Behold the aftermath of the whole, broiled branzini.
bad photo #2
Apparently, this is a perfect fish to grill or broil, as Michael Ruhlman notes in technical detail. All I knew was that I had a dinner guest, seafood was in order, and at the store were the prettiest whole fish sitting out on ice, all clear eyes and red gills. Parsley and lemon followed them into the cart, as always happens when I buy seafood.
At home, browsing through my newest cookbook, I happened upon an almost-too-simple recipe for something called Oreganato Sauce. It only caught my eye because it was shown pairing with fish, but I decided to make it because I had all the ingredients on hand, and I had to put something on the table sooner or later. Because I’m a contrarian, I had to use my newly-acquired Korean chili flakes, instead of the crushed red pepper flakes called for in the recipe.
The oreganato sauce practically made itself (after chopping the parsley and garlic), and rested on the counter while I busied myself with cocktail hour and conversation with good friends. We got hungry, began preparing dinner in earnest, and not twenty minutes later were rewarded with some of the best fish I’ve ever had. The silence during the meal – between usually-talkative people – proved me right.
The amazing thing about the sauce was how the character changed completely when cooked vs. when raw. Branzini is almost trout-like in flavor, and it sang underneath the bright punch of the raw oreganato sauce, just as well as it did with the earthier flavor of the sauce that had been cooked on top of it. Either way, it’s fantastic. It’s like the difference between a fresh fig and a dried one; neither is like the other, but both are wonderful.
It’s hardly a recipe, but here’s how it’s done: one whole branzino per person (head-on and gutted, please), seasoned inside with salt and pepper, stuffed with parsley, thyme, and slices of lemon, and rubbed with a spoonful or two of the oreganato sauce. Lay on a lightly-oiled sheet pan, pop under a very hot broiler, and cook until the skin begins to blister, turning once, about 4 or 5 minutes per side. Serve with more oreganato sauce on the side, and plenty of bread to dip into the oil that will collect on your plate.
Again, here is whole broiled branzini.
And here is where whole broiled branzini used to be.
Any questions?
Oreganato Sauce Adapted from Simple Soirées, by Peggy Knickerbocker Makes about 3/4 cup
This might seem like a bit of a throw-away recipe, but the sum of its parts is far more than the simplicity might belie. It’s so, so, so good. Use it on fish, on eggs, on quinoa or brown rice, on chicken, on goat cheese with crackers. Anything. Everything.
Though I call for Korean chili flakes, gochugaru, I know not everyone has the stuff lying around. If you don’t have it, omit it, or use instead a pinch of any ground or crushed-up dried red pepper you like. Gochugaru is less spicy than the red pepper flakes most Americans are used to, so use caution when substituting.
1/2 cup finely minced flat-leaf parsley
3 to 4 cloves garlic, minced finely
2 tablespoons dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon Korean chili flakes (gochugaru)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
Zest of 1 lemon, grated finely
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Olive oil, to taste
1. Finely chop the parsley and garlic. In a non-reactive bowl, mix with the remaining ingredients, adding olive oil until just moist, or to taste. Let stand 30 minutes at room temperature before serving.
For dinner: homemade pasta flavored with white pepper, tossed with sautéed portobello, basil, pencil-thin scallions, and probably some other things that I now forget.
Yes, I’ve posted about kimchi before. But for all its ease, and as much as I enjoy that recipe, that was ersatz kimchi, whipped together in a few hours and not even fermented. Horrors, I know.
After a recent wedding in my boyfriend’s family, and the related chance to chat with his charming Korean cousin, I realized that it had been far too long since I’d had a batch of kimchi in my fridge. I also knew that if I didn’t at least attempt a properly-made version, I’d have to explain myself sooner or later. My culinary pride was at stake.
One major flaw with my previous go-to recipe was the absence of gochugaru, Korean chili flakes. I had convinced myself that they couldn’t possibly be that much different from standard crushed red pepper flakes, but my heart of hearts knew I was fooling myself.
I found a reputable Korean market here in the city, and discovered how wrong I had been. Despite their incarnadine brilliance, gochugaru are far less spicy than the comparatively drab red pepper flakes. And because of this lack of palate-numbing capsaicin, the true flavor of the chilies really shines. The flavor is bright and rich, fruity and robust at the same time. It’s revelatory.
Also due to the lower capsaicin levels of these chili flakes, it becomes necessary to use more of them to get a decent level of heat. And by “more”, I mean a lot more. A heckuva lot more. For example, I used 3/4 cup in this recipe, and I think the kimchi could stand to be spicier. This makes it more of a session kimchi, though, one you can eat a whole plate of. It’s not going to burn a hole in your throat if you take more than three bites, like some I’ve enjoyed. Feel free to increase the amount of gochugaru if that’s what you’re going for. Next time, I’ll probably use 1 cup (or more). It might keep me from eating the whole jar, but probably not.
