[French-Toasted Brioche]

After a main course of cider-stewed pork served with pasta gratin, this is the sweet note on which my last dinner party ended. Inspiration sprung, again, from my recent meal at Le Caméléon, where the Amaretto cherry pain perdu was enchanting.

In its most basic incarnation, pain perdu — literally “lost bread” — is stale bread that one recycles into a simple treat by soaking it in a sweet egg batter and browning it in the skillet. I love this sort of waste-not-want-not recipe, but what I had in mind here was something with just a hint more sophistication, so brioche, rather than ordinary bread, was in order.

Ideally, I should have bought the brioche the day before and let it turn stale the slow food way, through the natural action of time, but I didn’t. I showed up at my corner bakery in the morning of, and asked if they had any pain de mie brioché* leftover from the previous day. The salesgirl looked at me as if she was on candid camera (caméra cachée in French), and said that no, they didn’t keep old stuff around. All right. Fresh would do. I got home, sliced the slices, and left them out on the counter to dry.

Pain perdu normally gets eaten right off the skillet, but there were too many of us for that to work (if I wanted to sit down and eat with everyone else, that is), so I dipped and browned the slices in late afternoon, and reheated them in the oven before serving.

The plan was to serve the French toast with mango coulis and vanilla whipped cream. The mango coulis was simply mango flesh whizzed in a blender with a drop of lime juice, and for the whipped cream I was going to use the fancy N2O-powered whip I’d laid my hands on over two years ago — it’s a long story — and never once used. I was going to flavor whipping cream with fresh vanilla, pour that into the bottle, and effortlessly crown the golden slices of brioche with weightless dollops of whipped cream. My friends would be so impressed.

Turns out you should always test your weapon before you go hunting. Or, at the very least, read the manual. You would then know that you should to fit the top onto the bottle before you screw in the gas charger (oops, there goes the N2O) and that the whole thing needs to be refrigerated for a few hours if you want to produce anything more spectacular than a sputtering gurgle of unwhipped cream. Ah well. My friends love me whether or not the cream is whipped.

* A type of brioche that’s slightly less rich than the classic brioche and is baked in a loaf pan.

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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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