Category: Uncategorized (Page 18 of 19)

Mon Oncle, or, a Wine Bar Opens in Girona

I left Barcelona with wine on my mind and in the trunk of the car. I was headed to Girona, a city Angela and I had visited in 2011 (we had a reservation at El Celler de Can Roca). This time I was going to visit friends who lived there. They were opening a wine bar, and I thought it would be fun to observe their work and give them some help. I had taken a train from San Sebastien down to Barcelona, and, after a few meals and a night at Camp Nou seeing Messi & Co. work their magic, I rented a car and headed toward the ocean. (I did make one stop, for lunch, at Can Fabes, more on which later.) (Update: Here is the story of my afternoon at Can Fabes.)

Girona is a beautiful city, with a small river running through it. It is not far from the French border, and its people are fiercely independent. I had my trusty GPS unit, and had programmed into it the village in which my friend and her husband lived, about 20 minutes outside of Girona. They own an amazingly beautiful bed and breakfast in which I stayed one night during my visit, and I recommend it highly.

They were not home when I arrived, so I called and arranged to meet them in Girnona, near Mon Oncle, the name of the soon-to-open wine bar. It is in a building in a large open square, in the old district; in other words, a perfect location. Plenty of space for outdoor dining, for sitting and enjoying wine with friends.

When I reached the square, after a stroll along the river, Mon Oncle was abuzz with activity; Axel, one of the owners, was helping affix a sign to the building’s exterior, and his sister, Marie, and her husband were inside unloading supplies and going over inventory. I had not seen Axel since 2005, and the last time I saw Marie was in New York in 2002. We greeted and I told them I was available for work. We toasted with beers and I started helping ready chairs and tables for the square. Mon Oncle’s opening night was two days away, and cases of wine and water and beer were stacked inside the restaurant, ready for the open-house crowd that would gather to celebrate.

What occurred two days later was magical, and perfect. Hundreds of people showed up (even a group of drummers), and they drank and dined and danced and, in short, created the perfect atmosphere for the premiere of Girona’s newest wine bar.

Searching For a Ghost in Switzerland

I neared Vevey, and the sunshine reflecting off of Lake Geneva was bright and warm. That morning I had left Provence, and because I was looking for M.F.K. Fisher had not booked a place to spend the night in Switzerland. To be exact, I was hoping to make my way to the spot on which Fisher’s house in the hills above Vevey stood. She lived there during one of her sojourns in Europe, and I have been trying to spend some time in each place she lived, including Dijon and Strasbourg, and Provence. I planned to find a room in the hills.

From a hill high above Lake Geneva

From a hill high above Lake Geneva

Vevey, at first glance, once I arrived in the city proper, underwhelmed me. I scanned the steep hills above and wondered which road I should take to get nearer to where Fisher cooked and wrote, and grew discouraged, because they all seemed to end in neighborhoods of orderly lawns and quiet houses. In my head I had imagined an alpine pasture, wildflowers, a few cows … not BMWs and S500s and crosswalks.

Growing frustrated, and resigned to spending the night in a drab room back in Vevey – I had driven through Montreux, directly adjoining Vevey, glamorous, bright, alluring, but on this trip am sleeping inexpensively (though not devoid of grace and comfort) – I noticed a woman on horseback, riding a brown beauty up what looked to be not much more than a trail. I slowly nosed the car toward the trail, and saw that it was wide enough for one car to proceed along it. In addition, a sign told me it was open to traffic, so slowly up I went.

About 10 minutes later I saw a restaurant on my left, and pulled into the small parking lot next to it. It was 5 o’clock in the afternoon, the restaurant closed and empty. Across the narrow street a woman was walking a dog, and I asked her if she knew of any chambre d’hôtes in the immediate area. She pointed toward a fork in the road, about 100 feet in front of us, and told me there were two, one up the left fork and one down the right fork. I thanked her, went back to the car, and took the right fork. 

About two minutes later I saw a wooden house on my left …

A house at the end of the road

A house at the end of the road

It was beautiful, and welcoming. I parked the car and approached the front door, and my knock was answered by a smiling woman. She told me the room was occupied, but invited me in. The house, warm, redolent of wood smoke, immediately made me feel at home. I asked her about the area, and told her why I stopped near Vevey, about M.F.K. Fisher and my wanting to find her home there. The woman, Monika, told me she had not heard of Fisher, but then her daughter, Danielle, entered the room and, hearing our conversation, said she would ask her brother about Fisher, as her brother knew a lot about the history of the area. I gave them my email address and said I was going to check on the other bed and breakfast nearby. I wanted to continue the conversation, but was concerned that nightfall would find me homeless.

