The French Butter Cookies That Almost Weren't

A few days ago I decided that I wanted to bake French butter cookies. This is probably a residual effect of having purchased a box of Pierre Biscuiterie's French Pure Butter Cookies on a previous Saturday afternoon to take to a friend's house. Who am I kidding? I know it's a residual effect because on the Monday afternoon following, while doing my own grocery shopping for the week, I bought a box of 12 Palets au beurre French shortbreads from St. Michel.

Having made up my mind that French butter cookies would be the next French recipe that I tackled, the first thing I did was consult Mastering The Art Of French Cooking. Would you believe there is no butter cookie recipe? I was surprised. Julia Child includes a sugar cookie recipe but no butter cookie. (While we’re on this subject, there’s no macaron recipe either. Weird!) Undeterred, I Googled "french butter cookie recipe." I looked at four different ones, including the one from Martha Stewart, before deciding that the first recipe I’d read was the one for me. I guess it made a good impression.

The website from which I found this recipe informed me that, "These French butter cookies [are] also known as sablés,” (which translates to shortbread and originates in the commune of Sablé-sur-Sarthe in the Pays de la Loire region of France) and that they "are possibly the most widely enjoyed cookie in France." I was also informed that the French appear to hold them as dear to their hearts as we Americans hold chocolate chip cookies. Who knew? I’ve been to Paris three times in the last four years, and I must confess, I've never had a butter cookie. I've had plenty of pains au chocolat and crème brûlées. I've had des éclairs and une glace à la pistache. I've even indulged in beaucoup de chocolat. And don’t even ask me how many macarons que j’ai mangés. How have I missed the butter cookies? Maybe they’re more popular outside of Paris? Or maybe I’m just regrettably uninformed. Goals!

I wondered what gave these cookies the distinction of being French, but I didn't bother to explore it. I just decided to accept the recipe for what it said it was and to embark upon the journey toward the anticipated sweet reward at the end of my francophile dreams. Shortbread here I come!

It seemed simple enough: butter, sugar, egg yolks, vanilla extract, flour. I had never made a shortbread dough before, but I felt that I could do it. How hard could it be? I had step by step instructions and, as long as I added the ingredients in the right measurements at the right time, I should end up with cookies.

So, you may be asking yourself: Is he really going to tell us about making a simple butter cookie? Yes, dear reader, I am. I’m going to tell you because, well, I’m me, and, as per usual, fear reared its ugly head and there was a hefty dash of comedy instead of salt.

Intimidation is a fear tactic. And fear is bullshit. (One day I will learn this.) As much as I wanted to bake these cookies, my excitement to make them couldn’t subdue the bouts of intimidation trembling inside me. This is senseless. I know. It’s a cookie recipe? What’s a cookie recipe? It’s nothing but ingredients and instructions.

I looked at the 13 Tb of butter (!!) clumsily lying in the mixing bowl waiting for me to get the party started by adding sugar. So I did—white granulated sugar dramatically layered over yellow sticks of butter like sand adrift on lemony blond logs. I plunged the beaters into one of the sticks to break it up, then whirled the hand mixer to life. I reminded myself that the instructions were carefully laid out for me and that as much as I wanted to bake perfectly delicious cookies, they might suck and that’s okay too. (Is it? Is it?) Pep Talks By Michael.

I would suggest that the butter be room temperature. Mine had been sitting out on the kitchen counter for close to an hour, but it probably should have been softer. Not that I knew that at the time.

Every few seconds I stopped the mixer in order to splinter the butter into smaller chunks. Once the butter was broken into portions much more easily mixable, I increased the speed so as to cream the two ingredients into a light and fluffy combo. I was relaxing into that sound the beaters make against the sides of the bowl. I was watching as the butter and the sugar melded into a buttery mound of lusciousness.

