SpiceLines

Deyrolle, founded in 1831, is Paris's most venerable
taxidermist. Photo from www.deyrolle.com

Up the creaky circular wooden stairs, a chestnut horse pokes his head through an oval window in the wall. A baby elephant is captured in mid-stride, a polar bear in mid-snarl. Suspended in a glass case is a magnificent North Atlantic lobster, nearly a meter long, all of its spiny parts deconstructed and perfectly reassembled. Each leg and claw is distinct, yet retains its spatial relationship to the exoskeleton.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” says the bespectacled woman at my elbow. With a silver streak running through her black hair, she fits perfectly into this menagerie. “But it would never survive the trip to America.”

It’s Saturday afternoon and Deyrolle is crowded with fathers and flocks of well-behaved small chidren. Hand in hand, they survey the stuffed animals as if they were exhibits at a museum. And in a way, this strangely wonderful taxidermist is a museum, except that nearly everything is for sale.

The trio of spacious, high-ceilinged rooms on the premiere etage are a cabinet of curiosities, a collector’s dream—if at heart you’re the sort of person who centuries ago might have met ships returning from Africa or the Far East, eager to snare a rare butterfly or shell or,,, maybe a zebra. In 2001 Prince Albert Louis de Broglie performed a national service by rescuing Deyrolle from extinction. It's less dusty than before, and its odd treasures are beautifully displayed (even if he did fill the rez de chaussee with his glam gardening gear.)

Everything you need to start your own natural history collection is here: ancient fossils, chunks of amethyst, coral from the South Seas, greenish iridescent beetles, even an African water buffalo or a crocodile from the Nile. (I’m obliged to report that only the elephant on the website is made of resin.) At least one music video has been shot here and the windows of the smartest boutiques in Paris are lately teeming with egrets and other creatures from Deyrolle.

The company was founded in 1831 by Jean Baptiste Deyrolle, a passionate insect lover and taxidermist. Over the decades, he, with his son Achille, and grandson Emile, turned Societe Deyrolle into a sort of educational resource for the schools of France. They assembled vast collections of perfectly preserved and mounted insects, butterflies, sea shells, minerals and animals as teaching aids for natural history classes. Butterfly hunters and botanists came here for the gear they needed, while game hunters brought their trophies, big and small, to be stuffed. There are a lot of heads and antlers on the walls at Deyrolle

As for me, I love the detailed, occasionally bizarre Planches Pedagogiques. Starting in 1866, these oversize posters were commissioned by the French government for use in classes in zoology, botany, anatomy and other sciences. Some, like diagrams of human musculature or the digestive system of the horse are too graphic for my taste, but I adore the circa-1900 nursery school posters depicting tea, cacao and other foods in the most delectable ways. The, which features a Chinaman with a long pigtail, follows the leaf from the camillia sinensis plant to teapots of various sizes and shapes. Confiture, or jam, shows a copper pot encircled by luscious cherries, apples and pears that eventually wind up in a glass jar of preserves.

The food posters are only available in reproduction (great ones, actually, for just 15 euros), but you can also find originals here, including a lovely botanical of the chickory plant by the French botanist Gaston Bonnier. I fell for the Arabic version of Les Arbres, which depicts 19 trees in wondrous detail. The gorgeous calligraphy is Arabic—it was done for schools in Lebanon--so I have no idea what it says.

But that’s part of the fun. Putting together your own cabinet of curiosities means you get to wonder about things.

Deyrolle, 46 rue du Bac, 75007, Paris. Telephone: 01 42 22 30 07.
Fax: 01 42 22 32 02. Web: www.deyrolle.com

First you’ll notice the eye candy: the waiters, all gorgeous in a lean and hungry way, sporting two-day-old stubble, quite well trained in the art of female eye contact. I had my back to the room, but Alexandra couldn’t keep her own eyes off them: "Oh, they're just amazing!"

It was Friday night and we were at Le Chateaubriand on avenue Parmentier in the 11th. The old bistro’s been cleaned up a bit, but with the original dark wood paneling and tiled floor, it’s still got an authentic 1930’s look. Except for a huge blackboard with names of chef Inaki Aizpitarte’s many, many friends inscribed in chalk. There was a big smudge at the bottom where one name had been erased. When I asked, the waiter whispered, “Gerard Depardieu.”

There’s been a lot of chat about Aizpitarte’s high concept food ever since the young Basque chef, formerly of La Famille and Le Transversal, took over Le Chateaubriand. I’d heard about his beet foams and oysters on acai pulp, but the night we were there, it seemed to me that he was giving a trendy spin to fairly straightforward bistro food: a little fusion, a scientific twist or two, and disparate ingredients used as much for shock value as for flavor.

