European

These days, there are all sorts of packaged Passover cereals and baked goods, even in France. But every Jewish family has a Passover breakfast dish to break the monotony of matzo and butter. I like this typically French omelet, served as is or sprinkled with cinnamon sugar.

When I ate lunch at the elaborate Hôtel Daniel, located between the Champs-Élysées and the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, I felt as though I were transported to a salon in Proust’s Paris. I met the young chef, Denis Fetisson, who brought out an array of dishes. Among them was this wonderful Roquefort soufflé, which Denis serves to vegetarians and to his kosher clientele. It is easy and elegant and makes a wonderful meal when served with a large salad.

“I was lucky during the war,” Albert Jacobs, a tiny man whose personality belied his stature, told me at his home in Ingwiller. “When war broke out, I was eighteen years old and was mobilized into the French army. I left Ingwiller with my knapsack on my back, marching in the middle of the road. My beret and wooden shoes gave me the air of youth.” Instead of taking the train he was supposed to take, he and his comrades had a picnic and took the following one. As luck would have it, the Germans bombed the first train. Later, when it got dangerous for the Jews in the army, Monsieur Jacobs had to go into hiding. “Here too I was lucky,” he told me. “An old grandmother who owned eight farms let me stay with her. She never told anybody that I was there.” Until he was almost ninety, Monsieur Jacobs dressed up three days a week, drove his car slowly into town, and ate lunch at the Cheval Blanc, where he also often dined with the local priest. “Everybody knows that I don’t eat pork,” he told me shortly before his death. When I asked him why he didn’t move to a larger city, like Strasbourg, his response was quick: “Here I am someone, and there I would be just an old Jew.” At Monsieur Jacobs’s home, a virtual museum of Alsatian Jewish history, the jewels were the old cookbooks in the attic and basement libraries. The books contained some handwritten recipes and were those of his late wife. “Books were her life,” he said. She collected all the old recipes from her mother, who lived with them until she died at ninety-five. When I looked through her handwritten book, I saw recipes like grimserle, which I know as krimsel or chremslach, a Passover fritter with nuts and raisins (which I wrote about in Jewish Cooking in America), schaleth (see page 251), cou d’oie farci (stuffed goose neck), gemarti supp (see page 76), and this grumbeerekugel, a potato kugel with onions, eggs, and soaked bread—all humble dishes of country Jews who used the food that was available. In the old days, they cooked with goose, chicken, or veal fat. In the recipe that follows, I have substituted vegetable oil or butter for those not serving a meat meal, and I often mix the potatoes with celeriac and sometimes cooked peas or green beans. By microwaving the grated potatoes for a minute, I cut down the cooking time from 2 1/2 hours to 45 minutes. This kugel is crisp and very delicious.

When the French make noodle kugel, it is more delicate and savory than the rich, creamy confections that Americans know. This nudel schaleth or pudding is derived from the Sabbath pudding baked in the oven overnight. Here is where linguistic immigration gets all mixed up—some call it noodle schaleth, others noodle kugel.

Bosc pears and Italian blue plums (dried for use in the winter) are fruits that were most often put into kugel. This very old Alsatian Sabbath kugel uses leftover bread that is soaked in water, squeezed to remove any excess moisture, and then mixed with the dried or fresh fruit and left to stew in the oven overnight. Some, like this version, include onions, which add a savory dimension to the sweetness of the fruit and the dough. I love this dish, which I serve in my home for Rosh Hashanah and the Sabbath as a side dish with brisket.

If anything is typical of Alsace, it is tarte flambée, a pizzalike flat bread covered with runny white and tangy cheese (a thin mixture of farmer’s cheese, crème fraîche, heavy cream, and fromage blanc or Gruyère, depending on your preference) and a sprinkling of diced onions and lardons. Dating back hundreds of years, tarte flambée is served everywhere in Alsace, with connoisseurs arguing about their favorite versions. In the old days, the farmers would take leftover bread dough, roll it out paperthin, spread some heavy cream mixed with egg over it, scatter some lardons or ham and onions on top, put it in a hot, wood-burning oven, and—voilà!—dinner was ready. The tradition still stands today, and tarte flambée is particularly enjoyed accompanied by a green salad as a simple Sunday night dinner. At the end of a late Sunday afternoon in April, I was driving Yves Alexandre, a traveling salesman who loves to cook, near fields resplendent with signs of spring—white asparagus and rhubarb, and yellow rapeseed flowers (more commonly known in the United States as the flowers that produce canola). We stopped at Le Marronnier, a charming winstub in Stutzheim, a little town about ten miles from Strasbourg. It was here that I tasted my first tarte flambée. Most of the patrons were seated at outdoor tables in the cobblestoned courtyard with wisteria climbing over the brick walls. A marronnier, a sprawling chestnut tree, stood smack in the center of the patio. “You have to eat the tart hot,” Yves told me as tarts were being rushed to tables near us. The two Mauritian tarte-flambée bakers make a few hundred every Sunday, with a topping of farmer’s cheese and crème fraîche. This Jewish version, with leftover challah dough as a base, of course omits the ham or bacon. At Passover, Yves told me, some Alsatian Jews use matzo for their Sunday night tarte flambée.

