Mr Bowtie and Frits

For Margo, who sometimes hikes on her own for a month at a time, a donkey is ideal. Although donkeys have a long tradition of being used as pack animals in many parts of the world, they’re not often thought of as companions. They’re strong and smart, and, like mules, they can be proverbially stubborn. (Just to keep things straight, donkeys are full members of the horse family, and a mule is the offspring of a horse and a donkey).

Although Frits is still young, he was a skinny and neglected animal a year ago when he was diagnosed with an incurable intestinal problem.  The diagnosing vet recommended putting him out of his putative misery. Margo chose to find a refuge where he (the donkey, not the vet) could live out his life and possibly even recover. Now he’s thriving. The vet’s dire prediction was wrong. He – the donkey – is still putting on weight and at the age of five, has many more years of health and fun to look forward to.

Frits loves to walk. One of the things Margo has done as part of his therapy, and for her own recreation, is to gradually increase his walking distances. This summer they spent a month walking 375 km together through the province of Drenthe. They had such a good time that Margo offered us a day out with Frits.

Once we had him loaded up and were underway, we took turns holding his lead and getting to know him. The rope is attached to a bridle, leaving him a bit of slack. Like most donkeys, he has an impish streak, and likes to test people out to see if he can get the upper hand. He’ll pretend he’s going to take a quick bite of grass and keep going but before you know it, he’ll dig his heels in and just keep eating. You learn to give a proactive tug on the rope. After a bit of this power game, you reach an understanding.

Mrs Boots and Frits have reached an understanding

Frits lives near a lot of large estates which were once farms. These are now large country houses with plenty of pasture for horses. It is remarkable how horses and donkeys react to one another. The horses recognise Frits as equine, Margo claims, probably from the shape of the nostrils, but they can’t quite place him. They come charging up to the fence to have a better look, and sometimes they seem hostile. You are not of our tribe. We must kill you.

The wilder they behave, stamping and caprioling about, the stiller Frits gets. Donkeys balk when spooked. You’ve got to be clever to get them moving again. Margo has got a trick for that. She keeps a spare length of rope in one of the saddle bags. She loops this around Frits’ back end, just above the ‘knees’. Then, standing in front of him, she pulls gently on the rope.  Frits’ hind legs bend forward. He then has to move his forelegs to stay balanced, and presto! he’s walking.

The long rope is also handy at picnic time. The rope’s radius is just shy of our picnic spot. It gives Frits plenty of room to graze, but we don’t have to dodge and weave to keep our sandwiches out of his vast, rubbery mouth.

Margo is hoping to get more people interested in walking with Fritz or his colleagues. They’re very good with children, and can carry all you need for an outdoor party. She knows lots of attractive routes near Frits’ place, and can tell you all about the flora and fauna you see along the way. Get in touch at +31 (0)38 421 1717.

You can still walk to Bambrugge and buy yummy things at the Lindenhoff Marché on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays.

You never meet anyone who emigrated from Luxembourg. This could be because its population is so small (just over half a million) so the odds of meeting one of them outside the country are simply very slim. On the other hand, perhaps they know something we don’t, and so they never leave.

It has been a bad year for walking. Mrs Boots and Mr Bowtie are busy paying the bills and have not gotten out a lot. But the days are getting longer and we realize you may be waiting for advice as you plan your spring and summer trips.
Our minds have been on Luxembourg. So near and yet so far, we keep sighing. Only about four hours from our home in Utrecht, it has shaded canyons, cozy hotels, spelt gardens, castle ruins perched on cliffs in hairpin loops of a river, amazing public transit, good wines and everyone there speaks five languages. It’s like a fairy tale that discreetly complies with all European Union directives. Since Boots and Bowtie’s focus is, after all, the Benelux region (a rather bureaucratic appellation combining Belgium/the Netherlands/Luxembourg), it’s high time we did something about the ‘Lux’ part and discussed this dreamy little grand duchy.
The capital city is also called Luxembourg. Many who have visited Luxembourg City may not realize that there’s actually a proper country surrounding it (albeit one with an area smaller than the state of Rhode Island). We confess we don’t know the city well, but the countryside is lovely, easy to get around, and it has plenty of good walking – and eating: it has the most Michelin-starred restaurants per capita of all European countries. Not that you need to go to one, but it’s raised the bar, so to speak. It’s perhaps the one thing in life you can thank the banking industry for. There is a lot of private banking in the city, and we’re guessing people need to eat after meeting their bankers, whether for consolation or celebration.
The country has its own language, Luxembourgeois, although official documents and signage are in French. Every person we’ve talked to who lives there speaks at least Luxembourgeois, French, German and Dutch, which makes sense as France, Germany and Belgium are Luxembourg’s neighbours. People having anything to do with tourists usually speak English as well, and hats off to them. Many restaurant menus may look daunting as they’re a couple of inches thick, but in fact it’s usually the same things in four or five different languages.
The southeast borders on the Moselle River. This area produces some wonderful white wines. Luxembourg’s lower sales tax on alcohol (presumably granted to compensate for the hardships of private banking) makes them extra good value.

