Roasted Chicken with Whelk and Mushroom Beurre Blanc
Venison Rack with Chocolate Demi-Glace
Me at twenty-two with Rang. Also, the top of Allison’s head. I love you, Allison.
Vicky is the angel who gave me my first shot in the restaurant industry.
The outside of Le Sélect
When I got back from tour, I created a resume with my fake-ass college degree as the only thing on it and printed about twenty-five copies. Who wouldn’t want to hire me. Then, I started walking around downtown Toronto, literally entering restaurants and handing my resume to the hosts without asking to talk with the chefs. Also, I was walking in during mid-lunch rush, which is the worst rookie move. I waited a few days for some chef to call me up and say, You got the job! When can you start? But no one called.
I’d already hit a bunch of restaurants on King Street, so I went to Queen Street. This was in 2003, so Queen Street and Spadina Avenue were still cool, and there was this bar I used to drink at all the time called the 360. Right next door was this bistro called Le Sélect. It seemed too fancy for me to work at, and I didn’t want to get caught by my punk friends going into this fancy French restaurant. I had to really pump myself up to walk into this place. I saw only rich-looking people going in there. I would be drunk next door and it would be just mad adults with dresses and camel-hair coats hanging over their shoulders, ya know. I went early in the morning right before the lunch rush and knocked on the door. I was greeted by an angel named Vicky. She had this amazing smile and was so sweet to me right off the bat. She told me that she would be sure to give the chef my resume. I didn’t know it at that time, but Vicky was the wife of Jean-Jacques Quinsac, who was one of the owners of Le Sélect and a master sommelier. I got a call the next day from Brad Clarke, the chef of Le Sélect. He asked if I could come down for a “stage”—a trial run in the restaurant world—at 9 A.M. the next day.
I showed up at 8:30 with my full chef uniform: checks, chef jacket, neckerchief, and tall hat. I walked inside and I was met by a Vietnamese man named Rang, who looked me up and down and asked if it was Halloween. I was like, What the fuck are you talking about, I’m here to cook. I followed him into the kitchen, my nose quickly filling up with the amazing smells of veal stock simmering and chicken bones roasting, and where a man was butchering a whole lamb. I felt a rush like from no drug I’ve ever done before, along with complete fear. Rang told Brad to “get this fat boy to chop parsley.” Brad told me to take off my neckerchief because I’d get made fun of.
I worked my ass off to become a sous chef within two years at Le Sélect. We would do more than two hundred covers a night with only four cooks on the line. It taught me how to be a good line cook, which meant being organized and efficient, and how to “get it on”—Rang’s way of urging us to keep cooking. Cooking the restaurant food became second nature. Le Sélect moved because our twenty-five-year lease on Queen Street was up and they hiked up the rent. We reopened with a new, fancy French chef. After nine months of working seventy-two hours a week for a chef who was exploiting the restaurant, I had to move on. Thankfully, after I left, Albert Ponzo became the chef, got it on track, and made it the restaurant it was meant to be in its new space. It’s a truly timeless and iconic bistro. It’s perfect.
Ratnam has been at Le Sélect for more than thirty-five years. One time the chefs told me to call him a Sri Lankan word I didn’t understand, and he gave me a flying knee to the chest.
One of the greatest kitchens I ever worked in. I loved cooking on this Molteni.
The café at Le Sélect
Ana has been the pastry chef at Le Sélect since day one, thirty-seven years and counting. I miss her lemon tarts every single day of my life.
French onion soup is onions, beef stock, crostini, Emmental cheese, and Madeira wine. This version takes more time than you’d think. But what you can do with these ingredients is so powerful and explosive. A proper French onion soup should make every bad thing in your life disappear instantly. It’s a dish that will hold you tight and tell you everything will be okay when the world is burning itself to death.
When we used to make French onion soup at Le Sélect, it was all about cooking the onions for as long as we could. We used red onions, yellow onions, Vidalia onions, and shallots. Cooking these onions really low and slow makes the best soup. You want all those natural flavors in the onions to develop and caramelize over four hours. That sounds like an insane amount of time, but if you cook them for this long, you’ll reap the benefits.
One time, another cook and I had an onion-cutting race. We divided a fifty-pound bag of peeled onions in front of us, set the clock, and boom—we were off, slicing like madmen! Back then, I could cut a full bag of onions in less than ten minutes. I was almost halfway done when I cut the front of my left index finger right to the bone! The blood started pouring all over the onions. I knew I’d get in trouble for doing something stupid because now I’d have to leave the kitchen and not work that night, and all the crew would hate me because they’d have to cover my dumb ass. So off I went to the hospital to get this pale snail-like piece of finger stitched back, if that was even an option. (For a few seconds, I thought I could just super-glue my finger back on and continue to work.) Anyway, nine stitches later, I went back to work the next day to make sure that onion soup was perfect!
This soup transforms from caramelized onions to one of my all-time favorite soups instantly. The cheese is just as important: Don’t buy the cheap cheese; buy the best Emmental you can find, and make sure to buy great bread to make your crostini so it stands up to the rich broth and melting cheese. The crunchy bread must stand the true test—it pulls the whole dish together.
