Anyone remember the “Freedom Fries” incident? For those of you who don't, I'll recap. In 2003, President Bush was drumming up international support for invading Iraq. The French, disagreeable by nature, declined. Conservative Americans were outraged. How, they asked, could the French be so ungrateful? Americans rescued them from a fate worse than death in the Second World War and therefor they owe us one, and obviously that means following us blindly into a war with few concrete justifications, an absence of clear objectives, and not a hint of an exit strategy. Why wouldn't they want on board?
While New York restaurants symbolically dumped bottles of French wine into the streets and the ass fell out of the U.S. beret market, someone on capitol hill declared the French to be a bunch of “cheese-eating, surrender monkeys.” I'd like to point out that this fantastic insult may well be the funniest thing an American politico has ever uttered, even if the line was stolen from the Simpsons. Insult, however, was not going to suffice; our politicians were hard at work devising some real punishment for the Frogs.
Enter Reps. Robert Ney (R-OH) and Walter Jones, Jr. (R-NC). Together they declared that all of the restaurants run by the House of Representatives were to change their menus to omit the word “French.” Thus Freedom Fries were born. The French embassy, manifestly stung, issued a statement along the lines of “we're talking about international issues, we don't care what you call your potatoes.”
My favorite part about all of this is that French Fries aren't even French. They most likely were invented in Belgium. Conservatives missed their mark. It's amazing, really, given the massive influence French cuisine has had on the American diet. They could have directed their ire at so many other foods. Just flipping at random through my well-worn copy of James Beard's “American Cookery” I find something French-affected on nearly every page. For example: chowder, casserole, fondue, baked beans, soufflé, puff pastry, braised ribs, pâté, meatloaf, not to mention mustards, soft cheeses, and a whole host of other delectable things. To remove the “French” from the American diet would be to slash it in half. I couldn't survive. Wouldn't want to, at least.
Here's one more I'd miss. It's a ham and cheese sandwich so bloody good the French gave it a name, and a proper name at that. Croque Monsieur, or Mr. Crunch, was invented early in the 20th century in the street-side cafés of Paris. I imagine the characters from Hemingway's “The Sun Also Rises” lazily ordering one for brunch. As with most things delicious, this grilled gruyère sandwich is beautifully simple and has endless variations: topped with a bechamel sauce, with tomato, salmon instead of ham, with blue cheese. The most famous of variation is topped with a fried egg – Croque Madam.
My version, below, includes a simple onion jam.
Croque Monsieur
2 slices sourdough bread
4 slices good quality ham
2 slices gruyère, emmental, or similar cheese
2 tablespoons butter
Onion Jam
1 small onion, sliced thinly
2 tbsp red wine vinegar
Sweat the onion in a little olive oil over medium head until it is soft and begins to caramelize. Add the vinegar and simmer until all the liquid is absorbed. Season and remove from heat.
Assemble the sandwich; bread, onion jam, ham, cheese, bread. Heat a skillet on medium heat and drop in one tablespoon butter. When it has melted and begins to foam, place the sandwich in the pan. Cook until the bread is crisp, adjusting heat to keep the butter foaming – too hot or too cold and it will stop bubbling, meaning either you are burning the butter or stewing your sandwich. Both not so good.
Flip the bread, adding more butter to the pan as needed. Brown the sandwich, making sure the cheese is melted. Have breakfast (preferably sometime after 1:00p.m.).
Did I mention that this is just about the world's greatest hangover cure?
French Fries, Liberated!
Iberian Dinner Party Fare
A bit of history. Sometime around 700 AD an army of North African Muslims (then called Moors), led by a Berber General named Gibril Tarik, crossed the Strait of Gibraltar (after whom it is named) and, within a few years, conquered the south of Spain and much of Portugal. While the Moorish presence on the Iberian peninsula had shrunk considerably as quickly as 300 years later, one small section of the Spanish Mediterranean coast remained under Islamic rule until the late in the 15th century.
Much has been said about the role the Moorish invaders played in maintaining the vast majority of western culture's scientific and philosophical body of knowledge. While the rest of Europe was languishing in the Dark Ages, the Moors had acquired the learnings of the Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians, as well as learnings from India and other eastern neighbors. Unlike European scholars, who focused mostly on biblical study and did not offer education to the masses, the Moorish scholars studied widely and offered everyone access to public libraries and education. It was only when Christian armies reconquered the Moorish territories and captured their manuscripts that this knowledge was rediscovered by Europeans.
