Cherry Blossoms... France (Spring 2011)

 Okay, maybe wishful thinking has me a bit ahead of things as Spring is still a few day's away, but when our very old Rainier cherry tree blooms the change of seasons is near. There is a clear understanding among our neighbors that if we are not present at any time during the peak of one of the several fruits that grow on the property they are to help themselves. What has happened is abundance of confitures and preserved fruit given to a us in return. Jams of apricot, blackberry, raspberry, and quince, not to mention preserved plum and cherry or chutney made with the cassis are among the bounty.
 As we make preparations for our return to France for the Spring Sessions, I look forward to those first signs of change: blossoms bursting on tree limbs, fields with the faint green fuzz of young shoots, the air  fresh and expectant in the morning. Always seemingly the first tree to mark the change is the cherry tree that sits snugly in the corner of our rose garden. Best guess has it being planted over some 40 years ago, and it still gives love in the form of it's red and yellow marbled fruit each year. Last year we missed the peak of these gifts, so our good friend and neighbor Suzanne was the beneficiary, making jam out of much of it, preserving the rest whole.
 It was this past Autumn, with a serious taste for magret de canard that the cherries found their way back to us. Having picked up some skate wing earlier in the day during a visit to the market in Cognac, we stopped by the charming artist village of Tusson on the way home at a small producer of all things duck. Remarkable is their foie gras, but with skate wing (and it's requisite butter) already planned, we kept our focus on the duck breasts. Relatively small and slender, they were butchered as we waited.
 With a fire coming to life in our large kitchen chimney, a dish of olives and nuts to ease our growing hunger, we sipped cocktails of young cognac, tonic and lemon (a regional necessity). Katie did the skate in a hot pan with some shallot and a citrus buerre blanc. By then we'd moved onto to a crisp and dry Bordeaux white (Chateau Carbonnieux '05 Blanc), eating the rich, delicate fish perhaps too quickly, using baguette to clean our plates.

 Next it was time for the magret, hitting the well heated cast iron skillet with a hiss of fatty skin. The kitchen already held the rich air of a leek and potato gratin, bubbling in cream and butter. With the skins crisp and deeply caramel in color, Katie seared the other sides before finishing the duck breasts in the oven. A bit of time to rest once out, and they were sliced (perfectly pink), and plated with the gratin. All that was left was the touch of cherries, having been warmed in a sauce fashioned from reduced pigeon stock (Call it "squab" if it sounds better!), then scattered about the plate. Went with a Volnay '05 which did not disappoint. Enough fruit to ease the richness of the duck, but with a welcome dry finish to balance Suzanne's preserved cherries. A bit embarrassed to admit we managed to tear into some gâteau chocolat, a further offering of our caring and thoughtful neighbor. Then another log on the fire... a short coffee... a cognac...
(Recipes on request.)

A Fine Meal...

 Under a tangerine sky, the last of the day slipping into the Pacific below, Katie and I recently stepped into Chez Panisse, the venerable Berkeley restaurant. We left very happy.

(http://www.chez-gautier.com)

"Rock Soup"...

 For those familiar with the culinary fable "Rock Soup", a story that speaks of how a weary, hungry traveler is able to convince the inhabitants of a small village to contribute what they can spare to his offering of water and a stone, the making of soup can be easy. Little more than an onion, a bit of butter (or olive oil), and some of whatever vegetable is in season are all that's needed to create a satisfying warm pot. You can dress it up in numerous ways, but the base itself need not be complicated.

 San Francisco and the rest of the West Coast have had it relative easy this Winter compared to those further east, even going so far as to inspire firing up the grills only a couple of weeks ago. This all changed severely this past week as extensive rain swept through the Bay Area, giving way at times to hail and even some snow. A perfect time for a hardy soup or two. I couldn't resist a simple favorite of pureed cauliflower topped with a little mound of roasted golden beets. Just softened an onion in a cube of butter over medium heat, added the head of cauliflower (broken into small segments), covered with some  parchment paper, and let it "sweat"; slowly extracting the moisture of the vegetable, densifying the flavor, and making all more tender. Once soft to a pairing knife, added cool water to cover (using a chicken or vegetable stock would also work well), and simmered until the liquid came to temperature, then pureed with a hand mixer. Roasted the beets in a little butter, olive oil, salt, and pepper, while saving the green tops which were then sauteed in garlic and olive oil. When chopped and combined, the two made a nice topping for the silky white soup. A drizzle of olive oil over all, and... done.
 Soup can be made with nearly ANYTHING. Zucchini, broccoli, mushrooms, cardoons, celery root... Think it, and you can make it. Once set, a recipe can be played with by endless variations... some white wine or dry vermouth; slowly roast the vegetables first to further reduce the natural liquid, and thus intensifying the flavor; or come up with a topping to beak up the routine, etc. As to this last thought, Katie's pureed fennel soup with a crostini topped in Dungenous crab meat tossed in olive oil, lemon juice, and diced chive. In the midst of a great crab season, we use it whenever possible. (Often time's just covering the coffee table in newspaper, and tearing into the beauties!)

