Olá!

Well, they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. After a long hiatus involving writing a thesis on homesickness in immigrant communities, springtime pantomimes, waving a tearful adieu to Paris, and transporting my batterie de cuisine back across the channel in a 3-wheeled removals van, Rosbif and Frog’s Legs has packed a case full of summer frocks and is summering in Lisbon.

Ah, to be a tourist in a new city! Two blissful weeks have been whiled away drinking Sagres by the sea, climbing the Seven Hills, slipping on eroded cobblestones and being driven to despair by vuvuzelas. As the old diktat goes: Fado, fátima e futebol. In the street, the scent of the sea mingles with that of sardines smoking on rusty grills, and weathered-faced men sit on doorsteps and drink themselves into a silent stupor in the midday heat. Come night time, the men are starting to sway, and now the scent of the sea does nothing to mask the nauseating stench of a thousand sardine skeletons rotting in black binliners. Sleep is further hindered by the constant flow of hysterical wails and yelps coming from the fado bar downstairs. I always did prefer Spanish soleas.
Lack of sleep is a small price to pay, though, for a new larder. Gone are the piping bags and pastel colours (for the month of July, at least). Cooking in Portugal is cooking with balls. And lungs, spleen, tripe, and all the other typical markers of a national cuisine bred from a history of poverty. Indeed, Portugal remains the poorest country in Western Europe. And Lisbon, though surely the most cosmopolitan city in the country, still has a cuisine with its roots in the countryside. At the market, headless chickens are strung up next to fluffy bunnies with bloody noses. Beaming, wrinkled old women proffer up bruised peaches; flies swarm around a single crate of shockingly rotten figs. This is not Paris. Pas du tout.

What does gleam though, as much as any Cartier shopfront, is the fish. Hundreds of glass eyes stare up from gleaming piles of silver; tentacles dribble ozone slime down the legs of any passer-by. Barnacle-encrusted crabs die slowly, sadly blowing bubbles while waiting to be boiled alive. There are sacks of clams, cockles and tiny snails, and sheets of bacalhau – dried salt cod – are arranged by price and quality.

On the way home, a couple who must surely be in their eighties are camped out in the square. He is wearing a scuffed cap that reads “Força Portugal” (even though Cristiano and his team were sent packing from South Africa several days ago), she is all in black. The gimicky cap aside, this could be a scene from any of the past twenty decades. A sign at their feet reads: “Mangerição – para o amor”. Basil - for love.

As achingly, viscerally, romantically Latin as all this may seem, nothing can get away from the fact that sweating profusely in the bone-dry 41-degree heat of the day (barely abating at night); change after change of damp clothes; putrid rubbish bags; howling fadistas and - worst of all - raucously, selfishly merry American teenagers on a European “culture” holiday, sap the appetite like nothing else.
Drippingly ripe peaches, fish stiff from the sea, melons with their stalks on, pasteís de Belém…and all I want to eat is ice cubes.

Parisians

(picture from blog Tongue in Cheek: Stories collected while living in France - http://willows95988.typepad.com/)

The other day, my friend India told me that the best way to sum up Parisians is "that they don't say thank you when you hold the door for them". She's right, generally they don't.

But living in amongst them for a few months, you learn to take the gruff with the smooth. All city dwellers have their own idiosyncracies, the habits and foibles that make us what we are, determined by nationality, culture, language, and countless other factors. Similarly, there are several very universal traits and behavioural patterns which unite us all; observe any population of any city at rush hour and you'll realise that fundamentally, in our darkest hour, we're all cut from the same cloth.

I personally belive that the difference comes down to a question of generosity. Madrileños share their food, Romans share their beds, Berliners their beer. Londoners are all-accepting and unshockable and Athenians, well, their outlook is sunny by default. But Parisians have no such reputation. Tell your friends you're off to Paris for the weekend and you'll immediately be met with sneering disdain: "Great city, big tower. Shame about the French." Even when you're not a tourist it is true that, at times, the Parisians can be the very definition of hostile; sulkily knocking back bad coffee, cantankerously pushing and shoving their way onto the metro, strutting aloof down the rue de Rivoli, allowing their pint-sized pooches to foul every inch of treacherous pavement, and even queue-jumping.

That said, when it comes to anything food-related, Parisians can become a very jolly bunch indeed. And although they might not be as lyrically and grinningly exuberant as we might like, the act of producing and distributing such an awe-inducing amount of delectable food does, in itself, indicate generosity. They want you to taste their bread, made to the same recipe, in this very same bakery that was built with the blood of the bourgeoisie over 200 years ago. They incite you to marvel at their jewel-like pâtisserie, your nose pressed against the glass, seduced by the impossible beauty of it all.