Please note: this is a properly fermented food. It will sit on your counter for at least 1 day, and possibly more. This might be off-putting, but if you’re making your own kimchi, you’re probably not that squeamish. Also, any storage container you use needs to be very, very, very clean, to prevent the possibility of strange and unwanted pathogens growing in the cabbage without your consent. Soap and the hottest water you can get are good; a solution of bleach and water is better. Always use a clean utensil to remove any kimchi from the jar.
And take my advice: wear gloves when handling. Otherwise, you’ll probably regret it.
This recipe makes more kimchi than most people will ever go through before it gets old; feel free to decrease the size of the recipe. Do not substitute the more common and much hotter crushed red pepper flakes for the less-spicy Korean chili flakes. If you can’t find gochugaru, but still want to make kimchi, try this recipe.
For storage, be sure to use a glass canning jar, one with a rubber gasket, unless you want your entire fridge and the food therein to smell like fermented spicy cabbage. Plastic is of no use here. And make sure it is scrupulously clean.
3/4 cup kosher salt
1 quart water
1 quart ice water
4 pounds Napa cabbage (about 2 heads)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
3 tablespoons fish sauce
2 tablespoons minced garlic (15 g)
2 tablespoons minced ginger (15 g)
4 to 6 scallions, chopped (40 g)
3/4 cup Korean chili flakes (gochugaru), or more or less to taste
1. In a pan, bring the salt and 1 quart water to a boil, stirring to dissolve the salt. Remove from heat and add 1 quart ice water. This should quickly cool down the salt water to about room temperature.
2. Meanwhile, thoroughly wash the cabbage. Cut it lengthwise into quarters, and cut away the stem so that the leaves will separate. Cut crossways into 1 to 2 inch strips, and put in a very large, non-reactive bowl. Cover with the cooled salt water, placing a plate on top to help keep the cabbage submerged if necessary. Let stand at room temperature for 3 to 5 hours.
3. While cabbage soaks, prepare remaining ingredients and combine together in a non-reactive bowl.
4. After 3 to 5 hours, drain cabbage and rinse thoroughly. Squeeze dry, and return to the large bowl. Toss with the other ingredients until evenly combined, being sure to wear gloves if using hands. Transfer to a scrupulously clean glass jar (or jars), and cover with a very tight-fitting lid. Let stand at room temperature for at least 24 hours, and up to several days. You’ll notice some liquid forming in the jar, and maybe some bubbling. This is okay.
5. Taste the kimchi after 24 hours, using a clean fork to remove it from the jar. If you like the flavor, transfer it to the fridge at once; if you’d like a bit more funky depth, let it stay at room temperature, tasting occasionally, until you like the way it tastes. Kimchi will keep indefinitely under refrigeration, but loses its edge after 3 to 4 weeks. That “old” kimchi is best used for soups, stir fries, and pancakes.
For dinner: a quick version of bibimbap. Here, a plate of brown rice is topped with Napa cabbage, which was sautéed with Korean chili paste (gochujang), scallions, garlic, and chives. Finishing the dish is a fried egg over very easy, for maximum runny egg yolk sauce.
It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I love cocktails, and special drinks in general. Huge fan. I love the gemstone colors swirling in special glasses, the grinding pop of an ice cube thawing too quickly in a drink, the precision and ritual of making them, the stainless steel freezing your hands as you shake one up. And they don’t taste half bad either.
So when I got my hands on David Lebovitz’s most recent book, Ready for Dessert, a recipe for vin d’orange was one of the first things I put on my Make-As-Soon-As-Possible list. As a recipe for a fortified wine in a dessert cookbook, it certainly stood out, but the description sealed the deal for me: “a fruity and slightly bitter” drink, perfect as a “warm-weather apertif”. The promise of a cocktail ready-made from the bottle, a golden glass of homemade orange wine (preferably in some late-afternoon sun) was irresistible.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get the book until the beginning of September, just as the warm weather was beginning to fade, and it certainly wouldn’t hang on for the month of macerating the vin d’orange recipe required. I thought about trying it anyway, but then what would become of my spiced and brandied cherries, carefully put away earlier in the summer for my Winter Manhattans? The vin would have to wait.
Fast forward to March, and me chomping at the bit for any sign of Spring. Teasing moments of warmth appeared here and there, but always returned to the cold and gray. Like gardeners with scrappy branches of forsythia, I was going to have to force things. Re-enter vin d’orange.
