The Poor Man eats well in Croatia, a market island hop, the Croatian islands.

Posted on Aug, 2012 by mira goes to market

The Poor Man eats well in Croatia, a market island hop, the Croatian islands.

It’s before breakfast and I dive into the clear blue sea, wade out half a mile or so. There are several islands (1100 of them to be exact) in the not too far distance, their craggy, moonlike surface is dotted with pines, wild flowers, even agave trees. Ahead of me stands a medieval town, where old timers have come out to their windowsills to shake their kitchen tablecloths and inhale the morning seaside air. A church from the Byzantine times looks down at the many cobbled alleyways, where cafés, restaurants, small stores have been set up amongst ancient portico’s and walls.

I climb out of the water, dry off and head down to the harbor. Fishermen are beginning to unload their catch of hand harvested mussels (the best way to do it) red mullet, squid, sardines. My new friend, Marco the aspiring Casanova and boat taxi man calls me over, and we spend a few minutes joking around and telling tales of where we’re from and what we’re doing there.

We’re in the Adriatic Sea, in the Croatian Islands to be exact, where the medieval meets the modern and where which I am not surprised to learn that the Romans, Illyrians, Byzantines, Venetians, even the French and Austro-Hungarians have all tried, to get their paws on this bit of island paradise.

I first visited the area when I was a seven year old, and remember a large seaside hotel that was owned by one of my father’s friends. The walls were decorated with taxidermied animals, which kept my brother, and I amused for the afternoon. Platters of grilled meats and freshly caught fish were served, as was a fish stew that the adults marveled over (yet us kids kept away from). The cheese came from the sheep that lived further inland, and the olives were picked from the ancient trees that dotted their orchards.

Back then, tourism was new to this area, and it was mostly people from the Former Yugoslavia, and neighboring Austria and Germany that would mostly vacation here. Now, I hear English, Russian, Dutch, and Italian amongst Croatian. The place has adapted well to the change with various types of accommodation available from luxury hotels, to self-serviced apartments (many in people’s homes), and larger islands have a camping site. Travel is safe, easy, roads are excellent, and island hopping from one island to another via the ferry system (regular, reliable, well priced) is a great way to get around.

Whilst Croatia has accommodated to the increased tourism, what has changed little (and thankfully so) is their approach to food. In Rab, just off the Northern Croatian coast, my husband chanced upon the morning market tucked away in a back alley near the old town’s main square. Feisty Baba’s cornered and cajoled me into buying their, tomatoes, the sweetest yellow peppers, figs, bottles of home brewed Rakia. There was also a large section of freshly caught fish for sale. The produce that was being sold here as well as eaten at the restaurants, came directly from what had been caught that morning, or from the vegetable patches, orchards and vineyards maintained by the islanders themselves.

The food is simple, and can be described as deriving from the cuisine of poverty. For example, the fish that is typically found at the bottom of a fishermen’s net (and was often thrown away by commercial fishermen or bought by the locals) like squid, anchovies, sardine has inspired many of the local dishes, and today, instead of just the islanders eating this, gourmand’s from near and far can’t get enough of it. Similar to the stew that I sniffed my seven-year old nose at, fish stews (or brodet) and then cheaper cuts of meat such as sweetbreads, tripe are no longer the cuisine of the peasant, but are now widely used, even popular as evidenced on many of the pricier restaurant menus found both along the coastline and even further inland.

Yet from a history of lack, the people here know how to make do. Nothing is wasted, fish and meat alike is marinated, grilled, roasted, bones used for stews, stock. Stock is then used in bean stews, in other casseroles. Excess fruits and vegetables are dried, preserved (or used for the ubiquitous Rakia) or pickled.

Asides from the morning market, there are also several small outdoor market stalls in Rab open all day long selling fresh fruit and vegetables and, particularly useful for the many self-accommodating tourists.

We take a boat trip around some of the nearer islands, including Krk, and sail into of more private coves where bare-bummed yacht owners play chess, barbecue fish; dive off into the aquamarine never-never.

A narrow, but smaller island lies in the distance,

“What’s that place?” I ask the captain.

‘Oh that’s Cres, small place, nothing happens, don’t go there, it’s a bunch of villagers.”

“Sounds perfect,” I think to myself.

Cres is a small treasure find. It’s a picturesque, slow-paced and charming place. Like in Rab, Cres has morning markets where one can find freshly caught fish, but also several street markets selling fresh fruit and vegetables late into the night.

We’re near the Italian coast, so approaching olive oil country. Before dinner, I walk into a store to buy some gifts and the owner insists I join him for a Rakia (seems everybody insists I join them for a Rakia). He then also insists that I return later for him to meet my husband. We do so, and are joined by a merry Slovenian, where more Rakia is taken out. Why isn’t customer service back home a little more like this, I wonder?

As we move West towards Rovinj in Istria, the landscape, a little of the language as well the food begins to change – Italian is spoken by many people, and the food is spicier, more olive oil is used, and as it’s truffle country, this too is evident in the pasta’s, omelette, sauces. The market in Rovinj is a colorful open air space at the edge of the Old Town, steps away from the large Valdibora Square.

