A recipe I want to try

Lishapisa, over at the Cookng Blog, posted a recipe for Rice Ball Soup, which comes in both sweet and savory versions. It is made with a chicken-based stock, rice flour, and water. It sounds amazing—and a lot like Matzoh Ball soup. I’m thinking of taking the great original savory version of the recipe and adding a little duck fat and maybe a dash of seltzer to the balls, but otherwise keeping it as is. Here is the link: http://cookng.blogspot.com/2009/12/rice-ball-soup-tong-yuen.html

Glögg

Do you have a favorite holiday beverage?

Glögg is based on a simple ratio: one part each vodka, port, and red wine. Add spices, orange peel and heat. After heating, garnish the individual servings with slivered almonds and raisins. You can substitute other fortified wines or use brandy—but I think vodka, port and red wine work best. As far as quality goes, one step above the bottom for the vodka and port is fine—as long as the vodka isn’t in danger of melting through the plastic, you’re probably ok. The wine should be drinkable and maybe a little fruity, but nothing special.

While you heat the mixture slowly, the smell will fill the house or apartment—partly because some of the alcohol evaporates as it heats. Glögg itself has a wonderful, adult, spicy, winey, citrusy holiday aroma and flavor. As the evening goes on, the glögg gets less boozy—which is a good thing. It never loses its potency, though, and should at all times be treated with respect.

My wife and I use Marcus Samuelsson’s Glögg recipe (again from Saveur): http://www.saveur.com/article/Wine-and-Drink/Glogg

The recipe is not inviolate; you can alter it to your taste. If there are other spices you think would work, add them in small amounts. Ginger and peppercorns come to mind. I would not add too much cinnamon though—it is important, but can overwhelm.

Eggnog

My family’s eggnog has been around almost as long as I have. It was first made by my dad to celebrate my birth on Christmas Eve. The next year, they changed the recipe, and it is as printed below.
Eggnog is essentially a custard, made by heating egg yolks, milk and sugar over the stove slowly until the mixture coats the spoon. Then, it is cooled, whipped egg whites and vanilla are added, and the mixture is allowed to settle over night.
For me, eggnog is a matter of balance. It can be too eggy, too nutmegy, or perhaps worst, simply an alcohol delivery system. There should be alcohol in eggnog, yes, but a capful or a little more per cup. It is there to cut the richness. I prefer Myer’s rum, as the vanilla notes work well with the eggnog, but whiskey or brandy work as well.
Eggnog, like all holiday rituals, is as much about its past as its present. I remember making it with my brothers and father (my mother was responsible for the fruitcake that was always served with it) from an early age and each time I drink it, I think of those times.

Here is my dad’s recipe. Enjoy.

Recipe for 1.5 quart of eggnog
Ingredients
1/3 cup sugar
4 egg yolks
1/4 tsp salt
4 cups whole milk (1 Q)
4 egg whites
3 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp vanilla
Brandy or rum to flavor
Brandy or rum to add when drinking plus nutmeg to sprinkle over nog
1/2 cup heavy cream (whipped)--optional

Instructions
Separate egg whites and yolks, being careful not to get yellow into the whites.
Beat 1/3 cup sugar into egg yolks, add salt and stir in milk.
Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until mixture coats spoon.
Cool (the fast way is to put the pan in a basin of cold water)
While the yolk mixture cools, beat egg whites until foamy, add sugar slowly while continuing to beat until soft peaks appear.
Add cool yolk mixture and mix thoroughly.
Add flavorings, stir well, and put in refrigerator for at least 3 hours.
When ready to serve, put into punch bowl, add rum or brandy (this can be done for the individual glasses to accomodate different amounts and types of alcohol), dot eggnog with islands of whipped cream (optional), and sprinkle with nutmeg (preferably fresh ground)
6 to 8 servings
NOTE: I usually make three quarts at a time, which means that you double the recipe (use a half gallon of milk), except for the salt

A meal in France I

We stopped at a small, unassuming restaurant in Auxerre, “Le Trou Poinchy”. There was nothing special about it from the outside; the prices were reasonable, the place was crowded. I can’t remember what everyone else ordered, but I had the jambon persillé and the pork cheeks in coarse mustard sauce. The side dish for the pork cheeks was a vegetable ragout made with piment d’espelette. For the second time on the trip, my dad insisted on asking for the recipe—they love being asked, he said—and for the second time he was rebuked.

