Category: Miscellaneous

The Endive Problem: An Exposé

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.

no
yes

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

 

Valentine’s Day, Round 2: Stuffed Braised Veal Heart

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.

A Very Ruth Bourdain Valentine’s Day

I have a crush.

I have a serious crush on Ruth Bourdain.

There, I’ve said it, and I don’t care who knows.

And today being Valentine’s Day, I’ve done what any sensible person would do: I’ve prepared a four-course dinner for my Special Lady, complete with drink pairings, and comprised of all her favorite foods.  I’ve dimmed the lights, and put on gentle music.  I got roses.

For the first course, only roasted marrow bones will do.  Accompanying are lightly-toasted baguette slices, and a vibrant breadcrumb topping with celery, scallion, parsley, and cayenne.  There are eight bones, because I want to make sure Ruth has enough to be satisfied.  Hell hath no fury like a woman with too little bone marrow.  A jammy, tannin-heavy Australian Shiraz is a fantastic match for the unctuous stuff, and gets the evening off to a properly-buzzed start.

The second course, a soup course, features honeycomb tripe in a flavorful broth, with tomatoes, onions, and celery.  Slowly simmered for hours, the frilly tripe softens into a lush tenderness, proving that even the most leathery flesh can be made supple with the right treatment.  The wine, a Chenin Blanc/Gewurtztraminer/Chardonnay blend from California, with its whip-crisp and flinty tone, lets her know that I’m not all warm fuzzies and sweet poetry.

As much as I would like, I can’t literally give Ruth my heart; but perhaps a veal heart will suffice instead.  The entrée, slices of braised veal heart stuffed with mushrooms, onions, bacon, breadcrumbs, and parsley, features a gratuitous pile of carrots alongside.  I don’t believe she’ll eat them, but a little color is always nice on the plate.  We devour with our eyes first, of course.  For such a special evening, I must open the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon Reserve to pair with this course.  It’s only from 2005, but usually I can’t keep any wine around for longer than about a week; I found this one in the back of the cellar, hidden behind the Two Buck Chuck.

And finally, the pièce de résistance created especially for my Little Sweetbread: a smoked tangerine panna cotta.  I smoked cream, steeped it with tangerine zest, star anise, and cinnamon, and set it softly into a cool custard.  Tangerine suprêmes brighten the plate, and a simple almond florentine lends a crunching contrast to the yielding smooth flesh of the panna cotta.  Cocktails are in order at this time of night, and I present a ruby-red rye, Campari, Herbsaint, and sweet vermouth mixture called a New Pal.  The bracingly well-balanced drink is simple to whip up, and it’s a good thing, because I’m ten sheets to the wind at this point.

So, humbly, I present myself and this simple meal, in hopes that I might catch her eye, in hopes that she might notice me.  I don’t presume that she will deign to answer, but even a word from her savory lips, or a note written by her meat-slick fingers would lift my hungry soul to the company of angels.  Then, oh then, we might feast blissfully together on buffalo Seraphim wings and whole roast Cherubim, and be happy together.

Ruth Bourdain, will you be my Valentine?

***********

MENU

Roasted marrow bones, breadcrumb topping, baguette
Australian Shiraz

Tripe soup
Californian Chenin Blanc, Gewurtztraminer, and Chardonnay blend

Braised stuffed veal heart, carrots
Californian Cabernet Sauvignon Reserve, 2005

Smoked tangerine panna cotta, almond florentine
New Pal

***********

Roasted Marrow Bones with Breadcrumb Topping
Makes about 1 1/4 cups breadcrumb topping

I don’t give an amount for the marrow bones here, as it is determined by the number of guests being served, and the rest of the menu.  Four people will handily finish off the marrow of eight three-inch bones, if the following courses are reasonably light (and if RuBo hasn’t been invited).  The breadcrumb topping makes more than enough for such an amount, and the leftovers (kept refrigerated) make a fantastic topping for pasta or fried eggs, if re-crisped briefly in a hot pan.

1 cup (about 2 ounces) panko, or fresh breadcrumbs
1 tablespoon olive oil, plus extra as needed
1 clove garlic
1/4 cup finely minced celery hearts
2 scallions (white and pale green parts only), finely minced
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon whole coriander seeds, ground
1 large pinch cayenne pepper
Salt and black pepper, as needed
Marrow bones, cut into 3 to 4 inch lengths or split lengthwise by butcher
Baguette, thinly sliced

1. Preheat oven to 275º F.  Toss panko with 1 tablespoon olive oil, and spread on a rimmed baking sheet.  Bake for about 30 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes, or until well-browned and very crunchy.  Cool completely.  Increase oven temperature to 400º F.

