I Can't Wait

Today I learned how to make fresh rice noodles from one of the cooks at the Slanted Door--it's another recipe we're planning to put in the cookbook. Three ingredients: rice flour, water and tapioca flour, kneaded until it attains a Play-Doh quality, then pressed through a ricer into boiling water. The resulting noodles--silky and tender, perfect in soup--were a total revelation.

It's another example of something I didn't realize you could actually make at home, and it's doubly exciting because the recipe is dead simple. We're still fiddling around with the proportions, but once we have a reasonable home-sized batch of dough, I can't wait to share it with you.

For Breakfast This Weekend

One of my first food media-related jobs, 15 years ago, was working on a web site PBS produced in conjunction with the re-release of the Julia Child: Lessons with Master Chefs series. It was a pretty thankless gig that mostly entailed watching (and rewatching, and watching again) the series (on VHS, naturally), taking notes so that each video could be time-coded, and writing biographies of the featured chefs.

So the work itself was mind-numbing, but the silver lining was getting to watch hours upon hours of the greats--Zarela Martinez, Daniel Boulud, Madhur Jaffrey--together with Julia Child, who was getting on in years but was still a terrific joy to watch.

One of my favorites, and the one that has stuck with me all these years later, is the episode with Beatrice Ojakangas. Beyond having an amazing name, Ojakangas is a skilled Scandinavian baker, and on the show she showed Julia how to make Danish pastry. I got sort of obsessed. There are some things that you think you can't make at home, and Danish was one of those things. But with Beatrice on my side, I made a flaky, glazed fruit-and-cheese filled Danish bread without breaking a sweat.

It would be years before I realized that the dough is essentially a yeasted puff pastry, and up until this weekend, it had been years since I had made it. But I baked one again this weekend, and it was just as successful and easy to work with as I'd remembered. Also: It is so impressive, and covered with glaze, and the "braiding" looks far more complicated than it actually is.

Click here to read the recipe. I filled mine with lightly sweetened fromage blanc and some tart apricot jam, but the possibilities are endless. And since the dough recipe makes enough for two braids, you can choose two different fillings (or put half of the dough in the freezer).

Green Goddess-ish

After a week of barbecue, queso and other Tex Mex delights, it's was about time to get the Texas out of my system. Extraordinary though it was (with particular praise for Smitty's, in Lockhart, to Ray's Drive Inn, in San Antonio, and to Papalote and Torchy's Tacos in Austin), after five days I started to casually daydream about vegetables.

How very California of me.

In particular, I dreamed of green goddess, the brilliant, creamy, herb-flecked salad dressing. Except that I believed that green goddess had avocado in it. For some reason, I'd always attributed the lovely hue to avocado, but not so: the tarragon, basil, chives, parsley do the work.

Well. I guess I can't call the dressing I made green goddess, lovely name though it is. Instead, we'll just call it avocado-crème fraiche-anchovy-buttermilk-herb dressing, and we'll also call it delicious. I left mine a bit thick, so it would cling to the leaves of Little Gem lettuce (you could use romaine, too, but this is not really a dressing for those tender young things, not for spring mix or mesclun or whatever it's called.) When you leave it thick like that, it can also be used as a dip, and if it sits overnight in the fridge and thickens even more, it's good spread on a piece of toast.

Here goes into the food processor:

Half of a Hass avocado
A big spoonful of crème fraiche
About a 1/4 cup of buttermilk
2 anchovy filets
1 small clove garlic, chopped
salt and pepper

Whir.

Add the juice of half a lemon, a few tablespoons of olive oil, a few tablespoons of Champagne vinegar (if you've got it, otherwise, more lemon juice). Gather up a good cup of soft green herbs (chervil, parsley, basil and tarragon are nice, but dill and mint aren't invited to this party) and add those to the processor. Whir the whole bit together until the herbs are finely chopped and the dressing is smooth and bright green.

