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‘It is delicious. Done correctly, the terrine will have a rich, buttery taste, flavoured with apple, rosemary and mint, with hints of Bordeaux.’ Xavier pulled a battered old ring-binder out of the kitchen drawer and flicked through the plastic pages until he found what he was looking for.
‘Regarde,’ he said, holding up a photo, ‘this is how we want the finished plate to look, and I will walk you through the methodology as we each work on the dish.’
I felt a tingle of excitement at learning something new. The picture showed a tiny plateful of food perfection. These Michelin men knew what they were talking about. A perfect cylinder of terrine, surrounded by a smattering of green dots in different shades and sizes – presumably the apple, rosemary, and mint – interspersed with toasted crouton cubes.
‘Can we make the portions larger?’ I asked, taking the photo from him.
‘Absolutely not. It is a starter for a reason. It is supposed to whet the appetite, not satiate it,’ Xavier said irritably.
‘Well it looks and sounds delicious, but I’ll definitely want a double portion once we’ve made them.’
Xavier handed me three apples, two sprigs of rosemary and a bunch of mint.
‘Michelin star food is about quality, not quantity,’ he said. ‘Now take this knife and follow me exactly.’ I watched as he peeled the apples in perfect circles, removing the skin in wafer-thin strips. He then sliced and diced the flesh into tiny pieces, in the same way I would chop an onion. I deftly followed and he gave me an impressed nod.
‘Bien.Keep the skin and fry the rest in olive oil, add lemon juice and then reduce.’
It was fascinating to witness and then practise the level of effort required to deliver each of the flavours in the recipe. The three apples had been reduced so much, they could now fit into a tiny jug, but they were going to a better place.
‘And now the mint and rosemary go together.’ He bunched all the greenery up and put it in a mortar dish, covering the leaves in boiling water. I followed suit and we ground the herbs into a paste, the smell of spearmint, light and fresh, filling the air.
‘We will also be making a rosemary jus,’ Xavier said, handing me a shallot and three cloves of garlic. I knew how to make a rosemary jus, so I started chopping the onion and mincing the garlic, adding salt and pepper and lots more of the fresh rosemary. This was only a test dish, so I added a sneaky pinch of cayenne pepper to mine to add a little kick. The kitchen sounds were like ASMR to me, putting me completely at ease. The simmer of the jus, the soft pop as the apple turned to mush, the gentle scrape of the pestle and mortar. Xavier had a fixed look of concentration on his face, eyes flicking from his pans to mine, making mental notes of what had been done where.
‘We will also be making our own brioche,’ Xavier said.
‘For the croutons?’
‘For the spiced brioche toast. This is food art, remember; we don’t call them croutons. Every single element on the plate has to be crafted and considered.’ He was almost trance-like as he said it. ‘So we need eggs, milk, butter and a little sugar,’ he called out the ingredients and I ran around the kitchen gathering them from the fridge and cupboards. ‘With balsamic vinegar and figs for the jam.’
‘Do we prepare it all today and put it together tomorrow?’ I asked, thinking the brioche and terrine will both need time to cook and cool.
‘Oui.I have the lamb shoulder here for the terrine, and we need garlic, parsley, chives and thyme, and white wine.’
I was surrounded by a poem of ingredients.
‘Which one shall I do first?’ I asked, suddenly feeling muddled.
‘The terrine will take the longest, so we will go terrine, brioche, fig jam and then at the very end we will do the green apple jelly. The different sauces in the pans can all come off the heat now and rest,’ Xavier said.
‘The rosemary jus smells delicious,’ I said. ‘Can I try it?’
‘Of course! You are a chef! You must constantly try your food. Tasting and checking, until it is exactly how you imagine it should be.’
I dipped my little finger in and tasted it.
‘NOT with your fingers,’ Xavier shouted, catching me by surprise. ‘With a small spoon.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, finger still in my mouth. It was bloody delicious.
‘If this was a professional kitchen, that whole pan would now go in the bin,’ Xavier said. ‘Think about where your hands have been, even in the past five minutes. Dirty bags of flour, touching the outside of eggs, chopping garlic. You win or lose your Michelin star on the taste of your food. Don’t ever contaminate it with your body.’
‘Yes, Chef,’ I said in earnest. He was totally right. What would Gordon Ramsay say?
We worked quietly side by side for the next two hours, following the recipe step by step, Xavier leading the way as I copied his every move. Blending the meat with the herbs and spices to build a smooth terrine. Liquidising the apple skins and whisking them into the jelly to add an acid-green layer on top. Kneading the sweet brioche dough three times and rolling it into tins to rise and set in the laundry room. Then finally taking the figs and adding sugar and balsamic vinegar, with a splash of Bordeaux, to make a rich and tasty jam. I knew it was tasty because I tasted itwith a small spoon.
I gave a stretch and scrunched my shoulders up to my ears. We’d been totally lost in the cooking and hadn’t stopped for breath.
‘Coffee?’ I asked, looking at the clock. It was 5 p.m.
