Poulet au Vinaigre

 

There now, that’s better, isn’t it? It feels like the world has just heaved a tremendous sigh of relief, and even those of us who tried to bury our heads in the sand and avoid the whole election drama (who, me?) feel like a very heavy weight has been lifted from our shoulders. It’s funny, since despite my best efforts to not think too much about it until the whole thing was over (including, for example, forbidding Manuel from sharing the latest poll results he devoured eagerly each morning), I seem to have been reduced to a nervous wreck by this election. On Monday afternoon, for example, I walked into a coffee shop, paid for my cafe au lait, and walked out without my purse. What’s more, I didn’t even notice until eight o’clock that night when our phone rang and it was one of the staff calling from my cell phone to let me know someone had handed it in.

It only got worse on election day, though. I couldn’t even sit still, let alone get anything useful done; all day I paced around the house like a caged animal, a growing knot of anxiety gnawing away at my belly. It felt like I imagine it would feel if if I were waiting for news of an injured loved one in the hospital, helpless and impotent. After obsessively refreshing the homepages of every major news provider and realizing that no, there really wouldn’t be any results posted until after polls had closed somewhere in the country, I did the only thing I could to take my mind off it: I made dinner.

Thankfully, the chopping, frying and simmering not only did wonders for my frazzled nerves, it also reminded me that the very dish I was making is something I’ve been meaning to tell you about ever since our trip to Lyon in June – which, now that I think about it, I never told you about either. Well, it was pretty last minute and not very long; we were asked to contribute to a publicity campaign for the beautiful Hotel Le Royal for which they asked us to ‘experience’ the city as any first-time visitors might, then write our experiences up into a kind of blog-inspired scrapbook for their website. Since Lyon is considered the gastronomic capital of France, it didn’t seem too much of a stretch to equate ‘experiencing the city’ with ‘eating’, or at least that’s how I rationalized it when we came up with an itinerary that included exactly two museums, one cathedral, and oh, seven or eight restaurants.

Well, to make a long story short, Lyon is a beautiful city, particularly in June when the lavender is blooming and the scent wafts through the narrow streets of the old town, and the architecture and cultural attractions are certainly first-rate, but really, the undisputed highlights of our trip were the restaurants, and in particular the famed bouchons. These cheerful working-class eateries, whose praises I’m certainly not the first to sing, offer little in the way of innovation or imagination, but that’s quite alright when you have a traditional cuisine as delicious as Lyon’s. We ate in four of them, I believe, which was just enough to be able to compare the various versions of quenelle de brochet (pike dumplings in crayfish sauce), saucisses aux lentilles (fat sausages with lentils), and boudin noir (blood pudding), and to decide that as delicious as all of these might be, my favorite might just be the only one I actually had a shot at recreating at home: the poulet au vinaigre, chicken in vinegar sauce.

The best analogy I can come up with for this dish is what you might come up with if you stripped a coq au vin of its embellishments, focused and clarified its flavors, and made the whole thing, well, more honest. It’s a deceptively simple dish, actually, just a plump chicken simmered for a while in a syrupy reduction of vinegar and wine, the kind of thing you might imagine a resourceful Lyonnaise housewife first threw together when the larder was nearly bare, pairing it with some humble potato puree or a hastily assembled gratin. It’s easy enough that we’re having it on at least a bi-weekly basis, but special enough that it always seems like an occasion when we do. In fact, this is one of those rare dishes that seems to be at home in just about any situation: as the centerpiece of an intmate dinner with good friends, as belly-warming fortification after an afternoon of raking leaves or shoveling snow, or even, I am happy to report, as the prelude to an evening of jubilant post-election celebration.

 

Poulet au Vinaigre (Chicken with Vinegar)

There are plenty of differing opinions on poulet au vinaigre (both in the Lyonnais version and the versions found all over France); some insist on tomato while others reject it, some use cream while others prefer butter, and some use only vinegar and no wine, so feel free to play around with the recipe if you like. What everyone seems to agree on, though, is that the sauce should be a good balance of rich and tart, and that the chicken should be a good, sturdy free-range bird, the kind that can stand up to long, slow cooking. As for accompaniment, something starchy and creamy seems to be a natural; in Lyon we had it served with a nutmegy macaroni gratin, but I find I’m partial to a bowl of good old mashed potatoes, which soak up the delicious sauce particularly well.

Source: adapted from Saveur Cooks Authentic French

1 3.5-lb (1.5kg) chicken, cut into 8 pieces (I usually use 3-4 lbs. of bone-in thighs)
salt and freshly-ground pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
6 tablespoons (90g) unsalted butter
8 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
4 medium shallots, peeled and minced
1/2 cup (125ml) red wine vinegar
1 cup (250ml) dry white wine
1 tablespoon honey
1 heaping tablespoon tomato paste
1 cup (250ml) chicken stock

Season the chicken to taste with salt and pepper. Heat the oil and 2 tablespoons (30g) of the butter in a large frying pan over medium high heat. Working in batches, brown the chicken on all sides, removing them when done and setting aside on a plate. Pour off all but a thin coating of fat from the pan.

