HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!

This quick little recipe is a modification of one developed by Marika and Abe, who don't travel much but sure know their food:

KUMQUAT/CRANBERRY SAUCE: Take a pint of washed kumquats and slice crosswise into 1/4" rounds; remove the centers (they pop right out, a lot quicker than trying to find the seeds) Put in a heavy saucepan with 1/4 c water and 1/2 c brown sugar. Simmer until almost tender (check to see it's still wet), about 10 minutes, then add 1/2 pound fresh cranberries (pick them overcarefully), and three cinnamon sticks. Continue to simmer until cranberries pop, about 6 minutes.  Can be made a day or two ahead and refrigerated, Serve with roast anything. Great on a cheese sandwich, with or without the turkey. And it's so pretty!

Kumquats are an underutilized fruit. It's the rind that is where the flavor and sweetness reside. They make a fine addition to stuffing, are beautiful candied, and look fabulous whole, pickled, in a jar, as a holiday gift.

EGYPTIAN EPIPHANY

This food awakening began in late October when I visited Egypt. Friends warned me that Egyptian food was, to be kind, unremarkable. I might even - gasp - go hungry! I was prepared to loose a few pounds, in return for immersing myself in 5000 years of long-studied history. I have been a Tut-ophile since my teens (somewhat less than 5000 years, thank you very much), and had prepared myself for the trip by reading a dozen or so books and guidebooks. I couldn't find an Egyptian cookbook, darn it.

With a long list of places to see, I flew to Egypt. Nothing prepares you, however, for the chaos that is Cairo. Nothing prepares you for the insane traffic, or the street-level smog. Nothing prepares you for the agenda-driven Cairenes, either: 'you are a tourist, therefore I will lie, exaggerate, and finagle until you are broke and lost and starving'. And nothing prepared me for the food, either.
This was a mega budget trip. Two months on the road can be expensive unless you really work at cheap. If anyone can work at cheap, it's me, and food was one of the two places to save (lodging the other, but I'll never tell you details of where I stayed). On Tallat Harb, not too far from the incomprehensibly grimy and underfunded Cairo Museum, is a small eatery called Felfla. A utilitarian storefront with very little seating, crammed with locals and backpackers of all ages, this place offers fabulous food for almost nothing. The uniformed staff was happy to help even a non-Arabic speaking tourist.Their vine leaves (a dozen for little more than a buck) were superb, their felafel, their baba ghanoush excellent.
But the dish that really got my attention is KOSHARI (accent on the first syllable ). This macaroni/sauce/ frizzled onion dish is just the thing to teach your 10-year old son, if he doesns't know a ladle from a lemon, how to cook. This will serve four to six depending on appetites.
Cook a mixture of macaroni: ditalini, elbows, even mini-penne. Leftover pasta is good here, too. Just nothing really big, and nothing long or heavy like ziti. When cooked, drain, return to pan and keep warm.
While the pasta cooks, make a tomato sauce NOT Italian style, but the inevitable sauteed chopped onion,

 garlic enough to deter a vampire, canned mini-dice or fresh tomatoes with a generous helping of chopped cilantro, salt and pepper to taste, and ground cumin. A small shake of cinnamon is good, too.

Slice a good-sized onion and fry it in peanut or other neutral oil until brown and crisp. I suppose you could use those things in a can, but I like to scratch cook.

Open a can of garbanzo beans (even my culinary hero Mark Bittman says it's okay to use them), add a couple of smushed cloves of garlic, a generous handful of chopped cilantro, and simmer until everything is ready.

In a shallow bowl, put a ladle of pasta. Top with a ladle or two of sauce. Top with a generous spoon of the hot garbanzos and an equally generous spoon of the fried onions. Sprinkle, for an upscale look, more chopped cilantro.

At Felfla, they offer two sauces, one nicely spicy. You could do that as well. This could become a family stand-by and - who knows? - your kid could go on to become the next Food Network Star!

