Plunge into Provence, absorb the aromas and moods of each season with a stroll through the local market. For the vagabondgourmand, Apt is the market of choice, and summer is the season to catch the region at its aromatic best. I have made regular pilgrimages to this market for over a dozen years, always finding a few new twists on classic Provençal specialties. Apt, a crossroads since Roman times, lies in a valley at the foot of the Luberon mountain range, an hour east of Avignon. Midway between Cavaillon’s melon fields and the goat-dappled hills of Banon, this corner of the Vaucluse département has been a center of fruit production for centuries.

Saturday is the major market day, and a good starting point is the shady square facing Apt’s city hall. I stopped to buy a few cherries and a bottle of apple-quince juice when I noticed two flats of green almonds on the same stall. The shorter of two brothers, whose products caught my attention, quickly engaged me in conversation. As I paid the vendor, I ventured a few questions about the fresh almonds. The answers were supplied up by a large man, a regular customer who arrived with greetings to all around, eased himself behind the stall, plucked a few cherries to nibble on and purchased four kilos of the pale green nuts. The brothers deferred to “the chef” and left us to the questions and answers. In response to my query about how he would use these almonds, he chuckled and reached for another cherry: “…in a compote of fresh fruit, for instance”. His large sacks of both green almonds and glistening cherries piqued my curiosity, and I wondered how these ingredients would turn up on today’s menu. Sensing that he was ready to rush back to the Auberge du Luberon kitchen, I asked if we could book a table for dinner. “Bien sûr” Serge Peuzin replied, “à ce soir!”

That evening, we were seated on the Auberge terrace and studied our menus. I could see how this Maitre Cuisinier de France is true to his terroir : an entire, elaborate menu is devoted to his interpretations of local ingredients using the fruit confit (glazed, preserved fruits), an industry that has put Apt on many a gastronome’s map. My focus returned to the subject at hand, almonds. I was pleased to discover Peuzin’s inspired touch of almond milk with a tender duck filet. Long story short: it was succulent, a contrast to the garnish of a savory polenta cake studded with plump cherries from this morning’s market. Later, when he rolled the dessert cart up to our table, I noted fresh green almonds in a compote of apricots, but my choice was an almond tart - Peuzin’s interpretation of a Savoy walnut tart, using caramelized almonds on a shortbread crust. As a garnish, I chose a small cup of brousse (sheep’s milk soft cheese) topped with a layer of pear compote. No doubt about it, this chef knows his terroir, and interprets each season’s market bounty with a flair. Reserve a table at Restaurant Serge Peuzin, l’Auberge du Luberon (a Logis de France hotel), 8 place Faubourg du Ballet, tel: 04 90 741 250 (to call from outside France, dial 33, and drop the first 0).

La Manade, a cozy restaurant deep in the heart of old Apt, is set on a narrow street leading from the rue des Marchands to the old Roman forum ruins on Place Jean Jaurès. Since it was opened by a young couple from Arles in 2004, I have enjoyed a lunch or dinner at La Manade during each visit to the area. The chef, Jean-François Christin, never ceases to surprise me with his interpretations of Provençal cuisine. Specialties of the Camargue region are featured: both le taureau - the black bull native to the Bouche du Rhône delta - and fresh fish are on the menu. The chef’s take on the traditional fish stew, cotriade, is a wonder of textures as firm strips of lotte (monkfish) form a pyramid over bulb fennel cooked al dente (perhaps with a splash of Pernod?). Call to reserve a table, tel: 04 90 04 79 06, at La Manade, 36 rue Rene Cassin. Katy Christin will welcome you warmly.

Another inventive chef in the center of Apt is Cyrille Petit, who explores seasonal themes for the tables at Le Platane on rue Jules Ferry. Their vegetarian menu always intrigues me, and on this visit it included a delicious lasagne aux épinards (spinach) et aux brousse. His touch with spice is a revelation, poaching fish with badiane (star anise) - but I would opt for the squid and shrimp, écornets et gambas aux legumes, any day. This summer, red fruit reigns on the dessert menu, which includes a creamy, perfect panna cotta coulis fruits rouge. Dine on the shady terrace or in the dining room, where Edith Petit’s whimsical, contemporary touch and selection of jazz brightens a sunny or rainy day. La Platane is a popular lunch spot after the Saturday market, so be sure to reserve, tel: 04 90 04 74 36.

