Making duck, infiltrating Le Cordon Bleu

A few nights ago I felt a twinge of sadness when I realized that a mere two weeks from now, the cornucopia of meats on display at my local boucherie will no longer be available to me. Plump, succulent poultry and game will soon disappear from my diet (perhaps my gut will go with it?), to be replaced with wan, filthy, factory farmed chicken breasts and dyed salmon and all the delights of the diseased American abattoirs that are so readily available at my local megamarket.

Jeez, where did all that anger come from?

Long story short, I decided to cook my old friend duck, cause our days together are numbered. I ordered a nice fat magret, and then the butcher and I began our usual chat about what I planned to do with my purchase. Sometimes I feel like he's testing me, like he'll refuse to sell me something unless I can propose a good way of cooking it. Naturally, "chicken stir-fry" doesn't go over so well here; I have to agree to some sort of classic French preparation. My suggestion - to pepper the breast and serve it in orange sauce - was met with approval, but only after I agreed to cook the magret for no longer than three minutes on the skin side, and one minute more after flipping it.

"QUATRE MINUTES?" I asked, bewildered.
The butcher nodded sagely. I guessed I would have duck sushi for dinner.

I think I did learn something in cooking school, 'cause I whipped up a rather delicious little orange-ginger sauce right out of my head. It was a bit thin, because I was working with powdered veal stock and didn't particularly feel like heavying it all up with any of the usual thickeners. By the way, real veal stock is the secret to many delicious dishes in French cooking. Bite the bullet, make some at home and freeze it. There, I just saved you $20k in cooking school tuition.

I seared the breast over high heat, skin side down, for three minutes. I flipped. I let it rest. I threw it back in a hot oven for a few minutes before I sliced it, and then confirmed that while four minutes may be enough for my butcher, it certainly isn't enough for me. The meat was raw. I squelched my guilty feelings of disloyalty and threw it back in the oven for five more minutes. I caramelized some marinated endive. I made a quick cream sauce out of some leftover Vacherin that had been stinking up my fridge and a bit of rosemary, and tossed it with some pasta. I drank a lot of wine - a nice Lirac.

Duck breast with blood orange ginger sauce, citrus caramelized endive and Vacherin pasta.

Then I spent the rest of the night compulsively reading this blog. And drinking Lirac.

The next morning, I awoke in panic at 11. I checked my voicemail and sure enough, Christine was able to squeeze me into a demo at the Cordon Bleu. I had one hour to get dressed and get down to the 15th arrondissement, which, from the 16th, is no easy task. Three Metro changes, people. THREE.

I made it in the nick of time, and I got to meet some of Christine's friends before we all sat down to watch the chef. It was great to check out the inside of the school and compare it to the Ritz. The demo was quite large, filled with loads of international students wearing their white coats and dutifully taking notes, because they would be expected to replicate the dishes the next day in their practical classes. The whole vibe there felt more like a real school. It was sort of a shock to meet all the Americans studying there. The Ritz only had a few. The chef made marinated mackerel with horseradish cream and crispy vegetables, duck pot au feu with homemade sausage, and rhubarb galette with red fruits coulis.

Mackerel.

Pot au feu.

Rhubarb galette.

I loved learning how to make the sausage. It looks difficult to get the pressure right when you're filling the casing by hand; too much force and you split it, and you have to constantly watch out for air bubbles.

While I was watching, I got ANOTHER twinge of sadness, even worse than my heartbreak over my impending butcher-free lifestyle. I want to be back in cooking school! I'm jealous of Christine. She gets another six months here.

After we'd sampled all the dishes and finished up at the Cordon Bleu, we did what any respectable cooking school students would do. We went out for lunch.