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by Diane Weintraub Pohl Issue 08 (May-July 00) [Copyright © 2000, The Valley Table] The cuisine of France has set the standard of fine cooking for centuries, and no wonder: From region to region, from rugged coastlines through verdant fields to craggy mountains, the French countryside yields an abundance of riches, and each region in turn has developed distinctive dishes capitalizing on them. One could take a gastronomic tour of some of these regions without leaving the Hudson Valley--here's a sampling of French regional cuisine as interpreted by a host of French-born chefs who now call the Hudson Valley home. Gascony It took 300 years for the French to win Gascony back from the English. Was it worth it to get back some land? Probably. To get back the food? Definitely. Trees and fields are nice, but foie gras, cèpes and guinea hens are glorious. Throughout Gascony (and its Perigord and Quercy neighbors in the southwest), the confits and pates of fattened ducks, abundant gamebirds and fecund mushrooms fill thousands of recipes and countless Gascon souls. It is here that country kitchens bustle with curing pork for saucisson (large dried sausage) and conserving cooked duck for confit; here hearty pot-au-feu (stove-top stew) and cassoulet thick with sausage, lamb, confit and beans provide sustenance in winter. Growing up in the countryside in the village of St. Etienne de Tulmont outside of the city of Toulouse, those dishes sustained Chef Bernard Bouissou's body and soul. "As little kids on the neighbor's farm, we'd run around a big wood table after a pig was slaughtered," the 34-year-old chef, recently of Westchester's La Panetiere, now chef/owner of Bernard's Inn in Ridgefield, Connecticut, recalls rhapsodically. "We'd grind meat for sausage, put ham in salt to make proscuitto, make pancetta for the ventraiche sausage, which is basically raw bacon cured, marinated, then tightly rolled into the stomach lining and dried." Patrons at La Panetiere, and now at his eponymous Connecticut restaurant, reap the benefits of that memory in plates of lusty Gascon charcuterie: large cylinders of ventraiche and coppa, narrow discs of jambon de campagne, saussice fine seche, and poached Boudin blood sausage. Bouissou's eyes affect a sort of visual salivation at this litany. "It's just simple country stuff," he shrugs, "I'm a redneck for it." Most of his preferences share that sensibility; Proust's madeleines are Bouissou's pork fat. His favorite dishes read like a paean to farm life: marinated and preserved pork shank; his mother's slow stove-roasted chicken; the pot-au-feu she'd start at dawn; round white coco michelet beans; cepes fresh from the woods ("I love to eat them, but I love picking them more"). Then, of course, there's duck. The refined, sauteed foie gras with cranberry port sauce and the seared magret breast with figs served at his restaurants are rooted in the rustic confits and pates of his youth. "By November, we'd start to force feed the ducks for three weeks," he recalls. "First, all the trimming fat was melted, then we'd cook the legs and breast in it--though no one confits the breast now, it's frozen for steaks instead--and when they were done we'd take them out, cover them with fat in jars and sterilize them. We'd eat the confit all winter long." His mother's garden provided winter fare as well. "We'd make over 300 jars of vegetables each fall," he states. "Haricots verts, plum tomatoes, coco michelet, roasted beets, cepes and black trumpet mushrooms." There was preserved fruit, too, from his sister's orchards. Fruit, particularly plums, looms large in Gascon cuisine. Reine Claude plums in Armagnac--the great brandy of the southwest--and the dried prune d'Agen with ice cream are dessert staples, as is pastis, a sourdough strudel with almonds, apples and the potent eau de vie fruit brandy coveted in every corner of the region. Though he hails from one culinary Shangri-La, he has found another in the fields of the Hudson Valley. "The farmers here get me anything I want," he says with paysanne appreciation. "Cepes, a tough Gascon rooster for coq au vin--a real chicken, not a free-range chicken bought at the supermarket. Pigs raised outside, partridge, pheasant, rabbits, the pintades--guinea hens--we have at home. I have four or five farmers that can get me all of them. Even good foie gras and magret ducks. You can get anything