Taste Scene: The arrivals hall

“Ne t’inquiète pas,” he said. “Je ne viens pas les mains vides.”My visiting friend from Corsica, Jean Charles, already knew that I wouldn’t be worried but with his assurance, “I’m not coming empty-handed,” he was simply letting me know that there would be some tasty morsels in the suitcase.

“You never come empty-handed,” I replied and he laughed in response.

“Quelqu’un doit te nourrir (someone has to feed you),” he added.

Jean Charles (whom I hadn’t laid eyes on in ten years), arrived for a week-long stay with his son, Baptiste last Thursday. Baptiste hasn’t a word of English but still and all, his ten-year-old French is much better than mine.

Prior to leur arrivée, as I stood in the arrivals hall at Dublin Airport’s Terminal One, it struck me that it’s a place I don’t visit often enough. Not only would I like to see JC and Baptisite visit more often of course, but I suddenly realised that arrivals is a great place to witness some stellar emotions.

As I excitedly hopped from foot to foot, fidgeting and forensically examined the scrolling information board for the umpteenth time to see if and when the Ryanair flight from Marseilles would touch down, I couldn’t help but notice that everyone around me was also on tenterhooks. Everyone, it seemed, was waiting on a friend or a husband or a son or daughter to arrive (such is the concept of an arrivals hall), but in almost every instance, the expectation was written over everyone’s face and demeanour. And that was before their nearest and dearest finally showed face around the sliding doors.

Grandparents grinned manically as tottering toddlers ran giggling into their arms; young couples embraced and kissed unashamedly; fathers clapped returning sons on their backs and tried not to cry, whilst the mothers openly wept in that rare melange of joy and relief. Jaysus, but I was nearly bawling meself, what with all these joyful emotions borne on sleeves. “Arrivals,” I thought, “Should be the first port of call for anyone feeling a bit on the downside.”

However, with the Corsican contingent arrived and returned to the homestead, the suitcase began to reveal its payload. As well as two stupendous figatelli (Corsican sausages made with pork, liver garlic and blood), Jean Charles had transported two different pork salamis, figatellu terrine, hazelnut salt (good for pasta, apparently) two jars of Corsican Nutella (Nuciola), a pouch of Corsican mix herbs, a pack of dried and smoked mullet eggs and two bottles of the local wine (red and white).

Jean Charles laughed at the look on my face as I smelled and then smelled again, the glorious figatelli and then fawned over the sweating salamis.

“Merci,” I told him, earnestly and then feeling as though a simple thanks was wholly inadequate, I gave him a hug. “No wonder I’m getting fat,” I added.

“You’ve always been fat,” he laughed again.

The last time Jean Charles visited he insisted on making salmon tartare (raw salmon fillet chopped ultra fine with onions, capers, lemon and mayo) and this involved a trip to Killybegs to procure the freshest salmon we could find.

This time though, as he savoured his first Irish Guinness in many a year on Thursday evening, he suggested making the French classic, pot-au-feu.

Hailed by none other than Raymond Blanc as “the quintessence of French family cuisine,” pot-au-feu is a simmered beef dish served in two courses. The simmering broth first as a starter and then the solid ingredients, meat and vegetables.

“Can you find beef tail here?” Jean Charles asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. Oxtail, as we would recognise from the eponymous soup, isn’t a regular visitor to my kitchen. “Sure we’ll have a look in the morning and find out.”

In truth, I didn’t have much of an appetite for pot-au-feu with oxtail, seeing as how the house was suddenly coming down with oodles of exquisite Corsican charcuterie. But, ever trusting of my former chef friend to concoct a cracker, I made the necessary enquiries.

As things turned out, oxtail isn’t as rare as I would have expected and the resulting pot-au-feu became another instant family favourite when JC fired up the recipe on Tuesday afternoon.

Fortified with a glass of Corsican vin rouge, I helped prep the pot-au-feu, as much as to find out how to do it than any great desire to help (I had cooked the previous three meals) and I soon discovered that as with many great classics, pot-au-feu is as easy as Sunday morning.

As I write this Jean Charles est en train de faire la siesta, there is more Guinness on the horizon and honestly, I haven’t laughed like this in years. It turns out Baptiste is a born comedian.

For the time being at least, it feels as though I am living in an arrivals hall and it is the bestest place on earth.