For as long as I can remember, my dad and I have had a little joke running. Every year I pretend I can’t quite remember how old he’s going to be on his next birthday, and every year he replies the same thing when I ask him, "why, 29, of course!"

When I was a kid, it didn’t make any sense to me. Why would somebody want to remain 29 forever? Why not 17? Or 35? At that point 29 seemed like an adult age no different from any other, certainly older than anything I could fathom being myself someday. And it was also strange because as far as I could tell most other adults didn’t seem to care much about their age at all, with some going so far as to claim they’d forgotten the precise number entirely. Not my dad, though – he continued to turn 29, year in and year out.

 
It’s taken me a few decades, but I think I finally understand. Having just said goodbye to that very age myself, I already find it assuming some kind of mystical quality in my memory. Ah yes, I find myself saying as I come across a six-month old photograph, that was taken when I was still twenty-nine. And that blog post was written when I was still twenty-nine. What is it about being twenty-something? I had no such reservations about leaving my awkward, confused teens behind, but my twenties are a different story. They were a decade bursting with such promise and potential. Any number of career paths and endless childbearing years stretched before me to the horizon. It was okay that I didn’t yet earn much money, still claimed my student discount at the cinema and drove around a car nearly as old as me. I wasn’t expected to own a house or have an answer to the question "what do you do for a living?" Things like joint pain and heartburn and which brand of pro-retinol alpha-hydroxy amino-peptide face cream combats wrinkles best weren’t even on my radar yet. Indeed who wouldn’t want those years to end?
 

 

Alas, I haven’t yet figured out how to stop time, and so last week, the inevitable happened. I turned thirty, and rather than sit around and count grey hairs to celebrate, I decided to do what any sensible person trying to distract themselves from the unrelenting march of time might do: I ate. For five days straight. In Paris.

It’s too bad marathon eating isn’t a sport, for if it were we’d now be in the shape of our lives. In five short days we somehow managed all of the following, and more. Macarons in a rainbow of colors from Pierre Hermé. Every flavor of nutty financier Eric Kayser makes. Salted-caramel ice cream from Berthillon. Falafel from Chez Hanna (for the second time L’As was mysteriously closed for my visit). Pistachio and yogurt gelato at Pozzetto. A slice of Kouign Amann oozing salted caramel at Chez Michel. Rabbit braised in cider at Chez L’Ami Jean. Canneles, everywhere we could find them. Fork-tender venison in red wine at A la Biche au Bois. Baguettes stuffed with foie gras and a glass of sweet white wine on the steps of Sacre Coeur. More foie gras sandwiches with fresh spinach and onion jam from La Grande Epicerie. Croissants, fresh brioche, pain Poilane, Jean-Yves Bordier butter and Christine Ferber jams every morning for breakfast as we gazed out on the rooftops of Paris. Surprisingly good idlis and dosas at a dirt-cheap South Indian restaurant near the Gare du Nord. An afternoon filled with a large bottle of pastis and great friends*. A post-birthday shindig featuring spectacular food and even better company.

 
Paris has been called many things: city of light, city of love, city of dreams. For me, however, it will henceforth be the city of distraction, where surrounded by food and friends I barely noticed the decade counter click silently forward from two to three. And if that serves as any kind of precedent for the coming years, I don’t think I have anything to fear.

 

 
Addresses:
As a general rule, restaurant reservations are always a good idea. I recommend booking for popular bistros like the ones below at least 3-4 days in advance, or a week if you want to be sure. Note that all of the below have fixed-price menu options ranging from €25-32 for three/four courses, with supplements and à la carte options at an additional cost.

Chez Michel
Everything we ate from the thick lobster bouillon to the chunky pâté en croûte was stellar at this cozy Breton-inspred bistro, though it was the Kouign Amann that has set the standard for this luscious pastry forever. We ordered from the menu options, but if we’d felt a bit more flush we’d have splashed out on some of the game specials advertised on the chalkboard (all available at a €5-20 supplement to the menu price).
10 rue Belzunce 75010
Tel: +33 (0)144530620
Closed Sunday, Monday, all of August.

