car, said, “Let’s have a look at elBulli.”

However, there are no signs (at least that we spotted) anywhere in Roses indicating that El Bulli is nearby. We remembered, however that elBulli wasn’t in Roses, but in Montjol, a small town a few kilometers away, so when we spotted a sign to Montjol, we knew we were on the Road to El Bulli. (Fans of old Hollywood musicals should be warned that neither Bob Hope, nor Bing Crosby nor Hedy Lamar appear in this narrative.)

It turns out that the road to El Bulli is a narrow mountain road with incredible views of the Mediterranean which could distract the most careful driver. Every hundred meters or so, Ann would say: “There has to be another road to El Bulli. Can you imagine driving this after a two hour dinner and a bottle or two of wine.”

No, I can’t, and no, there is not another road to El Bulli. Not quite true. If you are a yachting type, you can arrive by sea, which the old Norse used to call the ‘whale road.’

As veteran California drivers---we commuted for years on routinely spectacular Highway One north of San Francisco---the drive didn’t really present any problems, but the idea that there was a three-star restaurant, often named the Best Restaurant in the World (!) at the end of this road, did leave one thinking ‘location, location, location.’. After all, the small village we had lived in for 20 years in California didn’t have a three star restaurant, hardly even at 60-watt restaurant.

The road didn’t get any better and the only sign we saw of culinary interest was a couple picnicking on a blanket beside their car with the car blocking the view of the sea. There was not even a sheep in sight and if you drive more than a few kilometers in Spain without a sheep sighting you begin to think of famine and maybe missing lunch.

Finally, the road turned toward the sea and in a few minutes we arrived at Montjol and El Bulli. (Their signage does not reflect the new iconography.) There it was, the Mecca of the Foam Brigade, on a hillside with views over the serene Bay of Montjol, surrounded by pine trees and little else. It was closed, but we knew that. It is only open from June until December.

We got out of the car and peered through the trees. “Is that it?” Ann was expecting something a bit more grand, perhaps.

I took a snap of her standing beside the El Bulli sign and we returned to Roses and lunched at a tapas bar well away from the beach on clams, mussels and a decent bottle of rosé.

--Larry Walker

Catalan Rambles: L’Escala

Beach towns in winter can be depressing. There is sometimes an air of abandonment. Did everyone just move out? On the other there are no parking problems and you can get a table at the best restaurant in town without booking ahead.

We had flown San Francisco-Paris-Barcelona and had planned to drive straight through to France and home base at Maison Voltaire in Maury. About 30 minutes up the A7, we realized that we had not slept well on the flight, that we were hungry and, most important, we wanted a good dinner in Spain.

Turning virtually at random off the A7, we head for L’Escala, a town of about 20,000 people (maybe 100,000 in the summer) on the Mediterranean east of Girona. We had never been there before, but someone had told us about Hotel Miryam. It’s at the top of town, a 20 minute walk from the tourist beach tacky. From the outside, it looked a little somber, quietly brooding in a chilly April breeze off the Sea.

Ann checked the menu, which was posted beside the dark entry. “A little pricey, but seafood should be,” she said. We walked about for a few minutes and got a good feeling from the town, so checked into one of the six rooms. (One upside of traveling out of season.) The room was comfortable in a mid-20th century kind of way, don’t look for WiFi or flat screen 800-channel television here.

Dinner service began at 8pm, a little early for Spanish Catalonia, and we were prompt. It was superb. For starters, they brought us a small plate of local anchovies in olive oil and an interesting riff on the traditional Catalan pan con tomate{ round flat bread, split like an English muffin leaving tufty bits that the tomato stuck to. We ordered a plate of Jamon Jabugo from Salamanca, which was properly cut, that is chipped away not sliced slice prosciutto, and meltingly delicious. We also had escalivada: roasted red bell peppers, eggplant, onions and (in this case) slices of potato. It was excellent. When Ann tasted the peppers she actually swooned.

Our main dish was a seafood parrillada, which included hake, monkfish and turbot, all grilled on the plancha, with razor clams, cigales, gambas and squid, served with a side dish of small clams and mussels, steamed. Ann asked for aioli, which was made in house and stiff with garlic.

The wine was Espelt 08 Mareny White, 2008, a blend of Muscat and Sauvignon Blanc. It opened with an inviting floral nose, followed by bright typically Muscat flavors. A fairly simple wine, but it worked well with the fish. Espelt is a largish winery (for the area) with grapes sourced entirely from the local Empordà-Costa Brava wine region.

We finished with a Coca de Pinoñes and the house treated us to a small platter of assorted desserts, including chocolate-coated strawberries. Strawberries have been so delicious in California this year and were in Catalonia, too.

We finished them off in good fashion and were rewarded with a glass of Orujo. The waiter thoughtfully left the bottle on the table. I must admit to a great fondness of Orujo, a liqueur originally from the region of Galicia in northwestern Spain but now found all over northern Spain. This was a particularly good one, honey-colored and rich on the palate. I exercised great self control in not finishing the bottle.

Only Connect:

Hotel Miryam, Tel: 34 372 77 02 87. Low season rate, 70 Euros. Dinner was 120 Euros.

