Being born on the summer solstice has its advantages—the longest birthday day, for starters, and a predisposition for all things warm and sunny. So when I landed a job at Gourmet and discovered a marvelous cookbook library waiting to be explored, it was only a matter of minutes before I was drawn to The Cuisine of the Sun, the Provençal classic whose rich yellow cover begged to be opened. And it didn’t disappoint. Who wouldn’t be enchanted by a book that begins, “I was born in a tall apricot-colored house with green shutters by the sea.” When I’m in need of inspiration, this is one of the books I keep coming back to.
The author, Mireille Johnston, was a native Niçoise who topped off her French academic successes with a Yale doctorate before becoming a professor in the US and translator of the documentary, The Sorrow and The Pity. Thanks to a childhood in Provence, she wowed the New York literary set with deeply flavored Niçoise dinners. Several cookbooks and a BBC cooking series soon followed. Cuisine of the Sun was Johnston’s first cookbook and glows with memories of food and life on the Cote D’Azur. But what really makes this book indispensable for Americans in love with the south of France is Johnston’s adaptations for equipment and ingredients found here. Granted her recipes reflect what was available in the 1970’s when the book was published—oil-cured olives aren’t the substitute for Niçoise that I would suggest today, and I’d opt for coarse sea salt before kosher salt—but what might have seemed slightly exotic thirty years ago is no big deal now. Think about it: finding fresh fennel, flat-leaf parsley, Gruyère, even fresh basil used to require exploratory trips to specialty markets. It’s no surprise the food processor isn’t mentioned; it was too new to be commonplace in home kitchens yet, so her rouille and other sauces are pounded in a mortar and pestle or whizzed in a blender. I found Cuisine of the Sun soon after returning from cooking school in Paris, where I’d had my fill of butter, cream, and egg yolk enriched sauces. The lusty garlic, tomato, olive flavors of Provence lured me away from the dairy-muted heft of Northern European dishes towards the brightness of soupe au pistou, bagna cauda, pan bagna, and tapenade. Johnston exhorts the reader to make extra because so many recipes are delicious a day or two later. Don’t forget that this is a cuisine in which meat was stretched. The pot au feu one night became boeuf mironton (a gratin with a vinegar caper sauce and crumbs) the next evening and a filling for ravioli for yet a third meal. Was Mireille Johnston instrumental in America’s adoption of Mediterranean food? Absolutely. The California cuisine revolution that began in the 1970’s was deeply rooted in Provençal sensibilities. If you didn’t know about her book before you left for the south of France back then, you certainly tracked it down when you returned. And you still can.
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