Zimmer: A Basque Classic & Dinner for Two & a Cat

7

The morning of the big day had arrived. Dinner with the professor. Amelia had consulted Bellamy’s book for what felt like a thousand times, wishing that it might inspire a more whole-hearted confidence. Alas to no avail, but forge on she would.

“It’s just dinner, Amelia,” she muttered to herself, frustrated with her unnerving sense of ineptitude in the face of this one final hurdle.

Amelia took up a seat at the coffee table in the lounge to write up a grocery list of all she needed in town. Stitches in time and all that jazz. She was determined that everything should go seamlessly according to plan.

She opened the book to the dish she’d finally decided upon, after hours of agonising deliberation. One that she desperately prayed would leave little to chance. And so she began, recipe set at the ready, invoking, as if some centuries old incantation, Bellamy’s warm enthusiasm to wash over her, however fleeting the feeling.

Poulet Basquaise

If there is one region that holds me firmly in its hearty bosom it would have to be the Basque region. This dish pays homage to piment d’Espelette (or the Espelette pepper) with a classic pipérade sauce at its base. A quaint fairytale village in the interior of Labourd province in French Basque Country, Espelette’s picture-perfect streets are decorated annually by cottages dangling these glorious peppers out to dry from their facades.

While the larger region is renowned for fine cheeses and chocolate and the equally famous Bayonne ham (and for good reason!), it is this mildly spicy, sweet pepper that truly stands as the symbol of culinary pride and prestige. The origins of piment d’Espelette date all the way back to the 17th century, when a Basque sailor travelling with Christopher Columbus brought some chilli peppers back to the Basque Country.

At first they were used medicinally and for preserving meat, a tradition still followed in the curing of great chunks of Bayonne ham. With time, the Espelette pepper slowly found its way into the hearth and home to become a staple in everyday cooking. Today it is even celebrated every October in the Espelette pepper festival.

However, as it is only produced in ten villages in the region it is not always so easy to come by. I have my own coveted stash from my culinary travels but for all intents and purposes, you might substitute it in the pipérade with a sprinkling of mild chilli flakes and some smoked paprika.

Along with the red and green bell peppers, emblems of the Basque colours, plum tomatoes, garlic, shallots and the bouquet garni of fragrant thyme and bay leaves, I like to add gorgeously glossy, royally purple olives to my Poulet Basquaise before popping it into the oven.

It is the perfect meal for guests as it can be left unattended in a deep casserole dish to simmer away in its own juices and the white wine, until the liquid runs clear and it is succulent and ready. It is a simple country favourite of mine that begs little of the cook, only that she use the freshest and finest of a handful of ingredients that marry together most exultantly.

The more sauce the better, for I am often wont to pour any leftover pipérade into a pan the next day for a fine breakfast of eggs shakshouka style with chorizo. So don’t be stingy on the peppers!

To truly dine in Basque style, Poulet Basquaise is beautifully paired by day with a chilled bottle of fruity sparkling white wine such as they have in their locally made time-honoured txakoli or in the evening with a good bottle of La Rioja, indeed one of the region’s most magnificent exports.

This dish is best prepared in the pan in advance, ready to add to the casserole dish later when your company arrives for the longer the chicken has to stew in the pipérade, all the more flavoursome!

Whether you decide to serve it with a classic rice pilaf or on a bed of buttery, roughly smushed baby potatoes, it’s really up to you. I find a fluffy pilaf the perfect accompaniment for soaking up all those mouth-watering juices, but this is just a personal affectation. And when in doubt, I say why not go for a bit of both?

These leftovers only get better with a little time.

Either way, I can assure you, once the lid of that steaming casserole pot is lifted your dinner guests will not be disappointed!

Amelia copied the ingredients for her list. Two green and two red bell peppers. Four chicken legs that she’d need to have jointed at the request of the butcher into thighs and drumsticks. Two shallots and three cloves of garlic. Three bay leaves and two sprigs of fresh thyme. Four juicy plum tomatoes. Half a bottle of dry white wine. A glug of olive oil. A cup of pitted olives. Baby potatoes for ‘smushing’ and rice for the pilaf. There, that seemed simple enough.

Having the list in hand, she felt herself growing slightly in a newfound poise. She went over the page a few times more until she felt she almost knew the recipe by heart. To Amelia, there was no such thing as over-prepared. Not for the evening ahead.

