Late spring salad

On our table, salad is usually nothing more than some nice leaves, simply dressed with a bit of olive oil and sherry vinegar and served following our main course and before or after cheese. If we’re feeling ambitious, there might be some nut oil (like this fantastic stuff we’ve been rationing since our last trip to Paris) or Dijon mustard mixed in, or maybe some chives from the window box.

When the weather is warm-ish, we sometimes eat a substantial salad for a weekend lunch or supper, likely something involving tomatoes, olives and herbs, bulked out by bulgur, farro or stale bread cubes. There’s the ever-popular Nicoise, and on the rare occasions when we’re willing to bypass the tomatoes, something with rice noodles, herbs and a sour-sweet-funky dressing. But as for meal-opening salads, our repertoire is functionally limited to a much more wintery assemblage of ingredients like endive, blue cheese and walnuts, or one of a number of variations on roasted beetroot.

There was, however, a recent deviation from form. Inspiration came in the form of the freshest peas, broad beans, and asparagus, all bought that morning from just down the road (and picked the previous evening.) The peas were, for once, better than frozen, their sugars not yet turned to starch, and still small enough that they could be eaten raw. The broad beans were young and creamy enough to do the same once they were double-podded. Even the asparagus were left uncooked, instead shaved into long slivers. These were all bedded on some soft, slightly curly leaves, studded with thinly-sliced radishes and mint. Some blobs of a soft, tangy cheese (we used crowdie, a light Scottish cream cheese, but a rindless, spreadable goats cheese or sheeps' milk ricotta would also work well) added richness and creaminess, while a drizzle of lemon juice and some olive oil drew it all together. The result was not only beautiful to look at, but may have even outshone the new house favourite of duck confit which followed.

I’d happily eat this salad at least once a week for the next few months. But I suspect that it may have been, like the perfect restaurant found on the last day of a holiday, a one-time pleasure. When I’m next at the market (in this case not for another two weeks), the peas and broad beans will likely be larger and coarser, the former perhaps not worth the trouble and (relative) expense, the latter now better suited for a summer minestrone, or a dish of gnocchi and pesto. And the asparagus, which arrived weeks early due to an abnormally warm April, may no longer be at their prime.

There will be many compensations, of course: perhaps the first courgettes, tiny, with their flowers attached, at least a few more weeks of very good strawberries and, if the recent rain abates, some cherries. All will make for some very good eating. But the search for a salad continues.

Smoked mackerel rillettes

Fish is preserved practically the world over, but the UK does it particularly well. I imagine that its enormous coastline and historic strength as a maritime power both were factors in its populace finding tasty ways to make fish keep. While the Portuguese and Spanish used salt for their cod, and the Scandinavians chose to pickle their mackerel and herring, the British have generally used smoke. In Scotland and Ireland, cold smoking is the norm for salmon. More prosaic, and these days far less popular, is the kipper, a whole, butterflied herring, heavily cured and grilled with butter as part of a (very) large breakfast. Smoked haddock is another particularly British speciality. Like kippers, the cure—and resulting colour—can often be overly harsh. But the best, when poached lightly to remove excess salt, make a creamy and delicate addition to chowders, fish cakes and the Anglo-Indian classic, kedgeree.

My favourite, though, is smoked mackerel. Its sweet, rich flesh needs no cooking and is tasty enough to eat on its own. In contrast to salmon, kippers and haddock, there don’t really seem to be small-scale producers or regional or other stylistic variations in smoking recipes. But even the bog-standard supermarket varieties—with the exception of the acrid, pepper-coated versions—are surprisingly good.

Smoked mackerel rillettes make a fantastically easy weekend lunch, either in an open-faced sandwich made with rye crackers or dark bread or alongside cucumber and potato salads (and maybe even some borscht). I haven’t had occasion to do so, but I imagine they’d work well as an hors d'œuvre before a more formal dinner.

