29 août 2007
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.
17 août 2007
A gift, and a Homeric home remedy made from it
Isabelle is back from the island of Amorgos (Cyclades), with a present that moved me deeply. It showed how much she understands me, or how much we are alike. Gathering wild plants for me on a Mediterranean island is the kind of attention that makes me melt with gratitude. Isabelle's gift is a large bunch of Amorgian wild sage. This is priceless; not just the thought — the plant also.
It is an exceptional kind of sage, with a powerful and sweet aroma, deeper and more complex than that of common garden sage. It grows all over the island but the best is found in the Western part, in the Langada hinterland. Another interesting plant, Origanum tourneforti, is also common there: small-leaf oregano, better than common oregano. Saying that Greek islands are rich in aromatic plants is a truism. On one of the Small Cyclades — I forgot which —, a baker sprinkles his bread with wild sesame seeds gathered on the hills nearby. The flora of Ikaria gives the island a unique smell — and celebrated honey. But this sage, with this characteristic smell, I found only on Amorgos.
Back home, I spread the sage sprigs on a cloth and let them dry for an hour or two. But I soon decided to strip them of their leaves: even if the plant is not completely dry, its richness in essential oil acts as a preservative. Not wishing any of this manna to go to waste, I prepared a tea with the leafless stalks in a Lebanese briki.
The fragrance of this tea reminded me of a recipe I wrote down the last time I was in Amorgos — years ago.
Shortly before I left the island, I went out for a walk in the hills to stock up on herbs. On my way, I met a restaurant owner and his wife. Like me, they were gathering their herb supply for the Winter. We started chatting about plants, and they told me this particular sage was a powerful medicine for the respiratory tract. And the gentleman gave me a recipe for an old home remedy.
"Take one paximadi, pour some strong sage tea over it and wait for the bread to soak it in. Then ligo meli, ligo ladhi — goodbye sore throat."
Paximadi is a thick slice of wholewheat bread which is cooked in pre-cut loaves especially for that use. They are dried in a low oven like rusks and sold in packs. Hard as a rock, a paximadi is always soaked with some liquid (wine, oil, stock, vinegar, vegetable juice from a salad) before being eaten. It is an extremely old type of food, described by Patrick Leigh Fermor in his book Mani — Travels in South Peloponnese. Ligo meli is a little thyme honey. Ligo ladhi is a little oil, from the sea of silvery olive groves covering the hills down to the shore.
Paximadi, sage, honey and olive oil. The recipe must have been there for thousands of years. Each one of those ingredients was already known in the days of Homer. They played a prominent part in the basic diet, the xirofagia ("eating-dry") that was the daily sustenance of Helladic islanders from the Bronze Age to the tourist invasion — a lifestyle that modern marketing techniques have made profitable through the so-called "Cretan diet". Let us not linger on that. I prefer to remember, through this age-old remedy, the story of that old Greek man who was asked by a Roman visitor how he got to remain so strong and so handsome at such an old age. This was his reply: "Olive oil and honey inside; olive oil outside."