Chez L’Ami Jean
Can you forgive me if I tell you I can barely remember what I ordered here? I just remember a fabulous cream-laden soup with nuggets of sweet chestnuts, and a loin of cider-braised rabbit so tender I could cut it with a spoon. Those in the know around us seemed to be ordering the charcuterie spread, which included an all-you-can-eat cornucopia of house-made terrine and various saucisson secs, chewy wood-fired bread and a slab of Bordier demi-sel butter.
27 Rue Malar 75007
Tel: +33 (0)147058689
Closed Sunday, Monday, all of August.
 
A La Biche au Bois
I’m not sure whether it was smart or stupid that we saved this sweet little restaurant for our last night in Paris. If we’d gone on our first night we might not have had the appetite to sustain us for the rest of our trip, but going on the last night meant we had to reluctantly send mounds of food back to the kitchen uneaten. For less than 25 euros, you get enough food to feed an army, including game options i
n season and some of the best value foie gras in Paris.
45, avenue Ledru Rollin 75012
Tel: +33 (0)143433438
Closed Saturday, Sunday, Monday lunch.

Chez Hanna
The length of the line here at four o’clock in the afternoon attests to the quality of the food. Pay first at the counter inside, then join the throng of people on the street waiting to get their hands on an enormous, eggplant-crowned falafel spécial. Don’t forget the extra napkins.
54 Rue des Rosiers 75004
Open daily until late.

*That means you too, Alisa!

 

Homemade Vanilla Extract

 
Before you start jumping to all kinds of wrong conclusions about me, let me tell you what I don’t do. I don’t bake my own bread. I don’t roll my own pasta. I don’t simmer my own stocks. I don’t make my own yogurt, cheese, beer, wine, or jam. I don’t grow my own vegetables or herbs. I have been known to churn my own butter, but if you knew how insanely easy that is you wouldn’t think much of it. I don’t, as a matter of course, can, pickle, bottle or preserve much of anything. While I might do any one of these things occasionally – purely for culinary kicks, mind you – if you assumed my fridge and shelves are full of anything other than what I bought at the supermarket last time I was there, I’m sorry to say you’d be sorely, sadly mistaken.

I’ve told you all this not because I’m looking for your sympathy (or scorn), but so you can better appreciate the following. I do make my own vanilla extract, and if I can do it, I’m pretty sure you can too.

It’s funny, my vanilla-making started without the fanfare of many of my other culinary projects. This spring’s sourdough project, for example, required a level of planning, commitment and meticulous attention to detail more akin to building a nuclear bomb than cultivating a bit of fungus in a bowl. And while after completing Nancy Silverton’s gruelling two-week boot camp of precision-timed twice-daily feedings I felt proud as a new parent when my first little loaf actually rose in the oven, that couldn’t keep me from abandoning the poor starter to its fate in the back of the fridge a few months later. Preserve-making is another sad story; after forcing myself to get over my fear of canning one fateful day last year, I naturally assumed I would be canning up a storm every summer for the rest of my life, and quite possibly never buy mass-produced jam again. How has that gone, you ask? I think you know the answer.

But this vanilla thing, it all started so innocuously. So innocuously, in fact, that I didn’t even know what I was doing until after I had done it. A couple of years ago, you see, I made my first bulk purchase of vanilla beans through the internet (at what I thought then must be misprinted prices), and all of a sudden I had a problem I’d never faced before: a growing pile of used beans that were still far too fragrant to throw away. I tried sticking them in sugar like everyone suggests, but I was going through beans so quickly that I ended up infusing every bag we bought, and I grew tired of having to run out to the store every time I wanted a pinch of non-vanilla-scented sugar to stick in my pasta sauce. I had a bottle of light rum on the shelf, though, and this brilliant idea hit me that if I stuck a few beans in the rum, after a few months I might have a very interesting cocktail mixer – maybe even one I could give as a gift, with a cute hand-printed recipe for a vanilla mojito or something.

