Festive Aromas: Pork Carré with Dried Apricots and Prunes

Nothing spells holidays like a gathering around the hearth, on the festive table, with good company of loved ones and sensuous food and drink to make mortality seem like an afterthought. Although many roast a turkey for the holidays, the traditional dish for Christmas in Greece has always been pork, prepared in a variety of ways. Since the pantry is so rich in dried fruits and herbs that hint at the summery pleasures nostalgically preserved for the solstice, I prefer to make the following recipe. It's very easy and quick and truly delicious, as the intermingling of flavors oscillates between savory, sweet and umami.

Ingredients

16 small cutlets of tender pork with bone (2 carrés, reserved at your butcher's)
28 dried apricots (without pits)
28 dried prunes (without pits)
8 onions, peeled & cut in halves
800ml (2.5 cans) lager beer
2 teaspoons dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon cardamom (powdered or very finely chopped)
8 spoons extra virgin olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

For the sauce
100ml white wine
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard


1.Preheat the oven at 170C.
2.Place onions, apricots and prunes in a bowl soaked in the beer for a quarter of an hour. Then drain and keep the marinate liquid.
3.Place the pork on a heatproof pan and drizzle oil and marinate over it. Sprinkle the herbs and spices and put in the oven for 1.5 hours.
4.Then add the marinated onions, prunes and apricots and let it sit for another 40 minutes, taking care so as not to let it dry (you can add spoonfuls of water if it starts having no liquid).
5.When done, transfer into pretty flatware and serve with the cooked fruits around the edges. Keep a little of the liquid off the pan at hand for the sauce.
6.Put the liquid in a small pan on the stove, add the wine and the mustard and let simmer for 5 minutes. Check for taste/saltiness. Pour over the meat and serve on the table.

It accompanies rice pilaf (preferably prepared with pine nuts and roasted chestnuts) or baked potatoes perfectly!

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate and a happy time for all!

pic via gastronomos.gr

The Golden Sunshine of Saffron 3: from India to Paris and in your Plate

~reproduced* from "Le Monde d'Hermès: Spring-Summer 2008", compiled by guest writer AlbertCan

A Thread of Myth
The saffron road, with its trail of red gold, runs from India all the way to Faubourg Saint-Honoré. When Alexander the Great reached Kashmir, he pitched his camp on a grassy plain. In the morning, he beheld his army afloat upon an ocean of mauve flowers that had opened overnight and reached all the way to his tent and under the hooves of his horses. Suspecting some sorcery, he turned back, avoiding battle. So says the legend. In fact, the Supreme Commander of the Superstitious had simply spend the night in a field of crosues, in a crop of wild saffron that may well have been used to make Mongra and Lacha, the finest qualities of this spice anywhere in the world. Just a pinch--no more, for saffron is potent and costly--infuses a flavour of far horizons: Persia, the Atlas, Crete, the monks of Tibet, fabrics snapping in the wind of Calcutta and feasts fit for a king. Added to rice, immersed in stocks and sauces or soaked in milk, it has a complex taste--bitter, metallic, salty, with notes of hay and bark--and a fine yellow colour. "When choosing saffron, one should select broad, red, new-grown threads that are supple and fleshy to the touch, and yet dry, with a very aromatic odour." So wrote the expert for Diderot and d'Alemberts' Encyclopédie [1] and it was sage advice. For the world of saffron is full of powdered impostors, while genuine growths such as Zafferano dell'Aquila and Pennsylvania Dutch Saffron are rare. Its purple strands are the dried stigmas of the Crocus sativus, a member of the Iris family (Iridaceae) which flowers fashionably late, in October. It must be harvested by hand at dawn-and mibly too, so as not to damage the pistil. Shy and delicate it may be, but this confounded crocus has nevertheless made a place for itself in myth. The tale related the joint metamorphosis of two lovers--a handsome Arcadian youth, Krokos, or Crocus, and a nymph, Smilax--who were "changed into tiny flowers" [2]. A more tragic version tells of the accidental death of the said Crocus, when a discus thrown by a fond friend hit him on the head. Three drops of blood fell from the wound and fertilised the earth, brining forth a mauve flower with three red stigmas. The fond friend was Hermès.

--Text by Yves Nespoulous, Le Monde d'Hermès: Spring-Summer 2008, p.116.

[1]. Diderot and d'Alembert's Encyclopédie (1751-1772).
[2]. Ovid, Metamorphoses, book IV.

Saffron Ice Cream Recipe

For 1 litre of ice cream:

8 egg yolks
100 g of granulated sugar
750 ml of fresh full cream milk (or semi-skimmed for a lighter ice cream)
250 ml of creme fraiche
a few pistils of very good saffron

You will need a kitchen themometer marked in centigrade and an ice cream maker.

1.Bring the milk to the boil in a pan, then remove from the heat and allow the saffron to infuse for half an hour.
2.In the meantime, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until the mixture turns white. Slowly pour in the warm milk, stirring all the while with a wooden spoon.
3.Wash the pan then pour in the mixture and heat it, stirring all the time, until the temperature reachers 87 degrees Celsius, then remove from the flame.
4.Add the cream, stir and pour the mixture through a fine strainer into a salad bowl. Leave to cool and then refrigerate overnight so that the flavours can blend properly.
5.The next day, freeze the mixture in the ice cream maker to give it a smooth, creamy texture. 6.Serve with a fruit salad and orange tuille biscuits (an important cooking rule: to keep the palate interested, it is always a good idea to combine crisp, soft and creamy ingredients).

*The "saddler's touch": using the same thin custard base (creme anglaise), you can make all kinds of unusual ice creams to serve with the first fruits of summer or the last ones of winter: saffron ice cream with orange salad, funnel ice cream with roasted figs, verbena ice cream with raspberries, etc. All you need to do is infuse the herb or spice or your choice in hot milk, and give your imagination free rein.

--Recipe by Élisabeth Larquetoux-Thiry, Le Monde d'Hermès: Spring-Summer 2008, p.116. Pic via DKI images.

For more saffron recipes: Mutton Buryani, Bouillabaise, Paella Valenciana, Mussels in a saffron white wine sauce
Visit the Glass Petal Smoke blog for another take on saffron.

