Latour on the Farm

  Every now and then there is, in the day-in, day-out monotony of life in the twenty-first century, a day that reminds one of the joys of being alive. This past First Day of Spring (20 March 2012) was one of those days. My good friend (currently in self-imposed exile in the Southwest of France) and I took a trip through the Italian Market to gather supplies for what was meant to be a feast. Jason had recently introduced me to a friend of his who was planning on moving to North Carolina. At the moment he lived on a small farm with his family an hour West of the City. He had graciously offered to host us at his homestead and continued to talk about his step father's large wine collection, including, he thought, some rather nice bottles. I confess that my interest was piqued. The date was unwittingly set for the Vernal Equinox and with the background of beautiful, and terribly Vernal, weather we made our way to the farm. As concrete gave way to grass and trees the sense of well being and relief increased. The City (the parabolic one) is wonderful. It can be oppressive however and the liberation of the countryside is exhilarating. The farm was charming and upon our arrival we were given a tour of premises, this included meeting the two donkeys, the fainting goat and the small clutch of lambs. These last were one of the provocations for the meal; Nick, our host, had offered to provide the protein for our dinner and the prospect of lamb raised on site was quite exciting. The kitchen was gorgeous, dominated as it was by the antique professional range, with a flat-top extending about four feet in width. Old-fashioned implements hung from every surface and a collection of handsome antique knives was displayed temptingly in one corner. This family knows how to live, I remember thinking. To say nothing of the hospitality inherent in inviting over near strangers to partake in the bounty of their land.
  Next, came a tour of the cellar. Oh my. I have never actually held, in my hand, first growth Bordeaux before this time and I suppose it was I thrill, I have to suppose since it was a very heady experience. Frank, Nick's unaccountably gracious step father, began by pulling out a Chateau Montrose. I was floored, a second growth is nothing to sneer at and at thirty years old no less. Next came Anjou from the thirties (!). Then came the Chateaux Mouton-Rosthchild, Margaux and two half bottles of Chateau Lafite-Rosthchild. The most famous red wine in the world. Fifty years old. Is there anything else to say? There was a bottle Frank wanted to drink with dinner: Chateau Les Ormes-de-Pez, 1990. This is what was once called a Cru Bourgeous Exceptionnel, meaning that of all the wines of the Medoc region of Bordeaux (considered by some to be the zenith of red wine making on this Earth) there are the Five Classed Growths with the First Growths (including the above-mentioned Chateaux Mouton-Rosthchild, Margaux and Lafite-Rosthchild) as the pinnacles of quality down through the Fifth Growths, in theory finer than all Bordeaux but those of a "higher" growth. Immediately after this are the cru bourgeois. This classification has been disbanded and reformed several times and at the moment includes only one form. In previous incarnations it was sub-divided between regular cru bourgeois and cru bourgeois exceptionnel, sitting on the top of that particular heap. This is a very fine bottle of wine at a terrific age for its type. Then, Frank, in a fit of generosity, offered me the choice of whichever wine I should like out of a small wooden box. Straightaway I caught sight of Chateau Figeac, a name hailing from the St. Emilion district of Bordeaux and about as well-regarded a wine as one may hope to find. Underneath there were wines of rare breeding and more than respectable age. Also among these bottles sat a gem among gems: Chateau Latour, 1980. All thoughts of Figeac were banished as I zeroed in on the First Growth over thirty years old. 1980 was not a great year for Bordeaux, or so I am informed. It was my hope that I could count on Latour's reputation for prodicing fine wine in off years and, frankly, was not of a mind to pass up the opportunity to sample a wine of such impressive pedigree. The Latour was opened and decanted and the Ormes de Pez was opened about three hours before dinner.
  Dinner itself was a straight-forward affair. I took a butterflied leg of lamb and stuffed it with a mixture of broccoli raab (an inspired decision engineered by Jason to "bring some of South Philly to the farm"), minced butter-cooked onion, garlic, parsley and olive oil. I did not want a starchy bundle of stuffing to obscure to succulence that a roasted leg of lamb offers. The stuffing was light, flavorful and a terrific relief to the rich meat. The meat was tied into an even shape and the surface spread with olive oil, salt and ground pepper and thyme and bay leaf were secured under the strings. The meat was roasted in a medium-slow oven to a rose succulence throughout, it was basted often and finished under higher heat to crackle and brown the surface. The roast was accompanied by lots of beautiful chops, shoulder, loin and rib. The shoulder chops were browned in olive oil, surrounded by garlic cloves and cooked gently with herbs and intermittent