So I put a few spent beans in the rum, stuck it back in the cupboard, and pretty much did nothing to it except open it every so often to throw in a new bean. I noticed the color getting darker and the aroma getting stronger, but it didn’t hit me until about five months later when I finally decanted some that what I had actually made was not any vanilla-flavored booze, but a ripe, powerful and intoxicatingly fragrant vanilla extract. I quickly finished up my trusted Nielsen Massey and started using this in its place, and wouldn’t you know, it was every bit as good, if not even better! I ordered more vanilla beans – Tahitian ones this time – and kept adding my spent ones to the bottle, topping the liquid up every now and then with whatever mild alcohol we happened to have on hand, and as the months passed the flavor grew stronger, bolder, more complex. That was a year and a half ago, and I’ve never looked back.

I feel a bit silly trying to convince you that you too can easily make your own homemade vanilla extract, like Nancy Silverton convinced me I could have bread as good as hers coming out of my oven every weekend when what would actually happen is that I would spend weeks creating a living thing only to have it end up in the trash, but really, I can’t stress enough how easy this is. If you use vanilla beans regularly – and I’ll give you a couple of sources for cheap ones in a minute – there’s no reason not to; it’s effort-free, it’s more versatile than vanilla sugar, and it makes really great gifts (maybe even better than vanilla flavored rum!). And the best part? If you forget about it for a couple of months, it doesn’t shrivel up and die, it actually improves. I’m not quite sure what it says about me that the one project I’ve had success with is the one that actually requires neglect, but hey, as long as there’s great vanilla coming out of it I’m not going to sweat the implications.

Homemade Vanilla Extract

There are probably easier ways to do it, where you just use a set ratio of beans to alcohol and let it sit until ready. The beauty of this method, however, is that a) aside from the very beginning, you’re only sticking used beans in there (which feels delightfully frugal), b) your extract will continue to improve as you keep adding new beans, and c) once you get the ball rolling, as long as you keep using vanilla beans in your kitchen you’ll have an unending supply of extract on hand too. Pretty nifty, no?

Yield: 1 quart/liter to begin with, and as much as you like after that

1. Find a supplier of good, cheap vanilla beans. I buy mine from the San Francisco-based Vanilla, Saffron Imports, whose beans I can highly recommend (though interestingly enough, I haven’t been all that impressed with their extracts); another good option is eBay; try The Organic Vanilla Bean Company or Vanilla Products USA – or just search for ‘vanilla beans’ to see all your local options. All of these companies will ship anywhere in the world, though the eBay sellers are probably the cheapest for that. I usually buy 1/2 lb. at a time (about 60-80 beans, depending on variety), which lasts me for about a year, depending on how much baking I do. If you can, get a mixture of Bourbon (Madagascar) and Tahitian beans; I usually prefer the Bourbon’s flavor, but a mixture makes a very nice extract.

2. Buy two 4-oz (118ml) jars of vanilla extract – something good and strong, like Nielsen-Massey, Penzey’s, etc. Trader Joe’s is fine too. Just make sure it’s real vanilla extract, not some nasty cocktail of chemicals. Now, put one on the shelf and start using it. Yes, it’s going to take a while for your homemade stuff to be ready, and you’ll need something to tide you over. Sorry, there’s no way around it! The other one you’ll be using to kickstart your homemade stuff. If you live in some remote corner of the planet where you can’t buy vanilla extract, I’m afraid you’ll have to skip this step. Your homemade extract will take a while longer, but it will still be good.

