The Best Fajitas in the World

Okay, this isn't a Julia recipe but it is one that will always, without fail, impress your guests. Nay, it will knock their socks off.  It is a family recipe, namely, from my Uncle Nathan who is a rancher in South Texas. 

Aside from ranching, my uncle began catering rodeo events and developed this recipe for fajitas. I can't say enough good things about it, really. As a matter of fact, it is an award-winning recipe, for he did win first place in a fajita-cooking contest at the annual Stock Show and Rodeo in San Antonio a few years ago. 

The unique thing about this recipe is that it's sort of backwards. Normally, fajita meat is marinated and then grilled. This is grilled and then soaked in a hot marinade from which it is served. The meat stays super-juicy and much more flavorful that way. I've served this recipe for folks in New York, Toronto, Chicago and Seattle -- they've all raved about it. (The Canadians, less so, for they aren't really known to rave.) 

Here's the sauce for about a pound and a half of beef. I like to use flank steak. Just salt and pepper the steak, char-grill it over very high heat so that it's really charred on the outside and still rare-ish on the inside. Slice the grilled steak across the grain and plunk it in the sauce:
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Secret Sauce:

2 teaspoons salt                             

1 teaspoon pepper                            

2 teaspoons mustard         

2 teaspoons chili powder    

1 Tablespoon Tabasco       

2 Tablespoons Worcestershire

3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
1 cup white vinegar
2 cups water
1/4 cup bacon drippings

Bring to boil; simmer 30 minutes.  Cool and refrigerate over night.  Warm before using on meat.

Place the sliced, cooked fajita meat in the marinade about 15-30 min before serving. Not much longer or the meat all falls apart. 

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Frankly, I've never made it the day before as it suggests; just right before I grill the steak.  One thing I did learn is that this sauce does not freeze well at all. All the flavor seems to go away once it is frozen. So don't do that. 

Here is part of the fajita meal that I served in Seattle. 

Many thanks to my Uncle Nathan and Aunt Dixie for sharing this with me. It really is a winner. 

Literally.

Sauce Béarnaise; Sauce Choron

Béarnaise sauce. Sauce Béarnaise. It’s been a steadfast member of every chef's culinary repertoire since 1836;
an old war horse of a sauce if there ever was one.

Sauce Béarnaise begins life as a hollandaise sauce but includes a reduction of white wine, wine vinegar, shallots and tarragon. Regarding the classic hollandaise, Julia claims that it’s the most popular of sauces, but perhaps, also the most dreaded.

I love that.

Begin with ¼ cup of white wine, ¼ cup of white wine vinegar, a minced shallot and 2 Tbs of fresh tarragon. Reduce this over high heat until 2 tablespoons remain, strain and let it cool.

Now for the dreaded part: The hollandaise. It’s basically egg yolks to which an acid is introduced and then thickened with a substantial amount of melted butter. The thing is, it can get into all sorts of trouble. It can easily separate, not thicken at all, can quickly scramble if the heat’s too high -- all sorts of dreaded accidents can occur. But, follow Julia’s three pages of detailed directions, and all will be well.

Begin by whisking 3 egg yolks in a bowl over simmering water. Add 2 Tbs of cold butter and whisk until it’s melted. (Not too hot, or you’ll have scrambled eggs.) Now, add the reduction that you’d strained and cooled. Oh, and you’ve also melted 2 sticks of butter which is waiting to be incorporated.

Gradually, drop by drop, begin adding the hot, melted butter to the egg yolks. (Not to fast or it’ll separate.) As it becomes thick, more butter can be drizzled in. And more. And more. Keep whisking. There’s a lot of whisking involved. If you’re a middle-aged woman, sleeveless apparel would be ill-advised.

Finish the sauce with chopped, fresh tarragon and parsley.

I wanted to showcase this wonderful creation. I had pan-seared salmon filets, artichoke hearts, and fresh asparagus, all of which would get swathed with it. This was going to be an all-out Béarnaise extravaganza.

But wait! As with most recipes, Julia had supplied a couple of variations, and there it was. Add a bit of tomato paste to Béarnaise, and it becomes a Sauce Choron.

Tomato paste in Béarnaise? Never heard of it, but it sounded terrific. So, some of the Béarnaise was set aside and easily became a sauce Choron to be spooned over itty-bitty baby potatoes.