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: the Saffron Series

*Article reproduced with every reservation on matters of copyright infringement (none intended), while every possible credit is being given. Should you feel it should not be online, nevertheless, please email us for removal.

Melomakarona and Kourambiedes: the aromata of Greek Christmas holidays

The word άρωμα (aroma) means several things in Greek: It denotes personal fragrance as a medium of enhancing one's aura, it evokes the content of bottles encapsuling precious essences to be used for aromatizing of various aims, but also it means the lingering smell in the air that might be coming off a fragrant kitchen, busy in preparation for a traditional feast; a feast that is more of a gregarious social and sensuous event than merely a casual gathering. Food and the hearth have always been at the core of Greek culture (the hearth, Εστία, had been an ancient Greek goddess, no less) and savouring the aromata (plural for aroma) in every step of the process is half the fun!
The celebration of the end of the year, including Christmas and the New Year's Eve, is forever in my mind steeped in the sweet smells emanating through the door of an oven while baking the traditional and idiosyncratic cookies of the season: μελομακάρονα/melomakarona and κουραμπιέδες/kourambiedes. Although there are other delicacies around and everyone has to have something sweet on hand for the kid-carolers who come to the house on the morning of each celebration's Eve (caramelised nuts and raisins, marrons glacés and marrons déguisés in chocolate, candied orange rind, and δίπλες/"deeples" or "diples", that is Greek Honey Curls: pieces of fried and suryped dough sprinkled with chopped nuts, supposedly looking like Christ's swaddling clothes) it's those two mentioned above that are most popular and characteristic, found in every home from the most humble to the most extravagant.

So here are the recipes I use, handed down from my mother and grandmothers (excellent cooks all of them) for you to recreate the homely and sensuous atmosphere of this little corner of the world. They're easy to make and very flavourful!

Melomakarona (pronounced Meh-lo-ma-KA-row-na) Recipe
Ingredients for the dough
1 cup Extra Virgin olive oil
1/2 cup white sugar
2 juiced oranges
1/2 juiced lemon
1 egg yolk
3 cups self-raising flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground clove
1 1/3 cups chopped walnuts

Ingredients for the syrup
1 cup white sugar
1/2 cup honey
1/2 cup boiling water
1 cinnamon stick
4 cloves
1/2 juiced lemon

1.Preheat oven to 180°C/350°F/gas mark 4 and line 2 flat baking trays with baking paper.
2. Beat oil, sugar, 1/2 cup orange juice and 2 tablespoons lemon juice. You can do this by hand (I do) or use an electric mixer on high speed until thick and creamy.
3.Add egg yolk and beat again, but not too much this time (you want to trap in air so that it raises when baking).
4.Sift flour and add half the cinnamon and the clove to the oil mixture. Fold gently to combine (it should have a doughy texture).
5.Using your flour-dusted hands (so dough doesn't stick)hands, roll the mixture into oval shapes without pressing them too much. Dough should make about 32 pieces. Place on prepared trays without touching one another (as they will expand while baking).
6.Bake for 25 minutes or until firm to the touch and then allow to cool on trays.
7.To make the syrup combine all ingredients in a saucepan over medium to high heat, stirring to dissolve the sugar at first and bring to the boil. Then reduce heat to medium-low. Simmer for 4 minutes or until syrup thickens slightly: you want it to form "drops" when you pour it from a spoon.
8.Using a slotted spoon, dip the cool cookies, 1 at a time, into the hot syrup for about 30 seconds (no more or they become very sweet and sticky!), turning over until well coated. Return to trays. The cool cookie, hot suryp is the secret that makes them absorb the suryp best and thus remain delectably moist and soft.
9.Combine chopped walnuts and remaining ground cinnamon. Sprinkle over cookies: the suryp should make them mostly "stick" on top. Allow to cool completely and they're ready to serve.

Melomakarona are also called Φοινίκια (phoenekia), especially when they're shaped like fingers, in some regions of Greece (mainly where Greek refugees from the -now Turkish- Smyna and Constantinople came to). They keep for a long time (up to a month, although you're sure to consume them long before that!) outside of the fridge thanks to the high sugar ratio; just keep them in an air-tight biscuit box so they don't become dry due to air exposure.
Their clove-y smell is captured in a wonderfully indulgent little solid scent by Pacifica: Madagascar Spice.

Kourambiedes (pronounced koo-rah-bee-YEH-thess) Recipe


Ingredients
4 cups of sheep's butter (cow's can be substituted, but the traditional method calls for sheep)
2 cups of confectioner's sugar
2 egg yolks
2 teaspoons of vanilla extract
2 teaspoons of baking powder
3 tablespoons of brandy liquor or ouzo (or orange juice, if you don't want to use alcohol)
1 cup of coarsely chopped roasted almonds
12 cups (1 1/2 kg or 3 1/3 lbs) of all-purpose flour
2 cups of confectioner's sugar (for dusting)
rose water or orange blossom water (about half a cup)

1.Preheat oven to 180°C/350°F/gas mark 4 and line 2 flat baking trays with baking paper.
2.Cream the butter (at room temperature) and sugar in a mixing bowl by hand, until white.
3.Dissolve the baking powder in the brandy/ouzo/orange juice and fold into the mixture, along with the egg yolks, vanilla, and almonds, one by one.
3.Gradually add flour without beating too much.
4.Knead the dough gently by hand until malleable. You don't want to let air escape, as it will contribute to making the cookies fluffy and soft.
5.Rolling the dough on flour-dusted hands (so it doesn't stick) roll the mixture into dome-shaped circles (thick like a pinkie finger). The dough should make about 50pieces. Place them on baking sheet without touching one another (as they will expand while baking).
6.Bake in preheated oven for 20 minutes or until cookies barely turn to golden brown. Get them out of the oven and allow to cool completely.
7.Sift confectioner's sugar onto a large tray or cookie sheet. As soon as the cookies are done, sprinkle them with the rose water or orange blossom water and dust them with the sugar. When all the cookies have been coated once, repeat (without sprinkling them in any liquid this time)cool.
8.Serve them in layers on a serving platter that has been dusted with sugar.

These buttery Greek Shortbread Cookies were also given in weddings and christenings once upon a time, because they look pure white, a symbol of new beginnings. They melt in the mouth and are very soft and fragile, so handle them gently!
Kourabiedes will keep for a couple of months thanks to the sugar if stored in an air-tight container. Make sure there's a dusting of powdered sugar on the bottom of the container, then layer cookies as above, each layer with a covering of sugar. Wait one day after baking to cover with an airtight lid, though.