3. Buy two bottles of booze: vodka, light rum, bourbon, or whatever as long as it’s around 40%
alcohol. Nothing fancy, just the cheapest stuff your supermarket sells. Some people shy away from booze with its own flavor, but you’ll be using it in such small quantities that it really won’t make a difference, though if you’re worried about that just use vodka. Again, put one bottle in the cupboard (no, this one is not to tide you over, so hands off!). This is your ‘top-up’ bottle which you will start using once you start decanting your own extract. You can, of course, buy the second bottle later, but it never hurts to be prepared.

4. Find yourself a 1 quart/liter glass container with a lid such as a mason jar, an old booze bottle, etc. Clean it well. Make sure it doesn’t harbor any weird odors.

5. Pour one bottle of store-bought extract and one bottle of booze into the container. Now you need to add some vanilla beans. If you’ve already got some used ones lying around, lucky you – use those. If you don’t, you’ll have to sacrifice some new ones. How many you put in to start with is completely up to you; the more you put in the faster your extract will be ready. I think I started with 4-6 new ones, and added 3-4 used ones per month after that. Split them down the middle and throw them in. Put the lid on tightly, give everything a shake, and put the container in a cool, dark cupboard somewhere.

6. Carry on with your normal life, using both the extract on your shelf and your vanilla beans, only that every time you use a vanilla bean, throw it in the container afterwards. If you’ve simmered the bean in milk or something for your recipe, give it a good rinse first. Take the container out and shake it around once a week or so, at which time feel free to poke your nose in and see how things are developing. It will start out smelling powerfully like alcohol, but over time, the vanilla flavors will take over and the boozy smell will almost disappear.

7. Continue doing this for, oh, at least 6-8 weeks. The longer the better. Of course YMMV depending on your personal consumption habits, but what we’re aiming for is that by the time you’ve finished that bottle of store-bought extract on your shelf, your own should be rich, fragrant and ready to start decanting. The other reason to wait until you’ve finished the supply on your shelf is that you can use the handy little bottle for your own extract.

8. When the container of homemade extract has reached your preferred strength, decant some into your own 4 oz bottle (or multiple little bottles, if you’re going to give some away). Now get out that second bottle of booze you stashed away all those weeks ago and top up the container so it’s full again. You’ll need to do this every time after you decant. You can probably leave all the beans in there at this point, but as a general rule if things start to get too crowded in there I just remove a few of the mushiest ones. Place the container back in the cupboard to mature for another couple of months and repeat steps 6-8 as many times as you like. The extract you get from it will just keep getting better and better and better…

Saganaki with Sautéed Grapes 

 
So I’m home safe and sound after a wonderful trip to the Pacific Northwest, and in an attempt to combat my jet lag with mindless tasks, I found myself cleaning out the drafts folder on one of my older email accounts a couple of days ago. That was where I ran across the following story, which I apparently wrote and then promptly forgot about, oh, eight years ago. It describes an experience Manuel and I had while traveling in Greece in September 1999, and while at first I didn’t think it had much relevance to a food blog, lurking at the very end was a passing reference to one of my all-time favorite Greek dishes – salty, crusty cheese saganaki. Of course I had to run off and make some as soon as I had finished reading; if the mere mention of fried cheese gets your stomach growling as much as it does mine, I would suggest you do the same.

When we stepped out into the street that morning, a chilly breeze was blowing the scent of salt in from the sea. It was so early that the harbor lay silent and empty as we trudged past, the fishermen still at work and the tourists still asleep, the dockside restaurants dozing between the last of the nighttime revelers and the first of the morning patrons. Rubbing our arms against the chill, we checked our watches and hurried up to the bus station against the slow lightening of a perfectly clear sky.

We were well toward the end of a month-long stay in the Greek Islands, and the time had come to do what every tourist brochure insisted we must: hike the famous Samaria Gorge on the island of Crete. The hike had in fact been recommended to us well before we ever browsed a tourist brochure – a friend of my mother’s had waxed so nostalgic about hiking the gorge in her youth that we were afraid she would invite herself to come along. But even without the personal recommendation we would have found it hard to resist undertaking one of the most celebrated of Greek tourist activities. It seemed that every tourist agency south of Athens heralded the same large posters of scantily-clad hikers lounging casually beneath spectacularly towering cliffs. Luckily three weeks of feasting on moussaka and retsina hadn’t overly dampened our athletic vigor, and the prospect of a relaxing, mildly challenging stroll through beautiful countryside seemed the perfect antidote to our holiday hedonism.

