Thanksgiving has come and gone, and while it is difficult to go wrong with the staples of Thanksgiving fare, I am quite certain that many of you have been subjected to all manner of abominations in the name of pointless variation. I would therefore like to take a moment to give thanks for all the appalling food I was not confronted with this year, in the vain hope that some of the villains who regularly foist these misbegotten travesties upon others will come to understand the error of their ways.
I am thankful that I was not confronted with tofurkey.
While I am willing to accept that some choose a vegetarian lifestyle and are content with it, I do not wish to have it thrust in my face in such a manner. Tofurkey, for those lucky souls among you who remain blissfully unexposed to this vile substance, is a vegetarian "turkey alternative" comprising tofu and flavorings formed into a shape intended to be reminiscent of a turkey breast. It bears less relationship to an actual turkey breast than McNuggets bear to chicken Kiev... Except that McNuggets are far closer to edible than is tofurkey.
Tofu, while an excellent ingredient in many dishes, is most emphatically not a meat substitute. Do not attempt to serve anyone a great slab of the substance and expect them to believe it is meat, or even to be remotely satisfied. If you must serve a vegetarian repast, focus instead on actual vegetables, and on dishes that are not supposed to have meat, let alone be meat.
I am thankful that the turkey was not cooked until it became a crumbling, desiccated husk.
Some years ago, I chose to cook a turkey myself. I made a beautifully spiced, slightly citrusy brine to marinate it overnight, filled it with a traditional stuffing with a hint of black truffles, and cooked it to a beautiful golden brown on the outside. It released just barely enough liquid to make a decent gravy, and the breast meat was as moist as the tears in the eyes of my guests as they bit into that delectable flesh.
Tears in the eyes of all save one of my guests, that is. One particular shriveled biddy actually had the temerity to complain that my turkey was not as moist as it would be had she prepared it. As she was the mother of a dear friend, I could not cast her out into the cold where she belonged after such a transgression, and upon reflection, I found myself intrigued as to what she could possibly mean. While I am willing to concede the theoretical possibility that one could prepare a turkey that was more moist, I found it highly unlikely.
In order to sate my curiosity, I ensured that the next year's Thanksgiving meal would be held at my friend's house, and prepared by her mother (the desiccated biddy who insulted my turkey, that is). I watched as the turkey was removed from the oven. At first glance, it looked acceptable, but already slightly shriveled. When she cut into it, however, the juice spilled out of the bird, flowing liberally from inside the the meat to spill into the pan.
I realized then that this was her idea of a moist turkey; she thought that the juice should be running out of it, rather than remaining inside it. It had never occurred to her that all the liquid she saw was moisture that would not remain in the meat to be served.
My sense of vindication was most satisfactory, but it was greatly tempered by the fact that I would now have to sit through a Thanksgiving meal featuring dry, crumbling turkey. Worse, I could not give the meal the verbal skewering it deserved for fear of alienating my friend.
Alas, the torments we must suffer for our loved ones.
I am thankful that no one elected to put walnuts, almonds, olives, prunes, pomegranates, apples, cherries, chestnuts or any other intrusive flavor or texture into my stuffing.
Stuffing should have a consistent texture (perhaps with small pieces of celery or onions for a bit of mild crunchiness), concentrating on savory flavors that will complement the turkey. Many of these other ingredients might be acceptable in a casserole, but turkey stuffing is not a casserole. Speaking of which:
I am thankful that no one attempted to serve me a tray of stuffing that was prepared as a separate dish.
"Stuffing" is meant to be "stuffed" inside of some other food; specifically turkey, in the case of Thanksgiving. That is why it is called "stuffing".
If you do not stuff it inside of something, it is little more than a pile of rehydrated bread crumbs (or rather bread crumbs infested with nuts, olives, or one of the other abominations which you doubtless added, being the sort to serve so-called stuffing which has never been stuffed in anything).
