I have spent 41 years searching for the perfect sauce, and I can report that it does not exist. Every sauce is a compromise between butter, acid and fear. The mother sauces are not mothers but landladies, and they always want more.
My bechamel breaks when I am nervous. My hollandaise curdles in thunder. My jus, so beautiful on Sundays, sulks by Wednesday. Still, I make them, each day, with a whisk and a faint sense of doom. A sauce is a promise, and the best chefs are the ones who break it gracefully, in front of a full dining room, with a flourish and a smile.
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