Screeeeech! What is happening?? I had that immediate burst of energy inside my chest—which then spreads throughout my body—that always happens when something startles me with no warning. The beaters had stopped moving, but the gears inside the mixer were still trying to turn them. I powered the mixer off. The beaters were caked with the butter/sugar mixture. In my relaxed state of cocky pluck, I hadn’t been paying attention to what was happening right in front of my eyes. The beaters looked like twin tornados that had sucked up everything in their path as they cut their swath through town. Sigh. I unplugged the mixer. (I’m not about to put my fingers near those beaters when I might accidentally turn the damn thing back on. Danger! Danger!) I then ejected the beaters.

I beat them against the side of the bowl, and against each other, until they released the foundation of what I hoped would be a crisp yet melt-in-your-mouth confection. I then set about inserting the right beater back into the mixer. It didn’t hold. I tried again. It still didn’t hold. The left beater locked right back into place. Again I tried the right. The spring had sprung. It was as if a rubber band was now blocking the locking mechanism. I had broken the mixer. It had ground itself to a halt and there was nothing sweet about it. (Insert eye roll, laughter, or curse word here. I did!) I told you there would be comedy.

What to do, what to do? The only option was to continue mixing by hand. I added the two egg yokes and the vanilla extract and stirred until my shoulder hurt and then I stirred some more. Now it was time for the hard(er) part…the flour. Flour, as you know, thickens.

I started adding the flour to the mixture slowly. Stirring until it was incorporated, adding more. Stirring, adding, stirring…you get the picture. After about half of the necessary flour was incorporated, the spoon had become a useless tool, sheathed in what was trying to become the most sought-after cookie dough of the season. I had to discard it.

So, the mixer is broken and the spoon is less than helpful. My only other option is…actually mixing by hand. That’s right. My hands were clean so I dove right into the dough and started squeezing it together. It was actually kind of cathartic. (I have anger issues. And in this current mise en scène, I imagined a lot of faces in that dough. But I digress.) I didn’t wait to slowly add the remaining flour. I dumped it in and began compressions. No mixer, no problem. I got you.

Determination. I was determined to bake French butter cookies and was unwilling to accept defeat. Does this determination exist in my daily life? Hmmm. Maybe only in hindsight.

I didn’t know what to expect from this dough once I’d dumped it out of the bowl onto my freshly scrubbed kitchen counter. I could tell from the pieces clinging to my hands that it wasn’t going to ball up like a good snowball. No, this was just slightly more moist than dry snow, which we all know you can’t pack.

It definitely wanted to break off into pieces, but after forming it into a ball, I managed to keep it together as I pressed it down and then began rolling it out into the desired thickness with my rolling pin. Now that I know what to expect, this will be easier going forward.

The one thing I didn’t have in my possession for this recipe was a cookie cutter. Again, determined. Again, undeterred. I had a wine glass whose opening was nearly the exact width suggested for these purported mouthwatering morsels of buttery goodness. And as bougie as it sounds, it made such perfect circles that I don’t know if I will purchase an actual cookie cutter.

The parchment paper was atop the cookie sheet. I had spatula’d the circles from the counter. Twelve little shortbread wannabes patiently waited for me to brush their tops with egg yolk and pop them in the oven.

Like any person baking anything for the first time, I was excited…and nervous. I set the timer for ten minutes instead of starting with the recipe’s baseline of twelve. Obviously, I didn’t want to burn them and more time can always be added. But you can’t unburn a cookie. Curious about their transformation, I checked periodically to watch their beige complexions turn to a gorgeous, sun-kissed golden brown.

As the first batch cooled—on a makeshift cooling rack that I’d made by taking the bottom rack out of the oven, covering a part of it with tinfoil, and setting it atop a large pot—I put the second batch in the oven. Same ten minutes. Less checking. By the third batch I was no longer watching the sun kiss them. I had begun the clean up process. It really does take practice. I wonder when I’m going to accept that?