Yes, there may be some slightly elevated health risks attendant to cooking stuffing inside of poultry, but if you put hot stuffing in a bird and immediately cook the whole properly, you should be safe enough. Indeed, the risk of being injured by angry diners upset at being confronted by flat, undeveloped stuffing is far higher than the risk of food-borne illness. Or it is if I am in attendance, at any rate.
For those who are excessively paranoid about food poisoning, there is another excellent alternative, which is to split the turkey along the backbone and flatten it atop the stuffing. In order to keep the stuffing from absorbing all of the juice (not a bad thing, except that it would preclude gravy) you can place it on a rack inside your roasting pan, possibly on top of some foil which has been punctured in several places to allow liquid to pass through. Place the turkey on top of the stuffing, and you will get most of the benefits of stuffing the turkey normally, but with more even heating, and therefore less risk.
This approach also has the benefit of cooking the various parts of the bird more evenly, and it increases the amount of crispy turkey skin (as opposed to the gelatinous membrane one often finds on the bottom of a turkey roasted more conventionally). The disadvantage to this approach is that it precludes the aesthetically-pleasing presentation of a whole bird at the table, but a creative chef can easily overcome such concerns.
I am thankful that no one prepared candied yams.
I am aware that this statement may be unpopular in some quarters, and that there are many otherwise sensible people in the world who adore candied yams. For me, however, candied yams fail both as a sweet and as a savory dish. The starchiness of the yams prevents them from obtaining a dessert-like quality, while their uniform sweetness makes them unworkable when viewed as a side.
Do not mistake me; I can often enjoy a sweet sauce with my meal. The difference is that a sauce provides a controllable accent to the rest of the dish, while the undifferentiated starchy sweetness of yams pervades the entire dish, rendering it quite unpalatable.
I am thankful that no one made cranberry relish instead of cranberry sauce.
Cranberry sauce is a Classic.
Do not mess with it.
You may choose jellied or whole berry, and can adjust the amount and source of the sugar (e.g. by using orange juice), but it had better remain recognizably cranberry sauce, rather than some sort of appalling "see how creative I can be", "I must be different. DIFFERENT do you hear?" relish or paste.
If for some reason you feel compelled to make such fripperies, be certain that they are in addition to proper cranberry sauce, rather than in place of it. Nothing incites my ire more than being presented with a dish that has deprived me of something that is good in the name of giving me something that is different.
I am thankful that no one made sweet potato pie.
More than that, I am extremely grateful that no one made "sweet potato" pie with yams. Yams are not sweet potatoes. They are much more sweet, and have a much more intense (and less pleasant) flavor than sweet potatoes.
At its best, sweet potato pie is quite similar to pumpkin pie. Certainly it looks like much like pumpkin pie. The flavor is a little bit more tangy, and the color usually a bit lighter, but it is easy to mistake one for the other, and those accustomed to pumpkin pie will be misled and perhaps disappointed.
The natural question arises, why not simply make pumpkin pie? You will please more people, and avoid the trap of making something that looks like pumpkin pie but does not taste like pumpkin pie.
You do not want to make something that looks like pumpkin pie but does not taste like pumpkin pie. This violates my First Rule, and will earn my extreme displeasure. Or rather it would if I liked either pumpkin pie or sweet potato pie. As it stands, I would doubtless avoid it, and you would have succeeded in dodging a bullet. Or perhaps a carving knife, as I rarely bring firearms to the table.
I am thankful that I shall be cooking my own Christmas dinner.
Having escaped Thanksgiving without confronting any culinary atrocities, I would now be viewing the next oncoming holiday with great trepidation were it not for the fact that I shall be preparing that meal myself. I have not yet settled on a final menu, but rest assured that it will be simple, it will focus on the traditional flavors of the season, it will be exquisitely prepared, and it will be perfectly seasoned.
I beg you all, take my words to heart. Keep the flavors simple. Give your friends and family the solid, traditional flavors they deserve, and seek to achieve excellence through skilled preparation and subtle enhancements, rather than through radical departures. Experiment on your own time, or with friends who are willing to give you honest criticism and be prepared for the worst, if your friends are worth their table salt.)
