playing with fire and water

fruit tart

Once, my friend Judy gave me a rudimentary lesson on throwing pottery. I can still remember how the clay felt between my fingers as it turned on the wheel. Supple. Lithe. Obsequious. A gentle pull would make the clay rise like a tower; a push would flatten it into a slab. Up... down... out... in... I delighted in the responsive dance of force and symmetry. 

I went into the pottery studio that day with a project in mind: a shallow bowl with thin walls that tapered gently outward. Tried as I did, my inexperienced hands couldn't make the clay dance that way. Later, it was decided that the best way to build the bowl was from a molded slab. The process involved rolling, cutting and molding. THESE were motions that my hands understood; it was the dance of pastry.

There are two types of molds used for clay slabs: slump and hump. In slump molding, the clay is laid inside the mold, much like pastry dough is fitted inside a pie or tart pan. In hump molding, the clay is draped over the outside of the mold. This was how I formed my bowl because: 1) it was the only type of mold available at the studio, and 2) it allowed the inside of the bowl to remain smooth and free of blemishes while modeling the slab to the mold. The process made me question why we build pastry crusts inside the confinement of pans and overlook the outside. 

Wet clay is made up of fine mineral particles that float in thin layers of water. When clay is rolled, the particles line up in the direction of the force. If a clay slab is rolled in only one direction, the particles line up to form a grain that will cause the object to shrink against the grain when dried and fired.

I've often wondered why recipes for pie crusts insist that the dough should be rolled from the center out, and why they sometimes shrink unevenly when baked. I've wondered, too, about the turns in laminated doughs. I never expected to find the answers in working with clay, but I'm glad I did.

freeform pate brisee bowl ✢ yuzu curd ✢ meringue 
rambutan ✢ lychee ✢ myoga ✢ ume
ground cherry ✢ black sesame 

pea prosciutto peanut

late night cravings for wasabi peas and peanut brittle... sometimes both together.

rereading a childhood fairytale... a terrible giant (who grinds the bones of Englishmen to make his bread!), redemption, and golden eggs.

revisiting a classic trio... fresh peas, cured meat, hard aged cheese.

observing nature in high summer... the race towards the sky.

 

random inspirations are often the inception of a dish.

english pea pudding ✢ pea sprouts ✢ prosciutto 
manchego ✢ wasabi pea powder ✢ peanut brittle 

sticky toffee foie pudding

I remember the moment I fell in love with textiles. I was studying fashion design at Parsons when the draping instructor suggested I attend an exhibit of 18th century textiles at the Met. I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to see a bunch of dusty old fabrics. "Go", she said. "they will inspire you." 

Coming out of a lifetime of denim, polyester, and cotton jersey, I was hopelessly unprepared for the opulence of that exhibit. Printed chintzes, sumptuous velvet brocades, luxe silk damasks, allegorical Toile de Jouy, gossamer laces—each one a masterpiece of fiber and thread. Collectively, they told a story of a pre-industrial era of impeccable craftsmanship and a soignee world of extravagance and luxury. I had no desire to possess them, I wanted only to bask in their splendor.
I was, indeed, inspired.

If ever there was to be an exhibit of Pure Luxury, foie gras would make a salient display. The luxury of foie is not in its price, though considerable, but in the sensual experience of consuming it. I've always found it's velvety mouthfeel and resonant flavor to be more hedonistically aligned with a rich dessert.

Among other things, studying fashion instilled in me an awareness of trends and the cycles of design; most are just revivals of old elements made new for modern taste. Looking through a book of medieval cookery, I was struck by how many savory dishes were made sweet with honey and fruits. Now, it seems, the dessert cycle has leaned towards the savory— adding salt, savory herbs, vegetables and animal. The latter— lest we forget— includes eggs, butter and cream. How to take it to the next step? Are we ready for fish, flesh, or offal even, in our dessert?  Maybe we'll never be ready for candied kidneys, but in regards to foie gras, I can only wonder "what took so long?".

Brandy-soaked cubes of foie, embedded in moist cakes redolent of dates and muscavado, an arabesque of sticky sweet brandy-spiked sauce— it is the stuff of baroque fairy tales; a decadence fit for kings and queens— the gustatory equivalent of brocade pillows and damask sheets.

sticky toffee foie pudding
red currant jelly ice cream
sugared red currants 

sticky toffee foie pudding
serves 6 

40g foie gras, cleaned of veins 
130g Tuaca or brandy 
60g dates, roughly chopped
86g reserved Tuaca or brandy from soaking foie
56g unsalted butter at room temperature
55g muscovado sugar
97g eggs
84g flour
4g baking soda
6g baking powder

sauce:
78g muscovado sugar
1.5g salt
175g heavy cream
25g butter
30g reserved Tuaca or brandy from soaking foie