splashes of white wine and water, covered by a sheet of foil. The rest I waited till the roast was resting (about twenty to thirty minutes time) and colored the lot of them in olive oil in a pan that fit them perfectly. They were cooked entirely in the pan and were done in a few minutes' time. The surfaces were crisp and browned and the interiors a beautiful rose throughout. The fond, that source of ineffably meaty flavor, was plentiful in the bottom of the pan, I deglazed the pan, dissolving all the burnished bits from the surface, instantly creating, in the act, a sauce. The degreased jus from the roasting pan was joined to the pan sauce and the thing was done. No refinements, not even a swirl of butter to obscure the flavor. On the side was one of my favorite accompaniments to roast lamb: haricots panaché: an equal mixture of fresh white beans and fresh green beans cooked (seperately) till done in boiling water and tossed together with butter, salt, pepper and chopped parsley. The effect is splendid and the commingling off shapes, colors, textures and flavors is nothing short of exciting. It is fresh and hearty at the same time. Both beans were procured that morning from the Italian Market and were bought specifically for their obvious freshness; the cranberry beans were brighly speckled and crisp in aspect. The pods opened to reveal uniformly sized morsels, so fresh they were nearly shining. The green beans were crisp and small and perfectly formed. The pale green was turned to a vibrant kelly when they cooked in rapidly boiling salted water and the joining with the slighly gray cranberries (their beautiful speckles sadly fading as they cooked to palatability) was declarative.
  The meal was everything one could hope for, conviviality was contagious as were compliments to the food, the company and the wine. That splendid wine. Chateau Latour, about as fine a claret as one mght hope to meet, and sitting in my glass. I had been smelling it all  evening as it sat in its decanter across the room from where I cooked dinner. It would come in wafts. The bouquet was rich, powerful, each time slighty differnet as it developed. The tension I felt raising the glass to my nose made my movements stiff. I tried to reflect on what was happening and how I felt about it. I confess I felt very fine. The centerpiece of the meal was the lamb. Raised on the property and impossibly luxurious for that.  Its consort in nobility was the Massive Wine washing it down. The wine was a bit reserved at first; the first few approaches seemed to reveal only the scent of a fine claret with rare breeding. I was hoping for transcendence, I am afraid. The Wine, however, as it was swirled and sipped and nursed to awakening seemed to stretch itself out, shaking sleepy limbs as it stood proud and tall. The sensory feelings were electric. The last few sips seemed to send a jet of something down my spine. Shivers of happiness, I suppose. The dinner was filled out by wine-soaked fruit. I had, earlier, gotten what fruit was good and ripe from the Italian Market only to combine them with a fine German Riesling of the 2010 vintage, supposedly a unique one. The buttery cookies I brought along added to what can be a bit austere after eating all that meat.
  The whole evening was a thing of beauty. I am convinced of the "cosmic" nature of such experiences. The (to quote a finer mind and palate than mine) "formalization of gastro-sensory pleasure" is a path to understanding and a valid one at that. It also happens to be paved with rare pleasure. The analysis of the enjoyments one experiences at table is a peek into divinity. Granted, a rushed meal that encompasses neither care nor thought hasn't much to offer, save perhaps a study in the dissolving institutions engendered by our modern society. I am referring more to what I suppose I would call "fine" meals. This doesn't need to be a six course menu with matching wines. It can be a perfect barbecue shared with people you care about where the food assumes a greater dimension than it might otherwise, inspiring, as it does, human connection. I fear that I've treated the subject to a dull death. It is only my intention to share what dining provokes in me: a feeling of transcendence. It is about pleasure. It is about the feeling closer to your loved ones. There is something nearly magical, certainly magisterial, about sharing a table. The anticipation of the pleasures in store is usually enough to create a certain atmosphere and a shared feeling of goodwill (wine helps too.) Such was our night and I feel the better for it.
  It is not every night that we may drink as fine of wine with such sympathetic company let alone accompanied by such regal fare as roast lamb raised au domaine. I am very lucky that such circumstances as occured did and I was present for this meal. It meant a great deal to me and not only because I was somewhat greedy to try such a noble wine. I consider myself lucky for the entire experience: from the wind blowing through my hair en route to the farm to all the beautiful sensory memories formed while consuming such fine fare to the exhilarating midnight golf cart ride that followed dinner to the people I met that day, willing to indulge a silly young man to cook them dinner and share their table. Life is fine.

