June, according to La Cuisine de tous les mois, one of my French books on cooking, is par excellence le mois des légumes—unsurpassed as the month of vegetables. Now nature pours forth into the markets her first great profusion of vegetables from the spring plantings. This seasonal classification of foods is typically French, typical of a kind of discrimination reserved for la bonne cuisine they love so dearly.
Mais oui, France has, just as we have, carrots, peas, potatoes, and all sorts of vegetables during the other months of the year. But not the tender little spring carrots that will cook without water, just in butter, to luscious succulence in a mere ten or twelve minutes; not the first picking of peas, tiny, juicy, sweet peas that need hardly more moisture in the pan than stews out of the lettuce usually cooked with them; nor those round new potatoes with skins so fine and thin that coarse salt and a few strokes of a cloth will rub them off. To a Frenchman, each season and each month of the season have their special offerings that no other time of the year quite equals. To him, June is literally unsurpassed as the month of vegetables.
Thinking of vegetables recalls the last words in Brillat-Savarin's Physiology of Taste: “And finally, you, gastronomes of the year 1825 [the year he finished the book], who find satiety in the lap of abundance, and dream of some newly made dishes … you will never see the importations which travelers yet unborn will bring from half the globe which has still to be discovered and explored.” He was right about that. We have had plenty come to us from faraway places during the last hundred odd years. But could he have suspected the improvements we would see in foodstuffs native to our own lands? Could he have foreseen that the rarities of his day would now be available at every green-grocer? What a pity that Brillat-Savarin was never able to visit Les Halles in Paris on any June morning of the past forty or fifty years—except, of course, those years when France was fighting a war or, as she is now, struggling out of one.
I, for one, would have liked to escort Brillat-Savarin through the pavillons of Les Halles as I knew it and to watch him gaze upon row after row of carrots, peas, beans, onions, asparagus, turnips, strawberries, cherries, and everything else you can think of, all bringing their fresh country smells to the metal-roofed aisles of this great market. That famous old gourmet whom we all quote would most certainly have given us a few more “Meditations.”
Les Halles—in case you have never been there—is the food center of Paris. It is the big covered market from which so much of the city is fed, and fed, I might add, with foodstuffs so fresh they are always less than twenty-four hours old when they reach the housewife or the chef. All through the night, country carts of every size and description make their way from the surrounding countryside into Paris and along the streets leading to Les Halles. They come from all directions, east and west, north and south, from places like St.-Germain, Chantilly, Malakoff, Clamart, and all the nearby garden spots. If you live anywhere near the rue de Rivoli or the rue St.-Honoré or other streets leading to the market, the regularity of the rumbling wagons will often lull you to sleep. Before midnight they are all in, lined up in the streets around Les Halles, waiting their turns to dispose of garden produce picked from the vines or pulled out of the ground only a few hours earlier.
Les maraîchers—the vegetable farmers—unloading their great baskets are just like the farmers around my grandfather's farm that I remember admiring when I was a boy living in the center of France. They have the same hearty vigor, the same country clothes, and many wear the old-fashioned wooden sabots that French peasants find so much more comfortable than leather boots. And when I was in France in 1931, they were still driving horses, not motor trucks. Those big, patient farm horses with their necks in high, heavy horse collars to help ease the load, knew every inch of the tree-lined, chalky-white roads that led home from the city. How else would a farmer get back if a good political argument kept him overlong at the Café Jean Bart and too close to a bottle of his favorite marc or Calvados? If the reins slackened, then slipped from his hands as he swayed and slept in the gray dawn, at least the horse knew the way to his own stable and would bring the jolting wagon there safely.
When you go to Paris, don't miss visiting Les Halles, but go very early in the morning, before dawn. At daybreak the small merchants who come for their stocks of provisions, the men and women buying supplies for hotels and eating places of all kinds, the pushcart vendors, all are arriving to bargain for the provender to feed Paris for another day. So, before the sun gets very high, the stalls start to look empty, and by the time business people are getting off to work, Les Halles is being cleaned of the débris and looks far less picturesque than at three or four in the morning when fully stocked and crowded with busy people. You will soon learn, too, that the restaurants in and around Les Halles serve some of the best food in Paris. Those country people and the people who work in the market know good food and won't patronize a poor eating place. You can't find better prepared fish dishes or finer tripe à la mode de Caen and other regional specialties. And the onion soup, a breakfast essential there, is the tastiest you will ever eat. There are other smaller markets in Paris which are interesting too, but there is only one Les Halles.
One could go on endlessly writing about Les Halles, its meat, fish, and fruit sections, the breath-taking sight of the flower stalls, the clacking clatter of the live-poultry aisles, and its myriad other activities. But the point I want to emphasize has to do with spring vegetables, les primeurs, that in France are always fresh, fresh every day, even in the largest cities—one more example of the meticulous attention to detail that makes the French cuisine so fine. A good housewife or a chef won't bother to cook dried-up, second-rate vegetables any more than a well-groomed man will go out wearing run-down shoes. It doesn't make any difference whether their incomes are large or small or whether the restaurants are famous or obscure, they can't seem to tolerate either poor food or indifferent cooking, and merchants have no choice but to supply the fresh products their customers demand. A greengrocer in Paris, for example, may have an empty-looking shop at four in the afternoon but in the morning he will have very few, if any, perishables left over from the previous day.
