kasu bread

Leavened bread is probably the last thing anyone would associate with washoku tradition. Indeed, when we take a protracted view of Japanese cuisine, bread is a johny-come-lately.

It was late in the 16th century when the first Europeans—the Portuguese—settled in Japan, bringing with them Western religion, science, technology, and food. Although the Japanese quickly assimilated cake (bōlo) and fried food (tempura) into their cuisine, the Portuguese bread was too sour and chewy for their taste and not widely adopted. Nonetheless, it captured their imagination and the word pan (from the Portuguese pão) stuck.

Fast forward 300 years to 1871: the samarai Yasubei Kimura opens a bakery, Kimuraya, in Tokyo, with the aspiration of producing baked goods for the Japanese palate. Kimura realized that making European-style bread in Japan would be challenging. Leavened doughs were a new concept and wheat flour and yeast were scarce. After many failed attempts using alternate sources of yeast, Kimura hired Kodo Katsuzo, who developed a dough leavened with kasu (sake lees), giving birth to anpan, a hybrid of manjū (a Japanese derivative of Chinese mochi) and light, cottony, Dutch-inspired bread dough, encasing a filling of anko (sweet red bean paste). After the emperor gave it his seal of approval, anpan became the first widely accepted Japanese bread.

It was kasu's potential to leaven bread that first drew me to it. I found many references to sakadane, the liquid kasu starter used in the original anpan, but couldn't find a recipe or process, so I developed my own. Using wild cultivated yeast as a model, I made a starter from rice flour, water, and kasu. It took 8 days of feeding and stirring for it to become fully active— a considerable effort for what turned out to be a less than remarkable loaf of bread.

I suppose I could have started over and tweaked the recipe, but with all of the lengthy fermentation processes that I have currently working, I wanted something more immediate. I wanted bread— conspicuous with kasu, and mellow with rice—that I could make start-to-finish in a day. To that end, I made a new dough, adding yeast to hasten the process, and folded bits of kasu and fragrant basmati rice into the risen dough. For that shortcut, I make no apologies— to you, or to myself— because the bread was truly remarkable.

kasu bread ✢ kombu butter ✢ salt ✢ kinome

Kimura's anpan is but one example of how cross-cultural influences inform and develop cuisine by borrowing ideas, processes, and/or ingredients, and tailoring them to the tastes of the people that it will feed.

My kasu bread goes one step further; it closes the circle.

The Japanese were inspired to create a national bread from their introduction to leavened bread via the Portuguese. Inspired by sakadane, I borrowed kasu from the Japanese and applied it to a bread from my own heritage: Portuguese pão.

How does it taste?
It tastes richly personal,
sweet with history,
seasoned with a touch of irony.

kasu bread

starter:
54g compressed kasu
180g water
100g bread flour
.4g active dry yeast

dough:
175g bread flour
1.6g active dry yeast
5g salt
5g rice bran oil
5g mirin

solids:
100g cooked, drained, and cooled basmati rice
40g compressed kasu, cut into small bits

starter: In a blender, blend together the kasu and water until homogenous. Place the flour in a bowl and stir in the yeast. Pour kasu water into center and stir with a spoon to form smooth batter. Cover loosely and set aside at room temperature for 2-3 hours until batter forms bubbles.
dough: Place flour, yeast and salt into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with paddle attachment. Mix on low speed to blend dry ingredients. With the mixer still on low speed, slowly pour in the active starter. Turn speed to medium and mix for 2 minutes. Add the rice bran oil and the mirin and mix 2 minutes more. Replace paddle with dough hook, turn speed up to medium high and knead dough for 5 minutes. Lightly oil a large bowl. Scrape dough into bowl and turn upside down, so that top of dough is oiled. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside at room temperate until doubled in volume, about 1 1/2-2 hours.
solids: Punch dough down to deflate and turn out onto floured board. With fingertips, press dough into a rough rectangle, about 1/2" thick. Evenly sprinkle rice over dough, followed by bits of kasu. Starting at wide end of rectangle, roll dough in a tight spiral to form a log, and seal the ends. Cover dough with lightly oiled plastic wrap and let rise at room temperature for 1 1/2 hours, or until nearly doubled in size.
40 minutes before baking, place a baking stone on floor of oven and preheat to 232C/450F. When dough has risen, transfer it to a floured baking peel and place on heated stone in hot oven. Mist the oven 3-4 times with water in a spray bottle during the first 10 minutes of baking. After 15 minutes, turn the oven down to 204C/400F, and continue baking for 15-20 minutes longer until deep golden brown. Remove from oven with a peel and allow to cool on a rack.

kasu-cured scallop

Kasu is a by-product of sake. Also known as sake lees, it is the separated and pressed solids that remain at the end of the fermentation process. Consisting of rice, koji, residual yeast, and a small amount of alcohol, kasu can sometimes be found as a soft paste or, more readily, as square compressed sheets. It has a delicate floral yeasty aroma.

