From ‘Sh*t on a Shingle to Toto's "Africa"!

So… let’s talk about gastrique.

I’ve spent about seven solid hours in the kitchen today working on something that feels a little magical, a little old-world (clearly channeling my Food Network education), and honestly very me — a gastrique. If that word makes you pause, tilt your head like a dog who just heard a siren, or think, “well that sounds fancy,” you’re not alone. Several years ago, I would’ve done the exact same thing.

Gastrique sounds French (because it is), a little intimidating, and maybe like something that belongs on a white tablecloth — of which we have NONE — instead of hanging out in your fridge. But once you understand what it is and what it does, it quickly becomes one of those why-have-I-not-been-using-this-my-whole-life sauces.

It’s been popping up all over the cooking shows lately, so naturally I thought, sure, I’ll take a whack at that. Over many days, I researched, mixed, tasted, and confidently tossed ingredients together while thinking, “this is definitely going to resemble shit on shingle.” And more often than not… it did. There were moments I was convinced I was on the verge of greatness, followed closely by moments where I knew that batch was headed straight for the trash.

But today? Today was different.

Today was a REAL GOOD DAY for Eggie Lope’s.

At its core, gastrique is a classic French sweet-and-sour sauce made by caramelizing sugar and deglazing it with vinegar. That’s the foundation. Sugar and acid are simple enough — technique is where the magic (or the mess) happens. Historically, gastrique was developed to balance richness — duck, pork, game meats, anything fatty that needs a sharp, bright counterpoint. French chefs weren’t chasing sweetness; they were chasing harmony — the kind of balance where everything works together, like the one and only Africa (by Toto, in case you’re too young to know good music). SOLID. HARMONY.

A proper gastrique isn’t candy-sweet and it isn’t aggressively sour. It’s savory-forward, with sweetness playing a supporting role instead of stealing the spotlight. And if you know me at all, you know I don’t flip out over super sweet stuff. Whenever I can lean into that savory edge and still create something layered and interesting, I’m all in. I’ll ride that idea like a rented mule.

A good gastrique hits bright and tangy, with just enough bitterness to keep you coming back, and it lingers long enough to make you stop and think about what you just tasted.

One thing that surprises people is the consistency. Gastrique isn’t thick like a syrup or a glaze. It’s pourable, spoonable, drizzle-friendly — and that’s by design. That thinner consistency is exactly why it shines in places outside the dinner plate. It can finish roasted vegetables, cut through rich meats, or elevate a cheese board, but it can also slip seamlessly into cocktails. If you were one of the many people who raved about the peach syrup and plum syrup I brought to market in 2025, gastrique lives in that same creative space — just sharper, more complex, and with a deeper culinary backbone. Cocktails for days. Truly.

What makes a gastrique such a flavor bomb comes down to technique more than ingredients. Proper caramelization introduces depth and a touch of bitterness that keeps sweetness in check. Acid isn’t there just to be sour; it brightens, lifts, and wakes everything up. Aromatics like herbs and spices need restraint, because gastrique rewards patience and precision. When it’s done right, you don’t taste sugar or vinegar. You taste balance.

And speaking of balance, right now I’m sitting here with a glass of 2016 Merlot (That DeChiel Reserve is a 10 outta 10 recommend) from Rockbridge Vineyard, one of my all-time favorites, and I’m very glad I snagged several cases not too long ago before it disappears deep into the cellar forever. I keep tasting little spoonfuls of this sauce I’ve conjured up and damn if it doesn’t just keep getting better. Somewhere between taste number who-knows-what and realizing I hadn’t eaten dinner, I decided to drizzle this warm gastrique right over a mixed green salad with feta cheese.

And HOT DAMN.

SHE. HIT.

Now my overly tired brain, along with a sore back and feet (should I be going to the Good Feet Store?), starts dragging itself through a tunnel of thought about how this could morph into a salad dressing.

This is the exhaustion I love. That weird, half-drunk feeling that has nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with the love, thought, effort, and determination poured into a recipe that has taken months to get right. And just when I think I’ve got it — when I’m ready to pat myself on the back — I take another sip of that Merlot, another tiny sample of the gastrique, and my brain goes, “…she needs a pinch more salt.”

That’s the work. That’s the joy. That’s the madness.

Gastrique also happens to pair beautifully with wine, which isn’t an accident. Because it has acidity and structure, it behaves the way wine does in food. Crisp whites, lighter reds, even sparkling wines all play nicely with it. It enhances without overpowering, which is exactly why chefs have leaned on it for generations.

Now let’s be honest for a second. Did you really know what a gastrique was before now? Maybe you’d heard the word, maybe you’d seen it on a menu, maybe you weren’t sure what to do with it and quietly moved on. I learned a ton just by making it, tasting it, breaking it, fixing it, and tasting it again.

Which brings me to palate development, because nobody is born knowing how flavors work together like some kind of mad scientist. Palates are built, not inherited. They’re shaped by reading endless recipes, watching a million hours of Food Network, asking why something works, tasting constantly, and failing more times than you’d like to admit. Since starting this wild adventure back in 2016, I’ve failed a TON and feel with all the hours I've put in, I should be MUCH further along than I am.

I’ve thrown out jams, jellies, sauces, butters — experiments that never deserved to see the light of day. But every failure sharpened my instincts. Over time, you stop following recipes blindly and start understanding them. You learn when to push and when to pull back. That’s where gastrique lives — in that space between recipe and intuition.

And that’s why I’m so excited about this sauce. It’s not trendy. It’s not loud. It doesn’t scream for attention. It quietly transforms everything it touches, and that happens to be my favorite kind of food.

The first release will be an Apple-Herb Gastrique. As soon as she’s been tested by a pro or two, she’ll be offered up for grabs. Stay tuned, friends — this sauce has stories to tell.

And I’m

just getting started.