parsley oil

It's hard to imagine cooking without parsley. A workhorse in the kitchen, parsley's bright herbaceous flavor lets it go places where other flavors can't. Equally at home in the background or at center stage, it is perhaps most useful at bridging disparate flavors.

In the garden, it's one of the last herbs to succumb to frost, and quick to resurrect in the spring. As a biennial, it's life cycle is limited to two growing seasons, but letting the seeds ripen and self-sow in the second year ensures successive crops.

In my everyday cooking, I can think of few dishes that wouldn't benefit from a bit of parsley and I'll admit that I use it less judiciously than black pepper, whose distinct flavor can easily overwhelm and is often overused as a seasoning. With that said, crushed black pepper and freshly minced parsley make a fine seasoning.

It's so versatile that it's rare that I find myself with leftover parsley. In those instances, I stockpile the stems in the freezer and toss leaves into salads. Or, when there's a considerable amount, I make parsley oil.

Making parsley oil is as simple as pureeing parsley leaves in a blender with oil and straining through a coffee filter. The more oil used, the faster it will strain and the higher the yield, but there will be less flavor.

In spring, the oil is fantastic drizzled on seasonal fare: smashed new potatoes and peas (with a sprinkle of nutmeg), asparagus veloute, roasted fiddleheads, fresh ricotta with honey, and it will make anything that comes off the grill sing. It's also a flavorful medium in which to poach, or confit, fish if you keep the temperature below 50C so the flavor doesn't turn woody. That's where this cuttlefish tentacle was heading, but looking at the parsley root that it was to be served with, it made more sense to place the flavor there. Raw parsley root tastes a lot like fresh parsley, but becomes sweet and earthy when cooked. Gently cooking it in parsley oil and letting it macerate overnight transforms the flavor and color to a bright, beautiful green.

Celebrating the flavors of spring: cuttlefish, parsley root, meyer lemon, and toasted almond gremolata.

shrimp cocktail

Shrimp cocktail made its debut on American menus in the 1920's. The combination of ketchup and seafood existed long before that, but the addition of horseradish and lemon was a unique creation for Prohibition; a mock cocktail to open the palate and a reason to dust off fancy stemware.

Gratefully, the ban on alcohol was lifted 80 years ago. Since then, we are not only free to celebrate with a proper cocktail, but cocktails themselves have become a cause for celebration. With the evolution of bartenders into mixologists, the world of potable flavor seems limitless.

Seafood broth in cocktails is nothing new. Forty five years ago, Mott's introduced a blend of tomato juice and clam broth inspired by the flavors of Manhattan clam chowder and marketed it as Clamato. Mixed with vodka, it remains a popular savory alternative to a Bloody Mary.

When looking at the opening courses of a progressive dinner where the focus is on clean balanced flavors, for which sea creatures are so well suited, it surprises me that there are not more seafood based cocktails. In addition to Clamato cocktails, there is Sangre de Tigre— a fierce potion made from ceviche marinade. Though delicious, it nearly blew out my palate. This shrimp-based libation is more delicate; a sweet-sour-savory blend of flavors, piqued by horseradish.

shrimp cocktail
makes about 4 cocktails

Most of the fun— and a lot of flavor— come from the garnishes: sucking the shrimp head, then peeling and eating the body (serve with a small bowl for the shells and moist towellette to clean fingers). The hollow stem of lovage also contributes vegetal celery flavor— it's a straw that you'll want to chew.

10 head-on shrimp
150g watermelon juice
60g coconut water
25g freshly grated horseradish
2 strips of lime zest
pinch of salt

Arrange the shrimp in a single layer in a sous vide bag and pour in the remaining ingredients. Vaccuum seal the bag and cook at 49C/120F for 25 minutes. Transfer bag to an ice bath and chill for 15 minutes. Open bag and strain broth through a fine mesh sieve. Chill broth and shrimp seperately.

for each cocktail:
70g chilled shrimp broth
4g lime juice
24g white rum

Place broth, lime juice, and rum in a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice. Shake vigorously and strain into chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with lovage straw and chilled shrimp.

soft shell crab in a white garden

A light dusting of seasoned flour. A quick saute in a hot pan replete with butter, nutty and brown. A benediction of lemon.
Prepared this way, soft shell crab has no rival.

The exquisite crunch of shell. The burst of sweet meat, so soft and moist that it's nearly a gel.
It's a startling affirmation of the transcendence of pristine product, simply prepared.

But I know you don't come here to see a soft shell crab on a plate. In fact, that's not why I come here myself. My mission— now, as always— is to explore.

