During my last visit to Mauritius I tapped into the foodie elite but, at the end of the day, it’s home cooking that reaches into my gullet and takes a hold of my heart. From the simple everyday household staple of la daube (a tomato-based stew of chicken or meat with hot peppers and thyme) to a festive biriyani (a rich, spiced rice dish), the food here is a melting pot of African, French and Indian influences. It is a no frills way of eating and it is addictively tasty.

Sophia Govinda, my jolly, generous mother is a fierce home cook. Ma (as I call her) is a barely five-foot fire-plug that can pull a feast off in a snap. Her specialty is biriyani, vegetable samosas and she makes some incredible Mauritian-Tamil dishes. Here is her recipe for meat curry with split chick peas and rasau (a fiery hot spicy soup) — two dishes devoured at Tamil festivities.

Ma’s Dal Gram with Meat Curry

½ Ib Channa Dal (Found in Indian food supply shops)
2Ibs of lamb or mutton shoulder, cut on the bone in stew sized pieces.
3 cloves of chopped garlic
Small piece of chopped ginger
One medium onion, chopped
5 plum tomatoes chopped or ½ small can of chopped tomatoes
1 Tablespoon curry powder (good quality Madras curry powder is essential)
Garam masala
Cilantro
Fresh curry leaves
3 medium sized potatoes, cubed

Soak ½ Ib of dal for two hours, drain and keep the water (you’ll see why in the next recipe). Bring the dal to boil with plenty of water. Skim the froth and let simmer on a low-medium heat until it is almost cooked. Strain and put aside.

Saute lamb or mutton for 2-3 mins, then add chopped garlic, ginger, onions and curry leaves. When the meat is halfway cooked add potatoes and curry powder and chopped tomatoes. Stir. Let the juices dry up. Stir in dal and add half a cup of water. Cover and let simmer for 20 mins or so then add a large pinch of garam masala. Throw in a handful of chopped cilantro during the last five minutes of cooking. You should have a think, rich, almost dried up gravy. Make sure the potatoes are cooked by tasting or testing with a fork.

Serve with freshly cooked white basmati rice and a cucumber salad.

Raseau

1 ½ tsp of mustard seeds
Fresh curry leaves
2 small shallots, chopped
2 garlic cloves chopped
1 teaspoon of chopped ginger
2 fresh thai peppers or 2 dried, chopped
1 tsp of whole black peppercorns
2 chopped plum tomatoes
¼ tsp of turmeric powder
2 heaped tsp of cumin powder,
1 tsp tamarind paste

Crafty lady that my mother is, she keeps the water that the dal had soaked in and used it as the soup base.

Heat oil in a pan, add mustard seeds and curry leaves until that crackle. Then add shallots, garlic, ginger, chili, black peppercorns, plum tomatoes, turmeric, cumin powder and hot peppers. Pour in dal water, bring to a boil, add tamarind paste and salt. Continue to let the mix boil for about 5 mins. Add a handful of chopped cilantro just before serving.

This soup is typically served hot, in cups, and sipped throughout the meal.

Next up will be my Aunty Laila’s fish and aubergine curry. I’m homesick already…

Is it poo or is it mud? The question lay heavy on my mind during our tour of the farm at La Maison du Carnard. Jim and I had driven to Sebastopol, near the East Coast, in torrential rains. We were there to meet Béatrix Rambert and taste her farm-to-table food. Béatrix, the daughter of two generations of butchers in Belgium, moved to Ile Maurice sixteen years ago. With her husband she purchased farmland a few years ago and set about stocking their pastures with ducks (she makes excellent foie gras), pigs (tasty charcuterie), capons, goats and snails. She grows fruits and vegetables – we able to taste her tender green curly leaf lettuce and guavas – and takes a sustainable approach to farming.

We were constricted to the indoors upon arrival and took glasses of freshly squeezed local citrus juice by the roaring fireside (yes a fireside in Mauritius!).

Two-thirds of the way into our repast of foie gras and duck gizzards on a bed of lettuce, followed by a pot-au-feu type dish of capon and pig’s knuckles, washed down with several glasses of South African Pinotage, the clouds parted and the sun came beaming through. This meant, of course, that we were able to tour the premises on foot after lunch.