At the holidays, even such as I will feel bound by friendship not to complain. Do not take advantage of the this time to inflict your deplorable culinary contrivances upon a captive audience of dear friends. Show them the respect they deserve, and feed them the meal they came to eat.
- Ram
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Return to the web - and to Porcella Urban Market
Yet again I have been absent for an extended interval, and to you, my readers, I can only say, "mea culpa".
I said something rather different to the court, mind you, for you see, my absence has been due to some unfortunate legal complications of an incident originating with a bit of Châteaubriand billed as Kobe beef. The beef was tough, domestic, badly overcooked, and almost certainly not even Wagyu, let alone properly pampered Kobe. This travesty was served with an architectural wedge of congealed polenta doubtless capable of supporting the combined weight of myself and half the kitchen staff, together with a combination of badly undercooked fava beans and appalingly overcooked brussels sprouts. Oh, and huge sprigs of parsley.
My subsequent rather spirited discussion with the individual billing himself as the chef eventually came to involve a variety of sharp and/or heavy kitchen implements, culminating in what I felt was a very creative though rather messy use of a mandoline and chinois upon his person. This lively exchange was followed by visits from emergency medical services and the Seattle police, the latter of whom sadly failed to see the signficant public service I had done by rendering that charlatan unable to reproduce.
Alas, my difficulties relating to this situation have not yet ended. I am certain that a jury of my peers would acquit me instanter, but given the unlikelihood of finding any of my actual peers attending jury duty, I may suffer further enforced absence in the not-too-distant future.
Regardless, for the moment, I am here, and I am here to discuss food. On advice of counsel, I shall refrain from naming the site of the abovementioned incident. Instead, I would like to give an update on the state of Porcella Urban Market.
Loyal readers (should any such remain) may recall that I recently expressed some trepidation as to whether Porcella would recover from the loss of Chef Noah Mellich.
I am happy to report that I have dined twice at Porcella in the past month, and the quality is indeed as high as ever. True, the character of the place has changed somewhat: It's now a bit more of a normal cafe, and less the fascinating upscale deli market it once was. The quality of service, too, has yet to catch up with the transformation, but nonetheless, I can still recommend Porcella heartily.
For those who are not familiar with Porcella, allow me to re-post my first visit to Porcella as it happened a year ago:
Porcella Urban Market
10245 Main St
Bellevue, WA 98004
(425) 286-0800
(From November, 2006)
Being ever the optimist, I decided today to continue my search for a decent éclair.
First I called Huffman's in Kirkland. They claimed that they would make proper éclairs, but only as a special order with 48 hours' notice. I shall keep that in mind, I suppose, but given the history of my search, I am fairly certain that they would not make the éclairs properly. I would then be forced to resort to pitchforks and torches, tar and feathers, or one of the other traditional remedies one applies to mountebanks who fail to deliver goods as promised. I am trying to cut back on such activities, so I think it best not to risk it.
I then called Belle Pastry on Main Street in Bellevue. I had decided that it might be considered a bit supercilious to use the phrase “crème pâtissière” when otherwise speaking English. Not wishing to appear pretentious (perish the thought, and no snickers from you lot) I foolishly decided to say "pastry cream" instead of "crème pâtissière".
I had a conversation on the phone about how important it is that the éclairs be filled with proper pastry cream, and I was assured that yes, they do use pastry cream in their éclairs. Off to Bellevue with me!
I spend my journey in breathless anticipation of my impending gustatory bliss. Upon arrival, I look in the case and - horrors! - the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream. Those monsters.
Perhaps I am simply missing the real éclairs. Could they be hidden in the back? I call over the clerk. This is the very woman with whom I spoke on the phone. The one who assured me that the éclairs were filled with pastry cream. I point out that the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream.
"That's the kind of pastry cream we use." I am struck dumb. I understand that it can be hard to find good help, but how the hell can anyone work in what purports to be a French bakery and not know what pastry cream is? Worse, how can they not know and assume that they do?
