A trip to Provincetown: Haddock Amandine Meuniere

Finally, my first true cuisine post. A post about a meal that I cooked (with assistance from sous chef Dad) whose exquisite flavor blew me away. I will even include a general recipe of sorts so you too can turn your kitchen into a butter-splattered, flour-dusted mess. Naturally, like every other food blog and recipe found on the internet, I will first force you to slog through my ramblings on cooking, history, and how I came to find this recipe before you're allowed to grace your eyes with my semi-coherent kitchen instructions.

On Provincetown

The recipe for the buttery ambrosia known as haddock amandine comes from chef Howard Mitcham, a prolific writer, artist, and cook in world famous Provincetown, Massachusetts. Those of you who have had the pleasure of reading Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential know that this is where the devilish rogue of cooking got his start. Working in seafood joints around Provincetown, Bourdain discovered the sex and drug fueled Sodom that is the commercial kitchen (as someone who has spent a fair amount of time in restaurant kitchens, I assure you this is accurate; however, you will hear far more Spanish than Aramaic or Hebrew). Mitcham's book, Provincetown Seafood Cookbook (a title that leaves little to the imagination in regard to what briny treasure is encased in those pages), opens with an introduction by Bourdain before flinging you into a salty and scaled poetic orgy of seafood recipes. The recipe that made Mitcham famous in his kitchens is the old French classic, haddock amandine.

On fats

Before telling you more about haddock amandine, I think it appropriate to have a quick glance at the fats used in cooking around the world. Every good cook (honestly even those of you burning pasta in water ought to know this) knows that fat is necessary in cooking. It is what keeps your food from sticking to your pans and grills, what drives and enhances flavor, and ultimately aids in proper cooking. Each culture utilizes various forms of fat in cooking.

Some of the earliest fats used in the kitchen (I mean this metaphorically as not everyone has the luxury of standing in a fancy Food Network-esque room of appliances and spices) were animal fats. Beef drippings and lard (fat from pork) were popular, and still are, around Europe. Meanwhile, oils derived from coconuts, sesames, and peanuts found their place across Asia. The Chinese make extensive use of peanut and sesame oil, while coconut oil is used down in the Southeastern countries like Thailand (do I hear Thai coconut curry?). In India and the Middle East, ghee is popular. Ghee is a form of clarified butter, a process that turns regular butter into an ultra fatty compound with a high smoke point. The Romans and the Greeks make wide use of olive oil. Using it in their cooking, their skin care, and their homoerotic wrestling matches. In America, we just douse everything in canola oil, sometimes known as rapeseed oil (though that name is extremely unpopular here), and fry it like the backwoods savages we are.

Ultimately in French cooking we have the prince of cooking fats: butter. The creamy, fatty mixture whose flavors range so vastly. The lush butter of Ireland that you could eat alone by the spoonful. The slightly acidic butter of Denmark (home of my boy Viggo). And the funky yet enchanting butter of the Normans, the French. French cuisine is awash in butter. Occasionally when cooking French dishes I find myself cringing at the near Paula Dean levels of butter required (with way less racism).

My endeavor into haddock amandine

I suppose it is only fair that I divulge the basic description to you of haddock amandine (I should start a counter of how many times I've said "haddock amandine" now). Using delicate but exceedingly tasty filets of haddock, they are lightly coated in flour before being sauteed in butter. Once the fish has been cooked, a sort of sauce is made in the remaining butter by adding lemon juice (the acid of the lemon prevents the butter from overcooking and "breaking"), mushrooms, almonds, and of course, more butter.

After searching for Bourdain cookbooks at my public library (go read my post on libraries if you wanna know how fanboy I am about them), I stumbled onto Mitcham's cookbook. In the introduction, Anthony lauds the famous haddock amandine, a dish that people from miles away would travel to indulge in. Thus, at the behest of cuisine idol, I set out to make this fine dish. The recipe provided in the book is the exact recipe used by Mitcham himself in his restaurant.

Initial preparations were hamstrung by the realization that I needed to cook an entire meal, not just a single dish. I begun prepping a handful of purple potatoes for roasting while looking at emerald strands of haricot vert, those thin crunch French green beans. Once the potatoes were halved and dressed in olive oil and salt, they were thrown into the oven (literally, I stood 15 feet back from the open door of the oven and pitched them in at 60 miles an hour). I (alongside my faithful sous chef) divided the pieces of fish into proper portions, floured them, and into the butter filled pan they went. My father, a former line cook, immediately began advising me on techniques necessary to moving and flipping fish. Now covered in flour and butter like a baker school reject, I fought battles on a half a dozen fronts to ensure the fish wouldn't get overcooked, the potatoes were properly roasting, the haricot vert were steamed and ready to be sauteed, the wine (an exquisite chardonnay from Burgundy) was chilled, and the table was set. Much sweat and tears later, the meal was finished. Under the sounds of Pink Martini's best French songs, we enjoyed a full meal of superbly cooked fish.

The recipe

Now that my essay on fish is complete, here's how to actually make this dish.

What you'll need:

• 1 1/2 pounds of haddock (divided into 1/4 lb pieces)
• whole milk (if you are unable to acquire this, you may substitute fresh alligator's milk)
• flour (I used a mixture of flour and Kenyon's clam fritter mix)
• 1/4 lb butter (one full stick)
• juice of 1 lemon (I used the juice of a full lemon, but felt I could have used slightly less)
• 1/8 pound of almonds
• 3 baby bell mushrooms, thinly sliced

How to do it:

1. Dip your haddock filets into a bath of milk before lightly dredging in your flour or flour mixture (feel free to add a dash of salt and pepper to the mix).
2. In a large nonstick pan over medium heat, melt about a third a stick of butter (like driving a boat, cooking with butter requires constant adjustments to ensure you do not burn it; if necessary turn the heat down)
3. Carefully place half of your filets into the pan. Cook for 2-3 minutes, depending on filet thickness (thiccness), before gently flipping. After 2-3 more minutes, remove the fish and place on a warm platter or tray. Proceed to cook the rest of the fish in the same way, adding the same amount of butter.
4. Cry a little bit in exasperation and drink a glass of wine. You're covered in flour and look like a mess, but I still love you.
5. Once all the fish has been cook and removed from the pan, turn the heat off. Add your lemon juice, mushrooms, sliced almonds, and the remaining butter. Turn the heat to high and scrape the pan to lift all the bits of fish and crumbs (if you use a metal spatula or fork on your nonstick pan, I will track you down and beat you with a sock of nickels).
6. When the almonds have turned golden brown, remove from heat and top your now plated fish with the mixture.
7. Enjoy.