The Right Amount of Spice

I like curries. Chicken. Rice. Shrimp. Potatoes. Vegetables. (I guess potatoes are included in the realm of vegetables, but I think they're fine alone when soaked in yogurt and curry powder.)

The trouble I've found is landing on a recipe for a mixture that I think tastes great--each time I make some, I alter the ingredients slightly. I then add the mixture to whatever it is I'm preparing, eat it, and enjoy it just enough to abandon the recipe for the curry mixture I used previously, but there's still room for imporvement, or so I taste. The next time I prepare it, I change it again.

This is problematic.

Since I can't seem to land on a curry powder I'll use more than once, I found a few foundations from which to start. For instance, in "The Classic 1000 Indian Recipes," editor Wendy Hobson provides these ingredients for Curry Powder:

2 tbsp coriander seeds
2 tsp cumin seeds
2 tsp ground turmeric
1 tsp ground red chili

Hobson suggests roasting the spices and grinding them into a fine powder. Pretty typical. This I find is excellent for chicken and vegetables. She elaborates with a recipe for Mild curry Powder:

1/2 cup coriander seeds
1/4 cup cumin seeds
1/4 cup fenugreek seeds
1/4 cup gram flour [chickpea flour]
1/4 cup garlic powder
2 tbsp paprika
2 tbsp ground turmeric
2tbsp garam masala [black cardamon, cinnamon, cloves, black pepper
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp chili powder [
1 tsp mustard powder
1 tsp ground black pepper
1 tsp gorund dried curry leaves
1 tsp asafoetida [this is certainly excludable, and usually is, I think]

Roast and grind whole spices, mix together with other ingredients. This is a little more interesting and, I think, the more nuanced flavor is better used on fewer ingredients.

Presently, I'm happiest with the following recipe, which is a hearty one and suitable for substantial, meaty dishes, and I find discarding the cloves and cinnamon results in something a bit more agreeable with non-meat dishes. This yields about 1.5 cups of powder:

1/4 cup mustard seeds
1/2 teaspoon cardamon seeds, shelled
1/4 cup black peppercorns
1/2 teaspoon coriander seeds
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 teaspoon fennel seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1 1/2 teaspoons cayenne pepper
1/4 teaspoon paprika
1/2 cup ground ginger
pinch of cornstarch



Grind whole spices, mix together with remaining ingredients, then grind again briefly. Add this about one tablespoon at a time (depending on how much food you wish to make) to a pan in which you've softened onions, mushrooms, diced squash and diced potatoes in oil. Then add a small can of tomatoes and about six ounces of cooked chickpeas. Meanwhile, prepare plain white rice in a separate pot. When the rice is about two minutes from being ready, stir into the curry mixture 1/4 cup each half & half and yogurt, serve it over the rice, and enjoy.

Finest Stew

Presently, preoccupations abound, and for the past week the kitchen has been used sparely. I think I saw some dust gathering the other day.

It might have been pepper.

Autumn arrived yesterday night. As I got to sleep a wind blew through the trees and shook them and whistled against the house. This was a serious wind, one to remind a person there is an outside beyond his walls, and in it there are foreign things that pop out there in the night, in the dark.

Similarly, as days cool and the sun sets sooner, we're reminded of meats and sauces, the substantial foods that burn in our bellies all night to keep us warm under the covers...or so it seems. Appropriately, two nights ago I had the pleasure of enjoying a hefty portion Juila Child's recipe for Boeuff Bourguignon, which had been prepared in a dutch oven purchased expressly for this meal--on this and future occasions, I hope.

Photo Credit: Sylvia

The recipe is a traditional one using a wine from the French region of Burgundy, whose dialect and cuisine are Burgundian, or bourguignon in French. I have never made it, but a quick look at the recipe's length mirrors the time consuming duration of its preparation. As I understand it, this excellent stew established itself as de rigeur at American dinner parties, for which, expectedly, popular cookbooks cultivated more convenient methods. In some cases it became simply "Beef Burgundy," which called for marinating the meat in wine overnight and then browning it, simmering it and serving it with canned vegetables. In her book Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?, Mary Drake McFeely reports that

Worse was in store. Another recipe turned up in community cookbooks of the seventies and eighties, a heresy with only five ingredients: beef, a can of cream of mushroom soup, a miserly half cup of red wine, an envelope of Lipton Onion Soup, and a four-ounce can of mushrooms! "Mix soup, onion soup mix, mushrooms and wine and stir well," advised one good neighbor in Dover, New Hampshire. "Add to meat and coat all pieces well. Put in covered casserole and bake in 300 degree oven for 3 hours. DO NOT PEEK!" Presumably it's not best to look until this gummy-sounding mixture has coagulated beyond recognition.

Thankfully, those who prepared Boeuf Bourguignon for us favored authenticity over convenience. After hours of heat between the stove and oven, thick chunks of stweing beef broke easily under the fork -- the grains of the soft meat swollen with juice -- and layers of little onion globes slid apart. Served over pasta and with bread to soak up the wine-rich juices, it was delicious. When I have four hours to spare, which is apparently how long this stuff takes, I intend to make it for myself. (And for others.) Perhaps complemented with steamed asparagus, too.

Yum.

