sardine raspberry vinegar yogurt pine

Speaking of trends…its encouraging to see sustainable seafood on many lists.

Although we perceive the vast oceans as an endless source of food, pollution and careless fishing practices within the industry is depleting our supply faster than it can sustain itself. As chefs, it is our responsibility to educate and provide delicious and sustainable alternatives in order to sway popular taste. As consumers, we have the power to implement change, starting with the choices that we make (money talks).

Knowing what seafoods to choose can be confusing as it is not always a question of overfishing a particular species, but sometimes it is the location where they are caught and, often, it is the practice of a fishery or farmer that is harmful to the environment. There is a comprehensive guide here that lists good choices as well as alternatives and those to avoid. As a simplified general rule, large fish are most vulnerable, whereas small fish such as mackerel, herring, and sardines are not. In addition to being eco-friendly, these sustainable species are rich in omega-3 fatty acids, wallet-friendly, and loaded with umami.

Unfortunately, some people avoid these fish because of their assertive flavor or simply because they are unfamiliar.

Luckily for me, the humble sardine and I are old friends. Growing up in a Portuguese household, fewer foods were brought to the table with more reverence. The large, meaty ones were simply grilled whole, to be filleted at the table. The smaller ones were lightly fried and pickled overnight in garlic and onion-scented vinegar–their tiny bones so tender that they became an integral part of their texture. This preparation was my favorite. Though I couldn't stomach them for breakfast (as my parents often did), I enjoyed them as a snack.

Escabeche de Sardinha is as simple as quickly frying small sardines that have been seasoned and lightly dusted with flour, in olive oil. These are then removed from the pan, the heat turned down, and thinly sliced onions and garlic are added to the pan and slowly stewed. When soft, the pan is deglazed with red wine vinegar and the escabeche is poured over the sardines and chilled overnight. They are best eaten at room temperature.

For this dish, I swapped shallots for the onions, omitted the garlic, and deglazed with raspberry vinegar.

Sardines, vinegar, and raspberries have an affinity for each other and share aroma compounds: ester (isovaleric acid), alcohol (butanediol), and aldehyde (acetaldeyhde). Pine, yogurt and cocoa also play in with the flavors of fish and raspberries. Chemistry aside, its a great tasting combination.

sardine

vinegar

raspberry

yogurt

pine

cocoa

Eastern White Pine (Pinus strobis) proliferates throughout northeastern North America. The long, thin needles contain five times as much Vitamin C (by weight) as lemons.

For the pine dust: Bring equal amounts (by weight) of sugar and water to a boil. Reduce until syrupy. Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly. Drop in pine needles, stir to coat and remove to a silpat. If the syrup is too hot or the needles remain in it for too long, they will begin to discolor. Separate the needles and dehydrate until they snap when bent. Grind in a spice grinder.

conifers

Every January, we are inundated with lists that forecast trends for the coming year. As someone who works in fashion as well as food, watching trends is more than a curiosity; its a vital tool for staying current.

In fashion, as in art and music, it is often the innovators that drive the trends, creating perpetual fluxes that shape and define current culture. In these arenas, trends move quickly from concept to mainstream, where consumers not only embrace innovation but expect it.

By contrast, in the visceral arena of food, innovation moves slowly and is often met with reluctance. At their best, consumer-driven trends have markedly improved the state of our food with movements towards organic, local and sustainable. At their worst, they subject us to tsunamis of fads, convenience, and medical quackery. How else would you explain no-carb bread, candy bars-as-meals, and Sandra Lee*?

Innovation, by definition, means the introduction of something new. In this spirit, allow me to introduce a list of focused flavors that I would like to see become a trend. Let me preface by saying that this is not my innovation–avant-garde chefs have been exploring these flavors for years.**

So, are you intrigued? bored? shocked? ready to hurl?

Not surprisingly, I've seen all of these reactions when discussing the flavor of conifers in food, but its really not so radical…or new. In fact, some have a long history in food & beverage:

Juniper is the primary flavorant of gin.
Birch beer, made from birch bark, is a nostalgic beverage from the nineteenth century.
Cedar was used by North American Indians long before Europeans settled here.
Pine nuts, the buttery seed of the genus Pinus, have been consumed since the Paleolithic period.

