[Chestnut Meal Galettes]

When I went to the Salon Saveur last spring, I returned with quite a number of purchases. Some of them were fresh and perishable, and the days that followed were a happy procession of delicacies, as we methodically and dutifully consumed what needed to be.

Such food shows are always Temptation Hall for me and I would gladly get a bit of everything, but there’s usually a moment when the little angel of Reason sitting on my left shoulder (the right one already laden with bags) starts to fidget and clear his throat, reminding me that, contrary to the belief I seem to hold, I do not have a family of five to feed, and that all those marvels won’t be any good if half of them have to be left in the refrigerator to spoil, for lack of opportunity to eat them and sheer stomach room. And don’t get him started about starving children or the société de consommation. He usually adds for good measure that he hopes I’m not counting on him to help lug the bags all the way home, because his back is extremely fragile and the doctor forbade him to carry anything heavy, and he doesn’t want to strain his neck yet again, thank you very much. I tell you, he’s a handful.

So. I’m usually careful not to buy more fresh stuff than we can conceivably eat, but that still leaves me with many options, products that have a longer shelf-life because they are canned, dried or vacuum-packed. Those I allow myself to buy (of course there’s that full set of monetary, weight and pantry space considerations but let’s not wander astray here). I will stash them somewhere in a cabinet, allowing myself to half-forget about them, thus preparing mini-surprises for myself when I rediscover them weeks or months later whilst rummaging in search of something else. (I’m thinking of organizing tours inside my kitchen cabinets, a bit like they do in the Paris catacombs, providing my visitors with flashlights and sturdy construction helmets.)

Case in point today : a package of Brise de Châtaigne, purchased at the aforementioned Salon Saveur last May. Brise de Châtaigne is a coarse chestnut meal produced in Ardèche, the region where all self-respecting chestnuts come from. Since brise is French for breeze, I am tempted to call this chestnut breeze because it’s poetic, but here brise comes from the verb briser, to break. It is made of dried chestnuts (“Ingrédients : 100% châtaignes”, said the label) broken into tiny nuggets, to be cooked like you would rice. This is actually a very new product, which first came out in January of 2004. I have yet to see it anywhere else than at the Salon though, but I haven’t really looked either.

I was instantaneously pop-inspired to turn the chestnut meal into these little galettes. Since I suspected a risk of mush in the brise once cooked, the idea was to bake it into patties for better texture and presentation. I considered adding diced sauteed vegetables (possibly carrots or zucchini) to the mix, but decided against it, to get the purest first taste of the brise. The galettes turned out not only pretty and appetizing, but also mighty tasty : they developped a golden color and a thin crispy crust, while the inside stayed soft and nicely mealy, with the fabulous sweetness and flavor of chestnuts.

I would definitely make these again to serve as a side to game or a roasted meat, or quite possibly as the centerpiece of a fall salad. (If you can’t find brise de châtaigne, chopped cooked chestnuts could be substituted, and I’m guessing that 180 g uncooked brise would be equivalent to about 500 g cooked chestnuts, but this is untested as of yet.)

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It’s not everyday that one gets to discover a whole new, previously unpublished vegetable. It’s not everyday that this new vegetable seems to belong to a little tribe of bulb-headed, purple-hooded munchkins. And it’s not everyday that said munchkins turn out to have a delightful taste, halfway between an artichoke and a sweet potato.

As I’m well aware, topinambours (or Jerusalem artichokes) are news only to me : they’ve been around for centuries, mostly used in France to feed cattle (the illustrious Limousin cow in particular). They were also one of the very few vegetables that could be found during the war, and those bad memories led people to turn away from them as soon as things got better, thus condemning the poor topinambour (and she rhymes) to oblivion as a légume oublié, a forgotten vegetable. Thankfully, légumes oubliés are all the rage these days, and they have been turning up again on produce stalls here and there, to the joy of those of us who love a little change and vegetable adventure.

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My parents took a short vacation to Brittany a few weeks ago, to Carnac-Of-The-Many-Happy-Childhood-Memories, and to Belle-Île, a breathtakingly beautiful island (or so I’m told) a few miles off the Atlantic coast, where a dear friend of theirs now lives.

Brittany, as I’ve mentioned before, is home to dozens of yummilicious food specialties, and one of the souvenirs they ever-so-kindly brought me back is this little jar of Moutarde du Pêcheur (translated on the label into a straightforward “The Mustard of the Fisherman”), a mustard flavored with seaweed and salicornes from Guérande.

Salicornes (glasswort in English) are these wild little plants that grow in salt marshes. They are hand-picked at the beginning of the summer, to be pickled in vinegar and enjoyed as a condiment or in salads. They look like tiny branches of an army green shade, and their texture and taste are a bit like those of seaweed, but they belong in fact to the succulent plant category.

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[Potato Hashbrowns]

If you’re perfectly honest with yourself, you’ll probably realize that a lot of the things you do are in fact an alibi for something else.

Example? Example : I loved going out for breakfast in the US. I would order eggs, but really, that was just an alibi to get the hashbrowns. Of course, I could have just ordered hashbrowns, but that wouldn’t have been quite the same : hashbrowns on their own won’t hit the same spot. Their real value is in the fact that they come as a side, as a bonus, which in truth you like better than the main thing.

However much I adore hashbrowns, I’d never tried to make them myself, possibly because I had read it was difficult to keep the patties together, and to get them to cook thoroughly without burning. But on Monday morning (which was a holiday in France too, “La Pentecôte”) we woke up late and I felt like eating something brunchy, so I set out to make hashbrowns with the young potatoes we had on hand — which are your best bet for hashbrowns, as I understand.

They were really quick and easy to make, not to mention fun : squeeze-shaping the patties with your hands while the potato juices stream down your wrists will definitely take you back to your sandbox days, thus reconnecting you with your inner child. Try it, you’ll see what I mean. I was also happy to use my Old Bay Seasoning mix, for a perfect and instantaneous flavor kick. They were cooked just right, soft inside (but not mushy) with a golden crust, and nicely crispy at the edges. With the scrambled eggs Maxence whipped up, my brunch yearning was satisfied perfectly.

Variations ideas. This can also be prepared as one big hashbrown and served in wedges, and you can add other things in with the grated potatoes, such as herbs, lardons or bacon bits. You can also make cheese-filled hashbrowns : make thinner patties, and pair them (uncooked) into little sandwiches, with a slice of cheese trapped in the middle : use goat cheese, for instance, or a firm, gruyère-type cheese.

In French, hashbrowns are sometimes referred to as “Pommes Darphin”, but I prefer the alternate and lovely name of “Paillassons de Pomme de Terre”, which literally translates to “Potato Doormats“. Cute, no?

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