The two ladies next to us were enjoying their chèvre chaud salads at the end of their meals. I had, as I always did, the cheese.

I got an email from my brother the other day. It turns out that the chef at this restaurant has moved to Las Vegas, where he is the chef at Garfield’s, known more commonly as Chef JD. Here, he turns out Anglo-French classics such as Blackened Mahi-Mahi and, to be fair, 7-hour lamb. No jambon persillé or braised pork cheeks anywhere on the menu.

My favorite recipe for jambon persillé is from the Saveur cooks Authentic French cookbook. You can find the recipe at http://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/Ham-and-Parsley-Terrine. You don’t have to make a loaf—it works well in ramekins (which, in their turn, work well as appetizer-sized portions).

Candied Brie

Safety tip: If you find yourself with a pan on fire, place the lid on the pan and smother the flames.

When cooking it is important to be humble and pay attention, otherwise you may need to implement the safety tip above. As I did on Thanksgiving this year. The two foot flames and clouds of smoke really made me regret the “cooking Thanksgiving is easy” comment.

No one was hurt and the pan was salvaged after a great deal of scrubbing. Burnt sugar is much easier to clean than burnt oil. When oil is overheated it polymerizes which is essentially turning to plastic, sugar just burns to ash which does not adhere to stainless steel very well.

The culprit was the appetizer. Isn’t it always the appetizer, or the dessert? The first is always lost in a sea of other priorities, salad, main course etc. The latter is often finished after a few glasses of wine. Wine is good for sauce but rarely helps the cook.

Here is the recipe
This is a crowd pleaser, showy like baked brie but a lot easier, even with the fire we were able to remake it and serve it without throwing off our timing.

Candied Brie
1 small soft cheese round, brie or camembert work well
1/2 cup sugar
A little water, enough to help the sugar dissolve any extra will just take more time to boil off.

1. Place cheese on serving plate.
2. Put sugar and water in sauce pan bring to a boil. Boil until sugar caramelizes.
3. Pour hot sugar syrup over cheese. Tilt cheese plate to get even coating if needed. Careful it is very hot.
4. Allow to sit for a few minutes or so to harden. Serve with crackers or bread.

For the Flaming version replace step 2 with Put sugar and water in sauce pan bring to a boil, leave the kitchen to attend to arriving guests and then watch some TV with the kids until your wife screams “The kitchen is on fire” Then repeat steps 2-4 above.

Every cook needs to have a little kitchen fire now and again.

Beef Brisket

Do you have a favorite comfort food recipe?

There is nothing quite like a good beef brisket. Unfortunately, too often it is dried out or stringy. These are easy conditions to cure. A brisket should be cooked at as low a temperature as possible. If you can keep the meat at a simmer or even below, it won’t get stringy or dried out.

The bigger problem is the balance of flavor. Too often, a brisket ends up overwhelmed by a bottle of wine or can of tomato paste that are poured into the braising liquid. A little tomato paste and a little wine are all you need. And I never add carrots. They dissolve into the liquid and make it too sweet. Brisket doesn’t really need them—just serve with mashed potatoes and buttered carrots on the side.

The real secret to brisket is the onions. Deeply browned onions add a rich sweetness that perfectly complements the brisket.

Recipe:

1 3-4 lb brisket.
Salt, pepper
4-5 onions, thinly sliced
3-4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced.
2 tb flour
2 tb tomato paste
¼ cup red or white wine
1 cup beef broth
neutral oil, such as grapeseed
1-2 sprigs thyme


1. Salt, pepper brisket. In a heavy Dutch oven (Le Creuset works perfectly), brown both sides in oil. Brown for at least five minutes on a side. You want a good, dark brown on the outside of the meat. Remove brisket from pot and set aside.
2. Place onions in pan. salt. Cover and cook over low heat for 15 minutes, until onions are soft, and have given off some water. If they are browning, add a little liquid. After 15 minutes, turn the heat up, boil off the liquid. Turn the heat to low and slowly cook the onions until they turn a medium brown. Stir frequently. The darker the onions get, the more frequently you stir.
3. Add the garlic and sauté for 3 minutes.
4. Add the tomato paste and sauté for another 2 minutes.
5. Add the flour and cook for about five minutes.
6. Add wine, beef broth, brisket and bring to a boil.
7. Throw a sprig or two of thyme into the pot.
8. Cook at 250 for 4 hours.
9. Remove from oven, check texture. Cook longer, if needed.
10. Remove brisket from cooking liquid and degrease. Reduce sauce, if needed. Return brisket to pot and reheat. Let beef sit for a few minutes before cutting into it.

