Somerset and Potato Gratin

You know it’s going to be a good weekend when you’re met on arrival with hugs all around and a glass of your favourite champagne.

We were in North Somerset, 30 minutes or so out of Bristol, staying with G’s first year university roommate and his large and very welcoming family. The champagne—accompanied by a platter of blinis and salmon mousse—began an evening of copious food and wine, good conversation and a level of relaxation very rarely achieved on a Friday night.

The next day, having slept well under the watchful gaze of Justin Beiber (we had poached the seven year old’s room), we headed off on a country tromp. There was mud, stiles to climb over, lush green meadows and lots of sheep: all the things that the city folk expect out of a country walk. We ended up at a restaurant so seasonal, rustic and organic that the well-heeled, left-leaning readers of the Observer named it the UK’s best ethical restaurant. Other than its name, the Ethicurean, it wears its credentials lightly; the food did its setting ample credit.

Set in the conservatory of an old walled garden, much of the food is sourced on site or from nearby suppliers. The menu is small: terrines, salads, pies and platters of cheese and meat, served with local beers and ciders. Highlights included fantastically piquant chutneys and piccalilli (a traditional English vegetable pickle), off-dry Welsh cider and an Eccles cake, a flaky pastry filled with a warmly-spiced and not too sweet currant mixture.

After lunch, we ambled through the garden, where I discovered how Brussels sprouts grow, then into the orchard of dwarf apple trees. Home was through a series of corn fields, our progress hampered somewhat by our haul of mildly intoxicating beverages from the restaurant’s small shop.

We had been asked to cook dinner, a daunting task for a family that has eaten in serious restaurants and has shown us such exceptional generosity on many occasions. The opportunity to repay their hospitality was a welcome one, and the menu planning a massive highlight in an otherwise forgettable work week . We wanted the food to reflect how we like to eat, to demonstrate some effort, but not so much as to impinge on the relaxed atmosphere, and, most of all, to taste good.

We began with the Union Square Cafe’s bar nuts, buttery and warm, the sweetness offset by cayenne and rosemary. A simple salad followed: mustard-dressed leaves topped with blue cheese and walnuts. The main was duck confit; little more than some fresh herbs and a 24-hour run-up required. With that, we served gratin dauphinois and sautéed mushrooms. We finished with quince which we had poached in vanilla syrup until it was almost ruby-coloured, vanilla ice cream (not home-made) and sablé biscuits.

The duck and the quince are two of our favourite dishes at this time of year, while the nuts and salad have both made previous appearances. Sablé biscuits were a bit of a risk, as I’ve probably not baked more than a few batches of cookies since I was a kid. But it turns out, that with good butter, a reliable recipe, and some sea salt, there wasn’t much that could go wrong.

I had wavered on the gratin. Though the obvious accompaniment to the duck, my only experience was with eating it. But I should have known better than to doubt Julia Child. Her version—as adapted very slightly here--was hearty but not too rich, perfectly soft through the middle and appealingly crusty and bronzed on top. It may even be good enough to earn us some more invitations.

Gratin Dauphinois (Potato Gratin)

Adapted from Food 52 (who in turn adapted it from Julia Child)

Serves 6

Total time: 50 minutes: Active time: 20 minutes

Special equipment: mandolin or food processor with a slicing blade; shallow baking dish (about 9 inches long and 2 inches deep)

350 ml whole milk

2 garlic cloves

2 bay leaves (ideally fresh)

Butter

1 kg waxy potatoes

200 grams grated Gruyere

Salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 220C. Put the milk in a small saucepan. Peel and smash one of the garlic cloves. Add it to the pot along with the bay leaves. Heat the milk gently until it comes to a simmer. Remove from the heat and let steep.

Peel the second garlic clove, cut it in half and rub the cut side around the inside of the baking dish. Rub butter inside the dish.

Peel the potatoes and slice with a mandolin or similar implement. Layer about a third of the potatoes into the dish. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle a third of the cheese on top. Make two more layers in the same way.

Remove the garlic and bay from the milk and pour the milk over the potatoes. Bake the gratin for about 30 minutes, until it's browned and bubbly and a knife cuts through the potatoes easily. Let the potatoes cool for 5 minutes before serving.

Duck confit

Duck has always been my favourite meat, almost impossible to reject if it’s on a restaurant menu. When I lived in France, I alternated between sautéing thick breasts (known as magret, they come from ducks being raised for fois gras) and opening up a tin of confit du canard.

In London, confit comes with an even more luxurious price tag. But duck legs are relatively easy to purchase and often cost little more than chicken. The first recipe I tried was a ragù from All About Braising, where the legs were browned, then slow-braised with a wine-enriched sauce base. It was tender and very tasty, but somehow the rich, almost gamey duck flavour didn’t come through.

A shortcut confit, however, was an unqualified success, the kind of dish that makes one feel clever for having stumbled over it. The recipe, from the NYT’s Melissa Clark, calls for thorough browning before a long, low-temperature roast. The fat rendered off in the sauté is left in the pan, allowing the meat to almost poach. Finally, the skin is re-crisped. (I used the grill; Clark simply uncovers the meat for the last third of the cooking time.) The result was nearly as good as any I’ve prepared (i.e., reheated) or even eaten in a restaurant, the meat falling off the bone, and the skin practically crackling.

