👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Happy Valentine’s Day! 💖 I wanted to share this today because love, to me, is a lot like dessert: unexpected, a little dramatic, and best when shared. And few desserts tell a love story quite like rigójancsi. Rigójancsi - Where Love, Music, and Chocolate Meet Rigójancsi (pronounced REE-go YAHN-chee) is one of Hungary’s most beloved cakes. You’ll recognize it instantly: neat little chocolate cubes with glossy tops and creamy centers. At its heart is a light chocolate sponge layered with rich chocolate cream. Sometimes airy like mousse, sometimes decadently dense. The whole thing is finished with a smooth dark chocolate glaze that adds just enough bittersweet contrast to keep things interesting. In home kitchens and old-school pastry shops, it’s cozy and nostalgic. The sponge might be a bit sturdier, the cream generous and indulgent. It tastes like birthdays and family gatherings. In elegant pâtisseries, though, it becomes something else entirely: architectural compositions, sharp edges, perfect layers, mirror-like glaze. Still comforting, just dressed for the opera. Home made Rigójancsi and one from Csók Bisztró, Budapest The Legend Behind the Cake Many people don’t realize that the cake is named after Rigó Jancsi (1858–1927), one of Hungary’s celebrated musicians. As prímás, the lead violinist of a Gypsy orchestra, he could mesmerize any audience, but it wasn’t only his music that made him unforgettable. In 1896, while performing in Paris, he met Clara Ward, a young American heiress married to a Belgian prince. Clara was the celebrity of her day: striking, photographed constantly, and forever in the headlines. They fell in love. Scandal followed. Divorces happened. They eloped. Europe couldn’t look away. Rigó János c. 1903 | Rigó & Clara Ward, 1905 | Clara Ward, 1898 So captivating was Clara’s presence that even the most discerning artistic minds of France took notice. Marcel Proust later wove Clara into In Search of Lost Time. At the same time, the iconic Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec captured the couple in a spirited lithograph titled Idylle Princière, transforming their romance into art with his unmistakable wit and flair. That such towering figures of French literature and art found inspiration in them speaks to a presence and story that transcended the ordinary, entering the realm of the unforgettable. Some love stories fade. This one became dessert: At some point, Jancsi treated Clara to a rich chocolate cake in a Budapest pastry shop. The pastry chef, recognizing both romance and a brilliant marketing opportunity, named it after him. And just like that, rigójancsi was born: a chocolate monument to passion, music, and a little bit of scandal. Now the Equally Fun Part - Wine Pairing A dessert this rich needs a wine that can keep up. I paired it with Stradivari Pastoral Garling, a 16% ABV red dessert wine from Moldova (one of Europe’s oldest winemaking regions). It even comes in a violin-shaped bottle. Dramatic? Absolutely. Appropriate? Completely. The wine is sweet, deep, and intense, lingering like the last note of a violin solo. It stands up beautifully to dark chocolate and creamy fillings. Decadent cake. Dramatic wine. No regrets. Quick Dessert Wine Rules (Especially for Chocolate) Harmony, not competition. If you remember nothing else, remember this: The wine should be sweeter than the dessert, or it’ll taste thin and bitter. Match the weight: rich dessert, rich wine. Chocolate needs powe: bold sweet reds or fortified wines work best. Higher alcohol helps cut through fat and sugar. Echo the flavours: cocoa with cocoa, berries with berries, nuts with caramel notes. Rigójancsi - Hungarian Chocolate Pastry Serves 20 | Prep and baking time: 1 hour 25 minutes This classic dessert layers chocolate sponge with mousse-like chocolate cream and finishes with a glossy glaze. It’s elegant, indulgent, and surprisingly achievable at home. Ingredients For the cake: 5 eggs 100 g / ½ cup sugar 30 g / ¼ cup cocoa powder 100 g / ¾ cup flour 30 g / 2 tbsp jam 150 g / 5 oz chocolate fondant For the filling: 100 g / 3.5 oz dark chocolate 500 ml / 2 cups heavy cream For the glaze: 100 g / 3.5 oz dark chocolate or couverture 50 ml / 3–4 tbsp heavy cream Instructions Prepare the cake: Separate the eggs. Beat the yolks with 1/3 of the sugar and 1 tablespoon of water until creamy, then mix in the cocoa powder. In a separate bowl, whip the egg whites with the remaining sugar until stiff peaks form. Gently fold the egg white mixture into the yolk mixture. Sprinkle in the flour evenly and fold carefully with a spatula. Pour the batter into a baking tray lined with parchment paper and smooth the top. Bake: Preheat the oven to 180°C (350°F) and bake for 35–40 minutes. Remove from the oven and carefully invert onto a floured parchment sheet so the top is smooth. Let the cake cool completely. Assemble the cake base: Once cooled, remove the parchment and slice the cake horizontally in half. Spread jam on the top layer, then cover it with fondant. Prepare the filling: Melt the chocolate in a warm water bath. Whip the cream until stiff, then quickly fold in the melted chocolate all at once. Spread the filling evenly over the bottom layer of the cake. Let it rest for a few minutes, then place the top layer over the filling. Make the glaze: Melt the chocolate over a steam bath and stir in the warmed cream until smooth. Spread the glaze over the top of the cake, and use a knife to mark 20 squares. Chill in the refrigerator until serving. Finally, cut along the markings to serve. Serve it with good wine. Put on violin music. Maybe dance in the kitchen. Just try not to drop chocolate on the floor. 💃🍫🎻 Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Pissaladière is what happens when pizza goes to Nice, takes one look at tomato sauce and mozzarella, and calmly says:"Non, merci". The word pissaladière doesn’t come out of nowhere (even if its name already raises an eyebrow). It comes from the Niçois pissaladiera, itself derived from pissala (or pissalat), a condiment whose name very elegantly means… "salted fish" (peis salat). Poetry, really. Originally, pissala was a pungent paste of small salted fish spread directly onto the dough. Only afterward did the onions arrive, cooked slowly and in generous quantities until sweet and silky, softening both the anchovies and any initial hesitation from the eater. This is a dish born of thrift and intensity: nothing wasted, bold flavours, and names chosen without marketing committees. It may sound austere on paper, but on the plate it’s rich, savoury, and deeply satisfying. The structure is simple. A thick, bread-like dough (or puff pastry if someone is feeling indulgent) is covered with a near-excessive amount of long-cooked onions. Anchovies are laid on top with deliberate, geometric precision, followed by black Niçoise olives, which arrive to remind you that this dish is coastal, serious, and absolutely not trying to win over children. From Nice, and shaped by its closeness to Liguria, pissaladière sits comfortably between cultures without needing to justify itself. It’s served warm or at room temperature, as an appetizer, a snack, or a deceptively filling meal. And if anchovies aren’t your thing, this is not the moment to be brave. Serve with rosé, sunshine, and a small debate about whether pizza was ever part of the conversation at all. Wine pairing Pissaladière is salty, savoury, a little sweet, and proudly Mediterranean, so it needs a wine that can keep up without starting a fight. Top choice: Dry Provençal Rosé Crisp, pale, refreshing, and born for this moment. It cuts the olive oil, charms the onions, and makes peace with the anchovies. Think Côtes de Provence or Bandol. Côtes de Provence is your easygoing, beach-on-a-bottle option or rather driveway camping chair energy if you're in Canada, even when it’s definitely not summer. Most bottles land comfortably between $20–$30, with crowd-pleasers like Domaine Houchart (~$22) and Mirabeau Classic (~$27) delivering crisp, pale, dangerously drinkable relief from the forecast. You can also branch out into slightly more under-the-radar picks in that same range, like Solis Lumen Pays d’Oc Rosé (~$20–$25) - Light of the Sun in Latin, which feels appropriately optimistic when you’re drinking it under a grey sky (sourced from cult favourite wine shop Metrovino). Feeling fancy? Reach for Château Peyrassol (~$35 and up) and mentally relocate to Saint-Tropez while wearing socks indoors. Bandol, meanwhile, shows up with structure, depth, and a higher price tag. Expect mid-$30s and up, with icons like Domaine Tempier often $50+. These are rosés (and reds) made from Mourvèdre: serious, layered wines that politely suggest you sit down and pay attention. In short: Côtes de Provence = casual escape, lawn chair, winter denial. Bandol = bolder, richer, "this rosé has something to say". Also perfect with a small glass of Clairet, if the mood strikes. Clairet is a deeply coloured rosé (almost a light red) from Bordeaux, made with slightly longer skin contact than rosé but less than red wine. Fruity, low-tannin, and packed with red berry flavours, it’s meant to be enjoyed young and lightly chilled, sitting neatly between rosé and red. It’s also the historical origin of the English word claret. Also excellent: Crisp white wines, high acid, no oak drama: Vermentino Chablis or unoaked Chardonnay Sauvignon Blanc Gewürztraminer Light reds, if you insist Keep it chillable and polite: Pinot Noir Gamay / Beaujolais What to avoid: Big oak, big tannins, big egos. They make anchovies taste metallic and nobody wins. Rule of thumb: Keep it fresh, keep it chilled, and let the onions do the talking. Our choice was this lovely bottle of rosé, because it tastes like sunshine, behaves beautifully with food, and instantly makes any meal feel like it’s happening somewhere far more glamorous than our actual location. Peyrassol Les Commandeurs ROSÉ 2024 AOP Côtes de Provence Backed by decades of Provençal winemaking experience, Peyrassol takes quality very seriously: great terroirs, beautiful grapes, and close collaboration with trusted growers. As of this vintage, they’ve gone fully organic, proving that doing the right thing can also taste very good. This rosé is the perfect introduction to the Peyrassol style: bright, fruity, light on its feet, and dangerously easy to drink - basically summer in a bottle. The 2024 vintage had just enough drama to be interesting (winter rain, a bit of spring frost, no apocalyptic heatwaves), resulting in grapes that ripened slowly and evenly. The wine is pale, fresh, and aromatic, with notes of wild berries, citrus, a hint of bergamot, and a subtle spicy edge. Crisp, refreshing, and versatile, it pairs effortlessly with sunshine, good company, and the strong belief that one glass will definitely turn into two. Founded in the 13th century by the Knights Templar (yes, those Knights Templar), La Commanderie de Peyrassol sits dramatically between the Mediterranean Sea and the Verdon, at the foothills of the Massif des Maures. The estate spans nearly 850 hectares of oak forests, olive groves, and garrigue (low, wild Mediterranean plants that smell like herbs, sun, and vacation) - nature’s way of lovingly guarding the historic and highly regarded Château Peyrassol vineyard at its heart. Owned by Philippe Austruy since 2001, the estate produces elegant, organically certified AOP Côtes de Provence wines that take their job very seriously (but are still great fun to drink). Peyrassol is also home to an impressive contemporary art collection, because apparently wine alone wasn’t ambitious enough. Visitors are welcome to come for gourmet dining, vineyard strolls, Provençal stays, weddings, seminars or, ideally, all of the above. Welcome to Peyrassol, where history multitasks beautifully. The Art Collection Scattered through the vines, gardens, wooded paths, and dedicated exhibition spaces, monumental works by leading 20th- and 21st-century artists appear when you least expect them. With new acquisitions, artist residencies, and rotating exhibitions, the estate stays as creatively alive as it is delicious. More about this wine and the estate on the producer's official website. Traditional Pissaladière from Nice Serves 6–8 | Prep time: 30 minutes + 1 hour (fermentation) | Cook time: 25 minutes A recipe with history, simplicity, and a very good sense of taste. If you’re looking for the edible soul of Nice, you’re exactly where you should be. Here, there are no frills. Just slow-cooked onions, pissalat (anchovy paste), black olives, and a soft, herb-scented bread dough. Nothing more. This is the South of France, in its most authentic form. Ingredients For the topping 1 kg / 2.2 lb onions 2 tbsp olive oil 2 sprigs fresh thyme About 20 oil-packed anchovies 2 tbsp anchovy paste or homemade pissalat* About 20 black olives (Niçoise-style) *Homemade pissalat substitute: blend 4 small oil-packed sardines with 8 anchovy fillets. For the bread dough 300 g / 2½ cups all-purpose flour 170 ml / ¾ cup room-temperature water 7g / 2¼ tsp active dry yeast 2 tbsp olive oil 1 heaping tsp salt 1 tbsp Herbes de Provence Instructions Prepare the Onion Topping Peel and thinly slice the onions. Heat the olive oil in a sauté pan, add the onions and thyme, and cook gently over low heat for about 30 minutes, stirring regularly, until soft, silky, and lightly caramelized. Stir in the anchovy paste (or homemade pissalat), mix well, then remove from heat and let cool. While the onions are cooking, prepare the dough. Prepare the Dough Mix all ingredients, then knead thoroughly until the dough is soft and elastic, about 15 minutes. Place in a lightly oiled bowl, cover with a clean towel, and let rise in a warm, draft-free place for about 1 hour, until doubled in size. Assemble & Bake Preheat the oven to 210°C / 410°F. Roll out the dough on a baking sheet lined with lightly floured parchment paper. Spread the cooled onion mixture evenly over the dough. Drain a bit the anchovies on paper towel and arrange them over the onions. Scatter the black olives on top. Bake for 20–25 minutes, until the crust is golden. Serve warm or at room temperature with a mixed green side salad and vinegrette. The Secret Ingredient: Pissalat Pissalat - literally "salted fish" in Niçois - is a historic regional condiment made from fermented anchovies and sardines, seasoned, then finely ground into a rich, aromatic paste. Traditionally homemade, it was once a staple in Niçoise kitchens. True artisanal pissalat is now hard to find outside the region, but this simple homemade version comes wonderfully close: Blend 4 small oil-packed sardines + 8 anchovy fillets until smooth. This intensely savoury base gives pissaladière its depth, natural umami, and unmistakable authenticity—a salty madeleine for true lovers of Niçoise cuisine. Happy sipping and savouring!

