hamachi soy allium

I'm thinking of changing my job description from 'Freelance Chef' to 'Cook-on-Call'. These days, at least, that's how it seems to play out— people call and I go cook.

I received one such call recently to cook dinner for two on that same day. It was 3pm when the call came in.

The requests were clear and succinct:
dinner at 6
light fare
asian flavors
no meat— fish ok
3-5 small courses
no dessert
keep it simple

Secretly, I love these impromptu jobs. When I have days or weeks to plan the details of a meal, I feel as if I've already cooked it in my head and the actual preparation is anti-climatic. Of course, familiarity with the kitchen and the client's palate helps alleviate some of the stress.

Knowing that there was only time for one stop, I gathered supplies from my pantry, vegetable bin, garden, and china closet, deliberately overpacking to cover the unknown variables. I also packed my camera; which I often do, but rarely end up using.

At the fish market I asked for the freshest catch and was shown a pristine hamachi with the head removed. I bought the upper half (about 2 lbs.) with the collar attached, and nothing else.

With the protein decided, I was free to plan the meal. I wanted to start with a raw preparation and end with the grilled collar, but while considering the other courses, I kept returning to the hamachi. It's a beautifully versatile fish that lends itself to many preparations, both raw and cooked. As I went back and forth about including sashimi, tartar, poached belly, or tempura, I realized that what I really wanted to do was an all-hamachi dinner. Furthermore, I wanted to weave the same flavors: fish, soy, allium, throughout the courses. The client had asked for simplicity, but would they be happy with an entire meal based on variations of the same flavor profile? By the time that I pulled into the driveway, I decided that they would.

As I unpacked, the client appeared in the kitchen to greet me and ask "What's for dinner?"
I might have laughed nervously, but my response was confident and emphatic,
"I hope you like hamachi!"

hamachi belly lime-pickled jicama sushi rice soy allium

hamachi sashimi tartar allium triquetrum granita

hamachi poached in dashi powdered soy and wasabi
spruce tip fluid gel lime zest

hamachi tempura dashi with miso and ponzu
pickled allium triquetrum bulbs peppercress

grilled hamachi collar tamari allium

To a cook, a clean plate speaks louder than compliments.

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.

asparagus sauce

There are times when I buy asparagus only for the tips and am left with several inches of tender stalk. That is never a problem for me, they quickly become a base for my favorite springtime sauce.

I don't remember when I first started making asparagus sauce; it's one of those seasonal staples that I pull out of my culinary closet like a favorite pair of sandals. Like the sandals, the sauce goes with everything and puts a 'spring in the step' of anything it's paired with.

The sauce varies every time I make it, adapting to what I have on hand. Basically, it consists of asparagus, leafy greens, and herbs; quickly pureed in a blender and emulsified with extra virgin olive oil. The asparagus can be whole stalks or trimmings, cooked until tender. The leafy greens can be arugula, spinach, sorrel, or even lettuce leaves. Herbs can be anything you like, although I avoid basil because of oxidation. Invariably, I include a form of raw allium to lift the flavors: scallions, ramps, spring onions, shallots are all good.

I urge you to try it for its versatility. It's fantastic with eggs, grilled or poached fish, and even makes chicken breast taste exciting. Its a delicious dip for raw vegetables, dressing for potato or pasta salad and makes the best risotto when stirred in at the final stage of cooking. It's so good that even these tiny fried spearings are falling all over themselves to get a taste.

asparagus sauce

3 cups cold water
1 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups of roughly chopped asparagus
1 1/2 cups of leafy greens (spinach, arugula, sorrel, lettuce), loosely packed
1/2 cup of fresh herbs (parsley, chervil, tarragon, cilantro), loosely packed
1 medium shallot, scallion, small spring onion, or small bunch of chives, roughly chopped
1 tsp salt
20 grinds black pepper
1/4 cup water from cooked asparagus
1 tsp lemon juice or vinegar
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

Bring water and salt to a boil. Add asparagus and cook until tender. Place leafy greens, herbs, shallot, salt and pepper in a blender. Drain hot asparagus, reserving 1/4 cup of cooking water, add both to blender along with lemon juice. Blend on high speed, slowly drizzling in the olive oil until it is all incorporated and the sauce is smooth. Adjust seasoning to taste.
If it is to be served hot, serve immediately, or chill to serve cold. Sauce will keep in refrigerator for up to 5 days.

fish tale

creamy soft quenelle
garlicky pillow of fish and milk
encrusted in garnet jewels
donning a dusky tail

he's an amalgam of sea and earth

straddling both worlds
he drinks from a scented pool
an elixir of sweet and savory

I pretend he's a happy fish
leading a charmed life

brandade beets oxalis ginger lime fennel shallots olive oil

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

Indian Summer :: the river :: trout birch sumac

Staghorn sumac (Rhus typhina) is a native shrub/small tree that can be found growing at the edge of forests and along riverbanks. In late summer and autumn, the drupes ripen to form clusters of velvety red berries that were sought after by Native Americans for their sourness. They used the dried and ground sumac as a seasoning and made a lemonade-like beverage with fresh berries. Indians also enjoyed smoking the dried berries in a pipe, a custom that they introduced to the Europeans— who, as a result, preferred it to the best Virginia tobacco.

