Read Have Blade Will Travel: The adventures of a traveling chef Online
Authors: David Paul Larousse
Tags: #David Larousse, #wandering chef, #have blade will travel, #Edible Art, #The Soup Bible
I have long struggled to find a balance between the lyrical beauty of French menu terminology and the proper usage of my native tongue. There is an undeniable beauty and glamour about the French language that makes the very food I prepare all the more savory. After
Bouillabaisse
, Fish Stew will never do; after
Poulet Rôti
, Roast Chicken is just too pedestrian; after
Pâté de faisan Périgordine
, Pheasant-loaf with Truffle Gravy will never suffice. Digestive juices, after all, simply do not flow particularly well at the sound of: “Today’s special is meatloaf with lumpy mashed potatoes and pan gravy.”
Back at L’Orangerie, I rid the storage room of the soup mix, the canned quenelles, the lobster base, and the powdered Demi-Glace. But I could not rid my fellow citizens of their cultural bias that sometimes sticks in my craw. One afternoon, early in my L’Orangerie days, I was prepping for the evening’s service when a group of strangers walked into the kitchen. They introduced themselves as students from an adult cooking class, announced that they had a scheduled meeting with Chef Jean, and asked me to inform him of their arrival. Coming out from behind the cooking line, I explained that chef Jean had quit unceremoniously, and I had replaced him, that I was formerly trained and had worked in France, and that I would be glad to give them a tour of the kitchen and answer their questions. No way. They were not the least interested in listening to some American kid – I was 28 years old at the time – and they walked out.
I could have ranted and raved over such discrimination for the rest of my days, but to what avail? Instead, I struggled to resurrect in memory my own special and unique experiences with food, using the
Egg Drop Soup
disaster as an anchor. And slowly but surely I found that those experiences were no less valid than those of anyone who had ever sat on his grandmother’s knee in a farmhouse on the Maçonais or the Midi.
Among my most precious memories was that of Murray the Tomato Man. Murray was trim and fit and sported a finely-trimmed pince-nez moustache, and I can see him walking towards us at my Grandmother’s home during one of the many Sunday brunches she put on for her brood. His contribution to our table at that time consisted of some of the juiciest, most flavorful and magnificently red Jersey tomatoes anyone has ever seen. And Grandma always seemed to beam a gorgeous smile when Murray made an appearance.
Of course youngsters have little knowledge of intimate adult human relations at the age of seven or eight, but I would not be the least bit surprised if my grandmother – who had been divorced from my grandfather for some time – was having a fabulous affair. Besides, what could be a better calling card than a flat of big, fat, juicy summer tomatoes from the New Jersey farmlands? After all, tomatoes are known in common parlance as “love apples,” and frankly, my Grandma Anne was quite a looker back then. So why shouldn’t she spend her private time making passionate love to Murray – leaving the rest of the family with nary a clue?
Chapter 3
A Quartet of Legendary Mentors
Like most educational institutions, especially the high-profile ones, the collective management of the Culinary Institute of America represents an internal culture of bureaucratic dysfunction in all its maddening glory. And like most educational institutions, dysfunctional or otherwise, the genuine value of that institution dwells in their educators – at least those who represent extraordinary experience through a lifetime of work in their chosen field. And of those living encyclopedias who are dedicated to their work as educators, when they connect with their students in deep and genuine ways, those students often carry on their instructor’s legacy by excelling in their soon-to-blossom career.
I.
I connected with one such instructor during a Saturday extracurricular workshop hosted by Dieter Faulkner, and it remains one the most instructive and enjoyable three days of the entire two-year program. As evidence of the impact this workshop had on me, I still have in my possession the photo-copied menu hand-out from this event, which included the following menu: (NB:
Saterday
was the Austrian chef’s charming typo.)
Saterday’s Classical Cuisine Special
Potage à la tortue, Lady Courson
Potage queue de boeuf
Suprême de volaille en papillote
Salaison de boeuf
Oeufs pochés à la Benedict
Tomate Clamart
Poireaux à la béchamel gratinées
Pommes Berny
Pommes St. Florentine
Instructor: Dieter Faulkner
Of all the dishes on this menu, the
Salaison de Boeuf
was the most dramatic and exciting.
Salaison
means “salted meat,” and is founded on the Latin root for salt, which is
sal
– from which comes the word “salary,” and part of the salary for ancient Roman legionnaires was salt – a very rare and valuable commodity in the ancient world.
In this dish, a boneless sirloin strip is seasoned with black pepper, and seared on all six sides in hot oil in a saut
é
pan, at very high heat.
A paste is then prepared, consisting of 15-pounds of kosher salt and one-pound of cornstarch, blended with about 18 egg whites – or enough egg white to create a malleable paste.
Two-cups of the salt paste is divided up among four small bowls, to which is added a few drops of food color in each – red, blue, green, and yellow – then blended in and set aside.
On the bottom of a sheet pan, a one-inch-thick base of salt paste is sculpted, measuring 1-inch longer and wider than the sirloin strip. The seared strip loin is set upon this base, in the center, then the remaining salt is packed onto the meat until it is fully encased.
The colored salt pastes are each formed into rectangluar, half-inch-thick forms, on a cutting board, from which are cut out small shapes, used to decorate the top of the salt-encased roast. Chef Faulkner used playing card suit cut-outs – a club, a diamond, a heart and a spade – and attached them using a small amount of egg white as an adhesive.
