QUINCE RATAFIA

It’s good to be back home after an exciting 10-day trip to Northern Italy (there may be some future blog posts about that…) I’m sitting in a comfy Adirondack chair under my new porch, observing the changing colors of our woods, and sipping a small glass of the quince liqueur I made last year.

I never saw quince sold at my California markets. I think it was almost forgotten in the US until some fifteen years ago when it became fashionable to serve membrillo with Manchego, the Spanish cheese made of ewe milk. The French have their pâte de coing but we mostly serve it as a confection, like other pâtes de fruits. The most common quince product available at supermarkets here is gelée de coing: it’s a superb jelly to top a buttery croissant or to spread over neatly arranged slices of apples on a classic tarte aux pommes.

Maguy’s quince tree

My aunt Maguy planted several fruit trees when she retired at the farm some thirty years ago. We’re now neighbors and I’m always in awe of her fruit harvest. Her cognacier is particularly prolific and produces huge fruits like the one featured on my opening photo: that monster weighed close to 2 lbs! Quince is too astringent to eat raw; it’s also quite hard. Quartering, coring, and slicing quince to make jam or paste requires dedication, a large sharp knife, and a steady hand: my uncle even designed a “quince-cutting” apparatus that bears an uncanny resemblance to a massicot or a small guillotine…

Maguy’s 2018 harvest was huge and she gave me several quinces to play with. I didn’t feel ambitious enough to make jelly but I remembered how all the local farmers always served some kind of home-made liqueur that they called “ratafia.” There never seemed to be a specific recipe and different kinds of fruits could be used; more often than not, it just involves mixing fruits with sugar and alcohol. Perhaps I could make some quince ratafia? Searching the web, I ran across several references to Jane Grigson recipe from her 1971 book Good Things and made just a few adjustments. I liked the idea of simply grating the whole quince instead of peeling, cutting, and coring the tough fruit: I was pretty confident that my Microplane grater could handle the job. However, I stopped short of including the core itself: I thought I could eventually use the steeped quince shreds in a dessert (check the end of the recipe for an idea.) Quince is ready to harvest in October-November: if you’re lucky to spot them at your farmers’ market, pick up a few and make some ratafia: it will be ready for Christmas.

My jars of quince ratafia

Ratafia de Coing
Quince Ratafia

2 large quinces
1 cup granulated sugar
1” knob of ginger, peeled and sliced
1 star anise
Vodka

Thoroughly wash and rub the quinces under warm water to eliminate any fuzz on their skin. With a sharp cheese grater, shred the flesh of the fruits; discard the cores. Pack the shreds in a sterilized 1 quart Mason jar, add sugar, ginger, and star anise. Fill the jar with vodka. Seal the jar and store it in a cool dry place for 6 weeks, shaking occasionally. Taste the liquor after 6 weeks for sweetness; add sugar (or simple syrup) if necessary. To bottle the liqueur, use a fennel lined with a coffee filter.

After discarding the ginger rounds and star anise, transfer the quince shreds in a saucepan, add ½ cup of sugar, and simmer for 15 minutes. Set aside and let cool. Use the quince compote to line up a pie pastry and top with apple slices for a tasty quince-apple tart.

Note: if you’re not a fan of star anise, you can substitute a small stick of cinnamon or a vanilla bean.

Quince and apple tart

Vocabulary
La pâte de coing: quince paste
La pâte de fruits: fruit paste
La gelée de coing: quince jelly
La tarte aux pommes: apple tart
Le cognacier: quince tree
Le massicot: paper cutter

RANDY'S FRUIT COBBLER

Over my thirty-six years in California, my cookbook collection grew at an exponential rate. Not only did I purchase my own books, but I was also the recipient for hundreds of livres about French cooking that publishers sent me hoping I would select them for the Joie de Vivre catalog. When I moved back to France a year ago, I had to cull out the “special” ones from my library. If I had listened to Marie Kondo and only packed the books that sparked joy, I would have kept 90% of my collection. It was agonizing to decide who would get the ax.

A well-used recipe

I also had a binder of loose recipes clipped from magazines, recopied from newspapers, or collected from friends and family: Michelle’s chocolate mayonnaise cake, Justin’s zesty chili, Debbie’s carrot cake, Randy’s fruit cobbler are some examples. They have yet to emerge from the bowels of the garage, buried among the 356 cartons that we are gradually unpacking. Luckily, Randy prepared his famous cobbler when we visited in March and I took a photo of his recipe.

Apricot and nectarine cobbler

Actually, it’s Grandma Lang’s recipe. It recalls a time when people cooked from scratch (and from memory), perhaps jotted down a few instructions on index cards, and usually favored margarine over butter because it was cheaper and more available. I never got to meet Grandma Lang so, to me, this cobbler represents my brother-in-law’s signature dessert.

Strawberry and rhubarb: always a winning combination.

I don’t believe there is a French traduction for that word. Unlike other American foodstuff like hamburgers, tacos, milkshakes, brownies, or chocolate cookies, the cobbler has yet to make it to this side of the Atlantic. Compared to the regimented arrangement of fruits on French tarts and cakes, cobbler looks a bit free-formed and sloppy. Clafoutis could almost pass for a cobbler’s cousin but the batter is decidedly different. At any rate, I love the unique texture of cobbler and its versatility: just like Randy, I use whatever fruits are in season and vary the flavoring agents accordingly.