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SERVES: 4
PREP TIME: 4 HOURS
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1 cup (2 sticks/255 g) plus 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
½ cup (120 ml) canola oil
5 red onions, sliced ¼ inch (6 mm) thick
5 Vidalia onions, sliced ¼ inch (6 mm) thick
5 yellow onions, sliced ¼ inch (6 mm) thick
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
15 shallots, peeled
2 cups (480 ml) Madeira wine
1 cup (240 ml) port wine
1 cup (240 ml) sherry wine
10 cipollini onions, peeled and sliced
20 red pearl onions, peeled and sliced
4 quarts (3.8 L) beef stock
1 bunch thyme
2 bay leaves
1 loaf good sourdough bread
2 pounds (910 g) good Emmental cheese
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In a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat, heat 1 cup (2 sticks/ 225 g) butter and ½ cup (120 ml) canola oil. Add the red, Vidalia, and yellow onions; season heavily with salt. It will take some time to cook down—you need to leave the onions alone a few minutes so they start steaming and cooking. Then stir and let steam. You’ll see it takes about 15 minutes for these raw sliced onions to cook down. Be sure to stir them every few minutes.
Once the onions are translucent, turn down the heat to low; this is where the patience comes into play. Stir every few minutes until the onions start to caramelize. Add the shallots. Cook on the lowest heat possible for as long as you can without burning the onions. You’ll find that a lot of sugar comes out of them and they may stick. You can add a little bit of water if necessary.
Once the onions are dark brown (almost like an old mop) and caramelized, after almost 2 hours, they’re ready for the wine. Add the Madeira, port, and sherry, then stand back because the mixture may ignite. If it doesn’t, use one of those long matches and flambé the wine.
Add the cipollini and red pearl onions. Reduce the wine by half, then add the stock, thyme, and bay leaves. Cook 1 hour and check for seasoning. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Now for the crostini: Preheat the broiler. Take that bread and, using a ring mold, cut out four circles that are the same size as the bowls you’re going to serve the soup in. In a medium pan set over medium heat, melt 2 tablespoons butter; fry the bread circles like a grilled cheese but take it a little further—make sure the bread is super golden brown. Season with some salt and pepper and place on a paper towel–lined plate.
Remove the bay leaves from the soup. Ladle into oven-safe bowls, place the crostini on top, and add a big pile of cheese. Place the soup on a baking sheet and broil on the middle rack so the cheese melts and turns golden brown and bubbly but doesn’t burn. Remove the soup and have at it!
This is the chicken to end all chickens. The best French-farmed chickens are typically a little tough, which I love. They have strong, lean leg meat from living a wonderful life of running around the French countryside feeding on grains and breathing fresh mountain air. I could be completely wrong as well—I’ve only been to France once.
Cooking a proper roasted chicken is easy, and you need to account for the carryover cooking from the point you take it out of the oven. I like cooking my chicken until a thermometer inserted into the chicken reads 135°F (57°C), then letting it rest: You’ll always be left with a nice juicy chicken. When we roasted chickens at Le Sélect, we would season only with salt and never add any fat to the birds so that the skin would be as crisp as possible.
The sauce that we will make here is super easy and goes so beautifully with the bird. The mineral taste of the whelks, the earthiness of the mushrooms, the richness of the butter sauce, and the brightness of the tarragon, parsley, chervil, and lemon add up to a beautiful dish.
You have to make sure that the mushrooms are in season and the whelks are fresh in the shell. Only buy the best for this dish. Nothing beats fresh, powerful wild mushrooms—I love them so much. And you should be able to find whelks in Chinatown or at a really good fish shop. I get mine from Newfoundland, and they are probably the best I’ve ever had.
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SERVES: 4
PREP TIME: 2 HOURS
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1 heritage chicken
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 pounds (1.4 kg) whelks in the shell
1 tablespoon plus 1 cup (2 sticks/225 g) unsalted butter
Olive oil
1 shallot, peeled and diced
1 pound (455 g) mushrooms, cleaned with a toothbrush and quartered, with stems
½ cup (120 ml) white wine vinegar
3 sprigs thyme
1 bay leaf
1 bunch parsley, chopped
1 bunch tarragon, chopped
1 bunch chervil, chopped
Juice of ½ lemon
Zest of 1 lemon
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Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Pat the bird completely dry and season with salt. Place the chicken on a wire rack over a baking sheet. Roast the chicken 40 minutes, or until a thermometer inserted into the middle of the breast reads 135°F (57°C).
Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Make sure to add enough salt to make it taste like the ocean. Prepare an ice bath. Place the whelks in the boiling water; cook 3 to 5 minutes, then place them in the ice bath to stop the cooking. Once they are cold, using a small seafood fork, carefully pull out each whelk from its shell. Some have a small shell attached to the face, as well as intestines and waste product; cut off with a knife, then rinse the meat under cold running water. Slice each whelk into 4 or 5 pieces; place in a bowl, cover with a wet paper towel, and refrigerate.