After exploring other preparations for soft shell crab, I had to concede that the legs are nothing without the crunch provided by hot fat. But the claws are meaty enough to benefit from a post-frying marinade of aromatics and acid, aka escabeche. Turning to the body, I was surprised by how effortlessly the raw nuggets of meat could be extracted from the flexible cartilage. With the help of lime juice, banana pepper, shallot, and green coriander seeds, they were turned into ceviche.

To unite the three preparations, I turned to a dish that I once saw at a Chinese banquet: cold steamed crabs on a bed of white orchids. Many years later, I still draw inspiration from the stunning contrast of ruddy shells swimming in a garden of alabaster petals.

shrimp toast

Remember shrimp toast? Seasoned shrimp paste spread on sliced white bread and deep fried— an ubiquitous offering on Chinese appetizer menus and dim sum carts.

Although it's been ages since I've even thought of shrimp toast, it was the first thing that came to mind when considering fillings for stuffed puffed pasta. That's because I saw it as a solution to a problem. The problem being greasy, fried bread— too many pores to soak up and store oil.

But frying the stuffed dehydrated pasta posed another problem: the moist stuffing prevented the interior of the pasta shells from puffing. The solution was to fry the shells briefly, then stuff and finish frying.

Tasty little morsels.

shrimp toast

230g shelled and deveined shrimp, minced
9g minced scallion
4g finely chopped ram rau, or a blend of cilantro and basil
2g grated gingerroot
1.5g salt
1g sesame oil
1 egg white, whipped to soft peaks

30 cooked and dehydrated large pasta shells (about 1 1/2" long, not the giant ones for stuffing)
vegetable oil for deep frying

In a small bowl, toss the shrimp with the scallion, ram rau, ginger, salt, and sesame oil until well blended. Fold in the whipped egg white. Set aside.

Heat the vegetable oil to 190C/375F. Drop 4-5 shells into the hot oil and fry just until they puff, but are still pale (2-3 seconds). Remove quickly and drain on paper towels. Repeat with remaining shells. Reduce oil temperature to 176C/350F.
Fill each of the puffed shells with about 1 teaspoon of shrimp mixture. Fill shells in small batches so that they can be immediately fried. Drop filled shells into hot oil and fry just until filling is cooked through. Serve immediately.

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

miso-cured oyster

Oysters can be cured in miso in less than a week. I left some to cure longer, but five days seemed to be the magic number for optimum flavor and texture in this particular batch. Of course, this could vary depending on the size of oysters and the type of miso used.

To make miso-cured oysters: Steam scrubbed oysters just until they open. Remove the oysters from shell and place them on paper towels to dry. If using shells for curing, sterilize them in boiling water for 5 minutes, then allow them to cool and dry. Spread a 1/2" thick layer of miso in the bottom of each shell. Cover miso with a layer of cheesecloth, then an oyster. Cover the oysters with cheesecloth, then another layer of miso, and finally, the top shell. Layer oysters in a sterilized container, cover tightly, and allow to cure in refrigerator for 3-7 days.

miso-cured oyster ✢ kombu aioli ✢ mushroom crisps ✢ ngo om

The assertive flavor of kombu and garlic is a good compliment to the meaty oyster and earthy mushrooms, brightened by refreshing bursts of cucumber provided by the ngo om (rice paddy herb).

After the oysters were gone, we happily nibbled on the aioli and mushrooms.

kombu aioli

6g garlic
3g salt
2 egg yolks
60g rice wine vinegar
200g olive oil
10g kombu powder*

Place the garlic, salt, egg yolks, and vinegar in a blender or food processor and processes until well blended. With the motor running, very slowly drizzle in the oil until thick and emulsified. Add the kombu powder and process briefly until blended. Scrape out aioli into a bowl, cover and let refrigerate for 2-3 hours to allow kombu to hydrate and flavors to mellow. Stir before serving.
* kombu powder can be made by grinding pieces of dried kombu sheets in a spice grinder to a fine dust.

mushroom crisps

small king oyster mushrooms lend themselves well to crisping because of their thick meaty stems.

With a vegetable peeler, shave thin slices of mushrooms by imbedding the blade of the peeler into the cap and dragging to the base. Lay the mushroom slices out in a single layer on a sheet pan and allow to air-dry for 1-2 hours, until their edges begin to curl. Lightly brush or mist the slices with a thin layer of olive oil. Bake in a 149C/300F oven for 4-5 minutes, or until they are golden and crisp. Lightly sprinkle with salt and serve immediately.

tomato kumquat olive

One more dish inspired by similarity of size and shape.
Traditional mediterranean flavors with a few twists:
black olives which are really octopus heads
kumquat rind stuffed with roasted red pepper mousse

confit baby Romas confit kumquat rind roasted red pepper

octopus olives picholine olives fregula sarda

safffron kumquat fumet garlic shoots

black olives

Eating is an adventure when you abandon expectations.
Separating one's head from one's body opens the door to possibilities.
But even when the eyes say one thing and the brain another, the palate doesn't lie.

