Pink of Perfection

There was once a restaurant in our neighborhood where I loved to go on snowy days. Inside, it was what I imagine a Swiss ski lodge is like — all dark wood, tall paned windows, and a roaring fire. I would sit on the wooden bench, wrapped in a scarf, and order a bowl of their French onion soup. At brunch, a basket of sweet, yeasty breads and orange-scented butter would come out first. And then the soup would arrive, crusty with just enough melted cheese to make a point (but not create a stomachache) and I would break the surface and dip down into a rich brown broth. It was, until the restaurant closed a few years ago, one of my favorite weekend lunches.

I don’t think I’ve ever met a friend or foe who didn’t care for French onion soup. It’s one of those foods that’s pretty delicious even when it’s not it’s best (though I’ve never been one to grumble over too much cheese), and it’s blissfully simple to make. I confess I’ve gone into a bit of a panic in the last couple weeks over all the wintery foods I still want to make before the first asparagus crops up. There is the truffle mac and cheese beckoning and the fondue (and do I see a fromagey theme here?), but what I would say to you is: this should make your winter short list. If you’ve never made French onion soup it’s absolutely worth a whirl, and such a comfort on a snowy night when you are hunkered down on the couch this weekend watching Doctor Zhivago.

Continue reading “French Friday: Onion Soup Gratinée” »

As soon as I saw the page titled “How to Fry” in my Grand Diplôme books, I knew this lesson would really just be an excuse to make beignets. Ever since I sat in the French Quarter late one Friday night in March, my black dress dusted with tell-tale powdered sugar, I’ve collected recipes for these airy pillows of dough. But frying isn’t a cooking technique that gets much play in my repertoire. And so the recipes sat in my delicious account gathering internet dust. That is, they languished there until Super Bowl Sunday, when suddenly I had the gumption and urge to make these. My bravery fueled by coffee, I put on my apron and dug in the cabinets for the splatter guard.

This recipe makes a lot of beignets. As in, you will certainly be tired of flipping dough balls in oil before the dough is all gone. But you should soldier on, cause who wants to waste 7 cups of bread flour? These would be great to make at a brunch party where you could hand off the frying job. What I learned about frying is that it takes no real skill. It’s just a matter of keeping a close eye out for a deepening golden color, and then flipping.

Because I’m not a regular fryer, I didn’t have a thermometer to hang on the side of the pan. This proved to be no big deal and please don’t let it stop you from trying these. I remembered the advice of a Southern friend and kept the gas at medium or medium-low. I decided the oil was hot enough to start frying when a flick of flour sizzled when it hit the surface. I didn’t crowd the pan, and if things seemed like they were getting too intensely sizzly, I dropped the heat a touch more.

All I have to say is, thank heavens for book club. If I hadn’t been able to send six women home with a grease-stained paper lunch sacks filled with these powdered sugar stomach bombs, I don’t know what might have happened. Frankly, I might not be here today.

Continue reading “How To Fry: French Quarter-Style Beignets” »

Because I have spent this week utterly unimpressed by food, drifting from toast to salad to sandwich with little passion and even less desire, it’s hard to imagine that it was only last week when I swooned over a pork chop. The entire experience of this dinner was worthy of a French Friday: I went to the fancy market and bought thick pork chops wrapped in butcher paper from a man in a paper hat. I selected a slim baguette with a crisp shell and airy insides. I visited the wine store and explained what we were eating — in great detail — and was paired with a truly heavenly accompaniment. I came home, turned on some blues, and set about making a dinner that was ready mere moments later.

In my experience, there aren’t a lot of recipes like this — ones that tap into your best vision of yourself, that are elegant, special, and ready in a flash, that make your dining companion think you have some unmatchably magic touch when you come into contact with a cast iron skillet and tongs. Perhaps I should spend less of my time making chili and more of my time seeking out food that elevates not just dinner itself, but (not to sound heavy handed) the way I feel about my life. Because there I was, on an ordinary day, making it all look so easy (and truly, it was), sitting down to the sort of supper that would be ideal if you learned Jacques Pepin were coming over in 20 minutes, or if you just feel that you deserve a fine chop, a simple sauce, and a cold glass of wine. And here I am, a week later, without a twinge of gastronomic interest in my stomach or fingers, still feeling great about that dinner.

