RochelleBilow.com

Getting Whisked Away

The following will appear in this week’s Syracuse City Eagle for my “Miss Syracuse” column.

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“Whisk, whisk!” Chef  barked, standing over my shoulder as I incorporated air into egg yolks and a reduction of white wine vinegar.  He was watching intently, waiting for me to make a mistake.  The béarnaise sauce still looked a little thin, so I continued to beat the eggs.  Once they were sufficiently frothy and stiff, I’d take it off the heat and quickly beat in clarified butter and chopped herbs.  But they weren’t frothy and stiff – not yet.

“Don’t you think you are ready to incorporate the butter?” Chef asked smartly.  He was trying to trick me.  

“No, Chef!” I said, not looking up from the béarnaise.  I heard him make a small sound of acknowledgement, and though I didn’t look back, I imagine he smiled.  I was holding the metal bowl with a towel in my left hand, but it was growing increasingly hot from the steaming pot on which it was resting.  I glanced at my thumb, which was fast becoming a rosy shade of pink.  I chose to ignore it.  

“Whisk harder!”  During his demonstration, Chef had explained that a weak wrist was an awful handicap.  I tightened my grip on the bowl and threw myself into frenzied beating.  Bits of creamy egg and shallot were flying from the bowl, landing on the stove top, my apron, coat, forehead, nose.  I ignored them too, whisking as though my life depended on it.  I could feel Chef’s breath on the back of my neck as I ran the whisk around the sides of the bowl, catching stray pieces of egg that would scramble if left untouched.  I lifted my instrument a few inches in the air and let sauce drip from it in long, thin ribbons.  It was ready.  A pale yellow stream of egg was pooling between my eyelashes as I transferred the bowl to a rolled up towel on my cutting board.  I blinked a few times, suddenly realizing why makeup was forbidden at the French Culinary Institute.  

Steadying the bowl with the now-red thumb and knuckle of my left hand, I began to pour melted butter into the bowl.  My arm was really starting to hurt, but I didn’t dare whine; Chef had told us earlier that an aching arm was the sign of an amateur whisker.  I’d used 200 milliliters of butter, but the sauce seemed as though it could use a bit more.  I did some quick math – I had two eggs in my sauce, so I could feasibly add another 100 milliliters before the sauce broke.  I continued to let the fat flow in a steady, thin stream, all the while working my whisk.  

By this time, Chef had grown bored with my competence and shuffled off to find another student in need of a verbal lashing.  My sauce had eaten up 270 milliliters of butter, and it was looking a little thick.

“Quick, water!” I pleaded across the island at my partner.  He didn’t waste a second in scooping hot water into a paper cup.  He poured a scant amount in the sauce, and I whisked it in.  The sauce was thinned ever-so-slightly.  It was perfect.  I could feel it.  I added salt and pepper, and we strained it through fine mesh into another bowl.  My partner added a few teaspoons of the strained shallots and tarragon, and we stirred in fresh chervil.  

We stuck our spoons in the bowl and I ran my finger along the back of mine.  The line made in the sauce stayed firm, indicating proper texture.  

“Let’s taste it,” I said, my spoon in my mouth before I finished the sentence.  I finished my portion and lifted the spoon triumphantly in the air.  “Oh my god!”

“Damn!” My partner said.

“It is so, so, so very good!” I shrieked, clapping my hands and jumping up and down.  Chef shot me a look, and though I immediately quieted down, I couldn’t help giggling as I stuck the other end of my spoon into the sauce and licked it off.  The béarnaise was so rich, so decadent (must be all that butter), and yet it was oddly delicate – almost elusive as it melted into my cheeks and tongue.  The addition of the shallots, while not entirely traditional, imparted a crunchy, snappy note to the sauce.  It was delicious, and I had made it.

Later, as the class wound down, Chef warned us not to get too comfortable.

“This is easy,” he said.  “ Sauces, soups, salads?  Simple.  Wait until we get to meats!”  He made a dismissive wave of his hand, but I just smiled.

If this is cooking; I thought, if creating food really feels this good, it is worth all of the sore arms, burnt thumbs and splattered clothes in the world.

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To make a classic béarnaise sauce:

Combine 2 tablespoons minced shallots, 3/8th of a cup white wine vinegar, 5/8ths of a cup water, 1 teaspoon crushed black peppercorns and 1 teaspoon dried tarragon in a saucepan.  Bring to a boil and let reduce until almost evaporated and remaining liquid is thick and syrupy.

Place 2 egg yolks, a bit of water, and 2 tablespoons of the wine reduction in a stainless steel bowl over a pot of simmering water (d0 not let the water lap at the bowl). 

Whisk the egg yolk/reduction mixture until light and frothy.  You’ll know it’s done when it has a bit of heft against the whisk.  Don’t let it overcook, however, or you’ll end up with scrambled eggs.  If you find yourself in danger of this happening, simply move the bowl off the heat and continue to whisk.

Whisking all the while, add warm clarified butter in a slow stream.  2 egg yolks can emulsify up to 1 1/4 cups of butter, but you should start with at least 7/8ths of a cup.  Thin the sauce with warm water if you must, but do so with a cautious hand.

Add chopped fresh tarragon and chervil – or parsley, if you have some, as well as salt and pepper.  Strain through a fine mesh sieve and, if you desire, add back the strained shallots.  

I’ve modified this recipe – which will nicely coat 2 steaks – slightly from the French Culinary Institute’s version – mostly to accommodate my love for shallots and for ease in measuring ingredients.