Moreover, using aromatic parts of trees to flavor food is routine in any kitchen. Peppercorns, nutmeg, cinnamon and bay leaf are used by even a novice cook.

It makes me question why pine and all of its tall friends have been largely ignored. It could be because they tend to be overpowering and evocative of Christmas trees, medicine, and… well… turpentine. Indeed, terpene, the family of aroma compounds to which conifers belong, was named after turpentine, a product of pine resin.

Terpenes are a large class of hydrocarbons that are highly aromatic. Members of the terpene family are: pinene (the aroma of conifers), limonene (the aroma of citrus), menthol (the aroma of peppermint), thujone (the aroma of sage), thymol (the aroma of thyme) and many more that comprise the flavor of the majority of herbs and spices.

Conifers aren't so scary when you realize that they are only a few molecules away from that of rosemary, sage, thyme and mint.

*not to pick on Sandra Lee, whom I'm sure is a lovely gal, but doesn't "semi-homemade" = "semi-good"?

**one of my most memorable dishes of 2008 was the chicken liver spaetzle, pine, and cocoa nibs at WD-50.

WARNING: As with all unfamiliar plants, be sure to correctly identify them before consuming. Although those listed here are known to be safe in small to moderate doses, the ones that contain the terpene thujone may be harmful if consumed in large doses– large meaning more than a rational individual could possibly consume. Thujone is present in cedar, cypress, and juniper. My exploration will be limited to using flavor from the natural plant source–use caution with concentrated essential oils. Under no circumstances should you consume any part of the conifer yew (Taxus) which contain highly toxic alkaloids and can be identified by its soft red berries.

montbriac pear endive ginger bread

Somedays, the path from concept to execution is clear and linear, where flavors and textures that are united in the mind manifest themselves on a plate with smug accuracy. But the palate doesn't lie. Not even when the brain falls under the spell of an ingredient. That hussy–the quince–she had me completely seduced.

Blame it on the Montbriac, the instigator of the incident. Upon tasting the RocheBaron* creamy blue cheese, I knew that I wanted to highlight it in something more than a cheese plate. With the tangy funk of Roquefort in mind, I flipped through my mental catalog of flavors. Intuition, through the filter of experience, produced the following hits: ripe fruit esters, bitter greens, warm toasty aromas.

Ginger bread instantly found its role. Ground and toasted with walnut oil, it fit the profile that I was after. Belgian endive hearts, caramelized in brown butter, reinforced the nuttiness and introduced a mellow bitterness and succulent, crisp texture.

The pieces fell into place. The path was clear. Then, it happened.

Reaching for the ripe Bartletts on the counter, my attention wavered to the neighboring quince.

"Hello" she said "why not choose me instead of Mr. Predictable over there. I am the unexpected twist that your dish needs."

I should have followed my instincts, which told me not to listen to a love child of the rose and the apple.

Looking back, I think my resolve shifted when she swayed me with the spicy, floral fragrance that she can only release when ripe. She was a fruit in heat and I am a whore for heady aromas. That was my unraveling…but, the truth is that she had me at hello.

And so, I spent the ensuing hour trying to coax her into playing nice. The problem was that she insisted on being the star. She made the cheese feel rubbery, the endive taste flat, and robbed the ginger bread of its spice. They all threatened to walk off stage if she were not recast.

Meanwhile, the Bartletts stood in the wings, quietly mocking me. They did not protest when I reduced them to a fragrant juice. Or, when I blended them with LM pectin and a touch of calcium, transforming their texture to that of pear confit.

With the spell broken and a cleared head, it was no surprise that the rest of the cast cheered when the pear entered the stage and that the dish received rave reviews.

* RocheBaron Montbriac is a rich and creamy blue cheese with an ash rind. Made in Pouligny-Sainte-Pierre in central France, it is the product of a successful experiment resulting from injecting Roquefort mold into a soft Brie.

ras el hanout

Nothing puts me in a holiday mood faster than the warm and sweet aroma of spice. A batch of spice-scented cookies–be they gingerbread, speculas, bizcochos, lebkuchen, pepparkakor, or melomakarona–baking in the oven sets off visions of sugarplums dancing through my head.

Today, spices are so readily available that we forget the blood, sweat, and tears that have made them a common staple in our cupboards. Spices were once more valuable than gold and their procurement the most dangerous and competitive game in the world, impelling unprecedented explorations and discoveries. The scent of spice is a wormhole into history.