“Don’t wear nice shoes,” she insisted when I called to make the appointment to spend the day with her. Alas, my stinky old trainers were in NYC and so I grabbed a pair of flip flops and considered it sufficient. I was wrong. I squelched through the muddy grass and lagged behind our host but managed quite well considering. That is until we reached the pigpen. Muslims and Jewish everywhere I now understand your scorn pour le cochon and I know where the term ‘fat pig’ comes from. There were the lazy buggers luxuriating in the mud, pressed together in some sort of savage orgy. There were pigs out in the open and others enclosed and it was in the enclosed quarters when I must have stepped in it. I didn’t notice until afterwards and I thought, “please let it be mud”. It had traveled from the soles to my toes. I loitered behind and tried to wipe the goo off with a leaf. I stared longingly at her crocs and JR’s white sports trainers, two items of shoe wear I would normally not be caught dead in. The horror, the horror.

Despite the inappropriate footwear and the unsightly, grunting livestock, I take my hat of to our farmers. I loved the honesty and integrity with which she raises her animals and grows her produce. The taste of her food said it all and we stand with some of the best chefs on the island that come to Madame Rambert for tasty farm fare.

“I feel like a teenager with dad’s car – and his daughter.” That’s what Jim said as we drove along the motorway in the blazing sun on our way to The Oberoi for a two day break and a little research for a travel story on Mauritius. The Indian owned, five-star Oberoi is sprawled along the NW coast in Pointe Aux Piments, not far from the capital of Mauritius, you can actually see the lights of the city from the hotel.

Gorgeous landscaping, unsurpassed hospitality and luxury spa aside, the biggest draw to The Oberoi is the food. We dined with Jennifer, the sales manager and executive chef, Igor Bocchia. Igor is from Trentino, he trained as a chef in Venice and has cooked at some very exotic locales such as Macau and, now, Mauritius. He says he likes it here and you can tell he’s genuine. He cooks in tandem with a Mauritian and an Indian chef. The menu spans European (with an emphasis on Italian – they make pasta in-house) and Creole and Indian cuisines.

Dining with the chef himself, I asked what I should order and he suggested the fried green tomatoes for starters. We’d seen countless stands at the Quatre-Bornes farmers market selling beautiful looking tomatillos yet my family doesn’t cook this particular fruit (also known as the Mexican tomato). Igor’s dish was simple, clean yet flavorful and beautifully presented. It tasted of the Mediterranean and the tropics combined. The tomatoes, breaded and deep fried, were sitting in a smear of pesto, accompanied by mozzarella wrapped in roasted bell peppers (the peppers here are amazing and perfect for roasting) and a funny sage resembling herb which grows by the sea and tastes a little like a herb and seaweed combined. I polished off my plate. Which is why I barely had room for the follow up: braised wagyu beef cheeks. The meat, like most of the meat in Mauritius was from Australia, it was meltingly tender and came with the best version of pattypan squash (known here as “pattison”) I’ve ever had, along with seaweed wrapped veggies.

The restaurant itself is situated outdoors, overlooking the sea, with a roof overhead. The architecture at The Oberoi places a lot of influence on the outdoors. I was treated to a massage in a part of the spa that is used for couples massage sessions, though I was solo. The room was half indoors and half outdoors sans creepy, new-age spa music, just the sound of real birds and the jostling around of my small, young but fierce masseur.

Anyone who wants to dine out for a special occasion in Mauritius should head to this little-known gem of a restaurant for Igor’s brilliant cooking technique and a playful way with food. The following night we were treated to a tasting menu that really showed off the chef’s breadth and talent. More on that and the excellent cocktails later, in my article, due out in Zink magazine this summer!

Over a recent email exchange of recipe swapping, a good friend offered me her tripe recipe in return for my curry recipe. Being the greedy soul that I am, I asked if she could come over and show me how to cook the tripe in person and she agreed.

Now I must confess that I have a great love for offal. I am, however, an armchair offal eater. I order it in restaurants or I eat it at other people’s houses. I’m not sure how to handle or prepare the parts and tend to feel a little intimidated at the idea of cooking, say, a lamb’s heart. So I was thrilled to get a first hand account on tripe.

