The Grandfather of all Food-bloggers....

Pierre Franey. A name that was certainly well known in the States in the seventies and eighties - and may still be now, for all I know - but which achieved little renown further afield. I first came across his 'Sixty Minute Gourmet..' books in the late eighties, I think, and what a breath of old-school fresh air they were, too! Sensible, practical, knowledgeable, down-to-earth recipes for seriously good food that could be made and consumed as part of a normal daily existence....

Franey came from a small town in Burgundy, exposed to the domestic and cultural culinary influences that would have been normal in a french country town in the pre-war years, and went on to work first at the Restaurant Thenint on the Place de la Republique in Paris, and subsequently to train at the Restaurant Drouant. Several years later, and with a Boys-Own-Story quality to it all, he found himself cooking at the French Pavilion at The New York World's Fair in 1939, and stayed on in the States as a war refugee, after France had fallen to the Germans. The forties and fifties saw him cooking at Le Pavillon, in New York, and subsequently at La Côte Basque, and then at some point in the sixties he was invited to contribute a daily food column to the newly re-vamped New York Times. Hence, his position arguably as the first foodblogger....

I think at some point he did a stint as one of the early TV chefs, but for the most part - in addition to the inevitably ephemeral columns - his output was limited to a small raft of books: something on Classic French Cooking, written in collaboration with Craig Claiborne, a couple of books produced in conjunction with Bryan Miller, who was the then restaurant critic for the New York Times, and some TV spin-offs like 'Cooking with Friends' and 'Cooking in France'. But, to my mind, his most valuable contribution were the two 'Sixty Minute' books, '60-Minute Gourmet' and, not surprisingly 'More 60-Minute Gourmet' - both of which are distillations of what he felt had been the best from his daily columns. The recipes are excellent, and the overall approach is efficient and no-nonsense: unexpected gems like a purée of Broccoli or of Green Beans - which appear inexplicably to have sunk without trace subsequently - or his myriad recipes for various shellfish, or quick and easy methods for dealing with classic and possibly otherwise daunting dishes. The second volume introduced a section on desserts - somewhat grudgingly, I suspect; he reads to me as definitely from the 'good cheese and some more red wine' school of diners. Otherwise, although all is good, the really stellar stuff comes when he writes about fish and crustaceans.

More than just his recipes, though, I find I resonate with his general approach. Having owned the book already for many years, it was only recently that I got round to reading the introduction to '60-Minute Gourmet', and found myself repeatedly tapping the page with a forefinger of solid agreement at what he was saying:

• Buy for your kitchen the best equipment you can afford; two knives will suffice to start with, rather than the whole set available - but make sure they are two good knives!
• Be organised in the way you cook: to quote Franey himself: "Always keep in mind that clutter is is distracting, a hindrance, and an enemy of time"
• Clear up as you go along...
• Always have a can of tomatoes in the cupboard, and a tube of tomato paste....
• Leftovers are a wonderful thing, and should be treated as the makings of future meals..
• Plan menus so that you aren't in the kitchen for great tranches of social time...
  

Etc, etc, etc.....

In fact, there's much in Franey's approach which reminds me of the great Doctor Pomiane himself, not least Franey's choreographed description of the steps involved in making a fish chowder, which has distinct similarities with Pomiane's famous riff in 'Cooking in Ten Minutes' that begins 'When you get home, before you even take off your coat, put a large pot of water on the stove to boil: whatever you're cooking, you'll need it at some point!"

In his introduction to 'Cuisine Rapide', one of the two books he wrote with Bryan Miller, Pierre Franey extols a style of home cooking which is 'efficient, accessible, and refined'. I think Pomiane would have approved of that, as he would have approved of Franey's clear belief - not explicitly articulated, but obvious from his writing - that good food is there not to be centre-stage but to provide the background to good conversations, good friends and the things that make life worth living.

Which is, of course, as it should be.


Tonight's Dinner:

Pasta Oscura, with an agrodolce Ragu

Salmon & Lemon Fishcakes; steamed Pak Choy

Apple and Blackberry Pies.

