Mise en Place

Wine, Food, and Other Vital Things

Page 27 of 28

A healthy obsession with Escoffier

Jeremiah Tower's work on Escoffier is the perfect introduction to the work and life of the famous chef.

Jeremiah Tower’s work on Escoffier is the perfect introduction to the work and life of the famous chef.

Escoffier. Anyone who loves food, who loves to dine in good restaurants, should know his name. And most definitely, anyone who cooks in a restaurant has a responsibility to be fully aware of his name, and, more importantly, of his profound presence that is all around you as you cook and serve guests. He is one of the luminaries in the chef pantheon.

Now comes an eBook on Escoffier by another famous chef, Jeremiah Tower. Its title is “A Dash of Genius,” and it is a welcome addition to the Escoffier library, especially for readers who don’t know much about the French demigod (whose full name is Georges Auguste Escoffier).

One of the most enjoyable aspects of “A Dash of Genius” is the way Tower tells the reader how Escoffier entered his life, and how the Frenchman’s legacy and lessons have affected his creativity and career. (In addition, Tower’s use of recipes is marvelous, and will make you want to cook.) He begins:

“I have been obsessed with Auguste Escoffier since I was sixteen at King’s College School in London. My drama teacher gave me ‘Ma Cuisine’ for having played Algernon Moncrieff in Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Importance of Being Earnest.’ I thought it was a curious choice, but I read it every night under the bed covers with a flashlight after lights out. And was entranced. Later, in Harvard College and cooking for friends, I graduated from ‘Ma Cuisine’ to ‘Le Guide Culinaire.’ I worked through it enough so that when I moved to a little house in Cambridge in my senior year, the first dinner I gave was pure Escoffier.”

Tower goes on to list the menu for that dinner, which took place in 1965, but, as someone who never tires of reading menus, I’ll not spoil your enjoyment. Get this book.

Escoffier, a man of sublime taste and great vision. (Photo courtesy of Ecole Ritz Escoffier)

Escoffier, a man of sublime taste and great vision. (Photo courtesy of Ecole Ritz Escoffier)

“A Dash of Genius” begins at the beginning, and tells the story of Escoffier’s birth (1846, near Nice) and early development, establishing the fact that the young man from the south of France had an “iron will” even at an early age. He was working for his uncle, and, according to Tower, this is where Escoffier’s ideas on reforming professional kitchens and, indeed, all aspects of running a restaurant, were born. The formation of kitchen brigades, bringing all the functions of cooking into one unified space (as opposed to cooks working in separate, unconnected rooms), and the improvement of hygienic conditions in kitchens: we owe Escoffier much gratitude for these and many other innovations.

Tower spends a lot of time on Escoffier’s charitable work and other benevolent activities, which were many. For example, Tower recounts the story of two nuns who would daily visit the Savoy, at which Escoffier was chef, on a horse-drawn wagon. The women would go through the restaurant’s garbage looking for used coffee ground, tea leaves, and other items, which they used to feed residents of a rest home. When Escoffier noticed their activities he ordered that all the food thrown away by the restaurant be clean and in good condition, including, writes Tower, quail carcasses, legs and thighs still intact – the restaurant generally used only the breasts of the small birds.

Tower continues: “The day came when there was no horse. No nuns. Escoffier leapt into action and visited the rest home to see the Reverend Mother. All she needed for the horse was five pounds. Escoffier supplied the money and the next day the same two nuns with a new horse pulled up to the Savoy.”

Escoffier continued to help the nuns for more than 20 years. In addition, he was the recipient of, among many other awards and honors, the Chevalier of the Légion d’Honneur and the Officier de la Légion d’Honneur. He raised 75,000 francs for the benefit of women and children during World War One, and took on the task of rehiring every cook of his who had gone to war, eventually “implanting over 2,000 French chefs around the world.”

Escoffier founded a magazine, “Le Carnet d’Epicure,” in 1911, and wrote books, the most famous being “Le Guide Culinaire,” which is found in restaurants and home libraries around the world. If you do not own it, please get a copy. It alone would have lit Escoffier’s star in the firmament forever, and its more than 5,000 recipes, not to mention its practical and groundbreaking approach to cooking and producing food for a modern clientele, will be with us until the final pot of stock grows cold.

Jeremiah Tower, whose study of Escoffier is food for the mind and senses. (Photo courtesy of Jeremiah Tower)

Jeremiah Tower, whose study of Escoffier is food for the mind and senses. (Photo courtesy of Jeremiah Tower)

Another interesting encounter with Escoffier that Tower tells readers about deals with Chez Panisse, the pioneering restaurant in Berkeley, California, founded by Alice Waters, at which Tower was an instrumental presence. In 1976, Tower was creating menus for a “Week of Escoffier” festival at Chez Panisse, and on this particular night 60 guests were waiting in the dining room for their dinner. Foie gras was on the menu, there because Tower wanted to serve Tournedos Rossini, which he said was a childhood favorite of his. From beyond the grave, Escoffier guided Tower to transform his approach to food and the serving of it to paying guests:

