As Thanksgiving 1972 approached, the tone of chatter among students awaiting entry into the demonstration room at the old Rue du Champs-de-Mars location of Le Cordon Bleu grew increasingly despondent. A pervasive sense of homesickness permeated the usual banter about cheap Paris restaurants and survival tips, with many bemoaning their absence from distant homes and families across the Atlantic.
We were a motley crew of foreigners, mostly Americans, with a good sprinkling of other nationalities, all united by our eagerness to learn the techniques of French cuisine at the legendary, if by then somewhat tarnished, culinary school. Some had professional experience or aspirations, but many us just loved to cook and were trying to figure out what to do next with our lives.
We met and bonded with our fellow students, learning their stories, during those long waits in the school’s cramped vestibule, positioning ourselves for decent seats to watch the daily chef’s demonstration. Those were the days before the school finally installed mirrors for those in the back to see the chef’s intricate choreography and allowed student volunteers to translate his commentary from French into English for their primarily non-French speaking colleagues. That eased the constant questions about quantities, ingredients and directions we had to scribble down, since no written recipes were provided.
Yet what to do about Thanksgiving, that most American of holidays, while living in the French capital, without easy access to stuffed turkey, cranberries and pumpkin pie?
The following day, over the wine-fueled lunch we’d prepared during our practical cooking class, my good friend Fran Johnson cooked up a plan: Why don’t we put together a real Thanksgiving dinner and bring everyone together at her apartment?
Fran was not the typical late-teens and 20-something Cordon Bleu student. A vibrant, impeccably dressed woman in her late 40s with four children, the youngest of whom came to Paris with her, she was pursuing her dream of attending Cordon Bleu. She’d recently separated from her U.S. Army colonel husband. During an earlier posting in the Loire Valley, she’d developed her ion for French culture and cuisine and acquired her fluent but heavily Alabama-accented French. Everyone fell under this warm and loving woman’s spell, as she gathered and nurtured all us strays. The accent that once seemed so off-putting quickly became essential to her charm.
Unlike most students, Fran had an apartment near the school in the chic 7th arrondissement with a well-equipped kitchen, including a respectably large refrigerator and even an American gas range. It was perfectly sized for cooking a massive turkey. We all loved visiting her and testing recipes in her kitchen. Those of us fortunate enough to find decent, well-located apartments on a student’s budget couldn’t be picky about our kitchens, which rarely had more than a two-burner hot plate for cooking, no oven and only a small refrigerator.
What began as a small gathering rapidly morphed into a joyous, large celebration. Fran, through her husband, had embassy privileges and secured a 30-pound turkey from the embassy commissary. With her innate generosity, those plans expanded to providing the stuffing and anything else she could secure at the commissary that the rest of us couldn’t find in local shops.
Fran was in despair that she could find only canned cranberry sauce, no fresh cranberries. She also picked up cans of pumpkin, which she blended with French crème fraîche and freshly ground spices, pouring the custard into pâte sablée pastry crusts rolled out on her marble-topped antique washstand.
All of us guests contributed to the feast, bringing both food and wine. I volunteered to provide sweet potatoes, since I had seen patates douces for sale in the well-stocked food hall (now La Grande Epicerie de Paris) of Le Bon Marché, the ancient department store near my apartment off the Rue de Sèvres. Good idea gone wrong!
While the name translated to “sweet potatoes” those tubers bore no resemblance to the bright orange potatoes I’d planned to prepare. My friends Anne-Marie and Ellen teamed with me to attempt a rescue, slathering them with butter, brown sugar, red and yellow food coloring and any seasoning we could imagine to improve their flavor. They still looked awful, tasted worse and were eminently forgettable.
Since many students who came for the short six- or 12-week sessions stayed in nearby Left Bank hotels or pensions without cooking facilities, many of their offerings came from neighborhood charcuteries and bakeries, providing delicious pâtés, salads, side dishes, breads and pastries. Among those salads were carottes râpées, which in our butchered Franglais we called “raped carrots.”
Our party turned into a grand, joyous gathering, with wine and spirits flowing throughout that Thanksgiving evening. About 40 to 50 people, including two teenage Cordon Bleu chef’s assistants Fran mentored, the building’s concièrge and her two policier (police officer) pals, packed into her two-bedroom railroad flat. Many hung out in the kitchen, adding finishing touches to their dishes, including a memorable rice pudding, saturated with dark rum, made from Anne-Marie’s Greek family recipe. Others tried out dishes learned in class, including pommes Anna and variations on classic chocolate mousse.
Fran invited all her French neighbors residing in the ancient stone maison particulier, long since subdivided into individual apartments. That proved fortuitous because she discovered when checking the turkey that the gas had gone out in her oven and she couldn’t get it restarted. Her fourth-floor neighbors whisked the imposing stuffed bird up three flights to their home and completed baking it there.
By the time we finished dining on Fran’s succulent stuffed turkey and all the trimmings, there wasn’t a homesick body in the house. And, thanks to freely flowing wine and spirits, we were all speaking surprisingly fluent French.
Pommes Anna
This classic French dish was created by chef Adolphe Dugléré of Paris’ Café Anglais in the mid-19th century to honor a prominent Paris courtesan. It produces the best results with starchy russet or Yukon Gold potatoes and clarified butter. The starch helps the layers of potato slices stick together like a cake.