Maneštra or Pasulj

A traditional meal of the Istrian area, Maneštra (a bean or spring corn stew) has been eaten in the region since ancient times, yet a similar soup is eaten across the Baltic, with ingredients changing from place to place. In Istria, the Maneštra, we had was served with white beans and cured sausage, yet here I have relied on my families recipe of Pasulj, a kidney bean soup which can be vegetarian or non, (depending on whether you want to use some smoked bacon). Either way, it’s really healthy, full of fiber, and depending on whether you soak your beans over night, can be made in less than half an hour. A traditional poor man’s meal which tastes like a rich man’s dish.

Ingredients:

1 large or two small cans of red kidney or cannellini beans (or alternatively 2 cups of beans soaked over night)

1 cup of diced carrots

1 large onion chopped finely

4 tablespoons olive oil

2-3 cloves of garlic chopped finally

2-3 bay leaves

1 tablespoon of paprika powder

1-2 tablespoons of tomato paste

1-tablespoon flour

A knuckle sized piece of smoked ham (buy at Balkan specialty stores) or ham hock/ham bone with a little ham left on it (optional)

Method:

If your beans have soaked overnight, rinse these and then season a fresh pot of water, add the beans to it and cook until tender. Stir occasionally and remember to skim off any scum that accumulates on the surface. Drain and then use.

Sauté onions, garlic in olive oil until translucent. Add carrots, and season with salt and pepper, sauté for a few minutes. Now add beans, mix through and add enough water, allowing for about an inch and half space from the surface. Add bay leaves and the ham and cook until carrots and ham are cooked through (about 20 minutes) and then stir in tomato paste (optional).

To thicken the soup, in a separate small frying pan, warm 2 tbsp. oil, add the paprika, and mix though, now add the tablespoon of flour and quickly mix through, making sure not to over heat as the flour will crumble, it should resemble a thick paste. Add this to your soup. Season again if necessary. If using the ham, take it out, shred and top each bowl with a little bit.

Mixed grill fish

A mixed grilled fish platter is one of the typical menu mainstays in Croatia. Grilling whole fish is easy, delicious and old Nemo looks better whole. Have your fishmonger, de-bone it and clean out the insides. Rub in a little chopped herbs, garlic and olive oil in the belly, and cover with foil. Place on grill (or under the broiler in a pan, without the foil if you don’t have an outdoor barbeque). Grill under medium heat for about 10 minutes each side, turning over once (for more exact times click here).

Once you have delectably picked the bones clean, keep them and the fish head to make a stock.

To grill prawns, scallops and squid, rub them with a little olive oil, season with salt and pepper and grill for about 2-3 minutes on each side. Season with lemon.

For sardines, have your fish monger clean them for you, or alternatively with a small knife, split them open belly side up, carefully clean out their insides, season with salt and pepper (do not chop off their heads – that’s the best bit). With some paper towel dipped in olive oil, wipe down the grill and fire it up to medium heat. Grill your sardines a few minutes on each side. Season with more lemon juice, or a little olive oil infused with minced garlic and chili.

Arrange all of this on a platter, serve with quartered lemon wedges, open up couple of bottles of cold pivo (beer) or crisp white wine. Finish with a shot Rakia, go to sleep, dream of sailors and mermaids.

Izvolte i Prijatno!

Mamma still makes spaghetti, the markets of Rome, Italy

Posted on Jul, 2012 by mira goes to market

Mamma still makes spaghetti, the markets of Rome, Italy

There are no chairs left, so I order a macchiato, and stand at the counter. I join a small group of older market stand owners, mostly men, who never having grown up drinking water, are fighting off the afternoon heat with a glass of cold white wine. It’s the end of the day, so produce is being sold off at lower prices, covered or packed up. There are two slot machines at the side of the counter, and whilst back home in North America, the image of a woman alone, standing at a bar and playing pokies could be seen as tacky, not here. As if confirming this, my husband and son walk in, and exclaim in unison ‘what are you doing?’

The Colloseum

Local Roman sight: Fontana di Trevi

This it Italy, the land of La Dolce Vita (or The Sweet Life), where men aren’t afraid to openly tell a woman she is beautiful, where women old and young still look like ladies, where mamma (not the Pope) is revered, and spaghetti and pizza are not treated like the carbohydrate anti-Christ, but are prepared with a simple finesse and eaten with gusto by all.

Mercato Trionfale is down the road from the Vatican City, a large under-cover space where you can find everything you need for the Italian kitchen. I spent a full morning in there, and as we were on the move on an almost daily basis, picnic supplies such as buffalo mozzarella, home-cured sausages, hams, freshly baked bread and fruits of the season such as figs, the juiciest grapes, peaches, quickly made their way in my shopping bags. What was particularly refreshing about this place, was that as prices were low, the market was full of the average Signor and Signora, as well as students, and nearby office workers stopping in to do their daily grocery shopping. Refreshing as I find that many Western markets are becoming so over-priced, and attract only a certain type of moneyed market goer, making the actual idea of a market- a common place of trade and commerce unaffordable to most people. Refreshing also, as I found the markets of Rome sold some of the best produce I had eaten anywhere, but sold without the airs and graces that seem to cropping up in many farmers’ markets stalls.

Across town, I go to Campo Dei Fiori located in the Piazza di Campo de Fiori, Rome. The square is bordered by a number of small grocery stalls and a couple of restaurants and cafés. A great looking place, yet obviously orientated towards tourists; pasta, spices and olive oils were being sold alongside souvenirs.