They are perfectly delicious. They are crisp. They do somehow melt in my mouth. They are mouthwatering morsels of buttery goodness (but not too sweet). They are better when cooled. And they might be even better the next day, if I do say so myself.

Making a cookie dough, then baking the cookies is a simple task. But here’s something I know. I was intimidated but I did it. I figured out how to complete the task when conventional methods failed me. This is success. The more I cook or bake, the easier it’s going to be to face a new recipe head-on and just do it. Intimidation will lessen. Confidence will increase. Maybe it will even carry over to other areas of my life. Who knows, one day I might be running the world. But for now, cookies!

Bon appetit ! 

Sauce Velouté and the Cauliflower Mash

Last night, I once again found myself facing the intimidation of a recipe in Mastering The Art Of French Cooking. Why am I intimidated? Hell if I know. As much as I hate it, I seem to bob up and down in a fear marinade more often than not. (Full disclosure: I’m a glass half empty man and see the possibility of failure before that of success.)

Anyway…I had a hankering for cauliflower. But I didn't want just any old cauliflower. I wanted cauliflower mash. For an easily intimidated, living-in-fear kind of guy, it didn't seem to bother me too much that I'd never prepared a cauliflower mash. Honestly, I don't think I imagined it being too difficult, therefore I don't think I imagined myself failing to successfully produce it. Hmm??

I Googled "Cauliflower Mash" and found a recipe on allrecipes.com that sounded tasty, and was above all else, simple: steamed cauliflower, sautéd garlic, cream cheese, Parmesan cheese, salt, pepper. I had no doubts. I could make this. But me being me, I wasn't satisfied with this simple recipe from allrecipes.com. No. I needed to see what Julia (Ms. Child, if you’re nasty!) had to say about cauliflower.

Turns out, there are several recipes for cauliflower in the index of her magnum opus about French cooking. The one for Chou-Fleur en Verdure (Purée of Cauliflower and Water Cress with Cream) seemed to me to align interestingly with the recipe from allrecipes.com. I felt I could combine what I liked from the dot com recipe, and what I liked from the Mastering recipe, and create something uniquely my own. You may be sensing confidence here, but trust me when I tell you, the intimidation reemerged from its momentary sedation.

If you've ever perused a copy of Mastering The Art Of French Cooking, you know that the recipes are meticulously laid out for you, step by step. (Julia even suggests the utensil to use or the type of pot, depending upon what you're making. It's amazing.) This thoroughness should be comforting. And for the most part it is. Except for those occasions when I simply don't understand a specific direction. Remember, just because a plan is carefully laid out doesn't mean that everyone is going to execute it.

As I read through the recipe for Purée of Cauliflower, I began to merge it with the recipe I had discovered earlier. For instance, I decided to steam the cauliflower instead boiling it in salted water. I also had no desire to add the water cress so I nixed that. I also liked the idea of Parmesan cheese instead the Swiss, which Julia suggests.

Proceeding on, I discovered that Julia's Chou-Fleur recipe called for béchamel sauce. I had heard of béchamel sauce before, but I must admit that I had no idea what it actually was. But Julia being Julia, she provided me the page number for where I could find the recipe for that sauce, which I knew would replace the cream cheese component of the simpler recipe. (What is this…Michael’s Test Kitchen?)

You realize that that meant I had to make the sauce, right? As one who is afraid to fail—even in front of himself—I could feel myself fighting against my nature to cower under the weight of this new task. Regardless, to page 57 I turned.

There I found two recipes: Sauce Béchamel and Sauce Velouté. They are both white sauces. And I later learned they are two of the five "mother sauces" of French cuisine. (The other three are: espagnole, tomato and hollandaise, in case you're interested. Personally, I can’t wait to panic while making the hollandaise.)

