Garlicky vinaigrette and a three-legged beagle

A very simple, very French vinaigrette elevates this mixed greens salad. Recipe below.

Last week, I talked a little about our weekend road trip to St. Louis. I’m keeping that St. Louis theme going this week.

All of us who love to cook can think of certain “Aha!” moments in our culinary lives. Moments when we’ve learned some new technique or connected a couple of dots and suddenly know something that changes how we cook or how we think about food or, as in the case of this simple vinaigrette, adds a lasting weapon to our food arsenal.

This “Aha!” moment happened at the kitchen table of an old French woman, “Aunt” Jo, one Thanksgiving in St. Louis years ago. I used the quotes around Aunt [and I’ll dispense with them from here on out] because she wasn’t really a relative, but a friend of the family of such long standing that aunthood had been conferred upon her.

Josephine—Aunt Jo—had come from France in her early 20s [she was well into her 80s by this particular Thanksgiving]. She and her husband had run the Parisian Hand Laundry at the edge of the city’s then posh West End, on Delmar Boulevard. For much of the time they had run the business, that section of St. Louis was home to Washington University professors and old money and was swell enough to support such a lovely, labor-intensive business.

They lived in a beautiful apartment above the laundry. Even back then, I realized what a sophisticated and utterly urban home it was. Big and rambling, with dark woodwork, glass French doors dividing rooms and a handsome, massive [but squared and sleek] couch that ruled the living room. Looking back now, I also realize that the apartment was very Paris.

A little aside here. As suburban sprawl continues to reshape and redefine American life, forward thinking urban planners have been looking to this urban mixed-use model to create a sense of community and life in suburban communities. This approach is called New Urbanism and was pioneered by urban planners Duany Plater-Zyberk & Company [thanks, Claire!]. Increasingly, suburban communities are either revitalizing existing small downtowns or “Main Streets” or building them from scratch. The approach includes putting residential space over storefronts, banishing parking to the back or in central garages and encouraging pedestrianism [as one site calls it] and the kind of life and critical mass you find in urban areas. To me, it feels a little manufactured—not unlike Epcot Center’s take on Europe—but it still beats the hell out of the relentless march of strip malls across the landscape. But I digress.

By the time the aforementioned Thanksgiving had rolled around, Aunt Jo’s husband was long dead [I had never known him] and the neighborhood had become rather sketchy. There was still enough gentility to keep the laundry going at that time—and Aunt Jo ran it with an iron fist even then—but its days were numbered.

Aunt Jo’s main companion at this point was her dog, a beagle named Jean Pierre. Jean Pierre only responded to French commands—“Asseyez-vous, Jean Pierre” and he would sit. Jean Pierre had come equipped with the standard set of four legs, but one evening as Aunt Jo was out walking him, he caught a stray bullet in a hind leg, a victim of crossfire from some gang-related shooting. After the surgery, he was left with three legs. He still got around fine, but had issues scratching his left side.

Back to the Thanksgiving in question [I do love to ramble, don’t I?]. I had tired of scratching Jean Pierre’s left side [even though he had not tired of me doing so] and of the living room conversation, so I wandered into the kitchen. The turkey was in the oven, and various pots on the stove held fragrant sides-in-progress. Aunt Jo bashed a fat garlic clove with the side of a large chef’s knife and squeezed it from its skin into a small bowl. She added a couple of healthy pinches of salt and ground the garlic and the salt together with the tines of an old fork. When she poured some olive oil over the mixture and attacked it again with the fork—Aunt Jo was a tall, formidable woman, not unlike Julia Child [only without the sunny disposition]—I suddenly realized she was making her garlicky vinaigrette. The women of the family all professed their sorrow at being unable to make this sublime, simple dressing themselves, but none of them ever seemed to find the way back to Aunt Jo’s kitchen when she cooked.

Aunt Jo didn’t exactly teach me to make it—it was more that I kind of just picked it up as I sat at the table and watched her. She set the bowl aside and tended to other things in the kitchen. I didn’t know [and never will now] if this was part of the process for her or the other things just needed tending to then. Later, she added some red wine vinegar and a couple of grinds of pepper and whisked it all together. That was it. It then sat on the table, letting the garlic do its work, while the rest of the meal came together.

