The Case of the Mysterious Citrus Seller

What could be better than being in the right place at the right time and even better than that, getting a bargain and a mystery too!

Well, a funny thing happened to Auntie on the way to the market...

Last Saturday morning, a day bathed in winter sunshine,  I was trotting my way downwards through the narrow  streets of  Menton's old town buy things to eat at the covered market when I  spotted an intriguing, handwritten sign.  I stopped to read it:

"For Sale, Lemons and Mandarins from Menton. Untreated.  €1.50 per Kilo, Ring or Knock."

What a find!  Mentonnaise Lemons and Mandarins usually sell for €3-6 per kilo and I needed some since I was gearing up to make marmalade and I only had a few left on our trees.  The timing was perfect.  And, I had my sturdy folding grocery cart with me.

Hmmm.  Come to think of it, I remember seeing this sign last year but I didn't knock.

This time, I knocked.

Last year's sign.  What, no mandarins!?

A nice man answered and invited me in to his garden.  His name was Mr Perrin.  As luck would have it, he had a little bijou garden with about 6 lemon trees, and 3 mandarin orange trees.  He was a smart man.   Instead of wasting such a bounty, he put up a sign and offered them to others for a tiny price.

Mentonnaise lemons aren't like regular lemons that come from Spain or California. They're shipped around the world to chefs  and connoisseurs who prize them for their sweet, deep flavour, fragrant skin and soft acidity.

Historical documents show that lemons have been grown in Menton as far back as 1471.

Currently in Menton there are about 80,000 lemon trees which produce about 12,000,000 lemons annually.  Auntie's trees account for about 100 of these, most of which she squeezes into her Perrier.

There are 3 varieties of lemons native to Menton: Bignettes, very juicy with a thin, smooth skin, Sériesqués, with a thick but smooth skin but with less juice than the Bignette  and Bullotins which are rarely seen any more because they have thick skin and  very little juice.  

Mr Perrin, the mysterious lemon seller grows Sériesqués, as does Auntie.

Mandarins from Menton are quite unique too.  Their skin smells like orange flower water and taste sweet and intense with a long lingering finish. They put other mandarins to shame.  When you peel one, everyone in the house knows about it they smell so strong.    Uncle Jim loves them juiced and I use them to make sorbet and tarts to really make the most of them. 

Lemons deformed when fertilization goes awry

For about €10, I stuffed my cart with a big bag of lemons an even bigger bag of mandarins and continued down to the market with a big smile on my face. I had discovered the deal of the day.  Little did I know at the time that I should have bought more when I had the chance...

A few days after my discovery, I tried to direct a friend to the same place and the conversation went something like this:

 

Her: Where can I get some of those great mandarins and lemons?

 

Me: In Menton's old town.  Do you have google maps on your phone?  

Her:  No.  

Me:  OK, I'll guide you.  First, walk past the cemetery, go down through the old town and turn right at the Basilica and go past the school. 

Her:  OK, I've just passed the school.  

Me:  Good, now turn left down the street with the bright turquoise door at the corner.  Sometimes there's an orange cat sitting there. 

Her:  I see the cat but not the door.  

Me:  Then look for a dark brown door, I think it's the third door down, look for the leaves of a citrus tree peeking out over the stone wall.  There should be a sign.

Turn left at the cat

Her:  I think I found the place but there's no sign.  What colour was the door again?

Me:  Dark brown. There's no sign?

Her:  No.

Me:  I guess that's that then.  You can have some of mine.  Let's meet for tea!

And so the citrus and the citrus seller had vanished for yet another year...

This Saturday I tried to find it again but alas, the sign was no longer there.  Even the screws that held up the name plate had disappeared.  I guess if I want more cheap lemons I'll have to send Uncle Jim into our garden to pick some.

The moral to the story?  It makes sense that when you spot a scented citrus seller, use ALL your cents to snag some.

Up Next:  The 79th Annual Menton Lemon Festival.  

Lemony Fun in the South of France.

Keepin' it Clean Part III. Monaco's Really Clean Streets.

