Rainy Sunday...

 Few things are better than waking to the smell of bread baking. There was a heavy rain hammering the old industrial sky light atop our place in San Francisco when I pushed out of the sheets Sunday to find Katie in full baking mode. The kitchen table was covered in chewy Ginger Squares, and she was just pulling out three loaves of baggette rustique. Not normally one to follow recipes (a must in baking), she doesn't bake often. But, with rain meant to last the day, out came the ideas along with the flour. The bread still hot, confiture d'abricot (made from our little apricot tree in Charmé), butter, and a steaming bowl of coffee with milk... Ah. Happy Sunday!
 A close second to oven fresh bread: tartine. A long length of bread dotted in butter, broiled golden, then put together with... Well, with whatever you like. In my case this Monday a.m., it was a creamy St André and some of Kate's preserved fig which she'd "put up" at the end of August for just this reason. A taste of Summer on a cold, foggy Winter's morning.

 P.S
  Those wax paper packages under glass are some of the Ginger Squares, tied up for "delivery" to friends. (Recipes on request.)

Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://.www.chez-gautier.com

One Big Cat... France (Fall Sessions 2010)

 The morning began early, as we found ourselves at the Saturday market in the small rural town of Ruffec just past day break. It was cold for mid October, a frost visible over the fields as we drove in. The real push of buyers wouldn't come for another hour or two, leaving us free to visit with the farmers and producers whose stalls were laid out both inside the high ceilinged, wrought iron market structure as well as the outlaying space normally used for parking. Katie peeled away to our fish guy (A gal, actually.) while I made a direct line to my favorite butcher. We'd be away to Cognac for the day's lunch, and wanted something "light" and easy to prepare for our return that evening. With that in mind, my search was for bones to roast for the marrow. Do that up with a bit of parsley and caper salad, some small toasts along with whatever Katie found interesting, and we'd be set for a nibble by the fire.

 Approaching le camion pictured above, I was stopped by the sight of the enormous cat sitting in line as if patiently waiting his turn. As the image may not do justice, this unassuming gray Tabby dwarfed most of the dogs being led about the market, especially one foolishly curious Cocker Spaniel who lacked the girth and "fire" to challenge, being dismissed with a firm swipe of paw before the cat resumed his place beside the glass cases. Such a presence in line, I felt compelled to defer to him when the butcher greeted me with a warm "Salut!". Didn't want to step on any "toes". Perhaps sensing this,  the butcher's wife and he laughed, explaining his "l'ami de marché" status. He'd be getting his later.

 With a big Sunday meal set for the next day, I was happy to find a large pork shoulder to braise, and had to have some of the fresh goose rillette that was already going fast, even at this early hour. Now, it was on to the bones, and great discussion was had between us as to which kind of bones were preferred. Clarifying them not to be for for braising (i.e. lamb bones for Osso Bucco), but instead for roasting, beef was the call. By now, a line had formed mostly of housewives who asked  how we would cook it, and what was the accompaniment. One very small woman a few spots down the line, clutching her housecoat to the morning's chill, asked eagerly if there was more, as she'd be making pot au feu, adding that the marrow would be stirred in to finish. He assured her by producing one for each of us, along with a large hack saw, then went to work. (Most trucks are without the luxury of an electric meat saw, and for this reason he'd be offering me only the large bone as opposed to neat little servings.) He did provide the logical step of cracking it with a mallet, making it easier to pry open once done roasting.
 All was done in quick fashion, the dialogue popping, the market pace increasing. They worked well together, the butcher and his wife,  he handling the product and she the wrapping and the "bank". When I mentioned that she hadn't charge for the "bones", they both stopped, smiling broadly, and echoed quite simply, "You don't charge for bones." This began a ripple through the line, "Never charge for bones."; "You can't charge for bones."; "No, no, no charge for bones." Humbled by the gift, my face a smiling wash of pink, I thanked them both, turning to bid the ladies a "Bonne journée".

