Un Dîner Français—2e Partie: Salade aux Poires

eat. Next course was the salad. I still have lots of pears on my tree, so I decided to replicate a photo I had cut from a magazine and added to my recipe binder, of a frisée salad with pear slices, candied pecans and bleu cheese.

First I had to make the pecans. I had lots of egg whites left over from the crème brulée (to be described in a later post), which came in handy for the candying part. For one pound of nuts, I mixed together a cup of sugar, and two teaspoons each of salt, cayenne powder and garlic powder.


I whisked three egg whites together ‘til starting to get frothy (but still quite liquid), and then poured the sugar/spice mixture into them and stirred them until they were all coated well.


They bake in a 250° oven for about an hour—until they start to turn brown. Stir them occasionally as they bake. They’ll be sticky when you take them out. Let them cool, and then break them apart. They can be stored in the freezer, and used as needed.


And what was Robin doing while I made the candied pecans? Once again, she was unclogging a drain—this time the shower. Funny how these things always seem to happen right before a dinner party.

under the house with her trusty snake

In addition to making the pecans for the salad, I also prepped the vegetables that would accompany the main course, on the afternoon of the party. Julia recommends that boeuf bourguignon be served with boiled potatoes, so I bought some small Yukon golds, which I would toss with butter and parsley. And the day before at the farmers’ market, I had spotted some Romano (flat) beans, and some baby yellow summer squash that looked like tiny space ships. I washed all the veg, then cut the squash in half, and snapped the beans into bite-size pieces.


Here’e my mise-en-place for the salad: crumbled bleu cheese, candied walnuts, balsamic vinaigrette, and the pears (which I waited until right before service to slice, so they wouldn’t turn brown). The frisée was in the fridge, to stay chilled. (The parsley, butter and lemon in the foreground were for the sole meunière.)


And here is the finished product:


Still to come: the boeuf bourguignon, and then the crème brulée. But before that, I’ll be blogging about the big Pumpkin Extravaganza!

Happy Hallowe’en!

Un Dîner Français—1re Partie: Sole Meunière

eat. Our friends Lynne and Michael had us over for dinner earlier in the year, and Lynne—who is of Japanese ancestry—cooked (with some assistance from Mike) a fabulous Japanese meal for us. Although I’m not French, I agreed to cook them a French meal in return. Also invited were our mutual friends, John and Ann.

a fancy French meal entails lots of stemware
(thanks! to my dishwasher, Robin)

I dragged out my cookbooks, and my notebooks and binders from cooking school, and pondered the menu. Flipping through the pages of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, I realized that I had never made Julia’s boeuf bourguignon—which has experienced a huge resurgence in popularity since the release of Julie and Julia.

Well, it was high time I did so. And it was a good dish to make for a party, since it’s best if made the day before.

This got me thinking of Julie and Julia and the scene that opens the movie (as well as Julia Child’s autobiography My Years in France), and of Julia’s first taste of French food: that moist, buttery sole meunière in the restaurant in Rouen, La Couronne. I’d never made that either, and I’d been wanting to try it out ever since I’d read her book three years earlier. So be it.

A light salad was called for after the fish course, to cut the richness of the butter. And boiled baby potatoes and some simple, sautéed vegetable to go with the beef dish. For the dessert, I settled on crème brulèe, which could also be prepared the day before. Voilà! I had my menu.

time for the guests to arrive!

Even though I made the dishes in a different order, I will present them here (over several blog posts) in the sequence we had them for dinner.

First Course: Sole Meunière
(i.e., with brown butter, lemon and parsley)

First I had to buy the fish. I waited until the morning of the party to get it, so it would be as fresh as possible. I figured it was unlikely that I’d be able to find fresh Dover sole (also known as Atlantic sole) in these parts, which is probably what Julia ate that fateful day in Normandy. But since it’s on the Seafood Watch’s “avoid” list, it’s best we didn’t have it, in any case. I decided that any flat fish would be fine, but although I went two four different fish purveyors, not a one had any flat fish except for fillets. I wanted a whole fish, however, which would help assure its freshness (and that way I could use the bones for stock).

I finally settled on an almost whole—it was, alas, headless—sablefish (aka butter fish, or black cod—fish have so many damn names; it’s infuriating!), from Whole Foods:


Sablefish has a rich, buttery taste, and a lovely, moist texture. And, it’s okay with the Seafood Watch folks. As you can see, it’s not a flat fish, but after it was split down the middle and deboned, it saw that it would fry up nicely.


