by Donia Bijan
Perhaps my mother’s friends were voicing a perception and hoping to be contradicted. It was foolish to hold their preconceptions against them. It was their way of finding out if there was a place for them where they wouldn’t be judged, where they could hope for security, where everything they uttered would not be lost in translation. I called them all Auntie and Uncle. Aunt Farah was my closest and dearest aunt, though we had no connection by blood. It comforted my mother that my aunt would be an important presence after she left. She lived a block away and was generous, never meddlesome, and almost as fun to be with as my mother. She was too gay to commiserate with the community of expatriates who paced their cramped apartments chain-smoking and arguing with their spouses.
When my mother was preparing to leave, she drew a vivid contrast between the resolute life she was returning to in America and the anguished state of her friends smoldering in France: I’ve had a lovely time, but I have to get back to work. There were colleagues and supervisors who expected to see her, there were rent and bills to be paid and a daughter’s tuition to be earned. We opened a bank account, into which she deposited an allowance, and I was given a checkbook bigger than my pocketbook, suggesting far more than the actual sum in the account. I rode the shuttle back to the airport with her, both of us somber this time as I squeezed her hand in mine. Not one for drawn-out partings, she tucked her handkerchief into my pocket and walked quickly to the gate.
Paris at any era, at any age, is glorious, but when one is twenty-two and pursuing a career in cooking, it’s extraordinary. I attended the Cordon Bleu in 1984, during its last year under the direction of Madame Brassart, the same five-foot lady who had made Julia Child miserable in 1949. At eighty, she was still a formidable presence, appearing unannounced to taste student’s dishes and scowl at failed attempts.
Our mornings began with a quick review of the day’s menu with the portly Chef Simon. His round wire-rimmed glasses would slide down his nose as he panted through the recipes. He then left us under the supervision of Chef Petroff, a manic-depressive genius we adored. He never bothered to learn our names but simply hollered our countries of origin: Espagne, Japon, Iran, Sénégal, va chercher un moulin! Hey, Spain, Japan, Iran, Senegal, go get a food mill. He was flirtatious in a matter-of-fact, what-do-you-expect-from-a-Frenchman way. Sliding behind women, he would sniff their necks, playing a guessing game of name that perfume: Ah, Guerlain! Shalimar! J’ai été sûr! Ah, I knew you were wearing Guerlain’s Shalimar! He had owned a reputable boulangerie before the long hours, the oppressive daily production, and the sheer demand had driven him mad, forcing him to sell his business and turn to teaching. Fortunately for us, his passion had remained intact, so when he talked about a daube, his voice would boom against the heavy copper pots that lined the kitchen. When he taught pastry, his voice dropped to a near whisper as he kneaded a ball of dough, murmuring softly, Touchez-la avec toute la tendresse, comme une jeune fille. Treat it tenderly like a young girl. Sometimes I can still see his gnarly hands on the floured butcher-block table, showing me how to fold puff pastry for palmier cookies, generously letting sugar fall between his fingers like snow, and the perpetual murmur, Voilà! Tu as compris, Iran? Tu as compris ou non? Ce n’est pas la cuisine arabe ça. Here, you see, Iran? Do you understand or not? This is not Arab cooking. Even this racist barb didn’t bother me. I knew he had never finished school. I knew he had apprenticed in the back of a bakery at fourteen. I knew he thought Iran, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and the entire Middle East and North Africa were just one big Arab nation with an unrefined cuisine consisting primarily of sheep’s testicles, but I forgave his ignorance because underneath this manic exterior was a good man who loved his work and taught us generously.
On his dark days, Chef Petroff would not look at us, barking instructions and flying into a rage if we forgot to skim the stock or used the wrong knife to fillet the fish. Fearful and anxious, we tiptoed around him. On one of these gray Parisian days, a copper saucepan filled with a broken hollandaise sauce flew across the kitchen and hit my forehead. Through yellow glop and blood that oozed down my face, I saw his expression, savage with disgust, as he spat: Iran! C’est la merde, ta sauce! Iran! Your sauce is shit! I stood frozen in shock until someone took me to the washroom to clean up.