** Let us know your favorite markets, contribute your own tips on market-fresh ingredients discovered during summer travel…..’tis the season!

Next up: Meet a wheat farmer and nut producer in the Charente…. anticipating a slim harvest.

My first encounter with a Jésuite left me with a sugar-dusted nose. A tray of the long, triangular pastries in the window of an Île de France bakery-café lured me inside, and a few minutes later I emerged with a floral-printed pack of pastries. Michel and I took a table on the sidewalk, ordered coffee and peered into the box: “How do we eat these?” was my husband’s first query.  The Jésuites cantilevered over the rim of a plate; the server brought spoons, but I was wondering if a steak knife and long-tined fork would be better weapons for approaching this iced, sugar-topped puff-pastry.  The American way, go ahead - use your fingers, would avoid having pastry corners shooting across the table, so that was my last resort:  pick it up, bite off one of the corners.  Flakes of puff pastry drifted across the table, the buttery-crisp corner melted in my mouth and traces of sugar stuck to the nose above my triumphant smile.  I took a good look at the pastry for future reference, wondering who first decided that eighteenth century Jesuit hats would provide a template for an almond-cream filled pastry.

Having conquered question number one - eating it - I moved on to question number two: how can I reproduce the frangipane filling and triangular pastry?  For the Jésuite is a classic pastry-baker’s item, rarely made at home.  You can begin with puff pastry, pâte feuilletée, which can be bought ready to roll.  Or chill a slab of marble, mix flour and chilled butter, (layer dough with butter chips) and fold the sticky pastry several times to ensure flakiness.  My first effort at this type of puff pastry was on a hot August morning, not the ideal timing and overall, a discouraging experience.  But I recently bought a pre-rolled pastry that was a decent substitute, enough for making four Jésuites.

To form the Jésuites, cut the circle (about enough to make a 10″ pie crust) of pastry down the center, then across the center making four equal quarters. Slice each quarter in half and separate. Prepare the frangipane: Cream 50 grams/1/4 cup of soft unsalted butter, add 50 grams/1/4 cup of sugar and 50 grams of ground/powdered almonds, whisking this into a frothy mixture. Beat in 1 egg, 1 teaspoon of almond essence, (add 2 more yolks at this point if you want a richer filling), and 2 tablespoons of rum or brandy. This can be made in advance and chilled. With a small pastry brush (I use a Hungarian feather brush from Williams Sonoma), moisten the edges of 2 triangles, spread with the frangipane, place one triangle on top of the other and seal the edges by pressing gently. Repeat this with the remaining triangles. The fingerprints will disappear as the puff pastry expands in the oven. Heat the oven to 205°c/400°f. Very lightly oil a baking sheet (use almond oil if you have it) and place the 4 pastries with 2″ spacing.  At this point, you can brush with milk and sprinkle flaked almonds on them, or go a step farther with a light meringue of: 1 egg white mixed with 25 grams icing sugar then topped with the flaked almonds (or crushed praline!).  Bake the Jésuites for about 8 minutes, then lower the heat to 160°c/324°f for another 8 to 10 minutes.  Take the golden Jésuites out of the oven and dust with icing sugar.  Some French bakers even add a fine top layer of white frosting - gilding the lily, perhaps.
Next question: Frangipane who?

Dark and edgy, chocolat noir has a grip on me. Maybe my crush on bitter chocolate started with Marabou, the superb Swedish chocolate that I savored on ferries going from Finland to Sweden years ago. (A Finnish friend just sent the bad news that Marabou dark is no longer available - what a loss for chocolate lovers!) But to cook with bitter chocolate, a balance must be struck between bitter and sweet. This rendition of a dark mousse does just that, with an added crunch of praline. Having tried adding spirits for depth, I found that rum was too strong, so I dash a little cognac or armagnac into the equation. Gently fold in whipping cream, which adds richness but not the volume of whisked whites that lifted mousse I to a lighter texture. And whether almonds or toasted hazelnuts are used for the praline, in the spirit of autumn, don’t forget the nuts.

