heat wave

I knew it was coming [the heat and humidity].

The change of weather had been forecast for days and discussed with the same fervor as an impending snowstorm. That's how it is in these parts. Weather rules.

But I didn't need a weather report to tell me that summer is quickly approaching. My dog does a fine job of that. His built-in barometer is fine tuned to low pressure systems, particularly the ones that bring oppressive humidity and summer storms. It causes him to pace the house restlessly until he drops from exhaustion. He's a dog of many talents (he can open doors and does a wicked Chewbaca impression) but when the sky starts to rumble, he has yet to figure out a way to fit his massive body under a bed.

Even without meteorologists and an anxious dog, I can always rely on the garden to tell me what part of the season we're in. The soil is finally warm and dry enough to plant summer vegetables. In the rock garden and perennial borders, the warm colors of spring bulbs and blooming shrubs give way to softer, cooler blues and pinks. And everywhere, there is green.

It's humbling to admit that a few days of hot, hazy sunshine does more to advance a plant's growth than all my fussing, nurturing and organic fertilizer put together. At this stage, my role becomes more passive; it's more about keeping up with the weeds. It feels a lot like raising teenagers.

And just as the garden changes with the weather, so, too, does my appetite. When it's hot and humid, all I want is cold and wet.

And, so, the change came: the heat and humidity descended, weather reporters congratulated themselves, the dog paced on cue, the garden flourished, the weeds rampaged, and I craved nothing but watermelon and iced tea.

With some disdain, I faced a pot of stock that I had made the night before from vegetable trimmings and herbs from the garden: asparagus, pea pods, wild onions, celery, lovage, chervil, ferns, yarrow, chives, and a handful of Parmesan rinds. A hot soup had seemed like a good idea in the cool of the evening, but on a sweltering afternoon, I re-imagined it as a cold tisane. While the cold, flavorful stock strained clear through a coffee filter, I dashed outdoors to collect a handful of leaves and petals: sedum, yarrow, fern, oxalis, dianthus, hesperis, chives. Along with some willowy stalks of asparagus, it was just what I craved— a cold, wet tonic on a hot, humid day.

Indian Summer :: the lake :: duck cranberry wild rice

Pemmican was the original power bar— a rich source of energy, and a nutritious survival food. Native Americans made pemmican by blending pounded, dried meat (jerky) with rendered fat in a 50/50 ratio. Typically, the meat came from ungulate (hoofed) animals— bison, moose, elk, deer. The fat was melted tallow or marrow, extracted from the bones. For special ceremonies, dried berries were added for flavor and color.

The word pemmican comes from the Algonquin word pimikan, derived from pimil, the Cree-Chippewa word for fat.

The hunter-gatherers of North America ate diets that were high in saturated animal fat— alarmingly high by today's standards— yet they lived long, healthy lives, free of disease (until the Europeans arrived). Hunters, in particular, were driven by a lust for fat that they believed was vital to their physical and mental well-being.

Early visitors who witnessed the native hunter's prowess were in awe. One Spanish explorer, Cabeza de Vaca, wrote "The men could go after deer for an entire day without resting or apparent fatigue… one man near seven feet in stature… runs down a buffalo on foot and slays it with his knife or lance, as he runs by its side".

No doubt, their active lifestyle contributed to their physical integrity and superiority. Maintaining it placed a premium on the quality and quantity of their caloric intake, necessitating fat as part of their diet. With nearly 2 1/2 times the energy of complex carbohydrates, sugars, or meat, animal fat was the most efficient way to consume calories without adding bulk.

puffed wild rice: (top) cook until very soft, (center) dehydrate until hard and dry, (bottom) fry in rendered duck fat until puffed

The Chippewa (anglicized name for Ojibwe), are the third largest group of Native Americans in the United States, though they are equally divided between the US and Canada. They once occupied a large territory around The Great Lakes that spread from the prairies of Canada to the plains of Montana.

