Your Way With Pâte

Little tartelettes don't have to be an exercise in logistics. In fact, they're the easiest things in the world once you have laid claim to your crust. I don't mean once you have decided on a recipe, I mean once you have pinched together cold butter and flour enough times that it is one of the tasks you consider as basic as chopping a couple of onions. Part of your way in the kitchen.



A couple of years ago, I found a little book on one of the riverside booksellers' tables. It was from the 1960s, full of your average French housewife's recipes for basic tarte crusts, cakes and home made creations. I wanted a glimpse into what the average French person 50 years ago put together on their kitchen tables. These recipes were not the ones that we have gotten used to these days, you know, the ones that strutt their stuff, expanding the technique and ingredient list to include every possible variation, noting every movement of the cook, adding skimming and sifting and doing things in clockwork fashion, not to clarify or instruct, but to stress, in a kind of patronizing way that yes, you really do need this recipe, you need to buy this book. I admit I never had much patience for these enormously self important kinds of recipes.



This little paperback handbook claiming on the back to have "really, we mean really, every pastry recipe you will ever need" that cost me a 50 centime piece was in my hands, and I was flipping through it, looking at a different kind of recipe style. A nice easy fast feulletage came out of that one, and a wealth of knowledge. First of all, something that struck me, while I read through these very simple recipes, was that for the crusts, they were all variations on one basic formula: flour, butter, salt, water. Second, the ratios were quite varied. You mean, there isn't just one way to make a tarte crust?



Here is the method that is currently my way in the kitchen for making a shell for a tarte, quiche, tartelette, etc. Start with impeccably clean hands and take a smallish piece of good butter from the refrigerator and weigh it, put it into a bowl. Add twice the butter's weight amount in flour and a sprinkling of salt. Use a fork to mash it together until you have little lumps. Get an ice cube and hold it in your hands, until it starts to melt. Then work the melting cold water lightly into the dough with your fingers just until you can pat it into a rough ball. Little lumps of butter are ok. If you're making more than you can comfortably melt ice in your hand for, go ahead and use ice water. Let your ball of dough rest in the refrigerator. Don't ever knead it, it will get tough that way. When you're ready, you can roll it out and use it. Voila. 1:2 butter:flour, plus a pinch of salt, add cold water. Once you have that down, you have just added a lot of options for apero, appetizer at the table, main course, and dessert.  Especially useful when you haven't planned anything in particular and you have bits and scraps of vegetables, meats, cheeses, and fruits you need to use up.

Jean-Jacques Bernachon

With great sadness I open the kitchen notebook today to tell you that Jean-Jacques Bernachon passed away during early morning hours yesterday.   It is no secret in the kitchens of Bernachon that he was not just the patron, but a father figure to each and every one of the staff there.  He was well loved and maintained a presence in the kitchens and chocolate works until illness took him.  He was 65.

Jean-Jacques is the a second generation of his family to be in the family business.  At the age of 17, it was clear that he wanted to go into chocolate, like his father, Maurice. His father had started the business in the family name at their current site in Lyon's 6th arrondissement when Jean-Jacques was five years old. Maurice insisted that his teenage son Jean-Jacques learn the grueling work of producing chocolate from someone else, in order to develop a true appreciation for this often difficult trade before coming home to work in the family business.  Maurice sent him to work for an old colleague in Bourgoin, and it was there that he cut his teeth, working 14 hour days. After a stage in Amsterdam, Jean-Jacques joined his father at Bernachon. After decades of working for his father, he took full leadership over the operation in 1998, when his father Maurice passed away.



Jean-Jacques Bernachon was married to Paul Bocuse's daughter Françoise in 1969, and is survived by her and their 3 children. He oversaw the artisanal torrefaction and chocolate and pastry making activities, and Françoise continues management of the tea room attached to the chocolate shop. Two of their children are involved with the family business. His son Phillipe plays a role in the artisan chocolate production, and daughter Stephanie runs the chocolate boutique.

Our deep and heartfelt condolences to the Bernachon family, including every member of their staff. Thank you, Jean-Jacques, for your kindness in allowing us in to catch a glimpse of the passion that is Bernachon. I maintain my fond memories and have implicit trust in your wife and children to carry on in the family name.

