Movable Feast

Boletus edulis. Commonly known as Cèpe or Porcini. Found Wednesday evening, 03 October 2006 (somewhere in France). Delivered Thursday morning, 04 October 2006, to L'Arpège (Paris, France).

(click photo to enlarge - really)

I'm in New York now - and I really needed to leave now if I wanted any chance of seeing Ferran Adria and nine of Spain's most influential chefs up close and personal. They're in town for Spain's 10: Cocina de Vanguardia - Madrid Fusion invades New York. They're cutting the ribbon on the French Culinary Institute's new home, the International Culinary Center in minutes.

But first there's a classic Spanish hot chocolate and churros breakfast and Ferran Adria or not, I have got to get me some of that.

By the way, did you send in your El Bulli 2007 reservation request today? It's that time of year again.

Also, if you lust for a Pacojet - and I know you do - check out my new CHOW column today. And have you tried sous-vide at home from last week's column yet?

And did you see the premiere of Gourmet's Diary of a Foodie this week? If it's not running yet on your local PBS station, please email them - and why not slip them them a little donation while you're at it.

I will have a chateau slideshow available soon - with a surprise ending to that story.

After another perfect day in Arpege's potager paradise, a weird thing's happened to me here at the chateau.

I've been left alone.

The other nights, I've had two chateau-mates: the resident Madame Bacharach, who actually sold the grounds to Alain Passard, and Jean-Baptiste, one of the gardeners. J-B - pronounced GEE-bay in French - is a 21-year-old perpetually happy dreadlocked blond who used to be the head gardener at the chef's other nearby garden, but now lives and works here. Tonight he's gone to visit his mother who lives about 30 km away. I'm not sure where Madame Bacharach has gone.

I have to admit that a moment of panic set in - not so much about being left Chateau Alone - but about what I was going to have for dinner. The six gardeners and I polished off the family meal mushrooms at lunch. G-B and I ate about a quarter of them ourselves last night for dinner - just sauteed in salted butter, over riz de Camargue.

There are of course fields full of beautiful fruits, vegetables, and herbs just steps away, but I don't want to accidentally pick the one beet that they've been waiting all summer to mature. There are also filled crates tucked under the trees near the chateau, but some have been set aside for seeds for next year. But the baskets in the kitchen and dining room have been fair game. I've pulled some young leeks - to me, the most French speaking of all vegetables; tiny onions, a Purple Haze carrot - purple on the outside and orange on the inside; black cherry tomatoes; and a small Arpege beet. I found some couscous in the cabinet, Oliviers & Co. organic olive oil, fleur de sel, and a jar/vase of fresh flat-parsley. For dessert I'll have an apple that was grown espalier around the herb garden. J-B also left a half-bottle of his friend's organic red wine.

I think I won't go hungry.

I was just on the phone with my sister Annie and I told her that I'd thought about not posting that I was alone - you know, just to be safe. But then I thought, if someone reading this blog tonight were to make their way all the way out here, I would be so impressed. But you should really email me first because I am armed with kitchen knives and the chateau's rifle - and I do know how to use them. I'd hate to mistakenly take out a well-meaning visiting reader.

I'm going to tell you a secret about L'Arpege that even Alain Passard doesn't know yet. Tomorrow morning he's going to receive two flats of the most exquisite cepes that he has ever seen.

Sylvain, his head gardener, and I just got back from a walk in the forest. We started out with an empty wire basket lined with brown tissue paper. "For hope," he said. We had worked in the cold rain all day, so we had the right to be hopeful. But in the first clearing, Sylvain pointed out sliced bases and cast-off trimmings - signs of a forager before us. Undeterred, he picked a few himself. "These are a little old, but they'll do." He placed each find cap-side down in our basket. "See how the gills bruise blue when you touch it?" I've read about it but have never actually done it - in fact this was my first mushroom hunt ever. He covered the cut stems by sweeping leaves and grass over them with his boot. "Always cover your tracks," he said, "so people don't know you've been here."

We pressed on to another clearing. Finally Sylvain somehow spotted a tiny, but perfect cepe. "This is extradordinary - it's so fresh - it's from today. The chef calls this un bouchon de Champagne." And it did look just like a Champagne cork, with a bulbous stem larger than its little head. And then he spotted a whole cluster. And then another. And another. Two unbelievable hours and about 10 kilos later, Sylvain filled our basket with cepes so exceptional that he says it happens maybe once a decade.

We just finished sorting the best specimens for the restaurant - exquisitely beautiful and with forest-fresh firm stems. The rest we're eating ourselves - tonight for dinner, tomorrow for lunch - I wonder if I'll be tired of cepes by dinner tomorrow night?

Only one way to find out.

This summer, after a giddy, joyful lunch at L'Arpege in Paris, I told Michelin three star chef/owner Alain Passard how disappointed I was to have not had time to visit his garden during my trip. He grabbed me by the arm and stared into my eyes. "Louisa," he said in his intense French, "The next time you come back to France, you must visit the garden." I nodded, smiling, still glowing from the meal. "But you must stay three days," he said, then added, "And you can stay at my house."

You don't say.

L'Arpege currently serves the single most expensive set menu in Paris. With the current exchange rate, that price hovers around 500 dollars per person. That's for food alone - there's no wine, coffee, or even a glass of mineral water included.

So I'm thinking, this is going to be sweet.

Alain Passard's garden supplies some of the finest rare and heirloom vegetables, some varieties unavailable anywhere else in the world, exclusively to the restaurant. Every morning, the day's pick goes out to Paris by TGV - just an hour by high-speed train.

And remember this kitchen garden - or potager - was the inspiration for the chef's temporary/ephemeral restaurant Vegetable last year.

I had visions of an Arpege in the country - but a bed and breakfast version. And then when I heard the house is actually a chateau, I wondered if I should bring nicer dinner clothes.

But then when I asked what I thought was just a cursory polite question about what I should bring and they told me boots, sheets, and breakfast food, it started to dawn on me that I might barely have a bed - and forget about breakfast.

Right now I'm writing from the unheated gardeners' office. I arrived tonight and it's cold and damp. To add even more fun, it's been pouring for the last two days so there's sucking mud everywhere. I'm being dive-bombed by pre-historic looking bugs that I'm sure could drain the blood from my body - if I weren't waving my arms hysterically to fight them off. And I just heard an unidentified animal howling outside.

I just want to thank Farmgirl Susan profusely  for great boot advice and encouragement - which I really didn't think I'd need as much as I do right now - and for not making Simple Life jokes. Those of you who did, you know who you are.

I can't wait to see the grounds in the morning.