The Samaria Gorge is famous both for its history and its dramatic landscapes. It has the distinction of being Europe’s largest gorge and is Crete’s only national park. Its enormous striated cliffs, we had read, were formed over the course of fourteen million years not by snowmelt, but by rainwater which only flows a few months out of the year. It is home a wide variety of microclimates unique to the Greek Islands that range from lush forests to parched semi-desert, and if we were lucky, we might see some of the rare fauna that has sought refuge in the gorge from the habitat destruction and rampant overdevelopment on other parts of Crete.

We were not too surprised to find the bus station packed to the hilt with prospective hikers. As our guidebook had said, the only way to complete the hike and arrive in enough time to catch the bus back to Hania was to leave as early as possible, and not wanting to pressure our hike we opted for the first bus leaving at six-fifteen. From the looks of it, everyone had the same idea.

If we had learned anything about Greece in September it was to dress for the heat. Today we had donned our usual shorts and t-shirts, but on the advice of our guidebook that the hike was ‘rougher than you expect’, we bagged our sandals at the last minute and strapped on hiking boots. Though maybe we overreacted, I worried, as I caught sight of others in sarongs and rubber flip-flops. Probably our sandals would have been fine.

Two hours later the bus spilled us out at the top of the gorge along with the contents of several dozen other buses, most of them chartered by tour groups. People were still wrapped up in sweaters, but already it was apparent the day was going to be a scorcher. As we dug out our sunglasses and strapped on our packs, my eye was drawn to a well-muscled, middle-aged hiker in animated conversation with a group near the trail head. It took me a second of feeling very unfit by comparison before I realized he was a park ranger, and his bulging leg muscles no doubt attested to his daily familiarity with this trail.

From the parking lot, the trail began with a steep series of switchbacks through a cool pine forest down to the riverbed. Although we were mired in a continuous parade of people, we were convinced that as soon as everyone settled into their pace things would clear up a bit. We even stopped for a drink when we reached the river, thinking that if we let the initial rush of people pass, we would have the trail for ourselves.  We glanced back up at the three thousand knee-jarring feet we had just descended. "I guess they don’t give you much option of turning back!" Manuel remarked wearily.

Although we waited for more than twenty minutes, the people didn’t thin out. In fact, they seemed to be increasing in density. So we packed up our water bottles and rejoined the parade.

The trail was beautiful, passing from lush forests into barren moonlike plains, but all the time keeping its bearing along the trickling waters of the river. The river is generally dry for most of the summer, but can increase to a raging torrent in winter, during which time the gorge is closed to hikers.  I had briefly skimmed an account in our guidebook of a flash-flood that swept several hikers out to sea a few years before. "Do you think we should check the weather forecast for tomorrow?" I had asked Manuel the night before. "Are you joking?" he scoffed, "have you seen a cloud in the sky during the last three weeks?" I hadn’t, actually.

So we plodded on under the intense morning sun, chatting a bit with fellow hikers and looking forward to our lunch. Every so often a fast hiker or two would pass us on the trail, but at a certain point I realized that one particular person kept passing us in both directions. It was the park ranger we’d seen at the top. His lean legs moving like pistons, he was constantly racing back and forth along the trail, presumably on the lookout for injured hikers. Every time he passed us he would grin and wave and shout a few words of encouragement.

At some point I became aware that the sun was no longer fiercely burning the top of my head.  I took off my sunglasses and glanced up at the sky. "Is it my imagination or is the sky gray?" I asked Manuel.  He too glanced up. "Hmmm… I think it’s just hazy," he said so confidently I almost believed him. It didn’t really look like haze to me, but since it didn’t look threatening either, I decided not to worry. We were coming to our designated rest spot soon, and there was the more pressing matter of lunch.