Other posts about Bernachon in Lucy's Kitchen Notebook:

Bernachon - Chocolatier Extraordinaire

Backstage at Bernachon

How Chocolate Came to Save Fran

Le Potager: Chervil

A good way to remember the French term le jardin potager is to think of it as a garden that grows everything a good French cook will want to throw into the soup pot. A potager always has space reserved for herbs and aromatics. The seeds we started in the window sill in Lyon have been transplanted to the beds we made in our garden in the mountains. There are sunny beds, and beds that get partial shade. One of my goals is for my guests to have salads from my garden as a special memory of their visit with us, and the shade beds will be devoted to the typical salad greens and herbs that thrive when protected from the sun.

Chervil, known in French as cerfeuille, is an important herb in French cooking. One of the fines herbes, it is readily available at French markets in thick handfuls ranging in price by vendor. Taste the chervil from several of the vendors you have identified as producers, and decide which you like best. They all taste different because they each use their own seed. When I first started market shopping in Lyon, I was drawn to chervil beccause of the beautiful dainty leaf that seems to glow in almost any light. It quickly became a regular addition to my basket. I use it fresh in salads, chopped into vinaigrettes, in fish fumet and to season seafood, eggs, and any dish that won't hide this herb's interesting flavor.

Rub it between your fingers, and take in the aroma. It has a fresh slightly licorice scent, one that will quickly fade when cooked. Chervil is best used at the very end of your cooking process or kept raw in cold dishes, because the flavor comes through the best that way.

The photo above is from our garden's first batch of chervil. It is growing in one of the shade beds. The oblong leaves are the first ones to come out when it sprouts, long and slender to take in as much of the sun's nutrients as possible.  After about 10 days, the true chervil leaves began to come out.  The sprout leaves will die off when the plant doesn't need them anymore.  I will also scatter seeds in a space I have reserved for that, to keep chervil going in our garden as long as I can in the season.  One advantage to planting chervil in your garden is that you can also use the roots, which I look forward to doing this summer.

Some recipes in Lucy's Kitchen Notebook using chervil:

Petite Tarte aux Poireaux
Bouquet Breadsticks
Soupe au Fenouil avec sa Truit de Petit Pecheur
Saint Antoine Market
Fleurs de Courgette Farcies
Greens and Game
Cold Cucumber Velouté
Fumet de Sparassis

Congee

In the middle of last week, my husband, who is generally the kind of person who will work whenever he has a chance, changed his tune and came home early. I was surprised to see him sitting in the dim quiet living room when the baby and I got home, with a plastic sack in his hand. He was waiting for us to come in on him, sitting in the dark. He does things like this from time to time. It's part of living with a scientist. Although he communicates in very direct and explicit language to convey the results of his research, his regular communication to me is less direct. On rare occasions, he does things like sit in the dark, signals that I have come to understand like a code over the years of our marriage. The baby was caught up in the moment of seeing papa unexpectedly and threw himself onto his lap. "It's a stomach virus." he said, and handed me the sack, full of medicine fresh from the pharmacy. I knew that his waiting for us like that meant that he needed to be babied himself. After settling him on the sofa with a blanket and fixing him a cup of herbal tea, I went to the kitchen to get supper on.

Congee came to mind as the best choice for him. It is one of those dishes I have carried to France with me, collected during my years in China. It always brings up complex emotions, because it is a kind of genre food, one of those things that in the lives of the people in China I knew and loved, carried symbol and meaning. You know, it's typically a breakfast food in that country. But beyond that, when you start delving into soul searching with a Chinese person, you'll probably find congee there in very tender places. In a very intense time in my life, congee sprang up a lot. The little pickles and preserves people add to the savory ones came in different shapes and consistencies. I am not Chinese, but my senses awakened in China. I speak Mandarin Chinese. I fell in love in Beijing, a story that's still simmering, trying to find a way to organize itself. That story did not have a happy ending, and I am not sure that there was a life lesson. I should not be afraid of congee, although, like I said, when it pops into my head in this innocent way, something mild and nourishing to soothe the love of my life, I can't help but take a breath, with a start.

On the way to a distant poor province to visit Haibo's parents, we shared an old sedan from a place near Shanghai, rented by his sister and her Hong Kong sugar daddy. The sedan bounced like a boat above the pitted road. The landscape was empty.

They are in the front seat. She reaches up, pretending to adjust the rear view mirror, and turns her hand to and fro to make her diamond sparkle. Hai Bo receives this like a signal. He and I had a quarrel the night before. We will never know each others' secret codes. He has bought a can of congee to eat for breakfast and he offers me a taste. We are bouncing against light blue velour, my sight is drawn to the blemishes, a couple of gum stains and the occasional cigarette burn. I can feel the springs. I take a sip from the can. It is sweet, light, and silky. Nothing like this moment, but very much like it too. He smiles.

