Three Stories Make One Menu
savoury tarte Tatin; spicy, baked cod and a rough ratatouille; madeleines, to drink and to eat
Two weeks ago, I went to Marseille for the first time. ‘There is no timetable for the bus here,’ I heard the driver tell a woman as I collected my bag. Little did I know that I was being introduced to the pace of Marseille: a city both out of time and very much living in its own time. I loved the old port at night the most, lights bouncing back on the water, couples sitting and drinking on the pavement; with L., we walked, we had an apéro and basked in the Panier. We ate food from Tunisia and Provence, we checked out the restaurant of a Swiss chef who had moved to Marseille, and we had dinner at a restaurant owned by a Franco-Italian couple. We also visited La Vieille Charité, where I discovered the art of Baya.
Baya was born Fatma Haddad near Algiers in 1931. Orphaned by the age of 5, she worked at the house of Frenchwoman Marguerite Caminat Benhoura, who she will refer to as her ‘adopted mother’ throughout her life, and a home where she was encouraged to pursue her creativity. Baya started painting early on in life and had her first exhibition aged 16, in Paris; she was a self-taught artist who produced an extensive and varied body of work until her death in 1998.
Baya drew inspirations from her childhood, in Algerian culture and legends, as well as the history of the country, including its popular art and music. Her paintings are loud, generous with colours and the environment they document – birds, animals, musical instruments – women with the widest of eyes. André Breton spoke of the dreamlike and surrealist qualities of Baya’s art. She was admired by other avant-gardist artists too, like Albert Camus and Joan Miró, and Picasso invited her to work with him in 1948. There were rumours that Picasso taught Baya how to paint then, to which she responded with wit and assurance – ‘non,’ he didn’t. However, we might agree that Baya inspired Picasso, who went on to paint the ‘Women of Algeria’ series.
Some of the reviews I read made me angry – words of Baya’s work being ‘naïve’ – comments dominated by colonialism and misogyny. The art of Baya had me fantasised, like walking through an hallucination aware; it challenged my assumptions about the alliances between shapes and colours, about feminism and storytelling. As part of the exhibition, there were letters between Baya and Marguerite Caminat, articles and scripts of tales Baya enjoyed. One of the magazine excerpts listed was from Vogue, in which Baya was described as ‘unimpressed’ during the launch of her first exhibition (despite all the artists and political figures present in the room). She notably spent her time with the gallery owner’s youngest child, who was five years old, and told him the story of ‘the pigeon’. This is the tale of an imprisoned young girl who planted a needle in the scarf of her jailer and escaped in the form of a pigeon, through the window. This is a simplified, summarised version from what I could read in a letter at the exhibition, which ended with a quote from Baya: ‘I like this story a lot, it’s beautiful,’ she said.
There, at the Vieille Charité, I was confronted with the worlds of Baya, her paintings and sculptures, notes and letters – and I found an advocate for the role storytelling can play for the futures of our cultures and societies. I’m thinking of stories as a medium to chase nightmares and to conduct ideas; stories to remember and to grant memories with longevity; stories to learn about people and about experiences that aren’t familiar with ours; stories to open doors and realms; stories to unleash, to set free. Not one story ever works in isolation.
Now, if you’re reading The Onion Papers, I want you to remember that when I cook for you, I’m telling you a story. I pick ingredients with a purpose, I think about my cooking methods like I’d with the structure of a novel; to cook for and to write The Onion Papers is an exploration. I wish for us to see the food I present you as a form of language, otherwise I must say you’re a disappointing guest. And, I imagine, you’ll be a disappointed guest, which would make this experience unpleasant for all parties involved.
Today’s menu is in favour of storytelling: three stories from three parts of France.
Continuing with Marseille first, where I also met Camille. The story of how we met is irrelevant (something to do with an odd Airbnb I don’t recommend), but the point is that we stood on a balcony overlooking the old port together. It was noon, the sun hot hot hot, and I still hadn’t adjusted my watch to French time. Camille was speaking fast, a gold chain around his neck and a black t-shirt, as he said we had the most beautiful view of Marseille in front of us. He pointed at buildings, including the Basilique Notre-Dame de la Garde before us, then he said, seriously (or at least slowly): ‘Do you know Marseille was born out of love?’