The white, spongy honeycomb pattered flesh purchased at Essex Market was almost too beautiful to cook. It was shaped rather like a bishop’s hat and weighed just over 2lbs.

Susan started a simple tomato sauce first: celery, carrots, onion, garlic and two large cans of tomatoes, left to simmer to a rich thick sauce.

The tripe was simply boiled whole in the largest pot we could find and once the flesh started to give a little and yet remain crunchy, she removed it from the boiling pot, chopped the flesh up and incorporated it into the sauce where it continued to cook for about 20-30 minutes. The dish was served with chopped mint (a nice touch), grated pecorino and a little parmigiano.

Susan, our guest chef, grew up in Rome and she offered this in a recent note she sent me, “My mother used to make Trippa alla Romana when I was a kid, and I’m one of the very few “Romans” of my generation who still likes the stuff. The way you and I made it on Saturday is the standard Roman way of cooking tripe, the acidity in the tomatoes helps tenderize the tripe. Grated pecorino romano and chopped roman mint (along the lines of regular mint here, but thicker, stronger-flavored and mintier) make it especially Roman.”

After some research online, and in our out-of-print cookbooks, I also came across Trippa alla Trasteverina – tripe made in the area of Trastevere, the old Jewish quarters of Rome. Variety Meats in our Good Cook series of books offers up Trippa alla Toscana, very similar to the recipe of Rome. According to a website I came across, this tripe recipe (of essentially boiling tripe and adding to a tomato sauce) is a national dish all the way from Rome to Florence. And now NYC.

To celebrate our wedding anniversary (7 years and no itch!), Jim and I traveled to the upper west side to Bar Boulud. I loved the sound of the menu and I happened to have a gift for a complimentary charcuterie plate that was about to expire. Hey you gotta do what you can in this crappy economy. Our charcuterie for two consisted of glistening, fatty slices of headcheese, chicken liver pate and beef cheek pate, along with a generous pile of ham. Oh my. The headcheese was incredible – just the right ratio of meat to gelatin. The bread (made in-house) was perfect and rustic. We were offered some pretty spectacular butter, which I’m guessing they have shipped directly from France, and our preserved meats came with two glasses of the pretty awful Petite Chapeau (a Daniel Johnnes private label Rhone wine). I couldn’t drink it.

Once the freeloading was over we ordered more: a venison pate (not bad) and the escargots (excellent). The wine list was okay, a mix of large conventional labels (Olivier Leflaive, Beaucastel etc.) and small producers (Puffeney, Francois Chidaine and Puzelat). Unfortunately, there aren’t many delicious bargains to be had by the glass. After enjoying the only reasonably priced wines that were to our taste – a Tissot Cremant (lovely) and a Quincy (can’t recall producer but it was perfectly good) – we had no choice but to trade up with a Huet Vouvray Sec 2006 (too young but still excellent) and a Prince Florent de Merode Ladoix Les Chaillots 2006 (quite a treat). Both were 19 bucks a glass.

The atmosphere wasn’t my cup of tea at all. In fact, it was most off-putting. It felt corporate, suburban and touristy. Mid-town is always a hard one. I’d love to take that country French fare and move it downtown, then get some more affordable and interesting wines by the glass and get rid of the mediocre brands. Would I recommend Bar Boulud? No. But if you happen to be in the hood and you’re feeling peckish, a seat and quick nibble at the bar is fine but once you’re done with the headcheese take the party elsewhere.

Shock, horror, there’s a restaurant in San Diego that I actually dig. Anyone who knows me well enough is aware I’m not a fan of this particular southern Californian city that miraculously gave birth to the man I married. By and large, SD is conservative, inherently uncool and for a relatively large city it feels incredibly suburban. I keep searching for its soul and the closest I’ve ever come is via its high population of Mexicans and the various Asian diaspora communities. In the past we’ve tried dining at restaurants that seem so promising but then disappointment creeps in when we eye the mediocre wine list or get a bite of something where the chef tries hard (or doesn’t try at all) but misses the mark. Enter: The Linkery. There has been a lot of national press about this North Park restaurant. How could you not be intrigued by an eatery that makes their own sausages, worships the entire animal and supports local farms?