Around the world, spice is the common thread that weaves together culinary traditions. Each culture has their own magical blend to offer: garam masala of India, five spice of China, mole of Mexico, baharat of the Middle East, and ras el hanout of North Africa. These blends are a syntheses of flavor and aroma–warm, complex, and elusive.

Ras el hanout, in Arabic, is top (or head) of the shop, referring to the Moroccan souks, where each merchant offers a house blend of his finest spices. These nuanced blends can include at least a dozen–and up to a hundred different spices, both common (nutmeg, mace, ginger, black pepper) and exotic (chufa nuts, ash berries, orisroot, cantharides–the now banned beetle spanish fly). The best blends are those in which the individual spices are not easy to decipher and where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

clockwise from top left: nutmeg, saffron, anardana (ground pomegranate seeds), mace, grains of paradise, cardamom, cinnamon, black pepper, turmeric, allspice, and ginger (center)

This year, my food-centric friends will be receiving the "top of my shop". This, along with a free range chicken or leg of lamb, makes a welcome gift, one that I would be delighted to receive…especially if it came with this to cook it in. Just sayin'.

kimchi brown butter

Winter is kimchi-making time. In the past, I've made batches with cabbage, bok choy, and thinly sliced cauliflower. This year, I'm back to the traditional Chinese cabbage variety.

Although kimchi is not in my culinary heritage, it holds an inextricable position in my family of deliciousness. Another esteemed member, brown butter–though seemingly disparate, has an affinity for kimchi. Linked by dimethyl sulfide, their symbiotic relationship feels like a toasty warm blanket on a cold winters night.

romanesco steak. buckwheat. lamb bacon. kimchi. brown butter.

serves 4

kimchi stock

If your kimchi has plenty of liquid, you can decrease the amount of vegetable stock. Adjust the finished stock with salt and additional spice and acid to make it vibrant.

500g (18 oz) kimchi

125g (4.5 oz) vegetable stock

Puree the kimchi with the stock in a blender. Strain through a chinoise. Reduce the stock by half.

romanesco steak

Cooking a thick cut of romanesco cauliflower in brown butter and kimchi infuses it with a nutty, meaty flavor with a kick of fiery spice.

2 1" thick crosscut slices of romanesco cauliflower, each cut in half

40g brown butter

100g kimchi stock

salt

Season the cauliflower with salt and place in sous vide bag with the brown butter and stock. Vacuum and seal bag. Sous vide at 85C for 20 minutes. keep warm.

lamb bacon

At the restaurant, we get saddles of lamb from Colorado. After they're broken down, we're left with sheets of creamy fat, striated with meat, from the backs. Because the sheets are thin, I glue 2-3 layers together and cure them to make bacon.

4 1/4" thick slices lamb bacon

Bake in a 300F oven until golden and crisp. Chop finely.

buckwheat groats

Buckwheat groats, also known as kasha, are a psuedocereal as they do not grow from a grass. The cooked seeds have a nutty, mild mushroom flavor.

1 1/2 cups buckwheat groats

3 cups vegetable stock

1 tsp salt

In a medium saucepan, bring the water to a boil. Add buckwheat and salt. Stir well, cover, and turn heat down to low. Cook for 15-20 minutes or until tender. Reserve half of the cooked groats to make puffed buckwheat.

puffed buckwheat

reserved cooked buckwheat

2 cups canola oil

Drain buckwheat well and spread out in a single layer on dehydrator tray or on a baking sheet. Dehydrate or bake in a 150F oven until groats are hard, dry, and shriveled. Place the oil in a deep pan and heat to 375F. Drop dehydrated groats into hot oil in small batches. They will puff immediately. Scoop out with a fine mesh spoon and transfer to paper towels to dry. Repeat with remaining groats.

kimchi and brown butter emulsion

Glycerine flakes are a fatty acid ester that is soluble in fat. It has the ability to thicken oils and form

emulsions from fat and water-based mediums.

