French Provincial Cooking (55 page)

Serve it as a first course instead of a pâté. This quantity is enough for four to six people according to what else is to be served. The same dish made on a large scale makes a handsome appearance on a buffet lunch or supper table.

WHAT, I am sometimes asked, is the difference between fresh and frozen vegetables; surely they are exactly the same? Astonishing though such a question may seem to anyone who knows what is really meant by fresh vegetables, I think the explanation is that to a great many English people vegetables mean simply an accompaniment to meat. Gravy and horseradish, mustard and mint, to say nothing of the meat itself, distract attention from second-rate or inadequately cooked vegetables. Eaten for themselves alone, as a separate dish, vegetables take on a very different significance. Both their charms and their defects become more apparent.

Apart from cauliflower cheese, we haven’t much tradition in the way of vegetable dishes which stand on their own. But we have plenty of vegetables, and often it is the commonplace ones like onions and beetroot, carrots and spinach and leeks which make the most delicious dishes. True, we cannot often obtain those little round flat onions which, golden and glazed, appear so frequently in French cookery, although mostly as a garnish to meat dishes. And potatoes. When, oh when will some enterprising grower supply us with the right firm-fleshed varieties such as
Kipfler
or
Belle de Juillet,
which make such infinitely superior salads and chips, not to mention sauté and soufflé potatoes? And how nice if, just for a change, we could buy the little non-wrinkling peas to make
petits pois à /a française.
Is it too fanciful to hope that in the near future we shall be able to obtain these things? It is in the matter of vegetables and fruit that a country’s eating habits evolve most rapidly.

There was a time, after all, when there were no potatoes in England, when the tomato was new to Italy, when
petits pois
were first brought to France (and caused a furore at the Court of Louis XIV), when bananas, grape fruit, and the cultivated mushrooms we now take for granted were exciting novelties. Before the war you had to go to Soho to buy a piece of garlic, whereas now it is to be found at every greengrocer’s shop. Not so long ago French beans meant only coarse scarlet runners, but now we can buy several varieties of string beans and dwarf beans. Exotic vegetables and fruit, such as aubergines, sweet peppers and avocado pears have become commonplace in our shops. Enterprising English growers are supplying us with little courgettes as an alternative to gigantic vegetable marrows.

So, I wonder if, eventually, we shall not come round to the habit, taken for granted in French cookery, of regarding vegetable dishes as an important part of the meal rather than simply as an adjunct to the roast. If we do, we shall surely find that we enjoy the meat course more as well as the vegetables, for both must, when required to stand on their own, be more carefully bought and more meticulously cooked.

As for the deep freeze, I have no doubt that we shall come to treat its benefits with a sense of proportion. We shall make use of it when it is expedient to do so, but I fancy that the very rapidity of its development, particularly in regard to the conservation of vegetables, is at the same time creating a demand for food which is genuinely fresh in the old sense of the word.

Globe or leaf artichokes are a kind of thistle. There are a great many varieties; the enormous round ones which look like water lilies when they are cooked and opened out a little are called
Camus de Bretagne,
and are grown mostly in northern France; these are the kind most suitable for serving plain boiled, to be eaten leaf by leaf, with melted butter, sauce
hollandaise or vinaigrette
. They take about 25 to 40 minutes’ cooking, in plenty of salted, acidulated water.

Artichoke hearts, or
fonds,
are used a good deal in French cookery as a garnish for rather ceremonial meat dishes, and are also served as a separate dish, usually with some rather rich stuffing or creamy sauce. In a country where artichokes are plentiful and cheap, it is natural that a large variety of such dishes should have been created but, truth to tell, I think that elaborate or luxurious concoctions, rich creamy sauces and
foie
gras
stuffings cannot but detract from the delicate and unique flavour of the artichoke. One of the most delicious ways of serving them is in the salad given on page 151, and the method of preparing the hearts for cooking is described on page 139. Those who grow their own artichokes may find the following recipe useful.

This method of cooking artichokes seems to be one of the oldest of Provençal dishes. There are many versions, and in the course of time it has been elaborated to include all sorts of extra ingredients, but Provençal cooks mostly agree that it is best in its primitive form. The result is not unlike the famous
carciofi alla giudia
of Roman taverns, although the method is different.