If you're left with too much uncooked dough, you can wrap it well in plastic wrap, put in the freezer and it will keep for up to two months. When ready to use, remove and let the dough sit a while till malleable. Beat with the mixer briefly to aerate the dough ands you're ready to follow steps 5-8.

Happy Holidays!

Pic of Melomakarona by Steve Brown via taste.com.au, pic of Kourambiedes via dianasdesserts.com

In Search of Madeleines: Part 2 ~the Modern Twists

~by guest writer AlbertCAN

‘Tis should have been with a more grandiose setting, but one of the defining moments of my life took place in a non-descript evening when I was only eight. My father, tired of all the usual derivative comedy sketches the television had to offer, bluntly declared that all variations in life were merely the combination and the recombination of existing ideas. Being a researcher at a prestigious national laboratory, he promptly recalled how his fellow researchers simply grouped existing ideas and transformed them with an interesting twist. Voilà! A new idea would be born if one only looked at the past hard enough.Few people may consider my late father as a genius in disguise but I am starting to see how his theory has grown on me. (Years ago, unable to explain my father’s difficult life, an astrologer could only utter that my father was meant to be, figuratively speaking, a water dragon untimely stranded on a shallow beach. Sadly, such a poetic remark couldn’t have been more appropriate.) While I don’t agree with everything my father had to offer, his minute lecture on the way of innovation year ago has stuck with me to this day.

Yes, truly revolutionary ideas notwithstanding I now believe the revolving idea underneath all this shall be neatly summed by the insightful French proverb “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.” [The more things change, the more they remain the same.] Actually, such caveat is necessary when exploring the modern incarnations of the legendary madeleines—perhaps such a paradigm will allow the offerings to sound less sacrilegious. After all, as Baudelaire might say, the silent muse has her mysterious, fickle ways…But how can a classic French delicacy, given its intricate negotiation of gastronomic ratios, manage to produce a gamut of modern incarnations? Surprisingly enough, I believe the infinite variations of madeleine have something to do with its easy-going nature: while the cakes do not withstand the test of time once baked, the master recipe itself is shockingly reliant. During the research stage of my writing I have tried almost all the quasi-Frankenstein gastronomic experimentations on the cakes—a tad less of sugar here, a larceny of butter (yes, I even used soft-spread margarine with a 5% fat content), a wild swap of exotic flavours, a change of mixing process…and time after time the madeleines rise to the challenge. Sure, sometime the cakes sulk when I ask too much, leaving me with depressingly sunken hunchbacks (yes, I’m not kidding)—but never once had I failed to produce tender, flavourful morsels that couldn’t delight the people around me. I even got lucky a few times and discovered lovely twists along the way—you can too so long the following guidelines are followed:

Locate fail-proof, all-purpose master recipes first: follow the instructions very carefully before venturing on your own. DO NOT EXPERIMENT WITH THE FUNDEMENTS UNTIL YOU KNOW THE MASTER RECIPES INSIDE AND OUT.
When experimenting with your own twist the general ratio of wet ingredients (sugar, egg, butter, flavouring agents) and dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, salt, occasional flavouring agents) must be held relatively constant. If you work with a top-notch master recipe a benign switch of equivalent ingredients from time to time shall not deflate the results. (God knows how many times I have switched the flavours due to a random change of heart.) However, hell shall have no fury like an ill-proportioned batch of madeleines that refuse to come out of the pan!
Carefully (and I do mean carefully) record your changes so the results can be replicated once successful—or promptly head back to the drawing board if the result is less than satisfactory.
Be honest upon evaluating the success of the variation. A great madeleine recipe must produce plump cakes with a soft, airy texture with an intricate aroma. Any flavour that gets lost in the asthmatics of egg and butter, no matter how precious in the first place, shouldn’t be recognized as a success. Worse, any flavour that refuses to blend in shall be a Proustian nightmare!

So how diverse can the modern madeleines be? Well, by the virtue of straight-on ingredient substitutions the lemon zest flavour can be switched into almost any other citrus flavour—orange, clementine, tangerine, mandarin varieties can be quite common. (On the other hand I haven’t tried grapefruit, yuzu and pomelo, so I can’t comment on those versions.) The classic madeleine can even shed its vanilla image by, well, getting rid of its vanilla extract element by choosing to be scented with rose, neroli or lavender water. Moreover, chefs have even engineered gastronomic hybridizations by blending elements of madeleines with another French classic: financier.
The colourful past of the financiers should be duly noted before progressing further. A financier, simply put, is a tea cake marked by the addition of almond, icing sugar, and/or beurre noisette (caramelized butter), traditionally baked in coin-shaped rectangular moulds since it became popular in the chic financial district which immediately surrounded the old Bourse Paris, the financial heart of the French capital that pulsed at its own rhythm blocks away from the iconic La Madeleine. The financiers are said to have received their name due to the patronage of the rich bankers, whose waistlines undoubtedly plumped up with a few unabashed servings of these plump cakes. (The French people, above all, aren’t short of a dry sense of humour.)[*]

With the information above I have here a humble fruit of labour: a hybrid between a madeleine and a financier recipe. Originally I used orange blossom water for flavouring, but the black sheep within ended up using osmanthus syrup instead. The transcendence of the osmanthus aroma has been widely noted (including in my blog when I did a review on Hermès Osmanthe Yunnan). A quick word on osmanthus flavouring, however: I used osmanthus syrup (糖桂花), which is free of salt and preserved plum unlike the traditional osmanthus paste (桂花醬). Actually, I dislike osmanthus paste so much that I wouldn’t use it in a million years! I got my osmanthus syrup (below), from T&T Supermarket, the Asian-Canadian supermarket chain here in Canada, although I’m sure any respectable Asian specialty grocery store shall carry it. If you can’t find it then simply substitute the osmanthus syrup with orange blossom water, although the flavour shall obviously be different.

