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 !