A Different Kind of Cocktail

"Light & Perfect" describes much more than the last post's summer-fashioned pasta dish, and I've decided to make it a trend around this tiny nook of the internet if only to demonstrate that lighter, healthier meals aren't necessarily less appealing than, say, the piece of chocolate cake in the fridge you tell yourself will either be eaten or go bad, and what good is food-gone-bad while the world's full of malnourished people? (As illogical as that persuasion may be, you'd better just eat the cake, anyway.) Or try something new. Behold:

Although shrimp consumption was temporarily devastated when researchers discovered they contain high levels of cholesterol -- one serving of shrimp will provide about two-thirds the amount of cholesterol a person should consume in an entire day -- a 1996 study by Rockefeller University and the Harvard School of Public health found that the shellfish did not detrimentally affect the cholesterol levels of humans, citing that although "a diet containing more than a half pound of steamed shrimp" per day raised participants' levels of LDL (or "bad") cholesterol, it also seemed to raise the levels of HDL, "good" cholesterol thought to help prevent the build-up of arterial plaque. Combine that with the fact that shrimp contain very little fat and, say doctors, you have a healthier alternative to the fattier meats you might instead consume.

Growing up I developed an aversion to shrimp, or, more accurately, an aversion to the only sort of shrimp I knew: boiled and served with cocktail sauce. Due to my dad's old and spirited affinity -- "These are perfect! They don't make 'em this good in a restaurant!" I'd always hear -- for shrimp, this dish was ubiquitous at family gatherings. During the holidays, tradition demanded we make what seemed like a holy pilgrimage to a seafood distributor other than our local supermarket, even though, as I suspected, the shrimp at any location were, probably, of a similar quality. Once obtained, the shrimp would be brought home and refrigerated under the false assumption that simply because they were not frozen upon purchase they had never been frozen at any point during their long, truck-bound journey from the sea to this greatly inland destination. (Granted, I couldn't tell the difference at the time, but I'm glad I can now make this retrograde criticism.) Then, they were boiled for several minutes in water polluted with Crab Boil, an overly clove-stricken concentration whose unpleasantly powerful aroma clung to the kitchen walls for days.


Eaten far outside the pungent, airborne spread of the Crab Boil, the shrimp were not bad; my dad's shrimp are actually quite good, but they're always the same. Each time, every year. Boiled shrimp, cocktail sauce. I really shouldn't complain since it took me twenty-one years to finally prepare something else. (It also took me twenty-one years to develop a culinary sense.)

Now, personally, I find that until shrimp are cooked the little bug-like swimmers are absolutely detestable. They're translucent, slimy, and some, judging by their plump, black vein (read: digestive tract) appear to have been netted immediately following a corpulent Thanksgiving meal. They're quite pleasant once deveined, shelled and cooked, and provide an interesting shape for presentation on the plate. Sensing this, I happened upon the idea of citrus-marinated shrimp served a martini glass:

Photo credit: ambientqueenie

Several months ago I threw this together in a last-minute attempt to diversify our usually shrimp cocktail-oriented New Years' gatherings. It's a very simple recipe, really, obtained from Epicurious and originally seen in Bon Appétit. And since it's close to a seviche -- a cold dish in which an acid (usually lime juice) acts to "cook" the traditional fish or scallops -- when I make it again I might add one half-cup of lemon juice, marinate the shrimp overnight, before cooking, boil them only until they turn pink, then immediately soak them again in the citrus marinade for serving.

Citrus Marinated Shrimp Cocktail

Ingredients:

1 cup orange juice
1 cup fresh lemon juice
3/4 cup ketchup
1/3 cup vodka
1/4 teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1/4 cup olive oil
1 1/2 pounds cooked peeled large shrimp
1 small red onion, thinly sliced (about 1 3/4 cups)
1 cup finely chopped fresh cilantro

Method:

Combine juices, ketchup, vodka and hot pepper sauce in large bowl. Whisk in oil. Add shrimp, onion and cilantro and mix well. Cover and refrigerate at least 3 hours and up to 6 hours. Drain before serving.

Light. Perfect.

Summer is nearing its end, but, thanks to the global food trade, we don't have to stop eating like it's summer. A cursory glance at Wikipeda provides a reliable description of California Cuisine, a summery fashion of food in regard to which the title adjectives are usually fitting. Perhaps my favorite example of it is what I've come to know as The Perfect Summer Pasta.


A few months ago I had my first appropriate experience with The Perfect Summer Pasta, prepared near sunset in a kitchen with open windows on a cool, western evening. Pleasantly aromatic meals are the perfect compliment to such an environment, where a sun-warmed breeze through the kitchen washes over you the scent of fresh basil, at which point you no longer feel that life is of air conditioning and the internet, but rather of bright oceans and mountains the sun dips behind at evening. That's the way basil makes me feel, anyway.

The present recipe contains two (easily removable) editions to the original: mozzarella and roasted tomatoes, the former to provide an occasional burst of saltiness and the latter to coat the thin strands of pasta in sweet tomato and provide a bit of texture.

The Perfect Summer Pasta

Ingredients:

1 pound vermicelli
2 1/2 pounds well-ripened roma tomatoes
4oz fresh mozzerella, crumbled
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
4 tightly packed tablespoons fresh basil, chiffonade
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black peppercorns

Method:

1. Preheat oven to 230 degrees. Core and halve 2lbs of the tomatoes, roast for 4 hours or until reduced in size by half. Core, seed and dice the remaining 1/2lb of tomatoes and set aside.
2. Add mozerella, garlic, basil and salt to diced tomatoes.
3. Carefully slice roasted tomatoes, saving any juice that escapes. Add slices and juice to a bowl, then break apart further using the back of a fork.
4. Bring a large pot of heavily salted water to a rolling boil, cook vermicelli until tender, about seven minutes. Drain, set in large serving bowl and coat with olive oil.
5. Fold in roasted tomatoes and juices.
6. Fold in mozzerella, garlic, basil and diced tomatoes.
7. Sprinkle with pepper and serve while pasta is warm.