More pork chop recipes:

Continue reading “French Friday: Pork Chops with Mustard and Cornichons” »

Long before French Women Don’t Get Fat hit the shelves, I was just a girl who wanted to eat cheese for dinner and rationalize it. I blabbed to anyone who would listen that I was going to start “eating like a French woman.” When asked what this would entail, I mentioned the cheese, as well as creamy things, baguettes, and, you know, French stuff. It should be noted, however, that this being before my introductions to Julia Child and MFK Fisher, I did not, in fact, have much knowledge of what a French woman would actually eat. My only reference point was the week of oysters, champagne, and fois gras my sister and I had in France the year before. This would not be unlike someone coming to our United States and deducing that Americans solely eat burritos the size of their heads, Dunkin Donuts breakfast sandwiches and fountain cokes served in 64 ounces buckets. Nevertheless, this was my plan.

As I recall, this new way of eating lasted approximately one twenty-four hour period, its apex being a dinner on the porch of my apartment with a dark-haired beauty. We ate an astonishing amount of brie and bread, followed by a steak au poivre chased with a bottle or two of red wine. There may have been a couple of lettuce leaves thrown in for good measure. Then we walked to a dive bar, drank 10,000 gin and tonics and flirted with aging cowboys and taciturn hipsters. I hadn’t quite worked out the finer points of this French thing. I think I just wanted to wear stripes, and as I mentioned, eat cheese.

Since this experiment I have learned that the French know a thing or two about portion size, quality over quantity, and flirting (namely, apparently, that they don’t do it; who knew?). But if this red blooded American girl knows anything it’s a good steak when she sees one. Thus, there is one lasting relic from this dining experience. The steak au poivre stays in the picture.

I know it seems like overkill to serve steak with a cream sauce, and this argument — in the ways of saturated fat and cholesterol levels — may have some merit. But you’re talking to a woman who likes to put blue cheese on chops. The point here is that the peppercorn crust imparts such a level of heat that the cream and brandy sauce tempers it quite nicely. I’m not saying this is what you want to eat when you get home from bikram, but over low light and glasses of rough red wine with someone you’re hoping to kiss at the end of the night, it might be just the thing.

Continue reading “French Friday: Steak au Poivre” »

Alright, now we’re cooking with gas. For the first time since my lesson on cutting up a chicken, my Grand Diplôme program has served up something of use: how to make a white sauce. This may be what stands between me and never having to make a casserole with cream of mushroom soup again (not that there’s anything wrong with that). With my yellow apron hanging officially from my neck, stirring at the stove yesterday, I felt for the first time in a long time that I was actually learning something new in the kitchen. I’ve tried to wing a roux before, but following instructions for this sauce made something thrilling happen with the most basic kitchen ingredients and in a matter of moments. It was almost as transfixing as those grade school rockets made from vinegar and baking soda.

I grew up in a house without sauces (unless chile con queso and ranch dressing count). In fact, I don’t think it was until I worked at a restaurant that I really began to understand all a sauce can do. As my course book says, “An inventive sauce can transform a simple dish into something superlative.” (I wish I knew more short-cuts like this in life — how, for instance, to take a simple outfit to something superlative. Know what I mean?) But really, when it comes to sauces, it seems that the sauce need not even really be “inventive”: plain pasta can be transformed into mac and cheese with a mornay or cheese sauce. Instant supper update.

Continue reading “How to Cook: White Sauces” »

Draw closer, dear readers. I’m about to share with you a gem from the recipe treasure trove.

There are some foods I make and write about on this blog that are weeknight-worthy. Simple cooking is very often the most delicious, and putting dinner on the table each night with care and consideration is, in my opinion, one of the most artful acts on earth. But every once in a while, I raise my sight line from ground level to the stars. Perhaps, let’s say, when a friend is coming over for a drink and a nibble. Then I remember something so show-stoppingly delicious, I wonder how it could have even fallen out of my repertoire for as long as it has and moreover, why I have kept it from you for all these years. Forgive me. I’m about to pay it forward, win you admirers, lovers, and friends for life, all with the following recipe.

