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 !
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