FOOD MEMORIES OF FRANCE

Left: the fabled  French oyster - these are in a St. Malo market - are considered the best in the world. Just pry open the little darlings, squeeze lemon over, and down the hatch! If you don't like eating live things, try putting them on the half shell in a shallow pan, sprinkle chopped garlic, shallot and tomato over top, add juice of a lemon, a dusting of red pepper flakes, then dot with butter and slip into a 400 oven for a few minutes. Serve with crisp slices of toasted baguette.  Above right: MOULES FRITES...classic French bistro fare, above right from a local eatery near Mont St Michel. French mussels are smaller than our humongous farmed mussels, and they seem tastier. Simply steamed until they open, then poured into a plate with the inimitable french fry.

MY FAVORITE SALAD...broiled goat cheese atop a slice of toasted baguette. Easy? You bet! A thick foundation of spring mix, a hard-cooked egg in quarters, a bright rose of sliced tomato. And then one of my higher powers, lardons: lean cubes of bacon, fried until crisp and lavished atop the greens. A bit of vinaigrette to one side, extra bread for the thick chunk of chevre (a half inch is ideal, and if you only can get a skimpy log, just reshape it to a  more generous diameter). It rarely gets better than this!

FACTORY FOOD? Mais non, mes amis! In most French towns, food stalls are marvels of creativity and honesty. The deli counter in the Nantes food market pictured on the left offers scores of salads, dips, grilled and marinated veggies, an unctuous heap of brandade de morue, vine leaves, stuffed peppers and courgettes and zucchini, salted anchovies in huge tins (none of this measly eight fish in a tiny can, thank you). All amazingly fresh.

Right: The BUTTER master slicing off this sublime artisan-produced buerre! It's cut to order, given a final spank with wooden paddles, and lovingly wrapped for the client. Take that, Land O Lakes!
 

NOT HAPPY ABOUT THIS...years ago, I would never fail to visit Au Pied du Cochon in the old Les Halles area. It was a real bistro of the old-fashioned sort, and justly famous for its French Onion Soup Gratinee. Nothing ever, in my estimation, came up to its quality. The down-to-earth ambiance didn't hurt, either. My friend Val and I went in on a brisk, rainy evening this October; I'd raved too much about it, she wanted to try. The place had been tarted up something fierce, and the waiters wore tuxedos. Yikes! The floors were carpetted! We were seated amidst thick white napery, heavy silverware, fifty tourists, and a warehouse full of Murano glass chandeliers. The prize came in the traditional huge bowl, the cheese browned and crisp. It was served with a flourish (on not one but two plates, yet). It looked like the real thing. Pretty! Eagerly, I dug in. And...? It was thin, over-salted, tasteless. What a shame what the siren call of a million tourists can accomplish.

SO...WHAT IS THIS? Sometimes I run across a kitchen or serving impliment that's new to me, and I like to see if anyone can identify it. This one is French, and I partook in its use in October at a birthday party in Paris. The user of this silver impliment had to search over the city to find it, but when he had it in his clutches, Jean-Marc really knew how to use it! So...what is this?

When I set up this blog in September a week before I took off on a two month trip, I had happy visions of posting fascinating tales from France to Egypt to Jordan, then on to Syria, Lebanon, and finishing up with Turkey. Well, the whole entrprise has had a lot more to do with being a turkey than visiting the country or cooking the bird. For 60 non-stop days, I was moving: bus, taxi, train, ferry, bus, taxi, bus, bus bus...and if I wasn't moving I was sightseeing: pyramids, temples, mosques, cathedrals (there was a cathedral, right?), tombs, ruins, temples, tombs, tombs, temples, tombs. Egyptian, Roman, Nabataean, Mamluk, Crusader, Ottoman, more Roman and yet more Roman. In the end, even I had had enough ruins. In Antalya, where the ever-traveling Roman Emperor Hadrian visited, I yawned as I passed under the gate he'd had built nearly 2000 years ago. Another triumphal gate? Such a bore!
But enough whining. It was a fabulous trip. Giza, Luxor, Abu Simbel, Kom Ombo, Edfu, Dendara, Karnak, Valley of the Kings, Tombs of the Nobles, Dahab and the Red Sea!...and that's just Egypt! Petra! Jerash! Damascus! Palmyra! Beirut! Nemrut Dag! It was spectacular! And I can't figure out how to get the photos off my chip and into the computer! But I will, I promise.
And, I am a failure at deciphering foreign keyboards, particularly the ones in Turkey. Apparently American programs don't read Turkish typing; the @ is in wierd places over in the eastern Med. So that's why you haven't gotten the scores of informative, recipe-ridden blogs.
Sorry. I'll do better next time.
Ps - Is this type too small?

