The Name of Burgundy stirs up a strange variety of mental pictures. To some it means a color, applicable equally to dark red sport shirts in Miami and damask hangings on Madison Avenue. To others it signifies a flavor, and I report with chagrin that the ice cream taste thrill of the month in our neighborhood is called “Burgundy cherry.” To many others it means wine, probably the most cherished and best-known wines in the world. To a comparative few, however, the mention of Burgundy conjures up a vision of exquisite regional cookery.
Yet the cuisine of this rich province is every bit as noble as its wines. Add to this a rich, fertile countryside, and Burgundy’s true gastronomic stature becomes clearer. Savory things abound here, beef and poultry from the Charolais, fresh-water fish, game, fruit, mushrooms, truffles—ah yes, and snails—to make this province, even in this lean day, a shrine of fine cookery. This doesn’t mean that the Herculean menus and banquets of the dukes of Burgundy are on the way back or that these genial, red-cheeked people haven’t been thinned down by the privations of the last tragic decade. But the good Burgundian earth continues to pour forth its blessings of fruit and grain. The snails still slither their hungry way over the leaves of the vineyards. The keen-nostriled pigs still nuzzle the base of oak trees in search of truffles. You can’t keep French strawberries from growing big and luscious in June, nor the grapes of Burgundy from responding to an ardent sun. Great wine years, as 1945 and 1947 promise to be, are reassuring miracles of nature, untroubled by wars or economics.
In this land of the grape, water is scorned with more than the usual French disdain. One hears constant quips about its suitability to run water wheels and flour mills and to float canal boats. But to drink it, never! “Boire de l’eau, c’est une obscénité!” Perhaps you recall the Frenchman who stated with finality that he never allowed water to touch his lips. Someone asked, “What do you do about brushing your teeth, monsieur?” The reply was immediate. “Invariably I use a light, dry, unpretentious white wine.”
They tell of the venerable landscape painter, Henri Harpignies, who spent his vacations in Burgundy and thrived there on the absence of mineral water. He was a bit startled to learn one day of the demise of a centenarian in a nearby village, a most extraordinary Burgundian who had never touched a drop of wine or distilled spirits in all his hundred years. The newspapers seized upon that one, and temperance societies from all France sent delegates to the funeral. The old artist, faintly troubled, attended also and heard the priest draw the obvious moral: “This man has lived a hundred years, my brethren, due to his sobriety! Follow his example, all ye who are addicted to wine and vieux marc, if you wish to prolong your life!”
Still troubled, Harpignies sought out the priest after the burial services and walked back to the village with him. “This longevity, is it unique in his family? His father, his mother…?” asked Harpignies.
The priest thought for a moment. “Well, there is his brother who is 107 years old. But since he hasn’t been sober for the last eighty years, he wasn’t able to come to the obsequies!”
The aged painter felt better after that and stepped lightly into the next café for his afternoon glass of Pommard.
The Burgundian will use water in a tank to keep his trout and crayfish active, and under duress he will endure water in his soup. (He has some fine wine soups, though.) But from this point on, he finds it impossible to cook his savory dishes without wine or to enjoy them at his table without the accompaniment of a clear goblet of Burgundy. Almost all of the fine local dishes have red or white wine as their base. And it should be emphasized that it is good Burgundy they use—not Chambertin or Montracher, of course, but no ordinary wine from the lowlands, either. The high quality of this cooking wine results in subtle sauces, never “winy,” heavy, or overspiced. Burgundian cooking is powerful and delicate at the same time. It is made for robust appetites—but also for keen palates.
The most celebrated of Burgundian specialties is one which causes the most controversy—snails. The famous escargots de Bourgogne have their partisans (the writer among them), who find them utterly delicious, but to others they are repugnant. The first unforgettable sentence of Georges Lecomte’s recipe for snails can hardly be reassuring. This was printed long ago in GOURMET, but perhaps you’ve forgotten it:
“You ambush them in the morning, while they are parading nonchalantly on the humid leaf, when their slow, fleshly promenade makes one think of the throat of a voluptuous woman shuddering under a gross and clumsy caress…”
By the time you arrive at the end of his long recipe, however, you are quivering with anticipation.
