
Chef Joost
Appelcompote
Appelcompote is the apple left with its dignity: soft enough to spoon beside pork or potatoes, still chunky enough to remind you autumn did the real work.
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A spoonful of Dutch mustard turns a plain roux into the pale, sharp sauce that knows exactly what to do with eggs, fish, ham, and boiled potatoes.
In my grandmother's second notebook, mosterdsaus appears without ceremony, which is how you know it mattered. The grand dishes get titles and underlines. The dependable ones simply stand there in pencil: butter, flour, stock, mustard, cream. A sauce for boiled eggs when money was tight, for fish when the boats were kind, for ham when company came. History and cookery, they cannot be separated, but sometimes history arrives in a small saucepan.
The name already tells you the old journey. Mosterd comes through French from the world of mustum, grape must, because mustard seed was once mixed with young wine and made into that lovely, sharp paste the Romans carried north. The Dutch did what we so often do: kept the sharpness, made it useful, and put it beside potatoes. For obvious reasons, this is civilization.
But let me tell you a secret. The sauce is not about making mustard gentle. It is about giving mustard a warm coat so it can sit at the table with delicate things. The roux gives body, the stock gives savour, the cream rounds the edge, and the mustard goes in late so its bite survives. Hou het altijd simpel, always keep it simple: cook the flour properly, add the liquid patiently, and never boil the mustard as if it owes you money.
Mustard making has a long Dutch regional history, with known traditions in Doesburg, Groningen, and the Zaanstreek, each producing mustards with different grain, sharpness, and texture. The word mosterd entered Dutch through medieval French forms related to Latin mustum, grape must, reflecting the older European practice of mixing ground mustard seed with must or vinegar. Mosterdsaus belongs to the practical Dutch home-kitchen family of roux-based sauces, used especially with boiled eggs, white fish, ham, and gammon, where a small amount of sharp mustard made frugal ingredients taste deliberate.
Quantity
30g
Quantity
30g
Quantity
250ml
chicken, vegetable, fish, or ham stock
Quantity
100ml
Quantity
2 tablespoons
preferably coarse Groningen or Doesburg-style
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
a pinch
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| unsalted butter | 30g |
| plain flour | 30g |
| warm stockchicken, vegetable, fish, or ham stock | 250ml |
| cream | 100ml |
| Dutch mustardpreferably coarse Groningen or Doesburg-style | 2 tablespoons |
| white wine vinegar or pickle brine (optional) | 1 teaspoon |
| salt and white pepper | to taste |
| ground nutmeg (optional) | a pinch |
Melt the butter in a small heavy saucepan over medium-low heat. Let it foam, then settle, but don't let it brown. Mosterdsaus should be pale and warm-coloured, not nutty and dark.
Stir in the flour with a wooden spoon or whisk and cook for two minutes, until it looks like wet sand and smells lightly biscuit-like. This little wait matters. Raw flour tastes like paste, and no mustard in the Netherlands is strong enough to hide it.
Pour in the warm stock a little at a time, whisking after each addition until smooth before adding more. At first it will seize into a thick lump, then loosen into a proper sauce. Keep your nerve; this is exactly what a roux does.
Stir in the cream and simmer for three to four minutes, until the sauce coats the back of a spoon. Lower the heat, then whisk in the mustard. Taste before salting, especially if your stock came from ham or gammon, because pork stock can arrive already wearing its boots.
Add the vinegar or pickle brine only if the sauce tastes too round, then finish with white pepper and a tiny pinch of nutmeg if you like. Serve at once over boiled eggs, white fish, ham, gammon, or new potatoes. It should pour in a pale ribbon and taste cleanly sharp, not heavy.
1 serving (about 105g)
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