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Liquor : Apéritif or Digestif / Cocktails | Hungary |   Website 👩‍🍳 — Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Unicum is Hungary’s most iconic herbal liqueur—one of those tonics so intense and aromatic that, after a single sip, you genuinely forget whatever it was you were trying to fix. Legend has it that when Dr. Zwack, physician to the Imperial Court, first presented the elixir to Emperor Joseph II - ruler of the Habsburg Monarchy and, for better or (mostly) worse, Hungary’s benevolent overlord back in 1790. The emperor took a brave sip and proclaimed, “Das ist ein Unikum!” History, ever gracious, insists on translating this as “How unique!” rather than the considerably more believable, “Good heavens, is this what the Hungarians have been plotting to serve me?” The company, known today as Zwack & Co., emerged from this bold experiment remarkably well and has survived nearly every plot twist history could devise: World War II, the Soviet occupation, nationalization, and even the forced emigration of the Zwack family. In 1989, as the Soviet Union collapsed and Hungary transitioned to a democratic republic, the family returned, reclaiming both the brand and the legacy that had been wrested from them. Their comeback restored Unicum not just to the shelves, but to its rightful place at the heart of Hungarian culture. Today, the company even boasts its own museum in Budapest, where visitors can explore the history, heritage, and traditions behind this iconic Hungarian spirit: unicumhaz.hu All photo credits: https://zwackunicum.hu Made with more than forty herbs and aged slowly in oak , Unicum tastes like someone bottled a witch’s garden with a dash of old-world herbal know-how: invigorating, a little mysterious, and just alarming enough to feel medicinal. Hungarians adore it. They drink it before dinner, after dinner, and anytime life calls for a little courage or an impromptu party. The plum version, Unicum Szilva , introduced in 2012, acts like Unicum’s slightly friendlier cousin. Then, in 2020, Barista Unicum arrived, clearly created for anyone who has ever wished their morning coffee and their evening digestif would join forces in one gloriously eccentric bottle. Most recently, in 2025, the brand unveiled Unicum Orange Bitter . I haven’t tasted this one yet, but honestly what could possibly go wrong when you combine citrus, herbs, and centuries of Hungarian confidence? And then there’s Unicum Riserva - arguably the show-off of the family - aged twice: first in one rather legendary cask, then again in another, as if it couldn’t possibly limit itself to a single moment of greatness. Beside it stands Unicum Trezor XO (Extra Old), a limited-edition, ultra-premium expression that spends a full decade resting in oak before getting an extra polish in French wine-spirit barrels. The result? A rich, layered flavour profile with hints of vanilla, tropical spice, oak, and chocolate, all wrapped around those forty-something herbs we’ve already met. It’s indulgence dressed as medicine, and no one’s complaining. If you visit Hungary, someone will offer you Unicum. Say yes. Smile politely. Pretend your throat isn’t staging a small revolution. You’ll earn instant respect; and possibly a second shot you didn’t ask for. Unicum Plum Credit : zwackunicum.hu For this recipe, I’m using Unicum Szilva , the plum-infused jewel of the Unicum family. The Hungarian plum - so woven into the country’s cooking and preserving traditions - turns out to be an unexpectedly graceful match for a liqueur whose roots stretch back more than 230 years. The base formula stays sacred, of course. The same generations-old herbal recipe, the same slow ageing in oak casks, nothing about classic Unicum is altered. Instead, Szilva simply adds another layer. First, it rests on a bed of prunes, taking on a round, dark fruit softness; then it returns to the casks, where everything settles into something smoother, lighter, and quietly fruit-forward. It’s unmistakably Unicum, just with a slightly gentler presence—34.5% alcohol and carrying itself with the calm, polished confidence you’d expect from a spirit with this much history behind it. Let’s Talk About the Recipe and the Ingredients There’s something about duck  legs - the richness, the depth of flavour - that makes them my undisputed favourite. When “duck” appears on a menu, I don’t so much decide as surrender. I close the menu, smile, and say, “The duck, please,” with absolute certainty and no regrets. We really ought to cook duck more often. Duck legs are almost impossible to mess up—honestly, they’re one of the most forgiving things you can put in a pan. A little salt, a little pepper, some heat, and suddenly you’re turning out something that tastes like it wandered straight out of a Michelin kitchen. If only our grocery stores reflected this magic. It’s one of Canada’s quiet culinary injustices: a country bursting with ducks and geese, yet most supermarkets offer barely a hint of them. The glorious exception, of course, is Québec, where the duck section is a thing of beauty. We once visited a farm on Île d’Orléans, just outside Québec City, the Domaine Sainte-Famille, a family-run vineyard, cider house, and all-around flavour haven. They make cider, maple treats, wine, cheese and raise ducks. Wandering through felt a bit like opening a Québécois treasure chest. The island is often called the “cradle of French America,” and its history goes all the way back to Jacques Cartier’s arrival in 1535. Many French Canadians can trace their roots to those early settlers-people who, judging by the place they chose, clearly had impeccable taste. While we were there, we almost got to try the famous foie gras poutine from La Roulotte du Coin in Sainte-Famille. I say almost because we ordered one portion—just to “sample” it. Then looked away for what could not have been more than three seconds. When we turned back, the foie gras had disappeared. Vanished. Poof. Just the potatoes remained, looking back at us with tragic, greasy resignation and a little embarrassed. I will not name the culprit, of course - she is terribly sensitive - and besides, she maintains it was simply “some chewy thing” and has no idea why we reacted like a tiny culinary disaster had just unfolded. To be fair, she did eventually blossom into a responsible, fully fledged gourmet adult - but at the time, her palate was still in its unruly adolescence and entirely unprepared for the sanctity of foie gras. Back to the duck, shall we! Duck is both exquisite and nourishing: rich in protein, high in iron, and abundant in heart-friendly omega-3 and omega-6 fats, it’s a dish that delivers comfort and elegance in equal measure. Choosing duck isn’t merely a culinary indulgence; it’s a small act of well-being, beautifully disguised as dinner. Duck pairs wonderfully with sweet accompaniments of every persuasion—think plump cherries, caramelized figs, bright citrus, or even a silky fruit reduction that makes the whole dish feel celebratory; and of course, plums . This vibrant, spice-laden baked plums brings depth, balance, and a bright thread of acidity to rich roasted duck legs, creating a dish that’s as polished in flavour as it is striking on the table. The addition of Unicum, especially the szilva (plum) variety, adds an even deeper, more intriguing layer of bitterness and sweetness, making the whole dish feel wonderfully complex and unmistakably special. When a touch of sweetness sneaks into one of my main dishes, especially anything rich or meaty, I quietly set the potatoes aside and call in the parsnips . Their earthy sweetness purées into something silky and balanced, the kind of side dish that gently corrects the entire plate. The first time I made parsnip purée, I immediately began questioning my life choices. How on earth have I - and frankly, most of humanity - been eating more potatoes than parsnips? Parsnips are more flavourful, lower in calories, higher in fibre and vitamin C, and ridiculously easy to prepare. I urge you to give them a try. (My apologies to potatoes, but someone had to say it.) Roasted Duck Legs with Red Wine Jus, Unicum Plum Compote & Parsnip Purée Serves 4 | Prep time: 30 min | Cooking time: 2 hours The plums 500 grams / 1 lb plums, preferably with crimson flesh 250 ml/ 1 cup red wine 110 g / 1/2 cup brown sugar (or more if you like more sweetness) 1 cinnamon stick 5-10 cloves Preheat the oven to 160°C / 320 F. Halve and pit the plums, then place them in a roasting tin large enough to hold them in a single layer. Arrange the pitted and halved plums in a baking dish cut-side up. Pour the wine over the plums, sprinkle with brown sugar and add the spices. Bake until tender (about 20 minutes). Keep the plums covered and reserve the juices to make the red wire reduction (see below). The duck 4 duck legs 6-8 garlic cloves Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste 5 sprigs rosemary (optional) 60 ml / 1/4 cup chicken or vegetable stock or water Preheat the oven to 180°C / 360°F. Season the duck legs generously with salt and freshly ground black pepper, ensuring even coverage. Add a 50 ml / 1/5 cup chicken or vegetable stock or water to a heavy roasting pan or Dutch oven . Arrange the duck legs, skin side up, in a single layer. Nestle in the rosemary sprigs and garlic cloves, allowing their aromatics to infuse the meat as it cooks. Cover tightly with a lid or foil and roast for 1 hour , until the duck is tender and the fat has rendered. Remove the cover and continue roasting for about 20 minutes , or until the skin achieves a deep, even golden crispness. Transfer the duck to a platter and keep it warm until assembly. You can either discard the aromatics (garlic and herbs), or add them to the wine reduction if you’d like a deeper, earthier flavour. Carefully strain off the rendered duck fat and reserve it for the red-wine reduction (see below). The red wine reduction Duck fat from rendering the legs  (see above) Jus from the plum compote (see above) 125 ml / 1/2 cup red wine 60 ml / 1/4 cup Unicum Szilva (plum) 1-2 shallots, minced 30-45 grams / 2-3 tablespoon cold butter 1 tbsp sugar or to taste Salt to taste After cooking the duck legs, use the rendered fat to sauté the finely chopped shallot until soft and lightly caramelized. Deglaze the pan with the red wine, scraping up any browned bits (fond) from the bottom of the pan. Add the jus from the plum compote along with the Unicum Szilva, sugar, and salt. Simmer until the sauce has reduced by at least half and thickened. Pass the sauce through a fine sieve, pressing the shallots firmly with the back of a spoon to extract all their liquid. Return the strained sauce to the saucepan. Whisk in the cold butter at the end, then simmer the sauce over medium heat for another 5–10 minutes to achieve a glossy, rich finish. Taste, adjust the seasoning, and serve immediately. The parsnips purée 450 g / 1 lb parsnips, peeled and cut into 3 cm / 1-inch chunks 1 garlic clove, smashed and peeled 250 ml / 1 cup milk or half-and-half cream (12- 18%) 30 g / 2 tbsp unsalted butter 3 g / ½ tsp salt or to taste Freshly ground black pepper, to taste Place the peeled and cut parsnips, salt and garlic in a medium saucepan with the milk/cream. Bring to a boil over medium heat, then reduce to a gentle simmer. Cook for 12–15 minutes, or until the parsnips are very tender when pierced with a fork. Add the butter. Purée to perfection by using an immersion blender, blend until completely smooth and silky. If you don’t have an immersion blender, use a food processor or blender for the smoothest result. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed: Stir in the salt, a few grinds of black pepper To serve Arrange the roasted duck legs on warm plates and spoon over the glossy wine-and-Unicum reduction. Add a generous spoonful of the spiced baked plums alongside, letting their syrup mingle with the sauce. Finish the plate with a cloud of parsnip purée for balance and contrast. Serve immediately, while everything is fragrant, tender, and irresistibly warm. Wine pairing suggestions This dish calls for a wine with enough structure to stand up to the richness of duck, enough acidity to cut through the sweetness of the plums, and enough aromatic depth to play nicely with the Unicum’s spice and herbal backbone. 1. Sicilian Reds (Nero d’Avola, Cerasuolo di Vittoria) - $/$$ Bold yet bright, these wines offer dark cherry, spice, and just the right amount of earthiness. Their acidity balances the duck fat while their fruit echoes the roasted plums. Ideal match: Cerasuolo di Vittoria DOCG , a juicy, elegant, and not too heavy, a vibrant, spicy, cherry-forward, and incredibly duck-friendly. You can read my post about this wine here! 2. Hungarian Reds (Kékfrankos & Bikaver) - $/$$ Following the What grows together, goes together culinary principle , these are great thematic and delicious choices: Peter Wetzer K é kfrankos, 2022 You can read my full post about this grape and its winemaker! Kékfrankos (aka   Blaufränkisch)  brings spice, acidity, and red berry brightness that complement the sauce’s herbal and plum notes. Heimann & Fiai Szekszárd Bikavér 2022 It's a modern reinterpretation of the classic Bikavér (Bull's Blood) blended with a high percentage of Kékfrankos, a key grape of the region, combined with other varieties like Kadarka, Merlot, Cabernet Franc. The wine is known for its vibrant red fruit notes, nuanced spices, and balanced character. 3. Pinot Noir - $$/$$$ Pinot Noir practically flirts with duck. Choose one with a bit of forest floor and bright red fruit. The subtle herbal notes also weave seamlessly into the Unicum-infused sauce. Personal recommendations: a classic Burgundy or something elegant from Alto Adige. You can read my post about the wonderful region of Alto Adige here. 4. Northern Rhône Syrah - $$$ A classic partner to duck. Peppery, smoky, and beautifully structured, with enough freshness to keep pace with the dish’s sweetness and richness. Look for Saint-Joseph, Cornas  or Côte-Rôtie. A post is imminent—after all, the Northern Rhône is one of my absolute favourite French wine regions (and wines) of all time! Happy sipping and savouring!

White Wine  | Sicily, Italy 👩‍🍳 — Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Pantelleria, this tiny rock in the Mediterranean, a little volcanic speck drifting between Sicily and Africa, isn’t like any wine region you’ve ever met. If I were a perfumer, I’d be frantically jotting notes, trying to capture whatever strange, beautiful thing is going on there: something floral, a bit spicy, a bit salty, a bit ancient. It’s hard to pin down, and honestly, it doesn’t want to be. The wines don’t just taste of the island, they pulse with it. Pantelleria, technically part of Sicily, is closer to Tunisia than to mainland Italy, shaped by wind, scorched by sun, and caressed by sea air.   The locals grow Zibibbo by training the vines low to the ground, sheltered in hand-dug hollows like tiny grape craters to protect them from the island’s famously dramatic gusts, a centuries-old practice so profound UNESCO took one look and said, “That’s culture.” And so it was. Let’s be honest: this grape was born dramatic and with ambitions. Despite wind, heat, volcanic soil, and centuries of change, Zibibbo persists. It adapts. It glows up. It becomes both sweet and dry, ancient and modern, nerdy and glamorous. It’s proof that great things (mostly grapes though) can thrive in tough conditions. Pantelleria’s wines embody contradiction. They are ancient and modern, sweet and savory, floral and mineral. They carry history, hardship, sunlight, and the kind of unapologetic fragrance that could make even the wind stop and listen. …and - totally irrelevant, but important to me - they’re my favourite whites. So yes, if I were a perfumer, I’d be scribbling furiously in the margins of my notebook, chasing Pantelleria’s secrets before they evaporate into Mediterranean mist. Until then, I’ll keep a glass nearby and inhale slowly. Because sometimes wine isn’t just wine. Sometimes, it’s poetry you can drink. Sicilian perfume, coastal cooking, and one very charming grape Zibibbo , a sun-loving member of the Muscat family that first appeared in ancient Egypt’s city of Alexandria - hence its other name, Muscat of Alexandria . From there, it drifted across the Mediterranean like a fragrant traveler, settling everywhere from Spain to the Aegean islands of Greece, and even farther out in South Africa, Australia, and Chile (hola, pisco!). But it truly found its spiritual home in Sicily and its islands, where it soaks up sunlight with the confidence of a grape convinced it invented the concept. Zibibbo is that southern Italian cousin who doesn’t just walk into a room. He arrives in a soft cloud of flowers, sunshine, and effortless Sicilian swagger: vibrant, expressive, and gloriously extra. It smells like orange blossoms, honey drizzled over a sunbeam, and the gentle promise that everything is probably going to be okay. Take a sip, and suddenly you’re certain a tiny sun god is winking at you from inside the bottle. Scientifically speaking (yes, we’re going there-adjust your nerd glasses), this grape is loaded with terpenes : aromatic compounds responsible for all those flowers, fruit, and the general scent of joy. But you absolutely don’t need a chemistry degree to appreciate any of that. Just sip, smile, and - if you’re anything like me - find yourself inspired to write an entire blog post about it. If you do want to dive a little deeper into the world of aromatic wines, I’ve put together more fragrant geekery right here! Take a sip of a DRY Zibibbo and it tastes like someone juiced the sunrise. You’re hit with orange blossom, a salty breeze, and maybe the ghost of a lemon orchard drifting by for dramatic effect. These wines are floral, citrusy, sometimes a little saline, and always ready to convince you that you should move to Sicily and become a mysterious local with excellent sandals. Crisp, fragrant, salty like sea air and seductive gossip, each sip whispers: “Quit your job. Buy a boat. Become the local legend who sells sunset watercolours to German tourists.” But, plot twist, Zibibbo can be SWEET , and produces sweet Passito di Pantelleria , a dessert wine so rich and golden, a sun-dried grapes concentrate into brilliant notes of honey, candied citrus,  honeyed citrus, candied apricot, and caramelized daydreams, and Mediterranean herbs, perfect for pairing with pastries… or emotional revelations. It tastes like someone melted a sunset and bottled it. Food pairing Dry Zibibbo (aromatic, floral, citrusy, slightly salty) “Let’s eat seafood by the sea and pretend we live here.” Best with: Seafood : grilled prawns, calamari, branzino, sardines Citrusy dishes : lemon chicken, preserved-lemon couscous, citrus salads Herb-forward plates: mint, basil, fennel, parsley, anything that smells like an herb garden Soft cheeses : fresh goat cheese, ricotta with honey + cracked pepper, fior di latte Light Sicilian classics : caponata, pasta con le sarde, swordfish with capers, arancine with citrus or herb fillings Salads & veggie dishes : grilled zucchini, fennel salad, green beans with almonds Salty things : olives, anchovies, bottarga. (Zibibbo LOVES salt.) Why it works: The wine’s florals + citrus + salinity make it behave like a very charming squeeze of lemon you can drink. Sweet / Passito di Pantelleria (honeyed, apricot, caramelized fruit) This one is dessert royalty. Best with: Stone-fruit desserts : apricot tart, peach cobbler, nectarine galette Chocolate with orange : dark chocolate + citrus is its soulmate Blue cheeses : Gorgonzola dolce is the power couple pairing Vanilla gelato : boring until this wine shows up Honey-based desserts : baklava, ricotta & honey, Sicilian cannoli Nutty things : almond cake, pistachio biscotti, hazelnut tart Why it works: It’s like pairing sunshine with dessert. Everything becomes more golden, more fragrant. The Winemaker: Donnafugata Donnafugata crafts some of Sicily’s most celebrated wines, with Ben Ryé Passito di Pantelleria standing as one of Italy’s most awarded sweet wines. The estate’s portfolio also includes icons such as Mille e una Notte and Fragore, each earning top international acclaim and strengthening the winery’s reputation for excellence. For five generations the Rallo family has devoted itself to producing artisanal, sustainable, small-lot wines that reflect Sicily’s most distinctive terroirs. Today, siblings Antonio and José continue the family’s commitment, bringing elegant, expressive Italian wines to enthusiasts around the world. The name Donnafugata  originates from Il Gattopardo (The Leopard) and the story of Queen Maria Carolina, who once sought refuge in the very area where the vineyards now stand—a tale echoed in the winery’s iconic windswept female logo. This spirit also lives in Gabriella Rallo ,  one of Sicily’s first women winemakers , whose pioneering vision inspired artist Stefano Vitale . For more than 30 years, his imaginative, feminine, and vividly Sicilian labels have captured the soul of each wine and shaped Donnafugata’s unmistakable identity. Donnafugata Winery Lighea by Donnafugata  is true to its roots—an aromatic Zibibbo from Pantelleria, crafted through heroic viticulture  on this volcanic island. The vines are grown low in wind-sheltered hollows, a centuries-old practice recognized by UNESCO. The result is a deeply Mediterranean white wine with notes of orange blossom, citrus, and minerality. Antonio and José Rallo emphasize that Lighea reflects both the extreme nature of Pantelleria and the winery’s long-standing sustainability vision. The 2023 label has also been refreshed, now featuring a sunrise-lit interpretation of its iconic mermaid by artist Stefano Vitale. The Recipe On Pantelleria, flavours aren’t simply ingredients — they’re characters. They carry stories of wind-carved cliffs, volcanic soil, and sun that refuses to be subtle. And when three of the island’s native treasures meet in a single dish, well… culinary magic happens. Why Sole? Sole is a delicate, quietly elegant fish — refined without ever demanding attention. Its tender flakes carry a subtle sweetness and clean, understated flavour, making it an ideal canvas for the sun-drenched intensity of Pantelleria’s ingredients. Its gentle neutrality lets the wine, the capers, and the island’s bright, saline notes shine. Sole also swims in the waters around Pantelleria, in the Strait of Sicily, and, pragmatically, it’s a far more accessible choice in Canada than swordfish. Why Capers? Capers from Pantelleria are legendary. These small green gems absorb the salty wind and volcanic soil of the island, creating a flavor that is salty, citrusy, slightly floral, and surprisingly strong for their size. When you add them to fish, they cut through the richness like a clever comment at a dinner party. And in my family, capers aren’t a garnish—they’re a lifestyle. We eat them the way other people eat candy. Why Zibibbo? See all the above! Its citrus blossom perfume and Mediterranean herbal notes brighten and lift the entire dish. Pair it in the glass, splash it in the pan — or ideally, both. It’s like seasoning with sunshine. The Flavour Trinity Together, Zibibbo, sole, and capers form a perfect triangle of delicacy salinity aromatic lift. The wine lifts the fish, the capers brighten the edges, and suddenly your palate is on holiday somewhere warm and sunlit, unhurried, and blessed with charmingly unreliable cell service. Sole Piccata alla Pantelleria Serves 4 | Prep time: 15 min | Cooking time: 20 minutes An Italian-style sole with capers and lemon is essentially a sunny, Sicilian-spirited riff on sole piccata : a lightly floured, pan-seared fillet swirled in lemon-butter and capers. It takes all of 20 minutes and somehow still tastes like it had a glamorous afternoon to prepare. It also calls to mind its French cousin, the beloved sole meunière (immortalised by Julia Child for North American audiences), one of my favourite bistro classics. Unlike the caper-bright Italian approach, the French version is all about buttery simplicity — no capers in sight — but the family resemblance is unmistakable. Ideally, of course, it’s served whole and then magically transformed by an expert waiter who debones it tableside with the grace of a seasoned magician. By the time those delicate fillets land on your plate, you can’t help but sigh… ahh! Ingredients: The Fish 4 sole fillets (about 115 g / 4 oz each) 60 g / 1/2 cup all-purpose flour 6 g / 1 teaspoon salt 1 g / 1/2 teaspoon black pepper 30 ml / 2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil The Sauce 90 g / 6 tbsp unsalted butter, divided 2 medium garlic cloves, minced  120 ml / 1/2 cup dry white wine or chicken stock 30 g / 4 tbsp capers, drained and rinsed Juice of 1/2 lemons 4 tbsp fresh Italian parsley, chopped Instructions: Prep the fish: Pat the sole fillets dry. In a shallow dish, mix the flour with the salt and pepper. Lightly dredge each fillet in the seasoned flour, shaking off any excess. Sear the sol: Heat the olive oil and 30 g / 2 tablespoons of the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. When the butter is just starting to foam, add the fillets in a single layer (cook in batches if needed). Cook for 2–3 minutes per side, until lightly golden and just cooked through.Transfer to a plate and tent loosely with foil. Make the sauce: In the same skillet, reduce the heat slightly and add the minced garlic. Sauté for 30 seconds until fragrant but not browned. Pour in the wine (or stock), scraping up any browned bits from the pan. Let it simmer for 1–2 minutes, until slightly reduced. Stir in the capers, lemon juice, and the remaining about 60 g/ 4 tablespoons of butter. Swirl the pan or stir gently until the butter melts and the sauce becomes glossy and smooth. Finish + serve: Return the sole to the skillet briefly to warm through, spooning sauce over the top. Sprinkle with chopped parsley. Plate with flair: Serve immediately with extra lemon wedges. What to Serve With It? Couscous! Yes, absolutely. The best couscous I’ve had outside a North African restaurant (and aside from the magic in my friend D.’s kitchen) was in Sicily. The tiny semolina grains are steamed over fragrant broth — simple, coastal, unforgettable. Couscous is a true Sicilian star, especially in Trapani, where cùscusu reigns. Brought centuries ago by North African Berbers, it settled into the island’s culinary soul and became something uniquely Sicilian. Instead of the hearty, meat-forward versions of the Maghreb, the Trapanese version luxuriates in a rich fish broth scented with saffron, cinnamon, almonds, and bay leaves. It’s the perfect partner for this dish: light, aromatic, and ready to catch every last drop of that lemony, caper-studded sauce. Plus, obviously: more Zibibbo and your favourite fish-loving audience! Quick 5-Minute Couscous OK, look… maybe don’t show this to your North African friends. Not because it’s bad , but because they’ll take one look at this 5-minute, bowl-and-kettle shortcut and immediately start drafting a formal letter of concern. They spend hours steaming couscous the proper, majestic way - layer by layer, cloud by cloud - in those beautiful couscoussières we absolutely do not have in our non–Mediterranean kitchens. Meanwhile we’re over here going, “Hmm. Kettle? Yes. Plastic wrap? Also yes. Good enough.” This isn’t the ceremonial, deeply layered, auntie-approved couscous tradition. It’s the weeknight, no-time, please-don’t-judge-me version. But hey, it’s still fluffy, delicious, and perfect with your lemony sole. And sometimes that’s exactly what dinner needs to be. Ingredients 1 cup instant couscous 1 cup boiling water or vegetable/chicken broth 1 tbsp olive oil or butter Salt and pepper, to taste Instructions Bring the water or broth to a boil. (Broth adds extra flavor.) Place the dry couscous in a heatproof bowl. Pour the boiling liquid over the couscous, give it one quick stir, and cover the bowl tightly with a lid or plastic wrap. Let it sit undisturbed for 5–10 minutes, until all the liquid is absorbed. Fluff with a fork to separate the grains. Stir in the olive oil or butter, then season with salt and pepper to taste. Variations & Flavour Add-Ins Fresh herbs & brightness: Mix in chopped parsley, mint, or cilantro. Add lemon zest or a squeeze of lemon juice for freshness. Nuts & fruit: Try toasted slivered almonds, pine nuts, or golden raisins à la marocaine Mangia e bevi bene!

