A good Montreal restaurateur has to be a cultural chameleon, moving from table to table, switching from English to French, and generally feeling at ease in all company. David embodies that. He doesn’t sit down with diners and have intimate conversations; he holds court. At the beginning, he was the bartender at Joe Beef, evoking a similar presence to what I imagine the real Joe Beef was like (if the real Joe Beef was tyrannical about iPod playlists and not making Caesars after 10:00 P.M.). David would sit with the bar diners, aka the “audience,” and tell tales of Old Montreal, Winslow Homer in Quebec, his canoeing trips in Kamouraska, and his daughters, Dylan and Lola.
After breaking free of his shucking shackles and bartending duties, David is now mostly at Liverpool, standing at the bar in grand French Canadian storytelling fashion, drinking a magnum of Brocard Chablis premier cru Montmains (what he calls his “story lubricant”), and probably saying something like “Yes, I’m sure there is an amazing Bordeaux list at Restaurant X in Miami. You know who else had a good Bordeaux list? Samuel de Champlain, on his boat, over 350 years ago …”). David is a history buff and Montreal dining is the favored topic. —ME
Montrealers of all classes seem to have an inherent knowledge of dining. We prepare rabbit at Joe Beef. Customers ask about cheese in lieu of dessert. Kids eat oysters and terrines on a baguette and know how to sit still for a two-hour dinner; it’s expected. Parents say, “Our kids eat what we eat,” and it’s a source of unspoken pride as their kids slurp down a Malpeque oyster or chew on Matane shrimp heads.
The real oyster eater is a devilish beast, and when I say “real oyster eater,” I mean someone who eats them for dinner, as a main, thirty-six or forty-eight, perhaps with some raw clams mixed in. The equally committed clam eater can consume two pounds (900 g) of steamers at a sitting, but only when they’re at their best. There is something primal about eating a lot of bivalves while quietly watching hockey alone with a beer or glass of Muscadet.
We see these types a lot at Joe Beef: intelligent, quiet purists with piercing eyes. These friends are the ones who truly understand the essence of food, as they chuckle and slurp another bivalve with a dash of Tabasco. Whether he or she is business, working, or street class, each is a force to be reckoned with. But watch out, they’re sly and a lot of them know old family black magic. I know this, I am one!
The Old Port, the southernmost section of Montreal harboring the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River and the Lachine Canal, was built by men who ate oysters by the barrel, a trait that was passed down through the old families of the builders, brewers, bankers, and gangsters. Indeed, something about oysters and gangsters has always existed. Al Capone, a famed patron of Montreal, was part owner of an oyster-serving burlesque club, where the Lion D’Or now sits. And Charles “Joe Beef” McKiernan ran the old port of Montreal like the fictionalized Bill the Butcher ran the Five Points in Gangs of New York.
We’ve been eating well in this province for the last three centuries. And although the United States has Thomas Keller and Michelin-starred restaurants now, can anyone say what was going on foodwise in Las Vegas or Miami twenty-five or thirty years ago? Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited about the American food revolution and how we’re all turning to a more healthful way of eating. But for me, Montreal’s traditions of eating, drinking wine, and speaking French sound like history in a candlelit dining room, that is, the French language evokes a historical sentiment. (Please forgive any embellishments. They seem quite natural when accompanied by dramatic hand waving and swearing: I’m a bar storyteller, remember?). The food culture of Montreal, in my opinion, is influenced by four major things: the early seigniorial system, the casse-croûte tradition, the immigration wave after World War II, and Expo 67.
Quebec was settled by the French, the English, the Scots, and the Irish—yet the food at its core has always been French based, absolutely. The classic dishes are remnants of Quebec farmhouse cooking: leftovers of a system (with the exception of a few states in the American South) that was specific to the building of Nouvelle-France. When Quebec was being settled, the land along the Saint Lawrence River was divided into strips. The Crown of France owned all of the land, but each strip had a designated, appointed landlord known as a seigneur, who provided a mill, a well, and a bread oven on his tract of land. The seigneur (though he was only himself, in theory, a renter) would lease out land to farmers, who would in turn raise animals, make cheese, grind flour, and catch fish. Ultimately, co-ops were born, and the first towns of Quebec rose along the shores of the Saint Lawrence River.
My cottage in Kamouraska is next door to the seigneuriale home of the Taché family, from which come the writers of the Je me souviens (I remember) phrase on Quebec license plates. The property is amazing: It is a large clapboard home with ten bedrooms and a stone foundation. It has a large cuisine d’été (summer kitchen) with a fireplace spit big enough to roast a whole cow and a cast-iron cauldron in which you could confit two hundred duck legs, one hundred whole geese, or make soup for the entire town. The house also sports a huge old outdoor bread oven and fortified covered well. The wells were reportedly covered and fortified to protect the water from being poisoned by the enemies of the seigneur.
This period in Quebec history gave us many of our traditional foods and our inherent knowledge of things like bread and cheese making. When taxes are increased in Quebec, there is some (but little) protest. But if our raw milk and cheese are threatened with government interference, Quebecers protest loudly. To continue to enjoy real cheese, we are ready to fight with petitions and public demonstrations. We have even halted the Quebec National Assembly over cheese! Indeed, Quebec is the only place on the planet that has banned butter-colored margarine.
The larder of Quebec is wildly impressive, even to our French friends. Visiting chefs always mention that our markets are set up differently than elsewhere: basically, they make it possible for everyone to cook restaurant-quality food at home. Montreal has two major central public markets, Jean-Talon in the north and Atwater in the south, both opened in 1933. You can get tripe, Cornish hens, stuffed rabbits, rabbit kidneys, horse, any cheek of meat you want, foie gras in all of its forms, and produce of every type. Atwater alone has three cheese shops. (For a list of the province’s larder and our go-to shops, see The Joe Beef Address Book.) Unfortunately, gone are the days of the restaurant du coin (corner restaurant), a place where you could meet your friends for lunch; have hot bread, bacon and eggs, rotisserie chicken, or plain ham and Cheddar sandwiches; and then buy all of your groceries for the week. You can still see the remnants, though: the old absinthe-green lead paint, L-shaped counters, and wooden beer fridges. And of course, there are still places like Wilensky’s in Mile End and the Green Spot diner near Joe Beef. I promise one day we will open something similar, with the necessary evils of smokes, lottery tickets, Popsicle fridges, wine, and odds and ends that make good neighborhood living: hot lasagna every Wednesday at 5:00 P.M. and hockey cards picked through to feature only Habs players.