Sitting down to a restaurant meal in Rome is an enlightening experience. Firstly, nobody raises an eyebrow about children being brought along; restaurant tables all over Rome are full of kids and their parents, and often their uncles and aunties, their cousins, grandparents, and on several occasions, we counted four generations dining together. I made a point to see whether the Italian food as we know it best in the Western world, i.e. Pizza and Spaghetti are as common as they are back home.

Pasta anybody?

Listening to dietary warnings, about empty calories and weight gain, I cut down on the pasta and rice intake years ago, so was pleasantly surprised to see young and old still tucking into plates of spaghetti and slices of pizza at every sit down. What was different was the simplicity of these meals, spaghetti with a simple pesto or tomato sauce, cooked al dente and in the very best olive oil. Then there was the lightest gnocchi which I had once with octopus, another time with a bolognese sauce which my seven year old swapped with me for his burger (without the bun!).

In actual fact, pasta is eaten at every meal. A typical Italian dinner will start with an appetizer such as a plate of antipasto to share, or a vegetarian option (my favourites were zucchini flowers with ricotta or fried potato croquettes). This is then followed by the ‘first course’ which is typically pasta, and if you’re still game, the ‘second course’ is either a meat or fish dish with a side. As for pizza (we must have had at least one a day) – the lightest crusts, the freshest, simplest toppings, as opposed to the culturally unrecognisable, super-sized ‘pies’ which have you running for the alka seltzer (and the couch!).

Keeping these things in mind, it doesn’t surprise me that the Slow Food Movement had its origins in Italy. The Italian plate respects the Slow Food Movement’s three-pronged approach of being Good, Clean and Fair. Whilst this approach extends beyond gastronomy to agriculture and food production; the very fact that the everyday Roman benefits from accessible prices for food, that Italians are protecting their national gastronomic heritage, and produce is both seasonally abundant and fresh gives testimony that whilst the Italians prefer to keep to their gastronomic origins (as opposed to opting for a more multicultural diet) they are doing something very right.

Back in Canada, and still having unpacked, we go out for a quick meal at a ‘family restaurant’. The place is advertising a new kid’s meal, ‘Spaghetti Coockooricko’ a strange hodgepodge of egg noodles, peas, chicken fillet, swimming in a béchamel type sauce. I think back to my last meal in Rome, a simple spaghetti pomodoro (Spaghetti with tomato sauce), and consider that even though I may not be in Rome anymore, I’m going to continue to do as the Romans.

Spaghetti Vongole (spaghetti with fresh clams)

Spaghetti Vongole

One of my favourite meals was a simple spaghetti with clams, or Spaghetti Vongole. Whilst he is obviously not Italian, Jamie Oliver’s passion for all things Italian are well known, so I have included his recipe here. If you don’t like clams, skip them and just add more tomatoes.

Buon Appetito!

Click here a full list of markets in Rome

Mira goes to market is nominated for Versatile Bloggers Award!

Posted on Apr, 2012 by mira goes to market

I have a confession. I almost ditched this blog a few weeks ago. Not because I didn’t enjoy doing it, I actually love doing this, but the big WHAT FOR question started to crop up after about the fifth or sixth post. Staring a blog can be a solitary pursuit; it’s quite a bit of work which pays nothing, and when friends coyly admit,

“Ah your blog! Well, yes. It’s great, it was about tomatoes right?”

“That was the first one back in September, there’s been five or so since.”

“Oh!! Well, you know, um, well like, I plan to read it, but it must get lost in my newsfeed.”

Not that I get upset about friends not reading my blogs, I actually really like catching them out with the SPRUNG card, but I figured, if I silently stop blogging, nobody would really notice that miragoestomarket has gone. But as it turns out, the other week I got stopped in the Chinese grocers by an acquaintance who had shared a recent post of mine and who was told by several persons “They love the way you write.” Then there are the faithful followers who never fail to comment, share or write back to me personally, to them I am really grateful. Most recently, I began to exchange with other bloggers from all around the world, which has probably been the most rewarding thing about it all. Today, one of these bloggers, Acorn in my Kitchen nominated me for WordPress.com Versatile blogger award.

I found Acorn in my Kitchen only just recently, after having seen a link to a video on the markets in Madrid posted on his blog. He also has some of the most exquisite recipes I have seen on a food blog. Thank you Acorn, I am really very touched. When nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award, bloggers must follow certain rules including:

If you are nominated, you’ve been awarded the Versatile Blogger award.

Thank the person who gave you this award. Include a link to their blog. Next, select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly, and nominate bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award. Include a link!

Finally, say 7 things about yourself.

Here are my fabulous 15:

7 Facts about myself

I write about markets around the world, and although I have visited several on four continents of the globe, my favorite is still the Adelaide Central Market, back home in Australia.
I love eating Octopus. My friend Dina’s mum who originated from the Greek Island of Kos, first made it for me. Dina was one of the first people who taught me how to cook.
I learnt to read with The Secret Garden.
I once left $10 in a poor man’s jacket. I hope he wore it again.
Another person who taught me to cook was my Great Aunt Bosa. She was a cantankerous old Serbian woman who convinced me that I would be eaten by the Baba Roga if I didn’t behave. Sometimes, she’d serve me chocolate peppermints and blackcurrant syrup with a little homemade wine.
I love the beach. I miss the beach. One day, I will live near the beach again.
I am disturbed by houses that contain neither books nor music.