Anyhow, the recipe:
Orange Almond Madeleines with Osmanthus

1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup blanch almond, finely grounded
3/4 tsp. double-acting baking power (do not use regular)
Pinch of salt
1/2 cup of sugar
Grated zest of ¼ sweet orange
2 large eggs, at room temperature
2 tsp. osmanthus syrup
3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled

To bake the new madeleines, simply make the following substitutions in the traditional madeleine recipe:

1. Blend the 1/3 cup of all-purpose flour, 1/3 cup blanch almond with the double-acting baking powder and salt.
2. Substitute the lemon zest with orange zest: add the orange with the osmanthus syrup when mixing them with sugar.
Follow the rest of the instruction as is and you shall be rewarded with something close to the following batch I made a few days ago. (Sorry about the excessive dusting of flour—it was about 5 A.M. by the time I finished baking these…)

Well, as you might have noticed I mentioned a generic variation first, for my fidgeting of the traditional recipe shall pale in comparison to Pierre Hermé’s daring chocolate madeleines recipe, almost a hybrid between a devil’s food cake and…something else altogether: given the rich chocolate flavour the cake is surprisingly chocolate-free, relying only on a few tablespoons of cocoa powder to do the trick. In fact, I now consider this to be the Serge Lutens of madeleines, for the simple ingredients yield a multitude of effects that are simply beyond description: the lemon simply floats above the dense flavour, providing just the right contrast to the chocolate flavour. Moreover, the chocolate madeleines store extremely well—these are the only ones that won’t become sticky in room temperature. Quite the opposite: the chocolate madeleines may become a little dry but it’s perfect for Proustian dipping!
Since I’m reviewing the recipe I shall simply type out the instruction. The following is from “Chocolate Desserts by Pierre Hermé” by Dorie Greenspan: I shall complete my review of this recipe after quoting the instruction.

Chocolate and Lemon Madeleines by Pierre Hermé

An overnight rest in the refrigerator is what gives these madeleines that characteristic bump in the center. If you’re in a hurry, chill them for an hour—you won’t get as pronounced a bump, but the cookies will bake better for the hill. (Pierre Hermé)

½ cup plus 1 tablesppon (70 grams) all-purpose flour
3 ½ tablespoons Dutch-processed cocoa powder, preferably Valrhona
½ teaspoon double-acting baking powder
1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons (90 grams) sugar
Pinch of salt
Grated zest of ¼ lemon
2 large eggs, at room temperature
6 ½ tablespoons (3 ¼ ounces; 100 grams) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1. Sift together the flour, cocoa, and baking powder and set aside. Put the sugar, salt, and lemon zest in a medium bowl and rub everything together with your fingertips until the sugar is moist, grainy, and very aromatic.
2. Using a whisk, beat the eggs into the lemon-sugar until the mixture is blended. Squish the butter through your fingers or smear it under the heel of your hand to create what is called a pomade and add it to the bowl. Still working with the whisk, beat in the butter just to get it evenly distributed. Gently whisk in the sifted flour mixture, stirring only until the flour is incorporated and the mixture is smooth. Press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface of the batter and chill it overnight before baking. The overnight rest helps the cookies develop the characteristic bump on their backs; if you don’t have time for an overnight rest, try to give the batter at least an hour in the refrigerator.
3. When you are ready to bake the cookies, center a rack in the oven and pre-heat the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit (220 degrees Celsius). Butter a 12-mold madeleine pan, then dust the molds with flour, tapping out the excess. (Even if you have a non-stick madeleine pan, it’s a good idea to butter and flour the molds.)
4. Divide the batter evenly among the madeleine molds. Don’t worry about flattening the batter—the heat will do that. Place the pan in the oven, insert a wooden spoon in the door to keep it slight ajar, and immediately turn the oven temperature down to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (180 degrees Celsius). Bake the cookies for 13 to 15 minutes, or until they are domed and spring back when pressed lightly. Unmold the cookies onto a work surface—you may have to rap the madeleine pan against the counter to release the cookies—then transfer them to a rack to cool to room temperature.

Makes 12 cookies

Keeping: Madeleines can be kept at room temperature in an airtight tin for about 2 days or frozen for up to 2 weeks.

I’ve been baking using the recipe above for almost a year now and it’s just generally a dream to work with…except two minute details. Firstly, I find the butter-smearing process a bit of a nightmare to execute, for the lumps of butter require extra elbow grease in order to incorporate the fat into the batter. (Eventually I simply just melt the butter and blend it as is, which works out just as well in my humble opinion.) Secondly, a temperature-related issue: I find the oven-door-jamming trick, as ingenious as it is, to be too much a hassle for me, so I just set my oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

So does the chocolate recipe allow one to substitute an infinite variety of citrus zest, just like the original madeleine? Unfortunately, no. So far the lemon works best: the others simply become too muted in the end. Even lime and mandarin zests become very subtle in comparison to the chocolate flavour. I have, however, enjoyed a strange pleasure of blending the recipe with its companion, tea…

You see, while specs of unfurled tea leaves can be unsightly when shown against the primrose-tinted classic madeleines, the dark chocolate backdrop generally hides the tea. In fact, the combination is so elegant that I am considering forgoing the pain-staking zest-grating process altogether! While Darjeeling tea and Earl Grey tea works reasonably well, my favorite is actually masala chai. Somehow the combination produces very subtly spicy cakes with an interesting texture: it is actually a pleasure to bite into fine pieces of clove and ginger. So with the modifications above I present you the third variation based on the recipe by Pierre Hermé:

Masala Chai Chocolate Madeleines

½ cup plus 1 tablesppon (70 grams) all-purpose flour
3 ½ tablespoons Dutch-processed cocoa powder, preferably Valrhona
½ teaspoon double-acting baking powder
1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons (90 grams) sugar)
Pinch of salt
2 tsps of chai tea[†]
2 large eggs, at room temperature
6 ½ tablespoons (3 ¼ ounces; 100 grams) unsalted butter, at room temperature, melted

1.Sift together the flour, cocoa, and baking powder: set aside. Using another bowl, blend the sugar, salt, and chai tea together thoroughly.

2.Using a whisk, beat the eggs and incorporate into the chai-sugar mixture. Still working with the whisk, barely beat in the melted butter. Gently whisk in the sifted flour mixture, gently stir until the flour mixture is fully incorporated, care not to overbeat the batter. Press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface of the batter and chill it for at least one hour before use, although best to refrigerate it overnight.

