Daring Cooks: Boeuf Bourguignon

This month's Daring Cooks challenge was fairly close to my heart, as a couple of weeks ago I spent my weekend in the picturesque town of Chablis, immersing myself in the Burgundy wine and food culture. Although not all the typical dishes of this region are enduring classics that I am going to enjoy trying to make for years to come - the pig colon sausage, andouillette, being something that I hope I never get within a fifty mile radius of ever again - there is a reason why boeuf bourguignon is one of the classic recipes of the region: it's bloody good.

I did, in fact, sample an authentic boeuf bourguignon while in Chablis. The receptionist at our hotel had been cruel enough to cook the dish for himself that evening, meaning that the entire building was permeated with the mouthwatering aroma of braising beef and wine. How he could have been so selfish as to not share it with us, I really don't know. Unable to even consider eating anything else, we hurried off and found a restaurant offering the dish. We tucked into tender chunks of beef, falling apart under the pressure of a fork and bathed in a dark, flavoursome jus, rich with the aroma of salty bacon and the depth of red wine.

This month's challenge used a Julia Child recipe, and involved some interesting steps that I hadn't considered before. First, the rind was cut off the streaky bacon and the whole lot simmered together in water before being dried thoroughly and then fried. I'm not sure what this step was meant to achieve, but it was an interesting idea; perhaps to remove some of the salt from the bacon. Secondly, the meat was also dried thoroughly with kitchen towel before being browned over a high heat; I'd never thought of doing this, but of course it helps the meat to brown more and sizzle when it comes into contact with the hot pan. Thirdly, once the beef and veg had been mixed together and coated in flour, it went into the oven for a few minutes to develop a crust before the liquid was added. I'll certainly be using these techniques next time I make a stew, because the result was fantastic. Also, the garlic wasn't cooked along with the vegetables, as I normally do it; it was just added, raw and crushed, to the liquid before the stew went into the oven.

Browned cubes of beef, onion, carrot, bacon, flour. To this, you add a lot of red wine, some beef stock, crushed garlic, a bay leaf, thyme, and tomato puree. I did deviate from the recipe slightly, in that it tells you to add whole shallots and mushrooms sauteed in butter at the end of the cooking. I wanted the mushrooms (I used whole button mushrooms, as I love the texture) to add their rich flavour to the stew throughout the cooking process, so I added them at the beginning along with the carrot and onion. The shallots I added with about an hour to go in the oven, to give them time to soften and release their lovely juices but still keep their shape. 

There's something so addictive about the surprising burst of a meltingly soft baby onion in the middle of a pool of deep, dark gravy. They add a welcome tang to the richness of the meat and bacon, and look like little pearly globes of deliciousness as they sit there, awaiting your fork. Similarly, the button mushrooms, which add an irresistible pop of texture.

I don't think I've ever made boeuf bourguignon before, and this has made me realise what I'm missing. I think it's my favourite ever stew recipe. The wine and stock thicken with the flour to make the most incredible thick, glossy sauce. It has such an amazing depth of flavour from the bacon and vegetables. The meat, after four hours in the oven, falls apart as you eat it. The shallots soften, becoming tender and delicious, a surprising change in texture as you bite into one alongside a piece of beef. The button mushrooms are meaty and delicious. 

It really is the ultimate beef stew; the ideal winter comfort food, or spring comfort food on a rainy evening. I served mine with green beans and a large pillow of mashed potato into which I'd stirred a very generous amount of wholegrain mustard - it sets the richness of the beef off perfectly. Thank you, Fabi, for hosting this challenge and putting boeuf bourguignon into my permanent kitchen repertoire.

For the recipe used in this month's challenge, click here.

Venturing into viticulture: my weekend in Chablis

Avid readers of this blog may remember that back in March I was invited to take part in the Chablis blogger challenge, which involved suggesting dishes to pair with two bottles of Chablis I was sent in the post. (Yes, it's a hard life. If you're thinking of getting into food blogging, do consider it carefully - you never know when you might find yourself in the desperate and tragic situation of having to accept free wine). I came up with this four-course tasting menu, inspired by the Burgundy region of France and featuring dishes that I, lacking any knowledge whatsoever about wine and food matching, thought worked pretty well with the bottles I received.

Much to my delight, I won the challenge. My hard work eating cheese, curing salmon and making biscuits paid off, and I won a trip to the town of Chablis a couple of weekends ago, which included a place on the Balade Gourmande, a 12km walking tour around the vineyards of Chablis with stops to drink wine and eat a five-course lunch along the way. I'm sure I've put you off food blogging now, haven't I?

Chablis is a well-kept secret. It's not particularly easy to access - apparently they have not yet started work on the high-speed Cambridge-Chablis train line, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time. We went to Paris via the Eurostar, then had to catch a train to Laroche-Migennes, which is on the main line to Dijon. A 30-minute taxi ride later, and we found ourselves in Chablis. All this time I'd been rhetorically asking why we couldn't just get a train to Chablis itself. 

The answer soon became apparent when we explored the town a little further - it has only 2,700 inhabitants and you can circumnavigate it in about the same time it would take to circumnavigate a large branch of Tesco. This, however, lends it a certain charm.

The first accounts of Chablis date from the year 510, when a small monastery was founded there. Around three hundred years later, the monks of Tours sought refuge there when fleeing from the Vikings, and the wine-making tradition of Chablis begun; monks were synonymous with wine production in the Middle Ages, as they required it both for religious ceremonies and for entertaining and lending prestige to the abbeys. Gradually the reputation of Chablis grew, and the wine was exported to England. By the 19th century, it was also exported to Holland, Belgium, Germany, the US and Russia (there's a mention of it in Tolstoy's novel Anna Karenina).

Unfortunately, 'Chablis' has now come to describe almost any white wine, regardless of origin or grape. Because of this, in recent years the Chablis winemakers have fought hard to protect their origins, pressuring foreign countries to recognise their region on wine labels; it now has an AOC qualification meaning only wine produced in Chablis can officially bear the name.

True Chablis is made from chardonnay grapes only, and has been recognised as possessing one of the 'purest' tastes of any chardonnay wine due to the simple, traditional winemaking style still used in the region, and its distinct terroir and climate. Chablis is frequently described as a 'flinty' or 'steely' wine, though Grand Cru and Premier Cru can be aged for around fifteen and ten years respectively, developing honeyed aromas with age. It was fascinating to imagine that all this distinguished wine was being produced in an area with such a tiny town as its epicentre.

Chablis, as seen from the Grand Cru vineyards

Although the town has had its fair share of hardships (it was pillaged by the Hugenots in 1568 and the vineyards destroyed by the phylloxera bug at the end of the 19th century), it remains a successful wine-producing region, largely due to its fertile limestone-rich soils - the Chablis region was once underwater, and its 'Kimmeridgian' soil (so-called after the soils of Kimmeridge in England, as they share the same fossil oysters) is ideal for producing wine. 

