February 2002

A PATE DAY

Some days end up being devoted to a specific food for no particular reason. Take today. I awoke with no thought of pâté in my head, and ended the day immersed in it.

It began when I stopped by the butcher after walking Fiona to school, a precarious affair as we were both balancing umbrellas and I was simultaneously balancing her.

I asked for collier de mouton, or lamb collar, for a couscous I was going to prepare, and while the butcher cut, trimmed, and otherwise pampered the meat we talked about the impressive array of pâtés he makes. One is made with wild hare, another with pure pork, another with duck. Some are laced with dried fruit, studded with nuts or wild mushrooms, and all sit in their crockery containers looking so delicious. I usually cave in and order a slab or two for lunch. The butcher, Mr. Delasalle, carefully cuts them, handling each as if it were a crown jewel.

I once asked him for a recipe for his pâté de campagne. He willingly told me how to make it, going so far as to preparing the meat in the correct quantities for me. Apparently he'd been too shy then to ask why I'd want to publish a pâté recipe for Americans. Today, he worked up his nerve. I explained that most Americans cannot just go out and buy pâté, so if they want it they must make it themselves.

At that bit of information his eyebrows shot up into his hair. "There is no pâté in America?" he asked. I explained that it wasn't common and he shook his head, obviously puzzled by the notion of such a wealthy yet pâté-poor country.

When my beautifully cut lamb was wrapped, he carefully tucked it in a bag along with a miniature pâté. "For you to take home today," he said. I felt that if he could have, he would have given one to each and every American.

Honored, I went on my way home. I set the meat and the pâté on the counter. Since I was planning to make the couscous in the early afternoon, there was no need to refrigerate the lamb, for meat should be at room temperature before being cooked so that it will cook evenly. Since we would eat the pâté for lunch, there was no need for it to be chilled either.

Not five minutes later I heard a knock on the door. There stood Babette Dawaele, who owns a shop specializing in healing herbs. She does her banking near our house and often stops by to say hello. Today, she had a package in her hand. It contained rabbit pâté that her husband, Jean-Lou, had made the day before.

She set the package on the counter and carefully unwrapped it. There it was, a beautiful half-round of both ground and carefully hand-cut rabbit interlaced with thinly sliced dried apricots and dotted with golden hazelnuts and bright green pistachios. Like everything Jean-Lou makes it was artistically assembled, with the look of a mosaic.

"Jean-Lou makes the best pâté," Babette said. "But this isn't one of his best because the rabbit was old. The flavor is good though, but you've got to tell me how you like it because Jean-Lou wants you to have the recipe."

How wonderful, I thought. An hour ago I hadn't thought about lunch, and here I had a sumptuous feast before me.

We sat down to our two pâtés, appropriately accompanied by home-made sweet and sour cornichons I'd purchased from a farmer in Alsace a few weeks ago, a radicchio salad and fresh baguette.

We sampled the pâtés. They were as different as two dishes with the same name could be. The pork pâté, sprinkled with garlic and herbs, dotted with lean and fat meat, was tender and aromatic and deliciously familiar, an excellent country pâté, reason enough to settle in France.

Jean-Lou's work of art was very different. Much more attractive, it had ample texture as Babette had warned, but it wasn't displeasing. Laced with Calvados, apple brandy, flavored with herbs, the apricot added sweetness, the nuts another texture. I would have added some pork to soften it, and when Babette asked me about it later I told her so. She agreed. "Jean-Lou is going to make it again, and when it's perfect, he'll give you his recipe."

That won't be right away, since Jean-Lou's rabbits have to grow to the right size for pâté. So meanwhile, I give you a rendition of the butcher's pâté, to make for yourself. You'll love it—it's all that's wonderful, savory and delicious in French pâté!

The Butcher's Pâté

	2¼ pounds pork, both lean and fatty, cut in one inch chunks
	2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
	2 shallots, minced
	1 small onion, minced
	40 sprigs fresh thyme
	9 dried, imported bay leaves
	10 peppercorns
	½ teaspoon fine sea salt, or to taste
	¼ teaspoon ground allspice
	5 allspice berries
	11 ounces fresh pork liver
	½ cup hazelnuts, skinned
	Cornichons, for garnish

1. Place the pork, olive oil, shallots, onion, all but six sprigs of the thyme, and all but six of the bay leaves, and the remaining herbs and salt in a large, non-reactive bowl and toss so that all is thoroughly combined. Cover and refrigerate for 24 hours.

2. Remove the bay leaves and the thyme from the pork, and transfer the meat to a food processor or grinder. Process until the meat is coarsely chopped or coarsely grind it. The meat needs to be in uneven pieces to give texture to the pate.

3. Place the liver in the food processor and puree it. Add it to the pork and other ingredients in the bowl and toss until all the ingredients are thoroughly combined. Cook a teaspoonful of the mixture to taste for seasoning, remembering that when the pâté is chilled its seasoning will be muted. Adjust the seasoning if necessary. Mix in the hazelnuts until they are thoroughly combined.

4. Place three of the bay leaves and three generous sprigs of thyme on the bottom of an 8 cup (2 liter) porcelain terrine mold, or other non-reactive container. Top with half the pork mixture, smoothing and pressing it into the terrine, then top with the remaining three sprigs of thyme. Cover with the remaining pork mixture, smoothing it out and pressing it down into the terrine, then top that with the remaining three bay leaves. Top with parchment paper and then either the lid of the terrine mold, or a piece of aluminum foil. Place the terrine mold into a pan large enough to hold it with room to spare, and pour in boiling water half way up the sides of the terrine mold Bake until the terrine is cooked through and registers about 170 degrees F on a meat thermometer inserted into the center of the terrine, about 2 hours.

5. Remove from the oven and let cool. Place at least 3 one-pound weights on the parchment paper atop the terrine, to weight it down, and when it has reached room temperature refrigerate it for at least 24 hours. Serve chilled, with plenty of cornichons alongside.

About 10 servings