playing with fire and water

faux pas

Did Tom Colicchio really tell a group of chefs to "make sure you put your tasting spoons in the bain-marie? [Ewww].

Old habits die hard.

Oh, and....brunoise is not the hardest knife skill.

Tourné, anyone?

foie apple grape

foie gras

green apple crisp

"grape"

curry

oxalis

grapes

One of my earliest taste memories is of grapes. Not of the insipid seedless supermarket variety. The grapes that I grew up eating were the European Vitis vinifera, grown in my backyard.

Growing grapes was my fathers passion. As far back as I can remember, he would tend the vines; training, pruning and grafting them year after year, in hopes of producing the perfect grape. The goal, of course, was to produce a great wine. The wines, though perfectly drinkable, were never remarkable.

When he stopped making wine, there was an abundance of grapes for the table. Just a few ripe bunches in a bowl would fill the house with a complex bouquet of aroma compounds made up of alcohols (methyl alcohol, ethyl alcohol), aldehydes (acetaldehyde, isobutyraldehyde), amines (methoxypyrazine), esters (ethyl, butyrate), thiols (mercaptohexyl acetate) and terpenes (linalool, nerol)--to name a few. Their flavor was amazing--a beautiful balance of acids, alkalies, tannins and sugars. 

Nature blessed these fruits with many great attributes, but she did not make them conducive for good eating. Unless you are a bird.

As with most fertile plants that cover our planet, the grapes loftiest endeavor is to go forth and multiply. In order to sustain the species, Nature designed the grape berry as a seed carrier. Only when the seeds are ready, do the fruits ripen-- making them attractive to the birds that will consume them and deposit the seeds.

 

Eating these grapes was a challenge. The skins, thick and tough, were unpalatable. Removing them was not an option, as they contained aromas and astringency necessary for a balanced flavor. The large seeds which contained the bulk of the tannins were completely inedible; Natures cruel joke to us humans.

As a child, I developed a slow, methodical approach to eating these grapes: First, the skins were split open to reveal the seeds, which were pried out with fingertips, and sometimes from impatience, with tweezers. Next, the tenacious skins were peeled, but only halfway, leaving them intact at the blossom end. Holding on to the end, I would insert the grape into my mouth, biting down on the skin to release the flavor and loosen the pulp, then remove and discard the masticated skin. Messy? yes. Attractive? no. It would take me nearly an hour to get through a small bunch.

Other members of my family did not have the patience (or neurosis) to eat them "properly" and would just eat them whole, or not bother at all. And yes, these grapes made an extraordinary jelly, but how many jars can a family consume or give away? 

Not that many, it turned out. And so, the grapes were left for the birds.

A few years ago, my father, tired of cleaning the mess and tending the vines, cut them down and installed an awning over the patio that was once covered with a flourishing grape arbor.

Every year since, come October, I get a craving for those old world grapes.

I miss them.

 

"Those things are better which are perfected by nature than those which are finished by art", said Cicero, a long, long time ago

Nature, with her infinite variations, has always been a primary source of inspiration, as well as aggravation, but I have to concur with William Blake, who said "Great things are done when men and mountains meet"

This is not a mountain...its just a grape. 

My intention here was to recreate the flavor and balance of the grapes, without the obstacles of seeds and skin. With my father's grapes no longer available, I turned to the the Concord (Vitis labrusca). The pulp was separated from the skins and each juiced separately. The pulp was set with agar and gelatin and molded. After a few trials, I found the best ratio was .85% agar to .35% gelatin. When the gelled pulp was unmolded, the grapes were marinated in the juice from the skin. Adria applies this technique in Gelatina Cru by vacuum sealing. I found that I had better control over the penetration and ultimate proportions of skin/pulp by simply allowing it to sit in the marinade for a few hours. 

For the first time, I am able to enjoy the flavor and texture of old world grapes with none of the distractions. This technique also opens up possibilities for other whimsies...grapes made of white wine, marinated in red. Or, other manipulations of flavor contrasts between pulp and peel...sweet orange gel, marinated in bitter orange.

Have I outwitted Mother Nature? Just maybe on this one...but she is still legions ahead.

For a philosophical take on Man vs. Nature in the context of food, read  "Cooking: The Quintessential Art" by Herve This and Pierre Gagnaire, a book that I forgot to include in my previous post. Chadzilla quotes from the book in a recent post, sparking an insightful conversation.

(I can't put up this post without a shout out to my friend, Uwe, who embraces the nicknames Uva and Queso [grape and cheese]. Check out his blog Gratifood. His food will make you drool. His language will make you smile.)

 

barrage

with great anticipation

they began to arrive

one by one

so many ideas

inspiration

information

...so little time

and then the big FAT one

waddles in

part cookbook

part comic book

part science text

...all sick with it

oh dear

i'm feeling like Alice in Wonderland

if i should disappear from here

its because ive fallen down a rabbit hole

don't s

         e

          n

           d

              h

              e

              l

              p

     

tuna pumpernickel sunchoke yacon

salt cured tuna

pumpernickel pudding

sunchoke nuggets

pickled yacon

honey mustard pearls

white sage

pumpernickel pudding

120g egg yolks

120g sour cream

250g whole milk

150g coarse, dry pumpernickel crumbs

salt to taste

Preheat oven to 350. Butter the insides of individual molds or set them in a large baking dish.