The particular citrus called for in the recipe, Seville oranges, were of course nowhere to be found in mid-March. But fortunately, Meyer lemon season was in full swing, and I figured a blend of those and some darling little kumquats would be an adequate substitute.
Oh, and were you aware that a small bottle of vodka only holds 3/4 cup? I wasn’t, until in the midst of making the recipe, citrus already cut up and waiting, I tried to measure out 1 cup of it. I asked WWTFD*, gave my best Gallic shrug, and made up the balance with a good mixing gin. Capped off, the mixture retired to an upper cabinet to get its beauty sleep.
One month later, I was rewarded with a drink that exceeded all my expectations. Citrine yellow and just as clear, the depth of flavor was remarkable. As fabulous as it was to drink straight, the promise it held for cocktails was staggering. With my head still spinning from that first taste (not just because of the alcohol), I noticed the pile of vin-soaked citrus sitting nearby, plump and over-saturated from the month-long bath. No way was I going to throw those out.
About half of the kumquats got packed like sardines into a small jar and re-covered with vin d’orange, to be used as garnishes for future drinks. (Or, you know, snacks.) The other half, along with the Meyer lemons, after much hand-wringing and deliberation, became a marmalade. Sliced thin and cooked in a barely-sweet syrup, they turned out a pretty good marmalade, if I do say so. It was good enough to warrant a loaf of fresh-made soda bread for breakfast the next day.
It might still be cold outside, but I’ve got central heating and sunshine in a glass. I think I can make it till June.
* – What Would the French Do?
Vin d’Orange Adapted from Ready for Dessert, by David Lebovitz Makes about 6 cups
For the white wine, being mindful of the recipe’s origins, I used a modest blend from the heart of Provence; the gin was my favorite mixing gin. I don’t have a favorite vodka, so I bought the second-least expensive one of the three kinds available in tiny bottles.
After straining the citrus from the finished vin d’orange, you could discard the apertif-soaked fruit, but the halved kumquats make a pretty garnish for a glass of it. Store them packed in a small jar, covered with vin d’orange, in the refrigerator. The Meyer lemons make a darn good marmalade to boot (see recipe below). Or you could just eat them. They’re full of delicious liquor.
2/3 cup sugar
5 cups white wine
3/4 cup vodka
1/4 cup gin
9 ounces Meyer lemons (about 2), preferably organic, quartered lengthwise
7 ounces kumquats, preferably organic, halved
1/2 vanilla bean
1. In a large non-reactive jar, stir the sugar, wine, vodka, and gin together until the sugar dissolves. Add the Meyer lemons, kumquats, and vanilla bean half. Cap tightly, and set aside in a dark and cool place for 1 month.
2. After the month has passed, strain the solids from the liquid. Either discard the solids, save for another use (see headnote), or eat immediately. Filter the vin d’orange through a triple thickness of damp cheesecloth (or a coffee filter for the clearest result), and transfer into clean wine or liquor bottles, and refrigerate. Enjoy for up to 6 months.
Vin d’Orange Marmalade Makes 1-2 cups
About 10 ounces (300 g) citrus left over after making Vin d’Orange (250 g Meyer lemon, 50 g kumquat)
The vanilla bean half left over after making Vin d’Orange
1 tablespoon (20 g) corn syrup
1 cup (200 g) sugar
13 ounces (1 1/2 cups plus 1 tablespoon) water
A pinch of salt
1. With a sharp knife, thinly slice the soaked Meyer lemons and kumquats. Save any seeds that you come across, and tie them up in a bit of damp cheesecloth (if you wet cheesecloth before using it, it won’t soak up much of whatever delicious thing you put it in). Put a small plate or large spoon in the freezer.
2. In a small pan, stir together the sliced citrus, vanilla bean, corn syrup, sugar, water, salt, and the bag of seeds. Bring to a boil over moderately high heat, and let bubble away until the mixture reaches about 225º F, or until it sets when dripped onto the mostly-frozen plate or spoon.
3. When marmalade is ready, transfer it to a scrupulously clean jar. Let cool at room temperature before capping and refrigerating. Jam will last for quite a while in the fridge, but you’ll probably finish it off long before then.
For dinner: a bowl of shiitake-stem broth with homemade noodles, chestnuts, fresh sage, and shavings of ricotta salata. I couldn’t get over the color of the broth, that robust, whiskey-hued amber. So fragrant, and so fitting for a cold early Spring night.