The key may come from an initial curing with salt, pepper, thyme and bay. Though Clark suggests a full day in fridge (which I plan to try next time), a few hours were enough to add flavour and draw out excess moisture. I imagine, too, that the rub could be adapted, substituting rosemary or herbes de provence, or maybe even smoked paprika.

On the side? It would be hard to better the classic accompaniment of pan-fried potatoes, though for these you’ll need some fat already to hand—ideally duck or goose, with olive oil as a reasonable cupboard substitute—in order to have the potatoes ready at the same time as the meat. A green or bitter-leaf salad (endive or perhaps radicchio) would be good to follow. And did I mention the wine? Unsurprisingly, big reds from the Languedoc, a duck-obsessed region in France’s southwest, would suit nicely, though I’ve read that California Zinfandels make a fine match as well.

Duck confit

Adapted from the New York Times

Serves 2; doubles easily

Total time: 3 ½ hours for cooking (largely unattended); 3-24 hours for curing

Special equipment: An oven-proof pan which fits the duck legs snugly in one layer. If the pan is shallow, a splatter screen would be useful.

1-2 sprigs fresh thyme

1 tsp sea salt

½ tsp freshly-ground pepper

2 bay leaves, ideally fresh

2 good-sized duck legs, washed, any feathers plucked

Strip the thyme from its branches and chop. Combine with salt in a deep plate, pie dish or similar. Grind over pepper and combine. Add bay leaves.

Press both sides of the duck legs into the curing mixture. Cover and refrigerate for 3-24 hours.

If you can, allow the meat to return to room temperature before sautéing. (If not, it won’t affect the final product.) Heat up the pan on a low to medium flame and place the duck legs in skin-side down. Cover with the splatter screen.Preheat the oven to 110-120°C (230-248°F).

Cook gently for 15-20 minutes, checking occasionally, until the skin is browned and crisp, and there is a considerable amount of fat in the pan. Using tongs, turn the legs to make contact between any other fatty areas and the pan. Brown and render the fat from these, then finish with a few minutes skin-side up.

Cover the pan with a lid or aluminium foil and place in the middle of the pre-heated oven. Cook for 3 hours.

When ready to serve, remove the duck from the oven and reset it to grill/broil. Place the meat under the heat for 2 to 3 minutes, which should be long enough to crisp up the skin.

If desired, soak up any excess fat by placing on a paper towel-lined plate 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.

Pan Bagnat

John Ash tells of being invited for lunch by the great food writer MFK Fisher. As they chatted, she prepared a large sandwich, wrapped it tightly and handed it to him with instructions to sit upon it until it was time to eat. After an hour or so it was retrieved from its resting place and served in thin, neat slices with cornichons and Californian Pinot Noir.

According to Ash, lunch that day was a ham and cheese sandwich, bound together with a tangy mix of mayonnaise and mustard. But it seems likely that Fisher, who spent many years living in the south of France, borrowed the melding technique from the classic Nicoise sandwich, pan bagnat. Best translated as "bathed bread", a pan bagnat sandwiches tinned fish, hard-boiled egg, tomato and condiments in a large roll, using weights, time and good amount of olive oil to turn the whole into a deliciously marinated mess.

Sturdy and able to keep, pan bagnat makes perfect picnic food. So when the idea emerged to spend an afternoon cycling in the parks surrounding the Chateau de Versailles, I knew exactly what we'd be having for lunch. By chance, the one local bakery selling ciabatta had reopened the previous day, and we had discovered a particularly tasty brand of oil-packed anchovies. I made the sandwiches early in the morning, layering on the tuna and anchovies, egg and sliced tomato and seasoning with herbes de provence, the remaining oil and a splash of lemon juice. Double-wrapped, the sandwiches went into my backpack under 4 bottles of water and other paraphernalia. By the time we had dragged the bikes out to Versailles and found a sunny spot facing the Chateau, they were nicely squashed and moist throughout.

I was distracted from taking photos by the swarm of alcoholic wasps who also attended our picnic, eventually meeting their demise in a half-bottle of Saumur Rouge. But the sandwiches, along with what wine we could retrieve and a bag of Reine Claudes, provided sufficient ballast for several hours of charging through the woods and gaping at the grandeur.

Pan Bagnat
Adapted from the New York Times
Serves 2
Active time: 30 minutes; Total time 3-10 hours

2 portion-sized or 1 large ciabatta, either olive or plain (substitute a small white country loaf)
1 medium-size tin tuna packed in olive oil
1 small or medium tin of anchovies packed in olive oil
1 tomato
Small handful olives (optional)
Basil leaves or a small handful of rocket (optional)
Herbes de provence
Lemon juice
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Hard-boil eggs according to preferred method. Split the ciabatta, removing a bit of the interior if desired. Open the cans of fish. Spoon a bit of the residual oil onto the bread. Add the tuna, followed by the anchovies. Slice the tomato and place on top. Stone the olives, cut in half and add.

Once sufficiently cool, peel eggs, slice and add to fish and tomato. Top with leaves. Season to taste with herbes de provence, lemon juice, olive oil and salt and pepper.

Wrap sandwiches in a double layer of foil, place on a plate and refrigerate, using a heavy pan or some canned goods to compress. Bring to room temperature before serving. Sandwiches will keep for at least a few hours outside the refrigerator.