It is rare to find traditional Quebec dishes served in restaurants anymore. Things like jambon à l’érable (ham in maple syrup), chiard de porc (pork hash), and pets de soeurs (nuns’ farts) are endangered and disappearing slowly. Our dear friend Martin Picard and his team at Au Pied de Cochon (PDC) are basically Quebec food preservationists and thank god for that. PDC’s Sugar Shack, which is open only four months of the year and is bursting with customers each of those days, is like a Quebec monument, and everyone at Joe Beef always enjoys seeing what will come out of Martin’s twisted head next. Quebecois youth no longer mimic the star chefs of France (or the Food Network). They mimic Martin. If you come to our city during the late winter or early spring, you must go to Au Pied de Cochon (see itinerary).
In my youth, I paid no real attention to another great Quebec tradition, the casse-croûte, or snack bar. But now I see what treasures they are, as fast-food chains and clone malls slowly homogenize everything. A lot of these casse-croûtes (casser la croûte literally means to “break the crust”) are put together from old buses or milk trucks or are simply slapped-together buildings made of junk. Amazingly, you can find a few in really beautiful settings along the Saint Lawrence River on old Route 132 between Quebec City and Rivière-du-Loup or on Route 148 near the Château Montebello Hotel. Usually the backlit sign shows their soft-drink colors of choice, and they are turning out to be great fodder for photographers and for burger and poutine bloggers. You’ve got your homemade hot dogs, hamburgers, fries, and poutines, and some specialties like hot gravy–soaked hamburgers and all-dress hot dogs (with the works) dipped in batter and fried. I’ve had a Ti-Gus burger, which is an all-dressed burger on a plate, with a ladle of Kraft Thousand Island dressing poured over the top.
The best part of a casse-croûte is the name. It’s fun to try and name your own. It usually goes one of four ways: Casse-croûte Joe Beef, Casse-croûte chez Joe Beef, Patate Joe Beef, or Pataterie Joe Beef. Our favorite Quebec casse-croûtes to visit are Cantine Ben la Bédaine (Belly Ben), Patate Mallette (Mallette’s Potatoes), La Patate à Serge (Serge and his Spud), Casse-croûte chez Ti-Gus (Small Gus Snack Bar), Casse-croûte chez Miss Patate (Miss Potatoes Snack Bar), Au Royaume de la Patate (Potato Kingdom), Pataterie “Guy la patate” (Potato Shop “Guy the Potato”), Le King de la Patate (The King of Potatoes), and Patate d’Or, Marcelle (Marcelle, The Golden Spud).
Depending on where the casse-croûtes are located in the province, items may vary, and a lot of them have their own eclectic toppings for poutines. We’ve seen chopped wieners, peas, chicken, meat sauce, Nordic shrimp, venison stew, a few slices of country pâté terrine, and eggs sunny-side up. I’ve also had hot dogs and hamburgers with raw green tomatoes, eggs, cappocollo (spicy ham), and creamed corn. And when I asked the person behind the counter, “Why creamed corn?”, he looked at me like everyone serves creamed corn on their hot dogs, and maybe I should just go back to where I came from.
JOE BEEF AND THE HABS: RIAD’S SWEET HOMECOMING
I HADN’T BEEN BACK TO MONTREAL in far too long. The Habs were playing two games in three nights, so I booked my flight home and bought scalped tickets for both games. The 2007–2008 Habs had a magic run. Indeed, it started to feel like 1993, as the Habs were poised for a legit run for the Stanley Cup. Though the Bruins pushed us to seven games, we pushed back harder and next up was the big bad Flyers. In game one, Kovy scored with the goalie pulled and Kosty won it in overtime … Ole Ole Ole! The next night, I dropped in to visit “Les Boys” on Notre Dame Ouest.
I parked it at the Joe Beef bar, in front of John Bil—oyster-shucking master. I tried to keep up with him. “Beausoleils aren’t as fat, sweet, or briny as this in NYC,” I told him. Fred was making a Civet when I popped my head in the kitchen. He looked like he had seen a ghost, and up until that moment, that’s exactly what I had been. “Welcome home,” he said. We hugged and I felt a lump in my throat.
The Cotat Sancerre ran dry and we moved on to Lapierre Morgon. Our old friends Martin Picard and Normand Laprise showed up—I hadn’t seen them since our days at Toqué! More tall tales, backslapping, reminiscing, and of course, drinking, ensued. Fred mercifully roasted a Côte de Boeuf with Marrowbones and Gyromites. We needed it to soak up all of that good juice. We ate with our hands and I kept one eye closed so I could see straight.
Later in the backyard, Fred and I talked about the gardens he was planting and David spoke of the smoker they had plans to build. Someone showed up with tobacco and we drained another magnum. “Welcome Home” someone cheered again. I returned home and I found my center that night. John Bil gave me a ride to my hotel in his minivan and I was sick on the way, but I wore a smile and was never more proud to be a Montrealer.
—Riad Nasr, executive chef, Minetta Tavern
In our twenties, Fred, Allison, and I worked on The Main, the strip of Boulevard Saint Laurent that runs from the tip of Chinatown up to Little Italy. It was during this amazing and inspirational time that we cut our purveyor chops, so to speak. We were lucky to meet all of the butchers, shop owners, Euro-grocers, and fishmongers doing business in the area. In my early days, at least ten butcher shops manned by old nitrite-soaked, red-faced butchers with hands like baseball mitts were operating between Sherbrooke and Pine streets. When we left the street ten years later, only one was left. Johnny Bottle Service restaurants, seedy bars, and pizza slice and souvlaki shops had taken over.
Remnants still exist, though, places like Slovenia, Boucherie Fairmount, La Vieille Europe, and Schwartz’s, and great Portuguese spots like Portus Calle, Coco Rico, Romados, and Chicken Portugalia. There is also Moishes, a Montreal institution. Owned by the Lighter brothers, the steak house was opened by their father, Moishes Luchterman, in 1938. His son, our friend Lenny Lighter, told us that his father came to Montreal with nothing at the age of fifteen in 1925. He worked his way from the bottom up on The Main at a restaurant called Saffrin, and it’s rumored that he won the restaurant in a card game. Speaking to someone like Lenny about the history of his family’s restaurant is something I could do for hours. There are many people like Lenny in Montreal—people who have helped shaped Montreal’s current foodscape.
