I finally persuaded a friend to lend me his vintage copy
of The Art Of Simple French Cookery by the superbly named Alexander Watt, a
notorious gourmet who spent much of his life lounging around in bistros - a
name he tells us originated around the fall of Napoleon, when ravenous Russians
encamped in Paris would wander around shouting “bistro, bistro!” (meaning “quick,
quick” in their nasal tongue) as they entered cafes looking for something to
eat.
No doubt beginning his day with pastis, moving on to
red wine, and then finishing the night on brandy, Watt would gorge himself on bistro
classics such as poularde Marie-Louise, boeuf en gelee, rognons a la moutarde,
gibelotte de lapin, and always a plate of seasonal cheeses.
The accounts of his “gastronomic peregrinations” are
a joy to read, as is his book, Paris Bistro Cookery, which adjoins the back of The
Art Of Simple French Cookery like an upside down Siamese twin. As you flick
through the pages, noting the splendid simplicity of the dishes, you can picture
Watt swaying in the doorway of tiny Parisian kitchens, disrupting service as he
scrawls into a grease-spattered notebook.
In one introduction, he quotes Alexandre Dumaine,
the celebrated proprietor of the Hotel de la Cote d’Or, at Saulieu, and at the
time of writing in the 1950s, a man widely considered to be the greatest chef
in France, remarking that “the simplest dishes are often the most difficult to
prepare to perfection”. And it got me thinking about when modern cooking
finally disappeared, irretrievably, up its own arse.
Talk to chefs and food writers now and they’re obsessed
with 480-hour slow-braised pork, moss infusions, locally-picked weeds,
ingredient reversals, baby vegetable purees, quintuple-cooked chips, and
anything else they can jam into a sous vide bath. When they’re not boring you
to death about acidifier particle accelerators or the optimum water bath temperature
for mackerel, they’re waffling on about their new £2,000 Swiss gelato machine,
or their latest experiment with meat glue.
“I’ve been transglutaminasing duck skin on to
chicken legs - it’s wonderful for the barbecue,” I honestly heard one food nerd
say the other day.
It was at a highly pretentious food convention I’d
been invited along to. Everyone had to bring something. There were the
predictable, umami-filled burgers, stacked full of shaved ambergris, sun-crisped
tomatoes and parmesan, and vac-packed offerings that had been poaching away since
Christmas. All the vegetables were hand cut, the fruit hand picked, there were
twin shots of soup, and trifles with fancy labels boasting of Amontillado
sherry. The bread was savoury enriched or griddled or both, the cheese shaved,
the custard thick set, the apples brandy-stewed, and of course the stilton soufflés
were twice-baked and organic. And that was just the less pompous stuff.
Celebrity chef Ted Allen cooks a recipe from his new
book Pretentious Foodie Bullshit...
It was a haven of unadulterated pretentiousness, and
I would like to have said I felt out of place, but of course I went along with
the head-nodding and the nerdy chat about flavour enhancers, emulsifiers, and the
mysterious night-time activities of enzymes. When it came to my own offering, I
suddenly became quite embarrassed.
“How long did you confit the chicken?” they wanted
to know.
“Definitely vac-packed with the marinade,” someone
else butted in.
“What, and then flash-seared?” another
serious-looking, where’s-my-TV-show, wannabe asked.
How could I tell them I’d knocked up the marinade in
the two minutes I had to rush out of the door for a forgotten appointment?
When I’d returned a few hours later, having left
instructions for the chicken thighs to be taken out of the fridge after a few
hours and then roasted, something magical had happened. The chicken was almost falling
apart. The colour was a rich gold, and the jelly left behind made the best
dripping sandwiches I’ve had in a long time.
But it was the reaction that was the biggest
surprise. The food bores were licking their lips and going back for more, and
the hyperboles came so thick and fast, I began to fear it was some sort of
cruel joke. But no, the superlatives continued.
How could I tell them the truth? All the meals I’d
spent days slaving over, spanking my wallet with expensive, unnecessary
ingredients, and I’d never had such praise in my life. And it was for a chicken
dish that could hardly have been simpler to make, and one that I hadn’t even
cooked myself. I fended off the questions and then wandered off to a corner of
the patio to ring my accomplice for the secret. How long had it been in there?
What temperature? Top of the oven or bottom?
“Can’t remember, I just put it in the oven,” she
slurred.
As people kept pressing me for the recipe, I was too
embarrassed to confess its simplicity, and then I stopped myself. I thought
about Paris Bistro Cookery, and how the chef Auguste Perrot had taken pleasure
in preparing the simplest of dishes for the exclusive gastronomic Club de la
Casserole. Dishes like Foies de Volaille Andre (chicken livers fried in butter
with finely chopped onions), and Les Tomates Lucien (basically scrambled eggs
with tomatoes).
Had cooking skills advanced so much that these lowly
dishes are now to be pitied, I thought? I remembered Dumaine’s words: “Cooking
is not just a matter of pressing buttons. One should forget the gadgets and the
tricks...” So I told them the truth and they quickly became
bored and went back to their PacoJets.
Here is my embarrassingly simple recipe with a
highly pretentious title, named after the cook who can’t remember how she cooked
it...
CHICKEN MARIE-ANNE (serves 4)
8 chicken thighs, with skin
2 Teaspoons Paprika
1 Teaspoon Turmeric
1 Teaspoon Garam Masala
3 Tablespoons Sunflower Oil
2 Cloves Garlic, crushed
1 Teaspoon Salt
Put the salt and garlic cloves in a vintage,
hand-crafted pestle and mortar, and bash away for a few seconds. Put in a bowl,
add the spices and oil and mix until you’ve got a thick paint. Dip each thigh
in the marinade, making sure they are thoroughly coated. Cover with clingfilm
and leave in the fridge for three hours. Pre-heat an oven to an unknown
temperature. Put the thighs on a metal tray and get someone to cook them for
you. Or as a Russian encamped on the Place de la Concorde might say today: “Simples.”