Mashed cauliflower is supposed to be a healthier alternative to mashed potatoes: less calories, less carbs. And as mashed potatoes call for milk and butter, I presumed the béchamel sauce, which uses milk, would be a fantastic option. But the velouté sauce also seemed interesting to me. This sauce uses stock as its liquid. I had chicken stock in the refrigerator. I didn't have milk. I don't use cow milk much anymore for anything in my life, choosing oat milk instead. And it seemed, well, wrong to use oat milk for this sauce. So, my decision to make the velouté sauce stemmed purely from a place of convenience: use what was already in the fridge versus something that I would have to buy and then might not use again. Pas cher? Peut-être. Raisonnable? Souvent.

For chicken stock that you don't actually prepare yourself from scratch, Julia offers a suggestion, which she calls a treatment. Add onion, carrots, celery, sprigs of parsley, some leaf of bay, a pinch of thyme, and the finishing touch of dry white wine or vermouth to the broth. Her measurements are specific and her "suggestion" is to simmer this for 30 minutes, season it to taste, strain it, then use. 

I hadn't paid close enough attention to these instructions before heading to my local supermarket and therefore did not buy the parsley or the thyme. Also, the vermouth I had in my cabinet had gone hella bad. No worries though. I had a bottle of French Chardonnay chilling in the fridge, and Chardonnay falls into the category of dry white wines. I don't know what the parsley and thyme might have added to this broth, but I can tell you, it smelled wonderful and tasted delicious.

Moving on, it was time to make the roux. I have no idea how my mother and grandmother managed to prepare entire meals so that everything was ready to be placed on the table at the same time. I have not quite figured out timing yet.

The Chou-Fleur recipe called for a thicker béchamel sauce than the master recipe, so the measurements for the amount of butter and flour used to make the roux were increased, while maintaining the 2 cups for the liquid. While the 3½  Tb of salted butter slowly melted in the copper bottom saucepan, its bouquet wafted into the air. Butter, y'all. Yum! 

I added the 5 Tb of flour into the gently foaming butter—probably more quickly than Julia would have liked—and whisked the two ingredients together until I had a thick roux. One thing I will add here: the recipe says to melt the butter over low heat, blending in the flour, cooking slowly while stirring, until the butter and flour froth together. I did all of this, aside from probably adding the flour in to quickly, but it did not froth. There was no frothing. I was concerned, but since I had previously made a roux, I didn't let it stress me. Surprised?

The stock, covered and boiling, was sitting at a hands-grab distance on the burner behind the roux. It was time. I added the 2 cups of boiling stock to the roux, continued to whisk it, and watched as it thickened into a bubbling cream. I did it. I made Sauce Velouté. I was—and am—proud. I tasted it before adding it to the mashed and waiting bowl of cauliflower. It definitely needed salt. But I knew the dish as a whole would need salt so I didn't worry about that. 

I gently folded the sauce, little by little, into the cauliflower. I then added a half cup of whipping cream and continued to fold. The mixture was thick and creamy. I then added a half cup of Parmesan cheese (the dot com recipe called for ¼ cup) and the sliced mushrooms I had sautéd earlier in butter and olive oil. My own addition to this dish. With a dash or two of black pepper and a sprinkling of Himalayan pink salt now incorporated, it was time to taste.

Delicious does not do it justice. It was rich and buttery, creamy yet textured. I can’t imagine this dish without that sauce or the mushrooms. However, I am curious about the milk-based béchamel sauce. So, maybe next time, I compare. 

I should have stopped right there. And I will the next time I prepare this dish. But Mastering The Art called for mixing bread crumbs with grated cheese and sprinkling it on top, pouring two Tb of melted butter over that, then baking at 375º until the cheese and bread crumbs had browned.

I had forgotten the bread crumbs at the supermarket, but thought the cheese would brown anyway, so why not. The cheese melted and the additional butter bubbled, but none of it browned. The consistency also changed. The stiffness it had held in the bowl had weakened to a more liquid state than I would have preferred. Not quite soupy, but lesson learned.

