Food Processor

“I’m not much of a cook,” Michèle Weil told me as she ushered me into her charming kitchen in a residential section of Strasbourg. Fresh basil was growing on her kitchen windowsill, and paintings from the Jewish School of Paris adorned the walls. “But,” she continued, “I have to cook. All French women cook.” A full-time pediatrician and the mother of three boys, Michèle is smart enough to know she can’t do it all. On medical call before we arrived for dinner, she quickly pulled from the freezer a package of hunks of frozen salmon and cod, bought at Picard Surgelés. Then she boiled some potatoes, put the fish in the oven, and opened a carton of prepared Hollandaise sauce, which she microwaved and poured over the baked fish. Putting this together with a green salad with tomatoes and her homemade vinaigrette, she had made a quick and balanced dinner. Like all working women, Michèle has to make compromises. “My mother would never have given you frozen food,” she apologized. “But, no matter how busy I am, I would never buy desserts. I always make them,” she told me as she presented a free-form rhubarb tart that she had made before going to work. It seemed that every Jewish cook I visited in Alsace served me rhubarb, the sour-tasting sign of spring. Unlike Americans, who almost always marry tart rhubarb with strawberries and lace the two with large quantities of sugar, French cooks make a less sweet tart using only rhubarb. They peel the stalks first, which I do not. I think it might be one of those French fetishes, like always serving radishes with butter, or tomato juice with celery salt. Alsatian home cooks also serve their tart with a delicious custard topping made from cream and eggs.

This quick passover-flan recipe came recently to Paris with North African Jews and has stayed. A quick dessert usually made with canned pineapple, it is even better with fresh. Because it can be prepared two days in advance, and left in the mold until serving, the flan is popular for Sabbath-observant Jews.

During World War II , Claudine Moos’s family hid in Lyon, which was the center of the Free Zone and considered to be a slightly safer city for the Jews. One day, her father, a socialist and Resistance fighter, was distributing leaflets against the Germans at the railroad station. The French police, helped by the German SS officer Klaus Barbie, caught him and others, and they were dispatched on the last train to Auschwitz. As they were escorted away, they sang the “Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, at the top of their lungs. Claudine, who was five years old at the time, has memories of their singing voices fading off into the distance. She was raised by her mother, who had also lost her father at a young age. Despite a difficult life, having lost her father and her husband, Claudine’s mother’s last words were “Life is good.” Even in a good life, food could be a challenge. “During and after the war, food was rationed,” Claudine told me in her kitchen in Annecy. “We got ration cards for the milk and eggs. Of course there was no chocolate. I remember my mother coming home with the first tablet of chocolate she could get after the war. How excited we all were!” Regardless of the shortages during the war, chestnuts still fell from trees throughout France in autumn. This rich uncooked cake would have been made from the chestnuts that were collected on the street. The recipe comes from a handwritten cookbook that Claudine’s grandmother gave her when she got married in 1960. The original recipes were measured in interesting ways, calling for a “glass of mustard” and a “nut of butter.” Peeling chestnuts used to be a laborious task. Her grandmother would collect or buy them whole, score them a quarter of the way down, boil them to loosen the skin, and then peel them. For Claudine, it is so much easier these days to make this cake, because she can buy frozen or jarred chestnuts, already peeled. Best made a day in advance, this rich cake should be served in small portions, topped with dollops of whipped cream.

My first taste of a French applesauce tart was in a convent in Jerusalem many years ago. When I was visiting Biarritz recently in late autumn, I was delighted to taste it again, at the home of Nicole Rousso. She learned how to make the tart from her grandmother, who came from the Vosges Mountains. Nicole has a penchant for bio and healthy products, and uses fresh grapes as a sweetener in the applesauce. I love her elegant French touch of thinly slicing an apple and arranging it on top of the applesauce before baking.