Simmering peaches and blackcurrant

Here are some of the combinations I like:
Apple, raisins, cinnamon, Calvados (or rum)
Strawberry, rhubarb, orange blossom water (or orange zest)
Apricot, sliced almonds, almond extract
Pear, cranberries, walnuts, Bourbon
Mixed red fruits, lemon zest, vanilla
Peach, blackcurrant, crème de cassis

All set to go into the oven

Pèche et cassis is my favorite. Blackcurrant is in season right now and good peaches are appearing on the market stalls. I never saw blackcurrants while I was in California: perhaps they are available in the East or Midwest? You could substitute blueberries for blackcurrant if necessary. Just remember to always choose fruits that are ripe but firm. And use butter, not margarine: tout est meilleur avec du beurre…

Le cobbler à la pèche et au cassis

Randy’s fruit cobbler
Le “cobbler” de Randy

For the fruit filling:
4 cups of fruit
½ cup sugar
1 Tbsp flour
Flavoring of your choice

 For the batter:
4 Tbsp butter (1/2 stick)
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
1 tsp baking powder
2/3 cup milk

Preheat oven to 375º. Mix together all ingredients for the fruit filling in a saucepan and bring to a simmer so that everything melts together. Place butter in an 8” x 8” Pyrex dish and melt in the microwave. Mix dry ingredients for the batter; gradually add the milk until well blended. Pour batter over melted butter and top with the hot fruit mixture. Bake 25-30 minutes.

Vocabulary
Le livre: book
La traduction: translation
La crème de cassis: blackcurrant liqueur; also used to make Kir when mixed with white wine
La pèche: peach
Le cassis: blackcurrant
Tout est meilleur avec du beurre: everything tastes better with butter

DARLING CLEMENTINE

We have always tried to eat in season. My grandparents grew vegetables in their potagers; Mom visited the bi-weekly market and the maraîchers; most of the time I favor the fruits and vegetables available at the Farmers’ markets.

One desirable advantage of living in a rural area is having easy access to produce from the surrounding farmland. In France, we call it circuit court, where intermediaries between producer and consumer are almost eliminated. I truly love being so close to my food sources but our climate is quite different from California, even though we live in southwestern France. For the first time in many years, I didn’t have access to local citrus this past winter. In Modesto, I could pick a Eureka lemon from my own tree to accompany sole meunière, or harvest some sweet Meyer lemons in my in-law’s backyard to candy some zests. And there was always someone bringing a full bag of oranges because they didn’t want them to go to waste.

Unless you have a serre (or an orangerie like at the château de Versailles…) it is extremely difficult to grow citrus trees in France and expect to harvest anything. The only area where you may see citrus en pleine terre is along the Mediterranean coast, particularly between Nice and Menton: the city close to the Italian border has organized a Fête du Citron for 86 years. During two weeks each February, you can stroll among citrus replica of fantastic animals or famous buildings like Notre-Dame Cathedral, the Eiffel Tower or a gigantic Taj Mahal.

Clementines from Corsica

A bit further South, Corsica produces the only clementine in France. The groves are located on the eastern plains of the island. The small fruit is juicy and seedless, with a good balance between sweetness and acidity. The skin is thin and shiny. In 2007, la Clémentine de Corse was granted an Indication Géographique Protégée to recognize its quality and specificity. Among the 70 criteria that producers must respect: the clementines have to be harvested by hand; plucked at maturity with at least two of their leaves attached to the stem; and not be subjected to any treatment that would alter its color.

I’ve enjoyed plenty of delicious clementines during my California years. Are the Corsican ones better? It’s a bit hard to tell unless you eat them side by side but I really like their floral tanginess. They are sold in small wooden crates or in bulk: choosing each fruit topped with a couple of green leaves enables you to appreciate how fresh they are. I mostly eat them out of hand; they yield an eye-opening breakfast juice; and, like other clementines, they make delicate desserts.

Vocabulary
Le potager: vegetable garden
Le maraîcher: an individual who grows and sell his own produce; usually on the outskirt of a city.
Le circuit court: lit. short circuit; short supply channel
La sole Meunière: the classic dish of sole in a butter lemon sauce
La serre: greenhouse
L’orangerie: orangery, a dedicated room or structure where potted trees are moved to protect them from freezing temperatures.
En pleine terre: in the ground, as opposed to grown in pots

TARTELETTE A LA CRÈME DE CLEMENTINE
Tartlets with clementine cream
Makes 8 tartlets

 
1 sheet of pastry (homemade or store-bought)
2 eggs
3/4 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
8 clementines
1 tsp corn starch

Preheat oven to 375ºF. Roll out the pastry; cut out circles the same diameter as the tartlet pans; line the pans with dough rounds. In a salad bowl whisk the eggs, 1/4 cup of sugar, and vanilla extract until pale and creamy. Zest one clementine; juice four of them. Add zest, juice and corn starch to the egg mixture and mix well. Pour into the tartlets and bake for 20 minutes. Let cool. Cut eight slices in the remaining clementines. In a small saucepan, heat half a cup of water and the remaining sugar. As soon as the syrup starts boiling, add the clementine slices and cook until they start caramelizing. Remove from the heat and allow them to cool completely. Drain. Top each tartlet with one slice before serving.

