Make Ahead

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.

Recently, a number of stylish kosher restaurants have opened in Paris. One is the superchic Osmose, which calls itself a fusion and health-food restaurant. When I dined there, it was packed with well-dressed young French couples who could clearly afford the steep prices. The food, prepared by French-born Jewish Tunisian chef Yoni Saada, is delicious and sophisticated. Our meal began with a long, narrow plate filled with cumin-roasted almonds, fava beans, and tiny olives, and a tasty carrot-and-mango soup served in a champagne glass. And for dessert: an extravagant plate with that now classic molten chocolate cake and little marshmallow lollipops. Molten chocolate cake began as a simple French birthday cake that everyone’s grandmother made until the Alsatian chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten accidentally undercooked one. To his surprise, the guests loved it. An instant classic was born, now found just about everywhere, even at this chic kosher restaurant in Paris. The beauty of this cake is that the batter can be made ahead, poured into a cake pan or muffin tins, refrigerated, and baked 10 minutes before serving.

The earliest known French potato dish is pommes de terre dauphinoises, which originated in Switzerland in 1600. I tasted this divine dish of scalloped potato, cheese, and milk, a specialty of the region near Annecy, at the home of Ruth Moos (see page 3), who made it as an evening dairy meal served with a salad and vegetables. Instead of covering the potatoes and the cheese with the traditional beef bouillon or broth, Ruth makes it kosher style using only cream or milk.

This is one of my favorite winter Alsatian vegetable combinations, and a common winter vegetable dish of French Jews. It is best made a day in advance and left to meld the flavors. Serve as an accompaniment to roast goose, chicken, or duck.

I tasted this simple bleeding of two green vegetables at Irene Weil’s home in Nice (see page 170). Always a big hit, it is colorful, delicious, and a perfect vegetable dish, particularly for Passover. “You can make this dish with fresh peas, green asparagus tips, fava beans—the list is endless,” said Irene.

When I met Lionel Barrieu, practically the only Jew living in Auch, a small town in the sparsely inhabited department of Gers, in the southwest of France, I thought he was an ordinary Jewish policeman. But as his story unfolded, his saga became more complicated. Lionel, who also goes by his Hebrew name, Ariel, is the grandson of a Roman Catholic Paris-born police inspector. When the Germans took over Paris in 1940, the other policemen encouraged his grandfather to help round up the Jews living in the capital. As Lionel tells the story, his grandfather smelled a rat and, not wanting to be part of this witch hunt, went underground. Lionel, in his early forties, followed in his grandfather’s footsteps, going to the police academy while also studying theology, Greek, and Latin at the University of Strasbourg. “When I discovered the biblical texts in Hebrew and French,” he told me in his office, “I realized the two Bibles were different. The Hebrew was richer and more spiritual.” After moving to Auch, he converted to Judaism with the help of the rabbi in Toulouse, about one and a half hours away, even getting circumcised at the age of thirty-nine. Today Lionel leads a Jewish life with his wife, also a police officer, who does not follow his religious practices. “I go to buy kosher meat at a little store in Toulouse,” he told me. “I feel as if I can now respect the animal.” For the Jewish Sabbath every week, which he observes, Lionel makes challah. He used to bake it on Friday, during his lunch hour, but too many police emergencies disturbed his bread-making. Now, to be extra careful, he makes it on Thursday evening, after work. One of the dishes that he missed most after taking on the obligation of keeping kosher was his meat lasagna. To satisfy his craving, he created this version, using soy milk instead of cow’s milk in the béchamel sauce. It is hearty and rich, and can fool almost anyone.

When Violette Corcos Abulafia Tapieri Budestchu makes this spice-scented lentil dish, its subtle flavors bring back memories of the Morocco of her childhood. Now, when her grandchildren or great-grandchildren prepare it, it smells like afternoons and evenings they spent when they were growing up, visiting her in her apartments in Jerusalem or near Avenue Victor Hugo in Paris. Born in Mogador, Madame “Granny” Budestchu, a fabulous cook, is descended from Kabbalists, prominent merchants, and royal counselors to the sultans and kings of Morocco. Her recipes, traveling from country to country, like the path of the Jews, can be traced back at least to twelfth-century Spain. When she makes this dish, she grinds each spice separately with the mortar and pestle that she brought with her to Paris in the 1940s, enlivening the spices with the fresh tastes of mint and cilantro leaves.

