Classical appellations have not been tampered with (it would be a pity to deprive Melba of her peaches and ice cream), but, when possible, I have stuck to simple, descriptive titles and have avoided the fanciful.
Emphasis throughout the book has been placed on the importance of “tactile” sense, which I consider to be a sort of convergence of all the senses—the awareness through touching, and also through smelling, hearing, seeing, and tasting that something is “just right”—to know by seeing the progression from the light, swelling foam of an initial boil to a flat surface punctuated by tiny bubbles, by hearing the same progression from a soft, cottony, slurring sound to a series of sharp, staccato explosions, by judging from the degree of syrupiness or the smooth, enveloping consistency on a wooden spoon when a reduction has arrived at the point, a few seconds before which it is too thin, a few seconds after which it will collapse into grease or burn; to know by pinching and judging the resilience of a lamb chop or a roast leg of lamb when to remove it from the heat; to recognize the perfect amber of a caramel the second before it turns burnt and bitter; to feel the right fresh-heavy-cream consistency of a crêpe batter and the point of light but consistent airiness in a mousseline forcemeat that, having absorbed a maximum of cream to be perfect, would risk collapsing through any further addition….
Happily, cooking of quality is, in addition to everything else, an expression of the personality of the cook, and a recipe followed to the letter by two individuals, in each of whom may be a finely developed tactile sense, will produce, thanks to individual sensibilities, two different dishes, both of which may be excellent.
French Food and Menu Composition
Good and honest cooking and good and honest French cooking are the same thing. Details differ, although climate is probably a greater factor than nationality (the molasses in a New England winter beanpot seems as bizarre to a French palate as do the tropical excesses of red-hot pepper to French and American alike). Certainly there are national dishes, just as there are regional dishes—sage-and-onion stuffing and apple pie will remain forever English and American (although there is nothing unique about the former except for the choice of herb, and the latter is nothing but a tarte aux pommes with a lid), as will beurre blanc remain French—but it is comforting to realize that the principles of good cooking do not change as one crosses frontiers or oceans, and that the success of a preparation depends on nothing more than a knowledge of those principles plus personal sensibility.
A meat stew, for instance, is a preparation of pieces of meat seared in fat, enough flour added to bind the sauce, one or several aromatic elements, and liquid, all gently cooked until done. It may, in France, depending on the meat, the fat, the liquid, the aromatic elements, and finally—which has nothing at all to do with its preparation—on specific garnishing elements, assume anyone of dozens of names. Color some onions in lard, remove them and fry floured pieces of chuck in their place, return the onions and moisten with water—in short, reduce each element to its simplest (and most economical) possible version, and you have old-fashioned American beef stew (probably English, Dutch, German and Swedish, also). The steps in its preparation are identical to those for boeuf bourguignon, carbonade, sauté de veau Marengo or coq au vin. American scalloped potatoes have much in common with gratin dauphinois, creamed eggs with oeufs à la tripe, pot roast is really boeuf à la mode. And, of course, corned beef and cabbage, boiled dinners, and the endless soups that our grandmothers prepared are to be found in the French cuisine as potées and garbures.
A menu composed of preparations that are not in themselves French may remain totally French in spirit, for it is the degree to which it is based on a sensuous and aesthetic concept that differentiates a French meal from all others. It may be served under the simplest and most intimate of circumstances, but its formal aspect is respected and its composition—the interrelationships and the progression of courses and wines—is of the greatest importance.
There exists a bastard cuisine that is too often assumed to be real French cooking. It patterns itself superficially on the classical grande cuisine, but, leaning heavily on the effects of spectacular presentation, it ignores the essential sobriety and integrity of the classic cuisine which becomes its victim. It is not grande cuisine but “Grand Palace” –or international hotel cooking. It has, however, many enthusiasts. Perhaps, having never encountered the genuine, they are nonetheless impressed by the presentation and complication of the false. Tragically, it is responsible for the attitude of those who, confusing Grand Palace with grande cuisine, innocently become detractors of the latter.
Grand Palace, typically, fails to respect the qualities basic to a product or a preparation. All dishes, for example, are tainted by the same basic sauce (generally a false espagnole made up of bones, carcasses and leftovers, overly thickened with flour or cornstarch, and improperly reduced). Crêpes are presented with flames reaching to the ceiling and served floating pathetically in dark pools of half-burned, indifferent brandy. Calves’ kidneys are brought, half-cooked, to table and toughened in a blaze of that same alcohol. And roasts (which in order to be perfect must be subjected to a continued cooking process, precisely controlled) are half-cooked, cooled, rolled in pastry and rebaked.
It is interesting—and instructive—to note that in Escoffier’s Guide Culinaire, out of forty-five recipes for roast fillet of beef, not one is served in pastry. The only lamb recipe suffering this treatment is a leg of baby lamb. Because the flesh of baby animals, cooked rare, is indigestible and must be well done, baby lamb is, therefore, not treated in the same manner as a roast of “grass” (older) lamb, mutton, or beef, which should be kept rose or rare throughout, at the same time that it is heated through. Out of fifteen recipes for calves’ kidneys and thirteen for lambs’ kidneys, not one is “flamed.” (One, foreign in origin, requires the addition of a bit of juniper-flavored alcohol which is flamed to rid it of its alcohol before being added to the preparation.) Again, none of Escoffier’s recipes for crêpes are flamed, including crêpes Suzette—whose distinguishing characteristic, after all, is the presence, not of flames, but of tangerine juice. (In the English edition, which has been edited and “arranged by other hands” for another public, crêpes Suzette do receive the flaming treatment.)
Classical French cooking—that which, from the beginning (not so long ago), made France’s reputation abroad—is naturally eclectic. It was, and is, created by men—professional chefs. It is refined and, in execution, often involved. In the hands of a good, honest chef it can be very good indeed; in the hands of a great chef, it can be sublime.
The entire concept—of the cooking itself, and of a menu, as we know it today—was formed by Carême (1784-1833), genius, egomaniac and scholar. His life seems like a fantastic parody of the success story. Born into a poor family of twenty-five children, he was, as a child, put into the streets with nothing but his father’s blessing and told to seek his fortune. He never again saw his family. Aide de cuisine at fifteen, head pastry chef for Paris’s leading pastry caterer at seventeen, he spent the rest of his life in the service of “the great.” He was chef to Talleyrand, to England’s Prince Regent, to Czar Alexander I, to the Rothschilds, and during this time he produced the body of technical literature, brilliantly illustrated by himself, which became the basis of all professional training of chefs throughout the nineteenth century. Until Carême, all dishes were placed on the table at the same time; a menu was nothing but a collection of unrelated dishes, more or less elegantly or fantastically dressed, the most sumptuous being placed close to the guests of highest rank. Carême borrowed from the Russians the practice of serving courses separately, so that each, finding its place in a logical sequence, could at the same time be served at its correct temperature.
The concept of a great meal in France has been tremendously altered since the nineteenth century, when menus sometimes counted twenty or thirty courses and a dozen wines. Around the turn of this century a refining and a simplifying force worked hand in hand. Escoffier was no doubt influential, and his great manual, Le Guide Culinaire, first published in 1902, remains the professional’s standard