3.Prior to baking center a rack in the oven and pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (180 degrees Celsius). Carefully utter a 12-mold madeleine pan, dusting the molds with flour and tapping out the excess.

4.Divide the batter evenly among the madeleine molds. Bake the cookies for 13 to 15 minutes or until they are domed and spring back when pressed lightly. Unmold the cookies onto a work surface and transfer them to a rack to cool to room temperature.

Makes 12 cookies

Anyhow, my batch looks like this…

So with the infinite varieties of modern madeleines, I hope this post has inspired you come up with your own set of variations: who knows, maybe these cakes will enrich your aromatic memories as well!

Photos: Osmanthus syrup from blog.sina.com.cn/junsmore, madeleine photos by AlbertCAN.
[*] Poilâne, one of the famous boulengeries in Paris, makes a chic shortbread cookie sinisterly titled “Punitions” (Punishment), a wink to the consequences if one gives in one too many times.
[†] You may need to quickly grind the tea if the spices are a bit chunky for your taste, although I have never had such problems. I prefer using organic chai tea. You might want to toast the tea in a small saucepan before use, though I often don’t do so for the sake of simplicity.

In Search of Madeleines: Part 1 The Classics

~by guest writer AlbertCAN

What an interesting lot fragrance writers are, we chase after the perfect expression, the luminous declaration that can somehow make the intricate olfactory monsoon utterable. More offten than not we all try to crystallize the fleeting, unexpected, momentary rapture in time that can stay dormant for decades, only to be silently detonated in our cognition years later when we reacquaint with our old sensory fling. It does not help, however, that the collective human experience has, by and large, left us relatively few links between our sense of smell and language. When writers propose words such as florid, verdant, spicy, saccharine, we all are in fact connecting our experience with other things (flowers, greens, spices, sugar), thus defining one smell by another smell or another sense. Smells are our partners in crime, but we cannot speak of their true identities—instead, we can only reflect our feelings, thus proclaiming scents to be “transcendent”, “nauseating”, or “mesmerizing”.

Do we, therefore, perceive smells as indirectly as we describe it? Absolutely not: we literally become one with the aromatic molecules when we perceive them. In fact, it is the olfactory-verbal gap that prevents most of us from sharing our various sensory encounters. Perhaps it is exactly this inability that encourages us to appreciate literary gems that immortalize, as Shakespeare put it, the “suppliance of a minute”. The epitome of such eloquence, or as Chandler Burr once wrote, “our touchstone for the power of smell over memory”, would be Marcel Proust’s passage on petit madeleines in “Swann’s Way” (from the first volume of “Remembrance of Things Past”). Here’s the translated passage from Project Gutenberg. I have here also included a comical representation of the section by Stephané Heuet.

"Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, as I came home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called 'petites madeleines,' which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim's shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, 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 myself. I had ceased now to feel mediocre,accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I was conscious that it was connected with the taste of tea and cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could not, indeed, be of the same nature as theirs. Whence did it come? What did it signify? How could I seize upon and define it?

I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, a third, which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing its magic. It is plain that the object of my quest, the truth, lies not in the cup but in myself. The tea has called up in me, but does not itself understand, and can only repeat indefinitely with a gradual loss of strength, the same testimony; which I, too, cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call upon the tea for it again and to find it there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down my cup and examine my own mind. It is for it to discover the truth. But how? What an abyss of uncertainty whenever the mind feels that some part of it has strayed beyond its own borders; when it, the seeker, is at once the dark region through which it must go seeking, where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not so far exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day. [...]

And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before church-time), when I went to say good day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

And once I had recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like the scenery of a theatre to attach itself to the little pavilion, opening on to the garden, which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated panel which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I was sent before luncheon, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, permanent and recognisable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea. "

Although I am saddened to report that lime-flower tea is largely no longer readily available nowadays, the heritage of baking madeleines at households still marches on. One clarification is required, however: while it's Proust who gets all the credit for making madeleines a household name, the origin of the name traces back to King Stanislas Leszczynski of Poland (October 20, 1677 – February 23, 1766), who, in the eighteenth century, tasted a tea cake made by a local in Commercy, France. He was so delighted with the cookie that he named it after the baker, Madeleine.

Culinary-wise the traditional madeleine is a cookie made from a sponge cake batter. While the batter gives the delicacy airiness and texture, while the tiny-bubbled crumb is très raffiné, the traditional madeleine also soaks up moisture rather quickly, resulting in a wan, soggy mess once left in room temperature for more than 24 hours. Fortunately, madeleine rewards patience, as its flavour can only be properly developed if the batter is properly chilled; therefore, you should plan ahead—bake them when you are ready to eat them! Besides, the delicate combination of lemon, vanilla and butter is so relaxing that perhaps it is more sane to reject the classic altogether. With this in mind I have an excellent recipe inspired by “Baking: From My Home to Yours” by Dorie Greenspan.
(NOTE: Madeleine performs best if the batter is properly refrigerated. The long chilling period will help the batter form its characteristic bump; 4 hours of refrigeration will suffice if one wishes not to witness the traditional protruded back—or simply in a hurry to devour the delicacy.)

Traditional Madeleines Recipe

Using madeleine cookie moulds, either in regular or miniature size, is best for this recipe. When baking multiple batches I prefer working with a pair of identical madeleine moulds at the same time so each tray can properly cool between each batch. I got my moulds from Williams-Sonoma but offerings from your local cookware store will largely suffice. (This recipe makes 12 large or 36 mini cookies)

2/3 cup all-purpose flour
¾ teaspoon baking powder
Pinch of salt
½ cup sugar
Grated zest of 1 lemon
2 large eggs, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
¾ stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
(Optional: confectioners' sugar, for dusting)Metric convertion table here.

1.In a clean bowl whisk together flour, baking powder and salt. Set aside.

2.In a separate large bowl combine sugar and lemon zest. Rub the sugar and lemon zest together with your fingertips until the sugar is moist and fragrant. Add the eggs to the bowl. Working with the whisk attachment, or with a hand mixer, beat the eggs and sugar together on medium-high speed until pale, thick and light, about 2-3 minutes. Thoroughly blend in the vanilla extract.

3.With a rubber spatula, very gently fold in the dry ingredients, followed by the melted butter.(short instruction video)

4.Gently press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface of the batter and refrigerate it for at least 4 hours, or for up to 2 days.