Not all critics are so kind to escargots de Bourgogne. Some readers will doubtless share this opinion: “Are there really people who eat snails willingly without being forced to by a diet, a dare, or disciplinarian punishment? The best proof that they are uneatable, is it not this highly spiced sauce, this stuffing, this garlic, this sausage meat, this parsley—everything with which they bedeck this frightful morsel of soft flesh to efface its taste? We prefer to eat the sauce and to ignore these bits of uneatable rubber!”
Nevertheless, the snail brings gustatory sublimity to most, if not all, Burgundians.
There are plenty of places where you can taste the genuine escargots de Bourgogne and weigh their merits for yourself, uninfluenced by the heated controversy. One of the most seductive shrines of the snail is called the Hôtel de l’Escargotière, a charming and unpretentious inn with a garden terrace, in the village of Chenove, about three miles south of Dijon. The chef knows the fine old Burgundian ways of preparing poultry, too, particularly coq au Chambertin and poulet à la crème, and is very proud of his aromatic terrines of pâté. The cave will yield excellent Burgundies to accompany these substantial dishes.
Dijon, the ancient capital of the dukes of Burgundy; city of art and history, is today the center of Burgundian good living, especially in the month of November, when the annual Foire Gastronomique takes place. Due largely to the efforts of its epicurean mayor, Gaston Gérard, this festival of food and wine has become a matter of national acclaim. During the time of the fair, each Dijon restaurant vies with its rival in preparing precisely the same menu—a little along the idea of duplicate bridge—and the public is indeed the gainer. The name of Dijon immediately suggests its specialties of pain d’épices and cassis, that fragrant juice from the black currant which makes delicious deeppurple candies and a fine liqueur. Cassis is also a syrup which, when mixed with vermouth, ice, and seltzer water, makes one of the most popular apéritifs in France. But above all, the name of Dijon signifies mustard, and well it might.
Mustard has been manufactured in the city of Dijon since the fourth century, and then the local vinegar-makers were authorized to use the exclusive formula of Palladius, son of Exuperantius, prefect of the Gauls. Its popularity dates back into the dim days of history. In 1336 a Gargantuan banquet was given for King Philippe de Valois by the Duke of Burgundy. At this single feast a hogshead containing three hundred quarts of mustard was consumed. That gives you a faint idea of the scale of the banquet! Can the Yankee Stadium, even at the peak of the hot dog season, equal this record?
The dukes of Burgundy were among the most erudite and exacting of gourmets and lavished an immense amount of attention upon their vast dining halls and kitchens. Their feasts for visiting dignitaries were truly prodigious. The diners stayed at the table for days at a time, varying the rich Lucullan fare (each service had fifty or sixty dishes) with “sumptuous bacchanalian vaudeville,” whatever that signifies. The Ducal Palace in the famed Place d’Armes in Dijon contains a mammoth kitchen which is really nothing more than a vast, four-sided fireplace, replete with multiple spits, grills, and stoves. Today we calculate in chops, where those lusty Burgundians counted in whole sides of beef.
The popes of Avignon were gastronomically aware of the charm of mustard and of its utility. The saintly Pope Jean XXII made good use of it. Not knowing what to do with his worthless nephew, who was “an incorrigible frequenter of little back streets, ignorant as a carp and proud as a jay,” the holy man created for the wastrel the title of Premier Moutardier du Pape. The title has been preserved in learned circles to apply to vain sots who carry on the nephew’s tradition.
The little white porcelain jar containing Dijon mustard is known to everyone. I still think that the best possible dressing for a leaf of lettuce is made with four parts olive oil, one part wine vinegar, salt, pepper, and enough newly made Dijon mustard to add its indefinable bouquet. One thing to remember is that any French mustard, even the best, becomes flat, sour, and unpalatable with age, which is sometimes its condition on reaching this country.