I got the bones and tail simmering for stock (which I’d freeze for later use),


and cut the filleted fish into six pieces. I left the black skin on; it has a good flavor, and crisps up nicely when fried. These I seasoned, right before cooking, with salt and pepper:


Sole (or sablefish) meunière is easy to make. Besides the fish, all you need is a bit of oil, a stick of butter, a few tablespoons of flour, a fresh lemon, and some chopped parsley.

I also had a glass of bubbly on hand (I served champagne as the before-dinner drink), to provide sustenance as I cooked the first course of my dîner français:


Right before you’re ready to cook the fish, dredge the pieces in flour, and shake off any excess. Pour a tablespoon of oil in a heated heavy skillet (I always use cast iron for things like this), and then drop in a generous chunk of butter, and let it melt:


When the butter stops foaming, place the fish pieces in the pan, skin-side up. Let them brown—not too long, just a minute or two, depending on the thickness of the fish—and then flip them over carefully with a spatula:

these are a little crowded—it would have been better to use two pans

When they’re cooked through—but not overcooked—remove them to heated plates. Keep the heat on under the pan, and add another chunk of butter to it. While it’s melting, sprinkle the fish with chopped parsley, and squeeze some lemon juice on the pieces. Watch the butter, and once it’s melted, keep scraping up the bits that settle on the bottom of the pan, and continue to cook the butter until it starts to turn brown. Pour this over the fish, and it’s ready to go.



Sole Meunière Recipe (yield 4)
(adapted from Julia’s Kitchen Wisdom,
courtesy of Chicago Tribune)

4 fillets of sole (or other similar fish), seasoned with S&P
2 T flour
1 T cooking oil
3 T unsalted butter (divided)
2 T chopped parsley
½ fresh lemon

Dredge the fish in flour, shaking off excess.

Heat the oil and 1 T of the butter in a pan until the butter foam begins to subside. Lay in the fillets and sauté for a minute or two on each side, just until the fish begins to take on a light springiness to the touch. Do not overcook; if the fish flakes, it is overdone.

Remove to a hot platter and sprinkle a tablespoon of minced fresh parsley over the fish.

Rapidly wipe the pan clean with paper towels (so the flour residue will not speckle the butter to come—or use a fresh pan). Heat the remaining 2 T of butter in the pan, swishing it about and letting it brown lightly.

Remove the pan from heat, squeeze in the juice of half a lemon, and, if you wish, toss in a spoonful of capers before spooning the hot butter over the fish.

[Note that Julia’s sole in Rouen was a whole fish, which the waiter no doubt filleted for her at the table. I believe this dish is traditionally made with a whole fish, but for a dinner party it’s much easier to make it with already filleted pieces.]

To be continued....

A Look at the 2010 Racing Season

ride. There have been three big race-route announcements in the cycling world within the last two weeks: The Tour de France route was announced on October 14, the Tour of California on the 22nd, and then yesterday the Giro d’Italia. While I’m not an avid follower of the Giro, I am excited about the TdF and ToC routes for next year.

It was decided several months ago to move the Tour of California from February to May. Just look at this photo from last year’s Marin to Santa Cruz stage, and you’ll see why:

climbing Bonny Doon Road in the freezing rain
[photo: Kenny Karst]

Although the ToC now conflicts with the Giro d’Italia, most of the high-profile riders who compete in the Tour de France skip the Giro, as it takes too much out of you, riding two three-week races so close to each other. So our favorite TdF stars will still be able to ride the California race (which lasts only 8 days) if they so desire. Lance Armstrong, Levi Leipheimer, George Hincapie and Dave Zabriskie have all already announced that they will ride the ToC.

But the big news in these-here parts about the Tour of California is that Santa Cruz will once again be a host city, and stage 3—on May 18 (yes, I already have it calendared)—from San Francisco, will finish here. Yippee! The race will also for the first time have a mountain stage from Pasadena to Big Bear, something that the snow would have prevented in a February race.