PURPLE GARLIC

I’m pretty sure I got my first taste of garlic when my grandmother made her famous pommes de terre sarladaises: she sautéed scalloped potatoes with duck fat in her cast-iron Dutch oven, crusted by decades of faithful service. Toward the end of the cooking time, she’d throw in a generous quantity of slivered garlic and a handful of chopped parsley. If we were lucky, golden chanterelles were combined with the potatoes. The whole kitchen smelled of garlic.

Bunches of garlic are hung to dry under la halle in Cadours

She also served a soupe au pain every night where thick slices of country bread soaked in a flavorful garlicky broth. More often than not, it also included vegetables from the garden: cabbage, carrots, dried fava beans… It was a far cry from the elegant potages served in Paris restaurants! When vegetables were not available, farmers would simply make a tourin blanchi, a garlic soup bound with an egg. It truly earned the nickname of soupe du pauvre. It’s simple, rustic, and unexpectedly smooth.

The stalks of this purple garlic are soft enough to be braided

Just a few weeks ago, Rick and I drove to Cadours, a small village of Haute-Garonne, during their annual Fête de l’Ail Violet. It was the perfect opportunity to get acquainted with their AOP purple garlic, witness how it is peeled and braided, and sample some tasty garlic soup.

A peacock entirely made of garlic was awarded First Prize this year.

Another surprise: a contest featuring stunning models completely made of garlic –cloves, skins, stalks– and displayed under the imposing 19th-century brick halle. Not as old as la halle de Grenade but a nice piece of architecture nonetheless.

I can’t even imagine how many hours were spent to recreate the Cadours church in garlic

I confess that I was not familiar with this purple garlic from Cadours: it only earned its Appellation d’Origine Protégée in 2017. But it prompted me to do some research on French varieties of garlic beyond the generic “white” variety.

Quite a trophy!

Three varieties of garlic have been awarded some distinctive protections.

Ail Rose de Lautrec IGP is the most famous one. This high-quality pink garlic is grown in the Tarn near Albi and obtained its Indication Géographique Protégée in 1996. It has a subtle and slightly sweet taste. It is said to keep for a full year.

Ail Violet de Cadours AOP exhibits a notable purple color on the skins. The heads are fairly large. The aroma and flavor assertive. In hot preparations, some sweetness balances its strength. It’s marketed as early as July, before any other French garlic.

Ail Fumé d’Arleux IGP is a pink garlic cultivated in the Hauts de France (the old Nord-Pas de Calais region.) It’s braided then smoked. The process gives the heads a copper color and confers a woody note to the garlic.

A little bit of Franglais…

If you love garlic, you’d probably enjoy going through a blind tasting to compare white, pink and purple garlics: make several frottes where a clove of garlic is rubbed against a piece of toasted country bread. It often served as my grandfather’s lunch when he was a child. The taste differences mostly reveal themselves when the various garlics are used raw. Simmered in a soup, they loose any harshness and become exquisitely smooth.

Tourin blanchi: yummy, rustic garlic soup

TOURIN BLANCHI
Garlic soup
Serves 6

2 Tbsp duck fat
2 heads of garlic, peeled and slivered
1 small yellow onion, finely chopped
2 Tbsp flour
6 cups water
Salt and pepper to taste
2 eggs
2 Tbsp red wine vinegar
6 slices of country-style bread, stale or toasted

Melt the duck fat in a thick-bottom pot and lightly sauté the garlic and onion; do not allow the vegetables to color. Sprinkle the flour, mix well and add the water. Bring to a boil, add salt and pepper to taste, lower the heat, and simmer for about 30 minutes. Separate egg whites and egg yolks into two bowls. Beat the yolks with a fork, add the vinegar, and one Tbsp of soup. Take the pot off the stove, add the egg yolk mixture to the soup, and whisk briskly. Add the whites, mix and whisk thoroughly. Place a slice of bread in each bowl and pour the hot soup over the bread.

Vocabulary

La soupe au pain: bread soup. The broth and vegetables (whole or in chunks) are poured over a slice of bread. In rural areas, la soupe au pain was often meant to be a complete meal.
Le potage: a smoother, more refined soup. The components are cooked down or pureed to produce a creamier texture.
La soupe du pauvre: soup of the poor
La fête: festival
L’ail (f): garlic
Violet: purple
La halle: covered market square
Frotter: to rub

A PLUM LIFE

Since my return to the farm I’ve been feeling very domestic. It is a retour aux sources to the place that’s been part of me, since my very first visit: I was two months old. Throughout their retirement, my grandparents raised ducks, chicken, and rabbits. They also grew vegetables to feed animals (maïs, betteraves, topinambours) and humans (pommes de terre, haricots verts, asperges, petits pois, fèves.) There was also a small potager planted with leeks, carrots, tomatoes, and a variety of lettuces. Fruit trees dotted the fields. Growing your own produce and eating in season was a double-edged sword. First, you got all excited when harvesting the first green beans; two weeks later, you tried to invent new dishes to use the above-mentioned vegetables; three weeks into the season, you were insanely tired of équeuter the beans and canning the seemingly endless crop.

