Yearly Archives: 2009

THE NATIONAL TREE

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Corey and Rock are father and son, with all that that entails.  They're hauling the National Christmas Tree across the country, to its rendezvous with a lighting ceremony in front of the White House — but something happens to it along the way.  The giant Sitka Spruce captures hearts and repairs old wounds, in people and in the nation itself.

It will be rolling through your hometown tonight, wherever you happen to live, on the Hallmark Channel, at 8 o'clock, in a movie written by my friend J. B. White, with a slight assist by yours truly, based on the novel of the same name by another friend, David Kranes, and produced by a third friend of very long standing indeed, Cotty Chubb.

If you have a taste for some old-fashioned Christmas sentiment, check it out.

TURKEY SANDWICH DAYS

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My friend Jae and I concocted yet another stupendous Thanksgiving feast . . .

. . . turkey with chorizo stuffing, Jae's famous mashed potatoes with pumpkin beer gravy.

These had been done before.  But challenge is what we live for, so Jae decided to make an apple pie, his first pie of any kind ever.  I myself have never even thought about baking a pie.

On the advice of the guy in the produce section at the grocery store where we were shopping, we used a variety of apples — two Granny Smiths for tartness, two Jazz for sweetness, two Red Delicious for tradition.  Plunging deeper into tradition, Jae followed the recipe for apple pie given in the 1953 edition of The Joy Of Cooking.

It can't be improved upon — it prescribes just the right amount of sugar, of nutmeg, of cinnamon.  It results in a pie that summons back Eisenhower's America . . . kitchens in brand-new suburban housing developments, school cafeterias, coffee shops, truck stops, all-night diners in noirish neon-flooded cities.



It's a pie that makes you say, “Gee whiz!”

You're probably asking yourself, “How do they do it — two unskilled, unpracticed cooks with only the dimmest notions of kitchen procedures?”

We can do it for one reason and one reason only — we are awesome.

Now the days of turkey sandwiches begin, washed down with Mexican Coca-Colas, still made with real sugar, as they were made in America in Eisenhower's time, while Christmas music plays on the stereo.

Gee whiz.

GRATEFUL LAYS

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I went to a prep school once upon a time — just me and five hundred other bewildered boys off in the woods of New Hampshire.  We were required to attend chapel eight times a week in the building above.

On the last night of every term, “The Last Night Hymn” was sung there.  These are some of the words:

Saviour source of every blessing,
Tune my heart to grateful lays:
Streams of mercy never ceasing,
Call for ceaseless songs of praise.

It's a song for Thanksgiving, too.  The phrase “count your blessings” has never had much resonance for me.  With streams of mercy never ceasing, you might as well count the drops of water in a river flowing past you.

The image of the streams of mercy was called into my consciousness three times a year from the time I was thirteen to the time I was eighteen.  It's taken all the rest of my life to begin to understand what it means.

PARIS: DOUBLE VISION — LE POLIDOR

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There has been a restaurant at the site of the Polidor since 1845, though it did not get its present name until the beginning of the last century.  Its decor has not changed since then, and it still serves hearty 19th-Century food.

Diners sit mostly at long communal tables, and used to be able to store private wine bottles in numbered cabinet drawers.  It has always been and remains popular with students from the nearby Sorbonne, and with struggling artists.  James Joyce was an habitué — Hemingway and Kerouac dined there.  It is a place one goes to commune with literary ghosts, and with the Paris of an earlier time.  I can't remember what I ate when I went there, but it's the sort of place where you would want to try the cassoulet.

My friend Coralie visited Le Polidor recently, and took wonderful photographs of it.  She arrived after the lunch hours and before the dinner hours — the place was deserted but charged with expectancy.  It reminded her of visiting a theater before the arrival of the audience.  Here is her report about it:

Le Polidor — Dans Sa Loge


Il n'est pas encore 19 heures, lorsque je remonte la rue Monsieur Le
Prince.  Je me trouve arrivée devant Le Polidor sans l'avoir remarqué
car l'enseigne indique une ancienne crèmerie.  Je pousse la porte du
bistrot.  La salle est vide, pleine d'absence.  Mais en regardant de
plus près, je réalise que je me trouve dans l'intimité de sa loge.  Je
m'assieds sans bruit aucun, me fondant dans le décor.