It would be irresponsible and not up to our standards to construct a Boots and Bowtie walk based on our limited experiences of this enchanting little country. But we can recommend two places to start:

1. Esch-sur-Sûre. There are several towns in Luxembourg whose names start with “Esch”, but this one is on the river Sûre. Like La Roche-en-Ardenne, Esch’s principal feature is the castle ruin on a bend in the river. There are lots of walking routes going through this picturesque village, which is served (though not frequently) by Luxembourg’s exemplary bus system. There are several hotels. The restaurant in the hotel at the top, Comte Godefroy, is an eclectic mix of typical Luxembourg Frenchish-Germanic cuisine bourgeoise and local products from the nearby Öwersauer nature park, such as some heritage potato varieties and spelt. They’re mad about spelt, a grain which is a godsend if you are allergic to wheat, and the menu includes some unconventional (and vegetarian!) options like spelt lasagne and spelt soup. If this sounds a little stodgy, be assured it’s a huge menu. The people are nice and the wine list is long. It’s not necessarily cheap but it’s great value. And wherever you’re sleeping is downhill!

2. Echternach. This medieval town, also on the Sûre, boasts a beautiful canyon, yes a canyon, just outside its centre. It also has culture, with museums and a music festival in May. It’s easy to get to by bus from anywhere in the country. This area is known as Little Switzerland, and for reasons having nothing to do with banking. It’s very steep, verging on mountainous (or have we lived in Holland too long?) and walking is a popular activity; lots of signage and well-marked paths make it a joy, and refreshments are never too far away. We suggest you walk west from town and up towards Berdorf. On the hottest day this place will be cool and refreshing. Not only are you surrounded by rock formations (some of them fascinating to look at and colorfully named) but the soil chemistry is conducive to shade trees like the beech and so there’s very little sun even at high noon. When you get back to town you’ll have a wealth of choices for eating, drinking and lodging on the Place du Marché and in the car-free Rue de la Gare.

We intend to come back and research more intensively! Stay tuned!

For many good reasons, there has been a great deal of talk lately about why we should be eating less meat. As a consequence, you’d think restaurants would be adding more vegetarian dishes to their menus – after all, when we were supposed to eat less beef they hurriedly added chicken – but at least where we live it seems it’s all talk and no action. (For all our harping on culinary traditions, Boots and Bowtie also realize we have a responsibility to think of the planet, and the few of its citizens who pay attention to us.)

Generally, chefs here go to great lengths to combine and list all the many ingredients in a dish, even if present in homeopathic proportions. Hence “carpaccio of tuna, cucumber and saffron on a gateau of cod liver and shiitake with a horseradish-port sauce and balsamico”. Clearly our chef has an active and creative mind. However, he or she will probably have provided only one appetizer and one main course without meat in it (by “meat” I mean flesh of anything that once swam, walked or flew). Too often it’s something uncaringly thrown together and given a prosaic name like “vegetarian pasta” (possibly to keep it open as to what goes in it; a few of these I’ve tasted seemed like they were a way to use up leftover vegetables.) Why is there such a lack of imagination in the token vegetarian main course? They look over at the next place and copy what they’re doing; last month everybody had slices of eggplant rolled around cheese, and this month everyone has goat cheese in puff pastry…(Would it kill them to offer both?) Why is it so hard to concoct another item or two without meat in it?

It could be meat’s higher social status. Meat takes more resources to produce. Being able to afford it says something about you, so eating it in a restaurant is a way of shouting it to the world. In many places people make lovely vegetarian food at home, but the restaurants are all meat ‘n’ potatoes. Going out is a special occasion by definition and restaurants want to cater to this perceived need. But that doesn’t explain why there can’t be one more thing on the menu.

