Читать книгу Tarte Tatin: More of La Belle Vie on Rue Tatin - Susan Loomis - Страница 7

Every day for three years, while Joe and I were walking to school in the early mornings, he used to ask me if he could have a little sister, as though this was something we would buy at the charcuterie we passed each morning. The first time the request came up I didn’t know what to say. Joe didn’t know that Michael and I wanted another child – boy or girl – and had been trying to have one for several years. It wouldn’t mean a thing to him if I said, ‘We’re trying, Joe, we’re trying, we don’t want you to be an only child any more than you do.’ So, I put him off by saying, ‘Well, maybe you will one day,’ sheepishly knowing this probably wasn’t true.

Michael and I weren’t desperate to have another child, but we thought it would be great for Joe to have a sibling, and for our family to be one person bigger. We assumed I would get pregnant, but two years had passed and I hadn’t. I decided I would take the first steps to check into adoption, to see how serious we wanted to get. I didn’t get far in my research before I learned that there are few if any babies available for adoption in France: pregnant woman of any age and situation are encouraged to keep their babies, and financial assistance from the state makes it very possible for them to do so. This explains the number of babies wheeling around babies; some of the mothers I see look no older than thirteen and, for all I know, they may be.

The only couples I knew in France who had adopted babies had gone to South America or China to find them, and I knew that we wouldn’t go that far. We didn’t want to, nor could we afford to purchase a child. Secondly, our passion for a child didn’t go to those lengths. Maybe we were selfish – we wanted our own baby, and if our own baby wasn’t going to happen, we’d stay a happy little family of three.

Finally we did what any sensible couple whose son wants a sibling would do. We considered getting a dog. Joe wanted a dog. Michael wanted a dog. I’m not much of an animal-lover, but I figured I could live with a dog. I’d grown up with a dachshund and loved her, but she was a yippy little attack dog who would go after crawling babies if she couldn’t find the moles she was bred to chase, so I didn’t think we wanted that sort. Michael had grown up with and loved golden labradors, but they needed lots of space and exercise, and our house and garden weren’t appropriate. What we really needed was a robotic dog that acted like a real dog and needed no space (or maintenance).

Joe’s plaintive request for a sister continued. One of his favourite stories was The Little Match Girl and he would get so sad at the plight of the little girl. He wanted to bring her home and make a little bed for her in his room so he could protect her. He was obviously ready for the care and feeding of a living creature. We continued to mull over the dog idea until we finally decided that was what we would do. It would be Joe’s ‘little match girl’, his sibling.

Joe was ecstatic and promised to do his share of taking care of the dog. I was clear from the start that, while I would go along with the idea, I wouldn’t take care of it full-time. We all agreed the dog would be a family project. Knowing that the best way to find a great dog was de bouche à oreille, by word of mouth, I mentioned it to our neighbours the florists. The very next day there was a knock on the door. Michael opened it to a rotund boy of about eleven with the thickest, most lush crew-cut I’d ever seen. ‘Bonjour Monsieur, Madame,’ he said, politely. ‘I believe that you are looking for a dog. The florists sent me over here.’ That was fast, I thought. He went on to explain, in very adult language, about a dog he had found and that he loved, but that his father, a fireman, insisted he get rid of because their apartment was too small. Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘I love this dog,’ he admitted, hiccuping a sob back into his throat. ‘My mother loves it, too, but my father says no, we must not keep it.’ He closed his eyes and two little tears popped out.

We were taken in by the drama, and told him we would think about his offer and call him. We were only vaguely interested, though, since we didn’t want a fully grown dog with someone else’s bad training habits. The boy, whose name was Anthony, turned away, shoulders sagging, and slowly walked out through the courtyard door. Not two hours later he was back, dog and mother in tow. This time, when Michael answered the door, Joe was right behind him.

‘Monsieur, – dame,’ he said brightly. ‘You seem like such nice people, I just had to bring this little dog over to meet you.’

The dog turned out to be an abricot caniche, a mid-sized, full-grown, fuzzy poodle the colour of dirty reddish straw, or unripe apricots. A male, his eyes were invisible under his unruly curls, and he wiggled all over, obviously delighted to be around people. Anthony, the boy, was holding him by a leash. ‘He is so adorable I know you’ll love him immediately,’ he said artlessly, and with a slight quaver in his voice.