Je ne suis pas
sensée être là, et pourtant chaque objet, les tables dressées où
tiennent quelques dizaines de couverts, dès lors que mon regard
s'approche, me susurrent à voix basse leur texte respectif.  Il me
semble saisir des fragments de conversation traversées par des rires
enthousiastes, tandis que les mets, petites oeuvres picturales
s'apprêtent à vivre leur éphémérité.  La chaleur humaine m'enveloppe
dans un bain de lumière, — de ce côté de la rampe.  Fouillant du regard
l'espace environnant, je pénètre le sombre du fond de la salle.  Une
pièce massive de bois tachée de mosaïques me rappelle la cuirasse de
l'armure des samouraï.

M'enfonçant dans l'effet magique du
clair-obscur, je découvre un coffre plein de trésors, avec sa myriade
de petites pièces d'or incrustées.  Délicatement je fais glisser un
petit tiroir afin de ne pas déranger le script. Jacques Lacan, le
célèbre psychanalyste décrivait cette métamorphose… lorsque l'objet
devient une chose.  Je respire à peine, afin que du fond des cuisines,
ma présence ne soit pas soupçonnée.  Soudainement, je suis frappée
d'enchantement.

Dans chaque tiroir loge un petit monde qui fait fi du
temps. L'âme de son hôte y séjourne toujours.  Je suis comblée par
cette découverte : Nowhere… Now Here. Maintenant je dois vite quitter
ce petit théâtre du monde, et laisser la représentation se donner.



Me dirigeant vers la sortie du Polidor, je sers précieusement tout
contre moi, la richesse du trésor qui désormais, m'anime.  Plus que
quelques mètre de carrelage et je suis dans la rue.  Tirant doucement
la porte derrière moi d'un geste assuré, j'efface ma traversée des
lieux.  Afin de marquer ce vécu du sceau de la spatialité, je me rends
attentive au seuil qui me sépare de l'autre réalité.  Ce dernier acte
se livre comme une sacralisation de ce qui m'a éprouvée.


Je prends deux ou trois clichés 'du dehors'.  La pénombre a l'épaisseur
du rêve.

[All photographs © 2009 Coralie Chappat.]

BEEF BURGUNDY MACQUEEN

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This legendary recipe, long sought-after in culinary circles, passionately admired by icons of the silver screen, dismissed as a myth, decried as hype, is now revealed for public scrutiny.  Two days ago, scientific cooks convened in the ultra-moderne mardecortesbaja test kitchen to put it through its paces and to report on the results without fear or favor.

Finally, the truth can be told.  This is not the simplest recipe I have ever posted on this site.  It requires some hard work and some precise timing.  But here is the bottom line — if you follow Scott MacQueen's rule below, as I did, religiously, you will find you have concocted something miraculous.  It is to stew what Margaux is to vin ordinaire.  It is a testament to the fantastical delicacy and complexity of French culture, and makes for a meal both hearty and sublime, an experience both sensual and spiritual.  Scott writes:

You will need:
 
6 slice of bacon — must be nice fat marbled bacon, nothing lean.  Oscar Mayer works well.

