Bleu Moon Rising

It was April of 1987, and I was boldly approaching the entrance of one of the best restaurants in the area, armed only with the innocence and arrogance of my youth. My college degree was safely tucked in the file cabinet, still smelling of fresh ink. I was starting a new life in the land of plenty, and the world was beautiful seen through my rose colored contact lenses.

My American husband’s effort to get me a job as an entrepreneur, when I was an interpreter, went unrecognized, and the opportunity to work for Delta Airlines was squashed because I could not drive. My sister-in-law laughed at me when I asked her to teach me how to process taxes, told me I should start from the beginning like any other American kid, and get a job at Mickey D’s. Tired of grueling work at Huff’s tree farm that tore the skin off my delicate piano-playing fingers, and working as a security guard at a local ski-slope making minimum wage of $4.00 an hour, I was ready to take off in a different direction. Anywhere else would be good.

The owner of Appeteaser was a CIA (no, not that CIA, where they could tell you the recipe, but then have to kill you) trained chef in his early thirties, a good-looking man of Italian and Jewish ancestry. He looked at me and gave me the job on the spot: not because I was a sophisticated European fluent in four languages; not because my college degree produced an ethereal halo around my head; not because I knew the ingredients of all mother sauces; not because my husband was a six-foot-four inch man-beast. I got a job in his restaurant because I was pretty. At the time, it did not occur to me that my looks would be enough to secure me a job in any industry. I did not consider myself particularly beautiful and tried to impress people around me with my intellect only.

The restaurant was a logistical nightmare. It was situated on the main street, spread through three floors: the basement housed the piano bar and the bakery, and first and second floors were delegated to the dining room. I had never carried a tray before, and resting it on my shoulders, with five or six heavy plates on it, trying to negotiate the steep steps winding around, was definitely a challenge. I practiced without grumbling, going up and down, balancing empty trays and yelling “Corner!” I attended wine seminars, and spent hours breaking corks in my clumsy attempts at opening a French red, until I could pull the cork out with confidence, weaving a story to distract my thirsty customers.

A new world was slowly opening in front of my eyes, and I entered it in wonderment. I stood, mesmerized, while the baker swiftly braided lemon-scented ropes of dough for challah. I tasted crunchy matchsticks of jicama carefully laid on top of mixed greens. I inhaled the anise-flavored Pernod as it hit the hot saucepan, splashing over a lobster tail basking in butter. My senses were in a perpetual state of overload, and I fell in love with food all over again.

The restaurant menu was a combination of classic and fusion dishes: Lobster Ravioli, Chicken Livers with Strawberries, Flounder with Bananas and Walnuts, Moules Marinière, Filet Mignon with Hollandaise and Asparagus… and Soufflé.

Oh, the dreaded soufflé! Each night it was a different one, and the guests had to order it when ordering dinner. Timing was crucial because it took forty-five minutes for it to bake, and we had to present it to the table in all its glory, still airy and fluffy, with tendrils of steam rising above the ramekin. We would dip the teaspoon into the sauce served in a delicate silver dish and carefully deposit a dollop of it, while breaking the golden brown skin. Only then could we let out a sigh of relief and move on.

At home, I tried to recreate some of  the dishes that impressed me the most. I fumbled in the beginning, my palate still unaccustomed to the newly-discovered flavors. I tasted the sauces with my eyes closed, trying to isolate the hints of ingredients, one by one. I went back to my stove, and started from the beginning.

I cursed a million times wishing to bring back all the moments in the past when I absent-mindedly stirred whatever was on the burner, when I mechanically added the prepared ingredients, while Mother’s voice droned on in the background, my mind wondering about random inanities like how different my life would have been  had she been named Violeta. I had a superb culinary teacher right next to me for years. And I chose to start learning only after I put the ocean between us.

At work I observed the chefs and tried to imitate their movements in slow-motion. I mastered the kitchen jargon and French culinary phrases. I had my survival skills honed enough not to ask any questions and risk a knife flung in my direction while they were behind the infamous kitchen Maginot line. Instead, I sat at the bar after work and drilled them, as soon as Mr. Hyde departed for the night and only the jovial Dr. Jekyll remained, chain-smoking and throwing back beer after beer.

