Tag: French food

  • Croque-monsieur

    Croque-monsieur

    And croque-madame

    I don’t know about you, but there was a time when I’d skip the béchamel. My parents didn’t quite see it that way. It was everywhere – spooned over endives au four until they slumped and browned at the edges, tucked between sheets of lasagnes à la bolognaise, and, of course, slathered thickly over croques-monsieur, bubbling and golden from the oven.

    Dad liked his béchamel thick, creamy, and freckled with more nutmeg than seemed sensible. And croque-madame? I think it might have been one of his favourites – a lacy-edged œuf au plat perched on top, with a crisp salad glistening in vinaigrette on the side.

    Yesterday, standing in front of the fridge, wondering what to make for lunch, I found myself craving that same creamy croque-madame. Dijon mustard spread just so, a generous handful of Comté, melting into golden puddles. I wished for the herbed jambon blanc from the charcuterie window of my childhood – marbled with fat and rolled in herbes de Provence – but settled instead for thin slices of peppery smoked ham. It worked.

    The béchamel? I made it the way I like it now – smooth, with a proper grating of nutmeg and plenty of freshly milled black pepper. Funny how things change.

    Some flavours, it seems, creep up on you with age. The ones you once dismissed as too rich, too boozy, too bitter – they slip back in, softer, gentler, until you start to crave them.

    Things I used to avoid but now can’t quite resist:
    – béchamel, nutmeg-heavy, like my dad’s
    – rum raisin ice cream
    – cognac sabayon, silky and sweet
    – panettone, toasted and buttered until golden
    – orange marmalade on crisp toast
    – a glass of dry sherry, ice-cold from the fridge
    – endives, crisp and bitter, in a salad

    What about you? Are there flavours you once pushed aside that now feel like old friends?

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    Croque-monsieur

    A golden, bubbling croque-monsieur – sandwich bread slathered with creamy béchamel, layered with soft jambon blanc [ham] and a generous handful of nutty Comté, then gratinéed until the edges crisp and the cheese melts into every corner. Pair a simple salad: crisp lettuce and slender ribbons of endive, tossed in a sharp mustard vinaigrette that bites just enough!
    And if you’re after something a little more indulgent, just slip a fried egg on top – the yolk soft and golden – and you’ve got yourself a croque-madame.
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time20 minutes
    Cook Time20 minutes
    Makes 4

    Ingredients

    For the croque-monsieur

    • 4-16 slices jambon blanc [ham] depending on the size of the slices
    • 8 slices sandwich bread
    • 4 tsp Dijon mustard
    • Béchamel sauce see below
    • 200 g Comté cheese grated
    • Salt
    • Black pepper

    For the béchamel sauce

    • 5 dl milk
    • 50 g salted butter
    • 50 g plain flour
    • Salt
    • Black-pepper
    • A touch of freshly grated nutmeg

    For the salad

    • 1 head crisp lettuce
    • 2 endives

    For the vinaigrette

    • 1 tbsp Dijon mustard
    • 1 shallot finely chopped
    • 1 garlic clove finely grated
    • 3 tbsp red wine vinegar
    • 1 dl rapeseed oil
    • 0.5 dl olive oil
    • Salt

    Instructions

    Make the béchamel:

    • Preheat the oven to 225°C / fan 200°C. Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Stir in the flour and cook for a minute until smooth. Remove from the heat and whisk in the milk until fully combined. Return the pan to the stove and cook until the sauce thickens, whisking constantly. Season with salt, freshly ground black pepper, and a touch of grated nutmeg. Set aside.
    • Assemble the croque-monsieur:
    • Spread a thin layer of Dijon mustard over half the bread slices. Spoon béchamel on top, spreading it all the way to the edges. Add 1–4 slices of jambon blanc [ham] to each sandwich, depending on the size of the slices. Season lightly with salt and pepper, then top with grated Comté, saving some for later.
    • Spread a little béchamel on the remaining bread slices and place them on top, béchamel-side down, to form sandwiches.

    Gratinate:

    • Place the sandwiches on a baking tray lined with parchment paper. Spread with the remaining béchamel over the tops, and sprinkle generously with the grated Comté.
    • Bake for 10-15 minutes, or until golden and bubbling.