We stayed at the Relais de la Belle Etoile hotel in the centre of the town, a quaint former coaching inn with lovely old-fashioned rooms (and a great little sign in the bathroom informing guests that they might have to run the tap for a while to wait for hot water in the morning due to the age of the house...but 'When there is no hot water, here we shower with Chablis!'). Also, it had this fantastic car parked below our window, which I can't resist sharing.

Our free time was spent wandering Chablis, which is generally everything you'd expect from a charmingly rustic French town. There were medieval-looking buildings, little winding alleys, a small church and, perhaps less traditional, an overwhelming number of cats. I suggested they should rename the place 'Chatblis', which is the first and probably last French joke I will ever make. We saw a little old French lady open her door and glimpsed about five cats ambling around her heels; whether they belonged to her or she was just a cat lady befriending the strays, I'm not sure. One of these cats seemed to be the sole feline resident of Chablis's only bar (called, appropriately, 'Chablis bar'), and took great delight in claiming possession of various surfaces (tables, people's laps, etc.) by simply sprawling luxuriantly across them.

Every few metres we would pass a 'Cave', a wine cellar offering free wine tastings, though the knowledge that we'd be tasting Chablis all day during the Balade Gourmande prevented us from going in. In retrospect, I wish we had, but I definitely got to experience my fair share of different Chablis wines in the end, so it's not all bad. Plus I was worried I'd be coerced into parting with large amounts of money for high quality wine that I had tasted and become hooked on. Given that I'm becoming a student again next year, I don't think it would be the best time to develop a taste for Chablis Grand Cru.

We wandered along the river, swollen and fast-flowing due to the amount of recent rain (it seems that our Gallic cousins are equally inflicted by bad weather at the moment), where we found the 19th century communal wash house (a sort of pavilion at the edge of the river so you could wash your clothes in it) and eventually ended up at the Pâtis, a stretch of former marshland now planted with trees, where we basked in the sun for a little while. We passed the city gate, known as the Noel-Gate, featuring two medieval-looking round towers, and visited the Petit-Pontigny, a wine cellar built by monks in the 12th century which still remains, though the rest of the buildings were burnt down in 1568 during Protestant plundering. In the courtyard we could see an old wooden lever-beam wine press.

While this was all very exciting, for me the most exciting part was finding this white asparagus at the town grocer (which, incidentally, was better-stocked than most big city grocers in the UK). I've heard of white asparagus but had never seen it in the flesh before; it was curiously beautiful, in an anaemic way, with its delicate purple-hued tips and chunky cream-coloured stems. I bought some to take home. Surely I'm not the first to travel back on the Eurostar with a cargo of asparagus?

I can confirm, two weeks later and having eaten it all, that it tastes exactly like normal asparagus, only slightly more watery. You have to get the idea that you're eating chubby human fingers out of your head, and then it's quite nice.

We ate very well in Chablis, particularly on the first night where we ended up at the kind of French restaurant you often only dream about: simple, rustic, with wooden tables and garishly-coloured water tumblers, paper napkins, and a menu featuring flavoursome, delicious French classics generously portioned. It was called La Feuillette (named after the wooden barrels traditionally used to age the wine in) and conveniently sat right next door to our hotel, so we could just roll into bed after inevitably stuffing ourselves with the wonderful food on offer.

I began with a 'tarte fine' of tomatoes and goat's cheese, which was rather like a tomato tarte tatin. The combination of feather-light flaky pastry with deep, sweet tomatoes and that tangy goat's cheese was just wonderful. Next, an entrecote steak, which the waiter assumed I'd like 'bien cuit' because I am English - I rather indignantly corrected him. It was incredibly tender, slathered in herby butter and served with - rather oddly - a jacket potato, whose contents had been scooped out, mashed with chives and seasoning, then replaced and covered with cheese. Superbe

.Then an unexpected plate of cheese, which I hadn't realised was part of the set menu I'd ordered, or I never would have eaten that entire potato. I had Epoisses, a famous Burgundy cheese that apparently was Napoleon's favourite, and for good reason - it has a sticky orange rind and a gloriously ripe, oozing centre, pungent like camembert but stronger. There was also Chaource, another Burgundy cheese that looks rather like a large goat's cheese, with a chalky white centre that is soft around the edge and almost crumbly in the middle. It's hard to describe its flavour; it's tangy like goat's cheese, but with the creamy softness of a camembert or a Brie. I also had Brie de Meaux, which - as its name suggests - is a Brie produced in the town of Meaux. They were all fabulous, but the Chaource was my particular favourite.

Thank goodness I had room for dessert, because it was the second-best tarte tatin I've ever had in my life (the first was in Nice, and I've reminisced about its glories on this blog before, but basically it involved a flaky, buttery pastry base drenched in caramel and supporting cloud-like chunks of fluffy, juicy, sugar-burnished apple). Like the Nicoise version, this had a barely-there crust, allowing the chunks of apple to really shine in all their caramelly glory, sticky and sweet and slightly charred on top. It was served with a really lovely vanilla ice cream, which I believe is the only true partner to a tarte tatin; I'm sure the garden of Eden featured vanilla pods alongside those legendary apples, so God's favourites could help themselves to a dose of this dessert delight. Or could have if, you know, it wasn't hugely prohibited and would result in their certain damnation.

Naturally I couldn't go to Burgundy without indulging in a spot of boeuf bourgignon, so the following night we went to Le Bistrot Grand Crus, the sister restaurant of the much more glitzy and expensive Hostellerie Clos, which we sadly could not afford (when the desserts are fifteen euros, you know you're in trouble). Here we had a tasty starter of molten goat's cheese on toast, followed by the beefy classic, which was dark, sticky, rich and delicious, laced with smoky bacon and earthy mushrooms and falling apart under the gentle pressure of a fork. It was served with mash and some really fabulous buttery carrots, which were actually my favourite part. You can tell I'm not cut out for this carnivorous French lifestyle...I'm sure they were glad to see me go.

For dessert, another apple tart. This time a tarte aux pommes rather than a tarte tatin - a feathery puff pastry base groaning under the weight of juicy, tangy apple slices; soft and sweet and crispy and buttery, it came in a huge portion - to my delight - and swiftly disappeared. You hear a lot about French restaurants being pretentious and stingy with portion sizes, but in Chablis it's the opposite - this was by far the biggest dessert I've ever eaten in a restaurant (obviously I don't count my own kitchen - when I make desserts for myself, they're generally about the size of the previous course).

On our free afternoon, we wandered over to some of the vineyards at the end of the town, and ended up on a two-hour hike around what I later found out are the Grand Cru vineyards. When driving into Chablis, we saw these gnarled stumps lining the hillsides and figured they were newly-planted vines due to the total lack of growth. However, when we realised all the vineyards looked like this, we concluded they must just prune the vines every year, and these were still waiting for their spring growth; we did see some budding leaves, but generally they bore a rather creepy resemblance to wizened, haggard witches' arms protruding menacingly from the underworld. It was hard to believe these lowly stumps span an area of around 5,000 hectares and produce 35 million bottles of Chablis every year.