Marché volants de Paris, The Roving Food markets of Paris, France

Posted on Mar, 2012 by mira goes to market

Marché volants de Paris, the Roving Food markets of Paris, France

“Claude clapped his hands at the sight. He found something extravagant, crazy and sublime in all the jaunty vegetables. He insisted that they were absolutely not dead but, after being pulled from the earth the day before, were awaiting the next sunrise to make their farewells from the cobblestones of Les Halles. He also claimed to hear in the market the death rattle of all the little gardens on the outskirts of the city.” The Belly of Paris, Emile Zola.

The Square in front of Les Halles, Victor Gabriel Gilbert

Zola’s novel was set in and around the legendary Parisian market, Les Halles in the late 1850’s, and so vividly evokes the old Paris market place, that as I turned the book’s pages, I was sure I could smell the pungent aroma of aging cheeses, hear the chop of the butcher’s cleaver, taste the newly picked strawberries.

Back in the day, one fifth of Paris relied on Les Halles for their weekly grocery shopping, yet the market, which was in need of major repairs closed in the 1970’s. There’s a common saying in France, that “You can buy almost anything in Paris, without going into a store.” and today, Paris still enjoys a vibrant market culture, with some 75 neighbourmarkets spread across the 101 or so arrondissement (or administrative districts). Open on different days throughout the week (Check here for the complete list ), vendors set up their open-air stands selling fresh fruits and vegetables, cheeses, fish, meat, as well as wine and flowers. The market places are also a great place to kick back and relax, and many of the larger markets, such as the Rue Cler market, are surrounded by cafés and restaurants, where you can watch the market world go by.

France is known as the gastronomic capital of the world, and it is no surprise when considering how important the market is in a daily Frenchman’s life. The bulk of the produce sold at the markets directly come from French farms. France has a diverse climate and benefits from both vast expanses of agricultural land as well as the sea’s bounty to both the North and South. France is also very proud of its regional cuisine, from the fragrant herbs of coastal Provence, the richer, slow cooked stews of Bretagne and the spicier, Spanish influenced dishes from the Basque, cuisine is respective of it’s home terrain.

Unlike in other countries, a French farmer or fisherman is a revered profession, as the French place a high degree of importance and emphasis on their national produce. Whilst of course the country is experiencing pressures from the increase in industrial farming, there is protection for farmers and France is currently the largest beneficiary of farming related subsidies from the European Union.

French cuisine varies according to the season. Now with the start of spring, shellfish are becoming more and more common in market stalls, and oysters are in abundance. In summer, the markets come alive with fresh fruit and vegetables, and by September, when the hunting season begins, game of all different kind, including pheasant, partridge, rabbit, duck are taken home from the markets and then dressed up and feasted on like a prize.

Everybody has a take on why the French enjoy some of the world’s finest cuisine. In my own point of view, I think it’s largely because the French treat food simply – they respect ingredients, they use what they have on hand and keep to what they know best (and they do this fabulously well). Neither are the French fond of trends – whilst they’ve adapted to the times and the passing of haute cuisine has been replaced by the healthier, lighter nouvelle cuisine, you are not going to find complex, deconstructed, unpronounceable menus. But you will always find the juiciest stake, the flakiest pastry, the freshest salad, and you will rarely be served a bad wine, the wine will suit the meal and the wine will be affordable – it’s a must!

I’ve been to Paris almost annually and sometimes biannually since moving to North America and asides from feeling guilty over eating way too many chocolat éclair, I’ve never been disappointed with anything I ate. My favourite time of the day is l’heure de l’apéritif, which is essentially happy hour, and was spent at one of the many outdoor bistros in Paris and usually includes a shared platter of charcuteries ( a selection of patés, cured meats and hams, some pickles), which always goes well with a refreshing glass or two of either Kir or white wine.

So in honour of the apéritif, and the advance of the Northern Spring, I went down to our local market and put together a small selection of charcuteries for a dinner party we had last weekend. Included was some Jambon de Paris (Parisian ham), an Ostrich and maple syrup paté, Saucisson (cured sausage), some Chorizo, a bowl of cornichons (tiny gherkins) and of course a baguette. As it turned out, by the time I came out with a glass of Chablis, the eight kids we had over had practically eaten it all up, so back to the kitchen I went for top ups. Bon Appétit!

The mother of all markets, La Boqueria market, Barcelona, Spain.

Posted on Dec, 2011 by mira goes to market

The mother of all markets, La Boqueria, Barcelona, Spain

Juan Antonio: Well, now that the day’s almost over, is it reasonable of me to ask you if you’ll both join me in my room?

Vicky: Oh, come on, I thought we’d settled that.

Cristina: Vicky’s just trying to say that she’s engaged to be married, that’s all.

Juan Antonio: Great. Then these are her last days of freedom.

Vicky, Christina, Barcelona, 2008.

