Fish Story

This red snapper has lemon, spring onion and mint stuffed in its cavity--not such a terrible fate.  

    Delicate sauces, well-planned side dishes—even handsomely laid tables—these components of a good meal go ignored the instant some large, primal piece of protein is introduced.  Is respect for the unbutchered beast hardwired into our species?  Does the felled mastodon stir our appetites still?  I think it does; Thanksgiving is a celebration of bounty, the centerpiece of which is a large, unadulterated bird.  Consider too the modern pig roast; the ones I’ve been too are as much about status and chest beating as good taste.  And then there is fish.  The true mark of a good haul isn’t the gentle fillet or the raw morsel.  Only the whole fish, cooked and plated, proclaims mastery of the sea.

    Cooking anything whole requires an unexpected restraint, but none more than fish.  I say unexpected because the assumption is usually the opposite—that hauling and preparing something large and intact requires elaborate procedure.  While a pig can be heavy and unwieldy, even a large fish is a one-man operation.  It begins like this: “One cleaned fish please.”  Cleaning fish—removing the guts, scales and fins—is nasty business and there is no advantage to doing it yourself.  Once home, season the cavity with salt, herbs, lemon and onion, tying it off in a few places with butcher’s twine.  Drizzle the outside with olive oil and lemon juice and season with salt.  Roast in a hot oven or grill over medium-high heat until skin is crisp and flesh opaque.  Over- or under-doneness is not much of a concern—when it looks finished, it is.  

    Good results begin with selecting the right fish.  If a grill or oven is large enough, a whole salmon is a very dramatic thing to put on a table for six or more.  Red snapper (typically from the Gulf or Caribbean) seems exotic but is widely available.  Its red skin turns mahogany when roasted and its flesh is mild.  Serves two to three.  For one reason or another, branzino from the Mediterranean is a bit of a status fish.  Its flesh is sweet and mild and crisps well in a hot pan or grill.  One per person as an entree.  Oily fish, like mackerel and sardines, are pungent and do best over real charcoal or roasted in a wood-oven, where the smoke and char are good foils to any fishiness.  

    There are bones in whole fish.  Announce this four or five times before service, and then twice more during.  Even then, some boob will no doubt point out: “there are bones in this!”  Unless you are a connoisseur of invertebrates, there are bones in all creatures we eat.  We don’t throw down our silver at Thanksgiving and announce that there are bones in our turkey legs, do we?  So why does the presence of bones in fish consistently alarm?  I suspect some combination of squeamishness and fear of choking is to blame.  The solution is very simple though: anticipate bones, chew slowly and don’t panic if one is encountered.  

    The very presence of those inedible parts—the bones, heads, tails etc—is what makes whole fish a pleasure.  They force a slower, leisurely pace—not methodical, just unhurried.  This is food that requires interaction from its audience—conscious, attentive eating full of knife and fork work and sips of wine.  The appearance of a whole fish might be primal, but eating it is rather more civilized.

License to Grow

A planter of herbs is a virtually skill-free endeavor.

    Growing herbs has always seemed to me one of those activities best practiced by the newly enthusiastic—the college student who has made the leap from dorm to apartment, or the young couple who finally gives in to suburbia.  Is there a better symbol for starting fresh than a window planter that quickly becomes abundant with edible verdancy?  Though real cooking happens everyday in our house, I’ve always just bought whatever fresh herbs I have needed along with the other ingredients.  I think this had more to do with convenience than cynicism.  

    Two years ago I was given a pot of English thyme.  I was going to clip the whole bunch of tender shoots and use them that night on a roast chicken, but for one reason or another it was forgotten.  A few days later, out of pity or curiosity, I planted it alongside some Coleus and Celosia.  I was amazed to find it had almost doubled in size by the end of the week, and by the end of the following I was clipping strands to thin the growth and using the fragrant leaves wherever I could.  The realization for me wasn’t that herbs are good—I have been adamant about including fresh ones in most of what I cook for years.  The abundance was the revelation.  

    The following year, alongside thyme, I planted basil, rosemary, tarragon and parsley.  They flourished like weeds.  Which taught me my first lesson about herbs: they do not require any skill to cultivate.  They want to spread and thicken, especially basil and parsley, which very quickly dominate a planter, sometimes to the detriment of less vigorous herbs.  If you have ground, put those there, saving planter space for thyme, tarragon and rosemary where they will receive unobstructed air and light.  

Pesto with body.

    The only maintenance needed (other than water) is thinning—a regular harvesting which is the sole reason for planting herbs anyway.  Woody herbs, like thyme and rosemary, will need a pair of snips; basil, parsley and tarragon are tender enough to pluck with fingertips—just be sure not to disturb the root structure.  I like to take a combination of new growth, which is usually found at the top, and inner, older growth from the center or the interior.  This practice is not just for the health of the plant; the combination of tender, new herbs and more mature ones provides the full range of flavor in a dish.  

    All this abundance requires recipes that star herbs rather than calling for them as a mere seasoning.  A salad of herbs and something more neutral, like butter lettuce, can be a very refreshing start to a meal.  Tarragon and parsley are the main ingredients in Green Goddess Dressing—that 1920’s classic.  And packing herbs onto a piece of meat before roasting is rarely a miss.  But if the herbiest punch is desired, little approaches pesto.  To make a good one, strike the gloppy, buffet horrors and mix-and-match noodle/sauce restaurants from your memory, focusing instead on the name itself.  Pesto is derived from the italian verb to pound or crush, inspired by the original mortar and pestle method.  From Provence to Genoa preparations call for various herbs, nuts, cheeses and oils—not out of wild experimentation, but based upon availability, that most crucial of ingredients.  

Basil Pesto

Wash a few handfuls of freshly plucked basil.  Dry.  Toast a small handful of pine nuts or walnuts in a dry pan.  Let cool.  With a vegetable peeler, fill a small ramekin with strips of a hard cheese, like Pecorino or Grana Padana.  Place nuts and basil in mortar and grind in circular motion until a fairly uniform paste is achieved.  Grate in a pinch of fresh garlic.  Slowly incorporate extra virgin olive oil, about half a cup total, mixing continuously with pestle.  Grind in cheese.

Yes You Canapé

Checkmate: rosemary ham with gherkin, poached shrimp with tomato, Robiola with beet, hard cooked egg with parsley. 

   In a particularly slapstick production of Moliere’s The Misanthrope I went to see several years ago, some of the sillier moments involved a sharp-tongued servant who, despite good intentions, repeatedly had his tray of canapés inadvertently slapped from his hands.  The canapés themselves were pastel little buns  and discs made of foam—as unserious and cutesy as the comedic scene required.  It occurs to me now, though, that, just as a prop sword or crystal ball must be immediately familiar for the sake of narrative clarity, so too were these faux morsels a popular conception of the canapé.  I’m mildly offended; I love canapés.  

    Strictly speaking, canapés are a class of hors d’oeuvres involving little rounds of bread with some single or series of toppings.  Classically, the bread is punched out from fresh slices with a ring mould, allowed to become slightly stale, brushed with clarified butter, gently toasted, anointed with some sauce which acts as an adhesive for whatever main topping is desired, garnished, and served on individual doilies on a vast silver platter.  They can be complicated, affected, luxurious and delicious.  But do you know what else is a canapé?  Bruschetta.  So is Spam on a cracker.

Mortadella on toasted ciabatta.  Garnishlessness can be a virtue.  

    My canapés rarely involve much more than bread, a topping and a garnish  I can live without toasting the bread if it is dense and sturdy enough.  Those long, thin and precisely sliced rye loaves sometimes found at German butchers and specialty stores make an ideal base.  Lightly toasted (or stale) baguette rounds work well too.  I’ve always found clarified butter a waste of perfectly good milk solids; instead I use salted English country butter; when softened it is an effective adhesive and I haven’t yet encountered a sauce with better flavor.  If the desire to doctor your butter is overwhelming, fold in chopped herbs, some minced shallot and lemon zest.  

    The topping, a seemingly simple aspect to the architecture of the canapé, is often where the assembly goes pear-shaped.  I avoid complicated compounds, favoring instead the single protein sliver or hunk.  In practice this means a fanned-out shrimp rather than a scallop and mayonnaise concoction; a ribbon of parma ham rather than a prosciutto, fig and walnut medley; a room temperature piece of cheese rather than ricotta studded with pistachios, dill and black pepper.  Ultimately, it is just too difficult to improve upon the already well-made, and most efforts, while genuine, obscure rather than enhance.  Ask yourself: do you really feel you can improve upon caviar?  

