Working Girl Dinners Goes Moroccan!

RECIPE: Merguez Bake with Peppers and Couscous

I’ve said it before, but it’s worth repeating. My grandmother, my Mémé, was born in Casablanca, making her a teenager around the time of Rick’s Café Americain (if only Humphrey Bogart ever really lived there). She came to France as a teenager, but she still cooks the most amazing Moroccan food, and I am besotted with it. Whenever I go home to Florida, I beg her for her specialties–things I can barely pronounce and definitely can’t spell. But there is one thing that’s as popular in France as it is in Morocco, and that’ Merguez: the spicy lamb sausage I grilled up for Bastille Day. It’s perfect for Working Girl cooking because it’s slightly exotic, which makes it exciting, but it’s also so flavorful on it’s own, stuffed with garlic, harissa, spices like cumin and coriander–so you really don’t have to do anything other than put it in the oven, where it releases the most gorgeous, fragrant juices.

I love this simple bake, inspired by Nigella Lawson, who does a similar dish with Halloumi: I put Merguez and roasted red peppers on a tray in the oven. Meanwhile, I fluff up a pile of couscous. The sausage is intensely smoky and spicy, and the peppers are sweet, and the couscous is mild and filling. An effortless trip on the Marrakech Express! I promise–anyone can make this in minutes. Plus, learning to make couscous is a Working Girl must because it cooks on counter in five minutes with just hot water, and can be paired with anything as a quick side instead of potatoes, or pasta, or rice. If you want to fancy it up, scatter some fresh cilantro leaves over the top of each plate.

Merguez Bake with Peppers and Couscous
serves 2


  • 1 12-ounce jar roasted red peppers, drained and cut into strips

  • 1 teaspoon olive oil

  • ½ pound Merguez sausages

  • 1 cup couscous

  • 1 cup boiling water

  • Salt

  • Pepper

  • 1 small handful fresh cilantro leaves (optional)


Preheat the oven to 450°F.

On a small rimmed baking pan, toss together the sausages and red peppers, and season with salt and pepper.  Bake for 25 minutes, flipping everything over once.

Meanwhile, combine the couscous with a drizzle of olive oil, salt, and pepper in a bowl.  Pour the boiling water over the couscous, and cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap.  Let stand 5 to 10 minutes, then fluff with a fork.

Serve the peppers, merguez, and couscous together on the plate, and top with fresh cilantro for a fancy flourish!


If your supermarket doesn't sell Merguez, you can find it any any Middle Eastern or Kosher grocer--and sometimes gourmet shops.  If all else fails, just use another exotic and spicy sausage, like chorizo or andouille.

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Categories: 15 Minutes, Cheap, Easy, Eat, Main Courses, Meat, Recipes, Series, Watch, Working Girl Dinners

In Èze, Peillon, Biot

I have this serious preoccupation with the “village perché,” or the “perched village.”  Down in Provence, and towards the Riviera, there are all these medieval towns, perched like eagles’ nests on promontory mountainous rocks.  They are full of tiny, perfectly rectangular doorways with wood slabs doors, and footpaths made from the stones of the mountains that curve and go up and down and double back on themselves.  How quaint.  Tiny churches that you can tell the whole town once faithfully fit into.  Hanging gardens, terraces that jut out over the valley below.  It really is like having your head in the clouds–which we literally did when we visited Èze.  But the point is, I collect two things: visits to these villages, and pressed pennies (yes, it’s true!).  But if I see a sign for a medieval “village perché,” we have to go.


My favorite to date has been Les Baux, which I visited two years ago.  The sad truth is that so many of these villages, which once seemed to have been so self-contained, are now there for tourists.  At Èze, we saw a candy stand on the way up the mountain, and the cafés are not what you would call authentic–although, great coffee and crêpes were surprisingly available.  But the shops in Les Baux seem to actually offer something, and the views and scenery are straight out of Lord of the Rings.  It’s breathtaking.

