Yes, I'm afraid so. Nice and simple, delicious - the only real drawback to this one is that there's not really anything you can do ahead, so you'll have to spend a bit of time in the kitchen. But that's alright, just make sure there's plenty of white in the fridge, and sample it from time to time to make sure that it's properly chilled.
Anyway, here goes with feuilletés au Munster followed - or accompanied - by a roulé au saumon. Munster is one of those cheeses that for some reason or another have acquired, rather like Suzi Quatro, a bad reputation - in their case, for being overpoweringly smelly. It's totally unjustified. Alright, I admit that an older specimen can be a bit whiffy, but certainly no worse that that bit of 6-months old camembert that you've forgotten about, and it tastes lovely.
In any case, I came across these things once many years ago when I was up in Alsace - in Colmar, to be precise - doing a troubleshooting job for a client who was paying for food and accomodation and who wasn't too concerned about the budget for these things. So I didn't stint myself on either, staying in a three-star 16th century hotel in the centre of the old town and trying a different restaurant every night. Where I found out about many things, such as the fact that the best whole-grain bread I've ever tasted in my life was to be found there, that duck legs cooked in red wine with raisins until it becomes soft and the wine reduces to syrup is bloody delicious, and that the "Road to Paradise" involves drinking - in rapid succession - seven (or twelve, I've forgotten) glasses of different local wines, in a very specific order. If you don't respect the order the locals get pissed off, as this apparently ruins the beautiful symbolism. Or whatever.
Colmar is also a student town, and just down the road from the hotel were any number of student pubs (and tabacs, so I could get my fix of cigars) which you could spot by the grunge or punk that was being played at really, really high volume. This being (I think) 1995, the evening special was the plateau de bières at 45F (OK, about 7€ in real money), which was a tray with six half-litre mugs of different beers, ranging from something Mexican with chili in it to one of those dark Belgian things prepared by misogynist monks that squelches rather than gurgles when poured. Had lumps in it too, which would've made me wonder but fortunately the lighting was dim enough that I couldn't actually see what they were. Being a student bar, the loos were pretty gross too, but I'll not go into details.
I also discovered rösti and flammenkuche, this latter being bread dough rolled out really thinly and slathered with sour cream, sliced onion rings and chunks of bacon, then cooked quickly in an extremely hot oven so that the dough doesn't get a chance to rise as such but goes crisp and bubbly. But I digress. One night, I was served these crispy little suckers as an amuse-gueule and ever since I've made them at the slightest provocation.
First off, go out and find yourself a nice ripe Munster. Runny in the middle would be good. Be aware that Munster comes with a skin which you do not want and will have to remove - thinly - with a nice sharp knife. The actual cheese part you'll need to cut into small dice and put them in a bowl, unless of course it is extremely runny. Add a good couple of tbsp of sour cream and some caraway seeds to taste and mash the whole mess up with a fork.
Now spread out two sheets of flaky pastry (buy the stuff, don't feel guilty, but do get the stuff that's made from butter rather than coyly unspecified "vegetable oils") and on one of them spread out the cheese mixture in little rectangles, with about 1cm between each. Brush the grid of naked pastry with egg wash, then lay the other sheet over the top and press down along the gridlines to seal. Brush the whole thing with more egg wash, sprinkle with paprika, sea-salt, more caraway seeds - whatever takes your fancy, really - cut along the gridlines to make nice little rectangular packets of cheesy goodness, and stick it in the fridge for later.
Now we come to the main attraction, the roulé. Which is, as its name suggests, nowt more than a stuffed roll, so you should not be afraid of it.