My quetsche tree is ready for its close up.

The farm is no longer in an active state but some of the fruit trees remain. We arrived too late for cherries and apricots but August blessed us with an abundance of plums, more than enough to share with family, birds, and wasps. By all accounts, this year was a bumper crop for fruits à noyaux.

Although I frequently purchased local produce from Farmers’ markets while living in California, nothing beats the taste and texture of a perfectly ripe fruit, just picked from the tree and eaten on the spot. But when strong winds knocked down a large branch of my quetsche tree, we found ourselves with an abundance of riches. Not being equipped for canning at the moment, I resorted to making compotes, clafoutis, and tarts. If I find myself in a similar predicament next year, I might just have a local bouilleur de cru distill my excess fruit and turn it into eau de vie.

Sweet golden mirabelles

The most exciting thing for me was to feast on varieties of plums that I rarely –or never– encountered in the US. The Mirabelle plum is virtually unknown there: in fact, I can’t really find a translation for it. Some call it a “cherry plum” because it is the size of a fat cherry; one of my suppliers used to label it “fancy plum”, which was more confusing than helpful. Those who have seen and tasted a mirabelle always recognize its (often flecked) dark yellow skin, yellow flesh, and sweet flavor. It’s a specialty of the Lorraine area where 80% of the production is grown.

Reines-Claudes stay green even when ripe.

My personal favorite is the Reine Claude (greengage), named after the wife of King François 1er. Round and firm, its skin is green even when the plum is ripe; its flesh is green as well. It retains a touch of acidity which balances its sweetness. I think they make fabulous tarts: they soften but do not lose too much juice.

Luscious quetsches; could make a good brandy, perhaps…

Very prevalent in our area is the Quetsche (damson) and its cousin the Prune d’Ente (the one they dry to make those wonderful French prunes in Agen.) The oval purple fruit brightly contrasts from the thick green leaves of the tree. Its light red flesh is a bit juicier than the Reine Claude.

Two weeks ago, I found myself in the middle of the perfect plum storm: I actually had baskets of all three varieties at the same time! Not wanting to play favorite, I felt under obligation to celebrate them all in one dish.

THREE PLUM TART
Tarte aux trois prunes
Serves 6 to 8

One sheet of pastry (home-made or store-bought)
2 lbs plums, three assorted varieties
4 tablespoons almond meal
2 tablespoons brown sugar

Preheat oven to 375º F. Drop the pastry into a 12” tart mold. Wash, half and pit the plums. Spread the almond meal evenly on the surface of the dough. Arrange the plums in crust; sprinkle with brown sugar. Bake for 30 minutes or until crust is golden brown.

Vocabulary
Le retour aux sources: lit. return to the origins, homecoming
Le maïs: corn
La betterave: beet
Le topinambour: Jerusalem artichoke
La pomme de terre: potato
Le haricot vert: green bean
L’asperge (f): asparagus
Le petit pois: green pea
La fève: fava bean
Le potager: the vegetable garden
Equeuter: to trim the ends of the beans
Le fruit à noyau: stone fruit
La quetsche: damson plum
Le bouilleur de cru: private distiller
L’eau de vie (f): brandy

ZUCCHINI BLOSSOMS

Here is a French word that comes in handy in summer: la courgette. I think I somewhat “discovered” zucchini when I first came to California some forty years ago. Of course, the slender green vegetable was not unknown in France but, at that time, it fell into the category of regional produce: ubiquitous in Provence, not so much in other areas. My grandfathers, both avid gardeners, never grew zucchini in their potagers and I don’t remember any of their neighbors growing them either. They both lived in the southwestern quadrant of France. At home, my mother loved zucchini; my dad and my sister did not; I was Switzerland… I’ll eat just about anything.

If we wanted to run a popularity contest, zucchini would rank pretty low on the offensive scale. Nevertheless, I was a bit surprised to see how enthusiastic Californians were about this summer vegetable. Zucchini bread? Really? Naturellement, this French girl didn’t think that vegetables belonged in the dessert category. But wait: is bread supposed to be a dessert in these parts? It was all very confusing.

Later on, I realized the reason why Californians devise so many creative preparations for zucchini is because it is such a prolific vegetable: one needs to constantly figure out new ways to use the abundant crop. Or else, you fill your car trunk with bags of zucchini and cajole your coworkers into lightening your load. If your garden is full of zucchini let me give you a bit of advice to nip the problem in the bud, literally: harvest zucchini as they bloom and stuff the blossoms with fresh chèvre instead of allowing the vegetable to reach maturity! These stuffed zucchini blossoms are showy, tasty, and easy to make. Bring them to the next company picnic and everybody will cheer you on for growing courgettes.

They're still so pretty after they're baked!

