Despite years of alcohol abuse I can still remember when we arrived in France, back in '87. We arrived at some ungodly hour at Charles de Gaulle after a 24 hour flight and got decanted into the arrival lounge after only an hour or so waiting around for our baggage to turn up (which it did) and getting waved through customs (despite my baggage containing all my chef's knives they were more interested in the NZ multi-plug we'd brought so that we could plg in various electrical appliances).
From there we were rescued relatively quickly by my friend Jacques and a mad ex-pat Brit by the name of Brian Gotto and driven at great speed (about R17 where, as Douglas Adams explained, R = Reasonable speed and N = multiple so we were going at least 17 times faster than reasonable) to the centre of Paris, where I was expected to start working. And being a good, obedient lad, I did.
Whatever. We were, let it be said, beautifully situated - fifth and final floor of one of the Haussmannian apartments at about 200m from the Opéra Garnier, in the middle of the 2ème arrondissement: don't get much more central than that. I have to admit that our little lodging was, at the time, the shagging-pad of Alain Porcher, then Président-Directeur Générale of Allflex France, and was notable - at least for us - for having satin sheets on the fold-out bed, and an Exercycle and three cases of champagne in the bedroom. Not to mention the rather hideously expensive womens' toiletries in the bathroom, which I tried to remember not to use.
And while we were there, we certainly tried to take advantage of it. I think the first night we spent out at Rambouillet at Brian Gotto's place, which is where I first learnt about goat's toasts (yes, I'll go into that later), but after that we dined out midday and night whilst we were there. Breakfast was usually croissant or pain au chocolat with coffee on the balcony, peering down into the café across the street to see how many glasses of white wine the postman had downed by 9am ...
Unfortunately, I still can't think of a really memorable meal. Had squishy in some trendy Japanese place in rue Daunou, escorted by the blonde and sexy Anne Rousseau (secretary and doubtless intimate personal assistant of M. Porcher), a rather good fondant au chocolat in a place called L'Escalier in rue 4 Septembre (which probably isn't there any more, don't go looking), and any number of honorable omelettes and salads in various bistros - but quite honestly the only one that sticks in my mind is one we had one evening in a bourguignon restaurant just off Place Molière, which remains in my memory only because it was a stinking hot night, everything was over-salted, and the meat was smothered in sauce. Possibly at birth.
I tell a lie. There is another meal I remember, and it's the one we had at Gare du Nord just before taking the night train to Brussells to renew our passports. It was the dawn of the microwave era, and they must have taken something frozen out and stuck it into one of those primitive boxes that went "PING!" before serving, with the result that one side of the plate was Arctic and the other was boiling hot. It was midnight, we were leaving in 15 minutes, we ate what we could and I will never again eat at the Gare du Nord. (Do remind me to tell you, at some point, about our trip to Brussells. I have to get it off my chest every now and again.)
And there was the time, about ten years back, when we had a really good meal in some hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant in the 19th, where the clientèle was us and a number of French-persons who'd probably seen service in Indo-Chine, back before the French wisely pulled out and let the Americans try to handle Vietnam in their own manner ...
Quite frankly, I think French food has probably improved immeasurably over the last 20 years or so. Not that I can prove it, as I rarely go to restaurants (no-one pays me to do so, and I'm not going to pay my own money to eat a meal that I could do as well if not better at home), but it's the feeling I get. Less tradition (or more respect for tradition), more inventiveness, not so much of the nouvelle cuisine flashiness ... yeah, whatever.
Anyway, you've been very patient, so here goes.
Goat's toasts are really simple - you need a baguette and a log of goat cheese. The cheaper the better. Slice the baguette into inch-thick rounds and toast them, then stick them on a baking tray. Slice the goat cheese into quarter-inch rounds and stick one on top of each slice of toasted baguette. Then stick the whole lot under the grill for five minutes or so until the cheese is bubbling, pull them out and stick a wodge of redcurrant jelly on each one and serve. In my experience, no matter how many you make, there will be none left over.
But to really impress, you need something classy, so why not filet de boeuf Charlemagne? This too is simple, I promise. You'll need a decent bit of beef fillet - preferably from the centre - some mushrooms, ham, a tomato or two, grated cheese ...
First up, make the stuffing - in this case, a duxelles, as it's known to its friends. Personally, I use the trusty old Kitchen Whizz to transform the mushrooms into smallish chunks (definitely not a purée) but you may be a masochist so feel free to chop them by hand if you're so inclined. Then stick them into a frying pan with some butter and cook until they've rendered all their juice and have started to dry out.
While this is going on you use the mixer to transform a tomato or two and some sliced ham into something resembling a chunky soup, which you should now add to the mushrooms, mix well, and let that dry out too. If it's too sloppy, add some breadcrumbs. I have no shame.
Assuming you have a thick porridgy stuffing, take it off the heat and stir in some grated cheese. Whatever you have handy. Set that aside while you get the beef ready.
Which is remarkably simple: heat up yer cast-iron skillet, brown the fillet on all sides in butter, then stick it in the oven (HOT) for 20 minutes or so. Then take it out, cover with tinfoil and let it settle while you turn the grill on.
Now, all you have to do is slice the fillet into half-inch slabs and then re-form it on a serving dish: a slice of fillet, a good wodge of duxelles, a slice of fillet ... you get the idea. There will be burnt crusty bits in the skillet: stir in some wine or water and reduce til you get a syrupy sauce.
At this point, you have only to pour a good dose of Béarnaise sauce over the fillet (I did tell you how to make that earlier, go back and look), dribble the sauce from the skillet over that, and stick it under the grill until the Béarnaise goes bubbly. And when it does, serving it would be a good idea. With steamed beans, grilled tomatoes, roast potatoes ... your choice. Although artichoke hearts are good too.
