“Quels enfants insensés!” Grand'mère was not easily roused to anger, but when we left food uneaten on our plates, her native thriftiness was mortally offended. She would cell us that we were not only foolish, but also foolhardy, for if we threw away the food given to us by le bon Dieu, we might be punished by not having enough to eat another day. Wastefulness was more than stupid, it was sinful. See, alors, how many mighty rulers, kings, czars, and tyrants whose wasteful ways are written down in the history books have died without a crust of bread for a last meal.
Some of these wastrels may have been Frenchmen, but surely not very many of them, because to a Frenchman thrift. which is care and wisdom in the management of one's resources, is a cardinal virtue. Whether he is building a cathedral, designing an evening gown, or cooking a meal, the true Frenchman always makes the most of his resources.
No top-ranking chef can justly be accused of wastefulness. He may seem to be extravagant in his use of heavy cream, good butter, truffles, and foie gras, but actually these things are always used, and used to best advantage, and never wasted. I have the feeling that many an American household could buy heavy cream, good butter, and even truffles and foie gras with the money spent on food that is thrown away.
The French learned to make a little go far in 1870, and again in 1914 and in 1940. Three terrible wars in seventy years made the lessons of thrift lasting ones. We in America likewise learned something of kitchen economy during the recent war, when thriftiness was forced upon us by circumstances.
Often the ill wind that compels us to learn new habits proves to be a good wind after all. for the new habits turn out to be worth keeping, even after the Circumstances which bred them have changed for the better. At the old Ritz-Corlton, for instance, butter rationing made it very difficult for us to have enough butter for both table service and kitchen. Plate after plate used to come back from the dining room with unused butter on it … and we were so short of butter for our sauces! Then I found a happy solution: I asked the headwaiter to serve butter only when the guest asked for it, and the problem was solved. This arrangement is still in force in many fine restaurants today. The guests are served butter if they want it. but often refuse it if they are enjoying a richly sauced dish. So another wasteful habit, one which would have horrified my thrifty Grand'mère, is slowly being eliminated.
During the war necessity was the mother of invention. Meat was scarce, and still we had several thousand diners to feed daily. I managed very well by using the meat specialties—brains, kidneys, sweetbreads, and so on—and fish, which remained plentiful. But, principally, I solved the meat problem by thrift, by making the most of my leftovers.
In a fine restaurant the problem of leftovers requires special attention. When a roast is sliced, only the most perfect, handsome slices go into the dining room. The rest of the roast, just exactly as tender and tasty, becomes a leftover. If a piece of fish breaks on the grill or in the pan, it cannot be served. If the weather is inclement, the usually crowded dining rooms are likely to be half empty, while the kitchen is crowded with the roasted meats and fowls prepared for guests who did not come!
It is in making the most of leftovers that the thrifty cook can exercise his ingenuity to best advantage. During the depression years of the thirties, when all expensive restaurants faced grim days of empty tables and monthly statements on the red side of the ledger, leftovers were truly a bête noire. It was almost impossible to predict whether a day's business was going to be good or poor, yet we had to have meat and poultry on hand to meet any emergency. Inevitably there were quantities of leftovers. The one dish capable of many dramatic variations, which could be depended upon to use up all the leftovers, was, of course, hash! But what a hash—the most succulent and tasty hachis we could devise. The finely cut meat was combined with many different sauces and served with different borders—of rice, duchesse potatoes, purée of peas or corn, or whatever occurred to us. On some of the hachis we put a Mornay sauce and glazed the dish under the broiler flame. Some were sprinkled with bread crumbs and melted butter and browned, and some we topped with a poached egg. We served the hachis on plates with a red border, and. naturally, called them our Red Plate Luncheons. They soon became so popular that our normal supply of leftovers wasn't enough, and we had to buy and cook meal and poultry especially for the Red Plate hachis.
The most important thing to remember about cooking leftovers is that the meat, poultry, game, or fish is already sufficiently cooked, and that anything more than the briefest possible heating will overcook it, toughen the tissues, and dry out the juices. It is best to finish the sauce for the meat completely, then combine and heat the two together for a minute or two. If there is plenty of sauce, and the sauce is flavorful with tomatoes, mustard, vinegar, onion, pickles, or any of dozens of other ingredients, the leftovers will then he a success.
The garnishing and arrangement of the serving dish are even more important with leftovers than with the meat in its pristine form. If the remains of a roast can be cut into reasonably attractive slices, arrange the slices, in an overlapping pattern, on the plate. If there is not enough meat to make even slices. chop or dice the meat instead. Then sprinkle the finished dish with browned bread crumbs, or with chopped parsley or chives, and garnish the platter as attractively as possible.
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