Lately, I have noticed a trend on restaurant menus: one ingredient, one dish, two different ways. This technique is not new, but what is different is that menus have started calling attention to it: “X, Two Ways.” This January in Charleston, South Carolina, while working on part one of the photo shoot for chef and cookbook author Virginia Willis’ second cookbook (Basic to Brilliant, Y’all, the lead book for Ten Speed Press for Fall 2011), I was fortunate to dine at Husk with the incredibly talented crew. Husk, a trendy neighborhood restaurant devoted to hyper-local cuisine, is the most recent creation of chef Sean Brock, whose molecular gastronomy at McCrady’s earned him the James Beard Award for Best Chef of the Southeast in 2010.
Naturally, as a table of chefs, food-photographers, food-stylists and general food-lovers, we ordered the entire menu. From the feast we experienced, one dish stood out to me: the “Duo of Pork.” Two cuts of pork, two different preparations. The name is quite fitting on the menu actually; the entire brick and mortar of this place seemed to have been laid with some kind of pork product in between. Even the butter was half pork fat. Welcome to the South.
Fast-forward a few days to chef Gerry Klaskala’s restaurant Aria in Atlanta, Georgia. It jumped at me from the menu: “Lamb, Two Ways.” A slightly chewy, gamey, rare chop from the rack, paired alongside a piece of rich, slow-braised shoulder that fell apart at the mere thought of my fork touching it. It was a delightful play on texture and flavor.
This “trend” is actually a classic tenant of professional cooking. The benefit is twofold: first, you are able to utilize as much of the ingredient as possible. Making an asparagus tart? Most recipes tell you to discard the woody stems. Instead, simmer the tough stems with your custard base to infuse with the grassy scent of asparagus. Use the tender majority of the stalk for beautiful decoration on top. Voilà: no waste. The second and most important benefit, of course, is flavor. By playing with different temperatures, textures, and the traditional roles of one ingredient, you build multiple dimensions of flavor on the plate – and are able to experience that ingredient in a completely new way.
This principle does not only apply to food. Earlier this month, on a work-related trip to Paris, I was handed one giant plate of the City of Light, Two Ways. The purpose of the trip was to experience the level and quality of service offered at 1, 2, and particularly 3 Michelin-starred restaurants. As the Project Manager for a new restaurant start-up, part of my job is to translate the nuances of this 3-star French service into something relevant to the good ol’ boy, backyard barbecue nature of dining in the American South. The job is less about the food than about, well, everything else. The food, of course, is the most important. But after five days of 1, 2, and 3-starred restaurants, I started to notice that the food at these restaurants is pretty much the same. It is the quality of service, the décor – to be truly French; it is a certain… je ne sais pas – that transforms a dinner plate into a memorable dining experience. It is this intangible that I was sent to find in France.
So for five days we dined – brunch, lunch, and dinner – at some of the finest restaurants in Paris. Everything was brilliant and decadent. Even the cutlery was gilded (literally, the dessert service at Lasserre was covered in gold). The plates were Bernaudaud, the silver Christofle, and the waiters (note: waiters, not waitresses) were handsome, polished, slight, and acutely French. These tiptoeing waiters removed silver cloches from our plates at precisely the same moment. As a woman, I never received a menu with prices listed – this honor was reserved for the men at the table. String quartets, crystal chandeliers, top hats and tails… It was so classic, so Old World. The food, however, was distinctly modern, and absolutely stunning. I did not feel like I was eating, but part of a magnificent live show that had been running for 100 years.
That was one version of Paris I delicately tasted. The other, just as quintessentially Parisian, was much more exhilarating, and I devoured it. The chef who I stayed with took me one morning to Rungis, the largest food market in the world. The word “market” existed before Rungis, and the definition needs adapting. Rungis is more like a small city of airport hangers filled with everything edible under the sun. And flowers. Oh the flowers.