For years, sourdough has been our household’s default bread. I learned the fundamentals from a professional baker, then gradually bent the process to fit my own kitchen, schedule, and slightly opinionated family. I bring a loaf to every gathering - at this point it would be suspicious if I didn’t - and whatever stays home is quickly inhaled. I rarely buy bread anymore, except when encountering some irresistible ethnic specialty that clearly has its own important life story. Somewhere along the way, I also started teaching a few classes. Watching students fall down the same rabbit hole I once did has been deeply satisfying, and I like to think there are now several kitchens quietly bubbling away because of it. But sourdough is more than bread. It’s fermentation: an ongoing collaboration between microbes, time, and human patience. Each loaf reflects tiny choices, environmental quirks, and a willingness to wait. In that sense, sourdough has less in common with supermarket bread than it does with wine: alive, temperamental, and capable of surprising you, for better or worse, depending on how much attention you give it. Yeast of Our Concerns: Why Bread and Wine Get Along Sourdough bread and wine are closer cousins than you might expect. On a wine blog, that may sound about as subtle as a corkscrew, but it’s true. Both depend on wild yeasts quietly doing their work: slowly turning sugars into carbon dioxide and alcohol. Whether you’re raising a loaf or fermenting grapes, the magic comes from stepping back and letting nature lead. In wine, yeast feeds on grape sugars and produces alcohol, carbon dioxide, and heat. The gas usually drifts away (unless you’re making sparkling wine), while the alcohol and aromas remain. In sourdough, yeast consumes sugars released from flour starches and creates the same by-products. This time, the carbon dioxide is trapped, giving the bread its lift, while most of the alcohol disappears in the oven. There’s a key difference, though. Sourdough also relies on lactic acid bacteria, which produce lactic and acetic acids and give the bread its signature tang and depth. Wine fermentation, by contrast, is driven mainly by yeast, with bacteria playing a far smaller, carefully managed role. Both processes even share a star performer - Saccharomyces cerevisiae - a microbial overachiever that dominates wine fermentation and often appears alongside other wild yeasts in sourdough, equally at home in the cellar and the bakery. The goals may differ as bread captures gas to build structure, while wine releases it to preserve aroma and alcohol. But the philosophy is the same. Both reward patience, precision, and humility. Treat them gently and you get nuance and personality; rush them and you’re left with something technically fine but emotionally flat. Just as wine reflects its terroir, a sourdough starter carries the imprint of its flour and environment, which is why a loaf from San Francisco tastes nothing like one from Paris. So it’s no surprise that sourdough and wine get along so well. Their shared acidity and layered flavours make them natural partners, and every so often they even merge, when someone decides to add wine to the dough, proving once again that many great ideas (and a few questionable ones) begin with fermentation. Sourdough & Wine Tasting Guide There’s a moment - usually involving a knife and a still-warm loaf - when sourdough stops being bread and becomes an event. The crust shatters, the butter melts on contact, and suddenly this is food that refuses to be rushed, ignored, or paired with a forgettable glass of wine. Once you stop treating sourdough as a neutral backdrop and start seeing it for what it is, a fermented food with structure, acidity, and opinions, pairing it with wine feels less eccentric and more inevitable. Sourdough isn’t shy. It’s dense, tangy, and confidently itself, which means it calls for a wine with enough character to keep pace. The best pairings don’t try to dominate the bread; they mirror it, matching its brightness, subtle funk, and deep respect for a seriously good crust. White Wines: Bright, zesty, and ready to dance with your sourdough, these whites highlight the bread’s tang while adding their own flair. Chablis (Chardonnay) Why it works: High-acid, flinty, mineral, it mirrors sourdough tang. Food match: Drizzle with olive oil and sea salt, roasted chicken, creamy cheeses, or buttered toast. Pro tip: Feeling decadent? Try a rich, oaked Chardonnay for buttery magic. Viognier Why it works: Stone fruit and mandarin notes complement sourdough’s creamy lactic side. Food match: Soft cheeses, roasted squash, herby tarts. Vibe: Sophisticated Sparkling Wine (Traditional-Method) Why it works: Nutty, bready, high-acid, like bread in a glass. Food match: Buttered sourdough, smoked salmon, tempura veggies. Mood: Party in a flute. Off-Dry Riesling Why it works: Slight sweetness balances spice and funky toppings. Food match: Curried chickpeas, kimchi, pickled veggies, or chili-topped toast. Energy: Quietly rescues every spicy bite. Red Wines: Earthy, light, and endlessly food-friendly, these reds complement sourdough without stealing the show. Pinot Noir Why it works: Light, earthy, polite, perfect with tangy bread. Food match: Brie, Camembert, roasted mushrooms, or poultry. Ambience: Soft, elegant, crowd-pleaser. Gamay Why it works: Bright, juicy, low-tannin, never overpowering. Food match: Charcuterie, roasted peppers, herby pâtés. Persona: The essence of rustic French charm - warm, colourful, and full of cheerful character. Cabernet Franc Why it works: Fresh, savoury, lightly structured, matches chewy sourdough. Food match: Rustic loaves, aged cheddar, pâté, or buttered toast. Aura: Strength without aggression. Sangiovese Why it works: High acid, food-friendly, endlessly adaptable. Food match: Parmesan, pecorino, tomato tarts, or charcuterie boards. Persona: Rustically stylish, à la italiana: where authenticity meets understated sophistication. Quick Guide: Tangy sourdough = high-acid whites (Chablis, sparkling) Creamy sourdough = stone-fruit whites (Viognier) Spicy/funky toppings = off-dry Riesling Earthy/chewy = light reds (Pinot Noir, Gamay, Cab Franc, Sangiovese) Final Rule (There Is Only One) When pairing wine with bread, let the toppings guide your choice: cheese, charcuterie, olive oil, or even an unexpected creation from the fridge. Sourdough, with its versatility and subtle complexity, adapts beautifully to a wide range of flavours, making it both forgiving and inherently social. Pair your wine thoughtfully, matching the character of the bread and its accompaniments for a harmonious experience. Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Every now and then, when the grocery gods are truly smiling, you’ll spot whole hens quietly tucked away at the back of the store or at the market. When I see them (usually at Save-On-Foods, sold in pairs under the very honest name Mature Small Stewing Hen), I grab them without hesitation. They’re modestly priced for birds with this much life experience, and trust me: that experience shows up in the flavour. And a quick PSA while we’re here: don’t be fooled by the Cornish hen. That tiny, photogenic foreign bird is not a hen at all, but a very young chicken with good PR. The real stewing hens, on the other hand, are not here for weeknight shortcuts. They’re bold, full-bodied, and built for the dishes I love most: long-simmered, deeply rich soups and braises… or, today’s chosen indulgence, Coq au Vin. Coq au Vin (kok-oh-vehn, with that unmistakably nasal French ehn) translates to rooster in wine. Traditionally or historically, yes, an actual rooster. Tough, muscular, and deeply resistant to tenderness unless thoroughly humbled by hours in a pot and a generous amount of wine. To be clear: a proper hen, or even a rooster, in the right hands, is superior. I know this because one of my best childhood food memories is my grandmother’s rooster paprikás: deeply savoury, slow-cooked, and worth every minute it demanded. When treated with respect and time, those birds deliver real flavour. But this is the 21st century. We have schedules and far less patience. So we reach for a good chicken instead, faster, gentler, and far more cooperative, while keeping the soul of the dish quasi intact. The method remains the same: long, slow braising with wine (often Bourgogne), bacon or lardons, onions, and mushrooms. Nothing flashy, just time, flavour, and the understanding that some things, much like people, get better when they’re allowed to simmer. Modern Poultry Economics Hen availability is rare (roosters are basically mythical), and no, it’s not a conspiracy, it’s modern poultry economics. As chickens age, their muscles work harder, build character, and load up on connective tissue.(Relatable). A stewing hen can be 10 months to three years old, versus the six-to-eight-week lifespan of broiler chickens. The result? Meat that refuses to be rushed and demands time, moisture, patience, and ideally, wine. Frankly, same. The industry prefers speed and efficiency: broilers for fast, plump meat, laying hens for eggs - not dinner. Once egg production slows (around 18 months), hens usually vanish into processed foods instead of grocery carts. It’s more profitable that way, even if flavour loses. Which is a shame, because these hens have depth and stories to tell—if you give them time. And wine. Always wine. When you find one, grab it. They were made for dishes like Coq au Vin. Coq au Vin - un peut d'histoire Coq au Vin is unmistakably French, originating in Bourgogne (Burgundy, for those not currently holding a glass), it sits at the intersection of rustic French cooking and very good storytelling. It began, quite sensibly, as a way to make tough old roosters edible: through the magic of time, wine, and patience. Market poultry display in Dijon | Fifteenth century half-timbered houses in Dijon | Beaujolais wine region Somehow grew into one of France’s most celebrated dishes. Its rise to global fame came much later, thanks largely to Julia Child in the 1960s, when Coq au Vin crossed the Atlantic and became a household name, but its roots stretch far deeper, possibly all the way back to ancient Gaul or Rome. Statue of Vercingétorix at Alesia, the Gallic leader who resisted Julius Caesar during the Gallic Wars. Photo: Gilles Detot Legend has it that during the Roman occupation of Gaul, the Gauls (ancient Celts of modern France, Belgium, and nearby parts: Iron Age, iron wills, excellent moustaches) sent a rooster to Julius Caesar as a cheeky challenge. Caesar’s response? He had his cook braise the bird in wine and send it back, deliciously defeated. True or not, the story sticks and it fits what we know: the Romans were already cooking poultry in wine, so the idea has been simmering for a very long time. Sadly, the Roman legions crushed the tribes, and Gaul became a Roman province. The rooster, however, endured as a symbol: born from a Roman pun (gallus meaning both "Gaul" and "rooster") that the Gauls eventually reclaimed as a badge of defiance. And if you think that ancient insult didn’t age well, consider this: the French national football team proudly wears the Coq Gaulois on their blue jerseys right alongside the World Cup stars. From Roman mockery to global swagger. Not bad for a bird that started out as a joke. By the Middle Ages and into early modern France, Coq au Vin was firmly a farmhouse dish. Old roosters or hens weren’t tender, but they were plentiful, and slow cooking in wine turned stubborn muscle into something deeply satisfying. What started as peasant cooking evolved into one of France’s most iconic