The One and Olney

 fig. a:  tending the garden

I think it's safe to say that we, here at "...an endless banquet," have a certain affection for the late Richard Olney.  We never had the pleasure of meeting him, sadly, but we've developed quite a relationship with him through his books--they just contain so much character, so much passion, so much savoir-faire, not to mention a philosophy of life that we'd like to think we share.  From The French Menu Cookbook (voted #1 cookbook of all time (!) by the Observer Food Monthly in 2010) and Simple French Food, to mass-market ventures like his The Good Cook series for Time/Life Books and his Provence:  The Beautiful Cookbook, we never cease to be amazed by their enthusiasm and their erudition. Plus, he lived such a life--a life that brought him into contact with luminaries in the fields of literature, film, and art, a life of bohemianism and gastronomy, of total dedication to the culinary arts and the "divine alchemy" of wine.  And then there's his status as godfather to both the Californian cuisine of Chez Panisse and the natural wine connoisseurship of Kermit Lynch.

Alice Waters has written that she remembers every detail of her first visit to Olney's Provençal home in Solliès-Toucas:  the olive trees, the cicadas, the wild herbs, Olney's ever-so-casual gardening attire ("Richard received us wearing nothing but an open shirt, his skimpy bathing suit, a kitchen towel at his waist, and a pair of worn espadrilles."), and his ever-present Gauloise.  What stuck with her the most, however, was the memory of a "spectacular salad" that Olney served that day, "full of Provençal greens that were new to me--rocket, anise, hyssop--with perfectly tender green beans and bright nasturtium flowers tossed in, and dressed with the vinegar he makes himself from the ends of bottles of great wines."  Simple French food, indeed.

Sometimes we imagine ourselves arriving at Solliès-Toucas to dine on one of Olney's legendary meals (which were known to induce "a kind of ecstatic paralysis"), drink deeply, converse long into the night, and dance until dawn.

 fig. b:  "fireplace at Solliès"

Other times, we fantasize about Olney's phenomenal kitchen with its hand-built hearth and its copper pots.

 fig. c:  the good cook does wine

Then there are times when we dream about discussing and practicing "the art of intelligent choice" with Olney.

Not only have we been known to dedicate special meals to Olney, but we often base decisions upon whether we think "Richard" would approve or not, especially when it comes time to throwing a party.

Well, it's time to celebrate the one and only Richard Olney once again.  Now's the time.  It's the height of harvest season, and many of the vegetables, fruits, and herbs that Olney adored are at their peak.

As you may know, Michelle and Seth have dedicated the month of September at FoodLab to Olney's beloved Provence.  You may also know that their frequent partner in crime, Theo Diamantis, of Oenopole, is something of a specialist when it comes to the wines of Provence, the southern Rhône, and Corsica, including Olney's beloved Bandols.  Are you starting to catch my drift?  Good, because next Tuesday, September 25, the third floor of the Sociéte des Arts Technologiques will be the site another phenomenal FoodLab/Oenopole co-production:  an Homage to Richard Olney.

The menu has been devised, the wines have been selected, and Michelle will only say that the evening promises to be "grandiose."  (Details to follow...)  So you won't have to resort to desperate measures.

fig. d:  desperate measures

Unlike some of Michelle's past collaborations, there'll be no fixed seatings for this particular menu and no reservations will be taken.  In other words, you'll be able to show up at any time between 5pm and 10pm, and you'll be able to order as little or as lot as you like, but, remember, this is a one night only affair.

An Homage to Richard Olney
FoodLab
Sociéte des Arts Technologiques
1201 St-Laurent Blvd
September 25, 2012
5:00 p.m. - 10:00 p.m.
(you can find the Facebook page for this event here, if you're into that kind of thing, but I'm pretty sure "Richard" would be disdainful of your dependence on the social media*)

aj

* Ha, ha...

fava up first

fig. a: the three faces of fava

As Alice Waters puts it in Chez Panisse Vegetables, "The fava bean, Vicia fabia, was the bean of Europe before contact with the New World." A few hundred years later, the fava bean--especially in its young, tender, spring/summer incarnation--became the bean of California Cuisine. Waters goes on to describe the scene at Chez Panisse every spring when the favas come into season:

Shelling fava beans has become a springtime ritual at the restaurant. Big baskets of them are brought out to keep all hands busy during long meetings, menu discussions, and even job interviews.