Cut foie with a heated knife into 6 cubes, each measuring 1.25cm x 1.25 cm x 2cm and place in small bowl. Pour Tuaca or brandy over foie to submerge (use more if needed). Set aside to marinate for 2 hours. Strain through a fine sieve, reserving brandy for cake and sauce.
Heat 86g of reserved brandy in a small saucepan to 43C/110F. Add dates and cook over very low heat for 5 minutes. Remove pan from heat, cover, and set aside for 10-15 minutes to soften dates. Stir the dates and brandy vigorously with a wooden spoon until they break up and the mixture looks like a chunky puree. Set aside to cool.
Preheat oven to 176C/350F. Grease 6 small dariole molds. Cream the butter and sugar with an electric mixer fitted with paddle attachment on medium speed until light and fluffy. Add the eggs and beat for 2 minutes, then add the date/brandy puree and beat for 1 minute. Sift together the dry ingredients and add to mixer. Beat for 1-2 minutes, or just until incorporated.
Spoon batter into each of greased molds until half full. Place a cube of marinated foie in each of the molds, then cover with remaining batter until molds are nearly full. Place filled molds in a baking dish, spacing them 5cm apart. Pour boiling water into baking dish until it comes halfway up the sides of the molds. Immediately cover tightly with foil and place in oven. Bake for 12 minutes or until the top of the cake springs back when pressed. Remove cakes from water bath, cover loosely with foil to keep warm while making sauce.
To make sauce: Place all ingredients except brandy in a medium saucepan. Set over medium heat and whisk while cooking until thick and smooth, about 4- 5 minutes. Remove from heat and whisk in 30g of reserved brandy until smooth and silky. 
To serve: Unmold the warm cakes and dip each one in the sauce, rolling around until well coated. Transfer each to serving plate and carefully spoon  a small amount of sauce over the top, letting it drip down the sides. Serve warm.

 

 

 

pumpkin oven

The final week of November is, without doubt, the busiest of my year. Between filling orders at the restaurant and cooking for clients, the cooking marathon known as Thanksgiving passes me by in a blur. Even though it's stressful, I enjoy the process, knowing that I am contributing to what is perhaps the most nostalgic— thus, emotional meal of the year. As always, organization keeps things flowing smoothly, but there are always glitches— forgotten ingredients, malfunctioning equipment, etc. The real drama, though, plays out when I shut down at night. The stress and anxiety that I have no time for during the day manifests itself in my dreams— or, more accurately— nightmares.

One perennial nightmare that perplexes me is when the entire turkey vanishes into thin air after being loaded into the oven, never to be seen again. In another, dessert turns into a calamity of events that begin with a pumpkin souffle that sinks like a battleship and ends with flambeed cranberries that set the dining room on fire. Then there's the one where I spill a cup of hot coffee down a guest's back. Oh... wait... that one actually happened.  

Mercifully, whether in reality or the imagination, Thanksgiving does not only induce visions of disaster; sometimes there are glimpses of perfection: crackling golden skin, moist juicy flesh, fluffy potatoes, flaky crusts, flavors that produce smiles and make memories. And, in the most traditional of holidays, it is only in the nocturnal world that I am allowed flights of food fantasies like this one:
        A colossal gilded pumpkin , pulled from a cavernous oven, placed on a carriage and escorted into the dining room by a pair of footmen dressed like dandy pilgrims. Guests gathered round as the lid was lifted off the pumpkin, releasing a cloud of enticing aromas. The footmen, standing on tufted stools, reached in and pulled out a golden brown turkey large enough to feed a crowd. They reached in again and each pulled out a pumpkin, one filled with potatoes, the other with chestnuts. They reached in yet again and pulled out more pumpkins, these filled with brussels sprouts and cranberries. This went on and on like clowns coming out of a Volkswagen until the sizable table groaned with pumpkins filled with all manner of fruits, grains, and vegetables.
An entire meal for the masses cooked in a pumpkin!

Cooking in a pumpkin is nothing new. Indigenous North Americans used hollowed-out pumpkins and gourds as cooking vessels. They would fill them with soups or stews and drop in hot rocks or cook them along with their contents, buried in hot embers. Early European settlers adopted this method by filling them with a custard made of eggs, milk, and honey. Although there is no documentation, there is speculation that this dessert appeared on early Thanksgiving tables. Similarly, in Thailand, Sankaya is a popular street food that consists of a pandanus-scented coconut milk custard, steamed in a small kabocha squash. You can find a recipe and video here.

Now that the holiday has passed (without incident), my waking life, as well as dreamland, can calm down. Inspired by the fantastical dream, I created my own private feast from my very own personal pumpkin oven. 