I drove back to the fork and headed higher, looking for a railroad crossing, where, I was told, I would find a salmon-colored house. It was easy to locate, and I parked my car across the street from the building. Walking up to the front door, I noticed a few people in the house’s side yard working on what looked to be a large shed. I greeted the first person I saw, a woman whose black sweater was covered in sawdust; when I told her I was looking for a room for the evening she put down what she was holding and took me inside the house, to a room on the first floor. It was perfect: neat, clean, functioning WiFi. I told her I would take it, and she invited me back outside for a coffee. She also ordered me to bring in any clothing I had that was in need of laundering …

Angela and sons, preparing lunch

Angela and sons, preparing lunch

The structure they were working on was something I would like to have: a room with a table that seats 12 people or so, adjoining a fully equipped kitchen. It was so much more than a shed. They used it for family meals, and their guests enjoyed breakfast at the big table, overlooking an outdoor Jacuzzi tub, a sauna, and, at the rear of the garden, a chicken house. (I learned that of eight hens, one remained, the other seven victims of a fox. The lone hen’s only companion was a goose, a plucky specimen that strutted on the grass looking like a miniature emperor.)

The Emperor of Chamby

The Emperor of Chamby

I had dinner that night at the restaurant down the road, where I had first parked and learned about my two bed possibilities, and after settling in at my table and ordering a glass of wine, I turned my thoughts again to M.F.K. Fisher, the person I was in search of on this steep hill overlooking Lake Geneva. I wondered how far away the remains of her house were, if she had ever dined on venison from the area (my main course that evening). And I thought about the idea that she on many evenings, from a perch most probably above where I was sitting, looked down on the lights of Vevey and Montreux, as I was doing.

Loin of venison in the Swiss hills

Loin of venison in the Swiss hills

I had driven for the better part of that day, so after my meal I headed back to my room, looking forward to getting in bed early, or at least earlier than was usual for me. But, as I opened the house’s front door and started toward my room, Angela and her husband met me in the foyer and invited me to go out with them for a drink, which I did. We drove down the steep hill and met some of their friends in a small club whose DJ loved ’80s music, and, to my relief, Marley and Nina Simone. We lasted until 1:30 or so in the morning, and after discussing local politics and my next destination and restaurants in the area we headed back up the hill to sleep.

The next morning I was awake at 8:30 or so but stayed in bed reading. I knew that I did not have a long trip ahead of me to get to Bavaria, so decided to take it easy. My hosts were already preparing lunch, and when I went outside I saw a pot filled with octopus and tomato sauce. As I was drinking my coffee, Angela asked me to stay for lunch, and how could I say no? They were all working on the room again, installing windows. The grandmother was in the kitchen, laying out cheeses and charcuterie. I lingered over a second cup of espresso and took in the sights and sounds, watching three generations of a family work and cook and live, and felt warm and at ease.

This, among other things, forced me to stay for lunch

This, among other things, forced me to stay for lunch

From the heart and hands of an artisan

From the heart and hands of an artisan

The table was set for our meal, and I went to my car and brought back a bottle of wine, a red from Provence. More family members arrived, and a plate of house-cured salumi was brought in. We ate the octopus and artichokes and bread and drank our wine. The fog, which earlier had shrouded the horizon and blocked our view of the lake far below, was lifting, and I took that as a cue that I should be on my way. I reluctantly stood and shook hands and received and gave hugs, and left my hosts at the table.

I neglected to mention that two ghosts are in this story, the other being that of Hemingway. About 250 feet or so from my room, higher up the narrow road, stood a house where the writer lived in 1922 with Hadley Hemingway. The house was then the Pension de la Forêt, and I wondered if Fisher ever stayed there …

A room for a giant

A room for a giant (Swiss Tourism Archive)

A young couple in Switzerland (JFK Library/Hemingway Collection)

A young couple in Switzerland (JFK Library/Hemingway Collection)

As I drove back down toward the fork in the road I decided to say bye in person to the woman whose pension I first stopped at; the night before she had sent me an email telling me her apartment would be available the following evening if I had plans to stay in the area longer, and her daughter had put me in touch with a historian in Montreux who might know something about M.F.K. Fisher’s life in Vevey. They were kind to do this, and I wanted to tell them so. The mother opened the door and invited me in; I could smell the pleasant odors of food coming from the kitchen, and again felt instantly welcome. The house was built in the 1630s, and its solidness gave me a sense of well-being. It turned out that the mother’s husband had been an American scientist; he died in 2011. He had done much work restoring and modernizing the house, and was a renowned builder of model ships, as I was to discover on a tour of the house.

