playing with fire and water

confitures

candied buddha's hand citron

 

marrons glacés

 

 

real maraschino cherries

 

If you're a bit long in the tooth— or just have a sweet one— you might already know what these are destined for.

 
 

turbot broccolini cauliflower

Historically, the Brassica family, whose members are collectively known as cabbages, has seen its ups and downs. At its high point in ancient times, cabbage was prized by the Greeks and Chinese. It hit its low point in the Middle Ages, when medieval superstition suspected leafy greens of causing disease and it was deemed too coarse for the delicate European aristocracy. For centuries following, cabbage and its ilk were regarded as food fit only for peasants and livestock.

Today, the genus Brassica has the distinction of containing more important agricultural and horticultural crops than any other genus. The Brassicaceae family is remarkable in that all parts of their species have been developed for use as food:

    seed- mustard and canola/rape 
    flowers- cauliflower and broccoli 
    leaves- cabbage, kale, collards, brussels sprouts, mizuna, bok choy,
                arugula, and watercress     
    stem- kohlrabi  
    roots- turnips, rutabagas, radish, horseradish, wasabi, and daikon 
 
All of these plants are united and identified by their four-petaled flowers that form the shape of a cross (hence, the old classification of Cruciferae) and by their pungent flavor attributed to glucosinolates.

Glucosinoltes are a type of organic compound that contain both sulfur and nitrogen. Plants use this compound as a powerful defense system. Nutritionally, glucosinates are dichotomic— on the one hand, they can be toxic to humans and animals when consumed in massive doses, but in subtoxic quantities they become beneficial and are even known to produce anti-cancer enzymes. Glucosinolates are directly responsible for the strong, bitter flavor of Brassica that we either love or hate. I have to side with the Greeks on this one.

 

Brassicas, in one form or another, are always present in my vegetable bin. I'm a fan because they lend themselves to many different preparations. I love them all.

There is something fundamentally satisfying about the snappy texture of barely-cooked broccoli and cauliflower that appeals to the grazer in me. When I want something heartier, I slowly braise them in stock until they practically melt. Braising works well with leaves, stems, flowers, and roots, though vivid colors turn murky when cooked this way. Alternately, I toss the blanched, fleshier Brassicas in olive oil, spread them out on sheet pans and roast them in a hot oven. Their frizzled, dark edges are irresistible. 

Brassicas contain varying levels of glucosinolate depending on their species, with brussels sprouts leading the pack and cauliflower trailing at the end. Cooking methods directly affect the levels of pungency. A quick plunge in boiling water leaves the flavor molecules intact, while a long, slow braise leaches the molecules into the liquid, and gradually transforms them to a mellower, but funkier goodness. The dry heat of roasting intensifies flavor and adds a layer of complexity from the caramelized sugars.

Last spring, I tried the deep fried brussels sprouts at Momofuku. The outer leaves were blistered and singed, nearly black with char; their cores soft and pungent. It was a level of flavor— intensely bitter-sweet and nutty— that once experienced, you are changed forever.

 

turbot with a blanket of braised green cauliflower, white beans, preserved buddha's hand citron, 
 and black truffle
blanched broccolini stems, deep fried flowers

 
 

broccolini flowers

 

Something extraordinary happens when deep-frying broccolini flowers:

At first, they sing [some would say hiss].

And then they dance [look out for the high kicks].

For the Grand Finale, they burst open in bloom.

Delightfully entertaining, they are.

[I'm easily amused]

 

deep-fried broccolini flowers

buddha's hand citron salt
  

buddha's hand citron salt

 

My first inclination was to dehydrate the preserved Buddha's hand puree but some long forgotten piece of knowledge— an elemental fact, in fact— kept knocking at my logic, insisting that it would not turn out the way I thought.

It was the salt.

Salt does not evaporate. I learned that in third grade science class while standing over a pot of boiling salted water, watching the water vaporize and leave behind a film of salt clinging to the bottom of the pot. 

Common salt is an ionic bond of sodium (Na) and chloride (Cl). When it is dissolved in water, the Na and Cl atoms pull apart and seem to disappear. Take away the water and the atoms reunite because they are electrostatically attracted to each other. 