Many recipes I’ve seen call for cream cheese. You could try this, but the tang and lighter texture of crème fraîche seem preferable. If crème fraîche is hard to come by, sour cream is a perfectly suitable alternative. The horseradish, though not essential, adds a welcome hint of piquancy. Even creamed, jarred horseradish would probably add something. In France, where hot-smoked trout is widely available, I’ve used that instead of mackerel. The only categorical guidance I would give is to avoid the food processor. Not only does it add to the washing-up, but the end-result will have an unwelcome resemblance to wallpaper paste.

If you’ll be drinking with this, non-vodka options could include a Muscadet, an Old World-style Riesling with a bit of residual sweetness, or a beer that picks up the mackerel’s smokiness.

Smoked mackerel rillettes

Serves 2

Total time : 10 minutes ; Active time : 10 minutes

150 grams plain, undyed smoked mackerel filet

crème fraîche

lemon

fresh horseradish root

small handful fresh chives and/or dill

Strip mackerel from its skin and place in a medium-sized bowl. Lightly mash with a fork until there is mix of coarse paste and bite-size chunks. Add crème fraîche one teaspoon at a time, mixing through with each addition. You’ll likely want several teaspoons to get a spreadable but not overly sloppy consistency.

Loosen the mixture with a good squeeze of lemon juice. Using a microplane, grate in horseradish to taste. (I tend to use about one teaspoon.) Chop or snip in herbs.

Check seasoning (you likely don't need additional salt) and serve.

Une Salade Betterave, Mâche, Noix et Fromage Bleu (A Salad of Beetroot, Lamb's Lettuce, Walnuts and Blue Cheese)

Though I’m only occasionally attentive to the language’s humorous quirks, I’ve lately found a number of delightful French turns-of-phrase. Sleet is a mélange of rain and snow, while a treadmill is known as a tapis roulant, or rolling carpet. Most entertaining is a variety of roasted beet known as crapaudine, a name likely bestowed because of the similarity between the beet’s rough, pock-marked skin and that of the crapeau, or toad.

While the lettuce here usually requires washing and spinning, and the best carrots are thoroughly encrusted with soil, beets come handily pre-boiled or roasted. The former are often vacuum-packed and sold in supermarkets. (While perfectly serviceable—and far superior to their vinegar-soaked British counterparts—they lack the earthy sweetness brought on by roasting.) The latter can easily be found at outdoor markets, where they are speared out of packing crates with long forks. Select vendors should have crapaudines.

A heritage variety thought to date back several centuries, crapaudines can immediately be distinguished from ordinary roasted beets by their shape: conical instead of spherical. A closer inspection reveals the distinguishing texture and, usually, a higher price tag.

I’ve used crapaudines to make a quick, extra-flavourful borscht. But most often, I settle for a composed salad. A classic plate begins with a bed of soft lettuce—I like the gentle grassiness of mâche, or lambs lettuce, though watercress or a mesclun mix are also suitable. Next, fresh-roasted walnuts or hazelnuts bring crunch, while echoing the earthiness of the beets. Finally, soft, crumbly cheese adds richness and lactic tang. A creamy, mild blue like Fourme d’Ambert is classic, though nubs of pure-white goats cheese (you could try a young crottin or Maconnais, both squidgy and rindless) make for a particularly attractive presentation. A nut oil dressing sharpened with red wine or sherry vinegar melds the ingredients.

Accompanied by good bread, this can stand alone for lunch. It would also make a visually striking starter before a monochrome main course such as roast chicken. Just two caveats. The beets and dressing make this a challenging match for wine. And the salad should be made just before serving, to avoid the beetroot bleeding onto the cheese.

Roasted Beetroot Salad with Mâche, Walnuts and Cheese
Adapted from Amanda Hesser’s The Cook and the Gardener
Serves 2
Total time: 20 minutes; Active time: 20 minutes

1 handful walnuts
2 handfuls mâche
1 medium-sized roasted beetroot
2 tablespoons walnut oil
1 heaping teaspoon sherry vinegar
½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
80-100 grams Fourme d’Ambert

Place a heavy-bottomed pan over a low heat. Add walnuts, turning occasionally, until browned in spots, 7-10 minutes. Remove from heat to cool.

While the nuts are toasting, pick through mâche, removing any wilted leaves or large stems. Wash thoroughly in cool water and dry in a salad spinner.