Pretentious or not, I resolve henceforth to call it only "crème pâtissière". In this way, I will elicit either the incomprehension that will warn me to ignore whatever the person says, or I will stumble upon one who knows both what it means and what it is.
I gaze balefully upon the clerk, eyes burning with the seething rage that has infused me at this base deception, this foul fraud that has raised my hopes and dashed them once more upon the rocky shores of desolation. I prepare to vent my overflowing spleen, but then... I cannot. As I regard the face of this poor girl who does not understand even the things that surround her each day, my rage burns away to ash, and I can feel naught but pity for her. I depart.
Crushed with disappointment, I wander aimlessly along the street, thinking perhaps to raise my spirits at a pleasant-looking Italian place I noticed on the way in. I soon discover that they are closed for lunch on Saturdays. Clearly this is not my day for food.
But then...
I plod dejectedly back toward my Mercedes (a C32 AMG, the love of my automotive life, sadly now showing her age). I am trying to decide whether I should continue my search for quality food, or simply resign myself to eating an enchirito, when I see "Porcella Urban Market". From the outside, it appears to be an upscale deli/supermarket. Definitely a step up from Taco Bell, but I expect little more than that.
I wander in, and lo! I find an outstanding French bistro. No éclairs, sadly, but at least there are no bad éclairs, either.
They have a deli-style counter with items like duck confit and what appears to be a very refined pâté de foie gras, but they also have a wide-open kitchen with counter seating, and an excellent, if somewhat pricey, full menu.
I order the rabbit and foie gras pâté, and the Muscovy duck. For a drink, since my stomach sadly cannot tolerate the wine this meal deserves, I ask for a coke. They do not carry coke.
Let me say that again: They. Do. Not. Carry. Coke.
Amazing.
Unable to decide for the moment whether to be impressed or simply bemused by their dedicated snobbery, I look in the drink case, and find a very nice "French Limonade". My unbespectacled eyes persist in reading it as "French Lemonade" when the contents are clearly limonade, but I attribute the mismatch to overzealous translation. Indeed, such mistranslations are often a positive sign as to the authenticity of an imported food, so I am actually somewhat encouraged.
Limonade is what Sprite wishes it could be, the clear citrus beverage that stands above all others. Like most imported sodas, it is made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup, and therefore has a cleaner sweetness that does not interfere with the subtle citrus flavors. (Blame U.S. tariffs and subsidies for the ascendance of corn syrup over sugar; a travesty all around.)
Such mundane thoughts maunder through my mind only for as long as it takes to purchase the bottle, open it, and pour a small glass with just a single cube of ice.
In the instant that this clear liquid nectar touches my lips, I am transported back to my favorite sidewalk café on the Canabière in Marseilles, where I oft would journey when on break from my studies at the Sorbonne.
I once again feel the gentle breeze wending its way past the milling crowds, struggling bravely against the mistral winds to bring me a wisp of salt from the Vieux Port, as I sit beneath the Mediterranean sun with ma belle soubrette Pauline at my side. We share a single bottle of limonade to last us the afternoon, for we can afford nothing more. When our lone bottle is at last as empty as our combined pocketbooks, she licks the final drops of that sweet elixir from my quivering tongue, and... Ah, but some memories are best left unvoiced.
I savor my limonade as I slowly return to the present from my fond remembrance of things past, awaiting my meal and cautiously anticipating further sensory delights.
When the pâté arrives, it is served with the obligatory cornichons (pleasantly garlicky, though never my favorite), sweet caramelized onions, two kinds of mustard, and bread sticks. The bread sticks have me momentarily concerned, until I realize that they are not so much breadsticks as breadstick-shaped mini-baguettes. The crust is thin but just crunchy enough, and the inside is nicely moist. It does not quite meet my standards as a baguette, but it vastly exceeds my expectations for bread sticks, so I elect to call it a victory.