Choose round or cylindrically shaped potatoes and, if using a food processor, be prepared to trim them to fit the feed tube. Alternatively, use a mandoline or the cutting blade of a box grater. Do NOT soak the potatoes after slicing to prevent loss of starch. Be patient and prepared to work quickly and use the potatoes right after slicing; any discoloration will be hidden by cooking.
Select the most uniform slices for the first, visible layer. Use clarified butter to reduce chances of burning and presence of dark specks. You can buy clarified butter, also known as ghee, at many stores, including Trader Joe’s, or make it by melting unsalted butter and skimming off the milk solids. Cook at medium low to prevent burning.
Making Pommes Anna in an ovenproof 10-inch heavy nonstick skillet (or a well-seasoned iron skillet) makes it easier to unmold. Easier still, consider unmolding it onto the bottom of a cookie tray covered in buttered foil and then sliding it onto a serving dish. Be careful not to burn yourself on the hot skillet handle.
If the result is not as attractive as anticipated, sprinkle with cheese and melt the cheese under the broiler.
Makes 6 to 8 servings
6 to 8 tablespoons clarified butter or ghee
2 1/2 to 3 pounds russet (3 large) or Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
3/4 to 1 teaspoon salt, to taste
Freshly ground pepper, to taste
Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Melt clarified butter and set aside. Working quickly, slice potatoes 1/16-inch to 1/8-inch thick and place in a bowl. Coat sliced potatoes with 1 to 2 tablespoons melted butter to slow discoloration.
Place 1 tablespoon butter and 1 tablespoon oil in 10-inch nonstick skillet over medium-low heat. Immediately begin arranging potato slices and start timing the cooking for 30 minutes. Place one round slice in the center and then overlap slices in concentric circles, using the prettiest slices on the first layer, covering the pan. Sprinkle with a scant 1/4 teaspoon salt and pepper and drizzle with butter. Make a second and third layer, adding salt, pepper and butter after each layer, until all slices are used.
Butter the bottom of a 9-inch cake pan. When 30 minutes have elapsed from the start of cooking, press the bottom of the cake pan on the potatoes and compress firmly. Remove the cake pan, cover the skillet (a buttered piece of foil works) and place it in the oven. Bake for about 15 minutes, until the potatoes are tender when a knife is inserted and the exterior rim of the potatoes is golden. Remove the cover and bake another 10 minutes.
Remove from oven and, again compressing the potatoes with the cake pan, and drain off excess butter. Invert the pan onto a serving dish, or onto a foil-covered inverted cookie sheet and then carefully slide onto a serving dish. This can stay warm in a low-heat oven or over hot water for about 30 minutes before serving.
Carottes Râpèes
This classic French salad — which we always called “raped carrots” — was one of my favorites at my local charcuteries and I frequently duplicated it at home. To grate the carrots use a medium-fine grater blade on a food processor or a hand-cranked food mill.
Makes 4 to 8 servings
1 pound carrots, peeled
1/2 to 1 bunch parsley, leaves only, finely chopped
1/2 to 1 cup vinaigrette (recipe follows)
1 lemon, cut in half round slices
Grate carrots with a medium-fine blade of a food processor or food mill and place in a medium bowl. Add a handful of chopped parsley and vinaigrette, to taste, and mix well. Place covered in the refrigerator for a minimum 1 hour or overnight (longer is better) to marinate.
Arrange in a serving bowl. Sprinkle with more chopped parsley and garnish with lemon slices.
Vinaigrette
Makes 1 cup
1/4 cup fine wine vinegar
3/4 cup olive or salad oil, to taste
l to 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard, to taste
1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper, or to taste
1 teaspoon sugar
Whisk all ingredients together in a small bowl and adjust seasoning.
Mousse Au Chocolat a l’Orange
At Cordon Bleu we made this unflavored, but I always preferred the chocolate enhanced by orange, rum or coffee flavorings. I still beat my egg whites by hand in a copper bowl, as I learned at Cordon Bleu, but if you don’t have a copper bowl, replace its acidity with a scant 1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar or 1/4 teaspoon lemon juice or white vinegar per egg white to stabilize the beaten whites.
Makes 4 to 6 servings
3 1/2 ounces semi-sweet chocolate, the best possible quality
3 eggs, separated
2 1/2 ounces (5 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut in small pieces
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 to 2 tablespoons Grand Marnier, Cointreau, rum or strong coffee or liqueur (optional)
Pinch of salt
1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar (optional)
Crystalized violets or orange peel for garnish
Melt chocolate in a medium to large bowl over hot water. Remove from heat. Add egg yolks to chocolate and mix well. With a whisk, beat in butter, placing over hot water if necessary to melt the butter. Stir in vanilla and liqueur. In a separate bowl, beat egg whites with a pinch of salt and optional cream of tartar until they form stiff peaks but aren’t dry.
Mix a large spoonful of the egg whites into the chocolate mixture to lighten the mixture before gently folding in the remaining whites, mixing only enough to combine.
Gently turn into a medium serving bowl, distributing evenly. Decorate as desired. Chill 1 to 2 hours before serving. (This also freezes well.)
Sours Larson is a San Diego freelance writer.