We were to find out far more about Chablis viticulture the next day, on the Balade Gourmande. This is a gastronomic walking tour that covers a 12km stretch of the Chablis vineyards, with five stops along the way to drink a glass of Chablis and eat one course of a five-course lunch.

When we woke up on Sunday morning, though, it looked more likely to be a gastronomic swim; torrential rain was battering against the windows while the wind whistled threateningly. Miraculously, it completely cleared up in time for the walk and we ended up with glorious sunshine (though there were still gale-force winds - I know it's windy when I have to take my earrings off because they are acting like small vigorous wind chimes suspended from each of my earlobes).

This was the first year of the Balade, but an amazing 400 guests turned up in the wind to explore the Chablis vineyards and eat along the way. Actually, when you remember that there is a lot of free wine involved, suddenly it makes more sense. My absolute favourite thing about this tour was that at the beginning you were given your own glass to taste the wine in. It was a proper, elegant wine glass with 'Chablis' written on the side. You had a little pouch to put it in and carry it around in, from tasting to tasting. You got to keep the glass afterwards.

This is conclusive proof that the French take these things seriously. If the same event were to be hosted in Britain (OK, pretend we have vineyards for a second), you would so just be given a disposable plastic cup at each stop to sip your lukewarm wine from.

During the tour, we were accompanied by Eric from Au Coeur du Vin, an absolute expert on Chablis and its viticulture, and driver of this fantastic car (her name is 'Lulubelle II', if you're interested; Lulubelle I is, worryingly, dead). He claimed upon meeting us that he spoke only a little English, which soon proved to be completely false as he regaled us throughout the entire tour with perfect, lucid explanations about every single aspect of Chablis wine and wine production.

He told us about how the monks who first settled in Chablis would taste the soil to discover the best places to plant certain grapes; they were so skilled in the art of winemaking that they could use their tastebuds to detect the chemical composition of the earth and its suitability. He gave us a brief history of Chablis winemaking, from this early monastical phase to the devastation of the vines in the late nineteenth century due to the phylloxera bug, a problem eventually solved by grafting the roots of American vines onto the French vines; these roots are tougher and more resistant to the bug, and every single vine in the vineyard has them instead of its natural variety. He pointed out younger, sprightlier vines as well as some growing alongside that were more than eighty years old.

The vineyards, some 5,000 hectares, stretch out in all directions, all almost identical with their gnarled black stumps and the occasional green glimmer of a leaf. Eric told us that each vine makes approximately 1.5-2 bottles of Chablis; it was slightly mesmerising to look around us and imagine hundreds of bottles of wine standing there instead of the vines. We spent most of our time climbing hills spread with identical expanses of vine, but occasionally passed through some of the forest that stands in patches across the landscape.

Eric pointed out objects that looked like large blackened tins standing at intervals among the vines; he explained to us that when there's danger of a frost during the night, the winegrowers place lit candles in these cans and they radiate heat, thereby preventing the vines from freezing. I could hardly imagine the sheer amount of manpower it would take to light all those candles, considering they were spaced about one every three vines. Apparently it's quicker to use petrol, which is pumped along the vineyards and then ignited at intervals in small burners, as it burns more fiercely so you can spread it out more. We saw some petrol burners too, and huge tanks to contain it at the side of the vineyards - but Eric pointed out that these are kept empty, as otherwise people just steal the petrol.

I asked about the harvesting of the grapes; Eric explained that in an ideal world, it would be done manually rather than by machine, but that this isn't practical for the lower-cost Chablis wines, like Petit Chablis and Chablis. The benefit of this is that the vine isn't shaken vigorously, potentially causing it damage, and that the grapes are picked with their little individual stalks attached. The machines rip these out, leaving a small hole in the grape which causes them to begin to oxidise and affects the quality and flavour. However, it is expensive, requiring huge amounts of manpower, and therefore isn't viable in terms of cost for a wine that will sell for about five euros a bottle. For the Premier and Grand Cru, Eric believes it's important to harvest the grapes manually for the best quality.

I had read when I entered the Chablis blogger challenge that Chablis has a very high export rate; Eric told us that apparently it isn't drunk much at all in France, instead finding favour in foreign markets, particularly the UK, which accounts for around 40% of sales. I asked why this is, and he simply told me that that's how it has always been, ever since merchants in the Middle Ages took wine over to England and it was discovered and enjoyed there by both natives and other traders from places like the Netherlands. Obviously, in the town of Chablis, Chablis is the house wine on all menus and it would seem absurd to drink anything else, but this clearly isn't the case in the rest of France.

The balade gourmande wasn't just about wine, though, as its title suggests. There were five planned stops along the route, and at each the opportunity to sample one course of a five-course lunch and drink an accompanying glass of Chablis.

At our first stop, we sampled an 'aperitif' alongside a glass of Petit Chablis; a young (around 2 years), fresh, easy-drinking wine with floral and citrus notes, often paired with meat or seafood. I was delighted to taste proper French gougères, which I'd attempted to make as part of my Chablis tasting menu, but had no idea what authentic ones would be like. These were seriously delicious - like giant savoury profiteroles, somehow managing to be really crisp on the outside and moltenly gooey with cheese within. There was also a cube of jambon persillé, skewered on a cocktail stick - this is a kind of terrine made with ham, ham jelly, and liberal amounts of parsley to cut through the richness. We also had several slices of sausage - a thicker variety which was quite nice, and a thinner variety, which turned out to be slices of andouillette. But more on my opinions on andouillette later. As Eric pointed out, "jambon persillé...sausage...it's fat. And the acidity of the wine destroys the fat". I couldn't have eaten it without the wine, as it was indeed rather rich and meaty. Except for the gougère, which I could have eaten several times over quite happily.

It couldn't have been a trip to Burgundy without that French classic, escargots, which greeted us at stop number two. I'd only tried these once before, in Paris, and I remember them tasting solely of garlic butter. Which makes me think, if you need to slather something in so much garlic butter to make it palatable, that's probably a hint that underneath it isn't very nice.

These, however, were quite nice. They were served not in their own shells, but in little 'shells' made out of a kind of crispy pastry, so you could pop the whole thing in your mouth. Each little shell had a small snail inside, drowning in a buttery, garlicky bath. The contrast in texture between the crisp exterior and the soft, melting inside was quite pleasant, but I didn't particularly relish the moment of biting into the chewy mollusc within. It's a bit like if you stop too long to think about what you're doing while eating an oyster...if you start to chew on it a bit, or it lingers for a split second too long in your mouth. I think perhaps it's because I kept snails as pets for years as a child, and I still feel a curious fondness for them...or maybe I'm just more squeamish than I like to think. I ate a few, but after about five it was all just too rich, buttery and snail-y for my liking, and I had to leave the rest.

