Food On A Shoestring Four: Terroir du Toulouse

There is a word in the french language that has been in the wine canon ever since the french told everyone French was the wine canon: terroir. With its root in 'terre' it links flavour to its place of origin. The soil of the vineyard, its weather, the grapes all contribute to the complex savour of the resulting wine. It's a fine, exacting word for the inextricable relationship between ingredient and its land, figs in the south of france, sardines in Algiers, olives in Greece. The sunlight that warmed them, the land and waters that nourished, all leave an indelible mark that the senses can trace. It's a wonderful concept, and has a ring of truth to it. But it also can be the smug reasoning behind the bullying food snob. 'Terroir' has an air of exclusivity: there is the right soil and the wrong soil, just as there are those who love to tell us we drink the wrong wine, use the wrong balsamic or make bread the wrong way (I like the 'needless kneading' thank you very much). Terroir has those in the know in and the rest of us are out.

I don't really see the point of exclusivity in food. It's beyond banal to point out that everyone eats, it's more interesting to see that everyone has a favourite food, a favourite restaurant, a meal they always cook in company or at weekends. We link food to our childhoods (my first memory is of grated cheese in Canada. Never mind I was in Canada, the cheese is what stuck.) we treat ourselves with it for an emotional boost, we share it with our friends and loved ones, whether they like it or not. The food memories I cherish most are of their time and place: I look back with childish enthusiasm for sandwiches on white bread with flora, kraft cheese slices and iceberg lettuce. I remember Lincolnshire sausages, runner beans straight from the garden and carefully separating the strawberry from the vanilla and chocolate in neapolitan ice cream. I remember the yellow light on my grandparents' kitchen in the mornings where they ate brown toast, the way the aga in my childhood home filled my bedroom with heat in spring, my mother's quiet satisfaction in her shiny new kitchen. I also to my chagrin remember Good Friday fish in pink sauce, the miserable smell of my prep school dining room, the feel of the hard benches and the dread in my heart at least once every school mealtime. Every human has matrices of food memories, domestic, pleasant or otherwise.

Last week I found a book in a Books for Amnesty shop on Gloucester road that probably shouldn't have taken me by surprise. Toulouse-Lautrec was a well known gourmand, eccentric and experimental, as devoted to food as he was to art, indeed to all aspects of life, but I was still amazed by The Art of Cuisine, a collection of recipes, both original and classic, collated and published posterously by Maurice Joyant, a gallery director with whom the artist shared a passion, not just for eating but for cooking and entertaining. The book's introduction notes one particular evening:

'In 1930, Vuillard (fellow painter and friend) told the story of a memorable and succulent feast held in about 1897 at Lautrec's home in the Avenue Frochot- a feast somewhat mysteriously cut short at the cheese course: "Follow me," the master of the house ordered his guests, and led them a short way to the apartment of his friends, the musicians Dihau. Hanging on the wall was a then unknown masterpiece of Edgar Degas, inspired by the orchestra of the Opera where Dihau played the bassoon. It hangs now in the Louvre.

'"There is your dessert," cried Lautrec, showing them the painting.'

This has put me in mind of the current foodie craze for supper clubs. Bristol is teeming with them, with bloggers, editors and punters all tweeting, texting and generally clogging up media with their accounts and opinions. I haven't been to one myself, though I am sending The Blonde to The Montpelier Basement later this month, part birthday present, part reconaissance mission. The mystery, the excitement of strangers meeting over food, the different locations emphasize the all round experience of eating, and not in a concept restaurant way. There is nothing elitist in a celebration, and the setting may heighten the experience (watch Olly Smith in The Secret Supper Club, it's genius. I must admit to a bit of a foodie crush) without the intimidation of a chichi restaurant designed by a Zen motorcyclist or whatever works right now. We are taking 'Terroir' and making it a stage set, and M.Lautrec is invited to observe, if he's available. I think he'd hold the greatest supper club of all.