EZE Clouds

Èze: A View of the Clouds

EZE Crepes

Lemon and Sugar Crêpes in Èze

EZE View 1

The view from Èze

EZE Trees

Gardens in Èze

EZE Street

The tiny streets of Èze

EZE Street 2

Isn't Èze quaint?

EZE Staircase

EZE Garden 2

Fantasy Gardens in Èze

EZE Garden 1EZE Flower Bush

EZE Flower Bush

A door in Èze

As for Èze, whose old castle is lit up gorgeously at night with floodlights, we had to go.  Just on the way home every night, we can see it, and of course, a perched village with a floodlit castle is like a siren’s call to me.  The day that we went was overcast, and once we’d marched up the mountain to the town, we were literally in a cloud.  The whole town felt even more insular that it already did.  But I think what struck me most about Èze was the little courtyard on the side of the mountain where the church was.  It was the kind of church that you know the whole town went to.  And it couldn’t have fit more than a couple of hundred people.  And outside, as in all French towns and city, was the memorial to the WWI dead of the town, with the WWII losses tacked on, seemingly as an afterthought, around the WWI list.  What struck us was the repeat of names: six from one Asso family.  My mom turned to me and asked, do you think that was the end of the whole family?  I just imagined what life must have been like in these tiny town, so recently untouched and almost medieval, and then to either have to leave to go out into such a scary world, or remain back and watch people leave from such a small, tight-knit community.  Well–as a New Yorker from this day in age, I don’t think I can really relate, and it was that distance that I found so special about Èze.  So much has changed so quickly.  Although, I did think to myself about how I had walked by my old NYC apartment building, where I grew up, and saw plaques on the garden wall to our neighbors lost on 9/11–and I thought, maybe things aren’t so different between a small town and a big city, or the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.  We all make communities for ourselves, and find ourselves in wars we can’t imagine having started.

Peille & Peillon

The next day, we drove to Peillon, a teeny, tiny village perché whose town ordinance forbids any kind of tourist shop–which has kept it perhaps a true village perché, frozen in time and place.  It was there that I found the answer to my mom’s question.  As we were touring the empty streets, if you can call them streets, I looked up into the metal window in a wooden door to see a kitten clinging mischievously to the inside.  I walked over to coo at it, and it jumped back into the house.  On the door, was a For Sale sign, by a certain couple by the name of Asso.  We looked at each other in shock–even though six had died in the war, two with the same first name, and one with a girl’s name, they had lived on.  True French resilience.

View from Peille and Peillon

PEILLON VillagePEILLON View 2PEILLON View 1PEILLON StreetPEILLON Street to SchoolPEILLON Lavender Jasmine

Peillon Kerry

It's me!

PEILLON FountainPEILLON Fountain 2PEILLON DoorwayPEILLON ChurchPEILLON Church SquarePEILLON Butterfly


BIOT Matelasse

Matelassé in Biot

And though I was inexplicably in a stormy mood, we carried on to Biot, where my mother likes to buy ashtrays.  It is a pottery stronghold, and if you are a smoker, which I am not, I suppose you will appreciate that they make special ashtrays that allow you to smoke outside without the ashes ever getting blown around.  Something to check out.  But there, I found gorgeous matelassé place mats and olive wood salad servers for my new apartment.  Because, I did hear Nate Berkus say that you should fill your home with beautiful things collected from your travels.  So I felt no guilt!

La Turbie

LA TURBIE Artichoke Salad

Artichoke Salad at Café de la Fontaine

LA TURBIE Mozzarella Tomato Salad

Mozzarella and Tomato Salad at Café de la Fontaine

LA TURBIE Lobster Salad

Lobster Salad at Café de la Fontaine

LA TURBIE Veal Provencal

Veal Provençal with Homemade Tortellini at Café de la Fontaine

In terms of eating between these villages, there was crêpes with lemon and sugar and café noisette (espresso stained with milk to the color of hazelnuts) in Èze.  In Biot, I took out a soggy slice of pissaladière I had bought at the boulangère in La Turbie–delish.  And then I bought a gorgeous tart, filled with a kind of pistachio frangipane, topped with fresh raspberries and the slightest drizzle of honey.  And then for dinner, back to La Turbie to the locally famous Café de la Fontaine, which has a changing menu.  I had veal stewed à la Provençal with olives and demi-glace, with homemade tortellini, and an artichoke salad.  It was there that I sat next to and spoke with a chef from a restaurant in Nice, but he was so long-winded, even more loquacious about food than I am, that I even grew bored and decided that’s a story for another time.