Kasu zuke is another type of Japanese pickles where food is embedded in a paste made from kasu, mirin, sugar and salt. Typically, the process is applied to white fish for a brief curing, or to fresh vegetables for longer periods.

These live scallops were so pristine that I wanted to keep them clean and chose to wrap them in kasu sheets instead of a paste. After spiral cutting them into thin, even strips, they were sprinkled with mirin, covered with kinome, then sealed between two sheets of compressed kasu. Looking like large ravioli, they cured in the refrigerator for 24 hours,. They emerged from their kasu cocoon all fragrant and delicious.

kasu-cured scallop ✢ blood orange ponzu ✢ kinome

tekka miso

Tekka miso is a condiment traditionally made from burdock, carrots and lotus roots. The grated roots are slowly cooked in sesame oil, then blended with ground black sesame seeds, ginger, and Hatcho miso— a dark, long-fermented type of miso made entirely from soybeans. The paste is slowly cooked over a low fire until all of the moisture evaporates, resulting in a dry, crumbly mixture.

Prized in Japan for its flavor and aroma, tekka miso is reminiscent of chocolate and coffee. Not surprising as it, too, is a product of fermentation and roasting, with parallel complexity.

tekka miso
makes 200ml (¾ cup)

9g sesame oil
30g grated daikon
30g grated carrot
25g grated beet root
25g finely minced scallion
25g black sesame paste
6g microplaned gingerroot
130g hatcho or red miso

Line the bottom of a skillet with the sesame oil and set over medium heat. Add the daikon, carrot, beet root and scallion and toss to coat with the oil. Cook until vegetables just begin to take on color, then lower the heat to medium low and continue cooking until soft and tender, stirring often. Add the sesame paste and gingerroot, pressing into vegetable mixture until incorporated (it will form a clump). Cook for 2-3 minutes while spreading and turning the mixture, then blend in the miso. Spread the resulting thick paste in the bottom of the pan in an even layer. Turn the heat down to lowest setting and continue cooking for 20-30 minutes. Alternately, the mixture can be spread on a baking sheet and baked in a 65C/150F oven. In either case, turn and spread the mixture every few minutes until it is dry and crumbly. Cool before packing into jars. Store in refrigerator for up to 3 months.

roasted buna shimeji stems (brown beech mushrooms)
asparagus pudding
tekka miso

miso adaptations

Spontaneous fermentation is the oldest form of 'cooking'. Long before man understood the chemistry of how microorganisms preserved his food and heightened its flavor while making him healthier, he learned to control and manipulate the process. Each culture developed their unique specialties based on indigenous ingredients. Early travelers borrowed techniques from their neighbors and assimilated them to what was available back home.

In this spirit, I've taken the time-honored process of making miso and adapted it to the bounty of ingredients that are available in the modern world to make these trial batches. The choices were not arbitrary— they needed to fit the protein/starch profile that koji requires to feed upon. In some cases, soybeans were added to the base ingredient to boost the protein content. Many borders were crossed, but no bridges were burned.

No doubt, some will fail, and some will succeed, but that's part of the fun of discovery. Ultimately, flavor will dictate which ones will be pursued.

miso

I was making miso when I heard the news about Japan. Sendai miso. I stopped to watch the footage on the same TV screen that, at any given moment, on numerous other channels, I could watch other horrific scenes played out. But this was real. It was happening. Days later, it's still hard to grasp the destruction… the devastation… the loss… the redesign of geography… the bending of time. And as the crisis escalates from a natural disaster to one made by man, I remain in awe of the grace and dignity of the people of Japan.

prepared miso, ready for fermentation
The label indicates the date of production and date of "first sample".
I expect it to take at least a year until it will be ready for use.

Miso is surprisingly easy to make. The hardest parts are: waiting six months to over a year for the fermentation process to complete, and procuring the koji. Although shoyu, miso and sake combined make up 2 percent of the GNP of Japan, there are only about six companies that produce koji, making it difficult to buy in small quantities. I purchased mine from naturalimport.com, but even they are currently out of stock. If you are an adventurous do-it-yourself'er, you can make koji by inoculating rice with tane-koji (Aspergillus oryzae spores), available from GEM cultures.

