Cooking with Foie Gras at the Culinary Communion
Chef had to tell us three times to eat our snack.
Two cylindrical slabs of foie gras, each at least an inch thick and scattered with fleur de sel, lay nestled against a pile of brioche wedges. Presented at a restaurant, the small plate could have commanded $40 without comment. Meanwhile, Chef Gabriel was still cutting, covering a dinner-sized plate with slices from the foot-long torchon that he'd prepared the day before. Two whole unprepared livers, each the size of of a fat New York strip steak, lay in their plastic packaging on the counter. Another small white plate held two whole Umbrian truffles: impossibly black golf balls.
The scene turned eleven adult foodies into an awkward gaggle of teenagers lining the bleachers at the first school dance. Swathed in our aprons and alternately chattering and nervously silent, we crowded in close, we sniffed and sipped the sauterne, we did everything except...eat.
This past Friday evening, I attended my second class at the Culinary Communion, a cooking school run by Chef Gabriel Claycamp out of a house in West Seattle. My first class, charcuterie, had been an afternoon-long orgy of sausage-making: chopping, seasoning, mixing, grinding, and stuffing enormous bowls of cold meat and fat. I ended the day exhausted, spattered with lamb blood, full of homemade sausage, and glowing with satisfaction.
The structure of the foie class was familiar. Chef Gabriel began with a brief talk about the ingredient at hand, covering a bit of history, basics on purchasing and handling, and some ideas about wine pairings. The bulk of the three-hour class, however, was dedicated to cooking the meal that we would consume at the end of the night. The menu:
* Pan-seared foie gras with vanilla brioche french toast, buttered pink lady apples, and honeyed vinegar syrup
* Top sirloin steaks with foie and truffle flan, wild mushroom ragout, pommes anna
* Foie-Reos: foie gras mousse sandwiched between foie gras "cookies"
Armed with our recipes--each student receives cards with recipes prepared for that class, along with pages of reference information--we split into teams and went to work.
The students had a wide variety of cooking skills, but it seemed that everyone was able to participate as much or as little as they wanted to. By the end of the night, I had worked on cutting slices for searing, making the flan and actually searing the foie. Chef Gabriel moved through the kitchen constantly, answering questions, keeping everyone involved, and calling the class to observe as preparations reached key stages. Eventually, the cooking finished and it was time to eat. A bustling class became a loose, happy dinner party as we relaxed and enjoyed the fruits of our labors.
What did I learn? First, I learned that there's a fine line between whipping heavy cream and churning butter, and that a food processor will take you screaming over that line in about five seconds. Second, I learned that foie is finicky stuff. Everything that we made was tasty, but I will never again take a perfectly-seared piece of foie for granted.
The best part, though, was re-learning a lesson that I already knew: food should be magical, but not mysterious. After the third exhortation to eat and enjoy, one of the students (it may have been me) reached out, cut a piece of foie, wiped it on a wedge of brioche, and ate it. The spell was broken and the class descended, slicing, piling, salting, eating. There was so much foie that more than half the torchon survived the initial onslaught. Forty-five minutes later, we were deep into our recipes, and the plate sat on a table, surrounded by wine glasses. I cruised by, cut a piece, hit it with some salt, popped it in my mouth, and let the fat melt on my tongue. I moved on to the next task and the kitchen whirled about me.
Posted by Cameron at February 27, 2005 09:49 AM