It's 6:00 in the morning in the ancient, cobblestoned village of Monaco-Ville, perched on a cliff high above the Mediterranean.  The sun is just starting to come up and the first yellow light of the day is falling on the ochre-coloured buildings and making everything look bright and cheery.  All is quiet except for the cries of the sea gulls circling high above the cathedral and the familiar sound of a water being sprayed on the ground below.  Wait a minute.  Water?  Being sprayed?

Joseph keeping our street safe from dirt

No, it's not a leaky pipe, it's Joseph, Monaco-Ville's favourite street cleaner!

Every morning, at about 6 o'clock, Joseph is up before anyone else, spraying the streets and side walks with water, washing away whatever looks like dirt between the Cathedral and the Oceanographic Museum.  He's been at it since 2001.  When Auntie first arrived in Monaco, she used to think that it rained every night!

Joseph is one of hundreds of people in Monaco who work for La Société Monégasque d'Assainissement or The Monaco Sanitation Company or SMA for short. The SMA was created in October 1938 by HSH Prince Louis II but the cleaners have been on the scene keeping Monaco squeky clean since 1866 when the new neighbourhood called Monte Carlo was built.  There's been a lot of sweeping since then and they do a great job too! 

Street cleaners of yore in Monte Carlo.
That's the Hotel de Paris on the left and
the Casino on the right

Vacuuming up those pesky pine needles

Like the Wash & Brush Up Company in the Merry old Land of Oz, each morning the SMA dispatches a fleet of hard working cleaners in smart uniforms with bright green vests to keep the Principality looking guest ready.

Now you don't

Now you see it

All day you can see them roaming around as they sweep, vacuum, scrub, spray, collect, scoop and retrieve whatever it is that the messy people toss, throw, cast and pitch onto the streets, beaches, and into the fountains and the sea. Together they clean everything in the public spaces made of marble, glass, stainless steel, concrete and wood and empty the trash cans that the tidy people fill.

Spray spray, spray

Sweep, sweep, sweep

How clean is it?  Well, aside from the occasional pile of dog poop, (see Keepin' it Clean, Part II), and omnipresent cigarette butts, Monaco is very clean. You won't see any graffiti or tags in Monaco.  The many closed circuit security cameras mean that vandals can be stopped and arrested in mid spray!

It's a Herculean task considering how many people visit Monaco each year.  According to Monaco Tourism, there were 4.5-5 million people who descended on Monaco in 2009 alone.  Some were tourists but the rest were people who live in France and Italy and arrive each day just to work here.

Not sure what this does but I'd stay out of its way!

Monaco has always been forward thinking when it comes to trash.  In 1898, Prince Albert's great grandfather, HSH Prince Albert I, built a trail blazing waste incineration plant in Monaco. Even in 1898 the plant was equipped with an energy recovery system that heated the plant and produced hot water for staff showers.  How cool is that?

Poor Joseph.  Wouldn't you know it, just as he went around the corner to start cleaning the next street, a man came along with a big brown dog and left a big pile of poop on the corner at the curb.

Just another busy day on the clean streets of Monaco!

11:11, 11/11, '11

Plaque commemorating The Canadian/USA Commando unit, the" Devil's Brigade" in Menton

Remembrance Day or Armistice Day as it is known in France, has come and gone.  If you take out your calculator or if you have a head for mathematics,  you'll soon realise that veterans of World War II are gradually becoming extinct.

While I was roaming around down town Menton on November 11 looking for an Armistice Day ceremony to attend and have a good sniffle,  I had some time to reflect on a man I once met named Gerald...

It was because of cakes and pies that our paths crossed. You see, when Auntie visits Canada in the summer, once a week I guide a three hour baking group at the local seniors' residence.  My bakers are mostly women aged 50 to 102 and every week we bake something different and delicious followed by tea in china cups while we chat and fold crisp linen napkins into pretty shapes.

Gee, Nothing about Armistice Day in the German Papers

One of my bakers was Gerald and Gerald was a World War II veteran.  He was 16 when he joined the military.