LA TURBIE Pissaladiere

My soggy, delicious, Pissaladière

BIOT Raspberry Tart

Raspberry and Pistachio Tart from Biot

LA TURBIE Fougasse

More Baked Goods from La Turbie: Whole Wheat Fougasse

LA TURBIE Pain au Chocolat

A delicious Pain au Chocolat

Café de la Fontaine: 4 Avenue du Général de Gaulle, 06320 La Turbie, 04 93 28 52 79

The bakery, Mr & MME Degot, is just down the street

Cap d'Ail Sign

This is why I wake up smelling of garlic in the South of France. It's so popular, they've named a little cape after it! Hilarious.

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Categories: Côte d'Azur, Provence, Restaurants, Voyages

Franglais: Zucchini Flower Fritters

RECIPE: Zucchini Flower Fritters
Zucchini Flower Fritters

Zucchini Flower Fritters

I promised a slew of zucchini flower recipes.  Here’s number two!

Get the whole story on The Huffington Post.

When I was in second grade, we had to make elevation-accurate plaster of Paris molds of our favorite continents.  I built, surprise, surprise, Europe, talking particular care of the Gallic region.  Sometime when I was attempting the Alps, this girl in my class, Christina, dipped a spoon into the plaster of Paris, and stuck the spoon in her mouth.  The teacher was apoplectic—nurses and poison control were called.  But when I asked Christina about it later, she just said to me, “What?  It was just like tuna salad.”

I love those moments where you go from thinking something is totally and completely inedible, to realizing that it is another delicious thing you can stick in your mouth.

I’ve had a few of these revelations.  Stinky cheese rinds (I used to think they were indigestible) to escargots (self-explanatory).  But none made me happier than the first time I ate zucchini blossoms.  They are like pale marigolds in color, like lilies in shape.  They sprout out like giant and wildly inappropriate headdresses on the end of young zucchini.  They’re not easy to come by in the States, but in Europe, where I am right now, they sell bunches of ten for a Euro.  They can’t get rid of them fast enough.  And I’m happy to oblige.

I’m recreating a Niçoise classic: zucchini flower beignets.  Every time I go to my favorite zucchini flower beignet vendor (yes, I have one) in Nice, they are sold out.  But the blossoms themselves are everywhere, and necessity is the mother of invention.  I whisked up a quick batter of water, egg, baking soda, and flour, and fried the flower fritters in olive oil, for Provençal flavor.  They puff up, and turn crisp on the outside, and slightly doughy within.  Traditionally, they are served with wedges of lemon, and salt.  Which is how I serve mine—and how you should consider serving yours.  The flowers add surprising meatiness, and a mellow almost-background flavor that tastes like nothing else.  Not like zucchini, and not like flowers.  Not like plaster of Paris or tuna salad either.  But rather like a fresh bite of a summer garden.  Hard to put into words, but not hard to put into your mouth.  They’re delicious.

Zucchini Flowers

Zucchini Flowers

Zucchini Flower Fritters
makes 12, serves 4

  • Olive oil for frying

  • 1 egg

  • 1 cup flour

  • 1 cup water

  • 1 tablespoon baking soda

  • Salt

  • 12 large zucchini flowers (see Note #1)

  • Lemon


Heat about 2 inches of oil in a saucepot over medium-high heat.  The oil will be hot enough when you dip the end of a wooden spoon in the oil, and bubbles rise up.

Meanwhile, whisk together the egg, flour, water, and baking soda, along with a good pinch of salt.  Dredge the flowers in the batter, and fry about 2 at a time (careful not to overcrowd the pan), turning once, until puffed and golden and cooked through: about 2 to 3 minutes.  Remove to a plate lined with paper towel, and salt the beignet.  Repeat with all the flowers, and serve immediately with cut lemon wedges.