Make plenty; canapés tend to vanish.

    Garnishes are vital, providing contrast in flavor, texture and color.  Thinly sliced pickled gherkin is ideal.  Pickled anything works though.  Cooked beet is terrific with a bloomed rind cheese.  Seafood often requires little more than a few drops of lemon juice and a slice of tomato.  Shavings of fresh truffle are probably the best luxury garnish.  Herbs, particularly pungent ones like tarragon and basil, are good candidates; sprigs of rosemary and thyme, while handsome, are inconvenient for the guest. 

    Convenience is important for canapés.  They are one-handed, two-bite morsels, and any design or element that challenges that simple dynamic is a poor choice.  Towering arrangements, inedible garnishes, overwrought mixtures likely to let loose down a foulard—these are the results of the cook’s cleverness being put before the guest’s enjoyment.  My wife recently reminded me of a man we silently observed at a wedding last summer.  It seemed he could unhinge his jaw like a python, swallowing the preposterously tall canapés with ease.  Everyone else just avoided them.  The best canapés are approachable, familiar, and delicious, even from across a room.  But if they look like stage props, something has likely gone wrong.

Hands-On (Eyebrows-Off) Grilling

Those little stalactites of grease and char are what need to be incinerated in order to effectively grill at high heat.  

    For the most visible symbol of American warm-weather leisure, cooking things on a grill is mightily misunderstood.  Outside of places like Texas and the Carolinas, Memphis and Kansas City, “barbecue” is applied to any outdoor moment involving fire and food.  Most of these instances are actually the far less evocative “grilling,” during which someone burns packaged meat over barely contained open flame.  Enthusiasts of the real thing are right to be outraged at the appropriation of the term.  But I wonder if “barbecue” is already one of those lost causes, like the substitution of “chomping” for “champing" when bits are involved.  

    So, to be clear: grilling is cooking things on a metal grate over a heat source; barbecuing is cooking things at lower temperatures for a long time with the purposeful use of wood smoke.  People dedicate their lives to the latter, and, when good, is great.  I have barbecued with what seemed like success, but I imagine my efforts would be ridiculed by aficionados of the discipline.  In any event, a few hundred words on the matter would be like writing a memo with the title: Religion, a Summary.  High-heat gas grilling, however, can be dealt with fairly briefly.  

    To begin, a grill must get hot.  I know when my grill is ready when opening it seems unwise; when my eyelashes curl and my lips feel chapped as I approach; when it is visibly peeling off heat waves; when your neighbor looks warily over the hedges.  These somewhat frightening levels of heat are achieved by allowing your grill to rip at full gas for twenty minutes prior to use.  This is good to do periodically anyway; like a cleaning feature on an oven, very high heat burns away collected char and grease.

    Seasoning the grill itself is important but overlooked.  First use a long-handled wire brush to remove any visible char and ash from the grill.  Cut a large onion in half crosswise and dip the root side into a shallow dish of neutral oil (canola will do).  With long-handled tongs wipe the surface of the grill, re-dipping as necessary.  Excess oil will likely ignite and flare up; this can be spectacular at night.  If you value your arm hair, wear something long-sleeved and fire resistant and do be careful.  Close the lid and wait another few minutes.  The oil and high heat will create a fairly non-stick surface, and whatever goes on it will now emerge with restaurant caliber hatch marks.  

    The classic items for a hot grill are steaks and chops, hamburgers and sausages.  This is where high-heat grilling often goes awry; all of these have large amounts of fat, which, once hot, will run and ignite.  The result is heavy on the char rather than the desirable grilled flavors.  But all the work that has gone into preparing the grill is not wasted if your heart is set on a mixed grill of the above.  Simply allow the grill to even out at a medium gas setting.  Enough heat will be retained in the walls, lid and grill to nicely brown and cook through the meat, but the flame low enough not to incinerate it.  Some people use squirt bottles to extinguish flare-ups; I find closing the lid accomplishes the same with the added benefit of quick, oven-like cooking.

    If, however, you have a father-in-law or colleague to impress and really wish to cook something effectively over ripping heat, you have options.  Shellfish generally have trace fat and enough water content to be fairly foolproof.  A thinly pounded-out chicken cutlet, what the French call a paillard, is another, if slightly more challenging, choice.    But for maximum showmanship, when smoke and fire will be appreciated and little mollusks or fancy French cutlets just won't do,  nothing even comes close to tentacles.  

Grilled Octopus

Three or four pounds of large octopus tentacles, raw or parcooked.  

One teaspoon of dry oregano

One teaspoon of chili flakes

Two tablespoons of olive oil

1/2 cup of dry white wine

Salt and pepper

If the Octopus is raw, gently simmer for one hour (or so) in water.  It is ready when a paring knife slips easily into the thickest section of the tentacle, like a potato.  Mix the marinaded.  Once completely cooled, separate the tentacles and add to the marinade; refrigerate for a minimum of ninety minutes.  Meanwhile prepare the grill.  When very hot, arrange the tentacles on the grill.  Leave covered for two or three minutes before turning for another few minutes.  Remove to a cutting board.  Slice into quarter inch coins and serve with lemon and fresh parsley.

Not Quite The Last Morsel

Euro-zone: French, English, Spanish and Italian cheeses. 

    Foreign foods that find popular footing in the US tend to feature some exciting or mildly challenging aspect.  Tapas, for example, questions the structure of a traditional one-plate meal—a concept that has proven so popular in recent years that I yearn for the days when I didn’t have to forfeit my plate to the rest of the table.  Korean galbi and Japanese teppenyaki have a lively interactive element that is enjoying a resurgence; whether they are worth the increased laundry expense I can’t say.  And then there is sushi, which must have seemed very chic (and slightly frightening) when first witnessed here.  Oliver Stone used the allure of raw fish to great effect in Wall Street (1987): the main character, Bud Fox, celebrates his I have arrived moment with an excellent cardigan, The Talking Heads and a hand-cranked nigiri machine. 

    The common theme is we seem to prefer when our foreign food is foreign, which is perhaps why the cheese course is so misunderstood.  Assuming a few wheels of the stuff made it over on the Mayflower, cheese is no more foreign than beer or bacon.  And yet the instant it is served between the main course and dessert the tone changes entirely.  Cheese becomes fancy, overly indulgent and misplaced.  Sad, considering the cheese course is actually an exercise in practicality, harmony and ease.

    It may not seem like a real problem, but often a main course is finished before the accompanying wine.  The appearance of a cheese board is a practical way to extend the savory aspect of a meal until whatever has already been poured (or is left in the bottle) is finished.  It is also a relief to those with larger appetites who might have had a second helping had it been offered.  From the perspective of a host, laying out a pre-arranged cheese course is an effective stalling tactic while dishes are cleared, desserts finished and coffee brewed.  

    But what dour hosts we would make if practicality was our only concern: the arrival of cheese must also be a welcome sight for the diner.  I’ve often found pivoting from my main course to dessert too jarring.  Some greater harmony can be achieved with a cheese course bridging the gap.  The fat, the salt, the mouth-coating richness are an ideal lead-up to something bracing and sweet—almost creating anticipation for the grand finale.  This principle is often reinforced by the presence of some compote, honey or fresh fruit alongside the cheese.  I often serve cheese with digestive biscuits—themselves an ideal concession between savory and sweet.  

    And the cheese itself?  Rather than specific names, successful cheese courses depend upon a basic understanding of the categories: fresh, semi-soft, bloomed rind, blue-veined, firm and hard.  Like wine, the general idea is to move from fresher or lighter to more aged and assertive.  A cheese course can be organized by category, country, type of milk, or a degree of randomness.  While few dishes are easier than laying out a few hunks of the stuff, admittedly choosing from the vast variety can be bewildering.  Fortunately, those people wearing lab coats behind a cheese counter are brimming with knowledge on a hair-trigger release.  My cheese monger knew my name and preferences by the third visit.

    The most important aspect to a cheese course, though, is temperature.  Anything colder than your dining room is going to noticeably mute the full range of flavors.  I take mine out at least two hours before service.  Arranged on a parchment covered cutting board or slab of marble, your cheeses can sit uncovered in a cupboard until needed.  Hard cheeses sweat, softer cheeses ooze and those in between take on a difficult-to-place glow.  The ripe flavors and correct texture is revelatory to those who haven't had room-temperature cheese before.  Strangely, more than colorful descriptions or interesting histories, it is this step that has most often made believers out of cheese course skeptics.

