Menage a Trois a la Rustic French Fare

I have been a really bad member of a supper club ever since I moved, missing the last two occasions (one Italian-themed and the other Oscar party snack-oriented) and even more so my good, foodie friends. So I corralled one member with a newly purchased house and another member who is a great organizer and then myself from afar, and we decided to throw a special dinner this past weekend called Menage a Trois. As menu designer I was looking to create a meal of rustic French fare after spending the last half a year curled up on the couch on many occasions at the Cute Gardener’s house flipping through the pages of Dorie Greenspan’s “From Around my French Table.”

I came up with the following: 

St. Germain cocktails
Assorted French Wines

Mustard Batons

Vichyssoise

Beef Bourgogne

Haricot Verts

Potato Gratin

Tarte Tatin

Cheese Plate

The concepts behind these dinners are that each person invited signs on to make one of the prescribed menu dishes from scratch; of course, cranked up a bit above the norm with a flourish of their own voice.

As guests arrived, we enjoyed various bottles of French wine and the cocktail of the evening titled the GOLD Standard. Made by one of our illustrious ladies who brought a package of finger tattoo mustaches for us to choose from Pepe Le Pew style, it consisted of St. Germain and pear vodka – strong enough to be a proper cocktail but sweet enough to pair well with the berets and stylish handkerchiefs that dotted the guests’ attires.

We also snacked on my mustard batons – my newest go to recipe for appetizers. They are distinctly French and are basically puff pastry breadsticks with middle sections ripe with Dijon. But because they are so easy, and the possibilities are literally endless (think raspberry jam ones for breakfast, Nutella and cacao nib dusted versions for dessert or olive oil and sea salt powdered varieties for a champagne and salad lunch!), I have become quite fond of the perpetual crowd pleasers.

I also cooked a hearty pot of vichyssoise in a countryside style where the potatoes, leeks and onions were steamed and charred with butter and herbs first to provide a smokier robustness to the normally cream intensified dish. We served this in small wine glasses so that guests to drink the starchy puree without utensils. The starch of the soup was the perfect setting for the fragrant entrée to come.

The beef Bourgogne arrived smoking hot and perfumed with a potent scent of wine on top of bacon notes from the 24 braising the meat had incurred. The delicious stew was ripe with pearl onions, baby carrots and mushrooms – all the makings for the perfect French countryside main dish. 

Alongside that were haricot verts – the green beans painstakingly split in half to expose the textural crunch of the inner seeds, apparently a major step in the classic side dish that can not be side stepped in order for it to be deserving of the term “authentic”. Sprinkled with diced almonds, it was both nutty and green tasting.

The tarte tatin, made by our tart of a host, featured pears instead of the typical apples and delighted in its novelty. Baked under a beautifully imperfect and hilly crust …

… the true caramelized heart of the dish was revealed when turned over and out on a platter. Buttery yet light, dense and sweet simultaneously, the crust provided a nice heft for the juicy and chewy fruit.

And of course … no French feast would be complete without a great cheese plate to accentuate up all the aforementioned indulgences.

I did end up eating leftover beef Bourgogne for the next two mornings, as it is the kind of dish that gets better and better as it ages.

Butter Whore-dom and Earl Grey Heaven at Hatfield's

My Cute Gardener is as fair as they come so when he told me with a smirk that Quinn Hatfield irritated the heck out of him, I knew this Hatfield man had to be a true culinary wizard. You see my boyfriend is one of the most discerning foodies I know, and although he will try anything and likes a bit of everything, there is a barometer of traits that occur when something has truly blown his mind. For instance, he giggles (something akin to lightning striking for someone as poker faced as he normally is), he curses under his breath, he starts to hold his sides to coddle the swish of his palate’s preferred overdoses of butter and fat and he is usually eating something French, Japanese or Italian inspired when all the aforementioned occurs. So when he told me he was taking me to Hatfield’s on Melrose on the eve of a recent plane trip together, I dusted off the three-inch heels for the occasion and wore my brightest red lipstick knowing that the meal would be legendary.

Without hesitation we ordered the seven course tasting meal, the obvious choice in a place where the kitchen was located next to our table like a crystalline aquarium floating with a mass assortment of chefs residing over stainless steel double boilers and complex preparation set ups surrounded by pristine white glossy bricks.

“We are going to make you work tonight,” we told the waiter as we confessed that there was nothing we wouldn’t eat.

I had previewed the menu online before we arrived so I knew that there were certain dishes that I craved with all my being and I said a little prayer that they would all be included in our tasting. And of course they were, leading to the magical ambience of the night that had me rolling over in bed later during the witching hours, clutching my sides all night where visions of sugar plums were replaced by foreign longings of new things that had passed amongst my tongue just moments earlier, highlights of which included but are not limited to:

An amuse bouche in a neat, square miniature bowl of house cured salmon, green beets, and green (yes, refreshing and surprising green!) hummus.

Raw marinated curlicues of sea bream with bits of cool corn and melon, compressed cucumber and purslane like a sweet kiss upon the lips.

A miniature Croque Madame with hamachi, prosciutto, quail egg and buerre blanc provided me with my year’s worth of saturated fat and butter, but even so, I wished I had an entire plate’s worth of the stuff after only getting two tasting sized bites to share. I would fight someone for this dish. I would spend my entire allowance on this dish. I want to go back and sit at the bar and order nothing but the popcorn I have been told about and this dish with some nice Montmartre cocktails.

Months ago, the CG laughed at me when I extolled the virtues of a sweet bread preparation at one of my favorite Palm Springs restaurants Le Vallauris. Now I know why. The one breaded in fragrant panko, curry, sugary goodness that floated, speared, atop a coconut cream soup wafting atop a fluffy bed of butternut squash flan and Japanese mushrooms was possibly the most exquisite morsel of heavenly creaminess that’s ever alit pre-melt upon my tongue to date. It makes me want to start spouting Shakespeare.

A pan seared diver scallop floated atop a slightly sweet celery root puree accentuated by candied bacon and cippolini onion.

I wish I would have snapped a photo of the chicken breast, steamed in buttermilk, and set tenderly atop a surprisingly tangy and interesting puree of celery and raisin but it disappeared down our throats too fast.  

Lamb is my favorite meat so it’s not hard to make me swoon but this preparation was so original in that the breading was date and mint encrusted, leaning it towards a candied application that made me want to lick the slices rather than chew them. I didn’t want to chew because I wanted them to sit on my tongue and melt. The CG made fun of me for knife cutting each piece into the smallest portions ever so it would last longer.

An ultra refreshing watermelon granita for dessert was topped with strawberry coulis and the bite of black pepper in the toille.

I wanted the Earl Grey milkshake more than any other dish as it is my favorite essence infused into tea and sweets and this one didn’t disappoint alongside a rich, cocoa beignet and some warm Venezuelan chocolate sauce.

It was almost sacrilegious that these grapefruit gummies were my last taste impression of the place but it only makes me want to go back again and again for more. It’s a good thing I am not more of a butter whore or I would be in serious trouble but I know that now I want to give Sycamore Kitchen a try, which is the newest Hatfield’s concoction in Los Angeles that boasts fresh pastries and lunch for a bit less of the price.