Dan's Introduction

As Frank said we both grew up in the early days of the California food movement. My parents were early adopters of foreign foods. They would buy cookbooks and try recipes. It started with Chinese, then Indian followed by Thai, Mexican, Korean, Japanese etc. Like them, I learned to cook through cookbooks. To be honest, there was some outside motivation. When I reached the fourth grade, I was given the choice of cooking dinner or cleaning the kitchen two nights a week. To this day I don’t really like doing the dishes.

In college I found that being able to cook really paid off. Friends would buy the ingredients and I would cook the meal. As Frank already explained we ended up waiting tables together after college, where my Political Science degree came in handy. This is where our culinary collaboration began, Cowboy Bob’s Gourmet Experience. We did two editions.

I moved on to work for Starbuck’s back when it sold coffee. Where one day a customer asked me “Dan, what do you want to be doing? Because you clearly don’t want to be here anymore” My reply was “I would love to be in a room somewhere working on a better non fat pudding.” So I left there to go into the restaurant world and quickly moved from that into product development. I landed an internship at a food development company. Within minutes I knew that I finally had the job I was supposed to have.

I have spent the last 12 years working in product development. I create food on an industrial scale. Truck loads of meat. Recipes that are measured in percent by weight and above all it must stay the same. Variety may be the spice of life, but variation is the enemy of food production.

This gives me a very different view of food than Frank and pretty much everyone else outside of the industry. But what this blog is for me is a chance to explore the fundamental principles of food and taste. As has been the case throughout our lives Frank and I will continue the dialogue that I have always found so personally enriching.

We are hoping that others will join the conversation.

A food moment

I was just released from the hospital after a three day stay. Yesterday, my wife and I got into a conversation with one of the nurses, Urika. The conversation soon turned to food and the food her parents made. She explained that she was from Panama, but that her people had come from the Caribbean to work the canal. In addition to the wonderful seafood, she remembered her dad cooking pig’s knuckles. First, he’d boil them, then put them in a pit outside, then freeze them, then he’d slowly cook them in a just a little water. This would crisp them up, and the aroma would bring everyone in the neighborhood to the door.

Her mother’s dish, both humbler and more loved, was coo-coo. Coo-coo, she explained, was made by throwing okra in a little water until it got slimy. Then, you would take some corn meal and pour it in a pot of water and stir it till smooth. The two would be added together and shaped into a bowl and emptied on a plate.

I am going to make coo-coo. Or maybe just polenta.

Mango Salsa

What is the first recipe of your own you'd still make?

I remember the first recipe I wrote that I was proud to serve. It was for Mango Salsa—very much of its time (the early nineties) and place (Northern California). Not that Mango Salsa was particularly innovative, but this version was mine. I’d serve it with grilled asparagus marinated in lemon and soy, portobello mushrooms marinated in a dark soy with sesame oil and a little honey, and parboiled potatoes grilled with green onions, peanut oil and curry powder.

This recipe came up at my brother’s wedding, when a good friend of my parents happened to remark that he still made that salsa from time to time. I haven’t made it in years, maybe even ten years. Looking over the recipe, there are some things I’d change—the cumin doesn’t seem quite right (and too many chiles by far)—but it is basically a good recipe. But still, it isn’t how I cook any more. It also, sadly I think sometimes, is not where or when I cook.

So many elements of the recipe are dependent on that original context. I don’t have as many opportunities to grill as I used to, my cooking has become much more European and less Asian, and fish in general is a declining resource, one much more expensive than it used to be (and for good reason).

Still, I think I will try to make the salsa some time in the next couple weeks. Maybe with fish on a grill pan, not a grill, maybe not with asparagus, but definitely following the recipe as I wrote it then (halving the chiles), not as I would now.

This is the recipe as originally written. I have not made it in years and make no promises.

Mango Salsa
This salsa is flavored with ginger and sesame oil, giving it an Asian feel. Excellent with grilled fish or chicken, or just by itself with some chips.