Not horrible, by any means, but not something I'd ever go out of my way to eat. Lord knows why they're making such frequent appearances on Great British Menu at the moment. The snails were accompanied by a glass of Chablis - a dry, delicate wine normally enjoyed young (2-3 years), and the one with the largest production area - which again was a pleasant foil to the extreme butteriness of the whole affair.

There was an interlude as we strolled through forest to get to the next part of the vineyard tour, and I have to say the most exciting part of this for me was witnessing an incredible natural phenomenon - a line, about two or three metres long, of furry caterpillars nose-to-tail, wiggling slowly across the forest floor. I had no idea caterpillars moved in a pack like this; it was a little bit exciting. Eric was less pleased, however, informing us that they do this and then go and attack all the trees and vegetation. He clearly thought I was a bit mad as I stood there squealing with joy and taking numerous photos of this furry phenomenon. I'm sure they were actually just going for a nice Sunday walk, not to pillage the forest.

For the main course of our lunch, we sampled Jambon Chablisienne, which is ham served in a rich sauce of cream, Chablis and tomato. It was delicious, and accompanied by creamy, melting potato dauphinoise. There was also a cooked andouilette sausage to accompany it.

Andouillete is a sausage made from pork (or occasionally veal). But not just pork meat. This sausage incorporates the colon of the pig. As a result, it both smells and tastes of - essentially - pig excrement. I was all ready to like this, honestly. Generally I kind of figure that sausages use dodgy bits of the animal anyway, but normally taste lovely, so what could be the difference? 

Everything, apparently.

I should have followed my nose and not even taken a bite. The smell of the sausage cooking was enough to close up my throat in repulsion. I've never smelled anything like it. It was a cross between excrement and rotting flesh, wafting rancidly on the air like some black cloud of doom and pain. Even then, I determined I would try it, in case it tasted better than it smelled.

It didn't.

I took one bite, my teeth closed around the squishy coils of pig intestine, and I immediately grabbed my napkin and spat the whole thing out. It was, without doubt, the vilest thing I have ever put in my mouth. I can't even describe how utterly foul it both tasted and smelled; like nothing that should ever, ever be eaten. The texture didn't do it any favours, either - it wasn't uniform and meaty like a normal sausage, but had thick chunky fatty bits of gut in it. Dear lord, it was horrendous. To give you a further idea, apparently the French parliamentarian Edouard Herriot once said: "Politics is like an andouillette - it should smell a little like shit, but not too much."

The French actually accept that they produce an ingredient that reeks of excrement. There's something wrong with that.

A minute or two later, Eric leaned over and whispered conspiratorially:

"I tell you a secret...I hate andouillette."

I was so, so relieved. I had worried he'd seen me spitting it into my napkin and would be offended at my visceral rejection of his beloved country's regional speciality. But if a native Frenchman hates the thing, you really do wonder why on earth it can be allowed to exist. I saw a few people leave theirs too, but - more shockingly - a lot of them were eaten in their entirety. Not even a glass of Chablis Premier Cru, the accompanying wine, would have salvaged my tastebuds had I attempted to swallow that piece of gut sausage. Thank god there was ham too, not just fatty porcine colon. I am still bristling with horror at the thought of it, sitting here writing this. I might go and wash my mouth out with Chablis just to be on the safe side.

Fortunately, there was cheese to follow. Not just any cheese. A beautiful plate of ripe, warm French cheeses, oozing and unctuous and the perfect thing to spread on a crusty baguette. We had Epoisses, two different goats cheeses, and a Camembert. What really amazed me about this wasn't just the delicious cheese, but how incredibly well it partnered with the glass of Chablis Grand Cru. Not knowing much about food and wine pairing, every now and again I try a dish with a drink that has been recommended for it by someone far more knowledgeable than myself, and I am just blown away. This was one such moment.

The wine not only tempered the richness of the cheese, but the cheese mellowed it and made it taste beautifully honeyed, almost sweet. It was like drinking sweet gold nectar. The Grand Cru vineyards only account for 3% of Chablis's annual wine production, which is why it is the most expensive of all the Chablis wines. It has the best ageing potential, developing a Sauternes-like aroma which I could certainly detect, and intense blossom and dried fruit flavours. We tried examples from three different vineyards (there are seven in total), and there was a marked difference in aroma and intensity between the three.

Having circumnavigated the vineyards, we ended up back where we began for dessert, which was a really beautiful 'Chablis mousse' prepared by the chef of Hostellerie Le Clos, the expensive restaurant we hadn't been able to afford to visit. At least we got to taste his cooking in some capacity. It was a sort of set custard flan, quite wobbly but with a genoise sponge base to give it a little texture. The flavour was beautiful; I couldn't detect any Chablis, but it had a light, sweet fragrance and was only too easy to devour in seconds, especially when paired with a sharp fruit coulis and chewy biscuits. I don't normally go in for creamy, airy sorts of desserts, but this had such a delicate, delicious flavour that I couldn't resist.

This was served with Crémant de Bourgogne, a sparkling wine from the region that is rather like poor man's champagne - it is made according to the same method but doesn't come from Champagne so can't be labelled as such - and is really delicious; we tried the rosé version and it went perfectly with the sweet dessert. Apparently it also makes an excellent Kir Royale. Eric pointed out that if you find a bottle of Champagne for ten euros, it is clearly inferior and shouldn't be bothered with, whereas with Crémant de Bourgogne, ten euros will buy you the best. Another strange truth from the world of winemaking. This was the perfect celebratory end to our tiring 12km trek, and to our weekend in Chablis. The sun had shone, I'd somehow burned the back of my neck, I'd pretty much walked off the entire calorie content of my giant lunch, I'd had the opportunity (though I didn't accept, not wanting to embarrass my host by falling catatonic to the ground mid-walk) to drink five big glasses of wine, and I had a bag of white asparagus waiting in my luggage. That's basically perfection, French-style.

I had a fantastic weekend filling in the (shamefully, rather large) gaps in my knowledge both about winemaking and about rustic French villages; seeing the effort and care put into a wine that I'd barely considered before I entered this competition was fascinating and so rewarding. The balade gourmande was a wonderful way to immerse ourselves in the culture of Chablis, both in terms of wine and food, and I'd like to give a special thank you to Eric for being such an interesting and informative guide; those tough twelve kilometres in the battering wind simply flew by thanks to his entertaining commentary. I'd also like to thank the Chablis wine board and Sopexa PR for hosting the Chablis blogger challenge and giving me this wonderful opportunity.

Pairing food with Chablis: a four-course tasting menu

I was recently invited to take part in the Chablis blogger challenge, an initiative designed to get food bloggers who are not wine experts thinking about food and wine pairing; specifically, creating dishes to partner Chablis. As someone who knows very little about wine and even less about pairing it with food, I was intrigued and a little excited by this prospect. I love having something to give my cooking a focus; a particular ingredient to showcase, a certain technique to perfect, or a concept to follow, and this sounded like the perfect opportunity to take up a challenge and get a little bit creative.