It’s Christmas holidays 2008, the fire is roaring, and I am curled up in bed with a bowl of popcorn and Woody Allen’s latest. Although I love Woody, I didn’t choose the movie because of him, neither was it the idea of spending a couple of hours in the exquisite company of Xavier, Scarlett and Penelope. No. It’s only December, and given there’s another four months of freezing cold weather to look forward to, I’ll watch anything that has the words “summer” or “heat” typed across the DVD back cover. I travel a lot. During 2007 and 2008, I must have made at least 15 cross-Atlantic journeys, that is not to mention the many European layovers I had on the way to various African countries. But by the end of 2008, I just want to stay at home. My husband calls me blasée “How many people do you know have the opportunity to visit all these great places for free?” he says. He’s right, I have become blasée, yet spending an average of 12 hours per-day in air-conditioned conference rooms, whether its Paris or Ouagadougou during your short time abroad, isn’t much fun. I watch the movie and am taken aback, not so much by the story, but by the stunning scenery of mountains and beach, of the beautiful people sitting outside in the sun, serenaded by Spanish guitar. By the end of the movie, I definitely want to go to Barcelona and I want to go soon!

A few weeks later, and back at work, a surreptitious e-mail arrives from my colleagues abroad, “The next strategy meeting has been organised in Barcelona, Spain to coincide with the Global…” I RSVP without reading the full message. Not only is the trip scheduled in the middle of the Canadian winter, I will have two whole weekends on either side of meetings to visit the city. I start jumping around the house “I am going to Barcelona. I am going to Barcelona. Me, myself, Barcelona!” My husband rolls his eyes. Over the next two years, I return three times, and would still go back in a heartbeat.

Described as the sexy sister to the more subdued, yet elegant, Madrid, Barcelona greets you fitted out in Gaudi’s finest. She’s flirty, in your face, and like Juan Antonio, a little sauvage. The capital of Catalonia, she rests her head in the mountains, yet her feet dangle in the Mediterranean.

A bit of Gaudi

Cathedral

Barcelona has everything I like in a city, including great weather, palm trees (more fun is always to be had with a few palm trees around), a local beach, good-looking and friendly locals. The idea of boutique shopping or simply enjoying a coffee in amongst the labyrinthian remains of Roman walls in the Gothic quarter, can’t be found just anywhere. On top of that, you can visit local wineries, museums, or just kick back and enjoy life going by with a glass of cava and a plate of pintxos (the Catalonian equivalent of tapas).

As for cuisine, Catalonia has established an international reputation for mixing innovation with tradition. In 2009, Barcelona topped the list of the ten best gastronomical cities in the world by the American TV network MSNBC. Chef Ferran Adrià has spearheaded the gastronomical deconstruction movement, and influenced chefs as far and wide as Tokyo, New York and Sydney. Yet at the same time, the far-out mixes easily with tradition in Barcelona. What I really love about Catalonian cuisine, is that you instantly get the impression that this simple, yet delicious food is being enjoyed by everybody. I saw little kids munching on cod-fish fritters, old and young sharing plates of patatas bravas, calamar a la plancha, ladies lunching on thinly sliced pieces of Iberian ham, yet construction workers enjoying the same in their sandwiches. No matter where I looked, it was obvious – young or old, rich or poor, people were chowing down on the same thing. Not only that, but there seems to be little need for any slow food movement here. Barcelona relies on what she’s got: an abundance of sea life, the Mediterranean weather ensures a perfect climate for growing a diverse range of fruits and vegetables, and of course, the nearby rolling pastures are a haven for keeping livestock. All this combined, ensures a diet that is diverse, delicious and healthy. Although there must be fast food restaurants in Barcelona, I don’t remember seeing any, instead of the ubiquitous Starbucks or MacDonalds found on almost every second corner in North America, here there was either a little restaurant, or a Bodega serving fresh, mostly inexpensive, local food.

And of course where else to do a quick Captain Cook of the cities culinary spoils but the local market? La Boqueria is a gastronomic kaleidoscope that seems to go on for a small forever. Upon first entering her front doors, you are greeted with tables and tables of fresh, colourful fruit juices including guava, kivi, coconut, or just good old orange.

If you find yourself in Barcleona, you have to try the addictive Iberian jamon, which is a salt cured ham made from the black Iberian pig, which roams in the nearby oak forests. Then there are the sausages, both fat and skinny whose kinks can go on for miles. As I looked up at all this food, I couldn’t help but wonder how I could get some of this booty home and over Canadian customs? Needing a kick start? Stop for a cortado, which is a short, strong coffee with a splash of frothy milk at one of the several cafés that border the market.

How to get some of this past customs?

Trotters and snouts

Mention must be made about the fish. As far back at the medieval times, fisherman have fished off the coast of Barcelona, and fish and seafood play an important part in both the economy and diet.

On my first visit to Boqueria, my old colleague and friend Natalie (who also took the fantastic photos for this blog) stopped with me for lunch at one of the counter-bar restaurants in the market, where watched as our selections of calamar a la plancha, some cod fritters with a spicy aoili, followed by bit of grilled sardine were prepared right in front of us. We continued our fishy exploration later that day and dinner included a memorable plate of octopus and brown lentils at a funky, little Bodega in El Born district where we stayed until closing time, before going out dancing (only to be woken up the next morning by the hotel concierge, long after check out).

