Miscellaneous | One Hundred Eggs

New Orleans, Part I: IFBC

Well. That was certainly a trip.

I’m back home, after eleven days in New Orleans. It’s not a very long time on paper, but time can be quite subjective, especially when returning to one’s hometown after a long absence.

The first weekend was spent attending the International Food Blogger Conference, or, affectionately, IFBC NOLA, at the Hotel Monteleone. I met about a million wonderful, kind, talented people, people I wish lived close to me so that we could become better friends in real life. I learned loads about ways to improve my blog, my photography, my writing, and, yes, my life online and off.

I hope you don’t mind if I bore you with details about the food, rather than rehashing the nitty-gritty educational part of the conference. I think that might be what you’re here to see anyway.

The organizers of IFBC managed to get fourteen local restaurants to showcase samples of their menus for us, at receptions on both Friday and Saturday. And, like any good food blogger, I shot first and ate later.

The good people at Wines of Navarra provided a couple of bottles of wine for us to taste on Friday night.

Accompanying the wine, Muriel’s restaurant provided us with their signature shrimp and goat cheese crêpes, a gorgonzola tart with berries and pecans, and proscuitto-wrapped asparagus.

Following the wine tasting, I embarrassed myself a little when I saw Chef Susan Spicer standing basically alone (alone!) next to a full table of canapés: one of smoked salmon mousse, and the other of duck prosciutto with a pickled cherry.

I made sure she knew my mom is her biggest fan, especially of her sweetbreads. (My mother cannot eat a sweetbread without appending, “…but Susan Spicer still makes the best in the world.”) I promptly took a picture with her on my phone, texted it to my mom, and forgot to mention to Chef that I have garnered much accolade using recipes from her cookbook for clients of my own.

This shot of the duck prosciutto features the assistance of Andrew Scrivani, who set up the lighting. No effort or expense was spared in the preparation of this shot; all three votives on the table were used.

Eating my way around the room, I enjoyed the following:

Kurobuta pork cheeks with tomato jam and black eyed pea purée, from La Petite Grocery. The pork was just out of the fryer, crisp and hot, the interior full-flavored and rich.

Spicy tuna tartare with avocado and microgreens, from Ste. Marie, a new restaurant that I’m going to have to try properly the next time I’m in town. I appreciate it when something described as “spicy” is legitimately spicy; this tuna certainly was. They also served an excellent pappardelle with rabbit ragu that I neglected to photograph.

And then, I left to go to dinner with my parents.

Because, you know, there wasn’t enough food.

Friday morning came maybe a little too bright and early, and morning sessions were followed by a lunch reception. The first thing to catch my eye were the oysters.

A boat full of Gulf shrimp and Gulf oysters, glistening and briny, shucked by the good people at Royal House.

I prefer to not exercise restraint around oysters, particularly Gulf oysters, when I have been without them for a long time.

I wanted to put that little boat on wheels and drag it around with me for the rest of my trip. Later that day, the inimitable and delightful Poppy Tooker urged us, in a talk about sustainability: “Eat it to save it.” Well, last week, I saved the hell out of some oysters.

There were po-boys, too, in fried oyster and shrimp, on proper Leidenheimer po-boy bread. Sandwich shops of the nation, take note: without this bread, it is never a po-boy. No substitutes for this bread are acceptable. And “dressed” means only mayonnaise (preferably Blue Plate), lettuce (shredded iceberg), and tomato (Creole, ideally). Pickles are occasionally allowed, but you’d better know what you’re doing.

IFBC-17 — po-boys from three different restaurants. all use the same bread, as god intended.

This was alligator and andouille gumbo, from the classic Parkway Bakery.

IFBC-18 — i don't recall who served these shrimp and grits; they were not memorable, but they look pretty

The fine gentlemen from Abita Beer made sure our glasses never ran dry, with pours of their flagship Amber, and SOS, a nicely bitter and refreshing pilsner that generates 75 cents per bottle for the restoration of the Gulf coast following last year’s BP oil spill. And if you’ve never visited the brewery itself, I highly recommend it. You’re handed a go-cup when you walk in, and are promptly shown where the open taps are. Oh, yes.