70g (2.5 oz) brown butter

11g (.40 oz) glycerine flakes

60g (2.10 oz) kimchi stock

salt

Place brown butter and glycerine flakes in a saucepan and heat over medium heat just until flakes melt. Place the stock in a bowl and gently heat over simmering water until lukewarm. Very slowly drizzle the oil into the stock while whisking vigorously. When all of the oil is incorporated, the mixture may look as if it is separating. Set the bowl into a larger bowl of cold water and whisk vigorously until mixture is smooth and stable. Season with salt. The emulsion can now be gently warmed by whisking over warm water.

to finish

Blackened garlic is made by roasting whole, unpeeled garlic cloves in a 325F oven until they are hard, dry

and black. Grated over a finished dish, they act as an earthy and mildly bitter seasoning. Store fragrant tubers such as ginger root, galangal, and tumeric in the freezer and microplane over a dish just before serving to brighten its aroma and flavor.

blackened garlic

frozen galangal

finely chopped kimchi

Arrange a half-slice of cauliflower on a plate. Next to the cauliflower, place a small mound of chopped kimchi. Cover the kimchi with the cooked buckwheat. Sprinkle with the puffed buckwheat. Make another mound of chopped lamb bacon next to the buckwheat. Place a dollop of warmed emulsion on the plate. Microplane the frozen galangal over the buckwheat. Microplane the blackened garlic over the cauliflower and emulsion.

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.)

sea bean cardamom oyster

Seeing that so many of you are familiar with sea beans, I'll keep the description brief.

The genus Salicornia is a salt-tolerant herb that grows along beaches in the US (where they are known as sea beans), Europe (known as samphire), South Africa and South Asia. Other common names include glasswort and pickleweed.

I was introduced to sea beans while baking at a restaurant, where they made a brief appearance on the savory side. Their succulent salinity (and a dare) challenged me to find a sweet application. Using the flavor of salted caramel as inspiration, I coated them with burnt caramelized sugar. The results were addictive. The sweet crust cracked, giving way to a snappy crunch, followed by a hit of refreshing salinity.

My introduction to cardamom preceded sea beans by at least a decade and was far more dramatic. Opening a jar and inhaling deeply, I was met by a hot breeze that had traveled across hundreds of miles of ocean and sand. Another whiff confirmed the scent of saltwater drying on hot skin, seaweed and sand baking under an unrelenting sun, ground-up sea shells. Clean, bracing, and unambiguously masculine, I fancied it a cologne created by a deep-sea alchemist for Poseidon himself. I still refer to cardamom as beach-in-a-bottle.

A Virtual Day at the Beach

Contents:

Sea bean: nam pla sugar crust.
Salt water taffy meets umami-o-the-sea.

Cardamom sable sand: Toasted rice flour, butter, poncillo, cardamom, lime, sea salt.
A game of beach volleyball; sweet vs. salty.

Pearl: A burst of briny oyster liquor kissed by passion fruit.
Hot sex on a tropical beach.

Directions:

Smell. Taste. Chew. Swallow. Savor. Enjoy. Listen to the squalling seagulls and lapping waves.

(seashell and iPod not included)

tahoon cress

I returned from ICC laden with gifts. The best one– a brainload of ideas and information– I continue to unwrap and savor a little each day.

There were also tangible gifts:

A big glossy book containing bios, interviews and recipes of all of the presenters.

A gift package from Heston Blumenthal. In true theatrical form, they were hidden under the seats. The velum envelope contained two packets that were to tie in with his presentation of The Perfect Christmas Dinner, inspired by the gifts of the Magi. The first was a Listerine strip flavored with frankincense and was immediately savored. The second was a newborn baby-scented communion wafer. Despite my fascination with babies, this just felt wrong to put in my mouth.

A flat of micro sprouts from Koppert Cress containing Affilla (peashoots), Mustard, purple and green Shiso, and the unfamiliar Tahoon.

The flavor of Tahoon took me aback. I was not expecting the deep, complexity of wood, humus, and nuts (it's said to taste like beech nuts), trailed by a sting of onion. There are defined elements of earth and fire with aromas that evoke freshly-tilled earth, baked by the sun, along with roasted tree bark. I don't know if this even sounds good, but it is. My taste buds say umami, but I could find no documentation on this.

What I did find is that Tahoon (Toona sinensis) is a tree, native to eastern and southestern Asia, where the young leaves and shoots are enjoyed as an aromatic vegetable. It is more commonly known as Chinese Toon or Chinese Mahoghany.