In my line of work as a personal chef, I’ve had many occasions to plan menus for dinner parties. Often, in searching for ideas for appetizers or hors d’oeuvres, I’ve come across something that looks a lot like this:
The ingredients vary, of course, but the basic format is always the same. A single leaf of endive is topped with a glamorous dab of something-or-other, always placed at the base of the leaf. The toppings can be as simple or as elaborate as you like. One version simply called for a crumble of blue cheese, a walnut, and a drizzle of honey; another used lobster meat with avocado slivers and segmented grapefruit. Pictured here is a mixture of goat cheese, crème fraîche, lemon zest, and olive oil, topped with smoked trout and chives.
Every time I see one of these recipes, I am momentarily swayed by the stunningly pretty bites. The pale green endive, curling slender and seductive around the filling, promises an easy and elegant answer to all your entertaining needs.
But then, I remember all the myriad reasons why I will never, ever, ever, ever make one of these endive “boats” again.
This, Gentle Reader, is the carnage left from making a mere six canapés. These are the leaves that I couldn’t use, the waste left over. For six canapés. This is what those other recipes and well-styled photographs will never admit.
See, a head of endive is a slightly deceptive thing. The outer leaves are simply too big for an hors d’oeuvre, which by typical standards should never be more than a single bite. The inner leaves are too small to look quite right when prepared in this manner. So the long-suffering chef is left only with the leaves in the middle, of which there are precious few of a similar size.
And yes, if one doesn’t care all that much about keeping all canapés the same size, it’s certainly possible to use all the leaves. But then you end up with some extremely giant bites, and some lilliputian bites. Call me a snob, but that just plain looks silly.
two of these things are not like the others
Not to mention that endive is a rather bitter green. Paired with other flavors, it’s lovely, but it’s a little much to just eat on its own. If you use the largest outermost leaves, your guests very well might only eat the end with the topping on it, and then leave the lipstick-stained bitter ends lying about.
Further, endive will not naturally sit flat on its spine. In order to achieve those picture-perfect platters, it’s necessary to shave off a tiny bit of the leaf from underneath, which is tedious and leaves you with a bunch of strange ellipsoid slivers lying about.
Two whole endives sacrificed their lives for six hors d’oeuvres, people. We can do better by them.
If your heart is set on using endive for an appetizer (or if you’ve already bought some), just do away with the “boat” idea completely. Forget it. It’s a trap. That way only leads to sadness. And though raw endive makes a fantastic salad, the French have a much better idea: cook it. Boil it, in fact.
It probably sounds like the least appealing thing in the world, but when boiled, endive loses its puckering bitterness, and a somehow nutty sweetness is coaxed from the leaves. It’s not much to look at, but it tastes fantastic. Ginette Mathiot, in her magnum opus I Know How to Cook, provides a recipe for endive purée that blends boiled endive with a quick béchamel sauce. Flavorful and simple, it’s so French it might as well be smoking.
Best of all, it’s a simple trick to turn this thick purée into an elegant canapé. Crustless white bread, lightly toasted and cut into triangles, makes a base for a dollop of the endive purée. A flake of smoked trout sits happily on top, accented with a colorful chive.
It’s nearly the same ingredients as the aforementioned endive bites, and just as attractive, but much better to eat and much nicer all around.
noyes
I’m not quite sure where all these endive boat recipes got started, but I’m reasonably sure it was from someone with too much time on his hands, too much endive in the fridge, or both. Maybe it’s some grand Endive Cabal, an alliance between endive farmers, recipe writers, and stylists, meant to make the rest of us poor saps look (and feel) dumb. As for me, I’m having no more of it, and I mean to convince you all as well. The next time you see one of these “endive boat” recipes, don’t pay it any attention. Just walk on by. You can thank me later.
Canapés with Endive Purée, Smoked Trout, and Chives Makes about 2 cups purée, enough for many canapés Adapted in part from I Know How to Cook, by Ginette Mathiot
The yield of this recipe is variable, but depends on how large your slices of bread are, how much smoked trout you have, and how many of these you feel like making (though it could hardly be described as difficult). You may end up with extra endive purée, which makes a fabulous sauce for pizza, especially with some slivered red onions and leftover smoked trout and chives on top. Just sayin’.
4 heads Belgian endive (about 1 1/4 pounds)
1 1/2 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup milk
1/4 teaspoon freshly-grated nutmeg, or to taste
White pepper and salt, to taste
Sliced white sandwich bread
Melted butter or olive oil, as needed for brushing
Smoked trout, skin removed, and flaked
Fresh chives, snipped into 1 inch lengths
1. Preheat the broiler. Bring a medium pan of water to a boil over high heat. While heating water, cut endives into quarters lengthwise. Salt the boiling water liberally, and add the endives. Boil, uncovered, for 15 minutes.
