urban egg

Cookbook Review: The Modern Café

2010-10-31T16:18:00.004-04:00

I recently had the privilege of writing my first cookbook review for The Daring Kitchen, a worldwide community of cooks and bakers. After six weeks of testing and analyzing the recipes and content of the book, it was published today on The Daring Kitchen website.

Tested Recipe for House-Cured Duck Ham, pp.339-341

Excerpted from the published review:

In the space between a Michelin three-star restaurant and a neighborhood bistro, an artful coffee-table book and technical cooking manual, emerges The Modern Café by Francisco J. Migoya. Illustrated with sumptuous full page color photography by Ben Fink, this cookbook is a feast for the eyes.

Migoya, who teaches a class on Café Operations as part of the Baking and Pastry Arts Program at the Culinary Institute of America, delivers a comprehensive cookbook encompassing all the possible areas of a café’s various departments from baked goods and savory food to beverages and packaged retail items.

Read the full review here.

The Art & Craft of Charcuterie

2010-09-22T19:54:00.005-04:00

Our Charcuterie Board of Pressed Game Terrine at Tom's Kitchen, London

This much is true--I love working with my hands. It's also true that I have yet to meet a chef who does not have an affinity for charcuterie, the process of preserving meat. Surely, the end product is a delicious treat, but there is something very rewarding about working with one's hands and employing the techniques and methods to transform meat into its new form.

Our Board of Chicken Liver & Foie Gras Parfait at Tom's Kitchen, London

Tom's Kitchen in Chelsea, London, November 2008

Charcuterie boards are popping up everywhere these days, but only a few places with skilled chefs will deliver expertly crafted and seasoned products. Some of my most memorable encounters include a Pressed Game Terrine and Chicken Liver & Foie Gras Parfait at Tom's Kitchen in Chelsea, London. Back here, in the States, one cannot help but to marvel at the beautifully presented selection of terrines and pâtés at New York's Bar Boulud.

Our Selection of Terrines & Pâtés by Parisian Charcutier, Gilles Verot

As a pastry chef, I stay on the side of the kitchen with the "sugar and spice and all things nice," away from the "guts and glory" of the savory kitchen. But, I could not pass up the opportunity to get my hands into my recent first attempt at making duck prosciutto. The process was an invigorating lesson on forming torchons of duck breast plus nearly five weeks of tending to the Hudson Valley Moulard duck breasts. A Moulard duck (not to be confused with the wild Mallard duck) is a very large duck which results from a hybrid cross of Pekin and Muscovy ducks. Because they are fattened and raised for foie gras, their breasts are in turn larger than the average duck breast.

My first attempt at duck prosciutto

The word prosciutto stems from the Latin perexsiccatus, from which modern Italians derived prosciugare, meaning "to thoroughly dry." The duck prosciutto is dry-cured by definition. I used an all natural sea salt and spice rub to cure the duck breast, rather than using nitrites/nitrates (which give the meat a desirable even rosy color, but can be toxic in large concentrations).

This was my introduction to the world of producing charcuterie with my own hands. Next time, terrines . . .

Recipe for Duck Prosciutto

adapted from Francisco J. Migoya's The Modern Café (2010).

Ingredients:

8 duck breasts

10 g juniper berries

10 g star anise

10 g coriander seed

4 bay leaves

4 thyme leaves

30 g fresh garlic

2 kg kosher salt

500 g sugar

Instructions:

1) Freeze the duck breasts until semifirm. Using a very sharp knife, remove some of the top layer of fat, leaving about 6 mm (1/4 inch) of fat on it. Cut a crisscross grid over the fat.

2) Toast the juniper berries, star anise, and coriander seed in a 320°F oven until aromatic.

3) Cool the toasted spices, and then crush them. Crush the bay leaves and add them to the spice mix. Coarsely chop the thyme and garlic and add to the spice mix. Toss to evenly mix with the salt and sugar.

4) Put 8 pieces of plastic wrap on a worktable; each piece should be big enough to wrap a breast.

5) Spread 160 g of the salt cure onto each piece of plastic wrap. Place the breasts on top of the cure, fat side down. Cover the breasts with 160 g of salt cure on top of the breast. Wrap them tightly and let them cure for 4 days in the refrigerator.

