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NARRATOR: Throughout
history, food
has served as subject matter,
inspiration, and, of course,
sustenance for artists.
Food has also been the art
on a number of occasions.
We've explored some pretty
elaborate and ambitious
intersections of food and art.
But this time, our focus
will be a little quieter,
a little humbler, as we delve
into the life, interests,
and habits of an artist we
all know, or at least think
we know.
Today, we're going to be working
from the book of "Van Gogh's
Table," notably not
titled Van Gogh's Kitchen,
because the man didn't cook.
But he did spend a
tremendous amount of time
in inns and cafes, which we know
from his letters to his brother
Theo and also from his art.
This book shares history of
his daily life, friendships,
and his health, culminating
in his time just north
of Paris in Auvers-sur-Oise
at the Auberge Ravoux,
the last place he lived
and took his meals.
Using this text
and others, we're
going to make a
few dishes as a way
to step through different
stages of his life,
starting with potatoes.
So, the Dutch are known for
eating a lot of potatoes,
and yes, Van Gogh was Dutch.
But that's not our
only connection,
as the first painting he made
that he considered successful
is this work from 1885, an
indoor scene of peasants
sharing their daily meal titled
helpfully, "The Potato Eaters."
Or, in Dutch, "De
Aardappeleters,"
aardappel meaning earth apple.
We're going to follow a
recipe for stewed potatoes
from the "New National
Art of Cookery"
from 1794, which was
reprinted in the wildly
popular Dutch cookbook "Aaltje,
The Perfect and Economical
Cook," multiple editions
of which were released
throughout the 1800s.
Now, the painting is rendered in
very dark tones, which Vincent
describes as something like the
color of a really dusty potato.
Unpeeled, of course.
From my research, it
appears the Dutch back then
liked to peel their
potatoes before cooking,
which pains me, because I love
the skin and it's nutritious.
But let's give it a go
in the name of accuracy.
While we're peeling, a
little potato history.
Spanish explorers brought
the potato back to Europe
from South America during
the Colombian Exchange.
And while people were
suspicious of them
at first and mostly
just fed them to cattle,
by the late 1700s, potatoes
were a part of most Dutch diets.
In 1767, the mayor
of Bernay in Normandy
remarked in his
treatise on the potato,
"The poor eat them
from necessity,
the rich do so for their taste."
Now, our man Vincent
was not poor.
He was raised by a father who
was a minister and a mother who
came from a well-to-do family.
Between the church and his mom's
family, they lived rather well.
As a young man,
he earned his keep
working with art
dealers in the Hague,
then scrapped around
thinking he, too,
wanted to do religious work,
before committing himself
to becoming an artist.
By the way, be sure you're
putting the peel potatoes
directly into water.
Otherwise, they will oxidize
and turn unappetising colors.
MAN: Sorry.
NARRATOR: But for much
of Vincent's adult life,
his brother Theo supported
him, sending along
a regular stipend for lodging,
food, and art supplies.
Vincent lived simply because of
his Protestant ethic and also
because that's
what he preferred.
But it was mostly because
he spent all of his money
on painting supplies
and also paying models
to sit for portraits.
When our peeling is
done and they're all
submerged in a large
pot of salted water,
put it on to boil.
But back to "The Potato Eaters."
This was an ambitious
painting for him.
At the time, he was living
with his mom and dad
in Nuenen in the
Netherlands and spent months
making preparatory studies and
sketches of heads and hands.
He wanted to show the harsh
reality of peasant life,
giving them purposefully
rough-looking faces
and bony hands.
Vincent wrote he wanted to show
that these people, quote, "have
tilled the earth themselves with
these hands they are putting
in the dish, that
they have, thus,
honestly earned their food."
And while I cannot claim that
we have earned this food,
when the potatoes are
halfway to tender,
you'll drain them and
return them to the pot.
Add some broth.
I'm using chicken broth here.
Surely, you could buy it by
the four-cup carton, then.
And then, a knob of butter,
some pepper, and give it
a stir, adding in more broth
so that they're mostly covered.
When they've simmered for a
while and are cooked through,
pull them out and present
them on the platter
you have that most
closely resembles
the one in the
painting, appreciating
all the while this foodstuff
that Van Gogh considered
the essence of sustenance.
Later in life, he cursed
the cafes and inns
of Arles, where he famously
painted his bedroom and also
sunflowers, mostly because they
cooked everything in grease
and refused to make some
simple boiled potatoes for him.
So we're going to spoon over
a bit of the simmering liquid,
top it all with salt,
and added bit of parsley
because I can't help myself
and need color contrast.
Then, gather everyone who
is hungry around the platter
and dig in.
Next up, bread.
To commemorate the next
stage of Vincent's life
when he lived on his
own, painted a lot,
and often forgot
to eat, we're going
to make a loaf of black bread,
or pan noir as it is in French.