Looking Pale

Not exactly the face of spring.  

    The visuals of asparagus—newly green shoots emerging from barely thawed earth—cannot be beaten as the chief signifier of spring.  Truly local foraged mushrooms are a near second, but are so much more difficult to acquire, and, it should be said, require real trust in the forager as toxic lookalikes abound.  I associate something else with these undecided weeks that bridge the seasons: Belgian endive.  Actually, we are nearing the end of endive season in North America, but a recent encounter with these curious little nubs reminded me of all their excellent applications.

    Belgian endives are winter greens that are grown in a cool indoor environment completely deprived of sunlight.  They are said to be the serendipitous crop of a carless Belgian farmer, some forgotten roots and his cold storage room.  Like other chicories (frisée, radicchio) Belgian endive has a bitter, vegetal taste, although not nearly in the realm of kale or collard greens which are from the more assertive brassica family.  Manipulating this bitterness is what makes Belgian endive so versatile.  

    Start by eating one raw.  At this time of year they have probably passed their peak, which, in my experience, is late March or early April.  Never mind; they will still be tightly wrapped upon themselves, dense and brimming with mildly bitter moisture.  Notice the microscopic cilia-like hairs thatching the white portions of each leaf and the feathered edges of the chartreuse tops.  Raw endive is a toothsome experience, not unlike iceberg lettuce.  In fact, Belgian endives are a terrific substitute for those ubiquitous and largely tasteless globes: whole leaves on sandwiches, chopped pieces in salads, or—my personal favorite—shredded lengthwise as a crisp addition to shrimp tacos.  Move quickly though: Belgian endive oxidizes once cut.  

    Speaking of browning, Belgian endive caramelizes very well over heat.  The simplest way to experience this is to cut several lengthwise, drizzling the innards with olive oil and seasoning with salt and pepper.  Pass each over a hot grill, resisting the temptation to fiddle around with them.  Four minutes later remove to a platter, drizzle with a simple vinaigrette, some freshly snipped tarragon, and announce the results as “a warm Belgian endive salad.”  Warm salads are always a hit, particularly when vaguely from the Continent.

    Still deeper flavors can be produced from the Belgian endive.  Remarkably, they can be braised.  Most would cut each endive first lengthwise, but I find doing so unnecessary.  Instead, aggressively brown several whole endives in an ounce or so of butter.  Browning the butter is inevitable (and desirable).  Add two cups of white wine or (Champagne leftover from brunch), salt and pepper to taste, and reduce by half before covering with foil and placing in a warm oven for half an hour.  What emerges isn’t lettuce-like at all: golden, sweet, complex and soft, these can be served as a side or a vegetarian entree.  I like to think of the dish as a remnant of winter—something asparagus, for all its fresh astringency, will never achieve.

Not lettuce.  

Rad(ish)

Pass the butter.  

    While grazing a crudite platter, have you ever wondered what those red and white orbs are that nobody touches?  Perhaps you have seen them carved into twee little rosettes and assumed they are some vegetable matter grown for that purpose—an innocuous buffer between the carrot and celery sticks, like a sprig of rosemary.  You might be excused for thinking them inedible, or, as has persistently been the rumor of other misunderstood vegetables throughout history, toxic.  Well they are none of these things: they are radishes, and when not in the company of ranch dressing and plastic forks, can be delicious.  

    I have always been vaguely aware of the radish, but it wasn’t until four or five years ago when a farmer at my local market started selling an array of unfamiliar seasonal varieties that I paid closer attention.  This fellow—who with his thick beard and deeply weathered skin is rather persuasive in matters of roots and the like—began pushing radish after radish on me and it wash’t long before I was hopelessly hooked, showing up early to secure the ripest bunches and requesting others by name.  

    The gateway radish was no doubt the delicate and elongated French Breakfast, so named, it is assumed, because some wise innovator long lost to history, decided these were acceptable morning vegetables.  What a terrific idea; sliced thinly and anointed with softened salted butter, a more refined start to the day is hard to imagine.  Next came Plum Purples, larger than standard with deep fuchsia skin that bleeds dramatically into its paler flesh when bitten.  As the weather turned crisp and winter approached, I one day came away with Black Spanish Rounds.  With thick, scaled skin and sinus-clearing hotness one could be excused for wondering if radishes are, after all, toxic.  

    That pungency is common to all radishes, exaggerated in some varieties, toned down or replaced by sweetness in others.  Along with a thirst-quenching water content and a vague acidity, this peppery character is really what makes eating raw radishes out-of-hand so thrilling.  Of course they can be cooked as well.  I have braised them in butter and chicken stock with some success.  After an hour they where soft enough to crush onto grilled bread and finish with shaved sheep’s milk cheese.

    My favorite preparation, though, dresses up the radish while preserving that desirable raw zip—radish gremolata.  If you are unfamiliar with gremolata, it is really any sort of acidic, raw chopped relish or salad meant to contrast with a richer component, say, braised pork.  The classic Italian preparation calls for chopped parsley, lemon zest and vinegar.  I think the inclusion of radishes and a good vinaigrette works just as well with the added benefit of making a lovely side salad on its own.  I haven’t asked, but I imagine my radish dealer would agree.

Scrub the grit from half-a-dozen or so radishes of any size or color.  Remove the tops and tails and slice thinly.  Add a handful of chopped fresh parsley and a grated lemon or orange.  Add vinaigrette and fold until well coated.  Serve. 

Radish gremolata, awaiting a braised lamb shank.  Or just a fork.  

Roundly Neutral

Digestive dough ready for the oven.  

    Explaining digestives to those who didn’t grow up eating them quickly becomes tedious.  I have long abandoned my standard impassioned defense; if someone questions this noble biscuit’s plainness, it’s austere looks, its quasi medicinal benefits, I nod politely and continue eating.  I suppose my only question for those who do not understand digestives is: what unadorned, neutral thing do you eat on a dreary Tuesday afternoon?

    While the celebration of plainness rarely goes well, more mileage can be had from an interesting history.  First mentions of similar biscuits can be found in cookbooks dating to the first half of the 19th Century, but the digestive did not gain wide acceptance until the late Victorian era.  In addition to a voracious appetite for culture and urbanity, Victorians had a curious obsession with digestion, or, more accurately, indigestion.  The digestive biscuit, with its wholemeal content and hefty dose of sodium bicarbonate (baking powder) was claimed as an aid for everything from bloating to heartburn.  Of course these claims were as spurious then as they seem today—the culmination of which is the persistent rumor that it is illegal to sell digestives in the US under the suggestion of having medicinal properties.

    If you are new to digestives, start with that other contribution of Empire: strong black tea, enriched with whole milk and sweetened to taste.  I can identify a handful of other well-matched unions, but perhaps none with so mutual a goal.  Whether it is a stomach that has grown hungry between meals, or a mood which has sharply turned, a heart that has been wounded or some other scenario that balances its participants precariously before tragedy: tea with a biscuit is the universal mend.  These are rounded and gentle flavors that calibrate the senses rather than jar them—more salve than smelling salts.

    I like digestives in their other role too.  I serve them along with aged cheese following a meal.  This can be even more confounding to the uninitiated; cookies with blue cheese?  But the neutrality of a good digestive makes a perfect foil to the strong, lactic punch of an old cheddar or the pungency of Stilton.  This neutrality is a result of carefully balanced ingredients: both white and wheat flour, both sugar and salt, both fat and its dearth.  One might say the perfect digestive is a friendly debate between richness and austerity.

    I do not have a preferred brand, although I often find the more commonly available names possess some character that digestives from fancier brands lack.  And attempts at making the biscuits fancy themselves, with the addition of filbert flour, or, forgive me, chocolate, are disingenuous and upsetting to the harmony of the unadulterated real article.  If you have your own Victorian obsession with digestion, you might give the following recipe a try at home, making slight adjustments as you deem necessary.  Remember though: the neutrality is what  counts.

Recipe

1 1/2 cups of whole wheat flour

1/2 cup of white flour

1/2 cup of castor sugar

1/2 cup of unsalted butter

1/4 cup of whole milk

1teaspoon of baking powder

1 teaspoon of salt

Add the dry ingredients to a stainless steel bowl and whisk to blend.  Using your fingers, incorporate the butter until the mixture resembles course bread crumbs.  Add the milk and fold until mixture can pack.  Turn out onto floured surface and knead until smooth, taking care not to overwork.  Roll to 1/4 of an inch, punch out rounds, prick with fork and bake on greased sheet pan for 15 minutes in 350 oven.  Let cool on a wire rack.  Make a pot of tea.