Other architectural treasures of Burgundy recall its ancient predilection for good food and wine—the handsome château of the Clos de Vougeot, set in the midst of its famous vineyards, and particularly the Hospices de Beaune, the medieval masterpiece which serves as the setting for France’s most famous wine auction. The Hospices, an ornate and colorful structure with steep roofs of colored tile, was built in 1443 as a home for the aged poor by Nicolas Rolin, Chancellor of the Duke of Burgundy. Five centuries later it still serves the same purpose, and you will see many venerable Burgundians in its courtyards, under the care of nuns who still wear the fifteenth-century robes and hood of their order. Chancellor Rolin willed his vineyards to the Hospices, and others have followed his good example, with the result that the hospital now owns many important plots. Every November the wines made in these vineyards are auctioned off in the central courtyard, and the bidding is spirited. Besides being true Burgundies, beyond the suspicion of clandestine mixture with Algerian wines, they have sentimental interest.
Beaune’s biggest day is when this sale takes place. The town is crowded with merchants, newsmen, and mere amateurs of good wine. An exposition of wines precedes the solemnity of the auction, and a robust banquet follows it. The sales make the front page in all the Paris papers and are taken as an indication of price trends in the whole district.
The great restaurants of Dijon and Beaune apparently have not entirely recovered from the setback of the war. Yet it seems impossible that one could dine poorly in either city; the tradition of fine cooking is just too deeply ingrained. Without specifically recommending the following restaurants (not having dined in either city in 1948), we submit these names as offering the best outlook to the traveler. In Dijon: Hôtel Nord, Grande Taverne, Restaurant Pré-aux-Clercs, Restaurant aux Trois Faisans. In Beaune: Hôtel de la Cloche, Hôtel de la Poste.
Motorists who make the Paris-Riviera run in two days have long made the food-conscious town of Saulieu their overnight stop. Among the three worthy hotels here, the preference of the critics goes to the Hôtel Côte-d’Or. It was one of the finest tables of France in the good old days and is still very good indeed. The classic Burgundian dishes, quenelles, coq au Chambertin, jambon à la crème, and many others, are served, and beautifully. There are several other rural inns in the Département of the Côted’Or where you should have a pleasant gastronomic adventure. Among the most interesting possibilities are:
CHATILLON-SUR-SEINE—Hôtel Côred’Or
Burgundian truffles are found near this town, and the hotel makes a specialty of terrine de caneton truffé, among other tempting things.
LES LAUMES—Hôtel de la Gare
A simple station restaurant with a long-sustained reputation for honest fare and special dishes, among them coq au Chambertin and truite meunière.
ST. SEINE-L’ABBAYE—Restaurant de la Poste
A country inn providing a pleasant garden and good provincial cooking. They serve the celebrated dodine de canard here and a pâté chaud en croûte which should go well with their good red Burgundies.
In the Saône-et-Loire Département, the lower part of our chosen district, the itinerant voluptuary has a most heartening choice. Mâcon, the capital of this region, has always been celebrated for its fine cuisine. Although some of its famed temples of gastronomy have faded, new ones have come along to maintain the high standard. The best of these is the Auberge Bressane, an inviting spot in Mâcon, presided over by a charming couple who preserve the old French tradition of true hospitality. And the cooking is superb.
Among the other towns in the Saôneet-Loire which offer noteworthy fare to the “gastro-nomad” are:
ANOST—Restaurant Guyard
A quiet, long-established retreat in a verdant corner of the Morvan, where good Burgundian dishes are served in a shaded garden. Monsieur Guyard, your host, is an excellent cook, and proud of his galantine de volaille and civet de lièvre St. Hubert. And he has some robust Beaujolais to accompany them.
AUTUN—Hôtel St. Louis et de la Poste
This is a comfortable hotel of ancient reputation, serving praiseworthy food and providing a good stopover between Paris and Nice. The town of Autun is picturesque and historically rich.