Set a medium saucepan over medium heat; melt 1 tablespoon butter and 1 tablespoon oil. Cook the shallot until translucent. Add the whelks, mushrooms, vinegar, thyme, and bay leaf. Reduce by half. Turn the heat down to low.
Cube the remaining butter and whisk into the wine-mushroom-whelk mixture using a spoon and swirling the pan to emulsify the sauce into a beurre blanc. As the sauce comes together, add the parsley, tarragon, and chervil to the sauce; the whelks and mushrooms should be beautifully covered with the beurre blanc. Add the lemon juice, sprinkle in the lemon zest, and season with pepper and salt. Remove the bay leaf.
Let the roast chicken rest at least 20 minutes. Remove the two breasts and the legs and wings. Slice the breasts into 3 pieces each. Cut into where the thigh bone and leg connect. You should have 6 pieces of breast, 2 thighs, 2 wings, and 2 legs. Divide into equal portions on 4 plates and pour sauce.
I’m writing this recipe on the coldest day of the year in Toronto. It’s 9°F (-23°C) with windchill. I wish I had a cassoulet right now—it’s the perfect dish for cold weather. I like making food to warm you physically and spiritually. This cassoulet will allow your body temperature to rise and your mind to open to the beautiful world that is beans and a variety of delicious meats. Cassoulet is something I feel every cook should know how to make—you have to know how to cure, to make sausage, to braise, to soak your beans (never use canned beans for a cassoulet), and to build a dish from the ground up. There’s a lot of talk about whether to put tomato in a cassoulet. I think there are a few things that you absolutely need: duck confit, lamb shank, pork belly, Toulouse sausage, and large white navy beans. Other than that, you can use tomato paste, rosemary, thyme, chicken stock, or whatever you want. Cassoulet is like Bolognese in Italy; it changes from house to house, block to block, and town to village to city. But get one thing straight: You’d better put bread crumbs on top and bake that bean-and-meat mixture in that delicious duck fat until golden fucking brown.
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SERVES: 6
PREP TIME: 4 HOURS PLUS 24 HOURS REFRIGERATING
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FOR THE DUCK CONFIT:
Zest of 1 orange
10 cloves garlic, peeled
1 small bunch parsley
5 bay leaves
8 sprigs thyme, roughly chopped
½ cup (120 g) kosher salt
¼ cup (50 g) granulated sugar
6 duck legs
4 cups (960 ml) duck fat
FOR THE BRAISED LAMB SHANKS:
2 lamb shanks
1 onion, halved
1 leek, cleaned and dark green part removed, roughly chopped
1 carrot, peeled and roughly chopped
1 stalk celery, roughly chopped
1 tablespoon kosher salt
FOR THE CASSOULET:
½ cup (120 ml) duck fat
1 pound (455 g) pork belly, cut into 2-inch (5 cm) chunks
2 stalks celery, finely diced
1 onion, finely diced
1 carrot, peeled and finely diced
1 leek, cleaned and finely sliced
3 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
3 tablespoons tomato paste
4½ cups (945 g) dry navy beans, soaked overnight
1 bouquet garni (2 sprigs thyme, 2 sprigs rosemary, and a small bunch of flat-leaf parsley tied together with butcher’s twine)
2 quarts (2 L) chicken stock
¼ cup (60 ml) canola oil
7 Toulouse sausages
Kosher salt
1½ cups (150 g) dry bread crumbs
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Make the duck confit: In the bowl of a food processor, place the orange zest, garlic, parsley, bay leaves, thyme, salt, and sugar. Pulse until the mixture (the cure) is finely chopped and evenly combined.
Place the duck legs flesh side up in a large dish. Pat the cure onto the duck. Cover with plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator 24 hours.
Rinse off the duck with cold water, then pat dry with paper towels. Preheat the oven to 325°F (165°C).
In a Dutch oven set over medium-low heat, heat the duck fat until liquified. Carefully immerse the duck in the fat. Cover the pot and roast in the oven until the duck is tender but not falling off the bone, about 1½ hours. Remove the duck from the fat and set aside.
Make the braised lamb shanks: Put all the ingredients in a medium sauce-pot; cover with water. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce to a simmer. Skim and discard any scum that rises to the surface. Simmer until the lamb is tender and breaking away from the bone, about 3 hours. Set aside.
Make the cassoulet: In a Dutch oven set over medium-high heat, heat the duck fat. Add the pork belly and cook until golden brown on all sides, about 3 minutes per side. Remove the pork belly and set aside, leaving the residual fat in the bottom of the pot.
Reduce the heat to medium. Add the celery, onion, carrot, leek, and garlic and cook until the onion is translucent and fragrant. Stir in the tomato paste and cook 2 minutes. Add the beans and return the pork belly to the pot. Immerse the bouquet garni in the beans and pour in the stock.
Increase the heat to high and bring to a boil, then immediately reduce to low. Simmer until the beans are just tender enough to squish between your fingers, about 1½ hours.
Preheat the oven to 400°F (205°C). In a medium cast-iron pan set over medium heat, heat the oil. Sear the sausages in batches until golden brown, about 3 minutes per side.