I’d had an enormous lunch at Le Comptoir and then spent the afternoon interviewing Jean Marie Thiercelin at his extraordinary spice shop, Goumanyat et son Royaume, for Saveur—I was in sensory overload, but game to try Aizpitarte’s fare. Sort of.

Actually, there were only a few choices on the blackboard. If Cabillaud rouge, broccoli, orange sanguine, fenouil sounds more like a shopping list than a dish, you wouldn’t be far off the mark: The waiter brought a nice hunk of sautéed rare cod on a rectangular plate. Above it was an emerald-green, fish-shaped smear of pureed broccoli and, to the side, warm blood orange sections sprinkled with fleur de sel. (Concept: red and green are complimentary colors.) Fennel shavings were scattered here and there. Each element was delicious, but as a dish, it never came together.

Alexandra’s Filet de boeuf saignant, mini poisson, pak choy was a vaguely Asian riff on surf and turf: a pinwheel of rare beef and bright green vegetable was pretty to look at and great-tasting, but what were all those curly things? As it turns out, they were the mini-poissons: tiny, crunchy, smoky, salty fish as slender as eels— they reminded me a little of the Spanish eels served at Hyo Tan Nippon restaurant in New York. It was the kind of dish where you keep tasting all the elements to see if you can somehow make them work together.

Wine by the glass is high concept too: I loved “le temps de cerises”, a luscious red with lots of ripe fruit. I forgot to take notes, so I have no idea what it was—a shame since it was superb.

I could have plunged head first into our shared dessert: a bowl of warm bittersweet chocolate “soup.” On the rim were a few more ingredients for the adventurous: fresh sweet litchis, a dollop of crème fraiche, a crunchy sesame tuile and a little pile of matcha, powdered Japanese green tea. Each altered the taste of the soup and transformed it into something entirely new and wonderful. A lovely success.

It was 10:30 when we left and a crowd of black-clad, thirty-somethings were avidly angling for our table. Our waiter was making eye-contact.

Le Chateaubriand, 129 avenue Parmentier, 75011 Paris. Telephone: 01 43 57 45 95. To read an interview (in French) with Inaki Aizpitarte, go here.

You could easily miss Frederic Malle’s discreet parfumerie on rue Grenelle. The contemporary wood-paneled shop, the brainchild of Andree Putnam, might resemble a minimalist men’s haberdashery—were it not for the refrigerated case of 16 scents and the famous smelling columns. To the left there are black and white photographic portraits of the nine famous noses who’ve created the fragrances for Malle’s Editions de Parfum label. The literary allusion is no coincidence: The nephew of film director Louis Malle views himself as the “curator” or “editor” of a small, rarified collection. It’s just that he commissions exquisite perfumes instead of books or prints.

The best part of coming here is to try out the four transparent scent columns. These floor to ceiling plexiglass tubes, big enough to step into, serve to isolate a single scent so that you can get a pure noseful of, say, the spicy Noir des Epices, without being distracted by competing fragrances. When you stick your head inside the column, an atomizer on the floor diffuses a gentle spray which drifts upward through the air.

“You can smell the trail you leave behind,” explained the genial vendeuse.

I was captivated by Carnal Flower and its bewitching tuberose notes. At the same time I kept going back to sniff the lighter but still alluring Une Fleur de Cassie and its seductive aromas of mimosa and jasmine. Both were created by Dominique Ropion, a leading parfumeur at International Flavors and Fragrances who has also created scents for Givenchy and Ralph Lauren. What’s different about Malle is that he has given Ropion and the other noses absolute freedom to create the perfumes of their dreams unfettered by cost and other mass market constraints.

“Try them both and come back tomorrow,” suggested the vendeuse. She sprayed one wrist with Carnal Flower. “It will take at least two hours for it to develop on your skin.” The other wrist she sprayed with Une Fleur de Cassie. “This one will take less time.”

On his website, Malle compares Une Fleur de Cassie’s “richness and complexity” to “an haute couture gown.” Cassie is not cassia or cassis, but the acacia blossom. To me, its natural aroma is both honeyed and slightly overripe. Malle sees it differently: “intoxicating, bestial, bordering on coarse.” On my skin it began as a voluptuous, slightly disconcerting scent, but within an hour it had become lighter, more delicate, very floral. As the day wore on, it reversed itself, becoming sultry and alluring again. The progression was fascinating. Besides acacia, notes include mimosa, jasmine, clove, cumin, bergamot, rose, violet, apricot, aldehyde, salycilate, musk, cedar and sandalwood.