The praline: In a non-stick frying pan, toast 1/2 cup coarsely slivered (not finely flaked) blanched almonds. Add a scant 1/2 cup powdered/icing sugar, stirring in from the edges as it caramelizes over low heat. Line a pie tin with aluminum foil, and when the almonds are coated with caramel (10 to 15 minutes or less), quickly transfer them into the tin. Cool, cover with foil and break into pieces by hitting it with a mallet. Set aside 1/3 cup of crushed praline for the mousse, which should serve 4 or 5.

The mousse: Melt in a pan set over simmering water (not ON - or it will scorch and spoil the flavor), 100 grams dark chocolate, such as Lindt Excellence, 70% cacao (1 bar/ package) which has been broken/beaten into pieces (to melt faster). Add 2 tablespoons butter, cut into chunks and stir, then add 50 grams of praline-filled milk chocolate, such as Côte d’Or (1/2 package) or Gianduja, broken up, and 1 to 2 spoons of Cognac or strong coffee. Lift the pan off the heat. Separate 3 eggs, and stir the yolks into the chocolate one by one; then stir in the powdered praline, add a twist or two of grated nutmeg. Whip 1/2 cup of thick cream, 1 tablespoon confectioner’s/icing sugar and fold this carefully into the cooled chocolate mixture. The amount of cream can be doubled, and a bit more sugar (sweeten to taste) added. When blended, pour the mousse into a glass bowl or individual cups, sprinkling all with crushed praline.

What to do with the extra egg whites? If you are not in a mood to make meringue, whip up a simple prune mousse. Cook 2 cups of semi-dried prunes in water to cover (with a tea bag to soften the skins); cool them, remove pits, then purée in a blender, add 1/4 cup sugar and a twist of nutmeg (and minced orange zest, or a splash of Cointreau if you have time) to the prunes. Whisk the (3) egg whites (add a pinch of fine salt and a tablespoon of sugar) to form stiff peaks, fold them into the prunes in three stages to hold the volume, pour into an attractive bowl and top with crunchy praline. Ready for dinner: Mousse aux pruneaux - a bonus autumnal treat - can be made a day in advance, to serve six.  Hold the remaining crushed praline in reserve - maybe to sprinkle on Jésuites…..

Well, we have survived a long, drawn-out kitchen renovation which took two months instead of the projected two weeks. I became a bit more resourceful - without the old oven and before the new one was in operation - digging out recipes for stove-top solutions to dessert. Chocolate-loving friends always inspire me to expand my chocolate cake, torte and pie repertoire, but recently when they were expected for dinner, it had to be a different solution to the “what’s the choko-dessert?” question. The best answer was a classic chocolate pudding - okay, mousse au chocolat. Having tried some that were thick and bitter, some saucy-soupy and too sweet, I stretched for a new approach. Many mousse recipes involve making a sugary meringue with the whites, others suggest leaf gelatine to assure form. Michel Roux’s elegant rendition candies orange zest, and folds in sweetened cream instead of egg whites. Julia Child added strong coffee to the melting chocolate, while Prue Leith suggested Grand Marnier and a pinch of ginger. Just when I thought all possibilites had been weighed, I flipped open “The Cook and the Gardener”, Amanda Hesser’s delicious chronicle of her year cooking at La Varenne. Hesser suggests infusing bay leaves in warm cream, a first step for a chocolate ganache…..this could lend a subtly nutty twist to the mousse on my mind. So now, after my culinary oracles have been duly consulted, I offer an option or two that stand up to your own interpretations:

Mousse I, an herbal flight of fancy : 3/4 cup of heavy cream + 2 fresh bay leaves; heat the cream to scald it, take off the heat and add 2 bay leaves broken in half - let this steep for 10 to 15 minutes. Melt 6 oz./80 grams dark chocolate in a pan over (not ON) simmering water, stirring in 1 tablespoon strong coffee, then stir in 2 tablespoons of butter (chopped into bits), stirring all this as it becomes glossy. Separate 3 eggs, and whisk in the 3 egg yolks one by one. Pour the warm cream through a sieve into the yolk & chocolate mixture, whisking to blend it all. In a deep bowl, with electric beaters, beat the 3 egg whites with a pinch of cream of tartar or salt, whisking to foamy peaks, then add gradually 1/3 cup sugar and beat to form stiffer peaks. Gently fold this in 4 parts into the chocolate mixture. Another 1/2 cup of whipped thick cream could be added at this point, but it is optional lily-gilding. When smoothly blended, pour the mousse into a glass bowl and chill for 4 to 12 hours. Sprinkle with a sifting of powdered Italian or Dutch cocoa before serving to 6. This can be chilled in 6 individual cups or glasses. Serve with almond tuiles to scoop up the mousse. Tuiles recipe to follow…. and a darker Mousse II. To bring out the elusive tones of bay leaf, a tipple of sweet Saussignac or Jurançon wine elicits the subtle herbal nuances.