If it's too thick for your liking, thin with a bit more buttermilk or even a small amount of hot water. Season to taste with additional salt, pepper or vinegar.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

This cake smelled so good when it was baking. The combination of fennel seeds, cinnamon, cloves and honey gave our house that toasty, cozy, wintertime smell. It rose beautifully, the top shiny—I couldn't wait to cut into it.

Well, you know where this is going, don't you? It just wasn't that delicious. Oh, it was fine and all—mildly sweet, mildly spiced, mildly moist, but it wasn't all that I was hoping it would be, which was a quick-cooking alternative to the laborious pain d'epices I so enjoyed in Burgundy, France, a bread particularly well-suited both to tea time and as a transport vehicle for thin coins of foie gras torchon.

So no recipe, today, either. Not because I don't care about all two of my readers, but because I simply can't bear to disappoint you. And, to show you that to err is human—sometimes I make crappy food, and we use the remaining loaf to hide pills for the dog. I'll be back soon, with something you can cook.

In This I Believe

I think I've told some of you about this book project I'm working on with Charles Phan, chef-owner of the Slanted Door here in San Francisco. It is taking up a lot of time and brain space, but in the most excellent way. I'm so happy to be here. I'm learning so much (although not all lessons are good ones--yesterday I popped a cube of fermented red tofu into my mouth, having never tried it before. For others unfamiliar, I caution you--bad idea).

Once or twice a week, I head down the Slanted Door kitchen, where we work on recipes, shoehorning our Dutch ovens filled with sizzling pork belly right next to the pastry cooks and their nice, polite, coconut tapioca. I think they love it. Yesterday we worked on this recipe, above, for beef stew fragrant with lemongrass and star anise. We used brisket, cubes of carrot and daikon, and a knob of smashed ginger.

Some of our recipes fail on first attempt. Some fail on the second. Some we decide aren't worth the work necessary to make them great, so we replace them with something better. But sometimes, when the Gods of recipe development are shining brightly upon us, a recipe works brilliantly the first time around. I get so happy when that happens, not only because it means we'll have less work to do but also because I imagine someone cooking the recipe and making a really great dinner and feeling pleased as punch. And this stew will do that. We tasted it, and we loved it, and then we topped it with Thai basil and minced Thai chilies and I loved it even harder.

When this recipe debuts in the fall of 2012, people will be so glad. And there is no sweeter reward for all this work.

Darkness in the Kitchen, Lightness on the Plate

Is it dark in your kitchen by dinner time? We're getting there. It's feeling less and less like summer, though there are still some tomatoes, peppers and eggplants at the market, and more and more like early winter. For some reason, I'm not minding the change of seasons this year. I feel ready to hibernate.

The next few months are going to be busy, but I love the bustle and excitement of a year winding down. I've got tons of projects going on, and this dish—a modern take on a root vegetable salad—is for one of my assignments. To make it, I combined shaved fennel, leaves of variegated radicchio, fingerling potatoes, radishes, blanched carrots and super sweet golden beets, along with a handful of chopped parsley. I made a warm dressing that is basically bagna cauda, the Italian "dip" for vegetables that is comprised of good olive oil, garlic (sliced Goodfellas thin), a pinch of red pepper flakes and some mashed anchovy filets. It's a nice (and pretty) antidote to all the roasted root vegetable salads that debut this time of year.

Great Food Packaging

This is in no way a product recommendation, since I have yet to try and of the things contained in these tubes (three types of German mustard and an Italian anchovy paste). And the reason why I haven't tried them yet? Because the packaging is too.damn.cute. I happen to be a sucker for things in tubes. So handy! So space saving! You can use without dirtying a knife or spoon! Given that Americans may well be the laziest cooks in all the world, it seems like tubed condiments would have caught on here like wildfire, but it reality the only tubed thing I see regularly is tomato paste and, occasionally, harissa. What gives?

Incidentally, the packaging is the same reason that I want to plant my non-existent vegetable garden with Franchi Sementi seeds.