Remembering this put a spin on my intentions for the puree. Looking at it anew, I estimated that it was roughly 70% solids suspended in 30% water but there was no way to evaluate how much salt the preserved citron had absorbed. Judging from the taste— quite a bit. I had every reason to believe that if I removed the water from the puree I would be left with dehydrated flavor solids clinging to re-formed salt crystals, or an inherently flavored salt.

I would risk scorching the solids if I evaporated the water on a stove top. And I couldn't wait for the slow process of low temperature dehydration to find out. So I turned to the microwave.

After trying to heat a mass of the puree in the microwave, I quickly remembered something else I had forgotten: molten salt conducts electricity. Alarmed by the sparks flying around my 2-month-old microwave, I quickly removed it and thinly spread the puree on silpat and returned it to the microwave. It sputtered a bit, but no sparks. Ten seconds later, the puree had transformed to lacy fragments of crunchy, lemon-infused salt.

After my brain stopped reeling from possible uses, I was left with some questions:

• Could the process be hastened by simply dissolving salt in a puree and dehydrating, or did the six-week-long preserving affect the outcome?
  
• Did the acid in the lemon juice (used in preserving) come into play?
  
• Did the re-formed salt crystals trap the solids or are they clinging to the crystals?
  
• What is the yield point of a salt solution (i.e. how much salt can be added to water before it will cease to dissolve)
  
• How much salt is necessary for the product to qualify as a flavored salt instead of a salty crisp?

buddah's hand citron

If a squid and a lemon had a love child, I imagine it would look like a Buddah's hand citron.

 

The visually striking Buddah's hand citron (Citrus medica var. sarcodactylis) is an ancient species of citrus, a genetic mutation that originated in Northeastern India or China. It's fragrance is sweet and floral— like lemons and oranges, kissed by violets— and so powerful that in China it's used to scent rooms and tucked in with clothing and linens.

Buddah's hand citron has no pulp or juice— just a fragrant rind, laden with essential oils, and a mild, sweet albedo (pith), devoid of the bitterness found in other citrus.

I purchased a pair of them in early December and after admiring their forms and fragrance on display around the house, it was time to bring them into the kitchen.

Buddah's hand citron is most commonly used in sweet applications, but I wanted to explore its use as a savory component. Knowing that I wouldn't have time to work them into a dish, I cut them into fingers and preserved them in salt and Meyer lemon juice. Nearly six weeks later, they were ready— and so was I.

Preserved in their salty and acidic bath, the rind of the Buddah's hand citron appeared darker and slightly shriveled, while the spongy albedo had softened and condensed. Like preserved lemons, they were fiercely pungent— salty and puckery, but underneath that was their characteristic sweet, floral aroma. Straight out of the brine, they would've made a distinctive accent to nearly anything from seafood to lamb, if used sparingly. 

 

In an attempt to tone them down, I cooked them in a pressure cooker with water and just a spoonful of the brine. They turned out mellower in flavor with a melting soft texture that easily turned into a smooth puree in the food processor.

Now what?

 
  

thai pie

 

With the last of the kaffir limes I wanted to make a variation of Key Lime Pie. Have you ever wondered what prompted the use of sweetened condensed milk in this classic American dessert? I have. Apparently, the first pie was made in the Florida Keys in the late nineteenth century, shortly after Gail Borden introduced the product in the US in 1856. Before modern refrigeration, cooks in the hot climate of Key West had to rely on canned milk as fresh milk was not readily available. The rest, as they say, is history.

Although there are many applications for sweetened condensed milk, I can recall only ever using it for two things: Key Lime Pie and dulce de leche. See where I'm going?

 

Despite the warnings on the cans, I still make dulce de leche by boiling the sealed can in a pot of water. It's so easy. Unless you let the water boil away and the can explodes. Years later, I'm still cleaning that mess.

The caramelized flavor of the dulce de leche reminded me of the palm sugar in the Nahm Jeem Plah Poa Ubon sauce of the previous post. Along with the kaffir lime juice, I had the base in which to build the flavor profile of the sweet, tart, salty, spicy sauce that I so love. Don't worry— I left out the garlic and fish sauce. The salt is in the pastry crust and the spice, along with coconut powder, is in the meringue topping.