And we're using a recipe
from Bernard Clayton's "New
Complete Book of Bread."
Let's start with a half
a cup of boiling water,
to which we'll add a
quarter cup of cornmeal,
stirring until smooth.
Then, we'll add a third
of a cup of cold water
to bring the temp
down to slightly warm
and then stir in a
packet of dry yeast.
Set that aside and then put one
ounce of unsweetened chocolate
into a small saucepan with a
half a tablespoon of butter
and melt that over low
heat and allow it to cool.
Then, get you're completely
period-appropriate mixer
and to it, add your
bubbling cornmeal/yeast
mixture, your cooled
chocolate, and give that a mix.
Into that goes half
a cup of molasses,
two teaspoons salt, two
teaspoons caraway seeds,
and then, surprise ingredient,
half a cup of mashed potatoes.
Not sure where I was able
to rustle up some of those.
Then, we're to beat until
smooth, after which we
add in 2/3 a cup of
whole wheat flour
and then beat for
another two minutes.
Cover it in plastic
wrap, most certainly what
they did in the olden
days, and set it aside
to rest and ferment for an hour.
After moving out of
his parents' place,
Vincent was singularly
focused on his art
and, let's say, did not
prioritize his health.
In 1885, he confessed to
Theo, "When I receive,
money my greatest hunger,
even if I've fasted,
my greatest hunger
isn't for food
but is even stronger
for painting.
And I set out hunting
models right away,
and I carry on until it's gone.
Meanwhile, the
lifeline I cling to
is my breakfast with
the people where I live
and a cup of coffee and bread
in the cremerie in the evening,
supplemented, when I have
it, by a second cup of coffee
and bread in the
cremerie for my dinner,
and otherwise, some rye bread
that I have in my case."
Ding!
An hour has passed,
so we're adding
in half a cup of rye
flour and stirring
it to form a shaggy ball.
Then, turn it onto a
work surface well floured
with all-purpose flour.
And use a dough blade to fold,
turn, and knead the dough--
which is supposed to
be extremely sticky,
I swear the recipe says it--
for eight minutes
total, adding, quote,
"liberal amounts of
flour as you go."
So what we're doing
here is trying
to roughly recreate the
rye bread that Vincent
would have had in his case.
At the time, what
kind of bread you ate
was really a mark of your
socioeconomic status.
The rich soft white bread
made from expensive wheat,
and the poor ate coarse
black bread made from rye.
In his more religious days,
Vincent wrote to Theo,
"When one eats a crust
of black rye bread,
it's certainly good to
think of the words,"
and I'll just translate
the Latin here, "then
shall the righteous shine forth
as the sun and the kingdom
of their father, or also when
one very often has muddy boots
or wet, dirty clothes."
So, for Vincent, eating black
bread was not only necessary
because he was always spending
money on other things,
but he also considered it,
quote, "true and healthy,"
connecting him to the
working class he so admired
and assuaging his constant guilt
for not earning his own bread,
as it were.
Phew, this mess goes
into a grease bowl,
gets covered and
put aside to rise
for about an hour and 15 minutes
or until doubled in volume.
Ding!
That went fast.
While you weren't looking,
I punched down the dough
and let it rest for
15 minutes more.
And now, I'm trying to
shape it into a round loaf.
I don't know what I'm doing.
And then, I put it on a baking
sheet with a silicone liner.
Also not period appropriate,
but at least made in France.
That goes on for
another 45-minute rise.
And no wonder
Vincent didn't cook.
This takes forever.
Ding!
When it has doubled in volume
or you tire of waiting,
brush the top with a beaten
egg mixed with a bit of water,
sprinkle it with coarse
salt, and send it
into the oven for 10 minutes at
375 and then 35 minutes at 350.
We pull it from the oven
when the bottom of the crust
sounds hollow when tapped
and allow it to cool.
Thankfully, we
shoot from overhead,
because this puppy is not
only under-baked but also
super flat.
Apologies, Mary Berry.
But it is actually
incredibly tasty and hearty.
While in our Arles,
Vincent wrote his sister
saying, "Every day,
I take the remedy
that the incomparable Dickens
prescribes against suicide.
It consists of a glass of wine,
a piece of bread and cheese,
and a pipe of tobacco."
Now, we're certainly missing
the wine and the cheese
and the tobacco, but this bread
seems a perfectly acceptable
part of the Dickens equation.
And if I lived in
hotels all the time,
I would definitely keep a
loaf of the stuff in my case.
Next up, absinthe.
When Vincent lived in
Paris from 1886 to '88,
he enjoyed his fair
share of absinthe.
His friend Henri
de Toulouse-Lautrec
made a portrait of
him with a glass
of the stuff in front of him.
