"During the past 30 years, I've published more of these recipes than anyone I know," Paula Wolfert says, laughing. The queen of slow cooking and author of seven books, including 2003's "The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen," is referring to beef stew, daube in particular.
Even small talk with Wolfert is a discourse, for few writers possess her command of the food lexicon and her indefatigable curiosity about all things edible. Get her started, and you'll end up knowing more about daubes than you thought possible. For example, did you know that the best beef daubes are made with three kinds of meat: gelatinous shin for body, short ribs for flavor and chuck for firmness? Or that daube is a method of cooking as well as the name of the dish? Or that the moniker is relatively new? People in southern France were happy to eat the dish for centuries and felt no compunction to christen it until 1723.
For the uninitiated, daubes are wine-based stews made from almost anything--beef and goat to fish and octopus--that are slowly cooked for hours in a tightly sealed pot. Now this may sound like your Sunday afternoon brisket or my mom's carne asada, but Wolfert is nearly dictatorial in her demand for authenticity. "A daube is best made in a daubiere," she says. "The shape of the pot makes sure condensation builds and no evaporation occurs, so everything stays moist."
That's all fine and good, but what can the rest of us do, who, unlike her, haven't trekked the Hautes-Alpes in Aubagne, France, for the real deal?
"A Le Creuset pot will work," she concedes reluctantly. Then she brightens: "But there's a trick in every recipe." She explains that if you dampen a circle of parchment paper and place it on top of the food, it simulates a real daubiere by reducing evaporation, making for a richer daube.
She warns cooks to plan ahead, because daubes are best eaten the next day or even the day after. "It's great to make on a Sunday and eat the rest of the week," she says. In Avignon, France, where Wolfert conducted research for some of her books, traditional lamb daubes are reheated several times before serving. "It's the only way to bring out all the flavors," she insists.
Ask her which daube is her favorite, and she harrumphs. "Please. That's like having lots of kids and asking me which I love the most. It's not fair. I love them all."
Her culinary stream-of-consciousness suddenly stops. All this talk has made her hungry, and she hurries me off the phone. Apparently lunch takes precedence in her house.
