Hearts of Palm with Purée of Marrow Beans and Field Greens

One of the greatest things about The French Laundry Cookbook is the wealth of stories throughout the book. One of my favorite stories is about John Mood, the purveyor from whom The French Laundry gets their fresh hearts of palm. Mood served in Vietnam, after which he became a commercial pilot following his military service. He then bought some acreage in Hawaii and, with a business partner and fellow grower, turned his peach palm-growing hobby into a full-time business. It's the stuff dreams are made of, and I hope someday to be able to visit his farm because not only would it be a fantastic excuse to go to Hawaii, but because his farm looks so lush and green and fragrant and peaceful.

I'm sad to say that I was unable to procure fresh hearts of palm to make this dish. I tried ordering it from a number of sources as well as through a few chefs locally here in DC, but nothing panned out. I couldn't bring myself to order 100 lbs. of it (one option, and a rather expensive one at that), or wait until October when a different purveyor would have some ready and was willing to send me just 25 pounds (again, still really expensive and not too timely). So, I had to settle for canned hearts of palm and make the best of it. The good news is, even with the canned stuff, this dish is off-the-charts good, so I can't even imagine what it'll be like when I do get my butt to Hawaii someday, take over someone's kitchen, and make this there.

As you know, the dishes in The French Laundry Cookbook are served in tasting sizes. I usually have 6 - 8 people over to try what I make as part of this project, but when I made this dish, my usual crew was on vacation, out of town on business, or tied up with their kids' sports schedules. So, I thought it was a great opportunity to turn this into an entree-sized serving and invite my friend, Kerry, to lunch. Even though we live just five blocks away from one another, we hadn't gotten together in awhile, and our timing was perfect, so we enjoyed this dish for lunch (along with a few glasses of wine) and had a lovely afternoon. If you have the opportunity to schedule a lunch for two sometime soon, you might want to try this dish. You won't be disappointed.

I soaked the marrow beans overnight the night before I made the rest of the dish. That morning, I drained and rinsed them, then put them in a pot with some cold water and brought them to a simmer:

After they'd simmered for a minute or so, I removed them from the heat, drained them and rinsed them under cold water until the water ran clear. I put the beans in a medium saucepan and covered them with cold, homemade vegetable stock along with some carrot, leek, onion, and tomato as well as a bouquet garni.

I brought this to a simmer and cooked it gently for about an hour. After they'd cooled a bit, I drained the beans (saving the liquid, but discarding the veg), and set aside 3/4 C of them for the sauce.

The remaining beans (another 3/4C or so) went back into the liquid and reheated a tad while I ground some homemade brioche into fine, fine breadcrumbs.

I removed the breadcrumbs from the food processor and in their place put the hot marrow beans (I drained them and the liquid went bye-bye), which I puréed, then added the breadcrumbs back in to purée some more:

Then, I added some mascarpone cheese and kept the purée action going:

This is a point at which I debated calling Kerry and canceling lunch because I really could've just eaten this stuff with a spoon. It smelled amazing, and was so silky smooth. But alas, it was not meant to be, because there were (canned) hearts of palm to be filled with this gorgeous stuff.

Hey, at least they're cultivated and not, um, whatever the opposite of cultivated is.

I cut these hearts of palm into pieces that were 1-2" long, then hollowed them out:

Then, because I accidentally sliced my pastry bag with a knife a few weeks ago and haven't picked up a new one yet, I had to put the marrow bean filling in a ziploc bag (shame, shame, shame) cut a hole in the tip and pipe that stuff into these hollowed-out hearts of palm:
(notice how I kept that photo underexposed because it's so embarrassing?)

I put the filled hearts of palm in the fridge to chill while I prepared the bean sauce in which these hearts of palm would eventually sit.

When I bought my black truffles in the winter, I made mushroom stock and preserved one of the small truffles because I knew I'd be making this dish when black truffles were no longer available. Just as The French Laundry Cookbook instructs on page 87, I made the stock, plonked in the truffle, then stored it in the freezer. I thawed it for this dish, and kept every finger and extremity crossed that it would still be good (read: not poisonous or gastric distress-inducing) when I needed it.