Carnal Flower bathes the wearer in the intoxicating scent of tuberose. I once walked into a room in Bali perfumed by an enormous vase holding hundreds of tuberose stems and have never gotten over the utter profligacy of the gesture. I’ve worn Piguet’s Fracas for 20 years and find it dark and almost unbearably sexy. But Ropion’s tuberose is different: he added coconut, salycilates and “a trace of musk” to bring out the “solar and carnal character of the flower.” Other notes include bergamot, melon, ylang ylang, jasmine, orange blossom absolute and eucalyptus.

Here’s what happened: Over the first two hours, the scent deepened, becoming warmer and lusher, gradually opening like a woman to her lover. I nearly succumbed to Carnal Flower’s embrace. But then a strange thing occurred. The scent began to close up, becoming thinner and sharper. I began to smell more of the green eucalyptus and it became distinctly less appealing. It was like waking from a luxurious dream to a cold, uncomfortable room.

The fascinating thing about both of these perfumes is the way they slowly evolve on your skin. They change like living beings, moment to moment. The end of the story is not the same as the beginning. Both were beautiful yet oddly disturbing, and in the end, I couldn’t make up my mind. Luckily, if I ever do, I can order them from Barney’s New York.

Frederic Malle Editions de Parfum, 37 rue Grenelle, 75007 Paris. Telephone: 01 42 22 76 40. For more locations, go to www.editionsdeparfums.com.

Exotically flavored chocolates from Patrick Roger, among them Delhi (citron
and basil), Ethiopie (coffee from the Red Sea), and Phantasme (oatmeal).

The day before I left Paris, I went in search of Patrick Roger.

A glance at the vitrines on boulevard Saint Germain and you know that you’re in the presence of deep eccentricity.

To wit: a life-sized penguin family sculpted in chocolate. Across the way, a school of lurid yellow and turquoise tropical fish swimming across a sea of chocolate bars. This is not your typical tasteful Paris chocolaterie.

Roger has a bit of a reputation for going over the top. He’s famous for his one meter-long box of ravishing bonbons. The shop is dazzling—the huge circular counter, lit by glittery illuminated spheres, is stacked with a thousand truffles, pralines, nougats, pates fruits, single origin bars, marrons glaces, marzipan fruits, well, you name it, neatly arrayed in his signature zingy aquamarine boxes—on his website he calls the color “vert insolent.” Go there to see a clip of Roger as a pale and dishelveled mad scientist, passionately slinging a spoon and scooping up cacao. It’s great theater.

But Patrick Roger is also a seriously good chocolatier. In 2000 he won the prestigious Meilleur Ouvrier de France, and, in addition to his workshop in Sceaux, he now has two shops in the 6eme and 16eme. Everyone I know raves about his offbeat flavor combinations, like the bittersweet ganache with lemon and basil, and his wacky sculptures. But the chocolate, dark and silken, comes first. It is intense, and, I suspect, the special characteristics of single origin cacao from, say, Indonesia or Madagascar, inspire his exotic additions—not the other way around. There are many pronounced flavors—ginger root, quince, Sicilian mandarin orange, lemon thyme, jasmine, Szechuan peppercorns—but they play a cameo to chocolate’s starring role.

Here’s a sample of what I tasted on the plane back to New York:

Delhi: Ganache with citron et basilic. A surprise burst of intense citrus flavor that segues smoothly into the bittersweet chocolate ganache.

Jamaica: Rich coffee flavor, with just enough coarsely ground Arabica coffee beans to tip it—almost—over the edge. Smashing. My favorite.

20 (degrees) Parallelles: Spicy orange zest perfectly balanced with intense Indonesian dark chocolate.

Jacarepagua: Citronelle (lemon grass) and menthe poivre (peppermint). The smooth buttery taste of lemon curd gets a snappy finish with the bite of fresh mint. Three favorite flavors all in one!

Le Pave: A specialite embellished with a golden footprint. Infusion of bright lime into very dark, very bittersweet chocolate.

Roger’s website is just not to be missed. Lots of panoramic visuals, with street chatter, music and twittering birds. “12 Candidates” includes caricatures of Nicolas Sarkozy and Segolene Royal on what appear to be bowling pin-shaped figures.

Chocolaterie Patrick Roger, 108 boulevard Saint Germain, 75006 Paris.
Tel: 01 43 29 38 42 Web: www.patrickroger.com.

Large creamy white peppercorns from a small Indian estate in Kerala have a
pungent aroma, subtle woody or musky undertones and a fiery burn.

They’re not the flip side of the coin.

And they’re not from a different plant.

White and black peppercorns are both the fruit of the Piper nigrum, a woody tropical vine which flourishes in a narrow band around the equator. But differences in harvesting and processing do create distinctly different peppercorns.