Danielle Fleischmann bakes this apple cake in the same beat-up rectangular pan that her mother used. Known as a “Jewish apple cake” because oil is substituted for butter, it is called gâteau de Hannouka in France. When Danielle makes the cake, she uses very little batter, and half sweet and half tart apples, a combination that makes a really tasty version of this simple Polish cake. Although her mother grated the apples, Danielle cuts them into small chunks. I often make it in a Bundt pan and serve it sprinkled with sugar.

The first time I ate asparagus the correct way was as a student in Paris in the 1960s. Whenever I had lunch with Renée and her husband, Camille Dreyfus, a doctor who was the physician to Charles de Gaulle, I was confronted with the complexities of elegant French dining. Luckily, their butler, probably having pity on me, helped me navigate the many knives and forks, finger bowls, doilies, etc. Because a huge flower arrangement usually sat at the center of their round table, I couldn’t see how the Dreyfuses ate . . . and, fortunately for me, they couldn’t see how I ate. Once, during the asparagus season, the butler served me white-asparagus spears, which I ate with my fork, cutting them as daintily as I could. To my surprise, Dr. and Madame Dreyfus, the most proper people I knew in Paris, gingerly ate the spears, one by one, with their fingers. They then washed their hands in the finger bowls. Years later, I ate dinner in Strasbourg at the home of Pierre and Martine Bloch at the start of the local asparagus season. The minute I entered their apartment, I could smell the asparagus being steamed in the kitchen. Then Martine shared her trick for cooking white asparagus: put a little sugar in the water, to bring out the flavor.

Although potato pancakes (or latkes) go by many names in France—palets de pommes de terre, pommes dauphines, the Alsatian grumbeerkischle, and matafans, a mashed-potato latke typical of Savoie—a latke by any other name is still a latke. In Poland, these egg-free latkes are made with older potatoes, whose increased starch helps bind them together. You can just dress the traditional latke with a dollop of applesauce, or you can try a variation made with apples and sugar.

After getting reacquainted over a game of Ping-Pong with Caroline and Philippe Moos, cousins I had not seen in many years, I joined them for a dairy dinner with four of their nine children in their house in Aix-les-Bains (see page 212). The meal was delicious, consisting of a vegetable soup, an apricot tart for dessert, and this Savoyard tomato-and-cheese quiche as the main course. This is one of those great recipes in which you can substitute almost any leftover cheese you may have in your refrigerator.

The ever-popular lardon-laced quiche Lorraine is off limits for Jews who eschew pork. In an effort to adapt the regional specialty to fit their dietary limitations, the Jews of Alsace and Lorraine created this onion tart, which I find delicious. I learned how to make it from the great chef André Soltner, who, before he came to America, worked for a kosher caterer in his native Alsace. Trust me, you won’t miss the bacon.

Rashi teachers us a great deal about cooking in the eleventh century. In the Talmud a rabbi “told his attendant: roast a goose for me, and be careful of burning it.” Rashi explains that “they would roast geese in their small ovens which opened on top. The food would be suspended from the opening, which would then be sealed until the food was roasted.” One hundred fifty years ago, goose was the meat par excellence in the Jewish communities of Alsace- Lorraine and southern Germany. In my grandmother’s notes in German on roast goose, she includes a recipe for “hurt goose,” meaning goose roasted without its outer skin and the fat underneath, which of course was used to render the fat and to make gribenes, crispy rinds, my grandfather’s favorite treat. They also carefully separated the skin from the long neck, stuffed it with meat, onions, flour, and spices, and cooked it as a Sabbath delicacy. Ariane Daguin, head of D’Artagnan Foods, had me try this crispy recipe from her mother, a French- Polish Jew. To make the goose less fatty, Ariane cooks it very slowly, leaves it overnight in the kitchen so that the fat can jell, then roasts it in a hot oven to crisp the skin, the absolutely most delicious part of the goose.

Raïto, also spelled Raite or Rayte, is a very old sauce, traditionally served by Provençal Jews on Friday night over cod, either simply grilled or baked. Some people add a small whole fresh or canned anchovy, a few sprigs of fennel, and/or about 1/4 cup of chopped walnuts or almonds. Similar in taste to a puttanesca sauce, it can also be served over grilled tuna or pasta.