Not only does Bergamo, Italy-based company offer an irresistible array of heirloom varieties, the seeds are sold in these simple, well-designed seed packs. Wouldn't an assortment of these be a great gift for someone who does have a "back forty?"

This is what I've been doing

Lest you think I've just been completely slacking off, or that I was on summer vacation, let me set the record straight. I was working. On this story, about the state of fine dining in San Francisco. Please take a minute to read it and let me know what you think. (photo by Frankie Frankeny).

Whoopie Pies!

It's a good thing that I take photographs of the things that I cook and eat. Most of the time I forget to look back at them, remembering only when (ahem) I have failed to blog for two straight months. But on those not-so-rare occasions, it's great to have a little trail of bread crumbs to help me recall what I've been doing in the kitchen.

My wife sent me all of the vintage food pictures off our camera, commenting that there was "nothing great" but that maybe I'd be able to work some magic with the images. Clearly she has become jaded, because just look at those miniature whoopie pies that she made for our housewarming party! Those are something great, that's for sure. Since Sarah was raised in the great state of Maine, birthplace of the whoopie pie (and don't let anyone tell you different), I deferred to her when it came to making these. Ordinarily the filling is marshmallow, or some Crisco-stiffened frosting-like business. We thought we could do one better using good, all-natural sweet butter and clouds of confectionary sugar. Without delving into the specifics, suffice to say that it didn't really work—turns out vegetable shortening does have its place. I'm sure some of you are now horrified and distrusting, and let me assure you that I am not the type to use shortening in place of any natural fats. But in this case ...

You certainly could make these full-size, but the petite version is great for a party, a potluck, anytime there will be a lot of food around. The cake is moist in the way that the sandwich part of an ice cream sandwich is moist, sticking to one's fingers. Using good cocoa is a nice idea here, and be sure to err on the side of underbaking, lest you end up with dusty pucks. And the Crisco? Yes, trust me about the Crisco. Now that I have you excited, I must report that Sarah has been a little slow to type up her secret recipe, which was an amalgam of a few different recipes, including one from the Dysart's cookbook, published by a truck stop restaurant in Bangor. (For real. You should buy it.) But once I have Sarah's secret, time-honored recipe, I will amend this post.

Andrew Carmellini's Squid Salad

It's such an enormous pleasure when a recipe works the first time through. Having written and tested my fair share of recipes, I can't tell you how many times I'll cook something, only to realize midway through that there is no way that's it's going to turn out OK. There is twice as much batter as there is space in the pan. Cooking it for 20 more minutes is going to result in incineration. Holy hell, there are a lot of bad recipes out there. And it's just not fair--if you're going to spend time and money making something, it should turn out right. The first time. No fussing.

Which is why I'm so thrilled about Andrew Carmellini's Urban Italian book. Not only is it filled with recipes that I can't wait to make, the two that I've tried so far have been total slam dunks. A few weeks ago I saw fresh, wild squid at the market (a total bargain for $3 a pound if you're willing to do the inky work yourself, something I find kind of fun). I cleaned the squid, cooked them in simmering (not boiling, as that would turn it to rubber) water, chilled it fully and then combined it with thinly sliced celery and red onion and chickpeas. I dressed the whole thing with harissa, a mess of lemon juice, good olio nuovo and lots of salt and pepper. And then? I couldn't stop eating it. I had it for dinner, then again for lunch, and lunch the day after that. It's the perfect salad for this shoulder season, while we wait for the rest of the spring vegetables to appear but we still need something more substantial for supper.