Discard the herb bundle from the Dutch oven. Pour the beans into a large baking dish.
Tear the meat from the lamb shank bones, chop into large chunks, and stir into the beans. Season with salt as needed.
Nestle the sausages into the bean mixture. Cover the beans and sausage with the bread crumbs. Arrange the duck confit on top. Bake in the oven until the duck is golden and crispy, about 25 minutes.
Working in French restaurants, you learn to love offal. I didn’t know what offal was as a kid, but I was the one at the kitchen counter waiting patiently for the roasted goose heart, duck livers, or chicken gizzards. I loved variety meats from a very young age. I was fascinated with the textures and flavors; it always tasted so good to me. I’d season the meats with some salt and ask my mom for more hearts. But I was always denied because there was only one heart per bird.
The first time I worked with sweetbreads was at Le Sélect. We served a lot of them, and this is one of my all-time favorite preparations. Sweetbreads are the gateway drug to offal. If you’ve ever eaten at a French bistro, you know what I mean. And if you don’t know that the sweetbread is the thymus gland, which is the gland in the throat of the calf, then you should Google yourself some sweetbreads. Poached, pressed, peeled, and fried in brown butter, then placed in a pot of warm, creamy veal stock with carrots and onions from a white roux and finished with egg yolks whisked with crème fraîche, chopped parsley, a few cracks of pepper, and a big ol’ squeeze of lemon. To this day, I love to eat this out of the pot with some crusty baguette.
I really hope you make this recipe and love it as much as I do. It’s perfect for when there’s snow on the ground and there’s a fireplace crackling away. That sounds like something from a cookbook.
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SERVES: 4 SKINNY FRENCH PEOPLE
PREP TIME: 1 DAY
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FOR THE SWEETBREADS:
1 onion, peeled and quartered
1 carrot, peeled and cut into chunks
1 stalk celery, cut into chunks
2 bay leaves
1 tablespoon black peppercorns
A few sprigs thyme
A few sprigs parsley
Kosher salt
2 pounds (910 g) sweetbreads
FOR THE VEGETABLES:
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
6 cremini mushrooms, quartered
2 cups (480 ml) veal stock
2 carrots, peeled and cut into 2-inch-(5 cm) long pieces
15 pearl onions, peeled
FOR THE BLANQUETTE:
1 cup (2 sticks/225 g) unsalted butter
½ cup (65 g) all-purpose flour
3 cups (720 ml) veal stock, plus more if needed
3 egg yolks
½ cup (120 ml) crème fraîche
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
Pinch cloves
2 tablespoons parsley, chopped
1 tablespoon chervil, chopped
1 tablespoon tarragon, chopped
FOR THE LENTILS DU PUY:
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 onion, diced
1 carrot, peeled and diced
1 stalk celery, diced
1 leek, cleaned and diced
2 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
2 cups (380 g) lentils
4 cups (960 ml) chicken stock
1 bay leaf
A few sprigs thyme
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Prepare an ice bath.
Make the sweetbreads: We are going to make court bouillon. In a large pot set over high heat, bring 3 quarts (2.8 L) cold water to a boil. Add the onion, carrot, celery, bay leaves, peppercorns, thyme, and parsley; simmer 20 minutes. Add enough salt so it tastes like a seasoned soup.
Place the sweetbreads in the simmering court bouillon and cook 6 minutes, then place in the ice bath. Once the sweetbreads are cold, use a paring knife to peel off the lining and any connective tissue. Place the sweetbreads in a bowl and cover with a damp paper towel; cover again with plastic wrap, then refrigerate.
Make the vegetables: Set a large pan over medium heat and melt the butter. Brown the mushrooms, then add the veal stock, carrots, and onions cook 20 minutes. Set aside.
Make the blanquette (sauce): In a medium pot set over medium heat, melt the butter; when it’s bubbling, add the flour and, using a wooden spoon, stir constantly until cooked, 10 minutes. You’re making a blond roux—not golden brown. Add the veal stock; it will bubble. (I like to add just a little stock first and whisk the mixture, making sure to eliminate any lumps from the roux. Then I whisk quickly and add the rest of the stock.) Bring to a boil; it will thicken. If it’s too thick, add more stock. Turn the heat down to low and let it simmer gently, 5 minutes.
In a bowl, slowly whisk together the egg yolks, crème fraîche, and mustard; add the cloves. Carefully add a ladleful of the blanquette sauce in the mixture while whisking to temper. When combined, slowly pour this mixture into the pot of blanquette sauce while whisking.
Add the sweetbreads and the reserved mushrooms, carrots, and pearl onions to the sauce and warm everything nicely. Add the parsley, chervil, and tarragon.
Make the lentils du puy: In a medium pot set over medium heat, heat the butter and oil. Add the onion, carrot, celery, leek, and garlic and cook until tender, 8 minutes. Pour in the lentils and cover with the chicken stock, bay leaf, and thyme. Cook until the lentils are tender, 15 minutes; remove the bay leaf and thyme.