In early spring, and then again in autumn, Woodland Indians left their communal villages to set up fishing camps along rivers. There they would erect portable wigwams and move about on canoes that were fashioned out of birchbark in the north and hollowed-out trees in the south. They fished in shallow waters with spears and built weirs to trap fish. At these seasonal camps, they also processed the fish by brining, drying, and smoking. Fish were dried by skewering on sticks and stuck into the ground around the cooler perimeters of a fire, or smoked on racks made of twigs that were propped above a smoldering fire. Fresh fish were roasted on aromatic planks of cedar, oak, alder, birch— or fried on hot rocks that were greased with bear fat.

At the time that the Europeans arrived, the rivers, lakes and streams of North America were said to be swarming with fish of countless species— some of which are lost to us now. In "The Big Oyster: History on the Half Shell", Mark Kurlansky states " The rivers and streams had so many fish— striped bass, sturgeon, shad, drum fish, carp, perch, pike, and trout— that they could be yanked out of the water by hand."

In appalling contrast, Cormac McCarthy describes a post-apocalyptic North America in his novel "The Road", in which the earth is inexplicably scorched and unimaginably barren. The story deals with themes of survival and morality, addressing questions like Who are we when we have nothing left to lose?, or How long can we survive when the earth no longer provides food or water? In the very last paragraph he writes a provocative passage that seems wrought with Indian sensibility and wisdom:

"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber currents where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."

Trout: Sour, Sweet, Smoky

hot stone-seared, sumac and young cress

cold smoked, birch syrup glaze

sweet pickled black cod

I can't say that I've ever been a fan of commercially made sweet pickles. More often than not, they're cloyingly sweet or too heavily spiced to win me over. That all changed when I encountered a product that showed me what a sweet pickle should be.

Low Country Products, located in South Carolina, makes a line of artisanal pickles, preserves and soups. Their website buzzes with all of the right trigger words: handmade, handpacked, small-batch, farm-driven, local, seasonal– but ultimately, the proof is in the pickle.

While I can't vouch for any of their other products, the Sweet Cucumber Pickles were an epiphany. The list of ingredients reads like Grandma's recipe: cucumbers, cider vinegar, sugar, garlic and pickling spices. Long after the pickles were gone, I kept the jar of brine because it was just too good to discard.

Miso-glazed black cod was another epiphany. Nobu's iconic dish was the west's introduction to the sustainable sablefish, or black cod, and the ancient method of curing in a sweet and acidic marinade of sugar, sake, mirin, and miso. Using this method with the sweet pickle brine rendered the flesh lush and silky and allowed for deep caramelization without overcooking.

Being an advocate of flowers-as-food, I'm delighted to see that edible flowers are becoming more readily available at grocery stores, though it concerns me that they are being marketed as garnishes and destined to become nothing more than a gratuitous flourish, replacing the token mint sprig on a desert, instead of relevant components of a dish.

Perfumers recreate scent profiles by carefully selecting and blending flower essences– can't we do the same with flavor?

My intention with this dish was to integrate the flavors in the sweet pickle brine with a purposeful selection of flowers. Yellow and purple chive blossoms reinforce the garlic, dianthus petals (which taste of cloves) supports the warm spices, and the sour bite of oxalis leaves (the flowers close up at night) substantiates the vinegar. Borage, had it flowered in time, would have been a fitting reference to the cucumber.

clam chowder, fish sandwich

You've been driving for hours with many more to go. It's pouring rain. You're tired. And hungry.

You get off the interstate at the next town: Peripety. You like the sound of it.

You drive down Main Street looking for signs of food. Anything will do. You spot a neon OPEN sign. Above it, MOOD DINER glows with promise.

You arrive at the door soaked and famished. The first thing that you notice is the smell of food. Enticing and palpable, it becomes a separate entity.

From behind a crowded counter, a sassy waitress greets you and invites you to find a seat. You walk down the length of a communal table and slide into an open chair.

The conversation around the table is lively. A couple next to you are eating bowls of cereal that they say taste like fried chicken and corn on the cob.

A man across the table peers at you from behind horn-rimmed glasses. He tells you that he ordered the rice pudding last night and that it was as light and crisp as a cloud.