Our day began at 3:30 am, when we climbed into the large rental truck to make the twenty-minute drive outside of Paris to this magical place (the chef’s motorbike, on the back of which I had been riding up until now, did not have the storage space we required). We spent the next three hours driving from one hall to another at ridiculous speeds to pick up the week’s order for the chef’s restaurant. He scratched and sniffed at the ingredients, haggled a bit, then took off to another supplier. The city was as vibrant as any city-center at rush hour. There were small local farmers, large global distributors, chefs, florists, and butchers in bloody white jackets. There was even an old lady crossing between two halls; when we nearly hit her at 100 km/hour on the lawless street, my friend slammed on the brakes: “3 points for an old one,” he joked in broken English. It is 4:00 am… what on earth is that old lady doing here? It was cold and dirty and there were many strong odors. Only in Paris.
After we loaded up most of the day’s order, we stopped at one warehouse that specializes in cured meats,offal, and specialty oils and vinegars. It was here that we breakfasted on a feast of stale bread and pâté samples. We ordered espressos for 20 cents from a vending machine that tasted like motor oil.
After the brief reprieve, we hopped back in the truck to finish our shopping. It was 6:30 am, and things were winding down at Rungis. The sun was almostfully risen, and the streets were noticeably emptier. We drove past small cafés dotted throughout the market where old men drank wine and smoked cigarettes, winding down from a long day’s work. After a brief walk through the flower halls we hopped back on the périphérique and into the traffic of the morning commute. We nestled snugly into the flow of cars, but I felt like we stuck out like a sore thumb: did these sleepy commuters have any idea what our morning had been like?
When we returned to the city center, we stopped at the boulangerie that provides bread for my friend’s restaurant. We enter through the back door, where they happen to be filming a commercial, and into the kitchen. The owner gives my friend a bag of fresh croissants, a treat for his staff on the morning of Rungis, because everyone has to come in an hour early today. Once at the restaurant, the work continues: when his team arrives we unload the truck and return it to the rental office, picking up the restaurant’s freshly-churned butter at the local fromagerie on our walk back. In the locker room below the restaurant we change into our chef whites and toques, and begin the prep for the day’s lunch service. Finally, around 2:30 pm, when lunch service begins to wind down, I jump on the back of the chef’s motorbike and we weave along the Seine in the rare Paris sunshine, to take a small “cat nap” before our 2-star dinner that night.
It is probably impossible to ever really know Paris, especially as an American. But I think I understand the city a little better now, thanks to the multiple dimensions, textures, and flavors I was fortunate enough to experience. And I would absolutely order it again.
Golden Beet Salad with Arugula, Chèvre, and Red Beet Glaze
Serves 4
4 large golden beets (or 8 small ones)
1 cup red beet juice (store-bought or made in a juicer from 2 large beets)
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon champagne vinegar
1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided
4 ounces arugula, washed and dried thoroughly
4 ounces fresh chèvre, crumbled
Coarse kosher salt
Freshly cracked black pepper
Preheat oven to 350F. Scrub beets and cut off root end. Place on a large piece of aluminum foil on a sheet pan. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon olive oil and season with salt and pepper; toss to coat and wrap in foil. Roast until a knife easily pierces the flesh, about 1-1 ½ hours. Remove from foil and let cool. When cool enough to handle, rub the skins from the beets with a paper towel or clean kitchen towel. Discard skins. Slice the beets into ¼-inch thick rounds. Reserve the prettiest rounds for the center of the plate, and cut the rest of the rounds (from the ends of the beets) into a small dice. Reserve.
In a small saucepan, heat beet juice over medium heat until simmering; careful, it can easily boil over! Add red wine vinegar and reduce heat to low. Simmer until reduced to a syrupy consistency, 5-8 minutes. Remove from the heat.
In a small bowl, whisk together champagne vinegar and mustard. Slowly drizzle in remaining 3 tablespoons of olive oil while whisking to make the vinaigrette. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
To assemble: lightly dress arugula in a medium bowl. Season with a touch of salt. Place three or four beet rounds on the center of the plate, then top with a handful of arugula. Sprinkle diced beets and chèvre around the plate. Drizzle the red beet glaze over the salad.