But there was another matter that left her ill at ease and that was the matter of her home, hardly homely enough for company in her opinion. She remembered some old colourful throws in the box of her mother’s things and pulled them out, shaking and dusting the pair off before covering her couch in one while using the other as a makeshift tablecloth for the outside patio table.

Though a little frayed at the edges, they added a touch of brightness and colour. At the very least she was grateful for the temperate and breathless day that would do well for dining on the porch later. She would’ve hated to have to serve the dinner on her coffee table. This was something she’d not quite thought of when she’d invited the professor. The lack of a dining table.

Nonetheless, the weather had saved her the embarrassment. Next she knocked a few nails into the wall for the illustrations of Arthur Henry Young that she intended to have printed and framed in town while getting the ingredients for the evening’s meal.

Finally, before leaving to run her errands, she removed the picture of her grandmother as the Fairy Queen from its hiding place in her chest of drawers. She gave it a quick polishing and placed it on her rudimentary bookcase in the lounge.

While all of this hardly made for a drastic makeover, it would have to do for now. Once tidied and embellished upon, these touches made Amelia think on a bald man desperately trying to hide his receding hairline and shining dome with a bad comb-over. But it was the best she could do at such short notice and so, c’est la vie. Ailuros jumped up on the sofa, revelling in the new addition of the throw as yet another surface to cover in fur.

“Oh well, you’re lucky Professor Walsh is a cat lover, you spoilt bugger,” Amelia indulged her, scratching Ailuros beneath the chin while the feline tilted her head in expectant ecstasy.

***

Home again, Amelia placed the two bottles of full-bodied rosé into the refrigerator to chill. The bottles had come highly recommended by the winesellers as an ideal accompaniment for both the chicken and the early evening affair.

Wine seen to, she turned on a plate on the gas stove and browned her chicken pieces in the olive oil, before removing them from her nana’s old iron pot, only to add the diced shallots, sweating them before adding the garlic. Next came the roughly chopped peppers, tomatoes, olives, spices and herbs, all topped up and over with the stock and white wine.

The chicken placed gently back into the pot, into the oven it went to slowly cook away until it was time to feast.

The rice pilaf would be prepared later with a generous helping of the juices from the Poulet Basquaise. In the meantime, to stay ahead of schedule, Amelia placed the baby potatoes on the boil, and chopped the flatleaf parsley for garnish with another new addition to her kitchen, a mezzaluna. As with her pestle and mortar, this charming knife emboldened the otherwise kitchen-shy Amelia and brought a smile to her face. Now all that was left to do was to whip on her gladrags and await Mr Walsh’s imminent arrival.

No sooner had she changed her attire than the doorbell rang. Giving herself a final looking over in her closet mirror, a calm steady breath in and slow exhalation out, Amelia went to greet her dinner guest, a curious Ailuros at her heels.

“Hi, Professor…”

“Please, Jack. Jack to you now, Amelia!” The professor tipped his hat and handed her a gift bag. “I hope you won’t mind, but my Valerie had once been a seamstress in her younger years and delighted dinner parties with her handsome hobby of making aprons from all kinds of material scraps. There are still some left and I suppose you could say my dinner party days have lapsed some. You’ll also find a sampling of a hobby of my own, being a novice gin maker. Do you like gin?”

Amelia thought back on all those martinis when her mother was still with them. Sometimes, rarely, she would indulge simply to remind herself of her mother.

“It’s been some time, but I’d never say no. Thank you. You’re really too kind. Jack.” Amelia blushed at the show of attention.

She removed the apron and bottle of gin from the bag, setting the bottle down and lifting the apron to have a look. With two pockets in the front and a bright bow for the back, the apron was a patchwork of denims, embroidered and embellished with poppies of red silk. She thought on the field of poppies from her dream. Here they were again.

“It’s really too lovely.” Again, she blushed, unaccustomed to such human kindness. Funny how red flowers kept finding her. She couldn’t help but marvel a little.

The professor instantly noticed the three prints on her wall from the book he had loaned her.

“Aha! Fine selection indeed, Amelia!”

“I hoped you wouldn’t mind…”

“Not at all! I’m pleased as punch you like them so!”

His old-timey expressions and sensibilities calmed her jittery nerves, having been so close to her grandparents. Amelia returned the book to its owner lest she forget later, thanking him again.

“Would you like a glass of rosé, Jack?” The name still felt a little uncomfortable on her tongue.