Reduce the heat to medium and add the minced shallots and garlic and cook, stirring frequently, until slightly soft, about 5 minutes. Deglaze the pan with the vinegar and wine, add honey and scrape the browned bits off the bottom of the pan. Reduce the liquid by about one-third, about 3-5 minutes, then stir in the tomato paste. Add the stock and the browned chicken, lower the heat to medium-low and cover the pan. Simmer the chicken, turning and basting it every ten minutes or so, for about 45 minutes, or until the meat is fork-tender (I usually remove the breasts about 10-15 minutes before the thighs and legs).

Remove the chicken from the pan and set aside again. Increase the heat to medium-high, and continue cooking until the sauce is thick and glossy, about 5 minutes. Cut the remaining butter into small pieces. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk in the butter one piece at a time. Adjust the seasoning; add salt and pepper and additional vinegar if needed – it should taste rich yet tart. You can also strain the sauce at this point for a more elegant presentation, though I don’t bother. Return the chicken to the pan, turning to coat evenly with the sauce. Serve hot.

Pear-Cardamom Butter

As I get older and the past starts to meld together into one amorphous blob, I find it helps to associate each year with the most important thing that happened. So when I think back to, say, 1999, and remember that that was the year I graduated from college, and remember that 2004 was the year I got married, not only are those dates placed in context again but I can place a whole host of less important events just by association. The funny thing is, though, that I can’t always predict what the most important event of a year will be until well after it’s over. For example, it should have been a foregone conclusion that 2008 would be remembered as the year we said goodbye to Scotland and moved to Seattle, but lately I’m beginning to have my doubts. Instead, there seems a pretty good chance that it will actually become known as the year I made jam out of everything that crossed my path.

It started in April with the mandarin jam. You remember that, right? I tasted a wonderful citrus jam in Calabria and despite only having the vaguest clue what I was doing, I simmered and skimmed and ladled until I had enough glistening orange jars on my shelf to make an Italian grandmother envious. Fast forward to late July when Manuel and I were down in Portland visiting my dad, and we decided to go berry-picking one morning. Whether it was the hot sun beating down on us or the temptation of all the heavily-laden vines responsible for clouding our judgment I can’t say, but we ended up at the weigh scale with thirty-two pounds of berries, far more than any of us had intended to pick. ‘Oh don’t worry,’ I told everyone, my nonchalance surprising even me, ‘I’ll just make jam out of whatever we can’t eat.’ And indeed, the next thing I knew I had spent eight hours in the kitchen and there were sixteen pints of jam cooling on the countertop: raspberry, boysenberry, raspberry-boysenberry, boysenberry-lime, and raspberry-nectarine. “Well, I don’t think we’ll be buying any jam for the next couple of years,” my stepmother laughed nervously.

Any sane person would have probably called it a day, but gripped by some kind of pioneer waste-not-want-not fever, I found myself unable to pass a fruit display without my mind starting to run rampant over the preserving possibilities. Before I knew it I had rounded up everyone again for a visit to the U-pick peach orchards, and after picking as many Red Havens as we could carry, once again I disappeared into the kitchen before anyone could stop me. The result, needless to say, was enough jars of peach jam to see multiple households through at least one long, peachless winter.

Next up, of course, were apples, and by now I was on a roll. The first crop of galas had scarcely hit the farmer’s market when I found myself hunched over the stove again, churning out four pints of smooth, spicy apple butter. I actually was intending to make twice as much, but I had to cut the fun short when I suffered a freak jamming accident, which happened when a walnut-sized missile of boiling apple butter met the back of my hand, leaving a large and extremely painful second-degree burn (mind you I was standing four feet away at the sink at the time!). “Does this mean you’re finally going to stop making jam?” Manuel asked balefully, his eyes traveling from the overflowing pantry to my red, swollen hand. Smiling as brightly as I could through the pain, I offered him a deal: if he didn’t like what I made next, I wouldn’t preserve another thing for the rest of the year.

Luckily, though, I’d saved the best for last. I can’t say for sure whether it was thanks to the accumulated expertise of half a year of intensive jam making or just a little dumb luck, but as soon as that burn healed I whipped out a pot of pear-cardamom butter that blows every other jam I’ve made out of the water. It is SO good, I haven’t yet brought myself to give a single jar away. Even Manuel agrees; he’s plowed through two and a half jars already, spreading it on cream cheese-covered bread topped with a pinch of maldon salt. I think its simplicity is its key; with nothing but pears, lemon juice and a touch of cardamom, each of the flavors has the chance to shine, and really, if you ever needed proof that pears and cardamom have the same kind of natural affinity as, say, apples and cinnamon or tomatoes and basil, here you have it. The stuff is absolutely incredible on toast and yogurt, and if you think you’ve ever met a better match for a piece of sharp white cheddar after dinner, think again. Wars have been fought over things less delicious.

