The mind of a chef starting out on his day's work is about as far from any thoughts of culinary secrets as that of a race horse leaving the stable for the course at Long champ. But as soon as his haute toque is in place, the serviette arranged at his waist in its traditionally precise folds, and he turns his hand to a sauce, a dish of rice, or a garniture, his so-called secrets or tricks spring into action. His response to the knife picked up, the spoon grasped, is so trigger-quick, so automatic, that he is quite unconscious of how dexterous he is. If asked for a recipe, it seldom occurs to him that few of his questioners are not just as aware as he is of the long-acquired techniques he puts into practice. Add up the long days and many years the chef puts in at the preparation table and in front of the range, and you arrive at his tricks.
To put it another way, preparing dishes over and over again, perhaps almost every day for ten or twenty years, makes one very skillful while facing the demands of an exacting clientele when food is short and labor scarce. What's more, to make a reputation for an establishment a chef must add something to the lore of fine cooking, perhaps a new way to prepare fish or a different soup to capture the fancy of the public.
But when it comes to passing along culinary know-how to amateur chefs who are eager to learn the ways of professionals, it is not a matter of reluctance. Unfortunately, it is simply a question of time. Picture a head chef with the kitchens of a large establishment under his charge. Hundreds of meals, thousands of dishes every noon and every evening must get from his noisy, fragrant confines to the diners just beyond. Hot dishes really hot, cold dishes well chilled, and mon Dieu, never a curdled sauce or a fallen soufllé! Watch that tireless robot, the tele-autograph, that links the dining rooms to the kitchens, scribble and scribble the never-ending commands of impatient waiters. Any head chef directing this complicated mealtime production with less than two heads, half a dozen hands. and the legs of a centipede is badly handicapped. If, at the high point of the mealtime rush, the suave headwaiter makes his appearance, the chef is certain something has gone wrong, some important guest is displeased, and drops whatever he is doing to rush over with a quick “What has happened?”
A casual reply such as, “Mais rien, Madame Blanc simply wants your recipe for chicken hash.” releases the Gallic temperament already tensed by too many split-second demands.
Who wouldn't yell above the clatter. “Sacré bleu, can't you see how busy I am? Come back at two o'clock.” Or something more vivid. And turn to a range to vent his annoyance on the sauce poivrade.
As for the headwaiter, he merely shrugs his well-groomed shoulders and usually Madame Blanc explains to her husband that evening how the chef wouldn't give her his recipe for chicken hash.
“Must have a secret trick,” she says, “and he's afraid someone will find out how he does it.” Which they both believe.
Now chefs, as a rule, don't hold on to any particular secret tricks. There are a few famous dishes which their originators have kept secret lest other restaurateurs take away the monopoly of hardwon laurels. Unfortunately, a recipe that is bringing fame—and cash in the till—can't be patented. And occasionally what appears to be secretiveness is actually the inability of a Frenchman to write down a complicated recipe in any but his own tongue, in any language but the one he thinks and works in. Mettez-vous à sa place—put yourself in his shoes.
Oddly enough, the secrets—or tricks—that I am asked about most frequently are not those for making elaborate dishes but rather the hows and whys of simple basic cookery. How do we cook rice, I am asked, so that it is always flaky and tender? What gives our soups such a good flavor? And why are the kidneys we serve never unpleasantly strong? Apparently, aspiring gourmet cooks soon realize that, unless they learn basic rules, their elaborate flourishes, no matter how expensive, will never make a master-piece.
I could never count the number of requests that come to me for recipes and cooking help. But for this article I've selected three that recur frequently. Rice cookery is one. Gourmets recognize well-cooked rice and judge the cook accordingly. They are like one of our frequent guests who always ordered rice à la grecque, saying he could never find rice so good any place else. One day he asked the waiter if he might have the recipe for it the next time he came in. This was arranged, and after profuse thanks he asked for an envelope. It was a busy day, and the waiter thought how fussy some people are. But it wasn't the recipe that went in it. He took the envelope and spooned in some of the rice from his plate ... “So my cuisinière can taste it. I want what she makes to be exactly the same.”
Achieving a dish of rice that is neither mushy nor gummy seems to be the bête noir of many a good cook. Yet anyone can prepare rice that is softly tender and so flaky that when touched with the fork, the grains rumble over each other, allowing whatever sauce is served to coat every single grain. Well, here are our tricks—if that's what you like to call them—for preparing this kind of rice for entrees. And such an easy way because it requires no stirring, no draining. no cold-water rinse. And it won't scorch while cooking.
First, choose a utensil that can be used on top of the stove and also in the oven. And be sure it has a tight cover to hold in the steam. There are three steps in the cooking. One, tossing the rice in a little melted butter so every' grain is coated; two, adding twice as much boiling liquid as rice and bringing it back to a full boil; and three, finishing the cooking in the oven. Hut what is done after the actual cooking is equally important. Invert the casserole over a hot platter and empty out the rice without touching it. Then as the steam evaporates, take a large, long-tined kitchen fork and toss up the rice with a little melted butter—just a little, not enough to make it greasy—tossing it very carefully to avoid breaking the fragile grains. From there it goes to a hot serving dish. And hot dishes, let me remind you, are important. Cold ones may cause the hot rice to sweat and give it the objection-able gumminess.