2.  Meanwhile, roughly chop the garlic.  Sprinkle with a pinch of coarse salt, and smash into a paste by dragging the flat side of a knife across the garlic.  Transfer to a medium bowl.  Toss with the minced celery, scallions, parsley, thyme, coriander, and cayenne until thoroughly combined.  Set aside.

3.  Place marrow bones cut-side up in a shallow oven-safe dish just large enough to hold all bones and keep them level.  Roast at 400º F for about 20 minutes (less if your bones are split lengthwise), or until marrow bubbles and offers no resistance at all when pierced by a skewer or thin, sharp blade.  Remove from oven and let cool briefly.

4.  Meanwhile, lightly brush both sides of baguette slices with olive oil.  Place in a single layer on a baking sheet, and toast in the oven for 3 to 4 minutes, or until just barely toasted.

5.  When ready to serve, toss browned panko with the celery and herb mixture.  Taste, and correct seasoning with salt and black pepper as needed.  Do not do this too early, as the breadcrumbs may lose their crispness.

6.  To serve, run a thin blade around the edge of the marrow to release it, if needed.  Serve warm either in the bone, or released onto a plate, with the baguette slices and the breadcrumb topping.

Stay tuned, more recipes to come soon!

Recent Adventures

Well, it finally happened.  Our creaky, wheezing, seven-year-old PC finally bit the dust — taking with it the photo-editing software I use.  Of course.

So while I’m sorting out logistics, I thought you might like to simply hear what I’ve been cooking lately.  In no particular order, and with a few notes here and there:

Homemade pizzas (with this crust): one topped with poblano, mascarpone, chopped walnuts, zucchini, and bacon; the other topped with Comté, pesto, ricotta, anchovies, and green apple.  I liked the poblano one best, but the other was pretty killer too.

Warm and thick red lentil soup.  Fantastic with a dollop of mascarpone.  When fully chilled, you can actually stand a spoon upright in it, which is only disconcerting until you taste it.

Cashew butter granola.  (Helped to use up a jar of cashew butter left over from making canapés of pumpernickel cocktail toasts, cashew butter mixed with a touch of molasses, shredded smoked duck, celery-apple salad, and hot pepper jelly.  To.  Die.  For.)

Salsa verde, cobbled together from this brief description.  Tangy, floral, green, incredible.  My new favorite thing.  Like a vinegary pesto, sans oil.

Whole wheat puff pastry, from David Lebovitz’s showstopping latest book, but made with this brilliant method.  Nutty, buttery, light as a feather, a complete revelation.  Made into a gorgeous pithivier-style pie, with spiced winter squash filling.  Who needs a pie dish?

Butter flavored with squash seeds.  Let me repeat, it’s butter.  Flavored with squash seeds.  It’s life-changing.  Browning it is next to heaven.  Had I had it earlier, I might’ve made that puff pastry with some (!).

The best spiced cocktail nut and pretzel mix.  Don’t be shy with the cayenne; it seems like too much, but it’s just perfect.

Furikake.  Totally hooked.  I’ll eat it straight from the container.

Multi-grain granola, rife for variations.  Beautifully crunchy.

I didn’t cook it, but my uncle hosted his annual Lobster Boil the weekend before Thanksgiving.  In Eastern Kentucky.  This year was the best lobster he’s ever had.  We took down about 85 of the succulently briny things, plus beef tenderloins, sides, appetizers, desserts, about 60 bottles of wine, a few bottles of Bourbon, and who-knows-how-many beers.  Oh, yes.

And last, but certainly not least, the Birthday Cake of walnut dacquoise, brown-butter sponge, apple cider syrup, and rum buttercream frosting.  Used an ungodly amount of butter, and worth every single calorie.

Hungry yet?  What have you been up to in the kitchen?

Pâté, and Exuberance

When I started this blog, I fully intended to post two or three times a week.  And, for a while, I was able to keep that schedule up.  Lately, though, I’ve been far less active here than I’d like, but it’s been for a very good reason, and one that I won’t bother to let remain unspoken any longer.

I’ve been starting my own business.