It passed the smell test, for sure, and since I've already 'fessed up to loving this dish, I can tell you it passed the taste and non-sickness-inducing test as well. Whew.

To make the sauce, I put the stock in a saucepan with some sherry vinegar and brought it to a boil and reduced it by half. Then, I added minced shallots, minced black truffle, the remaining beans, and some diced heart of palm (I used the centers I'd hollowed out) and heated it until the contents of the pan were nice and warm:

I removed it from the heat and stirred in the tomato diamonds, parsley, brunoise, chives, and a tiny bit of white truffle oil and set it aside until it was time to plate:

Time to finish the hearts of palm! I dunked and dredged each of them in flour, milk and ground up panko and fried them in some canola oil in a skillet. This was a quick process, so I don't have any action shots of it (if I had done so, they'd have burned, and that would be not a very good thing).

To plate, I put a ring of chive oil on the plate (which is barely visible in the photo, if at all), on which I put the beans in sauce. I topped it with some of the hearts of palm, and garnished with the very last pea shoots I had (my chervil looked sad and droopy, so it got das boot):

I don't think I mentioned this yet, and I should be shot for not doing so, but did you know that marrow beans on their own taste a little like bacon? They do. I'm not making it up. Extra bonus points for that because it definitely added a little sumpin'-sumpin' to the dish.

The hearts of palm smelled a little farty when they were cooking so I was suspicious about how they'd taste (wouldn't you be?), but when I sliced a little bit of the heart of palm and ate it with the bean sauce? Wow wow wow wow wow! I had set aside the extra hearts of palm on a plate in the kitchen, but brought them out to the table so we could finish them right then and there. I set aside a little bit of the bean sauce and reheated it the next morning and ate it with an egg (over-easy). This dish is going into the permanent repertoire. It was a hit in every possible way, and I think this would be a great one to make if you want to try something out of the book, but haven't yet. The book even suggests a workaround in case you don't have truffle-infused mushroom stock, so there are NO EXCUSES for you not calling a friend, inviting him or her to lunch at which you will serve this and drink wine in the middle of the day and feel like a freakin' rockstar (without the heroin bender or passel of hookers, of course, unless that's your thing, in which case, get away from me).

A+ and smiley faces all around. This one's a keeper.


Up Next: Pacific Moi with Fresh Soybeans, Scallion and Radish Salad, and Soy-Temple Orange Glaze (and no, even though Moi also comes from Hawaii and is next to impossible to find on the east coast, I did not use canned Moi -- I got the fresh stuff because my fishmonger is like the Colombian drug lord of the fish kingdom and found some for me, but without all the murdering and stuff.)

Resources:
Roland Hearts of Palm
Dried marrow beans from the TPSS Co-op
Homemade vegetable stock from my freezer
King Arthur flour
Organic Valley whole milk
Edward & Sons panko
365 canola oil
Vermont Butter & Cheese Co. mascarpone
Produce from Whole Foods
Parsley from my garden
Saveurs white truffle oil
Black truffle from D'Artagnan

Music to Cook By: A little bit of Teitur and some Katy Perry. I downloaded a bunch of their music not too long ago and just dumped all of it into one big playlist. And somehow, it works to have them lumped together -- I'm not sure why. I first fell in love with Katy Perry when I heard one of her songs on the soundtrack of "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" (shut UP!), and I found out about Teitur the last time I was in LA and listened to KCRW on my little hotel room clock radio because I got sick of watching Project Runway reruns.

Read My Previous Post: French Laundry at Home Extra: Q&A with Carol, Part One

Fava Bean Agnolotti with Curry Emulsion

This is the last of the four agnolotti dishes in The French Laundry Cookbook. If you've been a long-time reader of this blog, then you know that in my first three attempts, the agnolotti looked like:

a) ravioli
b) even sadder-looking ravioli
c) oh crap, this is embarrassing

Is it killing you to not scroll down and see what this final agnolotti of mine looked like? Fine, go ahead if you must, but be warned: I will not reimburse you for any medical bills related to pasta-traumatic stress disorder when you look at them. I know a good lawyer who will protect me from all you crazy agnolotti defenders.