Here’s the meal:

The real surprise was the sauce Choron. I’d never heard of it before and perhaps a lot of other folks haven’t either. I’ll certainly showcase it from here on out. After all, if you’ve triumphantly conquered a Béarnaise, why not serve something truly unique by simply stirring in a spoonful of tomato paste? It was fantastic on the baby-taters but would be truly astounding over a filet mignon or even a grilled rib-eye.

See, now this is what cooking is all about. You head in one direction and discover something even better and totally unexpected. I just love it when that happens;
in cooking . . . and in life.

Fondue de Poulet à La Crème; Chicken Simmered in Onions and Cream

I often try to imagine how certain recipes were developed or rather, what necessitated their creation.

Take, for example, one of my favorite food items of all: Ravioli. Some enterprising grandma in Italy probably found herself with a few scraps of meat on hand and a lot of hungry tummies to fill. What to do? Grind the meat, add fillers, lots of tasty spices, and place tiny morsels of it between pillows of pasta. Presto! The family loved it and all went to bed happy and sated.

Meanwhile, a French grandma found herself with an abundance of cream on hand. She’d already made all the butter she could use and the litre of cream was about to sour. What to do? Simmer a chicken in it. Voila! Fondue de Poulet à La Crème.

Julia, of course, took the lusciousness of this recipe, pointed it skyward and shot it off into the stratosphere.

A chicken is basted in butter and onions -- I used the equivalent of chicken thighs – and it receives just a whisper of curry powder. White wine and Cognac are added and reduced.

Now for the cream.

A cup of cream is appealing. Two cups would be over the top.

So, this recipe calls for three cups of cream. (Remember, the French grandma.) Although the recipe didn’t call for it, I browned some mushrooms in butter because I had them on hand and needed to use them.

The chicken gets simmered for half an hour, but frankly, I think it could use quite a bit longer in its cream-jacuzzi. Julia has us remove the chicken, reduce the sauce even more and touch it up with some fresh cream and lemon juice.

I came up with a pretty scrumptious salad if I do say so myself. Baby spinach, grape tomatoes and diced mango was dressed with orange olive oil and tangerine balsamic vinegar.

That orange oil and tangerine vinegar combo is just about the best thing you’ve ever tasted. It’s available at a cute little oil and vinegar shop here in Chicago called Old Town Oil. If you’ve got a foodie friend for whom you’d like to buy a gift but don’t know what to get, there you go.

Serving this recipe over rice is perfect. As a matter of fact, plain rice with this sauce would be a slice of heaven – forget the chicken.

A nearby farmer’s market sells this Japanese hybrid of corn that is known for its sweetness. I can eat four ears in a sitting. This was the last day the corn was available so I obviously took advantage of it.

If you want to prepare a Julia Child recipe that’s pretty easy and has a big voila-factor, this would be the way to go.

Three cups of cream. You only live once. Go for it.

A Holy Relic

In the Roman Catholic tradition, relics of saints are often venerated for their healing and mystical powers. Relics are divided into three classifications: A first-class relic is one that was directly associated with the life of Christ (part of the cross, the Holy Grail would be the holy grail of relics) or a body-part of a saint. All those are first-class relics.

A second-class relic is something that a saint owed; St. Thérèse’s rosary or her personal bible. A third-class relic would be something that touched something of hers; scraps of clothing. I think.

Even though I had spent a number of years as a Franciscan friar and a monk, I never could really “get into” the whole relic thing; probably due to my Southern Baptist upbringing. (I once filled a holy water font with plain tap water simply because I was unable to find a priest hanging around to bless it. I also put a few drops of bleach in the water, no doubt, due to my years spent as a restaurant manager.)

Like I said, I’ve never really held much veneration for holy relics – until now.

It turns out that my friend, Mike, (Michael, Mikey) had once taken a series of cooking classes taught by our dear Julia Child back in the early 90s. He was living in San Francisco at the time and these classes were being offered at an upscale hotel there.

At one point, Julia was demonstrating the use of a citrus zester (a micro-plane) and Mike mentioned that he didn’t have one.

“Well, what do you do?” she warbled. He explained that he used a box-grater to which she said that he really should have a micro-plane.

Later that day, Julia took the class to her favorite cookware establishment, Sur La Table; sort of class outing, a culinary field trip. A few moments later, Julia walked right up to Mike, held a micro-plane in his face and pronounced: “There. Now you have one!”

