Working for butter
When asked about the secrets of fine cooking, Escoffier would reply: "There are three secrets: butter, butter and butter." Today, we will investigate the deeper secrets of fine cooking. We are going to work for butter.
In French, "working for butter" means "working for nothing", which sounds to me regrettably inaccurate, for butter is not nothing. Butter is a treasure. Working for butter is a noble job.
Get lost, Grande Épicerie, luxury lipids for food snobs, media-cherished butters that distract the attention from more modest but no less remarkable foodstuffs. For me — a Norman, i.e. someone you can't fool when it comes to butter —, the ultimate butter was to be found in some supermarkets of South Finistère (Brittany). I had discovered it a couple of years ago, double-wrapped in paper, which seemed like an indication of special care. Nevertheless the discreet packaging did not reveal anything of the treasures inside: a light, airy texture, of a natural matte yellow with buttercup tones; the welcome crunch of a few grains of sea salt, and above all a taste — rich, fragrant, flowery, slightly musky, reminiscent of warm brioche. A butter of such quality I had only found years ago, in a fortified farm in the Bessin (Normandy), not far from the D-Day beaches which are not generally visited for butter. Fortunately, the Breton address was on the wrapping paper: someday, I promised to myself, I would visit the GAEC (agricultural compound) of Saint-Coal and learn more about that butter.
It was not particularly easy to approach the farm: first, I was naturally reluctant to disturb people while they're working, unless they invite visitors to do so in a "green tourism" program. Also, organizing the visit from Paris was not easy. This butter is rare and apparently produced in small quantity. There is very probably a fragile balance that I should respect. I found it preferrable to proceed gently. A famous Parisian chef, to whom I had told about the butter, did not manage to have any shipped to him. Then one day, in this month of August, after a phone call, the lights suddenly went green.
So, off we go to Guilligomar'ch.
This is not milk but sweet, tasty buttermilk straight from today's churning.
The farm of Saint-Coal is, as Fulbert-Dumonteil would write in his cheerful purple style, "nestled in a casket of lush greenery". Slightly silly as it is, the expression is justified. This emerald-green, hilly, magnificent landscape feels like you have been brought a few centuries back. Intact bocage, unspoiled countryside, the clean fresh smells of nature and farm animals, peace and serenity: why this butter is so exceptional, we seem to have the beginning of an explanation. The compound is surrounded by a large surface of grassland and cereal fields, all belonging to the farm. Seventy Prim'Holstein cows graze in perfect tranquillity a thick, fast-growing, vitamin-rich grass. In Winter, they feed on a large quantity of hay mown on the farm and of cereals equally grown on the premises. No fodder is bought. Through self-sufficiency, a thorough control of the quality is achieved.
After being separated from the milk, cultured and matured, the cream goes into a mechanical churn to be turned into butter. In this churn, you may see the product of one day's milking — forty-four kilograms, slowly kneaded by the paddles and by hand. This butter, which has already been rinsed and salted, is now undergoing the draining process.
The water pouring out of the churn drain has the grey color of coarse Guérande sea salt used for the salting.
The last handful of salt is added right before the end of the kneading, just for the crunch.
A little more handling and the butter is ready.
The contents of the churn are scooped by hand into three buckets...
... to be carried to the conditioning room where the butter will be moulded and wrapped.
Here is one of the traditional wooden moulds where the Saint-Coal butter loaves will be shaped. Two sizes — 250 grams and 500 grams — are used.
The base and the body, made of two pieces, are assembled.
The butter is kneaded into the mould and the surface is levelled. A flower pattern is engraved into the flat bottom part of the mould. When the body will be removed and the flat bottom turned over, the raised pattern will appear on the surface of the butter.
Voilà!
Conditioning is a fast process: it takes the crémier only a few seconds to mould a loaf of butter and a few more for the lady farmer to wrap it up in the first sheet of paper. It all goes so fast that I have trouble taking clear pictures.
A crate is filled in the course of a few minutes.
After the 500 g loaves are all wrapped, 250 g loaves are taken care of. I now understand why my Parisian chef was unable to order that butter: he should have come all the way to the farm to fetch it. Saint-Coal has a refrigerated truck of small capacity, and does not deliver beyond the limits of two départements: Finistère and Morbihan, and mostly in supermarkets (or directly at the farm), with other products — lait ribot (cultured buttermilk), crème fraîche, yogurt, fresh farmer's cheese and gros lait (a type of refreshing, slightly gooey sour cultured milk).
One restaurateur, so far, has been serving the wonderful Saint-Coal butter (and proudly mentions it on the menu): Loïc Le Bail, at the hôtel Brittany in Roscoff.
Through this post, I meant to attract your attention on the fact that the most exceptional products are not necessarily the ones with the largest media exposure. Unknown by the world of luxury food travel, they are not often raved about by rich food tourists and glossy food magazines. They are not stylish and their makers do not wish them to be. Half-hidden in the heart of the countryside, wonderful stuff is produced, and if you are not extremely attentive, if you are not ready to accept that some inconspicuous wrappings around supermarket items may conceal miracles, you are likely to miss some of the best things in life.
I also meant to share with you my admiration for the work done at Saint-Coal, for these people's love of taste and quality, the care they bring to every detail. I was struck, as I discovered the farm, by the way the means were accurately adapted to the results: a large piece of land to produce enough hay and cereals to feed the cows, the cows have plenty of room to roam and feed on what they please, their unharried lifestyle is good for the milk. No insane growth objectives, no hubris, and no fake touristy folklore either. Above all, no concessions are made to the urban taste of the ruling classes, which is not only fickle but also, frequently, flawed (as an example, hardly any "baguette traditionnelle" ever tastes traditional for who has known the taste of true traditional baguette). A fragile balance had to be achieved to maintain this quality; it certainly was not easy to reach it and I am sure it is not easy to maintain: the people at Saint-Coal should be praised for that. That day, I had not only come to the farm to learn about butter. I also learned one or two things about wisdom.
Commentaires sur Working for butter
I so enjoyed your article "Working for Butter." It is comforting to know that the world still has people who are willing to produce a product such as this. As a lover of butter, I regret that the odds of my tasting some of this wonderful product are slim, until I can again make the journey to the farm from my Manhattan home. Thank you for taking me there vicariously.
Thanks Jinhua! Your appraisal means a lot to me.
The world does, indeed, still have quite a few people who produce such great stuff. Next time you're in France, do let me know, so I can give you instructions for getting this butter at the farm.
What a great post--and fantastic pictures, too!
Thanks Robert!
marvellous Pti. Thank you for the translation.
Thanks Ptipois for this wonderful post. This is what I love about great food blogging: information about a wonderful product, lovingly produced and not necessarily trendy, but something that is just of good quality. I must admit sometimes I'm taken in by fancy stores and packaging and hype, but it's good to be reminded that this is what good food is all about.
What an enchanting post! I can't thank you enough for sharing such a detailed account of a process intricately entwined with its location and the dedication of its creators.
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