Monsieur and Madame Croque

Dear Devon,

Rick Steves, on a recent episode, comfortably biked through the Cote D'Or vineyards, basket filled with snails and a bottle of wine. He made it look so easy. Dijon advertises itself as a bike friendly town. The central tourist office conveniently distributes maps of bike paths that should lead easily and safely from tasting room to tasting room, and even rents bikes for full and half days. As the sky was clear for the first time in days, I decided it would be fun to fill my lungs with country air and get some sun...


WHAT WAS I THINKING? I don't bike from the Upper West Side to Staten Island on a whim. In fact, I hadn't been on a bike, mobile or stationary, in more than 10 years. Suddenly, I was in the middle of nowhere, caught up in a twenty mile bike ride. Taxis? Not on this stretch of vineyard. Buses? I saw plenty of stops and shelters, but not a single bus. Bike lanes? Stay to the right of the cars on the highway. Huffing and puffing under a cloudless sky, I imagined composing an urgent email to Rick Steves:

Dear Mr. Steves,

When suggesting bike rides through the Cote D'Or to your foolhardy readers, don't forget the two miles of white-knuckle riding in narrow one-way streets on the way out of Dijon, or the imperceptible bike lanes and five-way intersections, and most importantly, please stress the physical exertion required to ride several miles, especially for those who do not engage in regular exercise.

Your faithful reader,
Michelle

We rolled into Gevrey-Chambertin, a good 8 miles outside of Dijon, at about 1:15. If you're not familiar, 1:15 can mean to a Frenchman that he's missed lunch. I shuffled stiffly into a busy cafe, filled with sun burnt locals, and found a table by the window. The waitress, who turned out to be our chef, as well, announced loudly that she was out of bread, and asked us what we thought of croque monsieur and green salad with tomatoes. We nodded our approval, and she disappeared into a loud kitchen. During her absence, we tried to figure out what had just happened. Had we inadvertently ordered, in our exhaustion, and our lousy french? When she appeared with two green salads and two croque monsieurs made with square slices of white bread, we asked her where the bread came from. With a surprised look on her face, she answered "This isn't bread. This stuff is ONLY used for croque monsieur. It's too heavy- we couldn't just eat this every day."

The Croque Monsieur and his feminine counterpart, Croque Madame (served with an egg on top), is the grilled cheese sandwich of France. Every kid knows how to make it. It's probably the default dinner for many newly graduated 20-somethings. At its most basic, it consists of cheese, ham, mustard, and sliced bread. Larousse Gastronomique writes: "the first croque monsieur was served in 1910 in a Parisian cafe on the Boulevard des Capucines" (p. 375). I've always eaten croque monsieur topped with a cheesy bechemal sauce. To me, the sauce always seemed a bit fussy for a simple sandwich. I was pleased to see that in the French version, the sandwich is topped with lightly broiled shredded cheese. The edges are blackened, almost burnt, and the inside was warm and gooey with melted cheese and salty ham. Our audible crunching was a good advertisement for the "croque." (Croquer is french for to crunch.)

Back in New York, while telling a friend about our French adventures, I tried to recreate the croque monsieur. Emmental is the cheese that is typically used in this sandwich. When the thin strands of burned cheese stick to the bread, it creates an amazing savory flavor and satisfying crunch. The melted Emmental contrasts nicely with the sweetness of the sliced ham. It is gooey and warm, stretching into long strands with each bite. The monsier and madame that resulted from my experiments were delicious. The sandwiches were a real treat and a great reminder of that marvelous day in the vineyards, without the muscle fatigue.

Don't think my biking adventure was a complete waste. Once I had eaten dinner, relaxed, and was sitting in my bed, I admit that I felt fulfilled.


Croque Monsieur and Croque Madame
serves 2

4 slices white bread (I used Italian rustic bread)
2 tbsp butter
4 thin slices of ham
mustard
2 slices Emmental cheese
1/2 cup Emmental cheese, shredded
1 egg

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Line a baking sheet with foil.

Heat a frying pan on a medium flame. Butter four slices of bread on one side. Butter side facing outwards, top each slice with 2 slices of ham, 1 slice of cheese, and a generous layer of mustard. Finish with the second slice of bread, butter side out. Place on the frying pan at medium heat. Cook on both sides until nicely golden brown. Remove to reserved baking sheet. Top with shredded cheese. Repeat with second sandwich.

Croque Madame: follow the directions above. Fry an egg, sunny side up. Place the fried egg on top of the shredded cheese.

Bake both sandwiches in the oven at 500 degrees until cheese is slightly burned and bread is nicely toasted. Serve with a fresh green salad.

Dijon, France

Dear Devon,

I think I was meant to be Dijionnaise. I mean, I was meant to be a girl from Dijon, not a squeeze-bottle of mayonnaise mixed with mustard. I came to this conclusion somewhere between Dijon's bustling weekly market and its labyrinthine streets. Much smaller than Paris, Dijon still managed to turn my navigational sense upside down. An indelible mark of its days as a Medieval city, Dijon's twisting streets charmed this visitor, who quickly abandoned the map and used its patisseries and fromageries for landmarks. A town whose butchers will discuss the finer points of roasting a pork loin (while three people wait in line) has its priorities in the right place.

One of my favorite shops in town was Le Chalet Comtois, an amazing cheese shop. The paper bags from this shop proudly announce its lineage: P. Rouaud, successeur de Robert Perrot, Maistre Fromager. Cheese production and sale is considered a highly respected artisanal trade, of which your reputation depends on where one holds an apprecenticeship. The friendly lady who assisted us went into great detail regarding an array of Epoisses. M. Brilliat-Savarin dubbed it "the king of cheeses," but my tasting notes read, like licking the wet rafters of a hundred-year-old barn. She lead us around the shop, delighting us with bizarre details including how the production of semi-hard cheese from the Pyrenees region was hampered by bears.

Everyone knows Dijon for its mustard. Before I arrived here, I thought it was more clever marketing than an essential Burgundian ingredient. To my surprise, mustard as a blatant consumer product was largely absent, but mustard, its intense, musty, nose-clearing, and creamy taste was everywhere. For many Americans, mustard is the thick neon yellow substance that squirts out in even lines on a hot dog. To the Dijonnais, mustard and its seeds are a subtle background flavor in salads, an herby, earthy contrast to fresh cheese, or a stringent sauce against a rich steak. I have always been a fan of mustard, or at least what I knew mustard to be, but I have to admit that I never realized its potential. In Dijon, it infused the food like soy sauce in Chinese cooking. It simply appeared everywhere, in savory baked goods, integrated into sauces and marinades, mixed into mashed potatoes, and of course as a condiment.

One assumes that a region's prized product is to be found in its highest form at the source. Of course the mustard is good. But how good is it? Riding the train back to Paris, I realized that for my entire life, I had eaten an over-vinegared, brash, and oily third cousin of the nuanced and wonderfully pungent Dijon mustard. A quick look in my fridge upon returning to New York confirmed my suspicion. My jar of mustard, proudly proclaimed as Dijon mustard, was actually made in Illinois. I've been to Illinois. Their mustard fields don't look like the ones that line the hillsides and the highways of Burgundy.

I am dying to try to recreate some of the dishes I tasted in Burgundy. But in the meantime, enjoy these photos of Dijon's market.