The Perfect

French Sunday Dinner

by Eric Howard Way

Yes!  I finally did it.  I made (pause for dramatic effect) the perfect French mother-in-law Sunday dinner.  It only took nearly 20 years of living in France and a half-dozen cooking courses at famed chef Alain Ducasse’s cooking school.  But, hands down, I pulled it off.

Not that I have it bad, as French mothers-in-law go. Mine is an adorable and feisty woman about to hit 70.  But like all French mothers-in-law, and indeed the vast majority of Frenchmen, she’s honest.  Even when it hurts.

I could never understand what philosophical difference could explain my French husband’s penchant to detail my every mistake after every family dinner.  How could he not comprehend that after 12 hours of preparing a French meal, with just enough of an American twist to make it exotic but not bizarre, that I wanted to hear how tender and juicy the turkey was, how flavorful the sauce was and how cloud-like my hot biscuits were?  “No Dear, Americans don’t have a problem with criticism. Five or six years after the meal you are perfectly welcome to give me a few subtle constructive hints.”

Truthfully, my lovely mother-in-law has complimented me on every meal I’ve served. Yet it seems I’ve always been able to read between the lines and feel that bone-chilling “compliment of politeness” cutting through her kind words.  Perhaps it’s just my husband’s frank coaching that echoes in my head once the belle-famille steps out the door.

But not this time.  I knew something was up when before they even arrived, I had nearly everything ready.  I was so confident that I even mixed a dab of honey into my mustard vinaigrette and put the full four tablespoons of sugar in my Aunt Dee’s biscuit dough.  One has to learn to take risks in life.

And this time I hit a home run.  We started with a simple mesclun salad that burst with flavor from my homemade, labor-intensive confit tomatoes, as sweet and tender as Syrian figs. Next, my four little Cornish hens roasted themselves to perfection surrounded by a cheering crowd of baby onions.  Did I croon when my mother-in-law asked for seconds of my minced new-onion, garlic and tarragon stuffing? No, I stoically savored my victory with only a satiated Cheshire cat smile. 

Next to the little half chickens on each plate, I elegantly placed alternating layers of garlic-laced aubergine purée and crispy oven-roasted potato wafers. And just to push it over the top, each wafer was capped with a lone lightly-sautéed zucchini slice.  To clinch the deal I passed around a gravy boat of réduction sauce I had teased from a half pound of chicken, homemade broth and 3 hours of simmering in herbs and garlic.  They were at my mercy.

The crowning moment came as the cheese course arrived.  We had just finished a fine bottle of St Emilion, Château La Rose-Fourret 1997 and Laurent, my husband, politely asked if anyone wanted more wine with their cheese, expecting our guests to equally politely decline. My father-in-law, cheese lover extraordinaire, spoke up.  Half reluctantly (“Well, we can always pump it…”), my other-half pulled out the bottle of St Joseph, Guigal 2000 he had found stashed in our wine cellar.  What joy! Like finding a lost, unopened Christmas package in April.  I took my first sip and waited for the characteristic tannic aftertaste we’re so used to with the 2-year-old Côte-du-Rhônes we usually drink with impatience.  But this bottle was the epitome of finesse. Its subtle fruity bouquet lingered like the sunlight on a hot summer Virginia night ending in a soothing whisper.  Even my moderate mother-in-law succumbed to the aroma and forced herself to sneak a slice of cheese to justify a taste of Guigal’s handiwork enhanced by the exceptional millennium sunshine.

My success was mounting like a crescendo.  They sat expectantly around the table like helpless beasts inebriated by the potion of my Franco-American cuisine.

I finished them off with a hot/cold combination of chilled white-chocolate cream and caramelized dark chocolate crème brulée served in matching ramekins.  And here in silence I took my final imaginary bow as I recited from memory the chocolate crème brulée recipe at my belle-mère’s request.  In metric measurements, mind you.

Even my husband confirmed my victory with his lone comment, “I think that was the best meal you ever served my parents.”

France.  Been there.  Done that.

Bear with me as I gloat, Dear Friend.  Anyone who has served a meal to a mother-in-law knows that familiar angst.  But only a chosen few Americans can face the French mother-in-law on the culinary battlefield.

As I savor my feat, I’m reminded of a bookstore in the US where the first section contains cookbooks for beginners.  The next aisle is filled with books for gourmet chefs and the third aisle, cookbooks for gay men who want to impress their friends.  Next time I’m there, I’m going to suggest a new aisle of cookbooks: for gay men who want to impress their French mothers-in-law.