‘Oh brother,’ I thought. Deciding to get a dog was one thing. Being presented with a warm and full-grown one that wiggled was another. We had never imagined getting a poodle – they are reputed to be as silly as they look. To prove our point the dog, held firmly by the strong Anthony, began little arcing jumps to nowhere, nearly choking himself and pulling over Anthony simultaneously. He wanted to get away, to move, to be free. He finally arced so hard that Anthony let go of the leash and he bounded into our front yard as though shot out of a cannon. He ran stupidly around the apple tree a couple of times, then back through the gravel, spraying pieces everywhere, until he stopped right at Joe’s feet. Well, he sort of stopped. He actually bashed right into Joe’s leg, startling Joe, and hurting his own nose.

Michael bent down and beckoned, and the dog plastered himself against Michael’s leg. Joe, who likes dogs in theory but is afraid of them, stood behind Michael and bent over to stroke the dog’s back. He and Michael had turned into pools of melted butter in the face of this dog.

Like a horse-whisperer with horses, Michael knows just how to get a dog to respond, where to scratch, pat, tickle and rub. This dog responded by lying flat on his back on the bricks, and shaking all over. Joe crouched over him. I stood by, watching the scene. Anthony and his mother were in a half-embrace, tears running down their faces. Joe and Michael were rapt. Molière couldn’t have written a better farce.

I was lukewarm about the dog. He was a little messy for me, a little too rambunctious, a little too – well – dog-like. I’d imagined something smaller, cuter, calmer; something that resembled a stuffed dog a little more. The more Michael teased him, the more the dog slobbered all over him and the closer Joe got to him. I knew he would soon be moving in.

Michael released the dog. Anthony called him, and the dog responded. We formed a family huddle while Anthony and his mother mooned over the dog. ‘Oh mama and papa, he’s so cute,’ Joe said.

‘He really is cute,’ Michael said. ‘And he seems really nice and not too wild.’

We agreed to give the dog a try, but on a trial basis. If the dog turned out to be awful, we’d return it to Anthony and his mother. We looked at Joe. ‘Does this make sense to you?’ we asked him. He nodded, eyeing the dog with desire. ‘OK,’ Michael repeated. ‘We take the dog on a trial basis. If he’s perfect, we keep him. If he’s not, out he goes.’ I looked at Michael, the animal-lover. I don’t think he’s ever met an animal he doesn’t like, and he has infinite patience with them. I doubted that if the dog got into our home and life it would ever leave.

We told Anthony and his mother our conditions, and they just stared at us. ‘Oh monsieur, – dame, and you, little boy, you will love this dog so much you’ll never want to get rid of him,’ Anthony said. ‘The one thing I do ask you is that I be able to visit him once in a while. The transition will be hard on him, and I will miss him so.’

Who was this boy who spoke like a French politician? We agreed, of course, to regular visits for as long as he liked, and he handed over the leash to Joe. He turned to kiss the dog, but as far as the dog was concerned, Anthony and his mother were history. Of much more interest was our garden, our apple tree, our dahlias. Anthony began crying his eyes out and he and his mother, who held him around the shoulders, sobbed their way out through the door.

I was exhausted by all the emotion. I looked at Michael, who shrugged. ‘We’ll see,’ was all he said.

The dog bounded over to us and Joe leapt out of the way. Michael scratched the dog’s ears and he lay down, calmed. Joe eased in; I patted him, too. He was awfully cute, and he seemed very sweet, just like Anthony and his mother had said. They had assured us he was house-trained, had no bad habits, didn’t sleep in their beds – one thing I deplore – and that he was very calm. This all sounded good to me.

I went into the house to cook. I was working on recipes and the menu included avocado with pistachio oil and shallots, braised oxtail with cinnamon, baked potatoes with bay leaves and ginger madeleines with allspice ice cream. With all this dog business, I was behind schedule.

Several hours later Anthony returned with a dog dish, some dog toys, and another leash, this one bright red leather. The dog was all over him, and he all over the dog, and they played for a moment. Then the waterworks began again. ‘You can come visit him whenever you want,’ I reassured Anthony, who seemed close to a nervous break-down. ‘I will do that, Madame, merci,’ he sniffed, backing out of the courtyard.

We went about finding a place for the dog to sleep, and a place to set his bowls. We had decided the dog would eat leftovers and dry food, since both Michael and I are morally opposed to feeding dogs food that could logically be given to hungry humans, and most canned dog food fits into that category. So, Michael and Joe went off to buy him some dry food.