Later that afternoon, I sampled what I’m still shocked was my first ever Ramos Gin Fizz, from the famous Carousel Bar downstairs. It was… frothy.

I switched back to Abita Amber after, half wishing I had ordered the more lusty Sazerac instead of the fizz.

That night, the Monteleone prepared us an extravagant wine pairing dinner, with ingredients one doesn’t usually see in menus for over a hundred people.

IFBC-36 — all a food blogger needs: a menu and a smart phone

The first course: crabmeat ravigote, on cucumber gelée, topped with shrimp and rémoulade sauce, paired with a vintage Spanish cava. The crab was sweet and wonderfully lumpy, and the gelée was full-flavored, though perhaps it had a bit too much gelatin. Crab and champagne are a natural pair, no exception here.

The entrée: beef tournedo (tenderloin), topped with foie gras and black truffle, served with endive and beets, paired with a red blend from Italy. It was a lily guilded thrice. I don’t really understand stacking up three luxury items, when the textures don’t necessarily go well together, even though it’s a classic dish. All the ingredients were delicious, but the beets were my favorite part of this plate.

The dessert: white chocolate crème brûlée, with berries and pulled sugar garnish, paired with an incredible Muscat from Australia. The crème brûlée was set in a sort of tart crust, not something you typically see, but it was really lovely. Unfortunately, the pretty pulled sugar was a sticky reminder why those garnishes do not work well in areas of high humidity. Muscat is my favorite dessert wine; this one was complex, and caramel-thick in the best possible way.

Oh, and after all this wonderful food? Chef John Besh delivered the keynote speech of the weekend. I adore his restaurants, and cannot commend the man enough for his ambassadorship in promoting New Orleans and Louisiana. I have a professional crush on this guy.

The remaining sessions on Sunday went by too fast, and IFBC NOLA was over.

And then, the rest of my trip back home began. More on that later. Stay tuned!

Brown Rice Onigiri; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Make My Lunch

I love cooking. That’s probably quite apparent, what with the food blog and all; and it’s even more apparent when you consider that I cook for a living, too.

So why, then, can I never be bothered to make myself lunch? In the middle of the day, if it takes longer than about two minutes to prepare, it isn’t happening. This from a girl who spends entire days preparing totally-from-scratch meals for others, and loves it dearly.

Most often, my lunch ends up being a bowl of brown rice and edamame, two things I make sure to always have on hand. If, by some misfortune, there is no cooked brown rice in the fridge, I consider myself ess-oh-el. Much hand-wringing ensues, followed by apples and cereal, or the rare sighting of a fried egg.

I’ve gotten into the bad habit of only bringing basically a Lärabar and an apple to work, which is simple, delicious, and portable, but it’s not really enough to keep my energy up during a day of cooking. This explains why I sometimes feel exhausted at the end of the day, with only enough left in me to haul myself home and onto the couch. Add beer or wine, and internet. Stir. Serve chilled.

Trying to come up with a way to reformat my go-to lunch into a work-friendly snack, I had the idea long ago to make onigiri, the famous Japanese comfort food that was designed to be a traveling snack. I knew it was, at its most basic, just a ball of rice, but I had assumed it was made of sushi rice (i.e., seasoned with salt, sugar, and vinegar), so I dismissed the thought. I hadn’t ever had luck with making good brown sushi rice; further, neither I nor my hypoglycemic tendencies wanted to resort to white rice, or any kind of rice with sugar.

But in recently looking up recipes for furikake to jazz up my plain rice and edamame, I found I had been wrong. Onigiri is, in fact, never made with sushi rice, but rather with plain rice. The sky opened, and angels sang; my dream of onigiri was reborn.