Rather small young artichokes (the long violet-leaved variety are the most common in Provence) in which the choke has not yet formed should be used. Rub the artichokes all over with lemon; cut off the stalks, leaving about
inch. Then cut off about
inch from the top end of the artichokes, and remove about two layers of the outer leaves. Put them in a saucepan or sauté pan or deep frying-pan. Pour in olive oil to come half-way up. Then cover with water. Turn the heat as high as possible so that the oil and the water come rapidly to a fast boil (it is the same method as that used for a
bouillabaisse
) and amalgamate. Let it continue boiling, spluttering and crackling (uncovered) for the whole cooking time, which is from 15 to 20 minutes, according to the size of the artichokes. Towards the end, you can see that the artichokes have turned golden brown and crisp and the outer leaves have spread out. Finally, the liquid will stop spluttering because all the water has evaporated leaving only the oil. Take out the artichokes, and arrange them, stalks in the air, on a hot dish, so that they look like beautiful little bronzed flowers, with the crisped petals spreading out. Sprinkle over a little of their cooking liquid and some salt. Allow two artichokes per person if they are small.

The following recipe was given on the wrapping paper of asparagus exported to England from Cavaillon in the Vaucluse. Apart from those of Lauris and Argenteuil, the Cavaillon asparagus are supposed to be the best in France.

‘Rake each asparagus with an office knife
²⁰
and throw them one after the other in a large earthenpan full of cold water: wash them carefully, fasten them in bunches of 10 or 12 asparagus, according to their size, put them in slightly salted boiling water, and maintain boiling during 10 to 12 minutes on a lively fire. The asparagus are cooked when they melt under the finger’s pressure. To avoid that the soft part of the asparagus will not break in cooking, it is preferable to put the asparagus upright with the heads out of the water; this part of the asparagus being more tender than the rest; the water which recovers them in boiling suffices to make them well done.’

Personally, I do not go out of my way to pay huge sums for asparagus, either in or out of season. When I stayed in the Cavaillon neighbourhood, we used to buy the local asparagus for a few francs a bundle, but with all the trouble they were to prepare and cook (they had to be arranged flat in a roasting tin on top of the Butagaz cooker, as there was no suitable saucepan included in the
batterie de cuisine
of that house), I thought the fresh young broad beans, the exquisite
haricots verts
and the beautiful violet-leaved artichokes more worth while. In any case, asparagus are always best served in a straightforward way, with melted butter or
hollandaise
sauce, and the Cavaillon recipe, peculiar though the English is, is perfectly sound, although 10 to 12 minutes is very much on the scanty side for any but freshly picked and rather thin green asparagus.

A small quantity of cooked asparagus tips, particularly the small thin ones which are often sold very cheaply, make a first-class garnish for eggs
en cocotte
with cream.

If you find yourself landed with those enormous fat white asparagus which, although rather expensive, have nothing like the flavour of the thin green ones, boil them (they may take as long as 30 minutes) and serve them cold with a mayonnaise flavoured with lemon juice rather than vinegar.

The English name of this vegetable, egg plant, is presumably due to the fact that there is a variety which produces white fruit almost exactly the shape and size of an egg. The other two main varieties are deep violet, one long like a fat sausage, the other round. There is also a violet and white striped variety,
Zébrine,
now being grown in France as well as in the Near and Far Eastern countries. Except for certain purées and salads, aubergines should not be peeled. The skin provides flavour as well as holding them together. Before cooking they are sliced, either lengthwise into thinnish long strips, or crosswise into rounds, or into small cubes. Put them in a colander, sprinkle with salt, press a plate down on top and leave them an hour or two so that excess moisture and the bitter juices drain off. Dry them carefully and always use oil for cooking them.

Some of the world’s most renowned vegetable dishes are made with aubergines—the Balkan
moussaka,
in which minced beef or mutton also figures, the Provençal
ratatouille,
a stew of aubergines, tomatoes, onions and peppers, the Sicilian
caponata,
a wonderful cold dish with a sweet-sour tomato sauce, the salad or purée of highly-seasoned aubergines which is sometimes rather idiotically called
aubergine caviar
and, best of all, the Turkish
imam bayeldi,
a rich and marvellous mixture of onions, tomatoes, spices and aubergines cooked in oil and eaten cold.

A convenient aspect of stewed aubergine dishes is that, provided they have not been overcooked in the first place, they nearly always improve with reheating and are also, with the exception, of course, of fritters and other dishes in which they are quick-fried, just as good cold as hot, and sometimes even better.

A Provençal recipe.

Cut 5 medium-sized unpeeled aubergines into small squares. Salt them, leave them to drain for an hour and dry them in a cloth. Heat a coffee-cupful (after-dinner size) of olive oil in a thick frying-pan, and in this cook the aubergines, but not too quickly or the skins will burn. When they are getting soft, drain off any excess of oil and add about 1 lb. skinned and chopped tomatoes; continue cooking until they are reduced almost to a pulp. Stir in a little chopped parsley and garlic, and add salt if necessary. Can be eaten hot or cold. Enough for four.