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.
The French invariably cook peas with a little onion and some finely shredded lettuce leaves in the pan, and country folks usually like a little salt pork with them, à la bonne femme. When done this way they are often the main dish of a meal that may start with soup and finish with a simple dessert. Here are two favorite à la's:
Pois à la Française
Put 2 tablespoons butter in a saucepan and add 6 tiny spring onions, 5 or 6 leaves of lettuce, shredded, ½ teaspoon salt, 1 tablespoon sugar, and 3 sprigs of parsley tied in a fagot with 3 sprigs chervil (if obtainable). Add 2 generous cups freshly shelled peas, mix all together, and add ½ cup water. Bring to a boil, cover closely, and cook rapidly for about 25 minutes, or until the peas are almost done. The water should be almost cooked away with 2 or 3 tablespoons left in the pan. Remove the fagot and take the pan from the fire. Cream 1 tablespoon butter with ½ teaspoon flour and add to the peas. Return the pan to the fire, shaking it to roll the peas around until the butter and flour mixture has combined with the liquid. As soon as it reaches the boil again, remove from the fire and serve.
Petits Pois à la Bonne Femme
Parboil ¼ pound diced salt pork or bacon for 5 minutes in water to cover, and drain. Put 2 tablespoons butter in a saucepan and add the pork dice and 10 tiny spring onions. Cook until the pork dice and onions are golden-brown. Add 3 or 4 green lettuce leaves, shredded, sprinkle with 1 teaspoon flour, and mix all together well. Add 4 cups freshly shelled peas, 1 cup water, 1 teaspoon salt, 2 tablespoons sugar, and a fagot of 3 sprigs parsley and 2 sprigs chervil tied together. Bring to a boil, cover closly, and cook for 20 to 25 minutes, or until the peas are done. Remove the fagot and serve.
Green beans, like peas, should be picked when still young, tender, and succulent. Never leave them on the vines to get large, overripe, and tough. At the market, they, too, should have a fresh green color and snap in two with moist crispness. Since most of the beans grown today are stringless, it is not necessary to tear the string off each side. Just cut off the ends, and either cut them into inch-long pieces or “French” them. Frenching is slicing them lengthwise into two pieces—or three if the bean is large—and then cutting each slice across the center to make two pieces.
In France, beans, like other vegetables, were seldom boiled to be served dressed with butter. That was called à l'anglaise and was usual in hotels catering to English guests. The French like the blending of several flavors, especially with a bit of salt pork and a hint of onion and parsley. To beans they like to add a few potatoes with the result that they had a meal—or at least the main course of it—in this vegetable dish. Green beans lyonnaise and green beans paysanne are two examples of this type of cookery.
Haricots Verts Lyonnaise
Wash and remove the ends from 1 ½ pounds young green beans and cut in inch pieces or French them by slicing lengthwise and then once across. If very small, leave them whole. Bring 1 quart water with 1 teaspoon salt to a boil, add the beans, and cook for about 20 minutes, or until they are tender. Drain. Melt 3 tablespoons butter in a saucepan, add 2 medium-sized onions, finely chopped, and cook until the onion starts to turn golden. Sauté the beans in the butter, shaking the pan to mix them well with butter and onions. Correct the seasoning and sprinkle with finely chopped parsley.
Haricots Verts Paysanne
Wash and remove the ends from 1 ½ pounds young green beans and cut as desired. Parboil ½ cup diced salt pork or bacon in water to cover for 5 minutes and drain. Put 2 tablespoons butter in a saucepan, add the pork or bacon dice, and cook until they are golden-brown. Remove the dice and reserve. Add 2 medium-sized onions, finely chopped, to the fat in the pan and cook until they start to turn golden. Add 4 tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped, 2 potatoes, cut in large dice, ¾ teaspoon salt, a little pepper, a generous ½ cup water, the beans, and the browned pork dice. Bring to a boil, cover the pan, and cook slowly for about 30 minutes, or until the beans are cooked. There should be just a little liquid left in the pan to be served with the beans.
Both carrots and turnips grow very, very quickly on French soil which along with the climate seems particularly favorable to all root crops. They mature so rapidly they hardly have a chance to get tough or woody. The carrots grown on the farms outside Paris are small and quite round, a variety called “jardinière.” They are generally used for the garniture around meat and poultry and are cooked and glazed like the carrots in the recipe for peas and carrots à la crème. The important point to remember in cooking carrots is to use very little water and very little salt. Too much salt can spoil their fine flavor.