Crêpes

  Crêpes are one of those things that make one's life in the kitchen a little bit easier. Their versatility allows them to assume the supportive and often structural aspect of a range of dishes. This utility and their fabrication being basically formulaic and requiring little specialty equipment outside of a bowl and a whisk mean that they should be ready in a cook's repertoire. The American pancake to which crêpes are often compared has a totally different character and, for that matter, purpose. It would be hard to overstate the absurdity of the concept of buttermilk pancakes wrapped around bechamel-bound savories and gratinéed. Ready to envelope any-old odd or end in its simple savor, they are a crutch to lean on in lean times. With only a few and basic ingredients the humble crêpe suddenly produces a meal made that much more civilized because of its presence. They are also sublime smeared with butter and devoured.

 Crêpes can also be more forwardly flavored and therefore more of the focus. They can be finely shredded and used to garnish (consommé celestine springs most readily to mind.) They can be rolled around shredded meat and flavorings, bound with bechamel sauce, cloaked with more of the same and baked with cheese until golden. This last example is a dish of such forward and comforting savor that it can't help but evoke a sense of well-fed well-being. Very little need accompany it, though the onslaught of starch is best relieved with a light vegetable preparation; sautéed zucchini is fun and I would think a green salad after is most appropriate. The crêpe can be flavored with anything that is small and discreet enough to not interfere with their manufacture: finely chopped herbs, spices or infusions. The note that finely chopped herbs, in particular chives, give to a crêpe does nothing to pervert its versatility and will expand the savor in a subtle manner. Crêpes can also be made into a sort of cake, layered one on the other and some sort of stuffing sandwiched between each. This can take the form of a vegetable preparation, perhaps with a creamy binding agent (cream, soft cheeses or bechamel all seem likely candidates.) Then more creamy substance allowing the formation of a gratin in the oven. The finished product is similar to the rolled, stuffed crêpes, but the slices, cut like a pie or cake, describe a more dramatic pattern, especially if the stuffing contains differently or at least strikingly colored elements, say, spinach or roasted peppers in various hues. This preparation can also be wielded into a dessert dish when the crêpes are layered with something also creamy but sweet as well, however with so many layers and the thinness of the crêpes themselves not exactly providing a robust foil to whatever creamy fantasy one has chosen for the stuffing, it is best to choose something that is not too sweet and cloyingly rich. This seems to rule out buttercream despite the temptation that a confection comprised almost exclusively of butter and sugar exerts.

