Tag: cooking (Page 3 of 3)

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.

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.

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.

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