No bother though. I served it in a bowl instead of on a plate. The plate was reserved for the green beans and Brussels sprouts, which I had steamed then dressed in another Tb of butter and a dash or five of garlic salt. 

The wine was the same French Chardonnay that I'd used for the stock. I had seconds on the cauliflower and thirds on the wine.

Bon appetit !

The Mustard Sauce I Didn't Ruin

I searched the index in the back of the book for Liver. I know some of you may wince, even recoil, at the mention of the word liver, but I like liver. I grew up in the South and from time to time my mom would fry up a batch of chicken livers. They were always lightly coated in flour, and we dipped them in ketchup.

While there may be a nostalgic taste bud lying dormant on the back of my tongue, remembering the texture and taste of those ketchup-coated livers, I wanted to try something different.

So there I was on page 405 of Mastering The Art Of French Cooking, reading through the recipe for Foie de Veau Sauté—sautéed calf's liver. Julia Child didn't specify how to prepare chicken livers, but the calf's liver directions are called a Master Recipe so I substituted chicken for cow.

All I really needed to know was how Julia Child suggested the liver be prepared and in what fat she said to fry them. It's simple: salt, pepper, flour, butter, oil. This seemed pretty typical. My mom salted and peppered the chicken livers. She coated them with flour. She fried them in oil. I would say it was Wesson Oil, but I could be mistaken. 

What I've discovered from many of the recipes in Mastering is that Julia Child says to fry in a combination of butter and oil. She calls this the fat. What I've encountered from her directions so far is two tablespoons of butter combined with one tablespoon of oil. I use olive. Already you know the flavor is going to be a little richer because of the butter. How often does anyone cook with butter anymore? I love you, Julia, but my arteries are going to protest, I’m sure.

I deviated from the recipe slightly. Not from the butter and oil content. No. I wanted all of that. All of it!! What I didn't want was the flour coating. I just wanted to fry them naked in the fat, which is what I'll be if I keep using butter: naked because I'm too fat for my clothes. But I digress. There was another deviation I had to make at this point. Well, more of an addition. I wanted onions with my chicken livers. So as the butter foam began to subside, indicating that the fat was hot enough, I threw in a few rings of onion. The butter and the sweet onion filled my kitchen with an aroma that made my mouth begin to water. Julia seems to always start with a high heat suggestion and in this reality the fat was so hot that it didn't take long for these rings to turn golden brown. I removed them from the frying pan and rested them on a plate, lonely wilted rings that looked as if they'd spent the summer on a beach coated in Bain de Soleil and started the fall nice and golden. Maybe they weren’t lonely at all. Maybe they were merely in repose.

I had drained, rinsed, and dried the chicken livers prior to starting the cooking process. My mom said that I needed to drain and rinse them to rid them of the blood, which would help in preventing the popping and splattering that often accompanies frying food. I decided to dry them because Julia says to dry the beef before browning when cooking bœuf bourguignon, and she also directed me, before my most recent excursion into sautéing mushrooms, that I should dry the mushrooms. It’s all about the browning. Wet things don’t brown. So it made perfect sense to me to dry the chicken livers.

Into the frying pan of hot buttery goodness they went. (The hot butter and oil is said to help the outside crust and the inside stay juicy.) The sizzle was immediate. The popping still occurred. It wasn't terrible though. 

I stood over them like a new mom standing over the crib of her first child, watching for anything to happen. I wanted to watch the browning happen. I needed to see it. I wish I could tell you precisely how much time this took, but I wasn't paying close enough attention to a clock. I think I turned the six large-sized chicken livers over about four minutes into the process. The Cook-in-Chief always says not to crowd what you're cooking in the pan or it won't cook properly. Hence my sautéing only six livers. 

After about two minutes on the flip side, I removed one liver from the heat and sliced it open to check the color. As I'm not one who cooks often, and we all know undercooked chicken can wreak havoc on the body, checking the progress was a given. I had done a bit of research before beginning this process though. I had discovered that chicken livers can be a little pink on the inside. In fact, that was the preferred way to prepare them. This way they would be tender and not overcooked, which leads to that grainy, mealy texture that I grew up with. (Sorry, mom. Who knew? I loved them though). 