This chicken liver paté is the reason I wanted a food processor of my own. It has accompanied me to holiday parties and book club (hi ladies!), and it is always met with delight. Perhaps those who don’t like organ meats stay quiet, as they should, frankly. People who like paté will love this. And as you know, I don’t make a lot of high-minded, definitive proclamations, but if I’m sure of anything in this world, it is how truly fabulous this paté recipe is.

As for the kir, need I mention anything more than it is a favorite of Poirot? Together, these two make for a posh happy hour, the ever-so-slightly syrupy kir a perfect match for the rounded, rich saltiness of the paté. I like to imagine MFK Fisher in the Dijon years wearing a pencil skirt and dreaming up ideas while eating sipping and eating in the company of a very good, very wise female friend.

Come to think of it, perhaps this is just what we need to get in the holiday spirit. I don’t think it could hurt.

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Kirs, Chicken Liver Paté and Maple Apples” »

If you are an adult who cooks for herself, day in and day out, the ultimate comfort may well be when someone else takes over. It feels like such a generous act. And if you are maybe feeling a little vulnerable, a little tired, a little world-weary, a dinner cooked by someone who loves you (or maybe even someone who doesn’t) is just what the doctor ordered.

So when I climbed off a country-bound bus and dropped my weekend bag in my mom’s kitchen, she could have served me Kraft mac and cheese to great applause. But because it is August and her garden is overrun with herbs and tomatoes, she was standing at a kitchen counter piled high with herbs, tomatoes, and cucumbers and putting together this salad in a large, wide wooden bowl.

Our experience of food is so often impacted by a confluence of factors. If we are heartbroken or lovesick, the greatest delights can fall on mute taste buds. But sometimes, timing and mood come together in the right moment and flavors are experienced with a greater than usual sensation. Say, for instance, we are famished and have been living on a diet of cold cereal and tepid spaghetti. Or more often, are simply tired, feeling perhaps a little worse for wear. That’s when the moment and the dish conspire to really amaze us.

I think I had thirds when my mom served this dish to us on that hot night. The creaminess of the vinaigrette, the luscious poached chicken, the bright quintessential summer flavors of tomatoes and fresh herbs: It was exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment.

Weeks later, I think it was the exactly the right thing yet again when I served it on an even hotter night to a gathering of friends in our little apartment. Our air-conditioner was chugging along, and our guests were airing themselves out to the tune of the strawberry-black pepper cocktails and an equally potent concoction of pear juice, champagne, ginger and bourbon they brought in tow (I love overachiever dinner guests!). We had little nibbles of baguette with goat cheese and peach, then little sips of a cold corn soup. And then we moved to the dining room table set directly in front of the air-conditioner for plates of chicken salad, steamed potatoes and salad. I can’t speak for my dinner companions as to the confluence of factors that affected their esteem for the dish, but to me, it was exactly the right thing at the right moment.

Continue reading “Light and Elegant Provençal Chicken Salad” »

Put on a stripey top and an apron. Grab a whole chicken. Wielding a boning knife and kitchen shears — or, if you are a girl with a less fully equipped kitchen, a sharp knife and a lot of determination — cut chicken into pieces, fearlessly, and with the cold detachment of a surgeon. For dinner, sauté the chicken parts with shallots and fresh tomatoes; serve with a chilled Macon Chardonnay. Toss the leftover neck and back into a stockpot with whatever bits you have rolling around in the fridge: celery, carrots, an onion, some sprigs of parsley and thyme. Cover with water and let simmer for a few hours to make stock while twist in the living room to Francoise Hardy.  When tired, recline on the couch with Cheri, and later, when complimented on your cooking prowess, shrug your shoulders as if it’s nothing. Buf.

Even if you skip the French shenanigans, I would highly recommend attempting to cut up your own chicken. I was scared, I’ll admit, and had successfully avoided the task since I first learned to cook chicken. But then there it was in Week 3 of my Grand Diplôme program, and I couldn’t hide anymore. I channeled my imaginary boyfriend, Jacques Pepin, and his relaxed efficiency as well as his no-waste policy, and here’s the thing: there was immense satisfaction in buying the least processed poultry available in the highest quality available and doing the heavy lifting myself. Some people may squirm at the up-close-and-personalness of this process, but I saw it this way: if I choose to eat animal products, the least I can do is learn how to handle it with skill myself and not to waste a bit of it.

Continue reading “How to Cut Up a Chicken and Feel Totally French” »