Savoury Zabaglione

A revelation. A lighter - and entirely foolproof - version of hollandaise, this sauce is made in only a couple of minutes. The recipe comes from the pages  of Luigi Carnacina's encyclopaedic tome on italian cooking, which I suspect has now largely sunk without trace. Technical Dept found references recently to Signor Carnacina in a list of italian 'greats', where he nestled alongside Artusi and Ada Boni... and a subsequent search on abe books led to the arrival several weeks later of this telephone directory of a book, its pages musty from decades of neglect, with the occasional illustration jumping out with all the forceful day-glo 'cheerfulness' of food photography of half a century ago.

Carnacina was a pupil of Escoffier himself, and was sufficiently well-regarded by him subsequently to become chef at Escoffier's hotel in Ostende, before also being head chef for the Italian Pavilion at a number of World Trade Fairs - including that in New York in  1939, when Pierre Franey was cooking across the way in the French Pavilion. Relative political positioning would have placed them on opposite sides in what was then happening in Europe, though, and whilst Carnacina could readily return home at the end of the event, Franey didn't have quite the same option, and chose instead, force majeur,  to remain in the States.

Currently, Carnacina represents half of the pile of 'food books' which take up the left side of my desk (the other half of the pile is Paul Bocuse's equally encyclopaedic masterwork, from the mid-seventies, which is also full of gems hitherto unknown), and I leaf through their pages at random when in retreat from the relentlessness of the computer screen.

Last night, we started dinner with Carnacina's completely delicious risotto verde,  where the base consists of a deep green purée of sautéed spinach, onion and celery, and a spoonful of ragu is mixed in at the end, along with the grated parmesan, in order to give an extra dimension to the finished dish. Excellent.

Anyway.....savoury zabaglione. It doesn't really merit being set out in recipe form, as simple and straightforward as it is - merely omit the sugar from classic zabaglione, replace marsala with white wine (or vermouth, for slightly more heft), and mix in a few tablespoons of softened butter at the end, along with a discreet amount of whatever additional flavouring ingredient you might wish to use (grated lemon or orange zest, for instance, or truffle, or finely chopped and sautéed porcini, or chopped herbs....). For a generous amount of sauce for two servings (to go with asparagus, or over chicken liver parfait) place two egg yolks in a simmertopf or double boiler and whisk over medium heat until frothy and significantly increased in volume, then add the wine (quarter cup, if using two egg yolks) and continue whisking over heat until the mixture has visibly emulsified, and the whisk leaves a distinct trail when drawn across the surface; mix in a couple of tablespoons of softened butter, and test for seasoning; add whatever flavouring you wish (or none) and serve.

Tonight's Dinner:

Parsley Ravioli, with melted butter and cheese.

Sea Bream, with Star Anise; braised cucumber.

Crepes Suzettes, filled with Creme Patissiere.

Richard Olney...

...is someone to whom I owe an apology. Several years ago - having known his name for ages, but never actually having read anything he'd written - I finally got round to investing in one of his earlier books 'Simple French Cooking', and was so underwhelmed by the first recipe of his I tried that the book went straight onto the unreachable upper shelves, and I think I wrote rather a scathing blog-post at the same time, in which I consigned him to Outer Darkness.

I shouldn't have done.

The Technical Department recently referred me to an article Olney once wrote on the subject of Bouillabaisse, in which he so perfectly captured the essence of his experience ('memory distilling the limpid blue sky and the intermingled scents of the sea air, the bouillabaisse, and the cool fruit of the wine into an abstract symbol of well-being') that we spent the next half hour reminiscing about lunches of grilled fish and sea urchins consumed in clifftop tavernas, and endless wine-filled afternoons in the Greek islands of thirty years ago, before the terrible influx of cement-mixers and mass tourism.

