Of all the varieties of offal we eat, the liver is used from more creatures than any other. Calf, lamb, pig, duck, chicken, game—both furred and feathered—and one of my most favorite, monkfish. It has a similar consistency to that of foie gras in a fishy way, and is almost as rich. If you are ever lucky enough to come across some, grab it quick. It’s fabulous. It is relatively easy to find in France, particularly in large city markets—ask for foie de lotte.
Liver from beef is not really worth trying; in fact I don’t think I have ever eaten it. I am sure it is far too tough and probably quite bitter. Calves’ liver, on the other hand, along with their kidneys, is highly prized (and highly priced). Lambs’ liver is good and tasty, but requires careful preparation and cooking to avoid ending up with shoe-leather and memories of school lunches. Chicken livers are a marvelous vehicle for numerous dishes, and their versatility is endless. They marry themselves neatly to so many good things: pasta and potatoes; little savory toasted things; on skewers or deep-fried and in various salads—one of my favorites being frisée, bacon, croûtons, poached egg, and sautéed chicken livers. If deep-frying, dip them first in flour, then in beaten egg, and finally in fresh breadcrumbs. These are marveous dipped into runny garlic mayonnaise or béarnaise sauce. And then there is everybody’s favorite—chicken liver pâté. That is, of course, everybody’s favorite after foie gras.
Now, I know that this is a controversial subject, but I do believe in the freedom to eat what you wish to eat, or not eat, as the case may be. Life is becoming more and more restricting as it is. This most extraordinary of livers, from either duck or goose, is made by force-feeding the bird with corn until its liver is dramatically increased in size. When cooked, the result is a staggeringly rich liver of unquestionably delicious taste.
My friend the wine merchant Bill Baker says that the Fegato alla Veneziana at Harry’s Bar in Venice is the best that he has ever tasted, and it is important that the pieces of liver are the size of postage stamps and almost as thin. Sadly, I have not eaten the Fegato at Harry’s, but I have taken Mr. Baker’s advice, and at least got the shape right.
3 mild Spanish onions, peeled and very thinly sliced
5 tbsp vegetable oil
8 exceptionally thin slices of calves’ liver, cut into small squares
salt and pepper
1 tbsp chopped parsley
2 tbsp red wine vinegar
Cook the onions in 3 tbsp of the vegetable oil until completely cooked through and soft. They may take on a little color during this time but it doesn’t matter; the most important thing is that they cook slowly, which can take up to 30 minutes. In a large and not-too-thick frying pan or wok, beat the remaining 2 tbsp vegetable oil until smoking hot. Season the calves’ liver with salt and pepper, and toss briefly in the hot oil for about 20 seconds. Drain in a colander. Add the onions to the pan and similarly toss briefly in the oil until golden brown and slightly scorched in parts. Return the liver to the pan with the parsley and, finally, stir in the vinegar. Serve without delay and not without mashed potatoes.
N.B. The final cooking of this dish—that is after the initial cooking of the onions—should not take more than about 1 minute.
I like this terrine for its simplicity and understatedness. Many pâtés and terrines that one encounters these days are overworked and elaborate, forsaking a savory taste in favor of pretty layers or bland mousse. This could never be the case with any of Richard Olney’s recipes. Allow me to elaborate…
One of my most memorable meals was enjoyed at the home of Richard Olney in the south of France—the more unfashionable end, near Toulon, southern Provence really. He lives at the end of an almost impossibly steep road. He settled there from his native America in 1951 and I would guess that he may find it sad that the panoramic views from his hilltop home are not quite what they were. (It’s not that unfashionable.)
I arrived for lunch after a death-defying drive on the back road from St. Tropez—large buses, not much road—in a nervous state and in need of a drink. Domaine Tempier rosé was very forthcoming while we watched Richard cook a fish soup made from very small Mediterranean fish. It is a real pleasure to watch very good cooks cook, to see things done properly and without any apparent effort. The real joy, of course, is in watching someone with a talent for doing something very well deriving much pleasure in its execution.
Lunch was a simple affair that began with the fish soup and was followed by a salad and then some Reblochon cheese in, naturally, fine condition. However, salad is a different thing in the Olney home. Here, the small salad leaves were collected from Richard’s garden just before lunch. Among this day’s pickings, I remember arugula, little romaine lettuces, and pourpier (purslane), with herbs such as basil and hyssop. There was some onion too, I think, and perhaps a little garlic. And a superb vinaigrette that was made from his own vinegar and local olive oil. But what I remember most of all was the sliced boiled eggs—hard-boiled but with just a hint of softness at the yolks’ center. Strewn over these were hyssop flowers. These are bright blue, have a more delicate flavor than the herb itself, and look stunning against the deep yellow yolks—just the prettiest thing. I gave a silent cheer when this salad was put on the table.
Richard Olney was not a professional cook in the normal way of things. However, he was, in my opinion one of the greatest writers on food and wine. His last two books were on wine, one on Yquem and the other on the Domaine de la Romanée Conti. I wonder whether, in fact, it was wine that was Richard’s passion, with food as an essential accompaniment.