Plus, there was wine involved, so why wouldn’t I say yes? As French chef Julia Child apparently once said: “I love cooking with wine. Sometimes I even put it in the food”. 

I received two bottles of Chablis in the post to help inspire the sommelier that I’m sure is lurking somewhere within me, just waiting to break free and dazzle the world with her quirky yet fabulous wine-and-food matches. The bottles were immediately labelled with ‘DAD, DO NOT DRINK’ stickers (a customary ritual every time I receive or purchase alcohol that I don’t want to find gone several days later), placed safely in the wine cupboard, and I was ready to start racking my brains for recipes that would showcase them to their full potential.

A bit of background first. Chablis is produced in the Burgundy region of France, in an area that was once covered by an ocean and now has fossil-rich limestone soil. Its viticulture was developed by Cistercian monks, and now over 300 vineyards exist in the region. 35 million bottles of Chablis are produced every year, and three out of every ten are sold in the UK. I found this quite surprising, seeing as I don’t think I’ve ever drunk Chablis before, nor have I really encountered it while eating out or working behind a restaurant bar. However, that statistic would suggest we’re not all as hooked on our Pinot Grigio and Sauvignon Blanc as I’d have thought. The wine is produced from Chardonnay grapes, and there are four different appellations: Chablis Grand Cru; Chablis Premier Cru; Chablis and Petit Chablis.

The first wine I received was Domaine Bois d'Yver Chablis 2008. This is a dry wine and a classic example of the Chablis style, described as possessing a ‘flinty’ quality, with apple and herby flavours. I was particularly interested by the story behind this wine: the vineyard is family-owned and, as of 2007, completely organic. Suggested food pairings included seafood, particularly oysters, and white meat in a creamy sauce.

The second wine was Chablis J. Moreau & Fils 2009. This is a younger wine and therefore slightly fresher, with an almost creamy, buttery roundness. It has aromas of pear and citrus, as well as floral, almost blossomy notes. It’s sweeter than the Domaine Bois and lighter, but is also recommended for seafood and white meats.

Both these wines are available at Marks & Spencer for around £12-13, and I’d especially recommend the J. Moreau, which was the all-round favourite in my family.

Unsure where to start devising food pairings for these wines, I turned to terrior, that elusive and nebulous concept that conjures up images of lush vineyards, terracotta-coloured earth, balmy summer days and luscious, fat grapes coiled seductively around gnarled, creeping vines. It seemed only natural to use the home of Chablis – Burgundy - as a starting point, and so I began a heady online adventure into the region’s cuisine; as with all areas of France, Burgundy has its own culinary specialities.

“Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are”, remarked Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, a famous French gourmet who hailed from Dijon, Burgundy. Having found out what the Burgundy people like to eat, I could tell them what they are: undoubtedly happy, and probably quite fat. The region is blessed with pungent mustard from Dijon, ideal for cutting through rich meaty cuisine such as andouillette (intestine sausage) and various offal dishes; inky and mysterious blackcurrant Cassis, grown-up Ribena for making Kir or flavouring desserts; beef from Charolais cattle that ends up in the famous beef bourgignon; that peasant classic Coq au Vin, reputedly invented by Julius Caesar; and a wide variety of artisan cheeses such as Epoisses, Chaource, and various types of chevre. I figured it would be common sense to take some of these flavours and pair them with my Chablis, reuniting several wonderful products of the same gastronomically fertile region.

This, then, is my specially designed Chablis tasting menu, which sounds incredibly posh but is basically just a four-course menu of dishes that I think go very well with these wines. It is themed around flavours of Burgundy, given a modern twist, but the essence is simplicity, allowing the complex and sometimes delicate aromas of the wine to shine through. Chablis features quite prominently, both in the starter and dessert, as it seemed only right to inject an undercurrent of that lovely wine into the food to complement the drink. I hope you’re encouraged to give one or even all of these recipes a go, and to see if you agree with me that they’re a wonderful way to showcase this type of wine.

My starter is inspired by Burgundy cheese. It’s a common misconception that cheese should be paired with red wine only; in fact, white wine can be an excellent partner to many cheeses, allowing their complex flavours to feature without masking them with heavy tannins. I was intending to use Chaource, a cow’s milk cheese that is creamy in the centre with a soft white rind, similar to Brie. However, I stumbled upon something even better at the market. Affiné au Chablis is a cow’s milk cheese similar to the classic Burgundy Epoisses, but with an intriguing difference: it is washed in Chablis before its maturation period. The result is a gorgeous cheese with a pale orange crinkly rind and melt-in-the-mouth centre. Its aroma is much more pungent than its flavour, which is pleasantly creamy and nutty and possesses a slight sweetness from its bath of Chablis. I loved the idea of pairing a Chablis-drenched cheese with my Chablis wine; a match made in heaven.

To showcase this cheese, I used a classic Burgundy recipe: Gougères. Gougères are wonderful little cheese puffs; like profiteroles, but savoury. They’ve existed for centuries, evolving from a more primitive mixture of eggs, cheese and breadcrumbs, and are often served alongside wine as a canapé. Gougères are made with a basic choux pastry dough (butter, flour, water, eggs) enriched with cheese, and can be served hot or cold. When hot, they are delightfully crispy and burnished on the outside, while fluffy and molten in the centre. You can eat them as they are, enjoying their unadulterated contrast in textures, but I decided to go a step further and slice each steaming gougère in half as they emerged from the oven and stuff them with a generous slice of Affiné au Chablis cheese.

I made my gougères with a mixture of strong cheddar and Parmesan, but true Francophiles could use Gruyère or Comté. I added a generous amount of fresh lemon thyme and a pinch of cayenne pepper to cut through the richness of the cheese trio. They turned from blobs of sticky dough to wonderful puffed-up whorls of feathery pastry in the heat of the oven, possessing a subtle tang from the thyme and the cheese. Whilst delicious on their own, the combination of crispy cheese puff with a creamy, molten piece of Affiné au Chablis was heavenly. Imagine the ripest, creamiest, nuttiest, runniest Camembert or Brie you’ve ever eaten, or your favourite ever cheese fondue, and add tangy savoury pastry to it. An utter joy to eat.

These gougères paired wonderfully with the J. Moreau & Fils 2009. I was originally intending to tuck a small piece of caramelized fresh pear into each along with the cheese to take the edge off all that richness, but once I coupled the gougères with this wine I realized there was no need. The pear and slight citrus notes of this very fresh, floral, slightly sweeter wine pair absolutely perfectly with the onslaught of cheese, providing the necessary sugar, acidity and fragrance to cut through the creamy nuttiness. I was utterly blown away by the success of the combination, and it took a lot of willpower not to polish off the whole tray of gougères before I’d even started cooking the next course.

It’s sad that fish courses seem to be no longer a mandatory component of meals. We stick with our starters and dare not to ditch our desserts, but we seem satisfied with a single course in between. As a huge fan of fish, I couldn’t bring myself to design a menu that didn’t feature it in some capacity, particularly as white wine (including Chablis) and seafood is such a perfect combination.

