The Secret to Homemade Steak Frites, From an American in Paris

Having lived between France and the United States for decades, I know it’s risky to cook a national classic when the nation isn’t your own.

But a little while ago in Paris, I invited friends over for dinner, misjudged the time I had to shop and cook — and ended up making steak frites with frozen fries.

I’d planned to confess, but I didn’t have to: My friends clocked the spuds immediately. They knew the fries had come from Picard, the frozen food store, because they used the exact same ones.

Finding fellowship in the Picard posse was fun, but cooking frozen fries was a personal triumph for me. (I’d destroyed my parents’ kitchen making them when I was in middle school, and I’d steered clear of the culprits ever after.)

Now, I keep a stash of them on hand when I’m in America, mostly because they’re tasty and fast, but also because spur-of-the moment steak frites makes me think of places like Bistrot Paul Bert, in the 11th Arrondissement of Paris, where the blackboard menu says, “red meat is served blue, rare or badly cooked.” Paul Bert’s lightly golden fries are cut like planks and cooked soft inside and crisp (not crunchy) outside. No ketchup in sight.

I know I’m not truly capturing the quintessential bistro meal in my home kitchen, but even taking the frozen frites shortcut, I come within range. And I can do it any night of the week.

Steak-cut frozen fries come closest to almost-like-France and almost like the ideal that Charles Izenstein, an alumnus of Frenchette, a bistro in New York City, described: When you crack open a good fry while it’s hot and fresh, the potato left inside will look almost like crystals — the water is gone, just a bit of steam remaining. To nudge the frozen versions toward the ideal, I toss them with a little oil and lay them out on a rack set over a baking sheet. And to mimic the traditional double-fry method used for from-scratch frites, I bake them at 400 degrees to just about cook them through, then at 450 degrees to get color and crust. As with all fries, they’re best when they’re finger-singeing hot.

The dupe for a French bistro steak, which runs lushly marbled but is usually only an inch to an inch-and-a-half thick, is a rib-eye, bone in or out. If you’d like something chewier, choose a skirt or hanger steak. No matter the cut, the key to cooking it is a heavy skillet (I use cast-iron), high heat and an apron: If the fat doesn’t spatter, then your pan isn’t hot enough.

I’m a fan of herb butter popped on top at the last minute. Make it while the oven is heating up, and it’ll be just right at serving time. But plain steak is very French and very good, as is a quick sauce made by deglazing the pan with wine or brandy and then, off heat, adding a nugget of cold butter and plenty of black pepper.

Chez moi, I tally up the difference between having this dinner at a steakhouse and having it at home, and use some of my savings to splurge on a red wine. Also ketchup. I hope the Paul Bert team isn’t horrified.

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