When the French make noodle kugel, it is more delicate and savory than the rich, creamy confections that Americans know. This nudel schaleth or pudding is derived from the Sabbath pudding baked in the oven overnight. Here is where linguistic immigration gets all mixed up—some call it noodle schaleth, others noodle kugel.

Michel Kalifa is one of the few butchers in France who go through the laborious process of removing the many veins in a leg of lamb, a process that is integral to koshering. Because of the difficulties in koshering a leg of lamb, most people will use the shoulder, which he loves as well. Glancing lovingly at his wife, he said, “A thigh of a woman is as nimble and light as a shoulder of lamb.” Here is an old Jewish Provençal recipe for a shoulder of lamb. Make it, as Michel Kalifa would, with a caress of garlic.

This Veal dish is a big favorite of butcher Jacques Geismar’s Jewish clientele. You can substitute matzo for the bread at Passover, and, if you like, add raisins and apples to the stuffing. This dish is popular for the Sabbath or the high holidays in France, the way brisket or stuffed turkey is in America. Try the stuffing for your next turkey.

To the Horror of chef Daniel Rose (see page 68) of Spring Restaurant in Paris, it is impossible to find an American brisket in France. It just doesn’t exist. American butchers tend to cut larger pieces of meat. Five- or six-pound briskets (poitrines) or huge rib-eye steaks (entrecôtes) are the result of sawing through the muscle or the shoulder section of the animal. French butchers, by contrast, cut around the contours of the muscles to yield more tender but much smaller pieces. French Jews tend to use a breast of veal that usually has a pocket inside it for stuffing for their brisket. In this version, Daniel applies French techniques to make a perfectly delicious brisket with a subtle hint of orange in the sauce. I always make this dish a day in advance.

“To be Jewish is to be conscious of what one says and what one does,” Jacqueline Meyer-Benichou, who cooks some of Paris’s most elegant kosher food, told me. The head of a real-estate company, with a degree from Les Beaux Arts in architecture, Jacqueline treats cooking as her avocation and considers the presentation of food to be as important as the menu. Living near branches of great gourmet stores in Paris, such as Lenôtre, she window-shops, looking at their food preparations and presentations, and tries to replicate the recipes for kosher dinners at her home. For dessert, she often fills little golden cups with soy-based iced soufflés, as Lenôtre does. “I love perfection,” she said. At Passover, Jacqueline makes beef cheeks or even veal shanks seasoned the Algerian way, with hot pepper and cilantro, and serves them as a main course, accompanied by her Algerian take on cabbage with cilantro and hot pepper. If you can’t find beef cheeks, use veal shanks, stew meat, or flanken—any slightly fatty cut will do. Slow cooking makes the meat tender and delicious. Since it tastes even better prepared a day in advance, reheat just before serving.

Alsace is the only part of France with a tradition of France with a tradition of both pork and beef charcuterie. When I asked a butcher in Strasbourg about pickelfleisch (corned beef ) and pickled tongue, he paused to think a minute. Yes, he told me, both are eaten primarily by Jewish clientele. Of that charcuterie, pickelfleisch is the crown prince. Basically corned beef cured for eight to ten days with salt, sugar, spices, and saltpeter and then baked or boiled, it is more garlicky, with more varied spices, than that in America. Try making your own corned beef. It is great fun. Eat it as is or in a choucroute garni (sauerkraut dressed with meat and potatoes).

After a recent trip to France, I told chef Daniel Boulud that I wanted to learn more about charcuterie. He suggested that I spend a day with Sylvain Gasdon, the charcutier at his newly opened Bar Boulud in New York. It turned out that some of the trends I had been noticing in French restaurants were the foundation of the menu at Bar Boulud, featuring charcuterie and lighter terrines. I asked Sylvain, who came from Paris to help Daniel, if he would teach me how to make a terrine, one for those who eschew pork. This is it!