Biscuits awaiting tea.  

A Mixed Matter

A humble mixed grill of chicken, chorizo and andouille.  

    At first glance, a mixed grill might seem a lavish meal—a performance feast intended to impress guests with the bounty (and the bill) from your butcher.  But most regional and cultural examples I can think of are really exercises in economy.  To feed six adults with lamb chops, for example, would require a minimum of 36 of the expensive little morsels.  But if a dozen chops are grilled alongside some pork sausages, skirt steak and chicken, the impression of a medieval banquet can be had for the cost of a backyard barbecue.  This is of course the formula behind those Brazilian steakhouses that have popped up on every corner, where the gaucho wielding the roasted fillet is awfully scarce compared to the guy with the chicken thighs.  

    The chosen cuts may vary enormously, but the components of a mixed grill should follow the same logical distribution.  At the top of the heap is the pricey cut.  Strip steak, filet, duck breast, lamb chops—these are the tender articles that need brief and expert handling over flame.  Next is some less expensive, less tender but still flavorful meat.  Skirt steak is good here, or any number of pork cuts.  This category is more forgiving of over- or under-grilling as long as the seasoning is correct.  Sausages should make an appearance next; I like when the sausage is made from the same meat as one of the other components.  Offal—lamb kidneys, calf’s liver, beef heart, gizzards, sweetbreads—contributes the final, and deepest note to a mixed grill.  Some advance preparation is almost always necessary; grilling offal is really about introducing the final layer of flavor and marking the outside with color.  Morcilla, or some other type of blood sausage, is a favorite although this really covers two categories.

    Accompaniments matter.  Something fresh is required: chopped parsley, fresh arugula, shredded cabbage—just make sure whatever you choose isn’t drenched with dressing.  Many South and Central American versions of the mixed grill are served with fried potatoes or fried bread; there’s nothing wrong with this tradition, but between all the rich-fattiness of the meat I prefer plain toasted or grilled bread.  Roasted potatoes are a near-second.  Something acidic should also make an appearance.  This might be combined with the fresh category in the form of an acidic dressing, but might just as well be nothing more than lemon wedges or malt vinegar.

    Finally, this is wine food at its best.  The breadth of grilled flavors is much more than what might be available from even a very good steakhouse, and the complexity of meat and non-meat components cries out for a versatile and equally broad wine.  The problem, of course, is no single wine is going to navigate so disparate a plate without conflict.  My solution is the most obvious one: serve several red, white and pink wines.  Beer too.

    Of course there is one snag to this brilliant scheme of perceived value: the knowledgeable glutton (KG).  This is the character who stalks the premium gaucho at the local  churrascuria and, once cornered, makes certain to reclaim every penny of  his/her $49.99.  The KG will, at a glance, know precisely which cut on your platter is the big money component.  My only advice is to avoid inviting this person.  If he/she must be in attendance, serve plenty of salted nuts and olives prior to your mixed grill, and make certain to do the serving (rationing) yourself.

Economy Cuts

Barney--so named for his collection of barnacles--went from dinner for two new parents on New Year's Eve to dinner for eight on New Year's Day.

    A live lobster, boiled to order at a restaurant, is always an expensive proposition.  Sometimes, on a coast somewhere, one encounters an informal restaurant where the price per pound is less  shocking; these tend to be small lobsters on a roll or as a part of a clam bake, and while delicious, are a  fortunate result of time and place.  What about those other moments when the desire (or request) for lobster strikes, and there is no such shack in site?  Or when the wallet is unwilling to accommodate so rich a caprice?  

    There is a well-guarded secret of the garde-manger: a lobster, in the singular, can stretch.  Familiar examples of this practice abound: lobster bisque, lobster ravioli, lobster mousse, lobster sauces of every description, and, of course, my favorite, lobster spaghetti.  The uniting principle here is the same—carefully rationed and well handled, lobster can be an economical ingredient.  The key is in learning to isolate and extract flavor from the various components.   

    The ideal starting point is a live lobster of, say, 3 pounds.  This is a large lobster by any standard and will cost real money.  To aid in transportation, my monger provides a styrofoam coffin full of ice; morbid, but effective.  The idea is to keep the condemned cold, either on ice or in the fridge, and preferably both.  A cold lobster is a docile lobster.  Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil; I add salt, a squeezed lemon or two, several bay leaves and peppercorns.  Some people dispatch the lobster with a paring knife through the back of the head moments before the plunge; classicists just plunge. I don’t really have an opinion here, but if I have come this far, the lobster is going in the pot.  Twenty minutes should do it.  The cooked lobster can now be chilled for later use, or processed right away.  

A few tails will suffice in place of a large live Lobster, although you'll have to make do without the tomalley.  

    To transform a lobster from an expensive meal for one to an economy ingredient for many, three crucial components must be separated: the meat, the shells and the tomalley (liver).  I’m not a gadget person, so I liberate the meat with a heavy chef’s knife and a rolling pin, but I won’t begrudge those who insist on crackers and picks and whatever other devices exist.  Make certain you are retaining only the green tomalley and not the stomach or gills which aren’t edible.  Refrigerate the meat and tomalley until needed.  Rinse the shells and cover with cold water in a small saucepan.  Add a standard mirepoix, bay leaves, peppercorns and a cup of white wine.  Bring up to boil, reduce to a simmer and let steep for half an hour.  Presto: lobster stock.  These three—the meat, tomalley, and stock—can now be stretched into bisques, chowders, fillings, salads and terrines.  

    Several years ago, I spent a New Year’s Eve at home with my wife.  It was our first time doing so; we were accustomed to travel or parties around the holiday, but a newborn had us housebound.  To mark the occasion, I bought a hefty lobster to share.  I made drawn butter, cut lemon wedges, minced parsley.  I chilled Champagne.  We wore bibs.  But no sooner did we sit, we both learned a valuable lesson: a new baby and a lobster dinner do not work.   In the morning, after a largely sleepless night, our lobster sat in the fridge wrapped in foil, untouched.  Friends and family descended on New Year’s Day; the following was the fortuitous result.   

Lobster Spaghetti

Boil water for the spaghetti.  Fry two cups of tomato concasse with a sliced garlic clove in an ounce of butter.  Add two cups of reduced lobster stock and further reduce to desired thickness.  Stir through tomalley.  Marry sauce and al dente spaghetti along with two ounces of butter and a handful of chopped parsley.  Serve immediately. 

.Lobster Spaghetti--perhaps the most economically sound use of the famously expensive crustacean.

Winner's Purse

Clams, ready to pop.   Reserving one or two to place outside the papillote  on the sheet pan will serve as an indicator of when the others have opened.

    When the unexciting translation is considered—in parchment—it’s no surprise the technique isn’t more widely appreciated.  En papillote, however, is a particularly effective way to cook delicate fish and mollusks.  The limited cooking cavity inside the folded packet forces the commingling of aromatics, liquids and fish.  But the real value is in the reveal: a plumped and golden purse pleasantly fills the dining room when pierced.  

    Good candidates for inclusion: any flat, white fish; chunks of meatier fish or scallops; shrimp or split langoustine; mussels, clams, cockles; any other sea creature.  The ideal combination is perhaps sole or flounder topped with clams and shrimp, providing a range of seafood textures and flavors.  The addition of shellfish contributes significantly to the cooking liquid, releasing its own essence, helping along the mild flat fish.  

    I’m not one for wild experimentation in these established preparations, although this technique is particularly forgiving of variance.  The categories are carved in stone though: aromatic vegetable, herbs, fat, acid, seasoning.  Fennel and tomato are brilliant in more Mediterranean preparations, but a simple mirepoix will suffice.  Herbs should be fresh; parsley, chervil, thyme or oregano are the classics.  Olive oil is fine; butter superior.  Lemon is nice, but a splash of dry white wine is the only acid necessary.  I limit my seasonings to salt and (white) pepper.  

Papillotes, doing the heavy lifting.   

