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An extract from 'Come to the Table' by Louise Luiggi
...Word spread quickly: the English girl is holding a party and everyone’s invited. Stephane allowed me the pleasure of organising the food, planning the menu in all its intricate detail, as he stood by, observing, resisting the temptation to interfere, stepping in only with helpful tips on feasibility now and again, which I managed to accept.
 As usual I left the choice of wine and champagne completely in his competent hands. Stephane sensed how much this meant to me and collaborated sensitively, allowing me independence that demonstrated just how far he had come in acknowledging and respecting my understanding of his food and culture. I could do this - easily, without stress or anguish. I knew them all, had learnt the sorrows, joys and triumphs of every single invited guest, as their stories had been divulged at dinner parties, their tongues loosened by potent Corsican wine. I could please them, bring to table their favourite indulgence - figs, chestnuts, fluffy apricots, dark, rich chocolate. Let them luxuriate and mellow, like warmed butter, easy to spread and mix. No one would be able to escape my charm, a magical recipe tailored to each and every personality - surprising, maybe shocking, but clearly expressing my perceptiveness, appreciation and love for them all.
Our terrace was beautiful in the early evening as the rapidly disappearing sun reddened the sky casting a shadow over the flickering sea. The setting was perfect for a party of such immense importance. The main terrace could be set with tables and chairs, leaving the garden scattered with deck chairs, their faded fabric flapping like the sails of solitary dinghies in the late evening breeze. A hefty stone bench had been thoughtfully positioned at the bottom of the garden, ideal for solitary contemplation and absent-minded gazing over the rough, wild terrain and the vast expanse of water curving away below. So much space - room to wander, to huddle together around a table, to escape to the bottom of the garden and digest, to sneak a surreptitious smoke in an isolated corner.
For now, there were no mingling, chattering guests. Our preparations were almost complete and the garden was still exquisitely quiet in all its exotic beauty and tranquil, seductive calm when suddenly the silence was abruptly broken by the clattering of enormous chunks of ice hitting the bottom of a huge round bin, ready to receive the bottles of champagne and rose wine shortly to be immersed in them. Having lit the last candle in its protective glass shell, I dipped my hands into the icy freshness, startled by the stinging pain of the cold. I jumped to attention as the bright, headlights of the first visitors wound cautiously up the long, winding potholed drive. I ran over to welcome them, kissing their smiling faces warmly, leading them down to the twinkling terrace, placing a glass in their hands, manoeuvring them into position. Everyone was carefully placed in front of subtly selected and strategically positioned dishes of appetisers.
To follow there were spicy merguez sausages, barbecued until black and crunchy for Antoine; a refreshing Taboule, with its citrus, minty blend of couscous, tomatoes, peppers and onion, for Madeleine; crisp, salty sardines for Babbo; saucisse en brioche for Chris to capture nostalgic memories of home in Lyon; a traditional Corsican classic for Francette, her sweet tooth drawn to a well-made Fiadone (gateau a la brocciu). Mimi is always won over by something Corsican – I knew beignets aux courgettes were her favourites - while Mina adores cotelettes de porc grillees, freshly cooked on a hot barbecue and sprinkled with sage.
There was lots of Babbo’s fish, a fitting tribute to the island and its people. Encased in foil parcels, resting gently on the glowing embers, these were my surprise gifts, freshly caught presents from the sea, delicately seasoned with fennel, lemon and tomato.
The children’s cheeky, happy eyes sparkled, drawn to a collection of bright, shiny bowls filled to the brim with naughty sweet treats: diamond-shaped almond delights, tiny, white calissons d’Aix, nougat blanc, nougat noir, red, juicy strawberries sprinkled with lemon juice and covered in chopped mint, glowing Corsican oranges and clementines freshly picked from the tree, proudly retaining their stalks and leaves.
This was an informal progression of flavours combined with an unusual blend of aromas drifting headily through the mingling guests, cajoling this familiar group into peaceful harmony. I suspected that they were amused and pleasantly entertained by my bizarre, eclectic choices, which rekindled memories, bringing wry grins to some faces, hearty gratitude to others. This was not a soiree decouverte of perfect food and wine partners, sophisticated flavours and harmonies to dazzle the taste buds, but a friendly offering of gifts, tasty and succulent, lovingly created, like a well-planned Christmas.
Tata Francesca was there as promised to smile and greet the guests, sitting proudly at the head of the main dressed table, reassuringly close by my side. Together we watched our gathered flock, having led them to their individual plates and allowed ourselves the privilege of being in control. Tonight we were the leaders, the decision-makers, and we both quietly revelled in this magical evening.
Soft, gentle music caressed our ears as everyone settled, some at the table, others hovering, wandering in front of the spectacular panorama, now glimpsed only dimly under the fairy-tale night lights. Sparkling glasses were filled generously, the wine working its enchantment over the party. I do not think it was the just the wine’s influence which drew Tata Mimi over to Stephane and encouraged an animated exchange of recipes. For the first time our skills were seen and appreciated. It’s true the men still had a hard time overcoming their astonishment at seeing a Corsican man talking women’s talk - kitchens, shopping, ingredients and baking.
I was not yet allowed into these intimate discussions, but I did manage to create a moment of awed silence as I articulately and professionally described the wide range of cheese varieties on display. Many French people do not possess the depth of cheese and wine knowledge we expect from such a rich food heritage. The English naively assume all French instinctively understand these culinary matters, are able to name and distinguish varieties and brands with natural, inborn ease. I recall my horror at two of our French students, who not only knew nothing about cheese but also hated it with a passion. Many years ago, long before we opened our business and acquired our knowledge of wine, the inexplicable influence of a few French words spoken surreptitiously in an English supermarket bewildered me. While choosing a bottle of wine, Stephane let slip a little French, loudly enough for a gentleman hovering indecisively nearby to hear. This man turned towards Stephane and asked whether he thought the wine was good. He confidently selected his bottle on the basis of my inexperienced French husband’s word.
I was accustomed to knowing considerably more about cheese and wine than many of my French family, but this was the first time I had dared to reveal my secret. They were not embarrassed to be told about their cheeses by a foreigner. They smiled proudly, beguiled by the crazy paradox of an Englishwoman extolling the history and virtues of a French cheeseboard. I felt myself being drawn in and accepted by my island family as we shared the goodness of the maquis and the satisfaction of a lazy, enriching feast.
Corsican utterances juxtaposed with loud, raucous belly laughs filled the star-spangled night air. Tata Francesca reassured me throughout the entire evening, nodding her approval as promised. She sat there, regal and splendid, fulfilling her dream as the young teased the old, as defiance and courage led the way, momentarily stilling the harsh, traditional, aging voices, opening their eyes so that they could see, dispelling their fears so that they could hear. She knew her task had been accomplished in style and harmoniously - no battles, no shouting or anger were required. Just a magnificent, creative feast...
Entertaining outdoors is an excellent way of introducing informality and creativity. Barbecues do not always have to mean burgers and sausages thrown indiscriminately on to a grill. Try using marinades for meat before grilling, roasting vegetables as well as meat, and don’t overlook fish, superbly moist and succulent when cooked in foil parcels on a hot barbecue...
Try Louise's recipes for entertaining outdoors...
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