With the demise of the historic central markets such as Les Halles in Paris or the old Convent markets in London, La Boqueria is probably the last bastion of Europe’s larger markets. The actual origins of Boqueria (much like the origins of Barcelona) remain unknown, yet most Catalonians will agree that prior-to establishing itself in its present location on La Ramblas, Boqueria was once a travelling market, it’s stall owners moving where produce and customers could best meet. One thing is certain, La Boqueria, like many markets around the world which are instrumental in bringing together people for trading, has been important in the founding and growth of the city and its actual location can attribute to the growth and increased development of Las Ramblas, a kilometre-stretch of pedestrian mall which stretches from the Gothic quarter to the harbor.

Market music

I ate all sorts of things in Boqueria and in Barcelona, but I have included two recipes here which I brought home and have now made a dozen times, these are: Patatas Bravas and Cod fritters. I think the poor potato has lost a few fans over recent years, yet Patatas Bravas (translated as bad-tempered potatoes) is a dish I am certain will become a household favorite. Cooked on high heat with both olive oil and butter, infused with basil leaf and unpeeled garlic, the aromas quickly entice. Cod fritters, are another popular pintxo, and I have included these here as cod or any firm white fish can be found almost anywhere. These dishes are great eaten with some roasted peppers and accompanied with some ice-cold beer or some spanish red wine.

And lastly, if you have been fortunate enough to visit Boqueria recently, don’t forget to cut a few slices of that sausage that somehow made its way from the market stall and into your pantry at home!

Patatas Bravas (or bad-tempered potatoes)

Ingredients:

3 tablespoons of butter
4 large potatoes, peeled, and cut to 1-inch cubes
4 cloves garlic,whole, skins left on
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
3-4 bay leaves
1 1/2 tablespoons Spanish paprika
1/2 cup Ketchup or chilli sauce
1/2 cup (4 fl. oz) mayonnaise
1 cup olive oil for frying

Method:

Cut up your potatoes into one inch pieces, pat dry and then season with salt, black pepper and the paprika. In a large skillet, melt your butter and and heat the olive oil and then then fry the potatoes for 3-4 minutes, ensuring to turn over on each side. This process will make the potatoes crispy, but will not necessarily cook them through. Turn down the heat, add the bay leaves and garlic, put the fry pan lid on and then keep cooking until potatoes are done inside. Stir occasionally to ensure they don’t go soggy.

Patatas bravas, depending on where you eat them are either served with a tomato puree-type sauce on top of them, or with an aoili. I find the easiest way to serve them is with a mix of ketchup or chilli sauce and mayonnaise stirred through together. If you don’t like ketchup, make up a quick aioli with a bit of mayonnaise, some minced garlic and a splash of lemon juice.

Cod fritters

Ingredients:

400g of potatoes

200g of cod fillet

1 egg yolk

2 cloves of garlic, minced

salt, pepper

oil for frying

Method:

Peel, cut up and boil the potatoes until soft. Mash up and season with a little salt and pepper. Cut up the cod in small pieces.

In a large bowl, mix the potatoes, cod, egg yolk, and garlic and with your hand, form little inch-sized balls. Fry until gold brown and serve with some aoili for dipping.

For more information on Boqueria, visit the market website at:

http://www.boqueria.info/

Getting over the Juju with Groundnut Stew, Kenema town market, Sierra Leone

Posted on Aug, 2011 by mira goes to market

Getting over the Juju with some West African Groundnut Stew

“Gail, please tell your young friend to quieten down until she leaves this country, otherwise she could get herself into trouble, very big trouble.”

The warning came from Sister Teresa who ran the local orphanage, about a ten minutes drive from our guest house, which I had been sharing with Gail, a very attractive American woman in her fifties, Heidi a cranky Dutch Doctor and my boss, Amir another Doctor who was on his first mission out of his native Bangladesh. I had caught typhoid, and had spent three days in bed alternating from excruciating stomach pain, slipping in and out of consciousness and battling fever, yet Sister Teresa wasn’t convinced it was typhoid, she had told Gail that I had been purposely poisoned, or worse still that I had the Juju – a spell cast over me.

It was March 2003, and we were stationed in Kenema, a small mining town, a bumpy seven-hours drive out of Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone. I had arrived there in the middle of the first scale up efforts of post-war assistance and would be developing a small health-financing scheme in Kenema’s district hospital and health centres. My scheme meant that by charging patients a small fee, the health centre staff could be able to afford to take home a salary, purchase much needed supplies and equipment as well as put a little aside to be able to exempt the poorest of the poor from paying. Health staff in developing countries earn very little. For example in Sierra Leone, a Nurse would earn on average of $20-$30/month, yet would often not see this money for several months at a time. To supplement their income, they would operate their own private clinics, work additional jobs or ask patients to pay them directly – the fee ranging from the reasonable to the ridiculous. This of course caused even further problems, and prevented the very poor from seeking medical treatment. On top of that, it’s a common fact, that developing country government administrators like to take their cut, so my NGO’s attempts to put some type of transparency into the system, wasn’t exactly welcome news to the powers that be.

It was my first time in Africa, and the feeling I got from flying over the Saharan desert was the same as that initial feeling I experienced when I first stood in the grounds of a remote Cambodian hospital, three years earlier. That almost out-of-body, BIG feeling which I can best describe as a state of grace, or having found your “path”. It hadn’t been an easy few months for me, after two years of living in Asia, I had moved to Québec to be with Philippe, yet although I had applied for residency status, almost a year later nothing had been settled and I was getting antsy just playing house. We had also recently married. Although I certainly raised a few eyebrows amongst family and friends for practically abandoning my new groom at the altar, the stress of moving to Canada and waiting for permission to start life again had taken its toll, so to Africa I went.