Here’s the scoop on the white ones:

Plant family: Piperaceae

Botanical name: Piper nigrum

Key Regions: Malaysa, Indonesia; also grown in India, Cameroon

Description: Unlike black peppercorns which are harvested when the berries are still green, berries for white peppercorns are left on vine to ripen until they turn yellow or red. After the harvest, they are packed into jute bags or wooden barrels, then washed or soaked in cool water to loosen the outer shell. They are rubbed clean and washed again to reveal the pale inner core of the peppercorn, then dried in the sun or in a kiln.

White peppercorns tend to have a sharp. hot flavor and a relatively mild aroma since the outer pericarp where the fragrant compounds are located has been removed. White peppercorns that have not been properly dried and are still damp when packed develop an odor known as “dirty socks.” In the trade this refers to “a moldy, musty flavor” or a “soured aroma.”

The Best White Peppercorns are Named After Their Point of Origin:

Although white peppercorns share certain basic characteristics, terroir and the way they are processed accounts for subtle differences in aroma and flavor. There are two principal named varieties:

Sarawak white peppercorns: Long considered the ne plus ultra of white pepper. Very clean, creamy colored peppercorns from Malaysian Borneo, cultivated in small mountain plots by members of the Bidayuh tribe. Pepper berries are hand plucked when ripe and washed in cool running spring water for up to two weeks. After drying, they are sorted to remove any dark-colored corns and lab-tested for microbes before receiving the top government designation, “Sarawak Cream Label."

Sarawak white peppercorns have a musky or woody aroma, a hot flavor and a slight piney or balsamic after taste. It is the pepper to use for a quick shot of heat in pale soups or sauces where black flecks are not desired; it is also good for simply adding heat to a dish without also adding the more distinctive flavor of black peppercorns. White pepper blends well with ginger and dark chocolate, and adds zest to fruit compotes and other sweet spicy desserts.

Muntok peppercorns: White peppercorns shipped from the port of Muntok on the island of Bangka in Indonesia. Ripe pepper berries are soaked in barrels of cool water until the outer shell detaches and is removed. Pale cream to light tan in color, smaller than Sarawak peppercorns. A slightly musty aroma; hot with a mildly fermented taste.

Muntok white peppercorns are considered medium grade and are less expensive than premium Sarawak peppercorns. I like to mix them with black and green peppercorns when making dishes like pepper-crusted, grilled pork tenderloin or in blends such as ras el hanout or garam masala.

Other white peppercorns from named regions include:

Penja peppercorns: These large light tan peppercorns are said be to grown in the volcanic soil of the Penja valley in Cameroon. Their flavor varies with age and possibly with the specific terroir of the plots in which they are grown. Some Penja pepper is quite fiery and tastes of resin; other Penja peppercorns, particularly some I have found in France, are more subtle, warm rather than hot, with fruity or floral characteristics and a fresh eucalyptus-like after taste. Gerard Vives, a French pepper specialist, recommends grinding a little Penja pepper over raw oysters and serving them with buttered rye bread.

Small named estates in India are now producing superb peppercorns for export:

Parameswaran’s Special Wynad White Pepper is grown on an organic farm on the Wynad Plateau in Kerala, a lush coastal state famous for producing India’s finest pepper. Fertilized with compost and buffalo and cow manure, the berries are hand-picked at the moment of peak ripeness, soaked for 10 to 15 days in as many changes of fresh water, and dried on mats in the hot sun, before being vacuum-packed to preserve freshness. Para’s white peppercorns are very large and creamy; their aroma is vivid and quite pungent; hot with woody or musky undertones. Remarkably, they are so fresh—each bag is dated with the crop year--that they seem to taste of the sun.

To read more about pepper, see The Spice and Herb Bible by Ian Hemphill; Gernot Katzer’s Spice Pages and the Fall 2004 issue of SpiceLines: Black Pepper: King of Spices.

Gerard Vives is a pepper specialist who lives in the south of France. I am besotted with his recipe for a single perfect egg with white peppercorns, herbs from the garden and a singular syrup of honey and balsamic vinegar.

Begin, as Vives suggests, with a farm fresh egg. This is essential. The egg is the star of the show and it must be a flavorful one, with a high, rounded yolk and albumen that is thickly gelatinous. (Around here Fickle Creek Farm’s pasture-raised hen eggs are the gold standard.) Crack it into a cast iron skillet set on the lowest possible heat. As it slowly cooks, scatter herbs from the garden around the edges so that their flavor will infuse the egg white—I used small leaves of basil, a sprig or two of lemon thyme, flat leaf parsley and a snip of tarragon (which he calls the “most violent herb in the garden”). Sprinkle a few grains of sea salt over the egg, add a generous grind of white pepper to counter the richness of the yolk, and then—here’s the stroke of utter brilliance--drizzle “pearls” of syrupy honey mixed with a dash of balsamic vinegar around the edges.

