"bistro cooking" news and stories

You leave the house in the dark. You come home in the dark. It's winter, and you yearn for a lovingly-cooked meal. Why not have it ready when you get home? Why not fill your house with the rustic aromas of slow cookery?

But I have a job, or, at least a life, I can hear you murmuring to yourself, shaking your head. I don't have a personal chef. I'll just throw a Lean Cuisine in the oven.

No! Stop! Put away that freezer meal. Freezers are for summer, when you eat ice cream and whir up smoothies with fresh fruit and yogurt. Winter is for slow cookers, for Crock-Pots and baking at low, low heat and, oh, the bountiful braise. Monday, January 23, we'll be celebrating all that is slow - all our recipes will cook at low heats for several hours. Nearly all of them can be mixed early in your day and set cooking, and the flavors will combine throughout the afternoon as the dish gets more, and more, and more tender, until it is meltingly delectable, until it sings on your tongue.

Classic slow-cooked meals were invented long before the Crock-Pot trademark was ever registered. Dishes like cassoulet and baked beans and Beef Bourguignonne hearken from centuries ago. Once, everything was cooked slow. We honor our culinary heritage. We long for food that has nothing "fast" about it.

We're cooking

I picked up my lid about 30 minutes ago and the mixture hadn't even started bubbling yet. It was just... resting, warmly. I turned up the heat and now it's actually simmering. I'm headed out to get those oil-cured olives! I think I'm going to get some couscous as a side dish, that seems appropriate somehow. I'll post a wrap-up when the simmering finally concludes.

We're cooking

I pick up my wide bowl and start to pour in the wine and vegetables that marinated together with the beef for the last 24 hours. Of course, I somehow start pouring a bit before I make it to the pan. I'm not graceful even on my best of days. I have to use four or five paper towels to sop up the mess.

It's just as well, I decide, because all the wine might not have fit in my pan. That's a lot of beef, carrots, onions and wine. I set the heat to medium-low and put my big cast-iron lid on cockeyed. The smell of wine quickly permeates my home, mixing with the smell of browned beef. It's a bit overpowering, and makes me wonder how those French bistro chefs make it through their days without being a bit tipsy from the aroma alone. It's supposed to simmer for two hours? It's going to be a late dinner.  Next time I'm starting a lot earlier.

We're cooking

It takes me a long time to brown all the beef, even in my huge cast-iron pan. I need three batches and each one takes me 10 or 12 minutes to get browned on all sides. My final batch gets pretty brown because my son begs me to play ball with him in his room. No matter, it will all even out in the end.

I start to sprinkle in my herbs; thyme and bay leaves; and can't find the thyme, so just throw in a handful of Italian seasoning that includes basil, thyme and marjoram, hoping that the basil flavor will just cook away (thyme and rosemary are the rare spicese that actually hold up to long cooking times, I've learned). I add the bay and then get ready to toss in the olives.

Uh-oh. I've somehow misread the recipe. Instead of buying oil-cured olives, I bought Nicoise olives, decidedly different (but, umm, still French? does that count?). I decide to put in about a half-cup and pick up some oil-cured olives while my stew is simmering.

We're cooking

Wow. Those beef chunks have taken on a decidedly wine-colored hue after resting all day in their French table wine marinade. Some of them are purple-brown instead of red. I test my pan to make sure it's hot by letting a few drops of marinade splatter in the pan. I get a satisfying sputter from the hot oil, so I add in several pieces of beef, taking care not to crowd them.