I like to think of it as my first business, because now that I’m working purely for myself, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to work for someone else ever again.  It’s been hard work, frustrating, anxiety-inducing, uncertain, but entirely amazing.  The amount of support, love, and encouragement from my family and friends (and friends of friends!) these last few months has been nothing short of breathtaking.  It actually catches in my chest a little to think about it.

Now, when people ask me what I do, I say that I am a Personal Chef, and I say it with a pride and a happiness I never thought a simple job description could evoke.  I cook for people in their homes, for everyday meals or for parties, and I come home from each job exhausted and in bliss.  Forgive me if I wax fustian, but I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have such a career.

So instead of blogging, I’ve been spending my days planning menus, figuring out insurance and business licenses, talking to clients, writing and testing recipes, tracking expenses, hauling pans and groceries up and down three flights of stairs, and trying to understand how on Earth I got so darn fortunate.

In the midst of all this excitement, oddly enough, I’ve become somewhat obsessed with making pâté.  It’s a little strange, since I didn’t grow up with pâté, have had no mind-blowing enlightenment after eating any particularly fine pâté, have never had any particular longing for it, and in fact never really thought much about it.

But perhaps it’s because I have no real experience with pâté that it’s lighting me up now.  Pâté always seemed to me a bit mysterious, a thing expensive, soigné, and difficult to prepare, best left to professionals.  Now that I’m confident enough in my culinary abilities to bill myself as a professional chef, perhaps I decided it was high time I tackled this final frontier.

Whatever the reason for the obsession, I am now the proud owner of two pâté-centric cookbooks, and have a few basic types of pâté now under my belt, specifically ground meat pâté, chicken liver pâté, and a seafood pâté.  The latter two are by far the easiest, requiring only pan-cooking and a quick spin in a food processor before chilling.  But the former, a ground meat pâté, for all its complex ingredient list and intimidating nature, is actually quite simple.

ground meat and moist breadcrumbs will never look pretty

I’ve heard it said that if you can make meatloaf, you can make pâté.  This is cold comfort to me, who has made meatloaf maybe twice in her life, and certainly never in recent memory.  But after trying pâté, I’d say it’s a very apt comparison.  In fact, pâté might be the easier of the two; one must take care with meatloaf, using a light hand to achieve the proper texture.  Pâté, on the other hand, is weighted and compressed after baking; a light hand is wasted here.  That, I can get on board with.

This particular pâté is a rustic style known as pâté de campagne, or “country-style pâté”.  And, as Chef Anthony Bourdain so eloquently puts it, that means “even your country-ass can make it.”  It’s not fussy or complicated by any means, but serve a platter of this with some crackers or baguette slices, and you’ll look like Chef Bourdain’s equal.

blanched bacon; don't bother with this pointless step

Just barely smoky from the bacon wrapped around the outside, the filling gains depth from onion and reduced brandy, and brightness from a judicious sprinkling of herbs.  The texture is firm enough to slice, but soft enough to coax into spreading evenly over a piece of good bread.  It’s just as fantastic with a glass of champagne as it is with a cold beer, or your favorite red or dry rosé.  I like it with pickles of any sort, and a bit of good mustard, but that’s entirely up to you.

pickled grapes and mustard in the background

I feel pâté is an appropriate match for the news I’m sharing with you.  Both making pâté and starting your own business seem moderately terrifying on the surface, but are certainly manageable with kind encouragement and taking things one small step at a time.  Both carry a deceptive air of haute exclusivity, insinuating that mere mortals need not apply — unless you’re willing to take that first bold action in pursuit.

And certainly pâté is appropriate here, because it’s a food invariably reserved for celebrations, parties, galas, bashes of all ilk.  One never sits down to pâté alone, and this recipe makes far more than could be eaten by even two or three people.  It speaks of generosity, and joy, and riches to be shared.  Pâté is a food of exuberance, and there’s no other word to describe how I feel about it all right now.

Bon appétit.

Country-Style Pâté (Pâté de Campagne)
Adapted from The Cuisinart Food Processor Pâté Cookbook, by Carmel Berman Reingold
Makes two 7 x 2 x 3 inch loaves

This recipe uses a traditional and delicious mixture of ground veal, beef, and pork, but feel free to use whatever meats you like, as long as the total weight equals 2 1/4 pounds.  As tempting as it is, do not use lean ground beef (or lean anything) here; it will make for a dry and insipid pâté.  Plan to make this a day before serving to allow it enough time to compress and chill.