you want here." Bernard's Inn at Ridgefield, 20 West Lane, Ridgefield, CT (203) 438-8282 La Panetiere, 530 Milton Road, Rye (914) 967-8140 Burgundy If your heritage was forged by leaders named Philip the Bold and John the Fearless, chances are your cuisine, or your wine, wouldn't be delicate. In Burgundy, where those leaders were powerful dukes, it's anything but. Buoyed by its full-bodied wines, Burgundian cooking is a marvel of earthy, hearty fare. Beef bourguignon, parslied ham in cream sauce, buttery escargots and meats dijonnaise embody the rustic sensibility of this land. It's peasant cooking elevated to stellar heights. And do Burgundians love to cook! It's no coincidence that the Dijon palace kitchen of the aforementioned dukes of Burgundy--whose autonomous power in the fifteenth century rivaled that of the French king--contained six enormous fireplaces going full-blast during sumptuous medieval feasts. Burgundian fields nurture Charolais steer, Bresse chickens (always sold with the head attached for authenticity) and Morvan hams (acclaimed the world over), and the woods abound with woodcock and hare. All eventually find their way to a pot heady with Burgundy's supreme glories: mustard and wine. Dijon mustard is the world's finest; the pinot noirs and chardonnays of the Cote d'Or (Golden Slope) induced the dukes of Burgundy to appoint themselves as "Lords of the best wines of Christendom." As an apprentice in a Michelin three-star Breton restaurant and trained by a noted Burgundian chef, Maxime Ribera came to revere the region's cuisine. In the 45 years since, Burgundian dishes have been featured at the many restaurants he has owned, including Cafe Argenteuil in Manhattan, where regulars included eminent food writer Gael Greene and future restaurant tycoon Drew Nieporent. Today, Ribera is chef/owner of northern Westchester's Maxime's, a haven of lush bouquets, beamed ceilings, roaring stone hearth and, in summer, a woodside garden ideal for weddings. "I like the food from Burgundy--it's very tasty, very healthy," Ribera says with understatement. Yes, his cheese puff canapes, the Burgundian staple gougeres, are definitely "tasty," but his Burgundian classic, oeufs en meurette, is a symphony of farmyard eggs, red wine, earthy mushrooms and salty rich lardons (diced fresh bacon); his red snapper attains piscine heights in white wine, shallots, mustard and cream. ("I've been praised for my sauces," says Ribera proudly.) Though raised in Brittany, his grandmother introduced him to a variety of Burgundian dishes. "She raised rabbits and chickens, just enough for the family. We'd have a rabbit every other week, sauteed then braised in white wine and finished with cream and Dijon mustard. And she'd make coq au vin also, in red wine--probably Burgundy's most traditional dish." (How does it compare to all France's other coq au vins? His verdict is terse: "Burgundy's is the good one.") Diners can sample his coq au vin at Ribera's adjoining new bistro, The Elephant Cafe, along with escargots laced with garlic and cognac and, often, the red-wine poached oeufs en meurette. At Maxime's, the menu boasts dishes like Homard Maxime's (lobster meat removed from the shell, sauteed, baked, then served in a buttery lobster jus) and rabbit roasted with thyme, bay leaf, shallots and garlic. Then, of course, there's the beef bourguignon. A pot of beef cubes doused in red wine? Hardly. Ribera's aromatic combination of meat, mushrooms, pearl onions and lardons in wine is first sealed with a ribbon of dough rolled around the sides of the casserole dish before it is covered. "That way, you don't lose any of the flavor in the steam," he notes. And how does this master of sauces rate the agriculture of the Hudson Valley? "It's very good quality," he nods. "I can get great veal for the restaurant from the farmers here, and excellent game and foie gras from D'Artagnan. But when I'm at home," he chuckles, "I like a plain roasted chicken with French fries." Maxime's, 9 Old Tomahawk Street, Granite Springs (914) 248-7200 Provence Always the aesthetes, the Greeks claimed it first. Then came the domineering Romans, who dubbed it their "province." In their haste, they missed the mark; they should have called it paradise. Provence. The word conjures visual sonnets and culinary odes. From northern Haute-Provence south to the glistening Mediterranean, the fields lie swathed in lavender, the hills sheathed in