I give you an innocuous plate of black olives.

Eat it if you enjoy seafood (of the tentacled kind).
And a sense of humor.

octopus olives

Separate the heads from the bodies of baby octopuses. Use the bodies for another preparation (grill, fry, braise, or just to gross out the kids). Place heads in pan with mirepoix (onions, carrots, celery), shallots, bay leaf, thyme, a strip of orange zest, salt, pepper, and enough water to cover completely. Add about 1 teaspoon of squid ink per cup of water and stir well. Simmer, covered, for one hour or until tender. Remove octopi heads with slotted spoon and set aside. Strain cooking broth and return to pan, discard solids. Reduce broth to about 2 Tablespoons. Return octopi to pan and toss to coat in reduced sauce. Cool completely. Scrape out contents of pan into a jar. Add enough brine from prepared olives to completely cover octopi heads. Cover tightly, shake gently, and refrigerate for 24 hours, shaking gently a few times to distribute the ink, which has a tendency to settle to the bottom
Serve with a drizzle of fruity virgin olive oil, a sprinkle of coarse sea salt, fresh herbs, crusty bread, a glass of sherry or lusty wine, and a smile.

citrus gama

My first inclination upon opening the box of citrus was to sit down and have myself a citrus feast, but that would have been purely indulgent and more than a little irresponsible. After all, it's not everyday that I have access to such rare and exotic jewels with at least one, the malaysian lime, of ambiguous origin. Gene Lester tells me that he planted it many years ago from seeds brought back from Malaysia and speculates that it may be an Egyptian lime.

I felt it was important to document their characteristics, if only for my own reference, as that has already been done to a greater extent over at Citrus Pages. Many of the photos and much of the information on the website is based on the fruit that Mr. Lester grows. After photographing, collecting data, and preliminary tastings, I was ready to get cooking.

New products, especially those of exceptional quality, always incite my creative monkeys. But with so many avenues and so little fruit, I had to reign them in and focus on a preparation that would capture the essence of the individual cultivars— not just the flavor of the juice, but also the rich aroma of the rinds.

Ever since stumbling on yuzu gama, I've been fascinated with the concept. I'll admit that using citrus as a kettle is a romantic notion. But it's also a practical one: the porous rind insulates, breathes, and permeates the contents with aroma.

The first thing I learned was that not all citrus make suitable cooking vessels. Those with bitter albedos— lemons, limes, grapefruit— impart unpleasant bitterness.

And yet those with thin, tender rinds— kumquats, clementines, mandarins— are surprisingly palatable and can be eaten along with the contents. Many of the fruits that I was given were petite— just the right size to snugly hold a scallop.

The Thomasville citrangequat (below left) is a cross between an orange and a kumquat. Like the kumquat, it has a sweet rind and tart pulp, though the fruit is larger (about 2" diameter), and the pulp is sweeter. After cutting off the top and bottom and removing the pulp, I steamed the rind for a few minutes to soften it. A scallop was stuffed into the citrus band and seared on both sides. The cintrangequat juice was reduced with saffron and blended with egg yolk and olive oil to form a mayonnaise that accompanies the scallop and steamed baby artichoke. The bright, fresh rind cut through the richness of the scallop and brought to mind the evanescence of spring.

The Silverhill mandarin (below right) is an Unshu satsuma with a rich, sweet flavor and aroma. It was hollowed out (an easy task as the pulp separates easily from the rind), stuffed with a scallop, seasoned with salt, szechuan pepper, a dab of butter and a sprinkle of its juice, then sous vide at 50ºC for 40 minutes. The scent escaping from the opened bag was incredible. It was glazed with a sauce made from the juices in the bag, reduced with the rest of the mandarin juice and mounted with sweet butter. Served with crumbled, dehydrated Cerignola olives and pureed black garlic, it made a sweet and resonant autumnal starter; rind and all.

Over the winter, my quasi-obsession with citrus has been interlaced with an increasing interest in old-school terrines, though up until now nothing has materialized.
For this terrine, I chose the Temple tangor, a cross between a tangerine and orange, because it was the largest specimen with a sweet rind. The hollowed out tangor was filled with a cylinder of foie, surrounded by black truffles folded into prepared sweetbreads (soaked, blanched, cleaned, pressed, seasoned), and bound with transglutaminase. The terrine was cooked sous vide at 65ºC for 90 minutes, pressed overnight, and sliced. Again, the mingled scents of foie, truffles and orange was not to be believed.
Other components are: pickled beet with tangor sections, brioche crouton, and a leaf of liquid salad made from watercress fluid gel, finished with olive oil and lemon juice.