By 1492 the last of the Moorish territories had been reconquered. This final stronghold in the south had been in African hands for nearly 800 years. The architecture of the area still bears the marks of Islamic rule. Some of the food does as well.
The resort town Marbella, located on the Mediterranean coast, was under Muslim control until 1485. The Moors built a fortified castle there during their rule, but the town itself remained barely populated until it became a resort town for European Royalty and the wealthy in the 1950's.
How the American 70's classic dinner party dish know as Chicken Marbella, with its vaguely Moorish flavors, is related to any of this history, I have no idea. I actually doubt the dish and the place are connected at all, other than through some clever dish naming, but don't you think history is just fascinating, huh? Huh?
Anyway, here's another take on Chicken Marbella.
I should note that this dish suffers from two problems I've mentioned in previous posts: bad association with an ingredient (prunes, I usually call them “dried fruits” when I describe this dish) and it does not photograph well. Trust me, it is good. Damn good.
2 spatchcock (baby chicken), whole, wings removed at the first joint
1 cup pitted prunes
½ cup green olives
½ cup capers
6 cloves garlic crushed with the flat side of a knife
1 sprig oregano, leaves only
3 bay leaves
½ cup red wine vinegar
½ cup olive oil
½ cup dark brown sugar
1 cup dry white wine
Combine the prunes, olives, capers, garlic, herbs, vinegar, and oil. Marinate the whole chickens in this overnight, turning once. The next day, heat your oven to 170º C (325ºF) . Strain the solids out of the marinade, reserving both the liquid and solids. Stuff the two spatchcocks with the solids and then truss them. Place them in a pot or dish with a tight-fitting lid, pour the reserved liquids in, add the white wine and sprinkle the brown sugar over the top. Season and braise, covered, for approximately one hour, until the birds are cooked and tender, but not dry. Top with gremolata (below) and serve with something to soak up the sticky juices, like pilaf.
Gremolata
2 tbsp chopped coriander
2 tbsp chopped parsley
1 tsp lemon zest
2 tbsp toasted pine nuts, rough chop
Combine all the ingredients. That's all I'm going to say.
Mussels Again (and Probably Again)
I love mussels. I love how easy they are, cooked in seconds without any fuss, a hot pan and a splash of wine. I love stories of Italian women, pants rolled, wading into tidal waters with short-bladed, blunt, little knives to prize the bivalves from rocks. I love the hollow notes the vacant shells make as they are tossed, one by one, onto an ever-growing pile of empties. Mussels taste of the sea: plump, steamy, metallic, briny, slightly fishy, vaguely sea-weedy (and yes, it is a word, as of now). Eat them steamed, with a touch of cream, drizzled with olive oil, crumbed and fried, smoked, with cherry tomatoes and garlic, in a soup, a chowder, on bread, with a beer, a glass of sparkling, or any other way you can get them. I eat these shellfish as often as possible, which, thankfully, is quite frequently. Mussels are so versatile I never grow tired of them. 
Mussels in a Tomato and Chipotle Sauce
Chipotle peppers give this rich tomato sauce a fiery, smoke-filled kick.
2 k live mussels, bearded
4 large tomatoes, cored, blanched, peeled, and crushed
1 small brown onion, finely diced
1 clove of garlic, peeled and cracked
1 tin of chipotle peppers, puréed
olive oil
In a large pot over medium heat sweat the onion in a couple tablespoons of olive oil. When the onion is soft and translucent, add the cracked clove of garlic, the tomatoes, and a heaped tablespoon of the chipotle purée. Simmer over medium-low heat until a thick sauce has formed. Taste for chili heat – adding more chipotle as necessary. Increase the heat to high and when the sauce is bubbling rapidly, toss in the mussels and close the lid.
As the mussels steam open, they will release salty water, seasoning and thinning your sauce. Give the pot a shake or two every minuet while the mussels are cooking, they should all open in about 3 to 4 minuets. Taste the sauce once more, adjusting the salt and chili, drizzle with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Sprinkle with chopped coriander.