dishes, the recipe began appearing in more formal cookbooks in the 19th century. Though Bourgogne claims the classic version, every region has put in its two cents, swapping in local wines like Riesling in Alsace or even Champagne in, well, Champagne, bien sûr. Old, comforting, and still deeply loved, Coq au Vin proves that in France, patience, good wine, and a little tradition go a very long way. Bleu-Blanc-Rouge of Chickens: The Bresse Poultry This post about a French chicken dish would be borderline ignorant if it didn’t at least tip its hat to Bresse chicken. When France talks about chicken, this is the chicken, the benchmark, the legend, the one all other birds are quietly compared against and usually lose. Leaving it out would be like writing about Champagne without bubbles or Burgundy without terroir. Simply put: if you’re talking French poultry, Poulet de Bresse deserves a seat at the table. Bresse chicken, often crowned "the Queen of All Poultry" , is instantly recognizable by its chic French tricolour look: blue legs, white feathers, red comb! It’s basically walking around in a tiny national flag. Its meat is famously succulent, rich, and deeply flavourful, the kind of chicken that makes you question every bland bird you’ve ever cooked. Granted AOC status in 1957, Poulet de Bresse comes with some very serious credentials. The Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée statues guarantees that these chickens come from one specific place and are raised using strict, traditional methods. Think terroir, paperwork, and no shortcuts, all in the name of flavour. True Bresse chickens must be raised in the historic Bresse region of eastern France (in Bourgogne-Franche-Comté), roam free for at least four months, and dine on a refined menu of grass, insects, cereals, and yes, milk. Production is tightly regulated, which means they make up only a tiny fraction of France’s poultry output. In France, Bresse chicken is easy to find at quality butchers and markets. Outside France, it’s rare, occasionally appearing frozen in the U.S. or on high-end menus, usually at eye-watering prices. In Canada, availability is nearly nonexistent. But! Enter the Canadian Bresse (aka Canadian Gauloise). Raised on a few farms across the country from authentic Bresse genetics, these birds grow slower, spend more time outdoors, and pack far more flavour than your average supermarket chicken. You’re unlikely to spot one casually lounging on a grocery store shelf - this is more gourmet restaurant territory - but it’s a very welcome solution. And if all else fails, consider this your official excuse for a culinary pilgrimage to France. 🐔🇫🇷 What Wine To Use YES, back to wine 🍷 - the most important supporting character. Sorry, I got briefly distracted by chickens, moustaches, and emperors (things I deeply enjoy and will absolutely derail me every time). Now, focus! Wine. The sauce depends on it. L'Atelier du Cuisinier, Villie-Morgon, Bourgogne, France When making Coq au Vin, the wine isn’t just an ingredient: it’s the backbone of the whole dish. So choose wisely. You want a good dry red wine that you’d happily pour into a glass and drink. If you wouldn’t sip it, don’t simmer with it. The rule is simple: wine quality matters, because whatever goes into the pot gets louder as it cooks. Long simmering doesn’t mellow bad wine, it amplifies it. The classic choice is Pinot Noir (from Bourgogne, preferably). It’s traditional for a reason: light, earthy, gently fruity, and perfectly suited to chicken and mushrooms. Think elegance, not muscle. Beaujolais (also Bourgogne), made from Gamay, is another excellent option: bright, juicy, and forgiving. If you’re in the mood for something a little bolder, Côtes du Rhône brings deeper, spicier notes that turn the sauce into a warm hug. You can use Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon in a pinch, but tread lightly. Merlot behaves. Cabernet… likes to make itself known. Too tannic, and your sauce may start bossing you around. That said, rules are meant to be bent with good judgment, and a corkscrew. Beaujolais Villages No, I’m not completely reckless (or rich) - I went with a Beaujolais-Villages for the sauce. The bottle that went into the stew was a more modest, perfectly respectable Beaujolais, specifically the Joseph Drouhin Beaujolais-Villages, made from 100% Gamay. Bright, fresh, and wonderfully approachable, this classic Beaujolais offers vibrant aromas of red cherry, raspberry, and violet, with a silky texture and soft tannins that make it ideal for cooking. Its lively acidity and juicy red-fruit character bring depth and balance to the sauce without overpowering the dish. With an alcohol level around 12.5% and an accessible price point typical of "Villages" wines, it’s an excellent, affordable choice that proves you don’t need an expensive bottle to achieve beautiful flavour in the kitchen. By the way, a quick Maison Joseph Drouhin spotlight: this legendary Burgundy négociant, founded in 1880 and still family-run by the fourth generation, has a portfolio that stretches far beyond our humble Beaujolais Villages. Some of their notable wines and estates include Clos des Mouches, a famous Premier Cru in Beaune producing both stunning Pinot Noir and Chardonnay; parcels in Grand Cru sites like Musigny, Grands Échézeaux, and Bâtard-Montrachet; the Drouhin-Vaudon Chablis estate, known for its mineral-driven Chardonnays; and even Oregon estates, including the original Dundee Hills vineyard and Roserock in Eola-Amity Hills. For our stew, we went modest, but hey, the pedigree is there! A perfectly respectable, totally affordable, and just right for turning your stew into something rich and silky without breaking the bank. Juliénas, Beaujolais The bottle we poured with dinner was a proper Juliénas AOC. Priorities. (joo-lee-AY-nah - the final "s" is silent) Made also from Gamay, grown on granite-rich soils, it brings structure without heaviness: dark cherry, crushed berries, a little iron, a little earth. Juliénas sits at the northern edge of Beaujolais, just south of Burgundy proper: Bourgogne-adjacent, geographically and philosophically, often showing more backbone and savoury depth than its northern neighbours. That granite-driven tension and bright acidity make it ideal for Coq au Vin: enough grip to stand up to wine-braised chicken, enough lift to keep the dish from slipping into stew fatigue. Le Cellier de la Vieille Église in Juliénas Juliénas itself is the northernmost of the Beaujolais crus. I bravely investigated this fact with multiple glasses - consider this your excuse to read my illustrated Beaujolais travel story here. To circle back to the Roman dictator we all love to mock, Juliénas is named for Julius Caesar himself, with villages founded during his reign (100–44 BCE). Yes, that Julius. Sandals, ego, legions, the whole production. If you’ve ever watched an Astérix movie, skimmed the comics, or accidentally stayed awake in a history class, you’ll know how this went: Rome occupied Gaul (modern-day France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Switzerland, plus bits of Germany and Italy), built roads, imposed order, and very politely "introduced" Roman culture. The Gauls, naturally, resisted, loudly, stubbornly, and with excellent honey mead. Colonization is complicated like that. But wine? Wine is universal. So, here we are, cooking a French dish born of Gaulish defiance, paired with a wine named after Julius Caesar - the guy who conquered the Gauls. Poetic? Sure. Ironic? Definitely. Delicious? Absolutely. It’s French, through and through. Winery: Château-Fuissé Nestled in the heart of the Mâconnais, Château-Fuissé is one of those estates that wine lovers quietly obsess over. With 40 hectares of vines spread across more than 100 tiny plots, it’s basically a terroir patchwork quilt - in the best possible way. Each climat brings its own mood, texture, and personality, and thanks to an almost uncanny understanding of their soils, Château-Fuissé turns this complexity into wines that are layered, expressive, and impossible to find boring. Le Clos is the crown jewel of Château-Fuissé: a legendary 2.7-hectare walled vineyard that literally wraps around the château and, as of the 2020 vintage, proudly wears its Premier Cru monopole status within Pouilly-Fuissé. Now, full disclosure, this is not our wine parcel (we’re firmly in Gamay territory), and this one very much belongs to the sanctified, altar-worthy world of Chardonnay. But it’s far too special not to mention. With its gentle east-facing slope and a fascinating mix of clay, marl, and flinty limestone soils, this tiny plot produces old-vine Chardonnay (some planted in the 1920s) that’s powerful yet elegant, layered with ripe stone fruit, citrus, honey, butter, vanilla, and a mineral finish that just keeps going. It’s built to age and shines with lobster, scallops, or Bresse poultry. Winemaker website: https://chateau-fuisse.fr | Photo credit: @chateau.fuisse A true family affair The story starts back in 1862 with Claude Bulland, and five generations later, the estate is now in the hands of Antoine Vincent. Every generation has added its own chapter - respecting tradition, embracing smart innovation, and gently nudging things forward without losing the plot (or the roots). Think heritage with curiosity, precision with personality, and just the right amount of Burgundian stubbornness. The kind that ages very, very well. Château-Fuissé Juliénas 2022 Poured into the glass, this Juliénas flashes a deep ruby red with a little sparkle, like it knows it’s about to be admired. The nose is all fresh flowers and juicy red fruit: peonies flirting with wild strawberries, red currants, and raspberries, with just a whisper of spice tagging along. On the palate? Smooth and elegant. Soft red plum and strawberry glide in first, backed by lively acidity that keeps everything fresh and vibrant. Then come the surprise cameos: a hint of bakery warmth, a touch of ground coffee, and a dash of white pepper. The finish is crisp, gently mineral, slightly licorice-tinged. Made from 100% Gamay in the granite-rich soils of Juliénas, and vinified in stainless steel to keep things bright and pure, this wine is polished without being precious. At 14.5% ABV, it’s lively, food-loving, and dangerously easy to keep refilling. Pair it with roast chicken, turkey, red meat, charcuterie boards that accidentally turn into dinner, tomato-y pasta, cozy pies, cheeses, or even grilled fish or: Coq au Vin (French Red Wine Braised Chicken) Serves 4-6 Preparation time: 1 hour, plus marinading time (12 hour) | Cooking time: 1 hour 15 minutes A timeless, deeply comforting dish: tender chicken slowly braised in red wine, finished with bacon lardons, mushrooms, and glossy pearl onions. Ingredients Chicken/Hen 1 whole chicken or hen (1.2 kg / 2.6 lb), cut into 6–8 pieces Salt and freshly ground black pepper Ca va, ça va! You can also use drumsticks, thighs, or both, but for the love of juiciness, don’t just stick to the breast. Sacré bleu, non. Trust me, the whole bird is where the magic happens. Marinade 1 carrot, sliced 1 onion, sliced 1 celery stalk, sliced (optional) 2 garlic cloves, peeled 1 bouquet garni (1–3 bay leaves, 1 sprig thyme, 1 sprig rosemary) 1 tsp / 5 g black peppercorns 1 bottle (750 ml / 3 cups) dry red wine (preferably Bordeaux) For Cooking 1½ tbsp / 20 ml olive oil or lard ⅓ cup / 50 g all-purpose flour 2 cups / 500 ml chicken stock 1 tbsp / 15 ml tomato paste 2 tbsp / 30 ml cognac or brandy (optional) 1 bay leaf Lardons 3½ oz / 100 g bacon, rind removed and cut into batons Mushrooms & Pearl Onions 3½ oz / 100 g button mushrooms, quartered 20 fresh pearl onions, peeled (not pickled) 3½ tbsp / 50 g butter To Finish ½ bunch flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped ** 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. Instructions 1. Marinate the Chicken/Hen Place the chicken/hen pieces in a large bowl with the carrot, onion, celery, garlic, bouquet garni, peppercorns, and red wine. Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or up to 12 hours for deeper flavor. 2. Prepare for Cooking Preheat the oven to 200°C / 400°F. Position a rack in the middle of the oven to accommodate a large Dutch oven with its lid. Remove the chicken/hen and vegetables from the marinade and pat dry. Discard the herbs. Do not discard the wine, for the love of all things delicious. Strain the marinade into a saucepan and reserve. 3. Brown the Chicken Heat the oil or lard in a large ovenproof casserole over medium-high heat. Brown the chicken pieces on all sides, working in batches if necessary. Remove and set aside. 4. Build the Base In the same casserole (all the flavour is here), add the bacon and cook until lightly browned. Stir in the tomato paste and cook for 1 minute. Deglaze with the cognac, scraping up the browned bits from the bottom of the pan. (If skipping the cognac, use a splash of water.) Add the marinated vegetables and cook for about 5 minutes, until lightly caramelized. Season with salt and pepper. 5. Braise Return the chicken to the pot. Sprinkle the flour evenly over the chicken and vegetables, gently tossing to coat. Pour in the reserved marinade, chicken stock, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil, cover, and transfer to the oven. Braise for 60–75 minutes, or until the chicken is very tender. 6. Cook the Mushrooms & Pearl Onions While the chicken braises, melt the butter in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the pearl onions and cook until tender and lightly golden, 3–5 minutes. Remove and keep warm. In the same pan, sauté the mushrooms until they release their moisture and begin to brown, 5–8 minutes. Return the pearl onions to the pan, toss to coat, season with salt and pepper, and set aside. 7. Finish the Sauce Once the chicken is tender, remove the chicken and vegetables from the casserole with a slotted spoon and keep warm. Place the casserole over medium-high heat and reduce the sauce for about 10 minutes, until thickened and reduced by roughly half. The sauce should coat the back of a spoon. 8. Assemble Return the chicken to the pot and gently coat with the sauce. Stir in the chopped parsley. Add the mushrooms and pearl onions either directly to the pot or portion them individually when serving. How to Serve Coq au Vin Serve with something starchy to soak up the sauce: tagliatelle, mashed or steamed potatoes, crusty sourdough, or golden croutons. A simple green salad makes the perfect contrast. Bon apétit! 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 et autres), 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!

Some couples celebrate their wedding anniversary with candlelit dinners or carefully planned getaways. Ours lands on December 29, wedged between post-Christmas exhaustion and pre-New Year’s chaos, the no-man’s-land of the holiday calendar. Most years, we forget it entirely until it taps us on the shoulder sometime around noon, usually while we’re still managing leftover negotiations and the mild lawlessness that follows Christmas. This year, we decided to intervene. If the calendar insisted on stranding our anniversary in holiday limbo, then we would meet it head-on-high noon, no cover, no retreat. Add a flicker of nostalgia (we’d missed the Calgary Stampede and were clearly craving pageantry of any kind), and a plan took shape. With our daughters as co-conspirators, we staged a surprise dinner inspired entirely by my husband’s favourite film. A full-blown, theatrical spaghetti-western anniversary: equal parts dinner, costume party, and cinematic homage. You may have already spotted the reference. Our title tips its hat to The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966), Sergio Leone’s masterpiece, immortalized by Ennio Morricone’s whistle-and-goosebump score. But instead of gunslingers and moral standoffs, our showdown featured smoked cheese, wild boar, and one dramatic grape, alongside a Barolo old enough to command respect. Costumes Were Non-Negotiable - The dress-up followed swiftly and without restraint. The Ugly I leaned fully into my destiny as a slightly disreputable saloon owner - Madame Très Laide ("very ugly", for those whose French begins and ends with the wine list): a woman of questionable morals and excellent hospitality. The look came together in five minutes flat, with a heroic two-minute makeup job: feathered fascinator slightly askew, glitter applied with confidence rather than strategy, and that end-of-the-trail polish that suggests she keeps the saloon running, even if the piano’s out of tune and the rules are mostly optional. All tarnished glamour and frontier decay. The girls styled themselves as opposing forces, turning our living room into a frontier town divided by temperament alone. The Good Calm, controlled, and quietly intimidating, she dressed in clean lines and muted tones, she wore a neatly draped pancho that barely shifted when she moved. She stood still, eyes narrowed, as if she were listening to the wind, or waiting for someone else to lose their nerve. Miss Good didn’t rush. She didn’t need to. Time was clearly on her side. The Bad The other went gleefully Bad. With flamboyant purple hair, lace layered with enthusiastic abandon, and a neckline plunging deep into "you’ve been warned" territory, she embraced chaos with visible delight. She squinted dramatically into the middle distance, daring fate, trouble, or at least someone to draw first. Lassie Bad wasn’t content to be part of the story, she intended to hijack it entirely. It was less tasteful homage and more living-room spaghetti western. Judgment suspended, budget firmly limited. (Sommelier 101: never spend more on dollar-store props than on your red.) My husband needed only a few items: a cowboy hat, a sheriff’s star, a plastic pistol rescued from an old toy box, and a long coat he once bought at Winners in a moment of optimism and never wore. Presented without explanation, he accepted them without comment, and stepped fully into character. The transformation was immediate. Tar and truffle. Dried roses and old saddle leather. Firm tannins holding the line, dust and silence stretching across the finish. Sheriff “Dusty Old-Leather” Ginestra, Keeper of the Last Law, had arrived. Earlier that day, the Sheriff had already ridden into town once. Not with gold or glory, but with cake and orchids. The orchids claimed their place on the table. The cake waited patiently. Later, sent back out on a quiet errand to collect truffle fries, he had no idea what was brewing at home. The girls and I dressed at record speed, queued up the Ennio Morricone soundtrack, and staged ourselves dramatically in the living room, fully committed to the bit. So without further ado: cue the music, roll the credits, and let’s begin our edible Western! The Gouda, the Boar, and the Ugni - Starring- Gouda -"The Good" Dependable. Taciturn. Heroic. Smoked Gouda strolls onto the scene exactly like Clint Eastwood as Blondie: calm, confident, faintly smug because it knows everyone loves it. The smoke arrived first, then the assurance. Somewhere in the distance, a very serious whistle began. Blondie would be proud. Aged Gouda - The Hero of the Plate - Made by Alberta Pike in Innisfail, Alberta Boar - "The Bad" Wild. Cheeky. Slightly unhinged. Channeling Lee Van Cleef’s icy menace, the boar didn’t just bring flavour, it brought attitude. A villain you can’t help but root for. The casting felt especially right after a long-ago encounter in southern France, when a wild boar sprinted across the road and collided with our car. No injuries, just drama, and a lifelong respect for French wildlife with main-character energy. Angel Eyes would absolutely approve. Alberta Ground Wild Boar - The Rogue - form Urban Butcher, Calgary Ugni -"The Ugly" Messy. Loud. Unforgettable. Ugni Blanc may not sound glamorous, but it’s the grape behind Cognac. Folded into a mushroom sauce, Ugni-driven Cognac brought richness, heat, and unruly elegance. Just like Tuco, it got the last word. Pure Tuco energy. Cognac Sauce - The Underdog - Château Montifaud VSOP Cognac from Highlander Sheriff “Dusty Old-Leather” Ginestra 🍷 2008 Paolo Conterno Ginestra Barolo DOCG, Italy For balance, we needed gravitas. A wine that could stand its ground against smoke, fat, fungus, and theatrical excess without blinking. I strutted into our cellar like the heroine of a dusty frontier town channeling Claudia Cardinale in Once Upon a Time in the West—nothing fancy, just that calm, deadly-serious confidence of a woman with the kind of presence that makes the soundtrack start playing on its own. I scanned the shelves like I was sizing up outlaws in a saloon and huntin’ down a fistful of dollars. That’s when I spotted it: Paolo Conterno Barolo Ginestra 2008, leaning on the shelf like a mysterious stranger in a long coat, absolutely begging to be part of the story. A 17-year-old bottle, thick with cellar dust, practically tipping its hat and saying: “Ma’am, I reckon Ah’m more than reeaady.” He stepped out of the saloon’s shadow in a dark-garnet coat catching the last stripe of sunset and you catch that unmistakable aura: mature, seasoned, and carved by the land itself. His presence carried the scent of worn leather, wild mountain herbs, and the deep earth of long-traveled trails, all wrapped around a steady, weathered heart. He’s in his middle-aged glory: warm, full-bodied, and built with the quiet strength of someone who’s seen enough trouble to know exactly when to stand tall. There’s a spark of spice, a vein of iron, and a mineral-edged grit that says this wine comes from tougher soil than most. Every move is slow, deliberate, and lingering, like a legend that’s only improved with time. Sorry, I got carried away! About the wine Paolo Conterno has been making wine in Monforte d’Alba since 1886, drawing from the prized Ginestra cru. These clay-rich, high-elevation vineyards and traditional long aging in large oak give the wine its structure, depth, and staying power. The 2008 Barolo Ginestra is classic Nebbiolo: elegant, powerful, and beautifully mature, with plenty of life ahead. Peak window: 2016–2028 (Yahoo! we're good!) Our Tasting Notes: After this long on the trail, the wine’s changed a bit. Tannins have mellowed from rough cowboys to well-mannered gentlemen holding the saloon door. Aromas of dried roses, forest floor, leather, tobacco, and truffle lead the way - The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in liquid form: elegance, grit, chaos, and a buried prize worth the trouble. On the palate, mature red fruit meets earthy, savoury swagger, finishing long, warm, and assured. A Barolo that knows exactly who it is, and doesn’t need to shout about it. The Barolo had crossed oceans and years for this moment. It asked only one thing of us: dinner. Wild Boar Burgers with Smoked Gouda & Cognac Mushrooms Yields: 4 burgers | Prep time: 20 minutes | Cook time: 25–30 minutes Frankly,I didn’t choose boar only because it conveniently rhymes with "bad", though that certainly helped, but because it genuinely makes an excellent burger. It’s rich, flavourful, and surprisingly easy to find here in Alberta if you know a good butcher. (Hello Rockies! The land of wildlife and unexpectedly fancy meat