CHALONS-SUR-SAONE—Hôtel Royal
On the larger, more modern scale, with good cuisine and Burgundian dishes.
CHAROLLES—Hôtel Moderne
A country hotel in the land of fine local beef, where entrecôte Charolais is a natural specialty.
FLEURVILLE—Hôtel Chanel
A country hotel specializing in such substantial dishes as pâtés chauds, poularde au grossel, meurettes, and, in the summertime, frogs’ legs.
PONTANEVAUX—Hostellerie Compagnons de Jehu
This is a picturesque auberge, known for many years as a shrine of fine regional cooking.
TOURNUS—Hôtel du Sauvage
A good local hotel, well spoken of by writers on matters gastronomic.
Still another Département is included in Burgundy. This is the Yonne, famed for its Chablis. It offers enough for a separate article in itself and will appear in a later chapter.
Our intention is to list outstanding local wines from each of the French provinces. But “local” wines in this instance become the most famous in the world, with names which take your breath away. So an informal listing will be omitted this time.
The regional dishes of Burgundy, to repeat, have been devised to go with the blessing of good wine. The vocabulary of its dishes is not wide, but almost all of them call upon wine as a basis for their sauces. If you would like to bring a little of this regional cooking into your home, we hope you will set aside some reputable red and some dry white wine and try some of the five recipes which follow. Some of them have been adapted from an admirable little book, published in Dijon and written by Pierre Huguenin, entitled Les Meilleures Recettes de ma Pauvre Mère. One doesn’t feel very sorry for Monsieur Huguenin’s poor old mother after reading this mouth-watering book. She must have led a noble life. One of her best recipes concerns jambon persillé. Ham is not a dominant factor in Burgundian cooking except at Easter time, when jambon persillé becomes practically obligatory. There is a very pleasant counter-point between the aromatic ham in this recipe and the cool layer of parsleystrewn jelly which covers it. Despite our skeptical daughter’s opinion that it looks precisely like algae, we recommend this subtle cold dish with considerable affection.
Jambon Persillé à la Bourguignonne
Soak a slice of tenderized ham weighing 2 to 2½ pounds for a while, to remove some of the salt. Make a fine stock with a shin bone or knuckle of veal (some meat with the bones), 2 calves’ feet, a good quantity of parsley, tarragon, 2 bay leaves, 1 teaspoon thyme, salt, pepper, 2 or 3 shallots, a bottle of dry white wine, and a little water. The bones should be more than covered. Put on the lid and simmer for about 3 hours. Add the ham slice and cook in the stock until rather tender. Break it up and mash with a fork or chop coarsely, meat and fat together, and press gently into the bottom of a glass bowl. Strain the stock through a fine sieve and allow it to cool considerably. Remove all fat from the surface. Clarify by pouring over a beaten white of egg in a saucepan and reheating very gradually over the fire, stirring continually with a whisk. When it reaches the boiling point, let it stand 10 minutes over a very low fire, the liquid barely moving. Put through a strainer lined with a fine, clean cloth, and the result should be a good, clear stock. Pour a small amount, just enough to moisten, over the ham. Let the remainder cool in the refrigerator and when it is just beginning to jell, add 1 tablespoon tarragon wine vinegar, ¼ cup dry white wine and a large amount fresh parsley, finely chopped. Pour this over the ham and allow to jell in the refrigerator. The result will be deliciously flavored, pink morsels of ham, covered with a layer of beautiful green jelly, to be served directly from the glass bowl.
If you would introduce the splendors of Burgundian cookery to your home, we hope that you start with quenelles de brochet, an utterly different and delectable poached white forcemeat based on the ground meat of pike and served with an unctuous sauce Nantua. It isn’t too difficult to achieve, and it absolutely sublimates the unsuspecting pike. This recipe will serve six to eight persons.