The flip side of the status aspect is that from the consumer’s point of view meat could be value for money. This is a valid point. Meat is expensive but highly perishable so it needs to “move”, therefore restaurants mark it up less. Faced with choosing a poached quail egg and two hazelnuts on top of a wisp of salad for dinner (please, somebody tell me why I should be impressed by this latest token veg option among our upscale restaurants) versus, for just a couple of euros more, a hunk of venison or duck breast with some deep rich sauce, any price-conscious omnivore in their right mind will go for their money’s worth. If only out of sheer profit motive, you’d think that a restaurant would put another veg item or two on the menu and listen to the money rolling in.

It could be the protein hype*. The meat producers have managed to convince us that we need lots of protein at every meal or we will waste away. Keep in mind that as raisers of cattle they are experts in bullshit. The truth is it’s easy to get plenty of protein from vegetarian food.
It could be that vegetarianism is associated with the hippie days and avant-garde chefs don’t want to be seen as living in the past. Chefs are also by and large a macho lot and the stigma of quiche still apparently bothers them. Ironically, these cutting-edge creatives are afraid to look too “alternative”. But what better opportunity to make a statement?

Since we’re in northern Europe, the legacy of the anthroposophic “reform” movement of the early 20th century may be partly responsible. It – laudably – advocated a chemical-free agriculture in harmony with natural cycles, but its labor-intensive nature made it very expensive and its spiritual aspect made it esoteric. When we arrived here in 1989, the natural-foods shops were all “reformhuizen” located in the tonier neighborhoods. If you walked into one you might get a curious stare, as if the staff were making sure your aura met their high standards. They weren’t bent on converting people, and so they’ve remained on the sidelines.

This has fueled a perception among the larger public that vegetarians and the health-conscious in general are sensitive and usually troubled souls who mustn’t get too excited. For example, most organic yogurt in supermarkets here is labeled “extra mild”. Since we really want to get through your browser’s profanity filter, my real reaction (abbreviated WTF?) must be translated to: huh? Are the health-conscious so innately sickly that strong flavors would put their delicate systems out of whack? Is this some enduring specter of Calvinism reminding Holland’s veggie burghers (sorry) that they mustn’t rouse their baser instincts? What are they afraid of? Also, the term “vegetarian” is now being used to describe something done in a wimpy manner. For example, “vegetarian singing” lacks the requisite energy of regular singing. When I hear this in person I am glad there are gun-control laws.

Then there are the people who call themselves “vegetarians” to signify they’ve stopped eating red meat, but eat fowl and fish. I mean, did I miss a memo? The word “vegetarian” means someone who does not eat meat/fish/fowl. Maybe these folks have confused some chefs to the point where they think their fish dishes are actually fine for vegetarians. More than once after asking if there was a vegetarian option, I’ve been asked if I might not like to try the fish. Once we reserved after phoning and actually confirming that they had some vegetarian options, which on our arrival turned out to be fish. Name on request. (Then there are the Chinese restaurants which under “vegetable dishes” list things like “broccoli with pork”.) But I’m still not convinced.

The sad result of all this is that restaurant vegetarian cooking in most of the West tends to be dull, safe, and not fun. (And dull is not the same as subtle; subtle would be great.) That quail-egg-on-salad thing is from real life; we were having the “chef’s surprise” deal that evening so for the same considerable amount of money, Mr. Bowtie had a steak with wild mushroom sauce. I ask you.
In a world where dinner is defined as meat, vegetarian cooking is by definition missing something. At best, you’re making a weak lemonade with the lemon of your self-imposed limitation. So as far as I’m concerned, there is no good reason why there can’t be more good vegetarian food in restaurants, unless it’s that good vegetarian cooking is more difficult. There, I’ve thrown down the glove. C’mon, I dare you.

Please chefs, take a lesson from the many cultures over the years who have developed delicious, nutritious, fun recipes without meat – and then let your imagination run wild. Hindu culture has made vegetarian cooking into an art form, to name but one inspirational tradition. Our European forebears may have had a regular meatless night (maybe for when the money ran out) that we prefer not to think about in this age of prosperity, but which could be resurrected about now.