Dinner, & Duckhorn Decoy 2006

Despite its status as the little sister label to Duckhorn Vineyards, don't let the name fool you; as the Rampant Oenophile reminds us, this Decoy is the Real Thing.

Photo credit: Hooeyspewer

Granted, my modest level of viticultural erudition prohibits me from speaking with authority, but the stuff was smooth, perfect for rinsing the tongue of a rich, meaty sauce.

You see, Saturday evening I had the pleasure of eating quietly forty floors above the bustling nightlife of the city at Kemoll's, an Italian restaurant that's a regional favorite. After phoning them to say we'd arrive fifteen minutes later than the time of our reservation, we rode the arrantly art-deco elevators upward and walked in at 5:45 pm. We found our table in its own quiet room against what seemed a wall of glass facing north onto the city.

Our waiter sauntered through as we investigated the antipasti and informed us "the best ones on the menu" were the steamed mussels alla crema, mussels served beneath the generous bath of a sherry, cream and garlic sauce. Being easily enticed because of our eager palates, we quickly agreed to order a plate of these.

The mussels arrived hot and made their way around the table. When they came to me, I stealthily emptied several additional spoonfuls of the milky cream over the one I took, and grabbed two slices of the lightly toasted baguette that accompanied the little fellows. The texture was perfect and the flavor immediate; I didn't want my entree anymore, I wanted a plate of these. I soaked up the rest of the creamy sauce with the toasted bread, and, if the now empty plate on which the mussels had been served hadn't been at the opposite end of the table, I wouldn't have hesitated to mop up the leftover sauce there, too. Luckily, my manners restrained me.

After this, the rest of the meal -- a salad well appointed with cheeses and artichokes, a buttery steak of salmon and a thick slice of the densest chocolate cake imaginable -- whirred by in a flurry of conversation and laughter. In retrospect, the rest of the meal seemed this way by comparison to the silence clouded around us during our fiery, personal affairs with those creamy mussels.

The ear can wait if the mouth is content, you see.

Eggs 101-2: Omelettes

Omelettes interest me, and they have for years. How is an omelette supposed to be cooked? What goes into it? Does it go into the egg mixture before it's poured into the pan, or as a stuffing? How much stuffing? Should I cook it to a uniform fluffiness? Should I fold it closed in the pan, or when it's transferred to the plate? Should it be folded in half, or somehow rolled? And what the hell is a frittata?


The dish to which the term "omelette" refers varies internationally in name and form, but they're all essentially the same thing: beaten eggs cooked flat in a skillet. The eggs may be cooked thickly and sliced like cake, producing the tradtional Spanish tortilla, or cooked thinly, producing a lemelle, an Old French term from which the word "omelette" comes. In order to investigate the omelette, I first turned to Wolfgang Puck, who instructs us to make omelettes that come out of the pan lightly browned on the outside, smooth and still moist on the inside with a bit of tomatoes and thyme rolled in. To the best of my knowledge, this fold-over form is the classic French method of preparation, and agrees with the description provided by Julia Child in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, where she tells us "A good French omelette is a smooth, gently swelling, golden oval that is tender and creamy inside. And as it takes less than half a minute to make, it is ideal for a quick meal."

Thirty seconds to crack eggs, prepare a filling and cook it all in a pan? That might be a liberal estimation, Julia. I've made more omelettes than any other food, probably, and I've adapted my approach the matter.

I like to prepare the interior ingredients of my omelettes first, and I find that diced tomatoes and browned minced shallots -- both sauteed lightly -- crumbled goat cheese and a pinch of tiny fresh thyme leaves is a good place to begin. Next, start on the eggs. Although the usual eggs from a grocer are unlikely to contain any pathogens inside -- the surface of their shells is another far dirtier story, allegedly -- I prefer to use pastuerized eggs, which allows me to unhesitatingly fork my way into the slightly runny middle of the omelette.

Because we're dealing with eggs in a pan, the cooking technique for an omelette is a variation of scrambling, which, in my experience, is not allowing the stirring utensil to contact the bottom of the pan in which you're preparing the omelette. The egg that sticks to the bottom of the pan forms the omelette's lightly browned, almost crisp exterior. Once the eggs are in the pan, be sure to scrape them away from the bottom, and instead scramble only the surface of the eggs. If you stir in the filling ingredients and cook it all by scraping away the cooked egg from the pan's bottom and allowing uncooked egg to fill its place, you'd have a frittata, the omelette's Italian cousin.

That being said, you're not going to get away with leaving the pan-stuck egg in place for longer than two minutes. After that -- even after merely ninety seconds, if your burner runs hot -- you're nearing Burn Territory, and that is territory on which we don't want to tread. Consequently, if you're going to cook these eggs in under two minutes, you'll need to spread them shallowly over the bottom of a pan that is Not Too Deep. For a three-egg omelette, which is a hearty breakfast portion, an eight-inch non-stick skillet is ideal; for two eggs, use a six-inch skillet.

Once you've beaten the eggs -- perhaps mixing in a half teaspoon of a few fresh herbs, too -- and prepared the filling, set your omelette pan over medium heat. When it's hot, throw in one tablespoon of butter and coat the surface of the pan. When the pan is coated, pour in the egg mixture and turn the heat to just above medium-high. Don't touch the pan or stir the eggs until the edges of the egg begin the furl, about thirty seconds, at which point you should begin stirring the surface of the egg mixture -- not too deeply! -- and tilting the pan around in a circular motion to move some of the uncooked egg up around the yet exposed surface of the pan. Continue creating movement on the surface of the the eggs for one minute, or until only a bit of uncooked egg remains. Now, sprinkle the filling across the half of the omelette nearest to the pan handle. Then, using a spatula, fold the omelette by folding the bare half over and onto the filled half.