We recently bellied up to the bar at Linkery and though I was sad they were out of the Edmunds St John’s wines, I was happy to sip on excellent cask beers (served at proper room temperature) and I actually had a wine from San Diego County, specifically San Marcos, which wasn’t bad at all. I kid you not. Twin Oaks Valley Sunset Red (a mix of Syrah and Cab) – check it out next time you’re stuck in San Diego. For chow, we shared a terrine of beef tongue, wrapped in bacon and served with a chicken egg. Then I enjoyed a steaming bowl of beef tripe (chopped very small) with faro piccolo & chorizo, while Jim feasted on sausage tacos served with a side of bean salad. Everything was so simple and delicious and the ingredients were obviously really good to begin with and, as my belly would say, the food was cooked with love. It reminded me a little bit of Marlowe and Sons or Diner in terms of the style of food. It also made me think of my other favorite out-of-town resto – Cochon in New Orleans.

My only gripe is with the damn TV above the bar. It doesn’t fit in with the rest of the vibe at all.

We had dinner at a fantastic izakaya restaurant in downtown LA thanks to the suggestion of a chowhound post. Called Izayoi, the restaurant serves the ubiquitous sushi but we were there for the small plates typically served in Japanese taverns. We started with their pudding-textured house made tofu. Next up was a tender and delish beef tongue stew enveloped in a rich boeuf bourguignon-like sauce. The pickled vegetables were tart, piquant and earthy, and rivaled David Chang’s own preserved veggies. Our medley of mushrooms (shitake, button, trumpet and enoki) arrived steaming in a foil pocket, which we dipped into scallion and tamari sauce. Finally we stuffed ourselves with beef tripe, swimming in a beautiful broth thickened and flavored with ground nuts and joined by chunks of turnips. This was one of the dining highlights of 2008 and it was worth the trip all the way to California for this place alone.

After an overdue trip to see the mother-in-law in Idyllwild we turned our wheels east and drove to LA. We checked into the Biltmore hotel downtown, dumped our bags and headed for Silverlake. That’s when the fun commenced. First stop was Intelligentcia, where I had the best macchiato I’ve ever had. We took our seats outside to enjoy the warm air and people watch. The Silver Lake neighborhood kinda reminds me of pockets of the Lower East Side and Williamsburg. Everyone around us looked like a musician, skateboarder or bartender. LA hipsters are decidedly more scruffy and grungy than their NYC counterparts, with just as many tattoos. The weather was remarkable but then it freaked me out every time I saw a Christmas tree because T-shirt wearing climates and xmas trees just don’t mix.

After checking out the brilliant “Index” exhibition (an overview of conceptual art in California) at the temporary MOCA downtown we continued to meander downtown and happened across a Mexican-heavy neighborhood, complete with street food and all. We saw countless mobile setups selling the same thing, a curious take on the hot dog, served with Mexican pickles and jalapenos.

We didn’t try the border hot dogs but we did have some of the best tacos I’ve ever had at Mai Super Tacos. Talk about a cheap shack. The place inspired me to move to LA and open our own little low-overhead, low-budget eatery except I’d have a few wines to go with. Fast food and natural wine, hell if the Japanese can do it, so can we! I digress. We ordered up carne asada and chile verde (though not sure we actually got the latter because it came in the form of a tender stewed chicken taco). Rather than dole out tacos with toppings on, she passed us our paper plates and we got to help ourselves to the buffet of accroutements made up of pickled carrots (fierce and crunchy), salsa, hot sauce and more. We devoured our tacos in minutes and Jim broke out in a serious sweat.

After just under a week in Rias Baixas on an Albarino press trip in late September, I flew down to Madrid. My new friend Arantza opened her home to me while she temporarily moved back in with mum and dad (gracias Arantza!). After staying in a bit of a creepy hotel where it was near impossible for me to get a decent night’s sleep it was heaven to shack up in cozy flat with a fabulous double bed. (A note to the Parador hotel in Pontevedra: two single beds pushed together makes not a double bed!).

The day after my arrival Jim and I had a rendez vous in Madrid, which is a fabulously romantic thing to do after a week apart. For the following eight days we took Madrid by storm. I don’t think there’s a neighborhood we didn’t cover. We legged it all over the city from Salamanca (the posh part of town) to Lavapies (the slightly grungy and cool neighborhood not far from the famous Rastro flea market).

