A True American Thanksgiving (Compliments of France)
For me, Thanksgiving just doesn't work.
It doesn't work because it's a dysfunctional feast. We all want it to be just like the famous Norman Rockwell illustration, with grandma presenting the beautifully roasted bird to her grateful, salivating brood. But what we wind up with more often is breast meat dry as dust; dark meat greasy and undercooked; stuffing also dry, but somehow mealy; flavorless mashed potatoes in desperate need of gravy; and so on. Don't even get me started on cranberry sauce, which isn't even a sauce, but a sort of defeatist chutney.
Worse, grandma alone can't handle it. You really need a squad of grandmas, with the stamina of a Special Forces team, to cook the meal. Eight hours of preparation followed by 15 minutes of frenzied eating followed by eight hours of cleanup. It's enough to make a guy long for a nice piece of steak.
Wine has been a problem as well. Maybe because in my case, the aforementioned eight hours of cooking was not directly followed by 15 minutes of eating, but by a brief interlude for cocktails. Martinis, Manhattans, Rob Roys, and the like. A very soothing episode that just makes me crave that nice piece of steak all the more, and a nice big fat-busting red wine to go with it.
But what to look forward to instead? Well, last year it was a disappointing foray into cru Beaujolais. These wines are often suggested as ideal companions to the flurry of chow that Americans confront come the ritual November nosh. Fruity, relatively high in acidity, cru Beaujolais is often named as the ideal food wine for a meal that contains about 37 different flavor components.
Now, cru Beaujolais is fine. But for a feast! A national feast! We ought to be able to make something happen with Napa Cabernet or, at the very least, Russian River Valley Pinot Noir. But the traditional foodstuffs, traditionally prepared, simply can't swing it.
But there is hope, as I discovered at a snug little French restaurant in New York called Fleur de Sel. Here, the chef, Cyril Renaud, a native of Brittany, was asked to produce a version of the traditional American Thanksgiving feast, but gracefully Gallicized. As far as I'm concerned, his approach redeems the meal.
The focus was, of course, the bird. Renaud broke it up into constituent parts: breast meat, which was brined for 48 hours (in fleur de sel, naturally) then roasted with mint spices; and turkey leg, which was made into a confit. Turkey two ways. With a chanterelle sauce, it was phenomenal.
I also gleaned an essential truth from Renaud: The French, when it comes time to produce a feast, are indeed a superior folk. They do Thanksgiving better than we do -- and they don't even do Thanksgiving. But that doesn't mean they can't deconstruct Thanksgiving and return it to us improved. Sort of like a gastronomic version of the Statue of Liberty: a defining national idea, given more supple -- and in the end, more memorable -- form.
Renaud's key insight is that if you must cook turkey for Thanksgiving, don't roast the whole bird. Instead, try this. Obtain a turkey breast, brine the heck out of it beforehand, and give it a nice pan sear before finishing it in the oven. It will take about 45 minutes, total, versus about three hours for an 18-lb. Butterball. It will be delicious, the meat dense and flavorful but still moist.
Wine? Because this technique creates a richer quality of roast fowl, you can quit worrying about giving poor, neglected cru Beaujolais a shot. Be patriotic! Crack open a lusty American red. Do some Brussels sprouts with bacon and a garlic mash for sides. Shatter the tyranny of the Great Pumpkin over dessert -- buy something chocolatey and wash it down with Texas Port.
What could be better -- and for that matter, more American? After all, with leisure re-introduced to the annual feast, you can savor two cocktails before dinner. And not worry about pining for a third when it's finally time to sit down and eat.