Zucchini Blossoms stuffed with Goat Cheese
Fleurs de courgettes farcies au fromage de chèvre
Serves 4

2 eggs
4 oz fresh goat cheese
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
6 basil leaves, finely chopped
Salt and pepper
12 zucchini blossoms
2 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 400ºF. Separate the eggs. With a fork, mash the goat cheese and mix in the egg yolks, garlic, basil, and pepper. Whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt and fold into the cheese mixture. Carefully open up the zucchini blossoms and fill them with the cheese and egg preparation. Oil an oven-proof dish with 1 Tbsp of olive oil; arrange the stuffed blossoms in the dish and sprinkle with the remaining oil. Bake for 20 minutes. Serve hot.

Vocabulary

La courgette: zucchini
Le potager: vegetable garden
Naturellement: of course
La chèvre: goat
Le chèvre: goat cheese

FRAISES AU VIN

Living in California has its advantages: one of them is the abundance of fresh produce, which makes it a paradise for cooks. I got an early education in that field, pun intended: my paternal grandparents returned to a farming/gardening life when they retired and I spent countless vacation hours helping them in the vineyard, harvesting asparagus, shelling fresh peas, trimming green beans for canning, gathering potatoes for winter storage, and picking strawberries to be served that very evening. For me, there were only two kinds of strawberries: the plump round ones that I picked in grandpa’s garden and the tiny elongated kind that grew wild in his woods.

The Gariguette is the most popular strawberry variety in France

The latter (fraises des bois) I would just enjoy on the spot while hunting for mushrooms as it took a lot of time and effort to gather enough for a family dessert! The strawberries grown in the garden received more consideration: they could turn color and ripen quite quickly and had to be closely monitored. I always wanted to harvest them at their finest, late in the afternoon, after they had soaked in the warmth of the sun. I would rinse them in the cool water from the well, hull them, then set them up in grandma’s white saladier until it was time for dessert. We ate on their own, perhaps with a bit of sugar or paired with the fromage blanc made by Monsieur Adam, our neighbor. Grandpa being diabetic, sugar was off limits for him; he usually enjoyed his berries in a bowl, doused with the red wine he made from his own grapes.

Mara des Bois, a cultivated strawberry with a flavor reminiscent of wild strawberries

I didn’t pay that much attention to which variety of berries he grew back then: why would I bother when they always tasted so delicious, freshly plucked from the garden and consumed within hours? As I got involved in the specialty food business, it became my duty (et mon plaisir) to quiz my suppliers about what kind of strawberries they used in the various jams, preserves or conserves I sold.

Cigaline is a variety derived from the Gariguette but with a touch less acidity than its "sister"

Since I usually fly back to France every May, I’ve had many opportunities to linger at the outdoor markets and study what is displayed on the stalls. There are more than one hundred different varieties of strawberries but three of them are top-ranked in France. The Gariguette is a real star: medium-sized and elongated, with an orangey red color, it’s an early variety that’s sweet with a touch of acidity. The Mara des Bois is also much sought after: it’s fleshy and juicy, exhibiting a brilliant deep red color and a round shape, with the sweet and musky aroma of wild strawberries. The Charlotte is a favorite among children: bright red color, heart-shaped, firm, sweet, and juicy, it makes beautiful tarts and jams. Once in a while, you might even find white strawberries like the Anablanca, one of the oldest varieties (white strawberries were brought back to France from Chile in 1728 by explorer Jacques-Cartier.) Surprisingly, their taste is reminiscent of… pineapple!

When you have access to freshly picked fruits, simple preparations are best to showcase their flavor. There is a produce stand on my way home from work and that Chinese family has been growing strawberries for decades: the strawberry beds sit right behind the tiny shed and the fruits are picked daily. As soon as the harvest starts, I stop by and pick up a pint or two: they are so perfectly ripe, they don’t keep more than a day or two. Most of the time, we just eat them out of hand. Sometimes, I add some cream. And sometimes, I tip my hat to Grandpa and serve them with red wine.

Fraises au Vin
Strawberries in Wine
Serves 6

1 1/4 lb strawberries
2 cups red wine
3/4 cup sugar
1 stick cinnamon
1 star anise
1 Tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 tsp crushed pink peppercorns
Mint or basil leaves for garnish

Wash, dry, and hull the strawberries; halve or quarter them depending on size and reserve in a large bowl. Pour the wine into a saucepan; add sugar, cinnamon, star anise, and balsamic vinegar. Bring to a boil then simmer 5 minutes. Remove cinnamon and star anise; pour over the strawberries. Let cool then refrigerate until ready to serve. Divide into 6 individual bowls and sprinkle with crushed pink peppercorns.

Sylvaine’s tips: use a light red wine (Beaujolais, Gamay, or Cabernet Franc, for instance.) Pour the wine mixture on the strawberries while it's hot: the fruit will be slightly poached. If pink peppercorns are not available, you can replace them with freshly ground black pepper. 

