CHAPTER 20
FINAL EXAM—INTERMEDIATE
LESSON HIGHLIGHTS: CASSOULET, CORSICAN STEW, AND A FINAL BRUNCH WITH LES FEMMES DU CORDON BLEU
“In Southwest France, they eat the fat and foie gras, and you know what? They have good, healthy hearts. No one can explain,” Chef Gaillard says via Anne, the translator. “Perhaps it is the red wine?”
Thus begins the lesson for cassoulet, one of our final recipes in Intermediate Cuisine. Chef Gaillard cranks the lid off an industrial-sized can of La Marque de Roux brand duck confit. He plops its solid can-shaped mass into a roasting pan, then shoves it into a low oven to melt the fat gently. “And voilà!” the chef says, retrieving the pan later, nodding to the jumble of beige legs settled atop an unholy pool of yellowish, oozing goo.
“The chef says that in Nice, he had a supplier who would deliver whole ducks with the livers still intact,” Anne tells us. The cooks rendered the carcasses for fat and used it in cooking and to confit the legs, necks, and wings. The breasts went into entrées, the bones into stocks. “They used every bit of the duck. Nothing was wasted,” she says.
Cassoulet derives its name from the use of the casole, an earthenware pot typical of Castelnaudry, where the dish is thought to have originated in the fifteenth century. “In France, there are strict rules about what can go into cassoulet,” Chef warns. Use anything other than white beans, haricots, and it’s no longer cassoulet. A gastronomical text of the 1960s decreed that the dish must contain at least 30 percent pork, lamb, goose, or duck; the addition of chicken or fish disqualified it as cassoulet.
A young British student in the front row raises his hand. “But I’ve had cassoulet with chicken,” he says. “I had it at a French restaurant in London.”
“You did not have cassoulet,” retorts Anne, on the part of Chef Gaillard. The student doesn’t argue.
Not surprisingly, Le Cordon Bleu’s recipe for cassoulet adheres strictly to the classic requirements. Ours will be made from haricots and then packed with garlicky Toulouse sausage, braised lamb shank, salt pork, and duck confit. The only variation will be in the cooking time. “Really, it should cook for three or four hours,” Chef says.
“Vous désirez une petite histoire?” he asks. Do you want a little story? Oui, Chef, we answer in unison.
“A few years ago, Chef Gaillard was head chef of one of the most famous restaurants in Paris,” Anne translates. “He became a celebrity and was in magazines and on television. Then one day he asked his wife what she wanted for her birthday. ‘To see you sometimes’ she answered.”
He nods at her translation. She continues, “Chef realized that he was spending too much time being a famous chef and not enough time with his wife. So he quit, and he joined Le Cordon Bleu.” Joining the school meant more predictable hours, no 4:00 a.m. deliveries, and no more weekend nights overseeing busy dinner services.
“Je ne l’ai jamais regretté,” says Chef Gaillard.
“Chef says that he’s never regretted that decision,” Anne translates.
“Maintenant, je peux vous transmettre tout ce que j’ai appris.”
“Because now he has the chance to give back to you everything he’s learned,” Anne says, adding, “and I know that’s more satisfying for him than running a famous kitchen.”
It turns out to be the last story of Chef Gaillard’s I will hear in a demonstration. He leaves the next day to teach at a Le Cordon Bleu school in Brazil. I used to fear him. Now, I miss him.
“So it’s settled, we’re coming to Paris,” says the familiar posh accent. “Anna-Clare is going to stay with one of her friends, so can I stay with you? And, well, actually, can I bring a friend?” says LizKat.
Anna-Clare comes to one of our few Saturday demonstrations. “It’s weird to be here,” she whispers. She’s the only one among us who isn’t in a uniform. Instead, she’s impeccably dressed in black, a Burberry scarf tied fashionably into a choker around her throat. “I feel like I’m going to get yelled at for wearing civilian clothes any minute now.” It’s a fairly standard class, featuring cailles farcies aux raisins, partially boned quail stuffed with a farce of foie gras, along with peeled grapes, one of several dishes we learn from the Vendée region, a sunny corner in western France.
The next day, we host a final brunch at our flat for LizKat and Anna-Clare. By popular demand, Sharon brings another round of her spaghetti bolognaise. Using a recipe from school, I make a wild mushroom tart. I toss an herb salad and whip up a strawberry vinaigrette. “Now don’t give me a hard time about it being sweet,” I instruct L.P., who is looking over my shoulder. “It’s supposed to be sweet.”
After lunch, we drink cold Chablis and from the kitchen window watch life down on the street. We talk about the details of the wedding, now mostly arranged thanks to Mike working nearly full-time to organize everything. In the last month, he’s made accommodations for sixty guests, including his best friend’s family. He spent days in London working with a jeweler to create my ring to his design. I shouldn’t be surprised; he once oversaw the development of a worldwide Internet publishing platform, delivering it to thirty countries in just three months. I’m marrying a remarkable man.
“So when will you come back for Superior?” asks Sharon.
I shake my head. “Maybe this autumn, or in January,” I say. It makes me sad to think of my friends in the kitchens without me. In the background, I hear the French radio station start to play the ubiquitous song “Those Were the Days.”
. . . We thought they’d never end,
We’d sing and dance forever and a day . . .