--Larry Walker

Le Petit Gris Too

I love this place and wanted to add a few words and pictures to Larry's essay.

Having been advised by Ann and Larry, I telephoned for a reservation at 1 PM and Natalie immediately told me not to be late. We arrived on time, had a wonderful lunch, a delightful chat with Natalie and Eric who approved of our promptness and have been back many times since. Came for lunch one time with my friend Dan, who asked Natalie for a beer. She smiled while saying no and brought us a lovely bottle of rose. Now they do serve beer at Petit Gris, but I think Natalie felt it was not appropriate for friends of Ann and Larry to be drinking beer with their lunch. Dan recovered and became a fan, going back for another meal and ordering correctly.

Barbara and I are heading back there next month with mixed emotions, happy that Natalie and Eric and family are free to do whatever they want to do next, sad that our favorite restaurant will be different. It may be fine, the food may continue to shine, but it will be different. Au revoir mes amies et merci beaucoup.

_Ron Scherl

Le Petit Gris

La Petit Gris

It was Sunday lunch. There were only a few tables left when we arrived at Le Petit Gris, a country restaurant just outside Tautavel. Cars were still coming into the small parking lot across the highway, most of them with local plates. Good thing we had come early. There was a buzz in the air, somewhat like the uplifted tension before the first pitch of a crucial late-season baseball game.

It wasn’t noisy. Don’t mean that. Not that pitch of near-hysteria that sometimes happens in a trendy California restaurant. It was a string quartet warming up before a Handel recital. Cole Porter running scales on the piano just before he wrote “Let’s Misbehave.”

It was, in fact, about 60 or 70 French men, women and children anticipating a very good lunch, a wink and a small joke from Nathalie Quilliet, who moves through the front of the house like an impish angel. Eric, her husband, always seems able to spare a minute from the huge grill, fired by vine cuttings that dominates one end of the restaurant, to say hello, maybe take a quick swallow of wine with an old customer who has become a friend.

The restaurant is pleasant and comfortable but no one spent $500,000 designing it. It is country French, bare bones but pleasant and comfortable with good light from windows all around and breath-taking views of the Corbieres range. Here and there tables are pushed together to accommodate a family of six or eight or a group of old friends. A crusty old grandfather who probably doesn’t smile from one Sunday to the next is beaming at his granddaughter, who is chewing on a duck leg. Up front, near the warmth of the grill, an older couple, thick with years and maybe sorrows, smile shyly across the table like teenagers and raise a glass of bright rosé wine to salute decades of love.

And as the food begins to come out, the tingle of anticipation gave way to a quite purr of satisfaction. There is plate after plate of snails a la plancha (petit gris, naturally) each tucked into a shell in a brew of garlic, wine and parsley. washed down with chilled local Muscat. (According to the menu there are 30 snails to a serving and Nathalie asks, deadpan, if you want to count them before you start eating.) There is a steady stream of huge bowls of garigue salad---a confit of duck gizzards and mixed greens topped with foie gras; plate after plate of superb grilled rabbit with aioli. By this time Nathalie has brought you a bottle of red wine, a local Grenache most likely. If you are in luck Eric will have found a local hunter who is willing to sell him a fresh-shot sanglier or wild boar, typically served in a stew of its own blood and red wine. Oh, and the cassoulet, if you are really hungry. Purists will insist that one is outside cassoulet country here. Well, let them insist while you enjoy a superb Catalan version of the Toulouse classic. The crèma catalan is a must at the end of the meal, with a glass or three of the Maury vin doux natural, a sweet red wine that ages beautifully, a cousin to Madeira. Many other dishes---duck, chicken, fish--- come from the grill and the small kitchen behind it. The crowd settles into a contented hum of happy eaters.

Over our years of roaming Catalan Country, we have probably eaten more often at Le Petit Gris than any other restaurant.
Yet, it was hardly love at first sight when Nathalie and Ann met. We were house hunting, driving madly from village to village, from one house to the next, none quite right. It was time for lunch and someone had mentioned Petit Gris. We were running late (of course) and arrived a few minutes past 1:30, which is when Nathalie closes the doors. Not yet being fully aware of the strict dining hours of rural France (being more accustomed to of Spanish Catalonia where the clocks don’t run the same) we didn’t pay much attention to the time.

Ann sent me as an advance scout to check out the menu. When I walked in, Nat pointed to her watch and shook her head. When I reported, Ann was incredulous.

“What does she mean, it’s too late for lunch,” she said, popping out of the car and storming the entrance of Le Petit Gris. I hung back, preferring to admire the view of the mountains.

The encounter between two powerful women was brief and forceful, leading to an armed and watchful truce. Nathalie. putting best foot forward for France for this “crazy California woman” graciously waved us in for a late seating. By the end of lunch, the truce had been extended and turned into a mutual admiration pact.

On a personal level, Eric and Nathalie are intellectually curious and interested in people Both have a playful sense of humor. Over many dinners that went on past midnight, in various combinations of French, English and Spanish, we’ve talked food, politics, art, music, wine, dogs, cats and children, shared fears, hopes and dreams and done our bit to keep the local population of petit gris in check and help maintain the proper balance of supply and demand in the local vineyards.