FELAFEL RULES!

October 15 in LUXOR, EGYPT...The Nile flows placidly past Luxor's gigantic river-side temple, and the white wings of feluccas dart from shore to shore. To the west, the rugged Theban hills guarding the Valley of the Kings glow in the fading sun; there, it's over a hundred in the shade, except there isn't any shade.  And the place has been Disneyfied, with walkways and tidy stone walls, all in blinding beige stone that absorbs the relentless heat. Bring lots of water, a bandana, and your umbrella if you want to survive; frankly, a hat is pretty useless, the umbrella a lifesaver.
Afternoon call to prayer suddenly booms out of scores of speakers, an embroidery of virile sound that echoes and re-echoes. The call is joined by the bells of the Catholic church next door. Shaded by canvas screens, I am lolling on a couch on my hotel's rooftop terrace, sipping fruit juice and trying to be serious about anything but enjoying the view of so much history smack before my eyes. The hotel cat is snoring at my side and I'm tempted to join him.
But I am hungry. I'm thinking about felafel. Egyptian food gets a bad rap, generally, but there's a couple of dishes that are central to my survival as long as I'm here, and both of them are excellent. Felafel is first, of course: deep fried golf-ball sized pieces of thick chickpea batter, stuffed in a 5" round piece of thin Egyptian bread, slathered with tahini sauce, topped with tomato and cucumber salad and stewed eggplant. Mark Bittman provides a great felafel recipe in his book The World's Best Recipes.
But the eggplant is what makes the felafel a million times better. I asked the hard-working guys at "my" felafel stand, just opposite Luxor Temple, for the recipe.  I'm considered a regular, and they charge me what the locals are charged. Generously, they walked me through the eggplant process. A bowl of this in your fridge guarantees many happy noshes, and only improves with a few days waiting.

STEWED EGGPLANT, LUXOR STYLE
1 cup tomato sauce (not Italian)
1 large onion, coarsely chopped
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 tbsp olive or canola oil
1/2 tsp cumin or to taste
1 large eggplant, unpeeled; equivalent weight in Japanese is okay
Chopped parsley, lots of it, to garnish

Slice eggplant into fingers, salt and leave to drain while you saute the onion and garlic in oil until transparent. Add onion/garlic and cumin to tomato sauce. Let simmer while you fry eggplant - preferably deep-fry - until crisp. Add to tomato sauce; mix; simmer for 20 - 30 minutes or until thickened. Salt and pepper to taste. Stuff into pita or directly into your mouth. Sadly, Egyptian pita is rarely available; if you find a source, treasure it. To give this a more Turkish twist, add a couple of glops of pomegranate molasses.

DELICIOUS SYRIAN FOOD?