The Titanic, big and with exquisite detail

The Titanic, big and with exquisite detail

I received another lunch invitation, and wanted to stay, both because of the hospitality and the smells emanating from the kitchen. But Germany beckoned, and I planned to arrive at my next destination before sunset, so I once again said goodbye and started down the hill, toward Bavaria.

Chasing a ghost is challenging, and I never found M.F.K. Fisher’s house (or what remains of it, if anything does) or the land upon which it stood. But I did find good people, and spent a few hours with them and their food and kindness. And I know that would have made Fisher happy, indeed. I also know that the next time I am near Montreux I will find myself in good company, around warm tables full of fine food and much laughter.

To read, to cook, and to dream (Thank you, M.F.K. Fisher)

Books and cooking are perfect companions. I never tire of reading about food, about the preparation of it, the soul-nourishing properties of selecting and preparing what we eat, the way we dream and think about ingredients and countrysides and fields and markets and tables. Or the way we recall meals enjoyed in restaurants and gardens and backyards.

Cookbooks and volumes on wine and food and all things culinary occupy large amounts of space on the shelves of my bookcases, and I consult them often. (Or, I should say, will again once my books are out of boxes and back on said shelves.) Indeed, I miss terribly sitting with The French Laundry Cookbook and The Gift of Southern Cooking, among others, and delving into the passions of Edna Lewis and Thomas Keller. I miss my Le Guide Culinare. In the past several months I have found myself wishing I had easy access to On Food and Cooking and the words of Mencken on food and drink.

I have been traveling and cooking in Europe since July; Paris is the next stop. My books are in the dark, packed away. I wanted to take a few volumes with me when I began this journey, but suitcases fill rapidly, and shoes and knives and clothing are surprisingly heavy once one begins packing for an extended sojourn.

Reading about tête de veau and M.F.K. Fisher's days and nights in Dijon. (Photograph by Angela Shah)

Reading about tête de veau and M.F.K. Fisher’s days and nights in Dijon. (Photograph by Angela Shah)

I have with me one title, The Art of Eating, by M.F.K. Fisher. I recommend that anyone interested in food and life and love – not to mention good writing – get their own copy, or anything by the author. (I am sure many of you already have.) M.F.K. Fisher has nourished me in Germany and Spain and France and Switzerland thus far on this trip, and she’ll continue to do so for a long time. She has shared her thoughts with me about dining alone, which I have been doing a lot of lately, and her love of tête de veau and sweetbreads and the sorrow and frustration resulting from the fact that more people have not discovered the joys inherent in making a meal of these fine staples. (Of the latter, that sorrow and frustration, I feel the same.) The Art of Eating includes a great recipe for tête de veau, and these lines on eating such honest things:

“Why is it worse, in the end, to see an animal’s head cooked and prepared for our pleasure than a thigh or a tail or a rib? If we are going to live on other inhabitants of this world we must not bind ourselves with illogical prejudices, but savor to the fullest the beasts we have killed … People who feel that a lamb’s cheek is gross and vulgar when a chop is not are like the medieval philosophers who argued about such hairsplitting problems as how many angels could dance on the point of a pin. If you have these prejudices, ask yourself if they are not built on what you may have been taught when you were young and unthinking, and then if you can, teach yourself to enjoy some of the parts of an animal that are not commonly prepared.”

Ms. Fisher dreaming about that perfect trout.

Ms. Fisher dreaming about that perfect trout.

I have been reading this volume of collected works (a partial offering of her output) in an effort to get to know Ms. Fisher a little better, and I have. Recently in Switzerland I took the book high up into the hills above Montreux and Vevey, where she once lived and cooked and loved. I was hoping to make my way to what remains of her house in those hills, but instead met some very fine people as I searched for remnants of Ms. Fisher’s life. I’ll tell you about them soon, and of their kindness and hospitality and love for food. And, I have much more to say and write about Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher’s work and life.

M.F.K. Fisher and one of her admirers.

M.F.K. Fisher and one of her admirers.

In the meantime, read her. And live and love and cook and eat, well.

A quick taste, or two

Wine … oh lovely wine. What would we do without it? How much less would we enjoy our confit de canard and lamb stew and cheeses if we had no wine at the table. I would (and I know many others who would agree with me wholeheartedly) be unhappy at a meal without wine.