Our rest spot, the remains of an abandoned village tucked away in a bend in the river, was swarming with picnickers. We found a spot on a crumbling stone wall and eased ourselves down, and I pulled out the guidebook to read more about flash floods. And then, without warning, as Manuel handed me my sandwich, it began to rain. 

Simultaneously several hundred conversations stopped, and several hundred faces turned to the sky. It was so quiet that you could hear the drops hitting the dusty ground. People looked at each other uneasily for a long moment, as if trying to assess whether this was something they should be concerned about, but with a shrug of their shoulders went back to th
eir conversations and their lunches. I, however, hurriedly scanned the paragraph in the guidebook, which began "Flash floods are a real possibility in the Samaria Gorge, both early and late in the season, and are not to be taken lightly. In 1993 several hikers were killed when a flash flood swept down the gorge and carried them out to sea. Prospective hikers are advised to contact the gorge information hotline for current weather information." We really should have called, I chided myself, but surely if there was trouble in the forecast they would have closed the gorge, wouldn’t they? I calmed myself with the thought that it was most likely just a passing shower.

Just as my heart rate returned to normal, a figure appeared at the entrance to the rest area, gesticulating wildly and whistling for attention. It was the ranger again, now clad in a yellow rain slicker.  We moved closer to hear what he was saying. "You must not rest here any longer," he called out in heavily-accented English. "At the bottom of the gorge it is raining heavily. The walls are very narrow and rocks can slip down. It is very dangerous! Please finish the hike as quickly as you can. Do not stop again." He repeated his message in Greek and then to illustrate his point to the non-English speakers, he indicated the narrowness of the cliff walls at the end of the gorge, and mimed out the process of a large rock hitting him on the head. Gasps went around. A flurry of hikers gathered around him asking more questions, but we didn’t stick around long enough to hear his replies.

Like lightning we repacked our untouched sandwiches and hurried back to the trail.  How much longer was the hike?  We had been hiking for nearly three hours, and guessed that we were near the halfway point of the 18-km (11-mile) trail.  That meant we still had a long way to go.  As the rain increased I kept glancing over my shoulder towards the direction from which we’d come – was it my imagination or were the clouds over the top of the gorge blacker than everything else?  I shuddered in fear. "I don’t want to die in a flood." "Forget about floods," Manuel called over his shoulder, "and watch out for falling rocks. They’re a lot more likely to end your life today." How comforting.

If we weren’t so scared, our situation probably would have seemed humorous. The mass of dripping people plodding through mud and water could have been actors cast in a scene of the biblical Exodus, if it weren’t for all the Gore-tex and nylon. The rain had become a steady downpour and the river was already gaining volume. People with twisted ankles huddled by the side of the trail waiting for help (mostly the flip-flop wearers, we noticed), while others leaned on friends for support as they attempted to navigate the slippery boulders and steep descents. Plank bridges that had been laid out to cross the trickling river were now submerged in swirling water. Manuel gripped my hand tightly as we stumbled along, exhausted and hungry, but too wary of the guide’s warning to stop.  One thing we could feel good about was that at least we had chosen to wear hiking boots – if we hadn’t, we probably would have counted ourselves among the injured.  At one point, the people behind us parted to make way for a yellow-clad figure that was overtaking everyone at a near run.  His brows furrowed in concentration, he brushed past us without even a glance. It was the ranger – and that was the last time we ever saw him.

After a couple of hours the gorge narrowed abruptly and the flow of people came to a bottleneck at a large wooden sign. "Danger: Falling Rocks Next 2km. Do not stop," it read. We had reached the beginning of the famous ‘Iron Gates’ – the section of the gorge in which massive rock walls rise sheer to a thousand feet, yet the canyon is so narrow that someone standing at their base can almost touch both sides at once. It was spectacular, and as though possessed not by common sense but by tourist instinct, people started to dig into their saturated bags to find their cameras.