    Prepare the salad and vinaigrette:

    • In the meantime, combine the chopped shallot and grated garlic with red wine vinegar and a pinch of salt. Let sit for 5 minutes to mellow. Whisk in the Dijon mustard, then gradually add the rapeseed and olive oils, starting with rapeseed. Thin with a splash of water if the vinaigrette feels too thick.
    • Thinly slice the endives and tear the crisp lettuce into pieces. Toss the greens with the vinaigrette just before serving.

    To serve:

    • Plate the croque-monsieur hot from the oven with a generous side of salad. Top with a fried egg for a croque-madame.
  • Crêpes complètes

    Crêpes complètes

    And my classical pâte à crêpes [crêpe batter] recipe!

    I’m often asked about the difference between French crêpes and Swedish plättar. It’s a fair question – they share, after all, the same simple pantry ingredients: milk, eggs, flour, salt, sugar and butter. But where crêpes spread thin across a wide pan, plättar are poured into a special cast-iron griddle, forming small, perfectly round pancakes.

    In my world, crêpes are meant to be folded, rolled, filled; while plättar are stacked, eaten by the dozen – best with a spoonful of jam and a cloud of loosely whipped cream.

    I’ve shared my plättar recipe in the past, and it’s still an everyday favourite, happening in our kitchen on an almost-weekly basis. Sometimes, I will even make savoury plättar, although I must admit I’m fond of the slightly chewier, sturdier texture of crêpes for this.
    However, since moving to Sweden, I’ve adapted my crêpe recipe: adding more salt and always using my trusted cast-iron pannkakspanna.

    Let’s have a look at the different ratios between crêpes and plättar. While both share the same base ingredients – milk, eggs, flour, butter, and salt – their proportions create distinct textures.

    Crêpes vs plättar

    CrêpesBakers %PlättarBakers %
    Milk500 ml200%500 ml277.8%
    Eggs480%255.6%
    Flour250 g100%180 g100%
    Butter50 g20%30 g16.7%
    Flaky sea salt2.5 g1%2.5 g1.4%

    Crêpes have a higher proportion of eggs and flour to liquid, giving them structure and elasticity. This makes them sturdy enough to be folded, rolled, or wrapped around both sweet and savoury fillings. The added chewiness also means they hold up well.

    Plättar, on the other hand, have more milk relative to flour and fewer eggs, resulting in a looser, more fluid batter. This makes them feel more custardy than crêpes, with a soft, tender texture. They are also cooked in a larger amount of salted butter, which pools around each pancake, creating lacy, crisp, golden edges with a hint of saltiness.

    Bonne chandeleur!

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    Crêpes complètes

    A thin, golden crêpe, crisp at the edges, soft in the center. The kind you fold around ham, cheese, and a runny egg for a classic crêpe complète or stack with butter and sugar, and a drizzle of lemon juice, for something simple and sweet.
    When making crêpes complètes, one has to stand by the stove, making and serving the crêpes one by one. With the leftover batter, I always make a stack of crêpes, later eaten with jam, crème de marron and chantilly (a favourite), or simply sugar and lemon juice.
    More often than not, I use my basic recipe for both savoury and sweet crêpes. However, if you wanted to make only sweet ones – for a goûter – you’ll find what I usually add to the batter in the notes below.

    Notes

    – For a sweet pâte à crêpes, add 2 tbsp sugar, 1 tbsp vanilla extract, and 2 tbsp dark rum or orange blossom water to the batter.
    – If the batter thickens too much after resting, whisk in a little water to reach a thin, pourable consistency.
    – To grease the pan, my mémé, grand-mère, and my mum always used a halved potato dipped in melted butter or oil. I still do, and often wonder if this is just something we do, or if more people know about it. It works beautifully – coating the pan evenly without excess fat and keeping the crêpes from sticking.
    – This cast-iron pan by Swedish Skeppshult is my ride-or-die whenever making pancakes and crêpes!
    Author: Fanny Zanotti
    Prep Time10 minutes
    Cook Time30 minutes
    Makes 12 22cm crêpes

    Ingredients

    For the batter

    • 250 g plain flour
    • 4 eggs
    • 500 ml milk
    • 50 g melted butter
    • 1 tsp flaky sea salt