Remove any remaining skin from the beetroot and slice into half-moons.

Pour oil into a cruet or small bowl. Drip in vinegar, add mustard and season to taste. Whisk until well-emulsified.

Arrange mâche on a serving plate. Cover with slices of beetroot. Crumble walnuts over the vegetables. Cut the cheese into small chunks and scatter on top. Drizzle over dressing and serve.

Pâté du Champignons (Mushroom Pâté)

Come December, the rafters of Paris’ indoor markets are bedecked with holly, lights and birds. Hung from their feet on butchers’ hoot and still in possession of feathers and beaks, the colourful yet visceral display might be off-putting to a first-time visitor. But a roasted bird is as quintessential to a French Christmas as a turkey is to American Thanksgiving. Turkeys, much smaller than their Yankee counterparts, are on offer, as are guinea fowl (pintade), geese (oie), duckling (canette), capon (chapon) and chicken, including the famous poulet de Bresse. These are well-bred birds, and priced accordingly. The best butchers also sell an equally luxurious range of stuffing, made smooth and rich with liver, studded with chestnuts and dried fruits and lubricated with brandy.

Sadly, neither my budget nor my oven would stretch to a roast, so after due admiration, I left to plot more realistic options. But the idea of stuffing must have remained with me, because I ended up preparing another traditional French variant for my first-ever apero (a casual cocktail party).

L’apero serves a number of functions in French socializing: as a lead-in to dinner at a local restaurant, a first invitation to a new friend, neighbour or colleague or an impromptu get-together. It typically involves drinks (not necessarily very many or very strong) and nibbles, ranging from a bowl of nuts to half a dozen small dishes. (If there’s enough food to fill the stomach, it’s known as an apéro dînatoire.) Depending on the phrasing of the invitation and the company, it can last for an hour or the entire evening.

Homemade gravadlax, served with blini and crème fraiche, provided a small twist on the familiar, likewise warm, roasted cashews tossed with chopped rosemary and smoked paprika. For the third dish, I sautéed minced shallots and mushrooms in butter, then stirred in good quantities of chives and crème fraiche. I called this a mushroom pâté, but it turned out to also be a near-replica of duxelles, a fine mushroom mixture said to have been created by the great 17^th century French chef, François Pierre La Varenne. Used to flavor classic dishes like bouef en croute (Beef Wellington), duxelles are also piped into puff or choux pastry shells. I chose a far simpler—and oven-free—approach, spreading the mixture onto thin slices of baguette.

My guests, already confused by my pidgin French and non-French wine, were further baffled by the appearance of the duxelles/pâté. Either people stopped eating this stuff in the ‘80s, or they just buy it ready-made from the traiteur. Regardless, it disappeared at an almost impolite rate, and was followed by a very polite request for the recipe.

We’ll call this one a reussit.

Pâté du Champignons (Mushroom Pâté)
Adapted from Smitten Kitchen and Melissa Clark
Serves 4-6 for an appetizer (alongside other dishes)
Total time: 30 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

1 large (banana) shallot
Butter
250 grams (just over ½ pound) small brown mushrooms (cremini, chestnut or baby portabellas)
Chives
Crème fraiche

Mince the shallot. Melt a pat of butter on a medium heat in a large frying pan. Add the shallot, season and sauté for several minutes, stirring to avoid sticking. When soft, remove pan from heat.

Clean the mushrooms, removing stems if particularly dirty, and mince. Return the pan to the heat and add mushrooms. Season and cook on medium-high heat, stirring every few minutes, until mushrooms have shed their water and reduced siginificantly in volume, about 10-12 minutes. Remove pan from heat.

Take some chive stems (4-6 should be enough to add a bit of sharpness and crunch) and chop finely. Add to mushroom mixture and stir through. Take a scant tablespoon of crème fraiche and add, combining thoroughly. (You may want a bit more for a creamier, more adherent paste.) Adjust seasoning and serve on baguette or brioche slices.

I’d imagine the pate could be made and refrigerated a day in advance. In that case, add the chives just before serving.