options.) These homemade boar burgers pair that bold, slightly wild flavour with deeply savoury sautéed mushrooms. Because boar is usually leaner than standard grocery-store beef or pork, the cognac-laced mushrooms step in to add juiciness and depth, while smoked Gouda brings richness and helps everything stay tender. That said, the ground boar I got from my butcher was surprisingly well-marbled. In fact, there was enough leftover fat to fry potatoes the next day. And yet, somehow, the patties themselves stayed generous, tender, and beautifully juicy. For the patties: "The Boar" 460 g / 1 lb ground boar 5 g / 1 tsp salt 3–4 g / 1 tsp garlic powder 3–4 g / 1 tsp onion powder 1–2 g / ½ tsp ground black pepper Add everything to a medium mixing bowl and mix well Shape the mixture into four patties, about 115 g / 4 oz each Preheat your grill or pan to high heat. Once it’s properly blazing, grill the patties for about 3 minutes per side, don't forget to add the Gouda at the first turn! For the cognac mushrooms: "The Ugni" 40 g / 3 tbsp unsalted butter 15 ml / 1 tbsp olive oil, to prevent the butter from burning 250 g / about 2 cups fresh mushrooms, sliced (cremini, button, shiitake, or a mix) 1 medium shallot, diced 3-4 cloves garlic, minced 60 ml / ¼ cup cognac (well, OK if you're not playin' this same game, brandy or whiskey will do) Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste chopped fresh or dried herbs, such as parsley or tarragon (optional) Sauté the mushrooms: Melt 2 tablespoons of butter (and the olive oil) in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the mushrooms in a single layer and cook for 5–6 minutes, without stirring at first, until browned and tender. Don’t crowd the pan: mushrooms need space to brown, not steam. Cook in batches if necessary. Add shallot and garlic.Reduce the heat to medium. Add the diced shallot and minced garlic and cook for 1–2 minutes, until softened and fragrant. Add herbs, if using. Deglaze with cognac: Remove the pan from the heat and carefully pour in the cognac. Return the pan to the burner and let it simmer for 1–2 minutes, scraping up the browned bits. Allow it to reduce slightly as the alcohol cooks off. Optional flambé: For drama, ignite the cognac with a long match off the heat. Let the flames die down naturally before returning the pan to the stove. Season and finish: Stir in the remaining tablespoon of butter until melted and glossy. Season with salt and pepper to taste, and add the fresh herbs just before serving. Assemble Your Burger 4 generous slices of smoked Gouda: “The Gouda” (laid onto the patties at the turn, where it melts like it was always meant to) 4 hamburger buns Fresh toppings & favourite condiments: lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, mustard, mayo, ketchup. Condiments lined up like the Magnificent Seven at the saloon bar. Toast the buns & prep the condiments Butter those buns like you’re greasing up a saddled horse at dawn, then toast them until they’re as golden as a frontier sunset. Mix up your condiment of choice: plain mayo, garlic mayo, or truffle mayo. We opted for gochujang mayo, which brings a little heat and the kind of confidence usually reserved for mysterious strangers with excellent taste. Next, prep your fresh toppings. Slice lettuce, pickles, onions, tomatoes. Think of them as the fresh, crisp counterbalance that keeps your hero burger from riding into town alone. Build the burger Plant the bottom bun down like a sheriff staking his claim. Spread on your sauce, then lay down your greens. Lower your Gouda-smothered patty onto the bun, heap on the sautéed mushrooms. Top with any final fixings, then cap it all with the top bun like the hat of a gunslinger who knows he just won the duel. Enjoy immediately, preferably with a double order of truffle-parmesan fries we sent my husband out to fetch nearby so we could get dressed and give the patties their final moment of glory. Squint. Swagger. Lean against the bar like you own the place and declare, "Yes, I made wild boar sliders with Cognac mushrooms. No, it wasn’t a big deal." Then disappear into the saloon haze. So how did our Anniversary Dinner go? The first whistle of Ennio Morricone hit the speakers, and my husband lit up like a man ambushed by a surprise western. From that moment on, resistance was futile. Drama became a moral obligation. Dinner itself was a proper frontier feast: Gouda doing its dependable, heroic thing; boar and Ugni burgers swaggering onto the plate like well-tailored outlaws; and a bottle of Barolo standing watch, solemn, noble, and deeply aware of its narrative importance. It did its duty. Dinner gave way to the couch. Blankets appeared. Belts loosened. All four of us collapsed like a ragtag posse after a long day on the trail and let an almost three-hour-long film carry us slowly into the sunset. Cue credits. Roll tumbleweed. Anniversary: successfully defended. Happy sipping and savouring!

St. Sylvestre deserves a little theatre and absolutely no restraint. So we ended the year the only way that felt honest: with foie gras (fwah grah), a silky, rich specialty food product made of the liver of a duck or goose, and very much not an everyday pleasure. It’s a this-moment-matters kind of ingredient. One quiet toast, one decadent bite, and the year slipped away exactly as it should: on a high note. Naturally, this was only the warm-up. We still have a New Year’s Eve party to attend, surrounded by Hungarian friends and the full spectrum of Hungarian excess: too much food, too much wine and pálinka (not for me), loud opinions, louder laughter, and a heroic disregard for tomorrow morning. What happens after that is anyone’s guess, but history suggests it will involve second helpings, questionable dancing, and at least one story we’ll all agree never happened. Back to the birds’ liver, shall we. This particular indulgence had a backstory. I have two grown children. Well, mostly grown. One is technically still 18, but both now live far away at university, communicating mainly via text messages and student-budget spreadsheets. When they asked what I wanted for Christmas, I answered calmly, reasonably, without drama: foie gras. Or any of its noble offshoots: mousse, terrine, pâté. I’m adaptable. And since they’re in Québec, arguably duck-and-goose-liver capital of this continent, the request didn’t feel excessive. You can barely swing a baguette there without hitting a duck (confit). Of course, their mother had just requested a luxury item that comes with footnotes, opinions, and a full moral appendix. Foie gras is loved, banned, regulated, protested, defended, and endlessly debated at dinner tables worldwide. Today, it’s legally produced in only a handful of places: France, bien sûr, Hungary, Spain, Bulgaria, parts of Belgium, and a few spots beyond Europe, including China and Québec. Standards vary. Opinions fly. No one stays neutral. Which is precisely why it belonged on the table for St. Sylvestre. The final day of the year calls for something indulgent: something reserved, intentional, and a little bit daring. A slice of foie gras, savoured slowly, and the simple pleasure of ending the year with a luxury saved for moments that truly feel worth it. And here’s the part that really got me: despite living on a student budget (aka ramen economics), they still managed to buy their mother a foie gras mousse and a pâté with foie. Not a kilo, not a scandal, just two very thoughtful, very French-Canadian little luxuries. (On a side note, I must also thank the airport officer who kindly let those "highly dangerous" jars of foie slide through in their carry-on… clearly recognizing a situation that required both discretion and good taste.) Is it delicious? Yes. Is it controversial? Absolutely. Is it the kind of gift that says "We love you, but please don’t ask us again until we graduate"? Entirely. No resolutions today. Just good bread, sweet wine, and one final, bite of indulgence before the year ends: foie gras for lunch. Which brings me back to the beginning. Growing up, my grandparents had a farm, and once a year, at least, we had foie gras straight from the bird. No ceremony, no explanation, just the quiet understanding that this was something special. Looking back, that’s probably where my decadent palate was born, whether my arteries agreed or not. Add a glass of late-harvest wine, honeyed, golden, sweet, and you’re set. Some people are raised on apple slices and discipline. Others on foie gras and dessert wine. Briefly. By January 2, we’re back to lentils, plain yogurt, and moral reckoning. Balance is important. Wine Pairing with Foie Gras: The Art of Glorious Excess Wine Pairing with Foie Gras: Because Excess Deserves Structure Foie gras is not a food that whispers, it demands a wine that can keep up, preferably without blinking. First Rule: This Is Not a Job for "Something Light" If you’re thinking, "I’ll just open a crisp white", pause. Foie gras has the texture of softened butter and the confidence of a 19th-century aristocrat. It does not want refreshment. It wants contrast, sweetness, acidity, and a wine that knows what it’s doing. The Classic Power Couple: Foie Gras & Sweet Wine Enter late-harvest wines: Tokaji Aszú from Hungary and Sauternes from France. Their magic comes from noble rot, Botrytis cinerea, which shrivels the grapes and concentrates their sugars, turning excess into elegance. These wines were practically invented for foie gras, possibly by someone who thought, "What if indulgence… but more?" The magic lies in the tension: The foie gras - rich, fatty, luxurious. The wine - sweet but sharp, honeyed yet acidic. Together, they cancel out each other’s excesses like two elegant people who know when to stop talking. Tokaji Aszú: The Intellectual Choice Tokaji is for people who like their indulgence served with a tiny academic lecture on the side. Yes, it’s sweet, but it’s also spicy, zippy, and strangely disciplined, the kind of wine that tastes like dessert but behaves like it has a PhD. Oremus Winery, Tokaj, Hungary Pair it with foie gras and things escalate quickly. Suddenly everyone’s saying words like balance and length, nodding wisely, as if this was always meant to be a serious conversation and not just an excuse to eat rich pâté. The sweetness flatters, the acidity keeps it all in check, and nobody feels even a little bit embarrassed. And yes, I’m Hungarian, so I’m contractually obligated to mention Tokaji. It grows on ancient volcanic soil, which explains why beneath all that honeyed apricot and spice there’s a faint smoky, mineral edge. Decadent? Absolutely. But also proudly, irresistibly Hungarian. Read my post about Tokaj wine here. Sauternes: The Show-Off Draped in honey, apricot, saffron, and an unmistakable sense of inherited vines, it arrives with the quiet assurance of something raised on limestone soils with a hint of gravel, sand, silt, and clay. This is a white wine from the Bordeaux region of France that speaks of old parcels, low yields, and families who have been arguing about pruning since Napoleon. Its sweetness flirts shamelessly with the richness, the acidity slices through the fat with surgical elegance, and suddenly everyone starts speaking in half-sentences: "texture… balance… très noble". This isn’t a pairing; it’s a well-rehearsed relationship that’s been going on since before revolutions were fashionable. Call it excessive but necessary edible aristocracy. Dry Wine? Bold, But Risky Yes, dry wines can work: Alsace Pinot Gris, aged Riesling. Also, Champagne, but this is advanced territory. If sweet wine is the ballroom dance, champagne is improv jazz: rebellious and