After getting reacquainted over a game of Ping-Pong with Caroline and Philippe Moos, cousins I had not seen in many years, I joined them for a dairy dinner with four of their nine children in their house in Aix-les-Bains (see page 212). The meal was delicious, consisting of a vegetable soup, an apricot tart for dessert, and this Savoyard tomato-and-cheese quiche as the main course. This is one of those great recipes in which you can substitute almost any leftover cheese you may have in your refrigerator.

Harissa is available supermarkets all over the country, or you can make your own (see page 33).

Sometimes I discover dishes that are perfectly in accord with the laws of kashrut in unlikely places. Walking around a neighborhood market in Paris one day, I wandered into a small delicatessen shop called Partout et Tout Mieux, which translates as “Everywhere and Better.” An alluring cherry-tomato-and-basil tart sitting invitingly in the window caught my eye. So I went in and complimented Marie Le Bechennec, the shop owner, on the lovely-looking quiche. I explained that I was writing a cookbook on Jewish food in France and this crustless quiche would fit perfectly into a dairy meal. She replied that she and her husband, Serge, are from Brittany and have many Jewish customers. During the war, her father-in-law was taken prisoner by the Germans because he had hidden Jews who were being mistreated. She paused for a moment. “You know, I think my son is tolerant because he heard this strong voice growing up. That is the only way that tolerance will be translated from generation to generation.” Mary calls this dish a quiche clafoutis. In French cuisine, a quiche is a custard of eggs and milk or cream baked in a pastry crust. And clafoutis comes from the verb clafir, meaning “to fill up” or “puff up.” In this case, the bright-red tomatoes and green basil puff up to the top of the custard. I vary this dish by adding Parmesan and goat cheese; in winter try sautéed mushrooms or one package of frozen spinach and a handful of chives.

The ever-popular lardon-laced quiche Lorraine is off limits for Jews who eschew pork. In an effort to adapt the regional specialty to fit their dietary limitations, the Jews of Alsace and Lorraine created this onion tart, which I find delicious. I learned how to make it from the great chef André Soltner, who, before he came to America, worked for a kosher caterer in his native Alsace. Trust me, you won’t miss the bacon.

For Claude Lelouch and other French Jews from North Africa, couscous (a term that refers both to the stew and to the grain) is comfort food. When Suzon Meymy started cooking as a young bride living in Paris, her native Morocco seemed terribly far away, so she wrote to her mother, asking for recipes. “My mother was so unhappy that I was in France, so she sent me cooked chicken and flans. What she didn’t know was that they didn’t travel well, so we couldn’t eat them when they arrived.” When Suzon cooks lamb couscous today, in her small apartment in a Paris suburb, she uses her mother’s techniques. “My mother, who was the couscous-maker of Mogador, spent all her time in the kitchen,” she told me. “I watched her and my sisters cook for every festival in our town. They were exhausted from so much cooking. I saw them falling apart with fatigue.” Suzon, a very good cook, takes the time to make this lamb stew only when her whole family is present. What I like about this amazing recipe for couscous is that the vegetables are not overcooked. Serve the lamb with couscous (see page 270) and a delicious Moroccan squash dish (see page 302)

Michel Kalifa is one of the few butchers in France who go through the laborious process of removing the many veins in a leg of lamb, a process that is integral to koshering. Because of the difficulties in koshering a leg of lamb, most people will use the shoulder, which he loves as well. Glancing lovingly at his wife, he said, “A thigh of a woman is as nimble and light as a shoulder of lamb.” Here is an old Jewish Provençal recipe for a shoulder of lamb. Make it, as Michel Kalifa would, with a caress of garlic.

The oldest recipe for lamb I could find is for a shoulder of mutton or lamb—a membre de mouton à la judaïque—which comes from Pierre de Lune’s 1656 cookbook, Le Cuisinier, où Il Est Traité de la Véritable Méthode pour Apprester Toutes Sortes de Viandes . . . This recipe calls for lots of garlic and anchovies to be embedded in a shoulder of lamb with herbes de Provence. The pan juices are reduced with the juice of an orange and enhanced with white pepper and orange peel. The title of this recipe is one of the first known uses of “judaïque” (“Jewish style”) in a French recipe. Don’t forget that, “officially,” no Jews lived in France at this time. Here is my adaptation 350 years later.