Poireaux aux moutarde et crème fraiche (Leeks with mustard and crème fraiche)

Acculturation happens in subtle, often unnoticeable, ways. But it’s still rare that more than a few days go by without a deep-seated recognition that the country in which I live remains, in ways both superficial and profound, deeply foreign. More than two years have passed, and I am no wiser as to why so many people at my gym can be found outside, smoking cigarettes, immediately after a workout, how even the simplest, most transactional conversation, can shift into the realm of philosophical abstraction or why Parisians see nothing odd about parking on the sidewalk.

When it comes to food, however, the barriers to entry are somewhat lower. I’ve acquired a Parisian’s snobbery regarding pastry, learned how to enjoy steak tartare with élan and made at least a tentative peace with butter and cream.

In my kitchen, olive oil is still the usual fat of choice. And in the last few weeks, as summer approaches, I am even more likely to return home from the market with a bag full of Mediterranean produce: peppers, olives, goat’s cheese and rosé. Yet several days ago, as I stood in line at my regular vegetable stand, shifting to get the warm sun on my shoulders, I could not resist grabbing a bunch of the most quintessential northern French vegetable—leeks.

Though grown year-round, leeks are traditionally used in hearty winter soups and stews, from pot au feu to potage bonne femme. Steamed and served at room temperature with a sharp, mustardy vinaigrette, they could almost pass as a warm-weather starter. But in late May a slow sauté, followed by a dousing of crème fraiche, certainly violates most dictums of seasonality. Yet while I couldn’t recommend it for a genuinely steamy climate, this dish is—and I don’t say this lightly—worth putting aside the tomatoes for one evening.

Poireaux aux moutarde et crème fraiche (Leeks with mustard and crème fraiche)
Serves 2 (can easily be doubled or tripled)
Total time: 35 minutes; Active time: 10 minutes

It doesn’t look like much, and I’m sure the key ingredients have been combined with more finesse elsewhere. But for a simple accompaniment to roast chicken, steak or even a fat filet of white fish, I’ve found little to equal it. With so few ingredients, fresh mustard (Dijon, grain or a mixture) and full-fat crème fraiche are essential. Depending on your mood and palate, the dish can either be smooth and almost sloppy, with just a faint bite of mustard, or more aggressive in flavour, with a teaspoon or two of cream to bind. And while the cooking time given can be shortened somewhat, I find that allowing the leeks to soften gently adds significantly to the flavour of the dish.

4-5 medium leeks
1 tbsp butter
1 tbsp Dijon and/or grain mustard, possibly more to taste
Up to 2 tbsp crème fraiche
Salt and pepper

Slice the tops and base of the leeks, cut in half lengthwise and clean under running water. Slice into thin half-moons. In a large frying pan, melt the butter on a low heat. Add the leeks, season with salt and pepper and allow to cook gently for at least 20 minutes. In order to get the leeks to achieve a melting texture and avoid sticking or burning, you may need to add a tablespoon or so of water to the pan at regular intervals. When the leeks are very soft, take them off the heat. Add crème fraiche and mustard to taste, adjusting seasoning as necessary. Serve hot.

I’ve written up this dish for “Waiter, there’s something in my...”, a bistro blogging event being hosted this month by The Passionate Cook. Check back there in several days time for prettier, more elegant and altogether more skilled entries.

Soupe á l’onion pas typique (A different onion soup)

Imagine a bistro in Paris—the late night meals in cramped, lively rooms that even now are conjured up in sepia tones—and French onion soup seems to play as iconic a role as the nicotine-stained mirrors and clinking wine glasses.

Fittingly, Julia Child, that great lover of Paris and its food, is said to have eaten French onion soup at her last meal. And the proprietors of French restaurants—eager to appeal to memory and imagination alike—wisely place Soupe á l'onion gratineé on the menu.

It was surely not coincidental that my first restaurant meal after moving to Paris began with a bowl of French Onion Soup. But whether it was an overload of expectations, or just an overdose of salt in the kitchen, the supposedly famous version served at Aux Pieds des Cochons was less than the sum of its parts.

And so it was elsewhere—indifferent bread, cheese more notable for its generosity than taste, broth that was dark and salty rather than meaty and savoury and onions which would have benefited from a further 30 minutes on a low, slow heat. I began to wonder whether it was simply the melted cheese, not so different from an open-faced toasted sandwich, which accounted for its appeal. Or perhaps it was the bowls, ovenproof white china with small lions-cum-handles on each side.

I thought of making it at home, where I could ensure the quality of the ingredients and be more judicious with the cheese, but never got further than looking at some recipes. The chief barrier was the beef stock, available here either in a cube or after a six-hour ordeal of boiling and skimming beef bones.

But a few Saturday nights ago I arrived home well after dark, my park-walking, cafe-sitting and shoe-browsing having consumed far more time than expected. I had planned to use up leftover bread by making a panade, a savoury bread pudding of sorts layered with slow-cooked onions, grated Gruyere and some chicken stock. But the baking time alone was over 60 minutes, and I wanted to be sitting down with a glass of red wine before the hour was out. A quick search revealed a soupier, unbaked panade, with slow-cooked onions simmered with stock, ladled over garlic toast and finished with cheese.

Homemade chicken stock added depth without overwhelming the onions, which were unctuously soft and sweet. The raw garlic on the toast was sharp and bright, and by the second bowl I managed to distribute the cheese so that it formed small, creamy globules rather than long, pizza-like strands.

Unlike at Aux Pieds des Cochons, there’s no one in my kitchen to rustle up onion soup at any hour of day or night. But in any case, what French chef would concede that a dish which is so typiquement francais could possibly be improved upon? Perhaps, though, they'll lend me some of those bowls.