We got the dog set up. He was asleep by this time, on the entranceway rug, right in the middle of the traffic pattern. We all stood there and looked at him. He was pretty darn cute.

He needed a name. I wanted to give him a literary French name, like Aristide or Gionot, since he was a French poodle. Michael and Joe settled on calling him LD, for Little Dog. I’d renounced responsibility for the dog – how could I intervene?

Dinner that night was a resounding success – we loved all the recipes – and there were few leftovers, but what remained went into the dog’s dish. He immediately dragged the bones into the middle of the kitchen floor and noisily chewed on them, then left them right there when he wandered off to fall asleep again.

We transferred LD to a clean blanket in the kitchen, and we all turned in. Sometime after we’d all fallen asleep we heard excited barking. It was LD reacting to something outside – a light going off, a car going by, we didn’t know what. Michael quieted him down and we went back to sleep. The next day Joe came down the stairs and wrinkled his nose as he walked into the kitchen. ‘Where’s LD?’ he asked and, simultaneously, ‘What is that smell?’

LD and the smell were in the same spot. He hadn’t left any untoward packages anywhere; he just smelt like a not-very-clean animal. We hadn’t noticed it the night before, most likely in the excitement of having him in our home.

‘When you get home from school we’ll give him a bath,’ Michael said to Joe.

But Michael and I couldn’t make it through the day with this fragrant dog, who smelt as if he’d rolled in something dead. How had we not noticed this the night before? Michael bathed him, rubbed him dry, and put him outside on a long tether. He was fluffy, clean and very cute. We both went back to work.

LD began to bark, at moving objects – people, cars, birds flying by. I went out to tell him to be quiet, in English. He stopped barking, but gave me the most quizzical look. We stared at each other for a full minute before I realized he hadn’t understood the words I’d said. So, I wondered, how does one tell a dog to be quiet in French? ‘Tais-toi’? Impolite. ‘Calme-toi’? Ineffectual. I settled on ‘Shhht!’, the sound most often heard in a French classroom, which can be uttered with a great deal of authority.

By the time I’d climbed the flight of stairs to my office he’d started up again. I brought him inside, and he stopped. I showed him his blankets and he lay down and immediately fell asleep. ‘Whew,’ I thought, but I was wary.

I went back to my office. Pretty soon I heard LD leaping up the stairs. He nosed open my office door, came in, sat down under my desk and rested his head on my foot. ‘Aw,’ I thought, ‘he’s really cute.’

But he still smelt, and he twitched. Then he got up and left. I heard Michael lead him to his blanket, after which I heard no more.

Later on, Michael put LD on a leash to go and pick up Joe from school, and off they went. I looked out of the window after them. There was Michael, tall, well-built, masculine, with this fluff-ball on a leash that walked in an odd, gimpy way down the street. The scene looked good, unlike the hysterically funny scenes of the Frenchmen I see who walk their dogs. There they go, normal, virile-looking men, in handsome business suits or newly pressed jeans, walking mincing little dogs who stop and sniff at every piece of gravel. Whenever I see one I try not to stare, which is hard because they look so ridiculous. I can’t believe they actually go out in public with their dogs. Why don’t they have labradors, or huskies, or something more befitting their sartorial splendour?

When Michael and Joe returned, Joe was holding the leash, petting LD, completely enraptured. ‘This experiment seems to be working,’ I thought.

Several days passed and, aside from LD barking constantly when he was outside, he easily settled into our lives. He was obviously an inside dog, and he seemed used to making himself at home. Anthony and his mother had been right – he didn’t jump on the furniture or make any messes inside. He didn’t eat leftovers or dry dog food, either. ‘He’ll get used to it,’ Michael promised. ‘It’s a matter of time.’

Lulled into a feeling of security, I let him out through the front door one day, sure he’d stay close to the door. How wrong I was. He bolted immediately, so far and fast that I lost him. Oh dear, I thought, that was short and sweet. Within an hour he was back, however, docile as could be. He headed to his blanket and fell asleep. When he woke up, he immediately threw up, a lot, in the middle of the floor. He looked perplexed for a minute, then bounded around, the picture of good health. He hadn’t eaten anything at all since morning, so how, I wondered, was he able to throw up so much?