For the past several months I have been tasting a lot of wines, first in Germany, in the Pfalz, then in Spain, in Basque Country, then in Paris, and more recently in Catalunya. Today I am in Provence, and had the pleasure of walking along a path that separated Côtes du Rhône fields from Châteauneuf-du-Pape plots. On both sides of me short, old vines hung heavy with grapes nearly ready for harvest. I visited two producers – Domaine de la Janasse and Alain Jaume & Fils – and sampled some great wines, both Côtes du Rhônes and Châteauneuf-du-Papes.

It is always enjoyable to walk through a cellar, smelling the mustiness and feeling the humidity, knowing that wines are breathing and growing all around you. And I always imagine the meals they are waiting to join and think of the people who will enjoy it all.

Perfection, for one

Every now and then I wander into a restaurant by accident, or spontaneously, no reservations, no recommendations from friends, never having read anything of it in a newspaper or magazine. And as much as I recall with infinite pleasure my meal at Blue Hill at Stone Barns, the table reserved there months in advance, or my many nights spent dining at Babbo‘s bar, having waited with wine glasses in hand for a space or two to open at the noisy and warm expanse of wood, these “accidental” meals linger in my mind and leave me sated in an entirely different way. I recently had one such spontaneous experience, and it is about that I now write.

Around the corner from my apartment in San Sebastián there is a wine and tapas bar called Divinum, a place of high ceilings and tables of light-colored wood. It opens early in the morning, and is full of people young and old late into the evening.

I walked in on a recent night and made my way to the crowded bar, behind which a very efficient woman stood. I ordered a glass of Albariño and studied the menu, settling on a pintxo of slow-cooked pork. It is served in a round shape on a small plate, with its own juice, thickened by adding raisins and pine nuts. It is fatty, in the good way, and tender, and one can taste the time and care that went into selecting the pork and preparing it, even if pork cooked this way does not require an excess of attention.

Pork, pine nuts, raisins, and care

Pork, pine nuts, raisins, and care

I could eat three of these plates at a sitting. Or more.

I next ordered a Rioja red, because I love Rioja, and its wines. This to accompany a wonderful plate of beef cheek, served with a rich sauce, full of warmth and meat that did melt in my mouth. Not figuratively, but actual melting. (The photograph I took of it does not do it justice, so I will not ruin my memory of this dish by including an ugly image.)

And how about closing a meal with a foie gras pintxo? Of course that is what I did. It was warm, and cooked just right, so the outer surface carried crispness, and the rest … well, the rest gave me what foie gras always does: an occasion to close my eyes and taste, blocking out all other sensations. It was served on top of a piece of toasted bread, and a swirl of apricot purée decorated the plate. I did not need the decoration. The flakes of sea salt on top of the foie added to its wonder. It is dessert, my ideal dessert. Of course, with it I drank a slightly sweet Riesling from the Pfalz.

Foie gras closes my meal

Foie gras closes my meal

That was my perfect meal, at least for this week.

Go to Saturne

Angela and I recently tried Saturne, a restaurant that was recommended to me by a French chef working in Abu Dhabi. If you are in Paris, book a table here.

It is near the Bourse, close to a Metro station, on a quiet street, Rue Notre-Dame des Victoires. Open, airy, light wood and white walls. A wall of wine behind sliding glass doors catches the eye, as does the open kitchen. (A word about the wines: an abundance of “natural” selections, and many value-priced bottles. We started our meal with a glass of Crémant de Loire, proceeded to a bottle of Loire white, then finished with glasses of pinot noir.)

A wall of wines

A wall of wines

This is a dégustation menu, and for 60 euros you get seven courses. We began with a soup of tomato, black olive tapenade, and olive oil, upon which floated a paper-thin piece of fried bread. The taste: go out to your garden and pick a ripe tomato, slice it in half, drizzle olive oil on it, and add a few black olives and some garlic. Bite. Then, break a tomato stem and inhale.

Tomato, olive, bread, olive oil

Tomato, olive, bread, olive oil

Next came bonito, ceviche style. Five or six pieces of pink fish, raspberries and basil and onions on top. Tomato water was poured atop this all. There was a light sprinkling of cayenne pepper. The fish was of a perfect texture, not chewy, tasting slightly of the sea. The other ingredients? Well, you know how it is when you put a mix of ingredients in your mouth and smile when all of the flavors combine? That’s what this dish made me do.