Some pâté recipes direct you to blanch the bacon before using it to line the pan.  I tried this recipe with both blanched and un-blanched bacon and found no discernible difference in flavor.  The difficulty in lining a loaf pan with curling blanched bacon, however, leads me to recommend skipping that step any time you run across it.

1/2 cup brandy
4 cloves garlic
1/2 medium onion
1/2 cup unseasoned bread crumbs
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon herbes de Provence
12 ounces ground pork
12 ounces ground veal
12 ounces ground beef (at least 85% fat)
1 large egg, lightly beaten
2 tablespoons cream
10 strips of bacon, to line the pans
6 bay leaves

1.  Preheat oven to 350º F.  In a small saucepan, bring the brandy to a boil.  Reduce to 1/4 cup, about 3 minutes.  Remove from the heat and let cool to room temperature.  Meanwhile, line two 7 x 2 x 3 inch loaf pans crosswise with 5 strips of bacon each, letting the ends of the bacon drape over the sides.  Set aside.

2.  In a food processor, chop the garlic, onion, bread crumbs, salt, pepper, thyme, and herbes de Provence until smooth.  (If you don’t have a food processor, chop as finely as possible.)  Transfer to a large bowl.

3.  To the onion mixture, add the pork, veal, beef, egg, cream, and reduced brandy.  Mix together thoroughly with hands until well and evenly combined.

4.  Divide the meat mixture evenly between the two prepared pans, pressing it into the corners of the pans.  Top each one with 3 bay leaves, and fold the ends of the bacon strips over the top.  Cover tightly with aluminum foil.

5.  Place the two pans in a high-sided roasting pan or baking dish large enough to hold both.  Pour warm water in the roasting pan until it comes about halfway up the sides of the loaf pans.  Transfer to the oven, and bake at 350º F for 90 minutes.  If the water evaporates during baking, add extra as needed to maintain water level.

6.  Remove the pans from the roasting dish.  Place a flat surface (such as another loaf pan) on top of each pâté, and weight with something heavy (such as an unopened can or two of food from the pantry, or bottles of water).  Allow pâté to cool for a while before refrigerating overnight, leaving weights in place.  To serve, unmold, wipe away any accumulated aspic or fat from the surface of the pâté, and slice crosswise.  Wrap any remaining pâté tightly with plastic wrap and aluminum foil, and refrigerate for up to 5 days.  (Pâté may be wrapped and frozen, but the texture will suffer.)

Spicy Eggplant Caviar

One of the grandest things about living in Chicago is the park system.  Aside from the beautifully-tended landscapes all up and down the shore of Lake Michigan, there are constantly free events for the public to enjoy.  During the Summer, you can find something to do every day of the week.  Free movies?  Free concerts?  Free dance performances?  Free exercise classes?  Check, check, check, and check.

The crown jewel of these venues is Millennium Park, in the heart of downtown.  There, the Pritzker Pavilion, with its exuberantly swooping facade, hosts a daily (sometimes twice a day) concert for lovers of all types of music, from Classical to Hip-Hop and everything in between.

Though there is proper seating near the stage, I’ve never used it.  Further back is a gorgeous lawn under a loose and arching grid that suspends speakers overhead, giving pitch-perfect sound no matter how far away from the stage you have to sit.

Bring a blanket, bring a crowd, and bring a picnic.  (Did I mention you can bring food and wine?  Well, mostly you can.)  Sit and enjoy one of our breathtaking Chicago Summer nights, looking up at the surrounding skyscrapers.  Watch the sun set.  See the lights flick on and then off in the offices within.  Be grateful you’re not in one.

Recently, a few friends and I decided to get together for an evening of music and food at the Pritzker, as we often do when the weather agrees.  And, faced with the glut of cheap eggplant at the store, I decided it was the perfect opportunity to try out a recipe from one of my best-loved new cookbooks (new to me, anyway), Susan Spicer’s Crescent City Cooking.

Chef Spicer is the mastermind behind my Mom’s favorite restaurant, Bayona; and in a food capital like New Orleans, that’s saying something.  Like the food at her restaurant, the cookbook is filled with uncomplicated and carefully-tuned recipes that make the absolute most of each ingredient.  Nothing is fussy, but everything is good enough to serve to honored guests.  I can’t stop cooking out of it.

The recipe for Eggplant Caviar caught my eye immediately, mainly because of the accompanying photo of a charred, burnt-paper-skinned eggplant, cut open to reveal a creamy and slumping interior.  I didn’t really care what else it involved, I wanted to scoop up that eggplant and eat it with a spoon.