If it develops a tear along the fold, don't sweat it. You can hide the tear by serving it with the folded side facing away from the eater and additionally distracting him from inspection with intriguing conversation and eye contact. Furthermore, if your fold turns out an ill-formed, lop-sided thing and you're really concerned about presentation, try laying a clean kitchen towel over the omelette once it's on a plate, which provides a stable and sanitary means to re-form it using your hands.

Top it with a few leaves of fresh parsley and serve it alongside buttered sourdough for breakfast, or a small salad for lunch.

Deep Fried Butter

NPR has a story on an interesting new food being seen in Texas:



Deep-fried butter. Just writing those words gives us a warm feeling in our stomach and more viscous blood in our arteries.

Crazy as it sounds, the stuff's for real. If you're brave enough, you can can sample some in a couple of weeks at the State Fair of Texas. The Dallas fair lays claim to being the birthplace of the corn dog and is also known as the "Fried Food Capital of Texas."

Another Use for Salsiccia

There's a distant, elderly section of my family by the surname Zechinsky. One of these was my longtime sitter's mother, a lady I used to call Grandma Zechinsky. Grandma Zechinsky was a hard-boiled lady. I recall her stern demonstration to me of what looked like a ping-pong paddle with large holes drilled through it. Motivated probably by my propensity to steal M&Ms from the tiny glass vessel in her sewing room, she demonstrated how the holes allowed the paddle to quickly move through the air, advising this would result in a much more devastating blow if a spanking were ever needed.

Grandma Zechinsky was no stale woman.

Despite this improved punishing implement, she couldn't move too quickly, so I didn't much have to worry about the power of her swing.

Her house usually smelled, I thought, like a German cottage. I was, of course, young enough to think the diets of everyone living in Germany consisted of boiled sausages, sauerkraut and stinky beer. Thankfully, her house didn't smell of beer; if there had been beer around, its scent was overhelmed by sausages.

Around this time I was introduced to a spicy italian sausage called sazitza -- brought to you by the same Italian-Americans who eat mooza-dell, gaba-gool and rigot pie -- and this, incidentally, was a popular ingredient in Grandma Zechinsky's kitchen. This spicy sausage, I learned, was part of the vibrant house-smell with which I was so familiar. Consequently, on many unhealthy occasions, I asked for this when visiting Grandma Zechinsky. She indulged me. Every time. Peppery pieces of sazitza soaked in a thick, sweet tomato sauce elevated my palatte. Now that I'd discovered the stuff grown-ups were hiding from me, my childhood would no longer be filled with bland hot dogs.

I ate the stuff there often enough that I came to ask for it in other places long after my visits to her house ended.

"Mom, may we have zechinskis with our spaghetti tonight?"

"Are there any zechinskis at the deli?"

Oops. Nobody knew what I was talking about; I certainly didn't want to eat my family members.

When I was old enough to correct myself and request sazitzas, still nobody knew what I was talking about, and only in high school did I begin paying attention to the meat packaging at the grocer that read salsiccia, which sounded remarkably similar to the object of my years-long search. Eventually, I tried salsiccia.

Like a wartime bride seeing her husband home from battle, my tongue ignited. My mouth lit up like a pinball machine. At last, I was home.

I don't expect you to cultivate the same affair with sausage as I, but I'll not hesitate to offer the following suggestion, which is a ubiquitous recipe that usually calls for sweet sausage. Bathing the spicy meat in the sweet tomato cream sauce might easily make this substantial dish become a favorite comfort food for any of its first-timers. I apologize for not including a photo with this recipe, but be prepared for a sight: the sauce, you might guess from reading it, will be pink.

Penne With Sausage and Tomatoes

Ingredients:

1 tablespoon butter
1tablespoon olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
3 garlic cloves, minced
1lb salsiccia, casings removed
2/3 cup chardonnay
1 14.5oz can diced, peeled tomatoes with juice
1 cup heavy whipping cream
6 tablespoons parsley
1/2 cup freshly grated parmesean
I box penne pasta

Method:

1. In large saucepan, heat oil and melt butter over medium high heat. Add onion and cook until it begins to caramelize. Add garlic, cook two minutes, stirring frequently.

2. Add sausage. Break apart into chunks with spoon and cook thoroughly. When sausage is cooked through, drain half of liquid from pan. Add wine, return to boil, then reduce heat to medium and simmer for 10 minutes.

3. In another large pot, empty penne into generously salted boiling water, cook until tender.

4. Add tomatoes to sauce mixture, return to boil then reduce heat to medium and simmer 10 minutes. Add cream. Simmer until liquid thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon, then reduce heat to low. Spoon sauce over penne and top with grated parmesean cheese.

Accidental Enhancements

I remember standing in front of the icy, glass seafood cases at a local fishmonger eying a tiny signpost that read "Wild Alaskan Sockeye" and considering that a only few blocks away a grocer had fresh salmon for nearly half the price of this particular sockeye. I bought it anyway, thinking that the higher price must correlate with a higher quality, and, after investigation, I'm still unsure if it does. In addition to diminished flavor, critics of farm raised salmon complain of higher levels of PCBs and lower levels of omega-3 fatty acids, citing these as evidence that you just don't want to be eating farm raised fish to begin with. While between the two varieties the difference in flavor is apparent -- probably from the higher fat content of the farm raised fish -- it's not enough to prohibit me from buying farm raised salmon when it's the only type available.