olive-grove silver. Every village market brims with the land's bounty: herbs, olives, garlic, tomatoes, artichokes, mesclun, sweet peppers, eggplant, asparagus, onions. And those are just the plants! Haute-Provence's Sisteron lambs are considered unparalleled; pieds paquets (small lamb-stomach parcels stuffed with salt pork, tomatoes and herbs, then cooked in white wine) are a Provencal classic. Southward, the waters off Marseilles and east to the Cote d'Azur are rife with spiny rascasse (red rock cod), loup (bass), anglerfish, conger eel, cuttlefish, bream and others that concoct the ethereal fish chowder, bouillabaisse. As a girl growing up near the Riviera hilltown of Grasse, renowned for its perfume industry, Westchester chef/caterer Josyane Colwell ate her fill of bouillabaisse and its creamy, garlicky salt-cod cousin, brandade (both of which she'll make on order for catering). Raised on her grandparents' farm in a house owned by her family for 300 years, the gifts of Provence lay sprawled at her doorstep. "We grew jasmine, roses, lavender and narcissus for the perfume trade, and [we had] an old olive mill that produced oil for centuries," she relates. Her cafe in Irvington, Le Moulin, is named for that mill, called Moulin de la Brague (mill of the stream); its oil is sold at Manhattan's gourmet shop, Zabar's, today. Vegetables, from baby artichokes to onions to zucchini flowers, were Colwell's childhood mealtime favorites, a passion reflected in the dishes available at her cafe and for catering: herb-stuffed tomatoes, fennel with roasted tomatoes and basil, grilled leeks with vinaigrette, roasted potatoes with rosemary and garlic. "My grandmother would make a tian-zucchini, eggplant, tomato and onion baked in a special crock. It was so pretty," she smiles. Today, she puts her own spin on tian: eggplant stuffed with goat cheese. Her grandmother also made a roast rabbit with mustard that she adored (which she replicates for catering). Leg of lamb stuffed with spinach and garlic confit is another of her catered specialties. Perhaps more than anything else, Provencal cooking is defined by olives and garlic. There is hardly a dish that doesn't contain them in some form. The small, black Provençal olive is the wellspring for the region's delectable fruity oil, tapenade (lusty with capers and anchovies) and pizza-like pissaladiere. No self-respecting cold poached fish, meat, mixed vegetables or hard-cooked egg would dare be presented without aioli, the garlic mayonnaise often called the butter of Provence. "We have aioli on our menu all the time, mostly on sandwiches," Colwell says. "I'll make basil aioli, sundried tomato aioli, dill aioli and sometimes saffron aioli." The words evoke color and light; one wonders if the Hudson Valley holds lyricism for her as well. Her response is immediate: "Sunsets! The Hudson River sunsets are so beautiful, like the ones over the Mediterranean. And of course, all the local farmers' markets have so much available: salad, berries--I go all the time." Those markets supply most everything she needs to recreate the flavors of home. "That's what I remember--the flavors," she says emphatically. "Provencal cooking means using a lot of herbs; each one gives a dish a specific flavor, its own personality." She leans back and recites her favorites--basil, thyme, rosemary--then adds anise, onions and a pot pourri of figs--white, black, small, fat. On this wintry day, sitting inside the sponged-yellow walls of Le Moulin, it's positively spring. Le Moulin, 75 Main Street, Irvington (914) 591-4680 Brittany/Normandy Its granite cliffs towering in timeless defiance to the sea, France's maritime provinces of Brittany and Normandy are studies in austerity. Here, salt- and wind-swept fields yield only the hardiest crops-ground-clinging cabbages, cauliflower, potatoes and artichokes--and the lambs raised on the salty marshland grass taste of the sea. The Celtic Breton name for Brittany, Finistere, means "the end of the earth." Yet the shellfish gleaned from this earth's end is a revelation of flavor, and its guemenee (lengths of pork tripe wound around one another, then wrapped in beef membrane) is a potent ode to Breton craftsmanship. Here, as in Normandy, apple orchards beget the world-renowned cider and Calvados that flow at every table, and thick, pale cream anchors most every sauce, soup and stew. Butter--always salted in Brittany--shines in the province's