 A couple of day's into the storm, with hail bouncing off the roof tops that form part of our city view, Katie went all in: A hardy split pea soup with ham hock.  The result was rich and thick, chopped carrot and onion hidden about the peas, chunks of the smokey pork a treat when found. Little else to do but crack open a bottle of stout, and slice up a dry white cheddar. Soup... It is a good thing. (Recipes on request.)

(http://www.chez-gautier.com)

Of Protests and Lunch... France (Fall Sessions 2010)

 

Time for lunch! 

 Late one morning during the October trip, we made our way down to Angoulême to pick up our niece Kara, a warm addition to mark the close of another fine visit in the countryside. It was her first time in France, and we were anxious to show as much as her limited time would allow. Thus, we were taken a bit back when she called saying her train had been halted on the tracks, just outside a small town I knew to not be very far away. It soon became apparent that there were people laying on the rails, an off shoot of the labor strife that France had been dealing with across the country for several weeks. We'd been relatively untouched, only one day having had to search longer than usual for a functioning gas station. As we rolled into Angoulême's tiny regional gare that day we were more amused than shocked to find not only protesters, but also helmeted, shield carrying riot police, most of whom appeared much younger than they probably were, and not happy at all to be in the present situation.
 Always firmly on the side of any people's right to freely express themselves, we did, however, have a large interest in getting Kara safely in our presence. This seemed in doubt, as an older contingent of police in plain clothes (as much as "acid washed" jeans can be called plain clothes) had shuttered the station to prevent further bodies ending up on the rails. As the stand off stretched into the second hour, a bit of cultural magic took place: lunch! The manager of the café de la gare arrived with boxes of baguettes, cheese, saucisson, wine, and water, telling all who would listen that it was after noon, and as such clearly past time for lunch. On cue, all signs and placards were put down, hands quickly filled with food. The shutters rattled up, allowing for us to slide into the station where four TGV arrived in rapid succession, bodies flowing out as seldom seen in the small space. Somehow we spotted Kara, before bumping and winding our way through the crowd to the car park. It was not lost on us that each of the police seemed to also have lengths of baguettes stuffed full with meat and cheese, evidently an offering made evenly to both sides.
 That was enough to inspire us, as we took to the old, walled part of the medieval city for sandwiches of thick sliced ham and gooey Camembert, cold draft Kronenbourg's within reach. Warmed by a shaft of Autumn sun, we sat on the cobbled side walk before the grand market structure whose glass and iron work reflect the signature of the building's designer, Gustave Eiffel (He of the "Tower" fame.). We had a good laugh over the "drama", and decided on another beer before heading off, choosing to take the "long way" home. Once free of the city, the landscape had a quieting affect, a portrait of the season: Fields being turned by farmers appeared like ground coffee in various hues, broken at intervals by "islands" of woods vibrant in leaves of turning color, all washed in a  warm light. A good thing to share.

(http://www.chez-gautier.com)

"Special Breakfast"... France (Fall Sessions 2010)

 Not sure about that old "most important meal of the day" thing, but I do enjoy a good breakfast. In France, much like in the States, we keep it fairly simple: rich dark roast coffee with a bit of warm milk, whatever fresh fruits are in season, grains like a muesli or steel cut oats, and some yogurt (preferably "live culture"). Oh, there's always room for exceptions if confronted by a warm, buttery pain au chocolate, flaky chausson au pomme, or some other equally difficult to pass up boulangerie offering. Depending on where we are in the world, a steaming basket of dim-sum, a hot bowl of noodles, or maybe (considering what went on the night before) it's a large batch of menudo that's needed.

 One cold morning at the end of October, Katie surprised me with a "special breakfast", so named for a tradition by our sister-in-law Sarah signifying a change from the norm for her brood of three little one's. In this case it was to mark another year of my life, and thus I was treated to veal sausage with morrel mushrooms we'd bought the day before from a very good charcutier in Cognac set upon a bed of braised escarole, the last of our dear neighbor Suzanne's grape tomatoes which Kate had roasted, all topped with a poached egg (kindly contributed from Suzanne's chickens). Some tartine to soak up the bright golden, runny yolk, and I was set. Sitting by a popping fire, there was little else needed to make me happier.

 By mid-morning the sun had well warmed the yard, and it was time to get busy pruning the roses,  cleaning flower beds, and cropping down the lavender. The sound of a tractor making it's way up from the village gave me reason to pause, as it's customary to give a wave to any friend/neighbor who passes. The sight of Monsieur Ives, a remorque brimming in log cut oak, was a welcome sight. With unseasonably cold weather expected for the coming week along with guest arrivals, we'd made a request of the village's go to guy for firewood. Charming and vibrant at 70-something, he'd suggested a "step" (about a cord) of old wood for the Fall, and a couple more of younger to cure for next Spring. He and I made short work of it, stacking the lengths at a fevered pace, me determined to not to be outdone by Ives who worked comme vingt ans (as if still twenty!); a country phrase that never fails to make me smile. The only regret was that it was no where near the noon church bells, and thus difficult to justify a pre-lunch Ricard. He announced one more delivery promised before the mid-day break, and straddled the purring '64 tractor, offering me an approving nod to it's American make. With that he was gone, and I reached for the shears. (Recipes on request.)

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

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