French Family Cooking [antikvár]

INTRODUCTION This is a highly individual book. I do not claim that I have made a Hfelong study of Frcnch cooking. I merely state that my grandfather was a Frenchman; he bequeathed me, as well as flashing black eyes and a volatile temperament, an enormous enjoyment of, and veneration for, good food cooked in the French manner. Fortunately he also endowed me with a paretue of innumerable kind and hospitable aunts, uncles and cousins. Although I am the only cookcry writer in the family, I am not the only dedicated cook. Many relatives, both near and dear and far distant, have contributed their admirable recipes to this book. It does not pretend to initiate readers into the mysteries of haute cuisine, but merely to introduce them to the French cuisine fatniliale-less elaborate but infinitely satisfying, and certainly more practical for the busy housewives of other lands to imitate. The glory of French cooking is its immense scope, embracing great regional variations in climate, in tastes and in food available. Most of my recipes have a flavour of the north-west, a region rich in homely dishes made with apples, eggs, bacon, cream, and fish from a northern sea comparable to our own. There are others, more picturesque, from the Midi, and my grandfather's favourite birthday dinner from Alsace; but none, I hope, to leave the reader wistful because the cost would be prohibitive or the ingredients unobtainable. That supreme artist, the French chef, is a master of countless cookery techniques. Not every French housewife has the time or incHnation to follow all his precepts, but even in the humblest home cooking ranks as an art, not a chore. Maman gives her time and effort to it ungrudgingly, because every mouthful of food is savoured, enjoyed, and commented on, by the family. But she does move with the times. The cookery cards from a great national magazine, which innumerable Frenchwomen cut out and keep, unashamedly advise the use of bought frozen puff" pastry, and not one of my relatives still makes her own puiT paste. I have given no recipe for it, and a few other 'classics' are omitted for the same reason. Other dishes are left out because, like certain wines, they do not travel well. A true bouillabaisse seems to need Mediterranean fish, and experiments with flour available here in making Breton crepes de sarrasin have been disappointing. If you search for recipes using cepes and morilles in vain it is for the same reason. Faced with making a choice among hundreds of family favourites, I left them out. The remainder were mouth-watering enough. French cooking seems adventurous to us because of the liberal use of wine, even of spirits, and certainly of herbs and garHc. Garlic is fortunately an optional extra which can be toned down to a whisper if preferred. Wine is not cheap, but the glorious results are worth every drop. Where long, slow cooking can be speeded up without impairing the nature of the dish I have altered the method a Httle, but French cooks are not impatient and are prodigal in their attentions to finishing touches, such as the presentation of vegetables. They are careful shoppers, who comb the market stalls to find the firmest tomatoes, the ripest aubergines. Some dishes you may consider somewhat rich and highly seasoned, and this is true. Every Frenchman has a lifelong love affair with his liver; worries over it, abuses it, nurses it through innumerable 'crises de foie'. Usually if temporary starvation and a well-brewed infusion fail to arrange matters, a diet of boiled rice and leek soup for two days succeeds. Plain boiled rice is unexciting, but a French leek soup is almost worth the crisis. My French soul is anguished when I hear children moan, 'No nasty greens, Mummy!' In France vegetables are worthy to be presented, savoured, and enjoyed alone in their own right. Customs and habits connected with eating vary from country to country, and thes^pem particularly French. At family meals, wine is usually^unk in tumblers; the sight of wine glasses on the table often signals the appearance of guests. Bread, once cut into thick slices and piled into baskets, is broken apart; for some reason, cutting bread on one's own plate is wrong. The final insult to the hostess would be to add extra salt and pepper to any dish without tasting it first, as this presupposes she does not know how to season food. Bottled sauces and pickles, though they may be discreetly hidden in the kitchen cupboard, never appear on a dining table. Maman does not deal out piled plates, although this would save washing up. The meat and vegetable dishes are handed round from person to person, each solemnly holding the platter for his neighbour to partake, and then circulated again for second helpings. When the end is in sight, everyone gets more and more poHte, with cries of 'Sers-toH' 'Mais non, sers-toi!', until the last delicious morsel has been taken. Extra vegetables, always put to a good use as hors-d'oeuvre, are usually prudently put aside in the kitchen before the serving dishes go round, as these tend to go on circulating until empty. One other custom, to my mind the most charming of all, is that of urging the family to the table by instructing the youngest child to sing this little rhyme: 'A table, a table, les grands et les petits; A table, a table, a tous bon appétit.' May I wish all my readers, both young and old, a good appetite to enjoy the dishes which please my own family.