I'm pleased to report that it is not just the British who sometimes behave like a bunch of arrogant feckwits while on holiday. I've spent a bit of time lying in the sun down on the petite-cote since I've been back, trying to shake out the stress of being on overdrive in Rwanda for the last four months. By god I wish I'd taken a shotgun with me.
Hiding behind my sunglasses and my book (Joanna Blythman's superb 'The food we eat') with some serious tunage on my baladeur, my fellow tourists just looked like the overweight, sunburned, British scum that are familiar to anyone who has ever been to the Greek Islands or parts of southern Spain. Except these folks wore French football shirts, and spoke, rather shouted, in French. Meanwhile a banlieu outside Paris is ablaze. I wonder what the Senegalese make of these idiots. Does it put them off applying for a visa, or getting into an overcrowded pirogue and braving the atlantic for a chance at getting a job cleaning the floors for these people.
It was down on the petite-cote that I discovered my 'new favourite courgette recipe'. If you've ever eaten sunday roast chez jiffler then chances are you've tried one of my many sauteed courgette variations - chilli courgette, mushroom and courgette, cherry tomato and courgette in balsamic vinegar, courgette enema. All good. There is something I love about the humble courgette, it always seems to bring another taste dimension to a sunday roast, without looking out of place on the plate.
One sweltering lunchtime I found a charming little restaurant outside my hotel in Saly, where I enjoyed a seafood pasta lunch and good coffee overlooking the beach. It was quiet, and there were no interruptions from bumsters, prostitutes, or other tourists, so I decided to return for dinner that evening, satisfied that I could read my book alone and enjoy cracking the tops of a few bottles of Gazelle lager.
I'd tipped the waiter handsomely at lunchtime and was pleased to see his shift hadn't finished when I arrived for dinner. He made a small table available for me outside with a view of the waves and a pleasant breeze. The restaurant was almost empty, and the owner, a white Senegalese, came out to greet me cheerfully. After apologising for my wooly French, we exchanged a few pleasantries and set about discussing the menu. Sadly the steak was off, and I'd already had the recommended seafood pasta for lunch. Settling for Pork chops with a sauce of brie, sauteed potatoes and courgettes, I ordered a gazelle and took a brief wander onto the deck outside to examine the sea.
Returning to my seat, and cold frothy beer, I noticed the restaurant had started to fill with other pinkish foreigners. Older couples mainly, one couple accompanied by a twenty-something daughter who shot a look of bored resentment in my direction. Over in the bar area, a large and cheerful looking man settled himself alone into an overstuffed couch and set about lighting a cigar as fat as his fingers. He sported a magnificent moustache, bushy, handlebar-esque, the sort that makes wearing a motorcycle helmet very difficult. I imagined him as some sort of Jose Bove-type character, a man who enjoys his food, a fine wine, a well made cigar.
I was disturbed by a sort of light grunting from the ground nearby and leaned over the table to witness two cats rutting away energetically. I'd never seen cats on the job before and watched with curiosity for a few seconds chuckling into my beer. The man at the table adjacent stamped his foot and frightened the fornicating felines away. I looked up at his wife sitting across from me, shrugged and smiled "C'est tout naturel, eh?". She responded with something gutteral in French that was beyond my vocabulary. From the look on her face she didn't seem to find the situation at all amusing, and I exchanged raised eyebrows with the waiter.
My food arrived, and I stuck my knife into the pork. Tough. It served me right for ordering pork in a muslim country. Luckily the cheese was thick and rich enough to make up for this. Sauteed potatoes were competent, and the sauteed courgettes packed tightly into a small glass ramekin. Interesting... I tipped out the courgettes and scooped up a forkfull, and instantly - Courgettes, garlic, olive oil, thyme. Fantastic - why hadn't I thought of that before? Thankfully the chef had known in advance what my reaction would be and had given me too much in my little ramekin. Compliments indeed.
I looked up from my courgette epiphany and saw that the moustache had been joined my a young, slim Senegalese woman. No older than sixteen at best. I pondered if she were a relative, or friend, but was disabused of this by his wandering hands. My gourmet hero was just another tourist pervert, getting his rocks off on the cheap down on the petite-cote.
I finished my coffee and hit the hotel bar.
Roast chicken supper - with courgettes and thyme.
The French butcher in Yoff-Virage probably does the best meat in town. It is claimed that the chickens are Bresse, imported and bred locally. At five quid a pop, even at local prices, I doubt it, but the yellow-ish tinge to their flesh is enough to convince me that they've been brought up well, and I take a largish one for a sunday roast.
Ingredients:
(Use your common sense and the art of zen for quantities here. I always cook too much chicken, so I can graze off the carcass for a couple of days)
1 chicken, a good one. Organic if possible. Spend some money on this and make the most of it. £2.99 supermarket chickens are vile, pumped with fat and water, raised in shitty conditions, full of chemicals, and tasteless.
