The very sight of an earthenware casserole reminds me of mon pays, of Maman's kitchen, and of the wooden kitchen dresser where our casseroles used to sunt!, mellowed and stained with their years of faithful service. There was always a casserole simmering on our big black stove and when the family gathered around the red and white cloth of the kitchen table, Maman would serve the savory concoction from the same casserole. The casserole and the copper saucepan are part of every French home, and no one who has ever eaten a single meal with a French family can ever forget them. To me, and to most Americans, the clay casserole is more French than the Eiffel Tower, Christian Dior and Louis XIV furniture, all of which are somehow more Parisian than French.
That the casserole is the mast popular of French cooking utensils is inevitable. The average French family must make do with the foods which are plentiful and inexpensive in season, or which can be preserved for oil-season use. There is never enough fuel, never enough money. But the French posses such an over-whelming love of good food that they are willing to go to any trouble to achieve mouth-watering dishes despite severe handicaps. The casserole is a good friend, for with long, slow cooking, with patient, gradual blending and enhancement of flavors, French cooks, peasants and Parisian chefs alike, can work miracles. And of all the sorts of cooking done in the casserole, braising is first.
Now, braising is the best way to make less expensive cuts of meat tender and flavorful, and braised meats, because of this association with economy, do not carry the aura of sophistication which surrounds truffled delicacies and aspics, but that is not to say that braised meats are scorned by the haul monde. Quite the contrary is true.
At the Bristol in Paris, where I first worked as a young chef, King Carlos of Portugal was a regular guest, and his favorite dish was leg of lamb braised à la cuillère, an unusually long and slow cooking process that resulted in meat so tender it could be served with a spoon, that is to say, à la cuillère. The first time I cooked this dish it was for this royal personage. 1 had just begun my career in Paris, and was more than a little nervous when Monsieur Tiesier, the bead chef, ordered me to cook the gigot d'agneau for the King. I was in terror lest 1 overcook it. “Don't worry, ” Monsieur Tiesier said. “Just keep basting it all the time and add more stock as the liquid cooks away, so there will be plenty of moisture in the casserole.” The kitchen gods were with me, because I cooked that leg of lamb à point. It was so tender that the bone slipped out, away from the meat, and the surface was beautifully glazed by the richness of the stock. That was my first leg of lamb braisée, but not my last, mais non! I suppose that during my years in Paris, London, and New York 1 must have prepared thousands of legs of lamb just that way and have taught at least hundreds of young chefs working under me how to do it.
At the turn of the century, when connoisseurs from all Europe gathered in Paris for the social season, it was their habit to stop at small but exclusive hotels whose proprietors knew, and were ready to indulge, their every gastronomical whim. In fact, it was the usual thing for the hotels to anticipate their desires by having the kitchens primed to prepare a guest's special favorite before his luggage was carried to his room from the lobby! These special dishes, however, were not necessarily elaborate or exotic. Most of them were simple dishes whose success depended upon meticulous attention to the details of fine cooking, regular basting, careful skimming of sauces, and subtle seasoning.
I recall, for example, that wealthy German family, the Krupps, whose name in recent years has fallen into disrepute because of the family's influence on German militarism. In those days, the Krupps were one of the most important and respected families in Europe. Herr Krupp, who always stopped at the Bristol, could certainly have had anything he wanted at his table. And what did he want, this millionaire? Eh bien! One of his favorites was boeuf braise à l'empire. This was a nicely larded piece of rump of beef marinated for 24 hours in a spiced mixture of red or white wine, a little cognac, and a dash of Madeira or sherry and braised slowly until it was tender. It was served garnished with braised hearts of celery and potatoes fondantes. All in all, it was not much different from boeuf à la mode. So whenever there was a rumor that this famous munitions manufacturer might come to Paris, the chef at the Bristol was alerted, and every day a piece of beef was put in the marinade, ready to be cooked at a moment's notice. We knew that if Herr Krupp came, he would invariably ask for it, and the Bristol had to be ready for him.
Such dishes were a regular part of our menu at the old Ritz in New York, one of the last restaurants willing to devote the time and attention necessary to achieve them.
In French homes, however, braising is one of the first tilings a young daughter learns to do as she helps her mother in the kitchen, something all French girls do as a matter of course. Braising is a typically French sort of cooking, embracing as it does line flavor, practicality, and thrift, all of them typically French characteristics.
For the most part, meat to be braised is in one piece, although there are a few dishes that call for meat cut into small portions. Braising is the method most frequently used when meat requires thorough cooking and is a most suitable way to cook veal and pork as well as many cuts of beef, lamb, and mutton. As a matter of fact, a well done leg of lamb is better braised than roasted. There is so little fat on a leg of lamb that long roasting is very apt to dry it badly.
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