DATELINE DAMSCUS: The entrance to the mosque is through a 1/4 mile long covered souk jammed with locals nd vendors of every item imaginable. At the end of the souk soars the massive remains of a roman temple, a half dozen 30' columns and facade still reminding us that Rome owned this neck of the woods 1900 years ago. But the enormous mosque - which incoroporates many Roman fragments - remnds the viewer of who's boss now.
We had to put on nondescript putty-colored robes, with hoods,  to enter the mosque. Instant anonymity! The outer walls are perhaps 45' high, the entrance portal 18' or so high, great double doors dating back hundreds of years. We removed our shoes, as required.
The main courtyard is nearly the size of a football field, the marble paving gleaming and smooth from millions of unshod feet. It's surrounded by an arcade of massive arches, all once decorated completely with spectacular mosaics; the remaining ones are magnificent and rival any in the western world (Ravenna's Byzantine ones spring to mind, but really can't hold a candle to these in either size or impact).
People roamed about, sat in the shade of the arcades; kids ran and screamed and tussled, women - resembling bundles of dark laundry in their voluminous robes - chatted in small groups. Men strolled around or sat with other men doing basically what the women did but looking far more comfiortable in their western clothes. Families - the fathers tenderly solicitous of their children, regardless of gender - congregated both in the courtyard or inside the huge building. 
As with most mosques, there are no pews or other seating, just thick carpet on the floors, and no illustrations or pictures, just a line of flowing arabic script high on the walls. Women ranged along the back wall facing the mihrab, which marks the direction of Mecca, to which all Muslims prostrate themselves.
In the center of the space was a large tomb, perhaps 10' x 18' x 10' high, enclosed with green glass, around which worshippers gathered and pressed their forheads. Green is the color of Islam. This is the reputed tomb of John the Baptist, regarded as a prophet in this religion.
Children played noisily everywhere. Mosques are not simply places to worship, but places to meet or relax. Except during services, they are treated much as a public gathering space. As children are a precious asset to any family, they are allowed great latitude in behavior, and more than a few brawls broke out while we were inside.
When we left, by a rear door, we were in the old souk, and faced with a wall of carpets (many made in India, for pete's sake), a fresh juice stand, a score of shops with scarves swaying in the light breeze, and an impatient string of cars waiting to pass.
I state this categorically: Syrian drivers are, in my estimation, the worst drivers on the planet. Bar none. The Syrian people are lovely, friendly, open, welcoming, smiling, happy and generous. A Syrian driver is absolutely the opposite: aggressive, impatient, indifferent to your fate as a pedestrian, unapologetic, willing to nudge you aside with their fender (yes! really!), foolhardy, addicted to speed under the most absurd conditions ( a crowded souk, for example, or a jam-packed intersection), and believes that he owns the very earth you walk on. The police seem to agree, which makes walking - or should I say jogging - in Damascus quite an event.
But to the most important thing: food. We were repeatedly told Syrina food was excellent. We read that Syrian food is excellent. We have made Syrian food at home and it is excellent. So what the hell happened to Syrian food in Syria? It is, except for the street corner juice or shawarma stands, dreadful.
We had dinner at what was purported to be the best restaurant in Damascus and, leaving aside indifferent service that would give any decent French waiter a seizure,  the food was mediocre, mostly flavorless, and noted only for its large portions.
We go to Lebanon next; now, that's supposed to be really good food. I can hardly wait!
SYRIAN STYLE TABOULLEH: mince two bunches of parsley. Put in a bowl. Chop two fresh tomatoes. Put on top of parsley. Drizzle oil over. Serve, if you dare.

JAYWALKING IN CAIRO

Being a New Yorker, I was almost born jaywalking. Little green men blinking at official crossings are not for me. I just jaywalked my way across Paris (nobody died), but lemme tell ya, kids, Cairo is a whole other story.
Why do we jaywalk? Impatience? For the thrill? Ornereyness? All three for me. I used to jaywalk down the center of the main street of my home town, three blocks at a time.
But six lanes of wildly erratic traffic of ancient, battered, dusty, wobbling cars - I swear, they wobble, staying in a lane apparently isn't an Egyptian thing - really makes me a bit nervous. But it's the only way I could get to the fabled Egyptian Museum (I had a date with Tut), so I practiced my twenty yard sprint on side streets and then made a series of mad dashesacross the fivelane traffic circle. A dozen sets of screaming tires later, I was at the museum, one of the most fabulous, dusty, jam-packed, poorly-maintained, unlabelled, dishevelled collections in the world.
But enough about kulchah, let's talk serious: food. I had ful for dinner, and it wasn't what I thought. It was a lumpy mash of fava beans - love favas! - in a small 5" pita bread. It wasn't bad, but I know we can do better, so  tomorrow I'm testing everything I see, even shawarma.
Wish me luck. I'll probably have to jaywalk again.
POST SCRIPT FROM BEIRUT: Museum buffs would swoon in the modest-but-perfect, pristine, fairly new, completely restored National Museum. Nearly destroyed during the vicious civil war, it is gloriously arranged, with signage in 3 languages including excellent English. Every single item is important (Cairo's is awash with everything they ever dug up all crammed together), best of its kind. The short documentary of the museum's war damage is heart-breakingand should be mandatory in every school in the world.

