Aged Legume Beurre And Berry Compote Sur Le Pain

"Some are like water, some are like the heat", Alphaville suggests.  When it comes to my wife's culinary achievements, no two ingredients embody that belief better than those in her latest offering, Aged Legume Beurre and Berry Compote Sur Le Pain.

Don't let the ostentatious name intimidate you - this dish is approachable, unassuming, and just as happy to be stepping out in heels as it is staying home in stretchy pants. While some interpret its leisurely air as aloofness, I hardly found that to be the case. Rather, it's a casual, dessert-meets-lunch consuetude that doesn't pretend to be anything else. And doesn't give a shit what you think anyway.

Point of order: The "aged" aspect is derived from my forgetting it in the fridge yesterday.

The slices of brown bread framing this treat had a welcome spring to them, like a mattress. I noted hints of bran, oat, and honey, with a slightly yeasty finish reminiscent of Alsatian ficelles. The artisan crust, baked golden and replete with flakes of grain, did not elbow for attention.

Inside, the legume beurre spread supinely like a bister Bathsheba. It had a nutty, creamy presence, with a velvety texture that embraced the bread and the top of my palate. The oils so commonly found in this ingredient were engaging but not cloying.

Just as every comedic straight man needs a foil, the beurre calls for something decidedly less deadpan. On that note, in from stage left trundles the toothsome berry compote:

Periwinkle and sticky-sweet, it dances a plummy jig on my tongue. It slips and slides, then crunches with seeds. I don't know why they're in there, much like orange juice pulp or me in this cubicle, but they're not off-putting. Amidst all this frivolity, the legumes' near-chagrin tries reigning the berries in and the results are not unexpected.

It's a delicate dance, a yin-yang, Sith-Jedi tug of war that's never truly resolved. Before you know it, you've taken your last bite and you're no closer to achieving that elusive balance. But perhaps that's the point after all: Accept the whole instead of compartmentalizing the individual parts. "Sooner or later, they all will be gone."

 

Score:

Chicken Salad

My wife's chicken salad is so good it deserves its own blog. Not only is it delicious, it's also visually appealing and presented with something I like to call "savoir care".  More on that later.

For starters, the texture is outstanding. It's creamy, but not in a pedestrian, mayonaisse-y kind of way. Rather, it's the smoothness of yogurt that's responsible for the silky mouthfeel. This subtle but critical innovation also provides a bit of high twang instead of the customary low egginess of less accomplished offerings.

The chicken was oven roasted and I was compelled to partake as soon as it emerged. It appeared golden and tender, with various herbs and spices encrusted atop. It was then diced neither too large nor to near-shreds, a key "Goldilocks" aspect of the dish that proves to be the undoing of many. You don't want it getting stuck in between your teeth, and you don't want to be found slumped in your cubicle next month with a large chunk lodged in your throat. There should be just enough chicken to cordially enter your mouth, hang its coat and graciously await your greeting. As understated as a wallflower, but as unquestionably present as Bluto Blutarsky.

Like any great piece, the harmony needs meter. This is where the supporting cast really shines: Bits of red onion crack through the creaminess in a bawdy strut, with small, precocious pieces of carrot tagging along like Grover Dill. Ringing high above it all like tinnitus are notes of fresh-squeezed lemons. This was not only an unexpected whimsy, it also provided an intuitive counter to the codetta of pepper and olive oil.

That's a perfect segue into the savoir care I'd mentioned. She didn't use bottled lemon juice, she used the actual fruit and incorporated nary a seed. She put pieces of wax paper between the salad and the bread so as not to prematurely soak the slices. Then, like some julienning Jochebed, she seated it tenderly on a bed of foil, wrapped it with care and sent it on its way. It's this kind of je nais se quoi - on top of the already supreme feat, no less - that truly sets the dish apart.

Score: 

I was going to take a picture of it for you, but I ate it all while writing this. I think there's still more in the fridge, though, so I'll snap one before sneaking the rest while she sleeps tonight.

Going forward, I'd like to share more of her culinary prowess here, if you'd be interested.

Thanks for reading,
-Vince