Like what happened in many cities, the end of World War II brought new immigrants and new food traditions to Montreal. French, Scottish, and Irish were in the first wave, followed by Italians, Greeks, Ukranians, Hungarians, and Poles, all of them helping to shape the city. Mordecai Richler’s 1969 short-story collection The Street paints a vivid picture of the core neighborhoods around Boulevard Saint Laurent and Rue Saint Urbain, filled with Jewish delis and Portuguese rotisseries. You still find quality eats and mouthwatering smells today. Quebec continues to receive forty-five thousand immigrants annually. We welcome Chinese, South Asians, Haitians, and Latinos, and their tasty food, with relish and open arms. They come together in new neighborhoods and the food just gets better and better.
Another less serious, yet notable event that changed the city’s food scene was Expo 67. Its restaurants and pavilions attracted many of the world’s chefs to Montreal, and lucky for us, many of them stayed. Of these chefs, the majority were French. They came for the food and stayed for the forests, rivers, lakes, and the women (hey, it was the summer of love!). Over the next thirty years, the French reigned in Quebec City and Montreal. It was the age of restaurants like Les Halles, La Mère Michel, Chez Alexandre, Le Paris, Le Mas des Oliviers, Chez Gauthier, L’Express, Le Béarn, Claude Postel, Bonaparte, L’Actuel, Au Petit Extra, Le Witloof, and Maison Serge Bruyère. The chefs of these restaurants are the great mentors and teachers of many of our peers, and although some restaurants of the era have closed, many are still around.
Anytime I get the chance to eat at Le Mas des Oliviers, it’s a treat. I ask to sit at Mordecai Richler’s table, and I daydream about what the hell could have gone on in this corner. This is where he held court by day, and had dinner with his family by night. It’s also a famous haunt for politicos, but anytime I ask what kind of deals are going down, the staff remains annoyingly tight-lipped. Among other great chefs, restaurateurs, and mentors of note are Jean-Paul Grappe, Marcel Kretz, Daniel Schandelmayer, Rene Pankala, Moreno DiMarchi, the Creton brothers, Peppino Perri, André Besson, and Jacques Muller. These are the pillars of Montreal cuisine. This group of European expatriates nurtured a whole generation of Quebec chefs, and most of today’s chefs have been to France to work in great restaurants on their recommendations.
Montreal has always boasted a strong French tradition. But Expo 67 brought new Hungarian, Alsatian, and Parisian chefs to the city. It also delayed the arrival of ready-made foods like margarine, and curbed Montrealers’ appetites for abominations like canned meat and processed cheese, at least for a little while. Raise your glass to Expo 67 and the French expats, here, here!
Another small yet widely felt shift in Montreal’s food scene was the arrival of another chef.…
Everything was peachy and French cooking ruled until Normand Laprise opened Citrus in 1989. It was like an alien spaceship had landed: vertically stacked presentations, pinks and oranges, little butter or cream. He fried things you weren’t supposed to fry, upsetting the natural order of food. He moved to Rue Saint Denis a few years later and opened Toqué!, with a kitchen right in the window. It was so fresh, new, and cool: everyone wanted to work there. And a lot of us did: Martin Picard, Riad Nasr, and Fred, to name a few. Normand is the great bond in this city; if it weren’t for him, Fred and I may not have met. Toqué! was a meeting place for chefs young and old. It was like the Bohemian movement in Paris, a powerhouse of great talent. Today it sits proudly on the edge of the old port, watching over us, keeping us sage.
Of course, French isn’t the only game in town. As we compiled our list of restaurants for the itinerary, we were bombarded by friends and colleagues with endorsements for the city’s best Haitian, Somalian, Ethiopian, Armenian, Greek, Japanese, Indian, and Jamaican food. That’s the thing about this city. If you have not been to their favorite spots, people get mad: “What do you mean you haven’t been to Meli Melo for Haitian? What’s wrong with you?” And it’s a Greek guy who’s telling me this. It makes me think sadly about the lava pockets (patties) from the now-defunct Mom’s Caribbean Heaven. Those delicious, liquid molten chicken or beef Jamaican patties are responsible for countless second-degree burns on my chin, lips, tongue, chest, and arms. Everybody in Notre Dame de Grace, a neighborhood on Montreal’s west side, has similar burn stories from those patties.
The value of any neighborhood in this city is determined by its coffee shops, bakeries, and restaurants. Without these establishments, a neighborhood’s value plummets. I love this city. And with the exception of perhaps Kamouraska or of Maine in the summer, there is no other place I would rather be. Even after working in the restaurant business here for so long, I am still completely enamored with the history and the people of Quebec. Now, if we could just do something about the damn snow.
The following recipes, for us, reflect the character of our city’s culinary traditions. —DM
Lamb Shoulder for Two, Condimint
Serves 2
Mint is a classic accompaniment for lamb. And it wasn’t until Jennifer May shot this classic braised lamb recipe with its mint condiment that we really appreciated its beauty. It’s something we imagine on the Sunday table of Mayor Drapeau, who brought Expo 67 and the ’76 Olympics to Montreal (and chased away the hookers and the gangsters—albeit temporarily).
2 pounds (about 1 kg) boneless lamb shoulder, trimmed, rolled, and tied
Salt and pepper
3 tablespoons neutral oil
1 onion, quartered
1 carrot, peeled and chopped into chunks
1 cup (140 g) frozen or very fresh shelled peas
10 cloves garlic
10 sprigs thyme
1 cup (250 ml) dry white wine
CONDIMENT
1 cup (170 g) pitted dates
½ cup (125 ml) water
½ cup (100 g) packed brown sugar
1 cup (250 ml) cider vinegar
Pinch of cayenne pepper
½ cup (55 g) grated fresh horseradish
3 heaping tablespoons dried peppermint, stems removed
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Season the lamb on all sides with salt and pepper.
2. Heat the oil in a large ovenproof sauté pan over high heat. Add the lamb and sear for 3 or 4 minutes on each side, or until you get a nice golden crust. Transfer to a plate.
3. Reduce the heat to medium, throw in the onion, carrot, peas (thawed, if using frozen) and garlic, and cook, stirring occasionally, for about 4 minutes, or until nicely browned. Add the thyme, nestle the lamb on top of the vegetables, and pour in the wine.
4. Cover the pan with aluminum foil, place in the oven, and braise for 4 hours. Every 30 minutes, baste the top of the lamb with the pan juices. If the pan begins to dry out, add some water.