Vocabulary
La fraise des bois: wild strawberry
Le saladier: salad bowl
Le fromage blanc: French “cottage” cheese
Mon plaisir: my pleasure

LES ASPERGES

It was the best of both worlds. Growing up near Paris offered me access to Culture-with-a-capital-C but spending my school vacations at my grandparents’ farm outside of Gourdon gave me more than a passing acquaintance with the pain and pleasure of agriCulture. Raising animals and growing food is hard work but, as an eight-year-old kid from the big city, my tasks were a lot of fun. I helped feed the rabbits and there always was a new fluffle of lapereaux waiting for me; of course, the babies received extra attention. I was less interested in the ducks and chickens but preparing la pâtée was extremely enjoyable: squishing small boiled potatoes between my fingers and mixing the flesh with grains de maïs probably triggered the primal instinct of kneading bread, or maybe it was just the delight of being allowed –even encouraged– to do something messy! I also practiced my sleuthing talents by hunting for hidden nests: Grandma always knew when one of her hens made a habit of jumping over the fence of the poulailler and laid her eggs in a secret location. I spent hours trimming haricots verts, shelling petits pois, peeling pommes de terre. But my favorite vegetable was also the most seasonal and regal one: l’asperge.

Springtime at marché d'Aligre: asparagus and morels.

My grandfather had set up a couple of banks of asparagus plants along one of his vineyards, the one closest to the house and to his vegetable garden. At that time, I only knew asparagus to be white and spotting them required a good eye; it was a little bit like sleuthing for stray hen nests. Asparagus grows quite fast and you want to harvest them as quickly as possible so they don’t get too fibrous and tough: in season, I would check the banks morning and afternoon. I looked for the purplish-white tips barely emerging out of the mounted dirt; then, I would poke the gouge into the sandy dirt, aiming to section the base of the spear and lift it out in one swift movement. Grandpa had woven a special basket to collect asparagus, a long and shallow one, but still based on the same design as all the wicker baskets he made. Asparagus was the most prized vegetable on the farm, the one that grandma would can and serve on special occasions.

Organized display of white and green asparagus

I discovered green asparagus after moving to California. It was a very easy transition. The San Joaquin Valley of California is a top producer: the légume royal is abundant and cheap. The flavor is a bit more herbaceous than the white one but I like that and I love that the stalks do not need to be peeled! I enjoy the versatility of green asparagus: I boil it or steam it, of course, but I also roast the spears with truffle oil, lemon zest and grated parmesan; I use them in stir-fry, risotto, or pasta dishes; they are magnificent with Hollandaise sauce; and when visuals matter, the bright green spears strike a nice contrast on white plates…

The yearly Asparagus Festival in Payrignac

Payrignac, “my” little village of 700 souls, is the home of several asparagus growers. As luck would have it, a few of our spring trips back home coincided with the Asparagus Festival. Along with fresh asparagus sales –white and green–, it’s also the sought-after venue for a giant asparagus omelet prepared by the local restaurant: free samples! We won’t be there this year and, as an avid mushroom hunter, I’ll miss the opportunity to forage for wild morels as well: they are a perfect foil for asparagus. Fresh is always best but trust me: of all dried mushrooms, morels are the one that rehydrates the best due to their sponge-like structure. My recipe for Asparagus with Morel Cream combines two of the most special ingredients to usher the Spring season. Enjoy!

Asparagus with Morel Cream
Asperges à la crème de morilles
Serves 4

½ oz dried morels
20 green asparagus
2 shallots, peeled and thinly sliced
2 tbsp butter
1/2 cup whipping cream
Salt and pepper

Soak dried morels in warm water for an hour. Lift the mushrooms out of the water, leaving all grit behind, and drain them on a paper towel. Cook the asparagus in salted boiling water for 7-8 minutes. Transfer them to a pot of ice cold water. When they are cold, drain on paper towels. In a skillet over medium-low heat, melt 1 tbsp of butter; sweat the shallots for a couple of minutes; add the morels and cook 5 minutes. Pour the cream into the pan and reduce until the sauce coats a wooden spoon. Add salt and pepper to taste. Melt the remaining butter in a frying pan and warm up the asparagus. Set 5 asparagus each on 4 warmed plates and top with morels and cream sauce.

Note: this side dish pairs very well with poached eggs, a grilled veal chop or turkey cutlets.

Vocabulary
Le lapereau: baby rabbit
La pâtée: a food mixture for farm animals
Le grain de maïs: kernel corn
Le poulailler: chicken coop
Le haricot vert: green bean
Le petit pois: pea
La pomme de terre: potato
L’asperge (f): asparagus
La gouge: a special tool to harvest white asparagus with a long handle and a half tunnel-shaped metal end.
Le légume royal: royal vegetable

A THOUSAND CREPES

La Chandeleur was just a few days ago and Mardi Gras is coming up next week. With apologies to Carl Sagan, it’s fair to say that the French consume “billions and billions” of crêpes: in Brittany alone, they have been common fare since the 13th century. Savory galettes can make a complete meal; sweet crêpes de froment are served as a dessert or as a snack.

Matcha mille crêpes at Megu

I was in New York during Restaurant Week in 2011 and treated myself to Megu, a Japanese restaurant near the United Nations. For dessert, I chose the Matcha Mille Crêpes, an ethereal green tea flavored cake, a tower of crêpes layered with pastry cream. A year later at Le Colonial, the very same cake was listed on the menu and delicious memories flooded my mind. Miam miam! I found out these Mille Crêpes were the specialty of Lady M, an upscale pastry shop on the East Side.