On the other hand, when it's available for a few weeks each summer, Copper River salmon is really terrific. Even places like Costco have it available with reliable labels:


Although I've enjoyed it only once, the flavor from this fish was big. I learned that the Copper River is a 300 mile-long and violently flowing river from which salmon are harvested, and the vigor with which these fish traverse the water translates to a more developed meat. And when there's good salmon to be consumed, there must be A Good Recipe around, too. The one I use is a slightly altered version of Alton Brown's Broiled Sockeye Salmon with Citrus Glaze. Interestingly, only now as I ready the recipe for linking do I realize I've been preparing it incorrectly.

AB uses dark brown sugar and lemon zest, which, the first time I made it, immediatley filled the kitchen with a sweet aroma. I knew it was working. When it was done, the fish developed a juicy tenderness beneath a sweet, crystallized glaze. I cut into it and took a bite, which melted on my tongue. Again, AB's recipe delivered.

About a month later I wanted to make it again. Looking back, I thought I accurately remembered the recipe -- at the time I was confident of my memory -- when I made it using lemon zest and orange zest, and about three times as much, by proportion, of the latter. I overlooked this accident and enjoyed the orange flavor that had seeped down into the meat of the fish and caramelized on its top. I prepared it twice more in this manner, each time thinking AB had been right-on with his combination of orange and lemon. Oops.

I'll provide it here with my accidental addition in parentheses. If you adventurously choose to include the orange zest, I'd recommend also increasing the sugar to 1/2 cup.

Photo: Food Network

Alton Brown's Broiled Sockeye Salmon With Citrus Glaze

Ingredients:

1 side, skin-on, sockeye salmon, 1 1/2 to 2 pounds, pin bones removed
1/3 cup dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons lemon zest
(or 1 tablespoon lemon zest and 3 tablespoons orange zest)
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Method:

Position a rack in the oven 3 inches from the broiler. Line a half sheet pan with aluminum foil and place the salmon on the pan.

Place the sugar, zest, salt, and pepper into the bowl of a small food processor and process for 1 minute or until well combined. Evenly spread the mixture onto the salmon and allow to sit for 45 minutes, at room temperature.

Turn the oven on to the high broiler setting for 2 minutes. After 2 minutes, place the salmon into the oven and broil for 6 to 8 minutes or until the thickest part of the fish reaches an internal temperature of 131 degrees F on an instant-read thermometer. Remove the salmon from the oven and allow to rest, uncovered, for 8 to 10 minutes. Serve immediately.

Fabled Soup

What is it that has made me feel
My iron muscles, and my nerves of steel,
Stiffen'd my sinews, made me stout and brawny?
"It has no name,
As yet to claim,
But seeing 'tis my own invention,
If you approve, 'tis my intention
To call it Mulligatawny!"
The Origin of Mulligatawny By Tuck, the Prior, in The Blue Friars: Their Saying and Doings, London, 1889.

While this poem involving Hercules and cross dressing is interesting, I'm unsure of the merit of its claim. Despite this, the passage does not lie. Mulligatawny, a corruption -- a British corruption; tea wasn't the only Indian serving for which the country developed a tongue -- of the Tamil word milakutanni, meaning "peppered water." Though you'd be hard-pressed to find a standard recipe, most versions of the soup involve the kick of a spice combination, known as a curry, and restrained by the smoothness of coconut. And while a stewy, meat-based version of mulligatawny provides the saltiness and richness you've come to expect from soup, the smooth vegetable version I'll provide here develops a more versatile and much milder, albeit more appreciable flavor served hot or chilled.


Mild Vegetable Mulligatawny

Ingredients:

14 Oz lentils, soaked in cold water for 2 hours then drained
3-4 dried red chiles
1 teaspoon whole black peppercorns
2 tablespoons whole coriander seeds
1 teaspoon whole cumin seeds
1 1/2 teaspoon whole fennel seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
1/4 teaspoon cayenne
4 to 5 cups vegetable stock
2 small potatoes, peeled and diced
2 medium carrots, peeled and sliced
2 small turnips, peeled and diced
12 fresh curry leaves or 8 fresh basil leaves
2 garlic cloves, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
3 tablespoons ginger, peeled and finely chopped
1 (14-ounce) can coconut milk
1 1/4 teaspoons salt, or to taste
1 lime cut into wedges
1 bunch fresh cilantro

Method:

Place peppercorns, coriander seeds, cumin seeds, and fennel seeds in a small frying pan set over medium-high heat. Stir and roast spices 3 minutes, stirring vigorously and avoiding burning, or until spices begin releasing aromas. Empty onto plate to cool, then grind into fine powder. Grind chiles, then add chiles, turmeric and cayenne to the spice mixture.

Place lentils in a bowl. Slowly mix in 4 cups of stock.

Combine the lentils, spices, all the vegetables, the curry leaves, garlic, onion, and ginger in a large pan and bring to a boil. Cover, turn the heat down to low, and simmer for one hour or until the vegetables are tender.

Blend the soup in a blender in several batches, if necessary, and press through a coarse sieve. Return the soup to the soup pan, add the coconut milk and salt, and bring to a simmer.

Simmer gently for 2 to 3 minutes to blend the flavors; thin out with more stock, as needed. Serve hot or chilled with lime wedges & fresh cilantro.