5. While the lamb is cooking, make the condiment. In a small pot, combine the dates and water, bring to a boil over high heat, and boil for about 10 minutes, or until soft. Reduce the heat to medium, add the sugar, vinegar, and cayenne, and stir well. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 10 minutes, or until the sugar is dissolved and the condiment has the consistency of jam.
6. Remove from the heat, add the horseradish, mint, and Worcestershire sauce, and buzz with a hand blender or whisk in. Let cool completely before serving. (Leftover condiment can be stored in a tightly capped jar in the refrigerator for up to 1 month.)
7. When the lamb is ready, transfer it to a warmed platter with the vegetables. Snip the strings and serve à la cuillère, with a spoon. Serve the condiment and the turnips on the side.
Serves 6
Fred used to offer this dish to girls at the restaurant L’Express because it was cheap and quirky. But in the end, that’s how he came across: cheap and quirky! Although it is no longer offered at L’Express, we sometimes make it at Joe Beef both for old time’s sake and because it’s just very good. You should count on two days to make this recipe, the first for filtering and chilling the consommé and the second for assembling the aspics. The classic version includes cooked ham, tarragon leaves, and egg whites cut and assembled in the shape of lilies. Now we do it with Spam, lobster, fava beans, crab, or anything we suspect will be delicious in a set consommé.
You can purchase oeufs en gelée molds online, or you can use standard muffin tins made of silicone.
CONSOMMÉ
½ cup (70 g) diced celery (about ¼-inch/6-mm chunks)
½ cup (70 g) diced, peeled carrot (about ¼-inch/6-mm chunks)
½ cup (60 g) diced onion (about ¼-inch/6-mm chunks)
1 pound (455 g) lean ground beef
1 pound (455 g) ground turkey
1 bay leaf
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
1 tablespoon peppercorns
1 clove garlic
3 quarts (3 liters) ice water
6 sheets gelatin
1 teaspoon sherry vinegar
¼ cup (60 ml) Madeira
Salt
EGGS
8 cups (2 liters) water
1 tablespoon salt, plus more for serving
6 to 8 medium eggs (or the smallest you can find), at room temperature
Any of the following: sliced premium cooked ham; sliced fresh, flash-frozen, or jarred black truffle; shelled and peeled fresh fava beans; crabmeat chunks; lobster tail silvers; sliced Spam; sliced smoked salmon; fresh tarragon leaves; jambon persillé (chopped ham and parsley tightly packed in a mustard-meat jelly); gold leaf (if you’re feeling sprightly)
Toasted country bread for serving
Ground black pepper and flake salt for serving
1. To make the consommé, in a heavy stockpot, whisk together the celery, carrot, onion, beef, turkey, bay leaf, parsley, peppercorns, garlic, and ice water. Place over low heat and stir until the consommé begins to simmer. Stop stirring; the meats and vegetables will rise to the top, forming a “raft.” Now, leave it alone (do not stir) and allow it to simmer gently for 2 hours. Do not let it come to a boil.
2. To strain the consommé, line a sieve with muslin cloth or several layers of cheesecloth and place it over a large bowl. Carefully create a hole in the top of the consommé. Plunge a ladle through the hole, being careful not to sink the raft, and ladle the liquid through the sieve. The consommé shouldn’t look cloudy; rather, it should be a pristine “meat tea” of sorts. Cover the bowl and refrigerate long enough for the fat to separate and congeal on top: overnight is a good option.
3. The next day, bloom the gelatin sheets in a bowl of cool water to cover for 5 to 10 minutes, or until they soften and swell. Meanwhile, remove the consommé from the refrigerator and lift off and discard the fat. Transfer 2 cups (500 ml) of the consommé to a small pot and place over high heat. (Freeze the rest of the consommé for soup. It will keep for up to 3 months.) When the consommé starts to boil, add the vinegar and Madeira and season with salt. Gently squeeze the gelatin sheets, add to the consommé, and stir for 2 or 3 minutes, or until fully dissolved. Remove from the heat and keep the consommé at room temperature.
4. Place six (3½-ounce/100-g) molds on a small, flat tray. Pour the consommé to a depth of ¼ inch (6 mm) into each mold. Place in the fridge to set (about 20 minutes). This layer is really important as it prevents the egg from poking through.
5. To prepare the eggs, in a large pot, bring the water and salt to a boil over medium-high heat. Carefully add the eggs and boil for exactly 4½ minutes. Use a timer here, as the consistency of the eggs matters! Transfer the eggs to a bowl of ice water to cover and chill for about 10 minutes. Peel each egg carefully underwater; they are soft boiled and could easily break, which is why we suggest that you make two extra eggs, just in case.
6. Now for the fun part, creating your gelée (aspic). You can get creative here, one rule withstanding: everything you mix with your egg has to have a somewhat soft texture. For instance, adding raw carrots or celery would give you more of a 1960s jellied salad and would ruin the whole aesthetic. Also, keep in mind the bottom of the mold is actually the top of the gelée. That is, it is what everyone will see. If you want, you can artistically arrange a black truffle slice or tiny pieces of ham, peas, or slivers of lobster in the bottom of each mold (on the set layer of jelly) before you add the egg. Carefully place an egg in each mold. Once the egg is in, surround it with your choice of ingredients. Your consommé will come in handy for holding and suspending the pieces in place, so wield its power. When you have all of your ingredients in, make the sure the mold is filled evenly, using the consommé to top it off. Carefully transfer the molds back to the fridge for at least 2 hours to set before serving. (They will keep for up to 2 days maximum.)
7. To unmold the aspics, pour hot water to a depth of 1 inch (2.5 cm) into a wide, shallow pan. Carefully place the bottom of each mold into the water and let it sit for 30 seconds. Invert the mold onto the serving plate; the aspic should slip right out. If it doesn’t, release the vacuum between the aspic and the mold by inserting the tip of a blade and twisting lightly. Classic decorum dictates that you serve the aspics with toast, black pepper, and salt for the yolk.
WE WANT TO SIT AT A NICE TABLE, order a bottle of wine, have a dozen oysters each, and then eat a great plate of chops. Unpretentious thin chops, nicely browned, hot and salty, a heaping plate of them, in the middle of the table. Lamb chops, pork chops, veal chops, thin rib steaks—all cooked medium, and the meat around the bone perfect. A dozen assorted chops each, then a few cigarillos and some Calvados to aim us down the wrong road. Of course, you can cook this at home easily: just pull out the great big pan, turn on the hood fan, and fry them away, two to three minutes on each side.