Bonita, raspberries, tomato water, onions

Bonito, raspberries, tomato water, onions

Monkfish was the next plate, served with small discs of yellow squash and nasturtiums, all of which immersed in a slightly mustardy sauce flavored with mussel stock. Monkfish, which is one of my favorite types of fish, was slightly grilled, and meaty. The squash was cooked for a very short period of time, so the discs were firm, full of flavor.

Edible flowers and monkfish, plus squash

Edible flowers and monkfish, plus squash

And then came the lobster, a large piece of lobster tail, from the wonderful waters of Brittany. The meat was as it should be served: when done this way you taste the sea, and the meat is firm, not stringy. The coral of the lobster was used in a sauce, and baby radishes, slightly pickled, accompanied. On top of this all was a foam made of lobster stock.

From the waters of Brittany

From the waters of Brittany

We next were greeted by a beautiful plate of pigeon, two pieces: the breast, pink and juicy, with grilled, crisp skin, and the leg and thigh. A grilled wedge of eggplant was the only other thing on the plate, which I would not have missed. Pigeon is at the top of my desirables list, and this was some of the best I have had.

Leg and breast

Leg and breast

We were entering the final stage of the meal, and our desserts – two courses – were light and tart and sweet, and a bit savory, and not too sweet. The first plate consisted of strawberries, sorrel sorbet, and a cream of goat cheese, sprinkled with freeze-dried parsley. I loved it, and it was a perfect ending … except for the second dessert plate: hay-infused cream, blackberries, and a chocolate spread that had a consistency akin to a light cake frosting.

Fitting close: Chocolate, blackberries, cream

Fitting close: Chocolate, blackberries, cream

You can do a lot with strawberries and goat cheese

You can do a lot with strawberries and goat cheese

Light in August

The light. There’s something about the light in Paris that always gets to me, makes my eyes feel good. When I lived here in 2005 I loved the summer evenings, sitting outside with a carafe of wine under a slowly darkening sky. It seemed that it would never grow completely dark, and as my companions and I drank and ate and planned our next meal I silently gave thanks for the city’s geographical location and for the way the sun worshipped the streets and buildings and people.

That very same light makes, to my eye, the food and produce for sale in markets look better, brighter, tastier. The tomatoes are shiny and firm, and don’t look waxy. The flesh of a duck looks as it should, not violently compressed under a layer of cellophane. Radishes, berries, green beans, lettuces … they all benefit from the light in August.

And I benefit, because that light makes me want to cook and eat and wander the streets of this beautiful place. And that’s what I’m doing now.

Home from buying groceries, and headed to the kitchen

Home from buying groceries, and headed to the kitchen

In the bags above there are two pork chops, some lettuce, radishes, cheeses, wine, beer, Nutella, butter, shallots, eggs and a few other foodstuffs. Angela and I made a simple salad, but a salad whose lettuce had a crisp bite and actual flavor, so unlike most of the lettuces I was forced to eat while living in the desert. The radishes were also crisp, and had a heat that was pleasant and invigorating. I cooked the chops simply, in butter, and made a sauce from the shallots, garlic and some Crémant de Bourgogne “Egrade” brut.

We’ll always have Paris.

By the skin of a chicken

If you like fried chicken, or a good roast chicken, and if you share my tastes, I bet you love eating the skin. Its crispness is a sublime mouth sensation, and depending on what type of oil you use when frying, or what you add to the butter or olive oil you use to baste the bird while it is roasting, the flavors of the skin can range widely. (Duck fat? Olive oil/butter mixture? Garlic, shallots, basil, sage, chili powder? The sky is the limit.)

One of the things I learned to do at Restaurant Amador is use the skin alone to make chicken-skin wafers, or chips. (You can ask your butcher to order chicken skins for you, or learn how to skin your own chicken, as it’s really not that difficult. And the skins freeze well, so there is no excuse for not having any on hand.)

What you’ll need: A Silpat or two, a large metal baking sheet, two baking dishes of similar size, some heavy stones, and parchment paper.

Baking stones

Baking stones

To begin, take a chicken skin and spread it on a cutting board, skin-side down. Then, using a flat, flexible plastic scraper – you can buy these at a cooking-supply store, or make your own – scrape as much of the fat away from the skin as you can. (Have a container near you to scrape the fat into.) You’ll find it impossible to scrape away all of the fat, but get as much as possible without stressing over it. (The less fat, the lighter the taste.) Then, one piece at a time, spread the de-fatted skins, skin side down, on a Silpat, stretching them as much as possible. Repeat this until you have the Silpat covered, making sure to not overlap the skins too much; you want the layer to be as thin as is possible.

