Recipe for a longer life #2: Moules Marinières

It’s the clattering sound of the mussels in this dish that slows time.  You are forced to use your ears, like you’d normally use your eyes. The sound of those mussels permeates the air around you, along with the smell of finely chopped garlic, gently fried in fruity olive oil, and the verdant aroma of freshly torn parsley. 

The best pan of Moules Marinières I’ve ever tasted I made myself. Not because I’m a great cook, but because of the quality of the ingredients, and the place I ate it in.

We were in Paris, strolling down the Rue Mouffetard, a famous market street. We had just bought a crusty baguette from one of the best bakeries we had found in Paris, Le Fournil de Mouffetard.

But what could we eat with it? A few steps away we came across a turbulence of oranges, pinks, reds and browns; a seafood composition on an outdoor stall. And there among the sea urchins and langoustines, the  oysters on ice, and the tied-clawed crabs, was a heap of small, glinting black mussels from Normandy sheltering in a whicker basket.

Ah, I thought. They would be perfect for Mariner-style mussels – Moules Marinières. There are several versions of this dish, sometimes with cream, sometimes with added shallots, and sometimes even with cider. But mine would be a simple version. Just mussels, olive oil, white wine, garlic and parsley.

So, we bought some olive oil in Rue Mouffetard too, pressed from olives grown in the limestone soil of Languedoc- Roussillon in south-west France. We bought a bottle of Sancerre, from the Loire Valley, and then a couple of  bulbs of green garlic, that hadn’t been hung out to dry.

It came together in a memorable meal: a winey broth zinging with strong garlic and fragrant parley, and a collision of mussels.

Clatter, clatter, clatter went our meal and we dipped in our fork or a chunk of baguette. I was in the moment, right here and now. And before I’d finished I knew I’d be forever transported back to this afternoon, to this small apartment that overlooked a busy street, with the window open, my chin dripping with wine and olive oil, in the heart of Paris.