With regard to the 2010 Tour de France route, what’s got me most excited is stage 3, through southern Belgium, which has 13.2 km. of pavé—i.e., cobblestones.

web photo [source]

Sectors (as they’re called) of pavé are a traditional part of the Spring Classic races such as Liège-Bastogne-Liège and Paris-Roubaix (aka the “Hell of the North”).

why Paris-Roubaix got its moniker
(that’s George Hincape in the lead, in case you can’t tell)
web photo [source]

Cobblestones are grueling for the riders, because of the bumps, the mud (if it’s raining), the flat-tires they cause, not to mention the frequent spills and pile-ups.

Paris-Roubaix again
web photo [source]

The Tour de France doesn’t often include pavé sections, and the decision has created controversy, with the “experts” already taking sides and facing off on the issue (too risky; why endanger potential yellow-jersey contenders in the first week? vs. exciting; make the winner prove himself on all types of road surfaces). I’m in the first camp: Pavé is a cycling tradition, so it’s fitting that some be included in the Tour de France. And, hey, the yellow jersey could also ride off the face of le Tourmalet—a much more dangerous prospect—but no one is arguing that there shouldn’t be mountain stages. [Click here for a good overview of the first week of the TdF, including stage 3.]

Some News About My Bike Riding: I saw my first ever coyote the other day, leisurely trotting across the road, right in front of me, on my ride up to UCSC (it was on Coolidge Drive, by the East Field House, at about 8:15 a.m. on a Saturday morning). Needless to say, I was very excited.

And then, this morning, I saw the Natural Bridges bobcat again (a female, I’m guessing, as it’s fairly small). I came upon her from behind, and followed her as she walked up the road, and then she primly sat down on a stump and turned and watched me as I rode slowly by (about 10 feet away), watching her. Chouette!

Oktoberfest

eat. Tsk, tsk... I’m a week behind on my updates. Last Saturday, my friend Cathy hosted an Oktoberfest party at her house. I knew this would be a scrumptious affair, as Cathy—whom I’ve known since we were roommates at UCSC—is a terrific cook. (She and her husband Tom, who also lived in our dorm, own Zachary’s restaurant here in Santa Cruz, which you may recall from an earlier post is the only place I know of outside of France where your eggs will truly be “lightly” scrambled if you ask for them that way.) Moreover, Cathy studied German in college, and later lived in Bavaria for many months, so I knew she’d do up the Germanic fare with Genuss.

I was not disappointed. There were two kinds of sausages: bockwurst, made with finely ground veal and cream (yum!), and bratwurst, which are smokier, and typically have pork or beef in addition to veal. I was given the honor of BBQing the wursts.


Cathy had made German potato salad and a radish salad (which was especially yummy) to go with the sausages, and had also bought a loaf of hearty bread with a malty taste that she said was the closest she could find to the bread she remembered eating in Germany.


For dessert we had German truffles, chocolates, and wafer cookies.

Oh yeah—and the beer. Lots of it. And lots of varieties. All German, of course. They went great with the chocolate, as well as the sausages.


Last Saturday was also the 20th anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake. Twenty years earlier, Cathy had been in the hospital, having just delivered a bouncing boy (Charlie—now himself a UCSC student) the day before. (She was therefore one of the lucky ones not to lose electricity, hospitals of course having emergency power). I had just gotten home from visiting her when the earthquake struck. To commemorate the event, we had a “duck and cover” practice during our Oktoberfest celebration, at 5:04 p.m.

l to r: Robin, Cathy, ich, Jessica, Tom, Linda, Jamie

Vielen dank, Cathy!!

And Now For Something Completely Different: You might want to check out David Byrne’s latest blog post, about the recently-published book Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human, by Richard Wrangham. (Since it’s a description of what the New York Review of Books had to say about the book, the post is actually a summary of a summary of the book. But I prefer David Byrne’s writing to that of the NYRB, so I’m willing to accept the double-hearsay aspect of his account.)

Wragham’s thesis is (according to Byrne, via the NYRB) that it was the advent of cooking by proto-humans—as opposed to merely eating their food raw—that enabled them to walk upright, get brainier, become more social, and even to verbalize (and maybe sing, too, Byrne conjectures). I like that theory.

Hallelujah!

sing. As I mentioned in my last post, the Cabrillo Chorus performed the first part (plus two additional choruses) of Handel’s Messiah last Sunday for the college’s new recital hall’s dedicatory concert.

inside the new hall—nice, no?

The chorus had previously sung Part 1 of Messiah at last December’s annual Christmas concert, and then last summer—in celebration of the composer’s 250th anniversary—performed the entire three-part oratorio in Dublin, where Handel first conducted the work in 1742.

