Len Deighton’s French Cooking for Men: 50 Classic Cookstrips for Today’s Action Men

304 Pages·2010·45.85 MB·English

by  Len Deighton

LEN DEIGHTON’S
FRENCH COOKING FOR MEN
COPYRIGHT
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This edition 2010
First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books Ltd 1965
Copyright © Len Deighton 1965, 1979, 1990, 1997
Preface, Acknowledgement and Note copyright © Pluriform Publishing Company BV 2010
Cover designer’s note © Arnold Schwartzman 2010
Revised from Où est le garlic, published 1965, Basic French Cooking, published 1979, and Basic French
Cookery Course, published 1990
Len Deighton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this
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PRAISE FOR ACTION COOK BOOK:
‘Len Deighton’s Action Cook Book is not a good cookbook. It is a shockingly
good cookbook’
Village Voice
‘How does one go about achieving some Harry Palmer style? Details first.
Remember, Palmer is a gourmet, so get hold of the Len Deighton Action Cook
Book’
GQ magazine
‘[Len Deighton’s cookbooks] have attracted cult following for their brilliant
design as much as for their comprehensive approach to cooking… his
democratising, demystifying approach couldn’t be more appropriate’
Guardian
‘Cooking as I’d never seen it: fun, cheeky, male and promising the awesome
prospect of sex… The taut clarity of Deighton’s writing, his encyclopaedic
knowledge and attention to detail… The prose reads like Dashiell Hammett
channelling Brillat-Savarin’
Waitrose Food Illustrated ‘They showed the idiot novice male how to dice an
onion without it falling apart; how to fine-cut parsley by rocking the blade rather
than chopping it; how to sauté mushrooms without them yielding the water that
would turn them into gelatinous glop’
SIMON SCHAMA
PREFACE TO THE 2010 EDITION
My first visit to France was in 1946. I went by Green Arrow train to Paris (this
was the economy version of the Golden Arrow train). I was very young and I
had never left Britain before. My father had only agreed to my trip because I was
to be met off the train by friends. But in the chaos of post-war France those
friends had been ordered to duty elsewhere.
I stepped down from the train into a world different to anything I had seen
before. I began shoving my way through a thousand soldiers and all the lawless
low-life that flocked to railway terminals in those days. Above the babel of
foriegn voices, shouts and whistles punctuated the hisses and growls of steam
locomotives. Porters yelling ‘gare!’ forced a way through the crowds, their
trolleys piled high with baggage. I was conspicuous in my civvy clothes for
everyone had some sort of uniform, and most of them were burdened with packs
and helmets and kitbags and rifles. Even the air was different in France; it
smelled of Gauloises and garlic, and of the ersatz acorn coffee that had become
the national beverage. I waited under the clock for a long time but eventually I
picked up my suitcase and turned to the street with that youthful confidence that
only ignorance provides.
My ten days in Paris brought scrapes and encounters that could fill a book. A
wide-eyed and curious teenager, I drank it all in with amazement. I don’t
remember why I chose the Grand Hotel de I’Orient, near Place Blanche. I
suppose I must have spotted its imposing name, and economical rates, on a
poster or advertisement. In this bohemian neighbourhood the hotel and its
residents were unconventional to say the least. I secured the cheapest room. The
narrow creaky staircase took me to the top landing and a garret just big enough
to hold a metal frame bed, a battered wardrobe and a Thonet chair. I opened the
window to see the bent and broken rooftops of Paris. I recalled that classic Jean
Gabin film Le jour se lève. Does that hotel and that room still exist? I have
resolved time and time again to go back and find it. But searching for one’s
dreams can be a way to find nightmares.
Paris was spread out before me. I shivered with delight. But I was a boy with
a mission. I didn’t know much about France or French cooking but I had read
that the greatest restaurant in the world was here. It was named the Tour
d’Argent and it served a famous dish of roast duck. The crispy breast is served as
the first course. To make a sauce for it a vast silver-plated press is used to
squeeze the juices from the remaining carcass. It is followed by the leg and a
simple green salad. It was just the sort of performance I was ready for. I went to
the restaurant and sat alone while a sad-eyed waiter regretfully explained that a
duck could not be split. It was served for two people. Recklessness overcame my
disappointment, and I told him to pretend I was two people. He brightened and
seemed delighted to go through the rituals, so that I had four courses, each
served with a grave formality that such food deserves. When I was half-way
through the second elaborate ceremony with the duck press, two Americans
stopped at my table to tell me that they had decided that they had never seen