    The design and construction of the parchment packet is critical.  Start by unrolling and cutting a 12-inch section of parchment.  Fold it in half. Clip-off the corners (fusty French technique has you cutting a semicircle or half-heart shape, but, well… the French also flute mushrooms).  Layer your ingredients on one half of the sheet, retaining a two-inch perimeter of clean paper.  Fold the other side over.  Beginning on one side, crimp the two parchment layers together in obtuse, overlapping folds until you reach the other side.  Tuck any excess under the packet.

    These packets, done several hours in advance of service, can now quite comfortably wait on a sheet pan in the refrigerator.  This is ample time to make a rice pilaf, go swimming, or press a few shirts before dinner.  When your guests arrive, set the oven to 375 degrees; pop the pan in twenty minutes before you’d like to sit.  The bags will puff and brown and, as if through alchemy, create a world-class sauce.  One note: any attempt to remove the meal from the parchment to a service platter and drizzle with that sauce will fail.  Instead, tear open the top of the purse and enjoy the novelty.

The finished article, having already filled the dining room with its perfume.

The Penance

This unknown German etching portrays a pious woman who has injured herself in an act of mortification.  Oats are a comparatively simple lifestyle adjustment.  

    At some stage, everyone is prescribed oatmeal.  The reasons vary, from being surrounded by idiots (high blood pressure) to shrinking trousers (weight gain), but the prescription remains largely the same.  Oatmeal isn’t exactly challenging food, although those who do take issue with the stuff are usually objecting to the meal part of the equation.  Happily, the health benefits of oats are also available outside of the gruel state.

    My favorite non-gruel preparation is a classic: granola.  It’s funny that the word granola has acquired the connotation it has considering how far up the luxury ladder a quality preparation can be.  Premium rolled oats are rather more expensive than one might expect, and once the honey, spices, nuts and dried fruits are added it seems more like sacrificial ambrosia than preferred snack of the sandaled set.  In fact, the high-cost is why I insist on making it at home.  

    If the trouble is going to be taken to make granola, the only sensible option is to produce in volume.  The work is the same, whether three cups or three pounds, and granola seems to keep indefinitely—it will also disappear much faster than one might think. To make large quantities a big stainless steel bowl is needed for mixing, and the baking will have to be done on multiple sheets that are rotated between oven racks a few times—minor issues, really.  The recipe below specifies one standard canister but can easily expand to two, three or ten canisters, multiplying the other ingredients accordingly.  

    Resist the temptation to add nuts and dried fruits prior to baking.  Many recipes suggest doing so but the results can be problematic.  The former will become bitter baking for that much time (and may become rancid in storage) and the latter will either burn or become brittle.  Also, controlling even distribution is futile, meaning someone at your brunch party is going to get little more than fruit-and-nut-less shake.  Accessories are best prepared and added at time of service.  Freshly roasted pecans are the richest addition; raisins are classic, but dried cranberries, chopped dates and figs are widely available now too.  Fresh fruit doesn’t really need an explanation, although if it isn’t sweet enough try macerating it first.  

    Obviously the preparation discussed above and the recipe outlined below hardly rank alongside the cilice.  But a small portion of granola served with yoghurt is undoubtedly a leaner start to the day than a full English breakfast.  Penance?  Perhaps not.  Maybe granola is like the eponymous hypocrite's hairshirt in Molier's Tartuffe—flaunted for appearance.  Let the truly dedicated suffer beneath oatmeal; I'm not ashamed to choose granola everytime.

Ingredients:

18-ounce canister of premium rolled oats

2 whipped egg whites

1/2 cup of canola oil

1/2 cup of honey

Pinch of salt

 Optional: Cinnamon, nutmeg, clove etc to taste.  Some may also prefer more honey for a sweeter result.  Remember though, sweetness can be adjusted at service.  

 Method:

In a large stainless bowl, fold all ingredients together with non-stick spatula.  Make certain to evenly distribute.  Turn mass out onto one or two parchment-lined sheet pans.  Bake in slowest/lowest possible convection heat for two hours.  With a spatula, break up and turn granola.  Turn oven off, crack oven door and leave overnight or until dry and brittle.  Break up large chunks and store in airtight glass container.

Oats, awaiting anointment.  

Austerity Pleasures

Mustard is for those with discipline enough to know when to stop.  

    A ham sandwich is an impossible ask.  Maple-smoked ham with havarti, chipotle mayonnaise, avocado, oven dried tomatoes, pickled jalapeños on an onion-parmesan bun?  No problem.  But ham on a roll?  Hen’s teeth.  And yet that simple union of good bread and gently cured meat is precisely the sort of inoffensive sustenance that twenty minutes between midday engagements requires.  More importantly, it won’t leave you in desperate search of antacids and breath mints.  

    Actually any single element on bread is a noble meal.  Cured meat of any kind works.  A sharp old cheddar jammed into a roll is another personal favorite.  The prospect of putting a leftover slice of pork or beef between bread is almost reason alone to invite people over for a roast.  And after much experimentation, there is no better use for cold lamb.  

    In my opinion, and I’m certain to cause offense here, meat and cheese is a step in the wrong direction.  I don’t have moral objections to joining the two—doing so just seems conspicuous and unnecessary.  Butter is a far better addition anyway.  It will provide a modest but flavorful counterpoint without the heaviness of mayonnaise.

    The bread is important.  The ideal vehicle is perhaps a small French roll that has been permitted to sit in a waxed bag overnight.  It will be fresh, but not so crusty as to abrade the roof of your mouth.  Crucially, it will provide the correct ratio of bread to filling.  That ratio is more of a challenge when deciding how large a section of baguette or ciabatta to select.  The trick is to use less than you think.  An English muffin is good too, if a little too civilized for the spirit of this sandwich.  Pullman slices are fine in a pinch, but useless unless toasted.  

    Finally, mustard is a gateway condiment.  A dab can be fun on occasion, but for those of a weaker constitution its use can be habit forming and enough to encourage experimentation with harder substances.  Remember: no one starts out using Sriracha.  The safer route is to stay dry altogether.  Actually it’s that very fear of dryness that compels most to start using; the better choice is to learn to embrace the austerity.  

    Incidentally, I don’t eschew the leisurely lunch—in fact, a long, multi-course midday meal unencumbered by a serious reason for having one, or threatened by time constraints, is for me a greater pleasure than a similar dinner.  But we can’t lunch like Apicius everyday, and I wonder why, on those ordinary occasions, the unadorned sandwich is so rare.  Is it because, like those famously indulgent Romans, exotic ingredients and elaborate preparations were a sign of wealth?  Are multiple meats and spiced condiments a contemporary display of stature?  Or have we just forgotten how good an honest sandwich can be?

The pinnacle of lunchtime restraint.  

The Paris Principle

A roasted pig's head has quite a bit of mild, tender meat.

    Several days into the Paris leg of our honeymoon, my wife and I were treated to dinner by another young couple—vague family acquaintances—at a small but respected neighborhood bistro.  Knowing we were rather adventurous, the husband ordered.  The dishes that arrived were challenging little preparations of offal, salted fish and mysterious vegetables.  My wife and I gamely ate, helped along by terrific wines, and by mid-meal were sure we had cemented an agreeable impression.  And then an innocent little gratin arrived.  Even before our host cracked the still-sizzling crust I detected the deep, barnyard aroma; when he did, out wafted the pungent rennet-like stench of sheep’s tripe.  My wife (and I seem to recall his) shot back from the table; this was obviously a challenge leveled at me, perhaps as retaliation for pushing back against his rather hostile politics.  He smiled as he spooned some onto my plate.  So I ate, and in eating learned an advanced point of etiquette.

    You must eat the offal; the insect; the desiccated meat; the very old egg.  You may think you have a choice—you may believe your host who suggests it is fine to welch on the whelks.  That offer is only a reaffirmation that some testing, whether intentional or not, is at hand.  The correct answer is to eat.  You need not scarf; just eat.  One bite won’t do; two bites might; three encounters with the thing in question should satisfy even the most observant host.  You must taste with enthusiasm, but not so much as to invite second helpings.  But more than good acting, familiarity with the most common offenders is important.

    Unless you grew up eating them, cured or fermented fish preparations are a difficult proposition.  Fish sauce, botarga, canned bait fish—these things look innocent, but pack a ripe, dock-side pungency which is difficult to ignore.  The trick, if it can be called that, is to remember that they are seasonings.  An anchovy on its own will unpleasantly fill your nostrils, but blended into a caesar dressing registers as indistinctly savory.  The same is true of botarga, which is grated as one would hard cheese, or fish sauce, which should be sparingly sprinkled.  

