France, of course, is fortunate in having its great areas of rich, fertile land distributed so generously. It means that within a very few miles of the largest cities enough produce is raised to feed their populations. In the country sections, and in towns and villages, too, most families raise enough spring and summer vegetables for their own needs. The vegetable course in the meal is important, sometimes it is practically the whole meal, because meat is expensive and must often be used sparingly. You see everywhere very pretty gardens with flowers and vegetables growing side by side. No one thinks that the feathery tops of carrots here, a few blades of sprouting shallots there, and a border of parsley or sorrel detract from the roses, pansies, or mignonette. For those with no garden space at all or those whose beans or carrots are delayed in maturing, the maraîcher from a mile or so distant comes daily to the kitchen door. His crops will be the earliest in the neighborhood and eagerly awaited—and what he brings in his basket will have been picked that same morning, carefully packed with the dew still on. This matter of quality and freshness is of the greatest importance to French people, all of them, not just the gourmets. Or should I say that these practices are what make them all gourmets?
The French don't eat vegetables quite the way we do in this country. They wouldn't crowd a plate holding a serving of roast or broiled meat with several different vegetables. Unless the vegetable is part of the dish, and by that I mean cooked with the meat and served as the garniture, it is eaten from a separate plate and as a separate course. In dishes like lamb stew, blanquette de veau, oxtails parisienne, or coq au vin, the carrots, onions, peas, or whatever is called for, are part of the dish and of course served on the same plate and eaten with the meat. But if a dinner includes something like lamb chops or sautéed chicken and potatoes with a vegetable accompaniment such as carrots and peas à la crème or green beans lyonnaise, the vegetable dish would precede or follow the meat and potatoes as another course. People don't, as a rule, expect more than one vegetable dish for dinner, but they do expect that one to be carefully prepared and delicious.
Take the carrots and peas à la crème, for example. Both these vegetables should be young, fresh, and tender, even though in order to get superlative quality you may have to search the market or, better still, grow your own. Then if you want to fix them as a French housewife or chef would, you will give them just as much attention as any very rare or expensive food, giving each vegetable its own individual requirements in the matter of water and salt, the added bit of sugar, the length of cooking, etc.
Carrots and Peas à la Crème
Scrape and cut in small dice 5 or 6 medium-sized carrots or scoop into small balls with a vegetable cutter. Put them in a saucepan with enough water barely to cover, a very little salt, 1 tablespoon sugar, and 2 tablespoons butter. Bring to a boil, cover, and cook slowly until the water has almost cooked away and the remaining butter and sugar has formed a syrup. Continue cooking, shaking the pan, just long enough for this syrup to glaze the carrots. In another saucepan put 1 tablespoon butter, 6 tiny spring onions, and 4 or 5 leaves of lettuce, shredded. Cover and cook very slowly for about 10 minutes. Add 3 cups shelled fresh peas, 2 tablespoons butter, a fagot of 3 sprigs each parsley and chervil tied together, ½ teaspoon salt, 1 tablespoon sugar, and ½ cup water. Bring to a boil, cover as closely as possible, and cook rapidly for 20 to 25 minutes, when the peas should be almost done and most of the water cooked away. Continue cooking until all the water is evaporated, shaking the pan constantly to prevent scorching the peas. Remove the fagot and add the cooked carrots and ½ cup very thick cream. Shake the pan over the fire, rolling the vegetables in the cream, just long enough to heat the cream and blend it with the vegetables. (This is called lier à la crème—to thicken with cream—and is a liaison between cream and vegetables, not a sauce for them.)
For the garnish, cut sliced white bread into rounds about as big as a silver dollar or in small oblongs, spread with beaten egg yolk, and cook in the oven or broiler until the egg is set. Arrange them in a circle in the serving dish around the carrots and peas.
Peas are often called the king of vegetables, probably because they head the vegetables that come to us in the spring from the standpoint of deliciousness, ease of preparation, and adaptability to any menu. They go well with every meat, with poultry, and with fish—and it doesn't matter whether they are cooked in the dish with other vegetables, as in stews and casserole combinations, or cooked and served separately. They have been grown and enjoyed for centuries, but have not always been as commonly used or as plentiful. Even as recently as 1700, they were too expensive for any but the very rich. In the French court of that time they were a great delicacy, what we might call a conversation piece, according to Madame de Maintenon. She also noted the number of court ladies who, in spite of the fact that they had just finished a sumptuous banquet, would beg for a dish of cooked peas to eat in their rooms before retiring.
To enjoy peas at their best, they must be picked just as soon as they mature and must be cooked as soon as possible after that. And, of course, they should not be shelled until they are to be cooked. Their unusual sweetness disappears very quickly. When buying peas, you can judge their freshness by the bright green color and the puffy, wellrounded appearance of the pods that snap open with a moist crispness. The peas inside should not be too large and, if young and fresh, will have a pleasant, sweet taste even when eaten raw. Don't buy peas with dull, yellowish pods that have a shrunken look and dried-out ends.
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