And in the Chez Panisse Café Cookbook, Waters puts it like this:

It's not uncommon in informal cafés in Europe to see waiters peeling garlic during a quiet time. At Chez Panisse, they peel fava beans--lots of them. Sometimes the customers standing at the bar help out.

Here in Montreal, fava beans are hardly an important part of the local cuisine--nouvelle or otherwise--but there is certainly enough of a Mediterranean presence in the region (thank god!) to make fava beans a part of our seasonal, early-21st century diet. You definitely have to go out and look for them, though--in your markets, in your seasonally minded restaurants. And, remember, the season is short. As indicated above, fava beans are very much a harbinger of spring in Northern California. Around here, however, they're a mid-summer crop, and, friends, the time is now.

To get the full fava bean experience, you have to do a little work--shelling and peeling them requires some determination because you have to get from that big, long, fleshy pod stage, to that pale green/off-white stage, to that bright green stage [pictured above]--but all that work pays off, because once you've managed to extract that bright green, kidney-shaped bean from its protective layers, the cooking time is practically instant, and its seductive charms are immediate.

Most standard accounts of shelling and peeling favas go something like this one in Alice Waters, Patricia Curtan, and Martine Labro's Chez Panisse: Pasta, Pizza, and Calzone:

Picked young enough, they can be shelled and eaten raw, skin and all. When they are a little older and the skin is no longer bright green, they must be skinned. A good way to do this is to blanch the shelled beans for a minute or so [elsewhere Waters recommends "30 seconds to 1 minute"] in boiling water. Drain them and allow to cool. Use your thumbnail to pull open the sprout end and squeeze the bean out of its skin. It will pop right out. Once you get the hang of it, this goes very quickly.

Some chefs, like Zuni Cafe's Judy Rodgers, prefer keeping fava beans raw, arguing that the blanching process, however short, changes the texture of the beans too much. But in our own experience, blanching the beans for 30-60 seconds has produced the results we've been the happiest with. If you want to give raw fava beans a spin--and there's no reason you shouldn't--both Rodgers and Waters recommend serving them in the Tuscan style, with salami, and possibly a sheep's milk cheese (Rodgers also recommends a Ligurian white--Vermentino "Vigna U Munte," Colle dei Bardellini, 2000--as her wine pairing).

But, like I said, our favorite fava bean preparation involves blanching the beans slightly, then gently sautéing them to create a basic ragù. The last fava bean dish I made was based on this recipe from Waters, Curtan, and Labro's book:

Fettucine, fava beans, saffron, & crème fraîche

1/2 pound [fresh] fava beans
1 tbsp virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic
salt and pepper
a few fresh basil leaves
3/4 cup crème fraîche
saffron
fettucine for 2
fresh chives

Shell and skin the fava beans [see directions above]. Cook them gently in olive oil with the chopped garlic for 2 to 3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Add some basil leaves cut in ribbons, the crème fraîche, and a small pinch of saffron. Cook another few minutes, then cook the fettucine and add to the beans. Season the noodles with salt and pepper and toss with the favas. Serve garnished with a sprinkling of chives.

I liked the idea of combining sautéed fava beans with saffron, but I also wanted to combine them with ricotta salata, an idea I'd swiped from yet another recipe. Our fava bean and pasta recipe went something like this.

Fava beans & farfalle

1 pound fresh fava beans
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
saffron
3 cloves garlic, finely minced
zest from one lemon, finely minced
4 spring onions, chopped
1 lb farfalle
1/2 cup grated ricotta salata
salt and pepper
basil leaves

Shell and skin the fava beans [see directions above]. Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Add the saffron, stir briefly so that the olive oil begins taking on the saffron's color, then add the fava beans. Sauté the beans for 30-60 seconds, then add the garlic and the lemon zest and sauté for another few minutes, until the garlic becomes lightly golden. Turn off the heat and add the spring onions, folding them into the mixture.