This is one of the down-to-earth recipes Baroness Rothschild loves. When I made the dish for a friend, he said that, like stuffed cabbage, this Bohemian chicken recipe tasted better on the second day. Holding it only enhances the flavor, making it a perfect dish for Shabbat.

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.

The French love their bread, but they usually buy it in boulangeries. In many homes I visited, though, people would make a quick bread like the goat-cheese-and-apricot bread on page 145. When they had a bit more time, on a weekend morning perhaps, they would make a heartier bread and eat it throughout the week. This recipe, which I tasted at a friend’s house in Paris, is very forgiving and can withstand additions and variations. I often add bits of leftover nuts and dried fruit. Great for breakfast with goat cheese or preserves, it is also a wonderful sandwich bread.

Most Jews in France prior to the twentieth century used handwritten cookbooks passed down from mother to daughter. And since Alsace-Lorraine was under German occupation between 1871 and 1918, the majority of the Jews living there read German, using many of the dozen or so kosher cookbooks published in Germany in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Combing through these German books and her mother’s handwritten cookbook, Agar Lippmann, a caterer in Lyon, came across a recipe she had been trying to track down for years. Hutzel wecken, which literally means hat- or dome-shaped little rolls in German, is a very old Hanukkah and To B’Shevat (the new year of trees) fruitcake rarely made today. I prefer it treated more as bread, sliced very thin and served with cheese or really good butter. My guess is that the peanuts were a later addition. If you don’t have all the different dried fruits and nuts, just use what you have. The recipe is very flexible. Once, when I made it for a party, some of the guests liked it so much that, unbeknownst to me, they took home little slices hidden in paper napkins for their breakfast!

No bread form is so complety identified with Jews as the bagel, which came from eastern Europe with immigrants, mostly from/Lód´z, Poland, at the turn of the last century. Unlike American bagels, French bagels were rather like rolls that were baked but not boiled. When Euro Disney and the United States Army in Europe wanted bagels in the late seventies, they asked Joseph Korcarz, whose family ran a bakery in the Marais, to go to the United States to learn the commercial technique of boiling the dough before baking. Two older bread forms, however, might shed new light on the origins of the bagel. In the mountains of Savoie, near the Swiss border, an area with few if any Jews today, there is a specialty of the region—an ancient anise-flavored bread called riouttes, which were boiled before baking, a technique that kept the bread fresher a longer time. Riouttes might have come to the mountains with Jews or with Arabs, who make ka’ak (“bracelet” in Arabic), small, round, crispy rolls with a hole, flavored with anise and sesame seeds. Probably the oldest bagel-like roll in France, however, dating back to antiquity, is the Provençal brassado, also called brassadeau. Sweet and round, with a hole in the center, they are also first boiled and then baked, much like bagels. The word brassado is related to the Spanish and Portuguese words for the physical act of an embrace or a hug. The unusual inclusion of floral scents like orange-flower and rose water could be the influence of Jews involved in the perfume industry in Grasse. This particular recipe is an adaptation of brassados found by Martine Yana in her Trésors de la Table Juive.

Like many Moroccan Jews who came to France after Morocco became independent in 1956, Deborah Lilliane Denino, a psychologist, and her family were welcomed by the Jewish community in Strasbourg. Down the street from her apartment is a kosher bakery, grocery, and butcher shop called Délices Cacher, where she buys merguez lamb and beef sausage and other Moroccan items on which she grew up in Marrakesh. When she is busy, she asks one of her three children or the American students with the Syracuse University Junior Year Abroad program who live with her to fetch the groceries. She teaches those not familiar with a kosher kitchen about the color- coded forks, towels, and other utensils, to identify and keep separate the meat and milk dishes she cooks in her apartment. For Shabbat, this great cook with a fun- loving family always makes Moroccan challah. But because her children, who were born in Strasbourg, like soft pretzels (as do most Alsatian children—they call them bretzeln), she sets aside some of the dough, forms long fingers out of it, twists them into pretzels, and bakes them as a snack.