We developed a routine. LD stayed in the house during the day, more often than not in my office, his head on my foot. I didn’t love the dog, but it was kind of sweet that he’d chosen my foot as his pillow. And he was quiet enough. We learned that he would bolt immediately if he got out the front door, so we tied him to the apple tree with a very long leash a couple of times a day so he could get fresh air. He barked, but we ignored him and hoped the neighbours did, too.

Despite our efforts, he ran away often, always returning an hour or so later. He would circle his bedding, lie down and sleep for a while, then rise and throw up. After the first few times we concluded he had found someone who fed him a lot of meat. ‘This,’ Michael said looking at LD, ‘is a hobo dog.’

Michael put up wire mesh around our fence to keep him in, and asked the priest and the office workers at the parish house to be sure and keep the gate closed on their side – something they’d resisted doing when we’d claimed an open gate was dangerous for our son, but something they seemed very willing to do for a dog. Secure in the knowledge that he was fenced in, we let LD out. He bounded around the garden, tried to wiggle through the iron grating and found it closed. Then he just stood there, head cocked, as though he was thinking. I went back to work, and LD disappeared. Michael found that he’d pushed up the heavy wire mesh and crawled under it. Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as he’d first seemed.

One night Joe begged for LD to sleep in his room, and we didn’t object. We moved his bedding up there and he settled in, the ‘little match’ dog. Sometime later, Joe called out my name. When I went into his room, he said, ‘Mama, LD stinks. Can you take him out of here?’

I almost choked with laughter, yet it was sad, too. Joe’s dreams about having a dog to keep him company hadn’t included a smelly animal that ran away all the time, came home and threw up, barked too much. LD was beginning to be a disappointment.

The next day LD got out of the house, ran away, and didn’t return. I answered a knock on the door and it was a young woman who worked at one of the shops in the neighbourhood. ‘I saw the police pick up your dog,’ she said in a sly sort of way. ‘When, where?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it was a while ago. He was really annoying everyone with his barking,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, you should have signalled me somehow, I would have gone to get him,’ I said.

‘Well, you know it is illegal for a dog to be wandering around without a leash,’ she said, righteously. I realized that she had called the police about LD.

I went to the police station and described LD. Sure enough, they had just transported him to the animal shelter in Rouen. Michael, horrified, jumped in the car and went to retrieve him. Fifty dollars and two hours later, he was back with a lively, unapologetic LD.

‘This dog is really dumb,’ Michael said, locking him into the house. ‘We cannot ever let him out without a leash. If he runs away again like that, I’m not going after him.’

By then, LD had been with us about a month. I kept trying to convince myself to like him. He seemed to love us, wiggling all over when he saw us, snuggling up if one of us sat down. He wanted to be near us all the time, but he didn’t really want to play. I don’t think he understood the concept of play. Life to him was running free, sleeping, eating, being walked on a leash that he could pull against. And he had so many bad habits: incessant barking when he was outside, or when he heard a noise inside; his running away; his aroma. His eating habits hadn’t adapted to our rules, either. He didn’t like vegetables or dry dog food. Michael caved in and got him some canned food, which he inhaled. Michael bathed LD practically every day, but it didn’t help much: he was just a smelly dog. Joe liked him, but they weren’t bonding. In fact, none of us were bonding with LD. Poor thing – he was a travelling dog with bonding issues, not a family dog.

Two months had gone by, and we were sure the statute of limitations on dog borrowing dictated that we had owned him too long to return him to the emotionally distraught Anthony. In fact, we now wondered if Anthony and his mother hadn’t been rehearsing for a drama project with their Oscar-winning sobfest, as neither of them ever came to visit the dog.

Now and then, I would take LD on a walk in town, thinking perhaps he and I would bond. Besides, I figured that I would look really French if I had a caniche on a leash. I’m taller than most French woman, have reddish hair, freckles, blue eyes and blonde eyebrows, which means I don’t look French in the least, so maybe LD would be my ticket to Frenchness. But it didn’t work. Friends and acquaintances stooped to give him a pat but mentioned nothing different about me. Their only reaction was a certain sympathy when I explained why I was walking LD down the pavement. I guess I didn’t look any more French than usual as I struggled to keep him from running into every shop we passed, and from stopping to sniff every tiny little thing.