And so, 'Simple French Cooking' was brought down from the shelves, dusted off, and I gave it another go. Quite apart from the recipes, Olney's writing is a real pleasure...and there's a splendid section on 'improvisation' where he acknowledges the value of recipes committed to print, but at the same time says that the point of understanding the rules of cooking is so that you can make it up as you go along and work, to good effect, with whatever you have to hand (leftovers, that week's bargains in the market, whatever happens to be at the back of the fridge..). Reading between the lines, I suspect that Olney was one of that tribe of bons viveurs who lived on the smell of an oil-rag, but did so with a richness and appreciation of the truly good things in life that escapes many people who have never had to worry about how to pay the next fuel bill!

The reason for my earlier disappointment, it now seems clear, was my own fault - I'd made the mistake of choosing a recipe from his dessert section, and in practice Olney (much like Pierre Franey, and in fact probably also like Dr Pomiane himself) was not a man for desserts. His preference was clearly for some decent cheese and another bottle of good claret, and the grudging and awkward appearance of desserts in the book at all was almost certainly against his better judgement and at the insistence of of a stubborn editor.

An example of his skill can be found in the perfection of his version of scrambled eggs with cheese: 6 eggs, 3 oz grated Gruyère, and 5 fl oz of vermouth which has been simmered with 2 minced garlic cloves for half an hour beforehand, and then strained before being added to the eggs and cheese; seasoning to taste; whisk gently, whilst cooking with 2 oz of butter for ten minutes or so in a double boiler, until it has the consistency of lightly whipped cream. Serve, garnished lightly with chopped parsley.

Not grand, probably not dinner-partyable, but ye gods, is it delicious!

Tonight's Dinner:

Basil Risotto.

Lamb, stuffed with Anchovies; Fava beans à la crème.

Roast Figs and Raspberries in Port.

"Ten Minutes to Table...."

....is the latest food-media silliness to appear on a computer screen somewhere near you. But, don't worry - I wouldn't rush...

Telegraph TV - a new one on me, too - has apparently just started a series of programmes based on cooking something (only one thing, though, or at most one course) entirely from scratch in the space of ten minutes. Having looked at it, I can't even work myself up into a rant over it - frankly, it's just too feeble an idea to warrant the effort - but I don't think it should be allowed to pass without comment. Not least because it so clearly 'borrows' from Dr Pomiane's splendid 'Cooking in Ten Minutes', but doesn't have the grace to acknowledge the fact.....even to the extent that it starts, as he did, by calling for water to be boiled before you do anything else, on the basis that it's sure to be relevant for something you're going to do!

The programme format is that Xanthe Clay - she of the daft idea that you should always serve at dinner whatever wine your guests have brought, however inappropriate it might be for the menu - spends 10 minutes once a week before the camera, cooking something within that space of time, under the jaundiced gaze of Loyd Grossman (he of the irritable vowel syndrome - and a claim to being one of the culinary great and good, the basis for which has always escaped me).

And the point of all of this is what, exactly?

When Pomiane was concentrating on Ten Minutes, he was specifically addressing the constraint of having only an hour for lunch, and the need within that time to be able to produce and consume 'proper' food, as well as to have time afterwards for coffee, a cigarette and a conversation - all before having to head off back to his lab. (Some readers have even deduced that his 'conversation' included slightly more than that, and his dedication of the book to 'Madame X, asking for ten minutes of her kind attention' was actually shorthand for more appetites being satisfied at lunchtime than the purely culinary...)

Anyway, my point is, he was talking about lunch, and the reality of a demanding timetable. Xanthe - bless her - is talking about the evening...and the whole thing is a nonsense. Why would you be restricted to 'Ten' minutes in the evening? If that really is all the time you have, then open a decent bottle of claret, and tuck into a meltingly wonderful vacherin and a packet of Bath Olivers! If, as is more likely, you have more time, then the ten minute parameter is irrelevant, and instead you should follow Pierre Franey and the sixty minute gourmet approach that he so intelligently pioneered in the New York Times back in the eighties. And if you do indeed have more time, but you don't want to spend more than ten minutes of it on the agonizingly unpleasant process of cooking, because you dislike the whole thing so much, then why not do all of us a favour - yourself included - and simply order in Pizza.