👩‍🍳 — Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Castile and León, Spain own Wine Paradise Castile and León, a large landlocked autonomous region in northwestern Spain. Think of it as Spain’s secret wine hideout, where the climate is extreme and the vineyards are perched high up on Spain's central plateau (Meseta Central). They are found along the Duero River, as if they own the place - and indeed they do! Here are some of the key wine regions (DOs * ) in Castilla y León : Bierzo : Located in the cooler, Atlantic-influenced northwest, this region produces elegant red wines from the Mencía grape and high-quality whites from Godello (our guy!). Cigales : This region is famous for its rosado (rosé) and red wines made from Tempranillo and Garnacha. Ribera del Duero : This is the VIP room of red wine, serving up only the finest Tempranillo grapes (that’s Tinto Fino or Tinto del País for the locals). It's home to Vega Sicilia , the legendary winery founded in 1864, and is considered Spain's most prestigious wine estate. Ribera del Duero - Spanish Wine Region Rueda : The refreshing white wine region that produces aromatic dry whites, mainly from the Verdejo grape. It’s like the breath of fresh air after a long day—crisp, revitalizing, and perfect for sipping. Toro : Known for its bold and robust red wines made from the local Tempranillo clone, Tinta de Toro. It’s like the bodybuilder of wines—muscular, powerful, and ready to impress...or intimidate. and a few more.... Castile and León is a treasure trove of wines, ranging from everyday sips that won’t break the bank to highly collectible gems like those from the legendary Vega Sicilia winery. * DOs (Denominaciones de Origen): Spain's own system that designates and protects products, such as wine, that come from a specific geographic area and are made according to strict production rules. The Winemaker: César Marquez Pérez  Credit: Insta: cesar.marquez.perez César Marquez Pérez  is like the homegrown king of Bierzo, where his family started the Castro Ventosa winery in 1752- seriously, that’s older than most countries! They’re still running the show today, so you know he’s got some serious vineyard cred. Growing up in the vines and around the wineries, he’s absorbed more knowledge than a sponge in a wine cellar, thanks to his wise elders, including his uncle, the legendary Raúl Pérez . In 2015, César thought, “Why not start my own adventure?” So, he rolled out four wines and has since leveled up to seven! He works with six hectares of ancient vines that have been around for 80 to 120 years! César is part of the new wave of Spanish winemakers who not only get global wine culture but also have a soft spot for their local land. He is on a mission, digging up old vines in quirky spots and turning them into unique wines that scream “terroir!” He’s got his wine lineup set up with appellation wines, village wines, and single-vineyard treasures. He’s all about organic farming and plays with techniques such as partial whole cluster fermentation, reductive winemaking. The wines he concocts? They’re not just amazing for Bierzo or Spain; they’re ready to compete with the best bottles from anywhere on the globe! It’s safe to say, César is shaking things up in the wine world in style! Cesar Marquez 'La Salvacion' Godello, Bierzo, Spain Bodegas y Viñedos César Márquez - Bierzo, Spain A lively, mineral-packed white wine from the Bierzo where Godello grapes have a higher altitude than most of us! Tasting Notes and Reviews Critics can’t get enough of this wine! Wine-Searcher has given the 2021 vintage a solid 92/100 and the 2020 vintage an impressive 94/100 Key Aromas and Flavours: Depending on the vintage, your grape adventure might include hints of white fruits like apple and pear, a splash of citrus, a drizzle of honey, and a sprinkle of herbal goodness. Plus, you get the delightful sensation of wet stones and flint. And let’s not forget the salty sea breeze or chalky finish, leaving you feeling sophisticated and a tiny bit pretentious. Mouthfeel: This wine is as fresh and crisp, it boasts a clean finish with just the right amount of oak influence from its time spent in 500-liter French oak barrels. Some vintages might even surprise you with a rich and creamy texture. Aging Potential: Certain vintages may be quite youthful and closed upon release, but they have the potential to develop beautifully over several years. Food Pairings The exciting and versatile nature of 'La Salvacion' Godello means it pairs beautifully with a range of dishes: Fish and Shellfish: It’s practically begging to be paired with white fish, shellfish, and seafood. White Meats and Cheese: A great companion for chicken, turkey, and goat cheese—perfect for dinner parties. Herbaceous and Citrus Dishes: This wine plays nice with dishes full of fresh herbs or zesty citrus sauces, adding a splash of fun to your plate. Vegetable Dishes: Whether it's asparagus with soft-boiled eggs, beetroot salad with goat cheese, or Jerusalem artichoke risotto. So, pour yourself a glass of 'La Salvacion' Godello and let the good times roll! Food Pairing I chose to pair César Márquez La Salvación Godello 2022 with a rich Baked Salmon with Fennel and Butter Beans, and it turned out to be a delightful combination. The wine's body, acidity, and flavour profile complement the salmon and creamy butter beans perfectly. This full-bodied Godello has an elegant, oily feel that balances the richness of the dish. The roasted fennel adds distinct anise and licorice flavours, while the wine presents notes of pear, peach, and citrus, creating a harmonious pairing. The 2022 vintage offers freshness and good acidity, cutting through the richness of the salmon and butter. With a saline finish and mineral notes from its vineyard soils, the wine enhances the natural brininess of the fish. Aged for 12 months in old French oak barrels, it develops subtle butter, brioche, and nutty notes, aligning beautifully with the dish’s flavours. Baked Salmon with Fennel and Butter Beans Serves: 4 | Prep: 10 minutes | Cook: 30 minutes Baked salmon lounging on a bed of flamboyant fennel and butter beans, served with a splash of Godello white wine for some classy hydration. The salmon is so tender it practically melts in your mouth, while the fennel struts in with its delicate sweetness, and the butter beans act like the creamy sidekick that everyone needs. Together, they throw a dinner party that even your taste buds will RSVP to. And let’s be honest, the Godello wine is here to ensure that all this culinary magic doesn’t go down without a refreshing sip or two—because no good meal should ever happen without a little cheer! Ingredients: - 4 salmon fillets (about 120 grams/ 4 ounces each) - skin or or removed - 1 large fennel bulb, cut into quarts - 1 can (15 ounces) butter beans (or white), drained and rinsed - 1 tablespoons olive oil - 1 tablespoons butter - 1/4 cup low-sodium vegetable broth + 2 Tbsp. dry white wine (or all vegetable broth) - Salt and pepper to taste - 1 Tbsp. Herbs de Provence or Italian herbs - Fresh dill or parsley for garnish (optional) Instructions: Start by heating a large non-stick skillet over medium heat. Add olive oil, and once it’s hot and shimmering (but not smoking), place the fish fillets in the pan. Cook for about two minutes, then carefully flip the fillets and cook for an additional two minutes on the other side. Once done, transfer the fish to a small plate and keep warm. Next, add the butter and the fennel pieces to the skillet and season with salt and pepper. Sauté the fennel, stirring occasionally, until it becomes caramelized and tender, which will take around five minutes. After that, add the broth, and / or wine and the herbs . Mix until combined and the liquid begins to simmer. Then, add the beans, tossing everything together before reducing the heat to low. Return the fish to the skillet, positioning the fillets on top of the fennel and bean mixture. Cover the pan and let it simmer on low for about eight minutes. When you’re ready to serve, plate the dish with the fish fillet resting over the fennel and bean mixture, and sprinkle with the chopped fennel fronds. Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 — Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. High in the Vaud Alps, Switzerland ’s unhurried, broad-shouldered cows spend their summers meandering through wildflower meadows, casually converting mountain herbs and hours of Alpine sunshine into the milk behind Le Gruyère d’Alpage AOP.* When autumn draws its first cool line across the ridges, everything shifts. The cows leave the high pastures and return with milk that’s richer, denser, and simply too luxurious for the big alpine wheels of Gruyère d’Alpage. And that’s when another cheese takes its turn: Vacherin Mont-d’Or , the soft, spoonable winter specialty the Swiss await each year with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for a limited-edition seasonal release. Elegant, fleeting, and just a touch theatrical, Vacherin appears only in the colder months, turning cold evenings into an alpine ritual of warmth, aroma, and slow-melting luxury. * For cheese, the European Union’s Appellation d’Origine Protégée —AOP—is the same certification system used for wine. I lived in Switzerland, right in the Canton of Vaud, where this cheese is born, for nearly a decade, and in that time I picked up a pretty solid appreciation for the local dairy magic. I’m no official expert, but I am a devoted cheese enthusiast, and if I ever had to choose between cheese and… well, most other things, cheese would win with embarrassing ease. And Vacherin Mont-d’Or? That wasn’t merely cheese. It was a seasonal ritual—a cultural countdown. Every autumn, the moment it reappeared on shop shelves, the Swiss didn’t just smile (a noteworthy event on its own); they positively beamed . In wine terms, it carried all the fanfare of Beaujolais Nouveau : that annual “It’s here!!” frenzy. Only instead of sprinting for the first bottle, everyone hurried toward a spruce-bound box of gloriously molten dairy. So yes, I may have moved away, but Switzerland’s most eagerly awaited winter cheese still lives rent-free in my heart… and, if we’re being honest, almost certainly in my cholesterol. One note: these seasonal superstars shouldn’t be confused with Le Gruyère AOP, one of the world’s most celebrated cheeses and essentially Switzerland in dairy form. It, too, takes its name from the medieval town of Gruyères —long considered one of the country’s great cheesemaking centres, where expertise has been honed and handed down for generations. Gruyère - Photo: Rich Martello Speaking of Gruyère, here’s a fun little anecdote: I jokingly call myself an honorary Gruyèroise, and for a mildly ridiculous reason. When my sister and I visited the region, we went for a stroll and somehow got mistaken for locals by a group of very enthusiastic Japanese tourists. They were absolutely convinced we were “authentic Swiss mountain women,” even though we’re Hungarian and about as Alpine as a paprika plant. They insisted we pose in their photos. So somewhere in Japan, several families have immaculate Swiss holiday albums featuring cows, emerald hillsides, and… two girls from Budapest smiling like we’ve just stepped off the packaging of an artisanal Swiss chocolate bar. Iconic, honestly! (They snapped a photo for us too - Arigatō!) A Brief (and Very Mysterious) History Vacherin Mont-d’Or has been crafted in the Vallée de Joux for over a century, though no one can quite agree who invented it. One local tale claims a French soldier marched in during the Franco-Prussian War in 1871 and basically said, “Bonjour, here’s a recipe.” This seems plausible since the French Jura next door makes a very similar cheese. But then-plot twist-evidence showed the Swiss were making it as early as 1812. So the mystery remains, and the cheese refuses to explain itself. France later shortened the name to “Mont d’Or,” while Switzerland politely refused and kept the full, dignified “Vacherin Mont-d’Or.” So basically, Vacherin refers to a group of cheeses from both France and Switzerland.The key difference is that the French version, the Vacherin du Haut-Doubs is made with unpasteurized raw milk , while the Swiss version Vacherin Mont d'Or AOP   is made with thermized milk ( heated to 57–68 °C /135–154 °F for at least 15 seconds , this isn’t the same as pasteurization, since it doesn’t eliminate all harmful bacteria. ) Also, not to be confused with Vacherin Fribourgeois, the firmer, year-round Swiss cheese that often sneaks into fondue pots. Why it's seasonal? In spring and summer, the cows are out living their alpine best: grazing on wildflowers, wandering sunny pastures, and producing plenty of milk for their calves. Once autumn settles in, the calves stop coming and the milk supply naturally drops. What’s left is richer and creamier, no longer quite right for Gruyère d’Alpage but perfect for the smaller, more luxurious vacherins (their name comes from vache , French for “cow”). Even though modern dairying could stretch the season, Swiss regulations insist that Vacherin Mont-d’Or still be made the traditional way: only in the cold months, only when the milk changes on its own. That commitment to old-school methods is exactly what earns it its AOP status. Production is allowed only from August 15 to March 31 and Vacherin is only sold from September 10 (to be precise like a Swiss watch) to April, making it the alphorn solo of seasonal cheeses: rare, unmistakable, and loudly adored. Every year in Les Charbonnières , the proud birthplace of Vacherin Mont-d’Or AOP, the village hosts an annual celebration honoring both the homecoming cows and its famously oozy winter cheese. Around 6,000 visitors gather for this warmly spirited alpine fête, complete with artisan stalls, hands-on workshops, and alphorn players sending bright, echoing notes across the valley like Switzerland’s most courteous loudspeakers. And naturally, the cheesemakers offer free tastings of the season’s first Vacherin, because nothing unites a crowd quite as swiftly as mountains, music, and a spoonful of molten cheese before noon. How it's made? Mignot Fromagerie Vacherin Mont-d’Or AOP begins its life as heat-treated milk from cows who dine mostly on grass and hay. The milk gets gently heated, the curd is pressed, then wrapped in a spruce band that acts like nature’s corset. After a brine bath, the young cheeses chill on spruce boards for at least 17 days while being flipped, washed, and generally pampered. Finally, each cheese is squeezed into a slightly-too-small spruce box—on purpose—so it develops those wiggly, wavy edges by adding that signature woodsy flavour. The result is a soft, often gloriously runny cheese that tastes lightly salty, a little whey-ish, and wonderfully woody thanks to its stylish bark belt. It comes either whole in its iconic spruce box or sliced if you prefer your cheese pre-opened. How to eat it? Vacherin Mont-d’Or is a wonderfully versatile cheese, equally charming when enjoyed chilled with rustic bread and wine or when transformed into something warmly indulgent. Its iconic preparation is the baked version—a wintertime favourite that delivers deep comfort with minimal preparation and almost no cleanup. Baked Vacherin Mont-d’Or Serves two very happy people Ingredients: 500 g/1 lb small potatoes Fresh herbs (thyme, rosemary, sage—whatever smells pleasantly foresty) 1 Vacherin Mont-d’Or AOP 100 ml white wine Instructions: Keep the cheese in its little spruce-wood box and wrap the whole thing in aluminum foil. Use a fork to poke a few holes in the rind, then drizzle in the white wine. Add the herbs-tuck in little sprigs or scatter finely chopped ones on top. Bake in a preheated oven at 200°C / 390°F for about 25 minutes , until the cheese is irresistibly oozy. Boil the potatoes while you wait. Serve it fondue-style: dip the potatoes straight into the molten cheese, or tear into some good crusty bread. Both are correct choices. Enjoy—ideally while pretending you’re snowed in somewhere in the Vaud Alps. Now the wines! Chasselas - Where Alpine purity meets effortless charm This molten Alpine marvel demands wines with character—no wallflowers allowed—and it certainly expects its companions to share the spotlight with grace. If you ask the local Vaudois what belongs beside Vacherin Mont-d’Or, they won’t hesitate for even half a heartbeat: Chasselas. To them, it isn’t merely a pairing; it’s practically a regional law. And honestly, they’re onto something. Chasselas, Switzerland’s most prominent and be loved white wine grape, and proudly homegrown , is light, clean, and delightfully unfussy, which makes it the perfect companion for a cheese that shows up in a spruce box and immediately starts melting like it owns the room. Where Vacherin is rich, cozy, and woodsy, Chasselas is refreshing and quietly clever. It balances every decadent bite without demanding attention. Chasselas in Switzerland answering to multiple aliases: Gutedel  in Germany, Fendant  in Valais, and “How am I supposed to fit chocolate and cheese AND wine in my suitcase?!” from unsuspecting tourists. Its style is delicate and nuanced, offering soft whispers of apple, pear, citrus, the occasional floral flourish, and often a fine mineral streak shaped by the Alpine terroir. It’s famous for playing nicely with food rather than overpowering it, especially classic Swiss cheese dishes and local freshwater fish. Deeply rooted in Swiss wine history since the 17th century, Chasselas thrives in cool climates and chalky soils, making it the country’s most widespread white grape, particularly in Vaud, Valais, Geneva, and the Trois-Lacs region (Neuchâtel’s Non-Filtré). Outside Switzerland, Chasselas is produced in Germany, France, as well as in Chile, Brazil, and New Zealand and Canada. Swiss wine regions: Lavaux, Chablais  and Valais: In Canada , however, Swiss Chasselas can be surprisingly elusive. In Alberta, it feels almost mythological; even dedicated researchers of Swiss wines have trouble spotting it lately. Thankfully, Canada has its own Chasselas chapter in the Okanagan Valley. St. Hubertus (Kelowna) produces the grape: bone-dry, crisp, and clean, with citrus and gentle grassy notes that make it wonderfully food-friendly. Founded in 1984 by Swiss-born Leo Gebert, the winery brought unmistakably Swiss winemaking sensibilities to the Okanagan. Meanwhile, at Quails’ Gate (West Kelowna), Chasselas plays a starring role in one of their iconic white blends, joined by Pinot Blanc and Pinot Gris. The result is a bright, fruit-lifted wine celebrated for its lemon, pear, and honeydew character. Now, if you can't get any Chasselas, try: Aromatic whites : Muscat, Gewurztraminer, Viognier anything with a bit of perfume also get along famously with the cheese’s woodsy aroma. If you want something a touch more dramatic, an older dry Riesling or Semillon (the sort that’s been contemplating life for 15 to 20 years) brings smoky, layered notes that echo the cheese’s depth in a very civilized way. Wines from Jura: Vin Jaune, Savagnin, or a Côtes du Jura Chardonnay have the kind of poised acidity that cuts through Vacherin’s richness while pretending not to notice how indulgent it is. Champagne is always a reliable companion. Its crisp bubbles brighten the cheese, almost like someone sweeping open the curtains in a very opulent room. And if Champagne isn’t on hand, any good créman t or other sparkling wine will bring that same lively lift. For red wine lovers, a gentle Gamay or Pinot Noir offers bright fruit without elbowing the cheese out of the spotlight. Other beverages Beers: Belgian ales and wheat beers pair nicely with Vacherin’s earthy character, they feel like friendly neighbours dropping by with good manners and better intentions. Ciders: dry or lightly sweet ciders bring out the creamy, subtly woody notes, giving the whole experience a charming, orchard-in-late-autumn energy. Vacherin Mont-d’Or pairs beautifully with non-alcoholic drinks that refresh the palate (acidic, sparkling, or bitter) or complement the cheese’s cozy, woodsy character of the cheese’s creamy, earthy richness. – Sparkling apple or pear juice (a Champagne-like effect) – Sparkling teas (rosé or blanc styles) – Italian sodas or fruit spritzes – Pomegranate juice for a tart contrast – Herbal or black tea– Spiced apple cider – Kombucha (bright, tangy, and bubbly) – Non-alcoholic crisp whites Happy sipping and savouring!

