I mentioned homard Palestine in passing in my last post, as being one of those recipes that have got incorporated into my DNA or burnt into a small zone of my cortex, along with things like clafouti and burgundy apple cake. Which is quite good when we go on holiday up to Pesselière, a teeny village in Burgundy south-west of Auxerre where my brother-in-law and his family have their holiday home, as it means that we don't have to take a small trailer to carry the cookbooks.
The other nice thing about Pesselière, apart from its being very small and miles from anywhere (literally), is that it's decently equipped: as it's a second home everyone who goes there tends to take the stuff they don't want anymore but is too good to actually chuck, so the place is a bit like a brocante. There's the big stove I used to have before I got the stainless-steel monster I have now (same as Karen's, actually, but I got mine first) and just about every kitchen utensil known to mankind, so long as it doesn't involve electricity. (Electricity? In a place like that? Hell, there are parts of the village where they haven't even installed gravity yet.)
Whatever, this means that it's about the only place where I actually cook on the (rare) occasions that we do go away on holiday. When we stay with friends I'm only too happy to slouch around and let them do the work for a change, and there's no point even thinking about it in a hotel. And rented studios or appartments are usually dismally equipped. But even there - especially in summer - it's usually just pizza, quiche, barbecues and salads. And rosé, of course - the more the better.
Anyway, getting back to homard Palestine ... I don't know how that came to get in my genes because I don't actually do it very often, but what I did make for Sophie a while back was its cousin, homard Thermidor. I must have been trying to impress her. Have to admit, it does look quite flash when it's all put together and served.
To start with, you will need a lobster - or crayfish, or whatever you call them. You could pay enormous sums for a large fresh lobster, but I've always had good results using Canadian popsicles. These are smallish lobster, about 25cm long, which are sold frozen in a long plastic bag full of sea-water - hence the name. Get two: one for you, one for your lunch date. And I'd recommend taking them out of the freezer the night before, or you'll look a bit of a prat. (Although in need, you can defrost them quickly enough by putting them in a sink-full of tepid water.)
Then arm yourself with your chef's knife. Not the couteau d'office, the little one that gets used for almost everything, but the big heavy one with a blade that's about 25cm long and 6 cm deep at the tang. If you're like me, this gets used solely for chopping herbs or vegetables - or, at a pinch, when you've mislaid the cleaver (or left it buried in someone's back) - for chopping chicken legs into bite-sized bits for making honey chili chicken. Or, like now, for cutting a lobster in half and extracting the flesh. (Yes, I take my knives if I'm going to cook for Sophie. I refuse to cut things with what most people have in the kitchen drawers - which is not where good knives should be living anyway.)
Here's the fun part. Take a lobster and put it, belly down and with its tail curled under it, on a chopping board. Gloat (or cackle insanely, if you so desire) as you stick the point of the knife (which you are holding vertically, by its handle) into its head, a bit behind those beady little eyes. Then push until the point comes out the other side - through what I suppose would be its chin. Push the handle of the knife firmly down towards the chopping board as though it were a lever and when the heel of the knife hits the board through the lobster's tail, you will have a butterflied lobster, held together by what we'll call its nose. Cut through that too. Repeat the operation with its friend.
If your knife is heavy and sharp that's all there is to it, there'll be no splinters, just four neat lobster halves. The next thing to do is to remove the legs (about 17 a side) and the claws. Just wrench them off.
Personally I find that in this size of insect there's not enough meat in the actual spidery legs to make it worth your while trying to extract it, but if you feel like giving it a go, be my guest. I'll wait. The claws and the - uh, arms, I suppose - definitely need opening. To do so, put these bits onto the chopping board and go outside - preferably somewhere you can hose down - and whack them with the back of the knife to crack the shell. There will be splatter. Then, using the point of the knife if necessary, pull the shell open (you might need to give it another whack or two) and pull out the flesh.
As for the halves, you probably want to remove the intestinal track, which is the thin black line running the length of its body down to the tail. Just stick the tip of your knife under and pull it up. At the head end there's a sort of sachet containing stomach and what could loosely be called brain - chuck that as well. Then extract the flesh - the easiest way to do this is to stick the point of your knife down between the shell and flesh at the tail end lever the flesh out: once you've got a bit out just use your fingers to lever the rest out, it should come out more or less in one bit.