This delightful jewish recipe adapted from one by the famous Provençal food writer Jean-Noël Escudier in his La Véritable Cuisine Provençale et Niçoise uses matzo meal to coat the trout, which is stuffed with spinach and sorrel, or, if you like, Swiss chard. Trout was and still is found in ponds on private property in Provence and throughout France. This particular recipe is served at Passover by the Jews of Provence.

In her modern kitchen, with its sleek mauve cabinets and red-and-purple tiles, Annie Berrebi showed me how to make this landmark dish. The stew can be prepped in advance and finished with a few minutes of simmering. Annie often freezes leftover grains of cooked couscous and then pops them into the microwave before using. Unlike Moroccan Jews, who serve their food in courses as the French do, the Berrebis serve everything at once (couscous, salads, and hot sauce). During this absolutely delicious meal, Annie told me, “I miss the sun in Tunis. But I love Paris. We have made our lives here.” You can either serve the couscous, fish balls, and vegetables on different plates, as Mrs. Berrebi does, or, if you want to make a big splash, as I like to do when presenting such a grand dish, pile the couscous in a pyramid on a big serving platter, then arrange the fish balls and the vegetables around it. Ladle the broth all over, and garnish with the cilantro. Pour some extra harissa into a little bowl, and put that on the table alongside cooked salads such as carrot salad (see page 112) or a tomato salad.

One of the earliest printed recipes for stuffed fish was in a volume entitled Le Cuisinier Royal et Bourgeois by François Massialot, published in Paris in 1691. The author suggested that the fish be cleaned and the skin filled with the chopped flesh of carp, along with chopped mushrooms, perch, and the nonkosher eel. The skin of the stuffed carp was stitched or tied together, and the fish was then left to cook in an oven in a sauce of brown butter, white wine, and clear broth; it was served with mushrooms, capers, and slices of lemon. In Alsace today there is still a special stuffed fish cooked in white wine, carpe farcie à l’alsacienne, which is similar. But by and large, gefilte fish came to France with the waves of emigrants from eastern Europe. Sarah Wojakowski’s Parisian version of gefilte fish from Poland uses pike, haddock, cod, whiting, sole, and carp, and sautéed onions. Although she makes her gefilte fish into balls, she also stuffs some of the chopped-fish mixture into the head of the fish and encloses more of it in the skin. I have divided Sarah’s recipe in half, but the amounts might still be too big for you. If so, just divide them again. I have a big Seder and always give some gefilte fish away.

According to the Talmud and the French sage Rashi, beets, fish, and cloves of garlic are essential foods to honor the Sabbath. French Jews also use horseradish, sliced as a root or ground into a sauce, and served at Passover to symbolize the bitterness of slavery. It was probably in Alsace or southern Germany that the horseradish root replaced the bitter greens of more southerly climes as the bitter herbs at Passover dinner. For hundreds of years, local farmers would dig up horseradish roots and peel and grate them outdoors, by their kitchens, making sure to protect their eyes from the sting. Then they would mix the root with a little sugar and vinegar and sometimes grated beets, keeping it for their own personal use or selling it at local farmers’ markets. In 1956, Raifalsa, an Alsace-based company, began grating horseradish grown by the area’s farmers in the corner of a farm in Mietesheim, near the Vosges Mountains. A few years ago, Raifalsa, still the only manufacturer of prepared horseradish in France, agreed to produce a batch of kosher horseradish. They had the rabbi of Strasbourg come to the factory to supervise the operation, which resulted in the production of six thousand 7-ounce pots, all stamped with a certification from the Grand Rabbinat de Strasbourg. Before grating the horseradish, just remember to open a window and put on a pair of goggles.