The salt-encased beef is then placed in a pre-heated 375-degree F (190-degrees C) oven, roasted for 75 minutes, then removed from the oven and set aside to rest. The heat drives the juices in the roast towards the interior of the meat – while the salt draws the juices back towards the exterior. The result, of course, is a roast of extraordinarily juiciness and flavor.
After a half-hour of resting, during which time the juices return fully within the meat, the top of the salt casing is cut, using a serrated knife – being careful not to cut into the meat within. This top is lifted up and set aside, then the roast is lifted out from its salt shell, using a fork held at each end, and place on a cutting board. This cutting board is set onto a pan, so that the juices that run from the roast can be saved and used later – either for a gravy or as a simple jus.
Three other dishes on Dieter Faulker’s menu were also memorable, including:
Tomate Clamart
: a medium tomato, scooped out, filled with green peas sautéed in butter, seasoned with salt and pepper. (This was a garnish I used for Tournedos Henri IV during the summer of 1973, when I ran my first kitchen at Moon – a restaurant-and-disco in East Hampton, Long Island, N.Y.)
Poireaux à la Crème
, Gratinée: the bottom half of leeks are split in half, not-quite-all-the-way-through, so the two halves remain connected at the base – allowing the leek to be carefully rinsed (there is often considerable soil in between the leaves), blanched in lightly-salted water, drained and cooled. Prepare a Chicken Velouté finished with heavy cream, place the leeks in an oven-proof casserole, top with a light coat of sauce, then a slice of Gruyère cheese, and a light sprinkling of grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano cheese. NB: This recipe originally called for a Béchamel Sauce, but milk-based white sauce has fallen from favor (Real chefs don’t drink milk!) and is often substituted with Chicken Velouté – chicken stock thickened with white roux, finished with heavy cream.
Pommes St. Florentine
: Blanch Yukon Gold or Fingerling potatoes in boiling water, drain and cool; peel and cut into 1/8
th
-inch-thick slices, and layer into a buttered casserole dish. Top with a layer of creamed, chopped spinach seasoned with salt and pepper; repeat this process once again, drizzle with a little cream, sprinkle with grated cheese, and bake in a preheated 375-degree F (190-degrees C) oven for 30 minutes.
II.
Another amazing elder who had a profound influence on me was Ennio Collodel, my instructor in first-year Table Service.
The year was 1971, and I knew from day-one I was fortunate to have landed in that class – for there was probably no better introduction to the world of spirits and dining and Table Service than Ennio Collodel.
In physical form Signor Collodel resembled a Roman Charles Atlas, and could have easily passed as an important mafia don. But in truth he was a walking encyclopedia, rich with stories and personal experience in the worlds of food service, gastronomy and the global wine industry. He was seventy years old then, and among his professional achievements was service as Maître d’hôtel at the White House during the tenure of Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was also a man whose every move embodied a classic and old-world style; a debonair gentleman always impeccably dressed – typically in a double-breasted suit, complete with the most elegant appointments.
Some of the stories Signore Collodel shared with us were related to the scores of vineyards he had visited – and he bragged about the copious notes he had compiled over the years from visiting every major vineyard in the world. As for his philosophy of degustation, it could be summed up in one simple dictum, one that he repeated regularly: “Wine is a living beverage.” And it was this five-word phrase that served as a foundation for a life-long appreciation of all matters related to wines and spirits.
One of my favorite Ennio Collodel stories came from his experience as the Maître d’ at New York’s celebrated restaurant, The Four Seasons. He was seating a party of four – two gentlemen and their respective partners, and as one of the two women leaned slightly forward to seat herself, one of her breasts slid out from her very elegant, and low-cut dress. Thoroughly undaunted, Signor Collodel simply picked up two spoons from the table, lifted the woman’s breast back into her dress, and never so much as batted an eye. Was this anecdote true in absolute terms?
It didn’t really matter.
It was a delightful yarn from a septuagenarian who embodied both extraordinary savoir-faire and a vanishing style of living.
Signor Collodel had visited an unnamed vineyard in the region of Armagnac, and had tasted an aging brandy that was not even close to being ready for tasting, but one that the vintner wanted him to test. With his unique histrionics he demonstrated to us just how unripe the beverage was – by turning his head to one side, and uttering two loud and flamboyant “Pfaaa!” Obviously it was a gesture that drove his point home, for I remember it to this day – forty years later.
Signor Collodel made an effort to de-mystify the wine-tasting experience, encouraging us to pay attention to our palette. “Does it taste agreeable?” he would ask. He also divided beverages into three realms: apéritif, wine with dinner, and digestif. The following are some of my notes from Signor Collodel’s class:
NB: Apéritif stems from the Latin aperire, meaning “to open.” Though virtually any cocktail concoction may serve as an apéritif, there are a number of bottled apéritifs which are derived from the essences of medicinal plants and roots known to have this “opening” effect. These include Campari, Cynara, Dubonnet, Lillet, Punt-e-Mes, and Ricard, and are typically served in a small glass over ice, garnished with a twist of lemon or orange peel. A very popular French apéritif is a Kir – dry white wine poured into a small stemmed glass containing a splash (about a half-teaspoon) of Crème de Cassis, a sweet liquor made from the dark purple berry of the same name, garnished with a lemon twist. (A Kir is named for its innovator, Felix Canon Kir, who died from his efforts as a French resistance fighter during WWII.) The same drink prepared with champagne or sparkling white wine is referred to as a Kir Royale.
Basic guidelines for wine service and handling:
a dry wine before a sweet wine;
a white wine before a red wine;
a red wine before a very sweet wine;
a young wine before an old wine.