On a plate, serve the sweetbreads and vegetable mixture, with the lentils on the side.
Cooking simply is best. That will never change. It will never be out of style. It will always be cool. It will always taste better. This dish is inspired by my time in Paris. When I went, I was twenty-nine years old and there for only four days. I mostly ate at bistros, but my dinner at Le Baratin was my favorite: We had a dish of roasted veal breast that blew my mind. The whole experience was perfect, including the chalkboard menu brought tableside and read to you like a mother to a child. My wife and I asked if the chef could cook a few of her favorite dishes for us. After the raw mackerel with lardo and raspberry, the broth of pork bone and mascot grapes, the veal brains in butter sauce, and the perfectly cooked slices of potatoes, we received a roasted veal breast. It was light, it was fatty, and it was crunchy. It was perfection. It was magnificent. It was a dish that made me fall in love with France. I chewed the meat off the bones while the salty, garlicky fat dripped down my fingers, past my wrist, and down to my elbow before I licked it like a feral dog from the streets of Paris.
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SERVES: 6
PREP TIME: 5 HOURS
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1 veal breast
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
Good olive oil
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
8 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and quartered
6 shallots, peeled
½ head white cabbage, quartered with core attached
1 bunch thyme, leaves picked
Good honey
1 (750 ml) bottle dry white wine
2 cups (4 sticks/455 g) unsalted butter
Juice of 1 lemon (optional)
Apple cider vinegar (optional)
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Preheat the oven to 250°F (120°C). Remove the veal from the refrigerator and let it come to room temperature, about 1 hour.
Rub the veal with the mustard and splash it with some oil; sprinkle salt and pepper all over the breast and bones. Place in a large deep roasting pan and roast in the oven 3 hours, letting the fats, silverskin, and tendons break down.
Meanwhile, in a large pot of salted boiling water, parcook the potatoes; once they become almost fork-tender, drain and place on a baking sheet to cool.
Remove the roasting pan from the oven. Place the potatoes, shallots, and cabbage under and around the veal and liberally drizzle with oil and season with more salt and pepper. Confetti the thyme leaves over the veal and veggies and drizzle the cabbage with honey. Continue to roast another 30 minutes to 1 hour, cranking the heat to 400°F (205°C) for the last ½ hour of cooking to get some char on the veal and the vegetables.
The veal will be cooked perfectly when it’s not falling off the bone but you can push a butter knife through the widest part and it goes through without resistance. Remove the roasting pan from the oven; place the vegetables on a plate and put the veal on a cutting board. Cover both with aluminum foil and a kitchen towel for 30 minutes.
Place the roasting pan on the stove over medium heat. Add the wine and stir, scraping up all the bits from the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. Next, add the butter and, with a kitchen towel wrapped round the handle, swirl the pan over the heat in a circular fashion, like a miner sifting for gold in the Klondike. This will give you a great little pan sauce. You can add some lemon juice or a splash of vinegar if necessary.
Carve the veal and place on a plate with the shallots, cabbage, and potatoes and top with some sauce.
Bouillabaisse is the fish soup. It was first made in Marseilles, France, from the fish that the fishermen couldn’t sell. I learned this from Google. The bony rockfish was simmered in a bouillon with Pernod, tomato, and saffron. This is how we are going to make the dish in this book. This is not how we did it at Le Sélect. There, we made a tomato-and-anise broth with leeks, fennel, Pernod, and saffron and added in shrimp, scallops, a few mussels, clams, and whatever day-old fish we didn’t sell the night before: turbot, monkfish, or sea bream. We would place all the seafood and fish into containers, and when we’d get an order, we would heat the broth, then add the fish and shellfish according to the proper cooking times. And we always garnished the soup with a buttery, crispy crouton and tangy rich rouille.
When you make this soup, you must find the best fish shop to get the best fish you can. Go a few days before you want to cook it and ask the person behind the counter what’s coming in over the next week and see if you can get any special fish or seafood. Langoustines and red mullets will probably be difficult to find, but bouillabaisse can be made with so many different kinds of fish or shellfish, so I’d make this soup with whatever the fishmonger has that’s freshest. Talk to him or her about cooking times—monkfish may take three to four minutes to cook off the bone, but a fillet of sea bream is much thinner and more delicate, so it takes only two to three minutes. Remember that building a relationship with your fishmongers and butchers is important because cooking great food always starts with your purveyors.