With these hints to guide you, try this favorite of our luncheon guest.
Rice à la Grecque
Melt 2 tablespoons butter in a sauce-pan or casserole (one that has a tight cover and that can go in the oven), add 1 onion, finely chopped, and cook until it is soft but not brown. Add ½ clove garlic, crushed, A leaves green lettuce, shredded, 4 mushrooms, sliced, 4 tomatoes. peeled, seeded, and chopped, or 1cup canned tomatoes, and 3 fresh sausages, peeled and crushed. Add 1 ½ cups rice and mix all together well. Add 3 cups boiling water or chicken stock, 1 ½ teaspoons salt, and a little pepper. Cover tightly and cook in a hot oven (400° F.) for 20 to 25 minutes. Remove from the oven and empty the casserole by inverting it on a hoc platter. Separate the grains and release the steam by tossing with a long-tined kitchen fork, meanwhile adding 1 tablespoon melted butter, ¾ cup cooked peas, 1 pimiento, diced, and 3 tablespoons dried raisins sautéed in a little butter. Serve as an entree, with meat or poultry, or use for a poultry stuffing.
How to prepare kidneys is another question that is continually asked me. Although I believe the French to be just as fond of them as the English, our English cousins seem to have acquired a special reputation for liking them. At least, there's no gainsaying that steak and kidney pie is considered as typically British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. During my years in London, I made hundreds of these pies. Therefore, when the British Pavilion of the World's Fair opened in 1939, the gentlemen interested in it, having known me in my London days, asked me to make the steak and kidney pies for the first small dinner to be given to the directors. They insisted that 1 make the pies myself, not assigning the job to an assistant, and that 1 have them exactly like the ones 1 had made so often at the London Ritz Also I was to bake them in the kind of china dishes used by the English. No French casseroles. Mais non!
When the pies were ready and very carefully wrapped, I waited for a messenger to pick them up. But no, these two distinguished gentlemen, not trusting anyone else to handle them with sufficient care, came themselves to take their pies to the fair. And carried off the packages, I might add, as if the crown jewels were inside. All the sub-sequent steak and kidney pies served at the British Pavilion were from that same-recipe, the one I am giving you in this article.
Now for hints on preparing kidneys. First, what to buy. Beef kidneys are the largest and least expensive but are not considered quite so choice as veal or lamb. The amount to purchase depends upon the kind selected. A beef kidney will serve two to three, but you should allow one veal or two lamb kidneys for each serving. You will notice that all kidneys are surrounded by a layer of fat, and in the case of lamb or mutton kidneys this is always removed because of its strong and rather unpleasant flavor. Lamb kidneys also have a thin, rather tough skin covering them, which should be pulled off, too. The fat on beef and veal kidneys, on the other hand, is very delicate, and a thin layer left on will improve the flavor. Some butchers take care of this part of the preparation for you.
Kidneys may be broiled, cooked whole on casserole, or made into a top-of-the-Stove dish. My trick is a quick hot cooking on top of the stove or in the broiler but a moderate-temperature cooking when doing them in the oven. And my secret for a kidney stew of delicate flavor is to sauté the diced kidneys quickly in very hot fat and put them immediately into a colander to drain. While they are draining, I make the sauce. After the drained kidneys are added to the sauce, the mixture is cooked just to the boiling point but not allowed to boil. This makes a stew of delicate flavor, one in which the kidneys do not overwhelm the sauce.
Whole kidneys cooked en casserole —a popular dish with the French—take longer to cook, and we chefs have our own peculiar way of telling when they are done Pierce the kidney with a long-lined steel kitchen fork and leave it in for a minute or two. Immediately upon withdrawing it, put the tines to your tongue. If the tines are hot. the kidney is done; if only warm, it needs further cooking. There's a chef's trick for you to try, and here are two recipes to practice on.
Steak and Veal Kidney Pie
Mix together 1 pound tender beef, finely minced, 4 veal kidneys, finely minced, 8 to 10 mushrooms, cleaned and sliced, 1 large onion, finely chopped, 1 teaspoon chopped parsley, ½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce, 4 ounces dry sherry or Madeira, and 1 ½ cups brown sauce or leftover gravy. Place these in a deep china casserole and cover with pie pastry, which usually includes some kidney suet with the shortening. Bake in a moderate oven (350° F) for 50 to 60 minutes, or until the top of the pie is browned,
Veal Kidneys en Casserole
Slice 1 carrot and 1 large onion into the bottom of a casserole with 2 sprigs parsley, ½ teaspoon salt, and a little pepper. Trim the fat from 6 veal kidneys, leaving on a layer about ¼ to ½ inch thick. Arrange them on top of the vegetables and bake uncovered in a moderate oven (350° F.) for about 20 minutes, or until they are brown. Cover the casserole and continue baking for about 30 to 35 minutes, or until the kidneys are done when tested with a fork. Remove them to a hot plate.