Sicily is Italy’s largest wine region and boasts a diverse array of exquisite wines that reflect its rich terroir and cultural heritage. While there are numerous options to explore, I will highlight just a few exceptional selections that you can readily find in local stores here in Alberta, Canada. Sicily has always been a highly sought-after land. Throughout history, Greeks, Phoenicians, Arabs, and Italians have all left their mark on this vibrant island. The Greeks, in particular, introduced advanced viticulture techniques, and Sicilians have been cultivating wine since around 4000 BC. The island's dry and warm climate, characterized by consistent sunshine and moderate rainfall, creates the perfect environment for wine production. A renewed interest in the 1980s spurred advancements in viticulture and winemaking techniques. Today, Sicily boasts some of the most exciting wine labels in Italy, reflecting the island's rich heritage and renewed commitment to quality. White: Pietradolce Archineri Etna Bianco DOC Pietradolce Archineri Etna Bianco DOC is a white wine from Sicily, made with 100% Carricante grapes that have been having a good time on ancient vines along the volcanic slopes of Mount Etna. It offers a playful bouquet of grapefruit, herbs, and citrus, all balanced with zesty acidity and a splash of minerality. This wine is so structured and tasty that it practically demands to be paired with seafood, light fish, and any dish that screams freshness. Grape:  100% Carricante Origin:  Etna DOC, specifically the Milo sub-zone on the eastern slopes of Mount Etna, Sicily, Italy  Terroir:  Grown on pre-phylloxera vines in mineral-rich volcanic soil, often at high elevations  Aromas:  Grapefruit, herbs, white peach, orange blossom, and Meyer lemon  Palate:  Fresh, flavourful, and mineral-driven with vibrant acidity, described as crystalline & structured  Finish:  Long and flavourful  Style:  Structured, full-bodied, and complex, yet agile  Food pairings: Seafood (grilled or fresh fish, poached or steamed), shellfish, seafood pasta (particularly those with citrus or herb-based sauces), white meat, grilled vegetables (those with citrus or herbs like fennel), risotto (especially seafood or vegetable risotto), soft cheese, appetizers: Serve with fish-based appetizers or finger foods.  White: Peri Peri Liolà Zibibbo (Terre Siciliane), 2024 Peri Peri’s Liolà Zibibbo is everything I love about Sicilian aromatics bottled with intent. It opens with orange blossom, lemon zest, and that unmistakable sea-kissed salinity that feels like standing on a warm terrace overlooking the Mediterranean. On the palate, it’s bright and crisp, with citrus, white peach, and a subtle herbal note that keeps everything lively. It’s a wine that tastes like sunshine with opinions — vibrant, aromatic, and quietly urging you to drop everything and move somewhere coastal. Perfect with seafood, herbs, and any dish that benefits from a little Sicilian lift. Name inspiration: "Peri Peri" refers to ancient travellers, while "Liolà" is a reference to a character in a Pirandello play, embodying a carefree spirit Grape:  100% Zibibbo (aka Muscat of Alexandria), Organic Origin : Peri Peri, in Sciacca, in the province of Agrigento, Sicily Aromas : rich and complex bouquet of tropical fruits (pineapple, mango), orange blossom, jasmine, and herbs. Palate: Dry and fresh, with tropical flavors, a slight grapey character, and a long finish. Acidity: Crisp and zesty, with a mineral edge. Finish: Long and persistent. Alcohol:  12.5% ABV Style: Aromatic and floral Food pairings: Seafood: Raw fish or shellfish / Grilled seafood or shellfish Grilled vegetables Spicy dishes: It can stand up to the spice of dishes because its fruitiness and acidity provide a palate-cleansing effect. Sweet: Assuli Passito Grillo Credit: assuli.it Another great wine form the Assuli winery, this time a sweet, passito-style dessert wine made from 100% Grillo grapes. It is known for its complex aromas of citrus and honey, and a palate with notes of dried figs and candied fruit. Grape: 100% Grillo   Style: Passito (a sweet wine made from dried grapes)  Producer: Assuli winery in Sicily, Italy  Production: Grapes are withered on trellises after harvest, then aged in steel on fine lees for 7-8 months, followed by at least 12 months of bottle aging  Appearance: Bright golden yellow color  Aroma: A complex and intense bouquet of Sicilian citrus, honey, and herbal notes  Palate: Soft, elegant, and seductive, with a notable nuance of dried figs and candied fruit  Food pairing: Traditional Sicilian sweets: The wine is a perfect match for desserts from its native region, such as cannoli, cassata, or almond-paste pastries; dried fruits and nuts (dried figs, apricots, dates, and a platter of almonds and hazelnuts), rich custards (crème brûlée or caramel-flavoured desserts), dark chocolate; Cheese pairings: Ricotta and goat cheese, aged cheeses, blue cheese (Gorgonzola) Savoury pairings: foie gras and fried savoury foods Mediterranean dishes: for a less traditional but still delightful pairing, try it with savory dishes that include honey and nuts.  Red: Assuli Furioso Perricone Credit: assuli.it A lively, richly flavoured Perricone red wine from the sun-kissed vineyards of Assuli winery in Sicily, crafted from authentic indigenous Sicilian grapes: Perricone. With its eye-catching ruby red color and enchanting scents of ripe red fruits, graphite, and violet, it excites the palate. Its harmonious taste is enhanced by gentle tannins. Plus, the name "Furioso" pays homage to the legendary Orlando, one of the characters of the Sicilian marionette theatre I talked about here . Orlando Furioso (or The Frenzy of Orlando) is an epic poem (1516) by Ludovico Ariosto. Set during the conflict between Charlemagne's Christian knights and the Saracens, it intertwines stories of love, war, and magic. The follows the knight Orlando, a key paladin in Charlemagne's army, who goes mad from unrequited love for the pagan princess Angelica. Alcohol content:  Typically around 14.5% ABV Grape:  100% Perricone Producer:  Assuli winery in Sicily, Italy  Origin:  Grown in Mazara del Vallo, Sicily, in clay, pebble, and limestone soils Winemaking:  Fermentation lasts for 25-30 days, followed by aging in large oak barrels for 12 months, and then an additional 12 months in the bottle before release Food pairing: Grilled, roasted or stewed meats (lamb, beef, or pork), meat-based pasta sauces (ragù/bolognese), roasted and spiced poultry, spicy dishes, medium-aged cheeses, hearty mushroom risotto and Caponata: a classic Sicilian eggplant dish with a sweet and sour sauce that matches the wine's depth. Red: Etna Rosso Moganazzi A distinctive red wine hailing from the Etna Rosso D.O.C . territory in Sicily. Etna Rosso D.O.C. is a red wine from the slopes of Mount Etna in Sicily, Italy, made primarily from Nerello Mascalese grapes with up to 20% Nerello Cappuccio. These wines are known for their ruby colour, mineral-rich volcanic soil terroir, and complex aromas of red berries, spices, and florals, with a fresh acidity and elegant structure.They are often described as having a mineral, fresh, and balanced profile.  Origin: Moganazzi cru on the north side of Mount Etna, Sicily Grape: 100% Nerello Mascalese  Vineyard: 1.5-hectare vineyard with vines aged 70-90 years  Soil: Volcanic soil rich in ashes and stones  Flavour Profile: Expect notes of red and black fruit (cherry and raspberry), spices (cinnamon and liquorice), dried herbs, and a mineral/smoky quality from the volcanic soil  Style: Medium-bodied with brisk acidity, elegant tannins, and a long, perfumed finish  Food Pairing: The winery is specifically noted for pairing well with pork. Also: Pasta with red sauce, pizza, roasted or grilled chicken, beef tenderloin and Sicilian meatloaf, swordfish and oily fish, eggplant, roasted vegetables and earthy mushroom risotto or ricotta-filled ravioli, aged cheeses (like aged Pecorino and Provolone) and charcuterie. Cerasuolo di Vittoria DOCG The story of Planeta’s Cerasuolo di Vittoria DOCG brings together Sicily’s ancient winemaking heritage and the Planeta family’s modern pursuit of excellence. Although the family has deep agricultural roots on the island, their contemporary winemaking adventure began only in the mid-1980s , when Diego Planeta set out to showcase the incredible diversity of Sicilian terroirs by pairing each landscape with the grapes that suit it best. This journey eventually led the family to the Dorilli estate, in the historic Vittoria region of southeastern Sicily, celebrated for its distinctive soils and long-standing agricultural traditions. It is also home to Sicily’s only DOCG wine , a testament to both its pedigree and its unique identity. Planeta embraced this heritage by focusing exclusively on the region’s indigenous grapes—Nero d’Avola and Frappato —whose contrasting personalities create the signature harmony of Cerasuolo di Vittoria. The wine’s name comes from the Sicilian dialect word for cherry, “cerasa,” a nod to its vivid cherry-red hue. Grapes: A blend of 60% Nero d'Avola and 40% Frappato. Aromas: Cherry blossom, raspberry, blood orange, black tea, wild fruits, and hints of pencil shavings. Taste: A mix of macerated cherries, raspberries, and savory, peppery notes with a rounded, savory finish of mulberry, black pepper, and carob. Body and Acidity: Medium-bodied with bright, refreshing acidity, a silky texture, and supple tannins. Finish: A savoury, rounded finish with lingering notes of mulberry and black pepper. Food pairing: A very gastronomic wine that pairs well with a wide range of dishes. Serving temperature: Serve lightly chilled, at 15–17°C (59–63°F) , to highlight its vibrancy and aromatic detail. Red: Nero Ossidiana Nero Ossidiana is a rich red blend of Corinto Nero and Nero d'Avola grapes produced by the Tenuta di Castellaro winery on the volcanic island of Lipari, Italy. The name "Nero Ossidiana," meaning "Black Obsidian," reflects the island’s geological heritage and the unique volcanic glass found in its soil. About the Wine Terroir: The volcanic and maritime terroir of the Aeolian Islands , located off the coast of Sicily, imparts a distinctive salinity and minerality to the wine. The unique characteristics of the soil play a key role in shaping its flavor profile. Production: The grapes are harvested from head-trained, dry-farmed bush vines. They undergo a long maceration with the skins, followed by fermentation using naturally occurring yeasts. Aging: After fermentation, the wine is aged for about a year in a combination of steel tanks and barrels. This process helps maintain its fresh fruit character while adding complexity. Flavour Profile: The wine is known for its notes of dark fruits like black cherry, blackberry, and plum, complemented by earthy, spicy, and saline undertones derived from the volcanic soil. Tasting and Pairings Color: In the glass, the wine exhibits a deep ruby red or purplish-red hue. Aroma: Aromatic notes include tart cherry, dried strawberry, spice, and a minerality reminiscent of salty volcanic rock. Pairings: Grilled, roasted or stewed meats, kebabs ( lamb, and game such as boar),s wordfish, Pasta with a rich tomato-based meat sauce and vegetable dishes such as Eggplant Parmigiana , risotto with vegetables, mushroom dishes, aged cheeses (Pecorino Siciliano) and Dark chocolate with sea salt. Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 — Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Cooking, I adore. Baking, however… baking is an entirely different universe, one ruled by precision, patience, and the occasional existential crisis. I visit it only when absolutely necessary. My comfort zone is a small arsenal of simple, loyal desserts that never rise too high or ask too much (well… except zserbó , which I’ve somehow perfected and may one day reveal like a family secret). Yes, I’ve attempted the mythical three-tier cake. I survived. It was gorgeous, it was delicious, and after three days of whisking, layering, and bargaining with the universe, I emerged victorious, vowing never again. So instead, I now turn—happily, proudly—to one of the most glorious, indulgent, and blissfully easy creations I know: Swiss Meringues with Gruyère Double Cream and Berries . I just finished writing about the dairy enchantments of Gruyère , this storybook Swiss town in the canton of Fribourg, and this dessert feels like its natural continuation of the story. This iconic pairing brings together two regional specialties: crisp, airy, billowy meringues  and the luxuriously thick, famously smooth and velvety double cream Gruyère-style with about 50% fat, giving the dessert its unmistakable richness. The contrast of crunchy meringue and silky cream creates a balance that’s both indulgent and refined. Sure, you could say it’s a bit like Pavlova (hi, Aussies) or a distant cousin of Eton Mess (lovely, very British, bless ’em). But let’s be honest: this dessert is so Swiss it practically yodels. It doesn’t float around pretending to be a pavlova cloud or dress itself up like a messy English trifle. No—this one shows up with Alpine confidence, wearing a metaphorical cowbell and carrying enough double cream to silence any comparison. And here’s the kicker: the Swiss version has been around for a couple of centuries. Long before anyone was whipping up pavlovas or smashing berries into charming chaos, Switzerland was already perfecting the crisp-shell, soft-center meringue and ladling on cream like it was a national duty. Because at the end of the day, you’re not eating “cream and meringue.”You’re eating SWISS cream and meringue , and that changes everything. Often served on its own, the dessert can also be brightened with fresh berries, a drizzle of honey, or a few chocolate shavings. And the best part? You can summon this masterpiece in mere minutes, even as your guests linger over their last bites of dinner. Crème de Gruyère (Gruyère Double Cream) The Swiss don’t skimp when it comes to cream - and honestly, thank goodness they don’t. So what is it? It’s just gloriously thick, outrageously rich double cream that locals treasure like edible gold. It forms naturally when the milk for Gruyère AOP cheese is left alone and the cream ascends to the top like it’s the chosen one. All the lovely Fribourg mountain-pasture aromas come along for the ride. (Okay, so apparently this post is also about cheese — because, well, you can take the girl out of Switzerland, but you can’t take the cheese out of the girl …Wait. That came out wrong, didn’t it?) Gruyère Double Cream, Fromagerie du Chateau Fat content: Swiss double cream legally needs at least 45% fat, but Gruyère Double Cream says, “No no, let me go even harder,” and sits around 50%. Compared to North American creams (usually around 35%), it’s basically the heavyweight champion. Availability: Crème de Gruyère is a regional diva, amazing, but rarely leaving its home canton. In Canada: Finding true double cream is a quest worthy of a fantasy novel. A few specialty shops might carry something close, but standard heavy cream is the more common understudy. If you want to level it up and get closer to true Swiss decadence, here are a few tricks: • Add butter to whipping cream: Melt a little unsalted butter and whisk it into your 35% cream. This gives it a richer, “I’m pretending to be Swiss” vibe. • Choose whipping cream without stabilizers: If you’re making clotted cream or any fancy dairy magic, look for 35% whipping cream without added gums or stabilizers. Your results will be smoother, thicker, and less emotionally chaotic. • Explore Quebec dairy like a treasure hunt: Some Quebec specialty creams and crème fraîche options get surprisingly close to Crème de Gruyère. They won’t yodel for you, but texturally they’re pretty impressive. Swiss Meringues I call these Swiss meringues not just because I’m fond of the country, after living there for a decade and tasting all kinds of delicious, not-just-cheese things, but because Meiringen in the canton of Bern, has a claim to fame of its own. The village, near the dramatic Reichenbach Falls (the setting of Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty’s legendary final showdown), also proudly insists it’s the birthplace of the very first meringue. Of course, meringue’s origins are a historical free-for-all—there’s even a version starring Napoleon for no apparent reason. My favourite, though, is the tale of a certain Gasparini, the Italian chef in Meiringen who supposedly whipped up leftover egg whites and sugar, thought “why not,” and named his creation after the town. Some say this happened in the 1600s, others in 1720; accuracy is… optional. Since no one can agree, I’m officially pledging allegiance to the Meiringen origin story. I mean, the town does hold the world record for the longest meringue, a very serious and extremely important achievement! And honestly, if you’re even mildly into meringues, Meiringen deserves a spot on your bucket list. It wasn’t on mine, but somehow I ended up there anyway. Today, Meiringen dishes out its legendary sugar clouds at places like the Frutal Tea Room and pretty much any pastry shop within a five-minute stroll. The official Tourist Center - strategically parked right by the train station so you can’t possibly miss it - will happily supply you with all the vital intel on local attractions, including the town’s gloriously over-the-top connection to Sherlock Holmes. Yes, you can absolutely spend an afternoon eating meringues and following in the footsteps of a fictional detective. Switzerland is magical like that. So! Go wild and make a batch at home if you’re feeling heroic or be sensible and just grab some from the grocery store. The nest-shaped ones are ideal: sturdy, cute, and structurally prepared for irresponsible amounts of cream. Swiss Meringues with Gruyère Double Cream and Berries Serves 4 | Preparation: 20 min | Baking:  1½–2 hours These crisp, light confections made from whipped egg whites and sugar are very köstlich, délicieux, delizioso,  and delizius - proudly meeting Switzerland’s four-language ( German, French, Italian, and Romansh) labeling standards! Ingredients 4 egg whites 1 cup / 200 g caster sugar Pinch of salt Preparation Preheat the oven to 100°C /210°F. Whisk egg whites with a pinch of salt until stiff. Gradually add sugar until the mixture is smooth and glossy. Pipe or spoon small meringues onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake 1½–2 hours, until completely dry and crisp. Let cool. Assemble the dessert with the Gruyère double cream Place a few meringues on a plate. Top with a generous spoonful of double cream - 1 cup/ 250 ml for 4 persons. Add fruit or honey if desired. Wine pairings - Finally! Pairing wine with Swiss meringues, Gruyère double cream, and fresh berries is basically a license to be extra. The meringues are sweet enough to make your teeth tingle, the cream is rich enough to make you question all your life choices, and the berries add that little “I tried” moment of freshness. Life is short, so why not pour something decadent alongside it? A glass of bubbly Champagne to cut through the richness, a late-harvest wine to echo the sweetness, to make the whole thing feel like a tiny, glorious celebration. Sugar, cream, berries… wine. Repeat. Happiness guaranteed. Dessert wines (late-harvest style) Elementary, my dear Watson! Sweet and golden, like sunshine on the mountain, these wines match the meringue without overwhelming it. A touch of acidity keeps the richness in check. Think of Sauternes, Late-harvest Rieslings, Ice Wines and... my recommendation: Sweet Tokaji wine s ( Aszú, Sweet Szamorodni, Fordítás) - Pardon my Hungarian! See more on Tokaji Wines here. Champagne or sparkling wines Watson: "Champagne, Mrs. Hudson?" Mrs. Hudson: "Of course, in the circumstances."  The bubbles are refreshing and lively, cutting through the cream with ease, like a brisk Alpine breeze. Champagne (Brut): A dry Champagne with its lively bubbles and toasted notes can enhance the flavours of the Gruyère and bring a touch of elegance to the pairing. Prosecco (Sweeter Style) or Asti and ... my (well, technically my husband’s… our family’s Bubble King) recommendation: Crémant d’Alsace/de Loire/du Jura and all other French crémants. For the record—and because it’s often asked: Crémant offers Champagne-style bubbles at a much friendlier price. It’s made using the same traditional method and delivers comparable quality, just in a more accessible way. The distinctions are straightforward: Crémant can be produced in eight different French regions, it requires a shorter minimum lees aging, and it doesn’t carry the legally protected prestige of the Champagne name. 🥂 Happy sipping and savouring!