2 small-1 large mango, peeled and diced finely
2-4 Roma tomatoes, peeled, seeded and diced
1/2 Bermuda onion, finely diced
2-6 serrano chiles, minced, and seeded (optional)
1-3 jalapeno chiles, minced, and seeded (optional)
2 tablespoons minced cilantro
1/2 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
1 tablespoon (or more) rice vinegar
juice from one lime
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 teaspoon roasted cumin
dash soy sauce, dash salt

Mix ingredients together. Adjust seasonings. Let sit for one hour before serving.

A Disappointing Meal

What is most disappointing (not the worst) meal you have had recently? Or ever?

For our anniversary, my wife and I went to one of our favorite restaurants, one of the first places in New York to focus on local, seasonal ingredients. Our appetizers were excellent—a soup of lettuce and celery root and a dish of rabbit offal. Both were simply but expertly prepared.

The main courses were the problem. My wife had a salt-crusted baked duck served with shaved carrots. The duck was slightly undercooked and lukewarm. The big problem, however, was the carrots. They had no flavor. A little crunch, yes, but that was about it.

My pork was more of a mess. It was served with noodles (fideos), stuffed in the neck of a hollowed out squash, looking like some baroque wiring connection. Every individual element was good; the pork in particular was excellent, but texturally it didn’t make much sense—it was all on the softer side of things.
My point isn’t to grouse, but to try to figure out how this could have been served. It wasn’t bad, just disappointing.

I do have a couple of thoughts. First, menus are designed seasonally, not daily. Carrots that are bursting with flavor one week can be bland the next. The second thought is a kind of generosity on the part of the chef. Squash is in season and is excellent; the kitchen just got an great source for fideos—perhaps all of these can go on the same plate?

Restraint and self-censorship—as in the first courses we had—is often the better, if harder, course.

Keats and Grapes

Do you have a favorite or interesting food moment in poetry or prose?

Near the end of his Ode on Melancholy, Keats gives a very physical image of melancholy itself:

Ay, in the very temple of Delight,
Veil’d Melancholy has her sov’ran shrine.
Though seen of none save whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine.

Bursting a grape by pressing the tongue against the roof of one’s mouth takes a little work—it is strenuous. When one does, one is rewarded first with the sweet nectar of the grape and then with the mouth drying tannins of the skin. The flavor combination is much more complex than a glass of juice. It is a melancholy experience, sweetness followed by a necessary astringency.

Gravlax

I mentioned gravlax in my last entry and I guess that is as good a reason for any to give my recipe for it. I serve it with some brown bread (or just croutons), horseradish crème fraiche (a couple of tablespoons of freshly grated horseradish mixed in with a half a cup of crème fraiche), and a ginger-dijon gastrique (in honor of Barbara Tropp—recipe follows).

Gravlax


2 lb fillet of fresh, wild salmon. Have the fishmonger remove the bones or do it yourself using tweezers.
1 tb malt whiskey
1/3 cup salt
¼ cup sugar
1 tb peppercorns.
1 bunch dill

1. Rinse and dry salmon. Place a couple of cuts on the skin side.
2. Sprinkle whiskey on flesh side of salmon.
3. Place peppercorns in pan and toast until aromatic—just 2 or 3 minutes at most. Crush either in mortar or with side of knife and mix with salt and sugar.
4. Cover flesh side of salmon with sugar/salt/pepper mixture. Place dill on top.
5. Place fish, skin side down on plastic wrap and place in non reactive dish. I use a pyrex casserole.
6. Every twelve hours or so (this is not a precise affair), pour liquid out. Salmon is ready after two days and is good for another day or two.
7. Remove all of the dill from the fish and throw away

And this is where the fun begins. Take your sharpest, longest knife and begin slicing across the grain, making the slices as thin and as large as possible. You’ll find at first that you’re just getting chunks. But you will eventually get long, thin slices or at least longer, thinner slices. The trick is to try almost fighting against your own slice—don’t let the knife dig in to the salmon, let it push against the salmon. Of course, most of the slices will be abject failures—they won’t look anywhere near as nice as they do at the local appetizing counter. Of course, you’re not slicing it 8 hours a day with knives that are only used to slice fish. Don’t worry—it is still impressive. You can also arrange it on or off bread to obscure the imperfections. And those little awkward little thick bits are great minced. You can even put them on top of a little dollop of the crème fraiche and put a sprig of dill on top.


