SO VERY NICE

I was walking down the canned meat aisle of the grocery store several months ago, on an average afternoon, when I spied something new in the tuna section.  There, among the usual hard, tasteless specimens of albacore in water or the otherwise mushy alternatives were cans of tuna in oil priced nearly four dollars each.  Upon closer examination, I had stumbled upon the rarest of catches – chunky, dark tuna in olive oil.  Eureka!  Maybe, if you live in a metropolitan area, or near the coast, you might regularly see this in your marketplaces – but not in the Mid-West.  I greedily grabbed two cans, which weren’t on my list, knowing exactly what I would do with them when the time was right.  I would make Salade Niçoise.  

Later, while putting the cans away in my pantry, I was transported in my mind back to the Cote d’ Azur.  From the most mundane of tasks to the most glamorous and beautiful of worlds…connected by a can of tuna.

We flew into Nice, France for a business/pleasure trip.  The managing director of the French office, Pia, had planned the annual meeting bringing together the directors from all over the globe, plus the corporate officers from America, of which my husband was one, to the Riviera.  Every year the destination was different, but since this one was so alluring, I, along with a few other spouses, was invited.  This was my second trip to Europe, I had been the fall before on my honeymoon, but this was now summertime, with all its dynamic bright light and vibrant colors that danced together in the sea and the sky.  Electric life.

In the airport we met up with the contingent from Australia.  He was red-faced, smoking a cigarette, which when he finished, he blithely stamped out on the floor.  It was the year 2000 in France – normale.  Hailing a taxi, we rode to the hotel in Nice.  Now, I don’t remember where we stayed that first night, but I do remember where we ate.  And it was there that I had the classic salad that bears the city’s name, and I learned that the Nicois would never dream of making their salad with fresh tuna.

In the book SAVUER Cooks Authentic French, there is a perfect description of that evening’s meal:

At Barale, her restaurant near Nice’s Vieux Port, Catherine-Helene Barale serves diners a nightly fixed-price encyclopedia of local cooking in an antiques-filled dining room.  The procession begins with a wedge of crisp-crusted pissaldiere and proceeds with a piece of socca; a real salade niçoise; a healthy helping of ravioli, filled with swiss chard – the defining vegetable of Nice – and, moistened with meat juices; a main course of veal shoulder with mushrooms and sweet red peppers; and for dessert, a thick slab of tourte de blettes, a sweet swiss chard torte.  Then comes a bowl of fruit, and finally a tiny glass of cherry liquor.  After dinner, Barale passes out little folders bearing the words to a patriotic Nicois anthem, “Nissa la Bella”.  Then she cranks up and old 78 on an ancient gramophone, and one and all – if they know what’s good for them- bellow out “E toujou criderai/En la mieu ritournella,/Viva, viva Nissa la Bella” (And always I’ll proclaim/Upon my return, /Viva, viva, Nice the Beautiful).  After a meal like this – which is a revelation, a largesse, and a casually but shrewdly guided tour of the local grastronomic landscape, with all its simplicity and salt and savory intensity- it’s hard to imagine anyone not wanting to join in.

After our first night in Nice, our entourage moved up the mountains to a hotel in Vence, where we spent three nights, and the conference officially commenced.  On the first full day there, after breakfast, while overlooking the Mediterranean, of croissants, French butter and cherry preserves, I jumped into a van with two other spouses for an afternoon tour of the ramparts of St. Paul de Vence.  A medieval village perched on a hilltop overlooking the Cote d’Azur, with cobblestone streets and an impressive fountain all surrounded by thick stone fortress walls.  The main street of the village – rue Grande – was narrow and winding and lined with galleries, shops and studios filles with artwork.  Apparently, unbeknownst to me, St. Paul de Vence was a mecca for artists, though not surprisingly, for the views were breathtaking and the village incredibly charming.  A little taste of indescribable heaven.

We were warm and thirsty after our stroll through town, and since La Colombe d’Or, a famous local restaurant, was disappointingly closed (for a reason I no longer recall), we chose a random outdoor bistro for a repast of wine and salad.  French Provencal cuisine is based on fresh, regional, seasonal ingredients, unlike its city cousin, la haute cuisine, it uses more olive oil than butter, and vinaigrettes instead of sauces.  The simplicity of the salad, the crispness of the cool, white wine along with the rarified air of the Riviera indelibly painted in my mind a moment of true bliss.