A Different Onion Soup

Adapted from Skye Gyngell, A Year in My Kitchen
Serves 2, can easily be doubled
Total time: 50 minutes-1 hour; Active time: 25 minutes

Olive oil
3 medium onions
2 sprigs thyme
2 bay leaves
3-4 cups chicken stock, not from a cube
1 clove garlic
4 slices day-old country bread
Fresh-grated Gruyere or Emmenthal, anywhere from a few tablespoons to a heaping handful depending on taste

Film a large, heavy skillet with olive oil and warm on a low heat. Slice the onions in half, then cut into very thin, long strips. Toss to cover with oil, salt and pepper generously and allow to cook gently. Stir every few minutes, adding a tablespoon of water if there is sticking. Continue until the onions are silky-soft and a warm, golden brown, between 30 and 40 minutes. When the onions are nearly finished, heat up the stock, along with the thyme and bay leaf, in a saucepan. Spoon in the cooked onions and simmer, allowing about 10 minutes for the flavours to merge. Adjust seasoning. Toast the bread on both sides, then rub with a cut garlic cube.

Put the bread at the bottom of two deep soup bowls, tearing into large croutons if desired. Pour over the onion stock and sprinkle with cheese.

Ouefs en Cocotte

My fairy godmother at the office—always ready with a sympathetic ear and able to decipher official documents from the gas company—has also looked kindly upon me when it comes to my cooking. Having patiently listened to my oven woes, and having decided to upgrade her own oven, she has donated her old one to Chez Petit Pois. The oven’s heating control isn’t perfect. Things tend to brown quickly on top—great when roasting chicken, as the skin goes gorgeously bronze and crispy, but less desirable when baking cookies. But it's reliable enough to allow me to revisit whole categories of food—dessert, roasts, baked pasta dishes, gratins—and to flip to cookbook sections whose perfectly clean pages make it clear that they have never been used in nearly two years of living in Paris.

The first thing I intended to make was a gratin, and I duly went out to buy an appropriate dish. Encountering Saturday afternoon crowds and what seemed like surprising high prices for a pretty anodyne item, I decided instead to buy two individual-size white china cocottes. Back home, I poured a glass of vermouth*, unpacked my purchase and plotted how to press it into service.

The answer came from a dish of slow-cooked onions, left over, as I remember, from a steak dinner some days earlier. I turned on the oven, spooned some of the onions into the dish, and broke an egg over the top, and covered both with a coarse grating of fresh gruyere** and some black pepper.

After ten minutes in the oven, the onions were warm and aromatic and the egg on the cusp of firm, with the gruyere forming a lacy, golden crown over the top. It was so good that I forgot about the salad and popped another one in the oven instead.

Ouefs en cocotte

This formula can be adapted easily to what’s in the fridge. In place of the onions, I’ve used well-drained, steamed spinach, sautéed mushrooms, tomato confit and, on a night when the fridge was particularly bare, a small dollop of good tapenade. Some diced meat (perhaps cooked or cured ham) or smoked fish could certainly be added to the bottom layer, while any cheese which melts well and isn’t overly assertive could be substituted for the gruyere. To start, I’d suggest taleggio, fontina, a creamy, rindless goats cheese and comte.

One final note: these temperature and cooking recommendations may well apply only to my own oven. To start, I’d stick with the former and check after 8 minutes, jiggling to see how liquid the egg is.

Total time: However long it takes to preheat the oven, plus another ten minutes

Makes a light dinner for one with some bread and salad. You can prepare this for more people by using individual cocottes or by adjusting the cooking time and using a larger dish.

2 tablespoons slow-cooked onion
1 large free-range egg
Somewhere between a large pinch and a small handful of freshly-grated gruyere
Special equipment: an ovenproof dish between 3 and 4 inches in diameter and 1 ½ and 2 inches tall

Preheat the oven to 175C. Place the onions at the base of the dish and crack the egg on top. Sprinkle the gruyere over both and finish with some black pepper.

Bake for 8-10 minutes, depending on how runny you like the egg. If the cheese has not browned and swelled sufficiently, put under the grill for not more than 30 seconds.


* I imagine most people only keep dry white vermouth around to make martinis. But not only does it last for ages without degrading—making it extremely useful to stow in the fridge for adding to braises, soups and the like—but the better ones are also excellent as a solo aperitif. Of the commonly-available brands I particularly like Noilly Prat, which is oak-aged and contains an appealing complex blend of herbs. And yes, I am drinking some now.

** Even in France, there is a huge difference between the pre-grated stuff that most people throw in their baskets at the supermarket, and a well-aged specimen bought from a good cheesemonger. The former is bland and sawdusty, the latter nutty, almost treacly in bits, with some residual moisture even when grated.


Finally, I've written this for La Fête du Fromage. You can find the write-up after the 15th of December at Chez Loulou.

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.

Pommes Sautés (Fried Potatoes)

These are not the most obvious times to be boiling oil. Even a shallow pan of it heats up my pint-size kitchen noticeably, while a thin film of grease accumulates on every surface--not only the stove itself, but also the wall tiles, the bookshelf and, unaccountably, between the two layers of the double-glazed window. And yet the sizzling and crackling sounds, the vague illicitness of it all ( I do not come from a family that fries), and oh, the texture--crispy brown and salty coating shielding an unctuous, creamy interior--are proving well neigh irresistible.