6) Unwrap the breasts and rinse the cure off with water. Pat the breasts dry and wrap each one with 3 layers of cheesecloth. Tie the cheesecloth with twine, and hang the breasts in the refrigerator with twine.

7) Let them cure for 4 weeks before using. Unwrap from the cheesecloth, and wrap each one individually in plastic wrap. Store in an airtight container. They will hold for up to 3 more weeks in the refrigerator.

Late Summer Bounty

2010-09-08T23:32:00.005-04:00

As the unofficial end of summer approached, we made our way up to Connecticut for the last yield of summer's garden and our final swim for the season in the Long Island Sound.

Each day began with a walk along the tranquil Sound while the sun lay low in the East. We surrendered to whatever had ripened overnight in the garden to dictate our menu for the day.

Our meals were simple, built around what we had planted in the garden back in May, and gathered from the local farms and waters.

A Visit to Robert Treat Farm & Farmers' Market:

Grilled Sweet Corn from Robert Treat Farm:

Stonington Red Shrimp from the Deep Coastal Waters of Connecticut:

Squash Blossom & Basil Omelet with a Hint of Garlic:

Perciatelli with Rainbow Swiss Chard, Basil and Parmesan:

Baby Arugula Salad with Grilled Portobello and Local Mozzarella di Bufala:

Slow Roasted Pork Shoulder Porchetta-Style with Baked Polenta:

Garden Vegetable Lasagna & Garlic Bread:

Some Local Italian-American Specialties: Broccoli Bread, Sopressata & Castelvetrano Olives, Sausage & Peppers:

So long summer!
(Cosmos & Morning Glories in the Yard)

Omelette Surprise! A.K.A. Baked Alaska

2010-08-28T20:34:00.002-04:00

The August 2010 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Elissa of 17 and Baking. For the first time, The Daring Bakers partnered with Sugar High Fridays for a co-event and Elissa was the gracious hostess of both. Using the theme of beurre noisette, or browned butter, Elissa chose to challenge Daring Bakers to make a pound cake to be used in either a Baked Alasa or in Ice Cream Petit Fours. The sources for Elissa’s challenge were Gourmet magazine and David Lebovitz’s “The Perfect Scoop."

It’s no wonder that the Baked Alaska is also known as an Omelette Surprise. Underneath the impressively brûléed, fluffy egg-white meringue exterior exists a dessert of ice cream and sponge cake. The insulating properties of meringue keep the ice cream intact even after being torched or baked in the oven at high temperatures. Delmonico’s Restaurant in New York coined the name “Baked Alaska” in 1876 in honor of the then recently acquired Alaskan territory.

For the August 2010 Daring Bakers’ Challenge, I made a Salted Caramel Ice Cream of my own recipe and paired it with the Brown Butter Pound Cake and Meringue recipes given by Elissa of 17 and Baking and Sugar High Fridays.

Salted Caramel Ice Cream

300 g sugar
50 g European style butter
750 g whole milk
500 g cream
10 large egg yolks
100 g sugar
Pinch of Sea Salt or Kosher Salt

1. Make a dry caramel with the 300 g sugar and butter, and keep it warm and liquid on the back burner. Meanwhile, heat the milk and cream in a medium saucepan until the dairy just begins to boil.
2. In another bowl, whisk the egg yolks and 100 g sugar together. Temper the yolks with the hot dairy. Place the entire mixture back into the pot and cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a spatula until the mixture thickens and coats the spatula.
3. Strain the custard, then pour it into the caramel and mix well. Strain the entire mixture into a clean bowl. Add the sea salt while still hot and mix to dissolve. Cool completely in an ice bath, and store in the refrigerator. Freeze according to the ice cream maker’s specifications.

Brown Butter Pound Cake

9.5 oz (275g) unsalted butter
2 cups (200g) sifted cake flour
1 teaspoon (5g) baking powder
1/2 teaspoon (3g) salt
1/2 cup (110g) packed light brown sugar
1/3 (75g) cup granulated sugar
4 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1. Preheat the oven to 325°F/160°C and put a rack in the center.
2. Place the butter in a 10” (25cm) skillet over medium heat. Brown the butter until the milk solids are a dark chocolate brown and the butter smells nutty. Pour into a shallow bowl and chill in the freezer until just congealed, 15-30 minutes.