Gordon Ramsay's Chilled Spring Pea Soup

In London last year Christa and I ate at Gordon Ramsay's restaurant in Claridge's Hotel. The meal was exquisite, and I've always remembered quite vividly the first course, a chilled, exceptionally creamy pea soup.

As a child, when my mother made split pea soup, I never enjoyed its pungent scent, a foul odor that permeated every room in the house despite my preemptive door-shuttings. (She hasn't prepared it in years, and perhaps if she did I'd find its aroma appetizing.) Consequently, when I encountered the pea soup at Gordon Ramsay's, the first thing I did was sniff it.

It smelled good.

It was very cold, but, interestingly, it smelled salty and fresh. Much like buttered peas, appropriately. Cream drizzled atop the light green soup -- the recipe in Mr. Ramsay's book includes a strip of bacon topping -- swirled slowly as I dipped in my spoon. This is what peas should taste like, I thought.

I didn't waste my time with it. I'm sure I finished it much more quickly than was proper, and, sadly, this was the only time I enjoyed it.

But, after discovering its recipe in Gordon Ramsay's book, A Chef for All Seasons, I aim to make it. Soon.

Photo: Gentil & Hyers, A Chef for All Seasons

Spring Pea Soup
A Chef for All Seasons, Gordon Ramsay

This is a light, creamy soup that has everything going for it — a tempting color, velvety smooth texture, and a wonderful fresh flavor. It’s always a harbinger of warmer weather and the opening of farmers’ markets all across the country.

Peas and bacon are a popular combination in England and in America, as the sweetness of the former plays well off the smokiness of the latter. I prefer to use Ventrech bacon from Alsace, but another lightly smoked, dry-cured bacon is fine.

Ingredients:

4 ounces lightly smoked sliced bacon
2 shallots, sliced
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 pound fresh peas in pods, shelled
2 tablespoons dry white wine
4 cups Vegetable Nage or light chicken stock
1/2 cup heavy cream, plus a little extra for serving
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Method:

1. Reserve 4 slices of bacon and chop the rest. Place the chopped bacon in a saucepan with the shallots and oil. Heat until sizzling, then sweat over a low heat for about 5 minutes.

2. Add the peas and cook for a further 2 to 3 minutes. Pour in the wine and cook until it has evaporated.

3. Stir in the nage or stock and 1 cup of water, and bring to a boil. Season with salt and pepper, and simmer for 15 minutes. Blend in a food processor or blender until smooth, then pass through a fine sieve into a bowl, rubbing with the back of a ladle. Leave to cool and then refrigerate.

4. Meanwhile, broil the reserved bacon slices until crisp. (In the restaurant we bake the slices between two heavy baking sheets to keep them straight and flat, but you may prefer the crinkly look.) Drain well on a paper towel so they aren’t greasy. Keep warm.

5 When the soup is well chilled, check the seasoning and whisk in the cream. Season again. Serve in bowls with a little extra cream trickled on top and a floating bacon slice.

The Most Important Recipe

While searching among the pink cards of recipes strewn haphazardly through our cabinets, I came across a rather important concoction to have at hand if you, like us, are the oweners of curious dogs.

The Melting Pot

Photo: The Melting Pot

Christa and I recently ate at the Melting Pot, a fondue restaurant about which I've heard only good things. We walked through the door at 7:20pm, ten minutes before our reservation time. After te hostess informed us that we'd be waiting a few minutes, we overheard her mention to a party that arrived well before us that "finding a waiter" for them was taking some time. Christa and I looked at each other resignedly. Forty minutes later we were seated in a comfortable booth at a glossy, cultured stone table equipped with an electric burner in the center that read "Caution: Very Hot."

Atop the burner rested a fondue double-boiler pot. When our waitress introduced herself and took our order, she turned began heating it by flipping a concealed switch beneath our table. For our dinner, we settled on the "Big Night Out," a four-course monster that began with a cheese fondue appetizer and salad, then moved to a fondue-cooked entree and finished with chocolate fondue-based dessert. We were ready for all of it.

And, just to be fancy, Christa ordered a small, delicious, bright-pink rum cocktail. And in only two hours sipped out nearly a fourth of it.

Our empty fondue pot heated and began bellowing steam, signaling to the waitress it was time to add fondue. She returned with our drinks and poured what must have been close to two cups of white wine and sherry into our pot. Next in were scallions and large portions of Fontina and Butterkäse cheeses which she stirred into a smooth cream. Finally, she melted in several crumbles of buttermilk bleu cheese. The fondue was piping, and the scent of the boiling wine climbed into our noses. The waitress instructed us on the use of our fondue prongs -- long, primitive spear-like implements with which we would stab a tasty morsel and submerge it beneath the fondue -- and served us chunks of fresh breads, apples and vegetables. "Dip these," she spoke. And we did.

Repeatedly, we dipped.

Our salads came next. Mine was insalata caprese, dressed lightly with a mild balsamic vinegar. I don't recall Christa's salad, unfortunately; I was too focused on the food in front of me to even offer her a bite of mine. She reminded me of this, it seemed, as she picked up her fork to eat hers.

During the course of salad, our cheese fondue was purged and replaced with a coq au vin fondue: rich, aromatic chicken stock and thick burgundy. This was allowed to simmer briefly before the waitress brought our entrees on a very large plate -- raw, bite-size portions of beef filet, pork, shrimp, pasta, chicken and lobster -- accompanied by several dipping sauces and more fresh vegetables. Everything would cook in two minutes, she said, excepting one minute for the seafood and pasta. We grabbed our fondue prongs and began stabbing. I took a piece of filet and doused it in the boiling fondue. Christa also stabbed something, but I, too much involved in my own affair with the filet, wasn't paying close attention.