  Dessert crêpes can be improved by a glaze of sugar in the oven or under a broiler. This process has the thing assume a texture of delicious and toothsome crunch of caramel on top of the supple and delicate crêpe; if done right there should be nearly as much melted sugar as crêpe. The splendid vessel a crêpe treated this way is needs very little to make it a full and satisfying dessert: a few slices of apple, pear or another fruit cooked in a flattering manner, a spread of butter and jam, creamed butter and sugar with another flavoring (vanilla, cocoa, citrus rind, liquors, etc...) are all enticing. The most noble crêpe dish is crêpes Suzette. This confection consists of orange flavored crêpes tossed in a butter, orange and cognac flavored sauce and flamed at table (though that is not strictly classic) for a bit of glamor. The combination of citrus, brandy and butter is exceptional, the crêpe acts as a sponge and the sticky texture of the sauce caressing the tender pancake is a dream at the end of a meal. It is wonderful. 

   Even the preparation of a batch of crêpes is a joy. As mentioned, the batter is merely a formula that, once mastered, is easy to whip up in a moment's notice. I have often read that crêpe batter is required to relax after it is mixed. The gluten, I am informed, will have been so agitated by the requisite beating that the crêpes produced from a just-made batter will be tough. Perhaps we can lay this at the feet of the blender. Many recipes insist on throwing everything together in a blender and whirring away to a homogenous smoothness. This, certainly, must whip the poor gluten to a frenzy and may in fact ensure a tough crêpe. I cannot help but prefer the comparatively primitive method of a bowl and whisk. It is exceptionally simple and the satisfaction of feeling one's way through the preparation is retained. The mixture starts with the blending of the flour and eggs, these are worked to a smooth mass and liquid is dribbled in, a bit at first followed by a steady stream. The initial mixing of eggs and flour is insurance against lumps (perish the thought) and the dribbling at first ensures an absolutely consistent batter. The liquid is most commonly milk but I have made perfect crêpes using water. Beer will also serve, adding a malty dimension, as will white wine, cut with either milk or water. The liquid should be added till the batter is the consistency of heavy cream. This is quite thin but it is this thinness that is the nature of the crêpe. At this stage it is wise to strain to eliminate any unmixed particles. Fat, in the form of melted butter or, more rarely, olive oil, is stirred in after straining so the floating particles of butter won't catch in the strainer. Crêpe batter is not terribly stable and as it sits the fat will rise to the top. It is profitable to give the batter a stir each time you dip into it to redistribute the fat throughout. A proper crêpe pan is made of seasoned iron. It is an old fashioned looking device and pleasing to look at but, in truth, perfect results may be had with a small non-stick pan as well. It is in fact less fussy to use a non-stick since the temperature is less sensitive. When using an iron pan it is imperitive that the surface be at a perfect temperature or the delicate little pancake will stick, but with a non-stick, as its name informs, sticking is impossible, no matter the temperature. A small amount of batter is needed for each crêpe, something less than a quarter cup, depending on the size of your pan. The pan should only be just coated with batter and a bit of intervening butter may be slipped in the pan between every few crêpes (it is unnecessary after each one) and this is a useful method of gauging temperature, since the butter responds in rather obvious ways to different ranges of temperature. I use a small ladle to pour in a bit of batter and immediately swirl the pan to distribute to all corners. The crêpe is done on the first side when the edges begin to curl away from the pan and you may detect a slight browning to them. If using iron I turn them with a simple flip of dining (blunt-edged) knife. A non-stick is a bit more delicate and I have more luck with a combination of chopstick and my fingers, lifting with the chopstick and executing a quick flip with a light pinch. It need only remain on the second side for a few moments and this side will always be inferior looking to the first. The first side will, when properly cooked, have a wonderful lacy quality, the rich brown intersecting with the almost beige in a spectacular pattern. This laciness occurs only when the pan is hot enough: As the batter is poured in if the pan is properly heated it will immediately bubble up and form minuscule pockets of empty space in the pan which, as you swirl the pan more batter will fill in and these spots will remain lighter in color. The effect is ravishing. The second side will be spotted brown in a few places but you mustn't be ashamed; this side will always be hidden, the beautiful first side being the crêpes public facade. As you cook crêpes it is beneficial to stack them all, one on the other, on a plate. They will keep each other from drying out and when the stack is complete it is necessary to cover them in plastic. Before they are so-enclosed however, it is pleasurable, for me at least, to stop and smell the metaphorical roses: the scent of a freshly made pile of crêpes is sometimes all that is needed to assure me that life is fine. Try it.
  There are several ways in which a crêpe may be folded to enrobe a filling. It may simply be rolled around once, or if the filling is thin and spreadable, it may be spread across the entire surface and the pancake may be rolled tightly into a roll, forming a spiral shape with the filling, especially effective when the crêpe is cut, revealing the drama within. Another folding form is to bring in the edges so the circle becomes a rectangle, it is similar to folding an envelope. This enclosure is wonderful when fried, the surface will become crisp and the filling will be a surprise inside. I love to lay a crêpe, put a slice of cheese and of ham as well as a poached egg inside then fold it as described. I will then lay the stuffed crêpes in a buttered dish, dab more butter on top and put in a hot oven. A little mustard will also bring everything into focus. The egg is the sauce and the effect is delicious. A surprising use is discovered when the crêpe is cut in ribbons. They have served in composed salads in my kitchen and the effect is delicious, if unusual. The ribbons are noodle-like in effect and the soft texture will marry with other consistencies for a festive and original salad. 
  Crêpes are one of my favorite things in the kitchen. I hope I have conveyed my enthusiasm. The versatility of crêpes means that they can be welded to any number of preparations but it always seems most prudent to me to respect, as nearly as possible, their native qualities, that is to say: thinness and delicacy (of both flavor and texture.) The crêpe should always be detectable and it's subtle, sweet and almost "eggy" flavor should not be lost in the mix. This to me means that when stuffing the crêpe should not be full to bursting. It is nice to fold in quarters so the crêpe intercedes itself between multiple layers and thus offers more texture.
  Here is the formula I use when making crêpes:
   1 heaping Tablespoon of flour TO 1 large egg TO 1 Tablespoon melted butter TO about 1/3 cup milk, beer, water et cetera

