Let's Start at the Beginning

 
After more than two years away from home, and numerous half written stories about adventures in France and life in a tiny Spanish village, I am going to start at the beginning.

I know Sweden cannot compete with the romanticism of Southern Europe. With the information we are fed at home, when thinking about Southern Europe, we may conjure up pictures of year round sunshine, an abundance of fine wine and food, and of course people whose main priorities in life are to enjoy these things. We may imagine they have the work / life balance figured out just right. Family is at the core and work does not dictate life’s priorities. The numerous religious festivals serve as an excuse for a week off from work to dance and indulge in cervezas.

If asked to describe the characters of these people we may use adjectives such as passionate, sociable, impulsive and hot blooded. My own impressions so far, are more or less in line with these stereotypes. This is perhaps why I have struggled to write anything I feel is interesting or original about my time in France and Spain.

 For most people I talk to, the choice between a story from southern Europe or Sweden is an easy one. Like being asked which would you prefer: a three course meal, starting with a bowl of the freshest mussels, steamed open in a broth of white wine and garlic, to be followed by a Beef Daube where the slowly cooked beef is so tender it melts in your mouth leaving just a hint of orange on the palate and finally, Madame can I tempt you with a selection of our regions tastiest cheese and fruit pastes or perhaps you would prefer the house special, the chocolate fondant, a decadent dessert with a molten chocolate centre? Or would you simply prefer a jar of slimy pickled herring? Bit of a no brainer.

Or...

Tough choice

We hear so little about Scandinavia from home. Those without fear of exposing their geographical ineptitude, may venture a few tentative guesses; IKEA, high cost of living, polar bears roaming the streets, relentless cold and the only light source, the illuminating blonde hair on the heads of all the blue eyed beauties. The general conclusion (even to be found in guide books) is that Swedes are a humourless and distant people. The recent popularity of Stieg Larssons brilliant but chilling novels probably hasn’t done a lot to promote tourism to the area either.

I confess to not knowing much about Sweden until I arrived. However, as I had no intention of being left at home, while my then boyfriend went on a boys trip around South America, I accepted the first of the many jobs I applied for on the internet. I didn’t care where I went; I was just desperate to leave first! Not that I admitted my ignorance to anyone, scornful of those who confused Sweden with Switzerland, including my boyfriend who reassured me that I would be fine in Sweden with all that Swiss chocolate. In fact I doubt I could have even pointed to where on the world map I was, until at least three weeks into my stay.
I hope this convinces you of how truly underrated and wonderful this part of the world is, if not to persuade you to visit it yourself one day, then at least give you an idea as to why a three month trip lasted more than a year. 


Excuse the preamble, but I should explain how I found myself in a Swedish kitchen.  From a young age I had a passion for cooking. However, I was always fully aware that it was to be more of a hobby rather than something to be taken seriously as a path to the land of grown-ups; hence the not to be mentioned, failed attempt to study something respectable at university. I don’t mean to implicate my father in the aforementioned crime of: formerly high achieving daughter, drops out of Law school and coincidently the Real World, leaving parents to try to explain to family and friends, what exactly it is she’s up to (lets plead insanity, far tidier no?). But this passion certainly wasn’t inherited from my mother (I’m sure she feels she’s failed somewhat, in setting an example, in finding the perfect husband. If it’s any consolation I think my sister has that lesson well in hand). I’m afraid it has to be said it comes from Dad, who—with his love of fresh home grown food, curiosity with new styles and habit of spending hours in speciality stores searching for treasures from around the world to experiment with—always had an exciting, delicious and lovingly created meal on the table, even after a hard day’s work on the farm and with the added challenge of accommodating the finicky whims of teenage girls.

So the obvious and sensible course of action while waiting for a bruised ego to heal, would be to enrol in a course for culinary arts, gain a formal education and take it from there. Or you could take an audacious shortcut and tweak your CV just enough to convince the owner of a restaurant to let you run their kitchen. I left home with a few merino thermals, my shiny new knife, one cook book and an astonishing amount of ignorance.

If this muppet can pull it off...