5.About 20 minutes prior to baking centre a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 400 degrees F or 375F if you want to play it safe. See this chart for temp convertions

6.Prepare the moulds:
•If you are working with regular madeleine moulds, butter 12 full-size madeleine moulds, or up to 36 mini madeleine moulds. Dust the insides with flour and tap out the excess.
•If you have nonstick moulds, a light even coating of vegetable cooking spray will suffice.
•If you have a silicone pan no prep is needed.

7.Spoon the batter into the moulds, filling each one almost to the top. Do not worry about spreading the batter evenly. (Do not overfill the mould.) Bake large madeleines for 11 to 13 minutes, and minis for 8 to 10 minutes, or until they are golden and the tops spring back when touched. NOTE: Keep an eye during baking as the fluted edges might get scortched easily.

8.Remove the pan(s) from the oven and allow the cookies to cool slightly before releasing the madeleines from the moulds. To separate the cookies, gently tap the edge of the pan against the counter and carefully pry the madeleines from the pan. Transfer the cookies onto a cooling rack—do not stack individual cookies on top of each other within an individual rack. Cool before serving or storing the cookies.

9.Repeat steps 6-7 (with a cold cookie pan) if you have extra batter at hand. If you wish to make additional cookies at this point repeat steps 1-7.

Serving: Serve the cookies as is when they are only slightly warm or when they reach room temperature.

Alternatively, if you prefer dusting the cookies with confectioners’ sugar before serving you must cool the cookies to room temperature before dusting. To dust the cookies, simply fill a baking sieve with a few spoonfuls of icing sugar: place the sieve directly above the cookies and gently, either with your fingers or with a spoon, tap the rim of the sieve until the cookies are evenly coated with sugar.

I prefer serving the madeleines with premium jasmine green tea, probably the next best thing to Proust’s lime-blossom tisane. Alternatively, these cookies can be served with espresso. I have been told that madeleines pair very well with Tokaji or Sauternes, although since my body doesn’t readily metabolize alcohol I cannot elaborate further. (I get rashes when I drink a glass too much. Strangely enough, I get no side effect when using alcohol-based fragrances...)

Storing: Although the batter can be kept in the refrigerator for up to 2 days, the madeleines are best to be eaten soon after they are made. You can keep them overnight in a sealed container, but they really are best eaten on the first day. If you must store them, wrap them airtight and freeze—they will last for up to 2 months.

With this in mind we shall conclude the first section: in the next section I shall cover the modern variants. If you prefer provoking Proust—stay tuned! Many thanks to Helg for making this post possible.

Photos: Madeleine from Flickr.com, illustration from ReadingProust.com, pan from Choos & Chews. Sources: “A Natural History of the Senses” by Diane Ackerman; The Project Gutenberg EBook of Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust; Illustration by Stephané Heuet; C.Burr’s quote from BaseNotes.net; recipes inspired by “Baking: From My Home to Yours” by Dorie Greenspan

Musk and Civet in Food: Challenging our Perceptions

 The seductive power of animalic essences in fragrances has been well known among people tuned into perfumes, especially of a vintage nature when true animalics were used in the formula. However how surprised would you be if you found out that not only your eau de toilette or extrait de parfum contained them, but also the delicacies that pass your lips? Yes, actual food and drink containing animalic essences such as musk or civet.

Musk was tentatively touched in one of the discussions I followed with some interest on a popular fragrance board the other day, as I had already experiences with the subject at hand: musk-flavoured candy, (called "musk candy" in Australia or "musk sticks" in other permutations) which seemed to create repulsion rather than attraction. Since everything in our medicine cabinet contains some form of synthesized musk (from soaps to cosmetics through bath oils and even the stuff we brush our teeth with!) and it's perenially a favourite of the functional fragrance industry to put in household cleansers, laundry detergents, and insect repellents, does it come as any surprise that artifically-flavoured food is also being aromatized with certain synthetic musk variants? Musk is an added component in fruit flavors, in chocolates, licorice, candies, chewing gum and even vanilla flavourings or puddings. 
The cozy, inviting smell of musk which we associate with warm, living and heaving human skin has an illustrious ancenstry that can be traced back to the Silk Route. Legends touch upon the tales of Chinese concubines being fed natural* musk-flavoured food so that during lovemaking their skin would sweat pure essence acting as a powerful aphrodisiac.

Is it any wonder then it has appeared even in a Lifesavers single flavour? That particular "musk candy" is an Australian idiosyncratic delicacy, much like Vegemite (the yeasty spread that rivals the British equivalent Marmite in the terrain of acquired taste). There also appears to be some form of edible Musk Sticks, by [supermarket private brand, as I learn from my Aussie readers] Coles, which appear to replicate the odour of incense sticks aromatized with musk. There is also the Beechies "musk gum" variety and Baba "musk melon candy". It's a whole industry!

Having been on the receiving end of a gift package that also entailed those "Musk Lifesavers", albeit of a different packaging (solid red with white lettering) and maker (not Nestle) than those linked above, sent by an Australian friend I can attest that soli-musk candies are not repulsive or nauseating. They're tinged with a "clean" soapy lace of almost aldehydic aftertaste that is certainly strange to encounter in a hard candy but which once you try you can appreciate for what it is.

Perhaps coming from a culture that traditionally and continuously has indulged in odours and flavours such as turpentine (the undertone of some ouzo varieties), of anise and mastic (used in several local liquors but also neat in bread and dough products), of cumin (an essential component of meatballs and pasturma) and of garlic (too numerous recipes to mention) along with an experimental spirit in cuisine that embraces squids, kalamari, octupus and snails cooked in red wine in all their squishy glory, as well as ripe cheeses that have mould, these come as no big surprise to me. And my musk affinities firmly in place, accounting for collecting musk fragrances of every possible nuance from the opalescent to the fetid, you might be warned that your own experience might be different. Still, it is an interesting proposition and worth keeping in mind should you find yourself faced with the option of tasting for yourself.

And what about civet in recipes, that fecal-smelling aroma that derives from the anal glands of the civet cat, farmed in Ethiopia and small erratic groups in other exotic locales at the moment? Civet highly diluted in fragrance formulae can have a marvellous effect of opening the bouquet, especially of floral blends, and thus adding texture, depth and radiance. An animalic touch that cannot be pinpointed as fecal as it truly is in concentration, yet is unmistakeably there: if you need proof open a vintage flacon of Jicky extrait de parfum and wait for it to make its pronounced magic appearence.

