4 minute read
Terroir
Twenty years ago, not long after I moved to Santa Barbara, I toyed with—well, actually seriously contemplated—wading into the turbulent waters of restaurant ownership. I blithely envisioned a chic bistro, complete with Chez Panisse-esque daily changing menus. Yet the more I analyzed this potential venture and the enormous commitment it would take, the more I realized, sadly, that it was not to be. So, if not a restaurant, I chose to do what was, for me, the next best thing: Teaching people how to cook.
Ideally, as though friends were coming over to dinner we would all cook together and the menu would change with every class. Little did I know what this would lead to! Now, after two decades, hundreds and hundreds of events and classes, and eight cookbooks later, I can see, in the catalogs of menus in my office, the evolution of my cooking, my tastes and what has become my food. What struck me the most as I leafed through the pages was the very real sense of terroir that the recipes reflected.
From the French word terre (earth), terroir meaning “from the earth” or “a sense of place” also imbues that which grows, and is cultivated in a particular region with distinctive characteristics. Like a wave rippling out from its epicenter, I saw that my culinary repertoire had expanded from the lush green fields of Normandie and the planes of Provence to all the shores of the Mediterranean, lapping up the scented and earthy foods of the Maghreb and the fragrant, perfumed palettes of Levantine and Ottoman cooking, and to gastronomic forays into the spice-infused foods of the Indian subcontinent and herb-filled delicacies of Southeast Asia.
All this from seasonal explorations of farmers markets across Europe and those I found here in California.
Nourished by these forays, I discovered foods I had never tasted before: daikon and watermelon radishes, Thai basil and fresh za’atar, Chinese long beans and sprouted black-eyed peas, microgreens and blistered almonds, Jerusalem artichokes and Romanesco broccoli, tomatillos and jicama, Meyer lemons, pluots and apriums to name but a few; vegetables, fruit, herbs and spices that reflected the myriad communities and migrant farmers who nurtured and cultivated the land around us.
The farmers I have come to know locally come from Ojai, Los Alamos and the Central Valley and as far away as Mexico, Laos and Thailand. Collectively they farm the rich soil in fields and valleys dotted throughout this county, and plant their heritage into the ground. From their roots, I now understand, the food I cook has literally changed to encompass my new terroir. I realized, with a deep sense of gratitude, that I had put down my own roots, tapping into their extraordinary bounty.
If Brillat-Savarin, now said to me “Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are,” he would find a French- Mediterranean-Californian hybrid, delighting in the crosscultural mélange of produce that I pick up at the market every week. Over time this food has changed me and the way I cook.
The very first class I taught, in the spring of 1999, was classic French cuisine: a combination of Provencal staples and dishes I grew up with. My French bistro ideal channeled into the food I showed people how to make. Individual onion tarts with a fresh garden herb salad, followed by stuffed filet mignons with Roquefort and rosemary, served with braised endives, and for dessert an apricot clafoutis. I felt at home in this cuisine and transplanted it to the American Riviera. In my first decade of teaching nearly every menu included beef or lamb or pork, salmon or trout or seabass, centered around regional French and Italian cooking, with the odd excursion into Spanish delicacies.In the spring of 2009, I penned a story for the inaugural issue of Edible Santa Barbara about a different culinary journey, one taken through a spring garden, trumpeting the delights of (and providing the recipes for) asparagus, both green and white, fava beans and pastoral lamb.
Rereading this, a decade later, I can see that this was the turning point, the start of a more vegetable-based cooking. I rarely taught a vegetarian class before then. Oh, how that has changed! Now, more often than not, the meals I prepare, teach and write about are often plant based, celebrating and reveling in the colorful, succulent array of produce found in our neardaily farmers markets.
Much to my chagrin I have tried and failed to grow vegetables. I can just about manage herbs. Every time I see farmers picking crops as I crisscross the countryside, I send out a silent prayer of gratitude for their skills and look forward to discovering new varieties of vegetables and fruit as I walk through their farm stands. They have nourished my imagination and, in turn, my recipes.
Who knew, for example, that cauliflower, tomatoes, beets, radishes and carrots come in a palette of rainbow-like colors with nuances in texture and flavor? I never saw them when I first came to California, now they are showcased in local restaurants up and down the coast, and splashed across food media.
Lest I thought this was California foodie phenomenon, I was pleasantly surprised on my last trip back to Provence to find some of the very same vegetables being grown there. Food trends it seems are quickly transcontinental. I decided to make what my French cousin referred to as “Californian food” showcasing these fruits and vegetables.
I had a distinct sensation that the ripple effect of my culinary migrations had come full circle, cooking Provencale- Mediterranean food, albeit with a new West Coast twist. I made them a donut peach salad with feta and lemon basil, slowroasted citrus salmon with heirloom tomatoes and a salad of shaved asparagus with endives. The ingredients were familiar to them, the combinations new.
Some things never change, though. My mantra has always been eat with the seasons and eat local. That spring, in markets on both sides of the Atlantic, I found apricots, the one fruit that is for me the harbinger of the season. As soon as I saw them, I made, as I do every year, an apricot clafoutis. I await the first harvest this year with great anticipation, although—who knows?—perhaps I’ll make a cherry-apricot-pluot version, a new twist on a classic.
by Pascale Beale