The mixing and cooking method is described above. My typical batch is the above formula times three (3 heaping Tablespoons flour, 3 eggs, 3 Tablespoons butter, about 1 cup liquid). Add the liquid slowly and look for the ideal of "heavy cream consistency." Enjoy crêpes and make them often.

Herbs

 Herbs are, more or less, essential to good cooking. They are used in many capacities and in many applications. To my mind there are two types: those you cook and those you use raw. The cooking herbs are useful for building flavors. They will typically contribute a depth of savor to a preparation that will round out and complete a profile. Most cooking herbs are simmered in a liquid medium for a relatively long period of time and the initial assertion of their taste will mellow to a warm background note. Another hallmark of these types of herbs is their propensity for drying. A lot is said of the inferiority of dried herbs but they have their place. I would never, say, finish a salad with a pinch of dried thyme, but I wouldn't hesitate to flavor a stew with the same. The herbs that dry the best are composed, in large part, of oils that are concentrated when they are dried. This means that the flavor is largely preserved and indeed, amplified. The flavor will fade however and the commercially available dried herbs lining the supermarket shelves have the potential to be quite vapid. The best solution is to dry one's own herbs on the branch. This easily done: simply tie up the branch in some kitchen string and hang it in a well-ventilated area for a week or so till fully dessicated then strip the leaves and store in an airtight jar. The herbs that can be dried include thyme, oregano (which actually tastes better dried than fresh), savory, marjoram (though the fresh plant has an exquisite flavor that the dried seems to lack even if it is a valuable flavoring agent), rosemary (however the prickly roughness of the dried needles means they must be dealt with with caution) and bay leaves. Sage has the oily makeup to theoretically be dried but the musty favor of dried sage seems to discourage such a process.
  On a different tack, fresh herbs are absolutely wonderful and practically indidpensible. I believe that the note they add to dish, on the finish, cannot be replaced. The herbs that should absolutely be used fresh include parsley, chives, tarragon, basil and chervil. Marjoram, an herb for which I have a particular fondness, is magnificent fresh and merely acceptable dried. The purpose of fresh herbs is -- just as often as adding flavor -- to add a freshness and finishing touch to a preparation. A long-cooked stew, soup or braise will acquire new life when a dose of freshly chopped green herbs are terminally incorporated. This inclusion completes a "spectrum" of flavors, starting with base notes from things such as aromatic vegetables and dark green herbs, continuing with the main savor in a dish (chicken for a chicken soup, beef in a pot roast, et cetera, et cetera) and concluding with the brightness of fresh herbs. This method of flavoring assures the most complete tasting food.