Slice of Heaven ; Part II

After much protestation, my parents finally convinced me to join them on one of their weekly bike rides.They, along with a group of friends have taken up bike riding over the past few years, taking advantage of the many tracks around Hawkes Bay. I on the other hand have developed a strong aversion to anything exercise related. However considering the state of affairs between myself and my Wii Fit trainer, a bike ride didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

                                               Heading towards marine parade

The ride starts at Clive river where vehicles can be left for the day. From here riders can either take a left towards Napiers marine parade and continue as far as the airport or right, where the tracks take in the picturesque scenery all the way out to Te Awanga beach. Over the course of two weekends we took in both routes. With a number of other bikers out enjoying the spring sunshine, it’s easy to see the potential for these tracks to generate a bit of tourism for the region. My parents particular style exercise involves stops for ice cream on the marine parade or coffee at Clifton cafe. Before stopping at the turn around point for a quintessential New Zealand packed picnic lunch of muffins, bacon and egg pie and coffee from a thermos. Good company and Hawkes bays stunning vistas. If only all exercise was this appealing.

                                                          Refreshment station

                                                       Refuelling              

While up in Napier we used the opportunity to pop into Vetro,www.vetro.co.nz a great little shop around West Quay, Ahuriri. Here you can find a great supply of Mediterranean and European, as well as local products at a decent price. It’s well worth a look if you are in the area. On this particular day we were after Italian Prosecco, for a Guy Fawkes BBQ.

I’m not sure anyone in New Zealand really knows nor cares what Guy Fawkes is about, other than a great excuse to throw a party and legally blow things up for one night of the year. I love the casual approach to entertaining in New Zealand. Could there be a better term than everybody ‘bring a plate’, to sum up the way in which we entertain? Well with Dad on the BBQ and everybody else having brought a plate, nobody could have complained of hunger before heading out to light the fireworks. It has to be said this year the fireworks were a little disappointing, what ever happened to those sky rockets of the early 90’s?

The night was topped off with huge slices of rich chocolate cake, sandwiching sweet, black cherries and whipped cream.

                                 

               The beautiful Alex with a cake good enough to bring tears to the eyes

This also marked the end of my trip home, which felt far too short but which has left me with a new appreciation of how good we have it in our little corner of the world. I may be biased but for me there really is no place like home. xxx

A Slice of Heaven

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.
I’m unsure where I stand on this one. I have recently returned home to New Zealand, after two and a half years away. With the hope of returning to Spain I left behind all my lovely warm winter clothes and packed clothes only suitable for a tropical holiday. Somewhere along the line I must have confused the tropical, idyllic New Zealand I had been falsely marketing to other travellers with reality. Perhaps absence in this case has made the memory a little blurry.


However weather aside (it is improving) the past month spent at home has served to reminded me of all the small things that make this such a great place to grow up.
I tackled the cold issue by donning a fetching pink polar fleece onsie and planting myself in front of the kitchen heater. To my joy I discovered it was possible to function through each week without actually having to extract myself from the suit. To fill in time between meals and to add a sense of purpose to my days, I embarked on an intensive regime of kick-boxing, step aerobics, jogging, yoga, bubble balance, hula hooping and sword fighting. Replenishing energy with delicious meals courtesy of dad. I had intended to remain in the beloved suit for the duration of my stay,late last week an unfortunate accident soon put paid to that idea. The relief in mums eyes was evident ( as was the horror in my sisters , kind lender of soiled suit)  Having read all of Nicky Pelligrino’s fabulous books and after falling-out with my Wii fit personal trainer, I conceded it was time to start venturing out a bit (and perhaps bathing a little more regularly).


With mum on a girls trip, in a house boat, up the Murray river, Dad suggested a trip out to the beach was in order. Having spent every childhood summer out at Pourerere , no beach I have visited abroad since can compete. It is typical of the wonderful rural beaches all over the coastline of New Zealand. Few houses, no cell phone coverage, long stretches of sand ,great crashing waves and an abundance of seafood!
                                       

                                               Em with a giant Kina


I have memories of us kids helping dad get the nets in early morning, taking what we wanted and putting the rest back. Natures own fish market. We would then sit down to a breakfast of fish so fresh, all that was needed was a quick dip in egg, fry in the pan in clarified butter and a squeeze of lemon.

My father is a bit of a hunter gatherer like many kiwi men. However he has really perfected the art of catching crayfish ( spiny rock lobster to those non-kiwis). I am yet to hear of any method to rival his, in success rate or speed. It’s a simple method which requires little attention to tides or weather. In fact dad hardly gets his hands wet. Suffice to say I wont be sharing exact details of this method but I can offer a few clues. The first may sound unfeasible but proven – beer. The second is slightly harder to obtain but may be substituted with store bought equivalent- a dozen eggs laid by your own free range chickens.