As I munch on Tahoon, I am visited by a flight of dishes: caramelized onion flan with foie, pomegranate, and Tahoon; roasted potato ice cream, bacon dust, hamachi,and Tahoon oil; Tahoon-infused beets with curried chicken terrine; a dessert of pear, chestnuts, and chocolate–haunted by Tahoon.

My quickly dwindling supply led me to find a source for seeds. I can now grow a steady supply of sprouts through the winter. Maybe I'll even let some grow into plants that I can transplant into the garden come spring. Maybe, in a few years, I'll have a Tahoon tree of my own. But even as I sit here, typing and munching, thinking about steak, mushrooms, corn and Tahoon, I doubt that they'll ever make it past sprouts.

puff pastry

Flour. Butter. Water. Salt. No leavening. Or is there?

When these four ingredients are combined into a homogeneous dough, then rolled out and baked, you end up with a cracker or flatbread. Not much rise there.

Blend the same ingredients together but stop while the butter is still discernible– about the size of peas. Now roll out and bake. You have a pate brisee or a short, flaky pie crust with unevenly puffed layers that may have doubled in height.

Now, take the same four ingredients, blend the flour, water and salt to make a dough. Evenly layer the butter throughout the dough through a series of rolling out and folding. Stop when you have made 6 "turns", resulting in 1459 alternating layers of fat and starch. After a final rolling and baking, you are left with pate feuilletee or puff pastry. This time, the finished pastry leaving the oven has risen up to 6 times in volume from the raw dough that went in.

Three products…sharing identical ingredients in similar proportions…with significantly different results. Do you know why?

Lacking chemical leavening, the release of gases is not responsible for the differences between the three pastry products. And with the absence of yeast, it cannot be attributed to fermentation.

What caused the puff pastry to rise to glorious heights and the pie crust to puff to a lesser degree is the steam created by the melted butter. As the butter melts and boils, the gluten matrix in the dough hardens, trapping the pockets of steam. The degree of rise in the three products varies with the distribution of fat and starch.

Understanding this was an epiphany. So was grasping the unfolding of egg proteins. And the destruction of sugar to make caramel. And so on.

These were my AH-HAA moments. They allowed me to analyse mistakes and to not only correct them, but to control the outcome. They liberated me from bondage to recipes, and with this freedom came a broader one: the freedom to create.

Modern cooking places an emphasis on science, when, in fact, chemistry has been at play throughout the history of food and cooking. Does a strong knowledge of food science make us good cooks? If that were true then scientists, by right, would all be chefs.

What about technique? Consider the baker who gets up at 3 AM every morning to bake bread. After some time, he can turn out hundreds of perfect loaves even while half-asleep. He may even have a grasp on the chemistry of his craft through extended observation of cause and effect. His talent and dedication may move him onto the saute line, where through repetition he learns to turn out a perfectly cooked piece of fish every time.

But would he know what to do with a salsify? Would he even know what to serve it with?

At ICC, Jordi Butron of Espai Sucre gave a presentation about the process of creating desserts. A lot of what he said resonated with me. In it, he stated (from my notes) "Pastry is techniques…but technique has to service flavor. Technique is easy–it only requires repetition, but a library of flavors takes many years to acquire."

As a baker, I have made puff pastry countless times. Through muscle memory, I could even make it while half-asleep. Because of my understanding of steam pockets and gluten matrixes, I was able to effectively teach it to my students, passing on the AH-HAA moments. My familiarity with this product allows me to play and ask questions:

Why butter? (because it is fat and for it's flavor)

What else is flavored fat? (oils..but they won't work, they're liquid and here, the fat needs to start as a solid)

What else is solid, flavored fat? (pork fat, bacon fat, foie, cheese…)

Cheese? Which cheese? (needs to be spreadable and have a high fat content…a triple cream)

Saint Andre? Boursault? Brillat-Savarin? (no…too subtle for the flavor to come through)

l'Explorateur? (a triple cream, assertive flavor…yes, it will work)

That is how I have come to make l'Explorateur puff pastry; a product that pleases me.

Will it please everyone? Is it ground-breaking? Life-altering? No. No. And no.

It is simply a token of where I'm at as a cook/baker at this moment in time and a synthesization of what I know about technique, food science and my own palate.

Do these things make me a better cook? I'd like to think so. What I do know for certain is that by relying on their guidance, I am free to contemplate and to think about food; what it is…what it can be.

And that, I believe, is the starting point for innovation.