Roasting potatoes - Desiree, or King Edwards. Maris Piper is a good all rounder.
A big courgette, or a couple of small ones.
Some carrots.
Garlic
A lemon
Butter (unsalted)
Olive oil
About half an inch of fresh ginger root
Fresh coriander chopped.
Fresh or dried thyme
Colman's mustard powder
A large pinch of flour
Salt and pepper
Some wine, or Marsala for the gravy.
Roasting the chicken:
Let the chicken come up to room temperature and stuff its cavity with half of the lemon and a few cloves of garlic. salt and pepper. Rub butter or olive oil all over the bird, massaging it into the skin. Roast in a hot oven for 30 minutes breast side down under tin-foil, then invert it and cook it uncovered for the remaining time (depending on the weight of your bird...). Baste occasionally with the juices.
The potatoes:
Peel the potatoes and cut into two-bite sized chunks. Parboil until the edges are softening, then drain and return to the hob to dry for a couple of seconds. Mix a level table spoon of mustard powder with the same amount of flour, a pinch of salt and pepper. Place the lid back on the pan and gently shake until the edges of the potatoes are bashed and coated with the flour-mustard mixture.
Heat some olive oil in a baking dish, and when it is very hot, empty the potatoes in, shaking to coat in the oil. Bake with the chicken for 50mins to an hour, shaking the pan and turn the spuds occasionally. (If you have goose or duck fat, or perhaps beef dripping, this makes an even better alternative to olive oil).
The carrots:
Slice the carrots julienne style, and press the ginger through a garlic crush. Stir fry the ginger and carrots in olive oil for a couple of minutes before adding the chopped coriander and stir-frying a minute or two more. The carrots should still have some bite, and the colours of the coriander and carrots should still be bright.
Courgettes:
Dice the courgettes into cubes no larger than 1cm. Press the garlic. If using fresh thyme, strip the leaves from the branch and chop finely. With dried thyme, follow the same approach beach give the dried leave a good grinding in a pestle and mortar. Stir-fry the courgettes and garlic in olive oil for a few minutes until the courgette is softening and then add the thyme for a couple more minutes.
Gravy:
When the chicken is done, remove it from the roasting dish and leave it to rest for a few minutes. Place the roasting dish over a medium to high hob, and add a generous glug of red or white wine, marsala, cider... whatever you have. Heat until it starts to bubble a little, and use a flat whisk to bring the booze and the juices together. After reducing to your desired consistency, skim off any excess fat, and pass the gravy through a sieve before serving hot. Do not use flour or gravy browning. If I find out that this has been going on I will come round your house and give you a stinging slap on the back of the legs.
Hiding behind my sunglasses and my book (Joanna Blythman's superb 'The food we eat') with some serious tunage on my baladeur, my fellow tourists just looked like the overweight, sunburned, British scum that are familiar to anyone who has ever been to the Greek Islands or parts of southern Spain. Except these folks wore French football shirts, and spoke, rather shouted, in French. Meanwhile a banlieu outside Paris is ablaze. I wonder what the Senegalese make of these idiots. Does it put them off applying for a visa, or getting into an overcrowded pirogue and braving the atlantic for a chance at getting a job cleaning the floors for these people.
It was down on the petite-cote that I discovered my 'new favourite courgette recipe'. If you've ever eaten sunday roast chez jiffler then chances are you've tried one of my many sauteed courgette variations - chilli courgette, mushroom and courgette, cherry tomato and courgette in balsamic vinegar, courgette enema. All good. There is something I love about the humble courgette, it always seems to bring another taste dimension to a sunday roast, without looking out of place on the plate.
One sweltering lunchtime I found a charming little restaurant outside my hotel in Saly, where I enjoyed a seafood pasta lunch and good coffee overlooking the beach. It was quiet, and there were no interruptions from bumsters, prostitutes, or other tourists, so I decided to return for dinner that evening, satisfied that I could read my book alone and enjoy cracking the tops of a few bottles of Gazelle lager.
I'd tipped the waiter handsomely at lunchtime and was pleased to see his shift hadn't finished when I arrived for dinner. He made a small table available for me outside with a view of the waves and a pleasant breeze. The restaurant was almost empty, and the owner, a white Senegalese, came out to greet me cheerfully. After apologising for my wooly French, we exchanged a few pleasantries and set about discussing the menu. Sadly the steak was off, and I'd already had the recommended seafood pasta for lunch. Settling for Pork chops with a sauce of brie, sauteed potatoes and courgettes, I ordered a gazelle and took a brief wander onto the deck outside to examine the sea.
Returning to my seat, and cold frothy beer, I noticed the restaurant had started to fill with other pinkish foreigners. Older couples mainly, one couple accompanied by a twenty-something daughter who shot a look of bored resentment in my direction. Over in the bar area, a large and cheerful looking man settled himself alone into an overstuffed couch and set about lighting a cigar as fat as his fingers. He sported a magnificent moustache, bushy, handlebar-esque, the sort that makes wearing a motorcycle helmet very difficult. I imagined him as some sort of Jose Bove-type character, a man who enjoys his food, a fine wine, a well made cigar.