As I look around the table, the scene fixes in my mind like a photograph. The pink sky of near sunset, the laughing faces of Sharon, Lely, LizKat, Anna-Clare, and L.P. All of us are from different countries, yet luck and circumstance brought us to this one moment, this slice of time sitting in a kitchen in Paris.
These are the days, I think. I wish they’d never end.
Sharon makes a toast. “As long as we can eat, let’s always be friends.”
“Yes, yes,” agrees Lely. “Here’s a toast to us, les femmes du Cordon Bleu.”
Of course, the moment we clink glasses, I think of all the people with whom I’ve promised to keep friendships yet haven’t. I truly hope we will.
On the last day of Intermediate, the natives are restless. We are on the second floor for the demonstration again, with bright May sun cascading through the windows. There’s an air of disorganization. John the stand-up comedian/translator is late. The lesson’s slow to start. Few people take notes.
Chef Savard leads the demonstration on the cuisine of Corsica, the final region we’ll study. As he begins the pork and chestnut stew, he admits that from a culinary standpoint Corsica isn’t at the top of the pack.
“There’s not much happening in Corsica in terms of French cuisine these days,” John translates, adding, “but of course, it’s basically Italy down there, so what do you expect? They’re still getting over that Napoléon business.”
Chef Savard says that during his reign, Napoléon helped the economy of Corsica not only by sending money there but also by holding numerous banquets and receptions on a scale that’s difficult to imagine now. “Très grandiose, énorme,” Chef says. More than one hundred sheep roasted, thousands of pounds of beef and produce, and barrels of wine.
“Like the Cordon Bleus,” John says.
At the end of class, les femmes du Cordon Bleu gather around the handsome Chef Savard for a final photo.
“We’re your fan club,” says Lely. “And I’m the president!”
Later, we sit on the sidewalk drinking wine and sharpening our knives, chatting. No one wants to talk about good-bye. We want to pretend that we will come to school again tomorrow, all of us. Just then, the door swings open and a kitchen assistant leaks the two exam recipes: the lamb navarin or the complicated stuffed trout.
“Pray for the navarin!” advises Sharon, clasping her hands. “That trout was impossible!”
As I walk up to the assigned kitchen for the test, I slow to look closely at the picture of Julia Child on the wall. I think back to the promise I made myself about the short obituary—that my own would say that I graduated from Le Cordon Bleu, just like Julia. I do not want to break that promise to myself, but then, where will marriage lead me? Will Mike want to come back to Paris with me?
And then there’s the one last major hurdle: in Superior Cuisine, there are no translators. Everything will be in French.
As it turns out, I get the trout. Merde.
Cassoulet
WHITE-BEAN CASSEROLE WITH PORK AND CONFIT
Serves eight
Adapted with permission from London-based chef Alex Mackay’s excellent book, Cooking in Provence, this is a practical, one-dish version of cassoulet. You may substitute kielbasa or mild sweet Italian sausage for the garlicky Toulouse sausage. Prepared duck confit may be used, or make your own. (See ‘Extra Recipes‘ in the back of the book.) I use great northern or cannellini beans. In French homes, cassoulet is often served in its cooking pot, and guests cut or tear the meat off the bone. You can portion it into bowls, scraping the meat off the duck legs and lamb shanks before serving, if desired. Don’t salt the dish until the end or your beans will stay tough. Splurge on a big French red such as Cahors, Languedoc, or even a Bordeaux.
10 ounces (300 g) thick slab bacon, cubed
1 pound (450 g) Toulouse sausages
Extra duck or bacon fat (as needed)
2 large lamb shanks
1 pound (450g) onions, chopped
2 medium carrots, peeled and chopped
1 pound (450 g) dried white beans, soaked overnight and drained
1 14-ounce can tomatoes, drained and chopped (2 cups)
1 tablespoon tomato paste
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 to 3 cups (680 ml) brown chicken stock
1 bouquet garni (bay leaf and thyme sprigs tied together)
2 duck confit legs
Salt, fresh cracked black pepper
1 cup (about 115 g) coarse fresh bread crumbs
Preheat oven to a low 225°F/110°C. In a large Dutch oven, slowly render the bacon until lightly browned. Remove meat from pot and set aside. Cook the sausages slowly in the fat until lightly browned. Remove, cut into bite-sized pieces, and set aside. Add or remove fat to get three tablespoons in the bottom of the pan; brown the lamb shanks on all sides in the fat over medium-high. Remove and set aside. Turn heat to medium-low, add the onions and carrots, and cook until softened and translucent. Add the beans, tomatoes, tomato paste, and garlic and bring to a boil, stirring, until the tomatoes start to caramelize, scraping the browned bits from the bottom. Add the lamb shanks, bacon, and sausages back to pot. Wet the beans with just enough stock to cover them, and add the bouquet garni. Bring just to the verge of a boil. Cover and cook in the oven for two hours, making sure the liquid doesn’t get hot enough to boil.
Add the duck confit and cook for another hour or until the beans are soft but not breaking and the lamb-shank meat nearly falls off the bone. For a creamier texture, about a half hour after adding the confit remove about two cups of beans and puree with a bit of warm stock; return to the pan. Check the seasoning, adding hearty amounts of salt and pepper. Top with the bread crumbs and continue baking uncovered until lightly golden, about fifteen minutes.