VINTAGE PASSION

Thoughts on cooking & recipes from back in the day

Rosie Dunsford — Forty seven years in the restaurant business and writing about it. Call me well seasoned.

Chef Pepin and the Passionate Cook — Part 1

June, 1979 — Sacramento, California

What was a farm girl from Connecticut doing doing here? I had to walk through that door, almost late, knowing that a chef en toque, wielding a French knife was waiting on the other side. My intimidation was unnecessary. Jacques Pepin, the great French chef is as imposing as a farm boy and it is love at first sight.

William Glen, a good pot shop in Sacramento, offered a series of classes with the famous Pepin. A friend and I bolted down the hill …we live in Tahoe…to bask and broil with this fellow for five days.

Thirty of us sat at long tables in the William Glen Cooking School. In front, a long galley kitchen runs perpendicular to the class with two large viewing mirrors over the work area. Five quiet men, a 73 year old woman who takes lots of pills, cooking instructors from the Glen School, a truck driver’s wife from Redding who double-rigged her way down that morning, Valley housewives, world travelers, B.G. and I compose the gallery.

Pepin is 43 years old, handsome to a point, with the gaining girth of a man who enjoys good food and the gift to share it with others. He has been cooking for 30 years. At the age of 13 he apprenticed in his parent’s restaurant in Bourg-en-Bresse, near Lyon. He was personal chef to three French presidents and declined an invitation from the Kennedy’s to be the White House chef. Instead he chose to become director of research at Howard Johnson’s in New York. Yes, THE Howard Johnson’s and he stayed there for 10 years.

“The old man was great, he was very good to me.” At H.J.’s, Pepin learned American eating habits, cooking food for the masses and how to speak English. He attended Columbia University where he earned a bachelor’s degree in French literature and philosophy. “It helps me with my painting, my writing, my cooking.”

He now spends 30 weeks a year teaching, writes for House Beautiful and the New York Times and is a food consultant to the World Trade Center. He’s married…rats!…and lives with his wife Gloria and his daughter Claudine in Connecticut.

I am charmed by is accent. He always puts zees over there and encourages the class to take more note. The ingredients are over-the-counter…Nulaid eggs, Crystal Dairy cream and meat from Corti’s. “Why should I use ingredients that you cannot buy?”

He comments on American products such as sterilized cream and how they will effect your recipe.

“Your food is only as good as your ingredients. That is why you pay $75 for lunch in a three-star restaurant. Someone is paid to get the fresh eggs and cream from the farmer. Most restaurants cannot afford to do this, but if you have the time and are willing, you can have three-star quality in your own home.”

He breaks a dozen egg whites into a copper bowl, the beginnings of dessert…an omelette soufflé. Frantically he beats at the whites with a wire whip for a few seconds to break down the cohesiveness. Then with a methodical plop, plop, plop of the whip he lifts the whites up to fall back on themselves, not touching the bowl with the whip. I look at B.G.’s watch…55 seconds flat and the egg whites are holding stiff peaks. I write copper bowl as item number one on my list.

He puts 1–1/2 pounds of scallops into a Cuisinart to grind them for the Mousse de Coquille St. Jacques, which is the starter course. “Fresh scallops because the albumin content of the scallops breaks down when the scallop is frozen and defrosted. The albumin coagulates with heat. If it has been destroyed by freezing and defrosting, then your mousse will break down. If you have to use frozen, defrost very slowly under refrigeration.” Mother never told me that…I am taking more note!

I think I have just seen him put is fingers into boiling water to retrieve the strips of carrot he is blanching to use as garnish. I keep my eye on him to see if he does it again. He does and I wiggle in my chair. For the next five days I watch him use his fingers as tongs and thermometers. Fingers to turn the searing rack of lamb, a quick grab into the boiling water to see if the carrot julienne is ready, into the caramelizing sugar to see if it’s at hard crack, into the sauce to rub for texture. He should consider a life of crime…I am sure his finger prints were seared off long ago along with the nerve endings. When I get home I’m brassy in the kitchen and flaunt my fingers into everything. The bandaids get in the way the next day.