She had made it her mission to purchase one for him as a gift.

Last night, I was in Mike’s kitchen and asked to see the “holy lemon-zester.” I have to admit that it was just about the best micro-plane I’d ever held. It really did have a special feeling to it.

Here is Mike, proudly displaying a true relic.

(Technically, it’s a second-class relic, but I hate to relegate it to that level.)

When I snapped a photo of it, the light reflected off it as if it were a halo; no doubt, evidence of its supernatural qualities. Do you hear the choirs of angels in the background?

Coquilles St. Jacques Provençal - Scallops Gratinéed with Wine, Garlic, and Herbs

I don't know who St. Jacques is or what he had to do with Julia Child, but I'm really happy he did what he did as far as her scallops are concerned.

A while back, I made Julia's Coquilles St. Jacques à la Parisienne which are scallops simmered in white wine and mushrooms from which the scallops are removed, the broth is then reduced and very gradually thickened with butter & flour, cream, and egg yolks; thus, à la Parisienne. It's complex and you end up with at least three pots boiling away, whisking this one into that one with precise timing and techniques. It's tons of fun. 

The result tasted pasty -- no doubt because the 4 Tbs of flour I used had been sitting on the shelf above my stove for some months and, I think, may have gone a bit rancid. (See? I hadn't tasted the flour before I began whisking it in so expertly.)

I served it with Julia's green beans à la Provençal -- fresh green beans sautéed with onions, tomatoes, garlic, bay, and thyme. Yes, I served à la Parisienne and à la Provençal together.

And in mis-matched service, to boot.  (I hate for food to 'touch')
True, it "didn't work." It tasted pasty to me.
Will I serve this again? I doubt it.
Did any guests flee in terror? Hardly.

Last weekend: Scallops St. Jacques Provençal; Scallops that had been floured and sautéed in butter to which white wine, garlic, butter-sautéed shallots, bay, and thyme were added. The moment that was added, it thickened up without the use of cream or egg yolks. It was then covered with a tiny layer of Swiss cheese, more butter, and broiled.

I served this with steamed asparagus swathed with the incredible beurre blanc . (The photo of the asparagus alongside the scallops was really dreadful -- Lighting, splatters, we were hungry.)

 Along with pan-roasted potatoes and a spinach-tomato salad.

Here is Miss Healthypants, admiring her favorite food item. 

Oh, and I also stopped by a little wine shop on the way home. The ever-so-helpful wine person asked what I was serving and suggested a 2007 Sèvre et Maine muscadet. When she mentioned that it was from the Loire Valley, I suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, that's perfect! I'm serving asparagus with a beurre blanc which was invented in the Loire Valley - - you know. . . "

. . . And, there you have just about THE snootiest response to an attractive wine merchant ever.

Anyway, this wine was just about the most perfect thing to go with this meal; It was light but not crisp, nowhere near tart, dry nor sweet, but really had a "wow" factor when it came to subtle appeal -- the absolute perfect wine for scallops.

It's not like I'm a true connoisseur of wines. Hardly. I was raised Southern Baptist, lived most of my adult life as a Roman Catholic, and only became an Episcopalian a couple of years ago. 

If I ever had to prepare "the perfect meal", Coquilles Provençal St. Jacques would be the fish course and asparagus with beurre blanc would be the main players.

But serve these two items together with crusty French bread, a light salad, that muscadet wine, and that would be one of your most perfect (and easiest) meals.
Ever! 
Yes, I mean Ever!
I'm serious . . . 

Bavarois á L'Orange - Orange Bavarian Cream

In Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia usually begins with a "master" recipe and then offers two or three variations on the theme. So far, I've made all the variations of Bavarian creams but have neglected the master recipe -- until now.

Actually, I've recently learned that it was Julia's co-author who was solely responsible for the Bavarian creams in Mastering. So, kudos to Simone Beck.

First, a trip down a Bavarian memory lane. Here's the voluptuous Bavarois aux Fruits (Strawberry Bavarian Cream):

 And her handsome cousin, the almond praline Bavarian cream:

Bavarois á L'Orange is a molded dessert in which egg whites and whipped cream are folded into an egg custard that is flavored, and into which gelatin is added. As I've mentioned before, I've never really enjoyed desserts or sweets very much, but these Bavarian creams have truly made me a convert.