Dijon et Poireaux Vinaigrette

“We lived for almost three years in Dijon, which the Burgundians called without any quibble and only half-hearted contradictions ‘the gastronomic capital of the world.’ We were lucky to… be within ourselves eager, interested, and above all husky-gutted. Most of our orgies were voluntary, but even so I doubt if more jaded livers than ours could have stood the thousand bilious blows we dealt them.” MFK Fisher, The Gastronomical Me

In the world’s northernmost fine wine region, Burgundy’s vineyard owners play an annual game of chance with the weather, hoping that limited sun and heat will produce wines which are delicate, rarified and aromatic, rather than thin and mean. As if to compensate for this, the food is rich and abundant, reliant on butter, meat and wine-enriched sauces. The eponymous boeuf bourguignon is only the most famous of a local repertory which includes coq au vin (with chicken usually taking the place of the traditional rooster), ouefs en meurette (eggs poached in a sauce of butter, red wine, mushrooms and bacon), jambon persillade (a gelee-topped coarse pork paté) and snails with garlic butter (escargot).

Ignoring the atypically hot August weather, I managed a fair sampling of typical Burgundian dishes during a recent visit to Dijon and its environs. At a stylish bistro just across from the Eiffel-design central market, where the waitress sported henna tattoos and Gaultier leggings and the patrons were well-fed and equally well-coiffed, I began with a slice of the local paté. It was true to what I’ve seen at charcuteries across Paris, the only concession to fashion being a green, mousse-like top layer of parsley, instead of finely-chopped leaves throughout. Bouef bourgignon provided a satisfying first impression of the dish, the rich, glossy gravy soaking perfectly into the pommes purees. To finish, a sharp, boozy sorbet made with cassis (blackcurrants) and the local liqueur, crème de cassis.

There was a repeat of the bouef bourgignon the next day, the 12 hours of cooking rendering the beef so soft as to require only a spoon. I was delighted by the presentation in an individual Staub casserole, though mashed potatoes were sorely missed. Here the highlights were a poached egg in a cream of summer truffles, the cheese plate, featuring Epoisses from a producer only 10 minutes up the road and the bucolic setting in the centre of the blink-and-you-miss-it wine town of Gevrey-Chambertin. Eating such a meal—complete with matching glasses of wine at each course—was perhaps ill-advised on a day when I still had some 20 kilometres to cycle in hot sun. But both the scenery and the menu were too good to justify compromise.

Once cold temperatures and company coincide, I hope to pull out my own Staub and attempt Julia Child’s iconic recipe. For now, though, I’m concentrating my efforts on slightly lighter fare.

Poireaux vinaigrette is another Burgundian classic, combining leeks (usually poached or boiled) with a dressing made from local Dijon mustard. Tangy and full-flavoured, it would provide an excellent lead-in to a rich, winey stew. Less traditional, but also less stultifying, would be to make a few more leeks, buy a baguette and follow with some good cheese. Let your liver guide you.


Poireaux Vinaigrette

It’s rare that I gravitate towards more complicated versions of simple recipes. But here the extra steps yield real improvements: tying the leeks with a twist of their greens keeps them intact through two stages of cooking. Likewise, replacing boiling with sautéing and braising dramatically deepens flavor and eliminates any potential stringiness. The sauce’s acidity makes this a poor match for more serious wine; pair with a simple, not-too-austere Chardonnay (like a Macon-Villages)

Adapted from Williams-Sonoma French
Serves 2*
Total time: 35 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

4 slender leeks
Olive oil
3/4 cups chicken stock
1 scant tablespoon grain or Dijon mustard**
Lemon juice or wine vinegar
Salt and pepper
Special equipment: large frying pan; tongs

Trim leeks, retaining the green ends, and split along length. (If they are too long to fit across the base of your largest frying pan, split once across width.) Rinse each under the tap, lifting the layers to remove dirt, but being careful to keep intact. Using a thin length peeled from the trimmings, tie each leek around its middle.

On a medium-high flame, heat just enough oil to film pan. When hot add as many leeks as will fit in one layer. Season with salt and pepper. Turn occasionally until both sides are golden and have spots of deeper caramelisation, about 8-10 minutes. If required, remove to plate and repeat with remaining leeks.