New Beginnings

Now that this blog is part of my finally-launched website, I'm going to try and join you all more often. It's spring, the season of fresh starts, and I'm giving it a go. And while some of us are still enjoying the glories of a new season (or waiting expectantly for it to begin at all) others of us have quickly, if lovably, lost sight. My wife Sarah announced three days ago—on March 21—that she was “sick of asparagus.” As in, she’d already had her momentary fill, thank you, and couldn’t we have carrots? Or spinach? Or spring onions? I did what any of you—any of you in places where your yards are flooded, your ground still frozen, your trees still leafless—would do. I ignored her, and I cooked two fat bunches of spears until browned, the tips crispy, and following a recipe from the A16 Food + Wine cookbook, I mixed up some walnut crema to go with them.

But my very favorite way to have asparagus this time of year is to roast it and serve it topped with a fried egg, yolk still soft, and a flurry of freshly grated Parmigiana-Reggiano and lots of freshly cracked black pepper. Though some prefer the pencil-thin spears, I like to choose the fat ones, which you can roast until crispy without worrying about desiccation. With toast on the side, this is a variant on my much beloved breakfast-for-dinner, but it feels more sophisticated then the usual—and in the fleeting season when sparrow grass feels like a special treat, a very fine celebration of the season.

A Feast

It has been so long that I hardly know where to start, but then I found this image and knew that there was a beginning here, someplace. This was taken in Little India, Singapore, in late November, on one of hottest and most humid nights I've ever experienced. Just before we arrived at the restaurant it started raining like crazy, and we ducked under the eaves of an Indian temple while the storm passed through. When there was finally a pause in the deluge we made a break for it, running past dozens of shops selling gorgeous gold jewelry, to the restaurant.

I've eaten plenty of Indian food, but this menu was all new to me, featuring South Indian specialties I'd never seen before (and some, like appam, I have been looking for, without luck, since arriving back home in December). A woman waiting in line to order guided us through the options. We settled on a few things, but then we ordered more when something got our eye. It was a great and glorious feast, and I'm quite certain it cost less then ten American dollars. I owe you more than this, I know, and we'll get to that. I've been cooking some good things in this New Year and I'm looking forward to sharing them with you. But in the meantime, here's a snapshot of a meal I meant to tell you about sooner. Thanks for waiting.

If ever you doubted whether food...

...can make someone feel very, very special, doubt no more. Behold, the most gorgeous, glamorous, mania-inducing birthday cake of all time. Underneath that glossy chocolate shealth resides a supernaturally moist yellow cake (thanks to this recipe, doubled and baked in 8-inch pans), the two layers sandwiched together with a coconut pastry cream (made using this recipe, halved), topped with toasted, unsweetened large flake coconut. Yes, it tasted as good as it looks. No, there isn't any left.

Ain't No Party Like A West Coast Party

If there is anyone who wouldn't love one of these limited-edition letterpress posters (printed by Nashville's legendary Hatch Show Print) from SF-based 4505 Meats, marked with owner Ryan Farr's fingerprint in lard, I don't want to be friends with them. There are three different designs, and all of them are fabulous.

All the Single Ladies

I understand that there is an art to creating a meal for one. I must also admit that I do not know anything about this art. When my wife leaves town for work (these days, frequently), rather than rise to the challenge, creating exciting dishes for the pure pleasure of eating exactly what I want, I get incredibly thrifty, lazy and uninspired. I eat baked potatoes as a main course for days on end. Pasta with butter and Parmesan? Of course. And, this morning for breakfast, the lamest "fruit cup" I've ever laid eyes or money down on. I'm not proud.

Because of the nature of my work, people ask me all.the.time what I eat, where I eat it, and why. And let me tell you the wash of shame I felt recently when I admitted on a panel (where I sat with Tyler Florence, Sara Moulton, Hubert Keller and Michael Chiarello), to a captive audience, that when I cook for myself I just cook eggs. Glamorous, no?