While you've got your hands covered in lobster juice you might as well chop the flesh into smallish dice and stick it all in a bowl. Then put that in the fridge (especially if you have a cat), clean up and go get a drink. Do NOT throw out the shells - unless of course you made a complete dog's breakfast of cutting them, in which case they're useless for our purposes.
All this doesn't actually take much more time to do than it does to read about, so your partner should be looking quite admirative. Unless you didn't take my advice about cracking the claws open outside, in which case she's probably looking at the state of the kitchen floor and walls and wondering whether to kill you right now or wait until you've finished cooking. By the way, put the legs and bits of claw from the shell into a plastic bag and close it before putting them in the rubbish. You'll thank me for it later.
If you're planning anything more substantial than a salad to go with this, now would be a good time to get it organised because the actual cooking bit doesn't last that long. Another drink might be a good idea too: white wine would be good as you'll need some for the sauce.
First of all, sear the lobster flesh in butter and then flambé it with whatever you've got - whisky or cognac. I like whisky, myself. Out of the frying pan and back into the bowl. Then chop a couple of shallots (or spring onions if you haven't got any), sweat them in butter and add a glass of white: boil hell out of it until it reduces to about a quarter. Set that aside. Make up a thick bechamel with a half-tbsp of butter, then add the reduced wine and shallots and a good dose of thick cream (sour cream is fine by me).
Simmer all that until nice and thick, then mix in a pinch of cayenne (not too much, you do want to be able to taste the lobster) and a 1/4 tsp of mustard powder (idem). Add the lobster flesh and any juices, stir in and let simmer for a couple of minutes. With luck, you'll have lots of lobster just bound with the sauce, rather than a small ocean of sauce with a few bits of crustacean bobbing about feebly. If it does turn out to be the latter, defrost a packet of frozen shrimp in the microwave, drain well and chuck them in too.
Finally, spoon the mixture back into the two nicest of the half-shells (or ramequins, if you've totally mutilated the shells), sprinkle with grated cheese and some dried bread-crumbs, and stick into a hot oven for about 10 minutes until the cheese has melted and gone crusty (not black, please). This leaves you the time to finish the white, get the salad ready, and slice the bread.
Lunch is now ready. So enjoy it, you've earned it.
The other nice thing about Pesselière, apart from its being very small and miles from anywhere (literally), is that it's decently equipped: as it's a second home everyone who goes there tends to take the stuff they don't want anymore but is too good to actually chuck, so the place is a bit like a brocante. There's the big stove I used to have before I got the stainless-steel monster I have now (same as Karen's, actually, but I got mine first) and just about every kitchen utensil known to mankind, so long as it doesn't involve electricity. (Electricity? In a place like that? Hell, there are parts of the village where they haven't even installed gravity yet.)
Whatever, this means that it's about the only place where I actually cook on the (rare) occasions that we do go away on holiday. When we stay with friends I'm only too happy to slouch around and let them do the work for a change, and there's no point even thinking about it in a hotel. And rented studios or appartments are usually dismally equipped. But even there - especially in summer - it's usually just pizza, quiche, barbecues and salads. And rosé, of course - the more the better.
Anyway, getting back to homard Palestine ... I don't know how that came to get in my genes because I don't actually do it very often, but what I did make for Sophie a while back was its cousin, homard Thermidor. I must have been trying to impress her. Have to admit, it does look quite flash when it's all put together and served.
To start with, you will need a lobster - or crayfish, or whatever you call them. You could pay enormous sums for a large fresh lobster, but I've always had good results using Canadian popsicles. These are smallish lobster, about 25cm long, which are sold frozen in a long plastic bag full of sea-water - hence the name. Get two: one for you, one for your lunch date. And I'd recommend taking them out of the freezer the night before, or you'll look a bit of a prat. (Although in need, you can defrost them quickly enough by putting them in a sink-full of tepid water.)