As a chef, if you are short on ideas you could offer a pasta substituting something like cheese or tofu for the meat, alongside the one with meat. But substituting real meat with fake meat won’t really satisfy you. Abandon the idea that meat is the central item around which you build a meal, and go crazy. (Two tips: it doesn’t need to be complicated, and it doesn’t need to be extra mild!) If you can be so creative with ingredients, you should enjoy this little challenge. Please note I’m not asking you to eliminate meat from your menu, just to give those of us who don’t want to eat it a little choice.

Mrs. Boots

* It comes down to putting the right amino acids together, and not necessarily even in the same meal. For more information see http://www.vegsoc.org/info/protein.html.

The farm is in the town of Lunteren, roughly east of the center of the country and although not far from a busy road, the atmosphere is one of peaceful industriousness. At the time of our visit, the most conspicuous activity was the twittering of birds high in the treetops surrounding the field. As we aproached, though, we could sense cud being chewed, salt drawing out the water from new rounds of cheese, and the bacteria inside them working away. ( I think it’s safe to say that there’s a lot more life on an organic farm, and that goes all the way to the cellular level and then some.) The forces of nature were busy making Remeker’s special flavor.
Visitors can stroll to the back and see the cows. (Just try this at a conventional dairy farm. First of all, they probably won’t let you. Second, you probably won’t like what you see.) As conscientious bon vivants, it did our hearts good to see these animals enjoying life as much as we enjoy ours. They have sweet, almost deerlike faces, and their range of affect went from nonchalant to curious. Unlike many “conventionally producing” cows, even those kept outdoors, they were not shy around humans, even strangers. Not a one balked or gave us those nervous glances we’ve come to know on our country walks. Something good was happening here. As any organic farmer will tell you, good food starts with the soil (which is also in excellent shape here) but any stage along the way should radiate similar health and happiness, and if these girls were anything to go by we were looking at an exemplary system at work.
A plain aged (belegen) Remeker is aged for a minimum of seven months, Olde for at least eighteen. (There used to be a version made with a vegetable rennet, aged for four months. )
The cheeses are available only in natural food shops in the Netherlands, although recently the German organic sector has discovered Olde Remeker, so it is even harder to get than usual.

Their farm shop is open Mon., Weds., Fri., and Sat. 13.30 -16.00, or at other shops listed on their website: www.remeker.nl

“There must be someone here,” we whimpered, and tramped down the stairs. Peering in a few windows didn’t seem like too much of a breach of privacy, so we went to the house across the path and looked in, in vain. There was a dog barking in the open garage/barn, but no one seemed to be taking any notice. A last look into the backyard revealed a boy playing quietly by himself. “Bonjour!” we greeted him, and he smiled back. We asked if his father or mother might be at home
“Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”
A thirtyish healthy-looking man emerged and said hello. We asked about possibly buying some cheese from his shop. With a pained expression on his face he explained that his wife had gone to make some deliveries and had taken all the keys, so he couldn’t get in.
So it was back to town and across the bridge to the village shop for us. The delivery had come in. You better believe we bought a piece. It was delicious. Although we can’t (yet!) identify an Alpine cheese by valley and month, even to us the Tomme de Stavelot speaks eloquently of a cool climate and some very happy cows.

Ferme du Bairsou
Rue Henumont, 3
4980 TROIS-PONTS

Tél : +32(0)80/86.44.72
Fax : +32(0)80/86.44.72

fermedubairsou@busmail.net The shop seems not to have regular opening hours. Best to send an e-mail or phone.
To get there, from Stavelot center, cross the river bridge and head up the hill on Chemin du Château, right on Route de Somagne, then bear left.
Put “Hénumont, Trois-Ponts, Région Wallonne, België” into Google Maps. Hénumont is a hamlet and if you get that far you should find the farm, but ask anyone you see.

Also at cheese shop on Place Verte in Spa!

It’s not that I’m a purist or anything. I’m happy to see substitutions in a recipe where the agreed-upon principle is preserved or amplified. John Thorne makes a great case for this is his book, Outlaw Cook. He points out that the 70s style ploughman’s lunch ‘pits the oily, crumbly richness of a ripe Cheddar or Cheshire against the sharp-sour bite of onion and the bitter tang of ale, all mellowed together in the yeasty sweetness of good white bread’. Then he goes on to deconstruct the dish, showing that different cheeses make all the other ingredients variable. Roquefort requires counterbalancing by a ripe pear and a glass of brandy. If your starting point is nutty Emmenthaler or Appenzeller, you make up the sums with sour rye bread and a glass of Riesling. The core idea is preserved, even if you change all the details.