YOU CAN'T STEP INTO THE SAME RIVER TWICE...

Many years ago (don't ask) I enjoyed a number of light meals at Au Pied Cochon in the old Les Halles area of Paris. They were famous for their delicious ONION SOUP AU GRATIN, served hot enough to scorch, in generous pottery bowls. Rich with long-simmered beef broth and huge amounts of thinly sliced onions, it was topped with a thick layer of melted cheese which ran down the sides of the bowl in crunchy dribbles.
Today, I tried to stroll down memory lane. The casual atmosphere of the old days has been tarted up big time with tuxedo'd waiters, extravagant frosted glass centerpieces (three voluminous layers of fruits and stuff), and - oh, joy! - still the large bowls of french onion soup with a deep layer of cheese bubbling atop. It was fun to crack the broiled cheese and find the bread swimming amidst onions and broth. The broth, a scrumptious brown, was fragrant, the steam caressed my face like an old friend. I dipped the humongous, heavy silver soup spoon into the broth...
And the fantasy ended.
The  thin broth was ridiculously salty and could have been tastier. The cheese was great, but below it lay a pool of disappointment. It was, at best, mediocre, over-salted tourist food.
And the recommended wine - the waiter said it was dry - was flowery and almost sweet, and he served us  extra-large glasses instead of the medium ones we ordered.
Things change, sure, but why do they rarely change for the better? How difficult is it to combine onions, beef broth and cheese? Next Paris visit, when I yearn for authentic french onion soup, I will have to find a new place: Au Pied du Cochon is, regrettably, off my list.

Dateline: Loire Valley; France

While eating lunch, the French discuss dinner. While eating dinner, they discuss the next dinner. Or the quality of the food and wine they are presently eating [which can cause raised voices]. Or what they ate last night [clenched fists, dirty looks]. Or the merits of particular cheeses [family estrangements, marital breakups]. Or the best place to buy cheeses, sausages, meat, wine, bread, olives...

My hostess, Marie-Denise, is a wildly energetic cook and gardener, the producer of exquisite meals taking three to four dreamy hours to consume [and far longer to digest]. She's the kind of kitchen magician you think of when speaking of French home cooks. Last night she whipped up this delicious, visually pleasing starter in just 5 minutes. Best of all, this can be made 6 hours ahead and only improves with refrigeration. What more can a harried hostess want? Click to read more...

IT AIN'T EASY, MY FRIENDS

What an idea! What a concept! Stop sending chatty e-mails from foreign places about foreign food to a thousand of my closest friends! Instead, blog to thousands (hopefully) of new friends who might actually want to read my ruminations and recipes from the Taj Mahal or the Temple of Luxor, the Great Wall of China or the Eiffel Tower.
How hard could it be to set up a blog, I thought optimistically. After all, I can cook a five course meal - plus orduerves! - for 20 people without breaking into a sweat or murdering the veggies. I can whip up Chinese, French, Greek, Moroccan, Cuban and Colombian, Italian, chocolate, Turkish, and maybe a score of other cuisines. Blogs are, I was assured, a cinch to set up. A kid could do it! Just click here, and there, and...

Oops, jeez, what happened?  My scrambled eggs looked better than this screen! The vision and the reality just did not match...but that isn't anything new in my life.

If you are ever told how simple a blog is to set up, consider the source. I'm here to tell you it's totally counterintuitive (to me, at least), incredibly obtuse and frustrating.  Maybe the problem is that I'm not a kid? So, yes, this blog is a bit tentative and unfinished-looking, but it will improve. One of these days.
And the ruminations from the Sphinx, or the ancient stone city of Petra, or the oldest city in the world (that's Damascus, or so they claim), or the southern coast of Turkey will soon come your way...along with recipes that will make you think you've come along with me!