But let's not dwell on all things agnolotti right now. Let's talk about the rest of the dish. With all due respect to the ladies of the night, I am a whore for curry. I just love the stuff. I put curry powder in scrambled eggs, creamed spinach, stir-fry dishes, chicken salad, on steamed fish... I think next to tarragon, it's my second-favorite seasoning. I love the scent, the taste, the color, the slight bit of heat and smoke, the way it changes and is augmented by other seasonings and flavors... it's just one of my favorite things in the whole world.

Curry is calming, but not boring. It's familiar, yet still slightly exotic. It adds such a different dimension to even the most ordinary food (a.k.a. chicken), and it almost makes you feel as if you did, perhaps, Wang Chung tonight. It's always always always the thing I want to taste when I really need to unplug from work and take the night off to enjoy the comforts of home. So, I was super-psyched to be able to make this dish during a week that I've been swamped and deluged with work.

I used to get my curry powder from Adriana's Caravan when Rochelle Zabarkes had her stand in New York's Grand Central Station, but I was fresh out of that and had forgotten to order more online, so I tapped into my reserve powder from Penzey's. It's not as good as my usual stuff, but I knew it wouldn't disappoint in the flavor department.

As for the fava beans, I expected to find some at the farmers' market, but alas, no one had any. So, I drove to Balducci's where I also found the very last of the season's ramps. Bonus.

Let's get started.

The first thing I did was make the agnolotti filling. I shelled and peeled the fava beans, yielding just over a cup when all was said and done:

I blanched them in a big pot of salted water for about 4-5 minutes. I drained them and put them in an ice bath. While all that was going on, I cut a few slices of my amazing brioche, removed the crusts and made bread crumbs out of them:

By this point, the beans had cooled, so I drained them and spread them out on a pile of paper towels to further dry. Then, I added them to the food processor with the bread crumbs. I blended them together until they formed a ball (that also looked like a scoop of really green ice cream).

Then, I added some mascarpone (yum!) and a little salt. It was a lovely, smooth purée, but I have to admit I was a little put off because it smelled slightly like feet, and that scared me.

I put the finished filling into the refrigerator to cool and got started on the ramps:

I removed the leaves and stem and blanched the bulb part in a pot of salty water, ice-bathed them, then set them aside while I got to work on the pasta dough. You can see the pasta-making process here. I rolled out two thin strips, piped the filling, and tried to fold the suckers over like I was supposed to, but it just wasn't working. Not even close. So, I ended up with what might be the saddest, most pathetic agnolotti ever:

I think I need to go to agnolotti school NOW. Perhaps I can find an agnolotti summer camp to attend. Yipes. Those are sad.

I put them in the freezer while I got a pot of water to boil and also made the curry emulsion. This was the moment I'd been waiting for, and it quickly washed away all my pathetic feelings of pasta-making inadequacy.

Here's the mise en place:

I toasted the curry powder in a small pot for a minute, then added the chopped scallions and heated those for another minute or so.

Then, I added some chicken stock, cream and crème fraîche:

I brought it to a simmer, then let it reduce until there was only about a half-cup of liquid left. I then added all the butter, a tablespoon at a time. I poured that mixture into a blender, blended it for about 30 seconds and poured it through a fine-mesh strainer into a skillet where I kept it warm:

I tossed the blanched ramps in there to rewarm them, and boiled the agnolotti for about 3-4 minutes. Hey -- I think "blanched ramps" would make a great name of a band's debut album. Perhaps the great up-and-coming German heavy metal combo, Pig Feet Meat, could release Blanched Ramps featuring a single called "Ägnölöttï öf Dëth" Seriously, why am I not running my own record label, folks? Excuse me while I call Clive Davis and get right on that.