Then there were those terribly embarrassing moments when LD had to ‘fait ses besoins’. I gently tugged him to the gutter, but he resisted, so I had to pick him up and deposit him there, then stand on the other end of the leash, waiting. It was excruciating. Where was I supposed to look? How was I supposed to act if someone I knew came up to greet me?

I love to bicycle, and I go for a ride through the fields several times a week. Invariably, LD would wind up flapping along behind me and I would stop, grab him, go home and lock him up, then start again. This happened so many times it became part of my bicycle ride. I would have loved his company on my rides, but he was too undisciplined: at the first opportunity he’d run into someone’s house, or jump over a fence into a yard full of chickens, or make a mess on someone’s front path, or knock over an elderly lady; it was impossible to let him run free.

The more we had LD, the less we all liked him, but no one wanted to admit it. It was nearing summer and the French government had launched its yearly pre-holiday campaign to discourage the French from abandoning their dogs, which they do in huge numbers each year. Plaintive doggies looked out from posters everywhere, while the words, ‘You wouldn’t be able to abandon him?’ stretched like a reproach above his head. It was as if they were reading our minds, though we certainly weren’t the kind of people to abandon a dog, even a tramp dog, rubbish-eating, meat mercenary like LD.

Michael, the lover of all animals, agreed that he was a sorry excuse for a pet. ‘This dog is an apartment dog,’ he said, the worst judgement he could lay on an animal. ‘He should sit on a chair all day and be fed with a silver spoon.’ Joe liked him but didn’t really want to be around him much, either, but we were stuck with him and we were attached, sort of. So we settled into accepting him, the way one does dopey neighbours or quirky plumbing. He didn’t chew up things, he wasn’t mean, he didn’t wet in the house, he wasn’t ruining anything but the peace and quiet of the neighbourhood. But he certainly wasn’t the playmate Joe had envisioned.

We’d had LD for about two months when I discovered I was pregnant. I couldn’t believe it, and Michael’s disbelief surpassed mine. I looked at LD, long and hard, perplexed. I try for three years to get pregnant, then decide it’s impossible. We decide to get a dog, get one within moments of our decision, and within two months of its acquisition I’m pregnant? What did it all mean? If we’d known pregnancy was imminent, we wouldn’t have had to go through this dog thing. On the other hand … I couldn’t entertain that thought: the same one which holds that couples who want to get pregnant and can’t suddenly manage to do so the minute they decided to adopt a child.

I was determined to stay fit and healthy during this pregnancy, and stepped up my regular bike rides. One day I set off to ride to the supermarket. For once, LD was nowhere to be seen, until I began to go around the roundabout several blocks from the house. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied him behind me. I felt as if I could just let him keep running behind me until he lost me and was too far away from home to find his way back. This seemed a rather heartless way to end our relationship, but it showed me that LD needed a new home.

Michael, Joe and I later had a family discussion about LD as the dog snuggled under our feet until its head was resting in its accustomed place. We all agreed that we really liked him, but that he wasn’t the right dog for us. We all knew that lots of people would love him, but that being part of our family must have been like reform school for him: he had rules to follow, regular baths, no fresh meat and was prevented from rampaging around the neighbourhood. ‘What kind of a life is this?’ he must have asked himself. The animal shelter seemed like the best solution, so we took him there

One day, not two weeks later, I was walking to pick up Joe from school when I saw a caniche not far ahead, running in a funny, familiar, gimpy way. I gained on him and looked him in the face. It was LD, sticking close to the walls, stopping every five seconds to sniff, fat and happy. He’d been adopted by a new owner who was walking some way in front of him: a middle-aged, nicely dressed woman. They looked good together.

Since then we’ve seen him often. He’s a lot fatter than he was with us, and he’s clipped now, an uptown dog. But it is obvious that his heart and soul are still free and on the run. Old LD is having the best of it all!

CHICKEN WITH SORREL

Poulet à L’Oseille

This recipe is a family favourite, and perfect in spring or fall when sorrel is at its lemony best.

