Run to the downstairs kitchen. Tell Elliot – the pastry commis – to put a prune tart into the oven. Grab a large rectangle plate. Pipe a thin line of wine reduction. Drain a prune marinated in spiced wine. Place it on the plate. Take the roasted nibbed almonds box. Sprinkle a couple of them onto the plate for the Armagnac ice cream to sit on them later. Wait for the prune tart to be fully baked.

And observe the guys around. One is plating some salmon. Another is deep frying. Another is making soup. Another is cleaning the edges of a shiny white plate. The chef is checking the plates before they are sent.

Service please!

Elliot brings the soufflé tart. It looks like a golden cloud. I sprinkle one of its halves with icing sugar, then carefully place it on the far-left of the prepared plated. A quenelle of Armagnac ice cream, and a loud:

Service please! Table ten.

At the Capital Hotel, the downstairs kitchen could be described in a few words: hot, skilled and vibrant.
Plates are coming from the different sections on a matter of seconds. Waiters keep popping to call for starters, mains and desserts.

But as much as I love the excitement and rush, I must admit, I have a crush for those three-nights-a-week that I spent in the upstairs kitchen.

Up there, things are different. Quiet and slow.

Even when there is a party to be sent, we always do it in a restricted team. Three chefs, and one pastry chef.
All of a sudden, the usually-still room turns into a miniature version of the downstairs kitchen. We clear the central work plan, arrange plates, get that burner working, close the doors for maximum heat so the plates won’t go cold.

Then I hear a: desserts in ten minutes!

I have all the components for the prune tart ready. Red wine reduction, marinated prunes, isomalt sugar, Armagnac ice-cream.

The tarts themselves are in the oven. It’s time for some plating action. I un-clingfilm the pile of plates that have been prepared for me and start drawing lines of reduction across all of them.

You know the rest already…

PS. The pictures were taken with my film Pentax ME Super, which seems to be my camera of choice for the restaurant.

Trust in me, just in me
Shut your eyes and trust in me
You can sleep safe and sound
Knowing I am around

Slip into silent slumber
Sail on a silver mist
Slowly and surely your senses
Will cease to resist

Trust in me, just in me
Shut your eyes and trust in me

No guys, I’m totally not trying to eat you. Human flesh just isn’t my thing. Please do not worry.
I need you to trust me though. You must fully trust me. The braised artichokes above might not look good, but believe me I could kill for them. Ok, now you can be scared.

I have to admit that those pictures – the one you see on this post – definitely aren’t my best. But I couldn’t not talk about these to-die-for treats (note: way too many death references here; but I’m fine people). I just couldn’t.

I mean, look at that lemony gooeyness. Now, we’re talking. Soft and fragrant artichokes, very slowly cooked until confits. Again, this is an easy one. Just throw some garlic and halved artichokes in olive oil, cover with boiling water and simmer. Drain. Generously drizzle with lemon juice and olive oil. Voilà.
The recipe which got me inspired is much more complicated; but having had a busy day, I took the effortless way. Rose Carrarini first cooks some carrots, onions and celery; then adds the artichokes and garlic. I told you: infinitely more complicated.

Hopefully, you’ve now trust in me and the next thing you’ll do after reading this will be to:
1. pick some artichokes from your garden (alternatively buy some)
2. peel them
3. halve them
4. cook them
5. eat them
By the way, I am absolutely not manipulating you.

Artichauts confits au citron et à l’ail
Adapted from Rose Carrarini’s Rose Bakery.

These braised artichokes have the perfect texture and flavour. You’ll never see me spend seven euros on preserved coeurs d’artichauts. Never ever.
Here I used some small provençal artichokes, called les violets de Provence [literally, purples from Provence] thanks to their lovely colour.

When something is available for only few months you should rush for it; especially if it’s fleur de courgette.
Fleurs de courgette, or courgette flowers are associated with provençal cooking in my mind because I don’t know other ways to cook them that the way old grand-mères niçoises do.
But they’re also linked with a memory of mine.
The kind of memory you’d prefer to have forgotten. Luckily this memory is soothed by the gorgeous courgette flowers. I suppose I’m not being very clear, so let me tell you the story.