In 2004, Kenema was a dirty, dusty, arse end-of-the-world type of place. A diamond mining town; yet the jewels must have gone out as fast as they came in, as I never saw any evidence of those shiny, hard numbers. It was a year after the war, but it was still relatively dangerous, with regular shootings and robberies; the nearby base for the UN peace keeping force, UNAMSIL, a close reminder that things could still get ugly.

For entertainment we had CNN and on Saturday nights, the mostly Pakistani UNAMSIL contingent would put on an open-air barbeque at their base to which they would invite us. We were spoiled with tandoori chicken, naan bread, pakora, dahl, vegetable curry, beef curry, lamb curry, kofta, korma, you name it – but next to nothing was sourced locally, UNAMSIL having to import the bulk of it, as the war had ripped the majority of the local farmers of their livelihoods, not to mention their tools and other supplies needed to start growing. As a result, there was little food about and little to go around.

Gossip constitutes an important part of daily entertainment in an aid workers life. There’s gossip about the staff you are working with, staff you share house with, staff who are working in the house for you, staff working for other NGO’s and even staff you may have known in other missions, who happen to know staff who you are working with now!

Depending on what was going in terms of work, there was anywhere up to 6 staff sharing our guesthouse, with occasional capital base staff visiting. Yet for most of the time, it was usually the two Doctors (who didn’t get along), Gail and myself who lived there. Jo, an Australian who I had worked with in Cambodia had told me about the job, as she had been the Base Manager, but having been offered a temporary position with the UN in Freetown, she left shortly after I had arrived. Heidi was brilliant, yet she was completely overwhelmed. Running the largest paediatric clinic in the country, with a mostly untrained health team, few resources and an increasing caseload of Lassa fever (a strange viral disease), Heidi didn’t stop. She also barely ever smiled and looked like she would collapse at any moment. Our boss was also overwhelmed; yet it was more of case of not having a monkey’s clue about what he was supposed to do. When I caught typhoid, I had spent two or so months in the country, and had not seen him in either the hospital, or any of the many health centres and he had yet to visit the refugee camps where he was supposed to supervise various activities. Although this drove us crazy, we were way too busy to do much about it.

After work, Gail and I would usually ask the driver to stop off at the local Lebanese store who sold a few Western staples like chocolate, some cheese, cigarettes, (and also surprisingly good Chateau wine for cheap). We would then walk over to the market to see if they had any fresh salad vegetables, perhaps an avocado, even some limes. Anything to add a little spice or variety to the dinner that awaited us later. We’d also go back to this market on weekends, and had befriended a number of tailors and had started to outfit ourselves in beautiful and bright Gara tie-die outfits, until we realised that a white lady can never hope to achieve what a black lady can with tie-die.

Kenema market, Sierra Leone

Kenema Town’s market weaves its way in and around a number of streets in the centre of town. There must have been several hundred stall owners, most of them selling used clothes and shoes that had been sent over by Westerners thinking this would help. There were also a couple of tailors who had set up shop in the market, and then on the market outskirts were the food stalls. This was depressing. For some five months, we lived on a staple diet of fried plantain, cheap packet spaghetti and tomato paste, bony river fish, occasionally some skinny looking chicken and rice, all usually accompanied with a salad of limp lettuce and barely ripe tomato. Gail would be beside herself when she found some cilantro. There was always pineapple, some small onions, but little else. It was a sorry state of affairs.

Whilst I made do with the lack of variety in my diet, whilst recovering from typhoid I had developed an intense craving for – you guessed it – the mother of all healing foods – chicken noodle soup.

Heidi had found me unconscious in bed after I had returned from the office with severe stomach cramping about three days earlier, and had nursed me day and night, calling in the local blood Doctor to run some tests, and watching over me like I hawk, afraid that the seven hours drive would be too much for me. Looking after me was one of the only times I saw her features soften and her take on a gentler edge. She called in Solomon, our cook to see if he could pull together some soup. He did, and about twenty minutes later he came into the bedroom with a piping hot bowl that did resemble chicken soup – but it turned out to be a few cubes of chicken stock and a bit of powdered milk. Too exhausted to try to explain, I had a few mouthfuls and lay back down.

“I know what you need.” said Heidi. She left the room and I could hear her talking on the phone in Krio to somebody. Her voice was light, so I figured it must be Abdul, her husband, a local Sierra Leonean who she met and then almost lost during the war.

The next day was a weekend day, so having no house staff working; we were left to our own devices to cook. Heidi set off early to meet Abdul, who came in from the next town where he ran a local NGO, and the two of them set off to the market. I must have fallen back asleep, but when I awoke a few hours later, the house was perfumed by a smell that could only mean good. I got out of bed and walked down to the kitchen to find the two of them were busy at work.

“Mira!” Abdul bellowed and came over and gave me a sweaty hug.

He was one of the cheeriest guys I had ever met. Always enthusiastic, always smiling, and for the second time I had known Heidi she was smiling. With Abdul around, Heidi transformed.