Ginger-Dijon Gastrique

2 one-inch coins of ginger, crushed
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup unseasoned rice wine vinegar

½ cup Dijon mustard (Maille is my preferred brand)

1. Place ginger and sugar in a heavy bottomed pan and heat.
2. When sugar begins to caramelize, stir a couple times and add vinegar. Turn down heat and let sugar dissolve. Boil down for a few minutes and turn off heat.
3. Discard ginger and add liquid to mustard. If not mustardy enough, add more mustard.

Barbara Tropp and China Moon, part two--the cookbook

Is there a cookbook you find both inspirational and frustrating?

The China Moon Cookbook was the first cookbook I ever bought for myself at full price. I still have it, stained, dogeared, torn—and even though I haven’t cooked from it in years, it has always been at the center of my collection.

It is, objectively, a cookbook filled with recipes that are not easily accessible. Most, but not all, cookbooks based on restaurants try to make a restaurant’s food accessible to the regular kitchen. At the most extreme, this results in cookbooks where the illustrations reveal dishes with ingredients and garnishes not even mentioned in the given recipe. Corners are cut in the name of the common reader, or cook. Home kitchens do not have the same resources as restaurant kitchens.

China Moon demands a commitment. The entire first section of the cookbook is made up of recipes you need to make before you can even attempt most of the dishes in the rest of the cookbook. At the least you need: Chili-orange oil, pickled ginger, roasted szechuan pepper salt, and ma-la oil (or five flavor oil). For a more complete kitchen, the book suggested all of the above, and chili oil, chili-lemon oil, and Serrano-lemongrass vinegar. And I’m not even touching on her precise instructions for making stocks and double infusions.

When you did make the recipes, everything had to be precisely cut and measured. The recipe for pickled didn’t just call for rice vinegar. Instead, it required rice vinegar, cider vinegar, and distilled white vinegar. However, while distinct from the usual rice vinegar, the differences were small, and became even smaller when the ginger was integrated into other recipes. The book made similar absurd demands on the reader; to make a recipe, you had to recreate the experience of cooking it in the restaurant’s kitchen.

Yet I remember not thinking any of this when reading it first. Barbara Tropp, and the people at Workman who helped her fashion the cookbook, were reassuring throughout. Everything was explained; it all made sense and it seemed while you were reading it that it could not be otherwise.

And I fell for it. I made most of the oils, the salt, the ginger, even the double infused stocks. I probably made a couple dozen recipes from that cookbook, if you include the pantry recipes.

In particular, I loved the pickle recipes, for orange carrot coins, for ma-la cucumber fans, for ginger radishes, ginger pickled red cabbage slaw, and spicy cabbage pickle—all were great. There were other recipes—the hot and sour short ribs, the bunny stew, the chili-orange noodles, and most importantly, her Chinese style gravlax.

Her recipe for gravlax, with ginger and cilantro instead of the usual dill, and served with ginger slaw, became one of my standby recipes for years. I still make gravlax, but with more traditional seasonings—and the addition of a little single malt whiskey to the salmon before coating in salt and sugar.

What makes her cookbook so great is exactly what is frustrating about it. It is the China Moon Cookbook, and it gives the best approximations on how the food of her restaurant can be made at home, down to the right brands of soy to use.

And for me, it forced me to thinking about cooking differently, more seriously. One couldn’t just jump in and cook a Barbara Tropp recipe. Instead, you had to construct it from the bottom up; using the right stock, the right oils, the right vinegar, the right salt, even. You had to plan in advance: making buns, for example, was a multi day process. A mise en place was absolutely necessary, you couldn’t just cut as you went. There was a meticulousness to her approach; one that might have been overwhelming without her accompanying voice.

Reading her book, making her dishes led me to be a better cook in general, to make my own dishes with more precision.

Again, it is strange to realize a person’s passing so long after the event. You are acknowledging a lack you didn’t know you felt.

But it is a lack I’ve felt since I finished her cookbook. There are other cookbooks I love, ones that are even perhaps more in tune with the kind of food I love, but her voice is one I’ve never encountered since. It was intensely personal and professional, academic and approachable. You could hear her erudition behind her voice, but it never overwhelmed or became pedantic. That we only have her two books is our loss.

Barbara Tropp and China Moon, part one

What now closed restaurant from your past would you want to revisit?

I recently found out that Barbara Tropp, owner of the China Moon Café, and author of the cookbook of the same name, passed away eight years ago, in November of 2001. I was reading another cookbook, and it referred to her as the “late Barbara Tropp.” It shook me up. I never knew her, but she was important in my life.