Chippewas are best known for the wild rice that they gather from the lakes in birchbark canoes. The manoomin (meaning "good berry"), or wild rice, is a sacred plant to the Obijwe, who believed that it was a gift to them from the spirits. According to legend, their creator Gichi-Manidoo guided them on a long journey from the east to Lake Mole, in Wisconsin, where they found "the food that grows on water". Manoomin became so valuable and integrated in their lives that in the early 1800's, they fought a bloody war with the Sioux over it, in which the Chippewa were ultimately victorious.

Wild rice (Zizania) quickly became a staple in the Chippewas diet, and they learned to prepare it many different ways: cooked into a paste to be eaten as bread, mixed with cranberries and maple syrup for breakfast, to thicken broths, and popped, or puffed in hot grease. Wild rice was also traded for furs and was useful for attracting geese, ducks, and other wild fowl, making them easy prey for the Indians who waited, hiding in the dense reeds. The Chippewas believed that the birds that fed on the revered crop were the most delicious of all. Makes sense to me.

Pemmican

dried duck, cranberries, crispy duck skin

puffed wild rice

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

Indian Summer :: the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion

Before primitive man began cultivating his food, he relied on foraging in the wild.
In the warm months, there were plenty of fresh fruits, berries, shoots and greens for Woodland Indians to eat, but these would be gone with the first hard frost. To get through the cold months, he relied on nuts, tubers, and roots that could be gathered in autumn and stored in pits. In the Northeast, storage pits were essentially large holes dug out of the earth that were lined and covered with bark.

Unfortunately for the North American Indians, the earth's offerings of tubers were slim in comparison to their contemporaries in the more temperate southern hemisphere. South America boasts the richest natural diversity of edible tuberous species— the most important being potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), sweet potatoes (Ipomoea batatas), and cassava (Manihot esculenta).

To the east, Eurasia, which includes the Mediterranean Basin and Pacific Islands, also possesses a large diversity of indigenous tuberous plants and some of the first brought into cultivation. Among these are taro (Colocasia sp.), yams (Dioscorea sp.), and the proliferate kudzu (Pueraria lobata).

In North America, the introduction of the potato and sweet potato appropriated the domestication of our own native tubers. The two most prized by Woodland Indians— groundnut (Apios americana) and arrowhead (Sagittaria latifolia)— have never been widely cultivated. Today, there is only one tuber indigenous to the United States that holds a place in the world's common stock of vegetables: the Jerusalem artichoke, or sunchoke.

The sunchoke (Helianthus tuberosis) is the tuber of a species of sunflower that can grow up to ten feet in height. The French explorers were so smitten by the flavor of the cooked tubers that they sent specimens back to France, where it began to be cultivated. The Italians, who thought that it tasted like artichokes, labeled it girasol articiocco (sunflower artichoke) and planted it in the famous Farnese gardens. The English, who were also cultivating the tuber, mispronounced the Italian label, calling it Jerusalem artichoke and the name stuck. It's interesting that a plant that was introduced to the Europeans by the Native Americans was enjoyed abroad for over three hundred years, and until recently has been largely ignored, or used for cattle feed, in it's native country.

Onions are thought to have originated in central Asia, though it's likely that many countries had their own wild species that became domesticated simultaneously. In North America, we have Allium canadense (pictured above) and ramps, or wild leeks (Allium tricoccum). These were foraged by Native Americans and used to enhance the flavor of vegetables and meat.

Common burdock (Arctium minus) is the taproot of a biennial thistle. Native to Eurasia, it was introduced to North America by the early European settlers and quickly adopted by the Native Americans as food and medicine. Because it contains many phytochemicals, it was used for a wide range of ailments from rheumatism to skin acne. Today, it is being studied for its anti-cancer properties.

Burdock was an important winter food for Native Americans, who dug up the the roots in the fall and dried them for winter use. Fresh roots have a sweet, nutty flavor, punctuated by a deep earthiness that is off-putting to some. The skin looks thick and tough, but is actually quite thin. The flesh is milky white, but quickly oxidizes and must be immediately submerged in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. Older roots are fibrous and must be cooked; the young roots are tender and crisp when raw, but should be thinly shredded and soaked in several changes of salted water to extract some of the pungent earthiness.