    Conversely, insects seem scary, but are innocuous.  Crickets are somewhat mushroomy; ants often lemony.  Larvae are bland but the texture—that of creme-filled fresh peas—can be challenging.  It’s no coincidence that bugs are often deep-fried, supplanting their own texture with a more familiar sort of crisp.  Seasoned while still hot from the fat, most bugs could pass as movie-theatre snacks.  One caveat: I  haven’t tried living insects, but I understand they tend to scamper to the back of the throat if not immediately crushed between molars.  Unless there is some gustatory advantage to eating the living, I will preserve that experience for my next survival scenario.  

    The current vogue for offal has no doubt ruined many a date as one party pushes pig trotters on the other in some macho attempt to seem cosmopolitan.   Variety meats and organs are historically budget cuts; that they are now a mark of sophistication at downtown restaurants is only the first layer of irony of contemporary dining.  Consider this: with few exceptions, well-prepared offal is approachable, rich and delicious and no more challenging than sushi.  When cooked for hours, feet, faces and tails yield the tenderest meats.  Bone marrow is no more potent than the drippings from a roast.  With the exception of those from a goat, I’ve found brains to be mild.  Strangely, commonly eaten organs, like kidneys and livers, tend to be strongly flavored, and a poor experience with one of those is perhaps the source of most squeamishness.  If newbies were instead broken on sweetbreads or beef tendons, I imagine chefs would have to look elsewhere to appear edgy.

    Finally: hosting.  I don’t think pushing challenging food on people is polite, and even less so when there is an audience.  You may indeed make terrific blood sausage; forcing house guests to eat it first thing in the morning is poor form.  My table often features unusual food, but for every advanced dish is something familiar.  Interestingly, pickier eaters are often coaxed from their shells when just left alone.  Leave pushiness to Gitanes-smoking Parisians bent on embarrassing newlyweds.

Crickets are mild and crisp.  Coming soon to a theatre near you?

The Bowl of Plenty

A bowl of the good stuff.

    Buying baguettes, boules, ciabattas or anything else not pre-sliced and packaged will, at some point, raise the question of what to do with that which goes stale.  Pitching it, of course, is not an option—so how to handle the steady accumulation?  I keep a big metal bowl of the stuff,  half full at any given moment and often brimming.  Stale bread, alongside oil and salt, is one of my more relied-upon pantry items.  

    Croutons are the most obvious application, and should be reserved for the freshest of the stale bread.  This has less to do with flavor than it does with safety; cutting very hard, stale bread is risky, even for those with developed skills.  A heavy chef’s knife works best here.  Use the heel of your free hand to knock the back of the blade until it bites, then push through.  Don’t focus on uniformity; a little variety in your croutons will signal they are homemade.  Fry them in plenty of butter or good olive oil, seasoning with salt, pepper and, if you wish, dried herbs.  These are particularly delicious if served while still hot.  For salad, add half the croutons prior to tossing and the rest after plating.  This way some will remain perfectly crisp while others will soak up the vinaigrette.  

    Bread crumbs are far more fun.  To make them you will need a clean apron, a stout rolling pin and a hard surface.  Wrap whatever stale scraps you have in the apron and let them have it.  Frying pans, cricket bats and empty Champagne bottles are just as effective.  Toddlers are good to have on hand as well; they will appreciate the excitement far more than your neighbors.  The most obvious advantage to the homemade route is the control you have over the crumb—just cease bashing when you’ve reached the desired level of pulverization.  

    Uses are innumerable.  Deep-frying requires bread crumbs to form the crunchy exterior, but in the case of  fritters and such, can be used in binding the wet ingredients.  If you don’t mind being associated with the late 90’s, bread crumbs are also crucial in crusting things.  My favorite of these dated preparations goes like this: scale and de-bone a whole salmon laying it flat on a  greased sheet pan.  Prepare a paste of bread crumbs, chopped shallots, minced parsley, dijon mustard, softened butter, white wine, salt and white pepper.  Pack this mixture on the flesh side of the salmon and cook for twenty minutes in a hot oven.  

    Milk or stock-soaked bread has a fancy name—panade—and is classically used in everything from forcemeat to soup, efficiently thickening or providing moisture.  Irregular pieces of stale bread can be soaked in milk, stock or wine and incorporated into meatball and meatloaf preparations.  This technique all but guaranties a moist result as the bread mush bastes from the inside while cooking.  And really is the concept so unfamiliar?  Most Americans eat stuffing at least once each year, and what is stuffing but stock-enriched stale bread and vegetables?  

The 90s called, they want their crusted salmon back.  

   Sadly, some bread is beyond use.  While an open metal bowl and airy storage prevents mold, some higher-gluten bread seems to petrify instead of going stale.  Rather than risk a filling, I like to return that which cannot be used to the wild in the form of bird feed.  The massive city crows that swoop in for these scraps have formidable beaks and I've often watched as they reduce even the largest, toughest pieces to crumbs.   They seem to enjoy it, and it certainly fattens them up...   Maybe those stalest scraps serve a purpose after all.

Special Sauce

The resulting emulsion should be a pale yellow, and have some body, not unlike eggs that have been whipped with some cream.  

    Of the impressive savory pies and luxurious roasts, the sumptuous brunch spreads and late-night feasts, a single culinary element consistently emerges as the most appreciated by friends and family: the humble vinaigrette.  I won over my mother-in-law in what must be record time with a vinaigrette.  She uses it still.  A text message common on my phone: …hey wats that dressing u do w/mustard and stuff?? thx.  This might harmlessly come from a friend or associate; unhappily, a similar text has also disturbed the night authored by a pre-marital girlfriend.  One wonders: what sort of allure does vinaigrette possess that would compel someone to violate a strict cultural code?

    My mother put a salad on the table every night alongside whatever main dish she served.  Over time I adjusted her vinaigrette, stripping the recipe down to its essentials.  It is emulsified, but not a fussy, unstable thing.  Rather the various elements come together easily as if under their own will.  Perhaps they do; mustard, a key component, has a magical property that encourages emulsification.  Some people like to whisk the ingredients together in the bottom of the salad bowl.  This is fine, but I much prefer to prepare vinaigrette in a jam jar.  Add the ingredients, tightly close the lid, shake vigorously.  Any leftover vinaigrette will keep in the jar for two days.  

    Actually, leftover vinaigrette is a good sign; it means you have been judicious in administering it.  Few things ruin a salad like overdressing.  As is often the case, the simpler the food, the more important the technique.  Here’s how I do it: in a large stainless bowl add your salad greens, vegetables or other ingredients; drizzle over prepared vinaigrette (keeping in mind you cannot subtract once added); using tongs or a clean hand gently fold the salad over on itself until all components are lightly coated in vinaigrette; plate.  

    A word on substitution.  Even the best pantries occasionally run dry of common ingredients.  Whereas I might discourage wanton experimentation, substitution is usually fine, and often necessary.  Swapping certain ingredients might change the lovely balance of your vinaigrette so learning how to accommodate is crucial.  Olive oil has the best flavor, but neutral oils like canola might be preferred if delicacy is the aim.  Nut oils are potent and should be added in drops.  Vinegars can be more difficult.  White wine vinegar has the yeasty, fruity acid best suited for vinaigrette, but others can work.  Apple Cider vinegar is delicious and doesn’t upset the harmony, but balsamic is much sweeter and can produce a cloying result unless you reduce the sugar.   Honey can be used in place of sugar, but it will produce a thicker vinaigrette (it too is a magical emulsifier).  

    I always feel something is missing from a meal that doesn’t open with salad.  I think it’s the vinaigrette, which functions as a sort of edible aperitif, bracing the palate with acid and sweetness and some savory backbone.  But the consistency has something to do with it too.  A good vinaigrette coats the salad, but also your mouth, persisting to the next course.  Getting that consistency right is critical.  Water seems a throwaway ingredient in the recipe below; it’s perhaps the most important, fine-tuning that toothsome, lingering state.  When done correctly, a good vinaigrette is hard to forget.  I assume no responsibility, though, if an ex stalks you for the recipe.

Vinaigrette:

Dijon Mustard: 1 Tbsp

Cold Water: 1 Tbsp

White Wine Vinegar: 2 Tbsp

Olive Oil: 6-8 Tbsp

Grated Shallot: 1/2 tsp.

Sugar: 1/2 tsp.

Pinch of salt, pepper

Lightly dressed baby arugula (rocket) is difficult to top as a first course or side dish.  