You ask him what he's ordered tonight. "French fries, for starters" he says with a glint in his eyes.

As if on cue, a waitress appears and sets down a bowl of soup in front of him. "Here you go– just the way you like 'em…lots of ketchup." He slurps a spoonful of clear liquid with clear noodles and nods in approval. "I don't even miss the crunch" he says.

The waitress asks you what you'll have. You ask to see a menu. "No menu" you're told "just order whatever you're in the mood for".

You recall a diner that you used to frequent and the meal that you looked forward to every Friday night. You order a cup of clam chowder and a fish sandwich.

Your order arrives. Your first thought is "Where's my sandwich?". Second thought: "Where's my spoon?". Somewhere in between, you notice that the potatoes appear to be floating.

You feel disoriented. You have no point of reference for food like this. Yet, you're curious.

You lift a sprig of herb and uproot a potato. You pop it in your mouth and are greeted by the scent of oregano. As you chew, you're surprised by the texture and flavor: potato, bacon, butter, clam–it's all there.

You lift another. This one with the aura of rosemary. Then the last. Thyme.

You're left with a cup of creamy broth. You bring the cup to your mouth and a sandwich magically appears on your plate. A perfectly seared scallop flanked by crisp bacon. You smile.

You eat the sandwich and drink the broth, marveling at how delicious they taste. As you empty the cup, the magic is revealed and you chuckle.

You become aware that the man with the glasses is watching you with amusement. He asks about your chowder. "Delicious" you reply. He smiles and nods knowingly.

He goes back to eating what looks like an ice cream sundae. "What's that?" you ask. "Just the best damned meat loaf I've ever had" he says. You both burst out laughing.

crab mango spruce pomelo vanilla

In my mind, mango and pine will always be tangled together. I have Luciano to thank for that.

Luciano was a dishwasher at the first restaurant that I worked in. He could rip through stacks of dirty dishes faster than any machine, work any station where he was needed, fix anything that was put in front of him. He also made the most delicate pasta that I've ever tasted. All this, he did with the demeanor of a pit bull, alternately growling and cursing like a sailor, then laughing and smiling like an impish boy. He held everyones respect with his consummate badassness.

He was a man of many talents and just as many peculiarities. For one, he had a habit of chewing on pine twigs, of which he kept a fresh supply in a freezer. When questioned, he explained that it kept his teeth clean and it was Nature's breath freshener. I had to agree as he did, indeed, have a dazzling-white smile and always smelled forest-fresh.

Luciano also introduced me to the mango. He brought one in for me one day when I expressed an interest in the fruit that he spoke of with an exaggerated fondness that made his eyes go soft. He showed me how to peel it with a paring knife, then cut away the flesh from the flat seed that he kept for himself, scraping it over and over between his teeth, because–as he put it–"It is the sweetest part…Nature's candy."

My first impression of the mango was favorable–a nice balance of sweet and tart, exotic aromas, buttery texture–yet there was an underlying flavor that intrigued me. When I identified it as pine and relayed this to Luciano, he burst out in a belly-laugh, explaining, "To me, everything tastes like pine"

It came as no surprise when, many years later, I confirmed that there is a concentration of the hydrocarbon, terpene, in the flavor profile of mangoes. Among these are limonene (citrus), pinene (pine), carvone (caraway, dill), myrcene (bay, verbena, myrtle), and ionone (violet, vetiver).

While playing with the flavor of pine (here, in the form of spruce) and mango, I found vanilla to be a nice bridge with both flavors, rounding out the sharp pitchyness of the pine and enhancing the floral aroma of mango. Pomelo, an enormous citrus that tastes like grapefruit without the bitterness, has a fragrant peel with tones of bergamot that played along well with these flavors.

Recently, in an email exchange with another chef, I mentioned this relationship between mango and pine. He was quick to reference a dish in The Big Fat Duck Cookbook. Sure enough, Heston Blumenthal had uncovered this relationship and composed a beautiful dessert around it.

king crab

mango

spruce

pomelo

avocado

vanilla

Although Luciano was in his fifties when I knew him, he was one of the fittest people I knew. He attributed this to a daily regimen of weight lifting and mango power shakes.

I think that he would approve of this mango lassi with a head of spruce foam, scented with a split vanilla bean.

Spruce (Picea) proliferates throughout Northern temperate zones. It is distinguished by its symmetrical conical growing habit, making it a prized landscape plant as well as a favorite Christmas tree. Spruce contains a good amount of vitamin C and its sap was used by Native Americans to make a gum, which later became the inspiration for the first commercially produced chewing gum.