On a recent visit to the Marais, I stopped in at Florence Finkelsztajn’s Traiteur Delicatessen, as I always do. The quarter has two Finkelsztajn delicatessens, one trimmed in yellow (Florence’s ex-husband’s) and one in blue (Florence’s—now renamed Kahn). According to Gilles Pudlowski, the gastronomic critic of Polish Jewish origin who writes the popular Pudlo restaurant guides, Florence’s store is the best place to satisfy a nostalgic craving for eastern European cooking. In addition to Central European Yiddish specialties, like herring, chopped liver, and pastrami, Florence also sells Pudlo, baked in the back of the shop. I have made her recipe, which she gave me a few years ago, and I can assure you it is delicious. Pletzl, short for Bialystoker tsibele pletzl, refers to a circular eastern European flat onion bread, often studded with poppy seeds, that came from the city of Bialystok, Poland. The bread is known in America in a smaller version as the bialy. Try it as a snack hot from the oven, or make a “big pletzl sandwich,” as Florence does. Her fillings vary as much as the different ethnicities of Jews living in Paris today: Alsatian pickelfleisch (corned beef), Romanian pastrami, Russian eggplant caviar (see page 34), North African roasted peppers, and French tomato and lettuce.

Once, I asked two-star Michelin chef Thierry Marx of Cordeillan-Bages in Pauillac, the greatest wine-producing area of France, why he uses beets in so many of his dishes—beets for color, beets for sweetness, beets for texture, and beet borscht purée. He replied that he likes to play with the flavors and shapes of his childhood, reminding him of his Jewish grandmother from Poland, who raised him in Paris. “Cooking is a transmission of love,” he told me. One wouldn’t necessarily think of the food Thierry serves in his stunning restaurant as particularly Jewish—it is so molecular, so Japanese (because of where he studied), and so French (because of where he grew up). The dining room of the château, decked out in sleek blackand-white furniture with hints of red, looks out on a vineyard laden with ripe dark grapes ready for picking. But when the bread basket arrived, it contained what looked like a miniature chocolate or poppy-seed babka. My first bite, though, told me that I had still been fooled. This trompe l’oeil was in fact a savory babka, filled with olives, anchovies, and fennel—a delicious French take on a sweet Polish and Jewish classic.

At a recent Kiddush after a Bat Mitzvah service in France, the wine was French, unlike the sweet wine usually served at American synagogues. The food was elegantly prepared, as only the French can do it: spread out on a large table were thin slices of smoked salmon on toast, eggplant rolled and filled with goat cheese, a North African sautéed-pepper salad, squash soup served in tiny cups, and celery-root rémoulade. If you have never eaten celery-root salad, then start now! And if you’ve never made mayonnaise before, it’s an exhilarating and rewarding experience that I highly recommend. Any leftover mayonnaise can be kept in a jar in the refrigerator for a few days.

This classic french potato salad is very simple. A non-Jewish version might include lardons (a type of bacon) and shallots, but instead I use a tart mayonnaise. For a North African touch, you can add sliced hard-boiled eggs and cured black olives. I often add julienned basil with the parsley, or other compatible herbs.

I once knew a very distinguished French ambassador to the United States who felt that soup was the only way to start a dinner. For Jewish people in France, the broth of a stew is often the prelude to holiday and weekday meals, whether it is an Alsatian pot-au-feu or a North African dafina. A way to give new life to leftover meat and vegetables, soup has always been the food of sustenance for poor people. When I first tasted this extraordinary soup at a dinner at the French embassy in Washington, I thought that it must have been made with good chicken broth and heavy cream, but to my surprise, it wasn’t. Francis Layrle, the ambassador’s former chef, made it with fresh vegetable broth, something he used very often for guests at the embassy who kept kosher or were vegetarians. This elegant and light soup has become one of my favorites, with its wonderful vegetarian broth that can be used as a basis for so many other soups. Those who do not keep kosher may, of course, substitute chicken broth. I have separated the ingredients for broth and soup, to facilitate making the vegetarian broth as a separate recipe for other occasions.