The next time there was a family meal [sans Aunt Jo], I offered to make a dressing for the salad. Eyebrows were raised—the foodie in me had not yet awakened [well, maybe a little], and bottled dressing was still considered just fine for most occasions. But I nailed it. Around the table, the response was a mix of admiration and irritation [mainly from the women who never made their way back to Aunt Jo’s kitchen]. I enjoyed both equally.

Aunt Jo outminimalized even most minimalists with this vinaigrette. Most recipes also call for chopped shallots and maybe a little mustard. Those are all excellent variations that create different dressings, but try this simple original first.

Aunt Jo’s Garlicky Vinaigrette
Makes 1/4 cup [see Kitchen Notes]

1 large garlic clove [or 2 small to medium]
scant 1/4 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar [see Kitchen Notes]
freshly ground black pepper to taste

Smash the garlic clove[s] with the side of a knife. You don’t want to pulverize it—just break it up into big chunks and expose the insides. Remove skins and place in a small bowl or measuring cup. Add salt and mash the garlic into it with the tines of a fork. Add oil and mash the garlic some more with the fork—this breaks it up further and releases the garlic juices into the oil.

Set aside for a while. The longer you can leave it, the more garlicky the end results will be. Sometimes, I’ll make it to this point a few hours before dinner. Other times, I’ll be whipping this up just minutes before needing it—it’s flexible.

Add vinegar and a couple of grinds of black pepper. Whisk together thoroughly with fork and pour over salad greens, using the fork to hold back as much of the busted up garlic as possible. A few tiny bits will make it past the fork and into the salad. Think of those bits as bonuses for whoever gets them. Toss the salad. Taste, adjust the seasonings and serve.

Kitchen Notes

Save your salads from drowning. The quarter cup of dressing this recipe produces is plenty for side salads for three to even five or six people. Seriously. You only need to put a nice gloss on the salad greens. Whatever dressing you use, if there’s a pool of it at the bottom of the bowl when the salad’s gone, you’re using too much. Give the greens a chance to contribute some flavor to the party. Don’t drown them.

Vinegar and balance. I used red wine vinegar to make this batch because that’s what Aunt Jo used when I learned at her kitchen table. But we have many vinegars on hand in our kitchen at any given time, and over the years, I’ve used all of them to make this dressing. Balsamic is often my go to for its powerful taste [and after using red wine vinegar for authenticity and nostalgia’s sake, I’m going back to balsamic—I just like its bigger flavor]. I’ve also used white balsamic, tarragon—and even Japanese rice vinegar when I want a light, tart dressing.

I’ve also experimented with the oil-to-vinegar ratio over the years. For a while I was enamored of a 2:1 ratio, and for a brief period, I even ratcheted it up to a puckery nearly 1:1. But then I was in a lovely SoHo bistro whose name escapes me [not Balthazar] and had a salad with such a subtle, simple vinaigrette that I immediately reverted to the classic 3 parts oil, one part vinegar.

And finally, a huge belated thank you. People often compliment me on my photography at Blue Kitchen [aw, shucks—thanks, guys]. Last night, as I was shooting the salad above and had the shot sort of set up the way I wanted it, I took the next crucial step. I called out, “Sweetie, could you come here for a moment?” As always, the lovely Marion stepped up to the plate [totally unintended pun there] and began tweaking, rearranging, adding a little something, taking a little something away… And as always, it was just what the shot needed. But I owe Marion a thanks for more than just excellent food styling. As regular readers can tell from her occasional contributions here, she is an excellent cook, someone who fearlessly tackles far more daunting fare than I willingly do. Her cooking has been a huge inspiration to me over the years—an inspiration that probably needs its own post some day. For now, I’ll just say, “Thanks, sweetie.”

Also this week in Blue Kitchen

Heavy metal in St. Louis. Big curvy steel that isn’t the Arch, at WTF? Random food for thought.

Delta blues, side of gumbo. St. Louis has a lively, varied music scene. A local blues musician serves up some of the best, at What’s on the kitchen boombox?