I listened and I soaked up the knowledge. In time, velouté sauce ceased to intimidate me. I managed to put composed salads on the dinner table, accompanied by home-made dressings. Mussells in white wine and garlic became one of my signature dishes. And my first challah was a thing of beauty, even though my fingers lacked the dexterity of the Appeteaser’s bakers. I moved on to different pursuits of happiness, but my quest for culinary knowledge never stopped.

There remained one elusive dish I did not have the courage to tackle: the soufflé, until a few days ago, when the Daring Cooks Challenge put the fire underneath my feet, and I could not decline. I read recipe after recipe, looking for the line that would scare me, but I encountered only simplicity. I opted for a savory version by Ina Garten and delved in with the passion of the pastry chefs I admired. I whipped my egg whites to their glossy, firm peaks, folded them gently into the cooled blue cheese sauce, and poured the fluffy concotion into the buttered dish sprinkled with Parmesan. I resisted the urge to peek, and let it bake for 30 minutes, breathing in the tantalizing smells from the oven.

As soon as the timer went off, I grabbed the soufflé and took it outside to takes its photo for posterity. I caught it while still high and billowy, but in seconds it started to collapse. We had one more hour before the dinner would be ready and I placed the dish in the middle of the table.  There is nothing like the aroma of melted cheese to drag everybody out of their hidden lairs. By the time I brought out the plates and silverware, the Beasties and Husband were leaning forward in their chairs, uttering mmmmmmhs and aaaaaaahs, breathing in the cheesy steam. We could not agree which parts were tastier: the creamy, soft, yielding center, or the slightly crunchy, golden brown crust. Rubbing their tummies in obvious satisfaction, the tribe went about their usual weekend business, and I sat at the table, looking at the empty Pyrex ramekin, smiling,  ready to cut another notch on the board of my culinary successes. As a matter of fact, I am going to start collecting egg whites: there is a dark chocolate soufflé with a Grand Marnier sauce calling my name all the way from the North Main Street in Milford, Michigan, where once upon a time, Appeteaser restaurant stood.

Dave and Linda from Monkeyshines in the Kitchen chose Soufflés as our November 2010 Daring Cooks’ Challenge! Dave and Linda provided two of their own delicious recipes plus a sinfully decadent chocolate soufflé recipe adapted from Gordon Ramsay’s recipe found at the BBC Good Food website.

This is also my entry for the Real Food Wednesdays, hosted by Kelly the Kitchen Kop

BLUE CHEESE SOUFFLÉ (Ina Garten, Barefoot in Paris)

Ingredients:

• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing the dish
• 1/4 cup finely grated Parmesan, plus extra for sprinkling
• 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 1 cup scalded milk
• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
• Pinch cayenne pepper
• Pinch nutmeg
• 4 extra-large egg yolks, at room temperature
• 3 ounces good Roquefort cheese, chopped
• 5 extra-large egg whites, at room temperature
• 1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.
Butter the inside of an 8-cup souffle dish (7 1/2 inches in diameter and 3 1/4 inches deep) and sprinkle evenly with Parmesan.

Melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat. With a wooden spoon, stir in the flour and cook, stirring constantly, for 2 minutes. Off the heat, whisk in the hot milk, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon black pepper, the cayenne, and nutmeg. Cook over low heat, whisking constantly, for 1 minute, until smooth and thick.

Off the heat, while still hot, whisk in the egg yolks, one at a time. Stir in the Roquefort and the 1/4 cup of Parmesan and transfer to a large mixing bowl.

Put the egg whites, cream of tartar, and a pinch of salt in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment. Beat on low speed for 1 minute, on medium speed for 1 minute, then finally on high speed until they form firm, glossy peaks.

Whisk 1/4 of the egg whites into the cheese sauce to lighten and then fold in the rest. Pour into the souffle dish, then smooth the top. Draw a large circle on top with the spatula to help the souffle rise evenly, and place in the middle of the oven. Turn the temperature down to 375 degrees F. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes (don’t peek!) until puffed and brown. Serve immediately.