Since I don't often stew meat, much less bite-size chunks of meat, I placed my phone on the table and used its digital clock to get an accurate cooking time. Two minutes later, I removed the filet and watched it steam as I set it on my cool, metal plate. (That was a curiosity, the metal plate with picnicware-like dividers. The only other time I've eaten from a metal plate was while in the outdoors, where ceramics, obviously, are easily breakable and unwelcome. The place insisted on using metal plates anyway.)

I hadn't tried the sauces, one of which was bright yellow and curry-flavored, we were told. I drizzled some on my chunk of filet, then eagerly bit into it. Mustard and fenugreek hit my tongue, followed by a pleasant combination of spices whose burn lingered on the back of my tongue after finishing the bite. Perfect, I thought. I wanted more. No, I needed more.

Since each bite required cooking -- an agonizing wait, I assure you -- we finished our entree over the course of an hour, which prevented rapid eating and the uncomfortably full feeling I might have otherwise endured after such an Olympic meal. For dessert we chose the s'mores chocolate fondue, consisting of melted milk chocolate topped with toasted marshmallows and mashed graham crackers. Into this we dipped bites of brownie, pound cake, cheesecake and strawberry slices.

Surprisingly, the Big Night Out was not followed by a commensurately Big Bill; it was very reasonable for hours of eating.

Thrown Together

Recently on Flickr I came across this photo of a Manchego Quince Crostini:


While the crostini, manchego and walnuts appear to work well together, I've never had quince, and I don't know what level of sweetness it would bring to this combination. When I'm in the mood for manchego -- and for something less elaborate than arranging my food into little towers -- I grab a bowl and mix together 1/4 cup of crushed walnuts with 3/4 cup of the cheese, then drizzle over it a copious amount of honey. You don't need little towers if you have a spoon.

August Tomatoes

Since late June we've been eying a bounty of green tomatoes that continue to grow, but refuse to ripen. That appears to be changing now, as each day a few more tomatoes are engulfed by a flame-like yellow that spreads from the bottoms up to the stems and, after a few more days, erupt into deep red, juicy globes and loosen from their vines.

But what's one to do with perfect August tomatoes? Blend a gazpacho? It's difficult to plan a meal around that, though. Drown a plate of pasta in tomato gravy that's simmered all day? That's another post. All of these require work, though. Alternatively, oven-roasted tomatoes are the sort of thing that would make aging TV pitchman Ron Popeil proud: set it and forget it.

Oven-Roasted Tomatoes

4-6 ripe tomatoes
1/2 teaspoon coriander
1/2 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 200 degrees. Slice large tomatoes into fourths, or slice smaller tomatoes in half and place on baking sheet, skin side down.


Sprinkle very lightly with coriander and salt. Bake at 200 degrees for 6 hours.


Remove from oven when tomatoes have reduced to about 2/3 original size and the edges have curled. Serve alongside oiled pasta or grilled fish.


Prepare these a few times -- and practice using a shallow focus field, too -- and alternate the temperature and baking time to your liking. Tomatoheads will argue that 6 hours is far too short of a time -- preferring instead to make a weekend out of the ordeal by roasting them for 10-12 hours -- but, for me, 6 hours at 200 degrees (or even 2-3 hours at 300 degrees) yields a perfectly appetizing result.

Tuna on the Grill

The summertime aroma of a distant charcoal grill is enough to reinvigorate the most stubborn of appetites. The scent of barbecued meat wafting through a warm backyard smells inviting, the thought of ingesting several ounces of red meat may not be. For those of us desiring something a bit lighter from our grill, we turn to tuna.

Though there are a few species of the deep-swimming tuna fish, two of the most common terms you'll encounter are ahi and yellowfin. Ahi is the Hawaiian table name for two species of tuna, yellowfin and bigeye, two of the most common tunas for steaking. Both species have a firm meat and relatively mild flavor, which makes them too delicate for thorough cooking. Because bigeye tuna swim deeper than yellowfin tuna, they produce more insulative fat and develop a slightly different meat texture. If you're buying from a reputable fishmonger, they'll distinguish between these two; furthermore, if you're buying reputably, both options produce a very nice steak. When purchasing the steaks, you'll be looking for something like this:


Notice the uniformly deep, red color and slightly reflective texture. Some of the steaks you see may contain what appear to be darker portions, which is okay. Darker portions are simply larger fatty deposits in the meat, and you can easily cut them out if you prefer.

My favorite way to prepare such steaks is to crust them with spices, then sear them over a grill or beneath a broiler and serve with a garlic aioli.


Seared Moroccan Spice-Crusted Tuna with Aioli

Two 4-6oz. tuna steaks
4 tablespoons coriander
2 tablespoons fennel
2 tablespoons cumin
1 tablespoon peppercorns
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon chives, finely minced
1/2 teaspoon garlic, finely minced
1 teaspoon lemon juice, freshly squeezed
1/2 cup mayonnaise
Extra virgin olive oil

First, prepare a hot grill or broiler, arranging the rack of the grill or oven no more than three inches from the heat source.

Next, combine coriander, fennel, cumin and peppercorns. Grind in a coffee grinder or mortar until fine. Add salt to spices, reserving one heavy pinch for aioli. Set aside. To make aioli, combine the chives, lemon juice, garlic, and mayonnaise and mix well. Mix the reserved pinch of salt into this mixture. Set aside. Prepare the tuna steaks by patting dry with paper towels. When dry, coat both sides of each steak with the spice rub, then drizzle ~1/4 teaspoon of oil on both sides of each steak.