The next morning the restless spouses voted to return to Nice for a day of shopping, but as I was tired, and knew my opportunity to shop would be coming up after the conference when Bill and I headed to Cannes, I declined to join them.  Instead, I decided to go for a solitary stroll to explore the historic center of town.  After a close examination of my tourist map, I headed out.  It was a cloudy September morning, and as I walked along, I noted a fig tree whose lush fruit had begun to drop and lay languishing, overripe and forlorn, on the hard ground underneath.  Lost in thought, I momentarily also lost my bearings and found myself on the wrong street.  I spotted a woman looking out of a second story window and I called out to her in the few words of French I knew, “S’il vous plait, pardonnez-moi, which direction is the Old City?”  She in turn knew very little English, but soon recognized I was a lost American and intuitively discerned my dilemma and pointed me on my way.  “Merci,” I waved to her and smiled, setting off in the designated direction.  Shortly, the site of the ancient arched passageway through the thick stone walls signaled I was on the right path.  The narrow lanes meandered then opened up onto plazas.  Vegetable stands, with their produce displayed in artistic fashion, under the cover of colorful awnings, filled the square.  Behind glass windows, the cheese shops and patisseries lining the streets presented their goods with such tantalizing effect that one was lured in without thinking.  Further down, a vendor provided the quintessential French Provencal tablecloths, placemats and napkins for which I was searching.  Perusing the colorful choices, I settled on two separate patterns of placemats and napkins, both in lemon yellow and Provencal blue.  Twenty years later, after being well used and loved, they are still as beautiful as the day I bought them.

A soft, steady rain had begun to fall, and as I was without an umbrella, and it was lunchtime, I darted into a nearby bistro.  It was nearly empty, just a woman with a small child at one table.  The waiter seated me quickly and handed me a menu.  It was in French.  Now, I may not be able to speak French, but I have no problem reading a menu, as the items and meanings of the words are in my gastronomique lexicon.  The waiter was none so sure of my capabilities and seemed hesitant when I ordered, but I smiled and nodded my head in silent affirmation as to my selection.  Enjoying a glass of wine, while in anticipation of my meal, I listened to the rain outside and the small child’s voice asking its Mama a question, which she answered with a whisper.  The interior walls of the bistro were of the same stone as the exterior fortress walls and the houses within its shelter.  Before the Romans, Vence was built.  The reassuring rock testified to the passing of ages and the endurance of the human spirit.  Build your house solid on the rock and it will not fall.

My meal arrived, exactly as I had ordered, and after saying a quick blessing, I hungrily began to eat.  Quietly, a sense of happiness began to well up within me.  The food and the atmosphere were delicious and delightful, but it was beyond mere sensory perception from which this feeling sprung.

I felt alive – free – and proud of myself for having the courage to brave the unknown alone, in a land where I was a stranger nor did I speak the language.  And to have the chutzpah to pull it off.  

I became a fully mature woman that day.

I made the Salade Niçoise last week.  Hot summer days are the perfect time to enjoy this gem.  I used Julia Child’s recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  The only change I made was using Tarragon white wine vinegar – because I can – and I’m not afraid to!

SALADE NICOISE

3 cups cold, blanched, thin green beans

3 or 4 quartered tomatoes

1 cup vinaigrette (recipe follows)

1 head Boston Bibb lettuce, separated, washed, drained and dried

3 cups cold French potato salad (recipe follows)

1 cup canned tuna chunks, drained

½ cup pitted black olives

3 hard boiled eggs, cold, peeled and quartered

6 anchovy filets, drained

2 or 3 TBP minced, fresh herbs

You can toss it all together in a bowl, but I prefer laying it out on a platter and serving it with the vinaigrette on the side.

VINAIGRETTE

2 TBP tarragon wine vinegar

1/8 tsp salt

1/4 tsp dry mustard

6 TBP extra virgin olive oil

Big pinch of pepper

1 to 2 TBP minced green herbs, such as parsley, chives, tarragon, basil; or a pinch of dried Herbs de Provence

Place all ingredients in a screw-top jar and shake vigorously for 30 seconds.

FRENCH POTATO SALAD

2 lbs. Yukon Gold potatoes

4 TBP dry white wine

2 TBP tarragon wine vinegar

1 tsp Dijon mustard

¼ tsp salt

White pepper

6 TBP extra virgin olive oil

1 to 2 TBP minced shallots

2 or 3 TBP chopped parsley

Scrub the potatoes.  Drop them in boiling salted water to cover, and boil until the potatoes are just tender when pierced with a small knife, about 12 to 15 minutes.  Drain.  As soon as they are cool enough to handle, peel, and cut them into 1/ 8 inch thick slices.  Place them in a mixing bowl.  Pour the wine over the warm potato slices and toss very gently.  Set aside for a few minutes until the potatoes have absorbed the liquid.

Beat the vinegar, mustard, and salt in a small bowl until the salt has dissolved.  Then beat in the oil by droplets.  Season to taste, and stir in the shallots.  Pour the dressing over the potatoes and toss gently to blend.  Sprinkle with parsley.  Serve them warm, room temperature, or chilled.

Bon Appetit!