“I never use salted butter. Salt is a preservative. You cannot tell if butter is rancid if it has been salted. Unsalted butter will taste rancid if it is old. Keep it frozen and it will stay fresh.” He drags the point of a small paring knife over a quarter pound of butter and whips out a rosette, then another. “Keep the butter flowers in ice water.” The class is dazzled. The housewife from Roseville asks what he thinks of substituting other fats…no comment answers her question. And then, “Why go to all this trouble and not use butter?”

At 2 o’clock, we share the fruits of the morning production. One of the gentlemen at William Glen has taken great care in selecting the wine. We appreciate his efforts. A spoonful of the Mousseline of Scallops, a rib of the Lamb Provençal and a dollop of the Omelette Soufflé…it’s all very good. Jacques leans on the counter munching a rib bone. We clatter our knives and forks and smack our lips. I feel heady and secretly want another glass of wine or two to keep this good feeling. The 73-year-old woman wraps up her chop in a tissue to take home to someone. I’m glad to be coming back tomorrow.

Chef Pepin and the Passionate Cook — Part 2

June, 1979 — Sacramento, California

A 35 mph wind is whipping down the Valley. The air is stiff with lifted peat from Stockton and my eyes are sore by the time I get to William Glen. My friend tells me that a north wind coming through the Delta affects your disposition. It also affects the fruit crops and by the end of the day, the cherry and apricot growers have most of this year’s crop on the ground.

Today is the second session with Jacques Pepin. The demonstration includes Poached Eggs Florentine, Parsley Cucumbers, Filets de Sole Claudine and Dacquoise au Chocolate. I have Pepin’s book, La Technique, and have made the Dacquoise a million times. If I’d thought to bring the book down the hill, I’d have him scrawl his name right through the chocolate smears on the page.

He begins the class with the Dacquoise. I sense he’s not as chipper as he was yesterday. Maybe someone took him out to dinner in Sacramento.

A question from one of the ladies asking “how much and how long” brings a funny but use-your-head response: “At 325º 22 minutes; 350º 18 minutes; 400º 15 minutes; at 425º 13 minutes”. He destroys my affection for black coated baking sheets when he tells us aluminum is best. The sheet he’s using looks just like my mother’s. He flexes it a few times trying to get the warp out of the bottom. The warp is inflexible and I expect the sheet to become air borne any minute.

A Kenwood kitchen machine sits prominently on the work area. “I don’t like that machine. It’s noisy and the bowl is badly designed.” As the week progresses, the machine proves his point as he shouts above its roar and it spews Potage de Tomates like a whirling dervish on the front row of the gallery. There will be no Kenwoods sold this week at William Glen.

The lesson on poached eggs is good and basic. He uses 1/2 cup of white vinegar to 3–4 cups of water. “Do not add salt to the water. It breaks down the albumen in the egg white. The vinegar helps to firm the whites. Have your eggs cold as the cold holds the egg together.”

To prevent the eggs from sticking to the bottom of the pan, he draws the flat of a spatula over the surface of the water to gently move the eggs. When the eggs are cooked, he removes them with a slotted spoon and drops them into a bowl of ice water to stop the cooking. The ragged edges of the whites are trimmed with a sharp knife, leaving a neat, compact package. “You can keep the poached eggs in water in the refrigerator until you are ready to use them. Reheat by dropping them into hot water for a minute.”

The spinach that accompanies the Eggs Florentine, is squeezed of its moisture like a big green softball. “I am a very pragmatic cook,” he tells us. Everything is done simply.

The work area is blessed with a Roper automatic ignition gas cooktop. The automatic part has been failing miserably. It ticks like a bomb as it struggles to electronically light itself. Mary, the Glen School assistant, knows its quirks and struggles to get it going. Jacques picks up a big Calphalon pan and bang, bang, bangs on the burner. The bomb idea sticks in my head.

He moves on to the Filets de Sole Claudine, pronouncing the “t” as in “fill-it” of sole. Most Americans would cringe at the sharp “t”. Mushrooms, which will be used as a stuffing for the fish, are gathered in a bowl with a mushroom brush perched on top. His pragmatism generates a glare at the brush. I expect him to wing it across the room. “You don’t need this…indicating the brush. Mushrooms don’t need to be cleaned.” A smile always follows his directness.