Oh dear, I think I need to make another batch.

Pear-Cardamom Butter

I’ve called for Bartletts here, since that’s what I used, but I imagine you could use just about any juicy, flavorful variety of pear. Just wait until they’re fragrant and barely yielding to the touch to get the best flavor and texture. And if you have a way to grind your own cardamom now is the time to do so; pre-ground loses its fragrance so fast it’s not even funny. If all you have is pre-ground, you may need to up the amount; taste the butter when it’s almost done and see what you think, adding a bit more if the flavor needs a boost. p.s. For an intro to fruit butters, have a look at this post.

Yield: 5-6 (8oz/250ml) jars

6 pounds (2.75kg) ripe but still firm Bartlett pears (about 10-12 pears)
3 cups (600g) sugar
6 tablespoons (90ml) lemon juice
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cardamom

Heat the oven to 225F/105C and place your jars (not the lids) inside. Wash the lids with very hot water and let them dry on a clean towel.

Peel and core the pears, and cut them into large chunks. Put them in a large nonreactive bowl with the sugar and let macerate for at least 2 hours. They should expel a lot of juice.

Pour the pears and their liquid into a large, heavy-bottomed pot. Stir in the lemon juice and cardamom. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. With a slotted spoon, skim away any scum that rises to the surface. Lower the heat to medium-low and continue to cook for about 20-25 minutes, or until the pears are completely soft and starting to fall apart. Remove from the heat and with a hand blender (or in a normal blender with the lid clamped down tightly), blend the mixture (in batches, if necessary) until smooth.

Return the pot to the heat and allow the mixture to simmer gently, stirring frequently to prevent scorching, until the butter reduces to a thick sauce, about 2 hours. It will never really ‘set’ like normal jam; to judge its consistency chill a saucer in the freezer and drop a teaspoon of hot butter on it. When it’s as thick and spreadable as you like, take it off the heat.

Pour into your hot jars, seal tightly and process according to your preferred canning method. For tips, see here.

Years ago, I told you about my spice bowl. You remember, that big glass bowl I stored my collection of spices in for the better part of seven years; the bowl that I was too embarrassed to show to any of my friends, and which filled my kitchen with a thick cloud of nose-tickling spice dust whenever I opened the cupboard it lived in? Yeah, that one. The one that was – despite the inconvenience of never being able to find what I was looking for, and of poorly-closed bags of cinnamon and sesame seeds slowly leaking their contents into the bottom of the bowl, and of frequently opting to buy a new bag of something rather than go through the effort of seeing if I already had it – the best system for storing and organizing spices I could find.

The problem was – and still is, as far as I can tell – that people who design spice racks aren’t actually people who cook. If they were, they would certainly know that a measly sixteen or twenty bottles aren’t going to cut it. I mean, I have single recipes that call for that many spices! My bare-bones minimum, the number I couldn’t even think of living without, is probably somewhere around thirty, and once you start adding the esoteric ones – the berbere, sumac and kalonji seeds, for example – well, you can see the problem. I suppose I could have bought three or four spice racks and stacked them side by side, but not only did I not have the space to do that, I didn’t want to financially support those clueless spice rack designers by buying their products in the first place.

When we moved back to the US, though, I was determined to find a better solution. I was sick and tired of that stupid bowl, but I was afraid that if I didn’t find a dedicated storage device the problem would just migrate to a drawer or shelf somewhere. My first thought was one of those trendy magnetic racks – you know, a set of clear-top magnetized tins that stick to a sheet of metal on your wall, which in theory can expand to accommodate as many tins as you need – but after nearly fainting dead on the floor of a well-known Seattle kitchenware shop when I looked at the price of one, I decided I was going to have to keep looking.

The solution I finally stumbled upon took some lateral thinking, a lot of scouring the internet, and few days of crossing fingers that everything I found would actually fit together, but in the end it is the most utterly perfect spice rack imaginable. And did I mention it only cost a fraction of what a comparable magnetic rack would have? The rack itself is an old printer’s tray from ebay, you know, one of those that used to hold type blocks for the press. The trays come in all shapes and sizes, but the one I was lucky enough to find has fifty-five – count ’em, fifty! five! – uniform rectangular compartments, each of which is just about perfectly proportioned to hold one of these four-ounce square tins. The fit is not exact, of course, and the tins stick out nearly an inch beyond the edge of their compartments, but a little foam tape here and there has filled the major gaps and seems to do a good job of keeping everything snug and tight – snug enough, even, for me to hang the whole thing on the wall, an arm’s length away from the stove, where every night I’m rediscovering the joy of adding pinches and smidgens without needing a half-hour’s advance planning.

In fact, it’s working out so well that I’m tempted to open a spice-rack design business myself and start producing them to order. Hmm, do you think there’d be any takers?

p.s. Surely I’m not the only one to hit my head against the wall for so long about spice storage – what do you guys do?