My fascination with Cordon Bleu cooking started a year after I arrived in London in the 1970s as a somewhat naive 22-year-old. I was urged by two Kiwi friends to join them at a weekly demonstration class at the Cordon Bleu School in Marylebone Lane. What a revelation. To see sophisticated cooking techniques explained directly to you, plus learning from the experts, was a life-enhancing experience. Amazing concoctions, often using simple ingredients, were masterfully whipped up in front of our eyes. One “prepared earlier” dish was presented at the end of each class for some lucky participant to take home. I remember winning two dishes – an upside-down pineapple cake and braised red cabbage.
Years later in New Zealand, I rediscovered the Cordon Bleu Monthly Cookery Course books I’d subscribed to in the 70s stashed away in a cupboard. They delivered a suite of cooking skills to the intrepid cook willing to experiment on family and friends. The difference now was that I was a working parent of four young children, optimistically preparing Cordon Bleu dinner parties for friends in my “free time”.
Leafing through those cookbooks now, I marvel at how battered they are. I certainly got my money’s worth at about $1.50 an issue. At the same time, I can see why the UK imported so much NZ butter. The recipes use generous dollops of it, decent shots of sherry and each three-course dinner party menu was accompanied by wine suggestions – French or German, of course.
Cordon Bleu helped me discover I was useless at making brandy snaps but could manage a julienne potato cake with ease. And that I didn’t care for boiling cabbage for 10 minutes, preferring my mother’s method of a quick steam with a dab of butter and condiments at the end. But how I loved the desserts. I could make an apricot suédoise with meringues – stunning. Austrian coffee cake – a breeze. Choux pastry? Just follow the steps in the recipe and success is yours. I conquered savoury choux pastry, still a personal favourite.
I was introduced to the art of cooking a whole rabbit, a pigeon (really!) or a pheasant (Course 1). Interesting, but not for me. There was an emphasis on beating ingredients by hand, not a kitchen whizz anywhere to rip through a mountain of vegetables. I did learn the very useful art of chopping with a wicked-looking knife. I can still blitz through vegetables faster than it would take me to plug in my food processor.
And the nostalgia. Asparagus prepared simply with … butter (Course 3). Just like my Aunty Kathleen prepared Uncle Jim’s asparagus, plucked out of the garden and straight into the pot. Delicious. There were a lot of anaemic-type aspic dishes. And, shudderingly, brawn with a whole pig’s head; prawns floating with cucumber and other veges in a mould and, of course, dessert jellies made from scratch. Not even Cordon Bleu however could beat my childhood memories of Aunty Nell’s multi-coloured tiers of jelly, from a packet of course, with chopped bananas suspended in the bottom layer.
And it was “no” to offal. The smell of my father’s favourite tripe meal remains in my memory to this day. And “no” to stargazy pie – fish heads staring out of a pastry lid. Cheap meat cuts were plumped up with various additions for dinner parties, and the mysteries of how to succeed with a Victoria sponge and Irish stew were laid bare. On the stew, my step of soaking the meat in cold tea came from my Irish nana, Mabel Bridget Ryan. She never divulged her secret meat tenderising formula for Irish stew but I’m sure my mother had a sneak peek, because mum adapted cooking her version to include steeping the meat in a cold tea brew.
I have memories of discussing some of the Cordon Bleu recipes with friends and being told tartly by my mate Anne that life was too short to stuff mushrooms. I secretly agreed.
And then we come to the contentious Course 16, when recipes from the Commonwealth were shared. Australia got four recipes, including the steaks AND the lamingtons, while New Zealand got only three. While our ruffled Kiwi feathers might have been soothed by having pavlova officially awarded to New Zealand, the editors still had a bob each way by printing an Australian version of the book with a pavlova topped with Australian canned fruit. The insult still irritates me. Not a mention of our Anzac biscuits either, another hotly contested antipodean staple. Both countries were cast into the shade by the 13 dishes included to represent Canada, with instructions on how to make a raisin pie or a lemon cheese tart, plus a multitude of fish dishes. Astonishing. It was as if Canada had been awarded the gold medal in the cooking Olympics.
My personal Cordon Bleu pièce de résistance was chicken ballotine; deboning a chicken, stuffing it, arranging it to look like a normal fowl, roasting it, bringing it to the table and slicing through its entire body to create perfect portions of delectable meat, while my astounded guests looked on. It was as if I had made all the bones magically disappear. It is a stunning party trick.
Special occasions of all descriptions were covered in the series. I have the recipe to sort an entire suckling pig, or a decorated boar’s head, should the opportunity arise. Spinach roulade and souffle monte cristo hold special memories of meals with family and friends, some long gone, but the laughter, the fun and taste of the food still lingers. Memories held fast between the pages of those publications.
And yes, I’ve scoured through those books and cut out my favourites. Chicken ballotine followed by souffle monte cristo, anyone?