The Basics
I've memorized a ridiculous number of recipes. Some I know through repetitive usage: the recipes for pasta or gnocchi, for example. These flour-to-egg-to-weight-of-whatever ratios are fixed in chemistry and in my brain and in culinary stone as immutable fact. Constant repetition evolves into intimate understanding. Others I know because it is handy to know them, convenient not to have to look them up: brandade, anglaise, beurre manié, to name a few. Knowing how to whip these up without referencing a book is quite the time saver, and it makes you look good in the kitchen. Real good.
The following recipe falls into both categories. I've made, without exaggeration, hundreds of kilos of tomato fondue. Not to be confused with a 70's dinner party, tomato fondue is a thick, rich paste made from slowly concentrating tomatoes, cooking until the vast majority of their moisture is gone, and their flavor is intense. The fact that it is superbly delicious on its own, and that it can be used in such a wide range of dishes to add flavor or richness or depth or an anchor, makes this recipe one every cook should know by heart.
As a side note, the spoon pictured below is my single favorite cooking utensil. I don't mean just any spoon, that one, particular spoon. In the French kitchen in which I worked (and have mentioned before) it was unacceptable not to have a tasting spoon on your person at all times. Should the head chef or sous chef ask you what a sauce or purée you were working on tasted like, if it was reduced enough, seasoned properly, and you had to look around for a spoon, may god help you. The tarnished piece of silver pictured rested in the back pocket of my chef's pants every day for at least nine months. It is the perfect spoon. Heavy, wide grip at one end, deeply concave at the other, this beaten beauty makes perfect quenelles and plates red wine jus like a miniature gravy boat. When I left the job, the spoon came with me. Forgive me Matt.
Tomato Fondue
very ripe tomatoes
tomato paste
brown onion
garlic
thyme
olive oil
Cut the top of the tomatoes out where they were attached to the vine and slice a tiny 'x' on the bottom of each one. Plunge them into a boiling pot of water for 30 or so seconds to loosen the skins (10 seconds is enough to just loosen the skins, but will leave you with a bit of a job peeling; we're going to cook these tomatoes for ages, so a bit of over blanching won't make any difference to the final product, but will save you time peeling). Remove from boiling water and shock in an ice bath to cool. Remove the skins, cut in half along the horizontal and roughly squeeze out the seeds. Don't worry about removing every single one; the seeds are bitter and, en masse, will ruin the fondue, but a couple of stragglers wont harm anything. Roughly chop the remaining flesh.
Weigh the chopped tomatoes. For every 1 kilo of tomatoes you will need 1 tablespoon of tomato paste, 250 grams of finely diced brown onion, 1 clove of garlic, 1 sprig of thyme, and 2 tablespoons of olive oil.
In a heavy-bottomed, stainless steel (aluminum is a reactive no-no for tomatoes) pot on medium heat sweat the onion in the olive oil with a pinch of salt until it is soft and translucent but not colored. Add the tomato paste and cook until it splits, that is until the oil and tomato separate. Add the thyme and the garlic clove, whole but slightly cracked, and then add the tomatoes. Cook over low heat for a couple of hours, stirring frequently to prevent it catching, until the fondue is very thick and smells of deeply roasted tomatoes. Remove the garlic and thyme and season the fondue.
(Right. I should tell you now that I can't remember ever cooking fondue without it catching on the bottom of the pan and burning a bit. If [read “when”] this happens to you, don't panic. Transfer the fondue to a clean pan without scraping any of the burnt bits. Remember, any black bits will be extremely bitter and can ruin the fondue.)
Fondue is great to have around. Add a tablespoon to stocks before you reduce them to lend extra body to your demi-glace. Spread it on bread with avocado and cheese for a snack. Use it as a base for roasted snapper with a saffron beurre blanc. Toss it with some hot pasta, olives, and a bit of olive oil for a surprisingly flavorful pasta. I try to always have tomato fondue in the fridge.
One more thing: don't bother using those half-green rocks that pass as tomatoes from the local supermarket. We order boxes of overripe tomatoes from our supplier for tomato fondue; they are likely to be soft and bruised but they have the best flavor and a deep red color, and since we plan to cook the living bejesus out of them, we don't care how they look. Ask your grocer for the same, or look for tomatoes on the clearance shelf at the fruit market, I guarantee they'll be perfectly ripe.
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