I wanted to feature blackcurrants in this menu as a nod to Burgundy’s famous export, Cassis. Dessert wouldn’t be the right place, as they’re too acidic to pair well with wine. However, I suddenly remembered a recipe I’d seen in the Telegraph by Diana Henry last year, featuring salmon cured in a mixture of blackcurrants, Cassis, salt, sugar and dill. I’d never seen anything like it before and I’ve never seen anything like it since, but I thought it would be a fabulous way both to include Cassis in my menu and to involve fish. I scaled down the recipe rather a lot, only using two small salmon fillets rather than over a kilo of the stuff, and changed a couple of things, but essentially I owe my inspiration to her recipe.

Curing your own salmon sounds complicated, but it’s really very easy – you mix together the components of the cure, spread them over the salmon, wrap it tightly in cling film then put it in the fridge in a dish with some heavy weights on top. Over a few days, the salt in the cure draws the liquid out of the salmon and the weights squeeze it out into the dish, leaving you with firm-textured flesh and a simply gorgeous purple tinge around the edge of the fish. You can then just slice it thinly, like smoked salmon, and serve.

If you’re skeptical about the idea of salmon and blackcurrants, please don’t be. This is absolutely wonderful and really unusual. The colour alone, that fabulous purple bleeding of berries into fish, is worth making it for, and the flavour is intense and intriguing. There’s a hint of the zingy, almost grassy flavour of blackcurrants, a tang from the salt, and an underlying sweetness from the fruit and the sugar. It’s like the best smoked salmon you will ever eat, yet there’s no smoking required. 

I would serve this either au naturel, or with some good bread (thinly sliced baguette, perhaps, to carry on the French theme, or rye bread for a nutty contrast) and cream cheese mixed with a little horseradish. It doesn’t need any more to adorn it, as the focus is really on the delightful melody of flavours and textures. This salmon works best with the Domaine Bois Chablis, which provides a refreshing acidity as a counterpoint to its richness. I was amazed by how well the wine worked with the dish; it really complements the fish perfectly, enhancing its intense flavour while preventing it from cloying on the palette.  

My main course is inspired by a classic Burgundy dish, making use of a classic Burgundy ingredient: Dijon mustard. Rabbit cooked in a mustard sauce is a traditional dish from the region, and one I’ve made before. It involves braising a jointed rabbit in a mixture of cider, mustard, bacon, stock, vegetables and herbs until it becomes tender and delicious. You’re left with a rich, creamy sauce with a pleasant tang of mustard to cut through the richness of the rabbit meat.

However, this is a very rich dish, particularly if you make it with wild rabbit which is a lot more gamey than its farmed counterpart. I decided to take the traditional Burgundy recipe and make it lighter and fresher, a perfect complement to the lovely zesty Chablis wines. The result is a mustardy wild rabbit and wild rice salad with peppery watercress and caramelised Russet apples. 

The shredded meat from the braised rabbit is scattered over a bed of nutty wild and brown rice, which provides a lovely contrast in texture and flavour. You then have the tang of watercress to perk it all up, and finally some beautiful slices of Russet apple caramelised in butter and brown sugar to bring out their flavour. The sweetness of the apples marries perfectly with the very rich rabbit and the mustardy sauce, and the end result is a really unusual and delicious salad. I scattered over some toasted hazelnuts at the end for a little textural contrast.

I wanted to include a lot of sharp, sweet and peppery ingredients to contrast the richness of the meat, but this job is also admirably performed by the Domaine Bois Chablis. Its acidity and appley flavours provide the perfect foil to the strong flavour of mustard and rabbit, and you end up with a really harmonious pairing that works on every level. In fact, I’d suggest that this wine is mandatory with this salad; it really enhances the whole eating experience. You can make this delicious recipe with either wild rabbit or farmed rabbit, or if rabbit eludes you then try chicken thighs instead, but if using farmed rabbit or chicken I’d suggest adding a little less mustard as the flavour isn’t as strong.

My dessert is light, sweet, fruity and refreshing: the perfect end to a meal of bold flavours and the final chance to show off the complexities of Chablis. Pears poached in wine is a classic French dessert; not only that, it’s actually a classic Burgundy dessert, a fortuitous coincidence that I discovered while watching Raymond Blanc’s new show, The Very Hungry Frenchman (all in the name of research, of course, and nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I am certain my life will be a wasteful mass of despair unless Raymond proposes to me some time in the very near future). 

Instead of the normal red wine I decided to use Chablis (you could use Chardonnay, or any similar white wine if you don’t want to splash out too much). To the wine I added sugar, a cinnamon stick, cloves, bay leaves, sprigs of rosemary and some strips of orange zest. Into this heady mixture went some elegant, tapered Conference pears (I’m more of a fan of Comice for eating, but Conference are great for poaching as they hold their shape and look more slender and refined), which simmered for around half an hour until their grainy flesh yielded into sweet, unctuous, translucent softness.

The real finishing touch for this dessert comes not in the gorgeous poaching liquor which forms a syrup that can be drizzled over the pears, though this is delicious, but in the addition of a hazelnut crumble sprinkled over the top. Given the slight hazelnut notes of the J. Moreau Chablis, I felt hazelnuts would work perfectly in my dessert.  Pears and hazelnuts are also a fabulous combination, and the coupling of crunchy, buttery hazelnut crumble with the soft pears is wonderful. The dessert still feels light, but rather more indulgent for its addition of butter, nuts and sugar. 

I baked the crumble in a tart tin to make a whole crumbly hazelnut biscuit – the recipe makes at least twice the quantity you’ll need for the pears, but the biscuit is fabulous broken off into chunks and coupled with your afternoon tea or coffee. It’s a simple combination of toasted hazelnuts, flour, butter, sugar, a little cornmeal for texture, a hint of vanilla, and two egg yolks to loosely bind it and give it that crumbly quality. Snapped and scattered over the pears, it makes an excellent ending to a Chablis-themed meal, and the perfect partner to a glass of the fruity J. Moreau. 

Incidentally, you don’t have to make the pears if you don’t have the time or inclination – this hazelnut biscuit is utterly delicious served on its own in crumbly chunks with the J. Moreau, its buttery richness perfectly complemented by the fruitiness of the wine.

I really enjoyed coming up with these recipes. It’s been an interesting education in the world of food and wine pairing, as well as a delightful little mental voyage around the farms and fields of Burgundy. I have to say, I was wonderfully surprised by how well my dishes worked with the wines, given my lack of experience in such matters - it just goes to show that with a bit of an imagination anyone can create food to complement wine. The trick is to think about the flavours and aromas of the wine, and then try and echo or contrast these in the food. A nod to terroir also helps; it makes logical and gastronomic sense to me to reunite ingredients from similar regions; there's something pleasingly neat about the concept.