1.  You can either dip the flowers whole in the batter, or split them up one side, open them like a book, and then dunk them, for a broader beignet.

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Categories: 15 Minutes, Appetizers & Hors D’Oeuvres, Eat, For a Crowd, Franglais, Recipes, Series, Vegetarian

French in a Flash: Tagliatelle with Zucchini Flower Pistou

RECIPE: Tagliatelle with Zucchini Flower Pistou
Zucchini Flowers

Zucchini Flowers

(I love this recipe!)

Get the whole story on Serious Eats.

I travelled to the southeast of France last weekend to visit my parents, and because they’re renting a little apartment, that meant a lot of home-cooked dinners. Although I normally like to eat out in France to get inspiration from the different menus and plates, there was something satisfying, spontaneous, and real about constructing something special out of little local finds—living à la française.

We took a drive across the Italian border to Ventimiglia where we heard there was a market. And there, I found my vegetal Holy Grail: zucchini flowers. The market was vivid yellow with them. All around, they were arranged in great bridal bouquets, sold for only one euro for ten flowers. I could have swooned.

In Nice, where I had been they day before, they serve zucchini flowers on the streets as fried beignets in a batter that’s doughy but still crisp. In addition to those, I also made my own version of another dish I had had in Nice the night before: Tagliatelle au Pistou—wide, fresh pasta tossed in a very intense, garlicky pesto. Instead of basil, I used squash blossoms, mashed with garlic, olive oil, and walnuts. Made with fresh pasta from the Italian market, flowers just cut from the plant, intense garlic (if you’ve ever been to the South of France, you know how intense), and walnuts with a woody flavor like none I had ever had before, the result was spectacular—mellow, vegetal, and nutty. Even my pistou-hating stepfather ate half the pot. If you want to make something different and feel a little breeze from the Riviera, try this.

Tagliatelle with Zucchini Flower Pistou

Tagliatelle with Zucchini Flower Pistou

Tagliatelle with Zucchini Flower Pistou
serves 4

Tagliatelle with Zucchini Flower PistouINGREDIENTS

  • 500 grams or 1 pound fresh tagliatelle

  • 14 large zucchini flowers

  • 12 walnut halves

  • 1 clove garlic

  • 6 tablespoons olive oil

  • Salt and pepper

  • Parmesan on top


Bring a large pot of water to boil, and salt the water.  Separate the strands of pasta, and drop them into the water.  Cook according to package instructions, careful not to overcook the pasta (it should take about 2 to 3 minutes to cook).  Reserve a mug full of starchy pasta water, and drain the pasta.

While the pasta is cooking, roughly chop the zucchini flowers, garlic, and walnuts.  Put them in the food processor with the olive oil, and season with salt and pepper.  Blitz until you have the smooth consistency of a pesto.  Add the pistou and the tagliatelle back to the pot, and moisten with two spoonfuls of pasta water.  Toss to coat the pasta in the pistou, adding more pasta water if needed.  Serve right away, with grated good Parmesan to sprinkle on top.

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Categories: 15 Minutes, Easy, Eat, French in a Flash, Main Courses, Recipes, Series, Sides, Starches, Vegetarian, Vegetarian

Cool Summer Salads: Fresh Chickpea Salad with Red Onion, Parsley, and Lemon

RECIPE: Fresh Chickpea Salad
Fresh Chickpea Salad

Fresh Chickpea Salad

Having a hearty meal without turning on an oven or stove or toaster or even a campfire in the summer is utter joy.  This salad was inspired by a restaurant my grandfather used to take me to in New York: Divino, on Second Avenue.  My grandfather was a grand man.  He knew everyone, and they knew him, and he shook their hands.  He would dress to perfection, always a touch too formal.  He had his hands manicured, and he wore the slightest whiff of cologne.  He drank Absolut on the rocks, and took my grandmother on far-flung cruises.  And he cared deeply about family.