                                                               

                                                               The bait
                        
                                 

                                   …..?


We really are spoilt here in New Zealand. Our rocky coastlines are abundant with this delicacy and  the average kiwi can indulge year round, while our fishery laws ensure the supply is not depleted. Those who do not fancy getting wet, or who are not good friends with a diver, can look to pay between $100 –$200NZD a kilo!
Whatever the preferred method of acquirement  may be, few of life’s pleasures match a meal of fresh crayfish. There are countless recipes available, but for me nothing beats a cray straight from the pot, plunged in cold water to arrest the cooking process. Then cracked with your fingers, starting with the legs, prising the succulent meat from the shell and dipping it in either vinegar or a marinara sauce. To avoid unnecessary  tension, it is advisable to cater for one cray per head, as I for one cannot bear to share, not even with my nearest and dearest. I also strongly advise against encouraging the uninitiated to try even a little mouthful. 
With a successful gathering expedition from Dad, our night at the beach was spent watching rugby with the heater on full power, wind howling at the door, bottles Hawkes Bay Pinot Gris and freshly caught and cooked crayfish.
Simple perfection

                                                                 

                     Could there be anything better?

San Sebastian; A Gastronomic Paradise

It was while planning a trip to St Malo, where I work as a cook for a lovely British family holidaying there, that a friend asked me to accompany her on a foodie’s research trip to San Sebastian. Was I interested in two days of sampling as much as this city has to offer? Well if it’s in the name of research…

To work in an Andalucían kitchen can be somewhat discouraging, especially in a small conservative village. The clientele at the restaurant is mainly expat English or tourists. Like the local Spanish, they know what they like and aren’t particularly open to change. So while it hurts to include the likes of beer battered fish and chips on my daily menu it is undeniable that dishes like these are some of our best sellers.

However, I have found the variety of available produce in the region is limited - anything unusual is picked up either at the coast or by request to friends arriving from overseas. So by falling in love with a dashing Spaniard and deciding to make Montejaque my home, I couldn’t help but feel I was doing myself a disservice in terms of culinary growth. I was definitely not unhappy with my life there but I couldn’t help but feel there was something I was missing; I was yet to fall in love with Spain.

This all changed the moment I stepped foot in San Sebastian. It was love at first sight or amor primo de vista, in Spanish. I’ve been abroad for a while, and I’ve become a bit jaded after visiting numerous cities, each one beginning to seem more or less like the last. So to arrive in a city and find it answers your hearts song completely, is a wonderful revelation. To have only 36 hours there struck me as being very unfair!

August in San Sebastian is peak tourist season and finding a room, let alone being able to afford one, on a traveller’s budget, is near-impossible. I was lucky to be able to stay with a Spanish family for the two nights I was there which also gave me the chance to interact with locals.
Basque people will go to great pains to distinguish themselves from the rest of Spain. And the difference between the people of San Sebastian and Andalucía is immediately obvious.
Andalucíans have this incredible hot blood. They wear their passion on their sleeves. To look at they are what all romantic fiction heroes are made of - dark and smouldering, luscious hair, dark eyes framed by thick dark eyebrows. This is Hemmingway’s Spain, the land of matadors, flamenco and fiestas. Women will show you what it is to be a woman, and the men will make you feel like one. It’s a beautiful region, with a passionate people, but I have never really relaxed here, there is a slight air of danger. The lack of this feeling hits me immediately on arrival in San Sebastian; it is what helps me put my finger on the source of my discomfort in Andalucían cities.
      Searing Andaluz Passion, or is it the next Mills and Boon cover

So who are the Basque people? Aside from having an extra language from the rest of Spain, in appearance you struggle to single them out among the crowds of tourists, a large proportion of whom are Spanish and French holidaymakers. However, according to one Philadelphian girl who was our guide and who had been living there for a year, the Basque are known for their dark hair, deep-set eyes, skin typically a lighter shade from their Andaluz cousins, and more interestingly, a big nose and long earlobes!
The people here are more open, immediately accommodating and laidback. Perhaps it’s the sea breeze blowing in from the Atlantic, or is it the lack of obnoxious tourists typical of the Costa del Sol. A feeling of being at ease and safety sweeps over you the moment you set foot in San Sebastian.
                     Lovely Rebecca in front of the beach

So how to spend limited time and budget, in a city with so much to offer? With my culinary inclinations, the answer was easy.
Michelin-starred restaurants? This city has one of the greatest concentrations of Michelin stars per head of capita than anywhere. It is also famous for its pintxos, a Basque version of tapas. The distinction is well deserved as here in the Basque country they have transformed this style of dining into an art form.

