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 !