Return all leeks to the pan. Add chicken stock and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook until the leeks are very tender and most of the liquid has evaporated, 10-15 minutes. While they cook, make the dressing, mixing the mustard with just enough olive oil and lemon juice to make a sharp, very thick sauce.

Pour over leeks and check seasoning. Serve immediately or at room temperature.

* While the recipe can easily be doubled, it becomes time-consuming without access to several large frying pans.

** I particularly like this one. The only brand still made with locally-grown seeds, it has an elegant, sprightly flavor. Whatever you use, make sure your mustard is fresh.

Chez Moi

With too much time on my hands these days, it is tempting to explore making more things from scratch. I heard recently that canning is achieving new-found popularity. Why not make some jams and chutneys with the last of the summer produce? Or yogurt—homemade is meant to be excellent, and cheap too. Ice cream and bread are out due to lack of equipment, but many of the things on my fridge door—ketchup, curry paste, tapenade—could be attempted.

Yet while my homemade jam is perfectly nice, it falls short of even good-quality supermarket brands. Tapenade prepared in my mortar and pestle boasts an appealingly rustic texture, but it’s expensive, messy and has a shorter shelf-life. As for yogurt, I don’t share the French passion for eating it multiple times a day, which would seem necessary to make it worthwhile. Ketchup is only called into service for steak tartare; Heinz works just fine there, additives be damned.

Undoubtedly, a more skilled jam-maker or a larger household might reach different conclusions. But for me, these types of projects seem justified only if undertaken for the pleasure of the process; good results are strictly a bonus.

Boredom may yield some additions to last year’s stash of homemade plum chutney (a bit too sharp, and less versatile than I imagined). At least I’ve found one made-from-scratch project which is impressively simple, cost-efficient and tasty:

Homemade gravadlax involves nothing more than topping a salmon fillet with some greenery and seasoning, then weighting it down in the fridge for a few days. Given the length of the lines at my local supermarket, the initial preparation takes less time than visiting the chilled fish aisle, plus I’m able to buy two or three times the quantity of fresh fish for the cost of a small packet of cured. After two or three days in the fridge, homemade gravadlax has a brighter, fresher taste than its commercial counterpart. It is also easy scalable; anything from a 200 gram (1/2 pound) fillet to a whole side of salmon can be cured.

Sliced into strips, piled onto blini or thin toast and topped with sour cream, the gravadlax makes an elegant starter. Though its texture is less dense and oily, it can also stand in anywhere smoked salmon is used: eggs, salads, sandwiches. Most recently, we served it whole as a main course, accompanied by potato salad.

So, at the risk of sounding like one of missionary types who wants you make your own jam, I can only say: buy the salmon. It’s worth it. And have I mentioned that it’s easy?

Gravadlax
adapted from Cooking for Engineers
Serves 4 as a starter or 2 as a main (can be easily doubled or tripled)
Active time: 10 minutes; Total time: 2-3 days
Special equipment: mortar and pestle

1 salmon fillet, about 200 grams (try to find one of equal thickness throughout)
1 scant tablespoon coarse sea salt
1 heaping tablespoon granulated sugar (I used light brown)
1 heaping teaspoon black peppercorns
1 heaping teaspoon juniper berries (optional but recommended)
Handful fresh dill

If possible, peel or cut skin from salmon fillet. Examine for pin-bones by draping over hand, removing any with fingers or thin tweezers. Place fish in the center of a double layer of foil.

Measure salt and sugar in a small bowl. Grind peppercorns and juniper berries coarsely in a mortar and pestle and add to sugar-salt mixture. Stir to combine. Spoon mixture over both sides of fish, pressing gently into flesh.

Place dill fronds under and on fish fillet, snapping off protruding stems. Wrap fish into a tight package with the first layer of foil. Repeat packaging with second piece of foil. Place in a shallow dish and weight down evenly with cans and/or a heavy pan.

Turn 2 times/day, leaving package wrapped. After two or three days, unwrap package, brush or rinse off any excess cure and serve. Unused fish will keep covered for another week or so.