I put a small piece of the pâté on a breadstick with some of the caramelized onions, take a bite... Heaven. The pâté is light on the foie gras, and has a nice rustic texture that accentuates the mild flavor of the rabbit. I settle in to taste all the various combinations of the ingredients on my plate, and all of them satisfy quite well. I will confess that I have on occasion had slightly better pâté, but coming on the heels of the surprising limonade, on a day when I thought my hopes for fine dining had been dashed... How could I be less than content?
Next comes the duck. It is served with figs, on a bed of polenta. I must confess that I have never been a big fan of polenta, and in fact, I almost skipped the whole dish simply because it came with polenta. I am profoundly pleased that I did not.
The Muscovy duck is good, serviceable duck. Slightly on the tough side (for such is the nature of the Muscovy duck; tough yet savory), but cooked to a beautiful medium rare, with perfectly seasoned skin, the figs and a savory sauce on the side... Again I am transported, this time to a small restaurant somewhere in the countryside between Orleans and Bourges, I believe it was...
It was at the end of a long day of travel that I stumbled into a rustic farmhouse with no more than four tables, unable to believe my good fortune at finding a prix fixe that included canard à l'orange, but would not bankrupt me.
The meal that day started with a hearty soupe à l'oignon filled with great chunks of rustic bread and enough gruyere to melt my heart and begin the process of hardening my youthful arteries. I remember rationing myself on that soup, to ensure that I would be ready to fully enjoy the duck when it came.
As I ate my soup, the restaurateur came to the table to tell me that I was in for the rare treat of wild duck that he himself had shot that morning while out walking his fields. When my plate arrived, it held slices of duck (doubtless Rouen duck, though at that age I could not yet identify the species) cut in precisely the same way as the Muscovy duck set before me today. The wild freshness of that duck in France more than made up for any flaws in its preparation, just as the toughness of the Muscovy duck adds to its character, enhancing the sensory experience at this serendipitous meal.
I focus on the duck, dreading the polenta I see beneath it. Until this day, I believed that polenta was little more than a thick, undifferentiated mass with less flavor than unsalted grits and the texture of day-old cream of wheat.
Today, however, the polenta is the star of the plate, even in the presence of that excellent duck. And that, my friends, is a major achievement.
Rather than the usual congealed lump, this polenta is a cross between tapioca and a fine risotto, with a savory flavor having a depth I never knew was possible in the dish. I find myself in the midst of an exceedingly rare culinary experience where there is a complexity to a flavor that I cannot precisely identify. My mouth wants to attribute it to some kind of veal or chicken stock, but the flavor is not precisely what one would expect for those ingredients.
Upon inquiring, I learn that the method of preparation is remarkably simple, if a bit time-consuming. The chef sweats onions, shallots, and sage in butter, adds the polenta, and fills the pot with milk. He then stirs with a whisk, and later with a spoon, until the polenta has achieved a thick (but not congealed) consistency, and then he serves it. This process both imparts the complex flavors I encountered and ensures the outstanding texture I observed.
Why is it, then, that so many restaurants get it so badly wrong? Only now have I come to understand the potential of polenta. I have become a zealous convert to properly-made polenta, and those who do it incorrectly will henceforth incur my wrath.
The meal was so outstanding that I decide to break one of my rules and order coffee from the place where I just had a fine meal. I made this rule years ago after one too many fine dinners was marred by an inferior shot of espresso served at the end, and have not regretted it since.
Porcella, however, has the good sense to acquire its beans from Caffe Vita, which is among the the top few roasters in the region (which is to say it is among the best on the entire continent, if I might exhibit a bit of well-justified regional chauvinism). I take this fact as a sign from heaven, and order a latte to go.
I notice that the man who makes my espresso (an obvious Francophone who seems to truly understand my pain as regards éclairs) draws the shots very short. Clearly the man understands how espresso should be made, so I refrain from adding my usual sugar (which I add to fight the harshness of poorly roasted or poorly prepared coffee), hoping against hope that I have at last found a place where one can obtain both good food and good coffee.