I discovered that the method detailed in the recipe (chop everything by hand) left the dip with bits of red onion that were too large and too abundant for my tastes; they overwhelmed everything else.  Beautiful, yes, but if you are sans food processor, I suggest reducing the amount of onion by up to half.

A quick spin in the food processor to tame the pungency, though, and it was perfect.

Well, nearly perfect.  I do love a smoky eggplant flavor, but I love it even more with some heat to brighten it.  I happened to have some pickled Aurora chilies in the fridge from a previous farmers market experiment, and two of them were just the thing to add the capsaicin I craved.  (I’ve written the recipe to use a more available chili, since I assume no one out there has pickled Aurora chilies sitting around.  If you do, I’m coming over for dinner.)

This is probably one of those recipes that benefits from an overnight rest in the refrigerator, giving the flavors a chance to become acquainted and meld together.  I’m sure it would become positively transcendental.  But I’ll probably never know for sure, since it disappeared completely at the picnic, and I can’t actually imagine having it around for more than a few hours and keeping my hands off the stuff.

As the sun went down behind the city, the changing light transformed the park.  The stage turned into a luminous jewel box, all crimson and gold.

Behind us, the new Modern Wing of the Art Institute hung glowing above the trees.

We finished off the wine and the eggplant and the strawberries and the bread, and we hung around long after the music stopped thrumming from the speakers above.  The moon came out, and the sky dissolved into that perfect, rich indigo.  And we left, and we were grateful.  Let’s do it again next week.

Spicy Eggplant Caviar
Adapted from Crescent City Cooking, by Susan Spicer
Makes about 2 cups

Be sure to not skip the first step, pricking the eggplant with a fork.  If you don’t do this, your eggplant will explode in the oven, and you will have bigger problems than a lack of eggplant caviar.  And don’t be afraid of getting the eggplant too close to the broiler; you want to really char it.  I put mine about 4 inches away from the heat, and the flesh began to slump long before the skin blackened properly.

1 1/2 to 2 pounds eggplant (2 small or 1 large)
1 cup red onion (about 1/2 medium onion, less if chopping by hand)
2 cloves garlic
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
1 small chili pepper (such as Serrano)
2 to 3 tablespoons olive oil (to taste)
1 tablespoon lemon juice (from 1/2 lemon)
1/4 teaspoon smoked pimentón (Spanish smoked paprika), or cayenne pepper (to taste)
Salt and black pepper (to taste)

1.  Turn the broiler to high, and let preheat for 5 to 10 minutes.  Pierce the eggplant a few times with a fork.  Broil on a rimmed baking sheet very close to the heat until the skin is charred and black, turning about every 5 minutes, cooking 15 to 20 minutes total.  The flesh should feel very soft, and the juices that run out will turn syrupy and thick.  Let cool.

2.  Meanwhile, prepare the other ingredients.  If using a food processor, roughly chop the onion, garlic, basil, parsley, and chili pepper, and place in the bowl of the processor.  If making by hand, chop everything as finely as possible, and place in a large bowl.  Add 2 tablespoons olive oil, and lemon juice.

3.  When the eggplant is cool enough to handle, peel the skin away from the flesh.  Cut the eggplant in half, and remove any seeds that are large and easily visible (some seeds are small and not easily distinguishable from the flesh; these will not be so bitter and are okay to leave in).  Roughly chop the flesh, and add to the other prepared ingredients.  Purée in the food processor, or mix by hand.  Season to taste with pimentón, salt, and pepper, and add extra olive oil if desired.  Serve warm or at room temperature, with pita bread or toasted baguette slices.

Summer Cocktail: Back Porch Spice

This was the weather yesterday.

Yes, I live in Chicago.

We have “beaches” here, next to Lake Michigan, and there just so happens to be one at the end of my street.  Sometimes the lake looks murky and brown, but sometimes it looks blue as the Caribbean.  Yesterday was one of the latter, and the weather was beyond perfect.

Everyone was out in it.

It was a day for cooking outdoors…

for flying kites…

for building sand castles….

for bringing the hammock to the park…

for buying ice cream from the Monarca lady ringing her bells up and down the path…

and for generally enjoying the gorgeous place we live in.

But not, apparently, good for swimming.  (According to these signs, at least.)

evil fish are there
and evil germs, too

Faced with all this gorgeousness, like any self-respecting person, I decided it was the perfect day for a cocktail.