I drained the agnolotti and tossed them into the curry emulsion and mixed everything around so it was all coated in that glorious sauce. Here's the final plating:

Oh, how I wish you had Smell-o-Vision. This was exquisite. Now, I will say that I thought the pasta was slightly undercooked and a wee bit too al dente (totally my fault)... however, the dish was a hit nonetheless. The fava bean filling was fantastic -- so smooth and creamy, and didn't smell like feet at all anymore. The sauce was great, and the ramps added a nice crunchy textural element to the dish.

I'd totally make this again. It was really easy, and was hearty and solid without feeling like you'd just eaten a ton of pasta. Trust me, this would be a great dish for a dinner party if you wanted to impress your friends. I'm just sayin'... don't forget to invite me, yo, now that I'm a major recording industry executive in the making.

If you haven't tried anything from this book yet but you feel intimidated about trying this whole dish, go ahead and try the curry emulsion on its own. Drizzle it over your scrambled eggs in the morning, and then call me to tell me how awesome I am for making that suggestion.

Auditions for back-up dancers in the "Ägnölöttï öf Dëth" video will be announced soon. Bonus points for dressing like a hoochie fava bean.

Up Next: Q&A with Michael Ruhlman (who, I'm sure, is thrilled to have his name printed so closely to the words "hoochie fava bean")

Resources:
Fava beans and ramps from Balducci's
Chives and scallions from Whole Foods
Crave Brothers mascarpone
King Arthur flour
Eggs from Smith Meadows Farm
Curry powder from Penzey's
Organic Valley heavy cream
Vermont Butter and Cheese Co. crème fraîche
365 unsalted butter

Music to Cook By: My Morning Jacket; Okonos. I sort of feel like a hipster-poseur-douchebag for liking this band, but I DON'T CARE. I like this album. It's comforting, and I'm not sure why. They remind me of an album or a band from my teenage years, but I can't quite put my finger on which one it was. There's just something about their sound that I like and that is relaxing and easy to have on in the background.

Read My Previous Post: French Laundry at Home Extra -- Brioche

Salad of Globe Artichokes with Garden Herbs and Gazpacho

Well, well, well.... yesterday was fun, wasn't it? You guys were such good sports about it that I decided I'd better get a real, honest-to-craptastic food post up here lickety-split. Well, this dish really wasn't craptastic. It was sort of, um, boring. I blame myself and my utter non-sewingos..... I mean, non-caringness for artichokes. But let's not put the cart before the horse, as they say. Shall we begin? Let's shall.

It all started with me checking my trusty planning system (some nerdly spreadsheets and food-stained legal pads full of notes) and realizing that there are two dishes that use the Artichokes Barigoule, so I figured I'd better do them back-to-back and make all those dang artichokes at once. However, I also realized that my tasting crew would be cut in half due to various spring break and other travel-related absences. Thus, with my nationally recognized math prowess, I calculated that I could make one batch of Artichokes Barigoule and split them between the two dishes.... as long as I remembered to halve the ingredients of both dishes to accommodate this change. I took a Post-It note and wrote "HALF!!!" on it and plonked it on both pages of the book to remind me. My head hurts just remembering all this. Yipes.

I must confess that even though I think artichokes are lovely (and I don't hate them like I hate cilantro or soft-shell crabs) I have to say that I'm not really a big fan of the 'choke. I don't like them when they're roasted. I don't really enjoy artichoke hearts. I don't even like them with with spinach, cream and cheese in some sort of "dip"-type fashion. I do not plan to start an artichoke fan club. I will not chant "Artichokes '08!" at any political rallies. I guess I just haven't ever had a dish in which they were done really well, or that I thought to myself after eating them, "man, I gotta have me some more of them there artichokes!" So me and artichokes? Not really sittin' in a tree, if you will. Eating them, for me, tastes like what I can only imagine licking a metal sliding board must taste like.

But, I thought, if anything can get me to like artichokes, surely it will be a dish from The French Laundry Cookbook. So, when I saw fresh artichokes at the market, I knew it was time to stop procrastinating on this dish and just get it done. It's all about trying new things, right? The first step was making a batch of Artichokes Barigoule (translation: stewed artichokes) which I'd split between this dish and the Pan-Roasted Striped Bass with Artichoke Ravioli and Barigoule Vinaigrette (which I'll post about in a few days).