2. While endives cook, make a béchamel sauce by melting the butter in a small saucepan over medium heat. When the foam subsides, whisk in the flour until thoroughly combined with the butter. Continue cooking and whisking until a slight nutty aroma develops, 2 to 3 minutes; do not let the mixture brown. Add the milk slowly, whisking to prevent lumps. Cook for 5 to 10 minutes, or until the béchamel is well thickened. Season to taste with the nutmeg, white pepper, and salt. Remove from heat.
3. After cooking the endive, drain well. Let cool briefly. When cool enough to handle, squeeze as much liquid as possible from the leaves, and transfer to a food processor.
4. Purée the boiled endive with the béchamel until smooth. Taste, and correct seasoning as needed with salt, white pepper, and nutmeg. Let cool. The purée should thicken a bit more as it cools.
5. While purée is cooling, prepare the bread. Brush each slice lightly with melted butter or olive oil. Toast under the hot broiler until just golden brown. Remove the crusts from the slices of bread, cut each slice into four triangles, and set aside. (At this point, check the consistency of the purée. It should be quite thick, and not at all runny. If it’s too thin, you can toss in some of the toasted bread crusts and process until well blended. Repeat as necessary.)
6. To finish canapés, top each bread triangle with a small dollop of the endive purée. Place a flake or two of smoked trout on top, and decorate with a piece of chive. Plate and serve immediately.
pizza with leftover endive purée, shaved red onion, leftover smoked trout, and chives
I was well pleased with myself for figuring this one out, I must say. When I decided to cook a special Valentine’s Day dinner for my Special Lady, Ruth Bourdain, there was one ingredient I simply had to include: smoked tangerine zest. (She kinda has a thing for it.)
With the other three courses of the meal focused on offal, the natural place in the meal for this special ingredient was dessert. And personally, I can hardly think of a more indulgent and pleasing way to showcase the ethereal flavor of citrus zest than to infuse it into a gently quivering, cool panna cotta.
Okay… I admit it. I may have faked the “smoked” part a bit. Now, now, now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I used liquid smoke or anything; it’s all real all the time up in here. But I may have fudged the adjectives in the recipe title. It’s not so much “Smoked Tangerine Panna Cotta” as “Smoked Panna Cotta with Tangerine”. There, I’ve confessed it. And may RuBo have mercy on my poor soul.
My logic was simple: when trying for something called “Smoked Tangerine Panna Cotta”, why not infuse the main ingredient with smoke, rather than something (the tangerine zest) that comprises only a tiny percentage of the dish? Besides, everyone knows that tangerine zest is best smoked in a pipe. To do otherwise is to waste it. That thinking paid off in the end, and I was rewarded with a custard that was thoroughly – but very subtly – saturated with a shadowy hint of smoke, as well as a vibrant citrus note.
(Also, OMG you guys, I smoked half and half! In a 500 square foot apartment with minimal ventilation! Think of the possibilities! Big Smoked Trout, I am a slave to you no longer.)
The panna cotta was served with suprêmes cut from the zested tangerines, and was crowned with a simple almond florentine (recipe found here, sans chocolat) for a seductive crunch. For a drink pairing, I whipped up a well-balanced drink called a New Pal (recipe found here). Its flavors of robust rye whiskey, fruity sweet vermouth, and citrus-laced, bitter Campari could not have paired better with the creamy panna cotta. It might look like a whole lotta Campari and sweet vermouth, but it’s actually perfect. (This from a girl who absolutely hates Campari.) If you’ve ever enjoyed a complex cocktail, this is right up your alley. I might describe this as the Thinking Man’s Sazerac, or a Manhattan Gone Wild, but neither is entirely accurate.
And so, this Valentine’s Day romance becomes a sweet memory, one for me to fondly recall in my twilight years. Ruthie has left her indelible mark on me, as she does all who cross her path, and I wish I were woman enough to hold her forever. Alas, it is not to be; one cannot tie down the wind. I wish her all the best, and I will always remember that she smelled of powdered sugar and duck confit.
Smoked Tangerine Panna Cotta Adapted from David Lebovitz Makes 6 servings
I’ve written a range for the amount of gelatine used here. If you want to unmold the panna cotta, you’ll need a firmer consistency, which requires the structure that a greater amount of gelatine provides. If you prefer a softer and more melting texture, and don’t mind eating out of the molding vessel, use the lesser amount.
3 cups Smoked Half and Half (recipe below)
1/2 cup sugar
Zest of 3 tangerines (reserving the flesh for a garnish, optional)
Zest of 1/2 lemon
1 whole star anise
1 cinnamon stick
1 pinch salt
1 to 1 1/2 packets unflavored gelatine, either 8 or 12 g (see headnote)
5 tablespoons cold water
1. In a medium saucepan, combine the Smoked Half and Half, sugar, tangerine and lemon zest, star anise, cinnamon, and salt. Place over medium heat, and stir to dissolve the sugar. Bring to just under boiling, or the point where bubbles begin to form around the edges and steam rises from the surface. Remove from the heat, cover, and let stand 1 hour.