 Caught Katie beside the rickety table of an organic farmer whose produce we prize, as he was sheepishly saying how his wares had lost their beauty with the coming of Autumn. She'd bought some lettuce and some of what would be the last of the season's tomatoes. Hearing of the pork shoulder, she added root vegetables (turnips, carrots, etc.), some small potatoes, and a large batch of brussel sprouts.
 It was no surprise to hear that she'd picked up some oyster's (Selecting some that were small and plump, reminding me of Chelsea Gem's from coastal Oregon.), but La Madame had also insisted she take a few handfuls of something... like a clam, but... Well, not. Known as Petoncles, they were firm like a  clam, but with a clean briny finish; a good balance to the creamy oysters as we would find out later at dusk. With that we ducked into Le Centrale for a café creme, croissant, and some warmth before heading back out into the coming day. (Recipes on request.)

Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com

Monday drive...

 Drove up last Monday to Tomales Bay for a couple of bags of Tod's (T.B.O. Co.) best. We cut in the back way along Sir Francis Drake through the long, tight valley made green from the recent rains. Sliding in and out of the odd cluster of redwood groves, the sun low and light, the air cool, we caught sight of a group of wild turkeys digging for a snack near Big Rock; no doubt relieved to still be around to do so after Thanksgiving.
 Hitting the water just outside Olema, all was calm and quiet after the weekend, the bay and surroundings a series of images to paint. Regretfully, we'd resisted the pull to pop a few of the oyster's by the waterside, and didn't make it past Point Reyes Staion before giving in to hunger. Roast chicken on rolls satisfied us, watching the world go by (or at least a very small part of it) sitting on a shaky bench along the "main". Out of respect for the Miyagis in the trunk, we fought the urge to do the Stinson way back, opting instead to retrace the morning's path.
 Once back in the City, we made a quick stop at our fish guy's for chowder fixing's; Kate's concession to "The Night Before..." post. Spoil me she did. Rich and creamy, loaded in clams, small scallops, shrimp, and chunks of local halibut, she opted for added celery and some of her jarred sweet corn instead of potatoes. A few pieces of toasted baguette for crunch, some greens to balance, a crisp, cheap Rhône white, all preceded  by the bright and briny oysters... Who says Monday's have to be a drag? (Recipes on request.)


Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com

New Year's Chili...

