le bistro by any other name

10 days of french bistro class, july-september, 2009

part one

hanger steak and pommes frites at le bouchon in bucktown

bistro, bouchon, comptoir, zinc, bistroquet–in french they all mean the same thing: a place where you are going to have a quick meal. bistro cooking is an unadorned regional french style that relies upon what’s good-quality and nearby in the given climate and geographical location.

“you would certainly not hire a chef to do the cooking at a bistro,” said Chef Michel Coatrieux on the first day of french bistro class. that’s because this is quickly prepared, non-pretentious food. almost every true bistro is equipped with a grill, skillet and fryer–in addition to a cook or two who could most likely prep these dishes in their sleep. there are no menus, no need to explain the food in great detail. the recipes are fairly straightforward, and everything that comes into the kitchen is used–whether it is bread, vegetable or meat. the menu is written on a chalkboard each day, and between 15 and 35 euro will get you a full lunch, sometimes with a glass or carafe of wine.

chicken with 40 garlic cloves

sausage-stuffed brioche

each week, Chefs Michel and Harry Crane would take us through the different regions in france by way of history, geography, proximity to transportation routes and climate–and how those specific conditions affected the food and drink they could produce. then we would head to the kitchen where we quickly prepared five or six dishes for the Chef to sample and grade. the presentations were always simple; we weren’t encouraged to be overly artistic with plating. but each dish had a certain flavor, texture and consistency we were trying to achieve. “where is the butter?” Chef Crane asked on day one when we prepared grilled onglet (hanger steak) with sliced shallots and butter. “with this dish, the butter is really your sauce, so you want to be fairly liberal with it,” he said, thoughtfully running his tasting spoon through the pitiful little dribble of butter i had poured over the steak.

one of the salad courses that night was celeri remoulade–julienned and blanched celery root bound with mayonnaise and mustard. in this dish, it was the size and texture of the blanched celery root that concerned Chef most of all. “you don’t really want to grate it on a box grater because then it gets too fine,” he said, a slight southern twang coming through on “faahhne.” to save time, many of us had quickly grated the celery root into little shavings, dropped it briefly in boiling water and then tossed it in the mayonnaise dressing. i understood when i tasted the salad why the pieces should be larger. the mayonnaise clings to each piece much like sauce clings to al dente spaghetti noodles, and you get the light, fresh crunch to balance the richness of the egg- and oil-based dressing.

usually, the best way to know what we were doing right or wrong was to taste. the five extra pounds on me by september told me i had done that quite well at learning to taste, adjust and retaste–the cardinal rule of every kitchen at kendall college.

sara and kenna tasting

and the large burn scar on my left forefinger showed that i had learned a few things about prioritizing and cooking on a deadline. you can’t forget to check your meat just because you’ve started an apple tart crust. and getting flustered doesn’t get the meat out any quicker. regardless, it was a wonderful experience for a young chef who’s dreamed of seeing and tasting france since she was small. and hopefully, it will hold her off until she is able to go.