Again, I am hugely impressed. There is no hint of bitterness in the coffee. I drink it unsugared, and I am content with life once again.
Now, if they only chose to add proper éclairs to their menu, I would have to nominate the owners for beatification.
- Ram
I said something rather different to the court, mind you, for you see, my absence has been due to some unfortunate legal complications of an incident originating with a bit of Châteaubriand billed as Kobe beef. The beef was tough, domestic, badly overcooked, and almost certainly not even Wagyu, let alone properly pampered Kobe. This travesty was served with an architectural wedge of congealed polenta doubtless capable of supporting the combined weight of myself and half the kitchen staff, together with a combination of badly undercooked fava beans and appalingly overcooked brussels sprouts. Oh, and huge sprigs of parsley.
My subsequent rather spirited discussion with the individual billing himself as the chef eventually came to involve a variety of sharp and/or heavy kitchen implements, culminating in what I felt was a very creative though rather messy use of a mandoline and chinois upon his person. This lively exchange was followed by visits from emergency medical services and the Seattle police, the latter of whom sadly failed to see the signficant public service I had done by rendering that charlatan unable to reproduce.
Alas, my difficulties relating to this situation have not yet ended. I am certain that a jury of my peers would acquit me instanter, but given the unlikelihood of finding any of my actual peers attending jury duty, I may suffer further enforced absence in the not-too-distant future.
Regardless, for the moment, I am here, and I am here to discuss food. On advice of counsel, I shall refrain from naming the site of the abovementioned incident. Instead, I would like to give an update on the state of Porcella Urban Market.
Loyal readers (should any such remain) may recall that I recently expressed some trepidation as to whether Porcella would recover from the loss of Chef Noah Mellich.
I am happy to report that I have dined twice at Porcella in the past month, and the quality is indeed as high as ever. True, the character of the place has changed somewhat: It's now a bit more of a normal cafe, and less the fascinating upscale deli market it once was. The quality of service, too, has yet to catch up with the transformation, but nonetheless, I can still recommend Porcella heartily.
For those who are not familiar with Porcella, allow me to re-post my first visit to Porcella as it happened a year ago:
Porcella Urban Market
10245 Main St
Bellevue, WA 98004
(425) 286-0800
(From November, 2006)
Being ever the optimist, I decided today to continue my search for a decent éclair.
First I called Huffman's in Kirkland. They claimed that they would make proper éclairs, but only as a special order with 48 hours' notice. I shall keep that in mind, I suppose, but given the history of my search, I am fairly certain that they would not make the éclairs properly. I would then be forced to resort to pitchforks and torches, tar and feathers, or one of the other traditional remedies one applies to mountebanks who fail to deliver goods as promised. I am trying to cut back on such activities, so I think it best not to risk it.
I then called Belle Pastry on Main Street in Bellevue. I had decided that it might be considered a bit supercilious to use the phrase “crème pâtissière” when otherwise speaking English. Not wishing to appear pretentious (perish the thought, and no snickers from you lot) I foolishly decided to say "pastry cream" instead of "crème pâtissière".
I had a conversation on the phone about how important it is that the éclairs be filled with proper pastry cream, and I was assured that yes, they do use pastry cream in their éclairs. Off to Bellevue with me!
I spend my journey in breathless anticipation of my impending gustatory bliss. Upon arrival, I look in the case and - horrors! - the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream. Those monsters.
Perhaps I am simply missing the real éclairs. Could they be hidden in the back? I call over the clerk. This is the very woman with whom I spoke on the phone. The one who assured me that the éclairs were filled with pastry cream. I point out that the éclairs are filled with Bavarian cream.
"That's the kind of pastry cream we use." I am struck dumb. I understand that it can be hard to find good help, but how the hell can anyone work in what purports to be a French bakery and not know what pastry cream is? Worse, how can they not know and assume that they do?
Pretentious or not, I resolve henceforth to call it only "crème pâtissière". In this way, I will elicit either the incomprehension that will warn me to ignore whatever the person says, or I will stumble upon one who knows both what it means and what it is.