Still, there is a different type of satisfaction that can be derived from scraping the depths of the pantry and the fridge to create a meal. It's sort of like Macgyver meets Survivor, and this is something I'm very good at. So last night, late and tired, I combed the depths and emerged with the last remaining egg, a very sad half-bunch of broccoli rabe, the last cup of delicious basmati rice I bought at Kalustyan's in New York (also know as one of the best places on earth), a tiny chunk of leftover pork chop (from dinner at Sonoma's Zazu on Saturday, the age of which did give me pause) and three scallions. Are you all following me here? I fried up those scallions and pork while the rice cooked, blanched and chopped the broccoli rabe, whisked together the egg and a bit of soy sauce and then threw the whole mess into a cast iron skillet. It can't really be called fried rice, exactly, but it was like fried rice's cousin and I had no trouble polishing off the whole pan. In front of the television. Watching Dog the Bounty Hunter because the Bravo channel (and thus, Top Chef) would not come in. Like I said, I'm not proud. Then again, what's that they say about pride coming before a fall?

Cooking With The Canal House

While we're on the subject of tomatoes, I'd like to introduce you all to one of the most fabulous cookbooks I've come across in a long time (I have a lot of them--stacks next to the bed, stacks in the living room, so I know of what I speak). Canal House Cooking is a lovely volume put together by Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton. Hirsheimer, a founding editor of Saveur magazine, has shot for scores of cookbooks. Hamilton was the food editor at Saveur and is an accomplished recipe developer and cook (she is also sister to Gabrielle Hamilton, chef-owner of New York jewel-box restaurant Prune).

The result of Hamilton and Hirsheimer's collaboration is this slim book, a seasonally-inspired volume (they plan to do four each year). It's filled with recipes that you want to cook immediately, and since many of them call for last gasp vegetables--tomatoes, zucchini, corn, peppers--you should not dawdle. But if you do nothing else, quickly adopt Hamilton and Hirsheimer's recipe for "buttered" tomatoes: thickly slice an assortment of tomatoes, then spread each slice lavishly with mayonnaise (if you've made your own, good for you, but Hellmann's works just fine). Sprinkle with salt, pepper, chopped chives and a drizzle of good olive oil. Serve alongside some toasted slices of bread that have been rubbed lightly with a clove of garlic. For the record, the women also recommend this same treatment for steamed potatoes, a suggestion I can't wait to try.

Can Do Attitude

All of a sudden I'm noticing the change in light. Northern California may not have the crisp fall days, the foliage, the mulled apple cider, but there's no denying that one season is ending and another beginning. After five years on the West coast, you learn to look for the little things, to observe subtleties.

So even though the days are still warm and the sun is still shining brightly and the markets are positively overrun with all the goods you wait an entire season for, this light tells me to get going, to make the most of it. It was in that spirit that Sarah and I canned 20 pounds of San Marzano tomatoes over the weekend. I don't mess with them much, just blanch, peel, jam into jars with a tablespoon of lemon juice and then hot water process for 10 minutes. There's nothing better than listening to the ping! of each jar as it seals. Well, nothing better except stacking the finished, cooled jars in the pantry...my idea of money in the bank.

Sweet on Stoves

There's a new woman in my life. After my old trusty Magic Chef finally gave up the ghost for once and for all, expiring dramatically while one layer of Sarah's birthday cake baked within--and after a lengthy wait for a replacement--this little sweetheart took up our residence in our kitchen. I'll admit that I have been swayed in the past by stainless models with high BTU burners. I have fallen victim to Thermador and Wolf and Garland envy. But ever since this O'Keeffe and Merritt came to live with us, Viking only means marauding, red-headed, bearded sea farers.

This solid cast-iron beauty is like the living, breathing heart of our little apartment. I love it. And in the week since we've had it we've canned 20 pounds of San Marzano tomatoes, made a giant pot of lobster and corn chowder and tested three recipes for a Valentine's Day dessert story. Everything has been turning out pretty well (more on that in subsequent posts); I think it may be the stove.

The Simple Best

The truth is, I've fallen victim. All of a sudden, without warning, I've started craving all that comforting food that people in the thick of a recession are craving the nation over. My fantasy dinner world is now dominated by daydreams about bowls of macaroni and cheese, rolled omelettes, slices of chocolate layer cake, chili.

