The Secret of Vinaigrette

Try reaching for the brass ring and Truth
Eludes the grasp, betwixt and between
Witness instead my acid accepting your oil
Your presence, my love, is the perfect foil.


Leeks with Beets and Beet Vinaigrette

The Man and the Mountain, or How to learn from a Maestro

The Tao in my morning coffee at the studio.

I had the opportunity to practice internal alchemy through qigong and tai-chi for two years with one of the best kung-fu fighters in the world. This man literally saved my life, plucking me from the rusty jaws of ridgidity, helping me heal a chronic injury to my sacrum. Chances are I may never see him again, as in true Taoist fashion, he disappeared into the mists.

His words remain: "You teach best when you have forgotten what you already know. You must teach from the mountain behind you." Robert exemplifies this kind of teacher, this kind of man. I learn not only from his choice of words, but through his body, from his composure and ease of movement in the kitchen. The body is authentic, it does not lie; the truth is revealed in physical expression.

I offer some words of advice to would-be students of any Master: Come ready, having wiped your brow of all other concerns. Prepare yourself beforehand to receive the teachings. Drop the veil of personality or ego and step into the space as if you were a baby, completely new to the world. Trade over-intellectualism in for Awe.


The Maestro himself.

Texture, Taste and the Third Thing

Angelic Lemon Tart

I'm quickly learning that the French are master alchemists in the kitchen. They practice the art of distilling essences of both flora and fauna and combine ingredients in such a way so that one can taste the golden music of the spheres. Robert relayed an old French cook's adage in class the other day, "God made the apple perfect, now lets see how we can improve upon it."

In the studio we are not just reading recipes, we are training to the inalienable contructs of French cooking, a time honored tradition based on observation and consideration. Texture and taste are the axes of orientation and we hone our trajectory while cooking toward the perfect melding of the two. Flavor is developed via a triumvirate of main ingredient, a complement, and a third component of resolution. The resulting layered richness of a dish belies the uncomplicated, yet astute nature of its preparation.

As an example, vegetables are cooked very slowly, often on top of a layer of oil or butter so that each ingredient succombs to the heat gradually, loosing its hold on its flavorful liquid and relinquishing it to the fats below. In the process the fiber begins to break down, and at a certain point the carbohydrates in the vegetable turn into sugars. The ability to recognize that moment is an art and can make the difference between crunchy, bitter onions that return a few hours later and those that are soft and delicately sweet, never to be heard from again. (To be continued)

The Bee joins the Bull at a Dionysian Feast

Piece de Resistance- Pork Loin with Sweet Peppers, Gratin of Potato with Persillade

I am not yet a chef or a religious scholar, but what I am is a Melissa, which in Greek means honeybee. Bees are known to imbibe the essence of life by probing flowers with their tongues, gathering sweet nectar to take back to the hive and make honey for the community. Inside the hive the bee dances; her tiny feet tap to the songs of her travels, to the rhythms of the land and her orientation to the cosmos. She dances to the splendor of the sun and the divinity of the flower as her sisters gather round to listen to the transmission. Through a mysterious digestive alchemy within the bee's body and a reduction process, the nectar she has gathered becomes honey, or bee food, which is stored in a communal vat of honeycomb. The sound the bees make when they do this work together is Mmmmmm.

"France is a hexagon," Robert began, on the first day of cooking school, tearing a sheet of newsprint and sketching the shape with his magic marker. (Indeed, this bee found herself in the right place, having found a delightfully copious flower) "The Loire Valley divides the country gastronomically in two: Butter in the north, olive oil in the south; shallots to the north, garlic to the south. You have the Alsace influenced by the Germans, Normandy by the Vikings, Brittany by the Celts, Pyrenees by the Arabs and Provence, named by the Romans as a province of Rome," he continued, as a network of circles and squiggles representing mountain ranges, rivers and fertile valleys took form within the hexagram. With the strokes of his pen, the regions became a patchwork of cells honeycombing France. Robert explained how each is insulated from the other by culture and terrain and as a result so is the food. "You would never catch someone sauteeing a turnip in butter in Provence" he joked.

Within fifteen minutes a second page was peeled away, revealing a third and a concept I have since coined as the "Theater of Digestion." The French meal is orchestrated to prepare the body to properly assimilate the ingredients of each dish and the structure and form is like theater with entrance, performance, and exit in mind. There is a gradual introduction of fiber and protein to the table through a series of courses. First comes the Amusement, sparking a salivary response; second, an Entree' (meaning enter); third, the Intermet (Intermission) which cleanses the palate for the main course; fourth, a crescendo with the Piece de Resistance, which is the main meat course; fifth, a salad of leaves to cleanse the palate and sixth, a cheese course containing enzymes which aid in digesting meat. There is a pause between the courses for reflection. Those who dine become the conscience or Chorus, commenting on the presence and effect of each dish on the palate. Thus, the French meal sets the stage for an intimate conversation between the body of the land and those of its people.

Gathered around the table, my classmates and I received our orientation through Robert's richly painted tales traversing France. I had the sense he had spoken with each and every ancient woman huddled at the market with her basket of potatoes and a closely guarded recipe that she passes on to him with the tubers and a gesture of her knarled hands. From just one moment such as this comes a satiny gratin that melts in the mouth so quickly, one wonders if it was a memory: And it is. This is how we will learn, using all our senses, imagination and presence we can muster for the art of Classic French cooking. This is how we will work, this is how we will live for two months and 40 days of dishes, all for Mmmmmm.