Mille crêpes at Le Colonial

Another year, another trip, another slice of cake: having lunch with a supplier in the Plaza Hotel Food Hall, I spotted a Lady M boutique and couldn’t resist the green beauty. I was hooked. Although I don’t particularly enjoy baking, I really had to try to make this at home. An internet search revealed several recipes and it didn’t look too difficile. Mille crêpes, like mille-feuilles, is a misnomer: you will not need to make one thousand crêpes, only twenty, which is pretty much what a standard batch of batter will yield.

Assembling my mille crêpes praliné

Many variations are possible, either by adding a flavor to the crêpe batter or to the pastry cream. I had brought back a few bars of Pralinoise that I incorporated to make a delicious praliné cream. The assembly is a bit time-consuming but doesn’t require any particular skill. And it’s surprisingly easy to slice. This video will show you a few tricks. 

Half of my mille crêpes cake

I won’t be in my own kitchen on Mardi Gras so a mille crêpe is not in the cards this year. The appeal of individual crêpes lies in giving everyone the opportunity to choose their favorite fillings but the mille crêpes cake will elicit oohs and aahs from everybody at the dinner table. Next time, I’m trying François Payard’s recipe.

Vocabulary
La Chandeleur: a pagan then religious celebration that takes place on Feb.  2nd
La galette: a buckwheat crêpe, for savory fillings
La crêpe de froment: a wheat crêpe, for sweet fillings
Miam miam: yum yum
Difficile: difficult
Le mille-feuille: a pastry known as a Napoleon, made with thin layers of puff pastry
La Pralinoise: a hazelnut chocolate bar made by Poulain

Lady M's mille crêpes at the Plaza Hotel Food Hall

Mille Crêpes with Green Tea Cream
Gâteau de crêpes au thé vert
by Francois Payard

Chocolate Crêpes
2 cups plus 2 tablespoons (220g) all-purpose flour
1/3 cup (30g) Dutch-processed cocoa powder
1/2 cup (100g) sugar
Pinch of salt
8 large eggs
2 cups plus 1 tablespoon (500g) whole milk
Grated zest of 2 oranges
10 tablespoons (5 oz. or 150g) unsalted butter, browned
1 cup (250g) heavy cream
Vegetable oil, for the pan

Green Tea Pastry Cream
2 cups plus 1 tablespoon (500 g) whole milk
2 teaspoons (10g) powdered green tea
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons (120g) sugar
5 tablespoons (40g) cornstarch
6 large egg yolks
4 tablespoons (2oz.; 60g) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 cup (250g) heavy cream

Make the crêpes: Combine the flour, cocoa powder, sugar, and salt in a large mixing bowl. In another bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, and orange zest. Incorporate them gradually into the dry ingredients, whisking constantly with one hand as you pour them with the other. Doing this slowly will prevent lumps from forming. Whisk in the butter, then the cream. Strain the batter over a bowl to make sure that it is smooth, then whisk it again so that it is thoroughly combined. Cover the batter, and refrigerate for at least 2 hours or overnight.

Whisk the batter well. Place a small crêpe pan or nonstick skillet (about 8 inches in diameter) over medium heat. Pour about 2 teaspoons vegetable oil in the pan to grease it. Once it is hot, use a 1/4 cup measuring cup or a small ladle to pour a little less than 1/4 cup of batter in the pan. There should be just enough batter in the pan to coat the bottom in a thin layer. Tilt the pan in a circular motion so that the batter is evenly spread in the pan.

After about 2 minutes, the edges of the crêpe should start firming up. Use a spatula to lift a side of the crêpe and flip it over. Cook on the other side for about 1 minute, then remove the crêpe to a plate. Repeat the process until all of the batter is used, piling the crêpes one on top of the other as they are cooked. If the crêpes start to stick to the pan, add a little more oil. Cover the stack of crêpes with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until cool, up to 1 day.

Make the Pastry Cream: Line a shallow pan, such as a 9-inch square cake pan or a small rimmed baking sheet, with plastic wrap. Bring the milk to a boil in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat. Whisk in the green tea powder.

Meanwhile, combine the sugar and cornstarch in a medium bowl, and whisk in the yolks. Continue whisking until the yolks turn a very pale yellow. Slowly pour a fourth of the milk into the yolk mixture, whisking constantly to keep the yolks from curdling. Once the milk is well incorporated, return the mixture to the saucepan over medium heat, and cook, whisking constantly and scraping the bottom and sides of the pot with the whisk to prevent lumps from forming, until it becomes very thick and bubbles start popping from the center of the pan for at least 20 seconds. You need to bring it to a boil so that the cornstarch gets activated.

Remove from the heat and whisk in the butter. Pour the pastry cream into the prepared pan and cover it with plastic wrap to prevent a skin from forming. Let it cool to room temperature, and then refrigerate it until it is completely cool, up to 1 day ahead.

Whip the heavy cream at medium speed in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment until it holds soft peaks. Whisk the pastry cream to a creamy texture, then gently fold in the whipped cream with a spatula.