Then arm yourself with your chef's knife. Not the couteau d'office, the little one that gets used for almost everything, but the big heavy one with a blade that's about 25cm long and 6 cm deep at the tang. If you're like me, this gets used solely for chopping herbs or vegetables - or, at a pinch, when you've mislaid the cleaver (or left it buried in someone's back) - for chopping chicken legs into bite-sized bits for making honey chili chicken. Or, like now, for cutting a lobster in half and extracting the flesh. (Yes, I take my knives if I'm going to cook for Sophie. I refuse to cut things with what most people have in the kitchen drawers - which is not where good knives should be living anyway.)
Here's the fun part. Take a lobster and put it, belly down and with its tail curled under it, on a chopping board. Gloat (or cackle insanely, if you so desire) as you stick the point of the knife (which you are holding vertically, by its handle) into its head, a bit behind those beady little eyes. Then push until the point comes out the other side - through what I suppose would be its chin. Push the handle of the knife firmly down towards the chopping board as though it were a lever and when the heel of the knife hits the board through the lobster's tail, you will have a butterflied lobster, held together by what we'll call its nose. Cut through that too. Repeat the operation with its friend.
If your knife is heavy and sharp that's all there is to it, there'll be no splinters, just four neat lobster halves. The next thing to do is to remove the legs (about 17 a side) and the claws. Just wrench them off.
Personally I find that in this size of insect there's not enough meat in the actual spidery legs to make it worth your while trying to extract it, but if you feel like giving it a go, be my guest. I'll wait. The claws and the - uh, arms, I suppose - definitely need opening. To do so, put these bits onto the chopping board and go outside - preferably somewhere you can hose down - and whack them with the back of the knife to crack the shell. There will be splatter. Then, using the point of the knife if necessary, pull the shell open (you might need to give it another whack or two) and pull out the flesh.
As for the halves, you probably want to remove the intestinal track, which is the thin black line running the length of its body down to the tail. Just stick the tip of your knife under and pull it up. At the head end there's a sort of sachet containing stomach and what could loosely be called brain - chuck that as well. Then extract the flesh - the easiest way to do this is to stick the point of your knife down between the shell and flesh at the tail end lever the flesh out: once you've got a bit out just use your fingers to lever the rest out, it should come out more or less in one bit.
While you've got your hands covered in lobster juice you might as well chop the flesh into smallish dice and stick it all in a bowl. Then put that in the fridge (especially if you have a cat), clean up and go get a drink. Do NOT throw out the shells - unless of course you made a complete dog's breakfast of cutting them, in which case they're useless for our purposes.
All this doesn't actually take much more time to do than it does to read about, so your partner should be looking quite admirative. Unless you didn't take my advice about cracking the claws open outside, in which case she's probably looking at the state of the kitchen floor and walls and wondering whether to kill you right now or wait until you've finished cooking. By the way, put the legs and bits of claw from the shell into a plastic bag and close it before putting them in the rubbish. You'll thank me for it later.
If you're planning anything more substantial than a salad to go with this, now would be a good time to get it organised because the actual cooking bit doesn't last that long. Another drink might be a good idea too: white wine would be good as you'll need some for the sauce.
First of all, sear the lobster flesh in butter and then flambé it with whatever you've got - whisky or cognac. I like whisky, myself. Out of the frying pan and back into the bowl. Then chop a couple of shallots (or spring onions if you haven't got any), sweat them in butter and add a glass of white: boil hell out of it until it reduces to about a quarter. Set that aside. Make up a thick bechamel with a half-tbsp of butter, then add the reduced wine and shallots and a good dose of thick cream (sour cream is fine by me).
Simmer all that until nice and thick, then mix in a pinch of cayenne (not too much, you do want to be able to taste the lobster) and a 1/4 tsp of mustard powder (idem). Add the lobster flesh and any juices, stir in and let simmer for a couple of minutes. With luck, you'll have lots of lobster just bound with the sauce, rather than a small ocean of sauce with a few bits of crustacean bobbing about feebly. If it does turn out to be the latter, defrost a packet of frozen shrimp in the microwave, drain well and chuck them in too.
Finally, spoon the mixture back into the two nicest of the half-shells (or ramequins, if you've totally mutilated the shells), sprinkle with grated cheese and some dried bread-crumbs, and stick into a hot oven for about 10 minutes until the cheese has melted and gone crusty (not black, please). This leaves you the time to finish the white, get the salad ready, and slice the bread.
Lunch is now ready. So enjoy it, you've earned it.
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