Here are some thoughts on three of my favorites:

Parsley- Its greeness flatters any conceivable dish; there is nothing that clashes with parsley's genial taste. It is as fundamental to fine cooking as is salt and pepper and about as omnipresent. It is available is every grocery store and should be thought of as a staple of the nature of olive oil and vinegar rather than an item of produce. To preserve its lifespan it is smart to keep it, stems submerged, in a glass of water in the refrigerator. My favorite way to chop parsley is to roll it very tightly into a bundle and slice across as thinly as I can. This produces feathery whisps that in true parlance is called chiffonade. Parsley also marries with garlic to form a single savor. This mixture, called persillade, is excellent when tossed at the last minute into a sauteed preparation or when used as a flavoring agent in a stuffing or the like. The inclusion of this melange will often denote the designation "á la provencal" to a dish, notably to frogs' legs and mushrooms. Parsley is the most useful herb to have on hand and its availability is a boon to all cooks.

Thyme- Thyme is similar to parsley in its scope of utility. It is more than acceptable as a finishing touch but truly is in its element as a background note, gently melting to form aromatic support to a dish. In this capacity it is often combined with other herbs, each of them combining with long-applied heat to a flavorful total greater than the sum of its parts. The classic bouquet garni is thyme, bay leaf and parsley. The beauty of a bundle of herbs, tied up in kitchen string is as exciting to the eye as the palate. Thyme is usable in both its fresh and dried states and it is possible to obtain flavorful dried thyme at a market that moves larges quantities of herbs and thus has fresh stock often. I like the Spice Corner in the Italian Market on Ninth Street (it is, appropriately enough, on the corner of Salter Street). It has a wealth of herbs and spices as well as such savories as nuts, dried mushrooms, coffees, teas and a host of curiosities, not to mention exceptionally honest prices.

Marjoram- This beautiful herb seems to becoming more and more popular and is thus easier to find. It is related to oregano and, in a sort of basic way, resembles it. It is totally different in flavor and aroma. It may be difficult to find but is absolutely worth seeking out. It is sweet and aromatic with a particular clean flavor which will flatter a great variety of foods. It can be used dried as a cooking herb but really finds itself when used fresh. The finely chopped leaves will add an ineffable dimension to whatever they ennoble with their presence. I love it with lamb, zucchini, garlic, beef and just about everything else. I have had the most consistent luck finding it at Iovine Bros. in Reading Terminal Market. There it is sold for a reasonable price rather than in those infernal plastic contraptions in grocery stores for insulting amounts of money. Use marjoram!

These are some of my favorites and I hope to expand upon this list in the near future, there is much to be said about many herbs. I only implore you to try them and broaden your cooking. It can do nothing but bring you pleasure, both in the acquisition of knowledge about an ancient and natural practice and the due to the obvious gustatory benefits. Herbs are wonderful and once you start using them it is difficult to stop, but no worries there.

 I live in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and believe firmly in French Gastronomy. As often as is possible I host friends so that I may share my vision of fine living. It is a luxurious thing to sit around a table, glass of wine in hand and be positively thrilled at the mingled pleasures of good food, fine wine and the company of those you most care about. It is in the enjoyment of food and wine in the deliberately ritualized setting of the dinner table that we, as people, are at our best and the world makes the most sense. It is not meant to be a realm of snobs or bombasts. The raison d'être of the table, in my view, is to both have a good time and forge new connections with one's fellow human beings. It is at once a very serious and very frivolous pursuit. After all, without the stabilizing influence of culture (with food traditions filling an anchoring position on the same scope as language in such a broad term) the refinements of our militaries, economies, scientists, television networks and I know not what mean literally nothing.