For once, pass on the salad. Lots of bread, evidently, and a good burgundy.
From there we were rescued relatively quickly by my friend Jacques and a mad ex-pat Brit by the name of Brian Gotto and driven at great speed (about R17 where, as Douglas Adams explained, R = Reasonable speed and N = multiple so we were going at least 17 times faster than reasonable) to the centre of Paris, where I was expected to start working. And being a good, obedient lad, I did.
Whatever. We were, let it be said, beautifully situated - fifth and final floor of one of the Haussmannian apartments at about 200m from the Opéra Garnier, in the middle of the 2ème arrondissement: don't get much more central than that. I have to admit that our little lodging was, at the time, the shagging-pad of Alain Porcher, then Président-Directeur Générale of Allflex France, and was notable - at least for us - for having satin sheets on the fold-out bed, and an Exercycle and three cases of champagne in the bedroom. Not to mention the rather hideously expensive womens' toiletries in the bathroom, which I tried to remember not to use.
And while we were there, we certainly tried to take advantage of it. I think the first night we spent out at Rambouillet at Brian Gotto's place, which is where I first learnt about goat's toasts (yes, I'll go into that later), but after that we dined out midday and night whilst we were there. Breakfast was usually croissant or pain au chocolat with coffee on the balcony, peering down into the café across the street to see how many glasses of white wine the postman had downed by 9am ...
Unfortunately, I still can't think of a really memorable meal. Had squishy in some trendy Japanese place in rue Daunou, escorted by the blonde and sexy Anne Rousseau (secretary and doubtless intimate personal assistant of M. Porcher), a rather good fondant au chocolat in a place called L'Escalier in rue 4 Septembre (which probably isn't there any more, don't go looking), and any number of honorable omelettes and salads in various bistros - but quite honestly the only one that sticks in my mind is one we had one evening in a bourguignon restaurant just off Place Molière, which remains in my memory only because it was a stinking hot night, everything was over-salted, and the meat was smothered in sauce. Possibly at birth.
I tell a lie. There is another meal I remember, and it's the one we had at Gare du Nord just before taking the night train to Brussells to renew our passports. It was the dawn of the microwave era, and they must have taken something frozen out and stuck it into one of those primitive boxes that went "PING!" before serving, with the result that one side of the plate was Arctic and the other was boiling hot. It was midnight, we were leaving in 15 minutes, we ate what we could and I will never again eat at the Gare du Nord. (Do remind me to tell you, at some point, about our trip to Brussells. I have to get it off my chest every now and again.)
And there was the time, about ten years back, when we had a really good meal in some hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant in the 19th, where the clientèle was us and a number of French-persons who'd probably seen service in Indo-Chine, back before the French wisely pulled out and let the Americans try to handle Vietnam in their own manner ...
Quite frankly, I think French food has probably improved immeasurably over the last 20 years or so. Not that I can prove it, as I rarely go to restaurants (no-one pays me to do so, and I'm not going to pay my own money to eat a meal that I could do as well if not better at home), but it's the feeling I get. Less tradition (or more respect for tradition), more inventiveness, not so much of the nouvelle cuisine flashiness ... yeah, whatever.
Anyway, you've been very patient, so here goes.
Goat's toasts are really simple - you need a baguette and a log of goat cheese. The cheaper the better. Slice the baguette into inch-thick rounds and toast them, then stick them on a baking tray. Slice the goat cheese into quarter-inch rounds and stick one on top of each slice of toasted baguette. Then stick the whole lot under the grill for five minutes or so until the cheese is bubbling, pull them out and stick a wodge of redcurrant jelly on each one and serve. In my experience, no matter how many you make, there will be none left over.
But to really impress, you need something classy, so why not filet de boeuf Charlemagne? This too is simple, I promise. You'll need a decent bit of beef fillet - preferably from the centre - some mushrooms, ham, a tomato or two, grated cheese ...
First up, make the stuffing - in this case, a duxelles, as it's known to its friends. Personally, I use the trusty old Kitchen Whizz to transform the mushrooms into smallish chunks (definitely not a purée) but you may be a masochist so feel free to chop them by hand if you're so inclined. Then stick them into a frying pan with some butter and cook until they've rendered all their juice and have started to dry out.
While this is going on you use the mixer to transform a tomato or two and some sliced ham into something resembling a chunky soup, which you should now add to the mushrooms, mix well, and let that dry out too. If it's too sloppy, add some breadcrumbs. I have no shame.
Assuming you have a thick porridgy stuffing, take it off the heat and stir in some grated cheese. Whatever you have handy. Set that aside while you get the beef ready.
Which is remarkably simple: heat up yer cast-iron skillet, brown the fillet on all sides in butter, then stick it in the oven (HOT) for 20 minutes or so. Then take it out, cover with tinfoil and let it settle while you turn the grill on.
Now, all you have to do is slice the fillet into half-inch slabs and then re-form it on a serving dish: a slice of fillet, a good wodge of duxelles, a slice of fillet ... you get the idea. There will be burnt crusty bits in the skillet: stir in some wine or water and reduce til you get a syrupy sauce.
At this point, you have only to pour a good dose of Béarnaise sauce over the fillet (I did tell you how to make that earlier, go back and look), dribble the sauce from the skillet over that, and stick it under the grill until the Béarnaise goes bubbly. And when it does, serving it would be a good idea. With steamed beans, grilled tomatoes, roast potatoes ... your choice. Although artichoke hearts are good too.
For once, pass on the salad. Lots of bread, evidently, and a good burgundy.
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