Bordelaise Sauce
I want to make it. It’s like coming home, the way going home never was. It’s like looking up at the sky in Piazza di San Callisto and realizing that I’m back home, back where I belong. I breathed in deeply and when I exhaled, it felt like I was shaking off all my stress and narrow bindings and finally, finally expanding to wholly fit in my skin. It’s comfort and freedom and finding out that Rome was only ever a plane flight away. It’s peace of mind. It’s complex tastes, hours of labor, and the soothing routine of mincing shallots. It’s narrowing my focus down to the edge of my blade, the familiar feel of the knife in my hand and the familiar sight of the cutting board I’ve had for years.
It’s a mouthful that widened my eyes at an inspiring, provocative meal. It’s a dance of delicate tastes that I wished would go on forever. The day it’s made, all the notes are clear and distinct but somehow create a sum greater than the parts. The day after, the flavors have melded into something less sparkling clear but smoother and more relaxed.
I want to roll up and cuddle in it like a blanket. I want to make it. I want to simmer red wine with shallots, carrots, mushrooms, parsley, thyme, garlic, and a bay leaf, then pour in veal stock and peppercorns and reduce it. I want to spoon it over a double-cut rib steak, seasoned, seared, basted, and roasted.
How can something I’ve had only four times and made only three be home? It’s unreasonable. And yet, the first mouthful was a revelation and a homecoming all at once. This is a world you never imagined. This is where you belong.
I have a profound desire to make bordelaise sauce. I have one container of veal stock left and had been planning to make the full on boeuf bordelaise meal for C, my +1, but I might not wait.