Assemble the Cake: Place one of the cooled crepes on a serving platter. With a small offset spatula, spread a very thin layer (about 1/16 inch) of the green tea pastry cream over the crepe, going all the way to the edges. Place another crepe on top and repeat the process until the cake is 2 to 3 inches tall. Refrigerate for about 1 hour before serving, up to 6 hours ahead, so that the cake has time to set.

Makes one 8-inch cake; serves 8

COOKING WITH BOCUSE

Full disclosure: I did not actually cook in Paul Bocuse’s kitchen; that would have truly been a Moment Parfait. But I did find myself in his immediate vicinity at SIRHA in Lyon some fifteen years ago. Attending that trade show brought me pretty close to foodie heaven not just because of the fantastic products I discovered but because I also had the opportunity to observe talented chefs pushing the envelope in food prep, execution, and presentation. Buyers at food shows move at a very slow pace: we are continuously stopping to shake hands with vendors, watch videos showcasing pots, pans, or knives, and sample food bites (I know, you all want my job right now.) I was leisurely walking the aisles of the show when traffic came to a standstill. I figured there was a compelling demo a few booths ahead. I then realized the source of attention was actually in the aisle. Initially, I only caught a quick glimpse of a white toque towering over the crowd; a short while later, I found myself just a few feet away from Monsieur Paul. Sporting his tall chef’s hat, he was also dressed in his “frog coat” adorned with the blue, white, and red striped collar that can only be worn by recipients of the Meilleur Ouvrier de France* award. He was escorted by a small entourage and I assume he was making his way to the Bocuse d’Or competition**, an international event that started in 1987, long before Iron Chef and Chopped became popular TV entertainment.

Inside Brasserie de l'Est. Look at the miniature train at the top of the photo and the marquise showing through the window. Photo credit for this picture and the top one: Brasserie de l'Est.

Since I didn’t have private transportation (nor the budget!) to head out of Lyon and experience Bocuse’s celebrated restaurant in Collonges, I thought the next best thing would be to have dinner at one of his brasseries in the city. As luck would have it, Brasserie de l’Est was a mere fifteen-minute walk from my hotel. I loved the location –an old gare– and the décor: a stunning iron-and-glass marquise above the entrance, an open kitchen, a miniature train circulating on miniature tracks above the dining room. I remember being so impressed with the simple salade gourmande: lovely bouquets of mâche dressed in an olive oil vinaigrette with shallots, tender coeurs d’artichauts, perfectly cooked haricots verts, topped with a buttery slice of duck foie gras.

My first cookbook!

As soon as I flew back to California, I had to recreate that perfect salad and add it to my repertoire. The recipe was not listed in Paul Bocuse In Your Kitchen, the very first cookbook I bought after moving to the US but, by then, I was able to execute a satisfactory rendition. The funny thing is that I grew up around women who routinely produced 4-course meals twice a day but I didn’t actually start cooking until I left France. Chef Paul, Chef Jacques (Pépin), and Julia (Child) became my teachers through their books and their TV shows. Soupe à l’Oignon, Sole Meunière, Coq au Vin, Boeuf Bourguignon, Mousse au Chocolat: I had savored all those dishes throughout my childhood but these iconic figures are the ones who really taught me how to cook. Paul Bocuse just passed away last week. He was a giant, the pope of French cuisine. His lessons and his passion will always stay with me. Come to think about it: his French Onion Soup sounds simply perfect right now.

Onion soup: a staple of French cuisine

Paul Bocuse’s French Onion Soup
Soupe à l’oignon de Paul Bocuse

2 tbsp butter
4 medium onions, peeled and sliced
2 tbsp flour
6 cups beef bouillon or water
½ an 8-ounce loaf of French bread, cut in half lengthwise
2 cups freshly grated Swiss cheese
2 tbsp butter (for layering)
Pepper
2 tbsp breadcrumbs

Melt 2 tbsp butter in a large saucepan, add the onions, and brown slightly. Stir in the flour and when it begins to color add the bouillon or water, stirring constantly. Cook over moderate heat uncovered for 15 minutes. Toast the bread under the broiler, then cut into thick slices. Preheat the oven to 400ºF. In a soup tureen that you can put in the oven, place a third of the bread, sprinkle with a quarter of the cheese, 2 tsp of softened butter, and a little pepper. Make three layers in this way, then pour the soup into the tureen, sprinkle with the breadcrumb and the remaining cheese, and place in the oven for 20 minutes or until the cheese and breadcrumbs have browned. Serve immediately. Serves 4.

Vocabulary
La toque: tall (and stiff) chef’s hat
La gare: train station
La marquise: in this context, a glass and iron porch above an entrance
La mâche: lamb’s lettuce
Le coeur d’artichaut: artichoke heart
Le haricot vert: slender green bean
La soupe à l’oignon: French onion soup
La sole meunière: sole with a butter lemon sauce
Le coq au vin: rooster in red wine
Le boeuf bourguignon: beef stew in red wine
La mousse au chocolat: chocolate mousse

*Meilleur Ouvrier de France: for some insight on what is involved to get this culinary award, watch the trailer to The Kings of Pastry, an entertaining and fascinating documentary.

** Bocuse d'Or: watch highlights of the 2017 competition. The US team took Gold for the first time!