Inspiration came from a recent meal at Le Caméléon, during which one of my dining companions ordered a jumbo foie de veau (veal liver). It appeared, a stately Pasha in a mantle of reduced vinegar, with a side of gratin de macaroni au Parmesan served in one of those miniature cast-iron cocottes that are all the rage these days and that you just might be able to afford with a ten-year payment plan.

The liver was good, the glorified mac ‘n cheese was great — bites were exchanged all around — and the idea stuck with me, ready to resurface on my dining room table this past weekend. Because my main dish of Compotée d’Echine de Porc au Cidre was going to have a sweet persona (the cider, the shallots, the gingerbread spices), I had to give it a frankly savory partner to dance with.

I used penne and added a sprinkle of toasted hazelnuts and lardons for bite and flavor, but you can omit or replace these depending on your personal preferences.

I used penne instead of macaroni (this is what I had on hand) and added a sprinkle of toasted hazelnuts and lardons (diced thick-cut bacon) for bite and flavor, but you can omit or replace these depending on your personal preferences, deadly allergies, and assorted dietary requirements: mushrooms, diced tomatoes, baby spinach or rocket, roasted vegetables, broccoli, brine- or dry-cured ham, quality canned tuna, and leftovers from a roasted chicken would make appropriate substitutes, though not all at the same time. A pasta gratin can also be served as a comforting main dish, with a green salad on the side.

Miscellaneous notes on cuts of meat, bacon, and lardons, because we always need more of those:

– What is referred to as pork belly in English goes by the name poitrine de porc in French (literally: pork chest) or, more fashionably, poitrine de cochon (pig chest).

– In France, if you ask your butcher for bacon, he will give you what is called “Canadian bacon” in the US — round slices of lean, cured pork meat. If you want regular bacon — the artery-clogging kind — the magic words are poitrine fumée. It is classically sold in a thick slice (about 1 cm or 1/2 inch in thickness) so you can dice it to make your own lardons, but if you want bacon for a full English breakfast (good luck finding proper bangers now that M&S has deserted us) just ask for thin slices.

– Bacon-flavored potato chips are available from any French grocery store; I don’t know what sort of bacon they mean by that.

– Pre-cut lardons (diced or matchsticked) in plastic trays are also available from any French grocery store. They are water-injected and full of preservatives; don’t buy them.

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[Cider-Stewed Pork Loin Blade Roast]

I find cuts of meat confusing.

I find them confusing because the terminology straggles from the technical to the vernacular and back again, because readable diagrams are few and far between, and because the matter only gets murkier when you try to juggle French and English terms used in different countries.

Can’t we all be friends and agree to cut and name meat in the same fashion? May I suggest the creation of a United Nations Symposium of Butchers that will draw up a comparative report — with diagrams — and put an end to my puzzlement?

Case in point: the échine de porc I cooked for a dinner party last Saturday. What I really had a mind to cook was joues de porc — pork cheeks. Don’t ask me why, I just did. I pictured the rosy pinch-me cheeks of the three little pigs (don’t you love that there’s a spoiler warning on the Wikipedia page?) and figured they had to taste good.

But when I called my butcher on Friday to place an order it was too late for him to get the cheeks by the weekend — I should have called before noon on Thursday; who plans that far in advance? — so he had me explain what I wanted to make (a cider-flavored stew), and suggested I fall back on échine, which he’d cut in cubes for me.

As it seems to turn out after a frustrating bit of online and offline research, l’échine is a cut from the back of the animal that includes the neck and the first five ribs, and seems to be called the blade end of the loin in English. It may be sold bone-in (as ribs or chops) or boneless (in cubes or as a roast), and is reasonably marbled with fat, a feature that makes it moist, full-flavored, and stew-friendly. It is also not the most noble of loin cuts, and is hence afforable (check with your butcher, but mine charged 25€ for 2kg, which was enough meat to feed eight).

This was my first time cooking a pork stew of that sort — I usually just rub roasts with spices and stick them in the oven or braise them — and I have an inkling it won’t be the last. I improvised an effortless recipe, leaving the meat to marinate from morning till night in hard cider with shallots and spices, then dumping the whole thing in a pot to simmer for two hours — I didn’t even sear the meat first — and adding apples halfway through.

The meat took kindly to that treatment, softening to a flavorful pulp (not chewy, not spongy) and gradually turning the marinade into a slick sauce that was a beautiful complement to the pasta gratin I served it with — recipe coming up next.

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Zaatar is a popular spice blend in Middle-Eastern cuisines — those of Syria and Lebanon in particular –, made with thyme, toasted sesame seeds, sumac, and salt. (Note: The Arabic word also means simply “thyme”, and is sometimes transcribed as za’atar, zahtar, or zatar.)

As with all generic spice blends, the flavor profile of this one will vary according to where its components came from, who mixed them, and how long ago, but a good zaatar should greet you first with an acidulated citrus smell that tickles the nose, before nutty, fruity, and grilled notes join the chorus, reaching further into the back of your mouth with an appetite-whetting effect.

A short stay in the oven turns the pita wedges into crisp and golden versions of themselves that make for a fine appetizer alongside roasted or pickled vegetables, or the dip of your choice.

Zaatar is among my favorite magic wands: it works wonders in grated carrot salads and lentil soups, I sprinkle it on fresh cheese or blend it with yogurt, I use it as an herb crust for racks of lamb or rub it on fish to be baked or grilled, and I’ve been meaning to follow Estérelle’s example and use it in a caramelized onion tart.

But the simplest way to make zaatar shine is to combine it with a good olive oil and produce a thick paste that will be spread on bread dough (manakish-style) or pitas, as described below: a short stay in the oven turns the pita wedges into crisp and golden versions of themselves that make for a fine appetizer alongside roasted or pickled vegetables, , or the dip of your choice.

And for an even quicker preparation, you can just serve bite-size pieces of bread, a cup of olive oil, and a saucer of zaatar, and have your guests dip the bread lightly in the olive oil, then in the zaatar. Easy, interactive, and tasty.

Zaatar can be purchased from Middle-Eastern markets and spice shops; in Paris, look for it at Izraëlor Hératchian. Keep in mind that some blends are more salty than others, so taste yours first and use accordingly.

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[Crapaudine Beet]

It is a common misconception that the wintertime opposes the hurried cook with a dearth of ready-to-eat vegetables that could be prepped and dressed in under five minutes.

But what of endives and young winter greens, what of radishes and kohlrabi? What of lemon-squeezed mushrooms, what of thinly sliced fennel and cabbage, what of carrots and celeriac, which do require peeling and grating, yes, but perhaps you have a basic food processor gathering dust somewhere and it is time to take it and its assorted grating-slicing attachments out of retirement?

To my arsenal of winter crudités I have a few years ago added the beetroot. While you can simply peel and grate young beets for a raw, crunchy salad — do wear gloves and an apron if you’re heading out to a job interview afterwards and don’t want to appear as if you’ve just slayed someone — I prefer to take an even more leisurely path.

I buy my beets pre-roasted from the market or the produce shop, and all I need to do is peel — the skin strips off like those cool exfoliating masks –, slice — the butter-soft flesh offers a sigh and no resistance –, and eat.

The beets I find at the organic farmers’ market are roasted over a woodfire, which accents their earthy flavor, and you can make that point with even more clarity by adding a pinch of smoked salt or smoked paprika. On my last market run I enquired about the kind of beet they used, and was told with a straight face that it was a variety called “red ass.” I smiled privately, enjoying the cheeky name, until I looked it up and realized that it was merely “red ace” with a French accent.

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