As a senior in High School, living in the far east bay area, I used to read the restaurant reviews every week in the San Francisco Chronicle. You can basically insert your usual cliché here—it was a window into a more exciting world is the one that works for me. But the review of China Moon was the first review that led to me acting on my fantasies. I went there, and for the next year or two, it was my date restaurant. It made me feel urbane, not fancy and fake. A narrow restaurant off of Union Square, it had a split level kitchen, and you could see the cooks assembling dishes on the top floor. The other quirky thing I remember is that they had a mineral water list. For someone below the drinking age, this allowed me to feel sophisticated. I’d pick Levissima—a water from the north of Italy, not because of its quality, but because I knew it and it seemed an exotic choice that would reflect well on my tastes. I wasn’t your ordinary customer, satisfied with Perrier or Pelligrino or even Romerquelle.

One of the sad things looking back is the knowledge that I have forgotten certain things. I never really kept a diary; it never seemed important. But now, I would love to be able to look back and see what exactly I had ordered and who I had gone with. I remember a few things: the spicy beef stew almost too spicy, the orange flavored noodles, the salmon cooked in parchment with cilantro pesto (one of the cleanest tasting dishes I’ve ever had), and the key lime-rum tart with chocolate sauce (or was it ice cream?). The service was also, to my teenaged mind, perfect—friendly, not ingratiating--it made me feel urban, not suburban.

Years later, it was rereviewed in the Chronicle. I had now finished college, and was living back home. The review was less than positive, saying that the place had gone downhill, the food greasy, geared to tourists. A few years later, it closed down. At the time, the review came as almost a relief—I hadn’t been there in a couple years, and knowing that it had gone downhill made me feel better about not going. I wish I had gone—I wish I could go—back, walk through the door, to one of the booths, order a bottle of Levissima, a plate of appetizers, and that salmon.

The chinois and a recipe for Corn Bisque

This is something I wrote a while back. I wanted to post it before the absolute end of corn season, as the corn soup recipe attached is my one of my favorite dishes. I haven't made it this year and, sadly, I fear I won't have the chance.

What are your favorite obscure kitchen items?

To the home cook, few implements seem as foreign and as emblematic of the professional kitchen as the chinois. From its awkward shape and its utilitarian look, it is out of place in most batteries de cuisine. One look at it conjures up visions of overheated kitchens, men and women wearing toques and plaid pants, voices shouting orders, and the general chaos of the dinner rush. The exact role of the chinois, well, it strains, doesn’t it?

The reason that the chinois, or more properly the chinois tamis, intimidates is its association with haute cuisine and its worst excesses. Even the name, chinois, derived from someone’s belief that it was shaped like a Chinese hat to someone, is slightly offensive. Its fine double mesh was designed to strain stocks, to clean impurities out of sauces. To many, this means that it doesn’t alter flavor, just appearances.

To say that this is so is to do an injustice to the chinois and to the palate. Straining does make a difference in flavor. The next time you make beef stew at home, try running the liquid through the chinois. It is this simple: remove the meat from the pot, set it aside. Strain the rest of the ingredients through the chinois, pressing down on them if necessary, and boil down until thick. Add the meat back to the liquid. You will be amazed at the difference.

For me, though, the true magic of the chinois is in what it does to and for soups. Put simply, it allows starches to pass through while retaining other, more fibrous material. One of my favorite soups is a corn bisque, made at the peak of corn season. Because the chinois allows the starches through, but not the fibrous skin of the corn, the soup is smooth and thick without requiring the addition of any cream at all. The resulting soup is silky smooth—the essence of corn flavor with a hint of corn’s heft.

Corn Bisque. Serves 6

10 ears of corn

9 cups broth, chicken or vegetable.

1 onion, chopped

2 carrots, peeled and chopped.

Salt, white pepper

Dash Tabasco

2 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon chopped chives

¼ pound bacon, chopped into ¼ inch strips

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1. Heat the broth to a simmer.

2. Shuck and remove all of the kernels from each ear of corn. After removing the kernels, use the back of the knife to get as much of the juice as possible. Set all the kernels and juice aside.

3. Place the ears in the broth and let simmer for thirty minutes.

4. In a 4-5 quart heavy saucepan or soup pot, sauté the onion and carrot until the onion is soft, about five minutes.

5. Add the corn kernels and cook over low heat, stirring constantly. After most of the liquid has evaporated, add the broth to the corn, reserving one cup.