So instead of elaborate meals we're frying eggs for dinner and eating pancakes at 7 at night with our feet propped on the coffee table. We're making pizza (using this dough) and topping it with whatever is left in the crisper and cheese drawers (asparagus and pecorino, not bad). I had a freelance assignment that involved baking many pies, and Sarah and I both "evened off" slices until half of the crumb-topped apple version was gone.

Lately I've been prone to general weepiness. I cry when I watch Friday Night Lights and I cry when I listen to NPR and my eyes get wet after yoga when I'm lying on the floor face to face with the tufts of pet hair and dust motes. Sometimes life seems like too much--too many decisions, too many choices, too much--and instead of moving forward a kind of paralysis takes hold. The weepiness and the breakfast for dinner, I think, is some sort of defense mechanism. With an unknown future looming in a scary, overwhelming fashion, what can one do but hunker down, all eggs and tears, and wait?

Spring Is Just Around the Corner

When I walked out the back door this morning I took a deep breath. It's spring here, which means it won't be long until it makes its way to your corner of the world too. I know I've got it easier out here in California than a lot of folks, but still it's a welcome treat to see asparagus and the season's first strawberries at the market after a winter of greens, turnips, greens, more greens and, just to keep things interesting, daikon radish. All things I don't mind, not at all, but as the weeks turn to months even San Franciscans long for spring. And so it arrives, just like that, when you think you can't stand another cold morning, another stir-fry.

For some reason, lemon bars seem to be an appropriate way to celebrate this season. Citrus is still plentiful, but the sunshine requires something a little fresher. I object to some lemon bars that have an aroma I can only describe as "wet dog" and a bland, underbaked crust (I suspect I'm not alone in this ... does that description sound delicious to anyone?). These, a hybrid of two recipes, have a shortbread-like crust and a tart, smooth filling. I like to cut them into tiny fingers and eat them ice cold, straight from the fridge, which extends the life of a 9x13-inch pan for many, many days.

Lemon Bars
Most lemon bars are overly sweet or otherwise disappointing. These combine a shortbread-like crust with a tart lemon custard. They take a bit more time than other cookies to make, but the big pan is perfect for a crowd.

Crust:
1 ¾ cup flour
2/3 cup confectionary sugar, plus more for dusting on top
¼ cup cornstarch
½ tsp. salt
12 tbsp. unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 egg yolk

Filling:
½ cup flour
2 ¼ cups sugar
1 cup lemon juice (from 7 lemons)
Zest of 1 lemon
6 whole eggs
1 egg yolk
Pinch salt


Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9-in by 13-in. pan and line with one sheet parchment, then lay a second sheet of parchment crosswise, allowing for enough overhang to make it easy to lift finished bars out of pan.

Make crust: combine flour, confectionary sugar, cornstarch and salt in bowl of a food processor and pulse to combine. Cut butter into small pieces and add to flour; pulse until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add egg yolk and pulse until mixture comes to together in large, moist crumbs. Turn crumbs out into prepared baking pan and, with your fingertips, press into an even ¼ inch thick layer. Put pan in freezer and chill 15 minutes before baking.

Bake on middle rack, rotating pan halfway through, until crust is lightly browned, 20 minutes.

While crust is baking, make filling. In a large bowl combine flour and sugar. Add lemon juice and zest and stir until sugar is dissolved. In a second bowl, whisk whole eggs, egg yolk and salt. Add eggs to sugar mixture and whisk until well combined.

Remove crust from oven and, while still warm, pour lemon mixture over. Reduce oven temperature to 300 degrees, return pan to oven and bake until custard is just set in the center, 30 minutes.

Let cool completely on a wire rack, then cover and refrigerate until cold, at least one hour. Lift bars from pan by pulling up on parchment “handles” and transfer to a cutting board. Dust generously with confectionary sugar and cut into small squares.