Drain off as much fat as possible from the casserole and add 8 ounces dry white wine and 1 cup meat gravy or hot water. Cream together 2 teaspoons flour and 2 tablespoons butter and stir into the mixture in the casserole. Return it to the oven and cook for a few minutes longer. Strain the thickened sauce, replace the kidneys in the casserole, pour the strained sauce over them, and arrange on top a garnish of cooked, diced hot potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, small cooked onions, and chopped parsley.
Another question that comes to me from the dining room almost every day is, “Ask the chef how he always gets such a nice even brown glaze on top of fish dishes and chicken hash.” Or, “What does he put on the fruit tarts to make them so shiny?”
As you know, la cuisine frauçaise is what might be called a sauced cuisine, the secret being to make whatever foods you are preparing, whether simple or elaborate, into something extra delicious by means of a good sauce. Often it's a rich cream saute or a Mornay sauce mixed with something like shellfish or chicken. Then we hold hack some of the sauce to spread over the top and the dish is browned in a hot oven or in the broiler. Done this way, the top usually takes on a spotty sort of brown because the heat will make some parts very brown while others are hardly colored at all. This had always bothered me, but it was quite by accident that I discovered a way to overcome it.
One day I was making some deviled crab meat for a party given by a very discriminating guest and wanted to have the covering sauce especially light and delicate. So I decided to mix a little whipped cream—unsweetened, of course —into the portion of sauce I had re-served for spreading on top. When the shells of crab meat came out of the broiler, they had the most beautiful brown glaze I had ever seen. What was the secret? Could it be the whipped cream? I tried the whipped cream trick on other dishes and found that it always worked. The air beaten into the cream seems to spread the butter fat through the sauce to produce the even and shining brown that is so attractive.
Sometimes this matter of glazing the top of dishes that include a Mornay sauce presents another problem. Recipes say “to brown under the broiler or in a hot oven.” But a hot oven can be treacherous because Mornay sauce is rich in egg yolks and may curdle before the top is brown. This doesn't happen in the broiler where the heat is above and browns the top quickly. When I first started my career, we did not have the broiling ovens we have today. We had charcoal broilers for our grilled foods, which meant the heat was under the food, and so we had no other choice but to use a hot oven. And you, too, may some-time have to brown a rich dish this way. The trick I was taught was to place the dish to be browned on top of a pan of water. This baffles the heat, and the rich sauce will not curdle while the top is glazing.
Deviled Crab Meat
Melt 3 tablespoons butter in a sauce-pan and add 2 cups carefully picked-over crab meat. Heat gently but do not allow to cook. Mix 1 teaspoon English mustard with a little water and add it to 1 ½ cups Mornay sauce (GOURMET, January 1950). Add the hot crab meat, bring to the boil, and season with salt and pepper. Put into shells that have been thoroughly washed and dried in a hot place. Fold 2 tablespoons whipped cream into ½ cup Mornay sauce and spread over the crab meat mixture. Sprinkle with a little Parmesan cheese and brown under the broiler or in a hot oven.
Chicken Hash à la Ritz
Remove the white meat from boiled chicken (roasted chicken is too dry and never so white) and chop enough to make 3 cups. Do not chop it too finely. Put the chicken in a saucepan with I cup light cream and cook until the cream is reduced to about half the original quantity.
Meanwhile, make 1 ½ cups cream sauce. Melt 2 tablespoons butter in a saucepan, add 2 tablespoons flour, and cook until the flour just starts to turn golden. Add 2 cups milk and cook, stir-ring constantly, until the sauce is reduced to about 1 cup. Stir in ½ cup cream. Add 1 cup of this sauce to the chicken mixture and season with a little salt and pepper. Place the hash in the serving dish and spread over the top the remaining cream sauce which has been combined with 1 beaten egg yolk and into which has been folded 2 table-spoons whipped cream. Put the dish in the broiler and brown the top quickly.
There are some people who want all baked foods to be well browned, even desserts such as rice and other puddings. But sometimes a pudding is done before it browns; we were in the habit of serving these puddings just as they came from the oven and passing a vanilla sauce with them. But one day a guest sent back a dish of rice pudding, saying he didn't want that white-looking pudding, he wanted a browned one. The sous chef, at a loss to know what to do, called me. Knowing my success with whipped cream, I carefully spread it over the pudding and put it into the broiler for a minute or two to brown The guest was completely satisfied, and this trick has been one that we have used ever since.
Another little trick is one for giving an unusual finish to potages such as pea soup and tomato soup. Put a spoonful of unsweetened whipped cream on the top of each cup or bowl of soup and run them under the broiler for a minute. The heat spreads the cream, browning it A little and giving the surface an appetizing glaze.
As for glazing the tops of fruit tarts. that is the simplest of all and a trick that the French have used for generations. After the tans are cooked but still hot, the top is spread either with melted currant jelly or with apricot sauce that has been thinned with a little hot water or sugar syrup. As a rule, we use the jelly for red fruits—cherries, plums, et cetera—and the apricot sauce for light-colored fruits—apples, apricots, peaches, pears—although either one can be used on all fruits. If it's a pie with a top crust that you want to have a golden-brown glaze, then brush it with an egg that has been beaten with two or three tablespoons of milk.