Before Heston Blumenthal there was Eduardo de Pomaine, a French scientist and food writer, whose Cooking in 10 Minutes adapts French Edwardian cooking to the pace of modern life in postwar France. The slim volume, published in 1948, reads something like Delia Smith (in …Cheat mode) via Raymond Queneau.
de Pomaine’s food science is pragmatist – not nouvelle – cuisine (faggots and French onion, not foam and emulsion), but as a moonlighting bacteriologist, his recipes have an unsettling touch of the Frankensteins. His no-nonsense bark makes a pleasant change from Nigel Slater’s ever-priapic food poetics.
It’s his cantankerous interjections, however, together with gross-out, austerity-era recipes, delivered with a scientist’s lack of squeamishness, that really make this funny food-novella. What’s more, de Pomaine’s convenience cookery is not the stuff of “cash rich/time poor” Sunday supplement quick suppers, in fact, he’s quite the old romantic:
My book is meant for the student, for the midinette, for the clerk, for the artist, for lazy people, poets, men of action, dreamers and scientists, for everyone who has only an hour for lunch or dinner and yet wants half an hour of peace to watch the smoke of a cigarette whilst they sip a cup of coffee which has not even time to get cold.
Modern life spoils so much that is pleasant. Let us see that it does not make us spoil our steak or our omelette. Ten minutes are sufficient – one minute more and all would be lost.
His profile, from the Pasteur Institute where he worked as a physician, is here.
Usually it began like this. Two spindly women clattering in their stack heels give chase. Julie’s garb is the ammonia-smelling wardrobe of the junkshop. Celine is one of those dangly women, made of lolling lips, feathercut and bosoms.
I tried to write a thing about Jacque Rivette’s lovely, extravagent Celine and Julie Go Boating. At the moment, it’s still stuck in that not-yet-ready stage: gross generalisations and cod mysticism. For now, there’s plenty of ponderous Deleuzing elsewhere on the ‘net.
For me, French-Tunisian Taieb’s jaunty lament about the tragedy of having to get out of bed in the morning is yé yé perfection. It’s winking insolent chatter, interspersed with – talkin’ ’bout my g-g-g-generation – fragments of the early pop meteorites of The Beatles, Chuck Berry and The Who. Yé yé was France’s cultural call-and-response to the British invasion and American rock and roll, ventriloquised via a rotating assortment of ingenues. What’s different about Taeib’s Sept Heures du Matin, is here she’s actually singing along to Swinging Radio England, miming yé yé’s influences straight back into a hairbrush in front of the bathroom mirror.
A warning: the English version – as with so much – is a bit of a let down.
Of course, a post about yé yé couldn’t possibly be complete without a quick Gainsbourg anecdote:
When France Gall, singer of the Gainsbourg-penned Les Sucettes, caught wind of a possible second meaning behind his ode to aniseed lollies their partnership (which also resulted in Eurovision winner Poupée de Cire, Poupée de Son) immediately dissolved. Gainsbourg, the vaudeville iconoclast, riposted: “It’s the most daring song of the century”.
Well, see what you think; there’s winking and hair twiddling aplenty here:
The English translation is here.
Hmm.. this feels like to lead-in for something much more involved about sex and ‘baby pop’. Later, I think.
For now, there’s Yé Yé Land and news of a new Jacqueline Taieb album here.
This story of Michael Claytonish econoia has been bubbling over at the Eastern Daily Press since they published leaked proposals put forward by Natural England to allow the sea to breach coastal defences along the nine mile stretch between Eccles and Winterton on the Norfolk coast. An entirely reasonable panic has spread throughout the letters pages of regional dailies. In a region this close to sea level, coastal erosion (or “realignment”, thanks Natural England!) is always hot topic.
Back in 2002, the University of East Anglia’s Tyndall Centre for Climate Change research seemed optimistic. They produced virtual reality simulations of Norfolk’s coastlines, overlaying the projected results of climate change Norfolk countryside. The thought was that if residents and councils could see the results of climate change for themselves – albeit grafted onto some hokey, computer-modelled Norfolk vistas – they might be more willing to act. Ah yes, that sepia-toned period of recent history when this kind of thing seemed like slightly mediocre vamping for some far flung FuturePanic.
Still no closer to a solution, then, but now with some big emoting from subeditors – Neptune cometh and we shalt surrender to the briney blue. Nonetheless, this story has all the ingredients of a very modern ecodrama: class (commentary oscillates between cynicism and melodrama, depending on whether the North Norfolk chattering classes or Olde Anglian peasantry are providing human interest), the housing market, paranoia and faceless quangoish conspiracy.
Sentimental postscript: similar stuff at the unlikely surf bunny mecca and Hodgson family holiday destination (1987-1992), Cayton Bay.
Eastern Daily Press Q & A
See Happisburgh (pron. “Haysbrough”) here