I was in Hawai‘i for the Christmas concert, and didn’t go to Ireland with the chorus, so—other than sight-reading it years ago, eggnog in hand, at my mom’s singing group’s Christmas party—I had never before sung Messiah. When we ran through the choruses for the first time in rehearsal a couple of weeks ago, I was therefore one of the few who didn’t already know the piece inside and out.

we learned in junior high band to draw eyeglasses
at tempo changes—i.e., watch the conductor!

I was pleased with my performance that night. In the ten years I’ve been in the chorus, my reading ability has much improved, and I was able to get through the piece without too many blunders. (Of course, having everyone around me singing it perfectly also helped.)

Last week we had two rehearsals in the newly-constructed recital hall. When I arrived, I was met with this sight in the entryway to the hall:


Okay, so it wasn’t completely finished yet.

Cheryl was on the stage, discussing placement of the harpsichord with some of her students.


After a few minutes she asked the chorus to come up and get on the risers.


It was time to test the waters, singing for the first time in the new hall. Accompanying us were members of Ensemble Monterey, joined by Cabrillo music instructor Sue Brown as concert-master, and our rehearsal pianist Vlada Volkova-Moran on harpsichord.


We sang the first few choruses while Cheryl’s husband John—the director of Ensemble Monterey, who would be taping the concert—wandered around to different locations in the house, listening to the balance.

“The chorus is drowning out the orchestra,” he told Cheryl at the close of “And He Shall Purify.” That was a new one—it’s always been the opposite in the past, with the orchestra overwhelming the chorus. Cheryl implored us to sing lighter and softer, and we continued with our run-through.

“Still too loud,” John said after a few more minutes.

Cheryl furrowed her brows. “Okay. Everyone off the risers; let’s move them—as well as the orchestra—up a few feet.” This was a bit tricky, because we did not want to scratch that beautiful new pine floor, but it was done quickly and efficiently.

the chorus put their backs into it

Back on stage, we tried again. John gave a big thumbs up from the back of the house—this had done the trick (though we still needed to sing lightly, Cheryl admonished us.)

Time for the famous “Hallelujah” chorus. We jumped into it with gusto, but were quickly cut off by Cheryl, who reminded us that it was “ha-LEH-loo-ya,” not “ha-LAYEE-loo-ya.”

Here’s a short (:23) video of this portion of the rehearsal (the angle is strange because I had nowhere to set the camera but on the floor in front of me):



I wondered, as we rehearsed the “Hallelujah” chorus, if the audience would stand during the song at the concert.

Legend has it that while attending a performance of Messiah in London, King George II rose to his feet during this chorus. Since protocol demands that whenever the monarch stands, so does everyone in the monarch’s presence, the entire audience (and the orchestra!) therefore stood as well, initiating a tradition that has lasted more than two centuries. No one apparently knows the reason why the king stood at that point (or whether the anecdote is even true), but according to the Wikipedia entry on this subject, the most popular explanations are these:

Because standing in the presence of royalty is a sign of respect, and the “Hallelujah” chorus places Christ as the “King of Kings,” by standing, King George II showed that he accepted that he too was subject to the “Lord of Lords.”

He was so moved by the performance that he rose to his feet.

He arrived late to the performance, and the crowd rose when he finally made an appearance.

His gout acted up at that precise moment, and he rose to relieve the discomfort.

After an hour of musical performance, he needed to stretch his legs.

The first is the most commonly-repeated theory, but I personally prefer the last three. And, yes, the audience did stand for the “Hallelujah” chorus at our concert.

I’m glad to say the performance went off without a hitch, and we—as well as the new hall—were warmly received.

flanked by my fellow altos
(altos rock!)

A Peek Behind the Chorus Scenes

sing. For the past two weeks my life has been all about the chorus: The last of the Grand Opening concerts dedicating the new Cabrillo College Visual and Performing Arts Complex was yesterday, and out of the preceding thirteen days, there have been just four in which we have not had either a rehearsal or a concert.


Although it’s been a rather exhausting time, it’s also been invigorating—you get on a roll, and then on the days you’re not singing you actually feel a bit let down.

Plus, the new halls are terrific; it’s a delight to sing in them.

The first dedication was of the new 581-seat Crocker Theater, which spanned three nights and one matinee. The second—just one matinee—was of the new 369-seat recital hall in the music building. Today’s blog will be about the Crocker Theater performances.