Parisians might not like to share their metro car, their street or even their city with you, but you're always welcome to stay for tea. Just not for very long.

• Stohrer (51 rue Montorgueil, near les Halles)

One of the oldest and most famous bakeries in Paris, a major destination on any food pilgrimage. Don't leave without trying the Baba au Rhum - it is said to have been invented here. http://www.stohrer.com/

• Pierre Hermé (72 rue Bonaparte, near St. Sulpice)

Pure wow-factor sugar-based creations, expensive but then so is everything here. Try the wackiest, most unrecognisable thing on display; the good kind of surprise. http://www.pierreherme.com/

• L'As du Falafel (34 rue des Rosiers, le Marais)

The best falafel in Paris, bar none. Eat in, or better still take the huge pitta and wander around the neighbouring Jewish bakeries to see what you'll have after. Not that you'll have room.

• Ladurée (throughout Paris, but the one at la Madeleine is surrounded by other fantastic food shops such as Fauchon and Hédiard)

A bit of a gimmick now, but it has to be done, push through the queues and go upstairs into the salon du thé for a special tea and a few macarons.

• Berthillon (29-31 rue Saint-Louis-en L'Ile, Ile Saint Louis)

The finest ice cream in Paris, as you'll notice from the constant queue.

• G. Detou (58 rue Tiquetonne, near Les Halles_

This area, in the 2nd arrondissement, is locally known as "the stomach of Paris". And for good reason. This shop (G. Detou is a play on words meaning "I have everything") is foodie mecca, selling every possible ingredient imaginable (and more besides), namely for baking. The quantities and prices resemble wholesale, so this is the place to stock up. Unmissable. Walk around this area afterwards to find incredible cookware shops, countless cafés, fishmongers, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers and of course, Stohrer (see above). Suddenly the Eiffel Tower becomes less enticing.

Blood in the Snow

On the way home, I am drawn into the covered market, bustling and at full capacity although it's only half past nine on a very cold morning. As I duck into the entrance, I notice a few tiny snowflakes have fallen onto my shoulders.

Inside, the stalls groan with produce that glistens and glows. The scent of fresh bread wafts through the crowds and mingles with salty oysters and the heady perfume of freesias and narcissi. Wandering from stall to stall - handsome cuts of meat, glowing orbs of citrus fruit, freshly pressed apple juice, fifty different kinds of olives and twice as many cheeses - I am surrounded by the comforting, transporting hum of market chatter.

Women "d'un certain age" question stallholders over the freshness of their goods, raising their eyebrows over prices, splitting hairs. A man spends an age choosing three avocados: one for today, one for tomorrow and one for the next day, gently squeezing each one for a different degree of ripeness. Fishmongers hurl jokes at each other over the clatter of shells, and small groups of men stand smoking, huddled over tiny coffees, nudging and winking.

Suddenly I am distracted from this sensory smörgåsbord by one small stall, tucked away in the corner. Lemons, limes, some fine lemongrass and perky herbs and then, piled majestically high, the treasure I have been waiting for all year; February's finest reward. Blood oranges. They are stunning, orange swirled and speckled with crimson; Arabian sunsets. I can barely steal myself from clapping my hands with glee, and rush forward to buy as many as I can carry. When it's blood orange season, I can't resist bringing bagfuls home to put in bowls around the house; aside from their beauty, they make the best, hot-pink juice, intense sorbet and alluring cakes, and they bring much-needed bright smiles and sunshine to the dreariest month of the year.

Stepping out, laden with heavy bags, I stop still. Everything is white. Within fifteen minutes, what started as a few tiny sequins of snow has become a glittering blanket over the whole town, with snow still falling softly. The striking contrast of atmosphere and especially colour is surprisingly poignant; at once sad and achingly romantic. Blood-speckled oranges; pure white snow.

Social Security

The French have many, many strengths. They make the best bread and the prettiest cakes; have perfected insouciance; and ostensibly have even made infidelity acceptable - with Monsieur le Président leading by example. France is the land of the paradox: meals are rich and abundant whilst waistlines are anything but; there are rules and laws for everything but most are fervently ignored; and although the French love paperwork like nothing else, they don't seem to know quite what to do with it.

Don't expect to get anything official done quickly here. The Holy Grail is the dossier, a weighty portfolio of personal information, and a requirement for most daily tasks. Equipped with this, indefatigable persistence and skin as thick as a rhinoceros, you are ready to take on French administration.