However, it is his writing on food that has given me the most pleasure and inspiration. Both the French Menu Cookbook and Simple French Food are classics and compulsory reading for all. Methodic descriptions are told in such a gentle way that the result and taste of the final dish becomes perfectly obvious to the reader. He nudges you along so that you get it right. Read this recipe and you will see what I mean.
“This terrine should be prepared the day before it is served, but, unlike many, it does not keep remarkably well, and once cut into, it should be consumed within a day or so.
1 tsp mixed dried herbs (herbes de Provence, for instance)
2 heads of cloves (the tiny ball attached to the extremity of each clove)
1 garlic clove
1 healthy handful of fresh white breadcrumbs
1 onion, finely chopped
1 tbsp unsalted butter
6 oz fresh pork fat, chilled
1 lb poultry livers, trimmed of greenish stains and white nervous tissue, chopped
1 egg
1 tbsp finely chopped parsley
salt and pepper
2 bay leaves
“Reduce the mixed herbs and clove heads to a powder in a stone mortar. Add the garlic clove and pound to a paste. Add the breadcrumbs and mix together so that the garlic thoroughly impregnates the whole. Put aside.
“Cook the chopped onion gently in butter for 10 minutes or so, or until it is yellowed and soft.
“Remove enough thin slices from the pork fat to line the bottom and the sides of the terrine and to cover the surface, once filled; cut the rest into little cubes.
“With the exception of the slices of pork fat and the two bay leaves, combine all the ingredients in a large mixing bowl, working them thoroughly together with both hands, squeezing the mixture repeatedly, through clutching fingers, until it is completely homogeneous. Taste for salt and pepper.
“Line the bottom and sides of the terrine with slices of pork fat, pressing them to ensure their adhering, pour in the liver mixture, tap the bottom of the terrine two or three times against a wooden surface to settle its contents, place the bay leaves on the surface, and lightly press the remaining pork fat slices on top. Cover the terrine (if it does not have a lid, fit over it a piece of foil) and poach it in a bain-marie, either in the oven (the terrine placed in a larger, deep pan, hot water poured in to immerse it by two-thirds) or on top of the stove (in a tightly covered saucepan large enough to contain the terrine, filled to two-thirds the terrine’s height with hot water), without allowing the water to boil, for 1 hour.
“Place the terrine on a platter, to collect any juices that run over the edge, and remove the lid or foil. (Don’t be alarmed at the quantity of liquid in which the contents seem to float—it is made up of gelatinous juices that will solidify in the terrine, and of fat that will solidify on the surface.) Place a board or a plate just the size of the terrine’s opening on the surface, with a weight of about 2 lb on top—a can of conserves, for instance. The weighting lends a firm, close texture to the body, without which it would be impossible to slice and serve the terrine neatly. When cooled, remove the weight and put the dish to chill. Serve it in slices directly from the terrine, the border of pork fat removed from each slice or not, as preferred.”
This is duck livers with two of my favorite things: soft, light potato pancakes, first eaten at the restaurant Georges Blanc in Vonnas, and the wonderful, now ubiquitous, onion marmalade from Michel Guérard’s book Cuisine Gourmande.
The recipe for the onion marmalade will fill a whole jar and can be kept in the fridge to serve with all sorts of dishes: terrines, cold meats, game dishes, etc. If you want to make enough just for this dish, then halve the recipe.
1 batch Crêpes Parmentier (see here)
8 perfect duck livers (or 1 lb chicken livers), any green bits scraped off, and
trimmed of all nervous tissue
2 tbsp olive oil, if grilling, or 2 tbsp clarified butter (see here), if frying
1 tbsp snipped chives
½ cup butter
1½ lb onions, peeled and thinly sliced
1½ tsp salt
1 tsp pepper
½ cup sugar
7 tbsp sherry vinegar
2 tbsp grenadine cordial (in my view, optional)
1 cup plus 2 tbsp coarse red wine
First make the onion marmalade. Heat the butter in a saucepan until it becomes nut brown. Throw in the onions, season, and add the sugar. Cook very slowly for 30–45 minutes or until the onions are dark brown. Add the vinegar, the optional grenadine, and the red wine. Cook for a further 30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the mixture is a deep mahogany color and the butter has separated out from the onion mass and is floating on top. Cool slightly, pour into jars or other suitable containers, and cool thoroughly before putting in the fridge. The butter will settle on the top and can be removed.
Cook the Crêpes Parmentier as described on here, and keep warm. Gently warm 3 tbsp onion marmalade but do not allow to become too hot. Heat either a cast-iron griddle or a heavy-bottomed frying pan until very hot. If grilling, put the duck livers in a bowl, season, and add the olive oil. With your hands, mix them together so that they are evenly coated. Carefully put on the griddle and cook for about 1 minute on each side, more if you like them less pink. Put on a warm plate and allow to rest.
If frying, melt the clarified butter in the pan and heat until hot. Cook the livers for the same length of time and allow to rest for 5 minutes or so. The resting is important, particularly with something like liver, as when the livers come off the grill or out of the pan, the outside bit is well cooked and the inside is rare. The resting period allows the two to merge together into a uniform pink.
To assemble, put a pancake on each plate and spread each one with the warm onion marmalade. Slice the livers horizontally and pile up on each pancake. This is for aesthetic reasons, as the pink slices of liver look nicer than two dark brown lumps. Sprinkle with the chives and serve.