The turnips are just cut in dice or sliced or, if very small, left whole, boiled in salted water until done, for about 20 minutes, and then sautéed, with a sprinkling of a little sugar, in butter until they are glazed and a golden color.
Spinach, because of its long season of abundance, is not always considered a spring vegetable. But it is certainly at its best in the spring, as anyone knows who has ever eaten the tender and delicately flavored first picking of the spring. This vegetable is served in an endless number of ways, often combined with meats, poultry, fish, and eggs, and just as often made into soups, soufflés, and molded rings. A dish that has spinach as part of it is called “florentine.” Thus, poached eggs on a bed of spinach are poached eggs florentine.
Spinach requires the most careful washing because the soil which hides between the leaves seems to resent all efforts to dislodge it. After separating the leaves and cutting off the large, coarse stems, wash and wash in water after water. When no grit settles in the bottom of the pan, you can be pretty sure it has been washed enough.
Spinach en Branche
Wash thoroughly 4 to 5 pounds spinach and drain well. Cook rapidly for 6 to 8 minutes in 1 quart boiling water and ½ teaspoon salt. Turn into a colander or sieve and drain well, pressing out as much water as possible. After draining it, if too much water remains, return the spinach to the pan and dry out quickly over the fire, shaking the pan continually to keep the spinach from scorching. This way of serving spinach without either chopping it or making into a purée is customary in the spring when it is young and tender. Serve with melted butter or some of the gravy from the meat with which it will be served. Later in the summer when the leaves are larger is the time to serve puréed and creamed spinach.
Oeufs Pochés Florentine Poached Eggs Florentine)
Clean 3 pounds spinach and prepare it en branche (see above). Spread it in a shallow heatproof serving dish and place poached eggs on top. Cover with Mornay sauce (GOURMET, December 1947), sprinkle the top with grated Parmesan cheese, and brown quickly under the broiler flame.
Soufflé d'Epinards et Jambon (Spinach Soufflé with Ham)
Wash 1 ½ to 2 pounds spinach and cook rapidly for 6 to 8 minutes in 2 cups boiling water with ½ teaspoon salt. Drain well and blanch by letting cold water run through it. Drain thoroughly, squeezing out as much water as possible, and then chop it very finely or press through a coarse sieve. Put 1 tablespoon butter in a saucepan, add the spinach, and cook over a good fire, stirring all the time, until all water in it has cooked away. Add 1 tablespoon flour, a little salt, pepper, and grated nutmeg and mix all together. Add ½ cup boiling chicken stock or milk, mix well, bring to a boil, cover, and let cook slowly for about 15 minutes. Remove from the fire and add 4 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese, 1 cup cooked lean ham cut in very small dice, 1 tablespoon butter, and 3 egg yolks. Mix thoroughly and fold in 4 stiffly beaten egg whites. Put the mixture into a buttered soufflé mold or timbale or baking dish. Smooth the surface in the shape of a dome and sprinkle the top with a little grated Parmesan cheese and a little melted butter. Bake in a warm oven (350° F.) for 20 to 25 minutes. Serve at once.
One spring vegetable that is prized very highly in France but not so much in this country is sorrel. The Marquis de Cussy, a great French gourmet, once said that one dish that should never be omitted from spring menus is l'alose à l'oseille—shad with sorrel. It also makes a very delectable cream soup with a fresh, springlike flavor often in combination with potatoes and leeks, or with chicken stock, egg yolks, and cream—soups that are frequently seen on hotel and restaurant menus. Less frequent is braised sorrel, which makes such an excellent accompaniment for meat, particularly veal.
Oseille Purée (Sorrel Purée)
For 2 cups purée, wash 3 pounds sorrel thoroughly, drain, and cook in the water that clings to the leaves, over a hot fire for 15 to 20 minutes, or until it is very soft. This is called “melted” sorrel. Drain in a sieve and press out as much water as possible. Rub the sorrel through the sieve and use as desired.
Oseille Braisée (Braised Sorrel)
Make 3 cups sorrel purée from about 5 pounds sorrel (see above). Melt 3 tablespoons butter in a saucepan, add 2 tablespoons flour, and cook until the mixture starts to turn golden. Add the sorrel purée, mix well, and add ¾ teaspoon salt, 1 ½ tablespoons sugar, and ¾ cup stock. Mix all together and bring to the boiling point. Cover with a piece of buttered paper, cover the pan, and cook in a moderate oven (375° F.) for about 1 hour. Remove from the oven, combine with 2 or 3 beaten eggs, and mix well. Bring back just to the boiling point, remove from the fire, and correct the seasoning. Add either 1 generous tablespoon butter, 2 generous tablespoons cream, or 3 tablespoons gravy from the meat it is to be served with.
Alose à l'Oseille (Shad with Sorrel)
Marinate the cleaned shad for 1 hour with 2 sprigs parsley, 1 bay leaf, a little thyme, the juice of 1 lemon, and a little salad oil. Broil on a hot greased broiler about 4 to 5 inches from the heat for 12 to 15 minutes. Serve with braised sorrel.