Our chorus was just one of many different acts—including dance troupes, a brass ensemble, theatrical presentations, and an orchestra. We sang our first piece—“Consecrate the Place and Day”—at the beginning of the show, standing in the aisles and around the upper level of the hall, giving a “surround sound” to our performance.

the tenors getting into place across the hall from us altos

After this two-minute song, we had almost two hours to kill before going on stage again. It wasn’t practical to leave and come back, since parking was tight (and who wanted to go out and about in their concert garb, in any case). As a result, folks came prepared for the long wait in the chorus practice room, and quickly settled into a variety of diversions.

Some of the younger singers played Risk—a good activity, since it took several nights to finish the game (they also played poker one night).


Others used the time to catch up on their reading,


while some practiced their parts:


In the background of the above photo you can see parents of the Cabrillo Youth Chorus, who would be joining us for our final songs: the “Gloria Dios” from Ramirez’ Misa Criolla, and then excerpts from Aaron Copland’s The Tender Land, which would close the show.

The “Gloria Dios” is a peppy piece with a Latin beat, accompanied by guitar and percussion. Thinking it would be festive and fun to add a bit of color to our ensemble, Cheryl (our director) had commissioned the creation of a hundred-odd silk scarves for us to wear during the song. These were stowed in a rolling suitcase, which we dug into during the two-hour wait, grabbing our favorite colors:


I, of course, chose yellow:


Here are some more of the singers’ down-time activities:

knitting, working on a laptop, and reading

And then, again, some folks just took the opportunity to catch a few Zs....


Finally we got the 15-minute warning from the house manager. Cheryl warmed us up again, and we ran over a few of the more sticky parts:


And then it was time to head over to the theater:



Next post: We dedicate the recital hall with a performance of Handel’s Messiah.

A Windfall

eat. One doesn’t often get to use the word “windfall” in its literal sense, but after last week’s storm—the remnants of Typhoon Melor, which dumped 10 inches of rain in the Santa Cruz Mountains and brought with it high winds—we ended up with a large windfall of pears:


What to do with them all? Most of the pears were bruised from the fall onto the rocky ground below, so something needed to be done with them post-haste. After consulting various websites devoted to the subject of preserving pears, I decided the easiest thing would be simply to slice and poach them in sugar water and freeze them for later use.

Rather than add any spices or flavorings at this point, I would keep the pears plain, to allow them to be doctored up differently as I use them. Some will no doubt end up as dessert pears, with cinnamon and clove; but some can be transformed into chutney with the addition of vinegar and chili powder (and perhaps a little more cooking), or fried in butter for use in a brandy/cream sauce to top some roast chicken.

For this basic recipe, all you need is pears, lemon juice, sugar and water.

I gathered up all the usable fruit on the ground—which ended up being 25 pears—brought them into the kitchen and washed them.


I filled a large pot with cold water—to put the cut slices in as I worked, so they wouldn’t turn brown—and set about peeling, coring and slicing the pears. (You will notice a few lemons in this picture—also windfall from the storm—which I used in the recipe.)


I did not prove to be a proficient peeler/corer, so it took me almost an hour to complete this task.




Next I scooped the pear slices out of the water with my hands and put them in a new pot, squeezed two lemons’-worth of juice on them,


added a cup a sugar, and then poured in about a cup of water.


I stirred this all up, covered the pot, and cooked them for about ten minutes, stirring often so the slices steamed/cooked evenly.

As soon as a fork went into the pear slices easily, I took them off the heat and let them cool in the pot. They ended up tasting a lot like—and having the same texture as—canned pears.


I then bagged up the ones I wanted to freeze, and put the rest in a container for the fridge, to use over the next week or so (I had some with my oatmeal this morning—tasty!). I recommend laying the baggies of pears flat in the freezer until they’re frozen hard, and then they can be stored standing upright, as in the photo:


There will be a lot of juice left in the bottom of the pot—don’t throw it out! Save it for making a sorbet, or cooking with, or just drinking (it’s quite sweet, but would be great with the addition of some soda water—or rum).

Speaking of falling: Today marks the 20th anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake, which destroyed much of downtown Santa Cruz and Watsonville (as well as many structures in the Bay Area). This afternoon at 5:04 p.m. we will raise our glasses in memory of the big event.