The next day I skipped class for the first time. I walked to the Champ-de-Mars, past the shops on the rue Saint-Dominique, and through the avenue de Suffren, where they piled the sidewalk bins with oysters as early as eight o’clock in the morning. I sat on a bench for hours, nursing a fantasy that Chef Petroff would see I was missing and come looking for me. But of course he did not. I made a decision that I would not speak to him ever again. I returned to school the next morning, and my determination held for the first hour. I succeeded in avoiding Chef Petroff until he called me over to watch him debone a duck, casually reminding me that duck galantine would be on my next exam, so I had better pay attention. He held the duck liver in his palm and joked about how he wished his liver looked so bright. I realized this was his apology. After all, I was there to learn to cook; how could I stay mad at a man who loved his craft, one who took my failed sauce as a personal insult? And that was the end of our crise.
The mornings were busy, with the entire class rushing about preparing the three-or four-course menu of the day, classic French bourgeois dishes like navarin d’agneau, salade landaise, lapin à la moutarde, vichyssoise. By noon everything had to be ready, and the long table in the kitchen would be set for lunch with pitchers of watered-down Côtes-du-Rhône. Our lunches were festive. We teased one another over mishaps, shaving off the charred edges of a gratin—The oven was too hot!— and passing out spoons for a runny flan. How else would we have learned the difference between a correct beurre blanc and a broken sauce that puddled like an oil spill? The chefs never ate with the students, joking that we might poison them. They ate in the office, often a simple meal they prepared for themselves, like a steak haché, a hamburger patty with a fried egg on top.
After lunch, we cleaned up and went to a café on the corner of the rue Cler, where we would have coffee for one franc. This was a luxury for me. I had to decide between coffee and the loaf of bread I would buy on my way home for dinner. If my aunt had asked me to dinner, then I would enjoy a coffee and put two lumps of sugar in it. Unlike many of my classmates, who indulged in restaurant meals and weekend excursions to the country, I lived frugally, counting on lunch at school to sustain me.
Afternoon classes were demonstration courses, where Chef Simon would prepare dishes from his seemingly endless repertoire and we would observe and take notes. Some of my classmates skipped the afternoons, going sightseeing or lingering in a salon de thé over rich pastries and thick hot chocolate. Blowing off class was not an option for me, since it was clear to me that this was my future and I knew how much my mother had sacrificed so I could be there. My notebooks were filled with drawings and recipes that I copied onto index cards every evening. This solitary, rote exercise of rewriting, editing, and cataloging recipes was immensely gratifying, albeit obsessive. And being devoted to a boy far away, I couldn’t accept dinner invitations from young men. Instead, I composed letters in Farsi, an increasingly difficult endeavor, since I was losing my vocabulary and my handwriting had begun to resemble a second grader’s. Perhaps this was a foolish way to spend precious Parisian nights, but the writing satisfied my youthful longing.
Most evenings, on my way home I would stop to buy half a baguette, then head to the fromagerie for a wedge of cheese I had never tasted, and finally go to the produce stand for a single peach, or two figs, maybe a tomato. I lingered in front of bistros and watched the diners through the beveled-glass windows, framed like paintings. They ate noisily, joyfully, all elbows on narrow tables, engaged with their dinner. They waved their arms in the air and cradled glasses of red wine. They tied big, square napkins around their necks and swallowed oysters. Waiters like orchestra musicians in starched white shirts, black vests, and ankle-length aprons whi
sked plates away, gliding between tables balancing platters high above their heads, expertly opening and pouring bottles of wine. For me, watching them was as good as eating with them.