This is an extraordinary dish, best enjoyed in rapt silence. Make it for yourself, or for one other very lucky person. No conversation required.

One Perfect Egg with Herbs, White Pepper, and Honey-Balsamic Vinegar
(adapted from Gerard Vives, www.gerardvives.com)

To serve one:

Ingredients:

One large fresh egg at room temperature
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 to 2 tablespoons of finely chopped herbs: parsley, small basil leaves, thyme, a touch of tarragon
1 tablespoon lavender honey
1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar
Maldon or other flaky sea salt
Sarawak white peppercorns

Method:

1. Set a small cast iron skillet over the lowest possible flame. Add a tablespoon of olive oil and heat gently. Carefully crack the egg and slide it into the pan. Cook it very slowly over the lowest heat. After one or two minutes, scatter finely chopped herbs around the edges of the egg white. Cook until the white is just set and yolk is warm but still runny. This will take 6 or 7 minutes.
2. While the egg is cooking, mix the honey and balsamic vinegar in a small pan and heat until they are syrupy. Turn off the heat and keep warm.
3. When the egg is ready, use a spatula to gently lift it onto a plate. Sprinkle with a few grains of sea salt and a grind of white pepper. Drizzle the honey-balsamic vinegar syrup around the egg. Devour immediately.

The Back Story

One cold winter day in Paris, I was poking around Maison Israel, a dusty Marais shop crammed floor to ceiling with every imaginable spice and herb, when my eye fell upon an oblong wooden box. Stenciled on the lid was a map of the world and a label: Le Comptoir des Poivres. Inside the box there was an old English map of the Malabar Coast and nine cork-stoppered vials of exotic peppercorns, exquisitely fresh and full of flavor.

I was intrigued.

Le Comptoir des Poivres is the invention of a man named Gerard Vives. A Marseilles native, Vives spends part of each year trawling through Asia, seeking fine, often rare peppercorns for his Michelin-starred clients. He is also a self-taught cook. His home base—Le Lapin Tant Pis in the village of Forcalquier in Haute Provence—serves as a restaurant or an atelier as the mood takes him. He has thought long and hard about the differences between peppercorns from Sarawak, Muntok, Lampong and other ports of call, and how they might be used in recipes that coax their individual aromas and flavors to the fore.

I caught up with Vives in Paris this spring, when he came to give a pepper presention at the Salon D’Agriculture. He arrived at my hotel on a Saturday morning with his glamorous blonde wife and 19 tubes of pepper, including two of his latest finds: fruity red peppercorns from Pondicherry, and Voatsiperifery wild peppercorns from Madagascar’s rain forest. “I was the first to sell poivre sauvage,” he told me. “All the famous chefs wanted it. It’s fantastic with foie gras.”

When Vives writes about pepper, his prose verges on the poetic. It epitomizes a sensuous, almost romantic view of spices that seems particularly French. (By comparison the American approach to spice seems pragmatic and results-oriented.) Here’s what he says about creamy white Sarawak pepper: “a sophisticated and harmonious pepper… with an elegant beige coat, a delightful and powerful bouquet of fresh and woody notes, with delicate acidity. A strong presence on the palate with flavours of liquorice and hints of humus…”

"Forgotten" 17th century breads, made with grains from Anson Mills and baked in
a wood-burning oven, were on the menu at the first annual Farm to Fork Picnic.

It’s 6:27 PM and the pasture at Chapel Hill Creamery is thronged, not with Jerseys, but hordes of ravenous gourmands. Kids are petting whey-fed pigs and a blue grass fiddler is tuning up. Le tout Chapel Hill—and much of Durham—has paid $35 a head to feast on ravishing fare from local farms cooked by the area’s culinary mavens. It’s the first Farm to Fork picnic, honoring Slow Food International founder Carlo Petrini, who’s urging us to support the hard-working small farmers who produce North Carolina’s stellar heritage pigs, strawberries, farmhouse cheese and lots more.

Not that anyone in this food-obsessed crowd needs encouragement.

Here’s what my friend Ced and I are eating now:

6:31: Poached turnips with cast-seared onions and rainbow chard. Blonde, willowy Ashley Christiansen from Enoteca Vin is spooning the sweetest baby turnips out of a stainless bowl, while chatting with Sandwhich co-owner Janet Elbetri. I’m salivating over the black tea-cured bacon with poached egg, ramps and wild mushroom-Banyuls vinaigrette on her restaurant menu.