The one that went under the knife as tribute for his other livers was not quite the right shade of pink. There was a little more blood than I was comfortable with. Back into the frying pan he went. I would say two to three more minutes and they were done—browned, with a slight crust, on the outside, slightly rosy on the in.

I removed the chicken livers from the heat, joining them with the onions, still in repose on the plate from which I planned to eat them. I don’t think they realized their fate.

I've told you all of this so that I can tell you what propelled me to cook the chicken livers in the first place. On page 406 of this tome "for the servantless American cook," I saw the recipe for Sauce Crème à la Moutarde--Cream and Mustard Sauce. 

My first encounter with a mustard sauce was at one of my favorite French restaurants here where I live in New York City—Tout Va Bien (Everything is Fine). This was one of my go to places to get my French cuisine fix prior to COVID-19 shutting everything down and ushering in the era of social distancing, outdoor dining, and making masks the new designer bag. I am not always adventurous when it comes to trying new foods. But there is something about French food that makes me lower my guard and prepare for the onslaught of new tastes exploding in my mouth. On my first experience at Tout Va Bien, I decided to order Rognon de Veau—veal kidneys sautéed in mustard sauce. Pas de regrets from the first bite. The veal kidneys reminded me of liver and the mustard sauce, well, let's just say it was amazing. 

Now back to my kitchen where I was attempting make mustard sauce. 

The pan was back on the stove, and the fat was still hot. The recipe called for brown stock, heavy cream, more butter, and of course, mustard. During my prep for this part, I got a little overzealous in readying the ingredients for the sauce. Having never made it, I wasn't sure how long I could step away from the stove as it cooked, so I made like I was on a cooking segment of a talk show and put bowls of pre measured ingredients near my fingertips. But I made a mistake. I read that I was supposed to pour the brown stock (I used chicken to stay in the poultry family) into the fat mixture of butter and oil then cook it down by half. THEN I was supposed to add the heavy cream, reduce the heat, and stir until it began to thicken. In my rush to prepare, I added the stock and cream together. I didn't have enough cream to start over so I said fuck it and chose to make the best of what might leave a bad taste in my mouth. 

With the stock and cream now in the pan, I made sure the heat was high so to bring the creamy mixture to a boil, stirring, deglazing the pan, feeling the remnants of the livers joining in the churn and boil. I reduced the heat and watched at this possible disaster began to thicken slightly. I was sure it was supposed to be thicker but was encouraged that it was thickening at all. I turned off the heat and added the two tablespoons of butter that Julia had told me to mix with one tablespoon of mustard. I chose Dijon mustard because it seemed appropriate. Dijon is in France after all, and this sauce was French.

Once the butter and mustard were successfully incorporated into the mixture, I poured it into an old coffee creamer that I've had since I was a teenager. The moment of truth was upon me. I could resist no longer. I dipped my finger into the creamy yellow mustard sauce and found that I had not ruined it. It wasn't perfect. But it was delicious! 

I plated the green beans I had blanched while the sauce was simmering and thickening then added a quarter of an avocado to the plate. It was time. I poured the sauce over the warm livers, watching as it pooled under the onions and green beans. (I imagine it would be a little more clingy if I had followed the recipe properly.)  I was now ready to eat. I looked at this plate of food that I had prepared—sautéed chicken livers, homemade mustard sauce, golden-brown onions, green beans—and felt proud. I poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir and took the first bite.

I devoured it!

P.S. Before pouring it into a container and storing it in the refrigerator, I consumed many more tastes of the mustard sauce on its own. I can't wait to make it again. And who knows, if I actually add the ingredients in the right order the next time, it might not only still taste amazing, it might be the right thickness.

Bon Appetit !