2. Meanwhile, prepare 6 molding vessels (any sort of small glass, ramekin, or other such container). If unmolding the dessert, lightly coat the inside of the molds with a neutral-flavored oil. If not unmolding, you need not bother.
3. Sprinkle the desired amount of gelatine over the cold water in a medium bowl. Let bloom for 5 to 10 minutes. Meanwhile, reheat the half and half mixture until just barely warm.
4. Strain the warm half and half into the bloomed gelatine, discarding the spices and other solids. Whisk to completely dissolve the gelatine.
5. Divide equally among the 6 prepared molds. Let cool to room temperature before covering each mold with plastic wrap. Refrigerate until set, at least 4 hours and up to overnight. To unmold, run a thin, sharp knife around the edge of the panna cotta before inverting onto a plate. Serve with a garnish of tangerine wedges, if desired.
Smoked Half and Half Method inspired by British Larder Makes 3 cups
This method will obviously work for any amount of half and half, but smaller amounts will take on a smoky flavor much faster than larger amounts. The amounts and times given left the half and half with a very subtle smoky note, more of a seductive background flavor than any real “smokehouse” punch.
1 to 2 cups apple wood chips
3 cups half and half
1. Cover the wood chips with water.
Soak for 30 to 60 minutes, then drain. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400º F, and position a rack in the lower-middle of the oven.
2. Wrap the soaked and drained wood chips in a pouch made of a double-thickness of aluminum foil. Poke holes liberally in the top of the foil pouch to allow smoke to escape.
there are holes
3. Pour the half and half into a non-reactive and heat-safe bowl, preferably one that will expose the most surface area of the half and half without being too large. Place the bowl on a rack set in a rimmed sheet tray, as shown (this creates a bit of an air gap between the bowl and the sheet tray that will help keep the half and half from overheating).
Create a sheet of aluminum foil large enough to tent the whole contraption loosely. (If your foil is not wide enough, pleat the edges of two long sheets together with a butcher’s fold.) Tent the foil sheet over the bowl and sheet pan, crimping and sealing three of the edges tightly enough to prevent smoke escaping. Leave one corner open wide enough to slide the wood chip packet in, on the side of the sheet tray that is opposite the bowl of milk.
4. Place the wood chip packet over a burner set to high. When smoke beings pouring out of the packet in abundance, lift it with tongs and quickly slide it onto the sheet tray. Quickly and tightly close up the last corner of the foil.
5. Immediately transfer the covered tray to the oven, taking care not to spill the half and half as you move it. Roast for 25 minutes.
6. Remove the tray from the oven. Let cool briefly, 5 to 10 minutes. Carefully bring the tray outside before removing the foil tent (unless you enjoy a very, very smoky house). Either use the half and half immediately, or let cool to room temperature before storing in the refrigerator.
Originally, I intended to make this a Five Minute Photo Shoot, which explains the lack of “in progress” pictures. But this dish was so fantastic, I simply had to share the recipe.
This thick Greek soup is quite simple, and shockingly good from a very few ingredients. This, for better or worse, is one of those soups that really should be made with a homemade stock. Sure, you can make it with store-bought; but with homemade, it becomes eye-rollingly, lick-the-bowl good. (Ask me how I know this.)
Luckily for me, I needed to make some space in the freezer yesterday, so I had a pot of stock bubbling away on the stove. There were also a few pitiful sacks of bulk-bin white rice knocking about in the pantry, loose ends of no more than 1/4 cup each. Two stalks of celery, two lemons, some egg yolk, and 7 ounces of shredded chicken from the freezer didn’t seem like much of an arsenal to call on, but it all came together in one of the most satisfying dishes I’ve made in recent memory.
I think that’s the most delightful part of this recipe: it seems cobbled together from loose bits hanging around the kitchen, but the rapid metamorphosis into fine cuisine is stunning. It was so good, I even forgot to grind black pepper over my dish (usually one of the first things I do at dinner) until it was almost gone, and the addition put it over the top for me.
I made this without measuring anything, and using bits and bobs found in the kitchen, but I’ve done my best to be as accurate as possible. You can use any kind of rice or grain here, and I’m sure a mixture would be fantastic, but white rice is traditional, and that’s what I had. Adjust the cooking time as necessary to cook brown rice or whole grains; add those in first if using a combination with white rice. Toss in some lemon zest, mix up the herbs, add chicken or don’t; this soup lends itself very well to adjustments, so have fun.