  My intention is to share my experiences at table. I try to put a great deal of thought to the meals I create so that the experience is a harmonious statement that is easy to grasp and yet offers a deep and profound level of pleasure for those willing to spare more than a passing thought for nourishment and lubrication. I will offer my basic template for a meal:

Aperitif- I like to offer something different than any other wine I am serving. this often means Champagne or other sparkling wine but I have also been ravished by barely sweet Vouvray or Riesling or a dry and vibrant fino sherry. The aperitif should literally be an appetite sharpener and should leave the palate unencumbered for the main body of the meal.

First Course- There are a nearly infinite variety of possibilities for this. I serve white wine with this so its compatibility with that drink is taken for granted. The scope of white wines allows for a great variety of preparations here. I most often find myself making a vegetable or seafood dish to accompany whichever wine is most suitable. If it's vegetables á la grecque it may be a Chablis, a Pouilly-Fumé or perhaps a white Côtes du Rhône. A more powerful preparation, say, fish in a creamed sauce, would fit nicely with a white Burgundy, be it Poully-Fuissé, a Mâcon-Villages or a fine Côte d'Or. An important consideration is the following wine; it would be silly to precede a fine and venerable claret with a little and acid white wine just as it would be senseless to follow a beautiful Côte de Beaune premier cru with a rough and tumble red from the Rhône Valley. Just like everything else this course and its accompanying wine should fit into the overall harmony of the meal. 

Second Course- This is the food climax. The "main course." To my mind that means meat. Whether a straightforward roast or a more involved assembly or braise this is the cornerstone of the meal. Garnishes and side dishes can often be kept to a minimum since the preceding course will often concern itself more thoroughly with vegetables. I often like to serve a starch at this point as relief for the meat. An assembly such as a blanquette de veau – poached veal breast served in a divinely creamed sauce over top fresh egg noodles – allows for a single commanding dish that cannot fail to garner admiration. Often this course will involve a joint of meat that requires disassembly, which is to say carving. A seemingly forgotten art, carving is a true joy for all involved. There is little as handsome as, say, a burnished roasted piece of meat brought table-side to be dispatched by a skilled hand and a sharp knife. The simplicity of a roast chicken, requiring little forethought or expertise, will be elevated when the whole bird is carved before the diners eyes; they become partcipants and part of the mysterious gap seperating the eater from the eaten is bridged. Please, try carving, do it in front of your friends, they won't mind if you mess up, I promise. 

  In terms of wine, this is, generally, red wine territory. I like to serve two red wines in a meal and this is the first opportunity. Meat has a marvelous affinity to red wines and when tasted together they can often soften each other; the meat will often be "finished" by a wine, I consider it the final seasoning of the dish, and the wine will open itself up more generously. The red here can be relatively simple and, ideally, should pave the way for the red to follow. It makes the most sense to have two reds of the same region or grape varietal and follow the simpler with the more venerable. For example a Mercurey from the Côte Chalonnaise (a lesser section of Burgundy) could precede a fine red from the Côte de Nuits (for many the summit of red Burgundy.) Another alternative is to serve the same wine or at least the same type and serve a younger version first to be followed by and older and (theoretically) more mature example. 