Thanks to a cheap but not unpleasant bottle of Tunisian olive oil, any fiscal concerns about pouring my lunch money into a pan have disappeared. So too have any real health concerns, when I noticed how much of said oil was not absorbed in the cooking process.

It began with a pan of cauliflower. Innocuous, if not for the fact that the recipe came from the Moro cookbook, which suceeds where so many others seasonal, local advocates fail in actually making simple food delicious. This recipe called for frying cauliflower florets until well-browned, then annointing them with a freshly-ground spice mix of cumin, coriander and fennel seeds, along with coarse salt. To put it in context, the cauliflower very nearly overshadowed two succulent lamb chops and a bottle of earthy, spicy red wine.

This past Friday, in need of a simple yet soul-satisfying supper, I made a meal that French diners would serve--if such a thing existed: a plain omelette and a side of rocket salad. A medium-weight Loire substituted for what is termed here as jus de chausette, or sock juice-- weak American coffee--here too with unlimited refills. But the highlight was nothing more or less than fried potatoes, cooked with bay leaves and garlic in lots of olive oil. I doubt the French would eat them with their fingers, but hey, that's American manners for you.

Next up, I think, are fritters of feta, mint and courgette. All I need now is a good window cleaner.


Potatoes in Olive Oil*

Serves 2 (can be doubled as long as your pan is large enough to hold the potatoes in a single layer)

Total time: 1 hour; Active time: 10-15 minutes

The first key to this dish is to choose potatoes which hold their shape during frying. For Americans, Yukon Golds work well. I tend to use a red-skinned variety which you may or may not be able to access called Rosevals. The second is to only cook as many potatoes as fit easily in your largest pan. If you crowd them, they'll fry unevenly and be hard to turn.

Cut potatoes into large bite-size pieces. Boil water, salt it and cook the potatoes until they are almost soft. Drain and dry well. (Wet potatoes can cause messy and painful oil geysers.) In a large, wide, heavy-bottomed pan, heat a substantial film of oil, enough to amply cover the bottom of the potatoes. Just before the oil begins to smoke, add the potatoes and any hearty aromatics (rosemary or thyme branches and/or bay leaves). If using garlic, you can leave the cloves unpeeled. Either fry them for a few minutes then remove, or make sure that they stay nestled in the potatoes and don't crisp.

Turn the heat down slightly and leave the potatoes undisturbed for at least 10 minutes, or until they have developed a good crust and release easily from the pan. Turn carefully and repeat until brown on all sides--usually about 30 minutes. Don't rush. Drain on kitchen paper, salt generously and serve immediately. Mayonnaise would not be inappropriate, or even ketchup, but neither is necessary. The cooking oil can be cooled, drained of any solids and kept in the refrigerator for a few weeks.

* This is equally good with duck or goose fat, for those who want to test the veracity of the French paradox. In that case, red wine is obligatory, as it helps to unclog satured fat in the arteries.

Soupe de Poisson

In my kitchen, at least, not everything is better when it's homemade. Even with tasty olives and anchovies, I can't produce tapenade like that sold by Britain's largest grocery chain. The same goes for jam; there's a reason why Bonne Maman does such good business. And then there are the items which I take pleasure in making--bread for instance--that may vie with easily available options (at least outside France), but don't really reflect a mastery of the craft.

I do think, however, that given time, several large pots and a good marketing plan, people might just pay money for my soup.

I'm still working on expanding my repertoire, but this Provencal-inspired fish soup, a riff on a Nigel Slater recipe, has proven to be a bit of a sleeper hit. In contrast to many (good quality) commercial French offerings, where the fish is pureed and the finished product topped with Gruyere toasts, the flavours here seem brighter, cleaner, fishy in the right sort of way. And it's as flexible as the famously belaboured bouillabaisse is not. For instance, while fish stock adds depth to the final product, I've made it successfully without. I also tend to limit myself to one firm, flavourful white fish (usually mullet or bream), simply for practicality. Fresh fennel goes in when I have it, some fennel seeds when I don't. The thyme sprigs could, if necessary, be swapped for a pinch of herb de provence. And anything dry, acidic and white--sauvignon blanc, muscat, a vermentino or verdejo--will work both in the pot and in a glass alongside.

This soup is plenty good without any filips, though I'm prone to adding a dollop of decidedly not homemade rouille (a rich, mildly spicy, red pepper mayo) or aioli to my bowl. I let you know if I can improve upon--or even match--this.

Soupe de Poisson
Enough for 2; can double easily
Total time: 45 minutes
Active time: 20 minutes

olive oil, enough to film the pot
1 medium onion
1/2 small bulb fennel or 1 tsp fennel seeds
1 or 2 cloves of garlic
pinch of red pepper flakes (optional)
1 can crushed plum tomatoes
1 strip of orange peel
a few sprigs of thyme
pinch of saffron
1 glass white wine (or vermouth)
1 cup homemade or other good fish stock (optional, substitute a mixture of tomato liquid and water)
500 grams filleted white fish (off the skin is prettier, but the fish will break down faster)
chopped parsley (optional)
rouille or aioli (optional)

Serve with a baguette and chilled white wine

Warm the oil in a heavy-bottomed pot, chop the onions and fennel and add, along with a pinch of salt and some pepper, stirring occasionally. Chop the garlic and strip the thyme from its branches. Once the vegetables have fully softened--between 10 and 15 minutes, add the garlic, red pepper flakes, fennel seeds and thyme and toss. Add the tinned tomatoes, holding back about half of the juice. While this cooks down on a low medium heat, infuse the saffron in a few tablespoons of hot water. Warm the fish stock. In 15 minutes, or when the tomato mixture is looked reduced and amalgamated, add the wine. Raise the heat for several minutes to cook off the alcohol, then add the fish stock or watered-down tomato liquid, along with a bit of water if you'd like a looser texture. Let this cook for a few minutes while you chop the fish into bite-size pieces. If you are ready to eat, add the fish and let it cook through on a gentle heat, no more than 5 minutes. Check the seasoning, top with parsley and serve, adding either rouille or aioli to the baguette or the bowl.