If you don’t have homemade stock on hand, dice 1 small onion and the celery called for in the recipe. Simmer them, along with 1 bay leaf, in store-bought stock for 30 to 60 minutes before proceeding with the recipe. Discard the bay leaf before serving. Also omit (or at least greatly reduce) the salt listed in the recipe, as most store-bought stocks will be plenty salty enough for this use.
1 quart homemade chicken stock, more or less
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 to 1 cup white long grain rice (such as jasmine)
2 stalks celery, diced
2 to 3 egg yolks
7 ounces shredded cooked chicken (about 1 cup, optional)
2 whole scallions, sliced thinly
A few tender fennel fronds from the center of a fennel bulb, chopped (1 to 2 tablespoons, optional; parsley would also be good)
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice (from about 2 lemons), more or less depending on the tartness
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1. Bring the stock to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the salt (if using), rice, and celery, and stir to combine. Return to a boil, then lower the heat to maintain a moderate simmer. Cover the pot with a lid slightly askew, to allow some steam to escape. Cook without stirring for 10 minutes, or until the rice is at least al dente.
2. If the rice has absorbed most of the stock, add some additional warm stock to thin the mixture a little. Whisk the egg yolks in a medium bowl just to combine. Slowly drizzle in a bit of the hot soup, whisking constantly. Continue adding the soup slowly, whisking all the while, until about a cup of soup has been tempered in. Add this back into the pot, along with the chicken. Cook over medium-low heat until heated through and thickened a bit, taking care not to let it boil (which will curdle the eggs), just a few minutes.
3. Stir in the scallions and fennel fronds. Add 3 tablespoons of the lemon juice. Taste, and add extra as needed to get a lemony flavor that isn’t overwhelmingly sour. Correct seasoning to taste with salt and plenty of black pepper. Serve immediately with crusty bread, and maybe a luxurious drizzle of olive oil on top. A glass of crisp and dry white wine is never out of place with this.
You’ll forgive me for not posting this recipe sooner, but I’ve only just recovered from Valentine’s Day. Ruthie is a heck of a woman, I’ll tell you that much.
For anyone who enjoys organ meats, it’s pretty much a no-brainer to serve heart on February 14. Forget Hallmark, this is the real deal.
Though you can find other types of heart, such as beef, pig, or sheep, veal heart is often regarded as the best, as it’s the most tender and packs the most flavor. And, of course, only the best will do for my girl. Despite the fact that it’s from a baby (a cow baby, but a baby nonetheless), veal heart is almost surprisingly big, sometimes nearly three or four pounds. Smaller ones will obviously be more tender, so it’s worth asking for them.
this... this is not a good picture.
The flavor of veal heart is indeed beefy, but with decidedly gamey note. This is not an unpleasant quality; if you’re fond of lamb, as I am, you’ll probably enjoy it. As heart is a muscle, the texture is very much like any other beef muscle, though the muscle fibers are finer than other standard cuts. Not to sound like a broken record, but overall, it’s extremely tender and hugely flavorful.
Inside the heart are chambers, which practically scream out to be stuffed with something. Here, mushrooms, onions, bacon, and breadcrumbs are lightened with parsley, nutmeg, and a splash of Madeira. The mixture, packed inside the hearts, makes for a pretty presentation when the hearts are sliced and fanned across a plate.
Because the heart muscle works so hard, it can be very tough if prepared incorrectly, like other much-used muscles. Braising, then, is one key to softening the meat and rendering the best result. (Unintuitively, though, a quick turn on a hot grill is also a good way to prepare veal heart; not so with beef heart, which must be slow-cooked.) Madeira and red wine give a fantastic depth of flavor to the liquid, and match the robust tone of the meat. To help retain moisture, bacon is wrapped around the hearts, which helps naturally baste the meat as it cooks. The bacon was removed before serving, mostly for looks, but it’s perfectly fine to serve it as well.
Cubes of carrots, celery, and onion, braised with the stuffed hearts, not only help flavor the dish, but become a bold statement on their own. The onions and celery largely melt away, but the carrots remain mostly intact, coaxed to a meaty richness in the pot. They are a vibrant addition to the finished plate, don’t dare leave them out.
and don't forget the bouquet garni
Note: perhaps any eagle-eyed and offal-loving readers will notice that I’ve skipped over the second course from my epic Valentine’s Day menu, the Tripe Soup. Because I didn’t substantially change the recipe when I made it, I’m not going to post it, but I will tell you where to find the recipe. It’s in the Zuni Café Cookbook; and if you don’t have that book, I bet you know someone who does. (Or, you know, try the library.) The only change I made to the recipe was to omit the pancetta and the greens. Now you know.