Remove breast and backbone from quail. Stuff cavity with fresh lemon balm.

Cover quail with aromatic paste:  Mix together 10g microplaned fresh ginger (1" piece), 10g microplaned garlic (2 medium cloves), 3.5g ground long pepper (1 tsp), 1g ground dried bird chili (1/2 tsp), 4g ground sumac (1 1/2 tsp), 16g extra virgin olive oil (1 Tblsp), 6g kosher salt (1 tsp).

 

Cut the top off of a medium-sized sugar pumpkin. Scrape out pulp and seeds. Bake in a 176C/350F oven for 30 minutes to heat the cavity. Meanwhile, bring 103g (1/2 cup) apple cider to a boil. Add 42g (1/4 cup) wild pecan rice and a pinch of salt. Return to boil and remove from heat. Immediately pour into warmed pumpkin. Lay a few sprigs of lemon balm over rice. Place quail on top of lemon balm. Cover pumpkin with lid and return to oven. Turn oven temperature up to 232C/450F and bake for 45 minutes, or until rice is tender and quail reaches 74C/165F.

Bring pumpkin oven to table and admire.

Lift lid and inhale.

Serve quail and rice with autumn bbq sauce and a scoop of the fragrant roasted pumpkin flesh. Enjoy.

ICC 2010: the dishes

Once again, Starchefs gathered together some of the most talented chefs from around the world to share ideas and techniques at the 5th Annual International Chefs Congress.

The event kicked off with a panel discussion on this year's theme: Art vs. Craft. Present on the panel were chefs Dan Barber, David Kinch, and Thomas Keller, with Michael Rhulman moderating. The discussion brought up some thoughtful points about intent and perception. While Barber and Kinch were willing to entertain the notion of chef/artist, Keller adamantly stated that he was a craftsman, not an artist. The consensus seemed to be that it was hubris for chefs to label themselves as "artists", though it was OK for the consumer to do so. The lack of a radically opposed point of view, which would have added another dimension to the conversation, became apparent when Barber admitted that the panel was mostly  ''vanilla' on the subject.  

Here are most of the dishes prepared on the main stage over the course of three days:

green goddess

I heard from a reader who made the asparagus sauce. He wanted to tell me that it brought fond memories of something his mother used to make. That's about the nicest thing that anyone can say to me.

He said it reminded him of his mother's green goddess dressing. He said that she, too, made it in a blender and sometimes added avocado. I don't know about you, but that sounded really good to me. 

 

Green goddess is a mayonnaise, herb, scallion and anchovy dressing, created in the 1920's at The Palace Hotel in San Francisco as a tribute to actor George Arliss, who starred in the stage play "The Green Goddess". Most often, it is found as a white mayonnaise flecked with herbs that (I think) doesn't live up to the promise of its name. This one certainly does.

This dressing was made using the asparagus sauce base, the lemon juice increased to 1 Tblsp and (taking a cue from James' mom) added 1/2 of a ripe avocado. I left the anchovies out of the dressing, instead I sauteed minced boquerones along with crumbled rye bread in brown butter. Now I want to put these savory toasted crumbs on everything.

 

The egg drops are simply lightly whisked egg yolks dropped into hot (185F/85C) clarified butter. At first, they drop to the bottom, then float to the surface when done like tiny dumplings.

 

Deep-fried asparagus florets are not nearly as entertaining as those of broccolini, but they are crisp, nutty and delicious nonetheless.

These components, along with a tender heart of butterhead lettuce and a long curl of nutty Parmesan, make an altogether agreeable salad.
Thanks to James and his mom for the inspiration.

  

happy spring

 

 

 

  

Indian Summer

We had our first frost earlier in the month. It was a tentative one at best, gone by midmorning and taking with it only the tenderest vegetation. The remainder of the month has been unseasonably warm— some days hot and perceptibly hazy, as if the charged atmosphere, in its hurried march towards winter, stalled in the heat and vibrated in idleness. 

In the USA, wherever there is a true winter, this period is called Indian Summer. 

Indian Summer usually occurs after the onset of cold, when the weather double-backs upon itself. The provenance of the phrase dates back to the 18th century and refers to the American Indians, who used this period to harvest and hunt in preparation for winter. 

On a daily basis, I travel roads that have been designated 'scenic routes', passing landscapes that remain largely unscathed by the hands of man. In this setting of fields, woods, lakes and forests, it's easy to imagine the indigenous way of life that was tethered to nature and governed by the elements. In November, when the riotous autumnal landscape turns stark with the impending severity of winter, the challenges become more evident; the struggles more acute. The austerity captures my imagination.

In Indian Summer, with the evocative scenery and Thanksgiving on the horizon, it's no wonder that November— more than any other month— has me contemplating the influence of the Native Americans.

