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Joanne Harris

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“We make the delicate liqueur chocolates, the rose-petal clusters, the gold-wrapped coins, the violet creams, the chocolate cherries and almond rolls, in batches of fifty at a time, laying them out onto greased tins to cool. Hollow eggs and animal figures are carefully split open and filled with these. Nests of spun caramel with hard-shelled sugar eggs are each topped with a triumphantly plump chocolate hen; pie-bald rabbits heavy with gilded almonds stand in rows, ready to be wrapped and boxed; marzipan creatures march across the shelves. The smells of vanilla essence and cognac and caramelized apple and bitter chocolate fill the house. And now there is Armande's party to prepare for, too. I have a list of what she wants on order from Agen- foie gras, champagne, truffles and fresh chanterelles from Bordeaux, plateaux de fruits de mer from the traitor in Agen. I will bring the cakes and chocolates myself.”

“We begin with an onion soup as smoky and fragrant as autumn leaves, with croutons and grated Gruyère and a sprinkle of paprika over the top. She serves and watches me throughout, waiting, perhaps, for me to produce from thin air an even more perfect confection that will cast her effort into the shade. Instead I eat, and talk, and smile, and compliment the chef, and the chink of crockery goes through her head, and she feels slightly dazed, not quite herself. Well, pulque is a mysterious brew, and the punch is liberally spiked with it, courtesy of Yours Truly, of course, in honor of the joyful occasion. As comfort, perhaps, she serves more punch, and the scent of the cloves is like being buried alive, and the taste is like chilies spiced with fire, and she wonders, Will it ever end? The second course is sweet foie gras, sliced on thin toast with quinces and figs. It's the snap that gives this dish its charm, like the snap of correctly tempered chocolate, and the foie gras melts so lingeringly in the mouth, as soft as praline truffle, and it is served with a glass of ice-cold Sauternes that Anouk disdains, but which Rosette sips in a tiny glass no larger than a thimble, and she gives her rare and sunny smile, and signs impatiently for more. The third course is a salmon baked en papillote and served whole, with a béarnaise sauce. Alice complains she is nearly full, but Nico shares his plate with her, feeding her tidbits and laughing at her minuscule appetite. Then comes the pièce de résistance: the goose, long roasted in a hot oven so that the fat has melted from the skin, leaving it crisp and almost caramelized, and the flesh so tender it slips off the bones like a silk stocking from a lady's leg. Around it there are chestnuts and roast potatoes, all cooked and crackling in the golden fat.”

“The owner saw the way I ate and refilled my bowl without asking: the stew was rich with saffron and oil, and green anise, and orange. It's a cheap dish to make in Marseille: rockfish costs almost nothing. Mussels, too, are cheap, and squid, and the rock crabs that cost so much in elegant Paris restaurants are vermin here, good for nothing but stew. Food has a strange way of leaving home as a beggar and coming back a rich man, so the things we used to forage for free-- wild greens, razor clams, wild garlic, herbs, shellfish, rock crabs, even snails-- have been made into elegant dishes by chefs attempting to pique the jaded palates of those who lack nothing.”

“So simple in concept, ratatouille exists in many variants. Like a folk song, it has crossed continents, and found its way into a hundred different traditions. Marguerite's recipe calls for tomatoes, sweet red peppers, aubergines, onions, garlic, all combined with bay and seasonings, and a good splash of olive oil. Served with grilled red mullet, it makes a simple, wholesome dish, a dish that comes with a line of verse from Margot's favorite poet: The greatest love can only grow beside a dream of equal size. Food is love in Margot's world: simple, warm and constant. As for myself, I am almost two thirds of the way through her book of recipes. I can make madeleines, brioche, pieds paquets, pomponettes, leblebi, chickpea stew with merguez, Marseille-style pizza, aioli, navettes, and fiadoni, the Corsican cheesecake so beloved by Louis' regulars. I know the difference between pâte brisée and pâte feuilletée, fougasse and pissaladière. I know how to fillet rockfish; how to keep the heads for stock; how to stir red saffron through rice to make the most luscious risotto. Cooking has become a joy, an unexpected talent. Domestic magic is humbler, perhaps, than my mother's glamours and tricks, and yet it makes a difference.”

“Panisses, those chickpea fritters sold by vendors on every street corner, and served with harissa, tomatoes, or roasted halloumi, or grilled sardines; navettes, the little orange-flower biscuits Louis serves with coffee; fougasse, that crispy Provençal bread, enriched with olive oil and herbs; pieds paquets in spicy tomato sauce; olive tapenade with salt lemon confit.It feels good to learn, and Louis admits that I may have an aptitude. He has grown warmer towards me. The customers are happy. I am even allowed officially to handle the book of recipes. Each one has a story. This tapenade is the first thing she made, when she was only eight years old, in her grandmother's kitchen. This is her mother's clafoutis, made with the fat yellow cherries from the tree at the back of the garden. And these pomponettes are what she made for the guests on her wedding day; scented with orange blossom and sprinkled with nuts and sugar. Orange is the scent of hope, she writes in hasty handwriting. A promise of something small and sweet. A vow, built from spun sugar and dreams, melting in the sunlight.”