The Countess and the Cauliflower—a baroque fairytale.
Once upon a time, in a land of castles and villages, rolling hills and verdant fields, there were no restaurants, no bistros and no brasseries. A meal out consisted of simple fare served in inns and public houses, designed to complement copious drinking. So where, you might ask, were all the chefs?
Today, many of the great innovations in cooking start in the kitchens of great restaurants, where the output of brigades of chefs are scrutinised daily by the public, tabloid restaurant critics, and TV viewers around the world on programmes like Netflix’s ‘Chef’s Table’. But there was a time before all that, a fabled time when many of the great food traditions of European cuisine, exemplified most of all by the rich and complex food of France, were born. Great chef’s worked on their creations in the kitchens of the great houses and chateauxs, serving their creations in the rarefied setting of grand dining rooms and salons to be consumed only by aristocrats in powered wigs and frock coats. This tradition continued well into the 20th century (minus the powdered wigs), when the grandfathers of Nouvelle Cuisine, brothers Albert and Michel Roux, continued to cook in the service of the Rothschilds and the Queen Mother, before finally succumbing to the new standard for any great chef: a great restaurant (or two).
One such patron of haut-cuisine, was the Countess Dubarry, who earned her place in history as the official mistress of Louis XV. It was said that her skin was as white and smooth as porcelain; when Louis XV sought to present her with a gift, no jewel that had ever before been crafted could complement her beauty, so he commissioned a diamond necklace that would surpass all known others in grandeur. Her chefs also desired to flatter her with a dish fit for such women. Thus began the long association between the Countess and the cauliflower. The dish that they created came to be known as ‘crème du Barry’, one of the dishes we made today at Ferrandi. The recipe is simple enough, a roux is made and then cooled, hot white veal stock is stirred in and the cauliflower gets cooked in the resulting velouté until tender. The whole thing is blended with cream to produce a snowy white, velvety soup, which is garnished with tiny florets of cauliflower. The finished dish is garnished with tiny florettes of cauliflower, lightly cooked (in reference to the billowing white curls of the Countess’s powdered wigs). Sadly, her life sipping creamy white soup in gilded apartments did not last long, she lost her head and her billowing curls with it in the horrors of the revolution that was to come.
There are now several dishes that bear the noble name of ‘Dubarry’, but all involve cauliflowers. Lamb noisettes Dubarry (small tender pieces of lamb served with cauliflower and toped with a rich, white cheese sauce) is said to be a favourite of the Queen.
Dinner: crème Dubarry, with toasted white bread—a monochrome delight.