Why Bay?

Whether you call it sweet bay, bay laurel, or simply bay leaf, the glossy green leaves carry more potential for flavor than I ever imagined. The sweet bay’s history alone is fascinating: in Greek legend, Apollo made the tree a sacred plant, assigning the leaves a symbol of honor. Thus the heros, athletes, warriors, emperors and achievers were crowned with a laurel wreath. Bacca-laureate means laurel berries in Latin. A long list of medicinal attributes include the bay leaf’s anti-inflammatory effects, it is a local antiseptic, an anti-fungal, it aids digestion and stimulates the appetite. Bay contains parthenolides, which are used to treat migraine headaches; and bay has been found effective in treating some types of rheumatism. The tangy, slightly nutty aroma that bay leaf imparts to milk or cream made it the medieval cook’s economical substitute for almonds in puddings - when times were tight. New England’s resourceful settlers used bay berries to scent candles and freshen the air. When a glossy green bay leaf is snapped in half, the natural oils are released into the sauce or soup, so do use fresh leaves, not dried brown ones. With so many health-giving qualities, sweet bay plays a more frequent role in our soups, sauces - and even in puddings, taking a cue from those clever medieval cooks.

When it heats up outside, I hesitate to do much cooking inside. Flames and smoke of grilling outdoors don’t hold much appeal, either. So, I revert to lessons learned in Greece: cook ahead, and keep it simple. Even the most lethargic appetite seems to respond to fresh flavors of basic Greek classics. This year the alarming heat wave across Greece and southern Europe has been major news. But in the cool of the morning, one can make the evening’s meal - and sit under an arbor or pergola somewhere at the end of the day with a glass of retsina or raki. Early in the day, prepare a simple sauce - Skorthalia/ Skordalia - of mashed potatoes, garlic and ground almonds to accent a main dish of sautéed fish with fennel or grilled chicken. In its simplicity, Skorthalia in fact recalls ancient Mediterranean traditions combining ground almonds and garlic. Persia’s legendary, sophisticated cuisine used ground almonds with garlic in sauces similar to Turkish tarator. Today, it seems there is a revival of interest in these combinations that the ancients set before their family and guests. Skorthalia is a actually more of a rich side dish rather than a sauce, though it is usually listed with sauces. In some regions, bread soaked in water is incorporated into the mixture as a thickener instead of almonds - but then it loses the delicate almond flavor. Using new potatoes and fresh garlic, a bit of lemon juice and olive oil, this can be a staple on summer’s al fresco tables. I sometimes thin the mixture a bit with the pan juices from sautéed fish with fennel, and although recipes say: “serve chilled”, I have been known to set a bowl of warm Skorthalia on the supper table and watch it quickly disappear. Combine ingredients using a mortar and pestle, then whisk in the mashed potatoes with a fork, stirring it until all ingredients are smooth, well blended. And add more garlic for a snappier, more authentic version:

2 large cloves of fresh garlic, finely chopped then mashed with 1 tsp. sea salt

2 tablespoons ground almonds, 1 tsp.freshly ground white pepper

2 tablespoons lemon juice

1 to 1 +1/2 cups warm mashed potatoes (about 4 potatoes)

1 egg yolk (optional)

1/3 cup olive oil

1 tablespoon wine vinegar

Blend in the order given, stirring the egg into warm potatoes until completely blended (this gives a pleasant color). Using a 2 or 4 cup pyrex measuring cup takes the guesswork out of proportions; this is easily doubled to serve 6. Continue stirring while adding the oil in a thin stream, then blend in the vinegar last. Let cool, cover and chill during the day. Serve with fish, grilled vegetables, or spread a dab of Skorthalia on a slice of toasted baguette and top with a small shrimp or plump mussel as an appetizer. Variations abound.