6:37: “Hell, I’m not gonna tell you you can’t eat it,” says a bearded gent out of the side of his mouth. He steps away to reveal two splendid heritage hogs reposing side by side on a pair barbecue wagons. Ced digs in and I follow, both of us spurning forks for fingers—here in North Carolina this is know as pig-pickin’, The meat is rich and full of delicious fat, rare in these days of lean pork sold as “the other white meat.” We gravitate a few feet to where the farmer, Eliza McLean of Cane Creek Farm, is dishing out chopped pork barbecue from the same hogs, but with vinegar sauce. “What’s that?” she says suspiciously, eyeing the shreds of meat on our guilty plates. Champion barbecuer Jonathan Childres from The Barbecue Joint just grins.

6:44: I’m in heaven. Eating cabrito, slow roasted in a pit on hot rocks, Monterrey-style, and it is fabulous, especially wrapped up in what look and taste like earthy, handmade corn tortillas and spiked with fiery roasted jalapeno and lime salsa. That, and the equally superb lamb, come from Fickle Creek Farm, our go-to-guys for the freshest local eggs. I tell Ben about Gerard Vives' amazing egg recipe on SpiceLines.

6:50: Around the corner Andrea and Brendan Reusing of the Lantern have laid on a head-and-tail heritage pig feast. (Andrea heads the local Slow Food chapter and the restaurant is sponsor of the evening.) I love the slivered pigs ears, done Vietnamese style with cilantro, lime and fish sauce—they are crunchy, a little gelatinous, and the seasonings are summery and delicious. Ced, who’s English, is making a beeline for the roasted pig tails, big curly hunks of meat which he says are great, speaking between ecstatic mouthfuls. Something from his childhood, I suspect.

6:56: A platter of roasted asparagus comes into view. It is the essence of May. Glorious, just-picked flavor.

6:59: A gorgeous display of “forgotten” 16th and 17th century hearth cooked breads, made with grains from Anson Mills in South Carolina. They include a crusty Pain Bourgeois spiked with barm yeast from beer-making, a beautiful round cornmeal bread wrapped and baked in fig leaves, and the Opulent Farmer, a 17th century loaf of rye, wheat and barley, so named because it was considered decadent to bake a loaf with so many grains. All were baked in a wood-burning oven somewhere in Durham and they taste utterly different from any bread I’ve ever had. Earthy, dense, authentic. A single slice would make a nourishing meal.

7:12: “Lets take a break,” says Ced. Kids are tossing eggs and gluing freshly shelled peas onto construction paper. What? Isn’t that a waste of great peas? I believe Ced is beginning to wonder at my appetite.

7:26: Back in action with a rich cauliflower fritter topped with swiss chard. It’s great. Wish I knew where it came from.

7:29: The soup to end all soups: Cold white sweet potato soup with champagne vinegar and a spoonful of bright green leek oil. “Unfortunately it’s almost the end of the season for white sweet potatoes,” says Jeremy Blankenship, the Carolina Inn chef who created this refreshing concoction. I beg him for the recipe anyway.

7:34: We’ve discovered the table with Chapel Hill Creamery farmhouse cheeses. New Moon is fresh and camembert-like. Hickory Grove, an aged raw milk, monastery-style cheese, is rich, almost buttery-tasting. The candied nuts—were they pecans?—on each slice of Hickory Grove are divine.

7:39: Karen Barker of Magnolia Grill has a dessert worth sinning for: cornmeal poundcake, served with luscious green tomato conserve and a tart-but-rich buttermilk sabayon sauce. It is perfect haute Southern cuisine. If only I could eat two pieces…

7:47: But here’s a really adorable strawberry shortcake, about the size of a silver dollar, made by Amy Tornquist of Sage & Swift caterers. It tastes like summer: a few delectable sweet strawberries, a tender biscuit and a dollop of whipped cream. Ced’s eyes get a little misty. “An English cream tea…”

7:50: The sun is setting. A sliver of chocolate chess pie has found its way onto my plate….

Editor’s note: Proceeds of the Farm to Fork Picnic will be used to plant heritage Southern apple trees at Lakewood and Burton Elementary Schools in Durham.

Small tenderloins from organically raised heritage pigs are liberally sprinkled
with black, white and green peppercorns before going on the grill.

