Couscous, the prologue...

Here is yet another tale that begins twenty years ago. Well, that was the theme that started this blog in the first place.

When I met the other half in the early 90’s, there were, I believe, no more than three or four couscous restaurants in London. These were almost exclusively patronized by French expats, and were tucked away where you would be unlikely to stumble upon them by chance. It sounds strange to say it now, but I had never eaten couscous (well, they didn’t sell it in Tesco’s): despite being a moderately adventurous and open-minded diner, it had totally slipped under my radar.

is that it?

I’m not sure I quite twigged at the time, but in retrospect it is clear that this was another little test to see if his precious little (as it was then) tummy would be adequately cared for by yours truly.

I was taken to Laurent, the eponymous restaurant of a jovial Tunisian owner-chef. The atmosphere owed a lot to his Italian wife – it was just like dropping in to an Italian farmhouse kitchen for supper with the extended family. There was a menu, but it seemed only to be offered to strangers. The restaurant was close to Ed’s parents’ flat, and when they were away, it fell to Laurent to feed the poor abandoned offspring.

This was another facet of my new Other Half which was to become familiar: he loves to have a regular haunt in each town. If he likes the result of his first stab at the menu, he will return as often as possible and always order the same thing; if, however, his first choice doesn’t hit the spot, he’ll never go back. Harsh, and totally unfair, but there you go.

Anyway, back to Laurent. Couscous with braised lamb and lots of veggies was ordered. It seemed to me to be fairly bland, a common criticism by newcomers to couscous, I know, but it was OK and I was hungry, so when seconds appeared I tucked in. The house Red was very palatable and washed it all down nicely, so I thought. An hour later I had to be rolled back to the car. I was not allowed to forget this. For some years, Ed insisted on finding a parking space downhill from the restaurant just in case.

I have since learned not to eat seconds and thirds of couscous long after my appetite has been dealt with, and my only excuse for the early over-indulgences (if an excuse is needed) is that we were students, and unlimited food for an extremely fair price was a rare treat, not to be allowed to pass by unsnaffled. Oh, yes, and the wine was also, mm, inexpensive.

Having seen how couscous should be done, I was then “encouraged” to produce it at home. The classic Couscous-with-seven-vegetables is not a sensible choice for fewer than about eight people, though, and after one quite respectable, but unreasonably (I felt) labour-intensive, attempt the idea was allowed to lie fallow, Laurent being within reach to satisfy any cravings (and they were frequent).

Ironically, it was only 2 years later when we moved to live in France that I began to cook couscous regularly at home. (I could tell you about the culture shock of our arrival in the Pas-de-Calais, but I think I’ll save that for another blog all of its own.)

Next, the acquisition of a tagine…