Here we go:

Pretty, huh?

Now, I know how to peel an artichoke, but I checked the book to make sure there wasn't a special way I needed to do it. I read and re-read the instructions and realized that if the artichokes were fresh, as these were, that the leaves woud tear off right where they needed to, and we'd be good. Thankfully, I was right.

So, I peeled the suckers right down to the softer, yellowy leaves, and then cut off the stems, peeled the base, and cut 2/3 off the top, so that all I was left with was the heart. I also scraped the hell out of the insides to get all that fuzzy shit out. That took longer than I thought it would because these guys were more fuzzy than I ever recall an artichoke being.

(Dudes, that's the mess from just ONE artichoke.
Multiply that by six and then tell me how pretty I am.)

As each of the artichokes were prepped, I squeezed each with a little fresh lemon juice. When all six were done, I submerged them in a pot of water, wine, vegetable stock, and olive oil. Then, in a separate pot, I heated some more olive oil, then progressively cooked some carrots , fennel, onions, shallots and garlic.

I removed the artichokes from the liquid they'd been sitting in and plopped them (stem side up) over the vegetables. I sprinkled them with a little kosher salt, covered the pot, and let them cook on medium heat for about 10-12 minutes. After that, I poured the liquid from pot #1 onto them, and added a bouquet garni (parsley, thyme and bay leaves all tied up in some leek leaves) and simmered them for 25 minutes.

After they'd cooked, I removed the bouquet garni and transfered the artichokes and their liquid to a separate pot so everything could cool to room temperature. When they had sufficiently cooled, I removed three of them to complete the salad:

While the artichokes were cooling, I prepped the rest of the salad ingredients. I'll spare you every single play-by-play because it was laborious, and you guys are smart, funny, and attractive enough to know how to do most of these things -- so below is a photo of the salad ingredients' mise en place, as it were:
Clockwise from the top: blanched haricots verts (the store was out of wax beans, so I subbed in more haricots verts) and carrot batons; glazed red pearl onions; glazed white pearl onions; balsamic glaze; artichokes barigoule, sliced; eggplant caviar; herb salad (parsley, chervil, chive tips, tarragon with a wee bit of olive oil); and, roasted and diced red and yellow bell peppers there in the center.

I assembled the salad the best way I could and sprinkled it with grey salt as a finishing touch. You'll notice in the title of this dish, there is mention of Gazpacho. In the recipe, it is listed as optional, so I decided not to make it. In the past year, I've developed an allergy to peppers (it sucks on soooooo many levels), and I knew I was tempting fate enough to eat the tiny bits of roasted pepper in this dish -- I didn't want to overdo it and end up in anaphylactic shock.

Here's the final plating:

It's pretty, isn't it? Honestly, it wasn't bad at all. The flavors were fresh and clean, and I didn't hate it. Still, it didn't win me over to the pro-artichoke side, like the "Oysters and Pearls" dish at Per Se turned me into an oyster lover. I actually loved this dish more for the eggplant caviar than anything else. I forgot how much I love that stuff -- and I was thrilled to have a little bit left over so I could spread it on my toast the next morning. But the artichokes? Blech. Still not loving them.

If you're an artichoke lovah, you'll probably like this dish, because they taste okay with this preparation. My tasters liked it, but again, it wasn't something that any of us were bouncing all over the dining room like Daffy Duck woo-hoo-woo-hoo-ing about.

Up Next: Pan-Roasted Striped Bass with Artichoke Ravioli and Barigoule Vinaigrette

Resources:
Produce from Whole Foods
Bogle chardonnay
Benissimo balsamic vinegar
Antica Italia olive oil

Music to Cook By: Holly Williams; The Ones We Never Knew. My friend, Claudia, turned me on to Holly (whose has quite the family lineage) a few months ago during a long, wine-fueled phone conversation in which we traded music back and forth online, and she sent me a few of Holly's tunes, after which I went to iTunes and downloaded some of her stuff. This album is raw and good and it's something I'd like to listen to with the lights low, a glass of scotch in hand, and no other distractions to take away from her lyrics and gorgeous, honest vocals. In fact, a few times I found myself stopping what I was doing in the kitchen and just listening to her sing. She's kind of a singer-songwriter/Nashville version of Lizz Wright.

