Just about the only thing that lifted my spirits this evening was that the butcher, Jaime Stachowski, was having an equally non-A day, and then, also, what he sold to me - a freshly pounded chicken paillard. We commiserated but decided not to discuss the details of our blue moods. Save that for another, brighter day. Instead, we talked about food. I noticed the foie gras and asked if he'd be making terrine. "Soon," he said. "I've had many requests." Can't wait. I asked him to please let me know the next time he makes his fabulous boudin blanc. He wanted me to buy liver. Nah, I told him. I had prime rib last night, beaucoup Chinoise the night before, and Bourbon Steak the night before that. "How about a stuffed pork chop?" he asked. No, not tonight. We settled on a chicken breast and, obligingly, he pounded it flat as a pancake for me.
It doesn't get more simple than this preparation: I heated up good olive oil in the sauté pan, added salt, pepper, diced shallots, chunks of celery, and when everything began to rip I slipped in the chicken. I served it with apple chutney, French chardonnay, candle light and Seinfeld.
Result: spirits lifted.