Note: Although the rind of the tangor was sweet, it was a bit leathery. I had hoped that it would have softened more than it did in the sous vide process. If I were to repeat this dish— which I intend to (perhaps with a pate de campagne), I would precook the rind. Alternately, the rind could be used as a scented mold.

*Admittedly, foie, truffles and sweetbreads were rather decadent ingredients to experiment with, but these were left over from a job.

I don't recall the last time that I made a proper cassoulet, but I remember the first. It was after reading Paula Wolfert's "The Cooking of Southwest France" sometime in the mid 80's and feeling an overwhelming need to be connected to that place and its food. It was my introduction to duck confit, pork braised in milk, and the wantonly rich cassoulet. For years, I looked forward to the winter ritual that began with making lamb stock on a Friday night and culminated with a liberal topping of bread crumbs and duck fat on a Sunday afternoon. The crust was always the deal-breaker.
This cassoulet-inspired dish features Gigante beans cooked in duck stock, duck confit, and Cara Cara orange* segments, layered and baked together in the orange rind. The crust is a variation on chicken skin croquant, substituting duck skin, and dusted with orange zest and parsley.

*Cara Cara is a navel orange, a mutation that naturally occurred on a Washington navel orange tree, with sweet pink pulp. It was not in the box of citrus that chef Kinch sent me but I needed a fruit large enough to hold an entree-sized serving. Unlike the other dishes, this rind is used for aroma and presentation, not to be eaten.

yuzu kosho

Many foods are defined by their aroma and yuzu is no exception. In fact, the distinct aroma of yuzu has earned it its very own aroma compound, Yuzunone, as documented in this recent study.

In Japan, yuzu is most enjoyed in its ripe stage, when the albedo has softened and the skin turns a bright yellow-orange. When ripe, the terpenes mature into an intoxicating blend of musky-citrus-floral-pine notes. In its green stage— before the chlorophyll is destroyed and the carotenoids develop— the fruit displays sharp herbaceous-pine notes.

Yuzu kosho is a condiment from Kyushu Island in southern Japan that utilizes both stages of yuzu. Green yuzu kosho is made from unripe yuzu zest and green chilies. Red yuzu kosho uses yellow yuzu zest and red chilies. Though they use the same products, they are unique in taste and a good example of the vicissitude of flavor in developing fruit.

To make yuzu kosho, whether green or red, simply blend finely minced chili flesh (leave out the seeds and white membranes) with finely minced yuzu zest and salt to taste. Depending on the level of capsicum present in the chilies, and your tolerance to it, the proportions are typically 6:3:1 (chili:yuzu:salt). The mixture can also be pounded in a mortar with a pestle for a smoother paste.

In this dish, I liquified the yuzu kosho with dashi to mimic the smooth texture of the chawanmushi and to contrast with the firm, meaty texture of octopus.

Octopus and I have a long, complicated history. On the one hand, the presence of octopus on the tables of my childhood marked the joyous occasions and holidays when friends and family would gather together. On the other hand, it was a challenging flavor and texture for a child to deal with and certainly not something I looked forward to eating. Even the rice in the ubiquitous dish, Arroz de Polvo, cooked in the acerbic braising liquid, was hard to get down. I was, however, fascinated with the suckers. Noting how they resembled the plastic suction cups on the ends of toy darts, I entertained myself by attaching them to every available surface, including myself. It's possible that octopus suckers were the precursor to a lifelong fascination with the genius designs found in nature.

Fascinations aside, I avoided octopus for most of my life— until I was unwittingly served a grilled octopus salad that changed everything.

According to Harold McGee, in his opus On Food and Cooking, "[octopus} must be cooked either barely and briefly to prevent the muscle fibers from toughening, or for a long time to break down the collagen. Cooked quickly to 130-135F/55-57C, their flesh is moist and almost crisp."

I already knew this was true of squid and abalone but the memory of the long-cooked octopus was too deeply ingrained to put it together. And if I'm being truthful; even if I had, I wouldn't have bothered. Why waste time preparing something that I wouldn't enjoy?

And although I was served a plate of octopus salad that I hadn't ordered, I accepted it as a challenge to myself. One bite of the flash-grilled octopus not only exposed my prejudice, but proved it wrong. The pleasure that I found in the snappy texture and clean flavor reminded me of why it's important to play with food— it's only with an open mind and a willingness to explore that we discover things that please and delight us— whether it's source lies in the maturity of an exotic fruit or a creature from the deep sea.

baby octopus

yuzu kosho

chawanmushi