I gaze balefully upon the clerk, eyes burning with the seething rage that has infused me at this base deception, this foul fraud that has raised my hopes and dashed them once more upon the rocky shores of desolation. I prepare to vent my overflowing spleen, but then... I cannot. As I regard the face of this poor girl who does not understand even the things that surround her each day, my rage burns away to ash, and I can feel naught but pity for her. I depart.
Crushed with disappointment, I wander aimlessly along the street, thinking perhaps to raise my spirits at a pleasant-looking Italian place I noticed on the way in. I soon discover that they are closed for lunch on Saturdays. Clearly this is not my day for food.
But then...
I plod dejectedly back toward my Mercedes (a C32 AMG, the love of my automotive life, sadly now showing her age). I am trying to decide whether I should continue my search for quality food, or simply resign myself to eating an enchirito, when I see "Porcella Urban Market". From the outside, it appears to be an upscale deli/supermarket. Definitely a step up from Taco Bell, but I expect little more than that.
I wander in, and lo! I find an outstanding French bistro. No éclairs, sadly, but at least there are no bad éclairs, either.
They have a deli-style counter with items like duck confit and what appears to be a very refined pâté de foie gras, but they also have a wide-open kitchen with counter seating, and an excellent, if somewhat pricey, full menu.
I order the rabbit and foie gras pâté, and the Muscovy duck. For a drink, since my stomach sadly cannot tolerate the wine this meal deserves, I ask for a coke. They do not carry coke.
Let me say that again: They. Do. Not. Carry. Coke.
Amazing.
Unable to decide for the moment whether to be impressed or simply bemused by their dedicated snobbery, I look in the drink case, and find a very nice "French Limonade". My unbespectacled eyes persist in reading it as "French Lemonade" when the contents are clearly limonade, but I attribute the mismatch to overzealous translation. Indeed, such mistranslations are often a positive sign as to the authenticity of an imported food, so I am actually somewhat encouraged.
Limonade is what Sprite wishes it could be, the clear citrus beverage that stands above all others. Like most imported sodas, it is made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup, and therefore has a cleaner sweetness that does not interfere with the subtle citrus flavors. (Blame U.S. tariffs and subsidies for the ascendance of corn syrup over sugar; a travesty all around.)
Such mundane thoughts maunder through my mind only for as long as it takes to purchase the bottle, open it, and pour a small glass with just a single cube of ice.
In the instant that this clear liquid nectar touches my lips, I am transported back to my favorite sidewalk café on the Canabière in Marseilles, where I oft would journey when on break from my studies at the Sorbonne.
I once again feel the gentle breeze wending its way past the milling crowds, struggling bravely against the mistral winds to bring me a wisp of salt from the Vieux Port, as I sit beneath the Mediterranean sun with ma belle soubrette Pauline at my side. We share a single bottle of limonade to last us the afternoon, for we can afford nothing more. When our lone bottle is at last as empty as our combined pocketbooks, she licks the final drops of that sweet elixir from my quivering tongue, and... Ah, but some memories are best left unvoiced.
I savor my limonade as I slowly return to the present from my fond remembrance of things past, awaiting my meal and cautiously anticipating further sensory delights.
When the pâté arrives, it is served with the obligatory cornichons (pleasantly garlicky, though never my favorite), sweet caramelized onions, two kinds of mustard, and bread sticks. The bread sticks have me momentarily concerned, until I realize that they are not so much breadsticks as breadstick-shaped mini-baguettes. The crust is thin but just crunchy enough, and the inside is nicely moist. It does not quite meet my standards as a baguette, but it vastly exceeds my expectations for bread sticks, so I elect to call it a victory.
I put a small piece of the pâté on a breadstick with some of the caramelized onions, take a bite... Heaven. The pâté is light on the foie gras, and has a nice rustic texture that accentuates the mild flavor of the rabbit. I settle in to taste all the various combinations of the ingredients on my plate, and all of them satisfy quite well. I will confess that I have on occasion had slightly better pâté, but coming on the heels of the surprising limonade, on a day when I thought my hopes for fine dining had been dashed... How could I be less than content?
