231pp; 156 x 233 mm; illustrations; paperback 

ISBN 0907325 331 £15.00

This is the first paperback edition of Mourjou. Its author, Peter Graham, has lived in France for much of his adult life. He has written books on the cinema and on psychoanalysis as well as compiling travel guides and undertaking journalism for the Sunday Times, The Times and the Guardian. His previous books on cookery include a translation of Jacques Médecin’s Cuisine Niçoise and his own Classic Cheese Cookery.

Map of The Chétaigneraie
Preface
Acknowledgments
Introduction

Soups
Egg Dishes and Pancakes
Cheese Dishes
Fish
Pork
Game
Poultry
Other Meat Dishes
Vegetables
Desserts, Breads, Preserves and Confectionery
Cheese
Wine

Select Bibliography
Index

Aligot

Driving through the Aveyron or the Cantal you may see a poster in a shop or café window advertising a mysterious event called an ‘aligot géant’. I say event, because although aligot is a dish (of mashed potato with cheese), and aligot géant a mammoth version of it, what is in fact being advertised is a rollicking dinner and dance. Such dances are as good an opportunity as any to get acquainted with this most spectacular of dishes.

The last time it was served in géant form in Mourjou was in October 1997, when, as usual, it rounded off proceedings at our annual Foire de la Châtaigne (chestnut festival — p. 166). We all packed into a marquee erected next to the village school and sat down at long trestle tables. The temperature outside was well below freezing, and there was no heating in the marquee. But it was soon warmed up by the sheer accumulation of body heat given off by the 340-odd diners. After two starters — soup and a plate of charcuterie — there was a mounting sense of expectancy as news filtered through from the school kitchen next door that the aligot was nearly ready. Then it made its triumphal entrance, borne by three strapping young men in one of those very thick, cast-iron cauldrons used for cooking pigswill in. The receptacle was hoisted on to a table, where, to cheers from the assembled company, the men plunged what looked like canoe paddles into it and raised them ceilingwards, trailing a mass of ivory-coloured rubbery strands that dangled down into the mixture below. This was the crucial moment when ‘ça file’ (when the aligot becomes runny), before which it has not acquired its full creamy taste, and after which — if left on the heat for too long — the strands start breaking and the mixture turns oily.

An hour later, after we had chomped our way through the aligot (made with 145 kilos of potatoes, 42 kilos of cheese, 12 litres of cream and 4 kilos of butter), its accompanying tripoux (p. 128), a cheese course and an apple tart, the ‘soirée dansante style musette’ (fast waltzes) got going. It was a village dance in the best tradition, where anyone was free to invite anyone else for a spin round the floor whether they knew them or not.

Although aligot has occasionally featured on restaurant menus in the Cantal for several decades now, it is only recently that it has become as popular in that département as in its region of origin, the Rouergue (an old province that corresponds roughly to the Aveyron), and more particularly on the windswept Aubrac plateau. Germaine Gros, of Chez Germaine, a famous restaurant in the village of Aubrac (alt. 1,300 metres), used, when the whim took her, to pour aligot over a selected customer’s head to prove that ‘ça file’ — more to her own enjoyment, it has to be said, than her victim’s.

In his fascinating Dictionnaire des Institutions, Mmurs et Coutumes du Rouergue (1903), a book that discusses anything from medieval taxes and billiards to crockery and aligot, Henri Affre remarked on the muscular qualities required of aligot-makers:
 

It was a dish without which no wedding feast was complete; and it is curious to note that on such occasions its preparation was not the task of the mistress of the house or of her maidservant, but of two guests, of the stronger sex, who, skilled practitioners that they were, left the table at the required moment and went into the kitchen to take charge, with all due care, of that part of the menu.

Aligot is one of the very few dishes which, when made in large quantities, even today remains the responsibility of Auvergnats rather than Auvergnates. This may seem surprising in an area like the Auvergne, which has remained old-fashioned in so many ways. As I pointed out in the Introduction, womenfolk were conditioned to perform the role of beasts of burden up to about the time of the Second World War, and until recently it was customary at mealtimes in some remote mountain households for them to stand and serve their husbands and sons first, before dining themselves in a corner of the cantou (fireplace).

Even today, I know of some men of the older generation who would feel deeply uncomfortable about doing any of their wives’ allotted tasks (washing, washing up, shopping, cooking, cleaning). If a wife happens to be absent (for an operation, say), her husband will often prefer to take all his meals at the local restaurant rather than cook for himself. When I and my partner split up some years ago, one concerned older villager, imagining that I would be quite helpless without her, asked: ‘What are you going to do about meals now?’