anyone so happy as I clearly was. The waiter was happy too. Instead of a tip I
gave him a packet of twenty Players cigarettes. (Although a non-smoker myself I
knew that English cigarettes were a valuable currency in Paris.) To show his
pleasure he took me on a conducted tour of the kitchen and went label by label
through the bins in the famous wine cellars.
That was my introduction to French Cooking. Over the years I have pursued
my interest in this discipline both as cook and as consumer. As an art student in
the nineteen fifties, I spent my vacations working in many kitchens large and
small and made many good friends among the fraternity of chefs.
When my wife’s parents retired they moved to a village in Provence. We had
visited them frequently in Paris, and now our focus moved to the south. This
lovely region, like most other parts of France, has its own style of cooking and
there were lessons to be learned every day. We rented a house and our children
attended the primary school in Plascassier. It was a joyful time. Our neighbours
were welcoming and kind and, in the village school, the head teacher – M.
Guglielmero – his staff and the helpers were saintly. Surrounding this lovely old
building there were fields of jasmine, grown for the perfume industry in nearby
Grasse. Each morning the head stood at the entrance and greeted each and every
arriving pupil personally. No child was ever late; the pupils were keen to learn;
the teaching was excellent; even better from our point of view, no one there
could speak English. ‘Yes, of course; just like circus people,’ said the
imperturbable headmaster when my mother-in-law asked if he could find room
for two little boys who could speak no French. He separated the boys into
different classes and assigned to each, a companion who would proudly guide
and instruct his foreigner. M. Guglielmero employed professional skills at which
I still marvel. The two assigned companions were not the students from the top
of the class; they were the school’s most popular boys. With these two lively
extroverts to guide them, my sons had instant membership of the whole school,
and made friends for life. In this amiable environment they learned to speak
French indistinguishable from that of local children. To complete the perfection,
staff and children all sat together at lunch and enjoyed the same good French
cooking. No wonder the French education system is the best, and most effective,
in the world.
We all acquired the vocabulary and attempted the techniques of French
cooking. It affected our tastes and our kitchen skills ever after. Nowadays my
wife and my sons have left me behind in their expertise. They are more precise
and careful than I am, and cooking is at its best when measured and monitored.
My sons have taken my interest in the chemistry and physics of cooking and
pursued it far beyond my own knowledge. Precision scales and thermometers are
as essential to them as wooden spoons and sharp knives. This brings me to the
question: why this book is called French Cooking for Men. My answer is that
when I tell men that it is important to remember that you can open an oven and
hold your hand inside when the air is at 300º F but if you put your hand into
boiling water (only 212º F) you will be severely burned, men are likely to nod
and say ‘yes’. But when I tell ladies this they are likely to reply: ‘OK, Len. But
where’s the recipe?’
No, I’m only kidding. The real motive is the hope that the ladies will want to
know what I am telling the blokes.
L.D.
TABLE DES MATIERES
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
Preface to the 2010 edition
Cover Designer’s Note
Introduction
L’Art culinaire. Applying heat to food, or if you’ll pardon the word, cooking
Les Viandes. Words and diagrams compare English and French butchery and
suggest ways of cooking the cuts
Les Fromages. Cheeses: buying them, serving them and eating them
Les Corps gras. Various kinds of fats to do different jobs
La Carte des vins, Champagne et autres alcools. The simplest of simple
guides to a wine list and notes on other drinks from Evian to Champagne and
back by way of Cognac
La Cuisine française et le froid. Those that cook and store away …
Le Lexique et le menu. French and English culinary words.
Le Menu. Planning it and reading it.
La Batterie de cuisine. Pots and pans and serving dishes with drawings of them
La Carte des sauces. A complete description of French sauces in chart form
Le Garde-Manger. Beans, rice and pasta
50 Cookstrips. Basic French cooking in 50 simple lessons
Index
Notes
Acknowledgements and Note
Keep Reading
About the Author
Other Books By
About the Publisher
COOKSTRIPS Nos 1–50
1 Measuring heat & bulk
2 Slicing vegetables
3 Cooking operations
4 Cooking operations
5 Flavourings
6 Potage Parmentier
7 Fumet de Poisson au VinBlanc
8 White Stock
9 Fonds Brun
10 Pot-au-Feu
11 Consommé
12 Aspic
13 Sauce Hollandaise Sauce Béarnaise
14 Mayonnaise
15 Vinaigrette
16 Omelette
17 Pâte Brisée
18 Crème Pâtissière
19 Gratins
20 The Soufflé
21 Choux Pastry
22 Quenelles