Third Course- This is salad. A simple green salad. Nothing but fresh lettuces and herbs in a dressing made only of olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. The lettuces can be of any sort and a more interesting result is had when there are several varieties incorporated into the same salad. Herbs will compliment and the vinegar and oil should be more than decent; there is no subterfuge to hide behind here, they must be delicious on their own. The salad course may seem strange placed this late in the meal but it is often a revelation for those unused to eating in this fashion. That being said, it makes complete sense to serve a salad, whether comprising only lettuce or a more involved garnish, as a first course and forgo this dish. No wine is served here. Vinegar and wine do not agree and at any rate the wine that would most compliment a simple green salad (white) would create nothing but discord when placed between the two reds that surround it. This is the start of what I think of as the "denouement" of the meal, the last three courses forming a sort of arc that gently brings the meal to a conclusion. If done right the last three will also require little last minute effort by the cook and do nothing but extend the pleasure of dining. 

Fourth Course- Cheeses. A platter of a few types of cheese, each different in character, is spectacular. I always accompany it with the best bread I can get and am every time in wonder at the miracle of cheese. The inclusion of a creamy, brie-like cheese will satisfy many a cheese lover and the inclusion of something firm and crumbly on the platter will only highlight the luxury of a runny cheese. I like to have at least three cheeses and the third is often a goat milk cheese, whether aged or fresh. 

  The main reason for the cheese course is, however wonderful the cheese may be, its wine. This is the red wine climax and the time to pull out the finest bottle you may muster. Because of this I find it important to select those cheeses which will not offend a fine wine nor assert their own character to the detriment of the wine. It is better to have delicate cheeses (which is not at all to say bland) and fully appreciate the wine than to risk destroying the wine with violent (and potentially scrumptious) examples. This means there are many cheeses I will not welcome to my cheese board that I would, under any other circumstances, enjoy tremendously. Blue cheeses are often too powerful or at least too salty to be included though there are certain mighty red that may hold their own in such company. Trust your taste, it cannot possibly let you down, if it tastes good to you it is good.

Fifth Course-  Dessert. Even those without a sweet tooth will appreciate at least a little something to conclude a meal. The scope here is obviously endless and any attempt at a categorization of the possiblites is fruitless. There are a few things I consider, however. Foremost is wine; if I am lucky enough to be serving a dessert wine I will choose something that will compliment it. This first of all means that I will not serve a dessert sweeter than its accompanying wine, lest the wine, more delicate than solid food, be shown in a poor light. Secondly there are certain things to avoid: most wines will not tolerate chocolate and a frozen dessert will deaden one's enjoyment of a fine dessert wine. Another thing to consider is timing. It is interminable to be running around finishing endless last minute chores throughout the meal and by this point it is very satisfying to be able to simply pull out one's preprepared dish and serve it forth. Wines that accompany desserts are obviously sweet and there are several varieties, in a perfect world every meal would conclude with a fine Sauternes but in real life one may often make due with a less vaunted type, say a Coteaux de Layon or Muscat de Beaume-de-Venise. These are all delicious even if comparison between they and Sauternes, however unfair, is inevitable thanks to the tremendous amount of pleasure derived from sipping on a well-chilled glass of Sauternes. The flavors of almonds (and nuts in general), peaches and apples all compliment a Sauternes very well. True Sauternes is pricey so don't get down on yourself for not serving it everyday, just don't forget it for when you can justify the expense, I assure that the pleasure is more than worth it. Fortified wines I prefer to serve alone or with a simple cookie-like thing to accompany.

  After dinner is a time for coffee and brandy or liqueurs. A cup of strong coffee and a tiny glass of eau-de-vie is a stunning conclusion.

  This is my very personal exploration on the structure of a meal. It suits my purposes well but I cannot promise it will completely satisfy all tastes. This is, to be sure, a rather decadent approach to dining but there is no shame in that. Decadence has its place just as temperance does. To everything there is a season and all that. This is also a fairly involved dinner layout and a simpler example could be had for everyday dining that follows similar principles. The most important idea in this menu format is progression: specifically two separate, discrete and related paths. One is food the other is wine. The food should progress from complex to simple and the wine from simple to complex. A complicated composed salad that opens a meal will find its happiest partner in a simple white wine that will flatter but not compete whereas a fine red wine is best understood in the presence of a simple roast or the like.  Cheers and happy dining.