It is a hot summer day during the late eighties. My parents brought me on holiday along them and I am eager to discover the wonderful city of Marseille.
We go to the gorgeous beaches; we walk through attractive fruit/vegetable stalls at the farmers market…

It is all perfect. Perfect until the day my dad decides we should go at the grand place where a pétanque challenge takes place.
We sit here on a wooden faded-green bench and we watch.
It is so hot! But the high trees provide an enjoyable shadow, making the heat more bearable.
As usual, my chatty dad starts talking with the players and my name comes to the conversation.
‘Fanny’
‘In Provence there is a tradition. When a pétanque player looses ‘il est fanny’ [he's fanny]; meaning that he has to kiss the bottom of a girl called Fanny.’

I am there, sitting and scared: I think the looser will actually try to kiss my bum (which is by the way prettily draped in a new-bought dress).
So as soon as the game reaches its near-end I press my parents.
‘Maman, Papa! Allez on y va!’ [Mum, Dad! Come on! Hurry up!]

Few minutes later we are – to my relief – quitting the grand place and heading towards a crique [creek] where friends of my parents are waiting for us.
As we are walking the air is getting packed with aromatic perfumes. ‘On arrive bientôt!’ [We're approaching!].

I can see the creek.
A tiny little creek and a giant wooden tent! I rush inside the tent where Marcel is preparing the dinner.
I immediately spot the small basket filled with gorgeous yellow flowers. I ask Marcel what there are.

‘Fleurs de courgette’
‘J’aime pas les courgettes moi Marcel!’ [I don't like courgettes]
‘Mais là, je suis sûr que tu vas adoré’ [Maybe, but i can tell you that you're going to love this]
Indeed he was right. I loved it: a delicious combination of crispy batter and soft flower.
That night, Marcel also delighted us with a luscious bouillabaisse [fish soup].

Beignets de fleur de courgettes
These are, as suggested above, a pure treat: almost melting inside and dead-crispy outside.
Use male flowers for this and if you can, remove the stamens.
The batter I used here is a tempura wannabe though it’s a little more thick.

From Neil Perry’s The food I love (page 94)

It seems i am into colours at the moment. Pink, bleu-blanc-rouge, orange, green…
I reckon it might be because of the summer; I don’t know about you, but when in summer i agree eating is only brightly coloured food.

This gazpacho andaluz is a great example = intense red soup sprinkled with emeralds, rubies, gold chunks and diamonds.
What a paradox for a soup that was originally made of stale bread, garlic, olive oil, salt and vinegar!
Though, a soup known as ajo blanco [white garlic] is still eaten in Andalusia.
Ajo blanco is a bread, almond and garlic soup served sprinkled with green grapes and drizzled of olive oil
This soup appears to be quite close from the original gazpacho and sounds very interesting.
I can’t wait to try it so I can finally sample this intriguing taste!
But this is another story…

Gazpacho is a good hint of what summer food should be: straightforward, refreshing and stunning-looking.
I think that in general, Mediterranean food offers the greastest possibilities regarding summer food.
Rich in vegetables, fruits, nuts and fish. It doesn’t only sounds good but is good in taste and for your body.

Straightforward – isn’t Mediterranean food based on simple flavours combined in the easiest way and just relying on the quality of the produce?
Refreshing – vegetables and fruits are packed with water and vitamins.
Stunning-looking – beautiful vibrant colours. Think olive oil, peppers, red onions, fresh herbs…

Gazpacho andaluz
This soup is so easy to make and a real delight to eat. Very fresh it makes a great entrée but could also make a lovely light lunch if you add freshly cooked seafood to it just before serving.
I love the way Neil Perry makes it: instead of grinding the vegetables in a mortar and pestle to get a nice texture, he suggests making a smooth soup and then sprinkling over diced tomatoes and peppers.