Speaking of markets. We stayed in the Tetuan neighborhood, which is home to a huge indoor food market called Maravillas. On a Saturday afternoon, the fish stands, the butchers, the cheese and bread stands were heaving with locals stocking up for the weekend. JR and I purchased some fatty fresh sardines, flank steak, local goat’s cheeses, a bag of pimientos de padrón (piquant small green peppers that are as addictive as popcorn when sautéed in olive oil and liberally sprinkled with sea salt) and whatever vegetables we could find including some pretty fantastic, albeit cultivated, oyster mushrooms. We took the feast to the house of an old friend of mine from London, Fulvia, who lives with her boyfriend on the outskirts of the city in the neighborhood where some of Pedro Almodóvar’s Volver film was shot. We were joined by another blast from my London past, the very sweet and funny Pilar.

Fulvia (originally from Rome), like myself, has become a bit of a food and wine buff since leaving Ye Olde England. Imagine my uncontrolled delight when she pulled out a bottle of Jacques Selosse Contraste, the producer’s Blanc de Noirs champagne, which was incredibly stunning and very rich. (Eric Esimov wrote about the producer in last week’s NY Times). Fulvia and Ricardo worked the harvest in San Gimignano a few years ago and they opened a bottle that they had purchased from the producer: Montenidoli IL Templare 2001 an IGT wine made from Trebiano Toscano and Malvasia. It was a lovely wine, delicate balanced and herbacious. Fulvia told me the producer also made olive oil and worked organically. She waxed poetic about the olive oil declaring, “I had a tablespoon of it everyday – like medicine.” A lot more bottles were opened that night. I lost count but those were the memorable sips of the evening.

That Saturday night at Fulvia’s house was the only time Jim cooked. Madrid’s tapas bars are still relatively inexpensive and the quality is generally decent, if not delicious. I love the culture of tapas and for a person that’s perpetually hungry – like me – it’s a blessing to be able to nip into a bar grab a bite and wee glass of cerveza and split. Here’s a list of our edible highlights.

Restaurante Maestro Villa, Cava San Miguel, 8
Ricardo brought us here because the spot has a reputation for vino but he was just as disappointed as we were when we spotted boring, industrial wine bottles lining the shelves but we were won over by the chow and our first taste of natural Asturian cider. Funny enough, a lot of natural white wines remind me of house-made cider and this totally reminded me of a natural wine. The bottle, Trebanca Sidra Natural, was bone-dry, gently effervecsent, cloudy and delish. At only about 5-6 % alcohol we went through two bottles fast and were still fit for the rest of the night.

Los Asturianos, Calle Vallehermoso, 94
A craving for more Asturian cider took us to a part of town that was a bit of out of the way but according to other online sources, worth the trek. We bellied up to the bar and ordered up some morcilla, fried potatoes covered in melted blue goat cheese as well as a fresh salad of mache greens with anchovies. We ended the night with a tasting of their house sherry (two manzanillas – one was a pasado – a fino, amontiallo and PX) that were out of this world. The owner (Alberto) of Los Asturianos partnered with a group of fellow sherry fans to source small producer sherries from Salamanca and Jerez and bottle them under their own label called La Bota. In fact, the sherries were so good that we couldn’t wait to tell Fulvia and Ricardo about our discovery. We returned to Los Asturianos with F & R on our last night. This time the owner was expecting me and we were able to communicate more. We had him pick the dishes for the night, which ranged from a very earthy Angula de Campo, when translated means “baby eels of the countryside.” But the dish had nada to do with eels – it was a plate of these very small wild mushrooms that the owner explained were cooked in the same way eels are traditionally cooked in Asturios. Then the kitchen (operated my his mother!) brought out some delicious smoked cod served with kumatos (a local black tomato). Finally he brought out some cockles, which my tablemates devoured with great pleasure and a selection of Spanish cheeses. All of which were perfect with the salty Manzanilla.

Alberto also imports wines and he had a pretty good wine list, which included Pierre Gimonnet champagne by the bottle.