 

 

Download recipe:  Thai pie

 
 

thai shrimp cocktail

I've always poached shrimp in the conventional way: in a pot of simmering court bouillon. Sometimes I poach it in butter or olive oil, but then, that's confit, isn't it? Same with sous vide.

Recently, I was shown a different method by a culinary student at the restaurant, who learned it from another chef. His way is with residual heat. Instead of cooking the shrimp in the simmering broth, boiling broth is poured over the shrimp that's been spread out in a hotel pan. The pan is immediately covered tightly with plastic wrap and set aside. Depending on the size and quantity of the shrimp, it takes 10-15 minutes until they are perfectly cooked. What I like about this countertop cooking is that they are never tough or overcooked.

 Peeling and deveining shrimp is a time consuming task. Sometimes, I buy them already deveined, but always with their shells on for flavor. Decapods (ten-footed crustaceans) carry their intestines on what appears to be their backs, but are actually their bellies. To remove the intestinal tract, the flesh along the belly must be slit open, leaving thin flaps that I find visually distracting when presenting them whole. These long, thin filaments peel away easily and are tasty morsels, though they rarely accumulate in quantities that would comprise a meal. These trimmings— the rare and esoteric by-products of cooking— are the cook's reward. 

I think what I like best about Thai food is the balance of sweet, salty, tart, spicy and umami.  Nowhere 
is this best exemplified than in the sweet-sour garlic dipping sauce Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon— a lively combination of lime juice, palm sugar, thai chilies, garlic, and fish sauce. It's an alarm clock of a sauce— it awakens the senses, makes you sit up and pay attention. I prefer it over cocktail sauce as a dip for poached shrimp. It's delicious poured over hot, grilled fish or steamed rice. In hot weather, I drizzle it over icy-cold watermelon or freeze it and rake it with a fork for a refreshing granita. It's so good that I could drink it, and I do—diluted with sparkling water and sometimes in a sake cocktail.
Using kaffir lime juice brings it to a whole other level, adding complex floral notes along with a bracing acidity.
I wanted to use it with the shrimp bellies and rice noodles in a cold salad, but because it is so thin, I was having a hard time getting the sauce to cling to it. It's not such a bad thing having a pool of it in the bottom of the dish to slurp up, but I was looking for a cleaner presentation. Of course, I could've thickened it with xanthan or ultratex, but looking at the rice noodles, I realized that they were the perfect vehicle to carry the flavor. With a nod to an entirely different cuisine— Italian— and the dish Spaghetti All'Ubriaco, where pasta is cooked in red wine, I cooked the rice stick noodles in the sauce. Infused with the flavor of Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon, the noodles 'dressed' the salad neatly and cleanly.

 

Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon
parts are by volume, not weight

3 parts nam plah (fish sauce)
2 parts water 
2 parts palm sugar (or brown sugar)
1 part finely minced garlic
1 part minced fresh thai bird chili, or 1/2 part dried
3 parts fresh kaffir lime juice

Place all ingredients except for lime juice in a saucepan and bring to a simmer. When the sugar is dissolved, remove from heat and add the lime juice. 

kaffir lime

Why— in the dead of winter— do I crave bright exotic flavors? I suppose it's a countermeasure to the bleakness of January; a physical reminder that somewhere on this planet the earth is producing things that are juicy and ripe.

Many food trend lists for 2010 include eating locally and seasonally. Admirable goals, certainly, but I live in the frozen tundra Northeast, and if I were to adhere strictly to that, I would be starving right about now. And even worse, there would be no citrus fruits of any kind.

I never fully realized how indispensable citrus is in cooking until I had to do without it, as the Native Americans did— who ONLY ate locally and seasonally. It forced me to analyze why I relied on lemon and lime juice— or any acidic medium. I concluded that it is not merely a crutch, but an essential element of flavor balance that is supported by many of the world's cuisines.  Lemons, limes and other sour citrus have distinct aromas that can define or enhance flavor, while acid is a great equalizer. Like salt, it opens up flavors and makes them bloom. A small addition of acid can balance a dish; saving it from being too sweet, too rich, too flat. Relearning all of this makes me more mindful of its role and all the more grateful that I have access to products that don't grow in my climate.