Liquor : Apéritif or Digestif / Cocktails | France | Website 👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. In tonight’s production, our Duck Breast takes centre stage, dressed in a glossy Cointreau glaze that positively try to steal the spotlight. Supporting characters include a cast of caramelized winter vegetables, each adding warmth, sweetness, and charm. No need for intermission, this little culinary melodrama is tender, fragrant, and ready to be devoured in a single, delightful act. Drum roll: Le Cointreau A citrusy little troublemaker, Cointreau is an orange-flavoured triple sec from France — more precisely from Saint-Barthélemy-d'Anjou, tucked into the Loire Valley, birthplace of countless vinified treasures. Clearly, the region knows its way around a bottle. “Cointreau changes everything” is the brand’s most recent global slogan, launched around 2022, and honestly? It fits. The liqueur has a remarkable way of transforming cocktails: balancing, brightening, and pulling flavours together like the world’s most elegant citrus diplomat. An aromatic masterpiece of over 40 notes of orange-peel essence, it’s zesty, floral, sweet, and surprisingly complex: fresh yet persistent, nuanced yet unapologetically orange. And despite its unmistakably blazing orange bottle, the liqueur itself is completely colourless - proving, once and for all, that you should never judge a drink by its outfit. ¡ Margarita ! The original Margarita - just Cointreau, tequila, and lime juice - was said to have been born in 1948 in sun-drenched Acapulco, crafted by American socialite Margarita Sames - and in her own immortal words: “There is no Margarita without Cointreau!” Here is the recipe in your own visual interpretation : Cointreau's History It originally carried the very dignified name Curaçao Blanco Triple Sec , until someone realized that was far too long to pronounce after two cocktails, so they settled on the equally tricky Cointreau . Merci, France! For accuracy’s sake, it’s pronounced [kwan’-tro]. Jokes aside, Cointreau was born in 1849 thanks to Adolphe Cointreau, a confectioner who basically said, “Candy is great, but what if it could get you tipsy?” He and his brother Édouard-Jean first made a hit cherry liqueur, then struck gold by blending sweet and bitter orange peels with beet alcohol. By 1875, Cointreau was officially a phenomenon. Today, around 13 million bottles travel to more than 150 countries every year. The Cointreau family ran the show until 1990, when they teamed up with Rémy Martin to form Rémy Cointreau, a corporate power couple proving that when life gives you oranges, you build an empire. The Ladies behind the brand Cointreau may have been founded by the Cointreau brothers, but its real glow comes from the women who carried it forward. Louisa Motais Cointreau was the original powerhouse: a business mind, a humanitarian, and the kind of woman who expanded a brand and opened a hospital during WWI, all while infusing everything she touched with the same bright, refined spirit that defines Cointreau’s own orange essence. Today, Carole Quinton , Cointreau’s Master Distiller, keeps the orange magic alive. She’s part scientist, part artist, part alchemist by selecting botanicals, balancing aromas, and ensuring every bottle tastes like pure, zesty brilliance. As with so many legendary liqueurs (see: my entire Chartreuse rant ), the recipe is a family secret. Tours are offered, but cameras are banned in many areas—no copying the magic! >> COINTREAU DISTILLERY . The Cointreau line-up It’s beloved as both an apéritif and a digestif, which is wonderfully convenient, because that essentially means you can sip it before dinner, after dinner, or any time life feels like it needs a bit of citrus-powered therapy. Core Temptation Cointreau l’Unique: The original, irresistibly bright orange liqueur, the seductive backbone of countless iconic cocktails. Seductive Variations Cointreau Noir: Cointreau entwined with Rémy Martin cognac, smooth, deep, and undeniably dangerous. Cointreau Citrus Series: Limited-edition citrus muses (think pomelo) that appear, tease, and disappear. Cointreau Citrus Spritz: A ready-to-drink spritz that’s effortless, sparkling, and flirtatiously refreshing. Cocktails The star of legends like the Margarita , Cosmopolitan , and Sidecar —plus an entire repertoire of recipes the brand loves to show off - see them here. Photo by Kike Salazar N Alright, enough about the booze, let’s talk about the food! Cointreau may bring the sparkle, but the duck breasts absolutely steal the show. Crisp skin, molten-pink centres, sweet earthy roasted roots. Every element joins in, turning the plate into a tiny orchestra of indulgent flavour. The Duck I’ve always loved duck - this much has been clear from my previous posts! I also feel incredibly fortunate that, as a child, my grandparents had a farm where I could enjoy unique meats like rabbit, goose, and, of course, duck. Every bite still carries a little echo of those warm, nostalgic memories. Different countries have their own signature duck dishes. In Hungary, we usually prepare the bird whole and savoury, often serving it with braised red cabbage and rizi bizi , the Hungarian take on the classic Venetian risi e bisi , meaning “rice and peas.” Perhaps the most famous duck dish of all is Chinese Peking duck, celebrated for its impossibly crisp, paper-thin skin. The method is so intricate it takes days, and frankly, I trust only expert locals to make it properly. Then there are the wonderfully aromatic duck curries of India and Thailand, and the deeply comforting Vietnamese duck pho - each one delicious in its own way. I even once attempted oritang , a local specialty in Gwangju, South Korea , a thick, nutty duck soup enriched with perilla seed powder, which gives the broth a uniquely earthy flavour. The result was unforgettable in all the best ways. For this recipe, I’ve chosen the classic French canard à l’orange , a timeless classic . But here it comes with a twist: the beautifully aromatic Cointreau, whose bright citrus notes transform the dish into something flirtatiously elegant and, well… deliciously boozy. And really, who could resist Cointreau’s wonderfully cheeky 2007 slogan, Be Cointreauversial ! ? (On that note, I shall graciously overlook the earlier “ Voulez-vous Cointreau avec moi? ”—charming, yes, but this duck is modern, confident, and needs no coy pickup line to command the spotlight.) Cointreau-Lacquered Duck Breast & Caramelized Winter Vegetables SERVINGS 4 | Preparation: 20 minutes | Cooking: 45 minutes Succulent duck breast is lacquered with a fragrant Cointreau glaze, its citrus notes gently cutting through the richness of the meat. A medley of winter aromatics—carrots, beets, and sweet potatoes—slow-caramelizes until tender and deeply golden, adding earthy sweetness and warmth. The whole dish becomes a cold-weather harmony of bright citrus, velvety texture, and comforting seasonal depth. Cooking duck breast, however, is an entirely different craft from roasting a whole bird or braising the legs. This cut is never cooked through. As the French say, you serve it saignant —beautifully, confidently rare—between 125°F (52°C) and 130°F (54°C). Duck breast simply thrives at medium-rare; push it further and you lose the tenderness that makes it exceptional. Ingredients Duck Breast 4 duck breasts, skin on Salt and freshly ground black pepper 2 clove of garlic 15 grams / 1 tbsp butter 1 or 2 sprigs of thyme Caramelized Winter Vegetables 8-10 small carrots, or 4 larger ones, peeled (if using large ones cut into quarters) 4 small beets, peeled and cut into wedges 2 small sweet potato, peeled and cut into wedges 3 tbsp / 40 grams duck fat or avocado (eventually olive) oil 1 tbsp / 15 grams honey or maple syrup 2 tbsp / 30 ml balsamic vinegar Salt & pepper Splash of Cointreau (optional) Cointreau Glaze 125 ml / ½ cup Cointreau 60 ml / ¼ cup chicken stock 20 grams / 1 tbsp honey or maple syrup Jus and zest of one orange Pinch of salt 15-30 grams / 1-2 tbsp cold butter Instructions Cook the Duck Pat the duck breasts dry and score the skin in a crosshatch pattern (don’t cut into the meat). Season generously with salt, pepper, thyme, and the crushed garlic. Place breast one by one or two at the time depending on the size of our pan, skin-side down  in a cold pan. Turn the heat to medium  and let the fat slowly render—about 8–10 minutes , until the skin is crisp and golden. Flip the duck and cook for another 3–5 minutes , depending on your preferred doneness. Optionally add the butter, baste briefly, then remove duck from the pan to rest. Repeat with the rest of the breasts. Keep the fat and juices in the pan for the Cointreau glaze! Prepare the Vegetables Preheat the oven to 200°C /400°F . Peel and cut all the vegetables into similar-sized pieces so they cook evenly. Toss the carrot, beet, and sweet potato with duck fat (or oil), a drizzle of honey or maple syrup, salt, pepper. Make sure everything is well coated. Spread the vegetables out on a baking sheet, leaving space between the pieces so their moisture can evaporate rather than steam. Roast uncovered for 20-25 minutes total, stirring them 3 times over the course of roasting (every 5-10 minutes) until they’re deeply caramelized and tender. If you’d like, finish with a tiny splash of Cointreau for a bright, fragrant citrus note. Make the Cointreau Glaze Use the duck fat and juices rendered from the cooking of the breasts and the same pan. Add Cointreau, stock, honey, orange juice and zest, and a pinch of salt. Bring to a simmer and reduce, stirring occasionally, until thickened and glossy—about 5–7 minutes . Taste and adjust sweetness or acidity if needed. Add butter at the end to make it thicker. Glaze & Serve Slice the rested duck breasts. Spoon the warm Cointreau glaze generously over the top. Serve alongside the caramelized winter vegetables. Wine Pairing Suggestions Tips for Choosing First, consider the sauce: The Cointreau glaze is citrusy-sweet, so pick wines with bright fruit or a wink of sweetness. Imagine pairing your dish with sunshine. Then, match the intensity: Duck is rich. Caramelized vegetables are dramatic. Choose a wine that can rise to the occasion but doesn’t shout over everyone. Also, don’t fear the whites: Seriously. Duck and white wine can be chef’s-kiss magical . If anyone judges you, give them a Viognier and watch them convert. Red Wine Pairings (The Drama) Pinot Noir: A timeless match for duck. Its bright acidity gracefully cuts through the richness, while soft tannins keep things harmonious. Choose one with earthy or red-fruit notes, perfect alongside caramelized vegetables and citrus glaze. Syrah/Shiraz: Medium-bodied with a little spice and dark fruit, Syrah brings just enough structure to balance the dish without overwhelming it. White Wine Pairings (The Comedy) Gewürztraminer: Aromatic, floral, and delicately sweet, it mirrors the citrus notes of the Cointreau while offering a graceful counterpoint to the richness of the duck. Riesling: Dry or off-dry, Riesling’s vibrant acidity refreshes the palate and harmonizes with the glaze’s sweetness. A bright, elegant companion. Viognier: Lush, floral, and silky, Viognier offers enough body to stand up to the duck while adding a gentle lift to the dish’s citrus and spice. Chardonnay: Unoaked or lightly oaked Chardonnay brings freshness and subtle richness, an excellent pairing for duck when you want balance without heaviness. Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 — Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Appetizer: Körözött | Main: Chicken Paprikash I Dressert : Paprika Dark Chocolate Truffles Hungarian Rhapsody Explained I’ve arrived at Hungarian Rhapsody No. 3. If that reference means nothing to you, think Franz Liszt : the original rock star—long before the Beatles, before MJ, and yes, long before K-pop—whose performances made crowds swoon and Europe collectively lose its mind. His rhapsodies, nineteen piano pieces, based on Hungarian folk themes, were Liszt’s way of turning national identity into high drama. As a Hungarian—and someone who hears culture as much as I taste it—I’ve been using them as a loose score for my Hungarikum posts (Hungarikum = a uniquely Hungarian national treasure). Rhapsody No. 1 belonged to pálinka . No. 2 was claimed by Unicum . And now comes paprika—the Hungarikum of all Hungarikums , demanding its own encore. Some subjects simply require a full orchestration. Which brings me to the other day, when I came across a viral tweet on the platform formerly known as rational discourse (now reduced to a single letter). It read: “I was today years old when I found out paprika is just ground red pepper.” Since this is a wine blog, let’s put it this way: it’s a bit like announcing you’ve just discovered that wine is squashed grapes. Technically accurate, yes—but it skips over a great deal of history, geography, and human enthusiasm. Paprika, like wine, may begin with a single agricultural product, but what happens between the field and your plate (or glass) is where things get interesting. The tweet itself was responding to someone proudly “making paprika” at home by drying and grinding a bell pepper, marvelling at how simple and revelatory the process was. And honestly, that part is charming. That is how paprika starts. It’s just that somewhere between that kitchen experiment and the spice tin on your shelf lie centuries of selective breeding, regional styles, and cultural attachment—details that tend to get lost when a tradition becomes a shortcut. My apologies, not everyone grew up in a Hungarian household where paprika functions simultaneously as seasoning, shorthand for home, and light emotional support. There are only about fourteen million of us, after all, and paprika belongs to the world now. To be clear, Hungary didn’t invent paprika. Its origins are Mesoamerican , and today it’s one of the most widely used spices on the planet- fourth most consumed, for what that’s worth if you consult Google. But the paprika most people recognize—the nuanced range of sweet, mild, and fiery varieties with real character—is where Hungary (and Spain - see later) gently enters the story. Through careful cultivation and generations of refinement, peppers were transformed from a generic ingredient into a spice with structure, personality, and regional distinction. In that sense, calling paprika “just ground red pepper” isn’t wrong—it’s simply incomplete. Much like calling Rioja “fermented fruit juice,” it tells you how something starts, but not why anyone cares. One last housekeeping note, because it always comes up: Hungarians don’t call it “Hungarian paprika” or “Magyar paprika.” It’s just paprika . Full stop. Much like how the Italians don’t go around saying Italian pasta. The word itself traveled a long linguistic road from the Latin piper via Greek peperi via the Sanskrit word pippali , to its modern form, shaped over time by the same forces that shaped the spice itself—place, patience, and a great deal of human attention. Also, across much of Central and Southeastern Europe, paprika refers to both the pepper and the ground spice , which is why the “surprise” feels very foreign to us. Capsicum annuum Paprika is a vibrant red powder made from dried and ground fruit pods of various Capsicum annuum plants - the longum variety - which includes both mild bell peppers and spicier types. Origins and Global Journey The peppers used for paprika trace their deep roots to the Americas. Wild forms evolved in northern South America, while domestication began roughly 6,000–7,000 years ago in present-day Mexico , where Indigenous civilizations, including the Aztecs and Maya , cultivated and cooked with chile peppers as everyday staples. Peppers arrived in Europe in the 16th century via Spain , following Columbus’s voyages. From there, they travelled east through Spanish–Habsburg trade networks , a period when the Habsburgs were wearing far too many crowns at once, including Spain and, eventually, Hungary. At first, peppers were treated more as botanical curiosities or medicinal plants than as food, turning up in monastery gardens and apothecaries rather than kitchens. Paprika’s true culinary breakthrough came later, during the Ottoman occupation of central Hungary in the 16th–17th centuries . The Ottomans were already well acquainted with chile peppers as practical, affordable flavour enhancers and wasted no time putting them to work. Under their influence, peppers moved from novelty to necessity, becoming widely grown, accessible, and firmly embedded in everyday cooking. So yes, peppers reached Hungary by two overlapping routes : the Habsburgs brought them in, but the Ottomans taught the region how to use them. The final, and decisive, innovation came from the peasants of the Hungarian Great Plain , who cracked the code that defines Hungarian cuisine to this day. Add ground paprika to onions gently sizzling in pork fat, and suddenly colour, aroma, and flavour bloom at once. This alchemy, known as the pörkölt base , remains the opening move for countless Hungarian dishes and quietly transformed the national menu. From that moment on, paprika stopped being merely a spice and became something closer to a personality trait . It’s everywhere: fish soup, goulash, stews, sausages- if it’s Hungarian and delicious, paprika is almost certainly involved, pulling the strings and adding just the right amount of drama. One suspects the journey was less a blessed culinary pilgrimage and more a byproduct of not-so-nice empire-building - an awkward historical footnote best acknowledged quietly. As with all culinary history, trade routes, timelines, and regional preferences are far messier than this summary suggests, even if the broad strokes remain historically sound. Paprika as a Blend: The Bordeaux Logic of Red Powder While researching this now very long (and, I hope, still entertaining) article, I had a small culinary epiphany—one of those “I was today years old when I found out…” moments: paprika is a blend of different paprikas . Once the surprise wears off, it’s oddly reassuring, because Hungarian paprika (and maybe others) behaves very much like wine. Different peppers bring different strengths, and the final paprika is composed for balance: colour, flavour, heat, and oil content. In other words, it’s rarely a solo act. In a wonderful short English-language report by Eater , Péter Szabó of Szabio  in Kalocsa, a multi-generational Hungarian producer of high-quality paprika powder , puts it perfectly: “We blend it, because one of them is good for the colour, one of them is good for the taste, and the third one for the oil level.” If that doesn’t sound like winemaking, I’m not sure what does. Think of canonical blends: Rioja, where Tempranillo sets the structural frame while Garnacha contributes alcohol, warmth, and aromatic lift; Bordeaux, layering Cabernet Sauvignon’s tannic spine with Merlot’s mid-palate generosity; the Southern Rhône’s GSM, where Grenache delivers volume, Syrah brings colour and savoury depth, and Mourvèdre anchors the finish; or Champagne, in which Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Meunier are assembled for balance, tension, and longevity. Different components, different functions—assembled with intent into something more coherent, expressive, and age-worthy than any single element could achieve alone. Swap vineyards for pepper fields and oak barrels for drying house façades, and the logic is the same. So, paprika isn’t just ground pepper any more than wine is just fermented grape juice. It’s composition—shaped by place, process, and the people who care deeply about both. Szeged vs. Kalocsa: The Bordeaux–Burgundy Debate, Paprika Edition So, traditionally, Hungarian paprika comes from two sacred, slightly competitive regions: Szeged (SEH-ged) and Kalocsa (KAW-loh-chah) , the Bordeaux and Burgundy of red powder, where terroir is measured in stews. You could also note—before anyone starts sharpening tasting spoons—that this rivalry is nowhere near as serious as French wine debates . In fact, most Hungarians happily use whatever good paprika is on hand and get on with their cooking. The Szeged vs. Kalocsa distinction only really matters if you’re from these respective regions, or a certified paprikamelier (yes, that’s paprika + sommelier in one heroic word), or someone who enjoys explaining terroir to confused dinner guests while the stew is already bubbling away quite contentedly. Szeged is Bordeaux. Powerful, sun-soaked, confident to the point of swagger. Its paprika is bold, deeply red, and aromatic in a way that announces itself the moment it hits warm fat. This is paprika with structure and tannins—if paprika had tannins. It goes in early, anchors the dish, and expects respect. Shaped by river plains, long hours of sunshine, and generations of paprika absolutists, Szeged knows exactly what it brings to the table: an elegant, slightly sweet spice with a vivid red hue and a spicy aroma that feels both familiar and refined. Beyond the spice, Szeged itself is a vibrant university city at Hungary’s southern tip near the Serbian border, rich in culture, architecture, and unapologetic confidence—very Bordeaux, in both spirit and flavour. And let’s not forget szegedi halászlé , the city’s famous fish soup—intensely red, unapologetically bold, and absolutely saturated with paprika, of course. Credits:   R ubin Paprika and Szegedi Nemzetközi Tiszai Halfesztivál Kalocsa, naturally, is Burgundy. Kalocsa isn’t just paprika country—it’s where Hungary’s happiest flowers went to graduate from linen to tourist souvenirs. The bright embroidery that once adorned plain cloth now shows up on everything from bags to kitchen towels. Chances are the tourist trinket in your hands is inspired by these traditional patterns—and, fingers crossed, still made in Hungary. All credits:   Folkpedia   |     Nádihegedű  | Kriptáné Zsuzsa Folk Artist Unlike Szeged’s urban swagger, Kalocsa is a smaller town shaped by its surrounding villages and countryside, its traditions deeply tied to local craft and agriculture—much like Burgundy, where prestige lives in the fields, workshops, and quiet villages that define the region’s soul. More restrained, more nuanced, and quietly devastating, Kalocsa's paprika is sweeter, smoother, and obsessively refined than that of Szeged. Kalocsa didn’t just grow paprika; it classified it, studied it, graded it, and politely perfected it. Less volume, more finesse. Less shouting, more murmured approval. Paprika Harvest - all credits: Szabio Parika, Hungary @   Eater Together, they form the twin pillars of Hungarian paprika culture: power versus elegance, confidence versus precision—Bordeaux versus Burgundy, but in powdered form and far more likely to end up in a goulash than a crystal glass. Each side is utterly convinced theirs is superior, and honestly? As with wine, the correct answer is both . Choosing between them comes down to personal taste. Look past the town name and focus instead on the grade (see below) —and, above all, freshness . And just like with wine, authenticity matters: paprikas from both Szeged and Kalocsa carry protected designation status, a reassuring seal that what you’re tasting is the real thing—whether your palate leans Bordeaux or Burgundy. Eight Shades of Red: How Paprika Is Classified Hungarian paprika comes in eight official grades, classified by colour, heat, and aroma. Yes, there’s a ranking system. Yes, it’s regulated. And no, this isn’t vibes—it’s paprika with paperwork, as defined by the Codex Alimentarius Hungaricus (Latin name, very real document). The most common and widely used grade is Édesnemes (Noble Sweet) —the international ambassador and everyday workhorse of Hungarian kitchens. Bright red, gently sweet, with just enough warmth to behave. This is the paprika most people know abroad as “sweet Hungarian paprika,” and the one you’ll find in goulash, paprikash, and most home cooking. At the refined end sits Különleges (Special Quality) : maximum aroma and colour, zero heat. For people who like drama, but not pain. At the other extreme is Erős (Hot) , The Final Boss. Light brown to orange, unapologetically hot, high in capsaicin, and absolutely not here to make friends. Use sparingly. Respect deeply. Copyrigh: sipandsavour.blog Paprika-based Hungarian food products Beyond the familiar red powder, Hungarian paprika shows up in several distinct product forms that play different roles in the kitchen. The most common are paprika pastes , especially Piros Arany (“Red Gold”), Erős Pista (“Strong Steve”), and Édes Anna (“Sweet Ann”) — proof that Hungarians even name their condiments like characters in a novel. These are concentrated pepper purées—salted, sometimes hot, sometimes mild—used the way Italians use tomato paste: stirred into soups, stews, and sauces for depth, colour, and heat. They’re not substitutes for ground paprika so much as reinforcements, adding immediacy and intensity where dried spice alone would be too polite. Paprika also defines a whole category of paprika-forward foods, particularly cured meats. Hungarian sausages ( kolbász ) and salamis rely on paprika for both flavour and their unmistakable red hue. It turns up in cheese spreads, and occasionally in paprika-infused oils made from pepper seeds. Taken together, these products make it clear that in Hungary, paprika isn’t just a seasoning, it’s a structural ingredient, a colourant, a condiment, and, frankly, a worldview. That worldview travels remarkably well. Even here in Canada, Hungarian friend groups still gather every winter for the unofficial- but extremely serious- kolbász-making season . There is Canadian pork, lots of Hungarian paprika, and enough pálinka to blur both measurements and memories. Paprika does more than season the sausages—it’s credited with mysterious preservative powers (sorry, but applied strictly to the sausages themselves, not the eaters—so don’t expect skin rejuvenation as a side effect). The sausages are stuffed, later smoked, and frozen in heroic quantities, allegedly meant to last “a few months,” though everyone knows they’ll be gone long before spring. Countries may change; paprika loyalty does not. Call it what it is: a Hungarian sausage party: equal parts culinary tradition, group therapy, and low-grade endurance sport. While Hungary whispers in shades of red, meticulous, precise, and secretly judging your spice rack, Spain, on the other hand, kicks the door open trailing oak smoke and drama, like a paprika matador crashing a polite dinner party. 