Abercrombie & Feast

We’ve just returned from a week in Paris, where we ate and drank and walked and swooned in equal amounts. It’s easy to love Paris… it’s easy to be in love in Paris. The thing is, there’s pretty much nothing I could write here about Paris that hasn’t already been written by someone else… probably someone who is a better writer than I am.

I could tell you about how romantic Paris is, how refined the people seem, how beautifully dressed the women are or how wonderful a plate of well cooked confit de canard tastes with a carafe of house wine… but you’ve probably heard it all before. Writers love to wax lyrical about Paris.

But… maybe you haven’t heard so much about sauce moutarde? Maybe this one thing, this tiny taste of Paris, hasn’t been written about a million times? Maybe I could share something unique with you? Maybe. Maybe not. But either way, I have to tell you about this sauce.

We were in a small, very local café for a late lunch. It was sunny and there were several men in dark suits, speaking loudly to each other in French and finishing up their plates of steak frites and carafes of wine before heading back to the office for the afternoon. We dropped into our seats and ordered our own carafe of wine. Nibbled on the basket of baguette we were brought and waited for our plates of steak frites, which arrived piping hot with small dollops of sauce moutarde on the side.

The steaks were tender and perfectly cooked. The frites were hot and salty and guiltily satisfying.

But, the sauce… oh, the sauce.

It was dreamy. It was very sharp, almost spicy from the amount of Dijon mustard used, but the heat was tempered by crème fraiche and white wine. It was divine. We kept eating long after we were full, just so we didn’t leave any of the sauce. When we ran out of frites, we dipped our remaining bits of baguette in the sauce. After we had finished the baguette and decided that we weren’t quite desperate enough to lick the plates, I asked the waiter, in my terribly limited French, how to make the sauce.

He explained the process in detail, and in rapid fire French. I followed about half of what he said, nodding and smiling through the rest. I couldn’t wait to get home to make my own sauce moutarde, and slather it on everything! I made the sauce last night, to go on a piece of poached salmon. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make it correctly, that I would come up with a weaker version and be disappointed that I couldn’t recreate the sauce of my Parisian dreams.

But, I needn’t have worried. The waiter in the café clearly knew what he was talking about, and managed to explain it so well that even an American with inadequate French skills could follow along. The sauce I made at home was just like the sauce moutarde we had in the café in Paris and it made me both happy that I had a piece of Paris right there on my plate, and sad that I wasn’t still there in that café, with a carafe of red wine to go with my dinner.

 Sauce moutarde

1 shallot, finely chopped
1 tbs butter
¼ cup dry white wine
3-4 heaping tablespoons good Dijon mustard, or more to taste
¼ cup crème fraiche
1 tbs chopped tarragon salt to taste

In a small sauce pan over low heat, melt the butter. Add the shallots to the butter and allow to soften, but not brown, very slowly. This will probably take about 5 mins, but keep your eye on them.

Once the shallots are cooked, add the wine and allow to cook for 1 minute. Then add the mustard to the pan and whisk. You want the mustard, wine and shallots to come together to a thick, creamy consistency. This might take a minute, keep whisking.

Once you’ve whisked in the mustard, whisk in the crème fraiche. Keep whisking until the crème fraiche is completely incorporated and the sauce is very smooth.

To thicken up the sauce, leave it on the lowest heat possible, whisking frequently, for about 15 minutes. Add the chopped tarragon and whisk for a minute.

Then, taste the sauce. It should be very sharp and tangy, but not taste of solely mustard. If it’s too sharp / mustardy, whisk in a little more crème fraiche. If it’s not sharp enough, or tastes overly creamy, add a bit more mustard.

This sauce can be served warm or at room temperature. It is gorgeous on fish, steaks or chicken.

I was chatting with a friend yesterday about chefs who write really pernickety recipes. Recipes that call for about 12 more steps than seem necessary… “toast the almonds before adding them to the mixture”, “soak the dried chilli in hot water for 10 minutes before chopping it”, “collect a fresh eye of newt to include in your stew”… those kinds of steps.

Some chefs are notorious for writing very prescriptive, slightly fussy recipes. I generally avoid recipes by those chefs, preferring to throw caution and flour to the wind. But in the past week I’ve made two recipes by chefs I have previously admired, but avoided due to their finicky natures, and in both cases I have been thrilled with the outcomes.

Chef #1- Delia Smith. I know, I know. Delia can do no wrong, Delia is a saint, Delia knows everything and I know nothing. All of that is true, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that her recipes often look complicated to me. I once read an article in a cooking magazine that quoted Delia as saying that when you’re making a cake, if recipe calls for a certain size / shape pan and you don’t have that pan you’re basically setting yourself up to fail from the start. I found this very disheartening. I don’t really own many pans and I can’t afford to run out and buy a new cake tin every time a recipe calls for a slightly different size. Since reading that article I have admired Delia from afar, but assumed that her recipes would require a lot of time and specialised equipment that I don’t have.

Well, I was right about one part of that. The Delia’s carrot cake recipe did take a while to finish, but it didn’t require any kitchen equipment more complicated than a box grater. It was also, if I may say so, one of the nicest cakes I have ever made, ever. I didn’t have the correct sized cake pan that Delia called for, so I made my carrot cake in a loaf tin instead. It took about twice as long to cook, but once it was done it was delicious… moist and full of soft sultanas and warming spices.

There were a few extra steps in this recipe that I didn’t think were necessary, but I followed the instructions and I’m really pleased that I did. The extra steps (such as toasting the almonds before adding them to the batter) really did enhance the final product. It was worth it!

I’ll tell you in a few days about the second pernickety recipe I tried recently. It was an even bigger success than the amazing carrot cake. I’m starting to think there’s something behind all of these really fussy recipes- great food.

Carrot Cake with Cinnamon Cream Cheese Frosting
adapted from Delia’s Vegetarian Collection

For the cake
150g (1 1/4) whole wheat flour
50g (a little less than 1/2 cup) plain flour
2 tsps cinnamon
1 tsp nutmeg
1 tsp bicarb of soda (baking soda)
175g (about 3/4 cup) light brown sugar
2 large eggs
150ml (5 fl oz) light vegetable oil such as sunflower oil
200g (a little more than a cup and a half) of peeled and grated carrot
2 handfuls of raisins
50g (1/3 cup) chopped almonds plus extra for decoration

For the frosting
250g cream cheese, room temp
100g butter, room temp
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp vanilla extract
250g icing sugar

Begin by placing the almonds in a dry frying pan and placing over a medium heat.  Toast the almonds until they are golden brown and fragrant, but watch them carefully as they will burn quickly.  When the almonds are toasted, remove them from the pan so they don’t continue cooking in the residual heat. 

Preheat the oven to gas mark 3, down to gas mark 3, 325°F, 170°C and grease your cake pan (or loaf pan) with butter. 

To make the cake, whisk the sugar, eggs and oil together in a bowl with an electric hand whisk for 2-3 minutes, then check that there is no sugar left undissolved.

Now sift the flour, spices and bicarb of soda into the bowl, tipping in the bits of bran left in the sieve.  Then stir all this in gently, followed by the remaining cake ingredients. 

Tip the batter into the prepared cake tin.  Bake in the centre of the preheated oven for 35-45 minutes.  Use a skewer to check whether the cake is done. 

While the cake is baking, make the cinnamon cream cheese frosting.  Beat the cream cheese, butter, cinamon and vanilla in a bowl until light and fluffy.  Sift in the icing sugar and mix until smooth.  Top the cooled cake with this frosting and a sprinkling of chopped almonds.