Just don't call it pork 'n' beans. Photo by Alex Gilrane.
What started out as a French peasant pot dish, likely created to allow a farm cook to recycle her leftovers, has become the world’s most glamorous casserole. While the legendary cassoulet—even the best cassoulet—retains the straightforwardness of its peasant roots, it is so rare that many Americans have never actually tasted it. It’s difficult to find in any restaurant (Ma Maison in Aptos offers it only twice a year). So the best way to get your hands on this legendary dish is to make it yourself. And that will require some commitment.
Cassoulet’s preparation can be one of two things: the culmination of a week of fine meals, or a two-or-three-day project. Either way, if you do it correctly, in the end you will wind up with a remarkably succulent, surprisingly subtle and ridiculously rich dish: a combination of roast pork, stewed lamb, homemade peasant sausage, duck confit (optional) and a slow-cooked bean soup flavored with meat drippings and pork fat. Julia Child, our still-reigning queen of French cuisine, hilariously calls this elaborate cornucopia of proteins “French Baked Beans.”
The efficient way to cook it, seems to me, is to harvest the remains of four or five day’s worth of meals. The other way, which Julia strongly recommends, is to prepare four or five separate, rather involved dishes from scratch and combine them in total. My decision to do it the hard way was partly journalistic (I figured it would make a better story) and probably partly ex-Catholic (Ordeal? OK!).
In her epic tome Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia concedes that “constructing a good cassoulet is a long process,” and, in another outlandish understatement, asserts that “any cassoulet worthy of the name is not a light dish.” Ahem. Yes.
She manages to squeeze the recipe onto five pages, into which she fits more detailed instructions than a golf coach describing the perfect swing. For example, here are her instructions about the correct preparation of a pork rind:
While the beans are soaking, place the rind in the saucepan and cover with 1 quart of cold water. Bring to the boil and boil 1 minute. Drain, rinse in cold water, and repeat the process. Then, with shears, cut the rind into squares one-quarter-inch wide; cut the strips into small triangles. Cover the rind again with a quart of cold water, bring to the simmer, and simmer very slowly for 30 minutes. Set saucepan aside. This process freshens the rind, and softens it so it will lose itself as it cooks with the beans.
So, almost an hour’s work to get the pork rind just right before putting it into a dish that also includes a dozen other strongly-flavored, ultra-rich ingredients. Still, the idea of the rind “losing itself”—yum.
Sadly, I was unable to procure pork rind in Santa Cruz with no notice (the nice butcher at Shopper’s Corner said he could get it for me with a couple days’ notice, but it was already bean-cooking night). So, following Julia’s helpful recommendation, I substituted lean salt pork that had been cut up, placed in cold water and simmered for 10 minutes, then drained.
For a good cassoulet, the beans are cooked three times. The first time they are boiled with the pork rind (if you can find it), blanched salt pork, a cup of onions, and an herb bouquet (garlic, parsley, thyme and bay leaf tied up in cheesecloth).
Oh, I forgot to mention—I had already prepared a very nice three-pound Roti de Porc Poele(casserole-roasted pork). This involved pan-searing the roast on all sides in rendered pork fat, then roasting it for two hours with onions, carrots and an herb bouquet (see above), basting occasionally.
(The roast was amazing, but in truth, the most valuable thing to come out of this process was one cup of extraordinarily flavorful cooking juices.)
Next step: the mutton. Madame Childs apparently feels that mutton is preferable to lamb for this dish, although she will settle for “almost mature” lamb. Recalling my late mother’s frequently stated complaint that virtually all of the lamb to be found in stores today is actually mutton, I spared myself the work of tracking down mutton by that name and secured a bone-in lamb shoulder, which I then carved into two-inch cubes (each thoroughly dried with paper towel), retaining the bones—a laborious and oddly satisfying task, I will admit.
I browned the meat (in pork fat), then browned the bones, then caramelized some onions in the pork/lamb fat. The meat, bones and onions went into the casserole with garlic, three cups of white wine, tomato puree, chicken stock and another herb bouquet. After bringing this to a simmer on the stove I put it into the oven for an hour and a half. When it was done, I removed the meat and bones with a slotted spoon and set them aside separately.
The beans were then cooked for a second time in the liquid that remained, with the addition of the juices from the roast pork.
Seriously.
The next-to-last step in Mme. Childs’ recipe called for the creation of a very simple variety of French sausage cakes—Saucisse de Toulouse. To do it right, one must hand-grind a pound of lean fresh pork and a half-pound of fresh pork fat. To this is added salt and pepper, a pinch of allspice, a quarter cup of armagnac or cognac, and a clove of garlic.
I was very temped to improvise here. It seemed to me counterintuitive (as the French would say) that the sausage—in some ways the star of this meal—should be so bland. I toyed with the idea of whipping up an andouille, which seemed to make sense. But I chose, again for journalistic and ex-Catholic reasons, to follow the rules. (The only variation: Because we had some good-enough leftover fruitcake-making brandy in the cabinet, I could not justify the purchase of a bottle of cognac or armagnac. I regret that choice for reasons that have nothing to do with this recipe.)
After all of this, the final assembly was somewhat anticlimactic. The pork is cut into chunks, the salt pork into cubes, and all of the ingredients are layered in the casserole, ending with a layer of beans and sausage. Bread crumbs and parsley are traditionally sprinkled on top. Leftover meat-cooking juices and/or bean-cooking juices are poured over the whole thing. Pop it in the oven for the final one-hour (re)cooking (don’t forget to baste) and an hour later—voila!
Again, the first few bites were an anticlimax. Julia had predicted this response, pointing out that because of cassoulet’s reputation, we approach it expecting “some rare ambrosia.” After all of this complicated labor, it was almost surprising how subtle the dish was. The flavor of the lamb dominated somewhat, as might be expected. And yet I had anticipated something more, at least at first.
Part of my initial disappointment was self-inflicted. My favorite restaurant cassoulet is found at Washington, DC’s Bistro du Coin, and my favorite thing about it is the duck confit. I had decided to forgo the duck for reasons described above. Eventually I was glad I did.
By the time I got to the bottom of the bowl, I was in love with the stuff. Somehow all of the strong flavors had melded to create something both complex and simple. It was something like the difference between French and California wines—this was a taste of the Old World, and it was just plain good.
Next time, I’m adding the duck.