Right, go off into the pantry, find a 200gm tin of pink salmon and open it, taking care not to slash your wrists in the process. Save the juice, but remove the skin and as many of the bones as you've the patience for, and put the flesh in a bowl. Add the juice, three egg yolks and 1 tbsp of tomato concentrate (tomato sauce will not do here, I'm afraid). Mash'n'mix well with a fork and set aside whilst you beat the three egg whites into really stiff peaks, then delicately incorporate the one into the other with a rubber spatula, as for a soufflé. (When I was learning how to do this sort of thing, I was taught that the best way was to beat about a third of the beaten whites into whatever the actual flavour part of your soufflé was so as to lighten it, then pour the resulting slosh over the rest of the whites and do the folding-in thing. It's worked for me so far, but I make no promises.)
You now need a flat cake tin, about 23 x 33 cm - spread a sheet of sulfurised paper over it and run your fingernail along the inside edges of the cake tin to crease the paper and form a nice little liner. With any luck, you won't have to wash the tin, which is always good. Now pour the soufflé mix in, spread it around evenly, and stick it into an oven at 200° for about 15 minutes until well-risen and firm.
While that's going on, make the filling. This is nothing more complicated than a thick bechamel to which you stir in 2tsp of lemon juice, chopped fennel, parsley and chives, pepper, and two or three chopped hard-boiled eggs.
The rest is simplicity itself. Pull your flat soufflé out of the oven and stick the cheesy things in instead - they'll need five to ten minutes. Spread another sheet of sulfurised paper out on the bench and sprinkle it with grated Parmesan and then, one way or another, unmould your salmon cake onto it, with the nicely browned top side now on the bottom, on the cheese. Now just carefully peel off the paper and spread the filling evenly out, to within 1cm of the edges. Using the bottom sheet of paper to help, roll up along the long edge and put it on a long serving dish - seam side down looks prettier (also means it won't start to sneakily unroll while your back's turned).
At this point you've a choice - either put it back into the oven to keep hot whilst the feuillétés finish cooking, or let it cool down a bit, in which case you could usefully decorate the plate with sliced cucumber and lemon, and maybe some rolled-up slices of smoked salmon. Whichever way you go, some toasted whole-grain bread and salad are all you really need to go wi
th this, apart from the wine, of course. I'm not sure I'd even bother with a dessert, to be quite honest - we are talking "light lunch" here. Although fruit is always good - especially as they're practically giving away peaches and such-like right now.
Whatever, enjoy.
Anyway, here goes with feuilletés au Munster followed - or accompanied - by a roulé au saumon. Munster is one of those cheeses that for some reason or another have acquired, rather like Suzi Quatro, a bad reputation - in their case, for being overpoweringly smelly. It's totally unjustified. Alright, I admit that an older specimen can be a bit whiffy, but certainly no worse that that bit of 6-months old camembert that you've forgotten about, and it tastes lovely.
In any case, I came across these things once many years ago when I was up in Alsace - in Colmar, to be precise - doing a troubleshooting job for a client who was paying for food and accomodation and who wasn't too concerned about the budget for these things. So I didn't stint myself on either, staying in a three-star 16th century hotel in the centre of the old town and trying a different restaurant every night. Where I found out about many things, such as the fact that the best whole-grain bread I've ever tasted in my life was to be found there, that duck legs cooked in red wine with raisins until it becomes soft and the wine reduces to syrup is bloody delicious, and that the "Road to Paradise" involves drinking - in rapid succession - seven (or twelve, I've forgotten) glasses of different local wines, in a very specific order. If you don't respect the order the locals get pissed off, as this apparently ruins the beautiful symbolism. Or whatever.
Colmar is also a student town, and just down the road from the hotel were any number of student pubs (and tabacs, so I could get my fix of cigars) which you could spot by the grunge or punk that was being played at really, really high volume. This being (I think) 1995, the evening special was the plateau de bières at 45F (OK, about 7€ in real money), which was a tray with six half-litre mugs of different beers, ranging from something Mexican with chili in it to one of those dark Belgian things prepared by misogynist monks that squelches rather than gurgles when poured. Had lumps in it too, which would've made me wonder but fortunately the lighting was dim enough that I couldn't actually see what they were. Being a student bar, the loos were pretty gross too, but I'll not go into details.