3 pounds stewing beef

Olive oil

4 cups burgundy or other dry red: I usually buy a minimum of 2 bottles of the same vintage for cooking, and if I have been tony that week and am flush I try to use a better wine so I can serve the same with the meal.  This is not necessary, as a basic $8 bottle of burgundy or Cabernet Sauvignon from a reputable vintner works well when reduced by cooking

2 cups beef stock (commercial brands like Swansons A-OK)

2 tablespoons tomato paste (a pain and a waste if you open a small can and have no other use for the remaining paste; to be frugal you can do without, but I think it adds a bit to the body.  If you elect to do without it, add about 1/4 cup of ketchup to approximate the tomato flavor)

3 crushed garlic cloves (only use fresh)

1/2 teaspoon thyme

1 bay leaf

Salt

1 pounds mushrooms, browned in butter (I am a pig on mushrooms, and have been known to sometimes increase this by 50% to 100%)

2 large yellow onions (chopped & browned in butter)

Roux: 1/2 cup white flour browned in 1/2 cup melted salted butter



Be sure to wear a good apron that covers shirt to thighs as this can be messy.  [Editor's Note: The risk-taking scientific chefs worked in casual clothes without protection.]
 
Peel and dice your onions and place aside in bowl.  Clean and slice your mushrooms and place aside in bowl.
 
Get a nice large stove-top stew pot.  Fill it with the wine, beef stock, thyme, bay leaf, garlic, tomato paste, salt to taste (I use a teaspoon but shouldn't — your mileage may vary, based on the blood pressure needs of you and those you love).  Put on low flame on the burner.
 
Fry the bacon gently until nice light golden brown, with all fatty parts crisped.  Save the fat in the pan, put the bacon aside and either nibble on it as you cook (if you are a pig like me) or, thoughtfully, keep it aside to crumble later on a tossed green salad.

[Editor's note: The mardecortesbaja chefs nibbled on the bacon, eventually consuming it all.]


 
In a new pan, brown up the onions in butter until they are transparent and golden brown, keep on the side. Brown up the sliced mushrooms in same sauté pan.  Add the mushrooms to the onions, keeping all of the extruded water juice.  Place to the side.
 
Add about 3 tablespoons of the olive oil to the bacon fat, get it to a medium-high heat before slowly adding the beef to the pan.  If you add it too fast, the meat cools the hot fat and doesn't sear the face quickly.  Brown the meat quickly on all sides, raising the heat as needed but being careful not to burn it (the fat & olive oil have low smoking points).  Watch out for splatter; a splatter screen is helpful if you have one to reduce spitting as you will otherwise get hot spots on your forearms as well as a greasy stove top.  Add beef to the pot when browned.  I usually need 2 or 3 batches to complete all browning.
 
Use some of the red wine to de-glaze your pan with a wooden spoon and add the residue to the pot.
 
Cover the stew pot with a lid, leaving it just slightly ajar for minimum venting to prevent steam build-up.  Place the flame on low.  Let it cook for 3 hours.
 
This is a good time to make your roux.  You know how — melt butter, drizzle in flour slowly to the hot butter and stir with wooden spoon, letting it get a nice golden brown in color.  When all the flour is browned & integrated (no lumps), put aside in a bowl.


 
Within 30 minutes your house will take on the most intoxicating aroma which you might not notice immediately as it gathers — but someone walking in at this point will begin to salivate and make loud remarks about it.  [Editor's Note: No visitors entered the mardecortesbaja test kitchen during the preparation of this dish, but the experts at work there became semi-intoxicated by the aroma.]
 
At the 3-hour mark, stir again and put the onions & mushrooms into the pot, stirring thoroughly.  The mix should now have a nice lumpy stew-like consistency, but still be viscous. If there is no fluid (i. e., if it has boiled away because you had your heat too high), carefully add 1/2 to 1 cup of water until the stew is free flowing (but you shouldn't have to do this.)
 
Let it cook for another half hour, then slowly add the roux, stirring with a wooden spoon to distribute it evenly.  It should have the consistency of a thick, viscous stew.


 
[Editor's Note: Above, the first roux ever made in the mardecortesbaja test kitchen, a stunning success, is added to the pot.]

I always serve this over egg noodles, with a tossed green salad (only a light vinaigrette, or preferably oil & vinegar dressing, so as not to fight the flavors), a good burgundy or Sauvignon comme boisson, and — essential — fresh crusty French bread with whipped sweet butter.