“What’s all this?” I asked. There was a huge pile of what looked a dark type of peanut butter, and then cubed bits of meat being sautéed with onions and tomatoes. There was also a large slab of a brown substance, which turned out to be groundnut paste, which is essentially a peanut paste.

“It’s groundnut stew – we are making it for you, it’s sure to make you better.”

It did. For the next two days, it was all I ate, and I slowly recovered.

Two days before I was to implement the health financing scheme to the entire health district, and a week before most of the national NGO staff were to be laid off as most of our programs were finishing, our office was attacked by ten armed men, who assaulted the guards, tying one up and then ransacked the place. Shortly afterwards, Gail, my boss and I were advised to evacuate Kenema. Heidi having left for vacation with Abdul a few days earlier.

Four months later I returned to Kenema with another NGO, yet made it a point to visit my old office and guesthouse. Solomon was still there, and we spent a few minutes running through a few new recipes. The NGO was now run by a guy called David S who I heard was later sacked for alcoholism. The health-financing scheme had never been implemented, with most of the printed materials held in a storage room, yet the computers purchased for the hospital administration to manage the project had strangely disappeared. Lassa Fever claimed the lives of the Chief Medical Doctor who was working tirelessly to maintain the virus; his young daughter also caught it and died. Several nurses died from Lassa, not to mention the countless number of children who were unable to be saved.

Gail works for an NGO in Vermont these days, we visit each other a couple of times a year and have remained fast friends. Heidi and Abdul continue to run their medical NGO in Bo, Sierra Leone. Jo works for the World Food Programme. Amir went back to Bangladesh. I don’t think he ever-found work for an International NGO again, at least I haven’t heard his name in the NGO gossip channels. Most recently, one of our HQ offices fired a guy for gross incompetence and misconduct. The news travelled from base to mission and finally to HQ. His name was David S.

Groundnut stew

Ingredients

1 pound of cubed beef for stewing (or alternatively chicken pieces)
1/2 cup peanut butter (fresh is best, grind your own at good health stores)
2 medium sized yellow onions
bit of coconut, olive or grape seed oil for cooking
2-3 red chillies
1 litre of stock (chicken or vegetable)
5-6 large ripe tomatoes, or 1 large can of tomatoes
2 sweet potatoes
pinch of ginger
teaspoon of salt, a flash of black pepper
rice to accompany (brown is always better for you)

Method:

In a heavy-based saucepan, sauté the onions in the oil, and then add the meat and continue to sauté until lightly browned. Season with salt and pepper.

Now de-seed the chillies and add the ginger and peanut paste, and add the stock. Mix through, and cook on low heat for one hour and then add the diced sweet potatoes and cook until they are done.

Optional: you may want to replace the sweet potato with okra beans. If so, add 1 cup of okra at the end, and cook for about five or so minutes or until done.

For vegies, remove the meat and add a couple of cups of cabbage, keep the sweet potato as well as okra.

Serve with steamed rice.

Love and a hot red chilli. Boeung Keng Kang Market, Cambodia

Posted on Aug, 2011 by mira goes to market

In 2001, I left my native Australia and embarked on a career in International Development. My first country mission was in Cambodia, where I was to spend a year. Renting the upper level apartment from a Cambodian family, I did most of my food shopping in a little market in the Boeung Keng Kang district. On weekends, when I had more time, I would hop on a moto-dop and venture out to the Russian or “Psar Toul Tom Poung” market, which is a great place for souvenirs, silk, designer seconds as well as bootlegged CD’s and DVD’s. Saturday afternoons was often spent choosing a new outfit for the night ahead and recharging from the night before with either a freshly squeezed green orange juice or icy cold coffee with condensed milk.

Half way into my year in Cambodia, myself, my house mate Gunnar, Greta, a teacher I had recently be-friended, as well as an old neighbour from Australia, decided to make our way to Vietnam, with the plan of travelling up the Vietnamese coast, and hoping to spend New Years Eve in Halong Bay.

The journey up the coast is material for yet another type of blog, yet in brief, Gunnar left us half way up the coast, and by the end of the trip, three had become a quick crowd. On top of that, I had caught a cold, so the charms of the good-looking French Canadian guy on the fishing boat that I met on the trip back to the mainland were almost wasted on me. Needless to say, he was eager, and a week later he turned up on my doorstep in Phnom Penh when I had returned to Cambodia.

Philippe certainly was interesting, and there was no doubt that we got along, but I still wasn’t sure. When he offered to make lunch one day and asked where to get ingredients, I gave him directions to what is the crazy maze of the Boeung Keng Kang Market. I also told him to seek out my favourite vendor, Huyen a gentle Vietnamese woman, who usually set up shop in a small space in front of the sewing machinists and in between the rambunctious pineapple sellers. I then left for work, quite sure he would never find Huyen. When I returned for lunch, he served me succulent pork medallions, sautéed mustard greens and baby carrots bathed in honey and ginger. On my kitchen bench lay a bouquet of mixed oriental herbs, with Huyen’s signature red chilli tucked in the middle. After that, I asked him to stay, and well, ten years later, the rest is history.

A shorter, French version of this article appeared in Readers Digest Canada.

http://styledevie.ca.msn.com/amour-sexualite/selection-galeriedephotos.aspx?cp-documentid=27999738&page=1