Divino was, and still is, although it has changed, an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, near where I grew up.  In the back of the restaurant was a large round table, nestled into a booth that was nestled into an alcove in the wall.  The restaurant had burgundy carpeting, and the banquettes were upholstered in the same color.  The tablecloths and napkins were cream, and the silver was heavy.  There would be piano or accordeon music.  Like my grandfather, it was very grand.  And when we went, he always invited my uncles, and aunts, and it made a big and merry party.

What I loved about Divino’s as a kid wasn’t what I always ordered (fusilli marinara).  It was what I didn’t order.  The waiter came around with a huge basket of breads, bread sticks, focaccias, and pizzas.  He came around more often when I was there (some things never change).  They brought plates of bruschetta, biscotti, and cold salads.  One was this chickpea salad, full of red onion and parsley, and lemon, and olive oil.  That salad, and getting to sit under that round table on the plush burgundy carpet, is what made Divino’s such an experience.  When I make this salad, as I often do, I think of my grandfather, and of grand days, in the old New York of the rich ’80s.

Fresh Chickpea Salad Zoom

Fresh Chickpea Salad
serves 6

Fresh Chickpea SaladINGREDIENTS

  • 3 cans chickpeas, drained and rinsed

  • 1 small red onion, finely diced

  • ¼ cup roughly chopped flat leaf parsley

  • ¼ cup extra virgin olive oil

  • Juice from ½ lemon

  • Kosher salt

  • Freshly cracked black pepper


Toss everything together in a big bowl.  Marinate for a few hours or overnight, covered, in the fridge.  Transfer to a serving bowl, and serve proudly!

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Categories: 15 Minutes, Appetizers & Hors D’Oeuvres, Cheap, Easy, Eat, For a Crowd, Recipes, Salad, Soup & Salad, Vegetarian

French in a Flash: Salmon en Papillote with Cherry Tomatoes and Rosemary

RECIPE: Salmon en Papillote with Cherry Tomatoes and Rosemary
Salmon en Papillote with Cherry Tomatoes and Rosemary

Salmon en Papillote with Cherry Tomatoes and Rosemary

Get the whole story on Serious Eats.

I don’t like summer, but it’s getting to the point where I don’t entirely hate it either. It’s that blissful redeeming moment of the season when the tomatoes crop up. Fat red baubles strung onto the vine. Little yellow tear drops. Jolly heaving heirlooms. Suddenly the fact that they’re fruit makes sense. I don’t stop myself from popping them into my mouth like sweet-tart bursting grapes.

This is a simple dish, the type that I’m becoming more fond of, especially during summer when I’m hot and harried and never in the frame of mind to make myself any hotter. Tomatoes are usually paired with basil, but rosemary matches so beautifully with salmon that I performed a sly swap. I rub with salmon with just a drizzle too much olive oil, spiked with chopped fresh rosemary. Pack it in a parcel with those ruddy cherry tomatoes, and bake until they burst. The salmon gives off its own distinctive juice, which mixes with the fresh, mildly sweet and tart juice of the tomatoes and the fruity, almost thick olive oil. The freshness of the rosemary almost acts like mint, imparting a clean bite that reminds me of just-washed wood floors. And the fact that it all stews together in a parchment packet that you can just then throw away—well, not that this dish needs saving grace, but I think I just found one anyway.

Serve it with a bright and lemony fresh salad, and some crusty bread. Just as good outdoors as in.



Salmon en Papillote with Cherry Tomatoes and Rosemary
serves 4

Salmon en Papillote with Cherry Tomatoes and RosemaryINGREDIENTS

  • 4 8-ounce boneless, skinless fillets of salmon

  • 1/4 cup olive oil

  • 2 teaspoons chopped fresh rosemary

  • Kosher salt

  • Freshly ground black pepper

  • 20 cherry tomatoes, halved


Preheat the oven to 500 degrees F.  Tear off 4 large rectangles of parchment paper or aluminum foil.

In a small bowl or a glass, mix together the olive oil and rosemary, and season the mixture liberally with salt and pepper.  Sit 1 salmon fillet on a piece of parchment, and pour 1 tablespoon of the rosemary oil over the fish.  Using your hands, rub the fish in the oil, and top with 5 halved cherry tomatoes.  Fold the parchment (or foil) into a sealed packet, and place on a large baking sheet.  Repeat with the other 3 pieces of fish.