I hope these dishes have inspired you to give them a go, or at least to try these lovely Chablis wines, which I would heartily recommend as something a bit different for a special occasion. And if you can’t be bothered to cook anything to accompany them, get some good bread, some good cheese, and some good friends - the ultimate match for any type of wine.

(For the Chablis recipes discussed above, read on).

 

Lemon thyme gougères stuffed with Affiné au Chablis (makes around 20)

(Gougère recipe adapted from David Lebovitz)

One Affiné au Chablis cheese

120ml water

40g butter

¼ tsp salt

A generous pinch of cayenne pepper

70g plain flour

2 large eggs

2 tbsp fresh lemon thyme leaves (or normal thyme)

100g cheese, finely grated – a mixture of Gruyere, Comte, strong Cheddar and Parmesan is ideal

Pre-heat the oven to 220C. Line a baking sheet with baking parchment or a silicon mat. Mix the grated cheese and lemon thyme together in a bowl.

Heat the water, butter, salt and cayenne gently in a saucepan until the butter melts. Add all the flour and stir quickly until the mixture forms a smooth ball. Turn off the heat and let this rest for 2 minutes.

Add the eggs and stir very quickly and constantly to make sure they don’t scramble. Keep at it – the batter will turn from lumpy to smooth after a couple of minutes.

Add ¾ of the grated cheese and thyme mixture to the dough and stir well to mix. Place the mixture in a piping bag (or a sandwich bag with a 1cm hole cut in the corner) and pipe the dough into small blobs about 1.5-2 inches in diameter, leaving at least 1.5 inches in between each to allow room for spreading out.

Sprinkle the remaining cheese over each blob of dough, then bake for 10 minutes. After this time, turn the heat down to 190C and bake for another 20-25 minutes, until they’re crispy and golden brown.

Remove from the oven and slice each gougère in half horizontally. Place a small slice of Affiné au Chablis between each half. Place the stuffed gougères on a plate, garnish with a little extra lemon thyme, and serve with a glass of lightly chilled Chablis J. Moreau & Fils 2009.

Blackcurrant cured salmon (serves 4)

(Recipe inspired by Diana Henry's version, here)

This recipe can easily be adapted to serve a greater number of people – you can use larger salmon fillets from a fishmonger and just increase the cure mixture in proportion.

2 fillets of good-quality salmon (around 200g each)

80g caster sugar

50g coarse sea salt or rock salt

1 tsp coarsely ground black pepper

5 tbsp finely chopped fresh dill

120g blackcurrants

2 tbsp Cassis (optional)

Mix the sugar, salt, pepper, dill, blackcurrants and Cassis (if using) in a bowl, squashing the blackcurrants so they burst and release their juices into the mixture. Rub this mixture all over both salmon fillets.

Place one fillet skin side down (if you’re using skinless fillets, ignore that part) on a large piece of clingfilm and spread half the cure mixture left in the bowl over it. Place the other fillet on top, skin side up, and spoon over the remaining cure.

Wrap tightly in clingfilm then put in a dish. Find something that will fit inside the dish that you can place on top of the salmon – if using a round dish, a plate should work; if using a square dish, a small chopping board – then put it on top of the fillets and place several weights on top (you can use tin cans).

Place in the fridge and leave for 3 days. Liquid will seep out of the clingfilm – pour this away every day. By day 3 the salmon should have lost most of its liquid and firmed up. Unwrap from the clingfilm, rinse away the cure, then slice thinly and serve with your choice of garnish (cream cheese mixed with a little horseradish would be perfect), and a glass of Domaine Bois d’Yver Chablis 2008.

Wild rabbit and wild rice salad with mustard dressing, watercress and caramelised Russet apples (serves 6)

Don’t be put off by the longish ingredients list – this is pretty simple. You could use chicken thighs, or farmed rabbit. If so, use less mustard in the sauce – you can always add more at the end. You could also try replacing the wild rice with pearl barley or lentils. Any apples are fine for the garnish, but I like Russets because of their interesting flavour and because they’re less juicy than many other apples, so caramelise well.

2 tbsp olive or rapeseed oil

6 rashers streaky bacon, diced

1 rabbit, jointed, or 8 chicken thighs

1 carrot, roughly chopped

1 onion, roughly chopped

1 celery stick, roughly chopped

2 garlic cloves, finely sliced

3 bay leaves

Sprig of rosemary

Several sprigs of thyme or lemon thyme

10 juniper berries, crushed

500ml cider

400ml chicken stock

3 tbsp Dijon mustard

Salt and pepper

4 tbsp creme fraiche or double cream

200g mixture of wild and brown rice

100g watercress (or a mixture of watercress, baby spinach and rocket)

3 Russet apples (or any other apple)

15g butter

3 tsp brown sugar

40g hazelnuts, roughly chopped and roasted in the oven for 10 mins until fragrant

Fresh thyme, to garnish

Pre-heat the oven to 160C. Heat 1 tbsp of the oil in an ovenproof lidded casserole dish and add the bacon. Once it starts to crisp, add the rabbit pieces (or chicken thighs) and brown well over a high heat. Remove and set aside, then turn the heat to medium, add the remaining oil, and add the carrot, onion, celery and garlic. Fry until golden and beginning to soften. Add the bay, rosemary, thyme and juniper, then pour in the cider and stock. Give the bottom of the pan a good scrape as the liquid bubbles away to release all the stuck-on caramelised bits, then return the rabbit (or chicken) to the pan and add the mustard and some salt and pepper. Put a lid on the pan and place in the oven, then cook for 1 hour and 45 minutes until the meat is tender and falling off the bone.

Remove the meat to a plate and put the dish on the hob over a medium heat to reduce the sauce. Meanwhile, once the meat has cooled slightly, shred it from the bones (be very careful as rabbit has lots of tiny bones which are deeply unpleasant to crunch down on unexpectedly). Once the sauce has reduced by about half, remove the bay leaves and tough herb stems, then add the creme fraiche or cream and check the seasoning. Return the meat to the pan and warm through gently, then set aside.

Put the wild and brown rice in a saucepan and add enough boiling water to cover by about 2 inches. Put a lid on the pan and simmer over a low heat for about 30 minutes until the rice is cooked but still slightly nutty. Drain and set aside.

Quarter the apples and remove the cores. Slice thinly. Heat the butter in a saucepan or frying pan then add the sugar. Saute the apples until golden and caramelised.

Divide the watercress between six plates and then top with the rice. Top the rice with a couple of spoonfuls of rabbit/chicken meat and sauce, then scatter over the apples and the toasted hazelnuts. Sprinkle with a little fresh thyme, then serve warm or at room temperature with a lightly chilled glass of Domaine Bois d’Yver Chablis 2008.

Chablis poached pears with hazelnut crumble (serves 4; makes enough crumble for more)

You don’t have to make both elements of this dessert – both the pears and the crumble biscuit are delicious on their own.