Read my previous post: Roasted Guinea Fowl en Crèpinette de Byaldi with Pan Jus

Gewürztraminer-poached Moulard Duck Foie Gras with Gewürztraminer Jelly

I remember my first foie gras.

I remember what it felt like to order it and have it delivered, prep it, make it, and eat it.

I remember how good foie gras tastes with lobster.

I remember how I humiliated one foie gras by making it look like it was being served at Hooters.

I remember how delicious it is, simply roasted with some thyme, garlic and apples.

And, I remember how good it is when someone else prepares it for you in ways you can't wait to attempt yourself the next time you have a dinner party.

It's amazing to me that in the span of one year, I could go from being totally afraid to touch (let alone devein) a foie gras, to being giddy with joy to make one and feast on it, unabashedly letting the juices drip down my chin. Always the lady, am I.

That's why I'm a little more than sad that this is the last foie dish I'm making as part of French Laundry at Home. Is it my last foie gras ever? Hell no. While it will be an indulgence from time to time, I plan on continuing to make and eat foie gras because it is phenomenal, and elicits full-body smiles of pleasure from people who eat it. There recently was talk of a foie gras ban in Maryland, and believe you me, I made phone calls, sent email, and generally bitched to every legislator I know to make sure it didn't happen. The bill to ban foie gras sales in or shipping to my fine state was withdrawn, so I'm a happy camper. I can't claim responsibility for single-handedly making it happen, but I'd like to believe that I contributed toward the good mojo.

So, after having made foie gras four or five times before this last one, how did this dish fare? Well, let's just say that even though I love me some umlauts, I've never been a fan of German wine... but this dish may have changed my mind. Let's get started, shall we?



Now, I know I bitch and moan when purveyors act like jerks, or stores don't carry what they say they carry, but let me take a moment here to sing the praises of D'Artagnan. I knew going into this project that I wanted to do everything I could to support local food purveyors, and buy from as many people in person as I could. Yet, I knew it would be impossible to do that with every ingredient. So, when I began ordering from D'Artagnan, little did I know I'd be in for such a treat. Their web site is my favorite kind of porn. Wild boar bacon. Duck sausage. Scottish hare. All things I either love, or have been dying to try. Go ahead and click around their site when you have time and order something you've never tried before. Have fun with it. Experiment. Try something new. And, if you need help or have questions, their staff is so amazing. Really. I just want to sweep them up in my arms and give them a hug until their guts burst from all my squoziness. They've been such a pleasure to work with through this entire project, and their food is top-notch. Everything I've ordered from them has been the highest quality, and they've got a customer for life in me.

Okay, okay, you get it. I love D'Artagnan (even though there are no umlauts in their name). Let's talk about the dish. It's a three-day process, but worth every cotton-pickin' and foie-poachin' minute.

I unwrapped that lovely piece of foie, rinsed it under cold water, pulled apart the lobes and removed the small globules of fat from the underside of the smaller lobe.


I mixed some kosher salt, pink salt, white pepper, and sugar together in a small bowl, then sprinkled both sides of both lobes with the mixture. I put the lobes into a ziploc bag and stored them in the refrigerator overnight.


The next day, I wrapped both lobes, separately, in cheesecloth. I didn't wrap them overly tight -- just enough that they maintained their natural shape, but didn't have a whole lot of room to move around.


I put the lobes into a pot of Gerwürztraminer and water, ensuring that the liquid came up about halfway of the sides of the lobes of foie gras:


I gently raised the heat (low, to low-medium) until it got to 140 degrees. Then, I turned each lobe over and continued to heat the liquid until it had reached 170 degrees. I flipped the foie one more time, brought the heat up to 180, then turned off the flame and let the foie sit in the warm liquid for about five minutes. I removed the lobes, put them in another pot (room temperature) and poured the poaching liquid over them. I covered this new pot-au-foie (ha!) and refrigerated it overnight.