There are ten million different ways to make onigiri, depending on how the rice is seasoned, whether or not it’s filled, what sort of filling, how it’s shaped, and so on. There is but one requirement: short grain rice is mandatory. Long grain rice will never stick together properly, and medium grain is iffy at best. Do not use jasmine, do not use basmati, do not use Uncle Ben’s. Do not use Minute (ever, not just for onigiri). Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200.

onigiri 3 — short grain on top, long grain on bottom. see the difference? use the one on top.

I decided to use the following method to make my onigiri (learned from the delightful Just Hungry) not only because it works particularly well with brown rice, which will always have a harder time sticking together than white rice, but also because it automatically packages the onigiri in the process. It’s ideal for my particular amalgam of laziness and snobbishness.

This is about 2 cups of cooked short grain brown rice. It will make four smallish onigiri. I want to keep them small, so I can eat one easily and quickly while sautéing or whisking or what-have-you. There is no sitting down or stopping to eat at work.

onigiri 9 — did i mention this is short grain rice? use short grain rice.

It gets mixed with about 1 cup of frozen shelled edamame, which was thawed in the microwave and pulsed a few times in a food processor.

To season, about 2 tablespoons of black sesame and nori furikake, more or less. This mixture has enough salt in it to adequately season the rice, which can taste a little bland if too little is used.

Mix it all together.

Line four small bowls with plastic wrap, or line one bowl four times. Whatever works. Try to press it in evenly, with no big wrinkles.

Either spray or drizzle in water, just enough to moisten the plastic without pooling. A spray bottle works wonders here; this is a cheap one I picked up god-knows-where for no more than a couple of dollars. It’s useful to have around, especially when the cats misbehave.

A light misting of moisture keeps the rice from sticking to the plastic. I haven’t tried omitting this step; maybe it’s unnecessary, but I don’t mind doing it and my rice hasn’t stuck yet.

Divide the rice evenly between the four bowls.

Gather up the plastic wrap around the rice.

Press the rice together and squeeze out as much air as possible. Don’t crush it, but compress it well. Twist the plastic to hold it all together.

This is basically the end of the process (thanks again to Just Hungry for the technique), but if you want the traditional triangle shape, now’s the time to make it: just squeeze the ball into a triangle shape. These wrapped-up rice balls can be eaten immediately, or after a few hours at room temperature, or refrigerated for a few days. They also freeze beautifully, which is what mine are doing now.

On my way to work in the morning, I grab a couple and leave them at room temperature. By the time I want to eat them, they’re appropriately thawed. If you’re ambitious, wrap a little nori strip around the bottom, just before serving so it doesn’t get too soft. Mine already have nori in them from the furikake, so I only did this for looks. I do not give my onigiri little nori pants at work.

Baked Brown Rice for Onigiri
Adapted from Alton Brown
Makes about 4 cups cooked rice

This method has never, ever, ever failed me. It turns out perfect brown rice, every single time. It works for any type of brown rice, but for onigiri, be sure to use short grain rice. Rice labeled as “sushi rice” is ideal. If in doubt, um, look at the grains of rice. If they’re short and round, then you’re good to go. If they’re long and thin, then don’t bother; it won’t be starchy enough to hold together in a ball.

If you like, you can add some seasoning other than salt before cooking the rice, such as bay leaf, cumin, sesame seeds, cloves, turmeric, star anise, dried herbs, furikake (recipe below), or even a garlic clove. It will season the rice deeply and aromatically.

2 1/2 cups water
1 1/2 cups short grain brown rice
1 teaspoon kosher salt

1. Turn oven to 375º F. No need to fully preheat, just turn it on. Bring the water to a boil, using whatever method is preferable (microwave, stovetop, whatever; me, I use a tea kettle).

2. While water heats, measure out the rice into a baking dish of suitable size. (Mr. Brown recommends an 8 inch square glass dish, which I happen to have, so that’s what I use. I’m sure ceramic is fine, but maybe not metal, which will heat less evenly and probably crisp the outside edges of the rice.) Add the salt. If your dish doesn’t have a tight-fitting cover, pull out a piece of aluminum foil and fit it to the dish (to make covering it later go quickly and easily), then set the foil aside.