For the crumble:

140g hazelnuts, toasted in a hot oven and roughly chopped

150g plain flour

60g cornmeal or polenta

½ tsp salt

100g cold butter

30g brown sugar

20g demerara sugar

20g granulated sugar

1 tsp vanilla extract

Zest of 1 orange

2 egg yolks

For the pears:

4 conference pears, firm rather than ripe

1 bottle Chablis, Chardonnay or similar white wine

200g caster sugar

1 cinnamon stick

4 cloves

2 bay leaves

4 strips of orange zest

2 sprigs fresh rosemary

Pre-heat the oven to 180C. Grease a 20cm springform cake tin or tart tin with a removable base. Mix together the egg yolks, orange zest and vanilla extract.

In a large bowl, mix the flour, cornmeal and salt. Rub in the butter until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs, or blitz it all together briefly in a food processor. Add the sugar and chopped hazelnuts.

Add the egg yolk mixture and rub in with your hands until the mixture turns slightly sticky and crumbly. Pour into the prepared tin and press down very lightly around the edges, leaving everything quite uneven.

Bake for 40 minutes until crunchy and golden brown. Leave to cool in the tin.

Meanwhile, put the wine and sugar in a saucepan (taller rather than wider is ideal, so the liquid will cover the fruit) and bring to the boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Add the cinnamon, cloves, bay, orange and rosemary and simmer very gently for a few minutes.

Peel the pears then place in the saucepan; the wine should just about cover them, but you can keep turning them if part is left uncovered. Simmer very gently for 15-25 minutes, turning the pears occasionally, until tender to the point of a knife (keep checking them – how long this takes depends on the ripeness of your pears). When done, remove to a bowl.

Boil the poaching liquid until reduced to about 200-300ml. Serve the pears whole or slice each in half lengthways, then sprinkle with a generous amount of the hazelnut biscuit (you can either break it into whole pieces and garnish the pears with them, or crumble it over the fruit). Spoon over a little of the poaching liquid, then serve either au naturel or with crème fraiche, cream or ice cream. This is ideal with a glass of Chablis J. Moreau & Fils 2009.

Pissaladière

You know how sometimes, if you want to describe a boring individual with very little personality, you can refer to them as 'vanilla'? Meaning they're a bit bland, a safe bet, perfectly pleasant but nothing to go wild over. Average. 

Suddenly it seems to me that this is a rather inappropriate label. Surely, if we want to describe the mundane, the everyday, the tame, the insipid, we should refer to them as 'onion'.

Let's face it, no one goes wild over onions. Onions are the safe bet. The best friend that you'll always rely on and love in a strictly platonic fashion but who will never set your loins aflame. The boy that all the girls call 'sweet', which - if you're a man I'm sure you know this already - is the kiss of death as far as romantic opportunity is concerned. The trusty shoulder to cry on, dependent and reliable but always hiding back from the limelight. 

Vanilla, by comparison, seems positively exotic and exciting, suggesting secret whispers in the dark, clandestine meetings, breathless laughter, a wave of musky perfume carried on a gentle evening breeze. Vanilla speaks of secrets and seduction, of the faraway and desirable. The poor onion doesn't stand a chance.

We do, however, depend on onions. I'd wager that around eighty percent of savoury recipes call for the inclusion of at least one of these golden bulbs. They provide a depth, a richness, an earthy foundation of flavour that is hard to come by using any other ingredient. I know this, from the many times I've ransacked the fridge, always assuming there must be a stash of onions in there, only to find that we're out of them and I have to trek to the corner shop because there is nothing else I can substitute. They are a stalwart of cooking, one you always assume will be around to help you out.

However, there are a few recipes that showcase the humble onion, giving it the starring role it so desperately craves as it sits at the back in a stew, soup or risotto, watching the meat or other vegetables getting all the attention and crying silently into its papery skin. 

Onion soup is one, of course. A melting, burnished fusion of earthy goodness topped with that most delectably simple of creations: cheese on toast. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that, for most people (including myself), it is the cheese on toast that makes them want to eat onion soup. 

To unleash the full potential of the onion, you have to caramelise it. You have to finely slice it and then fry it slowly in sizzling butter or oil, over a low heat, until what were tough, crunchy crescents of translucent flesh soften into a melting, unctuous tangle of slippery, sweet, savoury goodness. Even better if you add a pinch of brown sugar to bring out the sweetness, and a splash of balsamic to heighten the savoury sensation. There is very little that caramelised onions will not partner happily with, but, for me, they are at their most outstanding when paired with goat's cheese and rocket on some form of bread base.

This, then, is the best way I can think of to showcase the humble tastiness of a pile of caramelised onions. It's southern France's answer to a pizza: pissaladière.

I first came across this on a holiday in Nice, where it is sold everywhere by the slice out of giant, battered-looking trays. It's a laughably simple combination of bread dough, caramelised onions, black olives and anchovies. These decidedly un-flashy ingredients fuse together to form something far greater than the sum of its parts. The soft tangle of onions coupled with the dough, moist where they've soaked into it and crispy around the edges, is intensely comforting. Add the satisfying saltiness of olives and anchovies to counteract the sweetness of the onions, and you have something outstanding.

Humble, yes, but outstanding nonetheless. This is a great recipe for reminding ourselves just how much we owe the onion. 

Do you have any favourite onion recipes that make the most of this kitchen staple?

Pissaladière (serves 4-6):

• 20g fresh yeast
• 3/4 tsp sugar
• 180ml warm water
• 200g strong white bread flour
• 130g strong wholemeal flour
• 3/4 tsp salt
• 1.5 tbsp olive oil
• 3 tbsp garlic-infused olive oil (or normal olive oil)
• A bunch of thyme, leaves picked
• 8 medium onions (about 1.5kg)
• 1 can anchovies in oil
• A couple of handfuls of black olives, pitted
• Salt and pepper

First, make the dough. Stir the yeast into the warm water and sugar and leave until frothy. Put the salt and flours in a large mixing bowl and make a well in the middle. Add the olive oil and the yeast mixture and mix together to form a dough (add a little more water if it seems too dry). Knead for 10 minutes until smooth and elastic (or use the dough hook function on an electric mixer for 10 minutes), then place in a bowl and cover with a teatowel. Leave to rise in a warm place until doubled in size - this should take 1-1.5 hours.

Meanwhile, make the onion topping. Peel and slice the onions very finely (a mandolin cutter is ideal for this, if you have one). Heat 1 tbsp of the garlic oil in a large pan over a medium heat and fry the onions until translucent, along with 1 tbsp of the thyme leaves. Turn the heat down low and cook them for about 30 minutes until very soft, sticky and golden. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.

When the dough is ready, pre-heat the oven to 220C. Roll the dough out to a large rectangle about 1.5cm thick. Spread the onions over the top, scatter over another 1 tbsp thyme leaves, then slice each anchovy fillet lengthways into 3 or 4 slices. Arrange these over the onions in a criss-cross pattern, placing an olive in each diamond. Leave for 15 minutes in a warm place, then put in the oven and bake for 20-25 minutes until crispy and golden brown around the edges.

Serve with a green salad.