In a large bowl, whisk together the yolks, sour cream, milk, and salt. Fold in the pumpernickel and pour into molds. Fill the baking dish with enough boiling water to come halfway up the sides of the molds. Cover the baking dish with foil. Place in oven and bake until the puddings are no longer wet in the centers.

sunchoke nuggets

250g sunchokes, peeled and cut into brunoise

50g unsalted butter 

salt and pepper to taste

Heat a heavy skillet over medium high heat until hot. Add butter. When butter starts to brown, add sunchokes and toss well. Season with salt and pepper. Continue cooking, constantly tossing in browned butter until sunchokes are crispy on the outside and soft inside.

pickled yacon

150g yacon, peeled and thinly shaved

250g rice wine vinegar

5g salt

5g sugar

Bring the vinegar, sugar and salt to a boil. Allow to cool to room temperature. Pour over the yacon in a nonreactive bowl. Cover and chill for 1 hour.

honey mustard pearls

40g dijon mustard

20g honey

20g water

1g agar

1 quart cold vegetable oil

Whisk together the mustard, honey, water and agar. Bring to a boil. Fill a syringe with the mixture and squeeze out individual drops into cold oil. Let pearls stand in oil for a few minutes to gel. Scoop out pearls with a mesh strainer and rinse with cool water.

salt cured tuna

Driving through picturesque seaside villages along the western coast of Portugal, the ocean's influence on the landscape is everywhere. White-washed houses sport louvered shutters to deflect the glaring sun. Trees and vegetation lean inland as if sculpted by the wind. Sun-bleached seashells pave driveways and footpaths. And fish is found in unexpected places.

My boys, who were quite young then and restless from the ten hour road trip, giggled from the back seat. "Why does everyone wash their fish here?" one of them asked. I wasn't sure what he meant until I caught sight of a clothesline. Hanging between the socks and knickers were splayed sides of salted fish, curing in the heat of the sun and swaying in the salty breeze. The ubiquitous bacalhao (salt cod) were easy to pick out and I guessed that the smaller, dark slabs were tuna.

Arriving at our destination in the Algarve, we were weary and hungry. A restaurant was chosen based on its proximity to our hotel. With stomachs rumbling, we were led onto a terrace, perched high on the side of a cliff overlooking a coved beach, and beyond, an emerald green sea from which ancient limestone formations rose up like pillars.

Distracted by the view, I ordered a tuna dish which I assumed would be cooked. I was surprised to be served what looked like thin slices of raw tuna. The Portuguese are known for preparing fish a hundred ways, but never raw. 

Tasting the tuna was revelatory--salty, silky, pungent and fishy, but clean--like the ocean itself. The accompaniments: slices of boiled, waxy potatoes, hard boiled eggs, minced onion and fruity, green olive oil were the perfect foil for the aggressive tuna. 

Before leaving, I inquired about the tuna and learned that it was salt-cured and sun-dried; a traditional preparation called mochama. When I asked where I could buy it, I was told that it could not be bought, that it had to be made.

Its taken me a long time, but I finally did make it. 

Eleven days ago, I buried slabs of fresh tuna loin in sea salt. Nine days ago, I soaked them in cold water. Seven days ago, I hung them to dry in a spare refrigerator. Today, I cut thin slices of mochama, and ate them, accompanied by potatoes, eggs, onion, and olive oil. 

For a moment, I forgot that its a cold and dreary day. In my head, I was back in a land of emerald sea and warm salty breezes, where people hang their dinner out to dry with their laundry. 

salt cured tuna

Mochama (Portugal), mojama (Spain), and mosciame (Italy) should be made from very fresh tuna (sushi quality). Cut the loin into portions that are up to 5" wide and no more than 2" thick. On a whim, I brushed half of the portions with sweet soy (equal amounts of soy sauce and brown sugar, brought to a boil) during the first three days of drying. I found that this untraditional finish enhanced the final product.

In a deep, nonreactive dish, spread out a 1/2" thick layer of sea salt. Lay tuna portions on top, leaving a space between each. Cover tuna with 1/2" thick layer of salt. Cover and refrigerate for 2 days. 

After 2 days, remove tuna from salt and rinse well. Place tuna in a large bowl and cover with cold water. Set aside in the refrigerator for 2 days, changing the water 6 times during the soaking period.

After the tuna soaks for 2 days, remove from water and pat dry with paper towels. Thread a coated wire through one end of each portion and bend the end into a hook. Hang in the refrigerator to dry, allowing plenty of room between each portion for good air circulation. After 7 days, it is ready to use.

tubers

Sunchoke (round) and Yacon (enlongated)

Sunchoke (Helianthus tuberosus) is a tuber native to the United States and first cultivated by Native Americans. Also known as Jerusalem Artichokes, they are a species of sunflower that are easily grown in a sunny spot but can become invasive if left unchecked. To keep the tubers vigorous and viable, they should be dug up in late autumn to harvest, saving some to replant in fertile soil. Their earthy flavor and texture is reminiscent of potatoes and are best lightly steamed or roasted.