Meanwhile cook the farfalle until al dente. Drain the pasta, reserving about a cup of the pasta water.

In a large bowl, mix together the pasta, the fava bean mixture, and the ricotta salata, adding a bit of the pasta water if the combination seems dry [note: you may not need to add any additional liquid]. Salt and pepper to taste, keeping in mind that the ricotta salata is very salty (hence the name), so make sure to taste the pasta before adding any salt, because you might not need any.

Have fun. Act fast. Eat well.

Good sources for fava bean recipes:

Judy Rodgers, The Zuni Cafe Cookbook
Alice Waters, Chez Panisse Vegetables
Alice Waters, Chez Panisse Café Cookbook
Alice Waters, Patricia Curtan, and Martine Labro, Chez Panisse: Pasta, Pizza, and Calzone
Paula Wolfert, Paula Wolfert's World of Food

Great source for fava beans:

Birri & frères, Jean-Talon Market, 276-3202

aj

Brussels Sprouts x 2

Behold the lowly Brussels sprout. Spinach may very well have been the subject to more widespread abuse over the years (here in North America, at least), but no one to my knowledge ever created a comic strip about a follically-challenged, squinty-eyed, pipe-smoking, tattooed sailor with a taste for long-legged women who develops superhuman strength every time he eats a helping of Brusssels sprouts. For our part, neither of us have ever understood the widespread aversion to Brussels sprouts. We both had vegetables that filled us with dread when we were youngsters, but we can only remember one each (his: zucchini; hers: green bell peppers), and Brussels sprouts were not among these offenders. I've never heard people go off on tirades about the equally lowly cabbage--miniaturize it, however, and suddenly it's capable of striking fear into the hearts of young and old alike.

Around here, among all the other reasons to be excited about the fall harvest season, those massive bunches of Brussels sprouts on the stalk are near the top of our list. It's not just that they have an absurdly Dr. Seussian appearance to them; it's also because they tend to be fresher and better tasting, with plenty of that earthy, almost nutty flavor that distinguishes them when they're in their prime. Our standard preparation is braised with wine, garlic, olive oil, a bit of balsamic vinegar, and some toasted pine nuts, but recently we've tested out some new Brussels sprouts recipes, both of which have wide applications.

#1 is a pasta and Brussels sprouts combo that comes from Alice Waters' Chez Panisse Vegetables, one that Michelle found herself attracted to in large part because the recipe noted that orecchiette would make an ideal accompaniment due to its similarity in size and shape to the Brussels sprout's leaf. We'd learned to make orecchiette when we took our Pasta 1 course at Mezza-Luna earlier this year, and Michelle was eager to practice making them again, but she also liked the poetry of mimicking the shape of the leaf with the shape of the pasta.

Brussels Sprouts with Orecchiette

1 lb Brussels sprouts, stems removed and separated into leaves
1 red onion, thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 pinch hot red pepper flakes
1/2 lemon, pits removed
bread crumbs (optional)
1 lb orecchiette, fresh or dried

If using dried pasta, bring your water to a boil and begin cooking your pasta. If using fresh pasta, like we did, bring your water to a boil, but you can wait to cook the pasta at the very last minute, because it only takes about one minute to cook.

Heat a sauté pan, add a little olive oil, toss in the sprout leaves, add salt and freshly ground black pepper, and sauté for about one minute over high heat. Add the onions and the red pepper flakes, and continue to sauté until the sprouts are tender and a little browned, 2-5 minutes. Remove from the heat, add the garlic, and toss. If the garlic appears to be browning, add a splash of water to the pan. Squeeze a little lemon onto the sprouts, and when the pasta is done, add it, drained, to the sauté pan and toss everything together. Taste and adjust the seasoning. Serve drizzled with good extra-virgin olive oil. If you want, toss the pasta with some toasted bread crumbs, but if the sprouts are very sweet and tasty [they were], don't bother [we didn't].

Serves two as a main, four as a side.

Rustic yet delicate, and tremendously flavorful (that squeeze of lemon being the crowning touch), Waters' Orecchiettte with Brussels Sprouts went perfectly with our fresh tomato and mozzarella appetizer, a Caesar Salad, and a hearty red wine.



