Haute Cuisine and Babies at Li Cwerneu

Ever so rarely, when special times occur, we dabble in haute cuisine in these pages. This time partner-in-crime/blogger Oleandri and I ventured south, into river Maas/Meuse territory. It was one of those rare summer evenings, balmy -in the water near the city of Huy, a water-skier towed by a boat performed tricks in the setting sun.
In Huy our stop was Grand'Place 2, where chef Arabelle Meirlaen and husband Pierre Thirifays skilfully hold the reins. At Li Cwerneu - old French from Burgundy times for the bell man, while savoring a 5-course menu of cuisine intuitive, we had a gastronomic evening.
En route, babies were our main topic. How big our surprize then upon discovering that babies and haute cuisine are greatly married in Huy. Even before our starter, a series of color, taste, and hand-picked vegetables and flowers, we heard a small baby noise from the kitchen.
When next we tucked in a Tartare de Boeuf Bleu Blanc Belge with wasabi mayo and Belgian caviar, we realized that chef, husband, fellow cooks and personnel in betwixt work were all tending to a very small infant.
What a feat for mom and dad of this 1-star restaurant, we marveled, while savoring cod with artichoke mash, peas and red beet. Dad's approach was so relaxed, we murmured. This topic stayed on our plates of veal from Corrèze and seasonal veggies.
Around our plates of cheese and sweetness, dad answered our most pressing questions. Was this a girl? Check. Was this a new-born? Two and a half. Did mom breastfeed? Check.
We really thought we had seen or heard it all by the time boxed sweetness and a cup of hand-picked calendula in tea were rounding off our meal.
Not so. The pièce de résistance came at the end: by contemporary means, we were all connected to a number one - a 25-month old. The owners here had more plates to spin than just cotton candy.

Meyer Lemon Mystique

May started with a frisson of emotion in a Californian garden: my first encounter with Meyer lemons, of Alice Waters fame. I stepped up close to a tree, and smelled the thick rind of a specimen freshly picked. The lady of the house does all sorts of things with them in her kitchen and isn't prepared to live in a country that doesn't have lemon trees in gardens. And I, I am left with a new desire: the desire to handle this fruit one day and be overwhelmed by its fragrance.

Two omelettes

Forget the ocean, though it's near. Forget the pizzazz of Silicon Valley. Sunny dust settles in the tiny farmer's town of Pescadero. The American flag stands exceptionally tall. At Duarte's Tavern, locals greet each other, greet the owners and have a second breakfast.
It's not yet eleven and too early for artichoke soup, though the kitchen is full of Spanish clatter. Pans sizzling and bread ovens warming up. I ordered the Mexican omelette: a perfectly folded thin omelette enveloping one long green pepper.
When I read Jason Epstein's account of making omelettes au bain marie, and over low heat, Duarte's omelette sprang to my mind. And when a friend gave me some very fresh eggs, I tried my hand at it.
As I prepared it without butter, my first attempt still ended up as scrambled eggs.
At Duarte's I had room left for Olallieberry pie, freshly baked and still hot. Thanks, Tea and Cookies, for luring me to the delights of Northern California!

Pheasant Extravaganza

Recently I wrote about Dutch pheasants which in snowy fields remain off limits for hunters. Their Belgian counterparts seem reckless any day.

Especially in my cousin's garden in mysterious Flemish river territory, which is an eden for birds. There is a natural swimming pool and food dangling from young trees.

Behind wall-size windows I was having coffee with two perfect bird spotters: my cousin's oldest boys. It was hard not to get tucked into the spectacle of birds landing and taking off. A few pheasants were seen in a distant meadow.

And then I nearly fell of my chair. There was "Hippoliet". "A big pheasant", my cousin's oldest son F. explained, and a regular visitor. Suddenly a bird of turkey-size proportion was seen near the water. A bird with a limp, but unmistakenly of regal demeanor.

With his parents' camera, F. deftly shot pictures. After I'd left, the super size specimen of fowl had made its way over to the terrace, so that the spectators suddenly had front row seats.

Thanks, F.!

This picture is the perfect interludium, as this blog is briefly moving its tents east of eden.