It’s Memorial Day. A clear blue sky and not a shower in sight. Except in the kitchen, where peppercorns have been raining into every dish. Here’s what we ate today:

Fresh Tomato Juice Cocktails with White Peppercorns and Fleur de Sel

Grilled Pork Tenderloin with Three Peppercorns, Rosemary and Zesty Orange Sauce

Young Zucchini and Yellow Squash with Basil and Green Peppercorns

Early Corn Roasted in the Shuck

Tender Coleslaw with Lemon, Olive Oil and Black Peppercorns

Strawberry Sorbet with Green Peppercorns and Balsamic Vinegar

Actually, I ran out of steam before I could make the sorbet. But after eating so much pepper, I’m definitely feeling a glow.

Here’s the recipe for the grilled pork tenderloin.

To serve 4:

Ingredients for the pork:

3 small pork tenderloins weighing a total of 2 to 2-1/4 pounds (2-1/2 inches in diameter at the thickest point) (see note)
3 large cloves garlic
1 orange for zesting
1 cup of freshly squeezed orange juice
4 sprigs rosemary
Extra virgin olive oil
1-1/2 teaspoons black peppercorns
1-1/2 teaspoons white peppercorns
1-1/2 teaspoons green peppercorns
Kosher salt to taste

Ingredients for the sauce:

Reserved marinade
Kosher salt to taste
3 to 4 tablespoons butter

Method:

1. Rinse the pork tenderloins and pat them dry. Cut each garlic clove into 5 or 6 slivers. With the tip of a sharp knife, make small slits all over the tenderloins and insert slivers of garlic.
2. Place tenderloins in a glass or other non-reactive pan. Using a microplane, grate orange zest all over the pork, turning so that both sides are covered. Pour the orange juice over the meat and arrange the rosemary around it. Marinate for 5 to 6 hours in the refrigerator.
3. Two hours before you are ready to cook, remove the tenderloins from the marinade and pat dry. Rub all over with a little olive oil. Discard the rosemary. Pour the marinade into a small bowl and set aside.
4. Put the peppercorns in a ziplock bag and seal. Crush coarsely with a rolling pin. Sprinkle the peppers all over the tenderloins—they should be liberally seasoned, but not encrusted with pepper. Wrap each tenderloin tightly in plastic wrap and set aside.
5. About 45 minutes before you are ready to cook, build a fire of hardwood charcoal in your grill. When the flames are low and the coals are covered with white ash, push them to either side of the grate. Oil the grill and put it in place over the coals. Unwrap the tenderloins and sprinkle with salt. Place them in the middle of the grill so that they are not directly over the coals. Cover and cook for 5 minutes. Turn, cover, and cook for 5 minutes more. Repeat for a final 5 minutes. Remove from the grill and let them rest for 10 minutes.
6. While the tenderloins are resting, strain the reserved marinade and put it in a small, non-reactive saucepan. Bring to a boil, lower the heat slightly and simmer until the liquid is reduced by half. Add a pinch of salt and stir. Over the lowest flame, whisk in the butter one tablespoon at a time until the sauce has thickened. Remove from the stove and keep warm.
7. Slice the pork tenderloins into medallions 1/4 inch thick. The pork should be barely pink in the middle. Arrange on a plate and drizzle the orange sauce over all. Serve immediately.

Note: I used small, organic tenderloins from Elysian Fields Farm, my favorite local pork purveyor. If you buy tenderloins from the supermarket, they will be much larger: Increase the quantity of the garlic, orange zest and orange juice proportionately. They will also require more time on the grill.

Editor’s note: A version of this recipe appeared in the Fall 2004 issue of SpiceLines newsletter on peppercorns. To see the whole issue, click here.

Three ways to grate ginger: From left to right, an inexpensive Asian porcelain
grater, the Microplane Rasp and Zester, and the Triangle Ginger and Lemon Grater.

Freshly grated ginger is the secret to irresistible gingersnaps, especially the crisp fragile ones that Deborah, my New York sister in law, makes. The whole house fills up with a spicy aroma and the fresh ginger gives these delicate cookies a deliciously fiery bite.

But grating ginger isn’t all that easy. The knobby, tan-colored rhizome of Zingiber officianale is dense and thickly fibrous. For baking, the trick is to reduce the flavorful root to a sort of puree, minus the tough fibers--hopefully without skinning your fingertips.

So when I read Florence Fabricant’s blurb on the Triangle, a German ginger and lemon grater, I paid attention. “It works like a charm, both for grating and cleanup, “ she wrote in The New York Times (See “Ginger Meets Its Match in a Grater” in “Food Stuff,” February 28, 2007, page D2).

Naturally Broadway Panhandler sold out of the Triangle immediately.

Eventually I tracked one down, but by the time it arrived I was thinking, “Do I really need a special tool just for grating ginger? (OK it does lemons too, but still…)” Besides I’ve got the miraculous Microplane rasp from Lee Valley.