Home in my tiny kitchen, I improvised meals. I loved my room. I loved coming home, opening the curtains, putting on my slippers, and making dinner. I would make a pot of rice and chop a tomato over it; I would shred a potato and sauté it in butter and tuck a piece of cheese inside for a pancake. I set the table with cloth, silverware, and a napkin and ate ceremoniously, looking over my notes from the afternoon class. Sometimes I invited my classmates for dinner parties. When teaching yourself to cook in a closet, you learn that you can cook anywhere. On my two-burner range, with my postage-stamp sink and minirefrigerator, we composed meals from school that consisted of six ingredients or fewer and did not require an oven, although a few show-offs attempted stuffed partridges in aspic. We shared the cost, and we brought our own dinnerware. We forgave our mishaps and were happy to huddle on my bed, plates on our laps, watching the room light up every time the bateaux-mouches tour boats cruised by on the Seine.
The preoccupation with belonging that had plagued me in America seemed to peel away, and in its place I found myself at ease in Paris. As at my school in Iran, I was surrounded by students from all over the world with the same purpose of learning. Cooking and eating together, we enjoyed a kitchen camaraderie that I came to know well in the years to come. Speaking French allowed me to communicate with our chefs, understand their jokes, and translate for my classmates the ones made at their expense. Most important, I was taken seriously, making it clear that I had no intention of cooking as a hobby.
And I made Paris my own. My small budget allowed me to walk the streets and its museum of food, always taking alternate routes with a dog-eared plan de Paris in my pocket. My mother had shown me how to read maps, her pink-polished fingernail tracing a river, pointing to a monument, teaching me to look for landmarks: Never be afraid of getting lost. I learned the city avenue by avenue, marking my way with bistros, bakeries, butchers, cheese shops, distinguishing the sharp smells and chatting with merchants in each neighborhood, falling in love with a city that was always preparing for a party. I enjoyed the brisk Parisian pace, keeping up with the men in blue work overalls who ducked into bars for a quick coffee and a smoke, the office guys with bright-colored blazers swinging schoolboy briefcases, the women in tailored coats with one hand resting on the bag worn across their shoulders and the other holding the mittened hand of a child who trotted to keep up, and ladies maneuvering shopping carts on their way to the market. I felt that I, too, could walk with them so purposefully.
On Sunday mornings I waited for a call from home, relieved that I no longer had to go to great lengths to convince my mother of my well-being. Being exactly where I belonged allowed me to speak frankly and contentedly. One Sunday’s call brought news of my father, who would be stopping in Paris to see me on his way back from Iran. Not having had much contact with him since my arrival in Paris, I was anxious about being trapped with him in a small room, left alone to face his scorn.
Straw Potato and Muenster Galette
In my little room in Paris, I taught myself to cook low-cost, one-skillet meals on a two-burner range. I experimented a lot with this potato cake, substituting goat cheese, Gruyère, Roquefort, chives, or black olives. One of my favorite fillings, of which you need just a small amount, is the Alsation Muenster cheese, especially when studded with cumin seeds. As you slice through the crisp potatoes, an unexpected flavor and texture awaits. This potato cake makes a lovely light dinner with a green salad and an Alsation Riesling. For a more substantial meal, pair it with roast chicken, rabbit, or steak.
Serves 4
3 large Yukon Gold or russet potatoes
6 tablespoons butter, melted
3 tablespoons olive oil
Kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper
A pinch of grated nutmeg
2 ounces Muenster or preferred cheese, sliced ¼ inch thick
1. Wash and peel the potatoes. Shred them with a grater or a mandoline and immerse in cold water for 20 minutes. Strain and pat dry thoroughly with a dish towel.
2. In a nonstick 9-inch skillet over low heat, pour 2 tablespoons of melted butter, the olive oil, and ¾ of the potatoes. Tamp them down with a spatula and cook over medium heat for 8 to 10 minutes. Shake the pan to make sure the potato cake moves around freely and continue to press it down. Season with salt, fresh-ground pepper, and grated nutmeg.
3. Check the bottom by gently lifting one side up with a spatula. Lower the heat if it is browning too quickly. When it has turned golden brown, lay the cheese on top in a single layer. Pack the remaining shredded potatoes on top, pressing down again to make the galette as compact as possible.
4. Carefully flip the galette over, or slide onto a plate and invert the plate over the skillet, so the golden side is up.
5. Pat the cake down again and add the remaining butter around the edges. Continue cooking about 10 minutes, until the bottom is golden brown.