Stuffed Braised Veal Heart Loosely adapted from Gourmet Magazine Serves 4 to 6
For the stuffing, the onion and celery will cook best and most evenly if minced by hand, as that will provide a more consistent cut. The mushrooms, however, may be chopped in a food processor if you like. Leftover heart makes excellent sandwiches, especially with a little horseradish or coarse mustard.
2 veal hearts
Cold milk, as needed
3 slices (2 to 3 ounces) bacon, diced
4 ounces finely minced yellow onion (a generous 1/2 cup)
4 ounces finely minced button mushrooms (about 9 or 10, to measure nearly 1 1/2 cups)
2 ounces finely minced celery (about 1 large stalk)
1 large clove garlic, minced finely
2 ounces panko or fresh breadcrumbs (about 1 cup)
1/4 cup finely minced fresh parsley (stems reserved)
1/2 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1/4 teaspoon freshly-grated nutmeg, plus extra
Salt and black pepper to taste
2 tablespoons Madeira, or as needed, plus 1/2 cup
6 to 8 slices bacon (not thick-cut)
2 medium carrots, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
2 stalks celery, diced into 1/2 inch pieces
1 medium yellow onion, diced into 1/2 inch pieces
Bouquet garni (made of 2 bay leaves, two bushy sprigs of fresh thyme, 1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns, 1/2 teaspoon juniper berries, and the reserved parsley stems, all tied in a double or triple layer of cheesecloth)
3/4 cup red wine (such as Cabernet Sauvignon, or Shiraz)
Water or stock, as needed
1. Clean the veal hearts by rinsing well with cold water. Pat dry, and make a cut lengthwise from top to bottom, to open the heart like a book (do not cut all the way through). Remove any hard external fat, stringy veins or arteries, valves, and blood clots. If you like, or if the chambers seem too small to stuff, you can cut away the internal walls to make a large pocket inside the heart, reserving the meat. Place the hearts in a gallon-size plastic zip-top bag, and cover with cold milk. Squeeze as much air as possible out of the bag, and let stand at room temperature for 1 hour. Meanwhile, prepare the remaining ingredients.
2. To make the stuffing, heat a large sauté pan over medium heat. Add the diced bacon, and fry until just browned. Remove from the pan with a slotted spoon, and set aside to drain on paper towels. (If you have reserved heart meat, dice it and cook it in the pan now. Remove with a slotted spoon, and set aside to drain on paper towels.) Either drain bacon fat from pan, or add additional oil or butter to the pan, to measure a total of 3 tablespoons of fat in the pan.
3. Add the minced onion, mushrooms, celery, and garlic to the pan. Toss or stir to coat with the fat, and cook over medium heat until translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the panko and reserved bacon (and heart meat, if using), and toss until warmed through, about 1 minute. Remove from heat, and add the parsley, thyme, and nutmeg. Taste, and correct the seasoning with salt and black pepper to taste. Add the Madeira 1 tablespoon at a time, until just moistened. Keep stuffing warm. Preheat oven to 325º F.
4. Drain the hearts from the milk, and pat dry. Sprinkle inside and out with salt, pepper, and a light dusting of freshly grated nutmeg. Stuff loosely with the hot stuffing (you may have extra). Wrap each heart with 3 to 4 slices of bacon, and secure with toothpicks.
5. Meanwhile, heat a large Dutch oven over medium-high heat until hot. Add hearts, and sear until golden brown on all sides. Remove from the pan, set aside. Some of the bacon fat should have rendered out into the pan; if not, add about 1 tablespoon oil or butter to the pan.
6. Add the diced carrots, celery, and onion to the pan. Cook, stirring, for 5 to 10 minutes, or until just softened. Add 1/2 cup Madeira, and scrape the bottom of the pan to dissolve any browned bits that may have formed. Add the hearts back in, along with the bouquet garni and the red wine. Pour in enough water (or stock) to come about halfway up the hearts. Bring the liquid back to a simmer. Cover and transfer the pot to the oven.
7. Braise the hearts for 1 hour, turning them over halfway through the time. Uncover the pot, turn the hearts over again, and cook 30 more minutes, or until the internal temperature of the hearts reaches 135º F. Remove from the oven, and let cool, uncovered, for about 3o minutes. If the braising liquid looks thin, remove the hearts to a plate, and reduce over medium-high heat until thickened.
8. To serve, slice hearts crossways. Discard the bacon if you like, or serve it if you like. Serve slices with some of the flavorful braising liquid napped over the top, with some of the vegetables from the pot alongside.