Serves 2
This is the kind of dish that used to be prepared tableside in Montreal chophouses. A few restaurants still do tableside crêpes Suzette, steak tartare, and specialty coffees. We get excited like kids on Halloween when we see that cart rolling toward us. It’s tough to do ourselves because of the size of Joe Beef, but we hope it comes back in a big way (and not in the “lavender and tomato essential oils being pumped over my table from a Provençal print balloon as we eat lamb and the waiter tickles our nose and ears with said lamb’s tail” way).
1 large duck breast half, about 15 ounces (420 g)
1 tablespoon black or green peppercorns, crushed in a mortar until somewhere between whole and powder
Salt
2 tablespoons canola oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon chopped French shallot
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon brined green peppercorns, drained and patted dry
2 tablespoons Cognac
½ cup (125 ml) Beef Shank Stock
¼ cup (60 ml) whipping cream (35 percent butterfat)
Good Fries or pont-neufs (fries cut ⅜ inch by ⅜ inch by 2¾ inches/1 cm by 1 cm by 7 cm)
1. Remove the silver skin from the duck breast by running a sharp knife between the skin and the meat, lifting the skin away from the meat with your fingers. This is a detailed, annoying task, similar to unwrapping a new dishwasher. When you’ve separated the two, you can set the skin aside to use for a confit.
2. Cover the meat with plastic wrap and pound it with a rolling pin or the side of a giant cleaver until it is flattened by about 20 percent. Lightly score the meat to prevent retracting. Rub one side of the duck steak with the black peppercorns to season it, and salt the other side.
3. Heat a nice (you’re serving tableside, remember?) pan over medium-high heat. Let it get quite hot, add the oil, and when it is hot, add the steak. Cook, turning once, for 1½ minutes on each side.
4. Take the steak to a plate and set aside. Pour off any fat from the pan, and then wipe it clean.
5. Put the pan over medium heat, add the butter, and sweat the shallots for 4 or 5 minutes, until translucent. Add the mustard, green peppercorns, and Cognac, and mix for 30 seconds. Add the stock and reduce until almost syrupy, about 2 minutes. Add the cream and mix well, taste and adjust the seasoning, then reduce for a full 2 minutes. If you reduce the sauce too much, add stock or water, not cream.
6. Return the steak to the pan and toss it in the sauce for a few seconds on each side. Serve on a silver tray with the sauce and fries on the side.
VARIATION
You could also tie 2 small duck breasts together, flesh to flesh, and roast them in the pan for 3 minutes per side, then finish in a 425°F (220°C) oven for 4 minutes (see photo).
Serves 6 to 8
This is yet another recipe that evokes that nostalgic, “Why don’t people make this anymore?” feeling, like a beautiful picture from the old Larousse, a civil-war reenactment, or sleeping on a train. There is only one good reason to make this dish: because you can! Thankfully, people like Frank, Marco, and Emma (our kitchen mainstays and true Joe Beefers) see the value in making historically relevant dishes like this, and it stays with them forever and can live on. The most difficult part of this recipe is measuring the dough to cover the pâté. Although some pâtés are served hot, the salt content in this one means it only tastes good cold. We serve it with some mustard and a glass of Morgon.
4½ cups (550 g) all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1½ teaspoons salt
1 cup (225 g) cold unsalted butter, cut into ¼-inch/6-mm chunks
5 eggs
½ cup (125 ml) water
FILLING
About 1 pound (455 g) ground pork jowl (fresh guanciale)
2 pounds (900 g) ground pork
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
4 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon pepper
1 teaspoon ground mace
2 tablespoons brandy
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 eggs
½ cup (125 ml) whipping cream (35 percent butterfat)
1 egg yolk beaten with 1 teaspoon water for egg wash
7 sheets gelatin
2 cups (500 ml) chicken stock
¼ cup (60 ml) dry sherry
Salt and pepper
1. To make the dough, in a large bowl, mix together the flour and salt. Scatter the butter over the flour mixture, then squeeze it with your fingers, working it into the flour but still leaving some chunks. Add the eggs and work the dough gently with your hands until malleable. Slowly pour in half the water, mixing it in with your hands. When the water has been absorbed, work in the rest of the water. The dough should be firm and uneven looking.
2. Transfer the dough to a floured work surface. Using a rolling pin, flatten the dough into a rectangle. Wrap the rectangle in plastic wrap and place in the fridge for at least 1 hour while you work on your terrine filling.
3. To make the filling, in a large bowl, combine the ground meats, garlic, parsley, salt, pepper, mace, and brandy. In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, eggs, and cream until well blended. Add the cream mixture to the meat mixture and stir with a wooden spoon until you have one homogenous mix.
4. When the dough has rested for 1 hour, preheat the oven to 300°F (150°C). Then, on a floured work surface, roll out the dough into a rectangle about ¼ inch (6 mm) thick. This is the most technical part, because you want to roll enough dough to cover the terrine. We bake this dish in a 10 by 4 by 3¼-inch (25 by 10 by 8-cm) Le Creuset pot, but any enameled cast-iron pot of similar size will work well. Place the Creuset on the dough, denting the dough to imprint the size. Then cut out the dough so it is a little larger than the dented pattern, adding flaps on the two short ends (see drawing).
Carefully lift up the dough and place it in the Creuset, pressing it down gently. Reserve the extra dough.
5. Spoon the meat mixture into the dough-lined Creuset, spreading it evenly and smoothing the top. Fold the dough over the top of the meat mixture so it covers it completely. It doesn’t have to look perfect where the sides meet. Using the extra dough, cut out a strip the length of the pot and lay it across the middle of the terrine to close the seam (as the dough will expand from the heat while baking).
6. Brush the dough with the egg wash. You can use any remaining dough to make decorative leaves, letters, or whatever you want and put them on top. Be sure to brush them with the wash, too.
7. In the middle of the dough, cut a quarter-size hole using an apple corer or a knife. Using the handle of a wooden spoon as a guide, make a small tube of aluminum foil. This is your chimney for the steam. The chimney is your first rule of pâté en croûte. Trust the chimney! Or, trust you will be cleaning the oven.
8. Place in the hot oven and bake for 35 to 40 minutes. The pâté is ready when an instant-read thermometer inserted through the chimney hole registers 158°F (70°C). Burnt crust or half-cooked meat is not appetizing, so a thermometer is key here.