I prefer my congee on the savory side. This recipe is the congee Ayi used to prepare for me from time to time in Beijing. There is no secret or technique. It just takes awhile. It is very soothing and filling, but easy on the stomach, so if you're feeling a little under the weather, it can be just the thing.

Basic Congee

2 tablespoons plump white rice
4 cups of water
2 1/2 teaspoons light soy sauce
1 thin slice of ginger
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tree ear mushroom, soaked and cut into slivers
3 scallions, chopped
Pickles of choice for garnish

Rinse the rice until the water flows clean. Soak it in enough warm water to cover it for awhile, 15 to 20 minutes. Add the rice and its soaking liquid to the 4 cups water that you've brought to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer it for an hour or two, until the grains dissolve completely. Stir every 10 to 15 minutes to keep it circulating. It should form a gruel. At this point, add the remaining ingredients except for the scallions and pickles, which you can add to the individual bowls just before serving. Simmer, stirring occasionally, for another 20 minutes.

A more rich variation on this recipe is to use unsalted chicken stock in place of the water and add lean chicken meat cut with the grain into very thin slivers at the very end of cooking.

Apéro Season Opens in Lyon - Seared Foie de Volaille

The sun's come out after work in Lyon and the whole city collectively sighs "Et si on allait prendre un verre?" Place Sathonay and Place de Terreaux are crowded with gones basking in the evening sun. The cherries are in full bloom in front of Café des Negotiants and Café Perl. Every bar in between with a square foot of sidewalk has set up their own personal street-side terrace. You can find a spot if you just keep walking. We open the windows and let the early evening in. This time of year we always keep a cool bottle of something in the frigo to have ready when friends stop by.

Isn't it better to have a warm little mouthful or two to savor instead of the typical potato chips with apéro? Chicken livers, when prepared just so, are a surprisingly delicious way to start an evening. Even though les foies de volailles are about as cheap as you can get, running at about 50 cents a pound in these parts, these little morsels always make people feel special.

Simple Seared Foie de Volaille

250 grams or a half pound of fresh chicken livers
3 tablespoons butter
a heaping 1/2 teaspoon each of coriander seed, cayenne, dried garlic, anise seed, black peppercorns, pink peppercorns, and juniper berries
2 teaspoons of paprika
2 teaspoons coarse sea salt (I use sel de Guerlande but you can just use what you have on hand)

*about mixing the seasonings: My "dirty coffee grinder" is one I use to grind spices just before cooking with them. I have found that using the whole spices instead of buying pre-ground powders really adds something to the flavors. It has become a habit in my kitchen. Sometimes I toast the grains in a dry hot pan just before grinding, sometimes not. It depends on my mood. After each use, I wash the cap, take a stiff brush to the blade and bowl, and put it away for next time. Inevitably, there's always some residue around the blade, so it's kind of a work in progress at all times. I use my dirty coffee grinder for grinding vanilla beans with sugar from time to time for sweets, and I've never had my sweet cookies, bars, cakes or ice creams come out corrupted in any bad way by whispers of savory spices past.

- Mix the seasonings: The coriander seed, anise seed, juniper berries, the paprika and cayenne, dried garlic, mixed peppercorns, (black and pink) go into the grinder with the spoonful of coarse sel de Guérande. Blitz until it turns to powder. If you don't have a coffee grinder devoted to spices and you don't see doing it just now, know that you can do this in a mortar & pestle easily enough. Just a dusting is sufficient for the livers before they hit the hot pan, so you might have some leftover.

- Remove the fibrous strands that connect the lobes of the chicken livers together by holding them in your fingers at the center part where they come together, pinching them gently with your fingers, and pulling out, sliding the tender meaty parts off the strands.

- Dust the prepared livers on all sides with your freshly ground seasoning powder.

- Heat a shallow frying pan and add 1/2 the butter, letting it spread across the pan and foam.

- When the foam subsides, spread the seasoned chicken livers around the pan, giving them plenty of room. The pan should be hot. If you crowd too many in the pan, they'll steam and you won't get the crispy brown crust.

- Gently nudge them to see when they release from the pan. They'll release when they're done on that side.

- Flip them over and sear them on the other side. Serve the first batch right away and put the other ones on to sear. Let them cook just until crispy on the outside, and they begin to seep their juices.

Serve these babies hot on a pretty plate with toothpicks or little forks. They go very well with most apéretifs: Pineau des Charantes, Muscat, a splash of Lillet, a house kir (for example with your verbena syrup), or even just a naked sparkling wine like Crémant de Bourgogne or Clairette de Die.