Next comes the duck. It is served with figs, on a bed of polenta. I must confess that I have never been a big fan of polenta, and in fact, I almost skipped the whole dish simply because it came with polenta. I am profoundly pleased that I did not.
The Muscovy duck is good, serviceable duck. Slightly on the tough side (for such is the nature of the Muscovy duck; tough yet savory), but cooked to a beautiful medium rare, with perfectly seasoned skin, the figs and a savory sauce on the side... Again I am transported, this time to a small restaurant somewhere in the countryside between Orleans and Bourges, I believe it was...
It was at the end of a long day of travel that I stumbled into a rustic farmhouse with no more than four tables, unable to believe my good fortune at finding a prix fixe that included canard à l'orange, but would not bankrupt me.
The meal that day started with a hearty soupe à l'oignon filled with great chunks of rustic bread and enough gruyere to melt my heart and begin the process of hardening my youthful arteries. I remember rationing myself on that soup, to ensure that I would be ready to fully enjoy the duck when it came.
As I ate my soup, the restaurateur came to the table to tell me that I was in for the rare treat of wild duck that he himself had shot that morning while out walking his fields. When my plate arrived, it held slices of duck (doubtless Rouen duck, though at that age I could not yet identify the species) cut in precisely the same way as the Muscovy duck set before me today. The wild freshness of that duck in France more than made up for any flaws in its preparation, just as the toughness of the Muscovy duck adds to its character, enhancing the sensory experience at this serendipitous meal.
I focus on the duck, dreading the polenta I see beneath it. Until this day, I believed that polenta was little more than a thick, undifferentiated mass with less flavor than unsalted grits and the texture of day-old cream of wheat.
Today, however, the polenta is the star of the plate, even in the presence of that excellent duck. And that, my friends, is a major achievement.
Rather than the usual congealed lump, this polenta is a cross between tapioca and a fine risotto, with a savory flavor having a depth I never knew was possible in the dish. I find myself in the midst of an exceedingly rare culinary experience where there is a complexity to a flavor that I cannot precisely identify. My mouth wants to attribute it to some kind of veal or chicken stock, but the flavor is not precisely what one would expect for those ingredients.
Upon inquiring, I learn that the method of preparation is remarkably simple, if a bit time-consuming. The chef sweats onions, shallots, and sage in butter, adds the polenta, and fills the pot with milk. He then stirs with a whisk, and later with a spoon, until the polenta has achieved a thick (but not congealed) consistency, and then he serves it. This process both imparts the complex flavors I encountered and ensures the outstanding texture I observed.
Why is it, then, that so many restaurants get it so badly wrong? Only now have I come to understand the potential of polenta. I have become a zealous convert to properly-made polenta, and those who do it incorrectly will henceforth incur my wrath.
The meal was so outstanding that I decide to break one of my rules and order coffee from the place where I just had a fine meal. I made this rule years ago after one too many fine dinners was marred by an inferior shot of espresso served at the end, and have not regretted it since.
Porcella, however, has the good sense to acquire its beans from Caffe Vita, which is among the the top few roasters in the region (which is to say it is among the best on the entire continent, if I might exhibit a bit of well-justified regional chauvinism). I take this fact as a sign from heaven, and order a latte to go.
I notice that the man who makes my espresso (an obvious Francophone who seems to truly understand my pain as regards éclairs) draws the shots very short. Clearly the man understands how espresso should be made, so I refrain from adding my usual sugar (which I add to fight the harshness of poorly roasted or poorly prepared coffee), hoping against hope that I have at last found a place where one can obtain both good food and good coffee.
Again, I am hugely impressed. There is no hint of bitterness in the coffee. I drink it unsugared, and I am content with life once again.
Now, if they only chose to add proper éclairs to their menu, I would have to nominate the owners for beatification.
- Ram
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