9. In the meantime, bloom the gelatin sheets in a bowl of cool water to cover for 5 to 10 minutes, or until they soften and swell. Put a pot over medium-high heat and add the stock and sherry. Bring the stock mixture to a boil, season generously with salt and pepper, and remove from the heat. Gently squeeze the gelatin sheets, add to the stock mixture, and whisk until completely dissolved.
10. Remove the pâté en croûte from the oven and let cool for 45 minutes. Carefully pour the stock mixture into the foil chimney. Let the pâté cool completely before slicing and serving.
Serves 4
This is the one stew you can get away with in the summer, yet crave in the winter. Veal chunks from the hind shank is the best meat for this; cheeks or shoulder is another option. All but the rear leg muscle will work. Of course, mashed potatoes or a marrow pilaf (rice baked with bone marrow instead of butter) is the perfect buddy. As a finishing touch, we like to pimp our blanquette de veau with truffles, cock’s combs, foie gras, or small slices of lobster. It lends regality to an otherwise hearty and simple stew.
3 pounds (1.4 kg) boneless veal shank, cheeks, or shoulder, cubed
2 cups (500 ml) dry white wine
2 cups (500 ml) chicken stock
1 leek, white part only
1 carrot, peeled
1 small onion, stuck with 1 whole clove
1 celery stalk
1 sprig thyme
1 bay leaf
1 clove garlic
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups (500 ml) whipping cream (35 percent butterfat)
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
2 heads Belgian endive, cored, halved lengthwise, and cubed
½ celery root, peeled and cut into 1-inch (2.5-cm) cubes
1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon
1. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). In a Dutch oven or other heavy, lidded ovenproof pot, combine the veal, wine, stock, leek, carrot, onion, celery, thyme, bay leaf, garlic, and salt. Place over medium-high heat and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. When you have a nice boil going, cover the pot and transfer it to the oven. Bake for 2 hours.
2. Remove the pot from the oven and then carefully proceed to remove and discard the vegetables and aromatics. (If you want to hold onto the carrots, you can always purée them along with potatoes to make a nice mash.) With a slotted spoon, remove the veal pieces and place them on a tray or plate close by.
3. Put the pot with the remaining liquid back on the stove top over medium heat. Stir in the cream and mustard and reduce, stirring occasionally, for 15 minutes, or until the sauce coats the back of a spoon.
4. Taste and adjust the seasoning, then return the meat to the pot and add the endives and celery root. Simmer for 8 to 10 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender. Add the tarragon during the last minute of cooking. Serve piping hot.
Serves 4
Here in Canada, horse is the great divide between Anglophone and Francophone—more than politics, more than Celine Dion. Horse equals Napoleon versus Nelson, or Wolfe versus Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham. The French do two things that Anglophones find disgusting: eat frogs and eat horse. To Anglophones, horses are royalty. And it’s understandable, as they’re truly majestic. They’re also really tasty.
We don’t know anyone who raises horses for meat, yet the meat exists. So, if you don’t want to eat horse that has been on growth hormones and clenbuterol, buy it from a trusted butcher. It has a high iron content and makes a delicious tenderloin or tartare.
2 tablespoons canola oil
4 slices bacon
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for frying
1 bay leaf or 1 sprig thyme (optional)
4 horse steaks, 8 to 10 ounces (225 to 280 g) each
1 cup (250 ml) Joe Beef Sauce Vin Rouge
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
4 eggs
4 slices brioche (optional)
1. Place a large sauté pan over high heat and add the oil. When the oil is hot, add the bacon and fry for about 5 minutes, or until nicely browned but not crisp (you are going to want to wrap it around the steak). Set aside.
2. Pour out the fat and wipe the pan clean. Add the 2 tablespoons butter to the same pan over medium heat. When the butter is bubbly, add the bay leaf. Now add the horse steaks to the pan and cook for 5 minutes on the first side. Turn and cook for 4 minutes on the second side. Transfer the steaks to a plate and let rest for 4 minutes, keeping them warm. Wipe the pan clean and set aside.
3. Meanwhile, in a small pot, warm the wine sauce over medium heat and whisk in the mustard. Remove from the heat and keep warm.
4. Add a little butter to the sauté pan and fry the eggs, then toast the brioche, if using. Wrap a slice of bacon around each steak, if you can, and then top the steak with an egg. Or, just place a bacon slice and an egg on top of each steak. If you have toasted brioche, slip a slice of toast under each steak. Pour a couple of spoonfuls of wine sauce over each portion, and you have the classic filet de cheval à cheval—“fillet of horse on horseback.”
Pieds-Paquets with Sauce Charcutière
Serves 4
If you’re French or a Francophile, you know what these are supposed to be: sheep tripe and pig’s trotters cooked together. We didn’t know that, but we knew the name. We just made what we thought it ought to be and it turned out well, if completely unlike the original (we think). This is braised lamb and pig’s trotter with greens and herbs, wrapped in caul fat. The sauce—a French classic with gherkins, mustard, and shallots—is also perfect with chops and liver.
2 pounds (about 1 kg) lamb neck or lamb shank
2 pig’s trotters, each 6 inches (15 cm) long (just the trotter, not the whole leg)
¼ cup (60 ml) olive oil
1 cup (140 g) roughly diced, peeled carrot (about 1½-inch/4-cm chunks)
1 cup (140 g) roughly diced celery (about 1½-inch/4-cm chunks)
1 cup (115 g) roughly diced onion (about 1½-inch/4-cm chunks)
4 sprigs thyme
1 clove garlic
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon pepper
2 cups (500 ml) dry white wine
Butter for greasing
SAUCE CHARCUTIÈRE
2 cups (500 ml) Beef Shank Stock
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon red or white wine vinegar
16 small sour gherkins, sliced
2 tablespoons capers, drained and patted dry
1 French shallot, thinly diced
1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon
½ teaspoon cracked pepper
2 slices bacon, thick fall lardons (see Theory #3), crisped (optional)
PACKAGE
2 cups (400 g) chopped, blanched spinach (frozen is easiest)
2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
1 tablespoon chopped fresh sage
8 ounces (225 g) caul fat, thawed in the refrigerator if frozen and soaked in cold water until it can be gently stretched flat
2 tablespoons olive oil
1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Place the lamb, pig’s trotters, and oil in a deep baking dish covered with buttered foil or a Dutch oven covered with its lid. Cover the meats with all the vegetables, the thyme, and the garlic. Sprinkle with the salt and pepper, and pour in the wine. Add water to barely cover the meat.
