Cuisine Grandmere
Cuisine Grandmere is a phrase that has achieved sudden status in culinary circles as something good and old-fashioned like plain home cooking, the imaginary kind served up by a pillow-y, apple-cheeked ancestor wrapped in chintz. My grandmother was not like that. She wore French suits and her command of the kitchen extended no further than a few scoops of Medallia D’Oro added to Maxwell House in a percolator, and toaster-popped muffins. My grandmother couldn’t cook, and her childish attempts as a young bride were so disastrous-she set fire to her first house-my grandfather invested in an imported chef to preserve his home and feed his offspring.
My mother always hung out at the chef’s knee, chopping and stirring; whipping and grilling. It was Mom who taught me about fine cooking, but when it came to fine dining, everything I learned was at Gran’s right hand.
My grandmother once heard an axiom she credited to St. Augustine: a child learns nothing past the age of seven. So, at the tender age of six, Gran began my formal training in haute cuisine. We started with frog legs at the eponymous La Grenouille in Manhattan, but soon ventured south into the dark, garlic-infused streets of Little Italy and the fearsome bustle of Chinatown. The tutelage took awhile, but I was an eager learner with a healthy appetite and I had a passionate instructor. Gran loved fine food, but even more, my grandmother adored the grace of dining well.
Soon, where once I was blissful with hot dogs or spaghetti, I was begging my mother to conjure up curry and cassoulet. I combed an old copy of “The Joy of Cooking” looking for recipes like things I ate downtown and I scorched more than one pan attempting a version of my own. It was small wonder that when my grandmother volunteered to take me on a grand tour, my parents packed my bags.
Every day was a thrill, like a flower unfolding, petal by petal, getting more beautiful and filling more of the senses as the days passed. Too soon, the trip was over. Gran had saved the crème de la crème for our last night in Paris-dinner at the Ritz. The room was opulent, the kind of space that makes you stand a little taller as though a hundred eyes are watching you, and perhaps they are. The maitre d’ pulled out a plump, tufted pink and gilt chair and bade me sit. I sat. Suddenly, I felt my feet grabbed out from under me by invisible hands at the same moment something huge and pink flapped in my face. I screamed. The busboy popped his head from under the table where he had set my footrest, his eyes wide and round, and face flushed red as though he’d been caught stealing. The waiter patted the pink napkin into my lap and stood back. Shrinking into the cushions, I slipped a glance at my grandmother. She sat with the posture of a queen, a lace handkerchief to her eyes and her shoulders convulsed in silent giggles.
Poached Pears in Wine
Serves 4
One of my favorite Gran memories was of a grand meal we had, just the two of us, on a drizzly day in Rome. After antipasti, pasta, fish and veal, I could barely move, but Gran was never done until the sweets were eaten and the cheese sampled. Too stuffed for cake, we asked for recommendations. The chef remembered an odd quirk about my grandmother. She always traveled with her own sterling paring knife. He had just the thing-wine-poached pears with cheese. The flavors were luscious and assertive-the few basic ingredients each popping something distinct on the palate and etched in my memory. Whenever Gran came to visit, I had it waiting for her. The farmers’ market pears are ripe now. Enjoy!
3/4 bottle dry, fruity wine such as zinfandel
1/2 cup sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
2 cloves
1 long strip each-orange and lemon peel
4 firm, ripe pears, peeled (Bosc are good)
2 Tbs. raspberry brandy or Poire William
Serve with: crème fraiche, crème anglaise or a triple crème cheese such as Saint-Andre or Brillat-Savarin.
1. In a heavy saucepan, combine the first five ingredients and simmer to dissolve sugar. Add pears. If they aren’t covered, add more wine. Simmer until tender-10 minutes. Remove pears.
2. Cook the syrup to 1 cup. Remove and add brandy. Pour over the pears and refrigerate overnight, turning pears occasionally.
3. Serve whole with cheese or slice in fans and blanket with syrup and crème.