I loved it when Gerald joined our baking group.  He was the sole rooster amongst us hens but I think he may have liked it that way.  He was quite the charming ladies' man in his day.  He would often regale us with compelling and amusing stories about his many war time exploits.  One of my favourite stories of his was about the time he went skinny dipping in the Thames and another when he danced his heart out in London with on D-Day when the war ended.

I admired Gerald's sense of duty, patriotism for Canada and above all, his youthful disregard for the dangers he would be facing.  He wanted to have a grand adventure and if you ever were lucky enough to hear his stories, he did.  He never spoke of battles, the horrors of the war or ugly memories that would be natural for a soldier in battle. 

In his later years, Gerald suffered a stroke and he often had trouble with his memory.  Every week he showed me his photo album as though it was the first time he was showing it to me but I didn't mind.  It was filled with his cherished memories and photos of his reunion with his fellow veterans of Juno beach.  

Sadly, Gerald passed away last winter and the baking group seems a bit quiet without him.

It's Armistice Day!  Let's go Shopping!

I was thinking about Gerald when I was roaming the streets of Menton, looking for a Remembrance Day ceremony which I never found.  You'd never have guessed it was Remembrance Day because everywhere you looked it was business as usual. Small children were riding on the carousel, an antiques market in main square was doing a roaring business and many of the shops were opened despite the solemnity of the day.  Even the many international newspapers at the news stand seemed to overlook it.

I couldn't help seeing the irony of it all:  brave men and women selflessly  defend us so we can eventually forget about war and instead enjoy frivolous things like shopping for sweaters and shoes, eating ice cream and riding on carousels. 

Thank you Gerald, the hens and I miss you.. 

Find Your Own Fungus

The annual fall rain has finally arrived to the relief of all the plants that have been struggling to survive since July, which was the last time it rained here on the coast.  

Little green sprouts are popping up here and there where the week before there was only dry, parched earth.  Too bad they're all weeds.  Well, maybe not all weeds....

When I was leaving the house, I spotted a cluster of small, brown mushrooms growing in the garden on an old hydrangea stump.  Normally I would just ignore them or throw them in the compost heap but in the spirit of culinary discovery,  and with visions of mushroom risotto dancing in my head, I put on some gloves, gently picked them, put them in a plastic container and then zoomed down town to learn more about them. 

Mushroom foraging is a big tradition in France.  I remember reading in a cooking magazine about French housewives who burn down forests to ensure a good supply of morel mushrooms for their dinner table.  I'm not sure if this was a true tale but it sure gave me a sense of the passion the French have for mushrooms.

France has strict laws about how mushrooms are foraged so before running off with your sauté pan and butter, you need to read up on the rules.

 

The best place to start is to find the closest Mairie or City Hall, to where you're foraging.  Here they will tell you where and when mushroom picking is permitted and how they should be picked.  Usually the only tool permitted is a knife.

You'll also need a wicker basket in which to put your picked mushrooms so as you stroll through the forest, the spores can spread here and there to assist in their propagation.

But once you find some mushrooms, how do you know if they're safe to eat? 

If you trust your eyesight, your power of observation and you have a big magnifying glass you can always buy both volumes of the 1962 French classic, Petit Atlas des Champignons.  Auntie found her copies at a recent Vide Grenier.  One of the volumes describes in detail the characteristics of most of the mushrooms known to man and in the other are detailed drawings of each of them.     My favourite part is the legend:  it describes how edible each of the mushrooms is from ho-hum to delicious and from uninteresting to poisonous. 

Edible or not?

If you are a modern forager, you can always consult two reliable websites:   The Société mycologique de France or l'atlas des champignons.  If you're going it alone, just remember to check that  your life insurance policy is up to date.

If you live in the North of France you can get expert guidance and go foraging with La Société Mycologique du Nord de la France (SMNF).  They take groups on foraging expeditions and sometimes eat what they find at the end of the day.

My Friendly Neighbourhood Pharmacist

The Deadly Amanita Phalloides

Rather than rely on books and websites, I chose a really safe and traditional option:  I headed for the local pharmacist.  For generations, pharmacists in France have been trained to identify mushrooms, free of charge, and at one glance they can tell you if what you found is edible or not and sometimes provide a recipe.  Alas, it's a dying art.  When once upon a time every village pharmacist was trained in mycology and mushroom identification it's now optional for anyone studying to become a pharmacist in France.  It's bad news for little villages where one bad mushroom could wipe out half the population.

