Sunday, January 26, 2003

Daube de Boeufe a la Provencale, or: “Be vewy quiet, we’re sewving anchovies.” James, old friend, regular J/J Project reader, and pesco-phobe (What is it with Texans and fish?) was down from Boston for Superbowl weekend.  On Saturday night he was staying with us, and eating dinner.  Also Paul, old friend, mad dog Democrat campaign professional, pesco-status unclear.  Clearly the shellfish souffle would not do, and the next chicken dish coming down the pike, chicken breasts sautéed in butter, seemed a little anticlimactic.  So we went with Daube de Boeufe a la Provencale.  Daube de Boeufe a la Provencale differs from plain ole Daube de Boeufe only in that forty-five minutes before the end of the cooking time, you stir in a paste of mashed anchovies, capers, wine vinegar, olive oil, garlic and parsley.  We decided to gamble that as long as I made the paste before James got there, he’d never know. So out I went Saturday morning to do the day’s shopping.  Due to the weather, which was incrementally less bitter than the previous days, but too damned cold in any case, and due to my mood, which was decidedly depressive, I took the subway.  Mistake.  Fifteen minutes wait on an above-ground platform teeming with confused immigrants trying to make sense of the new “no 7 train to Manhattan on the weekends” clause.  Then a packed grocery store, manipulating a cart through aisles roughly as wide as my hips.  Another fifteen minutes on another elevated platform, this time toting bleach (to try to unclog the bathroom sink, which is coughing up vile brown stuff), two cans of crushed tomatoes, two cans of beef broth, a jug of milk, a bottle of vermouth, and fifteen pounds of assorted meats and vegetables.  During which wait I paused to put on some lipstick in a vain attempt to pretend I’m not an about-to-be overweight, about-to-be thirty-year-old in a dead-end job whom no one will ever have a sexual thought about ever again.  In short, by the time I got back the apartment, I was well immersed one of those Outer Borough Funks, the kind that eventually leads to muttering and ranting to oneself in ways that tend not to ingratiate one to one’s fellow city dwellers.  Luckily, the cooking of daube tends to have a meliorating effect.  Making the marinade – same as last time, vermouth, brandy, olive oil, salt, pepper, thyme, bay leaf, garlic, sliced carrots and onions.  Stirring the meat in and letting it sit.  Blanching bacon.  Slicing mushrooms.  Mashing up the aforementioned anchovy paste so it’ll be already prepared when the pesco-phobe friend arrives.  Thinking, when the state of the horrifically “renovated,” freezing cold, plumbing- and illumination-deficit Long Island City apartment begins to get you down, of the meat softening and soaking in the wonderful flavors, and how that’s a nice metaphor for how you should live, just sitting back and soaking it in, and how that’s just the way you’d do if you didn’t have the soul-sucking government job to go back to on Monday.  I was building the daube when James showed.  Bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, marinade veggies, meat drained and tossed in flour.  Repeat.  By the time I’d gotten the thing built, it was obvious that I’d used too small a pot.  So James, ingenious architect pescophobe that he is, devised a way for me to flip the contents from one pot to another while roughly maintaining the layering effect.  A cookie sheet, and a bit of a mess, were involved.  Then in the oven to cook for three hours while James, Eric and I walk to the liquor store in preparation for the arrival of Paul.  James bought us a big honking bottle of Ketel One.  Thank you, James.  And it had gotten warmer out.  I was losing my Outer Borough Funk. Back at home, the apartment was beginning to smell distinctly of stew.  We prepped with vodka tonics and bread dipped in olive oil.  Paul showed up with the wine stuff.  I managed to herd the boys out of the kitchen so I could discreetly stir in the anchovy paste at the appropriate time.  Paul helped by talking politics.  We made some rice and salad, and I whipped up a little Vinaigrette a la Crème, which is Vinaigrette whipped into some cream mixed with an egg yolk, to go on top.  Ought to have used sour cream, and stirred in some chopped herbs, but I was getting lazy.  We ate. James loved it.  And he was right to.  The anchovy paste added a whole new dimension to what had been before just a very excellent beef stew.  A greener taste, a bit acidic, bright, delicious.  Just goes to show.  When it comes to anchovies, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Rounded out the evening with a few more vodka tonics and a couple of attempts at two-stepping. Well, now.  I’m off to punish my husband for making me watch sports with the humiliation of having shellfish soufflé on Superbowl Sunday.  Ta! 1:40:23 PM    comment []