Salad nicoise

It's early in the morning on the fourth day of my vacation, and I'm finally willing to admit that one doesn't always have to go somewhere to have an enjoyable holiday. Especially when one lives in Paris, when a certain cheese-loving Londoner is here for more days than can be counted on one hand, and when, finally, the sun has come out.

It should have been obvious to me sooner--around lunch on Saturday--when we assembled a nicoise salad that surely bested 98% of those eaten by the thousands slow-baking through August on the Riviera. Good summer tomatoes and green beans obviously helped, as did the perfectly moist and orange-yolked hard boiled eggs. (I have been producing some messy, and quite frankly, inedible specimens of late, a fact which I blame on my slow-to-heat Le Creuset, but may actually be due to simple incompetence.) But the defining element was the fish: one small (possibly too small) tin of olive-oil laden albacore tuna, another of anchovies so milky-white and clean-tasting that they deserve to be called boquerones and sold for lots of money in a stylishly simple tapas bar.

High-quality ingredients are important here; so is the timing. I like to dress the potatoes and beans while warm (in order to absorb the fishy, oily dressing), and to slice the egg on top of the composed salad as soon as it's cool enough to peel. On this occasion, from start to photo-finish, it took about 40 minutes. I think 30 is the minimum.

For two people, I usually start by boiling a handful of halved or quartered new potatoes. A similar quantity of trimmed haricot verts are added to the same pot with about 5 minutes to go. Once the potatoes are started, I drain the oil from the fish(es) into the serving dish. This, along with dijon mustard, a splash of vinegar, salt and vinegar, should make a sufficient quantity of dressing. After this, the tomatoes can be chopped or sliced (mi cuit tomatoes might make an interesting variation in the winter and spring), olives stoned and water brought up to boil for the eggs. By the time the eggs go on, I've hopefully added the fish and tomatoes, along with the olives, to the dish, and cleaned some soft salad leaves. The potatoes and beans are cooled slightly, then mixed through. I toss in the leaves just as the eggs come off the heat, adding the sliced eggs immediately before serving.

Rose or a crisp white seem obvious partners. We would have finished with goats cheese, had we not eaten it all the night before in a decadent midnight picnic.

Good, Ugly Supper

Consider yourself lucky that I don't have a camera handy. Piperade, a garlicky Basque speciality of stewed peppers, onions and tomatoes, into which eggs are lightly scrambled, is homely at best. Poaching or baking the eggs might limit the unattractive colour bleed, and a generous hand with the parsley could distract the eye, but piperade's sheer ugliness is hard to disguise.

No matter. This might not be dress-up and go-out food, or even set-the-table-for-dinner food, but it makes an undeniably moreish supper. The traditional accompaniment is salty, silky Bayonne ham, France's answer to the more famous Spanish serrano and Italian parma. But I had my fill of jamon with a bowl of this soup, so I added a bit of extra salt and proceeded without.

I used fresh tomatoes--a variety available here called Marmot, which look like little bean-bag chairs--and bell peppers; substituting good-quality tinned tomatoes and some jarred, roasted peppers would produce a deeper, rounder flavour. For a bit of heat and complexity in my version, I put in a pinch of Spanish smoked paprika; in southwest France, this would most likely be piment d'espelette, also known as ezpeletako biperra. Tabasco could even be used, though I'm generally of the opinion that it only belongs in Bloody Marys.

The ham might be optional, even some of the garlic, if you're sensitive about such things, but I wouldn't sit down without a big piece of crusty bread and a juice glass full of simple, robust wine. Oh, and finally, I've written this for Eat the Right Stuff's vegetarian blogging event. So check it out, for recipes that are far more inventive--and attractive--than mine.

I worked off a recipe from Marlena Spieler's Vegetarian Bistro, which differed in calling for red and green peppers (I forgot to buy the latter), marjoram and cayenne. Since her version made enough for six, I'm giving a scaled-down version with slightly different instructions.

Piperade
Serves 2
Total time 30-35 minutes Active time 15 minutes
2 smallish onions
2 bell peppers
vine-ripened tomatoes, equivalent to about 1 1/2 cups chopped*
1-2 cloves of garlic
3 medium eggs (adjust based on the number of people eating, and the desired ratio of egg to sauce), not fridge-cold
smoked paprika or an equivalent
olive oil

Thinly slice onions. In a medium-sized, deep frying pan or skillet, heat enough olive oil to just coat the surface and add the onions. Season and allow to soften for about 10 minutes on a moderate heat. Coarsely slice the peppers and chop the tomatoes. First add the peppers, allowing these to cook for at least 10 minutes, or until they become almost silky. Now add the chopped tomatoes, giving about 5 minutes for them to soften, meld and give up their juice. (Allow a bit more time for flavour blending if you are using tinned tomatoes.) Slice or chop the garlic and add, along with the paprika. Cook for a few more minutes, adjusting the heat if necesary, until you have a dryish but coherent sauce. Turn the heat down to low. In a bowl, crack the eggs and whisk lightly with a fork.** Spoon in a bit of the sauce, then add the egg mixture to the pan, stirring gently to combine. Continue to stir until the eggs are just cooked through, then remove immediately from both the heat and the pan.