Although civet essence is not as wondrously diversified in synthesized forms as that of musk because the extraction of civet aromatic essence does not entail killing the animal ~and therefore has not had the chance to enter our plates in comparable droves~ civet does make an infamous appearence in drink: in coffee. This very special and most expensive coffee (£100 - £300 per lb. at time of writing), named Kopi Luwak, is produced by feeding the civet cats coffee berries which cannot be digested along with their food (much like we'd naturally dispose the bran of whole-grain cereals) and waiting for them to come out the natural way. The passing through the anal region stimulates the production of the anal glands secreting the valuable civet essence that is so prized in perfumery, so the beans gain a whole new dimension of animalic aroma. Further treating by roasting produces a coffee brew that is said to be among the very best, good to the last dropping so to speak. I admit although I have been intrigued by the idea for years and searching high and low for it locally among batches of Jamaican Blue Mountain and other assorted exclusive imports, it was only by the powers of the Internet and the intervention of a penpal that I came upon this link. I think I will take the plunge, bypassing the raw product we're invited to clean and roast ourselves, rather opting for a generous pouch. If on the other hand civet cats are too exotic for you, there is also weasel coffee - made from berries which have been regurgitated by, you guessed it, weasels.

And for those wondering, castoreum is also featured as a flavouring, in chewing gum and cigarettes no less, but its restricted use of the natural essence has probably put a stop to the practice. As to ambergris/grey amber, the divine marine/brine-like essence coming from the expulged cuttlefish residue in the digestive track of sperm whales, found floating in the ocean, I would be standing in line to taste something aromatized with its refined aroma. Brillat-Savarin recommended an infusion called "chocolate ambre" which was essentially chocolate drink heavily aromatized with ambregris. Heaven...

*The natural musk essence comes from Moschus moschiferus moschiferus or musk deer from the Himalayas but the cruelty necessitated for extracting the musk pouch from its genital region resulting in killing the animal has effected a prohibition on its hunting. Today musk essences at almost 100% are produced synthetically.

Pic Against the Grain by thatotherguy/flickr. Cartoon of civet coffee production spoof provided by Concord on MUA. 

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: The Musk Series (everything about the musk note, natural or synthetic, its cultural aspirations, its various musky fragrance types on the market)

Travel Memoirs: Istanbul, part2

Much of the olfactory enjoyment when in Istanbul comes from the culinary exploration of dishes that delight all the senses and make one abandon all expectations of following a diet regime in a flash. It is no accident that the Turkish refer to Culinary Arts when talking about food. The abundance and diversity owing to the rich flora and fauna of the area provide rich culinary escapades for an inquisitive gourmet palate. Babette's Feast with an oriental twist!
And so often food and drink is accompanied by oryantal dancing* to excite the senses even more: One feels like James Bond.



With a nomadic origin back to the first millenium in Central Asia, the Turkish repertoire has been influenced by the Arab, Persian, Greek /Byzantine, Seljuk and French traditions, as well as the Imperial Kitchen of the Ottomans, adding colourful spices and refined techniques. The little balls of delight that are içli kofte with their outer shell of bulgur and minced meat and their filling of pine nuts and spicy minced meat are inducement to a glimpse of heaven. They are chased away with tangy turnip juice. In Imam Bayildi bittersweet aubergines in onion and tomato sauce are sweetly melting into the tava (pan). The name literally means 'the Imam fainted', presumambly with pleasure. My favorite and one I recreate at home is Manti, home-made ravioli-like bites stuffed with minced meat with a yoghurt sauce on top.

Cumin and turmeric are especially prized and used in meat preparations which are roasted (kebap), stewed (yahni) and grilled (külbastı). Their acrid, sweaty flavour enhances the oiliness of onion-marinated meat, accompanying donerli rice pilafs in earthen pots topped with bright sauces to be enjoyed with your commensall. The background of those spices recalls the Arabic tradition of the souk echoed in the Serge Lutens perfumes and indeed this is the place to comprehend their intricasy best. Everything mingles nicely in this melting pot of civilizations: their Iskender Kebab is named after the Persian name for Alexander the Great!

When the weather is warm and the bitter orange trees in Balat are in bloom one can catch whiffs of their honeyed goodness intemingled with the sweet smells of the bakeries meters away. To the East, along the Golden Horn, brings you to Eminonu and the Spice (Egyptian) Bazaar, both old trading districts dating to Byzantium and the Spice Road. The pungent, rich smell leads you by the nose across the stalls of the sellers. Each one in its own heap of bright vermillon, deep mustard and brownish golden, they invite you to lean and take a deep breath with the desire to immerse your hands into the expensive, little red stigmata, yellow-green leaves of lemongrass and brown seeds. I find myself trying to mentally decipher the composition of Safran Troublant, a fragrance by L’artisan Parfumeur composed by Olivia Giacobetti. The natural combo of bitterness and sweetness like that in iodoform, as well as the smooth, pleasant feel of saffron(Crocus cartwrightianus) escape from the bottle like djenies from a middle-eastern tale with merchants and thieves. The same feel accompagnies me in Agent Provocateur where the rose is playing cello to saffron’s basso.
All these references are here dissected with the precision of a surgeon: saffron here, rose petals there, curcuma and turmeric like mustard-coloured dust, and fenugreek for pastırma, a delicasy that is destined for the brave and adventurous.

Pastırma is made from wind-dried cured meat, usually veal. Legend has it that agressive horsemen preserved meat by placing slabs of it in the pockets on the sides of their saddles, where it dried by the pressure of their thighs on the horse (this is also the origin of Steak Tartare). Then dried meat is covered in a paste called çemen comprising crushed cumin, fenugreek, garlic, and hot paprika as well as salt. Pastırma is intensely rich with the aroma of fenugreek (Trigonella foenum-graecum), an herb primarily used as a galactogue for millenia, as well as for cattle food. An opaque, rather bitter smell with a nutty undertone, it traverses the urinary track to scent a person’s urine as well as their sweat and intimate juices. Its seeds’ odour is comparable to thick maple suryp. Fenugreek is featured in many fragrances which have rippled the waters of niche perfumery with pre-eminent examples Sables by Annick Goutal and Eau Noire by Christian Dior (composed by nose Francis Kurkdjian). Everytime I smell them I am reminded of the intense flavour that this spice gives them.