I also discovered rösti and flammenkuche, this latter being bread dough rolled out really thinly and slathered with sour cream, sliced onion rings and chunks of bacon, then cooked quickly in an extremely hot oven so that the dough doesn't get a chance to rise as such but goes crisp and bubbly. But I digress. One night, I was served these crispy little suckers as an amuse-gueule and ever since I've made them at the slightest provocation.
First off, go out and find yourself a nice ripe Munster. Runny in the middle would be good. Be aware that Munster comes with a skin which you do not want and will have to remove - thinly - with a nice sharp knife. The actual cheese part you'll need to cut into small dice and put them in a bowl, unless of course it is extremely runny. Add a good couple of tbsp of sour cream and some caraway seeds to taste and mash the whole mess up with a fork.
Now spread out two sheets of flaky pastry (buy the stuff, don't feel guilty, but do get the stuff that's made from butter rather than coyly unspecified "vegetable oils") and on one of them spread out the cheese mixture in little rectangles, with about 1cm between each. Brush the grid of naked pastry with egg wash, then lay the other sheet over the top and press down along the gridlines to seal. Brush the whole thing with more egg wash, sprinkle with paprika, sea-salt, more caraway seeds - whatever takes your fancy, really - cut along the gridlines to make nice little rectangular packets of cheesy goodness, and stick it in the fridge for later.
Now we come to the main attraction, the roulé. Which is, as its name suggests, nowt more than a stuffed roll, so you should not be afraid of it.
Right, go off into the pantry, find a 200gm tin of pink salmon and open it, taking care not to slash your wrists in the process. Save the juice, but remove the skin and as many of the bones as you've the patience for, and put the flesh in a bowl. Add the juice, three egg yolks and 1 tbsp of tomato concentrate (tomato sauce will not do here, I'm afraid). Mash'n'mix well with a fork and set aside whilst you beat the three egg whites into really stiff peaks, then delicately incorporate the one into the other with a rubber spatula, as for a soufflé. (When I was learning how to do this sort of thing, I was taught that the best way was to beat about a third of the beaten whites into whatever the actual flavour part of your soufflé was so as to lighten it, then pour the resulting slosh over the rest of the whites and do the folding-in thing. It's worked for me so far, but I make no promises.)
You now need a flat cake tin, about 23 x 33 cm - spread a sheet of sulfurised paper over it and run your fingernail along the inside edges of the cake tin to crease the paper and form a nice little liner. With any luck, you won't have to wash the tin, which is always good. Now pour the soufflé mix in, spread it around evenly, and stick it into an oven at 200° for about 15 minutes until well-risen and firm.
While that's going on, make the filling. This is nothing more complicated than a thick bechamel to which you stir in 2tsp of lemon juice, chopped fennel, parsley and chives, pepper, and two or three chopped hard-boiled eggs.
The rest is simplicity itself. Pull your flat soufflé out of the oven and stick the cheesy things in instead - they'll need five to ten minutes. Spread another sheet of sulfurised paper out on the bench and sprinkle it with grated Parmesan and then, one way or another, unmould your salmon cake onto it, with the nicely browned top side now on the bottom, on the cheese. Now just carefully peel off the paper and spread the filling evenly out, to within 1cm of the edges. Using the bottom sheet of paper to help, roll up along the long edge and put it on a long serving dish - seam side down looks prettier (also means it won't start to sneakily unroll while your back's turned).
At this point you've a choice - either put it back into the oven to keep hot whilst the feuillétés finish cooking, or let it cool down a bit, in which case you could usefully decorate the plate with sliced cucumber and lemon, and maybe some rolled-up slices of smoked salmon. Whichever way you go, some toasted whole-grain bread and salad are all you really need to go wi
th this, apart from the wine, of course. I'm not sure I'd even bother with a dessert, to be quite honest - we are talking "light lunch" here. Although fruit is always good - especially as they're practically giving away peaches and such-like right now.Whatever, enjoy.
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