🌶️ Spanish Paprika (Pimentón) Famous for its unmistakable smoky vibe, traditional Spanish paprika, especially the legendary Pimentón de la Vera , is basically the drama queen of the spice rack ( also a Protected Designation of Origin (PDO). It is produced exclusively in the La Vera valley of the Cáceres province in Extremadura, Spain. While other spices politely dry in the sun and mind their business, these peppers are slow-dried over oak fires for up to 15 days , absorbing smoke, mood, and what can only be described as a strong sense of self . The result? One pinch and the kitchen goes full wood fire and tapas bar, with a hint of unnecessary drama. It comes in three distinct personalities, because of course it does: Dulce – Sweet, mild, and effortlessly charming. Agridulce – Bittersweet, layered, and emotionally complex. Picante – Hot, loud, and absolutely not apologizing. One spice. Three moods. All iconic. Use wisely—or let it steal the entire show. Pimentón storms into dishes like paella, chorizo, patatas bravas, and roasted veggies , demanding attention, swaggering through stews and sauces, and occasionally dropping a dramatic dusting on grilled meats just to remind you who’s boss. So what’s the rest of the paprika world up to? Of course, paprika didn’t stay in Europe’s two most dramatic corners. Today, it’s grown all over the map—from the fields of the United States and Mexico to the plains of China, the hills of Serbia, the pampas of Argentina, and even the orderly polder-lands of the Netherlands. Each place brings its own personality: some peppers aim for subtlety, some for heat, some for sheer efficiency. But let’s be honest—no matter how competent these other regions are, none quite match the twin spectacles of Hungary and Spain. Everywhere else is playing catch-up, politely raising their peppers in admiration, while the old-school heavyweights continue to set the tone. The technically not real paprikas, but still part of the spicy story 🌶️ Chilis Chili Powder vs. Paprika (Let’s Clear This Up):  Despite what the name suggests, “chili powder” is usually a group project —a blend of spices like cumin, garlic, oregano, and friends. Paprika, meanwhile, is a minimalist. One ingredient. One job. Dried, ground peppers. That’s it. The same single-minded purity shows up in true chile powders used in Mexican cooking and plenty of other cuisines. These aren’t blends; they’re soloists, each named after the chile it comes from. Ancho  is mild and fruity, guajillo  leans tangy and almost berry-like, chipotle  is just a smoked jalapeño doing its thing, cayenne  brings straightforward heat, and Kashmiri chile  delivers that dramatic red colour with a surprisingly gentle Aleppo pepper is a mild, fruity, and tangy chili flake from the Aleppo region of Syria (now mostly grown in Turkey), known for its rich, complex flavour with hints of cumin, sumac, and dried fruit, offering a slow, building warmth rather than sharp heat, making it a versatile, all-purpose seasoning for Middle Eastern, Mediterranean, and even fusion dishes like hummus, kebabs, eggs, and roasted vegetables, acting as a great replacement for red pepper flakes.   🌶️ Espelette pepper  And then there’s my personal coup de cœur : Espelette pepper  - the French Basque chili that’s mild, fragrant, a little smoky, and effortlessly elegant. Think paprika’s chic European cousin who wears a Basque beret.  Grown exclusively in and around the tiny French village of Espelette, this mild, fragrant chili delivers fruity, slightly smoky warmth with just enough heat. Espelette pepper is very much a finishing spice  - not only by temperament, but also by economics (see the cost breakdown below). It’s meant to be sprinkled over eggs, fish, cheese, and vegetables right before serving, like a tasteful little red beret placed at the very last moment. That said, it also quietly sneaks into rubs, sauces, and soups (yes, ratatouille absolutely counts), and—because the Basque Country enjoys a gentle but confident culinary provocation—even chocolate desserts. I’ve visited the area, and enchanting  doesn’t quite cover it. The French Basque countryside with its rolling green hills, half-timbered white houses trimmed in deep Basque red, and strings of bright red peppers drying on façades like edible jewelry. I was instantly and violently transported back to Hungary, specifically to those postcard-perfect village houses with façades buried under drying paprika. You know the ones: half real tradition, half aggressively marketed nostalgia if you’re standing in central Budapest. So when I saw the same thing in Espelette, walls absolutely smothered in drying peppers, I nearly teared up. My eyes.  I mean it. This, clearly, is the solution for drying these little bastards: hang them on your house and let the sun do the rest. And once you start noticing it, you realize it’s everywhere. Wherever chilies matter: Hungary, Spain, Italy, Turkey, the Balkans, Mexico, parts of Asia, North Africa. Houses eventually turn red. Climate, airflow, preservation… and a quiet flex that says: yes, we take our peppers seriously. 🌶️ The Korean, The Tunisian, and The Turk - My favourite pepper pastes I cook with paprika constantly—but I also keep a small, well-traveled trio within arm’s reach.They’re not substitutes for paprika; they’re its fermented, fire-roasted, sun-dried cousins—each bringing complexity, attitude, and a strong sense of place rather than just spice. Paprika may be the diplomat. Gochujang is the strategist—measured, fermented, quietly brilliant. Harissa, meanwhile, kicks the door in and rearranges the furniture. And then there’s biber salçası, the Turkish negotiator: concentrated, fruity, unapologetically intense, and entirely capable of carrying a dish on its own without raising its voice. Gochujang Guchu, this far-eastern cousin is a staple in my kitchen—and here’s my mild culinary heresy: I often cheat on paprika with gochujang . Not gochugaru powder (though I own alarming amounts), but the fermented chile paste itself: deeper, funkier, paprika’s slightly unhinged Korean alter ego. Made from gochu, rice, meju, salt, and time—traditionally fermented outdoors in onggi jars—it brings complexity paprika simply can’t fake. Do I use it in Hungarian cooking? Absolutely. Is it traditional? Not remotely. Does it work? Disturbingly well. This isn’t heresy; it’s geopolitics. Korean chile products are easy to find. Truly great Hungarian paprika, outside Hungary, requires effort bordering on devotion. I’m not betraying tradition—I’m adapting. Survival of the spiciest. Similar to Gochujang (fermented, deep, savoury) Doubanjiang  (China): Fermented broad bean–chili paste; salty, funky, and essential to Sichuan cooking. Sambal terasi  (Indonesia): Chili paste with fermented shrimp—less sweet, more punch. Harissa And then there’s harissa —paprika’s hot-headed North African cousin. A fiery Tunisian paste of roasted red peppers, garlic, olive oil, cumin, coriander, caraway, and sometimes rose petals (because drama), it’s smoky, earthy, and unapologetically loud. I use it the way others use good judgment: stirred into stews, rubbed on vegetables, occasionally slipped where it has no business being. Similar to Harissa (spiced, aromatic, paste-like) Sambal oelek (Indonesia): Pure chili paste; harissa’s stripped-down, no-spice cousin. Adjika (Georgia/Caucasus): Chili paste with garlic, herbs, and walnuts; complex, aromatic, intense. Biber salçası Think of this as Turkey's answer to paprika after a long, intense sabbatical in Anatolia. It’s pepper paste—sweet or hot—slowly cooked down until it becomes deeply concentrated, fruity, and unapologetically savoury. Thicker, bolder, and far more serious than powdered paprika, biber salçası doesn’t sprinkle itself politely; it shows up , anchors the dish, and quietly judges everything else in the pot. Biber salçası is a foundation ingredient , not a garnish. A little goes a long way, and it likes to be warmed in fat first—just like paprika—so it can bloom and behave properly. It shines in soups & stews (stir a spoonful into lentil soup, bean stews, or anything vaguely tomato-based), egg dishes : fry gently in olive oil or butter, then add eggs for a Turkish-style breakfast moment . Also excellent swirled into shakshuka (eggs poached in a flavorful, spiced tomato and pepper sauce). Meat dishes as the backbone for lamb, beef, or chicken stews, köfte mixtures, or meatballs. One spoon can replace both tomato paste and paprika in a pinch (don’t tell Hungary). How much? Start with ½–1 teaspoon and work up. This is a paste with authority. Mildly Heretical Substitutions (Proceed With Intent) Now, speaking of substitutions. Yes, there is a debate on the social-media world, but let me tell you what I actually think. Beyond the occasional gochujang detour mentioned above, I find it can work surprisingly well as a substitute for Hungarian paprika in stew-type dishes: paprikás, gulyás (yes, it’s a soup, not a stew—but you start with a stew and then water it up, don’t fight me). Used thoughtfully, it adds a different, deeper umami dimension that can be genuinely delicious. Hungarian paprika and Spanish smoked paprika, however? Not interchangeable. At all. The smokiness of Spanish pimentón simply doesn’t behave in Hungarian recipes. Which is ironic, because smoking is absolutely part of Hungarian cuisine, just not applied to paprika. And while I won’t pretend to be an expert on Spanish cuisine, I’m fairly certain that smokiness is essential there, whereas Hungarian paprika is intentionally unsmoked . Also, because smoked Spanish paprika has already been heat-treated during smoking and carries fragile smoke aromatics, you need to cook with it more cautiously than unsmoked Hungarian paprika. In practice, that means: Hungarian (unsmoked) paprika can be gently bloomed in oil or butter at low heat for a few seconds to build sweetness and colour. Smoked Spanish paprika should be treated more like a finishing spice : either added off the heat , stirred in after liquids are added , or bloomed very briefly at the lowest possible temperature. If you cook them the same way, the smoked paprika and all the chilies, are far more likely to tip into bitterness , while Hungarian paprika is more forgiving and actually benefits from that initial fat contact. So the technique doesn’t radically change—but the margin for error absolutely does . Smoked paprika demands restraint; Hungarian paprika rewards confidence. So yes: as tempting as substitutions are, my general advice is to keep the original spice with its original cuisine-unless you know what you’re doing, or you’re feeling brave, curious, and ready to accept responsibility for your choices. Culinary and Science Facts Vitamins: Paprika has a remarkably high Vitamin C content, pound for pound, it contains significantly more than citrus fruits, which—because this is Hungary—did not go unnoticed. In the 1930s, Nobel Prize–winning Hungarian chemist Albert Szent-Györgyi looked at a pepper and thought, “There’s science in here.” He went on to isolate vitamin C from it, casually changing nutritional history with what was essentially a very well-aimed paprika moment. Hungary: not inventing the pepper, not inventing vitamin C—just discovering it hiding in plain sight and winning a Nobel Prize for good measure. More Cooking Tip: Paprika's flavours are fat-soluble , so briefly frying it in oil or butter at the start of cooking intensifies its taste. However, it burns easily due to its sugar content, so it should be cooked over low to medium heat. Paprika shelf life: Paprika doesn’t expire—it just gets sad. For best colour and flavour, use ground paprika within 6–12 months (smoked even sooner). Store it airtight, away from heat and light, not above the stove. If it’s brown, smells like nothing, and tastes like regret, it’s done. And no, the paprika you bought five years ago won’t save your Christmas devilled eggs, open a fresh jar. The Price of Heat: A Brief Financial Reality Check Hungarian paprika is the loyal pantry workhorse, versatile, colourful, and capable of sweet, mild, or fiery moods, all without breaking the bank—usually $2–$7 per 100 g. Spanish paprika follows with affordable drama, delivering smoke and depth for $2–$6, no second mortgage required. Espelette pepper, by contrast, lives in a very different tax bracket. Thanks to its AOP status—only a handful of Basque villages can produce it—and limited exports, it costs about $30–$70+ per 100 g, making it the haute couture of chile powders: beautiful, exclusive, and absolutely aware of its own importance. The rest of the spice drawer falls somewhere in between: Korean gochugaru is plentiful and practical at $3–$9; ancho and guajillo are comfortable crowd-pleasers at $4–$8; chipotle asks a little extra ($5–$10) for its smoky backstory; cayenne is the budget fire alarm at $3–$6; and Kashmiri paprika lands around $4–$9, selling glamour and colour more than heat. The takeaway is simple: buy less, buy better, and buy fresh . Seek out reputable spice merchants, ethnic grocers with high turnover, or producers who list origin and harvest dates. Paprika and its cousins are agricultural products, not immortal powders. Treated well, they reward you with aroma, colour, and nuance. Treated casually, they fade into red anonymity. Your cooking will notice. Where to buy them? Ideally, of course, you’d travel to these places and buy the spices locally: from a village market, from someone’s aunt, possibly wrapped in newspaper. Highly recommended. Completely impractical. Possibly illegal. I’m not freelancing this information. I have sources, a.k.a. friends from the Szeged region. And because this post clearly wasn’t long enough, I actually called them to verify the details. Their verdict? Back in the day , they almost never bought paprika in stores. Why would they? Either they grew the fruit themselves (yes, it’s technically a fruit), dried and ground the peppers at home—just like in that cheerful tweet that started this entire rant—or, occasionally, took the harvest to a proper local facility for drying and grinding. Otherwise, they bought it directly from a producer in their own village. Not the next village. Definitely not a supermarket. And absolutely not anything labeled “Hungarian-style.” These days, things look a little different - even in Szeged. Fewer households make their own paprika now than they once did. Gardens have shrunk, time is tighter, and convenience has learned how to argue persuasively. But this hasn’t lowered the bar. Instead of home production, people now buy locally made paprika of excellent quality , still sourced from known producers, still village-specific, and still discussed with alarming seriousness. The method has changed; the standards have not. Think of it like growing your own grapes but taking them to a shared winery to be processed, except with less paperwork. Thankfully, paprika avoids alcohol regulations, because otherwise half of southern Hungary would be operating in a permanent legal grey zone. Back to reality, shall we? These ingredients are no longer rare unicorns. Supermarket versions are now widely available at most grocery stores, making it easier than ever to cook globally from your own kitchen. Just remember: availability is not the same as quality. Read labels, check colour and aroma, and when in doubt, buy smaller quantities more often. Spices should smell like food, not nostalgia. Hungarian paprika, Spanish pimentón, Espelette pepper, and gochugaru and all the other mentioned chilis are all available at the Calgary-based The Silk Road Spice Merchant, with several locations or online at https://silkroadspices.ca . For gochujang, my go-to is Roy’s Kitchen ’s, a locally made product by my favourite Korean chef in town and his partner in crime (business, I mean), Chef Anna Jeong. Their gochujang is sold alongside other Korean specialties directly from the restaurant at 8500 Macleod Trail SE #170N, Calgary. That said, Korean-imported supermarket version of gochujang is also easy to find at most grocery stores. (C hoose a product with at least 10% red pepper powder, ideally 20-40%). A Paprika-Fueled Hungarian Menu (Mostly Traditional, Mildly Rebellious) For this menu, I’ve settled on an appetizer, a proudly meat-forward main, and a dessert. The first two are unapologetically traditional—everyday Hungarian fare, or at least the kind you’d expect on a proper Sunday table, complete with strong opinions, unsolicited advice, and someone insisting this is not how their mother made it. The dessert takes a small but deliberate culinary detour. Is it strictly traditional? Debatable. Is it outrageously delicious? Undeniably. It stays. Each course is paired with Hungarian wines (all mercifully available right here in Alberta), plus a few international stand-ins for those moments when your cellar—or your tolerance for specialty shopping—runs out before the paprika does. The Appetizer Körözött (KUH-roe-zut) is one of those dishes that insists on being called an appetizer while behaving very much like the main event. Officially, it’s a Hungarian paprika cheese spread . Unofficially, it’s the bowl I hover over with a spoon, making vague claims about “tasting for balance.” In its proper form, körözött is made with juhtúró (YOO-too-roh), a tangy Hungarian sheep’s milk curd that lives somewhere between cottage cheese and feta—but with more confidence and a sharper point of view. Think less polite dairy, more opinionated. Its closest relative is Slovak bryndza , which shares that same sheepy bite. Unfortunately, juhtúró does not exist in Canada. So I compromise—but tastefully—by reaching for a soft goat cheese. It understands the brief: creamy, tangy, and sturdy enough to carry paprika without collapsing under the weight of responsibility. And before anyone suggests plain cottage cheese: no. That’s not a substitution; that’s a surrender. Somewhat heartbreakingly, even in Hungary today, körözött is often made with cow’s milk cottage cheese (tehéntúró), presumably to accommodate gentler, baby-level palates—despite the continued existence of proper juhtúró, quietly wondering what it did to deserve this. You can serve körözött picnic-style or family-style, letting everyone generously slather it onto their own bread. I often stuff Hungarian sweet yellow peppers (also called paprika —see above) with körözött, slice them up, and watch them disappear; it’s dangerously delicious and never lasts long. If you’re feeling fancy—or entertaining fancy guests—it also works beautifully spooned onto elegant tasting spoons as a little amuse-bouche. Either way, it vanishes immediately. Körözött (Hungarian Paprika Cheese Spread) Appetizer / Snack / Picnic Food Servings: 6 | Prep Time: 15 minutes Ingredients 300 g / 1 ¼ cup soft goat cheese - the kind that comes in a log—works beautifully (or if you can find, sheep’s milk cheese) 60 g / ¼  cup sour cream or more for a lighter texture Fine sea salt 1 tsp ground caraway seeds 1 Tbsp sweet paprika ½ medium red onion, finely diced Instructions Combine the cheeses and sour cream in a bowl and mix until smooth. Season with salt, then stir in the paprika. Fold in the onions. Serve immediately or refrigerate. Bring to room temperature before serving. Garnish with chives and serve with bread, crackers, or raw vegetables (mostly, purple or green onions, tomatoes, and of course peppers!) Wine Pairings For the best experience, choose bright, aromatic, or fuller-bodied white wines to complement the paprika and caraway flavours.  Aromatic Whites: a crisp Grüner Veltliner Austria’s flagship white grape, known in Hungary as Zöldveltelini is prized for its bright acidity, clean citrus and green-apple fruit, and its signature white-pepper spice—one of the most food-friendly profiles in the wine world. Typically fresh and mineral-driven, Grüner shows lime, apple, and white peach with a subtle herbal edge, often shaped by stainless-steel fermentation to keep things crisp and precise. That peppery lift and refreshing structure make it an ideal match for paprika-forward dishes: it cuts richness, echoes spice, and keeps the palate awake without stealing the spotlight. Peter Wetzer Weiss, 2022 Peter Wetzer 0.8 hectares of Zöldveltelini is planted on pure schist in Sopron. He took a hands-off approach in the cellar, crushing the grapes and pressing them directly into tank for fermentation, then racking and bottling the wine by gravity, without fining or filtration. Full-Bodied Whites: Furmint aged in used oak provides "greener" flavours that match the spread's richness Zsirai Betsek Furmint etsek is often called the gentler, more refined side of Mád—elegant rather than loud, assured without needing to announce itself. Wines from this historic Tokaj vineyard tend to show ripe, composed fruit alongside cool mint, white pepper, and delicate floral notes that unfold gradually instead of demanding attention. On the palate, they begin soft and polished, then quietly deepen into layers of minerality, subtle fruit, and poised structure—complex in a way that rewards patience rather than haste. I’ve already written about the winery itself , beautifully run by the Zsirai sisters and their mother in Tokaj, so here the spotlight belongs to the site: a vineyard whose quiet authority translates seamlessly from soil to glass. And yes—the new logo and label? Absolutely love it. Other Beverages Beer: A cold lager or a strong traditional beer pairs well with the smoky and salty notes of the cheese. Pálinka ( Hungarian fruit brandy—read my delightful rant about it here ), because it technically goes with everything, and since this is an appetizer… and pálinka is often an aperitif in its own right, it seems only proper to start boldly and make a few questionable-but-delightful life choices. The Main Chicken Paprikash (Csirkepaprikás or Paprikás csirke - Nomenclature varies. Both correct. Moving on.) is probably the most famous Hungarian dish after, of course, the mighty gulyás. At its heart, it’s a humble chicken stew, simmered into greatness in a rich, paprika-infused sauce: comfort food with a national identity. Growing up, this was my absolute favourite thing my mother made, always served with the non-negotiable side of nokedli : small, handmade egg-drop dumplings, somewhere between spaetzle and culinary therapy. No shortcuts, no substitutions. Somehow, this dish skipped a generation and landed squarely in my older daughter’s heart as well. Growing up in Canada, she still claimed it as her Hungarian dish. On her first solo trip to Hungary, she returned not with souvenirs but with a nokedli szaggató —the traditional dumpling dropper—smuggled home like a relic of her heritage. Not just to own it, but to use it. To make the pasta. To continue the ritual. Because some recipes aren’t just food. They’re inheritance. Yes, most people make it with chicken thighs. Fine. But please— begging you —do not make this with chicken breast only. No sauce born of breast alone will ever be proud of itself. Paprikash needs fat : from the fattier parts of the chicken and yes, from the bones. That’s where the flavor lives. That’s where the sauce learns self-respect. The real magic happens when you use the whole bird —wings, breast, even the back, plus the innards if you’re feeling traditional (or sensible). It’s richer, tastier, and exactly how grandmothers intended. You start a proper paprikás with a pörkölt alap —the Hungarian stew base: onions, garlic, a chopped pepper, and a tomato.Use animal fat if you can (pork lard is traditional), or oil if you must. I stick to olive or avocado oil for… reasons, but any neutral oil will do. The important part is when the paprika goes in: off the heat/very low heat into the fat, where it can properly bloom. Paprika is fat-soluble, as we’ve discussed at perhaps unnecessary length, and this is where the magic happens. You can finish with a generous sour-cream thickening. I never do. Nor did my mother, or her mother, or hers before that. I prefer to leave it exactly as it is: glossy, paprika-rich, unapologetically savory. Serve with galuska / nokedli (Hungarian dumplings) and consider the job done. How to Cut Up a Whole Chicken (Quick Guide) Remove legs: Cut skin between leg and body, pull back to pop the joint, and cut through. Separate thigh & drumstick: Cut along the natural fat line. Remove wings: Lift wing, find the joint, and cut through. Breast & back: You can cut out the backbone and save for stock or leave it on with each breast halves. Depending in the size of your bird, cut each half into 2–3 pieces. Result: 10–12 pieces: 2 drumsticks, 2 thighs, 2 wings, and 4–6 breast pieces. Hungarian Chicken Paprikash Serves 6 (or 3 teenagers) | Prep time: 25 minutes | Cook time: 1 hour Ingredients  1 whole chicken, cut into pieces 1 large yellow onion 1 small fresh Hungarian wax pepper, sweet or hot (your call), or ½ green bell pepper 1 large tomato 2 garlic cloves 2 Tbsp oil or lard 2 Tbsp Hungarian paprika (choose your grade; Hungary has opinions - see above) Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste Instructions Prep the ingredients Clean and rinse the chicken, then cut it into pieces (see above). Salt generously and set aside. Wash the vegetables. Chop the pepper and tomato into small pieces. Peel and finely dice the onions. Leave the garlic cloves whole, but give them a light crush—just enough to wake them up. Optional, but civilized: If you feel like it, peel the tomatoes before chopping (using the hot-water blanching method). This keeps the skins from floating around later like tiny life rafts. Not mandatory—plenty of people don’t bother—but it does make the sauce behave better. Build the base Heat the oil or lard in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onions and sauté for 3–4 minutes, until soft and translucent but not browned. This is foundation work; take it seriously. The paprika moment Pull the pot off the heat , sprinkle in the paprika and stir immediately. Let it cook for 5–10 seconds only—just long enough to bloom in the fat and turn fragrant. Do not let it burn. Add the garlic, pepper, and tomato. Cook for a few minutes, until lightly softened. Pour in ¼–⅓ cup (60–80 ml) water, stir well, and let the paprika fully dissolve into the sauce. Season with salt and pepper. Cook the chicken Add the chicken pieces and turn to coat them thoroughly in the paprika base. Let them take on a little colour on all sides. Pour in just enough water to barely cover the meat (about 2–2½ cups / 475–600 ml). Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce the heat, cover, and simmer for 45 minutes- 1 hour , until the chicken is tender and the sauce has thickened. Add a bit more water during cooking if needed, but don’t drown it. TIP: Avoid stirring the chicken too much at this stage—it’s tender and can easily break apart. If anything sticks, gently tilt or swirl the pot to release the pieces instead of attacking them with a spoon. Serve hot with freshly made galuska, also called nokedli — the same beloved Hungarian dumpling, just wearing two perfectly acceptable names. Galuska (aka, Nokedli, Hungarian Dumplings) Serves 6 (or 3 teenagers) | Prep time: 10 minutes Cook time: 20 minutes Make the galuska while the paprikás cooks. (Pasta can be substituted - think German or Italian egg pastas or Spätzle or elbow macaroni, but these dumplings are traditional.) You’ll need a simple tool for this—Amazon makes it easy. Search for a spaetzle maker (galuska/nokedli’s more organized cousin). Flat grater boards, sliding hoppers, and colander-style presses all work; they just produce slightly different noodle personalities. Ingredients 400 g / 3.5 cups all-purpose flour 2 eggs 350 ml / 1.5 cups water 1 tsp salt Instructions Make the dough: In a bowl, mix the flour, eggs, salt, and water. Add the water gradually until you get a soft, galuska-style batter that slowly falls from a spoon. Cook: Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Using a dumpling cutter or a spoon, drop small pieces of dough into the boiling water. When the dumplings float to the surface, cook for another 1–2 minutes. Drain the galuska, toss lightly with a little oil or lard so they don’t stick together, and serve hot alongside chicken paprikash. Sour Cream Habarás ( Thickening) 150 ml / ⅔ cup Sour Cream 50 g / ⅓ cup All-purpose flour Salt, to taste Once the meat is cooked, remove it from the pot. In a bowl, mix the flour and sour cream until smooth and lump-free. Gradually whisk in a little of the hot sauce to temper the mixture. Pour the thickening back into the sauce and bring it to a gentle boil. To serve: Pour it over the meat and gently incorporate it into the sauce—you can mix it in completely for a smooth, homogeneous finish, or leave it lightly marbled if you prefer. Serve hot, with freshly made galuska. Wine Pairings For an authentic experience, look for Hungarian varietals that naturally complement the local spice profile: Traditional Hungarian Wine Options Kadarka : Since it practically rhymes with paprika, Kadarka feels less like a pairing choice and more like destiny—making it the number one wine for this dish. Kadarka is often considered the gold standard pairing for paprikás: a light, spicy red with bright acidity and fresh red-fruit notes (cherry, raspberry) that cuts through the creamy sauce without overwhelming the chicken. Heimann & Fiai of Szekszárd (South-West Hungary) are leading champions of the grape, working organically with a low-intervention, terroir-driven approach. Their Kadarka—often likened to Pinot Noir or Gamay—shows red fruit, pink pepper, soft tannins, and herbal lift, ranging from vibrant regional bottling to delicate single-vineyard expressions. Dry Tokaji Furmint: A crisp, mineral-driven white wine with slight floral notes. Its acidity lifts the richness of the dish, providing a refreshing counterpoint to the heavy sour cream - if you are adding that - see my recommendation for Furmint above. Kékfrankos (Blaufränkisch): Another excellent Hungarian red option, offering moderate tannins and spicy, dark berry notes that echo the smokiness of the paprika - see my r ecommendation for Kékfrankos here. International Wine Options If Hungarian wines are unavailable, several international varietals provide a similar balance: Pinot Noir: A cool-climate Pinot Noir (such as from Burgundy or Central Otago, New Zealand ) is an ideal substitute for Kadarka. Its light body and earthy, fruity notes won't clash with the cream. Dry Riesling: A dry Alsatian or German Riesling offers bright acidity and restraint, which is essential for managing the dish's richness. Chardonnay: A medium-bodied, lightly oaked Chardonnay (like a Pouilly-Fuissé or a Chablis  from Burgundy ) or Piedmont, Italy or Chile, Adelaide Hill Australia can match the "opulence" of the creamy sauce while providing enough acidity to keep the palate clean. Zweigelt: An Austrian red known for its peppery notes and soft tannins, making it a natural fit for paprika-based dishes.  