chicken egg nasturtium

Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

A timeless question that simultaneously provokes and bores the masses.

The question is futile as there is no definitive answer.

A better question is…

Which came first, the egg or the shell?

Here, the answer is clear-cut. The egg comes first, then grows the shell around itself.

The opposite is true with this chicken skin and egg yolk ravioli. The powdered chicken skin croquant is formed into two discs, baked and then sandwiched with the raw egg yolk. A brief reheating in the oven softens the top disc, allowing it to form around the yolk.

In this case, the chicken, and the shell, came before the egg.

octopus squid

"Nowhere in space will we rest our eyes upon the familiar shapes of trees and plants, or any of the animals that share our world. Whatsoever life we meet will be as strange and alien as the nightmare creatures of the ocean abyss….."

Arthur C. Clarke, 1962

Have you ever wondered about the mysteries of the ocean? About the things that lie hidden in it's depths? In an aqueous wormhole, some 1500 fathoms beneath the sea, will we someday find the things we search for…the meaning of life, the philosopher's stone, a new form of delicious, a cure for what ails us, proof of genius, lost socks?

It is said that in our final moments the archetypes that make up our lives will flash before our eyes. If there is truth in that, I am certain that my life-album would include images of a scuba diving excursion on a coral reef.

Fifty feet below the surface, all of the senses disconnect except for vision. Devoid of touch, sound, smell or taste to gather information, the optic nerves become tuned to a superhuman frequency. It is the ultimate voyeuristic experience. Light, as refracted through the pellucidity of water, is astonishing and produces a chromatic carnival that does not exist on dry land. Familiar shapes undulate and shift into anomalous forms.

In that alien landscape, I did not find keys that unlock the mysteries of the universe, but I did find treasure: The absolute beauty of hostility with purpose. That deliciousness can be experienced without taste or smell. And that iridescence is proof of genius.

Now if I could only find that cashmere sock.

octopus squid sea beans potatoes romescu begonia

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)

what is it?

steak mushroom corn tahoon

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.

peach tomato pie

blushing fragrant peaches

lightly poached in their own esters

orbs of sun gold tomatoes

brazenly liberated from their skins

hesitant at first the duo demurely waltz across the tongue

then break out into an intrepid tango

seamlessly balancing sweet with tart

cinnamon basil ice cream joins the dance

after a cool entry he busts out his spicy warm moves

a chaperone of flaky pastry

moderates the party of eternal summer

in the first days of autumn

insalata caprese

peeled heirloom tomatoes, injected with basil oil

mozzarella balloon filled with tomato water foam

olive oil powder

basil gel "leaves"

balinese sea salt

shiro shiso

sake-poached shiro plum

red shiso fluid gel

sake cream

matcha

A tasting menu is a cogitative journey through a progression of flavors that begins with the prolegomenous amuse bouche and ends with the sating mignardise. Modern menus play with the line between savory and sweet by including elements of each throughout the courses, but there still remains a distinction between the savory courses and the desserts, both in flavor profiles and placement within the menu. The pre-dessert acts as a bridge between the two. This is the tightrope course; it must perfectly balance the fine line between the sweet and the savory. When executed successfully, it makes the transition feel seamless.

I made this dish as an example of a pre-dessert. The delicate whisper of sake, grassy notes of matcha, and the smoky after-tones of the shiso echo the preliminary courses, while the inherent sweetness of the shiro plum, along with the up-front mint and apple notes of the shiso prelude the increasingly sweeter courses that will follow. It could have gone either way: replacing the plum with a protein such as a pristine scallop, would have worked beautifully if the dish was placed at the very beginning of the menu. Alternately, sweetening the herbal elements would have transformed it into a bright, focused dessert.

Side note: For a graphic illustration of flavor progression within a tasting menu, check out the menus at Alinea. The circles are not design elements, they act as a flavor map of the meal:

The size of the circles relates to the size of the course.

The intensity of color corresponds the intensity of flavor.

The left/right position indicates the savoriness/sweetness of the dish.

poached salmon

chilled poached salmon
caviar
persian cucumber
creme fraiche
green dill seeds
leek buds
hyssop flowers

At the restaurant, we make tons of poached salmon.
Well, maybe not tons, but on the weekends we make enough to feed the masses. I'm told that it's been on the catering menu for the past 20 years and that attempts to remove it have been futile. I am not surprised by it's popularity; every time that I taste it I'm reminded of the complexity of flavor that can be achieved through simple, classic techniques.
The secret to it's success at the restaurant is that it is consistency prepared the same way. The fillets are cut off the bone and two whole sides go into a hotel pan, skin side down. Chopped onions, celery, lemons, and parsley are strewn over the top along with a liberal sprinkling of salt. Half of a magnum of white wine is poured over, followed by enough water to cover by an inch. They go into a cold convection oven at 375F. After 20 minutes, the court-bouillon just begins to steam, the vegetables begin to soften, releasing their aroma, and the oven is turned down to 325F. The salmon cooks slowly and gently until it is opaque all the way through. After the pans are removed from the oven, they cool on a rack until they are no longer hot, then they chill overnight in the walk-in. This is where the magic happens: as the salmon cools, the flesh retracts and draws in the aromatic liquid, locking in the flavor. The next day, the flesh, although cold, is soft and unctuous, and the flavor is deep and complex.
When I begin to play the what-if game with this particular preparation, I always come up short. I can think of no other techniques (short of sous-vide, which is unpractical with the quantities that we do) that would yield the same results.
If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

hot poached salmon
salsa verde
court-bouillon

whipped buttermilk potatoes

At home, hot poached salmon with salsa verde and softly whipped buttermilk potatoes is my go-to dish when I have salmon, fresh herbs, and a good bottle of Chardonnay on hand. The ripe flavors of the wine marries well with the richness of the fish and the assertive herbs.
Because the salmon is served hot and does not benefit from the flavor-boosting overnight chill, the court-bouillon must be concentrated. Copious amounts of aromatics are simmered in white wine and water until all of their flavor is extracted. This becomes more of a stock than a court-bouillon (court, in French, means short or quick). When the temperature of the stock is at 185F, the salmon are dropped in and poached for about 8 minutes, or until a translucent core remains.
Sometimes, when I can't bear to throw out the flavorful stock, I will surround the salmon and potatoes with it in shallow bowls. Doing this transforms the dish into something else…not a soup, but not quite a sauce, either…it becomes both. The soft potatoes melt into the stock along with flecks of herbs, so that after the salmon is consumed, a delicious potato-herb soup is left in the bowl.

Here, I have taken the dish and played with the textures. The salmon has been left alone, in it's state of perfection. The salsa verde, consisting of parsley, tarragon, golden oregano, common thyme, lemon thyme, anchovies, shallots, capers, extra-virgin olive oil, and white wine vinegar, has been set with agar. The agar has a higher melting point than most gels, allowing it to be served hot, while retaining it's shape. The potato base is cooked potatoes that have been passed through a tamis, blended with olive oil, salt, and buttermilk to a pourable consistency. 1.5% Methocel SGA150 is added and the mixture is whipped to aerate and lighten. The mixture is dropped off of the end of a spoon into the hot stock to form small, leaf-shaped dumplings that are firm while hot, yet melt on the tongue.
The tips of herbs, planted in the sheet of salsa verde, is directly inspired by my new planter. After years of trekking up to the garden to pick a few sprigs of herbs to season a dish in progress, and returning to a find that it has scorched or overcooked (I am easily distracted in the garden), I have planted an assortment of my favorite herbs in a windowbox on the front porch. Such a simple solution, and now I have no excuses to not use fresh herbs when the inspiration strikes.