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SERVES: 4 TO 6
PREP TIME: 3 HOURS
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FOR THE FISH FUMET:
1 large grouper head
4 onions, peeled and quartered
1 carrot, peeled and quartered
1 stalk celery, quartered
½ bulb fennel, quartered
1 leek, cleaned and quartered
1 tablespoon white peppercorns
1 tablespoon fennel seed
1 tablespoon star anise
Rind of 1 orange
FOR THE ROUILLE:
3 cloves garlic, peeled
3 egg yolks
½ roasted red pepper, peeled and seeded
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
4 tablespoons (60 ml) white wine vinegar
Few pistils saffron
1 tablespoon prepared horseradish
2 cups (480 ml) canola oil
Zest of 1 lemon
Juice of ½ lemon
Kosher salt (optional)
FOR THE BOUILLABAISSE BROTH AND SEAFOOD:
2 onions, peeled
1 stalk celery
1 bulb fennel
1 leek, cleaned
1 carrot, peeled
1 jalapeño pepper
2 red serrano chiles
1 head garlic, peeled
½ cup (120 ml) canola oil
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 (6-ounce/170 g) can good tomato puree
6 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled
1 cup (240 ml) Pernod
4 pistils saffron
Kosher salt
4 red mullets, skin on
½ pound (225 g) cod, cut into 2 to 3-ounce (55 to 85 g) pieces
½ pound (225 g) striped bass, cut into 2 to 3-ounce (55 to 85 g) pieces
2 pounds (910 g) littleneck clams
6 langoustines
8 large fresh scallops
6 jumbo shrimp
1 pound (455 g) mussels
FOR SERVING:
1 good baguette
Unsalted butter
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Make the fish fumet: Rinse the grouper head under cold running water, then split the head in half with a knife from the bottom of the head through the jaw. Discard the gills.
Place the head in a stockpot and fill with enough cold water to cover all the contents; bring to a boil, skim the scum that rises to the top, and turn down the heat to a low simmer.
Add the onions, carrot, celery, fennel, leek, peppercorns, fennel seed, star anise, and orange rind. Simmer 1 hour, and then turn off the heat and let the fumet steep 30 minutes.
Make the rouille: In the bowl of a food processor, place the garlic, egg yolks, roasted red pepper, mustard, vinegar, saffron, and horseradish; blend until fully incorporated and smooth. While food processor is running, slowly pour the oil in a thin, steady stream until it forms a beautiful rouille, like aïoli. Add the lemon zest and a little juice and some salt if needed.
Make the bouillabaisse broth and seafood: In a blender, place the onions, celery, fennel, leek, carrot, jalapeño, chiles, and garlic; add the oil and blend slowly until fully incorporated with the consistency of pulp.
Pour the blended mixture into a Dutch oven set over medium heat; cook until tender, golden brown, and caramelized, about 1 hour. Add the tomato paste and cook, stirring with a wooden spoon, 5 minutes. Add the tomato puree; cook 20 minutes. Add 1 gallon (3.8 L) of the fish fumet; bring to a boil and simmer 30 minutes. Add the potatoes and cook another 30 minutes, then add the Pernod and saffron. Season to taste with salt. It is now ready for the seafood.
The seafood cooks for different amounts of time, so first add the fish, which takes the longest to cook. Add the red mullets, cod, and striped bass and cook 5 minutes. Add the clams and cook about 5 minutes; add the langoustines and cook 4 minutes; add the scallops and jumbo shrimp and cook 3 minutes; then add the mussels and cook until they open (should be almost instantly).
Pull out the seafood and place on a large platter; serve the broth separate. Place a big bowl of the rouille on the table and serve with a toasted baguette and some butter.
Every time I go back and eat at Le Sélect, I get this dish. Spring, summer, fall, winter—whatever the temperature—if I’m at Le Sélect, I’m ordering a choucroute. In this recipe, we simmer the pork belly in the kraut; it’s so soft that it’s like molten rubies of pig-skin meat and fat. The super-snappy skin of the Strasbourg sausage; the little morsels of braised ham hocks; the sour, buttery cabbage braised with Riesling and Dijon mustard; the side of cornichon . . . these just bring this whole dish to your face.
As you can tell, I love this dish. I’m just sitting here in my freezing-cold office, writing this book. It makes me go insane thinking I could just go to Le Sélect and eat a choucroute right now.
Frédéric, the owner of Le Sélect, is from Alsace, France, where choucroute originated, so he was very controlling over the dish. He is a pretty intense, tall blond German French man who’s very stern and did not mess around at all with his French bistro. And why should he? If someone plated that choucroute the wrong way, he would somehow know about it, and that cook would get spoken with!
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SERVES: 8
PREP TIME: 5 HOURS
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2 cups (480 ml) duck fat
2 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
1 tablespoon juniper berries
5 yellow onions, thinly sliced
Kosher salt
1 quart (32 ounces) sauerkraut
1 (750 ml) bottle good Riesling wine
1 cup (240 ml) good gin
3 quarts (2.8 L) chicken stock
1 lightly smoked ham hock
2 pounds (910 g) pork belly, cut into 1 by 2-inch (2.5 by 5 cm) pieces
2 bay leaves
4 Strasbourg sausages
1 four-bone rack pork loin
6 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and halved lengthwise
1 cup (2 sticks/225 g) unsalted butter, melted
1 handful chopped flat-leaf parsley
Dijon mustard, for serving
Cornichons, for serving
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In a large Dutch oven set over high heat, melt the duck fat.
Place the garlic and the juniper berries in the duck fat; cook until the garlic is lightly golden and the juniper berries are toasting nicely, 1 to 2 minutes. Add the onions and season with 2 big pinches of salt. Stir the onions and cook them down until they’re translucent and lightly golden.
