For some reason, when I contemplate my cherished collection of heavy copper cookware, my meager French nudges itself into the forefront of my linguistic skills. The reverence for cooking in copper is deeply embedded in classic French culinary tradition, a symbol of bygone days of cooks elevated to respected prominence. Days of young apprentice boys peeling potatoes for hours on end, days of incendiary ovens and searingly hot pans. Days of delicate, intricate, and painstaking ways with food—created for only the very wealthiest or more often royal patrons.
Copper was one of the first metals discovered and extracted from ore thousands of years ago. A copper awl is the oldest metal object ever unearthed—and copper became a favorite not only because of its utilitarian uses, but for its aesthetic value. Sheets of copper were hammered into household vessels or forged into tools, but also crafted into lovely decorative objects. It was a metal considered sacred and magical in ancient Egypt, and I might concur with that thinking still—cooking in copper always feels special to me. Before I returned from cooking school in Paris, I spent hours at E. Dehilleran, the chef’s source for all things essential to professional cooking, before I got on the plane. I chose what I thought I absolutely needed, browsing through the steady shelves that lined the lower level of the ancient shop, each one loaded with copper pans of every size and shape. They filled up a large box and shipped it back to the States—my huge copper bowl bears the evidence of the tight packing: a couple of dents from the heavy handles of my saucepans.
I’ve heard someone say that cast iron might be the workhorse of a busy kitchen, but copper is the jewelry. I somewhat equate the two with a kitchen class system—a cast-iron skillet is for anyone, while a copper poêlon is a bit elitist. But my philosophy of cookware ownership rises above that; acquiring pans that are the best for the job transcends any class warfare. Cast iron is actually a poor conductor of heat, but once it’s hot it holds the heat efficiently and extraordinarily well—unparalled for searing a thick rib-eye steak or slow cooking a braised stew for hours. By contrast, copper heats quickly and evenly, but doesn’t hang on to the heat for long once removed from a flame. This makes it perfect for more delicate kitchen tasks, like making sauces, cooking fish, or melting sugar and chocolate. Sure, you can choose saucepans and skillets crafted from all manner of metals—but there’s no replacing a copper sugar melting pot, an unlined copper bowl for whipping up cream or egg whites, or finishing a caramelized apple tart or cheese-crowned vegetable casserole in a tin-lined copper cake or gratin pan.
Polishing copper has a legendary aura about it…gleaming pots hanging on a rack, sparkling bowls waiting for a whisk. But having a below stairs staff to put in the elbow grease is lost in the mist of culinary tradition, and being the admitted lazy cook that I am, I revel in the outer patina of my copper. The unique greenish-blue tarnish long associated with copper—verdigris—is the same oxidation that covers the Statue of Liberty or old pennies. It’s considered toxic if consumed in any quantity, so most copper pans have long been lined with tin, nickel, silver, or stainless steel. Exceptions to the rule are copper bowls, where copper ions help stabilize egg whites for whipping in air and French pots for cooking sugar, where the high temps needed for transforming sugar into molten caramel can come close to melting traditional tin linings. So even a lazy cook need only take a few minutes to make a quick paste of coarse salt and distilled vinegar to rub off any verdigris inside a bowl or pan before using. The same paste works wonders on the exterior surface as well, but that’s what I resist—I love the darkened burnish of aging copper and the distinct turquoise that highlights the heavy rivets that attach the cast-iron handles to each pan.
A sautoir or brazier pan, large and deep, is most useful. Sort of a like a shallow Dutch oven, it’s a good everyday pan on the stove top, but will slide into the oven on a moment’s notice. The straight sides encourage condensation to run back down into food as it simmers with the lid on. I like it for poaching pears—it’s deep enough to hold enough of the cooking liquid, but not so deep to submerge the fruit. I can baste them periodically, as they soften and absorb the sugar & spice-scented wine.
My culinary training at a traditional French school in Paris evokes the extravagant days of European chefs who served the wealthiest of households, going back to the seventeenth century (and even earlier). The thick copper molds, lined with tin, that I unearthed in dusty antique shops hidden down narrow alleyways, were just a small part of the extensive batteries de cuisine that accomplished chefs once used to create lavish feasts. Molded puddings, frozen fantasies, jelled savories were fashioned in pans that were fluted, scalloped, or swirled to a decorative finish. Copper molds are works of art in their own right.
What we know now as a bundt cake was inspired by eastern European bakers of long ago. H. David Dalquist, the founder of the Nordic Ware company in Minneapolis, cast the first American bundt (originally “bund”) pan in aluminum, for baking dense kugelhopf, a traditional ring-shaped cake. Nordic Ware has created hundreds of cake pans, often inspired by visits back to the Old Country to scout new shapes. Old copper fluted molds can produce elegant cakes that need little garnishing.
Of the few essential pieces of copper I had to bring home is my unlined sugar saucepan. The straight, smooth sides discourage sugar grains from crystallizing and ruining a bubbling panful of caramelizing sugar. The even heat conduction of copper makes what is sometimes an anxious process—melting sugar successfully with no clumping—quick and painless (unless you grab the unprotected pan handle without a torchon or kitchen towel.) This poêlon à confiseur or sucre cuivre is a classic, with its unique riveted, hollow horn of a handle and defined pour spout.
Caramel, whether a pure amber syrup of melted sugar or an indulgently enriched sauce spiked with cream and butter, is probably one of the more elementally loved flavors. We all have a taste for that savory-sweetness of browning.
My tin-lined tarte tatin pan has no handles. And it’s meant for an upside-down tart, so it requires some adeptness on the part of the baker to turn out hot gâteaux renversés. I now see copper tatin pans with handles, which certainly makes the job much easier. The traditional apple tart, which can also be made with pears, quince, peaches, or even what sounds more American—pineapple. This is a tart that is really more an assembly project: pare and core apples, then halve or quarter them. Slowly brown them in butter and sugar, then artfully arrange them, if you’d like, in your cake pan. Lay a sheet of pastry on top; I like to use shortcrust (American-style pie pastry) rather than puff pastry. The tart is baked until the pastry is well browned and crisp, then the whole thing is turned out onto a serving plate. Often the apples will stick a bit in the pan, but thankfully the warm, gooey apple juices thick with sugar can be scraped from the pan and smoothed back on top. Softened whipped cream (do this in a large copper whisking bowl if you can) is beautiful to serve alongside, or top with a nice spadeful of French custard ice cream.
Despite years of taking French lessons and living in the country for a spell, my command of the language remains rudimentary—deep enough to allow me to ask for directions, conduct a bank transaction, or apologize for breaking something in a shop (yeah, did that the last time I visited Paris.) But my culinary French always seems to surface; erratically, fragments springing from another side of my brain with words I’m not even sure of how to translate into English. I just know that my copper pans, with their identifying stamps of authenticity, make me feel Parisian whenever I use them.