The next day, it looked like this when I took it out of the fridge:


I removed that solidified, yellow fat from the top (it was like picking candle wax off the surface), measured out a cup of the poaching liquid to make the jelly, and kept the foie in the clean liquid, returning it to the refrigerator until I was ready to serve it.

I had already soaked a sheet and a half of gelatin in cold water to soften it, and then put it in a bowl over a pot of hot water to dissolve it. I added the poaching liquid and kept whisking it until it was fully incorporated. I then put the bowl of to-be-jelly into the refrigerator for five hours, and wouldn't you know it? It never set. Didn't even come close. But guess what: I didn't care. Why? Because of this:


This is how I served it. Slices of foie (which I'd unwrapped from the cheesecloth just before serving) with grey salt and brioche croutons. I had some friends over for dinner that night, and after devouring an appetizer of roasted marrow (yum!) as they stood in the kitchen watching me cook, we moved to the dining room to stand around and feast on some foie before we sat down to enjoy the main course. And let me tell you, this was outstanding. Beyond compare. My new favorite foie preparation. If you're ever going to make foie for the first time, try it this way and you won't be sorry, I promise.

Foie gras is really rich, and I was skeptical that a sweet wine (even though it's not as sweet as a Sauternes) would just be too overpowering or competitive. I was happy to be proven wrong, because poaching it in Gewürztraminer was spot-on. Just the right amount of sweet to counterbalance the creaminess of the foie, but it's also a little bit tart (I think), so it brought out the best in the dish. I liked it both with the grey salt and without. We only had a few slices left over at the end of the night, so I wrapped them up tight, and when some friends stopped by the next day around lunchtime, we made foie gras sandwiches with the leftover brioche, slices of foie, and some mustard. It was completely decadent and indulgent, but that's one of the many reasons I love throwing myself into dishes like this. This one actually took very little time or skill or effort to do, but being able to master the art of foie gras, enjoy it as it was meant to be enjoyed, and then eat it as leftovers in a sandwich is something that a year ago I never would've imagined doing.

Foie gras may not be for everyone, but I loved every second of making this dish. I was bummed for about 3.2 seconds that the jelly didn't work, but as soon as I tasted the foie, my jelly incompetence just didn't matter anymore. Biting into the foie, on the brioche with a hint of crunch in the salt was a taste explosion in the mouth that even Willy Wonka couldn't top no matter how hard he (fictionally) tried. I guess I continue to be amazed and always grateful that just a few simple ingredients can provide such pleasure.

When I described to my friends the steps that went into making this dish, their responses ranged from "three days?" to "140 to 170 then 180 then out?" to "I'd never make it, but I'm sure glad you did." And that's another reason I love cooking food like this. It makes people happy -- me in making it, my friends as they eat it, and me again as I get to see them enjoying something I made. This dish is going into my dinner party rotation, and it's lodged in my memory banks as something really special. How awesome that my final foie dish for French Laundry at Home was this good. Whew!

Up Next: Roasted Guinea Fowl en Crèpinette de Byaldi with Pan Jus

Resources:
Foie gras from D'Artagnan
Brioche from the TPSS Co-op
Mader 2006 Gerwürztraminer

Music to Cook By: Paul Simon; Graceland. I was talking with a friend the other day about musical firsts -- the first 45 we ever bought (Shaun Cassidy). The first LP (Heart). The first 8-track (Bee Gees' version of Sgt. Pepper). The first cassette ("A Chorus Line" soundtrack). And I remembered that the first CD I ever bought was Paul Simon's "Graceland" -- back when CDs were $21.99 each and came packaged and shelved in those really tall, skinny cardboard packages. I remember hating the song "You Can Call Me Al" but wanting the CD nonetheless because I knew I'd love every other song on it. And I did. And still do. I also took the time over the three days of making this dish to listen to all the NPR podcasts I'd amassed on my iPod. Now I'm like all smart and stuff.

Read my previous post: Pear Strudel with Chestnut Cream and Pear Chips