There are many types of miso, ranging from sweet white (shiro miso), light yellow (shinshu miso), sweet red (edo miso), to barley miso (mugi miso). They vary by ratios of soybeans:koji:salt and in length of fermentation. Sometimes, as is the case with mugi miso, barley (instead of rice) is inoculated with the tane-koji. I chose to make red (sendai miso) because it is what I use most in my kitchen.

red miso (sendai miso)
makes 1.5 litres (just over 6 cups)

PREPARING TO MAKE MISO:
   • To avoid contamination, sterilize everything that will come in contact with the miso.
   • Choose a cylindrical earthenware or glass vessel whose diameter is less than its height. The miso should fill the vessel by at least 80%.
   • Choose a lid to fit snugly inside the vessel. It should be rigid and flat and can be of any material, but porous or reactive material should be well wrapped and sealed with several layers of plastic wrap.

PREPARING SOYBEANS:
1. Rinse 397g/14oz dried organic soybeans under cool running water, then place them into a pressure cooker*. Add 1L/1qt spring water. Cook on high pressure for 40 minutes, then allow pressure to release naturally. Beans should be soft enough to crush easily. (*If pressure cooker is unavailable, soak beans in water for 8-10 hours, then bring to a boil with 2L/2qts spring water. Reduce heat and cook beans at a simmer for 4-5 hours, or until tender.)
2. Pour hot, cooked beans through a strainer, reserving the liquid. Allow to drain for 10 minutes.
3. For a rough, rustic texture, mash beans with a fork or a potato masher. For smooth texture, puree in food processor. Transfer beans to a non-reactive bowl.

PREPARING MISO:
4. Measure 454g/16oz of the reserved bean cooking liquid. Add 163g/5.75oz kosher salt. Stir.
5. Add mixture to mashed beans. Stir until well blended.
6. Check the temperature of the bean mixture. It should be no higher than 37.78C/100F. Set aside to cool, if necessary, then add 340g/12oz koji. Stir until well blended.

PREPARING MISO FOR FERMENTATION:
7. With clean hands, moisten the inside of vessel by dabbing the walls and bottom with wet fingertips. Sprinkle 3g/½tsp kosher salt inside vessel and distribute evenly with fingertips.
8. Pack prepared miso tightly into vessel, stopping between layers to press and release trapped air pockets. Smooth top of miso and sprinkle 6g/1tsp kosher salt evenly over surface.
9. Cover miso with a piece of plastic wrap, pressing onto surface and draping over rim of vessel. Secure plastic wrap to top of vessel with a rubber band or string, leaving a little slack to allow for compression.
10. Fit lid inside rim of vessel. Press firmly. Place a 1-1.5kilo/2-3lb weight on top of lid. Affix label to vessel with the date of preparation and the estimated date of completion.

FERMENTATION:
For natural fermentation (1-3 years)— Choose a clean, cool (not over 21C/70F), dry location that is well ventilated and not in direct sunlight, such as a garage, barn, or cellar. Elevate vessel so that it is not sitting on floor. Do not disturb miso for at least the first six months, except to monitor the level of tamari (liquid) that rises to the top. After one month, if there is no tamari, increase the weight on the vessel. If there is more than 1/2", decrease the weight. After six months, The tamari can be tasted for aroma and flavor, keeping in mind that it will be saltier than the finished miso. Surface mold is not harmful and can be scraped off, in which case the surface should be re-salted and covered with a clean piece of plastic. Continue to sample every three months until the flavor is mature and satisfactory. If at anytime the miso tastes or smells overly acidic, sour, or alcoholic, it should be discarded.

Miso can be fermented in under 6 months by storing in a carefully controlled environment between 21C/70F and 32C/90F, a process that is too detailed to cover here. For further information and inspiration on how to make and use miso, refer to the comprehensive "The Book of Miso", by William Shurtleff and Akiko Aoyagi.

autumn glory kimchi

Fiesty. Fragrant. Fiery. I love kimchi in all of its funky fermented forms

Koreans make a hundred different kinds of kimchi and perhaps a hundred more that are undocumented. They range from familiar varieties made with common ingredients like cabbage and radishes to wildly esoteric regional specialties such as Doraji kimchi, made with bellflower roots. Fruits, vegetables, seaweed, fish, meat— you name it— anything can be (and probably has been) made kimchi.
In addition to the bulk ingredients (or 'so'), kimchi's flavor is defined by the traditional seasoning of garlic, ginger, scallions, and the burn of hot chili pepper. But it was not always the fiery condiment that we know today. Early versions were simple pickled vegetables— a process that Koreans adopted from the Chinese.
During the Josean Dynasty that began in the late 14th century, Korea was swept by a culinary renaissance that stemmed from an agricultural boom. As cultivated crops became abundant and varied, new vegetables and spices were introduced from other countries. But no other ingredient produced such a profound change in the Korean diet as red hot chili pepper.

