There were no creamy sauces in my childhood, if one excludes the wonderful milk-and-drippings “country gravy” my Maryland mother served with southern fried chicken, and the creamed diced potatoes that seem in retrospect sluggish fare indeed.  Thrown into the world, though, I found veal chops in cream in little French bistros, fettuccine in the Alfredan sauces of Milanese trattorie, “ranch” salads on the road at home, and that was only the beginning.

       Perhaps my apex-de-crème was reached at the fabled old Pyramide south of Lyon, a three-star challenge we tackled one winter Sunday in ‘69.  We arrived from Geneva a half hour late, but a kindly retainer calmly ushered us to the powder room, then steered us into the famous salle where the veteran sommelier (I’d seen pictures of him in books) sized us up as less than patrician, took tactful pity on us and recommended a refreshing, inexpensive Condrieu.

       Here, surrounded by the pleasantly dowdy aristos of the region, we polished off great breasts of chicken in near-torrents of cream and Champagne, mushrooms and shrimp added to the sybaritic mix. And not a green veg in sight!  Then the cart rolled up with oozing cheeses.  (By the way, Mme. Point had no way of knowing a baronial footstool was inadequate housing for my left leg currently encased in a full-length cast: I was simply getting the same treatment Cocteau or Colette would have received if they’d come to lunch in plaster up to the hip.)

       And now, of course, cream is under a cloud.  Except in Belgium.

       The “alla crema” chicken of this page is very old-fashioned, very Sam Chamberlain, and very good.  You can be a little reckless browning the onions.

In a skillet brown light or dark chicken pieces quite vigorously, without added fat — don’t worry, they won’t stick — taking longer and using more flame on the skin side than the less handsome reverse. Meanwhile, to the side, in a little butter, sauté 1 thinly sliced onion until it begins to crisp.

Remove the chicken-and-onions to a casserole, drain off unwanted fat and deglaze the skillet with a good slosh of white wine, scraping up the good brown bits as they’re called.

Now over the chicken-etc. pour the vinous drippings mixed with 3/4 cup of cream, add rather a lot of minced parsley and bake uncovered at 300° for about 40 minutes, stirring occasionally and, a few minutes before serving, working in a tablespoon of light sour cream — decadence will almost drown you. Serve this pollo with plain rice.

        Luscious, a trifle unhealthy, and very satisfying . . .

        And my adventures in chicken-&-cream I pick up in Hamburg ‘65, my memory tickled while reading Ron Chernow’s riveting tome on the Warburg banking clan.  Expats Siegmund and Eric Warburg, dipping gingerly into the postwar version of their hometown (I find it rather daunting, by the way, that the formidable Sir Siegmund was the first cousin of my moderately distant relative, the beloved city planner Hans Blumenfeld), were dining one evening at “their favorite restaurant, the Ehmcke, sitting beneath portraits of Bismarck and Moltke” . . and that set it off, I seized my Jeeves of a diary and found the entry for: “EHMCKE, lovely old panelling and gold-flocked wallpaper, tulip chandeliers, grandfather clock, epauletted imperials on the wall — First War generals I suspect — Spode china, quiet, a friendly low-key host working this amazing room . . and Hamburger Stuben Kueche, delicate, crisp young chicken in cream gravy,” which I’m tasting as I write.

        Tyrannical Siegmund and I could, I’m sure, agree on that North Country poulet.

De-stem, wash and slice into 1-inch lengths a portobello mushroom and sauté them in a little butter with a teaspoon or so of lemon juice and 1 small pressed garlic clove. When the slices show signs of browning stir in a good 1/2 cup of cream and pour the mushrooms-cream-etc. over chicken breasts positioned in a casserole.

Bake the lot uncovered at 350° for about 55 minutes — an unlikely number, somehow, but that was the key to success in our tests of this recipe (note, by the way, that dark meat, an attractive option, will raise the time to 60 or 65 minutes, and there is, of course, the disturbing possibility your oven may run faster than mine) — then top with minced parsley and serve.

A simple green pasta with butter and grated cheese is an excellent mate for this chicken.

TRANSFORMATION SCENE: Just as surely as Liszt could transform a theme in his B minor sonata to something else, you can vary the texture of this dish quite interestingly — and, in the process, come up with something more Tuscan, that being the current adjective for paradise — by doing the following: add some pieces of chicken liver to the mushroom in the sauté process, along with a bit of dry sherry, and a little extra cream, then halfway through the baking stage incorporate some virtually cooked rice along with a little of its cooking liquid.

        This is a Grandmère-type preparation, rather spectacular and not much work.  It also comes under the “Contadina-style” heading beloved of San Francisco Italian restaurants run by chefs from New York, New Jersey and related culinary climes. With its mix of fresh country flavors I think it would appeal to our new friend Erminio in Ravenna.  Erminio is the proprietor, the menu and the soul of a restaurant called Al Rustichello.

        Reading about this pullman car bistro in Gourmet didn’t quite prepare us for the stentorian presence of Erminio, a plate-toting, order-announcing Figaro who orchestrates your meal with the zest of a standup comedian, the knowledge of a Waverley Root and the finesse of an Alice Waters, male Adriatic equivalent thereof.

        It took us two extended evenings to complete Erminio’s prix fixe.

        Night 1 we attended to an antipasto platter, pasta with fresh asparagus and dessert, followed by grappa on the house; night 2 was devoted to a medley of pastas, another of meats (gigot, osso buco), more dessert and prosecco courtesy of this maestro who dotes on the few Americans appearing at his door.  Evidently Erminio thought our gastronomic intentions good — and when we said our next stop was Ascoli Piceno, which just happens to be his hometown, our stock rose even higher.

        So we were in Ravenna and I haven’t mentioned the mosaics.  Well, if in doubt, they are awesome.  And if you’re driving from Venice, having survived the minotaurian labyrinth of autostradan spaghetti, I mean all those sudden left’s and right’s on the way out of Mestre, then you must stop by the imposing abbey of Pomposa and sip hot chocolate muddy enough for a hundred Turks.

Marinate chicken pieces in an Olympic pool of olive oil, lemon juice and rosemary, then place the nicely glistening fowl in a large pot with:

1 mild Italian sausage per person

2  potatoes, skinned and sliced (these in  their own baking pan, so they all touch bottom) 

1 sweet red pepper, in short strips

2/3 of a portobello mushroom, washed and de-stemmed, in inch-long slices

several (or more!) peeled garlic cloves

1 large carrot, previously steamed, in 1-inch lengths

Bake all at 350° for close to an hour, covered at first, then with top removed, basting frequently — I’m indebted to our friend Dorothea Douglas for pointing up the need of faithful lubrication.  Then top the lot with minced parsley and serve, spooning up any good juices.  No accompaniment is appropriate in this case since there are so many elements in the pot; simply follow the chicken with a green salad.

OR: Translate Chicken en Cocotte into a major salad: slice the chicken into strips after it’s done, soft-pedal the juices, add a few boutique greens and a light helping of Dijon mustard mayonnaise and serve cooled.

JUST TO BE DIFFERENT: Bake your chicken and sausage with baby orange tomatoes, peas, sliced shallot and cilantro!  They’ll all get crispy. OR: cushion those meats with fat cubes of Japanese eggplant.