exhilarating. The bubbles cut the fat, the acidity keeps things lively, and suddenly foie gras feels less like a moral dilemma and more like a celebration. After all, this is not a Tuesday salad. This is a moment. Happy New Year, CHEERS 🥂 Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Chablis, that crisp, elegant, raised by monks, minerals, and a smug little breeze Chardonnay from the northernmost edge of Burgundy and Jambon Persillé form a pairing so perfect it feels like French has been quietly perfecting ham-and-wine science for centuries. Respect. Christmas Ham is a little tradition in our house. I usually make it on the 25th, once the Christmas Eve fish dishes have vanished and everyone is ready for something a bit heartier. And from that gloriously large pork butt roast, there are always leftovers. Which brings me to one of my quiet pleasures: serving them suspended in a delicate, shimmering jelly. Yes, gelatin, the same collagen everyone now buys in fancy jars and stirs into overpriced smoothies. Long before it became a "wellness trend", it was simply the logical, delicious way humans made use of the whole animal. Call me old-fashioned, but I adore a beautiful ham in aspic. It feels timeless, slightly nostalgic, and, if you ask me, absolutely perfect. A little clin d’œil (pardon my French, I meant a nod) to my Hungarian upbringing: Kocsonya (KOH-chohn-yah), the proudly rustic, wonderfully wobbly cousin of fancy French jambon persillé. It may not have the elegant name, but trust me, it’s every bit as delicious. While the French suspend their ham in refined, parsley-speckled aspic, we Hungarians go straight for full-on, no-nonsense jelly glory. Head to toe pork trotters, ears, tails, skin, sometimes knuckles or ham hocks… if it makes good collagen, it’s invited to the party. Served cold in the heart of winter, often around Christmas, kocsonya is a beloved, deeply nostalgic dish for many Hungarians. I adore both versions, the chic French terrine and the wobbly Hungarian classic. (Even though certain members of my family, who will remain very diplomatically unnamed, absolutely hate it, and do so very loudly.) So. Jambon persillé is, at heart, just fancy ham trapped in parsley jelly, a terrine if you’re French, a mysterious wobbling meat brick if you’re not. It’s rich, savoury, faintly herbal, and unapologetically jiggly, the kind of dish that quivers slightly when you look at it too hard. Enter Chablis, which slices through all that porky richness like a crisp, lemony lightsaber, restoring balance to the universe. Traditionally, this dish belongs to Easter, not Christmas, a practical end-of-winter solution to the problem of "we still have a lot of salted ham". The explosion of green parsley wasn’t just decorative; it symbolized spring’s return, fresh grass, new life, and the general relief that winter was finally over. These days, however, jambon persillé has escaped the calendar and is eaten year-round, because Burgundy wisely decided that waiting was unnecessary. Chablis remains its ride-or-die companion. The dish itself is seriously old: a centuries-old Burgundian specialty, most closely associated with the Côte d’Or and documented as early as the 14th century, back when jelly was a perfectly normal thing to suspend meat in and no one questioned it. Then comes the rebellious modern chapter. In the 20th century, a variation called Jambon à la Chablisienne appeared, which is basically the same ham, but cooked in wine, because the French refuse to let a good Chardonnay sit quietly in a glass. This richer dish loves a slightly older Chablis, preferably 3–5 years old and full of philosophical complexity. It’s credited to Charles Bergerand, descendant of a master saucier to King Louis-Philippe, which in France means the recipe arrives with impeccable pedigree, a flourish of the wrist, and at least one dramatic family anecdote. This version includes Chablis and crushed tomatoes, boldly proving that Burgundy can flirt with innovation… as long as it’s supervised, approved by history, and done very politely. The Chablis Wine Region Let’s clear something up right away: Chablis is Chardonnay. Chablis (pronounced Shah-blee) is a world-famous white wine region tucked into the northernmost reaches of Burgundy, France, where grapes grow with a cardigan permanently on. The result? Wines of startling purity, high acidity, and that famously "steely" minerality that makes sommeliers sigh happily and seafood feel emotionally complete. The wines here are made exclusively from 100% Chardonnay, yet they taste nothing like the buttery, oak-heavy versions many people associate with the grape. Instead, Chablis is prized for its purity, high acidity, and unmistakable "steely" minerality. The Chardonnay Plot Twist If your experience with Chardonnay involves words like buttery, toasty, or vanilla bomb, Chablis is here to quietly judge that experience, then offer you a lemon slice and a mineral snap instead. While many Chardonnays are aged in oak and lean rich and creamy, Chablis is usually fermented in stainless steel, preserving crisp fruit and razor-sharp freshness. Think: Green apple Lemon zest White flowers Wet stones after rain Oyster shells (yes, that’s a thing, and yes, it’s delightful) It finishes clean, long, and slightly tingly, like your tongue just walked past the sea. The Four Levels of Chablis (A Very Polite Hierarchy) Like all good French things, Chablis comes with a ranking system: Petit Chablis The lightest and freshest style: bright, easy, and meant to be enjoyed young. Often grown on higher plateaus with different soils. Think aperitif energy. Chablis (AOC) The classic, everyday Chablis: balanced, mineral, and unmistakably itself. Chablis Premier Cru From 40 specific vineyard sites/"climats" with better sun exposure. More concentration, more depth! Chablis Grand Cru The pinnacle. One sun-drenched slope. Seven legendary climats (Les Clos, Bougros, Preuses, Vaudésir, Grenouilles, Valmur, Blanchot). Often sees oak, ages beautifully for 10–15+ years, and makes collectors weak at the knees. Terroir: Because Rocks Matter Chablis owes its distinctive personality to its soils: a complex mix of limestone, marl, and fossilized oyster shells. In a very real sense, this is wine made from sunshine filtered through prehistoric seabeds. That soil story shifts depending on the appellation. Petit Chablis comes from higher, wind-swept plateaus with younger Portlandian limestone, producing wines that are light, crisp, and straightforward. Chablis AOC covers a wider range of sites, many of them rooted in Kimmeridgian soils, which give the wines their classic balance of freshness and minerality. At the top, Premier Cru and Grand Cru vineyards, firmly anchored in Kimmeridgian limestone, deliver the greatest depth, complexity, and aging potential. This is why Chablis tastes like somewhere, not just something. What to Eat With It (Short Answer: Yes) Thanks to its high acidity and saline edge, Chablis is the undisputed champion of oysters. But it’s equally brilliant with: Scallops, shrimp, lobster Roast chicken (especially with herbs or cream) Goat cheese, Comté, Beaufort Sushi and light Asian dishes And, naturally, jambon persillé, where it cuts through richness like a lemony lightsaber. Jambon persillé: Young Chablis. Chic, crisp, does all the heavy lifting. Jambon à la Chablisienne: Older Chablis. More depth, more drama. Chablis also loves: seafood, escargots, charcuterie, poultry, light cheeses, basically everything except your New Year’s resolutions. In summary: If dinner is pale, cold, or wobbling slightly… Chablis will make it feel intentional. Chablis is Chardonnay stripped of makeup, oak, and drama. Left alone with its place, its climate, and its rocks. It’s elegant without trying, refreshing without being simple, and endlessly food-friendly. And best of all?It regularly converts I don’t like Chardonnay-people, often without them even realizing it. Which is, frankly, the most French move of all. We went with a bottle of Chablis “La Pierrelée”, a classic, no-nonsense Chablis from La Chablisienne, the highly respected cooperative founded in 1923. Made from 100% Chardonnay, it’s fresh, mineral, and unmistakably Chablis: bright citrus, green apple, a touch of white peach, and that salty, flinty finish that tastes like it grew up on rocks (because it did). “Pierrelée” literally means stony - a nod to the region’s famous Kimmeridgian limestone soils, packed with ancient oyster shells and responsible for that crisp, sea-breeze character. This was the bottle I found quietly waiting in the cellar: not flashy, not grand cru, not demanding reverence. Also, I wasn’t emotionally ready to open the more prestigious ones anyway. La Pierrelée is elegant but approachable, the kind of Chablis that works beautifully as an aperitif or with all of the dishes mentioned above, and of course, jambon persillé, without making you feel like you should be taking notes. It has the soul of Chablis, without the drama. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you want. Jambon Persillé SERVINGS 6 | Preparation: 30 minutes | Cooking: 3 hour | Cooling: 6 hours Ingredients 1 kg / 2.2 lb smoked pork shoulder or ham 1 naturally gelatin-rich pork cut (pig’s foot, but let’s keep that detail off the menu for those too sensible) For the Aspic, if the pig’s trotter isn’t used: 2-3 packets of unflavoured gelatine (about 20 g) 1 litre / 4¼ cups / 34 fl oz water 500 ml / 2 cups / 17 fl oz dry white wine Salt, to taste 1 medium onion 2 garlic cloves 1 leek (optional) 1 bouquet garni (thyme, bay leaf, parsley stems) 10-12 black peppercorns small splash of white wine vinegar 1 large bunch flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped (about 1½–2 cups) Method Place the ham hock (and the pig’s trotter, if using) in a large, heavy-bottomed pot and cover with cold water. Bring slowly to a boil over medium-high heat, skimming off any foam that rises to the surface. Lower the heat to a gentle simmer and add onion, leek, garlic, bouquet garni, and peppercorns. Season lightly with salt, keeping in mind that the ham will release its own salinity. Simmer for 2 to 3 hours, until the meat is meltingly tender and easily pulls away from the bone. Remove the ham hock and trotter from the pot and set aside to cool slightly. Strain the cooking liquid, discarding the vegetables and aromatics. If a pig’s trotter was used, allow the strained broth to cool; it should naturally begin to set. For a clearer finish, strain once more through fine cheesecloth. If no trotter was used, let the broth cool slightly, then dissolve the gelatin according to the package instructions and stir it into the warm liquid. Once the meat is cool enough to handle, shred or cut it into bite-sized pieces, removing excess fat or gristle. Finely chop the parsley and fold it evenly through the meat. If desired, add a small splash of white wine vinegar to lift the flavours. Spoon a layer of the ham and parsley mixture into a terrine or loaf mold and ladle over just enough broth to cover. Repeat the layering until the mold is filled, finishing with a final layer of broth to bind everything together. Cover tightly and refrigerate for at least six hours, preferably overnight, until fully set. To serve, run a knife around the edges of the mold and gently unmold the terrine onto a platter. Slice and serve chilled. Serve it chilled, with some green salad, pickles/cornichons, dijon mustard, and crusty baguette. 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. Lightly 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. 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!