One of my all-time favorite flavor combinations is lemon and thyme; and it seems to go especially well with summer cocktails.  I am a confirmed Bourbon girl for the most part (as you may have noticed), but on hot, sunny days like this one, nothing quite hits the spot like a well-made gin cocktail.

This is a recipe I devised for a recent event, inspired by two separate cocktails: one, called “Spice“, by Ryan Magarian, and the other called a “Back Porch Swing”, from Jeff Hollinger and Rob Schwartz’s amazing book, “The Art of the Bar“.

The overall effect is indeed like a dry riesling; sweet and tart are both in perfect balance, with enough depth of flavor to beguile, but not overwhelm.  It’s cool and crisp, and exactly what I want to drink when the sky is a blue as a turquoise.

cranberry juice, thyme simple syrup, pear nectar

I love the combination of the thyme simple syrup with the honeyed tones of the pear nectar, both offset with the bright sourness of lemon juice, and the slightest tang and pink hue from the splash of cranberry juice.

shake it so hard that your hands freeze

My gin of choice here is a newcomer to the market, called Broker’s, an inexpensive and mild – but intriguingly spiced – gin.  I did try it with my house favorite, Hendrick’s, but found it a bit too harsh.  Use whatever your favorite mixing gin happens to be.

One caveat for mixing cocktails: proportion is crucial.  When cooking most dishes, one is able to fudge a teaspoon here or there; but in cocktails, if the balance is off by more than a mote, the entire nature of the drink changes.  I have a favorite measuring shot glass, with measurements delineated at 1/4, 1/3, 1/2, 2/3, and 1 jigger.  When in doubt, use tablespoons, and be precise.

i use this so often

Having said that, if you’re mixing cocktails in batches (which this drink lends itself to quite well), the proportions can be fudged a bit more than if mixing just one or two at a time.  I’m giving directions for each below; use whichever fits your needs best.

A word of warning, however: don’t be surprised if you end up making a large batch of the mixer for yourself, to keep in your fridge for summer cocktail emergencies.

Back Porch Spice

The standard rule for mixing cocktails is that if fruit juice is included, it must be shaken.  So it is written here.

1 part thyme simple syrup (recipe below)
1 part freshly-squeezed lemon juice
2 parts pear nectar (such as Looza or Hero brand)
4 parts gin
1 splash cranberry juice
Thyme sprigs for garnish (optional)

1.  In a cocktail shaker, combine all ingredients.  Add ice, and shake hard until shaker is frosted over.  Strain into a glass.  Garnish with thyme sprigs, if desired.

Back Porch Spice For a Crowd

The standard rule for mixing cocktails is that if fruit juice is included, it must be shaken.  So it is written above.  When mixing cocktails for a crowd, however, it is far easier to simply direct guests to stir the mixture over ice.  After one or two, even the most dogmatic won’t mind one bit.

1 cup thyme simple syrup (recipe below)
1 cup freshly-squeezed lemon juice (from 4 or 5 lemons)
2 cups pear nectar (such as Looza or Hero brand)
1/4 cup cranberry juice (or just enough to color the mix a lovely shade of pink)
Gin, as needed

1.  In a decorative bottle, combine thyme simple syrup, lemon juice, pear nectar, and cranberry juice.  Shake gently to mix.

2.  Set bottle of mix out next to bottle of gin, with the following instructions:  Combine 1 part mix with 1 part gin, over ice.  Stir well, and enjoy.

Thyme Simple Syrup
Makes about 1 cup

1 cup cold water (filtered, if possible)
3/4 cup (heaped) white granulated sugar
3 to 4 sprigs thyme

1.  In a small saucepan, combine water and sugar.  Over medium-high heat, stir just until sugar is dissolved.  Add thyme, and reduce heat to medium-low.  Simmer 5 to 10 minutes.

2.  Remove from heat, cover, and let cool at least 30 minutes and up to overnight.  Strain, and refrigerate.  Syrup will keep indefinitely under refrigeration.


My Old Kentucky Bourbon Trail: Part II

(This is a two-part post.  For part one, click here.)

If there are two things Kentucky is known for, it’s Bourbon and horses; and they sure know what they’re doing with both.  After leaving the Maker’s Mark distillery (as described in Part I), we decided to stop in at famed Churchill Downs, where the Kentucky Derby is held each year.