To the Horror of chef Daniel Rose (see page 68) of Spring Restaurant in Paris, it is impossible to find an American brisket in France. It just doesn’t exist. American butchers tend to cut larger pieces of meat. Five- or six-pound briskets (poitrines) or huge rib-eye steaks (entrecôtes) are the result of sawing through the muscle or the shoulder section of the animal. French butchers, by contrast, cut around the contours of the muscles to yield more tender but much smaller pieces. French Jews tend to use a breast of veal that usually has a pocket inside it for stuffing for their brisket. In this version, Daniel applies French techniques to make a perfectly delicious brisket with a subtle hint of orange in the sauce. I always make this dish a day in advance.

Jocelyne Akoun (see page 28) also served me meatballs with tomato sauce for Friday night dinner, a typical Sephardic dish for the eve of the Sabbath. I had found centuries-old recipes for these almondeguilles or albondigas, but without tomato sauce. For me, the post–Columbian Exchange marriage of tomatoes and meatballs greatly enhances the flavor of this dish!

In France, for Rosh Hashanah and Passover, tongue, with its velvety texture, is often served with a sweet-and-sour ginger sauce. In some homes the tongue is put on the table as a symbol of the wish for success in the New Year. Spicy-sweet sauces often accompanied pickled meats in Alsace, where sugar was first used as a condiment rather than as a dessert sweetener. By the time the meat had been pickled, desalted, and then cooked, it had lost much of its flavor, so sugar, ginger, and other spices ensured a good taste. Jews have a long history of treating tongue, an often scorned cut of meat, as a delicacy. It is preserved and pickled in a salt brine with garlic, pepper, spices, sodium nitrite, and sodium erythorbate. The tongue is then boiled, the skin peeled off, and slices of meat are served with a sauce.

This typical Alsatian mustard sauce is served with pickled or smoked tongue or pickel-fleisch; it has been eaten with fresh and salted meat or fresh and dried fish for centuries by the northern Jewish communities in France.

Alsace is the only part of France with a tradition of France with a tradition of both pork and beef charcuterie. When I asked a butcher in Strasbourg about pickelfleisch (corned beef ) and pickled tongue, he paused to think a minute. Yes, he told me, both are eaten primarily by Jewish clientele. Of that charcuterie, pickelfleisch is the crown prince. Basically corned beef cured for eight to ten days with salt, sugar, spices, and saltpeter and then baked or boiled, it is more garlicky, with more varied spices, than that in America. Try making your own corned beef. It is great fun. Eat it as is or in a choucroute garni (sauerkraut dressed with meat and potatoes).

One-Dish Sabbath meals like choucroute and pot-au-feu are for Alsatians what cholent is for Jews from eastern Europe. In the nineteenth century, the author Alexandre Weill mentioned the Sabbath lunch meal of his childhood, which included a dish of pearl barley or beans, choucroute, and kugel, made with mostly dried pear or plum. Choucroute with sausage and corned beef is also eaten at Purim and has particular significance. The way the sausage “hangs” in Alsatian butcher shops is a reminder of how the evil Haman, who wanted to kill all the Jews, was hanged. Sometimes Alsatians call the fat hunk of corned or smoked beef “the Haman.” Michèle Weil, a doctor in Strasbourg, makes sauerkraut on Friday, lets it cool, and just reheats it for Saturday lunch. She varies her meal by adding pickelfleisch, duck confit, chicken or veal sausages, and sometimes smoked goose breast. You can make this dish as I have suggested, or vary the amounts and kinds of meats. Choucroute is a great winter party dish; the French will often eat it while watching rugby games on television. When you include the corned beef, you can most certainly feed a whole crowd.

In Southern Morocco, this Sabbath stew was cooked first over a wood fire and then kept warm in a pot tucked under the hot sand. In Spain and northern Morocco, it was cooked in communal ovens in the Jewish quarter of cities. Called by the Jewish youth of France today “daf marocaine,” this flavorful stew, also known as skeena—meaning “hot” in northern Morocco—is preferred by many young people to ordinary cholent (see page 213) for Sabbath lunch. Today in France the meat is usually beef rather than the lamb or mutton more commonly used in North Africa. For this one-pot meal, the rice and/or wheat berries or white beans must be kept apart for cooking, so that they can be served separately. Carène Moos encloses the seasoned rice and wheat berries in pieces of gauze or cheesecloth, knotting the cloth to make two individual bundles.