In autumn, the seed heads (above, left) are covered with fine spurs that easily attach themselves to clothing. In the 1940's, this characteristic captured the attention of George de Mistral, who went on to use it as a prototype for a hook-and-loop fastening tape that he invented. We know it as velcro.

Goldenrod (Solidago) is a native wildflower belonging to the plant family Asterceae. Other edible members of this family include: sunchoke, burdock, artichoke, chicory, and lettuce. Although it is sometimes regarded as evasive because of its ability to adapt and dominate, it is also widely cultivated for its profuse yellow blooms. In the wild parts of my yard, the goldenrod grows alongside the burdock and make amiable companions in the landscape as well as the palate.

Native Americans dried goldenrod leaves to flavor teas and broth. They also cooked the leaves and ate them as greens. Goldenrod produces pollen that is collected by bees to make a strongly-flavored honey. I find the flowers and pollen tastes like carrots and parsley, with a hint of mint.

An interesting characteristic of goldenrod is its natural rubber content. Thomas Edison experimented with this property and produced a rubber that is resilient and long lasting, but was preempted by synthetic rubber. The tires of his Model T (given to him by his friend Henry Ford) were made of rubber from his experiments.

One of the most daunting aspects of cooking "native" is the lack of dairy. Before the introduction and domestication of cattle, there was no widespread use of animal milk, therefore no cream, butter, or cheese to enrichen foods and carry flavors. For this, the Native Americans relied on nuts.

Nuts and seeds were an important staple in the Indian diet and their gathering was part of an annual cycle of activities. Nutmeats were laboriously pounded in stone mortars; the resulting pastes were used like butter in cooking and baking, or dried and used as flour. Nut oils were extracted by mixing water with the paste and skimming the separated oil that rose to the surface. The remaining paste was further diluted and used as milk.

Another food missing from the native diet is vinegar. Aside from fermented corn mash
that was introduced to southwestern tribes (via central and south american influence), fermentation of plant liquids was not widely practiced by North American Indians. This seems incongruous with the ancient history of fermented beverages by the rest of the world, but explains why today's Native American population has a high percentage of alcohol intolerance. Similarly, the void of dairy products also accounts for lactose intolerance among 95% of the same population.

Earth Salad

burdock, sunchoke, wild onion, hazelnut, goldenrod

I've dressed this salad with nut butter to show the versatility of the native staple. I chose hazelnuts because of their affinity to the artichoke— a relative of the burdock, sunchoke, and goldenrod. To my modern sensibility, it proved to be one-dimensional in taste and lacking the counterpoint of acidity. Although I'm striving for authenticity of ingredients, I did not hesitate to add cider vinegar in the interest of flavor balance. Nor do I apologize for using my high-speed blender. After all, I live in the New World where the convenience of electricity and technology makes cooking more efficient, and, by contrast, makes this exercise all the more poignant.

Indian Summer :: the sea :: oyster seaweed

The diets of coastal Indians were largely dependent on the bounty of the sea. In colonial times, oysters were abundant in the brackish waters of estuaries. This has been well documented by the early settlers. Among them, William Strachey, wrote in 1612: "Oysters there be in whole banks and beds, and those of the best. I have seen some thirteen inches long." (!)
We know that Native Americans enjoyed oysters by the tremendous piles of shells that they left behind. These piles, called middens, have been found by archaeologists up and down the eastern seacoast, including many in New York City (one directly beneath a subway line). Some of these middens were four feet deep and contained thousands of shells.
Although Native Americans ate massive amounts of oysters, it's unlikely that they ate them raw. Their tools of stone and bone were too brittle to pry open the abductor muscle, capable of exerting twenty pounds of pressure. It's far more probable that they were wrapped in seaweed and baked in pits with hot rocks, as that was the traditional way of cooking shellfish and mollusks— and the origin of our modern clambake.

