Le Meilleur Steak Tartare (Suprise: Ce n'est pas de Paris)

Whatever the NYT might say about the new fashion for burgers in Paris, neither the outré (and wildly expensive) versions they profiled, nor the sad, unembellished steak hache served in some brasseries here, have particular appeal. Even making a proper burger at home isn't simple. Heinz ketchup can be had for a price, the mayonnaise is unimpeachable, and the rolls adequate. The problem is with the beef: even when ground to order by a butcher, it's invariably too fine and lacking sufficient fat.

Where the French have historically excelled, however, is with the native cousin of the (very) rare burger: steak tartare. In traditional tartare, the beef is coarsely hand-chopped, with the additions of capers, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco or horseradish adding the tang and complexity provided by the classic burger condiments of ketchup and mustard and the raw egg lubricating in much the same way as mayonnaise. A popular variant on tartare even has the top of the otherwise raw patty quickly browned under the salamander. And both are normally--and appropriately--accompanied by frites.

Tartare is as ubiquituous in Paris as burgers are rare , and ordering it is a good way of testing the integrity and attention to detail of the kitchen. Sadly, from the most modest corner cafe to the more ambitious brasseries, all the ones I've tried have come up short. The egg is often pre-mixed, suggesting that the dish hasn't been made to order. Seasoning is rarely as precise and punchy as it should be, and the beef usually lacks the tell-tale irregularity of having been hand-cut. As for the frites, if the Americans can now make them as well, if not better, than the French, they are entitled to call them Freedom Fries or any other silly name they choose.

I'm not alone in seeking--and not necessarily finding--great tartare in Paris. But while I'd guess that my opinion on such matters would carry little weight here, I'm convinced that the best tartare can actually be found at Galvin Bistrot Deluxe, an absolutely classic French brasserie some 500 kilometres away in London. I wasn't lucky enough to be along the night this picture was taken, but I can attest that the only things which stand between this tartare and absolute perfection are the fact that it is made in an appetizer-sized version only, and that it therefore doesn't come with frites.

I should be in London very soon, and I'm hoping that a tartare excursion can be arrranged. In the meantime, I've discovered that the ever-reliable Clotilde has what looks like an authentic and straightforward version in her new cookbook. Here's the recipe, in case you're not in Eurostar distance of London. I may be making it too, if the butchers in my neighborhood would ever reopen from les vacances. (Ah Paris, j'adore...)

Tartare au Couteau
taken virtually unadapted from Chocolate and Zucchini
Serves 4

3 tbsp strong Dijon mustard
3 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp Tabasco
3 tbsp ketchup
1 tbsp brandy (optional)
3 medium shallots, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 tbsp small capers
2 tbsp chopped fresh parsley
1 tbsp chopped fresh tarragon
700g extra-fresh high-quality beef fillet
4 egg yolks from very fresh eggs

Mix the first five ingredients together in a small bowl. In another bowl, comb ine the shallots, garlic, capers and herbs. Chop the meat into 1/2 cm dice using a large, sharp knife. In a medium mixing bowl, combine the meat, egg yolks and mustard mixture with a fork. Season, fold in shallot mixture and blend well. Divide the meat in four equal portions and arrange them in patties on serving plates. Serve immediately with additional condiments.

Les Plus Grandes Biscuits du Monde (The Biggest Cookies in the World)

As I pottered in my kitchen this afternoon, cooking, cleaning, and cursing the unfinished corners that always seem to be collecting grime and goo, I thought about two things which my apartment lacks. The first, of course, is a dishwasher. Though a rarity in all but the most elaborate Parisian kitchens, even regular washing-up practice hasn't noticeably impacted my ability to dry glasses well. The second thing missing is neighbours. Sure, there's the Anglo-French couple next door who once watered my plants, and with whom there is sometimes vague talk of getting together for a glass of wine, and the woman upstairs who is formal but friendly when she greets me in the stairwell. But what I'm after are neighbours cum friends--the kind who would eat your leftover baking experiments without thinking you're trying to poison them, who would lend you chairs for a dinner party which had grown beyond 4 people, and who, at least from time to time, would occupy one of those chairs at your table.

One of my favourite aspects of the first two years I spent at Oxford was the sense of being part of a neighbourly community. The Manor was, at least to the outsider, simply a college dorm occupied by 20-somethings, with the same dirty shared kitchens and wine bottles overflowing from the recycling bin. But it was exceptionally convivial--and, I'd like to think, somewhat more sophisticated than its undergraduate counterpart--when it came to preparing and sharing food. Within my extended circle there was a regular tradition of expansive Sunday evening dinners and Tuesday night "tea and cakes," as civilized as the former were often raucous. But whether in search of another mouth to feed, a uncracked wine glass or some washing-up liquid, it was rare that an evening was entirely self-contained or self-sufficient.

The nostalgia wanes somewhat when I remember the constant piles of unwashed dishes, or the frequent migration of food and utensils from kitchen to kitchen. But I do miss the casual interactions around food which were commonplace then and all too rare now. I hope that when I again live full-time in a country where my neighbours and I speak the same language, that there will be more knocks on the door in search of flour and, perhaps ultimately, friendship.

* * *

For the time being, though, I take extreme pleasure in the fact that one of the veterans of "tea and cake"--and an extremely dear friend--has moved just a 25 minute walk from my part-time London home. It's not quite close enough to be officially neighbours, but given that he and his wife were last living some 5,000+ miles away in Delhi, I'm willing to overlook the technicality. When we were invited to see their new place, I also had the opportunity to make a home-made housewarming gift, something I'd been looking foward to doing for years.

The molasses spice cookies I chose to bake, as if aware of the auspiciousness of the occasion, expanded exponentially in the oven. But full of spice and molasses (I used heaping measures of the former and a very flavourful version of the latter), they were very tasty, if comically large. If I'm lucky enough to impose more baked goods on nearby friends such as these, I'll be very lucky indeed.

Molasses-Spice Cookies

Adapted From the Cooks Illustrated Best Recipe Cookbook, via Smitten Kitchen

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon ground ginger

3/4 teaspoon ground allspice

12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

1/2 cup dark brown sugar, packed (I used molasses sugar)

1/2 cup granulated sugar plus 1/3 cup for rolling cookies (here, I used, at least in part, granulated brown sugar)

1 large egg

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/3 cup unsulphured molasses

Preheat oven to 19o degrees Celsius. Combine flour baking soda, salt and spices. In a separate bowl, beat butter, brown sugar and 1/2 cup granulated sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg, vanilla and molasses. Add dry ingredients in 3 batches, mixing after each addition until just combined. Place remaining 1/3 cup granulated sugar in shallow bowl. Working with 2 tablespoons of dough each time, roll dough into 1 3/4-inch balls, cover each lightly with sugar and place them on ungreased baking sheets spaced 1 1/2 to 2 inches apart.

Bake, reversing position of cookie sheets halfway through baking, until outer edges begin to set and centers are soft and puffy, 11 to 13 minutes. Cool cookies on sheets for 2 to 3 minutes, then transfer to cooling racks.