    For cooking

    • Butter for the pan

    For a classic crêpe complète (per crêpe)

    • 40 g grated Emmental or cheese of choice
    • 1 slice of ham
    • 1 egg pan-fried sunny-side up

    Instructions

    • In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, flour and salt into a lumpy batter. Blend using a hand blender, until just smooth. Adjust the batter consistency with a dash of water if needed.
    • Add the melted butter, and blend until incorporated.
    • Cover and let the batter rest for 30 minutes.
    • Heat a knob of butter in a pan over medium heat. Pour in a ladleful of batter, swirling to coat the base. Cook until the surface looks set and no wet patches remain.
    • Sprinkle the cheese evenly over the crêpe, then place a slice of ham and a pan-fried egg in the center.
    • Fold in the edges of the crêpe to create a triangle or a square, leaving the yolk visible in the center. Cook for another minute, then serve immediately.

  • Daube provençale à la Chavot

    Daube provençale à la Chavot

    Daube provençale à la Eric Chavot

    I don’t know if I ever told you but a few months before we set off for Sweden, I spent a week-turned-half-a-year giving a hand in the kitchen at Brasserie Chavot; partly because they needed someone, mostly because I firmly intended to close my London chapter by working with chefs who had become my closest friends throughout the years, from the Capital Hotel to Brasserie Chavot: as we say in French, “La boucle est bouclée.” [to come full circle]. [quote_right] La boucle est bouclée.[/quote_right]To this day, I still cannot match the camaraderie that stems from the mixture of passion, exhaustion, restlessness that kitchens offer.

    So of course, I knew this very kitchen inside-out. We’d opened the restaurant a couple of years earlier and I had worked on the pastry section for well over a year.
    But that time, it meant for me to work with meat and fish. Vegetables and stocks.
    And to be honest, some of my fondest memories come from this time. Our mornings in the prep kitchen, where all the elements the rest of the team would use throughout the day would get made. Our evenings standing by the pass, taking out plates from the hot cupboard, plating dishes. Service please!

    The fish delivery man wore a white lab coat that had a large octopus drawn on its back with what I guess was a marker pen. Brine. Season. Heavy rolls of beef rib eye would get tied and vacpacked. Tie. Cut. Slice. Pork belly roasted overnight. Poussins [baby chicken] would be boned and flattened, then sewn. 1, 2, 3. Onions and carrots, peeled and chopped bag after bag. Italian meat balls rolled into 10g pellets that would be served with braised escargots Bourguignon [snails Bourguignon] and a mash potato foam. Chavot, his grey t-shirts, and his smile. Yes, I could go on forever, but really, there is not one moment I do not miss.

    The restaurant closed its doors after one last service on New years Eve 2015; and with it, what was the best place to eat beautifully made French food in London disappeared*.
    One of my favourite dishes was the daube de boeuf provençale, the summer version of the otherwise delicious, daube de boeuf Grand-mère.

    [quote_left]Beef braised in red and white wine, with fragrant onions, carrots, smoked pork belly, a touch of spices and citrus.[/quote_left] Beef braised in red and white wine, with fragrant onions, carrots, smoked pork belly, a touch of spices and citrus; served with creamy mashed potatoes and garnished with grilled artichokes, oven-dried tomatoes, and Niçoise olives.

    The recipe is well documented on the Caterer, and in the short video below where you can see Chavot putting the dish together.

    Daube de boeuf provençale à la Chavot

    While the dish itself is not complicated, it does involve many steps that I see as essential. However, it is possible to simplify the recipe to some extent, and that’s what I’ve done here.

    Let’s break down the daube provençale first:
    – beef chuck, sometimes called feather blade or paleron
    – caramelised mirepoix
    – braising liquid, with spices and citrus
    – veal stock
    – garnish: Niçoise olives, sundried tomatoes, grilled baby artichokes, button onions, fresh herbs

    I like to peel and chop all the vegetables, prepare the spices and measure the wines before I start.
    As always, you can prepare the daube a few days in advance, and then reheat it slowly, in an oven set on 140°C or on the stove, over low heat.