 

I'll never forget my first encounter with kaffir lime. It was one of those moments that left an indelible impression on my sensory bank. I was eating Thai food— for the first time— at an authentic Thai restaurant. The perfume of kaffir lime leaves was woven through course after course of the most sensual and aromatic food that I had no point of reference or vocabulary for. It was wonderfully exotic.

The first thing I did was to buy a Thai cookbook to better understand the cuisine. 20+ years ago, I had never even heard of things like galangal, nam pla, and kaffir lime leaves, let alone know where to source them. But that didn't stop me from cooking it— substituting ginger for galangal, lime zest for kaffir lime leaves— fully cognizant that it was not authentic. Instead, I focused on learning technique— how to pre-soften dried rice noodles for Paht Thai in warm water, how to make an incendiary and aromatic Krueng Gaeng Kua in a mortar & pestle, how to thicken coconut cream until the surface glistens with oil before adding the curry paste and coconut milk when preparing Choo Chee Goong. When the ingredients finally became available, I was prepared to do them justice.

As I recall, the kaffir lime leaves were the hardest to source. It was a hit-or-miss item at Asian markets. With the advent of the internet, I found a supplier/grower in Florida who was willing to ship small quantities of fresh leaves. Eventually, I became curious about the fruit, made inquiries, and was told that because there wasn't a market for kaffir limes in the US, they stripped the trees of fruit buds to direct its energy to producing leaves. Undeterred, I ordered a dwarf tree that I would grow indoors. It died before setting fruit, along with my hopes of ever tasting a fresh kaffir lime.

Fast forward to last winter. The chef at the restaurant hands me a pair of green knobby fruit that Sid Weiner had dropped off as samples of a new product. One intoxicating whiff and I instantly knew what they were. I had waited over a decade to experience them. Were they worth it? You bet.

  

This was one of my favorite hors d'Oeuvres from this holiday season. They're so simple that a recipe isn't neccessary. Just mix impeccably picked-over crab meat with a little mayo, minced shallots, scallions, cilantro and kaffir lime zest (or minced leaves) and as much red curry paste as you can handle.. The avocado bases were cut a few hours ahead and kept in diluted kaffir lime juice (or just lime juice with a few kaffir lime leaves tossed in for flavor).

 
 
 

Indian Summer : wrap up

Well, that was probably the longest meal in history.
8 courses in 5 weeks.
Hope you weren't too hungry.

 

 

  

  

For awhile, I thought I'd bitten off more than I could chew. 

The dishes came easily enough. It was the research— the wonderful bottomless pit of discovery— that held me up. It didn't help that it was also the busiest time of the year at the restaurant and with catering.

It had started with a season. A micro-season, actually. Indian Summer. A time that straddles the end of autumn and heralds the feast of Thanksgiving.

But food is never just about time. It's also about place. And it's always about people. 
Food tells a story about people. 

Historically, cuisine is shaped by people, culture, and  geography. We live in a marvelous time when technology has shrunk the world, blurring borders and giving us access to unlimited streams of information. It's only natural that the influence of technology should find it's way into our kitchens. There is always more to learn.  

I felt compelled to look back— way back— to the beginning. I sought to understand food at its most primal, and learned that food is inextricably bound to the people who prepare and eat it. 

History is a quagmire. Only by looking back can we see how far we've come. In some ways, it's not very far at all.

Today, though, I'm looking forward. To a New Year. A new decade. And to new culinary adventures.
I can hardly wait!

This post is part of a tasting menu inspired by the indigenous foods and people of North America:
 Indian Summer 
 Indian Summer :: the forest :: mushroom pine
 Indian Summer  :: the sea :: oyster seaweed
 Indian Summer  ::  the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion
 Indian Summer  :: the field :: corn pumpkin bean
 Indian summer  ::  the river :: trout birch sumac
 Indian Summer :: the lake :: duck cranberry wild rice
 Indian Summer :: the plains :: bison juniper chestnut
 Indian Summer :: the woods :: oak maple hickory