The not-so-French roots of chicken cordon bleu

We all have our quirks when it comes to cooking. I have clear mental blocks over what is and is not a complicated supper, many of which do not follow any kind of logic. I wouldn’t think twice about setting a sauce or ragu going early in the day, blipping gently, returning to it every so often for a stir and a taste, knowing that it will take hours and not inconsiderable attention before it is ready. I don’t mind at all making dough which will need proving and shaping as the afternoon wanes. I even find the act of slicing or chopping various different components meditative.

The result is neat little parcels of golden-brown crunchy breadcrumbs encasing chicken, cheese and ham

But there are processes that set off klaxons in my head: warning, warning, avoid. I don’t mind parboiling potatoes and roasting them, but boiling and mashing them goes against everything I believe in for a quick weeknight supper. Onion gravy, no problem; ‘proper’ gravy is a no-go. I’m a law unto myself. Equally, breadcrumbing (and the associated frying) is something I find myself avoiding: it feels faffy, messy and time-consuming. In reality, it is none of these things. Until recently, though, it has put me off making the gorgeous chicken cordon bleu.

Like its more famous cousin, the chicken Kiev, chicken cordon bleu enjoyed its heyday at 1970s dinner parties. Unlike the Kiev, it didn’t enjoy the same revival as comfort or convenience food. Perhaps it’s because the gentle ooze of cheese is not as show-stopping as the spurt of garlic butter. But that is to its advantage: there is nothing sadder than cutting into a chicken Kiev and finding it hollow; the more robust cheese and ham filling poses much less of a risk.