    The leftover meat can be used in many ways that we love very dearly, which is the reason why I almost certainly make a double batch of daube.
    A few favourites include: daube raviolis, hachis parmentier [cottage pie], and daube fritters, which I make by combining the shredded daube with mashed potatoes and an egg or two, forming patties then coating them in flour and pan-frying them until golden brown.

    Daube de boeuf provençale à la Chavot

    Serves 6.

    The mirepoix

    50 g virgin olive oil
    50 g duck fat
    50 g unsalted butter
    2 large carrots    , peeled and chopped
    3 medium onions, roughly chopped
    300 g smoked pork belly, sliced into 2cm cubes

    6 cloves garlic, peeled and roughly chopped
    1 sprig rosemary
    1 bay leaf
    2 sprigs thyme
    1/2 bunch parsley, chopped
    1 tsp black peppercorns
    2 cloves
    zest from 1/2 lemon
    zest from 1/4 orange

    The cooking liquids
    1 bottle red wine
    1/2 bottle white wine
    1 400g-ish can of crushed tomatoes

    The meat
    100 g plain flour
    salt and pepper
    1 large piece of beef chuck    , approx. 1kg

    The sauce
    500 mL good quality veal stock

    The garnish
    A handful each of: Niçoise olives, sundried tomatoes, baby artichokes, button onions
    1/2 bunch of parsley    , sliced

    Make the mirepoix

    Place the butter, olive oil and duck fat into a large pan; I use a favourite in our house, a Le Creuset cocotte. Add the carrots, and cook over medium heat until they start to caramelise. Then add the sliced onions and cook for a further 20 minutes or until they are soft and brown around the edges. Add the garlic, herbs, spices and zests, and cook, stiring every now and then, for another 5-10 minutes.

    Strain the mirepoix, keeping the fat that will then be used to sear the beef; set both aside until needed.

    Deglaze the pan with a glass of red wine to loosen any caramelised bit that might be stuck to the bottom of the pan. Then set aside and wipe the pan clean.

    Caramelise the beef

    Place the reserved fat from the mirepoix in the cleaned pan and set over medium-high heat.

    Mix the flour with salt and pepper, and coat the piece of meat in a thin layer of seasoned flour, tapping away the excess.

    When the fat starts foaming, sear the meat on all sides until dark brown.

    Set the meat aside and deglaze the pan with the remaining wine, including the glass we deglazed the mirepoix with.
    If you’re feeling fancy, carefully flambé the wine over low heat to remove the alcohol. I almost always skip this step at home.

    Marinate the meat

    Take the pan off the heat. Add the crushed tomatoes and the mirepoix, along with the herbs, spices, citrus, and pork belly bits, stir well. Then carefully add the seared meat.

    Cover with a lid and allow to marinate in the fridge for at least 4 hours, or up to two days. The longer you live it the better the flavours; although I’ve been more than happy with daube that had only marinated for a couple of hours.

    Cook the daube

    Set the oven to 130°C/fan 110°C.
    Place the pan with the lid on, in the oven and bake for 6 to 8 hours, until the meat feels very tender.

    Make the sauce

    Very gently remove the meat from the cooking liquid using a large slotted spoon and place on a plate. Refrigerate until fully set.

    Pass the cooking liquid through a fine-mesh sieve, quickly clean the pan, then return the cooking liquid to the pan and add the veal stock.
    Bring to the boil and reduce by half.

    Take off the heat and reserve in the fridge for up to 2 days.

    On the day

    Divide the meat into 6 portions, and if you want, pan fry them in butter until caramelised on all sides.

    Place the meat, along with the sauce and garnish into a cast iron pan, and reheat over low heat or in a 140°C oven for around 1 hour, or until warmed through.
    Baste the meat every now and then to keep it from drying.

    When ready, serve immediately with mashed potatoes or fresh pasta, and sprinkle with sliced parsley.

    Links

    – Find this same recipe on Foodism and on the Caterer.

    – A more traditional daube de boeuf, by Chavot.

    * I was extremely happy to hear that Chavot has now taken over the kitchens of Bob Bob Ricard, which I will definitely visit o our next London trip, whenever it may come. You can find a lovely interview here.

    – Chef Chavot’s Instagram