#2 is testament to our ongoing infatuation with the cuisine of David Chang. Not only does Mr. Chang share our affection for Montreal (we have it on good authority that he was up here "all summer long" enjoying Montreal's laid-back appeal), but he obviously shares our affection for Brussels sprouts because he's regularly made good use of them at both Momofuku and Momofuku Ssäm Bar over the last couple of years, and when featured in newspaper and magazine articles, as he often has been, he's tended to include a Brussels sprouts recipe. Thus, Gourmet's recent 2007 Restaurant Issue included Chang's Roasted Brussels Sprouts (tossed with Asian dressing and a devilish puffed rice/shichimi togarashi mix) in its well-deserved feature on him, but the recipe we turned to this week was one that showed up in the April 12, 2006 issue of The New York Times, one that perversely combines Brussels sprouts with cabbage (in the form of kimchi), and one that had been on the AEB hitlist ever since.

Brussels Sprouts with Kimchi

1 lb Brussels sprouts, cut in half from top to bottom
1/4 lb bacon, minced
1 cup cabbage kimchi, plus some of its juice, at room temperature
2 tbsp unsalted butter
salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 400º F. Put bacon in an ovenproof pan and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until almost crisp, about 5 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and add sprouts, cut-side down.

Cook sprouts until they begin to sizzle, then transfer to oven. Roast until brown on one side, then shake pan to redistribute. Remove when bright green but browned and fairly tender, about 10-15 minutes. Meanwhile, purée the kimchi in a food processor or blender until fairly smooth.

Return pan to stove over medium heat [we found this was unnecessary, as the pan was plenty hot enough upon reemerging from the oven] and stir in butter, salt and pepper, and bacon. Put kimchi in bottom of a bowl and top with sprouts. Spoon a little kimchi juice over all and serve.

Serves 4.

That combination of bacon, Brussels sprouts, and kimchi was positively irresistible and Chang's method worked like a charm (here, it's the addition of butter that's the brilliantly unexpected touch). We completed the scene with a simple Asian-inspired rice & fish combo not unlike this and a couple of Pilsner-style lagers.

aj

"God bless Covey Hill, apple pie, and Calvados!"

It was still unusually warm out, but somehow September was now a thing of the past, October was here, and she was beckoning us to embrace the fall in spite of all the ominous signs that the summer of 2007 might actually prove to be endless (yellowjackets, terraces continuing to do booming business, people parading around in various states of undress, etc.). So Michelle put away her beach towel and her flip-flops, dusted off her fall attire, and got down to business, organizing a crack team of seasoned apple pickers to head down to Covey Hill and do some serious apple picking.*

"Covey Hill again?" Yes, Covey Hill again**. Go ahead and write us off as a bunch of tired, old cultural conservatives if you must (a veritable Covey Hill Preservation Society), but we here at "...an endless banquet" know a good thing when we see one.

fig. a: S. presents one of Mr. Safian's finest

We also know a prince when we see one. And, sure enough, as he does every year, Mr. Safian turned up not on a white steed, not on a unicorn, but on his trusty, rusty Harvester International.

fig. b: Mr. Safian

Michelle was thrilled to get a chance to introduce Mr. Safian to the apple picking team, and everyone was already pretty good and fired up about fanning out into the orchard to carry out the task at hand, when, suddenly, Susie appeared out of the blue like a little angel and gave the team her blessing.

fig. c: "That's a good girl!"

Mr. Safian's hard work and Susie's blessing paid off: the trees were healthy and heavy with fruit and the apple picking team cleaned up--literally--amassing bushels and bushels of cortlands, empires, and russets, and a bushel of Flemish beauty pears to boot.

fig. d: the haul

When you get back home from such an outing, the "problem" is always along these lines: how do you get through four bushels of apples when you're a two-person, two-cat household (especially when you're planning on going back and picking up at least another 3-4 bushels)? Well, developing an 8-apple-a-day per person apple-eating habit certainly helps, but without a proper cellar of any kind, even that kind of pace wasn't going to eliminate our stockpile. Good thing Michelle has plenty of professional expertise in how to work through bushels upon bushels of apples. Plus, she'd taken the time to hone her skills again right prior to leading the apple-picking expedition on things like apple-caramel preserve, so it's safe to say she was up to the challenge.