Bake the parcels until the fish have cooked and the tomatoes have burst, about 12 minutes.

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Categories: 15 Minutes, Cheap, Easy, Eat, Fish, French in a Flash, Main Courses, Recipes, Series

In Menton & Ventimiglia


Crazy Italian Zucchini

Crazy Italian Zucchini in Ventimiglia's Market

Fresh Capers

I've never seen fresh capers before...

Zucchini Flowers

Bundles of Zucchini Flowers for Just a Euro


Orata, Stuffed with Lemons, and Roasted with Salt and Olive Oil for Dinner

Today was all about shopping.  But not like in Nice, where I was hitting the summer sales at my favorite French high street shops.

We drove across the border to Italy–not far away.  And immediately, the world changed.  Everything, the buildings, the people, even the shore, became more abundant, and more run down.  It was still in the midst of the morning chill when we pulled up to a shady piazza in a town called Ventimiglia, near the sea.  Before us stood the huge square of an indoor market, about which we had heard great things.

The market did not disappoint.  Everywhere were those darling little sweet white peaches that are flattened out as if God had accidentally sat on the first one, and they had never recovered.  I love those peaches.  Huge, thin zucchini that twirled this way and that like overgrown fingernails.  Heirloom tomatoes in large teardrop shapes, ridged as if swelling with pride.  There were cheese stalls, where my parents haggled to taste every tomme in the place in search of some mythical cheese that had bought and couldn’t find again.  We tasted shards of sheep’s cheeses, and cow’s cheeses, and goat’s cheeses.  That wasn’t such a bad activity.  Butchers with whole rabbits and chickens.  A fishmonger with langoustines and enough mussels to make my previous attempts at all-you-can-eat mussels seem pretty feeble.  I bought an orata, which I’ve been noticing on a lot of New York menus.  Scaled, gutted, and gilled before my very eyes.  And then, my most precious find: zucchini flowers.  I love them, probably most, frankly, for their rarity.  They are only in season in the States for a second, blooming off the ends of the summer squashes and zucchinis.  I sometimes find them at the Union Square Farmers Market, or at Whole Foods, but they are exorbitant–sometimes a dollar per flower.  In Nice, I mentioned yesterday, they fry them up in beignet batter, and serve them with lemon wedges as street food.  There’s something about getting a diamond for the price of a lump of coal.

Bright gold and frilly, they were beautifully bound in bridal bouquets.  I bought two.  Because I could.  They were only a Euro for ten.

Italy Old Typewriter

A Beautiful Old Typewriter, like the inspiration for the "blog" illustration

Italy Flight Mask

Italy War Helmets

World War Helmets

Italy Pocket Watches

World War Pocket Watches

On the way back to the car, we ran into what I suppose you would call a flea market.  Not like the flea markets I see in Florida–new things that are bad and cheap.  But a real flea market, full of old things excavated from someone’s attic.  Where you might really find buried treasure.  Each stall promised something different.  My mother bought a beautiful real old necklace for Mémé.  I saw a mesmerizing old typewriter, much like the one that inspired the illustration for this “blog” page.  I love that clackety-clack sound they make as you write away.  There was all kinds of junk, too.  Old dolls, which terrify me.  Heavy marble boxes.  And gorgeous relics.  Real ivory daggers, and leather-sheathed sabres.  Imagine the romantic histories those must have had.  And somewhere amidst it all–a vintage Arizona license plate.

Soon, I came upon a stall that I still can’t make sense of.  Since moving to the UK for school a few years ago, I have come to see that Europe still has not let go of the World Wars.  Much as we still are haunted by our Civil War.  It is part of our everyday conscious.  Except, the World Wars were much more recent.  Sometimes, I think Mr. English himself considers what our food would cost in terms of wartime rations.  And he’s 27.  But it wasn’t until this flea market stall that I felt how heavy the weight of the wars still hang here.  The table was covered with helmets.  I don’t know if they were WWI or WWII–maybe even a mix of both.  A pilot’s mask that looked too near a gas mask to make me comfortable.  Helmets that had clearly encased the heads of boys younger than me, and that could have found there way to this table mostly by one twist of fate: they had died.  One was so badly rusted, that I thought maybe, just maybe, he had got away without it, for a farmer to dig up in his muddy field 50 years later.