When Only More Will Do

Heart of Darkness: the highest cacao percentage chocolate is said to be good for the ticker.

I have to remind myself now and again not to be dismissive of dessert.  An aged cheddar, perhaps a digestive biscuit and, if there isn’t an early morning engagement, a small espresso always do for me rather than something elaborate and sweet.  For those people for whom dessert is deeply important my efforts fall dramatically short; when we entertain at home I always put someone more passionate in command of the final course.

    And yet I am surrounded by dessert lovers: my brother and his lovely family; my closest friends from school; most importantly, my wife.  While I am still on speed dial in matters of, say, butchery, they have long abandoned me regarding dessert.  I do have one trick though: high-grade, unadorned chocolate, the darker the better, and sold in commercial portions. I don’t know of an end to a meal that produces a better effect than placing, unannounced, in the center of the table a kilo or two of chocolate.  Guests gasp.  An obscene mound of the stuff, casually arranged, is unfailingly a thrilling sight—illicit even, not unlike glimpsing for the first time a large quantity of bundled cash.

    One of the problems with this stunt, however, is that those who have witnessed it often mistake your taste for the dramatic for some broader appreciation of chocolate treats.  I have more than once had to feign enthusiasm over an unusual box of truffles, some even featuring things like bacon or hot chillies.  Of course the intentions are sincere and the gesture appreciated—and there is undoubtedly an audience for these confections—but the unwavering point remains: the less meddling, the better. 

    My hard line extends to service: nothing more elaborate than a clean cutting board with a sheet of wax paper reinforces the drama of the moment.  Those quiet slabs are, after all, awaiting a solemn operation.  To reduce to manageable pieces, choose your sturdiest knife and issue a general warning to keep fingers clear of the board.  Select a corner of one slab; grasp the handle of the knife with your dominant hand, placing the tip of the blade on the board in front of your target.  Securing the tip with your other hand, and using firm continuous pressure, guillotine the chocolate.  An ordinary blade will produce chips and shavings; a serrated knife will crack off hunks.  Make certain not to commingle the different types of chocolate.

    If you have not yet done anything more personal for your Valentine, resist the ease of the boxed stuff this year.  No matter how attractively packaged, truffles and bonbons cannot compete with the drama sketched out above.  I am personally drawn to the darkest and bitterest specimens—those with the highest cacao percentages indicated on the labels—but slabs of milk chocolate and even white chocolate are available and have followings.  This is one instance in which more—in both volume and variety—is unquestionably better.

Ta-da: the extent of my dessert ability.

The Remains Unite (Part II)

    Mondays are ideal for discussing the mechanics of leftovers.  Presumably the weekend has produced some food and, unless you wish to be like my former teammate from Part I, now is the time to consider what to do with it.  

X marks the spot.  NB:  You should not grind and ingest leftover bones; they are to be used to flavor  that which has been pulverized.

    Of course dictating specific dishes is only so helpful; a suggestion of fricasseed cod won’t go very far if cod wasn’t on the previous night’s menu.  What really needs to be established is a broad matrix consisting of categories of leftovers and methods for transforming those leftovers.  I’m rubbish with spreadsheets though, so I’ve jotted down a chart on the adjacent cocktail napkin.  Happily, leftovers fall rather neatly into four categories, as do techniques for their management.  

    The ideal leftover meat is a roast: seasoned, relatively lean, neutral.  Beef, pork, lamb—doesn’t matter.  The meat needs only be sliced from the bone (if present) or diced for use in several of the techniques to follow.  Braised and stewed meats are excellent leftovers too, but if the idea is to have a neutral meat for use in a leftover dish of a different direction than the original, some caution should be taken to first rinse away strongly-flavored cooking liquids.  Chicken meat should be pulled from the carcass; using forks makes this easy, although your hands are better if the intended application requires larger pieces.  Fish universally flakes.      

    Bones come next.  Pork and beef bones add excellent flavor to soups, stews and broths.  I have a friend who cleans and freezes all his leftover bones until sufficient for stock, although I’ve always found fresh bones preferable there.  A chicken carcass is a different matter.  I like to re-roast mine until golden before plunging, along with aromatics, into cold water for broth.  There is really no excuse for discarding a chicken carcass.  Lamb bones are rather gamey, and recycling fish bones is a step too far.  I understand either can add richness to a compost heap though.  

    Vegetables.  Sides seem simple but can be difficult to transform.  This is because thought has often gone into flavoring a vegetable side dish and reworking it can be either counterproductive or a shame.  I am very fond of classic blanched and buttered vegetable sides; whether this is because I am subconsciously envisioning transforming the leftovers I do not know.  The point is the more neutral your vegetable leftover, the more suited to reworking; the ultimate vegetable leftover are small boiled potatoes.  

    This leaves grains and starches (other than potatoes).  There really is only one thing to do with leftover pasta that has already been mixed with its sauce—which we’ll get to in a moment.  But unadorned noodles and plain boiled or pilaf rice are very versatile.  The one crucial step here is to add some oil or butter before storing or you will end up with something glutinous and bowl-shaped.  

    The most satisfying leftover technique must be the hash.  A small amount of leftover roast pork or chicken can be made to stretch into a filling meal if the preparer takes a few careful steps.  Chop the leftover meat into a medium to small dice and in a large pan fry until well-browned on all sides.  This step is as much about developing flavor in the pan as it is about transforming the leftover meat.  Follow with diced raw potatoes, mirepoix or other leftover vegetable, taking care to preserve the structural integrity of all that is added.  The result should be a savory jumble of browned meat and vegetable, not a mush.  Mind things don’t become greasy, and make sure to season generously with ground black pepper.  

    Unadorned leftover vegetables are ideal for soups and sauces of every description, from chowder to veloute, but pulverization is an exercise in control.  Carrots demonstrate this nicely.  A side dish of blanched and buttered rondelles can be added to broth with other vegetables for a rustic soup or permitted to simmer with potato until both begin to disintegrate for a chowder.  But when confronted with leftover carrots I find it difficult to do anything other than make a rich bisque: sauté carrots with a fine dice of onion, season with salt, white pepper and bay, adding broth along the way; liquify in a blender, adding heavy cream until smooth.  Lobster, quite unnecessary.

    The minimalist approach can be fun too—although the technique leaves little to be said.  Cold chicken?  Wheat toast and mayonnaise.  A few ounces of salmon?  Flake over salad with vinaigrette.  Cold roast beef?  Answer: Coleman’s English Mustard.

    And then there is binding, and by extension, a brief homage to the necessary egg.  If the creative juices are ever ebbing, simply fry an egg and put it on your leftovers.  No one will complain.  But to unlock the greater potential of the egg is to know its agglomerative ability.  Leftover rice, mashed potatoes, chopped or shredded vegetables—all these and others can be mixed with beaten eggs to form a batter: deep fry at will, putting your faith in the albumen.  Fritters are terrific, but something eggy and delicious lurks still.  If you regularly make pasta that isn’t drenched in sauce—say spaghetti studded with pork, spinach and onion, the best (and only) thing to do with the leftovers is this: add four or five beaten eggs, a little milk or cream to loosen and a generous grating of parmigiano reggiano.  Fry in butter, finishing in a hot oven.  Let cool; turn out onto a plate.  You can serve as-is, slice into wedges for starters, or cut smaller and insert toothpicks for hors d’oeuvres.  Whatever you choose, leftovers are unlikely.

What a tangle: pasta cake of spaghetti, spinach, pancetta and onion.

The Remains Divide Us (Part 1)

Some see three pork chops.  Others, three pork chops, two pork sandwiches, one plate of scrapple and bones for soup.  

     Early in my married life I played on a club soccer team.  The team captain—we’ll call him Matt—was a decent guy whose wife was an enthusiastic fan of our rather modest Saturday morning performances.  Win, lose or draw, she would produce from her car a cooler full of post-match beers and sandwiches.  Over the course of a few weeks she and my wife became friendly and it wasn’t long before we were invited over to Matt’s house for dinner.  The only night that seemed to work for all of us was Friday, and though loathe to sacrifice even one  precious weekend meal at home to the perils of an unknown kitchen, we obliged.  