* If the only fresh tomatoes you can find look pale or cotton-woolly, substitute a can of plum tomatoes with most of the juice drained.
** At this stage you could also poach the eggs, though I would advise that you look for advice on how to do this elsewhere.

Bistro Chez Moi

Two months have passed in Paris, and I’ve hardly eaten in a restaurant. There have been the odd lunches with colleagues, usually in a creperie or sandwich bar, two casual midday meals during G’s first visit to Paris, the odd pho outings, and a late-night supper of onion soup, steak tartare and Beaujolais at a famous, if perhaps overrated, brasserie near Les Halles. But I’m yet to pass an evening in that most quintessential Parisian institution: the bistro.

The best of the genre are rightly fabled for serving diners three or four courses of well-executed standards, a proper baguette and a bit too much perfectly quaffable wine, all in an unfussy and convivial setting. Whether a resolutely traditional bastion of cuisine grand mere or, increasingly, updated with a sleeker, seasonal twist at the new gastro bistros, this kind of meal is what tens of thousands come to Paris to find.

So it may seem perverse that, despite an ample list of must-visit bistros—a few within easy walking distance from my apartment—I chose to cook this past Saturday night. The idea was not mine, I must admit. But our bistro-inspired meal turned out to be an intimate, smoke-free success. The wine was a light Loire red, slightly chilled, the bread from my favourite local bakery. There was soup to start, a simple pea and mint, and a fresh, peppery mesclun salad. For our main course, we adapted the classic rabbit in mustard, swapping lapin for chicken but retaining the voluptuous, winey sauce. Dessert came in three parts: a half-bottle of honeyed Sauternes drunk alongside its time-honoured partner, soft, salty Roquefort, and a tarte fine aux pommes from Montmarte’s best pastry maker, Arnaud Lahrer.

Dessert was a predictable knockout, but the chicken was the sleeper hit. Whether it was the shallots, reputed to be one of the secrets of French cooking, the judicious use of butter and cream, or the intensely flavoured meat itself, I do not know. But it provided exactly what the best bistro meals always do—a frisson of excitement, followed by intense pleasure. And that is certainly worth staying home for.

The technique for this dish came from the rabbit with mustard sauce recipe in the Gourmet cookbook. We left out the parsley and cornstarch, added a bit of cream and used only Dijon mustard. Below is the adapted version. Although we drank red, I imagine that a lightly oaked chardonnay, pinot gris or pinot blanc would also work well.

Chicken with mustard sauce (quantities serve 2)

Total time: 1 ½ hours
Active time: 30 minutes

2 chicken legs
2 banana shallots (the large, oblong ones)
½ mug (6-8 oz) dry vermouth or white wine (we used Noilly Prat)
½ mug good chicken or vegetable stock
1 heaping tbsp Dijon mustard
1 heaping tablespoon crème fraiche
a bit of butter or neutral oil

Warm the butter or oil in a deep, lidded skillet or a casserole pan large enough to hold both chicken legs.* Add the meat and brown thoroughly on a medium-high heat; this should take a full ten minutes. While you are waiting, chop the shallots very finely. Remove the chicken from the pan, turn down the heat and add the shallots, tossing to soften for a few minutes. Now add the vermouth or wine and bring to a boil. Boil hard until the liquid is reduced by half, about 5 minutes. Add the stock, return the chicken to the pan and cover. Cook on as low a heat as possible (using a diffuser or cast iron griddle if necessary) until chicken is very tender, approximately 1 hour.

When the meat is ready, remove from the pan and keep covered. Pour a ½ cup of the braising liquid into a small bowl, add the mustard and whisk to combine. Return this to the pan and mix through. Add the crème fraiche, season to taste and serve over the chicken.


* Although the ideal sizes for frying and braising are probably different, you should be able to do everything in one pan. For the first step, make sure that the chicken legs have enough space to sauté, not steam. When it comes to the casseroling, fill in the extra space at the top of the pan with a layer or two of foil. According to Molly Stevens, this helps to tighten the condensation cycle.

Good woman soup

My new bed is clad in lovely, old, familiar linens, and I am tucked up, drinking chichi Mariage Freres tea out of my favourite mug. Boxes have been unpacked, a larder stocked, and soup made.

The most pleasurable aspect of the last few days has undoubtedly been food shopping. My new neighbourhood, on the border of the 11th and 12th arrondisments, not only has a lively open-air market six days a week, but also boasts several dozen small shops and permanent stalls. And H

here, at least, I’m learning quickly: to always take my jute shopping bag when heading out on errands (plastic sacs are invariably tiny and weak); how to order certain foods (though I’m currently limited to weights of 100 grams, a half-kilo or a kilo); and which of the wine shops in the immediate vicinity has a more interesting stock.

