Month: April 2012

Straining Details, or, the Craft of Thomas Keller

Shiitake mushrooms, coddled in cream, can be transformed into a soup worthy of a place at your table.

Shiitake mushrooms, coddled in cream, can be transformed into a soup worthy of a place at your table.

One thing I like about cooking is the power of being able to transform disparate ingredients into an organic whole, something that has all of the nuance and integrity of each of its constituent parts but ends up as something greater than any of them alone, something that satisfies you as a cook and pleases the people for whom you created it.

With that power of transformation comes the responsibility of respecting what you’re cooking with and the techniques necessary to create the organic whole. If you don’t have that, forget it. Details matter; you can assemble ingredients of the highest quality, but if you don’t treat them right, you will be less than happy with the outcome.

I’ve lately been going back to “The French Laundry Cookbook,” which a friend gave me a few years ago. It is one of my favorite cookbooks, but I have never read it from beginning to end – I am doing so now, and cooking from it. This week, after rereading the section in Michael Ruhlman‘s great book “The Soul of a Chef” on Thomas Keller, titled “Journey Toward Perfection,” a passage about soups stuck in my mind:

Mr. Keller loves soup, and he might begin a meal with a dazzling quartet of contrasting flavors that arrive in espresso cups. Fresh slightly bitter sorrel soup, the essence of green, is quickly followed by tomato consommé that is crystal clear but tastes bright red. Two thick soups look similar, but one is an ineffably rich lobster bisque, the other a clean smooth puree of cranberry bean.

In “The French Laundry Cookbook” is a recipe for Cream of Walnut Soup. I did not have walnuts, but I had some shiitakes, so I made a soup using Chef Keller’s recipe as a guide, with mushrooms instead of walnuts. And I made a few changes, not to make improvements, but because my ingredients called for them.

And that takes me back to detail and technique. One thing that all great cooks and chefs have in common is paying attention to both. No shortcuts, no half measures. The ingredients, and you and whoever is going to eat your food, deserve nothing less. You will need at least one strainer or chinois for this recipe, and if you have more than one you will be the better for it. If you have only one, make sure you clean it thoroughly each time before using it.

What a mélange: A shallot, some shiitakes, a bit of butter and two cups of cream

What a mélange: A shallot, some shiitakes, a bit of butter and two cups of cream

Take about 20 or so shiitakes and brush them clean, then chop coarsely and set them aside. Next, mince a shallot and sweat it in some butter in a medium sauce pan until soft. Add two cups of heavy cream to the pan and about 1/4 cup of milk. Next, split a vanilla bean and scrape the seeds into the mixture. Finally, add the mushrooms and bring all to a simmer, then turn down to just below simmer – you’ll let the flavors meld for about 45 minutes or so.

In his Cream of Walnut Soup, Chef Keller uses pear purée, and I thought it would go well with the mushrooms, so while the cream mixture is gaining strength peel and core one pear and cut it into eight wedges. In a medium saucepan, bring to boil one-half bottle of dry white wine and skim any foam that rises to the top. To this add 1.5 cups of water and 1/2 cup of sugar. Return to the boil and stir. When the sugar is dissolved add the juice of one half of a lemon and to this mixture add the pear pieces; cover with parchment lid (or loosely cover with lid if you don’t have parchment paper) and bring to a simmer. Cook for about 15 minutes, until pear wedges are soft to the tip of a knife. Remove the poached pears from the heat and return your attention to the cream and mushroom mixture.

No shortcuts: Straining liquids is key to this soup.

It’s coming together now, and if it has been about 45 minutes since the cream-mushroom mixture has been on the flavors will be wonderful; it’s amazing how the shiitakes impart their earthiness to the cream, and underneath it all is the essence of shallot. Pour this mixture through a strainer into a clean pan and discard the mushrooms. You’ll end up with about 1.5 cups of liquid. Taste it now for seasoning; I added a pinch of salt at this point.

