Vichyssoise and Beaujolais

A long, long time ago, there was a lovely French restaurant in Dallas called Le Boul' Mich. It was located in an old frame house off McKinney Avenue, on Worthington, and was one of those wonderfully unpretentious restaurants that served the most marvelous food. It was like visiting a French home. Madame presided over the kitchen. You had one fork, one knife and one spoon with which to eat and a prix fix meal of four or five courses, depending on the market and the whims of Madame.

Her sauces were legendary, as was her vichyssoise, and when the sad day came and Madame hung up her apron and, presumably, moved back to France, she was kind enough to share her vichyssoise recipe with her Dallas fans. I didn't think the original recipe truly reflected the delicate taste, so over the span of a year or two (did I mention that I'm stubborn?) I worked on the recipe until I found a never-fail version that works for me. So here you go:

3 leeks, split down the middle and cleaned (you'd be amazed how much dirt you'll find nestled inside) -- use the white and light green parts just down to the dark green, because if you use all of the dark green you'll have very fibrous soup

1 medium onion, peeled and coarsely chopped

1 medium potato and 1 small potato, peeled and coarsely chopped

1 can chicken broth

1 can beef broth

1 Tablespoon (or thereabouts) beef bouillon powder

Water to cover or almost cover all of the veggies

Bring to a boil and then simmer, uncovered, until the liquid is reduced by at least half and everything is mushy. Pureé the mixture and chill for a few hours or overnight. To serve, ladle a portion of the puree into a soup bowl and add a tablespoon or so of heavy cream and mix it up until you have the consistency and strength you enjoy. If you want to get fancy, sprinkle chopped chives on it before serving, but that's too much trouble for me, really. After all, I cooked the damned thing! That's presentation enough.

Tonight's wine offering was a very nice Beaujolais which provoked an argument about whether one could detect the taste of cherries. I say yes, Chris said no, but he could smell lavender, and the one who usually settles the matter -- Jennie, whose palate has always been quite discerning and able to distinguish the different layers of a good wine (no, we don't let her drink but we do let her taste and value her opinion) -- merely said, "it tastes like wine." She's got her mind on her First Car right now, to the exclusion of everything else, which is understandable. Cherries or not, this is a good wine and went well with the shrimp alfredo that I made for dinner.

I TOLD you the vichyssoise has to chill overnight!