On my first day of cooking school in 1986, I was issued a scratchy set of polyester chef’s whites, a canvas roll holding a set of Henckels knives, and an empty two-inch binder emblazoned with the name of the school, L’Académie de Cuisine. It was then, and remains today, the pre-eminent school for chefs in the District of Columbia area.
Each day we came to learn more about the pedagogy of classical French cuisine through a three-course meal that we prepared and consumed, standing at our fully equipped cooking stations.
For instance, on Oct. 30, 1986, we ate a terrine of duck liver, followed by steak au poivre with gratin dauphinois and white chocolate mousse. On Jan. 12, 1987, we lunched on lobster consommé, poussin roti normande (game hens in an apple cream sauce) and fruit tart.
Along the way, we consumed oeufs en gelée (boiled eggs in aspic), veal with morels and salsify, an elaborate conical dessert called a croquembouche, sole Véronique with white grapes in a sauce velouté, chicken Kiev, pear charlotte, kidneys with mustard sauce and potage Dubarry, which is cream of cauliflower soup to you and me. There wasn’t a vegetable in the larder that didn’t get turned into cream soup.
I don’t recite these meals from memory because the menus comprise the first several typed pages I inserted into the three-hole binder. Every day, we took notes from the verbally explained recipes and went home to our electric typewriters to render them in print. By the end of the year, my binder was thick with menus and recipes.
So many recipes.
While desserts got the full treatment with measurements, cooking times and oven temperatures (“Pastry is more of a science,” the instructors inveighed repeatedly), the savory dishes made it to the page in bare outlines. A shorthand list of ingredients preceded an order of steps for preparation. That was it.
A recipe for blanquette de veau (a creamy veal stew much beloved by yesteryear’s French) lists mirepoix (chopped carrots, onions, leeks and celery), “b.g.” (bouquet garni, consisting of thyme, bay leaf and parsley stems), cubed veal, roux, cream, sauteed mushroom quarters and blanched pearl onions.
To prepare: Simmer the veal in water or stock with the mirepoix and b.g., strain and discard the vegetables and herbs, thicken the stock with roux and cream, then add back in the veal, mushrooms and onions. Make as much or as little as you need, and use your taste memory to get the right flavor and consistency. These recipes don’t even mention salt and pepper because: duh.
Reading through the book today, I can see a kind of late 1980s trendiness shining through the classical French format. (It’s like when you rewatch a favorite 1980s movie and notice the feathered hair and mullets.) Sauces went on the bottoms of plates, and were often swirled for maximum effect. We made yin-yang designs of red and yellow pepper coulis on the plate before arranging poached scallops and snow peas on top. Then, for dessert, we painted starburst designs with raspberry puree over English custard sauce (crème anglaise) before setting down an edible cookie tuile filled with white chocolate mousse.
This recipe binder served me well during my first few post-graduate years working as a cook and a chef. I often consulted it for inspiration when it was my time to prepare a nightly special.
I baked sea bass fillets with leeks, carrots and thyme in a puff pastry crust that I trimmed into the shape of a fish and even decorated with overlapping half-moon cuts that looked like scales after baking. (The kid in me always wanted to put an eye and smile on the fishie’s head.) I remember my supervisor’s amazement that I could pull off such a dish with only an hour of prep time, but it was thanks to my binder’s recipe for quick puff pastry made with flour, frozen butter, ice water and a food processor.
At one restaurant, I had to prepare the desserts in the afternoon before cooking on the line in the evening. The recipes for chocolate mousse, frozen Grand Marnier soufflé, lemon curd tart, hazelnut dacquoise torte and raspberry Bavarian were all committed to memory.
After I stopped cooking professionally, I still consulted the binder when I wanted to make an impress-the-guests dish for a party at home. I’ve broken so many home blenders trying to pulverize lobster shells for a classic bisque (but so worth the effort). I’ve reproduced the pike quenelles from the Plaza Athenée Hotel in Paris (its signature dish) and spent the next week cleaning crusty fish mousse from every corner of the kitchen.
Sometimes, I want to make croissants or an honest old-school duck à l’orange, and the binder comes out. Whenever I’m in a pinch for a dessert, I know that chocolate mousse — without the 1980s raspberry sauce — will never disappoint.
La Mousse Au Chocolat
Hands on: 15 minutes
Total time: 15 minutes
Servings: 8
- 8 ounces (by weight) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate
- 2 large eggs
- 2 large egg yolks
- 1/2 cup sugar
- 1 pint very cold heavy whipping cream
Melt the chocolate in a double boiler. Whip the eggs, yolks and sugar in a mixer set on high until they ribbon. Warm the egg mixture over the double boiler briefly to bring the temperature to that of the chocolate. Add the chocolate to the egg mixture. Set aside in a bowl and clean the mixer bowl. Whip the cream in the mixer until it has soft peaks. Add it to the chocolate mixture without overworking. Let cool in the refrigerator.
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