As people trickled into the Iron Gates, the chatter died out. It was like entering a cathedral, silent and watchful – even the rain had diminished. People crept along a wooden walkway that had been suspended above the swirling waters, one eye on their next step and one eye on the walls above. Every few seconds the smack of rock on rock would reverberate throughout the canyon and everyone would freeze in midstep until the sound had died away. Carefully, painfully – at this point we had been hiking without a real break for more than five hours – we made our way through this crack in the mountains, our breaths held in unison, well aware that every step forward was a step out of the reach of danger. To divert my focus from the throbbing pain in my legs, I lost myself in pondering the restaurant possibilities for celebrating our survival that night.

And just like that, the canyon widened, the walls fell away, and a valley of parched sunshine opened up before us. We passed the last kilometer marker and a brusque attendant collected our entry passes from us.  Some people stopped and cheered, others just continued on as if their legs would never stop moving. We had made it, walking for close to six hours straight, and basking in the warm sunshine now beating down on us we could barely believe we’d just been racing for our lives against a tempest inside.

That night, the furthest we could make it to celebrate was the little taverna two doors down from our hotel. We hobbled in and ordered the biggest glasses of beer they had, and then slowly began to dissect the events of the day. We, like probably everyone everyone on that trail, had assumed that any activity undertaken by thousands of tourists must be risk-free. Ironically, though, that very assumption had probably put us in danger, as we hadn’t even taken common-sense precautions like checking the weather forecast; others had been more foolish by not even dressing appropriately. Luckily no one had been seriously hurt that day (at least as far as we knew), but what would happen next time it rained? 

Just then the waiter appeared to deliver our plates of cheese saganaki and grilled fish.  He cleared his throat and grinned. "So," he began in a well-rehearsed pitch, "we have many beautiful things on Crete. Can I recommend a visit to the Samaria Gorge?"

 
Saganaki with Sautéed Grapes

I’ll be honest: I don’t think I let a single meal go by in Greece without ordering saganaki. Technically a meze (and thus often part of a large spread), I always ate it on its own as an appetizer; I mean really, what better than fried cheese to get the digestive juices flowing? When I make it myself I usually use feta since that’s what I have available here; if you can find kasseri or kefalotyri, though, they’re actually much more authentic. As for the grapes, well, that’s my innovation – I think their tart sweetness perfectly compliments the rich salty cheese. Serve it as an appetizer, a party snack (in which case you can cut the cheese into smaller pices before dredging, and skewer each piece with a grape on a toothpick), or even as a light meal with some salad and bread.
Serves: 2 (or more)

7 oz (200g) sheep’s milk feta, kasseri or kefalotyri cheese, in one piece
cornstarch
freshly-ground black pepper
4 tablespoons olive oil
1/2 lb. (225g) red or black seedless table grapes
lemon wedges 

Cut the cheese into approximately 1/2-inch (1cm) slices (if using a 7 oz. block of packaged feta, split the block down the middle so you have two slices half the thickness of the original block). On a plate, combine some cornstarch (about 1/3 cup maybe) with a generous amount of freshly-ground black pepper
. Set aside.

In a heavy-bottomed skillet, heat one tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat. When hot, add the grapes and sauté, stirring occasionally, until completely soft, about 7-8 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon to a bowl. Add the remaining three tablespoons of oil to the skillet and place back on the heat.

Run one piece of cheese under the tap and shake off the excess water (be gentle though so as not to break the cheese). Dredge it on all sides in the cornstarch, then quickly place it in the hot pan. Let it develop a nice brown crust on the bottom side, about 2-3 minutes, then flip and fry it on the other side. Using a spatula, transfer it to a clean plate. Repeat with the other piece(s) of cheese (or do them simultaneously, if your pan is big enough).

To serve, top each piece of cheese with some sautéed grapes and a lemon wedge. Serve immediately.