So it was with mixed feelings that we learned Eric and Nathalie have sold Le Petit Gris and are preparing for the next adventure. Maybe Argentina? Maybe California? Back to Portugal? India calling? They are gypsies at heart, eager for new experience, new friends.

We will miss them in Catalonia but they promise that Le Petit Gris is in good hands. The new owners are training with them now and will take over in May. In the meantime, we plan to spend Easter with Nathalie, Eric and their daughters, Alex and Rosalie.

We will soon file a report on the new owners and their plans for our favorite Catalan country restaurant.

Only Connect:

The snail known as petit gris is Helix aspersa and differs slightly from the Burgundy snail Helix pomatia. Although only another snail can tell the difference at a glance

“Whales do it, snails do it,
Even fluffy little quails do it,
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.”
(Sorry, Cole.)

Le Petit Gris is just outside the town of Tautavel on the road toward Estagel. Telephone: 04 68 29 42 42.

---Larry Walker

Portrait of Limoux

There is a photograph which frames Limoux for me. A woman wearing a red sweater has posed herself before what must be the door of her wine cellar. It is a door that has seen many seasons, as has the woman.  Her left hand is raised to tidy her hair and she is smiling.

She is timeless, the woman in the picture, like Limoux. I always feel freed of the tyranny of time there.  The clocks have been stopped. We move in pre-history, the cycle of the vine and the field.. Maybe it’s because Limoux is a geographic and geological tangle. It is neither quite Mediterranean or quite Atlantic. It can be chilled one day by winds off the Atlantic and warmed the next day by a Mediterranean breeze. But the map says Limoux is in Languedoc. You can’t argue with that.  Once again, the map has failed the territory.

Back to the woman. I know from the title of the picture that she must be selling wine at the cellar door. Most likely she and her family make Blanquette de Limoux, a sparkling wine that, according to the locals and even some reasonable wine historians, was made here long before they started making bubbly in Champagne. There is even a tale that Dom Pérignon, the monk said to have invented Champagne---you remember him, the guy who said he was drinking stars---learned the art in the Benedictine abbey of Saint-Hilaire in Limoux.

Certainly the woman in the red sweater would believe that. She would also know that the first mention of Blanquette de Limoux is in 1531 in records from the abbey.  (Blanquette means white in the old Occitan tongue.)  This knowledge can be seen in her eyes, the way they looked straight out at the Photographer.  She and her family have been making wine since before the weather-beaten door was hung in place. She knows the thin rocky soils of the Pyrenees foothills, the harsh winter winds and the soft fairy green of spring. She knows that an hour’s drive south is Mount Canigou, the sacred mountain of the Catalans.

Blanquette de Limoux, like sparkling wines wherever they are made, is disgorged from the bottle after secondary fermentation and rebottled with a dosage added.  It is a splendid wine with bright lively flavors and good depth of flavor. It was a favorite of Thomas Jefferson, a man who knew his wine. At his death, Blanquette de Limoux made up 10 per cent of his cellar and was the only sparkling wine in it.

If we are lucky, she will also make a little Blanquette Méthode Ancestrale, just for family and friends. Perhaps she can spare us a bottle or two? Her tentative smile grows wider, pleased that we know of Méthode Ancestrale. It is a wine that has simply stepped aside and let the industrial revolution rush right past, gears grinding. Time out. Tear the hands off the clock, for Méthode Ancestrale keeps time by the moon. The French call it a vin mystérieux.

It is bottled always in March and at its best if bottled under a waning moon. Only natural yeasts are used in fermentation and they are never in a rush, so the wine is only partially fermented when bottled. The alcohol content is only six or seven percent. The wine is often a bit murky, what with all those dead yeast cells hanging about and it will be a little sweet because of the unfermented grape sugar.  There will also be a little lingering fermentation taking place, giving the wine a charming fizziness but making it virtually impossible to ship. You want Blanquette Méthode Ancestrale straight from the cellar door, straight from the woman in the photograph.

There is no denying that the Ancestrale is a moody wine, sometimes mute and sulky. But at its best, an underlying earthiness forms the base for a virtual banquet of aromas dominated by rich apple flavors. There are some wrong-headed writers who dismiss the wine as a mere summer sipper.  The woman in the red sweater would shrug her shoulders and shake her head at such foolish talk.

She knows that Blanquette Méthode Ancestrale is a richly satisfying wine, yielding its charm only to those who pay attention and respect it as a link to an age when time was measured in vintages and the waxing and waning moon was the common calendar.

Limoux is on the N620, about midway between Perpignan and Foix and directly south of Carcassonne.  If you want to taste at the cellar door watch for signs reading vente du vin. You can also check in at the Syndicat des vins AOC de Limoux at 20 Avenue du Pont-de-France in town (04 68 31 12 83) for a list of wineries open to visitors.

Grapes used in Blanquette de Limoux are Mauzac (called Blanquette locally), Chardonnay and Chenin Blanc. Only Mauzac is used in the Méthode Ancestrale.

Larry Walker