Today I decided to put both graters to the test. Rummaging around in a kitchen drawer, I also dug out an old porcelain grater which I hadn’t used for years. It was a tool I’ve always disliked, but couldn’t bear to throw away because I love its plain good looks.

Anyway, while grating a big beautiful hand of Hawaiian ginger, I began to think about the characteristics of the ideal grater: it would be easy to use and clean, it would be fast, it would turn out a fiber-free ginger puree, and it would be versatile—you could use it for other stuff as well.

I decided to get scientific about it. Sort of. I used one-inch pieces of plump fresh ginger and I peeled it before grating, since the skin can be tough and I didn’t want even tiny pieces in the puree. I timed the number of seconds it took to grate the ginger to the last shreds. I also tried grating a lemon and, since I’ve been experimenting with dipping sauces for Japanese soba, I added a crisp daikon radish to the test.

And now, for the results:

1. White Porcelain Ginger Grater: www.amazon.com, $5.95.

This is the simple, inexpensive ginger grater sold in many Asian cookware shops. Unlike other graters, it has no holes. Instead, there are 20 or more rows of small rounded porcelain “nubs” pointed enough to cut through the rhizome’s flesh when pressure is applied, but not sharp enough to abrade your fingertips.

Ease of use: It’s pretty simple. Either hold the grater in one hand or rest it on the counter, and vigorously rub the end of the root against the surface. The grating goes quickly, but I found that my grater was so small that the grated ginger was spilling off the edges by the time I got to the last bits. The best way to get the ginger off the grater is with your finger—even so, some of it will stick to the surface. To clean, you simply rinse it in running water or stick it in the dishwasher.

Speed: It took about 50 seconds to reduce a one-inch piece of ginger to a puree.

Fibers: Of the three graters, this one left the most fibers in the ginger puree, which would make it hard to mix it evenly into a batter.

Versatility: Don’t even bother grating citrus zest—the nubs aren’t sharp enough. However, it easily purees a daikon radish.

2. Triangle Ginger and Lemon Grater: www.broadwaypanhandler.com, $23.95.

This German grater has a triangular perforated hinged top that lowers onto a base with rows of tiny raised spikes, which grip the ginger when it is rubbed across them. Both pieces are attached to a handle.

Ease of Use: The Triangle is not exactly hard to use, but like so many kitchen gadgets these days, it seems overly designed. Before grating, you snap the top and bottom together, and rub the ginger over the molded spikes that protrude through the holes in the top. The front end of the grater has two rubber clad feet, presumably to keep it from skidding on the countertop. To remove the grated ginger, click the lever at the neck of the grater and the top pops up from the bottom. Scrape the ginger off the perforated top. Rinse it clean. Dishwasher safe.

So what’s wrong? First, the top and bottom don’t line up exactly, so you may have to fiddle a little to get them to snap together. Second, the lever works about 3 times out of 10, so you usually have to open it manually. Neither action is difficult, but why bother in the first place?

Speed: Faster than the porcelain grater--35 seconds for a one-inch piece of ginger.

Fibers: The ginger puree had some fibers, though not as many as with the porcelain grater.

Versatility: The Triangle grates citrus zest into minuscule bits; it reduces daikon to a puree almost instantly. The Times recommends it for grating horseradish.

3. Stainless Steel Rasp and Zester Holder: www.leevalley.com, $15.95

Manufactured by Lee Valley Tools in Canada, this is the original Microplane. It began as a wood rasp and became a kitchen tool when owner Leonard Lee’s wife discovered that it also zested oranges beautifully. Essentially it is a two-piece stainless steel box, 13-inches by 1-inch, that is open on one end. The top piece has 400 sharply ridged perforations; it fits over a box-like base that catches whatever you are grating.

Ease of use: Blessedly simple. Fit the top over the bottom, hold it in place, and rub ginger over the perforations. The grated ginger is captured below, although some will stick to the back of the perforated top. I usually whack it on a cutting board to release the ginger. Clean it under running water or put it in the dishwasher. A few dried up fibers may remain on the top, but they seem to disappear very quickly.

Speed: The fastest. 25 seconds to grate a one inch piece of ginger.

Fibers: The rasp’s sharply ridged perforations produced the creamiest ginger puree. There are fibers, but they are broken down into small bits, so the texture of the puree is smooth.

Versatility: This is where the Microplane really shines. It pulverizes daikon and garlic almost to a liquid, and finely shreds citrus zest with very little pressure. You can also use it to grate hard spices like cinnamon sticks and nutmeg, to a powder.

Was it a fair fight? Not really. I knew the Microplane would win.