Taberna El Mano on Calle Vallehermoso
Situated a few blocks before Los Asturianos, we were beckoned into the tapas bar-restaurant by the great old-fashioned vibe of the spot and by the pimientos padron listed on the menu. The peppers were pure perfection. It was JR’s first time and I watched him gobble them up with excitement. The joint also served what looked like very good octopus and smoked cod on toasted bread. The vermouth on tap was excellent too. Next to natural ciders and sherries, our next favorite choice of quaff were all the sweet (but not cloying), herbaceous red vermouths on tap.

Casa Neru on Calle Bordadores
I ventured to Casa Neru the last time I was in Madrid and was determined to stop in again for some traditional tripe stew. It’s another bustling Asturian joint. A dear Spanish-crazed couple that visits Madrid often suggested the place to me. The wife is a food writer and has worked many years in restaurant kitchens where she picked up her Spanish via the largely South American staff she worked with, while the husband is a wine writer and editor of a trade publication based out of California. They told me that they always start their first night in Madrid at Casa Neru. Their ritual begins with a bottle of cider at the bar while waiting for a table downstairs at the restaurant. I love their attachment and sense of tradition.

Casa Neru is very old school and the same geezer tending the bar last time I was there (in 2003) is still working here. Jim and I ordered two glasses of vermouth on tap and a portion of the same dish I had in ’03 — callos madrileña — a HEAVY tripe stew. Jim wasn’t feeling too good, after all it was about Day 6 of our Spanish feast-fest but I was determined to eat the traditional Madrileños lunchtime repast. I ate about a quarter of the silky textured pieces of tripe, spotted with chunks of morcilla in a flavorful sauce tinted red with paprika. Oh what a waste. What a terrible waste, especially when the bartender told me I could have ordered a half portion. After my last self-force-fed spoon, my eyes were glazed over and the old guy sensed my discomfort and poured two glasses of a herbal Chartreuse-like digestif. It didn’t help. For the entire day I felt so damn full up. But it was worth the pain and I’ll do it again the next time around!

Matritum, Cava Alta, 17
We actually closed a bar one night in Madrid. I kid you not. It wasn’t even that late. Fulvia was severely shocked. “Never in my life this happen – it’s only one o clock in the morning. It’s very strange. I think it’s the economy you know. Peoples can’t afford to go out anymore,” she exclaimed in her Italian-English accent. It was in La Latina and Jim had read that it was a good wine bar. We stepped into a rather small and modern looking bar-restaurant. I spotted a wine I knew from Rias Baixas, that I really like, made from the Godello grape. We told the owner/wine buyer and he suggested another Godello that spends a fair amount of time on the lees and he said it had some nice mineral notes. I loved the wine: Guitan Godello 2006. It was all he said it was and yeasty with beautiful acidity too.

Ah Espania – I’ll be back again…

After being so impressed with Marlowe & Sons a few months back, Tara and I headed to Diner (same owner) last night, with Abby in tow. It was the same excellent wine list and a tasty market-driven menu that must change daily because our waitress had to write down all fifteen of the specials on our paper table cloth. We ordered every single appetizer including the delicious cardoon (a delicious artichoke-celery like vegetable) salad, a crunchy coleslaw with knobs of blue cheese and tostada mounted with a generous serving of wild mushrooms and sardines. To wash it all down I chose the Olivier Cousin Gamay 2005 (it was funky and smelled like an untamed animal at first, offered a slight prickle on the palate and was unbelievably refreshing with a slight chill). The odds of anyone at Diner picking a gamay are unusually high. There were at least six bottles of gamay from Beaujolais and the Loire – all from great producers. I don’t know who buys the wine at Diner or M&S but you gotta love a person bold enough to carry that many.

There was a glorious moment when Tara, Abby and I looked to our right where a table of tattooed Willamsburg hipster dudes sat, and then we glanced to our left, at a group of suited businessmen. The suited guys weren’t your boring banker types but more professorial looking and the juxtaposition and crazy mix of clientele made Diner all the more interesting. When both tables emptied at once we had wild fantasies that they were all gay and both vastly different sociological groups were hooking up. After ogling tattoos and pinstripes we stared down a bottle of something altogether much sexier (in my book); it was a table that had just ordered a Guillot-Broux Macon. It cost seventy bucks for a bottle but in this economic climate, our forty-dollar gamay was the limit!