He introduces us to a mandolin. It juliennes carrots into perfect matchsticks in seconds and makes child’s play of Pommes Gaufrettes. I would kill for a mandolin and at $79 may have to. At the end of the week, I leave without it hoping to find one someday covered with dust in an aging pot shop. I do.

Today the techniques of Jacques Pepin devastate me. I don’t even peel carrots correctly…He holds the carrot in his left hand and draws the peeler up the full length of the carrot. I vow to quit my job at the hotel and become a nun. Maybe it’s the north wind. He’s five years older than I and has cooked for 30 years. That means when I’m 62…I pale at the arithmetic going on in my head. But then again as he says, “Cook, cook, cook again and then cook some more.”

Chef Pepin and the Passionate Cook — Part 3

June, 1979 — Sacramento, California

Today is Friday, the last day of the Pepin cooking series. I have not thought once for five days about home or family and will admit that to no one. There is a prevailing sense of camaraderie, not so much among ourselves as with Pepin. He is in great form today and we love it. Usually he will drink mineral water until noon, then switch to Chardonnay. Today he switches at 11 am.

About an hour into the class, a camera crew from a local Sacramento station appears in the doorway. They are a party of three…a girl who stands and smiles, the newscaster Peter Slick, and a camera man wearing a Locke, California tee-shirt written in Chinese. They quietly set up and the camera man starts shooting bits and pieces of the class. His attitude is one of ho-hum.

The instruction today is Consommé Celestine, Braised Short Ribs with vegetables and Gateau Chocolat. The stock for the consommé is simmering gently on the back of the stove. There is an onion cut in half which is burning to death in a frying pan. “The burned onion is used to add color to the stock,” he explained.

After a half hour, the charred halves are tossed into the pot. He explains that a rolling boil will cloud stock because the grease combines with the liquid and cannot be retrieved. For a sparkling consommé, “reduce, degrease, reduce, degrease, reduce, degrease.” He blots the fat from the top with quick slaps of paper towel. I notice that the camera man is beginning to show some interest.

I start drifting off in all directions…the trip home, the let down of leaving the class, should I buy that damn mandolin and so on. As I day dream I focus on the camera man. He is now standing behind Pepin, camera down, hands on hips and watching. I can tell he is caught up with the class and Pepin. In the next hour, this fellow goes from indifference to intense enthusiasm. By 2 o’clock his face is beaming and stuffed with Gateau Chocolat. If I were Pepin, watching this fellow discover good food would be ample pay.

What is the charisma about Jacques Pepin? One thing, he is not arrogant which is a temptation for many trending chefs. Why does he spend 30 weeks a year traveling around the country teaching cooking to the likes of this gallery? Perhaps he feels a spokesman to the people…a Ralph Nader of the kitchen. He is an entertainer, a showman and we are his audience. When he flips a crepe the class goes wild. The more we cheer the faster he flips until the crepe is a dizzy spin. The camera man zooms in and Jacque’s eyes sparkle like eggs in aspic.

I once asked a friend if I could write an article about her…we could cook together, etc. “Oh no,” she said, “you would see me lick the spoon.” Pepin licks the spoon with the rest of us. He also uses the same towel as pot holder, counter wiper, tomato squeezer and hand wiper. He bites his tongue when he concentrates. He gets angry at things that don’t function. He eats with his fingers as cooks do. The only time I saw him enjoy something he had demonstrated to the class was a chicken liver custard. “My mother made this for us when we were young.” And that’s why he enjoyed it. It was home, it was family, it was everything that is good. He sipped the sauce from the saucer.

The solution to Pepin is simple. He is an honest man who happens to be one of the great chefs in the country. This honesty with his food, with us, with himself is why we like him and learn from him. Driving home, I feel as if I have been part of some great drama. I am up, but drained emotionally. I am unable to sit down and talk about the week. My family has to wait for all the bits and pieces of Pepin.

One question I could answer without any thought at all. “Hey Mom, is he cute?” …“He sure is.”