I am unquestionably spoiled when it comes to vegetables, cheese, bread and wine. My kitchen, however, has been less easy to love. On the whole, my apartment is far nicer than I had remembered: bright, airy, with piles of charm and enough genuine virtues—an enormous, spanking-new bed, masses of closets, proper wood floors—to outweigh such startling decorating decisions as a shiny black and gold coffee table and a red velvet couch. In the case of the kitchen, however, my recent reencounter merely confirmed earlier frustrations: storage limited to high, open shelves, a new microwave but a very old (convection) oven, a cramped layout, and a plethora of ugly, cheap kitchenware. The narrow L-shape did make it a perfect space for one. But this physical reminder that I would be cooking only for myself merely prompted me to focus more intently on the kitchen’s flaws.

Nonetheless, with the odious and unnecessary banished, Le Creusets hung conveniently on hooks and shelves loaded with food staples, it was difficult to be entirely negative. The light was shining in through the window, and there was a place on the ledge that could hold herb plants. There was even room to line up all of my cookbooks, something which I had been unable to do for a long time. The meals I would cook here might lack in companionship, but it no longer seemed inconceivable that this space, my first solo kitchen, could be a happy one.

I celebrated this newfound resolve—and the successful completion of my move—by making soup. Although there was no wine (the corkscrew not being due to arrive until the weekend), I had bought cheese and bread along with that morning’s vegetables. The soup was simple and satisfying, if a bit too salty, a homespun blend of leeks, potatoes, carrot, and parsley.

I vaguely recalled that these types of improvised recipes were sometimes known in French as potage bonne femme. Although I later learned that the correct translation for this was housewife’s soup, that evening, good woman soup seemed like just the right thing to have on the menu.

I later found this recipe, adopting different proportions, using butter in place of olive oil and adding a bit of cream, in Lindsey Bareham's Celebration of Soup.

Potage Bonne Femme

Serves 4
1 1/2 oz butter
2 large leeks, finely sliced
3 carrots, diced
1 lb potatoes, peeled, diced and rinsed
2 pts water (I used Marigold stock)
2 fl oz single cream
1 tbsp parsley

Melt the butter and gently saute the leeks and carrots. When thoroughly coated with butter, add the potatoes, the water and a generous pinch of salt. Simmer gently for 30 minutes. Puree and pass through a fine sieve. Adjust the seasoning, serve with a swirl of cream and a flourish of chopped parsley or chervil.

Seeing things through orange-hued glasses

The new year has brought a lovely new addition to Les Petit Pois' modest kitchen. In order to mark a recent milestone, a dear friend found me a set a set of little-used, volcano-orange Le Creuset pots--5 in total, complete with a clever hanging/storage rack. Though I did swear a bit when lugging them back home that night, I am completely besotted. Now, it may be the perfectly-seasoned, heavy-as-all-get-out cast iron which has led to a noticeable improvement in cooking outcomes this week. It's not difficult to imagine that the carrot-fennel soup I wizzed up, or, for that matter, the braised lentils I wrote about previously, would benefit from being cooked in a heavy-bottomed pot. And yet, the effect seems to be psychological as well, as if owning the pots of a serious chef has helped me to throw off some of the self-doubt that often stymies my cooking. Or maybe this is just a gift with good karma.

As I write, the two largest pots in the ensemble are being pressed into service. The 20cm is full to the brim with an ever so slowly simmering carbonnade (beef and beer stew a la Flanders), the largest has just gone back into the oven housing the now-legendary (at least in my cooking and blog-obsessed world) no-knead bread. With chilly, if not cold, weather on the horizon for the foreseeable future, I'm thinking that this stew-bread double act, supported by an able cast of soups and slow-cooked legumes (accompanied by lots of spicy red poured into those Bordeaux glasses...) has a profitable run ahead of it.


Carbonnade (primarily adapted from Larousse and Nigella Lawson's recipe for beef braised in beer from How to Eat)

1 tbsp flour
1 1/2 pounds lean stewing meat
1-2 tbsp olive oil
3 medium onions
2 garlic gloves
1 cup prunes
16 oz beer*
several branches fresh thyme
2 heaping teaspoons dijon mustard
salt and pepper to taste

serves 4-5
total time: 2-3 hours
active time: 30-40 minutes

Lightly coat chunks of stewing meat in flour. Add 1 tbsp oil to a large frying pan and heat to medium-high. Add meat, in batches if necessary to avoid overcrowding, and brown well on all sides. Don't try to turn the meat too quickly; it will probably take a few minutes per side. In the meantime, slice the onions thinly. After the meat is done, remove to a plate and add onions to the frying pan. Lower heat slightly. Using a bit more oil if necessary, cook slowly until golden brown, 15-20 minutes.
Transfer both meat and onions to a lidded casserole or pot, preferably one that fits the items somewhat tightly. Add a splash of beer to the frying pan, turn up the heat and gently scrape up any browned bits. Pour this and the rest of the beer over the meat, topping up with water if the meat is not mostly covered. Add prunes, sliced in half if desired, whole garlic cloves, and the thyme, stripped from its branches.
Cover well and place on low simmer. (If you cannot keep the surface at a mere shudder, consider using a ring reducer or placing the stew in a low oven.) Check periodically, topping up with water if it looks like it's drying out. Add mustard with about an hour to go. The beef will be tender after about 2 hours, but could happily cook for at least an hour more.
Season, adding more mustard if necessary, and serve over mashed potatoes, wide noodles or with lots of bread.

* I've used both IPA-style ales and wheat beers with success. If using a porter or stout, you might consider adding a teaspoon or so of brown sugar, although I've found that the carmelised onions and prunes offset any bitterness from the beer.