I was disturbed by a sort of light grunting from the ground nearby and leaned over the table to witness two cats rutting away energetically. I'd never seen cats on the job before and watched with curiosity for a few seconds chuckling into my beer. The man at the table adjacent stamped his foot and frightened the fornicating felines away. I looked up at his wife sitting across from me, shrugged and smiled "C'est tout naturel, eh?". She responded with something gutteral in French that was beyond my vocabulary. From the look on her face she didn't seem to find the situation at all amusing, and I exchanged raised eyebrows with the waiter.
My food arrived, and I stuck my knife into the pork. Tough. It served me right for ordering pork in a muslim country. Luckily the cheese was thick and rich enough to make up for this. Sauteed potatoes were competent, and the sauteed courgettes packed tightly into a small glass ramekin. Interesting... I tipped out the courgettes and scooped up a forkfull, and instantly - Courgettes, garlic, olive oil, thyme. Fantastic - why hadn't I thought of that before? Thankfully the chef had known in advance what my reaction would be and had given me too much in my little ramekin. Compliments indeed.
I looked up from my courgette epiphany and saw that the moustache had been joined my a young, slim Senegalese woman. No older than sixteen at best. I pondered if she were a relative, or friend, but was disabused of this by his wandering hands. My gourmet hero was just another tourist pervert, getting his rocks off on the cheap down on the petite-cote.
I finished my coffee and hit the hotel bar.
Roast chicken supper - with courgettes and thyme.
The French butcher in Yoff-Virage probably does the best meat in town. It is claimed that the chickens are Bresse, imported and bred locally. At five quid a pop, even at local prices, I doubt it, but the yellow-ish tinge to their flesh is enough to convince me that they've been brought up well, and I take a largish one for a sunday roast.
Ingredients:
(Use your common sense and the art of zen for quantities here. I always cook too much chicken, so I can graze off the carcass for a couple of days)
1 chicken, a good one. Organic if possible. Spend some money on this and make the most of it. £2.99 supermarket chickens are vile, pumped with fat and water, raised in shitty conditions, full of chemicals, and tasteless.
Roasting potatoes - Desiree, or King Edwards. Maris Piper is a good all rounder.
A big courgette, or a couple of small ones.
Some carrots.
Garlic
A lemon
Butter (unsalted)
Olive oil
About half an inch of fresh ginger root
Fresh coriander chopped.
Fresh or dried thyme
Colman's mustard powder
A large pinch of flour
Salt and pepper
Some wine, or Marsala for the gravy.
Roasting the chicken:
Let the chicken come up to room temperature and stuff its cavity with half of the lemon and a few cloves of garlic. salt and pepper. Rub butter or olive oil all over the bird, massaging it into the skin. Roast in a hot oven for 30 minutes breast side down under tin-foil, then invert it and cook it uncovered for the remaining time (depending on the weight of your bird...). Baste occasionally with the juices.
The potatoes:
Peel the potatoes and cut into two-bite sized chunks. Parboil until the edges are softening, then drain and return to the hob to dry for a couple of seconds. Mix a level table spoon of mustard powder with the same amount of flour, a pinch of salt and pepper. Place the lid back on the pan and gently shake until the edges of the potatoes are bashed and coated with the flour-mustard mixture.
Heat some olive oil in a baking dish, and when it is very hot, empty the potatoes in, shaking to coat in the oil. Bake with the chicken for 50mins to an hour, shaking the pan and turn the spuds occasionally. (If you have goose or duck fat, or perhaps beef dripping, this makes an even better alternative to olive oil).
The carrots:
Slice the carrots julienne style, and press the ginger through a garlic crush. Stir fry the ginger and carrots in olive oil for a couple of minutes before adding the chopped coriander and stir-frying a minute or two more. The carrots should still have some bite, and the colours of the coriander and carrots should still be bright.
Courgettes:
Dice the courgettes into cubes no larger than 1cm. Press the garlic. If using fresh thyme, strip the leaves from the branch and chop finely. With dried thyme, follow the same approach beach give the dried leave a good grinding in a pestle and mortar. Stir-fry the courgettes and garlic in olive oil for a few minutes until the courgette is softening and then add the thyme for a couple more minutes.
Gravy:
When the chicken is done, remove it from the roasting dish and leave it to rest for a few minutes. Place the roasting dish over a medium to high hob, and add a generous glug of red or white wine, marsala, cider... whatever you have. Heat until it starts to bubble a little, and use a flat whisk to bring the booze and the juices together. After reducing to your desired consistency, skim off any excess fat, and pass the gravy through a sieve before serving hot. Do not use flour or gravy browning. If I find out that this has been going on I will come round your house and give you a stinging slap on the back of the legs.
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