1 tbs extra-virgin olive oil – optional

5 oz (150 g) slab bacon, cut into 1 x ¹/₂-inch (2.5 x 1.3cm) pieces

1 medium free range chicken (3¹/₂ pounds; 1³/₄ kg), cut into

6 pieces (2 wing/breast pieces, 2 thighs, 2 legs)

Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 lb (500 g) onions, peeled, cut in half, and

sliced paper-thin

1 cup (250 ml) dry white wine, such as a Sauvignon Blanc

2 imported bay leaves

4 cups (loosely packed) sorrel leaves, rinsed and patted dry

1 cup (250 ml) crème fraîche, or heavy, non ultra-pasteurized cream

1. If your bacon is very lean, you will need to use the olive oil. Heat the oil, if using, in a large heavy skillet over medium-high heat. When it is hot, add the bacon and sauté until it is just golden on all sides, 3 to 5 minutes. Remove the bacon from the skillet with a slotted spoon and set it aside on a plate. Drain all but 1 tablespoon of the fat from the skillet.

2. Add as many pieces of the chicken as will comfortably fit in the skillet without being overcrowded. Sprinkle them with salt and pepper and brown until golden, about 5 minutes. Turn, sprinkle with more salt and pepper, and brown the other side, 5 minutes. Repeat until all of the pieces are browned. Remove the chicken from the pan and reserve.

3. Add the onions to the skillet and cook, stirring, until they are softened, about 8 minutes. Then add the wine and scrape any browned juices from the bottom of the skillet. Return the chicken and the bacon to the skillet, along with the bay leaves, pushing the chicken down among the onions. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium. Cover and cook at a simmer until the chicken is tender and nearly cooked through, about 30 minutes.

4. While the chicken is cooking, stack the sorrel leaves on top of one another and cut them crosswise into very, very thin strips (chiffonade).

5. Remove the chicken from the skillet, place it on a serving platter, cover it loosely with aluminum foil, and keep it warm in a low oven. Stir the crème fraîche into the cooking juices, raise the heat to medium-high and bring to a simmer. Add the sorrel, stirring as it melts down into the sauce. Reduce the heat if necessary so the liquid remains at a lively simmer and cook until the sorrel has wilted and turned an olive green, and the sauce has reduced by about one third, 5 to 7 minutes. Taste for seasoning.

6. Remove the chicken from the oven, and pour the sauce over it. Serve immediately.

4 to 6 servings

BELGIAN ENDIVE WITH LEMON AND GARLIC VINAIGRETTE

Endives a la Vinaigrette Citronnée

This is a fresh, winter salad that chases away the chill! I often add cured black olives to this salad, for a wonderful counterpoint in flavour and texture.

For the vinaigrette:

¹/₂ tsp minced lemon zest

2 tbs freshly squeezed lemon juice

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 medium shallot, halved, peeled, cut in paper thin slices

1 small clove garlic, green germ removed, minced

6 tbs (90ml) extra-virgin olive oil

6 large Belgian endive, trimmed

1. In a large salad bowl, place the zest then whisk together the lemon juice with the salt, pepper, shallot, and garlic. Slowly whisk in the olive oil until the vinaigrette is emulsified.

2. Cut the endive into crosswise slices. Add it to the vinaigrette and toss until it is thoroughly coated. Season to taste sand serve.

6 servings

ROASTED COCKLES WITH SAFFRON AND LEMON

Coques au Four à la Sauce Safrane

Try this recipe with tiny manila clams as well. There is no salt in the dipping sauce, and none is generally needed.

The zest from ¹/₄ lemon, minced

1 scant tbs freshly squeezed lemon juice

¹/₂ tsp saffron threads

3 lb (1.5 kg) small clams, degorged^*

¹/₄ cup (60 ml) extra-virgin olive oil

1. At least one hour and up to four hours before serving, place the lemon zest and the juice in a small dish and crumble the saffron into it. Stir so the saffron is completely moistened and reserve.

2. Preheat the oven to 450°F (230°C).

3. Place the clams in one layer in a large baking pan. Roast them in the centre of the oven until they open, 8 to 10 minutes.

4. While the clams are roasting, transfer the lemon juice and the saffron to a small bowl and whisk in the olive oil. Evenly divide the mixture among six tiny ramekins, and place the ramekins in the centre of six warmed plates.

5. Remove the clams from the oven, discarding any that haven’t opened. Evenly divide the clams among the six small plates, carefully arranging them around the ramekins. Serve immediately.

6. Appetizer servings

^* To degorge the clams, place them in a large container of heavily salted water. Stir in 1 tablespoon of semolina or fine cornmeal, and refrigerate them for at least 4 hours and up to 8 hours, changing the water at least 3 times, adding semolina or cornmeal each time.