Addendum: an interesting bit of information from a reader via email:

"…I lived on Kauai for four years where people with property have varied and excellent cultivars of all sorts of mango trees and one of my neighbors took me to his 'special' tree to harvest a basket load of perfectly luscious golden mangos. Then he showed me his personal quirk – mangos will bleed sap from the stem when they're picked and that was one of his favorite parts. I tried it and found it to be totally piney in flavor and from then on, I really taste the terpenes in the mango's I eat quite clearly. So fun. He believed it to be particularly healing too, though he didn't have any concrete thoughts about why specifically.
I recommend looking near the stem end of the mangos you find in the market for a shiney, dried drip of sap somewhere on the skin. You can usually peel it off and chew it like gum. It will be totally piney and delicious.
Thought you'd find this a fun bit to know…"

cod juniper apricot

There were few foods that I disliked eating as a child. Salt cod was definitely one.

It is said that the Portuguese have 1,000 ways of preparing bacalhau. Much to my dismay, many of these preparations made their way onto my dinner plate. No matter how much I protested or pleaded, the only requisite to leaving the table was to eat my bacalhau, thus saving me from an empty, degenerate life, the direct result of a salt cod deficiency. The potatoes, a traditional accompaniment, always came to my rescue. Not only did they make the fish more palatable, they provided a cover under which to hide the bits that I couldn't get down.

After a long separation, I've developed a taste for salt cod. I had to come back to it on my own terms. The dense, fibrous texture, which I once found so offensive, is what draws me to it now.

I can't help but feel a little naughty as I revert back to hiding the bacalhau in this dish, although this time around the intent is to bury it as a treasure and give it the respect that it deserves.

apricot lime puree

potato puree

egg yolk

crispy smashed yukon gold

juniper salt cod

juniper foam

juniper-gin tempura dome

In addition to playing off of the flavors and textures that are found in traditional Portuguese bacalhau dishes and the classic fish and chips, this dish explores the chemical relationship between the flavors of cod, juniper and apricot.

…………………………

More profoundly than spice, salt has steered the course of history. Our fundamental need for it prompted an age of discovery, displaced populations, built empires, leveled economies, instigated wars, and saved humanity from starvation.

The history of cod is intrinsically entwined with salt. Dating back over 500 years, salt cod has sustained entire populations on both sides of the Atlantic. Its commerce linked the New World to the Old. Codfish were once so plentiful that it was jokingly said that one could cross the Atlantic on foot by using their backs as stepping stones. Now, they have been overfished to near extinction, warranting heavy restrictions to protect the remaining population of Atlantic cod and challenging consumers to seek other options. Sustainable alternatives are Pacific cod, Alaskan pollock, and hook-and-line caught Haddock.

To make juniper salt cod: Finely grind fresh juniper sprigs and berries. Mix 1 part juniper with 2 parts coarse sea salt. Lay fresh fish fillets on a bed of juniper salt and completely cover with a thick layer of additional salt. Cover, and refrigerate for 2 days, after which time, the fish can be hung and dried in the refrigerator for up to a month, then hydrated before cooking. I prefer the texture when it is hydrated directly after salting. To hydrate: Rinse salt off of fish and soak in fresh, cold water for 2 days under refrigeration, changing water 3-4 times during this period. Cook as desired.

To make juniper foam: In a blender, place 500ml tonic water and 30ml juniper sprigs. Blend until liquified. Strain. Season liquid with salt and a few drops of lime juice. Place 1/2 of liquid in a saucepan and add 3 sheets of gelatin that have been bloomed in cold water. Heat until gelatin dissolves, then blend in remaining liquid and allow to cool. Strain again into an iSi canister and charge with N2O. Chill thoroughly before discharging.

To make juniper gin: Lightly smash leaves and berries on sprigs of juniper with a mallet. Place in a bottle of gin and set aside at room temperature for at least 3 days. Remove sprigs when the juniper has a pronounced presence in the gin.

To make juniper gin tempura dome: In a bowl, combine 2 eggs, 5g agave syrup, 3g salt, 80g AP flour, 100g rice flour, 120ml tonic water, and 120ml juniper gin. Whisk together until smooth. Heat the back of a ladle in a deep-fryer of vegetable oil to 375F. for 2 minutes. Remove ladle and let excess oil drip back into deep-fryer. Invert ladle over a bowl and drizzle the tempura batter over the back in a lacy pattern. Lower ladle into hot oil and fry for 2-3 minutes or until golden and crispy. Carefully remove dome from the back of the ladle using the tip of a knife to help it dislodge.

Various species of Juniper (Juniperus) grow widely throughout the Northern hemisphere. The needles of most Junipers look like tiny, overlapping scales. The berries, which are actually cones, mature to a deep blue in the fall and remain on the branches throughout the winter. They provide the distinct flavor of gin and are used in Northern and Eastern European cuisines to flavor wild game and choucroute garnie.