3. When the water boils, pour it over the rice and salt. Give it a little stir, and cover tightly with the foil. (See? If you hadn’t fitted the foil to the dish already, you’d be handling that over a dish full of boiling water. I care about your hands.) Immediately place the dish in the oven, and bake at 375º F for 1 hour.

4. Remove the dish from the oven. I like to let it stand for about 10 minutes before uncovering and fluffing the rice with a fork, both to let the dish cool and to give the rice a little extra steaming time. Cooked rice can be stored in the fridge or freezer.

Black Sesame and Nori Furikake (Rice Seasoning)
Adapted from The Kitchn
Makes about 1/2 cup, which will last forever

Furikake is really anything you sprinkle over plain rice to season it. It’s usually fairly potent, so a little goes a long way. The nori here doesn’t give a seaweed flavor so much as an umami richness; with the salt, it has a faint brininess that I particularly love with black sesame. Nori can be found in the “international” section of many grocery stores, but Asian markets will have a wider selection. I found some pre-toasted nori that was already cut into strips, for exactly such an application as this.

1/4 cup black sesame seeds
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup nori (toasted), cut into small strips

1. Place the sesame seeds and salt in a spice grinder, or mortar and pestle. Pulse or grind a few times until the sesame seeds are lightly ground, with some remaining whole. At this point, you can add the nori and grind it all together, or simply mix the ground sesame-salt in with the strips. Store in an airtight container in the freezer, or in the fridge if you’ll use it all within a few days.

NYC Part III: …And All the Rest

(In which our narrator concludes her tale of a trip to New York City.)

I know it’s dreadfully dull to look at other people’s vacation pictures, but I had a few remaining photos of my (not so) recent trip to New York, and thought I’d share them anyway. It’s my blog, and I’ll be dull if I want.

After stopping in at the Breuckelen Distillery, we were all feeling a little peckish. But with big plans to smash together later that evening in a tiny NYC kitchen and cook dinner, we didn’t want to spoil our appetites. We were guided to nearby Der Kommissar, probably the best bar value in the city, for a quick snack.

Our light repast consisted of expertly-crafted sausages and mustards, pretzels served with various dips and spreads, and a representative sampling of the well-curated beer menu. The level of excellence-per-dollar here is quite high. No single item on the menu was over $7, which made it dangerously easy to keep on sampling.

Other than eating, we tooled around the city a bit, avoiding any tourist destinations like the plague. Mostly, we just hung out and enjoyed friendly friend time.

nyc 1 — our host, in his natural setting. yes, that is a 5x5. his solve time is measured in seconds rather than minutes. amazing.

Making our way around consisted of a little of this:

…but quite a lot more of this:

We spent our last night in town in grand style, which meant that I had to leave the camera behind for the evening, so no photos, I’m afraid. It started with bar hopping at (among others) the comfortably gloomy and überdistressed 124 Rabbit Club, where we ordered beers I’d only dreamed to find someday. Situated underground and with a barely marked entrance, the speakeasy-style place couldn’t have been more hip if it was taking Polaroids of itself. I loved it.

Afterwards, we ~~staggered~~ made our way in an orderly fashion to dinner at Blue Hill, where the five of us ordered pretty much everything on the menu without duplicates, and proceeded to make a small spectacle of ourselves by passing our plates after a couple of bites from each plate. We had it down to a science by the end. I don’t recall exactly what we ordered, but I remember dying a little over some asparagus and the unabashedly rosy pork tenderloin (before the recent safe cooking temperature adjustment, mind). Wine happened, and all the elements came together in that exquisite breathlessness of impeccable food, rich conversation, and the camaraderie you wish you could always keep near you. It was easily one of the top meals of my life.

And the next day, plates of charred squid salad and butternut squash pasta refreshed us before the suddenly arduous flight home.

I think I’ll end with this image. It makes me smile.