On opposite ends of the Mediterranean Sea, I’ve discovered distinctive combinations - literally from soup to nuts - using almonds in savory, appetizing sauces. When I set out on the adventure of writing a book about almonds, I expected to primarily taste lots of almondy pastries and puddings: a sweet subject. So during the process of culinary and cultural digging on the subject of this Mediterranean ingredient, my taste buds have had a succession of surprises. This month, I’m testing almond recipes, beginning with a Salsa category, and I’d like to share a few discoveries. Now, in June, the timing is right for sauces made of garlic and almonds - a combo found in many culinary traditions. New garlic, with buds bulging under sheaths of purple-striped casing, is at its juiciest, freshest and easiest to mash and mix into vinaigrettes, sauces and marinades.

Lets begin with Romescu, a quintessentially Catalan sauce that shows up from March into April when calçots (local wild spring onions) are grilled. I was delighted to taste it recently in the northern Spanish city of Girona, served with not grilled but lightly batter-dipped and deep fried calçots. At the next table (within inches), a young Catalan gent attacked a plate of tiny snails, ceremoniously dipping each skewered caracol into the pink Romescu and then into a Catalan variation of the Mediterranean favorite garlic-infused mayonnaise, Ali-oli/ailloli. Romescu contains peppers, but in fact is only slightly spicy - not at all a Hot sauce. The almond presence is in the texture, depending on how the almonds are ground. Packaged pre-ground almonds are convenient, or grind small quantities of blanched almonds in a blender or spice grinder. To prepare salsa Romescu, use a blender if you are rushed, but get out the mortar and pestle for the most authentic results.

Romescu: 4 Tablespoons ground blanched almonds

2 T. garlic, finely minced then ground with 1 tsp. salt

a pinch of cayenne or Piment d’Espelette

1 tomato, peeled, seeded and finely chopped (or 3-4 T. crushed tomatoes, drained)

4 T. wine vinegar

3-4 T. olive oil - or as much as a cupful if you like a richer sauce

Mash the garlic and spices, adding the almonds gradually as the paste becomes thick. Continue to add the chopped tomato, then add vinegar (or use half lemon juice) gradually while mashing. Drizzle the oil in a spoonful at a time to create a smoother consistency, beating it in with a spoon. This recipe is adapted from the useful Time/Life book, Cuisine d’Espagne et du Portugal, 1970. A more complicated version in Penelope Casas’ excellent The Foods & Wines of Spain begins by boiling hot peppers in water and vinegar, then adding them to a bread-thickened sauce. For a little zip, sometimes I have added a bit of Ancho chili. Each kitchen has its own favorite approach to this sauce from Tarragona. In that ancient, coastal city, Romescu can describe a platter of shellfish (often the priciest item on the menu) bathed in the addictive stuff.

Next salsa post: Skordalia

Note to travelers: In épiceries and local grocery shops in northern Spain, look for “Salsa Calçots“, the Ferrer label, made in the Barcelona region.

Gigot! Festive and easy is the best description for this variation on simply roasting a lamb leg for a special occasion dinner. An herb-crumb crust made with ground almonds seals in the juices as the gigot roasts.

Ingredients:

1 small leg of lamb, about 4 1/2 lbs/2 kg. (to serve 5 or 6)
1/4 c./56 ml olive oil, sea salt & freshly ground pepper.

For the crust: 1 egg beaten with 2 T. Dijon mustard (do not use a sweet mustard)
8 T./160 ml cream mixed with 1/2 cup crushed or ground almonds
5 T./90 grams fine breadcrumbs mixed with chopped thyme & sage

Preparation: Preheat oven to 426°f/210°c. Heat the oil in a heavy frying pan, rub the leg with seasoning and brown the lamb on all sides. Transfer it to a roasting pan. Make the crust by mixing the ingredients together. Then spread this paste over the lamb. Insert a meat thermometer and roast for 45 to 60 minutes, depending on how rare you prefer the lamb. Before serving, allow 10 minutes for the meat to rest before carving. Serve with your choice of seasonal vegetables, steamed or creamed, and a light rice pilaf. With each serving, include a strip of crust on top or beside the lamb. Garnish with flowering thyme, sage leaves or sprigs of lavender.

This recipe is adapted from La France Gourmande, the May Fête de l’Agneau in Pauillac, Gironde. A fine Médoc red, a Pauillac or St. Julien, is always a good wine choice for gigot.