Another artist
friend Paul Signac
reported on Vincent that he
spent every evening in the bar,
where, quote, "the
absinthes and brandies would
follow each other in
quick succession."
Nicknamed La Fee Verte,
or The Green Fairy,
absinthe was all
the rage in Paris,
and there was a
very particular way
to serve it, which is in an
absinthe glass like this.
Over which you place a lump
of sugar on a special spoon,
although a fork will
really do the trick.
And then you slowly, slowly
add drips of ice-cold water
to eventually reach a ratio
of one parts absinthe to four
to six parts water.
You do this slowly to admire
the way it changes color,
from green to a more
milky hue, as it louches,
or what happens when the
essential oils precipitate out
of the solution and
release their aromas.
This is an
anise-flavored spirit,
by the way, derived from
wormwood, green anise, fennel,
and other herbs.
If you like that anise licorice
flavor, you'll like this.
And if you don't, well,
you'll still feel the effects.
Contrary to popular belief,
it is not hallucinogenic,
but it is high proof.
And if you haven't
seen this painting
by Edgar Degas of a
woman completely spaced
out sitting in front of her
absinthe glass, it is great.
But Vincent admitted that
he was almost an alcoholic
by the time he left for
the south of France.
And while he didn't
stop drinking--
his paintings clear evidence
that a bottle was often close
by--
he did flee, quote,
"that damned dirty Paris
wine and those
filthy, greasy steaks"
and commit himself
to a healthier life.
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After making a go
of it in Arles,
Vincent found his
style as a painter.
But after the
infamous ear fiasco
and repeated failed attempts
at a stable and healthy life,
he headed back north
to Auvers-sur-Oise,
where he lived at
the Auberge Ravoux
and finally got a decent meal.
We're making stewed chicken
with mustard cream sauce
from "Van Gogh's Table,"
based on a recipe
from Louise Ravoux's
1890 kitchen, which
has us quarter two onions,
cut two carrots into thirds,
cut two celery
stalks into thirds,
and peel one celery root
and divide it into eighths.
And it wouldn't
be an art cooking
without a leak, which
you'll cut lengthwise
and divide into thirds.
Pull out some fresh
thyme, and you're
proud to add it all into
a big pot with a three-
to four-pound chicken.
Tuck in a third of a
pound of slab bacon,
toss in a tablespoon
of salt and a teaspoon
of whole black peppercorns, and
then cover this all with water.
Bring to a boil,
reduce to a simmer,
and keep it there
for about an hour.
While in Auvers, Vincent
was under the care
of Dr. Paul Gachet,
who emphasized
to him that good food
in large quantities
was necessary for good health.
For one franc a day, he had
a little room at the Auberge
and took his meals
there for 250 a day.
He mostly kept to himself,
setting out every day
to paint in the
village or fields,
and returned in the evening
to write letters and sometimes
hang out with the family
that owned the place.
When it's done, you'll
pull the chicken
and strain the
vegetables from the broth
and melt two tablespoons
of butter in a saucepan.
Whisk in two
tablespoons of flour.
Then, add in some of
the reserved warm stock,
whisking until it thickens.
Then, add in half a
cup of heavy cream.
And then pull out the
enormous jar of mustard
de meaux, a classic, grainy
French mustard, which
you ordered online and
should have noticed
contains 17 ounces.
Whisk in 1 and 1/2
tablespoons and season
with salt and pepper.
Now, while I'm slicing
the bird into pieces,
I'll tell you that there are
many theories about the nature
of Vincent's health struggles,
including but not limited
to syphilis,
schizophrenia, alcoholism,
turpentine poisoning,
and sun stroke.
None of this can be
proved, but what we do know
is that in his life,
doctors did diagnose him
with a form of epilepsy.
And we have a close knowledge,
from the many letters he wrote,
of his sour stomach, bad
teeth, and persistent struggle
with depression.
We transfer this
all to a plotter,
top with some of the sauce, add
our obligatory bits of color,
and consider
ourselves victorious.
We're not going to stand on
ceremony, as Vincent certainly
wouldn't have, and we're just
going to enjoy this right here.
Now, if you were looking for
a good summary of Van Gogh's
career and life, you
will not find it here.
I encourage you to watch
our recent video, "Better
Know The Starry Night," though.
But what I do hope this
journey through his life
in four courses
did provide you is
a window into the
actual life of one
of the most well-known
artists of all time.
During his brief
career and life,
he gave the world some
tremendously beautiful
paintings.
But he was also just
a person, like me
and you, who struggled with
what to eat and puzzled,
like we all do, about how
it is we're supposed to lead
good and successful lives.
The Dickens prescription
didn't work for him forever,
but it did work for a time.
This one's for you, Vincent.
Thanks.
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