Quenelles de Brochet (Pike Quenelles)
Put 1 pound fresh pike filets through the meat grinder, reserving the head and bones for stock, and work to a paste as smooth as possible, adding salt, pepper, and a pinch nutmeg. Put 1 cup stale French-bread crumbs through the grinder, add a little salt and 1 cup hot milk, and work together until a smooth paste is achieved. If too soft, dry out a little by stirring over the fire. Spread the paste on a plate and chill in the refrigerator until firm. There should be about 10 ounces of this panade to 1 pound of fish.
Cream a scant ½ pound butter little by little with the fish, then add the panade until all is well blended. (This, you will find, will include the ingredients of patience and elbow grease in considerable quantity.) Add, one after an other, 2 whole eggs and 4 egg yolks. Mix well together.
To form the quenelles, take 1 scant tablespoon of the mixture at a time and roll on a floured board into the shape of small sausages. Line these up in a shallow, buttered pan, add boiling water, and poach over a low fire for about 10 minutes without allowing the water to boil again. Remove and drain on a cloth. Serve the quenelles on a hot platter with this sauce:
Sauce Nantua (For Pike Quenelles)
Make a fish stock by boiling the head and bones of the pike in water with salt, pepper, 1 sprig parsley, 1 slice onion, 1 bay leaf, and 1 pinch thyme.
Melt 2 tablespoons butter, blend in 2 tablespoons flour, season with salt and pepper, and add 1 cup fish stock. Allow to cook for a few minutes, then add 1 cup cream. Simmer a minute or two and at the end, add 1 generous tablespoon lobster butter (see GOURMET, October 1948, or March 1949). A sliced truffle may also be added. Pour over the quenelles and serve.
La pochouse is one of the milestones in the cooking of this region, but it is now well known elsewhere. It is the Burgundian’s bouillabaisse, as it were, a savory dish based on fresh-water fish, white wine, garlic-scented croutons, and an aromatic sauce. If you live in a land of fresh-water fish and are slightly bored with their monotony, this may prove a turning point in your gustatory existence.
La Pochouse Bourguignonne
This classic Burgundian dish requires four or more types of fresh-water fish, such as pike, carp, trout, or perch—but eel is absolutely essential. Have the fish cleaned in the ordinary way and after removing heads and tips of tails, cut into sections 1 ½ inches thick. There should be 4 ½ pounds of fish, not including waste.
In a deep saucepan melt 6 tablespoons butter, add 2 heaping tablespoons diced bacon, and fry to light golden. Add to this 2 bottles dry white wine (it is permissible, though not advisable, to use water for ¼ of this liquid). Put in a bouquet garni of bay leaf, parsley, and thyme, a good pinch nutmeg, and 2 garlic cloves cut in half, which may later be removed from the sauce. Bring to a boil over a brisk fire, reduce the heat, and let simmer for 20 minutes. Add the pieces of fish to this lovely brew and cook for 15 to 20 minutes, still over a good fire, blending in 1 teaspoon meat glaze and some beurre manié, made by blending 2 tablespoons butter and 4 tablespoons flour. Season with salt and pepper if necessary. Pour over all ½ cup brandy and ignite it, shaking the pan to assure that all the alcohol burns out.
Place in the bottom of a tureen or deep serving dish slices of French bread fried in butter and rubbed with garlic. Pour the pochouse over these and serve at once. (There should be plenty of liquid, almost imperceptibly thickened, but the fish should not be “drowned” in it.)
The dingy old Buffet de la Gare in Dijon used to be one of the very finest railway station restaurants in France. Many a French gourmet would adjust his schedule so that he could stop over and dine at this unprepossessing spot, where the surroundings were banal but the food was exquisite. The eminently satisfying recipe cited below comes from the chef of the Buffet de la Gare. Will American station restaurants please copy?