The premise for this TV programme is fatuous. If you are in the least bit interested in cooking and food, and aren't on your way out to the theatre or somewhere similar, then you won't begrudge the thirty or forty minutes needed to produce two perfectly cooked courses (three in this household, as the Technical Department is convinced that less then three courses for dinner heralds the beginnning of the end of civilisation as we know it). And why would you? A glass of something chilled on the go, and Radio 4 chuntering away in the background as you work - what better way to wind down at the end of a day in the office, and as the precursor to a perfectly civilised dinner? Leaving aside the bland dreariness of the one dish I saw featured on "Ten minutes to table" - trout fillets accompanied by buttered Cucumber, and some potatoes which had been smeared with bottled Horseradish sauce - Xanthe's approach has you rushing needlessly around like a headless chicken, with only part of dinner ready at the end of it.

Why???

If you don't enjoy cooking, then reducing it to ten minutes of sweaty, stress-filled hell won't endear the process to you any more than otherwise, and if you do enjoy it, then you'll be happy to devote a sensible amount of time to doing it. Truth be told, I suspect Xanthe's time constraint is more a reflection of the size of the budget they have for cameramen than anything to do with making dinner.

Anyway, on the basis that even silliness should be equal-opportunity, here's the link- but don't say I didn't warn you!

www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink


Tonight's Dinner:

Tomato and Blue Cheese Tarts (as an amuse gueule) - less than five minutes

Ravioli with Parsley & Ricotta Stuffing, in Cream Sauce. - approx twenty minutes, start to finish, with elapsed time.

Boned Chicked, roast with Dill & Lemon Butter; Potatoes roast with Sage & Rosemary. - approx twenty minutes, ditto.

Meringue nests, with Raspberries and Passion Fruit Cream, on Strawberry coulis. - approx twenty minutes, ditto.

Recipe: Hamburger

Nothing whatsoever to do with commercially-produced junk food, this recipe is quick and easy, and bursting with flavour. Delicious served hot, as in this version with a mustard cream sauce - but arguably even more delicious served cold, the following day, after the flavours have all matured generously, when the burgers go well with a fresh salad.

This was variously derived from Pierre Franey and Marcella Hazan, with a few variations of my own which have been introduced over the years.

For four.

Ingredients: 500g ground meat (beef, lamb, or pork); half a red pepper; half a medium onion; 30g butter; 2 medium eggs; 60g freshly-grated parmesan; half a teaspoon dried thyme; salt & pepper; 2 tablespoons olive oil.

For the mustard-cream sauce: half a cup chicken stock; quarter cup of cream; generous teaspoon of dijon mustard.

Method:

1. Melt the butter in a small pan. Finely dice onion and pepper and sauté in melted butter for several minutes, until collapsed, then allow to cool.

2. Combine the onion and pepper in a bowl with the ground meat, parmesan, eggs, thyme and seasoning, to taste (I find it takes quite a lot of salt to work to my liking). Set aside in the fridge for twenty minutes or so, to firm.

3. Heat the oil in a heavy pan, large enough to sauté four burgers comfortably without them touching each other. Turn the mixture out onto a floured board, and divide it into four. Make each one into an individual patty approx 3" across and 1" thick. (If the mixture seems quite sloppy at this stage, try adding a little flour in order to make it more resilient - if the burgers aren't firm enough, they'll fall apart in cooking)

4. Carefully place the burgers in the hot oil, and cook for about seven minutes on each side. Take great care when turning them over - the egg within the mixture should have coagulated decently by this stage, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

5. Meanwhile, in a small pan, combine the stock and cream, heat to an enthusiastic simmer and reduce the combined mixture until it is of coating density; add the mustard at this stage and continue to reduce further, for several minutes, stirring, until it's quite thick. Taste for seasoning (but it shouldn't really need any)

6. Serve, with a spoonful of sauce over each burger.