What's really remarkable about the orange Bavarian cream -- and I didn't notice this until I tasted it -- is that you get a full-on orange experience with this ochreous puppy. Orange is highlighted in this recipe in four different ways: The custard is flavored with orange juice, grated orange peel and orange liqueur (I used Grand Marnier). Then, orange segments that have been marinated in Grand Marnier and sugar top the dessert and also serve as a side sauce.

But it's not all orange-orange-orange-orange. It's all involved in that eggy-rich custard as well. (The recipe calls for seven egg yolks.) Due to the massive and recent egg recall, and being that I try to avoid poisoning my guests, I played it safe. I used organic, free-range, pasteurized eggs from chickens that were into natural healing, meditation and yoga.

Yes, with these Bavarian creams, you'll need to make an investment of time and effort but the orange variety requires the least. (The almond praline Bavarian cream is, by far, the most labor-intensive but it's also my favorite.)

Julia writes: We have concluded that this particular masterpiece cannot be achieved in seconds; a cooked custard, well-dissolved gelatin, stiffly beaten egg whites, properly whipped cream, perfect flavoring, and then the right blending of one element into another at the right time seem to be the requisites for a true Bavarian cream. 

Do not be daunted. Once you make this masterpiece, it becomes considerably easier each and every time from there on out. That's not to say I've made mistakes along the way. I've had custard split from overheating it. One time, I poured the cream into my KitchenAid to whip, left it unattended for a moment, and soon returned to a whirling mass of butter and whey. (It only calls for a half cup of cream to be whipped -- best to crank that out by hand and forgo the heavy machinery.)

The best part is, it can be made a day in advance and takes seconds to assemble. Your guests will already, no doubt, be impressed with your meal. You can slip away into the kitchen and with careless ease, magically re-appear with your masterpiece at hand.

Beurre Blanc

While re-reading Julia’s autobiography, My Life in France, I found myself captivated by her discovery of the classic sauce, beurre blanc. “Captivated” meant that I had to make it.

The origins of beurre blanc (meaning “white butter”) appear somewhat obscure but most sources claim it was derived by an inconspicuous chef in the Loire Valley during the early 20th century. By the time Julia was on the Parisian scene in the early 1950s, beurre blanc seemed to have become a culinary urban legend.

Snooping it out, Julia and her friends found a tiny restaurant in Paris whose chef had mastered the sauce. After sampling it and sweet-talking the chef, Julia was invited into the kitchen and the technique was demonstrated.

Rushing home, Julia practiced and perfected the sauce which consists of a reduction of white wine, wine vinegar, shallots, into which a vast amount of chilled butter is incorporated. The acid reacts with the fat in the butter, suspends it almost by magic, which results in a tangy, complex, extremely appealing emulsion; just about the best of all sauces. Legendary.

She typed up the detailed recipe and mailed it to her sister in California in order to verify that her instructions would result in a successful beurre blanc.

Here is a copy of Julia’s typewritten page to her sister. I love how Julia marked it “Top Secret”, no doubt, evidence of her training in the OSS (the forerunner of the CIA).
(Double-click on it. It embiggenates nicely)

Seeing Julia’s typewritten instructions dated Nov. 7, 1952, I feel as though I’m looking at something holy, to be revered; a signed letter from St. Paul to the Corinthians or Handel's autographed manuscript of the Messiah.

Begin by cutting two sticks of unsalted butter into half-inch cubes. Place them on a plate and chill in the fridge. (It’s important that the butter be cold, so you might as well get this done first.)

Mince one tablespoon of shallot, add it to 3 tbs of white wine vinegar and ¼ cup dry white wine. Also add 1/8 tsp pepper and salt. Reduce this over high heat until a mere ½ Tb of liquid remains. Now, begin whisking in the butter, piece by piece over very low heat. Once each piece melts and becomes creamy, add another piece until all of it is used. (Yes, two sticks of butter.)

It should result in a thick and creamy sauce. Taste for salt and serve right away.

I invited my dear friend, Carla, over for dinner. Knowing she adores scallops, I served this sauce over scallops and asparagus. Grape tomatoes from a friend’s garden and pan-roasted baby Yukon gold potatoes completed the meal. (She blogged about it here.)

How good was this sauce? We ate every drop. Once the scallops were gone, the saucepan was brought to the table and we practically dove in with spoons. And that’s no joke.

One should really have Handel’s Messiah playing when Julia’s beurre blanc is served. And, again, that’s no joke.