Pairing Tips Avoid High Tannins: Heavy reds like Cabernet Sauvignon can clash with the subtle spice of paprika and feel overly "metallic" against the sour cream. Acidity is Key: Because Csirkepaprikás is traditionally served with buttery dumplings (nokedli), a wine with high acidity is necessary to refresh the palate between bites.  The Dessert While Hungarians—and, frankly, anyone raised with even a whisper of dessert-related common sense—do not traditionally use paprika in sweets, modern pastry has decided that rules are more like suggestions . Preferably ignorable ones. Enter the contemporary dessert world, where paprika has been quietly smuggled into ice creams, gelatos (yes, even in Hungary, where a few brave—or reckless—gelato makers have chosen chaos), mousses, and, inevitably, chocolate truffles. So for the sake of this blog post, culinary curiosity, and light cultural provocation, I made Paprika Dark Chocolate Truffles . Classic ganache: dark chocolate and heavy cream, rolled in cocoa powder and paprika at a very controlled 10:1 ratio—because I may be unhinged, but I’m not irresponsible. The effect isn’t spicy so much as existentially confusing in a good way . And honestly, if Nestlé can market chili chocolate to children without triggering an international incident, I can absolutely make paprika truffles. Especially considering Vevey—Nestlé’s spiritual chocolate headquarters—was effectively my home turf for about a decade. This is not rebellion. This is lived experience. Possibly destiny. Definitely audacity. These are proper, old-school dark chocolate truffles:just chocolate, cream, and a little patience. Think Parisian pâtisserie energy, but made in socks, possibly while listening to something moody... and the paprika, bien sûr! Paprika Dark Chocolate Truffles 🌶️🍫 Minimal ingredients. Maximum drama. Dessert | Prep Time: 30 minutes | Chill Time: 2 hours Serves: 8-10 sensible people, or fewer chocolate-obsessed ones Ingredients The Ganache 115 g / 4 oz good-quality 75% or higher dark chocolate, finely chopped (I use 85%) 80 ml / ⅓ cup heavy cream (33%-ish) 1 tbsp butter, room temperature - must be soft! (optional, but persuasive) ¼ tsp vanilla extract (optional, but charming) A pinch of salt (highly recommended—it knows what it’s doing) The Coating ¼ cup-ish Cocoa powder, or as needed 1 teaspoons Hot Hungarian paprika (substuties: neutral/ not smoked chilis, or espelette pepper) How This Becomes Truffles? Step 1: Le Ganache 1. Melt the chocolate Double Boiler Method (I don’t own a microwave—for reasons—so this is how we do things.) Finely chop the chocolate and place it in a heatproof bowl set over a double boiler (to make one: simmer 1–2 inches of water in a saucepan and place the bowl on top, making sure it doesn’t touch the water) . Stir gently until the chocolate is mostly melted, then remove from heat and let the residual warmth finish the job. Microwave Method  (if you must): Place the finely chopped chocolate in a microwave-safe bowl. Heat in 15–20 second intervals at 50% power, stirring well between each round. Stop when the chocolate is mostly melted and let the remaining heat smooth it out. Do not rush this. Chocolate burns quietly and holds grudges. 2. Heat the cream Warm the cream in a small saucepan just until tiny bubbles appear around the edges. Do not let it boil. Chocolate has a long memory and will punish you with graininess. 3. Make the ganache Remove the chocolate from the double boiler and place it on the counter. Slowly pour the warm cream into the melted chocolate in three additions, stirring gently after each. Add the butter, vanilla, and salt, if using. 4. Stir to emulsify Stir with a spoon or spatula—this is coaxing, not beating—until the mixture becomes smooth, glossy, and fully emulsified. This will take a couple of minutes.At this stage, the ganache will be fluid and pourable: perfect for drizzling or dipping (strawberries highly encouraged). 5. Chill to set To turn this into a rollable truffle ganache, cover the surface directly with plastic wrap (no air gaps—condensation is not invited) and refrigerate for at least 2 hours , until firm but still pliable. Step 2: L’Art du Roulage - This Is the Sticky Part Line a baking sheet with parchment. Place cocoa and paprika powder in a small bowl. Scoop the ganache into roughly 2-teaspoon portions (about 15 g each). Precision isn’t mandatory, but uniformity feels luxurious. Roll quickly between your palms—gloves help, cocoa-dusted hands help more—and form slightly imperfect balls. Freeze for 5 minutes, then re-roll for that smooth, truffle-shop finish. Roll gently in cocoa-paprika powder, place on a serving plate, and admire your work. Storage (If They Last): Keep refrigerated in an airtight container for up to two weeks. They also freeze beautifully, though I’ve never personally tested this due to unexpected disappearances. Notes from the Chocolate Whisperer Use good chocolate. Period. Aim for 75% cacao or higher (I don’t even acknowledge anything under 85% ). If you prefer it sweeter, add a touch of honey —don’t downgrade the chocolate to compensate. If your ganache splits: Add a splash of warm cream and whisk gently until glossy again. Texture goal: Soft, melt-on-the-tongue, slightly messy. Perfection is suspicious. Wine Pairings Paprika dark chocolate truffles require a wine that can stand up to the intense bitterness of high-cacao dark chocolate while complementing the warm, smoky, or slightly spicy notes of the paprika.  Hungarian Pairing Options Whites from Tokaj — read my (entirely justified) rant about this singular wine region here. Late-Harvest Furmint: Bright acidity, apple skin, quince, and a mineral backbone that cuts through ganache like a well-timed aside. This pairing feels clever rather than indulgent—which suits the “existentially confusing” brief. Château Pajzos Tokaji Hárslevelű Late Harvest 2021 Our first choice—and what we pour with the spicy paprika ganache. This sweet Tokaji, made from 100% Hárslevelű, is all honeyed fruit, silky texture, and bright acidity. Think golden colour, aromas of honey and gentle spice, and a palate layered with mango, quince, pear, and ripe orchard fruit—rich, but never heavy. It’s our go-to pairing for the paprika-spiked ganache because a touch of residual sugar tames the heat, while Tokaji’s natural acidity keeps the chocolate from feeling cloying. Sweet meets spice, balance is restored, and everyone wins. The producer also makes a Late Harvest Furmint , so if you’re tempted, pick up both and taste them side by side to spot the differences. Tokaji Aszú 5 puttonyos: Classic, yes—but choose restraint. The honeyed sweetness and acidity play beautifully with bitter chocolate, while the paprika reads as warmth rather than heat. Anything richer risks turning the truffle into a dare. Tokaji Szamorodni: Less overtly sweet than Aszú, with nutty, oxidative notes that echo dark chocolate’s bitterness while letting the paprika hum quietly in the background. Think walnuts, dried fruit, and gentle spice rather than dessert wine sugar-bomb. International Wine Options: Port- Ruby or LBV (sweet): Fortified wines like Late Bottled Vintage (LBV) Port are robust enough to match the chocolate's intensity. Their residual sugar balances the bitterness of the dark chocolate and helps tame any heat from the paprika. Besides Port, these work beautifully because the truffles have a gentle heat: Banyuls or Maury (sweet Grenache reds with cocoa notes that soften spice), Pedro Ximénez (lush raisin sweetness that tames heat), Recioto della Valpolicella (smooth richness that rounds the spice). Some would pair these truffles with dry reds - think Hungarian Bikavér (Bull’s Blood) , or a Malbec from Mendoza, Argentina , or Grenache from the Southern Rhône or Priorat - wines with enough body and spice to stand up to dark chocolate. That said, I prefer sweet whites here. With paprika or chili in the mix, a touch of residual sugar is not indulgence but strategy: it softens the heat, lifts the cocoa bitterness, and lets the spice behave rather than dominate. A late-harvest Tokaji or other noble-rot wine doesn’t fight the truffle—it choreographs it. In Closing: A Toast to Paprika (and Its Entire Extended Family) Paprika is not just a spice. It’s a personality, a passport, a cultural accent, and—on most days—the backbone of my cooking. Sweet or hot, Hungarian or Spanish, fermented, smoked, sun-dried, or quietly judging you from a jar, it proves that peppers are never just  ground red peppers! So here’s to paprika and to the entire pepper diaspora that makes our kitchens louder, deeper, and far more interesting. May your stews be red, your wine wisely chosen, and your spice drawer forever overqualified! Cheers 🌶️🍷 Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. A Christmas Table Without Borders In our Canadian home, Christmas cooking tends to roam happily across countries, picking up traditions like slightly mismatched ornaments collected from many winters and many places. Some inherited, others invented on the spot. This year’s menu wasn’t chosen at random, but inspired by contrast and connection: cold and warm, familiar and curious, comfort and brightness. For the first course, I chose Scandinavian salmon gravlax , a dish that brings winter elegance and a sense of old-world ritual to the table. Since we celebrate Christmas in Canada, maple syrup was non-negotiable: folded into the cure and the maple-mustard sauce that adds gentle, familiar richness. Japanese yuzu sake brings a bright, citrusy lift, cutting through the salmon’s silkiness and tying everything together. What unites the plate isn’t geography but balance. Each element sharpening and softening the others, making the whole feel quietly festive, intentional, and unmistakably Christmas. Bending Tradition (Gently) I usually make gravlax the traditional way, cured with aquavit (though pálinka often steps in, simply because we always seem to have more of it on hand). In gravlax, alcohol is an optional but time-honoured companion to the cure of salt, sugar, and dill: it deepens flavour, firms the fish, and quietly does its preserving work. This year, though, I felt like wandering. Yuzu is one of those aromas I never tire of, it's bright and almost electric. Once the idea of sake entered the picture, it refused to leave. The small bottle of Obaachan's Yuzu Shu , which I absolutely did not need but obviously bought anyway, turned out to be perfect: enough to perfume the gravlax cure, to pour a polite little cocktail for each of the four of us (recipe below), and even to sneak into dessert ( recipe here ). Tradition, gently bent, then cheerfully toasted. Christmas Eve Rules (Non-Negotiable) According to family policy (still enforced), December 24 is strictly pescatarian : fish only, no meat. It’s one of those Catholic traditions that quietly outlived its religious framework, clinging to the family long after we stopped being particularly observant. The rule itself remained clear, even as its original rationale softened with time. As a child, I took it very seriously. I was convinced that a bite of ham on Christmas Eve would trigger some kind of disturbance somewhere deep in the Vatican. Church attendance eventually fell away; the culinary rules did not. And so the tradition stuck, partly out of habit, partly because it makes sense. There’s something satisfying about marking the night with restraint before the indulgence of Christmas Day, especially when that restraint still allows for an impressive spread of fish-often enough to make the Miracle of the Multiplication look like a modest catering job. The result is a table that feels generous, slightly theatrical, and very intentional: Catholic energy without the church bells, overseen, at least in spirit, by a Hungarian grandmother ready to swat the bacon from your hand. Growing up, my father made a fiercely red, paprika-powered halászlé (the Hungarian fisherman’s soup), rich with carp, catfish, and an assortment of small sacrificial fishes. Whatever remained of the carp was sliced into proper steaks: skin, spine, the whole architectural blueprint, then dusted in flour (with paprika , obviously), dipped in egg, coated in breadcrumbs, and fried to golden perfection. Served with rice and tartare sauce, it was practically a religious experience (well, it is Christmas after all). Then I moved to Canada, where carp is treated as a kind of legally designated persona non grata (true story, there’s paperwork and everything). The Christmas fish tradition, however, survived the relocation. It simply adapted. Salmon stepped in without protest, and quickly claimed its place as the sovereign of our holiday table. And honestly? It wears the crown well. With its clean flavour and quiet elegance, salmon feels perfectly at home in a Christmas setting - especially cured Nordic-style. Scandinavian gravlax has become the natural expression of our now Canadian Christmas: festive but unfussy, elegant without effort, and deeply comforting for a household that believes fish deserves the spotlight. Once salmon took its place at the centre of the table, the question became not whether to season or cure it, but how to let it speak in a way that still felt celebratory. Gravlax is, by nature, restrained: salt, sugar, dill, patience, so any variation has to earn its place. This is where a small, deliberate departure felt right: not a reinvention, but a quiet accent. Something bright enough to lift the cure, aromatic enough to suggest travel, and subtle enough to respect the fish. The Yuzu Sake Yuzu is a Japanese citrus that lands somewhere between lemon, mandarin, and grapefruit, but with a brighter, more floral personality. Zesty and a little dramatic, it never overwhelms. My favourite citrus scent. Nakano Kunizakari Obaachan's Yuzu Shu Citrus Sake is a small bottle of holiday magic and long-distance longing. Sweet, tart, and beautifully aromatic, it tastes a bit like winter sunshine, and a lot like remembering Japan when travel plans are still theoretical. Made by blending freshly squeezed yuzu juice with pure rice wine, Obaachan's Yuzu Shu captures that unmistakable Japanese citrus brightness. It's somewhere between grapefruit, mandarin, and lemon, with soft floral notes. The sake base rounds everything out, calm and umami-rich, giving the whole thing a comforting, quietly festive glow. It’s worth noting that this is not regular sake (nihonshu), but a yuzu liqueur (yuzushu): traditional sake enriched with the tart, aromatic juice (and sometimes peel) of yuzu, rather than a purely brewed rice wine made only from rice, koji, and water. The result is gentler, brighter, and more expressive, perfectly suited to sipping, curing salmon, and generally making winter feel a little more luminous. Served chilled or over ice, it feels especially right at Christmas. Officially, it pairs well with sushi, donburi, fish and chips, or seafood tempura. Unofficially, it pairs beautifully with gravlax, candlelight, and wistful conversations about "that trip we’ll take again someday." • Alcohol: 7.3–7.5% ABV (gentle, not jet-lag inducing) • Size: 300 ml — just enough for a cure, and a quiet toast afterward • Origin: Aichi, Japan Winter Citrus French 75 Prep time:  5 minutes | Servings:  2 cocktails The French 75 a sparkling classic cocktail made of gin (or cognac), lemon juice, simple syrup, and Champagne: bright, elegant, and deceptively strong. In this variation, Japanese yuzu sake replace the syrup, and adds a floral lift and softer citrus nuance, creating a drink that’s crisp and celebratory. Ingredients: 2 oz (60 ml) Gin ( I used Hendrick’s Grand Cabaret , a fruit-forward limited edition with stone fruit and subtle floral notes.) 1 oz (30 ml) Nakano Obaachan's Yuzu Shu 4 oz (120 ml) Chilled Champagne ½ oz (15 ml) Fresh lemon juice Lemon twist for garnish Instructions Combine the gin, the yuzu sake and lemon juice in a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake vigorously until the mixture is well-chilled, which usually takes about 10-15 seconds. Strain the mixture into a chilled champagne flute or coupe glass. Top the glass with the chilled Champagne and stir gently to combine the ingredients. Garnish with a lemon twist and serve immediately.  Wine Pairing Pairing wine with salmon gravlax is a bit like choosing the right Nordic sweater: it should be crisp, well-structured, and sturdy enough to withstand emotional winds at 80 km/h. Gravlax (being the more polished cousin of smoked salmon, the one who studied urban planning in Copenhagen and insists on biking everywhere) calls for wines that can match its salty-silky confidence. What we needed was something properly vinous: a cold-climate white with real presence, bright acidity to echo the yuzu flavour and gentle sweetness of the cure, enough texture to flatter the salmon, and just enough restraint to let the food do the talking. When I pitched gravlax as the Christmas Eve appetizer, my husband shouted “Pierre Péters!”  with unmistakable enthusiasm. I lie. He never really shouts. He’s usually all restraint and finesse, the vinous equivalent of chalky minerality and a long, composed finish. But this time, I saw it clearly: the shouting was in his eyes. Not loud or unruly, just pure excitement, hinting the pairing is already a success. If the yuzu sake slipped quietly into the gravlax cure like a whispered secret, Pierre Péters Cuvée de Réserve Blanc de Blancs Grand Cru arrived at the table as its natural counterpart: calm, precise, and effortlessly in tune with the dish, clean, cured, and quietly luxurious. This was never meant to compete with the salmon’s delicacy or the sake’s citrus lift; it was chosen to echo them. Champagne Pierre Péters Cuvée de Réserve — Blanc de Blancs Grand Cru This is a champagne that never raises its voice, yet somehow commands the room. Made exclusively from Grand Cru Chardonnay in the Côte des Blancs, this champagne has a way of feeling both generous and disciplined at once. On the nose, it opens with clean citrus (lemon peel, a touch of grapefruit), followed by white flowers and just-baked brioche, all underlined by a quiet chalky salinity that feels tailor-made for cured fish. On the palate, it’s bright and linear, with an acidity that cuts cleanly through the richness of the gravlax without ever feeling sharp. Green apple, fresh pear, and almond glide alongside pure citrus notes, the mousse fine and controlled, the texture creamy but restrained. It doesn’t shout; it listens, responds, and elevates. The finish is long and composed, leaving behind a sense of clarity and calm, like the table settling into itself once everyone has taken the first bite and the first sip. Paired with salmon cured in yuzu sake, it feels inevitable rather than impressive: a champagne that knows exactly when to step forward, and when to let the food speak. Other options Traditionally, the Swedes would reach for aquavit an ice-cold, caraway-led drink often paired with a toast and a song everyone half-knows. It’s the classic partner to gravlax: herbal, bracing, and direct. But wine invites more dialogue. When citrus enters the cure, crisp whites and fine-bubbled Champagne step in naturally, echoing the brightness while letting the salmon lead. Sparkling Brut Champagne Do you need Champagne with gravlax? No. Would it elevate the whole experience and make the table feel instantly more celebratory? Absolutely. Crémant or Cava For when you want all the bubbles with none of the "my credit card is wheezing" energy. Sparkling Rosé Pink, bubbly, and shockingly food-friendly - like the extroverted Swede who somehow befriends everyone at the Midsummer party. Sparkling Sake (dry or lightly off-dry) - to stay on theme Surprisingly excellent with citrus desserts, especially when chilled to Champagne temperatures. White and Rosé Wines Chablis Crisp, mineral, and so elegant it could easily be mistaken for a Swedish royal. Perfect if your gravlax is served on fine china or, you know, IKEA plates (same energy). Sauvignon Blanc Bright, zesty, and herbaceous—basically the wine equivalent of a Scandinavian kitchen: clean, minimal, and with surprising hints of dill. Grüner Veltliner Fresh, peppery, and slightly eccentric, much like a Norwegian designer who insists all furniture must be functional and asymmetrical. Dry Rosé Always appropriate. Always chic. The wine equivalent of a Finn in summer: quiet, pale, unexpectedly serious, and somehow exactly right. Yuzu Sake Salmon Gravlax Appetizer or main | Fish SERVINGS 8 | Preparation: 25 minutes | Curing Time: 2 days I buy my salmon frozen, always a half fillet, and always wild. It’s a deliberate choice, partly for quality, partly for flexibility. Frozen at peak freshness, it gives me the freedom to plan ahead, whether the fish is destined for gravlax or simply for easy weeknight grilling, cut from the thickest, most generous part. The tail end never goes to waste either: it’s perfect for a small pot of fish stew or a batch of fish cakes, the kind of simple, thrifty cooking that is especially right in winter. A splash or two of aquavit (or any properly assertive spirit, be it neutral like vodka, gently mischievous like gin, or, in our case, a fragrant yuzu sake) is folded into the cure. Lemon zest brings the sparkle, crushed pink peppercorns add a polite little kick and a hint of colour, maple syrup for sweetness and winter warmth, and the green, feathery dill used in generous abundance. Once cured, the salmon is sliced whisper thin (thinner than feels reasonable or safe) and served on your bread or cracker of choice. This way, we give the dish a subtle Canadian spin with a dill-forward maple mustard sauce. Plan ahead: this dish insists on two full days to become its best self. The fish: Ingredients 1 half large, skin-on wild salmon fillet (about 700 g / 1½ lb) 1 large bunch fresh dill, coarsely chopped (about 1 cup) ¼ cup kosher salt ¼ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon maple syrup ¼ tablespoons or to taste crushed (black, pink) peppercorns Timut peppercorns, optional * Finely grated lemon zest, to taste ¼ cup yuzu sake Instructions Defrost the salmon fillet in the refrigerator for 24 hours, or start with a fresh one. Place the salmon skin-side down in a dish large enough to hold it comfortably, over a large piece of plastic wrap. In a small bowl, combine the salt, sugar, peppercorns, lemon zest, maple syrup, and sake. Press the curing mixture evenly onto the flesh (I coat both sides). Lay the washed dill—either whole or coarsely chopped—over the fish. Cover first with plastic wrap pressed directly onto the salmon, then seal with an additional layer of wrap, creating a tight, well-contained bundle. Set a cutting board or a sheet pan on top and weigh it down with something heavy (canned goods or a cast-iron pan work perfectly). Refrigerate for 2 days. Every 12 hours, unwrap the fish, turn it over, baste it with the accumulated juices, then rewrap, and return it to the fridge. If you skip the basting, it’s perfectly fine—just don’t skip the turning. After curing, discard the marinade and scrape away the dill and excess seasoning. Slice the salmon thinly on the diagonal and serve with mustard sauce. The Silk Road *I also added whole Timut peppercorns (aka Timur berries) to the gravlax cure, partly because I had them, and partly because felt far too interesting to sit out Christmas. These fragrant berry peppers have become quietly popular for their citrusy, slightly electric aroma, somewhere between grapefruit zest and lemongrass. They behave less like a traditional pepper and more like a spice with wanderlust. Used sparingly, they complement salmon much like citrus zest does, adding lift, brightness, and just enough intrigue to make people pause and ask, "What is that?" In short: you won’t find Timut pepper in a centuries-old Scandinavian recipe, but you will find it in the kitchens of people who enjoy tradition. The sauce (Gravlaxsås): Ingredients 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard 1 tablespoon prepared mayonnaise 2-3 teaspoons Canadian maple syrup ( escuminac.com ) 7 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil or a neutral flavoured oil like avocado 3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh dill Salt and freshly ground pepper Instructions Whisk the vinegar, mustard, mayonnaise and maple syrup together in a small bowl. Slowly whisk in oil. Whisk in chopped dill and season to taste with salt and pepper. Notes: Mustard sauce can be made up to 2 days ahead. Cover tightly and store in the refrigerator until ready to use. Give it a brief whisk to recombine just before serving. A Christmas Eve Menu in Three Courses This year’s Christmas Eve menu was light, balanced, and quietly festive, built around fish and bright, restrained flavours. From yuzu sake, cured gravlax with maple-mustard sauce (paired with crisp French Champagne), to sole with capers and a lemon, and finally yuzu tiramisu, the meal moved with ease from north to south. A Mosel Riesling Kabinett, dry and mineral, carried the main course and the dessert, keeping the finish fresh and composed, rather than rich or heavy. The main dish took a gentle turn south, trading Nordic restraint for Mediterranean warmth. Delicate sole piccata in a buttery caper sauce followed: bright with lemon, lightly briny, and effortlessly elegant, bringing a hint of coastal sunshine to the depth of winter. You can read the full post here. To close the evening, a lemon–yuzu tiramisu brought a fresh, gentle finish to the table. Light citrus notes balanced the creaminess, with just enough sweetness to feel festive without being heavy. It was calm, clean, and exactly right after a rich meal. You can read the full post here. Happy sipping and savouring!