Seaweed was prized by the Native Americans. Besides its use to steam-cook foods, it was eaten as a vegetable, or dried and used as seasoning— in much the same way that we use salt. Some varieties, like Irish moss, contain polysaccharides that form gels when boiled. These were used to thicken soups and make a type of pudding.

Irish moss (Chondrus crispus) is a red alga found along the Atlantic coasts of North America and Europe. More closely associated with the potato famine in Ireland, where its consumption warded off starvation, it also proliferates along the rocky outcrops of the New England coast. Alternately, it is known as carrageenan moss because it contains up to 55% of the polysaccharide. When dried in sunlight, the color bleaches to pale yellow.

Irish moss needs to be soaked before cooking, which causes it to swell but not soften. The difference can be seen in the photo above— dried is on the right, soaked on the left. In the soaked stage, it has a weird synthetic texture, like plastic aquarium plants. When cooked in liquid, it begins to soften and eventually dissolve, forming a soft gel when cool. Cooked in just water, the gel has a mild and pleasant taste of seawater. Cooked in oyster liquor, as I have here, it tastes like the essence of the sea.

The Essence of the Sea

seaweed-roasted oyster
irish moss gel

Indian Summer :: the forest :: mushroom pine

Woodland Indians were a group of numerous tribes that inhabited the forests along the eastern United States and Canada. They were skilled hunters and foragers who connected to their Creator through nature, believing that plants, animals, stones, and stars possessed spirits to guide them in their journey through life. The forests were not only a place to live, hunt and forage— they were cathedrals.

Indigenous people lived in balance with the earth— they took only what was necessary and wasted nothing. When a pine tree was harvested, the needles were used as incense and in rain ceremonies, thin twigs were woven into baskets, and sturdier branches were fashioned into tools and weapons. Bark was used to cover wigwams, line food storage pits, and boiled to make a variety of medicines. The cambium was pounded, boiled, and eaten as food. Resin was chewed for pleasure— a primitive form of chewing gum. Pine cones and nuts were pulverized into fine powder, mixed with animal fat and marrow, and eaten as a confection. Pine pitch was an all-purpose substance, used for making cosmetics, medicine, glue, and water-proofing. Roots were peeled into fibers, used as cordage and thread for sewing. What remained was used for building or firewood.

Mushrooms and fungi were gathered after rains for food, medicine, religious ceremonies, and for poisoning enemies. Oyster (Pleurotis osteatus), chicken-of-the-woods (Laetiporus sulphureus), and sulphur shelf (Polyporus sulphureus), were (and still are) sought-after varieties that grow on deciduous trees. Morels (Morchella esculenta), giant puffballs (Calvatia gigantea), and chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius) grow directly out of the earth, in and around forests. These were often eaten raw, baked in clay ovens, shredded and added to soups and stews, or dried for winter use.

Mosses are fascinating and beautiful non-vascular plants that carpet the floors of dense forests. Because of their absorbing and analgesic properties, Indians used them as diapers and wound dressings. Though they are not toxic or harmful to eat, they are not very good (I've tried). It's possible that they were ingested as medicine— so much of this information is lost to us. What is known for certain is that primitive cultures had a heightened awareness and intimate knowledge of plants and their properties because of their connection to the earth.

Moss on Mushroom

chanterelle pine pesto

Indian Summer

We had our first frost earlier in the month. It was a tentative one at best, gone by midmorning and taking with it only the tenderest vegetation. The remainder of the month has been unseasonably warm— some days hot and perceptibly hazy, as if the charged atmosphere, in its hurried march towards winter, stalled in the heat and vibrated in idleness.

In the USA, wherever there is a true winter, this period is called Indian Summer.

Indian Summer usually occurs after the onset of cold, when the weather double-backs upon itself. The provenance of the phrase dates back to the 18th century and refers to the American Indians, who used this period to harvest and hunt in preparation for winter.

On a daily basis, I travel roads that have been designated 'scenic routes', passing landscapes that remain largely unscathed by the hands of man. In this setting of fields, woods, lakes and forests, it's easy to imagine the indigenous way of life that was tethered to nature and governed by the elements. In November, when the riotous autumnal landscape turns stark with the impending severity of winter, the challenges become more evident; the struggles more acute. The austerity captures my imagination.