“It was the foie gras that made me rethink what I was doing. In the United States in the early 1970’s it came in cans … After one taste of canned goose liver, I knew I was eating more pig wurst than goose liver, and the canned truffles might as well have been old turnips. Facing a demand to do one more night of Escoffier, I thought, why not his famous Caneton Rouennais en Dodine au Chambertin? Of course, this was as long as I could get the Chambertin. I looked to the local ducks. Reichhardt Duck Farm Sonoma pekins were fine, but trying to convince myself that they could substitute for French canards de Rouen that arrive in the kitchen undressed and still full of blood for the pressed sauces with which they are served was a losing battle. In those days, international ingredients weren’t flown in every day, and frozen foods were a personal anathema. I was faced with using whatever had been produced in the region – and that realization was my “eureka” moment. I looked up from France and saw California.”

Tower goes on to describe how he took Escoffier’s dishes and made them “local,” and anyone who has dined at Chez Panisse (or, by now, most other good restaurants whose chefs and cooks focus as much as possible on seasonal and local ingredients), has benefitted from that “eureka” moment. I recall one lunch at Chez Panisse during which my three dining companions and I were invited into the kitchen upon arrival and given a tour; I was put to work shelling peas, and loved being around the fresh produce grown on farms around the region. (I’ll leave it to others to discuss Tower’s working relationship with Alice Waters.)

Escoffier survived captivity as a prisoner of war in a German camp, opened excellent hotels and restaurants, traveled to the United States on four occasions, and was instrumental in the development and success of countless cooks and chefs. His work pleased royals and commoners alike, and many of his dishes and their offspring are served around the world daily, to the delight of millions. He died in 1935, two weeks after the death of his wife, in Monte Carlo. His guidance, however, is fully with us. Tower’s study deserves a place on shelves devoted to Escoffier, and will, I think, introduce more readers to the work and legacy of the great man.

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

My favorite plate in Paris

It was on the menu, to my relief. Great relief. I first sat down to dine at Le Comptoir du Relais two years ago. It was a warm summer day, and the tables on the sidewalk were full of families and solo diners and couples. I was solo, and so had to share with no one one of the best plates I have ever had, anywhere: Carpaccio de Tête de veau. The chef, Yves Camdeborde, has long been a favorite of Parisian diners, and his kitchen is still producing great food.

Yves Camdeborde’s tête de veau: It will have you coming back for more.

Simply put, the meat that comes on this plate is sublimely flavorful, and when it first touches your tongue the sensuality of it melting in your mouth will make you want to close your eyes and forever stay in that moment. That feeling, and taste, will be the reason you, like I, will visit that sidewalk as long as the restaurant’s ovens are hot.

I decided to return to Paris this year, to spend days and nights with Angela, who is here for most of August. I have on more than one occasion told Angela about the dish at Le Comptoir, the Carpaccio de Tête de veau, that dish I love and adore and can by merely thinking about eating it grow desirous. I told Angela we had to go to Le Comptoir du Relais.

(A few nights before I made my way back to that sidewalk near Metro Odeon, Angela and I ate at a place in the 7th, and I had potatoes stuffed with the meat from pig’s feet. It was good, but it was nothing compared to my Carpaccio de Tête de veau. So, when you are in Paris, and wanting a great dish, take my advice and do nothing until you visit Le Comptoir.)

On the joyous night, Angela and I met a former colleague, Nick Stout, who has lived in Paris for 30-plus years, and he had never been to my sidewalk table.

Nick Stout, Paris veteran

Nick Stout, Paris veteran

He loved the food, and the place. We sat at a table outside, and I became lost in the wine  list. Interrupting my jaunt through the Loire Valley, Angela showed me that the calf’s head carpaccio was indeed available. I was happy. I ordered that plate as my first course, and it was a good as ever. The sauce is warm and slightly tangy, and the lettuce hearts on top are perfect companions for the meat slices. (See first photo above.)

My main course, Pied de Cochon, is composed of a rectangle of porcine greatness, served with creamed potatoes on the side. Imagine a crisp outside and an interior full of unctuous, moist, slow-cooked pork. I grew happier.

From the feet of pigs ...

From the feet of pigs …

Angela started with a salad of Burrata and heirloom tomatoes, with a nice basil pesto. It was acidic and excellent. She then enjoyed a great sashimi of tuna belly, topped with wasabi foam.

Sashimi with a French twist

Sashimi with a French twist

Nick chose gazpacho, followed by squid stuffed with risotto; its squid-ink sauce was pungent and perfect.

Big squid, big taste

Big squid, big taste

When I was in Paris in 2010 Le Comptoir was the only restaurant I dined at more than once. For good reason. And before I leave Paris this time I will once again find myself at that sidewalk table, a bottle of white chilling in the Ice Bag.

Chilling at the table

Chilling at the table

I do not have to tell you what I will order.

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.

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 Mise en Place

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑

Mise en Place

Wine, Food, and Other Vital Things

Skip to content ↓