Pumpkins and sweet potatoes were among the newly introduced vegetables and it wasn't long before they each found a place among the expanding repertoire of kimchi— pumpkin in Hobak kimchi, and sweet potato in Kogumajulgi kimchi. Here they are united with asian pear and kale in a deliciously seasonal version.

autumn glory kimchi

1 liter boiling water
215g kosher salt
300g pumpkin, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 7cm long leaves
150g sweet potato, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 2.5cm x 7cm rectangles
100g asian pear, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 5cm rounds
80g kale leaves, roughly chopped

40g thinly sliced scallions
20g microplaned garlic
20g microplaned fresh ginger
5g ground dried bird chilies

Pour the boiling water into a large nonreactive bowl. Stir in the salt until it is dissolved. Cool completely, then add the pumpkin, sweet potato, asian pear, and kale, pressing down until they are completely submerged. Set aside in a cool place for 4 hours.
Pour the brine out of the bowl and refill with fresh, cold water. Set aside for 5 minutes, then drain thoroughly through a colander. Return vegetables to the bowl. Add remaining ingredients and toss gently until seasoning is evenly distributed.
Pack mixture into a glass jar or ceramic crock. Press firmly until exuded liquid covers the solids. If necessary, insert a weighted plate into the jar or crock to keep the contents submerged. Cover and set aside to ferment for 3-4 days in a cool (10C/50F) spot, then transfer to the refrigerator, where it can be stored for up to 1 month. Kimchi can be consumed after the 3 day fermentation, but the flavor will continue to develop in storage.

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:

Continue reading “ICC 2010: the dishes” →

potatoes halibut garlic

earthy potatoes the color of an Aegean sky
silken paint spread on a porcelain canvas

piquant bulbils strewn across a Skordalia triptych
like stray pearls from a necklace that has come undone

Poseidon offers fish from the depths of a torrid ocean of oil
they emerge blistered and weightless as ghosts

caught up in the fantasy I imagine
[only for a moment] that I've made something new
something original

foolish me it's only fish and chips

skordalia

200g red bliss potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" dice
200g purple potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" dice
100g extra virgin olive oil
7g garlic, thickly sliced
salt
50g french bread, trimmed of crust and soaked in milk
25g white wine vinegar
25g red wine vinegar
garlic bulbils

Place the red bliss potatoes in a bowl and drizzle with 10g of olive oil. Add half of the garlic and a sprinkle of salt. Toss well, then pack into a bag and vacuum seal. Repeat with purple potatoes. Sous-vide at 85C/185F for 45-60 minutes or until very tender when pressed.
Empty the contents of the red bliss potatoes into food processor and add half of the remaining olive oil. Process until smooth. Squeeze excess milk from bread and add to processor along with white vinegar. Process until smooth and fluid, adding some of the milk if too thick. Season with salt. Repeat with purple potatoes, using the remaining ingredients and the red vinegar.
To serve, screen the skordalia through a stencil onto plates or serve in separate bowls. Sprinkle garlic bulbils over top.

halibut crisps

115g halibut, cut against the grain into 1/4" thick slices
rice flour
salt
peanut oil for deep frying

Season halibut with salt on both sides. Lay out a sheet of plastic wrap on a flat surface. Cover with a thick dusting of rice flour. Place a slice of halibut over top of rice flour and generously dust top with additional flour. Cover with another sheet of plastic wrap and pound until paper-thin, adding more rice flour if necessary. Repeat with remaining fish slices. Cut pounded slices into 2" discs with round cutter.
Heat a pot of oil for deep frying to 190C/375F. Fry discs for 1-2 minutes, or until crisp but still pale.
Serve with skordalia. If desired, sprinkle with dehydrated, pulverized kalamata olives and cinnamon basil stems.

coconut fig curry

Coconuts were introduced to Europe by Portuguese explorers who brought them back from India. Vasco da Gama's sailors thought the round, hairy fruit (actually, a seed), with the black eyes and nose, resembled "Coco", a folkloric ghost/witch/monster; the precursor to the jack-o-lantern. When it reached England, "nut" was added to the end and the name stuck.

Although the coconut palm (Cocos nucifera) and the fig tree (Ficus carica) have little in common except for similarity of flavor and aroma, they sure taste good together.

I can't help but wonder if 16th century Europeans, upon opening a coconut for the first time, thought that it smelled like fig leaves. I also wonder what they would've thought of this dessert: a familiar and beloved fruit, married to newly-discovered treasures from faraway lands.

coconut fig terrine ✢ curry tea foam ✢ agastache blossoms

Fig leaf tea makes a light and flavorful base for an aromatic curry broth. Further lightened into a foam, it lands weightless on the tongue and dissipates, leaving only an impression of warm spice.