Place tuna on hot grill or broiler. Cook for two minutes over high heat, then flip and cook an additional two minutes. Remove from heat, set on plate and cover with foil. Allow tuna to rest for one minute, then serve next to a bed of greens with aioli on the side.

Eggs 101-1: The Scramble

Yet another food blog, you think to yourself, lamenting over what could have been a better-directed mouse click.

Welcome to The Gastrosexual, a small blog dedicated to the pleasant stimulation of the senses through food and drink. If you've accidentally stumbled into this distant corner of the web, I hope you won't leave too quickly, and if directed yourself here hoping to find epicurean satisfaction, I hope you won't leave disappointed.

Why food, you ask?

Because I'm addicted to food. You are, too. Don't believe me? Try not eating for the next few days. At breakfast time, avoid any creamy scrambled eggs with buttered toast, and forgo your favorite fruit-sprinkled, fortified cereal. For lunch, stay in. Avoid the cafe down the street offering Insalata Caprese with tender, milky chunks of mozzarella between slices of August-ripened tomatoes. And at dinner, don't even think of broiling a side of juicy salmon and watching the brown-sugar glaze atop it bubble beneath the heat. And don't drizzle over it any creamy lemon & garlic aioli sauce. Skip the dessert of iced chocolate cake, too. Replace all of these meals with copious amounts of water and I'm sure you'll quickly be able to overcome your addiction to food.

Those of us who don't wish to suffer withdrawal beginning at tomorrow's breakfast should probably prepare scrambled eggs:

Scrambled Eggs

12 eggs
1 tablespoon fresh herbs
1 tablespoon Dijon
1 tablespoon butter
2 tablespoons heavy whipping cream
Pinch of salt
Pepper to taste

Whisk together 11 eggs and the herbs. In a separate bowl, mix together Dijon, cream and yolk of one egg.

Heat pan over medium-high heat. When hot, add butter and coat surface of pan. Add egg and herb mixture, stirring vigorously for two minutes or until almost cooked. Add mustard mixture, mix. While mixture is still creamy, remove from heat and continue stirring for 30 seconds. Serve alongside or atop buttered toast, add pepper to taste.

...

Scrambled eggs usually emerge from the pan either dry, tasteless fluffs impregnated with too much air, or as soggy chunks that seem watery. These are glaring symptoms of Incorrectly Scrambled Eggs, a kitchen malfunction that can be easily remedied with the addition of cream, heat and movement. A perfect scramble consists of many soft, small curds of egg glistening with creaminess, something like these, served beneath a sprinkle of rosemary:



Many articles on the web project their version of perfection regarding scrambled eggs, and I find Mr. Breakfast's piece on the matter very accurate. While I disagree with the notion that the point of scrambling is to introduce air (the point is to break-up into curds the quickly setting egg mixture) and the nonchalance with which the author approaches removing eggs from the heat just before they're finished, it's an otherwise informative piece.

I'll tell you what I do.

Scrambling eggs is simple if one prepares everything before the first eggs hit the pan. For a pan, choose something nonstick that isn't too big. The shallow bowl form of a nonstick stir-fry pan works perfectly by providing a sufficient amount of depth, thus preventing all of the egg mixture from contacting the surface of the pan at once. In this sort of pan, you'll have sufficient depth to stir and whip -- to scramble! -- the egg mixture. If using a nonstick pan, also use a wooden or plastic utensil for working with the eggs since you'll want to scrape the bottom of the pan.

Once you've chosen your primary pan and utensil, prepare the ingredients you'll be dumping into them. First, prepare the egg mixture. Since you should be sharing your delicious breakfast, grab one dozen eggs and crack eleven of them into a large bowl, reserving one. For more flavor, you can also add to the eggs a small amount of whatever herbs you'd. No more than a tablespoon of chervil, tarragon, chives, and parsley makes a tasty addition. Also add a few pinches of salt to intensify these herbs. Set this aside.

Next, add the yolk of the reserved egg, two tablespoons of heavy whipping cream and one tablespoon of smooth, creamy Dijon mustard to a small bowl and mix together. And heavy whipping cream means heavy whipping cream. Do not substitute any sort of milk; your eggs will be runny and watery. The cream, Dijon and yolk will be added toward the end of cooking as a binder for the egg mixture. By adding this second round of ingredients, your eggs will be uniformly creamy. Everyone at breakfast will want to know your secret.

Once you have the large bowl containing the herbed mixture of eleven eggs and the small bowl of mustard cream, begin heating your pan over medium-high heat. When it's hot, toss in one tablespoon of butter and coat the surface of the pan with it. Then grab your wooden or plastic utensil and throw in the egg mixture.

Once the eggs are in, keep stirring at all costs. As the pan heats up, egg will stick to bottom of the pan. Move the pan rapidly back and forth across the burner, using your utensil to scrape away sticking egg and mixing it in with the rest of the mixture. When you do this, more egg will stick. Scrape that away and mix it in, too. Continue this rapid process of scraping and mixing until the mixture appears to be thickening and forming curds, at which point you'll mix in the mustard cream and continue scraping, stirring and mixing.

When the eggs appear to be nearly done but are still glistening and creamy, remove them from the heat and continue stirring. After thirty seconds, slide them onto a plate alongside buttered toast, sprinkle on a tiny pinch of freshly cracked peppercorns, and enjoy.



I find them served atop a warm slice of ham on toast with a basil chiffonade very tasty.