baked specialties: hearty, stuffed crepes and dense, caramelized kouign-amman pastry. Once each year, Gwenael Goulet, chef/owner of Westchester's Buffet de la Gare in Hastings-on-Hudson, returns to his Breton seaside village of Concarneau to reconnect with these childhood treasures. "From our dining room, we could see all the fishing boats coming into port," he reminisces. His father imported seafood and supplied shops and restaurants throughout France; one grandfather was a chef and his mother comes from a long line of bakers. "I realize now that growing up I was kind of spoiled," he chuckles. "We'd have langoustines [small lobsters] all the time, boiled for one minute with fleur de sel [fine sea salt], thyme and bay leaves, then eaten with fresh mayonnaise, bread and fresh butter. And lots of Belon oysters," he adds, eyes sparkling, "We'd eat them raw with lemon and dark, buttered pain noir--buckwheat-flour bread.” Occasionally, Goulet ate the well-known Breton fish stew cotriade, thick with leeks, bread and potatoes, but more often the lucky boy dined on Dover sole and turbot, thanks to his father's clout. Then there were his mother's pastries. "She'd make far Breton, a pastry of eggs, butter, sugar, flour and milk. And naturally, the traditional kouign-amman." There were also plenty of crepes dentelles, the sweet, crisp dessert resembling delicate lace. Goulet recreates several of these Breton specialties at Buffet de la Gare. Coquilles St. Jacques a la Bretonne--scallops in white wine, shallots and salted Breton butter--is a frequent feature, and occasionally he'll prepare a luxe version of cotriade he calls nage de fruits de mer: lobster, scallops and shrimp in a lobster bouillon spiced with garlic, chives and an innovative hint of ginger. Savor either of them in Buffet de la Gare's turn-of-the-(last)century stamped-tin-walled bistro and you can just about smell the swirling Breton seas. If goulet was a child of the water, chef Claude Guermont was a child of the fields. Raised on the farmland of Normandy, his hometown of St. Hulaire du Harcouet boasted the area's largest farmers' market. "I'd go with my father very early--5:30 or 6--on Wednesdays; we'd take our lamb, pork or veal to sell," recalls the owner of Poughkeepsie's Le Pavillon brightly. "Everyone would bring their products: apples, leeks, cabbages, dozens of kinds of oysters and meats. Schools were closed Wednesdays because of the market, so all the kids were there--for us, it was like going to the mall!" he laughs. He recalls his mother making chicken with vegetables in cream sauce and baked apples in puff pastry from the Norman riches of butter (unsalted there) and apples. At eight years old he was helping her make madeleines and crêpes. "I already knew I was going to be chef," he grins. "By 12, I was cooking the squab, rabbit and pheasant my brother raised." Now, game birds appear regularly on Le Pavillon's menu, supplied by the Hudson Valley farmers Guermont says provide everything he needs. "Fifteen years ago there were good growers here, too, but chefs weren't interested--they were cooking routine things like steak and baked potatoes," he notes. "That has changed." Fish, of course, is a staple of Norman cooking, epitomized in the classic sole Normande: Dover sole with shellfish in a cream sauce. As in Brittany, the mussels, oysters, spider crabs (araignees) and sweet, small shrimp (crevettes) are unsurpassed. But Normandy is perhaps best known for its cheese: Camembert, pungent Livarot and the more delicate Pont l'Eveque. "All our soft-ripened cheeses are famous," Guermont claims with a surge of Gallic pride. Guermont's expertise will inspire readers of his 1985 cookbook, The Norman Table, just as it inspired students at the Culinary Institute of America during the six years he taught there before buying the eighteenth-century farmhouse that became the restaurant. For all his talent, people advised him against opening a French restaurant in Poughkeepsie. "They gave me one year," he says with the self-satisfaction of one who has beaten the odds. "I was cooking game and rare breast of duck, and people said I would never make it." With Le Pavillon now in its twentieth year, Guermont intends to keep proving them wrong. Buffet de la Gare, 155 Southside Avenue, Hastings-on-Hudson (914) 478-1671 Le Pavillon, 30 Salt Point Turnpike, Poughkeepsie (914) 473-2525 |
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