There's a relatively sound argument to be made that chili lacks culinary "weight"; just meat and beans in a bowl. Spend a New Year's Day with us, and you may feel a bit different. For 15 years I've been doing chili to mark the start of the calendar, and have had many a sweaty browed, sauce smeared, smiling face to show for it. As with most of the best things in life, this was begun through spontaneity and accident. Hunting acting work when not pouring drinks at the Odeon in TriBeCa quite a few years back, someone was foolish enough to get me out to Los Angeles for an addition. (A job I didn't get.) A painter friend back in N.Y.C. offered up an old Craftsmen place that she had below the Hollywood sign, easily more appealing than the buddy's couch or cheap hotel alternatives. The place was massive, and empty except for a bed, couch, very old t.v., and full size male mannequin (recollection has his name as Dennis) that was completely "tatted" out apparently courtesy of being passed around at an Oakland summit of skin artists. A "Charlie Brown" tree was added as I extended my stay through the Holiday's, the string of lights holding it together helping to offset the lack of lamps.
 So New Year's Eve comes, and wrapped in good spirit along with my fair share of Single Malt, I invited any and all within ear shot over the next day for bowls of chili, cold beer, and morning to night college football. Hittin' the sheets about sunrise, it was on hour two or three of sleep when the pounding began on the front door, signaling the arrival of the masses. Little else to do than put on the "joe", crack a beer (It was great to be young.), and start cookin'. Somebody brought a big pink box of donuts, crullers, and apple fritters from Tang's down on Franklin (A fine product did Mr. Tang serve.), and this would have to do, as there would be little else to chow until The Rose Bowl. Oh, I did manage to put together some pico de gayo and a couple random salsa's along with tortilla chips, but the chili would need patience. That first year there were two offerings: turkey and black bean (heavy in cummin) and beef and pintos (leaning towards the Southwest), with numerous bowls of "fixin's" (cilantro, green onions, sour cream, several shredded cheeses, etc.). Cornbread was cobbled together from an old recipe which was not far removed from Jiff. Couldn't tell how many passed through the door that day, but two massive vats of chili went down, not to mention several tins of cornbread, untold cases of beer, several bottles of tequila, and... whatever else.
 It's evolved over the years, especially once Katie came on board. Her first year (year 6 in chili terms), she wrestled us out of the kitchen, the better to do her magic. And magic it was, with variations of the two chili's mentioned above (each I'm reluctant to say was significantly better that my best effort) along with a white bean version bearing chunks of beef shoulder that significantly raised the bar. Her little present hidden among the various roasted fresh chili's used that day were a few Scotch Bonnets that had us all drippin', old gym towels I'd managed to salvage draped about our necks. The three types of cornbreads were simple and delicious: plain, sharp cheddar, and roasted jalapeno.
 This year was a comparatively small group, with Katie breaking the golden rule of-all-things-meat by doing a vegetarian version inspired by friend George, a "veg"practitioner of more than 25 years. Thus it was that we had two takes on black beans: one rich in turkey thigh meat, and the other of roasted corn (bless those Summer jarring sessions) and cubes of firm tofu. Both had there share of cummin, Early Girl tomatoes (another gift from Katie's jarring efforts-over 50 lbs. of these this year), roasted Santa Anna's, jalapenos, and a long skinny one whose name escapes me, to go along with some of the dried Calabrian's we have drying in bunches all about the kitchen. The cornbread followed a similar divide: plain, except for bits of the roasted corn, and it's more decadent cousin studded with carmelized cubes of pork belly roasted initially on high then long on a low heat, including some of the rendered fat. The beer was in deed cold, but competed with a bottle of bubbly brought by friend George (a Pierre Peters Les Chétillons 2000) which gave way to offerings from the Rhône and Burgundy (most notably an '04 Faiveley). Chocolate truffles, which we surely didn't need and somehow attacked, finished us and the day off.
 Time and travel have had us thinking once or twice of giving it a miss, but any thought of this is easily pushed aside when the calls and e-mails start flowing, even from those too far away to join in. A few years back when sitting with a good buddy in the last couple of days of a health battle he would not win, he kept referring back to those early days of "chili fest". Clear and detailed were his recollections, including the day he arrived late from work to find that we'd upgraded to a big and beautiful new t.v. It wasn't until half time of the the final game of that day (The Sugar Bowl?) that he realized it was his t.v.; his roommate, a coconspirator in the "heist",  making a hasty exit out the back by way of the garden. Yeah, we'll keep making New Year's Day chili as long as there are other's with a keen appreciation for a warm bowl, a cold beer, and a bit of college football. (Recipes on request.)

 Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com

Holding on...

 Unwilling to let Christmas pass, Katie and I made our way down for lunch at the Balboa Café (est. 1913), set at the base of Fillmore where Cow Hollow slides into the Marina. Still decked out in all it's Holiday boughs and bunting, the Balboa was a great place to extend the warm feelings we've been wrapped in of late. Along with my sister DeDe, a willing conspirator, we started with Bloody's made from scratch (as they should be) heavy in horseradish and fresh lemon juice. Packed for the Monday after Christmas, a buzz of conversation running through the place, we somehow managed to secure a table before any thoughts of a second drink surfaced.
 We tucked into a linen covered table, and decided to share a couple of Ceasar's which nearly approached the Zuni's. Very red burgers followed, mine with blue cheese and grilled onions, served on firm, sour baguette. Not the burger of our Tuesday's-only secret, but pretty damn good. A bit of local red in the glass, and some hot slender fries helped make it all work. Espressos and a créme brûlée allowed us to finish up the family gossip before heading into the warmth of a low afternoon sun. Dede would be off to her place on Maui the next day, for which I forgave her, and Kate and I strolled the waterfront of Chrissy Field full with kid's and dogs running about, the Big Gate before us.

Chez Gautier Cooking School: http://www.chez-gautier.com