- Product # 077797
- Type PDF eBook
- ISBN 978-1-60085-732-4
- Published Date 2008
- Pages 320
- Photos 138 photographs
Chefs and Restaurants Category
Cookbooks by professional chefs and cookbooks that focus on the cuisine of specific chefs or restaurants.
Food Photography and Styling Category"David's cuisine is as fresh today as it was when he and Karen first opened their doors many years ago... The recipes from Chanterelle evoke our roots, as chefs, in French tradition while striving toward simple, elegant preparations and flavors. Chanterelle will always be the quintessential New York restaurant for me." --Thomas Keller, The French Laundry
Awarded to a photographer and stylist for food photography and styling that clearly, accurately and artistically represents the book's recipes or cooking techniques, enhances the text with stimulating visual images and reflects the overall tone of the book.
Since Chanterelle opened its doors in 1979, it has garnered rave reviews to become a destination restaurant of national stature. Now, for the first time, award-winning restaurateur David Waltuck takes you into his kitchen and shares the secrets behind his highly acclaimed cuisine.
From David's love of food and cooking at an early age, to his passion for creating innovative cuisine based on French classics, Chanterelle follows the story of this quintessential New York restaurant -- woven together by the love affair between David and his wife Karen.
Chanterelle is a collection of more than 150 recipes organized according to the progression of a meal: hors d'oeuvres followed by salads and starters, followed by main courses and then desserts.
It captures some of the most delicious and creative dishes you'll ever have the pleasure to enjoy -- inspired by food, friends, family and an unmistakable joie de vivre. And it's richly illustrated with photographs by renowned food photographer Maria Robledo.
Through the pages of Chanterelle, you'll experience a restaurant unlike any other -- as you bring the unforgettable flavors from its welcoming tables to your very own.Chosen as a 2008 Holiday Gift by the Today Show.
- Table of Contents
Foreword by Adam Gopnik
The Chanterelle Story
How to Use This Book
Fish & Shellfish
Poultry & Rabbit
Meats & Game
Side Dishes & Accompaniments
Most people who make a living doing something they love can point to the moment when they discovered it, lightning struck, and they exclaimed, if only to themselves, "That's what I'm going to do for the rest of my life!"
My revelation occurred in midtown Manhattan, on a Saturday night in the early 1960s. It was then, long before it had a name or a location, that the first stirrings of what would, in time, become Chanterelle restaurant took hold in my mind.
I grew up in the Bronx, that sprawling, overwhelmingly middle-class, northernmost borough of New York City. Food wasn't a priority in the Waltuck home, although my two aunts, Gertie and Fanny, who lived in the same apartment building as we did and didn't have families of their own to nourish, often cooked for my parents, my brother, and me, preparing a hodgepodge of American and Middle European staples: stuffed cabbage, chicken fricassée, roast leg of lamb, braised pot roast, and a repertoire of soups that included matzo ball, mushroom barley, and borscht. The food was satisfying but inelegant: Drab pale green and brown tones ruled the day, and many house favorites were ladled out of gigantic pots or carved on a huge wooden board from the head of the table. Meals were casual affairs, with little emphasis on the rituals of dining: You sat down, you ate, you cleared the table, you went on with your life.
My parents, both New York City social workers, took a serious interest in the arts and were devoted to exposing their young children to some of the city's legendary culture. And so, occasionally, on Saturday nights, they would usher my brother and me into the car and drive us down into Manhattan for an evening of theater, always preceded by dinner in a restaurant. I was like a tourist in the blur of flashing lights and neon that defined Times Square in those days. As the family car snaked its way down the West Side Highway to 42nd Street, eventually docking in an outdoor lot, I felt a thrilling shiver at being in The City, and this excitement grew as we navigated the sidewalks of the Theater District, its sounds and smells filling my senses to overflowing.
I can't recall which of the largely interchangeable Hell's Kitchen French restaurants was the first one we visited, but I will never forget the immediate and lasting impression it made on me. As we passed through the restaurant doors -- through the looking glass, it seemed -- into a world of lace curtains, tuxedoed waiters, and hushed voices, I was wonder-struck. The restaurant, and the ones that followed on subsequent Saturdays, awakened in me a kind of romance. The reassuring grace of the maitre d', the timeless elegance of the dining room, the soft, flattering lighting -- these things were transporting. By the time we ordered dinner, I had the sensation that I was no longer in New York City, but in some otherworldly place devoted entirely to the comfort and contentment of its guests.
More than anything, I was spellbound by the food. In stark contrast to home, where meals were presented unceremoniously, courses were announced like late-arriving guests as they were set down before us. Each dish had four or five components -- a fish or meat, a sauce, a starch, and a vegetable or two -- all of them coming together in perfect harmony. And it was all so pretty -- potatoes were artfully piped, vegetable purees had been shaped into quenelles, and meat and fish were beautifully portioned and arranged on the plate. The components of these edible compositions seemed to have been transformed, bearing little or no resemblance to the raw ingredients that went into them. There was magic in every flourish, from tomatoes trimmed to look like roses to leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil molded into the shape of a duck.
For me, these dinners were the main event of our trip into the city. When it was time to push off for the theater, I found myself wondering, "Theater? Who needs theater?"
Young boys are prone to obsessions, so while my friends were busy collecting baseball cards, I began what would become my lifelong love affair with food, at first by endlessly replaying those restaurant meals in my mind. I was especially impressed by the sauces, and I found myself thinking about them in school or while riding the subway. Before long, my appetite for food knowledge was insatiable. I began reading whatever I could get my hands on. In particular, I was drawn to the legendary food writer and culinary Francophile Richard Olney's Simple French Food and the seasonally arranged French Menu Cookbook.
I felt an urge welling up in me until it became impossible to ignore: Reading wasn't enough -- I had to cook. I began by baking, because the formula-like recipes seemed inviting and straightforward to me, and I knew that my family would be willing to sample whatever breads and pastries I produced. My first forays were successful, but loaf after loaf of warm bread on the kitchen counter left me curiously unsatisfied. I concluded that baking, at least for me, was more craft than art, and I swiftly shifted to the savory realm that had turned me on in the first place. I started simply, making stocks, to see if I could achieve the gelatinous quality described in books. Tasting my first one, I recognized the sauce it might become. On another Saturday, I put an egg yolk in a bowl, added some mustard and lemon juice, and whisked them together, slowly drizzling olive oil into the mixture, staring with anticipation, then amazement, as it all held together in a creamy emulsion: mayonnaise!
I was hooked. I felt I could cook anything. I was single-minded in my pursuit of this passion, purchasing knives, ring molds, and other tools and equipment to supplement our family's resources, or making do with what we had, like the time I whipped up a fish mousse in our blender, or took the subway down to Esposito Pork Store on Ninth Avenue in Hell's Kitchen (it's still there) to buy some pork skin, bringing it home and using it to make cassoulet.My parents thought I was a little nuts, and maybe I was. I lived for Saturdays, when I was allowed to scurry all over town in hot pursuit of hard-to-pronounce ingredients, take over the kitchen, and cook my heart out. Every week I'd try something more challenging -- quenelles, aspics, terrines, confit -- and it all came naturally to me. Cleaning the sinks and stove at the end of each too-short session, I'd be overcome with pride, grinning from ear to ear, and thinking, "I can do this."
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