NYC Part II: Breuckelen Gin

(In which our narrator continues her tale of a visit to New York City.)

breuckelen 12 — left to right: gin, whiskey, aged gin

One of the more interesting places we visited in New York was the Breuckelen Distilling Company, located in and pronounced like the famous borough. In the midst of city-battered warehouses, under the roar of the expressway, you can catch the rustic smell of fermenting grain and yeast, which provides a little preliminary cognitive dissonance to prepare you for what you’ll find inside.

breuckelen 2 — bubbling wheat mash, from whence cometh the heavenly smell. there is no way to make this stuff look pretty.

Breuckelen is staffed and operated by four intrepid souls who are, admittedly, learning the distilling business as they go. Despite their sleekly designed, club-ready product, the whole operation has the charming nonchalance you might feel if your homebrewer friend got laid off and turned his hobby into a profitable business – which is apropos, since that’s more or less how Breuckelen was started.

They produce a gin, a whiskey, a neutral grain spirit, and a barrel-aged gin. Let me repeat that last one: barrel-aged gin. It’s gin. From a barrel. It’s brown. And it’s gin.

And it’s really good.

The regular gin is a fine example of it’s breed: not too heavy on the juniper, a little rosemary and citrus thrown in for brightness. It’s lovely. The whiskey is also okay, but I’m partial to Bourbon. Left in the barrel for a time measured in months rather than years, Breuckelen’s whiskey was described by a fellow whiskey snob as being so young it was “like statutory rape”. Ahem.

Assuming you’re smart enough to know what to expect from a pure grain spirit (it tastes of naught but alcohol, and you’re meant to steep things in it to flavor it), let’s move on to their star, the aged gin. It’s at once simple and difficult to describe. Really, it does what it says on the tin. Gin. Aged. Full stop. But it’s a bit tricky to wrap your mind around those two descriptors unless you can taste it.

It is unquestionably gin, but with caramel and honey notes that play quite well with the various aromatics and the wheat. The flavor is well-balanced, which I’m guessing is due in part to a short aging period; it seems like much aging beyond what is done would overwhelm the delicate herbal notes of the gin itself.

After a tour of the distillery, you can head over to the tasting room for a quick sample. Their “tasting room” isn’t so much a “room” as a “counter”, but there are stools for sitting, too. In front of jars filled with the various ingredients used to flavor the gin, tastes are poured by one of the four employees, so if you have any question about anything regarding their process or product, it will be answered with confidence. There is a casual arrangement of bottles near a register, but thankfully no pressure to purchase. The feeling is similar to the merchandise table at your buddy’s band performance – staffed by friendly acquaintances you enjoy talking to, and they’d probably really appreciate it if you enjoyed the show enough to buy a t-shirt or CD.

breuckelen 9 — they must spend a fortune on ball jars

No, Breuckelen isn’t the only distillery with a barrel-aged gin on the market, but it’s the first one I’ve had, and I was impressed. I imagine it would be stunning in an Aviation, one of my favorite cocktails of late.

Only one way to find out, I guess.

NYC Part I: Momofuku Milk Bar

Two weekends ago, I spent the most incredible time in New York City with some dear, dear friends. It was my third visit to the city, but my first in about eight years, and certainly my first since I’ve cared much about food at all. And, oh. My. Goodness. The food.

The food, the food, the food.

And maybe a drink or two, here and there.

But, oh! the food. There was a not insubstantial amount of food, and we ate all of it. I’m afraid there is no more food in New York, because we ate it all.

We jetted off without a food itinerary, aside from one night, which might cause some type-A’s out there to lose a monocle or do a spit-take. But I prefer to travel that way; let chance, circumstance, and mood dictate the days, and things generally work out beautifully.

My only requirement was to stop at Momofuku at some point. No, I didn’t care which one. Any one would do, with weighted preference to Milk Bar and their take-away-friendly baked goods. Eventually, my (loudly) dropped hints took effect, and we made our way to the Midtown location – which just so happens to share a front door with Má Pêche, where we had a fantastic lunch. (Or was it breakfast? What do you call it when the first meal of the day is at 2 pm, and involves beer?)