fig. e: apple-caramel preserve

So this is what you do: you make lots of preserves (butters, jellies, chutneys, etc.), you make lots of pies and tarts (double-crust pies, open-faced galettes, Huguenot tortes, tartes tatins, etc.),

fig. f: tarte tatin

and when you've made as many preserves and pies as you, your family, and your friends can handle, and you can't possibly handle any more sweets, you turn to Alice Waters & co. and you make the following:

Poulet à la Normande

3 1/2 lbs chicken pieces, especially thighs and drumsticks
salt and pepper
2 onions, peeled and diced
2 carrots, peeled and diced
2 tbsp unsalted butter
2 tbsp pure olive oil
3 sprigs thyme
1 bay leaf
1/2 cup Calvados
1 cup hard dry cider
1 cup chicken stock
1 cup crème fraîche

garnish:
30 pearl onions
4 tbsp unsalted butter
salt and pepper
2 or 3 medium apples, peeled and cored and sliced into 8 wedges

In a heavy-bottomed pan, melt the butter with the olive oil over medium heat. When hot, add the chicken pieces, skin side down, and brown well on all sides. Do this in batches, if necessary. When all the chicken pieces are golden brown, remove from the pan and set aside.

Pour off most of the fat left in the pan, add the diced carrots and onions and the thyme sprig and bay leaf, and cook until the onion is translucent, about 5 minutes. Pour in the Calvados and warm before igniting carefully--it will flame up [no joke!], so stand back while doing this. When the Calvados has finished burning, add the cider, stirring and scraping up any brown bits still sticking to the pan. Bring to a boil and reduce by half. Pour in the chicken stock, return the chicken pieces to the pan, and turn down the heat. Simmer, covered, for 15 minutes. When the chicken pieces are done, remove them to a dish and keep covered in a warm place while you finish the sauce.

While the chicken is cooking, start to prepare the garnish. Soak the pearl onions in warm water for a few minutes before peeling them--this makes their skins easier to remove.

Melt 2 tbsp of the butter in a heavy-bottomed pan and add the peeled onions with a pinch of salt. Cook over low heat, tightly covered, until tender and translucent, about 20 minutes. Shake or stir them now and then and add a touch of water if they are threatening to burn.

Melt the rest of the butter in a sauté pan over medium-high heat. Add the apples, season with salt and pepper, and cook for about 10 minutes, tossing them now and then, until they are golden and tender.

Strain the Calvados sauce, pressing on the vegetables to extract all the liquid, and pour it back in the pan. Skim well and bring to a boil. Pour in the juices that have collected in the dish holding the chicken pieces; stir in the crème fraîche. Reduce the heat and simmer until the sauce is reduced by a third or until it coats the spoon. Taste and adjust the seasoning as needed. Return the chicken to the sauce to warm through.

Serve the chicken in its sauce, garnished with the apples and onions--reheated, if necessary, either together or separately.

Serves 4.

[adapted slightly from Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters]

We'd been wanting to make this for some time now, but we decided to save it for apple season. With locally raised organic chicken, farm-fresh vegetables and herbs from the market, Michel Jodoin's brandy de pommes from Rougemont, and Mr. Safian's ultra-crisp apples, not only was this a particularly seasonal affair, it was an all-Quebec one too, and a delicious one at that.

For directions to Mr. Safian's stand in Covey Hill please look here and here.

aj

* I'm sorry to say I was AWOL for this expedition. However, I was with the crack team of apple pickers in spirit, as they say, which explains the startling verisimilitude of what, in truth, is nothing more than a second-hand account.

** Please note: there are not one, not two, but three hypertext links here!

Thanks to T., J., and S. for making the trip a hit and for all the great photos.

