But I'm willing to play along with Bravo's most-recent conceit, particularly when it's perpetrated by as preeminent a guest judge as Dean Fearing, of whom - before his appearance on my favorite show - I had previously heard not at all. The competitors sure had, though, and worried whispers about 'classical training' and 'James Beard Awards' percolated throughout the Top Chef kitchen faster than a lumpy mornay through a China cap.
The quickfire challenge he set our coulis contenders? To make an original dish using a prototypal variation of one of Escoffier's mother sauces. Just in case our gravy gladiators didn't know what on earth The Dean of Dallas Dining was on about, the customary knives of doom were distributed with helpful clues: espagnol, bechamel, veloute, tomate, and hollandaise. Furrowed brows, full-blown panic, and mutinous rumblings about 'putting a spin on things' ensued as the cheftestants labored for one and one-half hours to put together suitably-sauced Fearing-pleasing plates.
Dismayedly watching flour zephyrs wafting from saucepans and the furious whisking that followed, it immediately became clear to your gluten-free correspondent that a preponderance of roux were in production all over the GE monogram stovetops. I feared the worst.
Sure enough, roux were a recurring theme during the QF judging. Paul (who had earlier THd that a classic espagnol was made with tomato paste - an assertion that didn't seem quite right to me), was asked what color his roux was before he constructed his sauce. He laid a proverbial oeuf by explaining to Mr. Classically-Trained James Beard Award Winner that he hadn't, in fact, bothered to create a roux at all. Disbelief all round.
Whitney (who kept referring to her creation as 'tomato sauce') was asked, 'What roux did you use?' Her answer of 'none' was greeted with the pitying reply that a classic tomate never fails to have one. She rebelliously THd that 'I have never used a roux in my tomate nor would I ever. The judges can just go jump in a raging river of rouille!' I made that last part up, of course, but her intent was clear.
Dean's disappointments didn't end there. None of the hollandaise handlers clarified his butter before making his sauce, prompting a barely-disguised sneer from our now-disillusioned guest judge. Beverly destroyed her espagnole by adding so much soy sauce she was obliged to put very little on the plates, inviting criticism of imbalance and stinginess. Dakota's bechamel drizzled and dripped all over her dish like thin cream, much to the consternation of all. Many sauces were deemed 'over-acidic', while others were 'too sweet'. A few displayed 'good seasoning', but clearly not enough to please the judges.
The competitors were sent abashedly away to try and cook some beef for cow pokes and their gals, but even this relatively simple task proved defeating. Overdone steaks, safe sides, and insipid salads received a disenchanted 'What are they doing here?' from an incredulous HM, who finally sent home Whitney for serving raw potato gratin in 104 degree heat. Poor HM - he seemed pretty discouraged by the whole experience.
I must confess my mind was elsewhere as the bovine bother unfolded. A few comments during the quickfire and my own hazy knowledge of classical cuisine had got me to thinking about how much flour is used in the creation of traditional French sauces. Was my next trip to Paris doomed before the tickets were even booked? I'd long ago accepted that my favorite breakfast of pains aux chocolats was forevermore denied me, but was it possible I wasn't going to be able to eat dinner, either?
My usual go-to source of wisdom and knowledge, the internet, was forbidden me because Sir was hogging the family computer, futilely attempting to get his ancient copy of Company of Heroes up an running. I therefore retrieved my battered edition of the New Larousse Gastronomique (grandfathered in and therefore exempt from my dead-tree book embargo) from its hallowed place on my kitchen's Metro shelves and got to work.
It was a sobering experience. The section on sauces (not including those for desserts) in my faded blue tome extended from page 806 to 827. At an average of 16 entries per page (with a few photographs thrown in for excitement), that made for something like 320 varieties. Indeed, the introductory text explained there are almost 200 sauces to be found in classic French cuisine, not including variations (of which there are legion).
That's a lot of sauce.
Of course, the Larousse differs from Top Chef in its definition of 'mother' or 'great' sauces in a number of important ways. It divides sauces into two groups only: brown (including espagnol and tomate plus lots of others); and white (bechamel and veloute are only two examples). Hollandaise is listed as only one of dozens of compound white sauces, which also include bearnaise, butter sauces, curries, zingara, and something called ravigote, which is mind-bogglingly described as being appropriate 'for offal and US-style meat and poultry'. A quick dip into Julia revealed yet another organizing construct: she divides French sauces into white and brown (like Larousse) but lists hollandaise and tomate as their own thing. Sigh. Why is nothing ever simple? I was just about to dive into Careme when I realized I had become, as usual, distracted by minutiae.
I needed to find out how many sauces spelled certain death for gluten guerrillas such as myself!
Hollandaise I already knew was safe, since I am a dab hand with a blender version I have been using for years. Just on the off-chance that old Escoffier had a few tricks up his sleeve, I double-checked the classic recipe. Sure enough, not a molecule of gluten in sight, although I was surprised to see that lemon juice features as only a few drops for seasoning, rather than the full tablespoon I am wont to use. A few grates of nutmeg are also considered de rigeur - I shall be adjusting my strategy next time I have five egg yolks to spare.
The rest of of the news was not so rosy:
- Espagnol. There are two versions, grasse (meat) and maigre (fish). Both begin with a roux simmered with stock, to which are added mirepoix, bacon, white wine, thyme, and bay. The fish version also contains mushroom skins. Of tomato paste, there was no mention.
- Bechamel. No surprise there, as my previous understanding of roux, milk, chopped onion, thyme, bay and nutmeg went unchallenged. I was, however, surprised by the inclusion of diced veal in the classic recipe.
- Veloute. Three versions (meat, chicken, and fish), all of which are simply created from a roux and stock. Seasoning is not required, since the stock should have enough going for it in that department, although mushroom skins may be included for additional 'delicacy.'
- Tomate. Three versions (meat, meatless, or au naturel). The first two are made with a roux enriched with bacon fat and mirepoix to which are added tomatoes, garlic, a ham knuckle, bouquet garni, and stock. The third, most natural version is made - hold onto your toque blanche - without any roux at all!
I'll be damned if Whitney wasn't right after all. Of course, having been ingloriously auf'ed, she will unlikely be taking much satisfaction from her small victory - but her resistance should serve as inspiration for the wheatless warriors who will no doubt follow.
No comments:
Post a Comment