We left with a taste of Milk Bar’s Cereal Milk(TM)(seriously) soft-serve and a bag of goodies, comprised of 6 cookies (more on those later) and one black sesame croissant. My holy grail, their kimchi and blue cheese croissant, was disappointingly absent from the case, but the black sesame version went a long way towards assuaging my grief.

I’ve never seen a croissant so swarthy. Inside, the nearly-foot-long behemoth swaddled a filling of strawberry jam and a sweetened cream cheese that one of us suggested might be Cereal Milk(TM) cream cheese. The tender and flaky layers of pastry seemed to be dotted with black sesame seeds ground to a powder or paste, which helps explain the off-black crust. It is also a thoroughly brilliant idea that I might have to try the next time I make croissants.

Apart from being a day old by the time we broke into the croissant (and slightly dried out, but surprisingly very little), I’d classify it as one of the best croissants I’ve ever had. Certainly, it’s the most creative. The filling was just restrained enough with sweetness, which pleased me, knowing Chef Tosi’s reputation as a sugar-lover extraordinaire.

And the fact that I missed out on the kimchi croissant just gives me an excuse to go back. Just as soon as my wallet recovers.

Stay tuned for more NYC adventures, as soon as I can catch my breath and post more.

Coffee, My Way

I never used to like coffee. It was too bitter, had too much of a burnt-toast quality, and more often than not was served hot enough to scald my tongue into a senseless stupor for a day or so. Pass, thank you very much.

Coffee was never a big deal in my parents’ house, either. Yes, my dad would dutifully set up the machine each night on a timer, and he and my mom would each have a cup or so (my mom invariably losing hers around the house a hundred times each morning), but half the pot would later get poured unceremoniously down the drain. Coffee came pre-ground in large canisters, and whole beans were a completely foreign thing, probably only for much fancier pants than us.

During my time working at a large-scale event planning agency, however, I began to notice a different attitude towards the drink. To be sure, it was still primarily a caffeine-delivery-system, but the people there had opinions about it. I don’t actually recall a coffee maker in the office, oddly enough. Instead, cups from CC’s Coffee House, the local coffee chain of choice, filled the trash cans and crowded the desks. A strange engine-oil-type container of Cool Brew waited in the fridge in case someone just wanted a plain coffee. Starbucks, though not exactly verboten, was looked upon as a last-ditch option, unless it came in tiny cans or bottles to keep on hand for emergencies. “Maxwell House” and “Folgers” became filthy, dirty words.

Faced with such convictions, I could only hold out as the lone coffee-abstainer for so long. I cut my teeth first on the saccharine Starbucks Doubleshot, then added splashes of Cool Brew when I started to find it too syrupy. I graduated to CC’s Mochasippi, which tastes far better than the silly name implies (and is still mandatory when I visit New Orleans). Eventually, I began taking my coffee black, and even began enjoying the occasional espresso. I formed my own prejudices about certain brands of coffee and certain coffee shops. I later became acquainted with a French press, and learned to insist on whole beans. My pants became fancy.

But as much as I relish a well-crafted cup of coffee, made with just-ground beans and plunged lovingly in the French press, most mornings I just can’t be bothered. It’s too fussy, especially when, you know, I haven’t had my coffee yet. In recent years, I’ve developed a foolproof system for delivering a great cup of coffee every morning, with hardly any more trouble than my parents go to with their automatic machine. It goes like this:

1. Open fridge.
2. Remove coffee concentrate.
3. Splash a bit into a cup.
4. Add water.
5. Microwave (optional).
6. Profit.

Did you notice the part where I don’t have to grind beans, wait more than a minute, wash anything, or use my brain? Oh, yes.

The key is something that New Orleanians have apparently been doing for ages: cold-brewing coffee. You may have heard of this method, either in the New York Times, or on any number of blogs. It involves mixing ground coffee with cold water, then giving it an overnight rest. In the morning, strain and enjoy. The science behind it is solid, and the cold extraction method leaves you with a highly-flavorful coffee that doesn’t lose its edge or become bitter like hot-brewed coffee does in painfully few minutes.