But let’s go back to basics for a moment. Here’s the classic recipe, as it was served in Caesar Cardini’s restaurants in San Diego and Tijuana in the mid 1920s:

Romaine lettuce – hearts or inner leaves
best (Italian) olive oil
fresh crushed garlic – can be in the olive oil
salt
pepper – usually ground at the table (for that matter the whole salad was made at the table)
wine vinegar
lemon or lime juice
Worcestershire sauce
raw or coddled egg yolks
Parmesan cheese (freshly grated)
fresh croutons

Julia Child’s recipe leaves out the vinegar. She should know, having eaten at Cardini’s in the early days. She got a recipe from his daughter when researching ‘The Way to Cook’ in the 1970s. I like the fact that she doesn’t define quantities. Use enough but not too much of everything. The original salad kept the Romaine leaves whole, so it could be eaten with the fingers. The later addition of anchovies, either whole or as paste in the dressing, is a matter of taste. Cardini is said to have disliked using them, but they are present in any case as an ingredient of Worcestershire sauce.

So what makes the thing work as well as it does? Romaine is rather sweeter than other lettuces, but it seems to me that the main thing is its crunch. The croutons are crunchy as well. Worcestershire sauce is both sweet and acid. The dressing is also acidic, and lemon adds a welcome freshness. The rich texture comes from egg yolk and olive oil. Parmesan cheese, containing as it does natural glutamates, not only brings up the flavour intensity, it provides a rich mouth-feel and additional saltiness.

What could you vary, without destroying a winning combination of tastes and textures? A vegetarian variant could include tarry, salty Turkish black olives instead of Worcestershire sauce. This will certainly make up for the lack of anchovies.

Or let’s make up an entirely new salad which nonetheless keeps to the core principles. What about Belgian endive – bitterer than Romaine, but with a good crunch – and salted capers? A few drops of sweet, syrupy balsamic vinegar might balance the dressing to the bitterness of the endive. Szechuan red pepper, which is sweeter than black pepper, could be paired with a saltier cheese, Asiago, for example. You see where this is going. Corn tortilla strips instead of croutons, pointing to the Mexican origin of the dish. Cardini’s restaurant made this substitution at times.

I’m just making it up as I go along. So off I go to the market. Chicory or Belgian endive: no problem. There’s no Asiago, but I espy a rather fetching blue Stilton. That may be saltier than I’d reckoned on. Maybe it will combine well with some fruit. There are no ripe pears today. But I don’t think the capers will be required. Back home I discover two types of balsamic vinegar in the larder, and also a red wine vinegar with raspberry. It’s fruity: in combination would it turn nasty? I mix up a small quantity of dressing with olive oil and a teaspoon each of balsamic and raspberry vinegars, binding this with some mayonnaise and seasoning with some ground Szechuan pepper. Not bad. This could work. I knead some salted masa harina for tortillas, roll the dough out with a tortilla press and fry the tortillas in an ungreased, non-stick pan. The Stilton is creamy and less salty than I’d thought. While the tortillas are cooling I clean and arrange the endive on two plates. Cutting the tortillas into strips, I fry in the wok until golden, remove with a slotted spoon and place on some kitchen towels to dry. I can’t help tasting a few. They’ve got a mild, corny sweetness and a good crunch. Will they keep the crunch until I come to serve? Crumbling some cheese into the hollow of each endive leaf, I sprinkle on some dressing, then lay a few tortilla strips over each salad. My wife and I sit down to lunch. It’s good. There’s the crunch I’d been looking for, and there’s sweet and salt. But maybe there should be some fruit as well. She suggests currants. Why not? I could put them in the dressing ahead of time. In fact the cheese could go in, too. That would make everything pretty simple, come serving time.

The new creation is no Caesar salad, though it is pleasing in some of the same ways. Julius Caesar’s uncle, Gaius Marius, was Consul in Rome around the year 110 BC. He put down the barbarian invasions in Roman Gaul, and gave the legions their eagles, badges of honour and rallying points for the armies’ esprit de corps. I have no idea if chicory existed in Gaul at that time. But how does this sound? Marius Salad. Salad Marius? Insalata Gaius Marius? Or let’s just call it a Belgian Endive Caesar with Stilton. And don’t forget the chicken and bacon.