The recipes themselves range from how to make the simplest sauces to cooking an entire leg of wild boar to the best way to cook squirrels. The latter is too good to miss from this post, as you shall see in the last sentence:

'Having killed some squirrels in autumn, skin them the same day and empty them. Roll them up in a piece of lard and let them brown with some good quality butter in a copper saucepan. When they are a good golden colour, salt them, cover, and let them cook on a very gentle fire.

'One must use no spice of any kind which might entail the risk of taking away from the animal its exquisite nutty flavour.'

I know. Recipe books don't come better than this in terms of reading. tempted though I naturally was by the squirrel recipe in April they quite simply aren't in season, so I allowed myself to be drawn to the slightly more accessible Leeks in Red Wine, or Poireaux au Vin Rouge. Here is the original recipe in full for those of you with several hours to spare:

'Peel a dozen or two leeks, leaving scarcely any green. Wash them, wipe them and dry them with a cloth.

'Into the bottom of a saucepan put a pound and a half of bacon cut in pieces and arrange the leeks on top.

'Moisten thouroughly with three quarters of red wine and a quarter of water. Above all don't blanch the leeks beforehand or else they will be soft. Add only salt, pepper and cloves. Let them cook gently for at least two hours, having covered the saucepan with buttered paper. At the end of this time the leeks will be cooked, rosy, and firm and the liquid will be reduced.

'Now in a long heat-proof dish arrange the leeks. Take some of the liquid which you will bind with an egg yolk. Garnish the dish all round and in the middle with rounds of Toulouse sausage previously lightly cooked and sprinkle all over with bread crumbs lightly worked with parsley.

'Let it brown and go on reducing in the oven so that the dish has a creamy appearance and the leeks don't swim about.'

'Do not add any onion, garlic, scallion etc., but only ordinary and cayenne pepper; strengthen with cloves.

'Use large leeks, 3 cups wine and 1 cup water. Use 3/4 cup of skimmed cooking liquid for sauce. About 1/4 cup bread crumbs and 1/4 cup finely chopped parsley. 300(F) oven about 20 min.'

Probably one of his simplest dishes, simplified further by me to make wine braised leeks and chicory, baked with Toulouse sausage and breadcrumb topping. Here's my version:

I trimmed, washed and halved three large leeks and threw in a spare chicory. Having fried up streaky bacon in the bottom of a deep, non-stick frying pan i added the leeks and chicory and let them brown on each side.

Then I added a 1 part water, 3 parts red wine, salt and pepper, brought the liquid to the boil then let it simmer for half an hour with the lid askew. In this time I put the oven on and cooked the Toulouse sausages, £5 for six from The Bristol Sausage Shop in St. Nicholas Market, and marvelous specimens of Toulouse sausage they are too. Use them in the classic sausage cassoulet for authentic south of France peasant food.

After the half hour was up I took out the sausages and removed the leeks, chicory and bacon to a small heat-proof dish and checked on the cooking liquid. The wine had reduced but I wasn't happy with the overall flavour so I cheated and sweetened it with 1 tbsp sugar, then reduced the wine right down on a high heat. When I was happy with the reduction I poured it over the vegetables, then arranged the sliced sausage on top. I know M. Lautrec uses the sausage as a garnish but i wanted this to be a full dish for hungry people.

Then came the breadcrumbs, enough to cover (leftover from the last batch of bread, sometimes I feel very grown up) with a small handful of chopped parsley. Into a 160 degree oven (150 fan) it went for an hour and out it came bubbling gently beneath the sausage and breadcrumb layer.

Served with lightly buttered new season asparagus from Source it was full, rich and delicious. I admit it wasn't entirely seasonal but I reckon I've found another comfort food dish . M. Lautrec would have approved of the setting as The Blonde and I sat at the table with wine and chatted about the day and life. A pleasant reminder that that every moment is an occasion depending on how you treat it.

Next week I shall go veggie, as this week I have most certainly contravened step 5 of Shoestring's laws, so do stay tuned.

TTFN