“I’d never turn down a fine wine… Just tell me if I become an incorrigible old fool when it goes to my head!” He laughed heartily and flashed Amelia a grin and a wink. “Might I add, that you look simply fetching, my dear!”

Amelia looked down on her dress and candy-pink shoes and mumbled an awkward thank you. The professor looked rather fetching himself, she thought to herself, in a mellowed sage green, mandarin-collared shirt and white linen flacks, though slightly crumpled, the shirt complementing the unusual colour of his eyes.

“Oh, hello! And who might you be?” Ailuros rubbed herself up against the professor’s white flacks as he bent down to stroke her.

“That’s Ailuros. She’s adopted me I think.”

“The tail that waves, eh? Well that is a fitting name truly for such a lovely creature. Pleased to make your humble acquaintance, Ailuros.” The professor tipped his hat once more.

Remembering his manners, he laid the hat down on the coffee table to reveal his greying mop of dusty brown curls.

Basic pleasantries now all caught up, Amelia invited the professor to join her at the patio table. She was chuffed to discover it looked cheerier in the gentler, more forgiving sunlight of the early evening, with her mother’s orange and red and purple throw for a cloth and a vase of bright orange clivias in a jam jar at the centre, with the table setting of her nana’s prized silver cutlery and china. Alongside the clivias, she placed the rosé on ice in a bucket she’d acquired whilst in town.

Not a shabby first attempt at all, she secretly congratulated herself. Of course there was still the matter of the dinner itself, but she’d done all she could to ensure that went off without a hitch, so there was nothing to do but hope now.

Conversation flowed easily between the two, both a little pickled pink from the wine. From the secrets to a good gin, to the perils in the daily life of a gardener, the professor made for an enthralling plus one. Amelia found herself even opening up and reminiscing on her childhood, from days spent in her grandfather’s greenhouse, to performing childish one-act plays for her thespian grandmother. Point 5 on her list, whether the wine, or the company, felt ever closer, and ever less daunting as dusk wore on, sun setting and her Poulet Basquaise almost ready.

Amelia excused herself to attend to the pilaf, donning the apron from the professor’s late wife with a dutiful sense of honour for the gift bestowed upon her, so thoughtful and unique as it was. And in no time at all, the meal came together, the young cook thrilled at the result.

Again, was it not magic? This thing called cooking? Each recipe no less than a glorious conjuring spell? Perhaps she was a little drunk, but it certainly felt so. She’d followed the spell as Bellamy had written, and here was a sumptuous magic trick for two, though the proof would be in the pudding. Bringing the meal to the table with a pair of oven mitts, steam rising from the pilaf and the fragrant casserole, the professor clapped, “Bravo!”

The potatoes set down to round off the meal, with a generous sprinkling of parsley, Amelia realised she had forgotten to remove the apron. The professor reached a hand out to hers. He gave it a squeeze and a nod in thanks. “A good home for an apron. I dare say my Val would’ve liked you. And of course, your savvy feline. Cats are such knowing beasts. Ailuros has a true blue in you.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to our hostess!”

Quiet descended as they tucked in, interrupted now and again only by the clang of cutlery, and Amelia took that to be the assurance she needed that her meal had been a triumph for the day.

Satiated and both a little sleepy eyed from the wine and the feast, Amelia offered the professor an after dinner espresso. She had recently splurged on a little stovetop espresso maker for just such an occasion. If nowhere else showed much semblance of a home, at least her little kitchen had so far thrived since that fateful scribbling of a to-do list.

Espressos in hand, they quietly contemplated the starry night sky, while not a breath of wind whispered, as if all the world was at peace without stirring. It was an easy kind of quiet that they shared. Amelia thought to herself, that if anything, perhaps this was the real mark of making a friend, someone with whom she could simply be, without feeling the brash impulse to fill the gaps in conversation.

In her heart of hearts, in that moment, sipping on her coffee, without a word needed between them and so very contented, Amelia was overwhelmed with gratitude for the professor and his generosity of spirit. It seemed to spill over and make merry of her humble little space.

She remembered a German word she’d learnt a long time ago… Zimmer…

Meaning a space in a home.

She had loved that word. It seemed to glimmer somehow with endless possibility. Zimmer…

She mouthed it again in her mind as she closed her eyes and soaked it all in like a truly soothing balm to the soul.

Still Life with Rose & Strawberries by Victoria Sukhasyan