Poulet Sauté aux Ducs de Bourgogne
Cut a large broiler or small roasting chicken in pieces as for frying. Brown well in 8 tablespoons butter in a skillet, seasoning with salt and pepper. Turn the chicken frequently to brown beautifully on all sides. Continue sautéing on top of the stove until tender. Or transfer the chicken to a casserole, cover, and place in a slow oven (325° F.) and continue cooking until the chicken is tender. Return the juices from the casserole to the original pan used for browning if it was cooked in the oven. Otherwise, remove the chicken pieces to a hot platter. Add a small amount of chicken broth to the pan and ¼ cup port and stir to blend in the good brown bits. Add 1 cup heavy cream which has been mixed with the yolks of 2 eggs and continue stirring until slightly thickened, being careful that the mixture does not come to the boil. Pour ¼ cup each brandy and kirsch over the chicken and blaze. When the flame is almost burned out, pour the sauce over the chicken and serve at once.
Boeuf bourguignonne is one of the most cited of Burgundian classic recipes. Here is an elaboration on the same theme which should prove a delight to robust appetites.
Boeuf Vigneronne
Cut 2 pounds beef for stewing into 1 ½-inch cubes and marinate in a bowl for 24 hours with red wine to cover, 1 teaspoon thyme, 1 bay leaf, 2 sprigs parsley, 1 onion, sliced, and 1 small carrot, sliced.
When ready to cook the beef, remove it from the marinade, dry with a cloth, and brown on all sides in an iron pot in 2 tablespoons butter or other fat. Add 2 shallots, finely chopped, and 1 clove garlic, chopped. Add 2 tablespoons flour and allow to brown. Strain the marinade and add to the beef with enough bouillon so the meat is more than half covered. In another pan try out 1/3 pound diced bacon until lightly fried. Add the bacon to the meat in the pot. In the bacon fat, brown 6 or 8 small whole onions. Add these to the pot, cover, and simmer over a low fire for about 2 ½ hours, or until the meat is tender.
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You are more likely to find the genuine escargots de Bourgogne in cans, with their shells, than in your fish market, so these recipes prescribe use of the canned product. If you can get fresh snails, follow the procedure for cooking outlined in GOURMET, January 1949, page 54. These recipes are from the files of the GOURMET Chef.
Escargots à la Chablisienne (Snails Chablis)
Boil together 2 cups dry white wine and 1 tablespoon chopped shallot until the wine is reduced to ¾ cup. Strain through a fine sieve. Have ready 4 dozen canned snails and their shells. Pour 1 scant teaspoon of the reduced wine in the bottom of each shell, replace the snails in their shells, and close these with parsley butter, made by creaming together ½ pound butter, a few drops lemon juice, and ½ cup chopped parsley. Place the prepared snails in a hot oven (400° F.) for about 10 minutes, or until heated through. Serve immediately.
Escargots au Vin Rouge (Snails in Red Wine)
Blend together in an earthenware casserole ¼ pound lean salt pork, finely diced, 18 button onions, 2 cloves garlic, crushed, 2 tablespoons chopped parsley, 1 tablespoon chopped celery leaves, a pinch thyme, 1 teaspoon salt, and ½ teaspoon pepper. Place 4 dozen canned snails over the vegetable mixture and add just enough red wine barely to cover. Cover the casserole, place it in a slow oven (300° F.) for 2 hours, then stir into the mixture a little beurre manié, made by kneading together 2 tablespoons butter and 2 teaspoons flour. Continue to cook for 5 minutes. Add 2 tablespoons cognac and serve hot.
Escargots à la Mode de l’Abbaye (Snails Abbey)
Melt 3 tablespoons butter, add 1 small onion, finely chopped, and sauté until tender but not brown. Add 4 dozen canned snails and blend with 1 tablespoon flour. Gradually stir in 1 cup scalded cream and simmer gently for 5 minutes, stirring frequently. Beat 4 egg yolks until light, blend with 1 cup cream and add to the snail mixture, over a very low fire, stirring constantly until thickened, being careful not to let the mixture boil and the egg yolks curdle. Taste for seasoning and serve hot in patty shells (see “The Last Touch”).