Nowhere is a steely resolve more vital than at Sécurité Sociale, the organisation responsible for health insurance. The system here is incomparable to the NHS, being more similar to the American arrangement whereby people have to pay up-front for any medical care, before being reimbursed by the 'sécu'. This providing that you have survived the process of joing this organisation (a term I use loosely) without a succesful suicide attempt; you see, it can be rather soul-destroying.

First, you have to skip along with your dossier, sit in line for a few hours, and explain your intentions to a disinterested receptionist. No matter how fluent your French, you will undoubtedly be asked to repeat yourself several times. Then, perhaps, you will be transferred into the hands of a dedicated officer, for whom you will need to wait a good hour at least. Staring vacantly at the neon number - the like one finds at a supermarket deli counter - it is amazing how your resolve can slip away.

Assuming you make it into the office, have the patience to repeat yourself another few times, and have a steady enough hand to fill in the relevant forms, your dossier will be checked. And provided you've paid your 50 euros to have your birth certificate translated, have photocopied everything you own, and have included the name of your mother's first pet in this personal directory, they might just shake your hand and begin the process of immatriculation.

Trudging home, any sense of triumphance is hard to muster, the fact of the matter being that none of your tenacity, charm and graciousness will pay off for at least six weeks: if you get ill before that, consider homeopathy.

Spanish Roast Chicken with Almonds and Paprika Potatoes

Few things beat a roast chicken, it is the epitome of homeliness. It is a bear-hug at the front door; it is your washing done for you; it's second helpings and early nights. With the punchy flavours of Spain, though, it becomes just a bit racier. I serve it with paprika roast potatoes and a kind of piperade - melted down red peppers, onions and garlic with some sherry vinegar. Olé!

a free-range (preferably organic) chicken

chorizo - the cooking variety, sliced relatively thinly

butter

salt and pepper

half a lemon

Season the inside of the bird and put the lemon in the cavity. Then gently free the skin from the breast with you fingers, taking care not to tear the skin. Push the slices of chorizo and some butter inside so that the breast is covered in a single layer of chorizo under the skin. Season well with salt and pepper and drizzle with a tiny bit of oil.

big roasting potatoes, cut into chunks

salt and pepper

olive oil

paprika

garlic cloves, whole, squashed

whole blanched almonds, halved

Pile these ingredients together, and put into an oiled roasting tray. Nestle the chicken in the middle and put into a 200c oven for about an hour - skewer the thickest part (the thigh) and the jucies should run clear when it's ready. Let it rest under some foil for about 15-20 minutes.

Tear great hunks off the chicken and serve (not forgetting the oysters underneath and some crispy, salty skin) with the roast potatoes and the roasting juices drizzled over.

Rose and violet macarons

Vietnamese prawn cakes

These are fabulous. There is something very satifying about fried food; here, the way the crisp outside gives way to succulent prawn is divine, especially with spiky Thai flavours. A superb new year's slap around the mouth. The dipping sauce and cucumber salad are indispensible.

Crossing continents, the best possible thing to drink with this is a well-made (eg. very sour and very strong and perilously drinkable) caipirinha: chopped up whole lime muddled with sugar syrup, cachaça - or white rum if you don't have cachaça - and a lot of crushed ice.

raw, peeled prawns

ginger - finely chopped

garlic - finely chopped

bird's eye or other hot chilli - finely chopped

spring onions - chopped

coriander stalks - finely chopped

lemongrass - finely chopped

salt and pepper

Pulse this mixture together in a food processor; if it's too liquid, add a little bit of flour or cornflour. Let it rest in the fridge while you make the dipping sauce:

tamarind paste (a little bit) - if not add more lime juice

rice wine vinegar

sugar

some of the finely chopped chilli and ginger and some spring onion tops (the green bit)

fish sauce (nam pla or nuoc mam depending on whether it's Thai or Vietnamese)

a splash of water

Mix this all together to taste; you want a balance of salty, sweet, hot and sour. Use a vegetable peeler to shave thin strips off a section of cucumber, add it to some shredded spring onion and dress with a bit more rice vinegar and salt. Set this aside too.

Fry spoonfuls of the prawn mixture in about a 1/2 cm of oil until crisp and golden brown on one side, then flip them over and do the other side. Don't overcrowd the pan - make four or so and keep them warm on kitchen paper in the oven whilst you do the rest.

Even better, though, is to eat them as you go, with a friend, in front of the hob - dunking the hot cakes in that spiky sauce with a bit of crunchy salty cucumber after a bit of fiddly chopping and preparing makes for an incredibly satisfying mouthful indeed. Seriously good.