The creation myth of Marseille (Massalia) goes back to 600BC and is linked to the legend of Gyptis and Protis. Greek settlers from Phocea (located in contemporary Turkey) had arrived in the area, and resided in today’s famous neighbourhood ‘Le Panier’ above the sea, where they enjoyed a favourable geography. Its inlet means that Marseille isn’t affected by gales, especially the robust Mistral, as much; Massalia was placed under the protection of Artemis, Apollo and Athena too.
Gyptis, a princess and the daughter of Nannos, who was king of the Segobrigii, was to be married. A banquet was organised and, as it was tradition, Gyptis would hand a bowl filled with wine to her chosen husband –she picked Protis, a Phocean sailor. Nannos gifted the newlyweds with the territory of Massalia, and the couple founded the colony of Massilia that remained an independent Greek city until 49BC. You might have guessed that Caesar has something to do with the end of that story; not one for a little lovin’.
I wanted to question Camille’s comment about it being about love. Was it love or pragmatism? A loving feeling or a calculated alliance? Did Gyptis choose him or was she forced? I didn’t want to enter a debate about what love means, nor about the conditions of love, with a strange man either. I read more about the story during my trip, and if I remained unsure about the love bit, but I understood why Camille was so attached to it being the foundation myth of Marseille, a cosmopolitan city in which cultures and memories blend and clash, and make the modern city a place of its own.
In Marseille, I ate salade méchouia and kafteji; pasta alle vongole and the tastiest of fresh almonds; a gâteau Nantais, focaccia and a salade niçoise. I also brought a bag of épices Rabelais back to London with me. Created in Marseille in 1880, the recipe for the spice mix is secret and unchanged. The legendary blend is said to contain Provencal herbs, African and Asian spices, and is used to dry rub meat, fish and poultry. Initially, I found it intense and sweet, as if caramel had become savoury under the Mediterranean sun, but it tasted less spicy than I had anticipated on the tongue. It screams to be paired with a red sauce to me; smoky. I can smell cloves the most.
Our first recipe is for baked cod marinated in épices Rabelais, served with a side of rough ratatouille:
For the marinated fish:
2 cod fillets, skinned
½ onion, thinly sliced (lengthwise)
2 garlic cloves, grated
1 tsp of tomato purée
4 tsps épices Rabelais (see note below for substitute)
4 drops of chilli oil
50ml olive oil
S&P to taste
1 handful of capers
Prepare the marinade. In a cup, mix the garlic, tomato purée, épices Rabelais, two oils, salt and pepper until you’ve a homogeneous paste. Coat the fish with the marinade, keeping half of it for later, and store the fish in the fridge. Leave to marinate.
In the meantime, preheat the oven to 180C fan. Spread the sliced onion at the bottom of an oven dish large enough to fit the fish. Place the cod fillets on top and pour the rest of the marinade over them. Sprinkle some capers on top. Bake for 20 minutes, or until the flesh flakes easily under a fork. Switch the oven to grill and crisp the fish for 5 to 10 minutes, depending on your taste.
For the rough ratatouille:
Romano peppers, sliced sideways
Aubergines, roughly chopped
Courgettes, cubed
Onions, thinly chopped
Canned chopped tomatoes
Chickpeas
Paprika
Aniseed
Oregano, dried
S&P
In a large pan, warm up the paprika, aniseed and oregano until fragrant. Add some olive oil and the onions. Cook until translucent. Add the salt, peppers, courgettes and canned tomatoes, and lower to a medium heat. Cook for 15 minutes.
Add the aubergines (and a splash of boiling water, if the veggies have dried out already). Simmer for another 10 minutes. Add the chickpeas (and more water if needed). Cook until the consistency is the one you’re after.
*Note on substitute for the épices Rabelais: you can keep the recipe as it is above but mix some of your favourite herbs and spices to replace the épices Rabelais. If it were me and I wanted to stay close to what I could smell, I’d pick oregano, cloves, pepper, fennel seeds, aniseeds, nutmeg, coriander seeds, and ginger.
The next story and dish take me to an odd obsession of mine: old hotels and who established them. This one is for the sisters Tatin, who managed a hotel and restaurant in Lamotte-Beuvron in France at the end of the 19th century. Caroline was on reception while Stéphanie worked in the kitchen, and baked a banging caramelised apple tart. It had the reputation to melt in the mouth. The rumour in town is that Stéphanie was, I quote, ‘distracted’, though one might say that she was busy cooking lunch for the hotel guests, and she put the dish in the oven without double checking it. She had only put the sugar and the apple to cook. As soon as Stéphanie noticed, she threw the pastry at the top and kept baking the tart – there was no time to make another one. This is how the famous ‘upside-down’ tart, or the tarte Tartin, was born. Truth be told: the recipe goes back to a regional tradition that predates the sisters Tatin, and it may be that Stéphanie was especially brilliant at making it and popularised the dessert. Or perhaps Caroline was a brilliant marketer and this is all a publicity coup? We’ll never know for sure, but we can have a bite.