Chicken skins, spread on a Silpat

Chicken skins, spread on a Silpat

Repeat the scraping procedure with another set of skins – and don’t worry, this is a fast procedure … once you get going you can de-fat one piece in less than a minute – and, one at a time, spread a skin over the pieces already on the Silpat. Only this time, make sure to put the pieces skin side up. Making sure that the layers are uniform, cover the first layer completely.

The next step is easy: take your other Silpat and place it on top of the chicken skins, then put the assemblage on a baking sheet. Put the baking sheet on the bottom of one of the containers, (the space created by the inverted container helps crisp the skins). Place a piece of parchment paper on top of the Silpat, and on top of the paper put your other baking dish. (The dish needs to be large enough to cover the entire surface of the Silpat sheets.) Into this dish go the stones, which serve to exert pressure on the skins.

A double batch of chicken skins

A double batch of chicken skins

(Do not fret if you don’t have metal pans like the ones in the photo above; improvise with what you have. But do invest, if you have not already, in Silpats; you’ll find yourself using them often.)

With the oven set at 330 Fahrenheit (165 Celsius), put the entire stack on a rack and cook for two hours. Your kitchen will develop a lovely scent.

Next, take the tray containing the stones out of the oven and put it in a safe place, as the stones will retain their heat for a long time. Remove the remaining trays from the oven and put the Silpat sheets on a counter. Slowly peel back the top Silpat and behold your creation: you will discover a crisp, flat layer of chicken skin, with uneven edges. (If you have a food dehydrator, now is the time to dry out your skin. If you don’t, put the skin on a piece of parchment paper and bake it in your oven at a very low temperature, say, 70 degrees Fahrenheit. This step helps give the skin a lighter taste and feel. Leave it in the oven for 30 minutes or so.)

A tasty wafer

A tasty wafer

Finally, it’s time to cut the skin into individual pieces; feel free to use your imagination here, depending on how you plan to use the pieces.

Rectangles of crispy goodness

Rectangles of crispy goodness

At Amador, the skin is cut into rectangles and served as an early course, adorned with purées, creams and herbs. They are delicious. Just take the skins from the oven and place them on a cutting board. Using a sharp knife – of course, you should have nothing but sharp knives – cut the pieces into your desired shape. As a final step, sprinkle with Maldon salt, or your preferred sea salt. You could serve them in many ways, and I know they would be good as a garnish on a bowl of shrimp and grits, perhaps sprinkled with dried shrimp.

Arrival at Amador: long days, great food, and a Spanish triumph

I’m here, in Mannheim, working at Restaurant Amador. I arrived shortly before Spain played Italy in the Euro 2012 final. I was hoping Germany was going to be in that final, and I planned my flight so that it would fall on a day of no Euro matches. That Sunday, the 2nd of July, the restaurant held an “open house” event, and about 300 people attended. We roasted a pig, and the guests enjoyed some fine pork, among many other things.

The star of the show

The star of the show

My first day in the kitchen was Saturday, July 1. I worked hard – everyone in this kitchen works hard – and long. Harder and longer than I have in a while. I’m not complaining, just remarking that 15-hour days are long days.

Everything in its place

Everything in its place

Days that long contain plenty of time to peel parsnips for stock, to chop garlic and shallots, to shell and clean beautiful crabs, removing all of the yellow and reddish tissue and leaving behind nothing but briny white meat. Plenty of time to clean and scrub floors and counters and walls and ovens. Enough time to get to know the cooks in the kitchen, from whom I am learning a lot.

On the evening of the open house, after all the guests had gone, we set up a projector and watched Spain decimate Italy, watched the Spaniards show the rest of the world how to play football. We sat in the restaurant, eating beautiful steak, drinking some good wine, tired from the day’s work but happy. (Except for the Italian supporters; they were upset.)

Spanish flags aplenty in the Amador dining room

Spanish flags aplenty in the Amador dining room

As I watched the match and sipped a dry Spanish white, I thought to myself: I am in a three-star restaurant, watching the final match of the European Championships. I just finished a long day working in a great kitchen, a kitchen full of great equipment and ingredients. Some of my colleagues had just dried off from swimming in the pool on the restaurant’s grounds after their long days and were sitting near me, eating and watching the match.

A restaurant with a view

A restaurant with a view

I was tired, and I was just a little jet-lagged. But I was where I wanted to be.

It has only just begun, and I am loving it.

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.

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