To take the heat off those spicy dishes the Turks have devised the wonderfully refreshing drink Ayran or Airan, a mix of yogurt, water and salt, not too different from traditional Lassi from India. It manages to clean the palate and restore the stomach to its best function.
But the most fascinating of them all is the winter drink Boza, a fermented drink made from bulgur. It tastes tart and is thick as glue. Traditionally served with a dash of cinnamon on top and double roasted chickpeas (called leblebi in Turkish) on the side, it was confided to us by our waiter that it grows the breasts to become bigger! I can't vouch for its effects but it sure makes an impression upon hearing the rumour, doesn’t it?


To be continued with bittersweet romance, hammams and desserts...

Pics through Fotosearch and cafefernando.com. Clip from the film From Russia with Love, courtesy of JamesBondwiki.com

*For you ladies who consider this kind of dancing demeening, please click to see this AMAZING clip!

Travel Memoirs: Istanbul

"The ghosts return at night, little lights for unredeemed souls
And if you gaze up at the barricades, you’ll see figures looking back at you
And it’s then that a complaint wanders you through the cobblestone alleys
Of Constantinople, a lover from yore, whom you find in someone else’s embrace".

~"Vosporos", by Nikos Zoudiaris, sung by Alkinoos Ioannidis

Travel Memoirs begins with one of the most sensuous destinations: Istanbul ~the Ottoman name under which the former capital of the Byzantine Empire, Constantinople, is known today.
Initially the city was named after the Roman emperor Constantine the Great who made it Nova Roma, over the site of the ancient Greek colony founded by Megara citizens simply named Byzantium. Yet the name Istanbul itself is based on the common Greek usage of referring to Constantinople simply as “The City”, because it was the crown jewel of medieval cities with a population and grandeur that exceeded many western European cities, such as London, Paris and Rome, for centuries. It derives from the phrase "εις την Πόλιν" or "στην Πόλη" {(i)stimboli(n)}, both meaning "in the city" or "to the city".

And it is no surprise that in an Empire whose majority of the population was Greek or speaking Greek, there is still a strong Greek element running through the fabric of memory when one sets foot on Istanbul’s soil. But the Ottoman heritage is none the less interesting to witness: minarets and mosques, majestic palaces, bazaars, carpet dealers and salep sellers on the street peppered with excellent cuisine and suggestive dancing render the visitor captive of its charms. It’s this fusion between Occidental and Oriental that gives Istanbul its extraordinary character. A character of strange melancholy: perhaps it’s the ancestral call…

Passing through the arabesque cobblestone on Istiklal across from the fish market, one enters the Cukurcuma district, full of antique shops, lazy cats sunning their bellies and the aroma of slowly roasted, dark coffee on hot sand, Turkish coffee (Türk kahvesi), made the traditional way. The preparation begins by boiling finely powdered roast coffee beans in a copper ibrik, the shape of a tiny ewer, with the addition of cardamom and (optionally) sugar. The thick liquid boils and boils again ceremoniously, emitting the aroma beyond the scope of the little terraces where it is served. Made one cup (fildžan) at a time, where the dregs settle and a thick golden cream forms on top, the köpük, it is a process of slow anticipation, a largo of animation. And also a journey into the past and the future. In this small fildžan I can almost glimpse the Levantine Arabs bringing the fruit of coffea bush to Constantinople. The Ottoman chronicler İbrahim Peçevi reports the opening of the first coffeehouse in İstanbul:

“Until the year 962 (1554-55), in the High, God-Guarded city of Constantinople, as well as in Ottoman lands generally, coffee and coffeehouses did not exist. About that year, a fellow called Hakam from Aleppo and a wag called Shams from Damascus, came to the city: they each opened a large shop in the district called Tahtalkala, and began to purvey coffee.”

~ Cemal Kafadar, "A History of Coffee", Economic History Congress XIII (Buenos Aires, 2002)

But I can also forsee the future: those sludgy grounds left at the bottom serve for tasseography, an old tradition of fortune telling. The cup is turned onto the saucer and the symbols formed are deciphered by some older woman.The flavour of cardamom and sometimes kakule (pistachio grains whole seed "pods", pistachio-looking like of the cardamom plant) settles in the mouth, lingering for a long time, like the prophecies revealed by the symbols on the cup. “Will they ever come true?”, one wonders gallivanting through the medieval alleys.



In Kapali Carci (the Grand Bazaar with the 1000 shops) one comes across all kinds of scented products. Fragrant balms for the hair, henna paste for body and hair, oils of rare plants and fossilised resins, like lumps of gum benjamin (benzoin), Turkish sweetgum (Liquidabar orientalis) and all the spices of Arabia. If one persists there are manuscripts, or should I say copies of old manuscripts posing as older than they are, with recipes using them. One of them is "Theriaca Andromachi Senioris", a Venice treacle recipe that uses benzoin appearing in the 1686 d'Amsterdammer Apotheek, a honey- or molasses-based alexipharmic composition once thought to be effective against venom. First developed in Italy, then exported throughout Europe from Venice and ending in Constantinople. If only the offered manuscript were authentic…

And of course there is Anatolian rose Otto (from Ottoman) which leaves an intense trail of almost fruity scent to one’s hands after handling the precious little bottles, with the name Gül (Rose) written on the label. I try to recall if any commercial fragrance captures the intense, decadent and yet also fresh odour of such an essence and come up with none. One is hard pressed not to haggle with the local sellers who are expecting so and the little treasure is secured into a handbag, folded with a silk handkerchief depicting seagulls. It will linger in a drawer with old, frayed photos of ancestors, impregnating their precious memory with the essence of the place they begrudgingly had to leave.



To be continued....

Pic shows Ortaköy Mosque (officially Büyük Mecidiye Camii, the Grand Imperial Mosque of Sultan Abdülmecid) and the Bosphorus Bridge by cafefernando.com.
Translation of lyrics by the author.
Clip from the intro of Greek-Turkish film Politiki Kouzina, uploaded on Youtube by JasonSeaman1.