6. Cook for thirty minutes, until corn is very tender. In batches, send the soup through a blender.

7. Using a wooden spoon, or a long pestle, strain and push the blended mixture into another pot using your chinois. There will be a significant amount of solid material. Set it aside, and repeat this until all of your soup is transferred.

8. Place the set-aside solids back in the blender. Set the blender on highest setting and blend for one minute. Add ½ cup of the reserved stock. Blend for another 30 seconds. Strain this through the chinois.

9. Repeat process with remaining solids and liquids. After you’ve pressed all of the moisture out of the solids and are left with a small amount of fibrous material, discard what remains.

10. Heat and season to taste with Tabasco, salt, and pepper.

11. Garnish with chives and bacon (optional).

Introduction and Welcome

I grew up in Northern California, in lesser wine growing land and greater cowboy territory. I got to see my town turn from a farming community to an outer suburb. I also got to see the culinary revolution from a point right behind the front. I remember friends of my parents talking about Chez Panisse—I even think they went with my neighbors in the early eighties. While we always grew fresh produce, I saw the supermarkets get more variety, the rise of farmer markets (I remember one early one where the mushroom lady—a favorite vendor of mine—told me that although she only sold the legal, culinary species, she was also a fan of the other kinds of mushrooms), and perhaps most emblematically, the availability of quality bread. In high school, the only good bread was from one of three or so sourdough bakeries in San Francisco—I believe Parisien was the best brand, but I could be misremembering.

Then, everything changed. Slowly, but surely, we went from a two-winery town to a town filled with boutique wineries. The town restaurants went from Pizza and Chinese to Thai and Italian (and back to Pizza, interestingly).

And I went away to college.

I returned, determined to be a writer. Which meant I waited tables. I worked lunches at the new Belgian Bistro in town—I’m sure I’ll talk about it later—and lived at home. This led to barbecues that became more baroque as time went by, trying to lure college friends to the suburbs. And then a good friend finished college and found himself in the same position. We were kind of an echo chamber for each other, pushing ourselves to more and more extensive and elaborate culinary feats—the most impressive of which, in retrospect, was catering a vegetarian party in San Francisco for about 30 people at a cost of about 100 dollars. And that included flourless chocolate cake.

When I got into graduate school in New York, I left California. My parents left a few years later. And although I’ve been back a few times, I no longer am a Californian.

I became a New Yorker. I spent years studying and working in New York, working for three of those years as a barista at the first NYC Starbucks. Over more years than I care to remember, I got a degree in British Literature and a job outside of New York.

Still, throughout, there was the love of food and cooking. I’d try to sample the local cuisine when at conferences, and would throw dinner parties as often as possible. Restaurants were limited by budget, but even with a limited budget, one can eat well in New York.

Now, I’ve moved to Pennsylvania, where I have a job at a University as an Assistant Professor of English Romantic Literature, but I miss the connection to food that I felt in New York, and in California. Here, in farmland, ironically, I feel a bit cut off...for many reasons.

The reason I’m writing this goes back to that friend from my hometown. He’s now a food expert—he makes food products—and lives, with his family, in California, within driving distance of our hometown. He’s interested in taste, in how we think about it, and he will be the other major contributor to this blog.

For me, I have to caution that although I will try to limit it to food, my contributions might occasionally stray into other territory. I’ve been diagnosed with cancer, and that has changed many things for me. I also do have some strong opinions about the contemporary education scene. And, even though I argue for editing and restraint in both cooking and writing, I feel a little crosspollination is not a bad thing.

I’ll let my friend speak for his contributions, but the best way to understand mine is to look at Raphael’s The School of Athens. At the center of his painting is Plato pointing upwards, to the abstract principle, and Aristotle downwards, to the concrete. I want to do both things with my contributions. I don’t want to just talk about tasty meals I’ve had; I want to talk about what makes them tasty. I want to see if some general principles can’t be teased out of individual experiences, but I don’t want those experiences to get lost in generalities. I want to include recipes and the theory behind the recipes.

Finally, a warning: unlike my friend, I am not a professional. My experience in the food world is limited to waiting tables and working at Starbucks. And, while I often enjoy pontificating about what I would do if I ran a restaurant, I realize that I am the culinary equivalent of a caller on sports radio: an amateur, speaking not from a position of knowledge, but from one of passion.

And a quick P.S.: This whole blog thing is designed to be interactive, a conversation about food. I think of my entries as conversation starters.