Download recipe: coconut fig terrine with curry tea

the scent of fig leaves

I can say, with a degree of certainty, that one of my earliest memories is of the scent of fig leaves.

Coconut was not a food that I grew up with. My mother had no idea what to do with it and my brother and I both disliked it. We agreed that Mounds and Almond Joys were a waste of good chocolate and avoided houses that offered them at Halloween.

With me, it was more of a textural thing that I eventually grew out of. My brother never did.

Yet there was something about coconut that haunted me.

I distinctly remember the first time that I opened a can of coconut milk. It stirred something that was locked away and undefinable; a memory that I couldn't access.

My mother once gave me a large piece of the puzzle. We were on a crowded beach that reeked of coconut-scented suntan lotion. She said it reminded her of fig trees.

And later, as a teenager, I approached her wearing a new drugstore cologne that I thought made me smell exotic and tropical. In hindsight, I probably just smelled like a musky pinã colada, but she casually remarked that I smelled like figs.

I should have pieced it together from old photographs and stories of my grandparent's property in Portugal— my home for the first three years of my life. It wasn't until I returned as an adult, with husband and children in tow, and experienced it for myself, that it clicked.

In its heyday, my grandparent's property was a thriving farm, consisting of orchards, vineyard, and fields of grains, vegetables, and hay. There were chickens, rabbits, pigs, and oxen to work the fields. Water was supplied by a well; an enormous, deep hole in the ground, bordered by a low stone wall and covered with iron framework. The treillage, more ornamental than functional, soared high into the sky and was crowned with an iron horse that became the icon of the farm.

The stories that I heard throughout my childhood painted a lively picture of life on the farm: days governed by hard work, tempered by frequent celebrations and feasts, where family, friends, neighbors, and hired hands gathered together.

After my grandparents passed away, the property was left to my father and his siblings, who all lived in the US. They hired caretakers, who were grossly negligent of their duties. When I returned, in the late 1990's, I was crushed by what I found. The once-grand house was in an advanced state of decay, too precarious to enter. There was nothing to see anyway, all of its contents had been pilfered and looted. The fields laid fallow and were overgrown with weeds. The grounds were thick with brambles.

But there were some vestiges; things that endured the ravages of time and neglect.

The carefully cultivated grapes had gone wild, but were still producing heavily, the dark clusters ripening in the August sun.

The well and treillage were intact and the horse still galloped high in the clouds.

And near a concrete pool that was used to wash laundry, a fig tree thrived. It was heavy with fruit, still young and green. I mourned that I would not be there to taste them ripe. I picked some leaves, intending to press them between the pages of a book back home. It would be my only memento.

I turned to leave and a breeze kicked up, carrying with it the sun-warmed scent of fig leaves. The old feeling stirred and I understood that it was nostalgia.

I saw myself as a baby, laid out on a blanket under the shade of the fig tree. Nearby, my mother and grandmother washed linens in the pool and laid them out under the October sun to bleach.

I've no idea what I was feeling or thinking, but I'm reasonably sure that I was content to just lay there, listening to the splashing of water and the chatter of familiar voices, inhaling the scent of fig leaves.

I didn't know it then, but I do now— they smell a lot like coconut.

Some people think that fig leaves smell like cat pee. I suppose that could be true of some varieties, but most people detect creamy, nutty notes (like those in coconut), warm spice (as in cinnamon and nutmeg), and woody herbs (oregano, thyme and rue).

Last fall, I brought some dried leaves back from a trip through the South for Alex of Ideas in Food. I didn't tell him what they were because I wanted to let him guess. I think the first words out of his mouth were "smells like coconut".

In the perfume industry, fig-based fragrances are often described as "coconut aroma".

Despite the overwhelming similarity in scent, I can't find a direct link between the two. Figs and coconuts belong to different orders in the plant kingdom and research has turned up no common aroma compounds.

So, is it a matter of perception? Or something more tenuous?

Of course, the next question is: Do fig leaves taste like coconut?

Nibbling on the fresh leaves, I could detect no coconut flavor. But an infusion (in hot water) released the aroma, and yes— a fresh, green coconut flavor.

Fig leaf tea is not uncommon. It's best known for treating diabetes, helping to maintain proper insulin levels. It's also loaded with antioxidants and phytonutrients.

Regardless of the health benefits, I find fig leaf tea to be one of the best tasting 'herbal' teas in recent memory.

Maybe you would, too. That is— if you like coconut.