The helmets were eerie, but that wasn’t what frightened me.  On the table, next to them, were pins, insignia, all the things that soldiers wear on their uniform to signal whose side they play for.  And then I remembered what side Italy was on in the war.  All the insignia were Nazi.  A few USSR, but other than that all Nazi.  And in my life, I have never seen a real German swastika.  In movies, of course.  Even carved into a park bench.  But somehow it was different.  And what struck me was that while the USSR also represented something sinister, their insignia was bright and imperial, almost cheerful in red and gold.  The Nazi insignia were dark, almost gunmetal in color.  And there were even skull pins to go along with them.  Sculls and crossbones etched into belt buckles.  It was consciously, knowingly dark.  It frightened me, and captivated me.  Because on one side, I had the helmets of innocent young boys, on whatever side they had fought, that filled me with a protective love and empathy, and then the purposefully sinister and nearly terrifying face of the Nazi party.  It put things into a perspective that I never really fully registered before.  So much so that I swore to publish the photos I took on this blog, and to even buy one of the paraphernalia, to lock in a safe, and to use as proof and a reminder of what can happen when we let horrors run amok.  I thought carefully about both, and decided to leave both where they were–unpublished and unpurchased.  There were just so many of them–it reminded me of the piles of dog tags you can find in Vietnam.  And next to them, a pocketwatch emblazoned with the Star of David.  What stories you could find it those relics.  Among all the colored artifacts you got the sense that this was some video game come to life, or some large-scale football tournament.  Except it wasn’t a game, and it didn’t “come to life.”  I was life.  The only comfort I found was a Red Cross bag, and this being Italy, I wondered if it could have been Ernest Hemingway’s.

Menton Bruschetta

Bruschetta in Menton

Menton Crêpe au Sucre

Crêpe au Sucre in Menton

Leaving the flea market, and crowds, and run down buildings behind us, we raced across the border to France.  We had a quick, light, but delicious lunch in Menton of bruschetta and crêpes.  Later that day, I decided to use my Ventimiglia purchases to write the recipes for this week’s columns.  I made zucchini flower beignets, fried in olive oil, just like in Nice.  And a zucchini flower pistou with the best walnuts of my life, tossed on fresh Italian tagliatelle.  I stuffed the orata with lemon and olive oil, and charred it under the broiler.  It had the whitest, sweetest meat.  And a carrot salad, with that spicy French Dijon mustard (why is it never that spicy back home?) and walnut oil.  It was a feast, because after a day like that, you have to stop and celebrate life!  La vita e bella.  La vie est belle. And from the terrace, in the cool of the evening, overlooking the bay of Monaco, life was very beautiful–and delicious–indeed.

You’re definitely going to want those recipes, so as the columns go up, I will republish them here, so check back!  As for the fish, this is my recipe for roasting a whole fish: buy it gutted, gilled, and scaled.  Preheat the broiler.  Rub a good amount of olive oil all over the inside and outside of the fish.  Season the inside and outside with salt and pepper.  Stuff the inside either with sliced lemons or a big bouquet of fresh thyme.  Put the fish on a baking tray lined with some aluminum foil, and it sit it close, but not directly under, the broiler.  Cook 6 to 10 minutes on the first side, then flip the fish for another 6 to 10 minutes on the other side.  You will know it’s done when the flesh is opaque and flaky.  I make whole fish at least once a week–it’s cheap, and so much more delicious than any other way of eating fish.  Don’t be intimidated!  So what if you make a mess while eating it?  Just watch out for the bones…

For more travels through France, explore here:

Paris Provence Côte d’Azur


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Categories: Côte d'Azur, Voyages