The Veal World

Day 22

There was a period when I was little that I didn't eat veal. I was probably about 8 years old or so, and I asked my mom what it was. "Baby cow," she responded. "I'm eating a baby!" was how I processed it, which was unsettling for a grade-schooler whose favorite thing to do was go to the zoo.

Refusing to consume veal was the closest I ever came to vegetarian status. (Don't get me wrong: I continued to eat beef, pork and chicken, the latter which we seemed to eat often because my parents were trying to watch their cholesterol. I got so tired of chicken at one point, I remember not wanting to eat that as well; I think my parents felt the same.) It wasn't long before I got over the baby cow thing, though. If veal parmesan—or a veal ricotta meatball, which I ate last night—is on a menu, I'm probably going to order it.

As I write about this, I'm casually popping chunks of veal blanquette in my mouth, cold. (I'm impatient—and obviously hungry.) We made the dish, known in French as blanquette de veau, in class today. I have to say that the sauce, a creamy veloute, is what made it. Normally, the veal would be the star of the dish for me, but this recipe calls for blanching, rinsing and simmering it in water, and all of that just sucks so much flavor out of the meat. What a shame.

I felt the same way about dish No. 2: pot au feu, sauce raifort (simmered beef with horseradish sauce). The short ribs—which I also order almost every time they're on a menu—went through the same blanching/rinsing/simmering process. They were tender in the end but lost significant flavor; however, the horseradish sauce made up for it.

I'd rather brown the meat in a saute pan or the oven any day. But I guess that's the veal deal for classic French cuisine.