So forget the Michelin restaurants. Instead head to the old part of town where you can happily hop from bar to bar sampling all the delights on offer, the Basque word for this activity is txikiteo. With each dish just a mouthful and rarely over the €3 mark, there is no need to worry about food envy or anxiety over ordering the right thing, you can have them all! And sample them all we did. Begin your Txikiteo on Calle 31 de Agosto and from there follow your nose and you can’t go wrong. Each bar has its own distinct personality, and house speciality, ranging from those with hanging legs of Iberico ham served simply atop a slice of bread, to the more seafood inclined bars with bacalao and boquerones galore.

Don’t be afraid of the crowds, this is usually a good indicator of a bar worth visiting. Dive into the good-natured crowds until you find your way to the front, where you can either shout your order or simply employ the universal language of pointing. Be sure to order the txakoli, a white, slightly fizzy and very moreish wine, to wash your pintxos down with. Include in your sampling a few of the more simple looking dishes on offer, they are often the most memorable. Once you have had your fill and settled the bill, be sure not to linger but allow the next lot through, and continue to the next bar your senses lead you to. Be warned though, although most other bars are friendly and accommodating (even to the extent of allowing two mad kiwi girls behind bars and into kitchens) , if you attempt to charm your way into one of the gentlemen’s cooking clubs, expect to be roughly escorted out with a torrent of abuse in Spanish


                          Pouring the txakoli from height to aerate                         Muscling our way behind the bar
Although we weren’t disappointed with any of the bars we visited, there are a few particularly outstanding places that really must not be missed. The first is Fuego Negro, a bar with a more avant-garde style. Sample the pickled pig’s ear with a tiny scoop of mole or avocado, crab and liquorice in the form of a trio of frozen delights.

  A Fuego Negro: Black Liquorice, Avocado and Crab
However, the battle for the favourite is between Zeruko on Calle Pescaderia and La Cuchera de san Telmo, on Calle 31 de Agosto. What you notice first about the former is the painstakingly perfect presentation of the vast array of pintxos on display. Squeeze your way to the front, and allow the friendly staff or fellow diners to guide you in your selection. So unpretentious is Zeruko that you can expect to help yourself to cutlery from behind the bar, have a peek in the kitchen and engage in lively conversation with the charming staff who are only too happy to help. Everything here is good, but you must try the bacalao, a salted cod which arrives on its own miniature grill and burning coal where staff will instruct you to smoke it yourself for 30 seconds before placing it atop a herbed crème fraiche blini and downing it in one, finishing off with a palate-cleansing herb shot. Try the pistachio crumbed croquetas, the apple and goat’s cheese bruschetta, the miniature quail egg toad in a hole, the pork cheeks, the smoked eel…. actually you will need to extend your trip, call in sick at work and dedicate three days to making your way through every item on offer here                                           

                                                              

 Zeruko: Smoked salt cod, with herbed emulsion and shot.

                                                             Zeruko: Apple and goats cheese bruschetta              Zeruko: Bacon wrapped banana on figs                  

I thought Zeruko had ruined me for any other bar and was set to call it a day. However, a friend had insisted we visit La Cuchera, so we did. It is a small, lively and crowded bar. We were nearly put off by the crowds, fearing we would never get served. However, the crowd here was well versed in tikiteo etiquette and we barely waited long enough to look at the menu. At this point I should mention that until I arrived in San Sebastian and in particular this bar, I had been a vegetarian for the last four years. My fall off the wagon was spectacular. Strictly in the name of research, I ordered the seared foie gras and apple compote, so rich, buttery and delicate and the braised beef cheeks, so melt-in-the-mouth tender, that any trace of guilt was pushed aside by an overwhelming gluttonous need for more.

         La Cuchera de san Thelmo: Seared Fois Gras with Apple compote

Our evening and unfortunately the trip was concluded all too soon with one final stop at a street side gelateria, where the little remaining space was filled with crème Catalan gelato.

It was short but oh so sweet San Sebastian, you have stolen my heart. I shall return