At no other time is their influence more evident than on our Thanksgiving table. Turkey, oysters, cranberries, pumpkin, squash, sweet potatoes, beans, maple syrup, nuts, and berries are all indigenous foods that were quickly adopted by the European settlers, often saving them from starvation. And, of course, there was corn— the staple of the Native American diet, referred to in some native languages as "mother" or "life"— a benevolent sustaining force and once sacred crop that agribusiness has exploited into the monster that it is today.

Some time ago, I researched the Native American diet for a project. While I found it historically interesting, I admit to being uninspired by the limitations of food and cooking methods. I realize that this was because my cooking relied heavily on the abundance of food and ingredients from around the globe that was readily available to me. Recently, I was given the opportunity to cater an event at The Institute for American Indian Studies in Washington, CT, which was to focus on food that is native to North America. As I delved into it, I was surprised by how liberating it was to be given such tight parameters. The event, itself, was magical— listening to Native Americans tell stories and speak with pride about the past, present,and future, surrounded by fascinating exhibits and artifacts, learning first-hand about the customs and traditions that made up a lost way of life. There, I found the inspiration that I was after.

I'm putting together a series of dishes— a virtual tasting menu, if you will— that will occupy the next several posts. My intention is to temporarily step back from the complexities of modern cooking in order to explore the simplicity of primal food and native ingredients and to celebrate the beauty of the natural resources that surround me. I can't promise to completely exclude modern techniques, but by visiting another extreme, I hope to find a balance that makes sense and appeals to the way that we cook and eat today. 

ginger pumpkin black sesame yuzu

I often get questions and comments on plating. It's not a process that I over analyze or can easily define. Composing a plate of food is just one of the many creative processes involved in cooking.

When working with a pre-conceived plating design, the challenge is in finding the right flavors and forms to flesh out the concept. Sometimes this approach works, sometimes it evolves into something else. When the flavors and textures aren't right— even when they fit the concept— the entire dish is scrapped. This happens more often than I care to admit.

Mosty, I'm working with components that I want to bring together in a dish. In this case, I had ginger pumpkin cake, sweetened cream cheese with fresh yuzu juice and zest, black sesame paste emulsified with cocoa butter, and sandy brown butter crumbs. The flavors and textures captured the rich and mysterious tones of autumn; a mood that I wanted to express on the plate.

When it came time to plate, I didn't have a clear vision of the finished dish. When this happens, I look to the forms and colors for guidance, using intuition and experience through a filter of personal aesthetics. I'd like to say that I am always mindful of the creative process, but sometimes I just play around and hope for the best. Either way, regardless of what I tried, this dish was not coming together on the plate. I needed to step back and take a break. 

I woke my dog from one of his power naps and headed out for a walk. My neighbor had just taken down a birch tree in his front yard where I found him splitting logs. We chatted about the majestic birch and the splendid fires he would have. Later, I returned home with my head clear but I still had no direction for the dish. Yet, just minutes later, I was snapping the photo that you see above.

I wish that I could tell you how it came together, why decisions were made in the process, but the truth is that although my hands did the work, there was no logic or reason guiding them. Or so I thought...

When I uploaded the photo, it looked alien yet strangely familiar like something I had dreamt. "Did I really create that?" asked my left brain. The right brain replied, heckling, "Throw that log on the fire, will ya!"  I recognized the voice— it was the sound of my preconscious mind cracking open to reveal the path from a crisp autumn day, a pile of pale wood and dark twigs, the promise of a fire— to a composition on a plate. It was the voice of creativity.

What is creativity and where does it come from?

Anyone who has flirted, courted, or slept with it has surely asked this question. We all want to contribute something to the world that did not exist before and carries our unique imprint. It's why we procreate and generate ideas and art. But creativity doesn't fall from the sky and land in our hands— it is the manifestation of our collected experiences, from the banal to the transcendent, that weave through our conscious and subconscious minds, gestating, waiting for the trajectory of expression in order to find new life outside of ourselves. Is it then an attempt to immortalise that which is mortal?... a longing for eternity?

According to Juan Mari Arzak, "Creativity comes from where it can". It was not an answer to a question, but an off-the-cuff remark that substantiated how an ordinary event inspired the creation of a dish. Chef Arzak's observation resonated with me because it hinted at the wonder and mystery of the elusive force, and, also because it is a simple truth— creativity does, indeed, come from where it can. 

bbq sheet

This is a 12" x 20" sheet of dehydrated bbq sauce.

Sweet Baby Ray's-- straight out of the bottle. Spread on silpat, 130F. 8 hours.

Pliable when warm, brittle when cool. Fun stuff.

I'd love to see what an artist/sculptor could do with this.