It was an impromptu suggestion, and to my lasting shame, I didn’t even know if the horses would be running then or not.  Luckily for us, we were able to catch the last two races of the day.

To say the day was hot would be an understatement.  And by “understatement”, I mean “damned lie”.  The temperature was pushing 100º, and the humidity was nothing to sniff at either.  And there we were, after having spent all day wandering around in it, eating giant omelets and drinking Bourbon.  I, for one, could hardly tell left from right.  How those horses were able to run is beyond me.

At Churchill Downs, there’s no admission fee, aside from the few dollars they charge for parking.  You can just wander in and watch the races from wherever you please.  (Obviously, the Derby is a special occasion, and such rules do not apply.)  We found seats right in front of the finish line.  For the Derby, I think these seats go for about one billion dollars.

We placed a friendly bet or two, but didn’t win anything.  I think there may be more to the art of horse-wagering than picking based on the name you like best.  After the race, they cooled the horses by drenching them with buckets of water.

Some of the horses were special enough to have men in suits dump water on them.

A short walk helps keep their post-race muscles from cramping.

The next morning, it was off to Woodford Reserve for our final distillery tour of the weekend.  Woodford is less than an hour East of Louisville, close to Lexington.  There are loads of horse farms in that area, easily identified due to their impeccably-painted wooden fences with rounded corners (so the horses don’t hurt themselves on anything sharp).  If you go in the Spring, avoid the interstate and take Highway 60 to Lexington for the most scenic view of all the new-born foals.

Woodford has the best-kept grounds of all three distilleries we went to.  The area feels polished, to be sure, but it’s not overdone.  Having been on this tour before, I knew to expect a refined (if touristy) experience, and I was not disappointed.  There is a shuttle van to take you down this hill, but you can take the stairs instead.  You will beat the van by a lot.

Even though the buildings look like jails, they are not very menacing.  The bars are there to keep people out, and barrels full of aging Bourbon in.

While our guide began his tour, a cat wandered up.  Of course, no one can resist a Bourbon kitty.  He stopped the tour dead.

He didn’t seem to mind, though.  I think this is his job.

Inside, the buildings were surprisingly airy and light.  I love these colors and the hand-lettering.

This is the outside of one of the cypress fermenting tanks.  There are stairs nearby to a second floor, where you can look into it from the top.

This is the top of a fermenting tank, filled with bubbling corn mash.  Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.

I’d never seen an empty one before.  This is what they look like on the inside.  I think the coils are to help regulate temperature, by running hot or cold water through the pipes, but I could be mistaken.

There were six of these giant tanks in this area.  I wonder how long they use them before they have to replace the wood, and if I can have the wood when they’re done with it.

They fill the tanks from long pipes that swivel out over the tops.

In the distilling area, there are three huge copper stills imported from Scotland.

Inside the still is a mysterious fan.  Nobody knows why it is there.

The distilling area is like a cathedral, with incredibly tall ceilings, stone arches, a balcony in back, even a raised dais in front to showcase the distilling process.  The details are beautiful.

Down a few stairs, in the same building, new barrels fresh from the cooperage are stored out of the way.

They look a little too clean.

Some of the old barrels get turned into a decorative wall.  There is a good brew pub here in Chicago that has a similar treatment around their bar.  Since the brew pub came second, I think we know where they got the idea.  Makers of Bourbon-barrel-aged beers are crying a little at this sight.

In the bottling area, our guide poured a glass of cask-strength Woodford into a glass held by a very lucky member of the tour.

He poured out most of this glass, to the group’s chagrin.  There was an audible and involuntary gasp from every throat.  The glass did get passed around for everyone to smell, as a taunt.  Afterwards, while most everyone else’s backs were turned, this tiny bit was unceremoniously tossed onto the ground.  I may have wept a single tear.

Back at the visitors’ center, the traditional Bourbon balls were passed out.  Woodford has the best of any distillery I’ve been to.  They are still not as good as the ones my Old Kentucky Grandmother makes.

And with that, we bid au revoir to Kentucky, and set out for Chicago and home, back to our city lives.  I can’t speak for everyone else on the trip, but that weekend certainly did me a world of good.  A little time to relax over good food with good friends, and sit with a slowly condensing glass of amber-gold Bourbon on chattering rocks… what else could you want?  Luckily, thanks to liquor stores and distributors, you can enjoy most of this in your own living room; I highly recommend trying it.

Thank you for letting me take you on this little journey.  And now, back to our regularly scheduled programs.