Rioja, Cheese, and the Art of Ignoring Canadian Winter So Calgary has been officially buried under snow since early December, and at some point, somewhere between shovelling the driveway and attempting to liberate my mail from its frozen postal tomb, I began to wonder what, exactly, could spark a glimmer of joy in this frosty tundra. Then the answer appeared, not dramatically, but sensibly. A small, civilised countermeasure to winter: a Spanish Rioja tasting, paired with cheese. Call it The Rioja Cure for Cabin Fever, or, if you prefer a gentler euphemism, a winter gathering featuring abundant snow, abundant Tempranillo, abundant cheese, and a frankly heroic level of seasonal denial. And because I am both a committed wine enthusiast and a person with absolutely no chill, the tasting naturally demanded all four traditional ages of Rioja: Joven, Crianza, Reserva, Gran Reserva. Yes, the full Tempranillo metamorphosis, from youthful exuberance to dignified retirement. A complete Spanish life cycle in four glasses, designed to make the tundra outside feel almost… celebratory. Naturally, the cheeses had to rise to the occasion. If we were going to discuss maturation, character development, and the occasional noble wrinkle, it seemed only fair that wine not carry the burden alone. And so the plan evolved into a Rioja-and-cheese soirée, the kind of cozy, indulgent ritual that feels perfectly tailored to December in Calgary. After all, what better way to outwit winter than with a bottle, a cheese board, and the warm, smug satisfaction of refusing to engage with the weather at all? Since four bottles is… objectively ambitious for two people, even with sturdy Canadian winter morale, we invited some friends over - strictly in the name of responsible consumption, naturally. Plus, nothing brings people out of hibernation faster than the promise of cheese and the illusion of Spain. They arrived bundled like Arctic explorers, stomping off snow and shaking their heads at our collective life choices. But once everyone thawed out by the fire, Rioja in hand, the whole evening took on that magical Calgary winter coping mechanism glow. We laid out the cheeses: sheep’s milk, cow’s milk, soft cheese, hard cheese, mild cheese, stinky cheese. Then matched them to each Rioja age like we were judging an international competition. Somewhere around the second bottle, we became philosophers. Around the third, poets. By the fourth, true believers in the transcendent power of Spanish wine as a winter survival strategy. Frankly, for a night, Calgary’s blizzard didn’t feel like a curse. It felt like a reason to gather, pour generously, and pretend we were in a candlelit bodega instead of a snow-buried Canadian suburb. A 10/10 will repeat next cold front. Let's talk about Spanish wine Spanish wine has been enjoying a graceful renaissance since the mid-1970s, as the country entered a brighter, more open era and its vineyards quietly prepared for their own revival. With expanding economic opportunities and Spain’s entry into the European Union in 1986, winemakers began refining their craft with renewed purpose. By the 1990s, this transformation had gathered remarkable momentum, and today, Spanish wine continues its ascent with the kind of confidence and charm that feels almost legendary. Rioja 101 Rioja is basically Spain’s wine royalty, first in line for fancy titles, adored by the masses, and aging way more gracefully than I manage on my best days. Perched along the Ebro River in North Central Spain, it was the very first region to snag the prestigious DOCa status, Spain’s top-tier wine accolade. Sure, Rioja is famous for its Tempranillo-driven reds, the oaky, leathery reds, but it also dabbles in whites, rosés, and even sparkling wines. I still remember back in the late 1990s, navigating life as a hopeful but very poor Eastern European student living in a wealthy and very expensive Western European country. With limited funds, my friends and I enjoyed our moments over humble but delightful table wines, usually found in 1-liter bottles priced between $2 and $4. Oh, and when we splurged on Rioja, it felt like a celebration, costing just under $10! At that time, Rioja was just starting to make a name for itself in the European and international markets and was still surprisingly affordable, standing out from the everyday wines we usually enjoyed. Looking back, I feel incredibly fortunate to have savoured Rioja during its rise, not yet a fixture in upscale cellars or prominent on high-end restaurant menus. This experience not only shaped my palate but also taught me to appreciate the journey of great wines. It's exciting to see how far they’ve come since then, and I can't help but feel a sense of nostalgia and joy reflecting on those wonderful days. The regions: The Rioja wine region is split into three sub-zones, each with its own climate, soil, and very distinct personality. Rioja Alta – Cool, classy, and a little high-altitude snobby. Elegant structure, bright acidity, and the kind of aging potential that would make a Bordeaux blush. Rioja Alavesa – Similar vibe to Alta but fuller-bodied, with a bit of Basque swagger. Basically Alta’s more confident sibling. Rioja Oriental – Warm, sunny, Mediterranean, and unapologetically ripe. Big fruit, bigger charm, occasionally bigger alcohol. Now the grapes: Tempranillo – El Super Estrella! Dominant, versatile, and truly the reason this entire party exists. Garnacha, Graciano, Mazuelo – The backup singers who actually make the music better: fruit, spice, structure, drama. Viura – The main white grape, crisp and citrusy, and criminally underrated. Rioja DOCa is celebrated worldwide as one of Spain’s premier wine regions, often mentioned, sometimes over tapas, sometimes in the hushed chill of a cellar, alongside storied heavyweights like Bordeaux and Burgundy. While Bordeaux and Burgundy are revered for their precise terroir expression, meticulous vineyard practices, and single-minded stylistic focus, Rioja offers its own compelling allure: a rich expression of Spanish terroir, remarkable versatility, and excellent value, making wines that are both sophisticated and approachable. Steeped in centuries of tradition, Rioja thrives on the global stage by seamlessly blending long-aging, classical techniques - hello, López de Heredia of Viña Tondonia - with modern, fruit-forward innovation. The result is a wine culture that honours history while embracing creativity, producing wines that are expressive, versatile, and endlessly engaging for both seasoned connoisseurs and curious newcomers alike. And then there’s the part where Spain quietly shows off: The aging system. Spain essentially looked at the wine world and said, what if we did the aging for you? - and then made it law. In regions like Rioja and Ribera del Duero, terms like Crianza, Reserva, and Gran Reserva aren’t just romantic-sounding labels. They’re legally enforced guarantees that your wine has already spent serious time in oak and bottle before release. Which means instead of buying a bottle and wondering if you should cellar it for five years (or accidentally opening it on a random Tuesday), Spain hands you something that’s already done the hard work: softened tannins, integrated oak, and those cozy, grown-up flavours like leather, tobacco, and dried fruit. It’s also why Spanish wines often feel like a bit of a loophole (especially when compared to other prestigious Old World regions known for long aging curves) offering age, complexity, and readiness without the long wait or the dramatic price tag. Patience is built into the system… so you don’t have to have any. Part of what makes Rioja so distinctive is its structured aging system for red wines, divided into four main categories: Genérico / Joven (little to no oak aging), Crianza (minimum of 2 years, with at least 1 year spent in oak barrels), Reserva (minimum of 3 years, with at least 1 year in oak barrels and at least 6 months in the bottle), Gran Reserva (a minimum of 5 years, with at least 2 years in oak barrels and 2 years in the bottle). Experimenting with cheese alongside Rioja red wines of every aging class is basically a delicious science experiment - and luckily, the only wrong answer is “not enough cheese”. As Rioja evolves from joven to gran reserva, its flavours deepen, soften, stretch out, and generally glow-up, creating fascinating (and sometimes surprising) pairings with everything from mellow manchego to funky, cave-aged wedges. As a handy rule of thumb: older wines get along best with older cheeses. Rioja's coming-of-age story, and we’re tasting every chapter I knew, of course, that finding all the differently aged Riojas would be the easy part. The real challenge was always going to be the cheese. So I did the only sensible thing: I began by provisioning the Rioja family, neatly assembled and ready for their grand tasting debut. Note: No need to panic. These bottles are all available in Alberta, but any respectable Rioja will do, Rioja doesn’t really do “bad”. Just follow the chart if you’d like to retrace my snowbound footsteps and try the full Rioja aging arc with cheeses. Genérico/ Joven The Flirt - bright, spontaneous, zero oak baggage Señorío de Librares Joven 2023 Think of this as Rioja’s fun, hyper-social younger cousin, fresh, fruity, and absolutely unbothered by the concept of oak barrels. Made by the Espinosa sisters using organic, low-intervention magic, it bursts with juicy cherry, wild berries, a flirt of violets, and the kind of bright acidity that convinces you to pour a second glass before finishing the first. Medium-bodied, smooth, and proudly Tempranillo-forward, it’s the perfect “I want something delicious, not complicated” wine, a Rioja in its sneakers instead of its dress shoes. 🧀 Top Cheese Matches Young & Mild Cheeses: Soft goat cheese, young Manchego. Anything sweet, innocent, and not yet burdened by the weight of responsibility. Semi-Cured Cheeses: These are the wine’s natural besties. A little salty, a little mature, but still fun at parties. Together they form a beautifully balanced, mildly chaotic duo. Blue Cheeses: Shockingly, the producers claim this fresh-faced wine can stare down a blue cheese without flinching. Consider this pairing the “beauty & the beast” moment of your tasting. Aged Cheeses (handle with care): These big, intense, philosophical cheeses usually prefer serious, brooding wines. But if you pick one that’s not too dramatic, the Joven can pull off a surprisingly cute opposites-attract situation. In summary: This lively little Rioja basically shows up to your cheese board wearing sunglasses and saying, “Don’t worry, I vibe with everyone” from baby cheeses to semi-cured classics—and can even charm a mild blue on a good day. Crianza The Sophisticated Drama Queen - polished, expressive, just enough oak to make a point Bodegas LAN Crianza 2021 A polished, award-winning Tempranillo that spends a year in both French and American oak, because refinement is best done bilingually. Expect poised red-berry aromas with hints of vanilla and cinnamon, followed by a velvety, medium-bodied palate that ends in a confidently lingering finish. LAN Crianza absolutely loves hanging out with cheese, especially the firm, salty, mature types. Think of it as that one friend who only dates people with "excellent aging potential". 🧀 Top Cheese Matches Aged Manchego: The official, government-approved, born-in-the-same-region soulmate. The French: Comté, Morbier, Mimolette and Southwest French Hard Sheep Cheeses, Crottin de Chavignol The Swiss: Emmental, Gruyère The Italian: Fontina Any Smoked Cheese Any Aged Cheddar Aged Gouda In summary: LAN Crianza pairs best with cheeses that have grown into themselves, confident, structured, and just a little opinionated. Reserva The Quiet Power Player - composed, layered, effortlessly commanding Marques de Murrieta Reserva 2021 A refined, Tempranillo-led Rioja that somehow manages to be elegant, structured, and charming without showing off, though its critics’ scores suggest it absolutely could. Expect cherries, plums, cedar, spices, and the occasional cameo of “powdered earth”, whatever that means, delivered with silky tannins and impeccable balance. The Marqués de Murrieta Reserva 2021 is a well-dressed Rioja with standards. It pairs best with hard, aged cheeses, anything less serious need not apply. 