When I was first learning to cook, I worshipped cookbooks and cooking magazines. I clipped recipes, bookmarked them on blogs, constantly referred to my Giada di Laurentiis book for the exact way to do something. My food turned out fine, but it wasn’t exceptional. I distinctly remember a spinach lasagna that I made over and over again; I don’t think I would enjoy it today, but at the time, it was exactly what I needed: reminiscent of home, and not poisonous.
Those recipes came from a time when my father was obsessed with his Italian roots, and so was I. My father and I both operate in phases, and when our phases coincide — baseball, mafia movies, the Beatles, Italianness — we’re a monster machine of destruction together. When we were both living in New York and obsessed with being from Italy, I would spend way too much of his money buying specialty meat and cheese on Arthur Avenue. When I was living alone, it just made me make strange desserts out of wheatberries and try to feel nostalgic for something I had never known.
As I got more comfortable with cooking, I started to learn a different way: I learned from people who knew what they were doing, by watching, by experimenting, by trying. I’ve stopped trying to make classics of a cuisine that, in all truthfulness, is far from my reality, and am instead trying to replicate classics of one that is.
I suppose it all started in Paziols, when I was asked to replicate French classic dishes for the campers to taste and try. I searched for recipes for coq au vin, gratin and quiche Lorraine online and doubled and tripled them to feed 20. When I came back to Paris, it was back to my regular repertoire of vegetarian dishes made of légumes that could maybe kind of be called stews, with an occasional pasta or rice dish, my brushes with classic roast chicken and pot au feu forgotten.
I’m not exactly sure what made me want to start making the classics again — I think it was the simple fact of having the ingredients so close to me. One week, beef for boeuf bourguignon was on sale, so I bought it on a whim. The next, my favorite cheese man at the market was selling half-rounds of Reblochon for 2 euros. I bought one, walked a couple of steps to the butcher and asked for lardons.
“J’ai du lard. Je vous coupe des lardons ?” He asked, and when I said yes, he whipped out a giant knife and cut thick strips of fatty bacon into tiny little pieces to use in this dish.
The Country Boy is fairly impressed with my versions of his favorites, the nostalgic cuisine of his childhood. I change things, adding carrots to my boeuf bourguignon and removing the mushrooms and tiny onions, or baking my tartiflette a bit less so that the cream remains liquidy and leaving the skins on the potatoes. He doesn’t seem to mind.
Tartiflette
600 grams potatoes
1 onion
100 grams lardons or bacon cut into thin strips
6 Tbsp. crème fraiche or heavy cream
250 g. Reblochon cheese (1/2 cheese)
Fill a pot with cold water and place the potatoes in it. Bring the water to a simmer and cook for 20 minutes, until the potatoes are just fork-tender.
Meanwhile, slice the onion into thin slices. If using bacon, cut into short, narrow strips, about 1 centimeter wide and 1 inch long. Cook together over medium heat in a frying pan, stirring occasionally.
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.
When the potatoes are cooked, run cold water over them until they are just cool enough to handle. Slice into thick discs.
Spread about 1 Tbsp. of cream into the bottom of a small baking dish (9in x 9in or similar size). Arrange a layer of potatoes over the layer of cream. Pour the bacon and onion mixture over this layer, then cover with most of the cream, reserving about a tablespoon. Cover with the rest of the potatoes and the rest of the cream.
Slice the cheese in half to open like a book, and place each of the halves, cut side down, over the potatoes. (Real Reblochon will have a small wax circle embedded in the cheese. This should be removed.
Bake for about 20 minutes, until the cheese is melted and slightly browned on the top. Serve with green salad.