Yuzu-flavoured sake   | Aichi, Japan   I found these impossibly cute pink savoiardi cookies at my local Italian supermarket and, naturally, couldn’t resist. They came back to haunt me later, right when I was planning dessert for our Christmas Eve dinner. With their subtle hint of strawberry, the classic coffee pairing suddenly felt wrong. By then, the menu had already taken a citrusy turn: our pescatarian table revolved around yuzu sake, first introduced through cured salmon gravlax. So why should it stop there? That small bottle of citrusy Japanese liqueur had already proved its charm. Letting a little of it slip into dessert felt less like improvisation and more like good manners: continuity, not excess. And just like that, a citrusy, sake-kissed tiramisu quietly joined the table, where lemon curd meets mascarpone and a gentle splash of yuzu sake adds floral lift and understated sophistication. No coffee, no cocoa—just winter sunshine, layered. Yuzu Sake–Kissed Citrus Tiramisu SERVINGS 8 | Preparation: 30 minutes | Chill time : 24 hours Ingredients For the Lemon Curd (about 1.5 cup) fresh lemon juice and lemon zest from 2 large lemons ⅔ cup granulated sugar 4 large eggs ½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, cut into small cubes pinch of salt For the Lemon–Yuzu Syrup 240 ml / 1 cup yuzu sake (Obaachan’s Yuzu works beautifully) fresh lemon juice and lemon zest from 1 large lemon ¼ cup granulated sugar For the Cream Filling & Assembly 16 oz mascarpone cheese ¼ tsp kosher salt 1½ cups cold heavy cream Lemon curd (from above) 24 crisp savoiardi ladyfingers (200 grams/7 oz) Powdered sugar, for dusting (optional) Instructions Make the Lemon Curd Whisk the eggs, sugar, lemon juice, and salt in a medium saucepan until smooth. Cook over medium-low heat, whisking constantly, until thick enough to coat the back of a spoon (8–10 minutes). Do not boil. Remove from heat and stir in the butter until glossy and smooth. Transfer to a bowl or jar and press plastic wrap directly onto the surface. Cool completely (about 1 hours). Make the Lemon–Yuzu Syrup Combine sugar and lemon juice in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat, stirring, until the sugar dissolves (3–4 minutes). Remove from heat and stir in the yuzu sake . Cool completely in a shallow dish. Make the Cream Filling Beat mascarpone and salt briefly until smooth, do not overmix . With the mixer running, slowly add cream, beating just until soft peaks form. Gently fold in about 1 cup or the 2/3 of the lemon curd  you made, keeping the mixture airy. Assemble Dip ladyfingers quickly into the lemon–yuzu syrup (a confident dip, not a swim) and arrange in a snug single layer in a 9×13-inch dish. Spread half the mascarpone mixture evenly over the top. Repeat with a second layer of soaked ladyfingers, using any remaining syrup, then finish with the remaining cream. Spread the lemon curd evenly over the top. Cover tightly and refrigerate overnight. Serve with fresh strawberries to echo the subtle strawberry notes of the savoiardi cookies. Notes The yuzu sake should whisper , not shout. This is dessert, not a spritz. Can be assembled up to 24 hours ahead (add the final curd layer just before serving). Keeps refrigerated for up to 4 days, if it lasts that long. Wine Pairing Suggestions This dessert lives in the bright, aromatic, low-tannin world. Think freshness, finesse, and restraint; anything too sweet or oaky will step on the citrus. Champagne & Sparkling (The Obvious, Correct Choice) Blanc de Blancs Champagne (especially Côte des Blancs) Crisp acidity mirrors the lemon curd, chalky minerality reins in the cream, and fine bubbles keep everything lifted. Pierre Péters, obviously, but you knew that. Full post here! Crémant de Loire or Crémant de Bourgogne A more relaxed sparkle, still citrus-friendly and quietly elegant. My pick: Le Domaine des Terres Dorées (Chermette) Crémant de Bourgogne is a brut Blanc de Blancs , made from 100% Chardonnay , fresh and elegant, and produced using the traditional method. Sourced from the clay-limestone soils of the Mâconnais and blended from several vintages, it offers lively, precise bubbles with a perfectly balanced profile. L ightly Sweet, Aromatic Whites German Kabinett Riesling (Mosel or Rheingau) Just enough sweetness to soften the lemon, electric acidity to keep it precise. A very good idea. My pick: Sybille Kuntz Riesling Kabinett (Mosel, Germany) is a precise, aromatic white from steep, blue-slate vineyards in the Lieser Schlossberg. Dry and mineral-driven, it shows racy citrus and lime leaf with flashes of apricot, carried by vivid acidity and elegant tension. Japanese-Inspired Pairings (Staying on Theme) Yuzu Sake (served very cold) A small glass alongside the dessert, continuity, not repetition. Think echo, not encore. Full post here! Sparkling Sake (dry or lightly off-dry) Surprisingly excellent with citrus desserts, especially when chilled to Champagne temperatures. My pick: Hakutsuru Sayuri Nigori in a cute pink bottle, is a creamy, gently sweet Junmai sake with a soft, cloudy texture from its coarse filtration. Made from Japanese rice and koji with no added alcohol, it shows delicate aromas of banana and melon, with flavours of white grape, ripe pear, and a faint coconut note, smooth, balanced, and quietly comforting. What to Politely Avoid Heavy dessert wines (Sauternes, late-harvest monsters): too rich, too loud. Red wine of any kind (dry, sweet, fortified). This is not the moment. Anything aggressively oaked, leave the vanilla to the mascarpone. In short: Bright, mineral, and composed wines win here. If the bottle feels like it’s whispering rather than performing, you’re on the right track. Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. I did promise that foie gras was strictly a decadent New Year’s Eve affair, and that January would return us to a more austere table. I am nothing if not a woman of my word. Like many of us, I also religiously eat lentils on January 1st, in the hopeful belief that they usher in money and prosperity for the year ahead. So far, the results have been… theoretical. But traditions, like good wine and bad habits, deserve loyalty, so we persist. When I make lentils, I make enough to last at least a couple of days, because anything less feels like a missed opportunity. I slow-simmer the little bastards until they’re deeply savoury, properly seasoned, and endlessly adaptable, the kind of base that quietly improves everything it touches. Over the next few days, they shape-shift: a side one night, a base the next, maybe breakfast if I’m feeling virtuous. I reinvent them into sides for two (sometimes three) different meals so no one feels like they’re eating leftovers, though they absolutely are . The trick is confidence. Lentils, when treated correctly, don’t mind being reused. In fact, they seem to prefer it. As for lentil shopping, I have my usual suspects: Green Lentils or lentilles de Puy from France, bien sûr , mineral, elegant, and well-behaved, and glossy black beluga lentils , which I buy proudly Canadian-grown and deeply reliable. And speaking of Canada: it’s not just maple syrup and wheat fields. Canada is the world’s largest lentil producer, supplying a significant portion of the global market. Prairie-grown lentils, especially from Saskatchewan, are shipped everywhere, quietly fuelling stews, soups, and prosperity rituals across the planet. So if the January austerity must happen, at least it happens with global agricultural dominance on our side! How to Stretch Your Lentils Without Feeling Like a Monk As mentioned above, I’m a firm believer in cooking a heroic batch of lentils and riding that wave for days. I slow-simmer them properly, then deploy them strategically as side dishes with different mains, provoking repeated "I swear this is a new meal" situations. And when it comes to what lentils actually want to be eaten with, I have strong feelings. There are two correct answers: pork and salmon Pork is the obvious bad influence. Bacon, sausage, pork shoulder, anything fatty, and salty. Lentils absorb pork drippings like they’re trying to secure a better future. This is peasant food in the best possible way: cozy, grounding, and suspiciously good for something so cheap. Salmon is the respectable option. Still rich, still indulgent, but dressed in a Canadian tuxedo and impeccably behaved. Pan-seared salmon on warm lentils whispers effortless chic . It’s also the version you serve when you want credit for being healthy without giving up pleasure. Cook once. Eat for days. Change the protein. And for anyone eating vegan or vegetarian , this "side" quietly becomes the whole meal . Deeply nourishing , full of umami, grounded, sober, and satisfying in that calm, I’m not hungry an hour later way. Proof that a dish doesn’t need theatrics, or meat, to feel complete. Also a great breakfast of champions : warm lentils on toast, sautéed greens, a fried or poached egg . Try finishing with parsley and chives, dill with lemon zest, or a touch of tarragon. Naturally, Wine Enters the Picture ... because lentils may be humble, but they are not ascetic. The formula is simple: One heroic pot of lentils. Two proteins. Two wine directions. The lentils stay the same. The plate changes. The glass adapts. And somehow, miraculously, it is  a new meal. International Selection With pork you want something light on its feet. A juicy, low-tannin red works beautifully: Beaujolais - the chillable Gamay, all crunch and charm Loire Cabernet Franc - herbal, peppery, and politely restrained Pinot Noir - silky, red-fruited, and effortlessly well-mannered Rosé - dry and nervy, earning its seat at the table (think Côtes de Provence or Tavel , serious pink with a backbone) The salt and fat from the pork soften the wine; the wine, in return, keeps the lentils from tipping into stew-for-the-third-night territory. With salmon on the other hand, you want a confident white. Not timid. White Burgundy - structured, mineral, and quietly authoritative Serious Loire Chenin - taut, saline, restrained Austrian Grüner Veltliner - peppery, energetic, and impeccably dry Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc - electric, citrusy, loud Dry Alsace or German Riesling - razor-sharp, aromatic, and thrillingly precise You want acidity to cut the richness, enough body to stand up to the fish, and just enough structure to keep the lentils honest. This is not the moment for a whispery patio wine. Canadian Selection, Eh? 🍁 Cook once. Eat for days. Drink Canadian. Since lentils are basically Canada’s unofficial national legume, and pork and salmon are right up there too - it feels only right to pair the whole situation with great Canadian wine . Cue mild patriotism. Possibly a calm, unshakeable certainty that we understand hockey better than everyone else. With pork I stay firmly in light Canadian red or dry rosé territory. Nothing heavy, nothing loud, this is dinner, not a personality contest. Think Niagara Peninsula or Prince Edward County in Ontario, or head west to the Okanagan and Similkameen Valleys in British Columbia. Canadian rosés , look for Pinot Noir or Gamay-based options from Niagara, ON or Okanagan, BC, with popular examples including Henry of Pelham, Tawse, Leaning Post, Quails' Gate, 50th Parallel, Unsworth, Clos du Soleil, and Megalomaniac, often showing notes of red berries, crisp acidity, and minerality, similar to French styles but with unique Canadian terroir. Gamay from Niagara or Similkameen - Juicy, bright, impeccably behaved. Pinot Noir from Prince Edward County or the Okanagan - Polite, elegant, and knows exactly when to stop talking. Cabernet Franc from the same regions - fresh, herbal, quietly confident No aggressive oak. No brooding theatrics. Just wines that won’t bully the lentils or steal attention from the pork. In other words: very Canadian behaviour. Our choice: Stratus Cabernet Franc 2022 | Niagara-on-the-Lake, ON We received a bottle of 2020 Stratus Cabernet Franc 'Decant' as a gift (a very generous one), and since I cooked for the friends who brought it, opening it felt non-negotiable. If you’re hosting equally generous guests, this is the bottle you open. If not, there’s always excellent Cabernet Franc bottles - proof that you can still enjoy life and  your budget. This Stratus "Decant" wine — and the bottle itself — is truly something special. It’s not just a wine you drink; it’s an object you admire . A rare moment where contemporary design and serious winemaking meet with complete confidence. Presented in a sculptural oval gift box, the bottle is a striking collaboration with Karim Rashid , one of Canada’s most celebrated industrial designers and a true global design icon. Known for his fluid forms, sensual geometry, and human-centred philosophy, Rashid has spent decades shaping everything from furniture and interiors to hotels, lighting, and everyday objects. Always with the belief that design should be emotional, accessible, and alive. His unmistakable aesthetic translates beautifully here. The bottle’s deconstructed, asymmetric form is inspired by the layered glacial soils of the Stratus vineyard. It’s not design for design’s sake: the shape functions as a built-in decanter , naturally trapping the lees as the wine is poured. It’s clever, purposeful, and quietly theatrical, the kind of object an art lover wants to turn in their hands before opening. Inside is an unfiltered, lees-aged Cabernet Franc with real elegance and authority. Expect notes of dried herbs, licorice, laurel, and ripe blackberry, framed by firm tannins and focused acidity. Fermented in French oak and aged for nearly two years, the wine fully reflects its exceptional vintage. 2020 was a standout year in Ontario , a warm winter, dry spring, steady summer heat, and a long, sun-filled autumn created ideal conditions for slow, complete ripening. Yields were low across the region, but quality was exceptional. The result is a Niagara Cabernet Franc with depth, balance, and character, and a bottle you’ll want to keep on display long after the last glass is poured. More on the producer website . With salmon It’s all about a confident white. Composed, assured, and fully in control, this is not the moment for anything shouty or overworked. Niagara Chardonnay in its cooler-climate, mineral-leaning mood: focused, restrained, and firmly anti–butter bomb. Fumé Blanc : structured, polished, clean-lined, and quietly powerful, knows exactly when to lead and when to step back (Hidden Bench Rosomel Vineyard) Okanagan Riesling with real backbone: bright acidity, dry, precise, and absolutely no patience for flab. Clean, intelligent whites that respect the salmon and don’t try to outshine it. Still very Canadian behaviour. Our choice: Tantalus Riesling, 2024 | Kelowna, B.C. Every time we roll into the Okanagan, there’s one rule we never break: Tantalus Vineyards comes first. Not after lunch. Not once we’re settled . First. Partly because we genuinely love the wines of the oldest continuously producing vineyard in British Columbia, and partly because its location in Southeast Kelowna, on the eastern slopes of the Okanagan Valley - feels like a perfectly placed welcome mat for anyone driving in from Calgary. You pull in and the vineyard practically whispers: " You made it. Have a Riesling.” " And honestly? We always do. And if you know, you know : the Old Vines Riesling is non-negotiable. This flagship bottle comes from a treasured block of Riesling planted back in 1978 and comes with some very real bragging rights - like being named 2021 Lieutenant Governor’s Wine of the Year . Whatever that officially means, we take it to be the wine-world equivalent of a standing ovation from the entire province of British Columbia. Now, the 2024 Tantalus Riesling has also a great story to tell: after a dramatic 2024 crop loss at the home estate, the grapes went on a little adventure of their own, sourced from cool-climate Ontario vineyards before being brought back to Kelowna for fermentation. The result is an off-dry Riesling that’s bright, precise, and quietly impressive; think mandarin, apple, pink grapefruit, citrus pith, and that signature wet-stone finish that makes Riesling lovers weak at the knees. With lively acidity, a modest 11.4% alcohol, and a medal from the 2025 National Wine Awards of Canada , it’s proof that resilience can be delicious. More on the producer website. Alright, enough of the wines (just kidding - never), let’s talk about the lentils, shall we? The side: Braised Lentils with Mirepoix Mirepoix (pronounced meer-PWAH ,) is the foundational French flavour base of finely diced onions, carrots, and celery . They’re gently cooked in butter or oil until they soften and release their sweetness. This is the quiet beginning of nearly everything good: soups, stews, stocks, sauces. The traditional ratio is two parts onion to one part carrot and one part celery , but feel free to improvise. It’s remarkably forgiving, and it’s very hard to do wrong. As for lentils, French green (Puy) or Beluga are the only correct choices here. They hold their shape, keep a little bite, and don’t collapse into sadness halfway through cooking. Disclaimer: No offense intended to red, brown, or split lentils, you have your place in the world. Just… not here. French green lentils (aka Lentilles du Puy) and Beluga lentils G arlic, bay leaf, thyme, sometimes bundled neatly into a bouquet garni so it can be removed without drama. The result? A rich, savoury base that behaves like a side dish but secretly thinks it could be the main character. Ingredients 2 tablespoons olive oil 2 cups onion, diced 1 cup celery, diced 1 cup carrot, diced 3–4 garlic cloves, roughly chopped 1½ cups dry French green lentils (Le Puy) or Beluga/black lentils ¼ cup sherry, red, white, or skip and add 1 tsp red wine vinegar at the end 4 cups vegetable or chicken stock (or water + 1 bouillon cube) 1 teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon mustard (whole grain or Dijon, optional but encouraged) 4–5 sprigs fresh thyme (or 1 tsp dried) 2 bay leaves Instructions Heat olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add onion, celery, and carrot. Stir 4–5 minutes, then lower heat to medium and cook another 4–5 minutes until soft and fragrant. Add garlic and lentils. Stir for 2 minutes. Pour in the wine and let it cook off, about 2 minutes. Add stock, salt, and mustard. Stir, bring to a lively simmer. Add thyme and bay leaves, cover, and gently simmer on low for 25–30 minutes , until lentils are tender but still holding their shape. Uncover and cook off any excess liquid. Remove herbs, taste, adjust salt. Finish with a tiny splash of red wine vinegar to wake everything up. These lentils aren’t just a side, they’re the foundation . Calm, grounding, and quietly doing the responsible work so the proteins can have their little emotional arcs. From here, you choose your adventure. For my recipes, I used the same technique (sous-vide) for both mains, because chaos is for flavour, not for planning. Main #1: Sous-Vide Pork Tenderloin with Herb Crust - rich and indulgent. Main #2: Sous-Vide Salmon - clean and confident. Main #1: Sous-Vide Pork Tenderloin with Herb Crust I remember one of my eeriest and most unforgettable cooking experiences. It took place in the kitchen of a French chef who taught me how to make Salt-Crusted Pork Roast ( Rôti de porc en croûte de sel). He was a little unhinged. Loud. Intensely French. He had opinions, strong ones. About former colleagues. About chefs he clearly despised. About people who were absolutely not present to defend themselves. Many of these opinions were wildly inappropriate and delivered at full volume. No one intervened. Everyone carried on chopping, stirring, nodding, as if this were perfectly normal behaviour. Which, somehow, in that kitchen, it was. And yet, what he cooked was extraordinary: Rôti de porc en croûte  is a classic of French cuisine, traditionally prepared in one of three ways: wrapped in puff pastry for crispness, or encased in a salt crust  for meat so tender it barely resists the knife or in a herb and mustard crust . I choose the last one. I’ve always felt that throwing away a kilo of salt a bit wasteful. Especially when the herb-and-mustard version tastes just as good, if not better. Sous vide cooking When sous vide machines finally became mainstream, I never looked back. Sous vide (French for “under vacuum” ) is a very polite way of cooking food in a plastic bag, slowly, in a warm bath, at an extremely controlled temperature. Invented by a French chef in the 1970s, it’s all about patience: low heat, long time, no panic. The goal? Perfectly even cooking, maximum juiciness, and zero drama. Nothing overcooks, nothing dries out, and the food emerges calm, tender, and quietly superior. Sous vide (pronounced soo veed — with a D at the end) . It’s often mispronounced as “soo vee,” which is… unfortunate, because sous vie means something else entirely. And while cooking under life sounds poetic, it is not, in fact, a method. The D matters . Say it proudly. Like you know what you’re doing. So , pork tenderloin, so often dry and unforgiving, becomes something else entirely when cooked sous vide: juicy, precise, nearly impossible to mess up. I rarely make pork tenderloin without it now (unless it’s butterflied and marinated). It’s simply superior. Yes, it’s