I seem to have a thing for Meryl Streep.
Some of my greatest moments of culinary envy and joy have been inspired by her movies. Her performance as Julia Child was amazing…the feast that was awarded to my eyes, was better. Rich, rustic French fare; there is nothing that makes me more excited to eat. This movie didn’t inspire this post.
The scene in The Hours where she is separating eggs is like being witness to an act of devotion. The way the white slowly slips away from the yolk creating two separate entities is simply hypnotic (like the dumpling scene in Paris, Je T’aime). This, while inspiring my profiteroles, did not inspire me to make today’s new dish.
The movie was It’s Complicated. To simplify the hilarious film’s plot it is about middle-aged people having sex. It also features my dream kitchen. It is so open and homely and filled with such fresh ingredients and treats…it simply begs to be cooked in. Throughout the film a lot of food is made, the one thing that stood out was the Croque Monsieur that Meryl Streep made for a date with Steve Martin.
The crunch as the knives pressed down upon the bread was earth shattering (probably had more to do with the sound editor, rather than the dish), and at that moment I knew I had to make my own.
Waking up this morning with a filthy hangover, I thought of only one thing (other than the crackshake) that could cure my self-inflicted ailment…the Croque. I got out of bed, popped some Nurofen and approached my Larousse Gastronomique with self-pity and hope. I flipped to the page that was home to Croque Monsieur; my sore head at ease, I plucked up the courage to get to work on the dish…and never drink again.
Upon arriving home from the markets (and crackshake), I decided to get to work on our lunchtime delight. I started by pouring a glass of wine (I had to finish the open bottle…right), before attacking the loaf of bread with a rustic vigour, aka reckless abandon with a knife. I then carefully tore up the fresh ham, in sticking with the rustic nature of the dish, and layered it thickly upon the bread.
Then came the cheese. I searched through the endless selection of Gruyeres at the market, before settling on the cheapest of the French imports. I unwrapped the cheese and was hit with a scent that I can only describe as a sweaty foot that has been rubbed down with a mouldy arse. After checking the used by date, which was six months from now, I decided that was the smell of genuine cheese and not decay and that the sandwich should continue.
I generously layered the cheese on the cheese, closed the sandwich up and oiled both sides before frying them off. The stench of arse feet started to dissipate and with it, my fears of food poisoning lessened. When it was almost browned enough (who can be bothered waiting long enough), I popped it in the oven for the baking portion of the sandwich.
With that, I began my béchamel for the grand finale of the dish. I flicked between being mesmerised by the flame of the gas; the bubble of the sauce and the hilarity of Naomi Clark on the television whilst I waited for the sandwich to complete it’s baking.
As I pulled it out of the oven I decided the foul stench was back, I asked my partner who gave me a quizzical look. Clearly it hadn’t, I was just suffering some olfactory paranoia. With my fear subsiding, I generously cover the sandwich with the béchamel and placed it under a hot grill to be completed.
The sauce bubbled and browned, and the house was filled with a beautiful rich scent; arse feet now a distant memory. I placed the sandwich on a plate, took a swig of my wine and prayed that the crunch wasn’t merely an editor’s creation.
It wasn’t. The bread cracked under our knives and cheese oozed out the sides on to the plate. The Croque Monsieur was a success!
While I wouldn’t advise this to become a daily lunch item, neither would your arteries; the sandwich is delicious and will be repeated…maybe with a different Gruyere.
I look forward to seeing what Meryl cooks next.
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