Add the sauerkraut, wine, gin, stock, ham hock, pork belly, and bay leaves; turn the heat down to medium-low and cover the pot. Cook 2½ to 3 hours, stirring every 30 minutes. In the last 30 minutes, place the sausages in the pot and cover.
Preheat the oven to 400°F (205°C). Season the pork loin with salt and score the skin with a clean box cutter or sharp knife all the way across, going from top to bottom. Place the pork loin on a rack set on a baking sheet and roast until a thermometer inserted into the center of the eye of the pork loin reaches 140°F (60°C), about 45 minutes. Remove from the oven and let rest, 10 minutes; slice ¼ inch (6mm) thick.
In a large pot of boiling water, cook the potatoes until almost fork-tender, then transfer them to a pan with the melted butter and parsley; season with salt and set aside.
Remove the pork belly, sausages, and ham hock from the choucroute. Using tongs, shred the meat off the ham hock and chop the meat and pieces of tendon (if there are any) and return to the pot. Give the choucroute a good stir—but be gentle. Check for seasoning and add salt if needed.
Scoop the choucroute onto a large platter and decorate it with steamy roasted pork. Stack the sausages, the slices of unctuous pork belly, and the pork loin, then pile the butter-parsley–covered potatoes and serve with a big bowl of mustard and cornichons.
At the restaurant, we would grill and slice probably 150 to 200 portions of bavette throughout lunch and dinner service. When I worked the grill, I would keep an ice bucket underneath to plunge my hands into, so I could just use my hands on the grill without using tongs. At one time, I could be grilling twelve bavettes, a couple lamb racks, and venison chops, and a couple salmon fillets or trout on the fish side of the grill, which I kept so oiled that when you put a fish on it, the fillet would slide. That’s when I knew I was the master of my domain.
Side note: There are many cuts that a butcher may call bavette: flank, flap, skirt, or even hanger. Have a conversation with your butcher to find out more on the bistro cut, aka bavette.
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SERVES: 1
PREP TIME: 15 MINUTES
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Canola oil
1 (7-ounce/200 g) bavette
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 shallot, peeled and diced
2 tablespoons green peppercorns
¼ cup (60 ml) brandy
½ cup (120 ml) demi-glace
1 tablespoon thyme leaves
¼ cup (60 ml) heavy cream
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Set a cast-iron pan over medium-high heat and get it smoking a little. Pour just enough oil to cover the entire bottom of the pan. Season the steak with salt and pepper. Place the steak in the pan and let it get golden brown on one side, about 2 minutes, then flip it to the other side. Turn down the heat to low. Flip it back and forth, cooking 30 seconds on each side, at least six times total, then remove the steak to a plate lined with a paper towel.
In the same pan, add the butter and shallot and cook until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the peppercorns and cook 30 seconds; deglaze with the brandy. Watch out: It will set ablaze. Add the demiglace and let melt, then add the thyme leaves and cream. Reduce 1 minute.
Place the bavette on a plate and pour all the sauce over the steak until it pools the entire plate to the rim.
Viggo Mortensen, Ed Harris, and Maria Bello came into Le Sélect once for dinner. It was the first time I’d ever seen a celebrity in real life. I was so stoked to see Viggo; the Lord of the Rings films were out, and it was so fucking mental. They were shooting A History of Violence, which is a great movie. I forget what Ed and Maria ordered, but Viggo ordered a venison chop rare, which was my station and I knew I wouldn’t screw it up. I’d do everything in my power to make Viggo’s chop the best venison chop he’d ever eaten! I wondered if he’d ever had a venison chop, or if this was his first: Was I going to cook Viggo his very first venison chop?
I was so nervous. Our venison chop was so legendary—it was a twelve-ounce chop of the softest meat. We served it with a chocolate demi-glace.
It’s so fucking funny that I was so shook from seeing celebrities; but I was fresh out of cooking school and it was a different time. It was the early 2000s, before social media, when movie stars and celebrities were still able to have secret lives.
I found the perfect chop, which I grilled so perfectly—it was the most perfect rack that has ever been cooked. I let it rest with a perfect slab of butter that would keep it moist and buttery and give it that edge that I knew Viggo would love. I cradled his chop like it was a newborn baby panda—this venison chop was going to save lives—and placed it on the plate next to the green beans and the potato dauphinoise. I watched it leave the kitchen like a father watching his son leave for college. I was so proud of myself. One minute later the server returned, saying the chop was overcooked. Viggo did not like the venison!
I overcooked a venison chop for Aragorn, the king of Gondor, the warrior who saved Middle-earth! I was a loser. I let down my chef, my team. I let my parents down, my grandparents, my great-great-grandparents. I let everyone down. I’m human garbage. My entire soul jumped into a garbage can, poured gasoline all over myself, and lit my body ablaze!
Then, I cooked his rack again perfectly rare like I didn’t care and he loved it. Vigs, remember me?