an investment (around $100) but everything you cook with it improves. And it’s small, which matters when your kitchen is already full of appliances you swore you’d use and absolutely do not. When you’re dealing with quick-cooking meats (steaks, pork chops, pork tenderloin) temperature is everything. It’s the difference between juicy and jubilant, or dry and deeply disappointing. Pork starts tightening up and squeezing out moisture around 120°F (49°C), and from there it just gets more opinionated the hotter it goes. Sous vide, thankfully, puts you in charge. Choose your temperature, lock it in, and let the pork behave exactly the way you want it to. This is the chart (form S erious Eats) I personally use when recommending sous-vide temperatures for pork tenderloin - my go-to reference. And if you’re short on time, three hours is plenty to get it perfectly tender and juicy. Sous-Vide Pork Tenderloin with Herb Crust Serving: 3-4 | Prep time: 10 minutes | Cook time: 3 hours and 10 minutes Deeply savoury. Ridiculously good. A perfectly juicy pork tenderloin with a bold mustard, garlic, and herb crust. Quite possibly the best pork tenderloin you’ll ever make. Ingredients 1 pork tenderloin (about 500–600 g / 1.1–1.3 lb) - ideally with a bit of fat still attached 1 tsp fine salt ½ tsp black pepper 2 clove garlic, lightly crushed, skin left on 1 tbsp butter or olive oil For the crust 2 tbsp coarse Dijon mustard 1 tbsp garlic paste or finely minced garlic 1 tbsp fresh thyme, chopped 1 tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped ½ tsp black pepper Flaky salt, to finish Instructions Prepare the water bath: Fill your sous vide container with enough water to fully submerge the food, ensuring the minimum water level is met. Attach the immersion circulator and begin heating. Choose your cooking temperature - see the chart above for your preferred level of doneness. My personal sweet spot: Temperature:   140°F (60°C) Time:   3-4 hours Season & sous vide: Season the pork tenderloin generously with salt and pepper. Place it in a vacuum bag with the butter (or oil) and garlic, seal, and cook at your chosen temperature for the selected time. Dry & preheat: Remove the pork from the bag and dry it thoroughly with paper towels. This is essential for browning Preheat the oven to 550°F / 290°C . If available, use the roast or broil function with heat from the top element. Prepare the crust: In a small bowl, mix the Dijon mustard, garlic paste, thyme, rosemary, and black pepper. Coat the pork: Spread the mustard mixture evenly over the pork. Sprinkle lightly with flaky salt. High-heat finish: Place the pork on a rack set over a baking sheet (for air circulation), fat side up. Position it on the top rack, close to the heating element. Roast until deeply golden and crusted, about 5–6 minutes.Turn and roast the other side for a few more minutes if needed. Rest & serve: The pork has already rested slightly after sous vide, so it won’t overcook in the oven. Slice and serve immediately. Note: You can also skip the oven and finish the pork in a screaming-hot (cast-iron) pan , turning until a deep crust forms on all sides. It’s a bit messier and requires more kitchen cleanup, but just as excellent. The Main #2: Sous-vide Salmon Now yes, I use my sous vide machine for the salmon too. If you’re going to spend the money, you might as well commit . Some people will tell you sous vide isn’t necessary for fish. Fish cooks fast. Fish is forgiving. Fish doesn’t need the drama. To which I politely ask: have you actually tried it? Because if the answer is no, you’re missing out. Cooking salmon sous vide is the simplest way to get perfectly cooked fish, every single time. No guessing, no hovering over the pan, no crossed fingers. Just precision. Sous vide salmon comes out a luminous, translucent blush: silky, delicately flaky, and impossibly tender. Pan-seared salmon, meanwhile, often tells a more chaotic story: overcooked edges, a centre scrambling to catch up, and that telltale white albumin quietly announcing the fish has gone a step too far. With sous vide, the salmon never panics. The temperature is exact, the texture is controlled, and the uncertainty disappears. What you’re left with is calm, precise cooking, and salmon that’s consistently moist, tender, and quietly perfect. Also: choose your salmon wisely . This is not a background protein. This is the main character. Salmon isn’t here to politely fill space on the plate while sauces and sides do the talking. Its flavour, texture, and fat content are the point. Good salmon should taste clean and rich at the same time, with enough natural fat to stay luscious when cooked gently. When you start with quality, fresh, well-handled, responsibly sourced, you don’t need tricks. No heavy marinades, no distractions, no apologies. Treat it like the lead role it is, and everything else on the plate should know its place. Lentils, attention! Temperature Matters (A Lot) Salmon is extremely sensitive to temperature. Even a few degrees can mean the difference between silky perfection and disappointment. That’s why precision matters. My personal preference, after far too much research (blogs, chefs, restaurant kitchens) and a few very willing test runs, is 113°F / 45°C for 50 minutes . The result is salmon that’s translucent, incredibly moist, and delicately flaky, almost custard-like, but still recognizably salmon. Thicker fillets may need closer to an hour, but the beauty of sous vide is this: whether you’re cooking one portion or ten, the method stays the same. Every fillet comes out perfectly cooked. Sous Vide Salmon Temperature Guide 104°F / 40°C – Firm, sashimi-like 113°F / 45°C – Translucent, just beginning to flake (my favourite) 122°F / 50°C – Very tender, moist, and flaky 131°F / 55°C – Firm, fully flaky, still juicy Sous-Vide Salmon with Brown Butter Miso Servings: 4 | Prep time: 10 minutes | Cook time: 1 hour The brown butter miso is optional, but I really love this umami-packed sauce. If you don’t feel like buying miso or making the sauce, the salmon is still perfectly delicious simply seared after its sous-vide bath and served over lentils. Simple, elegant, and still very much a win. Ingredients Salmon fillets: Atlantic or Pacific salmon both work well. Look for vibrant colour, intact skin, and flesh that looks plump and fresh. Avoid any dullness, brown spots, or overly fishy smell, fresh salmon should smell like the ocean, not like regret. For Sous Vide Salmon Four 115 grams / 4 oz salmon fillet, skin on, pin bones removed, 560 grams /16 oz in total 10 grams / 2 tsp kosher salt Freshly cracked black pepper, to taste 2 clove garlic, lightly crushed, skin left on 30 grams / 2 tbsp unsalted butter or  olive oil For the brown butter miso 115 g / ½ cup unsalted butter 2 tbsp Japanese miso paste 1 tbsp soy sauce or tamari 1 tsp rice vinegar or lemon juice 1 tsp honey or maple syrup (optional, for balance) Instructions Prepare the water bath: Fill your sous vide container with enough water to fully submerge the food, ensuring the minimum water level is met. Attach the immersion circulator and begin heating. Choose your cooking setting Texture: Tender with a warm, silky center Temperature: 113°F (45°C) Time: 50 minutes Prepare the salmon: If not already cut, cut into portions of about 4 oz /115 g each. Season: Lightly season each salmon portion with kosher salt and freshly cracked black pepper. Place into a vacuum bag with the butter or olive oil, and garlic. Seal: Vacuum-seal the bag, making sure all excess air is removed and the salmon is fully sealed. Submerge: Attach a weight to the bottom of the bag if needed to keep it submerged. Lower the bag into the water bath and secure it with a clip. Cook: Let the salmon cook sous vide for the full 50 minutes at 113°F / 45°C or adjust to your liking- see the Temperature Guide above and follow your own level of commitment. Remove and dry: Carefully remove the salmon from the water bath. Transfer the fillets to a paper towel–lined plate or baking sheet. Discard the garlic. Pat the skin thoroughly dry (this is key for a good sear.) Make the brown butter miso: In a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat . Continue cooking until the butter foams, then turns golden brown and smells nutty. Remove from heat and whisk in miso, soy sauce, vinegar, and honey (if using). Keep warm on very low heat. Finish Place the salmon on a bed of lentils and spoon the warm brown butter miso generously over the top. Finish with: A sprinkle of sesame seeds Chopped chives or scallions A pinch of flaky sea salt Serve immediately, and try not to lick the spoon. In the end, this is really a love letter to good building blocks: a humble mirepoix, lentils with integrity, a well-treated piece of pork or salmon, and a bottle of wine that knows how to behave at the table. Nothing flashy, nothing bossy, just thoughtful cooking that rewards attention and forgives the occasional glass too many. Make it once, then make it your own. Add herbs with confidence, pour the Canadian wine proudly, and remember: when lentils are this good, they’re no longer a side dish, they’re a lifestyle. Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. There are two kinds of people: those who love mussels… and those who don’t know what they’re missing. I’m firmly in the first camp. These little, nutrient-dense, bite-size miracles are packed with high-quality protein, omega-3s, vitamin B12, iron, zinc, and selenium, all while staying impressively low in fat and calories. They’re fantastic for heart and brain health, energy, and immunity, especially when simply steamed or baked. And yes, you don’t count any of that while eating them - especially when paired with a crisp white from the Loire Valley . But deep down, you know: this is secretly hearty, deeply satisfying food… just dressed up as something virtuous. This may be the most ridiculously easy dish ever made . Beginner level… actually, even less. If you can boil liquid and cover a pot, you’ve got this. Deeply satisfying, secretly virtuous, and begging you to give it a try. Lucky for us, mussels are practically a national treasure in Canada . If you love them (and you should), you can get fresh or frozen mussels year-round , no coastal pilgrimage required. You’ve probably heard not to eat mussels in months without an “R” (May–August). Back then, it made sense - warmer months meant higher spoilage risk. Today, farmed mussels are safe year-round, though the rule still matters for wild shellfish, since warmer waters can harbour toxins. Photo credit: Mussel King - mussel farm in Prince Edward Island, Canada Canada’s mussel game is essentially Prince Edward Island’s world. The province produces about 80% of the country’s mussels and supplies most of North America. Not bragging. Just facts. And hey, given how calm and predictable global trade is these days, we may all just end up eating a lot more excellent, very local mussels. Photo: Jaime Bishara PEI’s secret weapon is the longline rope system : mussel seed goes into mesh "socks," gets lowered into clean coastal waters, and spends one to two blissful years doing absolutely nothing but filtering seawater and getting delicious. No feed. No fuss. No drama. The payoff? Tens of millions of pounds of sweet, plump blue mussels , a major economic engine for PEI, and some of the most sustainable seafood you can buy. In short: excellent mussels, responsibly farmed, proudly Canadian. We really did win this one. Coastal Comfort Meets French Chic Even though this dish is a staple on both the East and West Coasts of Canada, I’m insisting on calling it by its French name. Why? Partly because I’m pairing it with a Loire Valley white, partly because mussels are basically the backbone of French and Belgian cuisine, and partly… well, because it just feels wrong not to. Sure, you could call it "steamed mussels with wine." Accurate. Honest. Very coastal. But when there’s a Muscadet, Sancerre, or Pouilly-Fumé in your glass, suddenly it’s Moules Marinières (mool mah-ree-nyair)—sailor-style simplicity that proves brilliance doesn’t need complexity. Same dish. Fancier accent. Slightly more attitude. Think of it as the luxe upgrade of something you already love: buttery, briny mussels, crusty bread for dunking, sleeves rolled up… but now with a French passport, a hint of swagger, and yes, a little snobbish delight. Call it coastal comfort. Call it French. Either way, pour the Loire white and pass the bread. Mussel farms off the coast of Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer, Brittany, at low tide. Photo: Matt Seymour At its heart, this dish is beautifully simple: fresh mussels steamed open in white wine, butter, shallots, garlic, and herbs , finished with parsley and a generous amount of bread-dipping potential. It’s briny, aromatic, and tastes like the seaside on its best day. Once you’ve mastered the classic, France happily encourages experimentation: Moules à la Crème: The Normandy and Brittany answer - add cream, because dairy and seafood are close friends there. Rich, velvety, and wildly comforting. Moules-Frites: Mussels with fries. That’s it. That’s the dish. Revered across Northern France and Belgium, and the reason you should never feel guilty ordering potatoes with seafood. Moules à la Provençale: A sunnier version with tomatoes, garlic, and herbs - lighter, brighter, and perfect when you want your mussels to feel vaguely Mediterranean. Mouclade: From La Rochelle, France, this is mussels in a creamy curry-spiced sauce. Slightly unexpected, deeply addictive, and proof that the French were flirting with spice long before it was fashionable. Mussels are best served in big bowls , with lots of broth , even more bread , and zero expectations of table manners. Add fries if you’re feeling virtuous (potatoes are vegetables, after all). Wine pairing - Loire Valley Whites A crisp white from the Loire Valley (France) - think Muscadet, Sancerre, or Pouilly-Fumé - understands the assignment when it comes to mussels and other crustaceans. Bright acidity, saline minerality, zero drama. And yes, Chablis isn’t technically Loire, but let’s be honest, it shows up, behaves impeccably, and earns its seat at the table anyway. When there are shellfish involved, these wines don’t compete. They cooperate. Clean, bracing, and perfectly content to let the sea do the talking. Château de Chenonceau, Centre-Val de Loire, France The Loire Valley is France’s quietly brilliant overachiever, always delivering impeccable whites, a few impressive reds, criminally underrated crémants , and legendary sweet wines that taste like dessert with a résumé (sadly, rare finds in Canada, because of course they are). This is a region lined with storybook châteaux , once the playground of French kings who clearly believed ruling a country was best done near a river, a vineyard, and an excessively long lunch. It’s elegant without being loud, polished without being precious - much like Coco Chanel , who was born in Saumur , right in the heart of the Loire Valley. Coincidence? Absolutely not. She understood that restraint is power, simplicity is luxury, and a perfectly chilled glass of Sancerre needs no embellishment. Loire whites - Muscadet, Sancerre, Pouilly-Fumé - are lean, mineral, and impeccably behaved. They don’t shout. They whisper things like "I pair beautifully with shellfish" and "you made an excellent choice." Even when the Loire produces reds (hello, Cabernet Franc ), they remain fresh, light on their feet, and charmingly unfussy. In short, Loire wines are cultured, slightly intellectual, effortlessly chic, and exactly the kind of guest you want at the table when mussels or other crustaceans are involved. They arrive on time, never overpower the food, and somehow make everything feel more French just by being there. Let’s talk about the eastern Loire Valley - the sweet spot of France’s Central Vineyards . Here, Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé reign supreme, turning 100% Sauvignon Blanc into dry whites so crisp and lively, they practically slap your taste buds awake. Sancerre , hanging out on the left bank of the Loire, is zesty, lively, and full of mineral energy, showing off aromas of citrus and freshly cut grass. Its terroir? A classy mix of limestone, marl, and flinty soils. Perfect partners for a goat cheese cuddle (Crottin de Chavignol), seafood soirées, or simply grilled fish that wants a little excitement. On the flip side, Pouilly-Fumé lounges on the right bank , a bit more subtle, round, and complex, with that signature "smoky" flinty charm, as the suave, mysterious sibling. Expect hints of gunflint, pear, peach, and citrus, all thanks to its flint-heavy, clay-limestone soils. It pairs beautifully with noble fish, creamy dishes, and white meats that like a little elegance on the side. While Sancerre flirts with vivacity, Pouilly-Fumé brings a touch of sophistication - though both are perfectly enjoyable young, they also have the potential to age gracefully like a fine Loire Valley love story. Francis Blanchet Pouilly-Fumé Vieilles Vignes 2022 Tonight we opened Francis Blanchet Pouilly-Fumé Vieilles Vignes 2022 for our mussels dish. I added a splash of cream, and suddenly this wine practically called our name - zesty, flinty, and full of Loire Valley charm. Aromas of lemon, white flowers, lemon and a hint of gunflint danced with the creaminess of the mussels. On the palate, it’s fresh, fine, and generous, fermented and aged on fine lees in stainless steel to keep things zesty. Fresh, elegant, and downright irresistible, this is Sauvignon Blanc showing off without even trying. Perfect with seafood, Thai or Vietnamese dishes, or a local goat cheese like Crottin de Chavignol - yes, I mention it again because it’s hands-down one of my all-time favourite cheeses in the entire universe. Or just sip it while pretending you’re dining on a sun-soaked Loire terrace. More about this wine and the estate on the producer's official website.   Domaine Francis Blanchet Domaine Francis Blanchet is an eighth-generation Loire Valley family estate where Sauvignon Blanc gets serious about showing off. Francis and his son Mathieu craft mineral-driven Pouilly-Fumé wines that practically sparkle with flinty charisma, thanks to vineyards packed with silex (aka French flint). Sustainable farming? Check. Stainless steel finesse? Double check. Their wines are like a vineyard passport: Cuvée Silice : all flint, citrus, and gun-flint swagger; Cuvée Kriotine : chalky, crisp, with oyster-shell vibes; and Vieilles Vignes : from 80-year-old vines, racy, precise, and smoking with minerality. Every sip feels like Loire Valley terroir in a glass, and yes, it does call your name. Moules Marinières Servings: 4 starters or 2 main courses | Prep time: 5 minutes | Cook time: 10 minutes Ingredients For the topping 75 g / 1/3 cup unsalted butter, softened 4 shallots, chopped 4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced 375 ml / 1.5 cups dry white wine Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 900 g / 2 lb mussels, cleaned and debearded (fresh or frozen*) 2 to 4 tablespoons heavy cream (optional) 3 tablespoons minced fresh parsley leaves 1 tablespoon juice and 1 teaspoon grated zest from 1 lemon (optional) *Fresh vs. Frozen Mussels Once your liquid is boiling, the mussels cook in just 3–6 minutes, fresh or frozen. Personally, I’m team frozen - living far from the coasts on the prairies, I trust them more. Plus, let’s be honest, prep, cleaning, and debearding can take a bit of time (and patience!). But here’s the lowdown: Fresh: The gold standard for flavor and texture. They should smell like the ocean (not fishy) and have tightly closed shells. Yes, they need cleaning and debearding, but the taste payoff is totally worth it. Frozen: Convenient, quick, and often pre-cooked or pre-cleaned. Ideal for a "10-minute mussels" dinner, just toss them straight from the freezer and you’re good to go. Instructions If using fresh mussels - Cleaning & Debearding Rinse mussels under cold water. Scrub shells to remove dirt and barnacles. Pull out the “beard” (fibrous tuft) toward the hinge. Tap open shells—discard any that stay open or are cracked. In a large pot over medium heat, sauté the shallots in 2/3 of the butter for 2 minutes, without browning. Season lightly with salt and heavily with black pepper. Pour in the white wine and bring to a boil. Add the mussels, give them a quick stir, then cover the pan. Shake the pan gently and peek every 30 seconds to stir, keeping things lively. As soon as all the mussels have popped open, use tongs to transfer them to a bowl. (Discard any mussels that remain closed.) Remove the mussels and place them in a warm serving dish, leaving the cooking liquid in the pot. Remove thr pan from heat and whisk in remaining butter along with the heavy cream (if using). Return mussels to pot, add parsley, lemon juice, and lemon zest, stir to combine, then transfer to a warm serving bowl. Serve immediately . Tips and Notes: Fun eating tip: Use an empty mussel shell to pick out the meat from another shell, and a larger shell as a spoon for the broth - kids love this. Checking freshness: If a mussel is open before cooking, tap it gently. If it closes, it’s alive; if not, discard it. After cooking, discard any mussels that remain closed. Happy sipping and savouring!