In Indian Summer, with the evocative scenery and Thanksgiving on the horizon, it's no wonder that November— more than any other month— has me contemplating the influence of the Native Americans.

At no other time is their influence more evident than on our Thanksgiving table. Turkey, oysters, cranberries, pumpkin, squash, sweet potatoes, beans, maple syrup, nuts, and berries are all indigenous foods that were quickly adopted by the European settlers, often saving them from starvation. And, of course, there was corn— the staple of the Native American diet, referred to in some native languages as "mother" or "life"— a benevolent sustaining force and once sacred crop that agribusiness has exploited into the monster that it is today.

Some time ago, I researched the Native American diet for a project. While I found it historically interesting, I admit to being uninspired by the limitations of food and cooking methods. I realize that this was because my cooking relied heavily on the abundance of food and ingredients from around the globe that was readily available to me. Recently, I was given the opportunity to cater an event at The Institute for American Indian Studies in Washington, CT, which was to focus on food that is native to North America. As I delved into it, I was surprised by how liberating it was to be given such tight parameters. The event, itself, was magical— listening to Native Americans tell stories and speak with pride about the past, present,and future, surrounded by fascinating exhibits and artifacts, learning first-hand about the customs and traditions that made up a lost way of life. There, I found the inspiration that I was after.

I'm putting together a series of dishes— a virtual tasting menu, if you will— that will occupy the next several posts. My intention is to temporarily step back from the complexities of modern cooking in order to explore the simplicity of primal food and native ingredients and to celebrate the beauty of the natural resources that surround me. I can't promise to completely exclude modern techniques, but by visiting another extreme, I hope to find a balance that makes sense and appeals to the way that we cook and eat today.

autumnberry

I equate the back half of my property to the side of a mountain. I'm probably being overly dramatic but it does feel that way when I climb it. When I brought my father up there, he said it would make a fine vineyard. He was right— it had good drainage and a southwestern exposure, but I had different kinds of fruit in mind: cherries, pears, apples, plums… I wanted to plant a mountain orchard.

The second spring after we moved in, my husband and I cleared an area on the lower rise. We took down a few mature trees, numerous saplings, and a ton of unidentified shrubs that dominated the understory. They were attractive as far as wild shrubs go— long arching branches, silvery leaves, and insignificant yellow flowers that perfumed the mountain with their sweet scent. I would have hesitated to cut them down, but honestly, they were everywhere.

That spring, I planted six semi-dwarf fruit trees with the intentions of planting six more the following year. It was too far from the house to bring in water, but I managed to get a large tub up to gather rainwater for dry spells. That first year, I checked on the trees frequently, though there was little to do except to adjust their supports and weed around their base. By midsummer, the stumps of the shrubs that had been cut to the ground were sending out multiple shoots that began to encroach on the trees. It seemed that the more severely they were cut, the more vigorous they became. They were tenacious— I gave them that— but so was I. That first year I was confident that I had them under control [insert Nature's mocking laugh].

It was August of the following year when I finally made my way back up to the orchard. Plans to plant more trees were thwarted; other things took priority. In the wild overgrowth that ensued in my neglect, I had to look hard to find the fruit trees. Half of them were dead and the remaining three didn't look so good. I suppose that I should have felt defeated, but I had more invested in the orchard than the hours of labor and cost of the trees— I was chasing a dream of my own private Eden; trying to fulfill a plan that would bring me closer to the land and further from the grid. Stubbornly, I resolved to reclaim the orchard and waged a quiet, but violent war with pruning saw and shears.

I went back to work full-time the following year. In the restaurant biz, that means 14-16 hour days, leaving little free time for gardening. I didn't make it back to the orchard until late in the season, then I wished I hadn't. It's never easy to admit defeat. Or to let go of dreams.

I let a few years pass before I ventured back up the mountain. With the fruit trees dead, there didn't seem much point— until last month, when I found a reason to return.

