In the Manner of a Miller's Wife

Elizabeth David begins fiercely on the subject: “I am always rather surprised” she remarks, “when I read in books and articles that to cook a fish à la meunière is one of the simplest achievements. Simple in conception certainly; but in execution, no.”

I was in the supermarket perusing the glass-fronted fish counter with Lara, my sister in law, as these words sailed into memory. We were both in the mood for something aquatic that evening, and as we gazed at slabs of salmon, jumbles of shrimp and barnacle stained mussels, my eye was caught by a pile of shimmering rainbow trout. I had never cooked trout. However, in my quest to conquer the world of fish cookery, I’d read of a certain French method with fish called à la meunière, a phrase that translates as something cooked “in the manner of a miller’s wife.” I assume that this derives logically from the coating of flour that is applied to the fish before frying. This miller, so fortunate in his betrothed, would naturally possess mounds of flour, which his shrewd and resourceful wife would then use to create a crisp encasement for delicate, butter-fried fish. Et voilà! And yet the redoubtable Mrs. David continues on an accusatory note when writing of this technique:

“Do they think to tell you, the instructors of the nothing-is-simpler school, that the butter in which you fry your sole must be clarified butter, that you must watch your fish like a hawk to see that it does not stick and burn, that to turn it without breaking is a tricky business, that you should discard the remains of the butter in which your fish was cooked, and that you must start again with a clean pan and a quantity of fresh butter, not clarified, and that this butter must be brought exactly to the right point when it turns a pale, hazel-nut colour, no more and no less, and that it must be poured instantly over the waiting fish which must with equal immediacy be set in front of those who are to eat it? Do they even tell you, these optimists . . .?”

Her rhetorical questioning continues with vigor. Yet despite these cautions I decided that trout meunière might just be worth a try. Turning to Lara I suggested the idea. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed, “that’s how my mom used to cook them!”

To go with the trout we decided on spinach sautéed in butter and garlic, and some sort of potatoes, but which? Boiled fingerlings? I mused. My brother Will looked disheartened and stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated grimace of distress. “Boiled,” he muttered distastefully. So we settled on roast spuds. Also, that he might retain an edge to his canine teeth, Will procured a rib-eye steak, eschewing with another grimace the suggestion of joining us in the fish.

It was another of those deliciously simple meals to prepare: the potatoes quartered, swathed in olive oil, salt, pepper and rosemary went into a hot oven and left us with little else to do but sip wine and argue amiably (mainly about the dubious aesthetic value of my brother’s new sun glasses). As the potatoes neared completion, I set about cleaning and drying the fish. Recollecting Elizabeth David’s stern words I heated a large knob of butter in a saucepan until it dissolved, bubbled and frothed. Then I carefully skimmed off this foam leaving only the honey-colored liquid below so that when cooked our floured fish would not scorch.

As I was about to fry the two fish, my brother came up and peered doubtfully over my shoulder, asking silly questions and generally displaying a lack of faith in my mastery of the kitchen. “Well?” I asked, “Aren’t you going to cook your steak?” we’re almost ready to eat.

“Huh? Me? But I thought you were going to cook it?” I shook my head. “No, I’m too busy. And besides, I rarely cook steak . . . it just doesn’t occur to me.”

Will stared at me incredulously: “You don’t know how to cook a steak? How is that possible?”

“Of course I know how to cook it.” I replied defensively, “it’s just that I don’t actually make it very often . . . and everyone is so picky about their steaks I find. . . .”

The bottom lip began protruding again as Will grumbled around the kitchen at a loss. “Don’t know how to cook a steak? Rachie, that’s something you must learn. You’ve just got to know how to make steak. . . . Well fine, now I have to do it.” He sighed heavily, “but I’m not in the right frame of mind. . . ” Another disgruntled sigh . . . “Well fine.”

Eventually, after more grumbling and inflammatory suggestions that my culinary skills were somewhat lacking in the arena of cow flesh, we sat down to eat. The potatoes, golden brown and infused with rosemary, nestled next to a heap of deep green garlicky spinach slick with butter. Will was content with his steak, but for Lara and I, the plate was completed by a whole trout each, nothing but its head and glassy eye gazing out from the fine nut-colored crust. The clarified butter had done its work and not a fleck of burn marred the outer layer of the trout. I squeezed a generous quantity of lemon over mine ate it slowly, savoring the crisped skin and simple, delicate flesh.