The reason the making of aligot is an exception to this male-chauvinist ethos is quite simply — as you will have already guessed — that it requires a good deal of muscle power, and that stirring a big saucepan, let alone a pigswill cauldron, of the stuff has more in common with ploughing a field than with cooking.

Perhaps unsurprisingly in view of the almost ‘tribal’ nature of such events as an aligot géant (an excited gathering of people around a large stirred pot), the making of aligot, and more particularly worry about whether or not it will ‘run’ properly, has spawned two myths that are still half-believed by many: one is that aligot (like the charcuterie which is prepared just after the slaughter of a pig — p. 71) cannot be made successfully by a woman with a period; the other is that the mixture will not ‘run’ unless it is always stirred in the same direction.

There are many variants of aligot, including a sweet one without garlic and flambéd with rum. It can have chopped parsley in it, lard instead of butter, or, in its more sophisticated ‘restaurant’ version, much more Tomme fraîche de Cantal and butter as well as generous amounts of double cream. Aligot is basically a humble peasant dish which, like truffade (p. 36), cowherds used to eat quite often when they took their herds up to the high mountains for the summer (as the only company they had was two, or sometimes three, other men, they were forced willy-nilly to carry out the ‘womanly’ act of cooking).

Aligot is already a rather indigestible concoction when eaten in large quantities — the mind boggles at the digestive marathon faced by the man who ate a record 2.35 kilos of aligot in 15 minutes at an annual aligot-eating competition held in Tayac (Aveyron) — and is not, in my opinion, greatly improved by the extra butter, cream and cheese, though these may lend it greater elegance. The richer version does, however, work well when it is used in small quantities, almost like a sauce, to accompany a dish like a steak of Salers or Aubrac beef (Michel Bras, who has a world-famous restaurant near Laguiole, on the Aubrac plateau, uses it in this way). A less rich aligot is a good accompaniment for a very salty or piquant main dish such as saucisses fraîches?, fried liver deglazed with a dash of vinegar, or crisp-fried bacon (always supposing you can lay your hands on bacon that fries crisp these days). Aligot can also be eaten on its own as a main course, like truffade. Amazingly, however, in view of the amount of garlic it contains, it does not have a great deal of character on its own.

One last word on the mystery that surrounds the etymology of the word aligot. Some claim that it derives from ail (garlic), but in several areas aligot is made without garlic. Others see a connection with the Latin aliquid (something). The most likely origin is, however, the Old French harigoter (to tear or cut in pieces), which also gives us haricot de mouton (mutton stew). Interestingly, the latest thinking on the etymology of the word haricot (haricot bean) is that it comes not from a Mexican Indian word, ayacotl, but from haricot meaning a ragoût or stew — a case of a dish giving its own name to one of its ingredients, just as pistou, in the Nice area, has come to mean not only a basil-flavoured sauce but basil itself, and aligot sometimes refers in the Auvergne to the cheese used in it, Tomme fraîche de Cantal.

Here are two versions of aligot, a rich and a less rich one. They are both made in the same way.
 

Aligot I

[For four]

500g (1lb 2oz) floury potatoes
140g (5oz) double cream
50g (2oz) butter
2 large cloves garlic, very finely chopped
freshly ground pepper
280g (10oz) Tomme fraîche de Cantal cheese, cut into very thin slices
salt
 

Aligot II

[For four]

700g (1lb 9oz) floury potatoes
100 - 150ml (3½ - 5½ fl oz) milk
30g (1oz) unsalted butter
3 large cloves garlic, very finely chopped
freshly ground pepper
400g (14oz) Tomme fraîche de Cantal cheese, cut into very thin slices
salt
 

Wash and boil the potatoes. Peel while still hot and mash in a heavy saucepan with the heated cream or milk, butter, garlic and pepper until a smooth consistency is obtained. Place over a very low heat and stir in the cheese. Beat vigorously with a strong wooden spoon until the mixture becomes elastic, add plenty of salt to taste (the cheese is unsalted) and continue stirring. As the mixture heats up, it becomes slightly softer. If it remains too stiff add a little more hot milk. As soon as it makes long bubblegum-like strands when lifted with a spoon, serve on very hot plates. Guests and any accompanying meat must be ready and waiting: there is nothing more sullen than an aligot that has cooled off.