Going back to the pears, transfer the wedges to a blender; pour about 1/3 cup of the poaching liquid through a clean strainer into the blender, then purée. If your mushroom cream has cooled reheat it, gently; then, with your blender motor running, pour the hot cream into the blender.

A first taste: a soup this rich is the perfect way to begin a meal.

A first taste: A soup this rich is the perfect way to begin a meal.

Finally, using a clean strainer, strain the soup into a clean saucepan and reheat gently. As Chef Keller does at the French Laundry, I like to serve the soup in warm demitasse cups as the first thing diners taste at the table, other than Champagne or wine. It is rich, the poached pear brings the slightest touch of sweetness, and the umami factor will have your guests thinking, “I can’t wait until the next course.” (It’s best to serve this soup immediately, but you can cool and store in the refrigerator for one day. Reheat gently.)

To end, I’ll touch one more time on detail and technique; you will notice that I strain the pear purée and the cream mixtures more than once. What you are after is a smooth, almost whispering touch on the tongue, so any specks or particles will ruin the effect. You must strain the liquids, through a clean strainer or chinois, showing your respect for the mushrooms, your guests, and your craft.

Thinking of France and Chickens

I lived in Paris for about seven months in 2005, and I miss that city, and France, especially when I am shopping for food. For most of my time there during that year I lived in the 10th, near the fine old Marché Saint-Quentin. It was built in 1866, and is a lovely covered market with lots of glass and iron. And it is full of great produce and fish and cheese and meat and poultry of all sorts.

A good place to shop: Le marché Saint-Quentin, in Paris' 10th.

A good place to shop: Le marché Saint-Quentin, in Paris’ 10th.

I shopped there three or four times a week, and most weeks bought a chicken, usually from the same woman, because hers seemed the freshest. Indeed, some of them had been killed the night before I cooked them. I bought them with the feet and heads still on, and appreciated their organic wholeness.

Most of the time I roasted them, which I am confident is the best way to cook a chicken, though fried chicken is a close second. Every now and then, though, I liked to poach a bird in cream, lots of cream. Two quarts, to be exact. Two quarts of fresh light cream, cream that tasted better than any milkshake I have ever had, and I imagined it coming from the most perfect dairy cow in France.

I’ve forgotten where I first saw a recipe for this dish, but it is an age-old technique, and many of you have undoubtedly poached chicken breasts before. One recipe I used recently as a foundation comes from Daniel Young’s “The Bistros, Brasseries, and Wine Bars of Paris.” I brined the bird when I made it this week, eight hours in a water/salt/sugar/black peppercorn solution.

Chicken brining in a plastic bag.

Chicken brining in a plastic bag.

Here’s how you do it:

Rinse the chicken inside and out with cool water and pat dry. Let stand at room temperature for 20 minutes, then season liberally inside and out with salt and pepper. While the chicken is waiting, heat two cups of chicken stock (you can use bouillon cubes) and heat the oven to 325 Fahrenheit. 

Carrots, onions, and celery, and a chicken

Carrots, onions, and celery, and a chicken

Peel two carrots and cut them in half; do the same to two onions and two turnips. To these, add the white part of one leek. I also like to use two stalks of celery, cut in half. (You can peel the celery if you want.) Put the chicken in a Dutch oven and then pour in the stock and the cream and add the vegetables to the mix. Heat on the stovetop over moderately high heat until just below boil. Put the lid on the mixture and put it in the oven for about two hours.

It's a bird surrounded by cream and vegetables – what's not to like?

It’s a bird surrounded by cream and vegetables – what’s not to like?

Remove the chicken and vegetables from the Dutch oven and keep warm; pour two to three cups of the cream mixture through a fine sieve into a saucepan and cook over medium heat, whisking the sauce until it thickens, for five minutes or so. 

Arrange the chicken and vegetable on a platter and pour as much of the sauce over them as you wish. I like to get a leg and breast on my plate, and the carrots and onions take on a flavor that will make you want to double the quantity of them next time you make this. (A final note: it is best to use a large chicken here, say, five pounds, but a bird of that size is difficult to find in many places, so if you use a smaller bird, just reduce the amount of cream.)