2. Cover with a sheet of buttered aluminum foil and place in the oven. Bake for 3½ to 4 hours, or until the trotters are easily pierced with a fork and the lamb is tender enough to shred. Check from time to time and add more water as needed to maintain the original level.
3. While the meats are cooking, make the sauce. Pour the stock into a small pot, bring to a simmer over high heat, and simmer until reduced by one-third. Stir in the mustard, butter, vinegar, gherkins, capers, shallot, tarragon, pepper, and lardons; reduce the heat to low, and cook for 5 minutes to blend the flavors. Taste and adjust the seasoning, adding more vinegar if you want a bit more bite. Remove from the heat and let cool before serving.
4. Remove the meats from the oven, uncover, and let cool. Remove the meats from the stock with a large slotted spoon, and transfer to a big plate or a tray. When the meats are cool enough to handle with your hands, start roughly shredding the lamb meat, discarding any bones. Place the lamb in a bowl. For the trotters, pull the meat off the bones with your hands, a knife, or a fork, discarding any bones and other unusable bits. The trotter meat is gelatinous, and it will be the glue you use to hold the packages together. Chop the trotter meat into small chunks and add to the lamb. Strain the cooking liquid through a fine-mesh sieve into a small bowl and set aside.
5. To make the packages, preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C). Add the spinach and all the herbs to the meats and mix well. Then add 1 cup (250 ml) of the strained cooking liquid and mix well with your hands. The mixture should feel malleable and moist. If it feels dry, add up to ½ cup (125 ml) more liquid. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
6. Form the meat mixture into 16 balls of equal size (about the size of a lemon). Lay the caul fat on a flat work surface, space the balls evenly on top, then cut the caul fat into squares large enough to encase the balls individually. Wrap each ball in caul fat, covering it completely.
7. Select a baking dish in which the balls will fit snugly, and oil it with the olive oil. Give each ball an elongated shape by squeezing it gently with your hands. Bake for 20 minutes, or until heated through and the tops are nicely browned.
8. Serve right away with the sauce and a pile of fries.
Brochette de Lapin aux Pruneaux
Makes 6 skewers
We came up with this alternative to braised rabbit as a way to eat rabbit in the summer. If possible, ask the butcher to bone a rabbit for you. Be sure to distinguish between the legs and the loins (or saddle). In Canada, asking for the kidneys is no problem. In the United States, it is hit or miss.
Sometimes we like to serve the skewers with Gentleman Steak Sauce for dipping, but they are good on their own, too. Another nice option is an easy pan jus, made by deglazing the pan with a shot of sherry, then adding ½ cup (125 ml) chicken stock and 2 tablespoons unsalted butter.
1 rabbit, divided into 2 legs, 2 loins, and 2 kidneys
4 slices bacon, cut into 3 pieces each
12 pitted prunes
1 red onion, cut into 12 pieces
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon salt
2 large sprigs rosemary
1 tablespoon canola oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1. Bone the legs and loins. Cut each leg and each loin into 6 equal pieces; leave the kidneys whole.
2. Have ready 6 bamboo skewers. Thread the following onto each skewer: 1 leg piece, 1 bacon piece, 1 prune, 1 loin piece, 1 onion piece. Repeat again.
3. Arrange the skewers on a platter. Drizzle the olive oil evenly over the skewers, then sprinkle with the salt. Pluck the needles from the rosemary sprigs, and add a few pinches to each skewer.
4. Warm the canola oil and butter in a large frying pan over high heat. When the butter has melted and the fat is hot, add the skewers and cook, turning once, for 4 minutes on each side. Remove the pan from the heat and let the skewers rest for 3 minutes before serving.
Serves 4
Nicolas Jongleux is a Montreal legend. Born and raised in Marsannay, in Burgundy, he grew up working in some of France’s most influential kitchens, including, at age twenty-six, under Alain Chapel at the Michelin-three-star La Mère Charles in Mionnay. He came to Montreal under the guise of partnering in Le Cintra, where he worked for three years. From there he ran the seminal Les Caprices de Nicolas. David says: “He had more talent than anyone I’ve ever seen. I once watched him make sixty identical croissants by hand, no recipe, no scale, and he hadn’t made croissants for more than five years. When he finished, there was not a drop of extra pastry, and each pastry was perfect.”
He was also the kind of person who had such discipline all of his life, that he when he left France, he lived the experiences most of us had in our teens, in his thirties. He opened his last restaurant, Café Jongleux, in 1999, and committed suicide in the restaurant later that year. This recipe was a Nicolas classic.
1 cup (250 ml) water
½ cup (115 g) unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch (12-mm) cubes
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup (130 g) all-purpose flour
4 eggs
CELERY ROOT AND GOAT CHEESE PURÉE
1 large celery root, peeled and diced
9 ounces (250 g) fresh goat cheese
Salt and pepper
Olive oil
PARSLEY PURÉE
1 cup (30 g) fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves
1 cup (30 g) fresh chervil leaves
¼ cup (60 ml) olive oil
1 tablespoon water
1 lemon, halved
Salt
TOMATO SAFFRON COULIS
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 clove garlic, minced
1 cup (170 g) peeled, seeded plum tomato pulp
Pinch of sugar
2 saffron threads
16 tiny sprigs chervil (optional)
Wedge of mimolette or Parmesan cheese (optional)
1. Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C). Line a large rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper. In a heavy saucepan, combine the water, butter, and salt and bring to a full boil over high heat. Remove from the heat and add the flour all at once, stirring vigorously with a wooden spoon until the mixture forms a smooth ball that doesn’t stick to the sides of the pan. Return the pan to medium-low heat and cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool for 5 minutes.
2. Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat in the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition, then continue beating until the dough is smooth and shiny.
3. With a spoon or a pastry bag fitted with a ¼-inch (6-mm) round tip, drop or pipe about 1 tablespoon of the dough onto the lined baking sheet for each profiterole, spacing them about 2 inches (5 cm) apart. You’ll only use 16 pastries for this recipe, but the profiteroles can be baked and then stored in the freezer for up to 3 months.
4. Bake for 25 minutes, or until puffed, golden, and crisp. Turn off the oven and leave the choux on the pan in the oven until you are ready for them (be sure you take them out of the oven before step 8).
5. To make the celery root and goat cheese purée, in a saucepan, combine the celery root with water to cover, bring to a boil, and cook for about 15 minutes, or until tender. Drain and process in a food processor. The purée should look like runny mashed potatoes and should yield about 1 cup (250 ml). In a bowl, combine the celery root purée and goat cheese and mix until homogenous. Season with salt, pepper, and a little olive oil. Reserve at room temperature until needed.