       Matt and his wife were perfectly pleasant hosts, but something curious did occur as the evening wound down.  They had served a large roast chicken with mashed potatoes and vegetable sides but had obviously anticipated larger appetites for plenty was left over.  My wife and I helped clear the table, and, innocently enough, inquired after the tinfoil to cover the leftovers.   We were met with astonishment, and after a few pregnant moments, Matt curtly responded that they do not keep leftovers.  He and his wife then rather quickly scraped the chicken carcass—still heavy with meat—and several cups each of potatoes, carrots, spinach and corn into the garbage.  Sensing my urge to dive in after the fowl, my wife tugged silently at my rear belt loop.  

    We took a thrashing the next morning.  Matt and I—both midfielders—couldn’t seem to  communicate well on the field.  Worse: there were no sandwiches or cold beers offered following the match, and after one or two more similar showings, Matt joined another team.  Some say to avoid politics, religion and sex in social or professional settings; I say: do not discuss leftover food for what we do with it exposes our very marrow.  

    I am staunchly, fervently a leftover person.  Our kitchen is a buzzing place where large cuts of meat, whole fish and baskets of produce enter twice weekly; weeknight dinners, packed lunches, coursed weekend meals and Sunday lunches flow steadily out.  But for the volume, ours might be a hotel kitchen.  And like any efficient operation, very little goes to waste.  Those Sunday roasts frequently stretch into Wednesday packed lunches and weeknight dinners often feature some recycled aspect.  

    This is hardly a new concept.  If one peruses the ne plus ultra of cookbooks, Le Guide Culinaire, one quickly determines many of the dishes are really just ways of preparing leftovers.  Take this charmingly archaic entry (#2475) for Hachis a l’Americaine: “Sauté an equal amount of small diced potatoes as there is meat in butter until golden brown; add half to the meat and mix together with a little tomato puree and reduced veal gravy; reheat without boiling.  Place the mixture in a deep dish, sprinkle with the remaining potatoes, which must be nice and crisp, and finish with a little freshly chopped parsley.”  (Escoffier, 299).  So easy, and a great excuse for regularly having veal bone gravy on hand.

    My misguided teammate aside, most do indulge leftovers.  Tupperware exists, doesn’t it?  But I’ve long suspected that we sacrifice an opportunity when we simply ladle in the mashed potatoes and fork over the  slabs of corned beef with nothing more involved than the nuke it later protocol in mind.  Actually Escoffier’s fancy beef hash perfectly demonstrates a number of the rules that I follow when using leftovers.  

    -  To begin, simple reheats are not permitted.  Not only are they unimaginative, but a steaming plate of microwaved chicken and boiled potatoes will only ever be a pale shadow of its original self.  The far better route is to visualize something new.  If not a simple chicken hash, then why not whip up some easy pastry for a platter of meat pasties?

        -  A well-stocked pantry is essential.  Spices, oils, vinegars and starches should always be on hand, but I extend my pantry to things like eggs, cheese, milk, bread (fresh and stale), lemons, leftover wine, canned tomatoes, tomato paste, parsley, carrots, celery and onions.  Bacon, too, for its ability to improve just about anything.  

        -  Leftover meals are not an opportunity to purge your icebox.   Restraint is vital.  Escoffier could easily have added green beans and a dodgy looking carrot to his Hachis but that would have altered the familiar harmony of beef and potatoes.  If you really must use those slightly limp celery stalks that have been haunting your vegetable drawer for a fortnight, brace them in cold water, thinly slice and toss with a vinaigrette for a side salad.  

        -  As for food safety (for I know the subject bubbles just beneath the surface of any discussion involving leftovers) I will offer these unscientific guidelines that I follow.  Clear the table of leftovers, wrap in plastic or foil and refrigerate as soon as possible.  Leftovers are to be used within a 72 hour window.  Don’t push it.  Use common sense; if the leftover in question is unappetizing, don’t eat it.  It’s always advisable to thoroughly heat-through leftovers.  If in doubt, substitute your usual table wine with high-proof grain alcohol.

    Writing this now, I mourn the spectral corn puddings, carrot soups, chicken hashes and spinach timbales that could have resulted from the remains of my old teammate’s dinner table.  What stings most cruelly is not the actual waste of food (though that too is shocking), but the sad waste of all those lovely meals that could have been.  

Speaking of which, Part II of this series will deal directly with methods, ideas, and recipes for the leftover enthusiast.    

Clockwise from upper right: Grilled bread, deviled eggs, pinchos de puerco, braised carrots, deviled eggs,  celery vinaigrette.  All from leftovers.  

The Welcome Poacher

"Oi, Mum, wot's wiv dem eggs?"  High tension in Velazquez's Old Woman Poaching Eggs, 1618.

   If braising is for winter and grilling for summer, where does poaching belong?  Seasonlessness is not even poaching’s biggest problem; cooking anything in water runs the significant risk of being confused with that most fearsome of British cliches--the boiled dinner.  Of course done improperly, poaching is indeed boiling, or worse, the heave-worthy warming through often suffered at the hands of well-meaning aunts.  Done correctly though, poaching is terrific.

    If you simmer water before slipping something in, say carrots or cubes of beef, you are poaching.  But as simple principles so often belie nuance, so too are the details of a quality poach crucial.  To start, poaching requires that your liquid truly simmers.  Food-science people will tell you this occurs around 180 degrees (f), but rather than clipping a thermometer to your apron and nervously checking every few moments, learn what this looks and sounds like.  Basically the liquid should gently, just audibly bubble.  Anything more and you are boiling; less and you are Aunt Listeria.  If you are romantic (or French) you might refer to your pot as smiling, although this puts you in the same camp as those who clip thermometers to their aprons.  

    Next you must flavor your poaching liquid with aromatic vegetables, herbs and salt.  Add these things along with the cold water; as the liquid comes to a simmer it will extract flavor.  A standard mirepoix (carrot, celery, onion) will always work, especially when a bay leaf and several white peppercorns are included.  In fact, the addition of acid in the form of white wine and lemon juice to the above will roughly achieve a court boullion--that most classic of poaching liquids.  Fancier additions like tomato and fennel add a Mediterranean note, but do avoid anything from the Brassica family (broccoli, kale etc.) as they tend to dominate.  

    Perhaps the best thing to put into a court bouillon is very fresh salmon.  The fish should be skinned and searched for pin-bones; I like mine cut into chunks before poaching for ten minutes.  The result is mild and distinctly savory.  If you brush a few ramekins with olive oil before filling with your poached fish and vegetables you can chill the result until service.  Turn each out onto salad plates and garnish with lemon slices and parsley for a lovely timbale starter.  I often give precisely this to my daughter; it reminds me of those commercials where cats are lovingly served crystal platters of food by gloved hands.

    Chicken and tender beef or pork may all work here too, but you must increase the cooking time, especially with poultry.  In fact, let’s briefly touch on the science(y) aspect here.  As cooking techniques go, poaching is a very efficient heat delivery mechanism.  The poachee is surrounded by a dense, evenly heated medium (the liquid) which penetrates crevices and quickly transfers its heat.  Compared with roasting where hot air swirls about or grilling where each side is independently cooked, poaching is far quicker and far less likely to go wrong.  The result is food that consistently emerges moist, tender and free of burn.  The downside to all this mild pleasantness is just that: crispy, fatty, caramelized goodness will never result from a poach.  Generally, lean, skinless meats that might otherwise become tough do well poached, but do use common sense in selecting your mark.  Sea bass?  Brilliant!  A baby goat?  No. 

    You may experiment with other liquids.  Assuming refrigerators frequently contain bottles of left-over red wine, the most delicious poached eggs are at your fingertips.   Fill a skillet or small saucepan with whatever scraps of red wine you have (Beaujolais being the best and most obvious choice).  Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer.  Slip in a few eggs and lightly poach for salads or dinner-worthy eggs Benedict.  If you are nostalgic for the 60s, poach clove-studded pears in Port, or, if you don’t wish to waste $60 worth of booze, orange juice.  A whole sub-genre of milk-poaching exists too, but I don’t have any experience there--anybody?

    Dietitians like poaching because, unlike every other cooking method, the addition of fat is unnecessary.  I suppose this is true right up until one douses the eggs with hollandaise or spreads the poached salmon flakes on buttered toast points.  This is an important point, actually.  Poaching is really just an efficient way to cook things for a relatively neutral result--a mechanism for creating a mild, always appropriate edible.   And while it pains me to do so, on this point I must agree with the dietitians.  Slathering on the mayo post-fact might be desirable, but some very satisfying results can also be had when one allows a good poach to speak for its mild-mannered self.

Poached salmon timbale: an ideal starter for adults or lunch for two-year-olds.