🧀 Top Cheese Matches Manchego: The obvious best friend. The French: Mature Brie/Camembert: the creamy, earthy notes of a bloomy-rind cheese with some age can find a perfect partner in a Reserva, and Aged Goat Cheese (e.g., from Loire) The Swiss: Gruyère and Emmental The Italian: Parmigiano-Reggiano Aged Cheddar Aged Gouda In summary: Murrieta Reserva brings acidity, tannins, leather, spice, and dark fruit, basically the whole personality résumé. Hard cheeses counterbalance all that structure with fat, richness, and salty swagger. Everyone wins. Gran Reserva The Untouchable Icon - serene, complex, and entirely above the noise Marques De Riscal Rioja Gran Reserva 2018 A Very Fancy Power Couple Marqués de Riscal Gran Reserva 2018 is rich, smooth, elegant, and just a tiny bit dramatic: plum, herbs, cocoa, oak spice, the whole Tempranillo opera. Naturally, it demands cheeses with dignity, maturity, and at least a decade of emotional stability. 🧀 Top Cheese Matches Aged Manchego: The classic Spanish pairing. Idiazabal: a hard sheep's milk cheese from the Basque and Navarre regions is buttery, firm, and slightly smoky. Any other mature hard Spanish cheese The French: Comté, Morbier (aged, hard cheeses) and Epoisses, Livarot, or Maroilles (bold yet soft, washed-rind cheeses) The Italians: Aged Pecorino, Parmigiano-Reggiano, Grana Padano, Aged Asiago In Summary: A glamorous Rioja diva who only dates cheeses with backbone, preferably aged, salty, and sophisticated enough to keep up with all that Tempranillo drama. Other Foods That Make Rioja Feel Fancy – Put These on the Cheese Board! Cured ham (jamón): Because Rioja simply demands a partner with equal elegance. Spanish Marcona almonds (or any almonds and nuts) Olives (Manzanilla or Arbequina): Briny little gems that highlight Rioja’s savoury nuances. Membrillo quince paste: Classic Spanish pairing; their sweetness goes beautifully with aged reds. Roasted red peppers or piquillo peppers: Smoky, tender, and a touch indulgent. Dried figs or apricots: Soft, sweet, and chewy, perfect for echoing the wine’s fruit-forward charm. Where to Hunt and Gather Your Fromage in Calgary This is where reality contributed its own plot twist. The Spanish cheese selection in my town is - how shall we say - enthusiastically intended, modestly delivered. Manchego? Certainly. Manchego again? Without hesitation. Manchego wearing a slightly altered label? Sí! Anything beyond that? Now you’re just being whimsical. Well, Manchego, protected by a Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) status, is the iconic Spanish sheep’s milk cheese from La Mancha, the land of windmills, Don Quixote, and dairy with opinions. It’s buttery, nutty, a little sharp, and proudly wears its signature herringbone-patterned rind like a finely woven sheep sweater. Perfect with jamón, olives, almonds, or just eaten over the sink while pretending to host a tapas night. The Ages of Manchego (Are we still talking about ageing, maturation, and wrinkles? Yes. Yes, we are.) Semicurado: Young, soft-ish, and friendly. Curado: Mature, nutty, and starting to develop opinions. Viejo: Hard, crumbly, intense, basically the cheese equivalent of a wise old shepherd who’s seen some things. Realizing that the classic pairings weren’t going to happen with Spanish cheeses alone, I took matters into my own (very insulated) mittens. I embarked on a cross-city cheese quest armed with determination, sturdy winter boots, and an arguably unreasonable longing for dairy-induced joy. I returned triumphant with an international delegation of cheeses: French, Swiss, Italian, Canadian, and yes, a few Spanish representatives so they wouldn’t feel diplomatically snubbed. And now the stage is set: four Riojas, a global cheese summit, and some deeply appreciative Calgarians doing their best to forget that winter! Calgary’s Holy Trinity of Cheese Shops (+ One Very Worthy Apostle) A refined, slightly cheeky guide to the city’s finest fromage temples. Peasant Cheese – Mission 📍 Mission (2206 4 St SW) and Kensington (1249 Kensington Rd NW) The Mission boutique exudes old-world charm, the kind of place where time moves slowly and every cheese has a lineage. The mongers are quietly brilliant, guiding you through their 120+ impeccably kept selections with the calm authority of people who truly understand lactose on a spiritual level. Cuts are made to order, naturally, and the supporting cast, charcuterie, preserves, and fresh bread, feels curated for those who still believe in the art of grazing. Peasant Cheese is my personal holy ground, the place I disappear into whenever I need something wonderful (or dangerously stinky). Crystal, the mastermind behind the counter, and her brilliant team somehow always know exactly what cheese I meant to ask for. They’re the reason my fridge is consistently more cultured than I am. Say Cheese Fromagerie Inc. 📍 Crossroads Market Inside the lively Crossroads Market sits this stylish little treasure trove, unpretentious yet impressively stocked, a place where connoisseurs and curious wanderers are equally welcome. The team is warm, knowledgeable, and delightfully willing to let you taste your way into trouble. The selection spans regions and styles with the confidence of a shop that knows great cheese needs no grandstanding. I personally ravage the “discounted” cheese aisle on a regular basis, because there’s no such thing as expired cheese, only cheese with… character. Springbank Cheese Co. 📍 Aspen Landing | Crowfoot | Willow Park Village A Calgary institution with all the gravitas of a grand cheese hall. With more than 400 varieties sourced from near and far, Springbank is the city’s undisputed powerhouse of dairy abundance. Staff are generous with samples and pairing suggestions delivered with the easy charm of people who’ve guided many a shopper into blissful excess. The Apostle of Cheese: Luc’s European Meats, Cheese & Eats 📍 Calgary Farmers Market (West and South locations) | Red Deer + seasonal markets! Luc’s brings over 100 exceptional cheeses to the table, from classic European heavyweights (hello, Swiss imports) to beautifully crafted Alberta favourites. It’s equal parts deli, European corner shop, and cheese-lover playground. If Calgary’s Holy Trinity had a fourth seat, Luc’s would absolutely be sitting there, swirling a glass and munching on some good old cheese and charcuterie. And Now… Calgary’s Supermarket Cheese Saints Because sometimes enlightenment comes in the dairy aisle. Italian Centre Shop! - my weekly pilgrimage site The Italian Centre Shop isn’t a “supermarket” in the big-box sense - it’s an old-school European deli–grocery hybrid, the kind of place where the deli counter alone could reduce a fully grown foodie to tears. 📍9919 Fairmount Dr SE - my home base, but there are several others across Calgary and beyond. It’s a reliable haven for Italian staples, excellent charcuterie, olives in alarming abundance, and a treasure trove of Spanish preserved delights, plus the kind of impulse buys you absolutely did not plan on but now cannot live without. (Yes, they even carry membrillo quince paste, see above.) The whole place feels like a loud, lovingly chaotic, family-run Italian marketplace, perpetually on the brink of something delicious. And the cheese selection? They offer more than 300 varieties from over 20 countries, presided over by deli staff who cheerfully insist you sample everything. Expect Italian royalty, European classics, local heroes, and a few delightful wildcards (truffle cheese, port wine derby, the smoky ones, and the unsung Eastern European gems). Lina's And then there’s Lina’s—with several franchise-style locations across the city, bringing a more intimate, curated, old-world-deli energy to the Italian-shop scene. The cheese case is smaller than the sprawling empire of the Italian Centre Shop, but still wonderfully strong: classic Italian wheels, firm European favourites, and the occasional seasonal treasure. It’s less “continental marketplace”, more “delicatessen poetry”, a cozy little pocket of old-world Europe right here in Calgary. Now the "real chains" Save-On-Foods A surprisingly civilized cheese situation. Their European case often includes nicely aged Spanish sheep’s milk cheeses, decent Comté, and French crowd-pleasers like Brie, chèvre logs, and the occasional stinky delight if you’re lucky. It’s basically a budget-friendly shortcut to looking like you “curated” something on purpose. Also: my favourite supermarket on all fronts, for what it’s worth. Real Canadian Superstore Expect solid staples like Manchego, Ibérico, and a respectable trio of Swiss classics (Gruyère, Emmental, and Appenzeller). Their French section reliably yields usable Brie and Camembert, not life-changing, but perfectly capable of elevating a Tuesday. Co-op Often has a solid selection of basic European cheeses (Manchego, Gruyère, Emmental, Brie), plus some local cheese makers and seasonal specials. Safeway Their specialty cheese case usually includes a variety of domestic and imported options, especially basic aged cheddars, Swiss-style wheels, and sometimes Spanish and Italian imports. Costco I don’t shop at Costco these days, but I know they carry a surprisingly good lineup of reasonably priced import, think Manchego, Gruyère, and chèvre. The Verdict: A Few Clear Winners in the Snow-Day Rioja & Cheese Showdown After four bottles, a global delegation of cheeses, and enough Tempranillo-induced enlightenment to make even a medieval mystic nod approvingly, a few favourites rose decisively to the top. (I swear I’m not playing favourites with goat cheese today. The cows deserve their turn to shine, and I’m behaving accordingly.) Joven + Grey Owl = The Canadian Twist "A Surprisingly Perfect Cross-continent Friendship" Grey Owl - a succulent goat’s cheese, my favourite Canadian cheese from Quebec, once a staple of specialty shops and lately frustratingly scarce - this particular wedge was "smuggled in" from QC. Pairing it with a Joven is basically fruity optimism colliding with gothic dairy, and discovering they’re soulmates. The wine brings bright cherry, raspberry, and spice; the cheese adds creamy, lightly funky tang. Tastes like: Rioja berries making fresh tracks across cold, tangy goat-milk slopes. Crianza + Pecorino = The Italian Job "The Perfect Heist" This pairing doesn’t fall in love, it commits a very organized crime. Crianza, with its bright red fruit and gentle oak, works the room like a professional distraction: charming, smooth, asking just enough questions. Meanwhile, Pecorino Romano from Rome itself slips in as a hardened alleyway bandit, all hard sheep’s milk, sharp edges, and aggressively salty opinions, wearing the kind of poker face only centuries of successful crimes can teach. By the time anyone notices, the vault is empty and the cheese is gone, melting back into the cobblestones. They shouldn’t work together… which is exactly why they do. Tastes like: a perfectly executed caper where the wine is innocent, the cheese is guilty, and no one dares file a report. Reserva + Gruyère = The Swiss Classic "The Most Neutral Yet Perfectly Balanced Alliance” Reserva’s polished acidity and warm spice slot neatly into the caramel-nut richness of Alpine Gruyère with clockwork precision. Nothing clashes, nothing rushes, and everything knows exactly where it belongs. The pairing is refined, balanced, and calmly confident, the kind of harmony that doesn’t need to announce itself. Tastes like: a chalet-side aperitif where the fire is perfectly calibrated, the cheese has impeccable credentials, and everyone owns very expensive sweaters and absolutely no chaos. Gran Reserva + Manchego Curado = ¡Viva España! “The Destiny Duo” A pairing so natural it feels preordained. The Gran Reserva’s silky tobacco-and-spice depth wraps itself around the nutty, slightly assertive Manchego Curado like a prodigal hero returning home after a long pilgrimage through oak barrels, sun, and good decisions. Everything clicks: sheep, Tempranillo, time, and terroir in perfect agreement. Tastes like: Spain congratulating itself, pouring another glass, and reminding the rest of us, politely, but firmly, that this is what patience and pride taste like. The Takeaway? A blizzard outside, a fire inside, a few bottles of Rioja, a table full of cheeses, and some Calgarians realizing that winter feels a lot better when you let Tempranillo and cheese do the work. If the weather wants drama, at least the wine can give you a happy ending. 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 my 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!