One more corn recipe

It's a good one, too. Excellent, actually. Very delicate. And very simple, too. The trick is the sieve. It's the sieve step that transforms a simple corn soup into something ethereal. The roasted poblanos are a brilliant touch, too. Poblanos aren't the easiest things to find in Montreal, but there are lovely ones at Birri at Jean-Talon Market right now. Perfect for roasting or stuffing.

Corn Soup With Roasted Poblanos

6 ears of sweet corn (the fresher the better)
4 tbsp sweet butter
salt and pepper to taste
3 cups spring water
1/2 cup cream
2 roasted poblano chiles, peeled and minced

With a sharp knife, remove all the corn kernels from the cobs. Melt 4 tablespoons butter in a heavy-bottomed pot and add the corn, salt, and finely and freshly ground pepper. Toss the corn in the butter over medium heat. After a few minutes, add the spring water and cook over low heat, stirring occasionally so that the corn does not stick to the bottom. After 15 minutes, remove from the heat and cool slightly; pour in a blender and blend until smooth. Press through a medium-fine sieve to smooth the coarse texture. Add the cream, correct the seasoning, heat until just hot, and garnish with minced poblano chiles.

Serves 6.

[recipe from Alice Waters, Chez Panisse Menu Cookbook (1982), which is worth having just for the long list of menus with accompanying descriptions that comes at the end of the book. Pay whatever it takes to get your hands on this book, the accounts of the various occasions, guests and guest of honor, and ensuing hijinks are priceless.]

aj

Quinces

quince pate de fruit
Originally uploaded by michelle1975.

Pretty much everyone has their weakness when it comes to fruits and vegetables. You can spot these weaknesses at the grocery store. Just keep your eyes open for someone filling their shopping cart with unseemly amounts of, say, mandarin oranges, or burying the check-out counter under absurd amounts of mirabelle plums. I happen to have several of these weaknesses: peas, pomegranates, sour cherries, blood oranges, and quinces. Luckily their seasons are spread out, so I almost always have something to obsess over. At the moment, I've been stalking the greengrocers in search of perfectly ripe quinces, preferably cheap ones.

For something that is both inedible in its raw form and extremely hardy, quinces are generally hugely overpriced. Perhaps it is because of their relative semi-obscurity that grocers are able to sell them as something exotic. $3.00 a piece is far too much for a fruit that would, and should, grow in any Quebec garden. I am willing to pay for fragile fruits shipped for miles and miles from the tropics, but not quinces. Quinces are a magical fruit, and their scent alone is worth any price, but I was pretty happy last Saturday when I found a place selling them for $1.00 each. I bought 20.

At Christmastime, I place a few quinces around the house and wait for their amazing scent to reach every corner, one that is nicely offset with the scent that comes from oranges studded with cloves. But you shouldn't leave it at that. You have to cook quinces to discover their full potential. Recently, I've been busy putting away several jars of quince-hazelnut preserve and spiced quince butter. I can think of no better holiday condiment. Ooh, the butter spread on pannetone. A must.

Last year I made the quince paste from Chez Panisse's fruit cookbook. It was a big hit with guests. We served it as a sweet after dinner, but it is equally excellent with cheese, or champagne--or both. I made another batch this year, with even better results. Don't be afraid of overcooking the fruit, that's essentially what you want. This will keep for a year in an airtight container.

Quince Paste

3 lbs. quinces, peeled, cored, and diced *
3 cups water
2 cups sugar, plus more for dusting
juice of one lemon

Bring quinces to a boil in the water until they are very soft. Pass through a mill or sieve.

Add sugar to puree and simmer on medium heat, stirring constantly. I recommend using a bigger pot than you need to prevent getting a thousand tiny burns on your hands. The mixture will thicken and bubble a lot. Be careful. Cook until it can be mounded up in a pile, about 45 min. Add lemon juice and pour onto an oiled piece of parchment paper in a tray. Smooth out to 1/4" thick. Let cool. Reverse it onto a new piece of parchment paper and let dry overnight. Cut into squares and toss in sugar. Store in an airtight container.

Note: My paste was still a little sticky after one night. I cut it into squares, tossed it in sugar and let it dry overnight again. Now they are perfect.

* If you are super industrious, you will save the peels and cores and make quince jelly. I have yet to be so industrious.

m