[Editor's Note: The scientific chefs had secured the makings of a salad but were too excited about eating the main dish to bother with it.  They also forgot the bread but didn't care — the Beef Burgundy engaged all their senses with its subtle blend of flavors, each somehow distinct after all the simmering.]
 
If you find that you like this, it is a perfect dish to make in a double batch and freeze.  It reheats beautifully in minutes in a microwave (though I prefer to do it on the stove top) and makes for fragrant, elegant cooking on a time budget.


 
TIPS:
 
I actually like it better day 2, when it has 24 hours to marinate after cooking.  It is more tender and aromatic.  Each time I reheat it for re-serving, I put a few shots of red wine into it to “freshen” the wine flavor.

[Editor's Note: What he said.]

STEPLADDERS!

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They lurk in closets, utility rooms, sheds and garages — seemingly innocent, ordinary home implements . . . and yet they hold the potential for doom, sudden and ghastly.

Do we take the warning labels on them seriously?  No!  We laugh at them — until we tumble backwards into nightmare, into injuries, multiple, grievous injuries . . . or death!

CELEBRATING CARLA

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In a recent post I noted the 100th birthday of horror movie and Baja California icon Carla Laemmle.  Imagine my delight and surprise when I heard from Scott MacQueen, a reader and friend of mardecortesbaja, that he knew the great lady and had hosted her birthday party in his own home, doing the cooking for it himself.  (Scott's recipe for Beef Burgundy will appear on this site in the not too distant future, as soon as I have a chance to try it out in the world-famous mardecortesbaja test kitchen.)

Scott also sent along a picture of the festivities, above — with Carla flanked by David Skal (author of Hollywood Gothic) on the left and by Rick Atkins (co-author of Among the Rugged Peaks, Carla's biography) on the right.  (Click on the titles of the books to buy them!)

Ms. Laemmle looks — there's just no other word for it — adorable.

REPORT FROM PARIS: HOUDON

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Jean-Antoine Houdon (1741-1848) was the greatest of French sculptors — indeed, one of the greatest of all sculptors.  His marble portrait busts represent the pinnacle of his art, with their startling realism and feeling of life, deep psychological insight and sublime treatment of the marble itself.

He did famous portraits of most of the leaders of the Enlightenment and standing before these portraits today you feel yourself in the presence of these extraordinary men — closer than even their writings bring you.  Voltaire's smile, Benjamin Franklin's genial intellect, Thomas Jefferson's emotional reserve are things you experience directly though Houdon's art.  If I recall correctly, the portrait above is of an actress — her dramatic expression is not Houdon's but her own.

Franklin sent Houdon to America in 1785 to make a portrait of George Washington at Mount Vernon, where the hero of the American Revolution sat for a life mask and wet clay models, which became the basis for many subsequent commissions of busts and statues of the great man.  In all of them, Washington looks both severe and modest, grand and simple — he could be a teamster or a king, which I guess made him such a perfect candidate for first President of the United States.  His mystery, impenetrable even by his contemporaries, remains intact in Houdon's portrait.

My friend Coralie sent me the picture of the bust at the head of this report, which I think she took in the Louvre, from her iPhone just as her plane was about to take off from Paris for her return to Geneva.  She said she wanted to share it in case the plane crashed.  This makes perfect sense to me.  With all of Houdon's portraits, you get a feeling they might change their expression, might leave the room, at any moment.  Houdon's work doesn't seem to have been made for the ages, but in the now for the now, whenever that now might be.  They have the immediacy of ancient Greek sculpture, of real life coursing through stone — pure miracle.

REPORT FROM PARIS: LE PETIT BAR

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The mardecortesbaja sentimental tour of Paris continues . . .

Last night, the indefatigable Coralie had a drink at Le Petit Bar at the Ritz, where Hemingway liked to drink when he was staying at that sublime hotel.  (When American troops entered Paris in 1944, Hemingway, a war correspondent, was in the vanguard and headed straight for the Ritz to liberate it — he then went to visit Picasso, to see if he was all right, and finding him out, left him a crate of grenades as a calling card.)