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SERVES: 3
PREP TIME: 30 MINUTES
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FOR THE VENISON:
1 venison rack
½ cup (120 ml) canola oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
¼ cup (½ stick/55 g) unsalted butter
2 cloves garlic, peeled
1 bunch rosemary
1 bunch thyme
FOR THE SAUCE:
¼ cup (60 ml) red wine vinegar
¼ cup (50 g) granulated sugar
½ cup (120 ml) port
½ cup (120 ml) Madeira wine
1 teaspoon good ground espresso beans
1 cup (240 ml) demi-glace
2 ounces (50 g) bittersweet Baker’s Chocolate
Freshly ground black pepper
Juice of 1 lemon (optional)
2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cubed
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Prepare the venison: A venison rack often has a little silverskin running down the loin that you can remove with a paring knife, leaving the loin of the rack bare. There is no fat on the venison rack, so it will cook rather quickly, and you don’t want to cook it too aggressively. You should french the bones as well, cutting away any of the rib meat from between bones: Using the bones as your guide, slide your knife down the side of one bone and then along the top of the loin and up the other bone. Once you’ve removed all the rib meat from between the bones, scrape all the meat from around the bones. And letting your meat come to room temperature will allow it to cook much better.
Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). In a cast-iron pan set over medium-high heat, heat the oil. Season the venison with salt and pepper, then place it loin-side down in the middle of the pan. Sear until it’s golden brown, then flip the rack so the bones are against the side of the pan and sear the bottom. Then, using tongs, flip the venison on its side, holding it straight up, and sear both sides.
Place the venison on a baking sheet and roast in the oven 5 minutes; tent with aluminum foil and let rest 15 minutes.
Set the cast-iron pan over medium heat. Add the butter, garlic, rosemary, and thyme; let it get frothy. Return the venison to the pan, with the bones leaning against the edge. Tilt the pan so the butter pools; baste the venison 3 minutes with the frothy, garlicky herbed brown butter. Transfer the venison to a cutting board and pour the butter garlic goodness all over it.
Make the sauce: In the same pan, add the vinegar and sugar and deglaze, swirling with a wooden spoon. Let it start to caramelize and really bubble, then add the port, Madeira, and espresso grounds and reduce by half, 10 minutes. Add the demi-glace and the chocolate, swirling constantly, with the pan handle (wrapped in a kitchen towel) in one hand and the wooden spoon in the other. Remove the sauce from the heat and add some pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice, if needed. Carefully pour the sauce through a fine chinois into a saucepot. Stir in the butter until melted (the sauce should still be hot).
Slice the venison rack between the bones into perfect medium-rare chops. Pool the sauce on the bottom of a warm plate and place the venison chops on top.
Boiled meats are great. And pot-au-feu is the king of boiled meats. If done well, this dish will change your life. It requires more time than most recipes, and patience is key. No one wants a fridge full of brining meats, but that’s what this takes. The brine is very important; it changes a very simple dish into a tasty meal. Cook the meat, broth, and vegetables in one pot. It’s the original “slow cooker” meal, but everything isn’t just mashed together. The bone marrow adds just enough fat to the broth. This dish is great fresh out of the pot, and it’s even better the next day.
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SERVES: 5 TO 7
PREP TIME: GET READY, THIS TAKES 5 DAYS
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15 ounces (.5 L) warm water
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
15 ounces (500 g) ice
½ pound (225 g) beef brisket
1 beef rib
1 veal shank
1 oxtail
1 ox tongue
4 (2-inch/5 cm) pieces bone marrow
1 bouquet garni (thyme, parsley, and tarragon tied together with butcher’s twine)
4 yellow onions, peeled
4 carrots, peeled
½ head white cabbage, quartered
1 rutabaga, peeled and quartered
4 leeks, cleaned and cut in half lengthwise
4 Yukon gold potatoes, peeled
3 bay leaves
Olive oil
Good mustard, salsa verde (this page), and bread, for serving
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To make a 10% salt brine, pour warm water into a small pan. Add 3 ounces (100 g) salt and bring to a boil over high heat. Cover and remove from the heat and let sit for 10 minutes. Put the ice in a bowl or a large measuring cup. Pour the brine over the ice and stir until dissolved. Allow brine to cool to room temperature.
Brine the brisket, rib, veal, oxtail, and tongue in a large pot 4 days in the refrigerator. After 2 days place the bone marrow in its own pot of unsalted water and refrigerate. Change the water every day until end of brining; this leeches the blood.
Place the brined meat in a large pot and cover with cold water. Bring it to a boil, then pour the water down the sink. Place the meat back in the pot and add cold water; bring to a boil again, then turn down the heat to low. Skim the scum that rises to the top. Add the bone marrow and the bouquet garni to the pot; cover and cook 4 hours.
Add the onions, carrots, cabbage, rutabaga, leeks, potatoes, and bay leaves; simmer 1½ hours. Remove the vegetables and place on a platter; drizzle with some nice olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper.
Place the meat on a giant cutting board or platter. Peel and slice the tongue, slice the brisket and rib, and pull apart the rest of the meat with tongs. Ladle some of the broth into a big bowl. Put everything on a table with a bowl of good mustard, salsa verde, and lots of bread. Let everyone dig in!