You see, I finally identified the tenacious shrubs. It turns out that my nemesis and the squasher of my mountain orchard dream is the Autumn Olive (Elaeagnus umbellata)— a close relative of Russian Olive, a native of Asia (Aki-gumi) and cultivated by the Europeans who introduced it to North America. Originally intended as an ornamental, its tolerance of a wide range of environmental conditions and nitrogen-fixing root nodules that allows it to thrive in poor soil and drought, made it attractive to public works horticulturists, who planted it along highways to prevent erosion and attract wildlife. They didn't account for its highly viable seed, spread by birds, and its tendency to overcrowd native species, landing it squarely on the federal invasive species list. Here, in the Northeast, Autumn Olive is classified as an invasive exotic gone feral. I can certainly vouch for that.

It does, however, have a saving grace— it produces edible fruit.

In late fall, the green drupes begin to blush. Their color deepens and darkens with the onset of cold. When green, they are tannic and unpalatable— much like raw green olives. As they ripen, the tannins give way to tartness and eventually sweetness, which doesn't occur until they are threatened by frost. When fully ripe, as they are now, they straddle a balance of sweet and tart, with a flavor that is reminiscent of pomegranates, currants and cranberries.

The fruit has captured the attention of the USDA, who gave it a new name, Autumnberry, and opened an Autumnberry research lab in hopes of promoting their rich nutritional value. The berries contain high levels of vitamin A, C, and E, as well as flavonoids and carotenoids, but it is their particularly high levels of the antioxidant lycopene that makes them unique. With 30-70 mg of lycopene per 100 g of fruit, it surpasses (by up to 17 times) the levels found in raw tomato.

And so, after identifying the plant and learning of its edible fruit, I watched and waited. At least once a week, I climbed the mountain to check on their progress and taste for the developing sweetness. Last week, on a cold, windy day following a light frost, they were ready. I picked a few quarts, forcing myself to stop when my bare fingers became too cold and stiff to continue. It felt completely surreal and unnatural to be harvesting fruit in November— but aren't the sweetest things in life the ones that take you by surprise and not the ones you plan for? And even though Autumnberry robbed me of my dreams of cherries, pears, apples, and plums, I forgive them because— in an entirely unexpected way— I have my mountain orchard after all.

aged gouda
autumnberry cheese
comice pear
pumpkinseed oil

corn langoustine plantago

There's a prevalent flavor in raw plantago that intrigues me. It's the same nutty oiliness that is found in arugula. It's reminiscent of a nut oil that is starting to go off– not rancid, but strangely pleasant. Unlike arugula, it's not followed by a sharp bite. Like arugula, it matches well with corn.

Anything cold and easy is all that I crave on these dog days of summer. Fresh corn, put through a juicer along with a chunk of fresh coconut, seasoned with salt and a squeeze of lime, requires little energy to prepare and even less to consume. Swirling on fresh plantago juice and brown buttermilk allows the flavors to meet and mingle on the palate and not be muddied on the plate. A quick salad of langoustine tails, dressed with a light and tangy brown buttermilk vinaigrette completes the dish.

eggs benedict

Some dishes have stood the test of time by honoring tradition. Innovative chefs seek to redefine these classics by examining the flavors and textures that make the dish appealing and attempt to give us a purer, focused version. When successfully executed, the new dish feels like a rarefied distillation of the old. I think this is called refinement.

Eggs Benedict certainly falls prey to this category and I have yet to taste a better interpretation than the one served at WD-50. So good, in fact, that I had it twice on the same day.

Every component on Wylie Dufresne's plate is beyond reproach: Wafer-thin slices of crispy Canadian Bacon. Toasty English Muffin crumbs holding together a mind-bending cube of liquid hollandaise. But it was the egg yolk that did me in. Cooked sous vide at 70C for 17 minutes, egg yolks are transformed to the texture of soft, dense fudge that coats the mouth and leaves the tongue happily lapping over and over it like a dog with peanut butter. (OK, that was just me. That, I'm certain, is not called refinement.)