Coralie informs me that Le Petit Bar was originally the ladies' bar at the Ritz, when mixed drinking was frowned upon.  Today, it is restored to what it looked like in Hemingway's time, with the addition of photographs of Papa on the walls, one of which, with the big fish, can be partially seen in her photograph above.

Cheers!

REPORT FROM PARIS: LE GRAND VÉFOUR

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My friend Coralie had lunch today at Le Grand Véfour, and sends the picture above to prove it.  Envy her!

The first “grand restaurant” in Paris, Le Grand Véfour opened in 1784 as the Café de Chartres.  Napoleon is said to have dined there.  In 1820 it was bought by Jean Véfour and renamed.  Between then and 1905, when it closed for 42 years, every famous French person you've ever heard of, like Victor Hugo, and many you haven't heard of, dined there.  It was reopened in 1948, and became a favorite hang-out of Colette, who lived nearby.

Its decor doesn't seem to have changed much since its Café de Chartres days — the food is more variable.  From time to time it will lose its third Michelin star, then regain it.  Each development in the ongoing drama is headline news in France.

Coralie describes the experience of dining there today as “'si raffiné'!  C'est un pur moment esthétique.“

REPORT FROM PARIS: A MOVEABLE FEAST

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Today, intrepid correspondent Coralie visited the Musée Grévin in Paris, a charming old 19th-Century establishment (founded in 1882) which features wax figures and other curiosities.  She snapped the picture above of a Hemingway figure before heading off to the Brasserie Lipp, on the Boulevard St. Germain, to commune with Papa's spirit by having a meal he famously enjoyed there once (or twice) — filets de hareng pommes de terre a l'huile, suivi du cervelas rémoulade avec une bière blonde Lipp . . . which is to say, herring and potatoes in oil, followed by a dish consisting of a kind of German sausage with a celery root and Dijon mustard concoction on the side, all washed down with a blonde Lipp beer.

Hemingway told two stories about having this meal at Lipp.  In one, he had just cashed the check for the first story he sold to an American magazine, and went off to celebrate by himself at Lipp.  In the other, Sylvia Beach, who ran the famous bookstore Shakespeare & Co., said he was looking too thin and slipped him some money for a decent lunch.  In both stories, he ate cervelas rémoulade at the venerable old brasserie.

It became, in any case, symbolic of his struggling years in Paris, about which he once wrote, “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”  Below, the first course of Hemingway's meal, as served to Coralie today:



I was not particularly young when I first went to Paris, nor struggling, but my memories of it follow me around all the same, and my friend Coralie has allowed me to inhabit them again vicariously but vividly, just as I once inhabited Hemingway's Paris vicariously and vividly by eating cervelas rémoulade one afternoon by myself at the Brasserie Lipp.

REPORT FROM PARIS: LA COUPOLE

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A couple of hours ago my friend Coralie was sitting having a coffee and a petite meringue at La Coupole in Montparnasse.  It's one of my favorite places in Paris, so she sent me a picture she took of it while she was there.

Opened in 1927, La Coupole has been restored more or less to its original splendor, when it was the largest brasserie in Paris and a hang-out between the world wars for artists, especially expatriate artists — everyone from Picasso to Hemingway.  Fans of the McNally brothers' brasseries in New York will recognize at places like La Coupole where they got the inspiration for their decor.

When I first went to La Coupole in the 1980s, the service could be brusque if your accent wasn't quite right, but once I had dinner there alone and all that changed.  French waiters have a tender regard for solitary diners, and treat them with an almost affectionate solicitude.  Dining alone can be socially awkward for some, and French waiters understand this, so they work hard to make the solitary diner feel as though he or she is the most important client in the room.  It is one of the many subtle graces that make French society so civilized, especially when food is involved.