In fact, about 30 people a year die from mushroom poisoning in France, most of them from consuming the Deadly Amanita Phalloides.  I can see why.  They look a lot like harmless button mushrooms.  

Well, the friendly pharmacist identified my mushrooms as collybia dryophila and even though they smelled pleasant and fresh and looked like they'd be great on top of a risotto, they are considered, "edible but not worthwhile." The pharmacist recommended that I throw them away.  Upon leaving the pharmacy, I did just that. 

From now on, just to be on the safe side, I think I'll stick to getting my mushrooms from the market.

Auntie Get yer Gun

There is something you may not know about Auntie.  She loves to shoot guns.  Not to kill anything or anyone, mind you, but just for fun.  Pistols, rifles, air guns, whatever I can pick up and aim at a target is my idea of a good time.

When I was a girl I'd spend sunny summer afternoons in the fields surrounding our house shooting air rifles with the tomboy tolerant boys in the neighbourhood.  Most of what we shot at were old bottles with the occasional milkweed pod or tree thrown in and I was quite good at it.  The moment I shattered my first bottle with a single shot, I was hooked.

Last year while I was shooting targets at a game at the Monaco fair, hoping to win a lovely Hello Kitty mug, a friendly woman with her young daughter in tow picked up a rifle and started shooting targets beside me.  After 5 shots we both stopped to examine our handiwork.  "You're a good shot" she said to me to which I replied, "you are too!"

Then she asked me if I was a member of Monaco's shooting range. "Shooting range?" I replied.  I could hardly believe my ears.  Monaco had a shooting range?  Wow.  This could be my opportunity to learn how to shoot a pistol properly.

After a bit of research all systems were go.  Monaco's Stand de tir or shooting range, was founded in 1912 and is located in the neighbourhood called Fontvielle in La Carabine de Monaco, or Monaco's Gun Club. Most of the club's 4,000 square metres, a luxurious amount of space by Monaco's standards, is taken up with shooting ranges for anything from a 10 metre pistol (this is where Auntie shoots) to large calibre weapons that are used by the police, hunters and competitive shooters.  In fact it's where the police go to practice.

As it turns out, in order to join the Gun Club you need to be over 18 or have parental permission if you're not, fill in some forms, have your photo taken, pay a fee and then visit a doctor to get a medical certificate.  Getting the medical certificate didn't go quite as planned...

I thought that visiting the doctor would be just a formality, he'd look at me, ask a few questions to make sure I wasn't a nut case and then sign some papers.  Nope.  Instead, he and his nurse put me through a basic medical check-up that included blood pressure, an eye test, weight, height, and balance tests, an ear, nose and throat exam, a neurological exam and an EKG.  It must have been a slow day.

I didn't really mind all the poking and prodding but if I'd known, I would have come prepared and worn my best underwear.  Aside from that, I can definitely say that the medical exam was worth it because it was free and I found out I was in perfect health!  The big pay-off?  I left his office, certificate in hand.

If you've never shot at targets before, I can describe what it's like:  soothing and invigorating at the same time and it's the difference between the two that makes it so difficult to do well.  Just when you think you're doing fine, poppity - popping your targets with a steady hand, slowly the adrenalin kicks in and your hand starts to wobble, your eyes blur and your concentration unwinds.  When this happens, it's time to put down your pistol, take some deep breaths, retract your target and call it a day.  Overcoming the effects of the adrenalin is where the mastery comes in.

To quote my patient and Zen-like shooting teacher, Monsieur Jean, "Madame, you need to slow down, clear your mind, slowly release the trigger and the bullet will find the target by itself."  Well that sounds easy!

Practice makes perfect as they say and Auntie plans to practice as much as she can.

Who knows?  Maybe if I get good enough I can be in the 2012 London Olympics.

In the meantime, I'm thinking of all the stuff I can win at the fair!