My variation is in batch size and concentration; I make a whole pound of coffee at a time, which produces an ungodly amount of highly concentrated coffee that’s far more potent than any espresso. Yes, it becomes a little dull over time, but it still beats the heck out of Sanka, and it’s just as fast.

I really don’t remember where I originally found the recipe, but I came across it 6 or 7 years ago, and have used it more or less ever since. These days, there’s always a bottle in my fridge. The weather’s finally warmed up enough for me to enjoy it cold in a glass, the way God intended, but in the winter it does just as well warmed up in my favorite mug.

Aside from drinking it, the inky stuff finds other uses in my kitchen. I’ve added a shot into the liquid for braising beef or pork, or into pots of beans or rich soups; and need I tell you that used instead of vanilla, it will make your brownies or chocolate cakes absolutely sing. Add a splash to ganache and make mocha truffles. Use your imagination; you’ll find other uses.

My go-to coffee to use for this is a blend with chicory, and, yes, it comes pre-ground. Please don’t tell anyone. Sadly, my grocery has just stopped carrying it, so I’ll have to experiment with new types and report back. But whatever sort of coffee you use, just make sure it’s a medium grind. You’ll understand why if you ever try to strain off an entire pound of super-fine espresso grind.

Make each cup of coffee to taste, starting with less concentrate than you think, and adding more as you see fit. Stirred into milk, it’s the best café au lait you’ll ever have, cold or hot. Mix it with sweetened condensed milk for a Vietnamese coffee. Pull out your blender and whizz together a pick-me-up on some hot afternoon. But don’t even try the recipe unless you’re ready to keep it in your fridge forevermore, because this stuff is life-changing. Your pants have been warned.

Coffee Concentrate
Makes 10 cups

I make batches of this every 2 weeks or so, and funnel it into empty screw-top wine bottles to keep in the refrigerator. No matter how carefully or how much I strain it, it always ends up with a little bit of sediment in the bottom, so be aware of that when drinking the last few dregs. Use either stainless steel or glass containers for this recipe, because the concentrate will stain the dickens out of anything. Also, make sure the water you use for this tastes good, because no amount of good coffee can cover up the taste of bad water.

1 pound coffee, in a medium grind
10 cups cold water, filtered if necessary
1 three-fingered pinch salt (trust me)

1. In a large, non-reactive bowl, combine the coffee, water, and salt, whisking gently to wet all the grounds. Cover the bowl, and let stand at room temperature overnight, or about 12 hours.

2. The next day, strain the coffee through a fine mesh strainer into another large non-reactive bowl. Let the grounds drip until you get tired of waiting, then discard. Rinse the strainer, and line with a triple layer of cheesecloth (or use instead an extremely fine mesh strainer), and re-strain the concentrate. Strain as many times as you have patience for; very fine sediment will strain best if the concentrate is allowed to settle for 30 minutes or so between straining.

3. Funnel the concentrate into non-reactive containers of choice, and refrigerate.

4. To make coffee, pour a tablespoon of concentrate into a mug or glass, and top off with water or milk, leaving a little room. Taste. If you prefer it stronger, add more concentrate, adjusting as necessary. For hot coffee, microwave for 1 to 2 minutes. For iced coffee, um, add ice.

Five Minute Photo Shoot: Pimento Cheese Vol au Vents

An hors d’oeuvre I served at my Kentucky Derby party this weekend: whole-wheat puff pastry, cut into bite-size vol au vents, and filled with pimento cheese (for the uninitiated or un-Southern: a spread of pimentos, sharp yellow cheddar, and mayonnaise). Lovely.

Edit: I substituted roasted red bell peppers here, because I can’t ever seem to find pimentos up here. Many people consider this unacceptable. I am not one of those people.

Oreganato Sauce, and the Fish Under It

Behold the whole, broiled branzini.

Behold the aftermath of the whole, broiled branzini.

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.

Kimchi

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.

Kimchi
Adapted from David Chang and Cecilia Hae-Jin Lee
Makes 10-12 cups

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.

Vin d’Orange, and Leftovers

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.