6. To make the parsley purée, in the food processor, combine the parsley, chervil, half of the oil, and the water and process until smooth. With the motor running, slowly add the remaining oil. The purée should have the thickness of yogurt. Season with lemon juice and salt.
7. To make the coulis, in a small pot, warm the oil over medium heat, add the garlic, and sauté until golden. Add the tomato pulp and sugar and simmer for 3 to 4 minutes, or until it thickens. Add the saffron at the last moment, then process in a blender until smooth. Keep warm until assembly.
8. Preheat the oven to 300°F (150°C). Using a small, serrated knife, cut the top one-fourth off each pastry. Keep the tops close by. With a small spoon or a clean piping bag fitted with a small, round tip, overstuff the base of each pastry until slightly full with the celery root and goat cheese purée. Replace the tops upside down.
9. Arrange the pastries on the same parchment-covered baking sheet. Place in the oven and bake for 4 to 5 minutes, or until the filling is hot.
10. While the pastries are baking, line up 4 shallow bowls (or a single platter if you’re serving family style) and spoon 3 to 4 spoonfuls of the tomato coulis into each bowl (or cover the bottom of the platter with a thin layer).
11. When the pastries are ready, remove them from the oven and spoon a teaspoon-size dollop of the parsley purée in the upside-down cap of each one. Add a small chervil sprig to each dollop if you like. Place 4 pastries in each bowl, or put all of them on the platter. If you have the mimolette on hand, finely grate a little over each pastry before serving.
Serves 1
Some of our favorite customers—that is, Bobby Sontag—say that liver should always be served rare. This is (yet) another time where we disagree with him. Regarding Montreal smoked meat, we have one word: Schwartz’s. Not unlike bagels, smoked meat preferences fuel wars and countless throwdowns. In fact, the best smoked meat is the one you prefer. If you can’t get Montreal smoked beef brisket, you can substitute pastrami or even corned beef.
8 ounces (225 g) veal liver, cut into 4 thin slices
1 to 1½ teaspoons Montreal Steak Spice
2 tablespoons neutral oil
4 slices Montreal smoked beef brisket, cut the same width and slightly thinner than the liver
1 large dill pickle
Prepared yellow mustard and ketchup for serving
1. Preheat the oven to 475°F (240°C). Season the liver slices liberally with the steak spice.
2. Select a nonstick frying pan or sauté pan large enough to hold all the liver slices in a single layer. Place over medium heat and add the oil. When the oil is hot, add the liver slices and sear, turning once, for 2 minutes on each side, or until done to your liking. Transfer the liver to a plate.
3. Add the smoked meat to the same pan over medium heat without any additional oil. Toss with tongs for about 1 minute, then remove from the heat.
4. Layer the meats “Napoleon style,” alternating the liver and brisket. Cut the pickle lengthwise into medium slices, like you would for a burger, and place on top. Serve with the mustard and ketchup.
Turbot au Vermouth de Chambéry
Serves 2
We love Dover sole, or at least we used to. It’s not as sound a menu choice these days, so instead we go for local turbot from the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. The classic turbot au vin jaune is exceptional, but said vin jaune can be really difficult to locate. A crisp, dry vermouth such as Vermouth de Chambéry will do.
1 French shallot, chopped
¼ cup (55 g) unsalted butter
1 sprig tarragon
Salt and pepper
½ cup (125 ml) dry white vermouth
1 cup (250 ml) whipping cream (35 percent butterfat)
½ cup (15 g) small, dried whole morels, hydrated in warm water to cover and drained
2 turbot fillets, about 8 ounces (225 g) each, preferably from whole fish, lifted by the fish monger
2 teaspoons chopped fresh chives
1. In a sauté pan, sweat the shallot in 2 tablespoons of the butter with the tarragon and a pinch each of salt and pepper for 3 or 4 minutes, or until soft and tender. Add the vermouth and simmer over medium heat until reduced by half. Add the cream and simmer for 3 to 4 minutes, until reduced by half, then add the morels and heat through for 2 minutes. Taste and add more salt and pepper as you like. The sauce should be the consistency of thin gravy and should taste delicious on its own. Remove from the heat, cover, and set aside.
2. Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter in a large frying pan or sauté pan over medium heat. When the butter stops foaming, add the fish and cook, turning once, for 3 to 4 minutes on each side, or until a golden brown crust forms on both sides.
3. Using a spatula, carefully lift up the fish and wipe the cooking fat from the pan. Replace the fish, spoon the sauce over, add the chives, and warm for 1 to 2 minutes. Cooked turbot falls apart so easily that we like to serve it directly from the pan at the table.
Serves 4
If Parmesan is the king of cheese, Époisses is the cultural attaché. It’s smelly in a way that makes you proud to like it. It’s also red-wine compatible and awesome on a piece of steak. A washed-rind cheese, Époisses is made from milk from Burgundian cows and washed with the local marc de Bourgogne. It is crucial that you buy a good Époisses, and, in fact, only one or two brands make it to the United States and Canada. Sniff it before buying, and avoid one with a horse urine–window cleaner smell. Remember, too, warming up the cheese only amplifies the aroma. Sometimes Gilles Jourdenais at Fromagerie Atwater gets in tiny individual Époisses, which we try to use whenever possible.
This dish, which combines the cheese with shallots, used to be the classic Joe Beef drunk staff meal at 4 A.M. Eat it with toasted bread, a few rosettes of mâche, or on top of steak.
1½ cups (375 ml) dry red wine
4 large French shallots, finely chopped
1 sprig thyme
¼ teaspoon pepper
Pinch of sugar
2 tablespoons hazelnut oil
7 ounces (200 g) Époisses cheese
¼ cup (40 g) whole hazelnuts, toasted
4 slices pain levain, toasted
1. Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C). In a small nonreactive saucepan, combine the wine, shallots, thyme, pepper, and sugar. Bring to a boil, then simmer over medium heat until the wine is reduced by half. Transfer to a bowl and let cool. Stir in the hazelnut oil.
2. Place the cheese in a small baking dish that you’re proud to bring to the table, and cover it with the shallot mixture. Bake for 4 to 5 minutes, or until slightly melted. Serve with the hazelnuts and toast.
Note: When the Époisses comes out of the oven, you can flambé it with 1 tablespoon marc or a good brandy. And if you do, be careful. It is your responsibility and not ours if your date’s rayon dress catches fire.