6. Slide onto a cutting board and dab with paper towels to drain the excess grease.
7. Cut into eighths. Sprinkle with salt and fresh-ground pepper. Serve immediately.
Roast Rabbit with Whole Grain Mustard and Rosemary
I had seen rabbit on enough chalkboard menus, as I made my way home from school every night, to yearn for a taste. I could never afford a meal at any of those bistros, but I could buy a rabbit and cook it at home, maybe even invite my classmates.
This dish taught me that you really need only two pots, a skillet and a saucepan, two sharp knives, a fork, and a spoon. I have been in enough gadget-happy kitchens, where there is no evidence of any actual cooking going on, to know you only need half of whatever you think you may need to equip your kitchen. That’s what you learn from cooking in a closet.
Serves 4
1 rabbit, about 3 pounds, cut in 6 pieces
Kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper
½ cup olive oil
1 tablespoon coarsely chopped rosemary
3 strips bacon
3 cloves garlic, crushed
½ cup white wine
1½ cups chicken stock
3 tablespoons whole grain mustard
½ cup heavy cream
1. Cut up the rabbit, removing the hind legs first, then the forelegs. Cut the back loin in 2 pieces and trim the belly flaps. Refrigerate the belly flaps separately to use later. Marinate the rabbit pieces with salt and fresh-ground pepper, a drizzle of olive oil, and 2 teaspoons of the chopped rosemary. Cover and refrigerate for at least 6 hours, or overnight.
2. Preheat the oven to 350°F.
3. Slice the belly flaps and the bacon into 1-inch pieces.
4. Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a large, oven-proof skillet over medium heat, sauté the bacon and belly flaps with the crushed cloves of garlic until golden, then transfer them to a plate. Mop up the rendered fat, leaving just enough to brown the rabbit pieces. Over medium heat, sauté the rabbit on both sides, adding the pieces to the plate with the bacon as they brown.
5. Deglaze the skillet with white wine, scraping the bottom of the pan to release the caramelized bits, and simmer 2 minutes. Add 1 cup of chicken stock and simmer 5 minutes.
6. Crowd the browned rabbit pieces back into the pan and tuck the bacon mixture in between.
7. Use a spatula or a spoon to spread a thin, even layer (⅛ inch) of whole grain mustard (about 2 tablespoons) along the back of the rabbit pieces. Sprinkle with remaining chopped rosemary.
8. Bring back to a simmer and cook until about 1 inch of stock remains in the skillet. Cover and place in the oven to cook for 1 hour, removing the cover during the last 10 to 15 minutes to brown the mustard coating.
9. Transfer the rabbit and bacon mixture from the skillet to a platter and cover loosely with foil to keep warm. Add the remaining ½ cup of stock to the cooking juices in the pan, simmering just to loosen the browned pieces on the bott
om. Strain into a saucepan and bring to a simmer, skim, and add the cream. Swirl the sauce and whisk in 1 tablespoon of mustard, simmering just until the sauce coats the back of a spoon. Season with salt and pepper.
10. Drizzle the warm mustard sauce over the rabbit. Serve immediately.
Chapter 8
ON THE AFTERNOON before my father’s arrival, I tidied my room, made the bed for him with fresh sheets, and borrowed blankets and a mat from Aunt Farah for extra bedding. Knowing he had not had a hot, home-cooked meal in three months, I wanted to make him a nice dinner and show him that I had learned something. With the few francs I had left at the end of the month, I bought the ingredients for a ratatouille but realized I did not have enough for the eggplant. In desperation, I pinched it from the grocer. In a swift interception by the manager, I was caught. He listened as I told him my pathetic story through anguished sobs. Being a kind man, he allowed me to run home for my checkbook. Later that night, my father praised the ratatouille, yet noted the resemblance of the dish to a common Persian eggplant dip. So this is what you’ve learned? Your grandmother could have taught you this. Still gripped with fear from my earlier encounter with the grocer, and the threat of going to the gendarmerie, I couldn’t meet my father’s eyes. I had let him down again—a disappointment, like everything else in his life.