Yacon (Smallanthus sonchifolious) is in the same family of plants as sunchokes and sunflowers. Indigenous to the Peruvian Andes where they grow as perennials, the tubers cannot survive harsh New England winters and must be dug up and stored in a protected area, to be replanted in the spring. Their flavor is mildly sweet and fruity with earthy tones. Their texture is crisp; a cross between jicama and water chestnuts and are delicious when eaten raw.

white truffle x4

All told, my little 14 gram tartufo bianco d'Alba gave a lot of bang for the buck. It provided me a day's worth of delicious meals. A truffle-scented omelet for breakfast. For lunch, a bowl of fresh tagliatelle with butter, taleggio, and a scandalous shower of shaved truffle. And this heady quartet for dinner. 

All truffle. All day. 

Life is good.

 

white truffle

She caught the scent the minute that she walked in the door. Even from within a glass case, it lured her with its siren song.

It never ceased to amaze her. How those small nuggets could emit such a powerful smell. 

Nestled in a small dish of rice, they were the least salient things in the case. Visually, they were no match for the pates, sliced to reveal their flamboyant mosaics. They had none of the panache of the glistening slabs of smoked fish. Even the oozing wheels of cheese had more verve. Yet, they galvanized her attention.  

Her eyes fixed on the marker that rose up from behind the dish. Her breath caught.

That can't be right...surely, someone made an error.

She thought back to the last time that she had purchased them for a client. He hadn't even flinched when presented with the bill. No, there was no mistake.

"May I help you?"

"When did they come in?" she asked with her index finger pressed to the glass. She resolved that if it were three days or more, she would walk away with no regret.

"Tuesday"

Shit. Two days ago.

"They're the last shipment of the season."

Great. It was now or never.

"Could you weigh one for me?"

"Which one?"

"The small one, please."

She watched the numbers come up on the digital display and tried to calculate the weight on her wallet. Without being asked, the clerk punched in the five digits. Reality set in. 

She closed her eyes in an attempt to focus. 

She couldn't...could she? 

There was the economy to consider. And the mortgage, the cars, college tuition (x2), the economy, the apartment on CPW (a student room is HOW MUCH?). Oh...and the economy.

Maybe if she held it...

The clerk passed it to her, loosely wrapped in waxed paper.

Up close, the scent was intoxicating, clouding her judgement.

Maybe...she could. 

She remembered that her birthday had just passed and she had been very good. Just that morning, she had walked past a display of Louis Vuitton bags without even a sideways glance. Later, she found a bottle of Vintage Port that she had lusted for, then reluctantly replaced it on the shelf. That one hurt. And, last night, hadn't she forgone a spendy tasting menu for a soulful bowl of ramen in the East Village?

She sighed and handed it back to the clerk.

Her day went downhill from there. The uptown train was 15 minutes late, sending her scrambling into the apartment to pack her bags and catch a taxi to the Metro-North station in Harlem.

The taxi driver was uncharacteristically slow. She watched the time anxiously and twice reminded him that she was catching a train. He would nod, unfazed, and continue his crawl.

She knew that she was cutting it close when she arrived at the station, rushing past the elevator to climb the stairs with bags in tow. From the landing, she caught sight of the train, waiting with its doors open. 

Yes! she was going to make it. 

As her foot left the top step, the doors closed. From inside the train, a man in a business suit looked up from his newspaper to give her a sympathetic smile. The train pulled away and disappeared down the track.

Dropping her bags, she let out a string of expletives that were reserved for times of extreme frustration. The hard guttural consonants usually had a purging effect. Not this time.

She paced the platform restlessly, considering her options. Waiting there for four hours for the next train was not one of them.

She could return to the apartment, providing that her son was still there to let her in. Or, she could wait for him in the park across the street, reading the massive book that she had brought with her. Barring that, there was the Turkish cafe at the end of his block with free wifi and strong coffee. 

Calmer now, she sat down on the wrought iron bench atop the elevated platform and looked down at the lively street scene below her. 

She carried a special place in her heart for Harlem. As a student, she would often ride the subway to 125th St from her room near Union Square. Even with the train fare, meals and groceries were cheaper than what she could find in her neighborhood. The simple, honest food was what drew her there. The vibrant cultural tapestry kept her coming back. Her roommates, though concerned for her safety, refused to accompany her. She once told them that Harlem was where "the real people were". She had been trying to make a point. They had cut her off, guffawing from their ivory tower.

The sun was starting it's descent into the Hudson, washing the scene with golden light. Her favorite time of day. Things were not as bad as they had seemed a moment ago. She realized that she had been given a gift---a stretch of time to do with as she pleased in a city full of possibilities. How was that a bad thing?

Besides, there was nothing urgent to return home to. Her husband and dog would be sound asleep. Work could wait another day. There was only one thing distracting her, but that, too, could wait for tomorrow.

She unzipped her bag and pulled out a half-pint deli container. The dry rice rattled against the plastic as she brought it up to her face. She peeled back the top, only enough to admit her nose, then inhaled deeply. 

Things were looking up.

  

black forest