This saddens me, but at the moment I’m not able to eat apples for dietary requirements, so here comes a savoury twist on the tarte Tatin. One thing to know before we start: you bake it upside-down, but you serve it ‘the correct way around’ (although I’m no-one to tell you how to eat your slice of tart!).
For one red onions tarte Tatin:
1 already-made puff pastry
25g salted butter
2 tsps brown sugar
1 sprig of rosemary
4 red onions, each cut into 3 slices (sideways)
20 ml red wine vinegar
1 handful of fresh thyme
S&P to taste
Unroll the pastry and cut a rough circle of the same diameter of an oven-proof casserole. Prick the pastry sheet with a fork and chill it in the fridge until you’ll need it. Preheat the oven to 180C fan.
In the same casserole you used to take the above measurements, and over a medium heat, melt the butter and sugar together. Add a sprig of rosemary and swirl around the pot. Arrange the sliced onions at the bottom of the casserole (you want them to cover as much of the pot as possible). Reduce the heat to a low temperature, a pinch of salt, and cook the onions for approximately 30 minutes, or until soft. This is a key part for the final result: you want the onions to be caramelised (low heat and patience).
Remove the rosemary. Pour in the red wine vinegar and grind some pepper. Turn the heat up until the vinegar has evaporated (/when you can’t smell it). Lay the pastry circle on top of the onions and tuck the edges down. Bake for approximately 30 minutes, or until the pastry is puffed and golden (25 minutes was enough at my end).
Leave the tart to cool for 10 minutes. Place a wooden board or a large plate on top of the casserole and turn it around.
I could have written a newsletter about storytelling and memory and spare you from mentioning Proust’s madeleine, but I want to tell you about the shots we did back in Marseille. They’re called Madeleines because they taste like the treat – oui oui, they do! – and therefore they’re a dangerous party kicker, or keeper. The shots are made with Cointreau, Amaretto and pineapple juice. I won’t try to remake this one at home, but I baked some spongy madeleines instead.
For this one, we’re travelling to the French eastern region of Lorraine. In the year of 1755, the ex-king of Poland, Stanislas Leszczyński (stepfather of Louis XV), took residence in a baroque house there – and he hosted renowned parties. From one animated conversation on to an argument, the chef dropped the babas au rhum on the floor, or some say that he simply resigned, but the point is that there was no dessert to round the evening. At least until Madeleine Paulmier offered to bake her grandmother’s recipe. Madeleine went to the kitchen, prepared the mixture, and used scallop shells to bake the cakes. Pleased with the result, Stanislas asked for their name, to which Madeleine responded they had none. Stanislas asked Madeleine for her name instead, and the rest is history. Recipe for 12 madeleines:
50g brown sugar
150g flour (I use 00 type to keep them airy)
2 tbsps of vanilla extract
1 tsp of rum
8g yeast
50g butter, melted
2 eggs
40 ml almond milk
1 pinch of salt
In a milking pan, melt the butter and set aside.
In a bowl, beat the eggs and the sugar until you’ll have a homogeneous mixture. Add a pinch of salt, the vanilla extract, the rum and half of the milk. Add flour and yeast. Mix everything together.
Add the butter and the rest of the milk. Mix and leave the dough to rest for one hour under a kitchen towel. Preheat the oven to 200C fan.
In the meantime, prepare a madeleines mould with some butter. Pour some of the preparation in each one of the holes (don’t fill them as the madeleines will grow). Bake for 15 minutes, or until golden.
‘No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me.’ – Marcel Proust, In search of Lost Time
Madeleines are excellent snacks at all times of the day, but I prefer them for dessert (on the side of a glass of digestive).
A bite, a thought, would you care enough for a second madeleine?
Margaux
P.S. on the topic of imagination and objects, I can’t recommend enough the work of Ruth Ozeki. Ozeki was just interviewed last week by Katy Hessel for The Great Women Artists podcast, and her novel, The Book of Form and Emptiness, is one of my favourite 2022 reads.
P.S.2. You can see Baya’s art at the Vieille Charité in Marseille until 23rd September 2023. More information here.
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