I learned to cook in Lyon, where my mother kept a stockpot on the back of the stove like other people keep a kettle. There is a small Saturday market by the Saône with a cheesemonger who still cuts me a sliver of Comté while I wait in line. That sliver, more than any cookbook, taught me what French food is about: one ingredient treated with the respect of an entire afternoon.

I write for home cooks who think French cooking is fussy and want to be shown otherwise. Once you understand a beurre blanc, you understand twenty sauces. Once you understand a slow braise, you understand half of bistro cooking. I cook the version your French friend would actually serve.