It really is very simple, and what results is chicken reminiscent of what you get when you make Chicken and Dumplings – moist and rich. And the sauce will have you thinking of milkshakes. I drank a Côtes de Duras blanc with the dish this week.

Common Grounds

A kitchen without tools would not produce much, no matter how willing or talented its inhabitants. While most home cooks do just fine without every single accoutrement found in a restaurant kitchen, anyone wanting to put more than the basics on the table will over the course of a lifetime accumulate a sizable collection of spoons and knives and food processors and pots and pans, not to mention a chinois or two.

The drawers and cabinets in my kitchen are fairly well stocked, and I’ve come to have strong relationships with a good number of the tools I use on a regular basis, including a Japanese mandoline and a Dutch oven that is now perfectly conditioned. But my feelings about most of my kitchen stuff are purely utilitarian; I love them because they work and allow me to do what I do easily and efficiently.

A workhorse: I've had this Tre Spade pepper mill since about 1987, and every time I use it I think fondly of Grant and Kathy Heath, who gave it to me as a Christmas gift. There’s a bit of rust on it, and its lid requires tape to stay closed, but I’ll never replace it.

A workhorse: I've had this Tre Spade pepper mill since about 1987, and every time I use it I think fondly of Grant and Kathy Heath, who gave it to me as a Christmas gift. There’s a bit of rust on it, and its lid requires tape to stay closed, but I’ll never replace it.

There is, however, one thing that I use all the time that means more to me than merely “utility,” and that is my Tre Spade pepper mill. I use it every day, and along with my knives it is integral to my cooking. But what makes it really special are the man and woman who gave it to me and they way they did so.

The best roasted coffee beans in the world have been coming out of this place since November 1977.

The best roasted coffee beans in the world have been coming out of this place since November 1977.

Grant and Kathy Heath are their names, and they roast and sell the best coffee in the world. I mean that. They own a small shop, The Kaffeeklatsch, in Huntsville, Alabama, and I used to work for them. And though I left Huntsville long ago, in 1994, I still order coffee from “The Klatsch” as often as possible. As I said, it is the best in the world – wherever I travel, be it Umbria or Munich or Beirut – I search for the perfect beans, and so far I have found nothing that can compare. I doubt I ever will. Order some and see what I mean.

Kathy and Grant always took time out from their workday to eat lunch; there was a small table in the center of the shop, and that is where they had their meals, usually simple but delicious things they had cooked, like barley soup with kale. They made me do the same, insisted that I take a break to sit down and have my lunch every day. I did.

One day while eating I admired a pepper mill that we used in the shop, and I asked Kathy if I could order one from the supplier; Christmas was coming and I thought it would be a good gift to give myself. She said she would place the order and we went back to work.

About a week later our regular delivery arrived, and as I was unpacking the boxes I looked forward to finding the pepper mill. But it wasn’t there. Kathy came upstairs from the office and told me that it was on backorder and would probably be in stock early in the new year. C’est la vie. I would live to grind another day.

The focal point of The Kaffeeklatsch: The 1929 Jabez Burns roaster, a work of art.

The focal point of The Kaffeeklatsch: The 1929 Jabez Burns roaster, a work of art.

The holiday season was upon us, and we got busier; customers came in for their supply of coffee, and beans by the many pounds flew out the door and were picked up by the UPS man for delivery across the nation. Grant was constantly at his Jabez Burns gas roaster, turning the small batches of green beans into something magical. (Not to go off on a tangent, but that roaster, which was born in 1929, is a beauty. I’ll write more about it, and Grant, later.)

On the evening before we closed for the holidays we were sitting at the table, enjoying beers and talking about dinner plans and which of our relatives were coming for Christmas and what we would be cooking. I had presents for Kathy and Grant, and they gave me a few pounds of coffee. Then Kathy reached behind her, picked up a box wrapped in festive paper, and handed it to me. It was the Tre Spade pepper mill. And, as I wrote, I have used it nearly every day since then. Thanks again, Kathy and Grant.

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