3. Whisk together cake flour, baking powder, and salt.
4. Beat the brown butter, light brown sugar, and granulated sugar in an electric mixer until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in the eggs one at a time, mixing well, and then the vanilla extract.
5. Stir in the flour mixture at low speed until just combined.
6. Scrape the batter into the greased and floured 9”x9” (23cmx23cm) square pan (or into individual molds, as shown here). Smooth the top with a rubber spatula. Bake until golden brown on top and when a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 25 minutes.

7. Cool in the pan 10 minutes. Run a knife along the edge and invert right-side-up onto a cooling rack to cool completely.

Meringue
8 large egg whites
½ teaspoon (3g) cream of tartar
½ teaspoon (3g) salt
1 cup (220g) sugar

Beat the egg whites, cream of tartar, and salt on high speed in an electric mixer until soft peaks form. Beat in the sugar gradually in a slow stream until stiff peaks form.

Assembly
1. Line four 4” (10cm) diameter tea cups with plastic wrap, so that plastic wrap covers all the sides and hangs over the edge. Fill to the top with ice cream. Cover the top with the overhanging plastic wrap and freeze for several hours, or until solid (or freeze in silicone molds).
2. Level the top of the brown butter pound cake with a serrated knife or with a cake leveler. Cut out four 4” (10cm) diameter circles from the cake.
3. Make the meringue (see above.)
4. Unwrap the ice cream “cups” and invert on top of a cake round. Trim any extra cake if necessary.

5. Pipe the meringue over the ice cream and cake, or smooth it over with a spatula, so that none of the ice cream or cake is exposed. Freeze for one hour or up to a day.
6. Burn the tips of the meringue with a cooking blow torch. Or, bake the meringue-topped Baked Alaska on a rimmed baking sheet in a 500°F/260°C oven for 5 minutes until lightly golden. Serve immediately.

The Sources of our Inspiration

2010-07-31T23:25:00.020-04:00

While in Hawaii, we selected our produce, meat and fish from the following sources. What did we cook? Check out the last post, Hawaiian Locavores for a Week.

Kekele Family Farm

Waimea Farmstead Market

Lau's Fish Market

Kahua Ranch

Original Hawaiian Chocolate Factory

Hawaiian Locavores for a Week

2010-07-31T22:48:00.005-04:00

On the Kohala coast of Hawaii, we sought out arguably the world's best produce and cooked using local beef sourced directly from a working sheep and cattle ranch. We feasted on Hawaiian fish, Kauai shrimp, and selected mineral-rich volcanic soil-grown vegetables from a family farm. Check out the ranches, farms and markets on the next post.

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Saturday

Postcards from Paradise

2010-07-14T21:43:00.003-04:00

Seven nights, seven days, and twenty-one meals later, I'm back in DC from the Kohala coast of Hawaii, where we sought out arguably the world's best produce and cooked using locally ranched beef, Hawaiian seafood, and farm-fresh ingredients.

Along the way, we feasted on fresh lilikoi (passion fruit) and papaya, took an in depth behind-the-scenes look into a cacao farm, sourced our meat directly from a working sheep and cattle ranch, and selected mineral-rich volcanic soil-grown vegetables from a family farm. This month, I will be writing about our experiences in more detail, but here are some snapshots of our highlights, interspersed with beach time and arresting views of our surroundings.

Beach Day BBQ: My Korean Family-Style

2010-06-30T19:49:00.007-04:00

On certain summer weekends, when he noticed that his three children were growing antsy and tired of jumping through park sprinklers or slurping Italian ice from paper cups at the corner pizzeria or even of reading at the air-conditioned public library, my dad would declare that it was beach day. He was spontaneous that way, and some of our family trips materialized by picking a destination from the dog-eared road atlas and faithfully driving to it, self-referring ourselves to hotels with blinking vacancy signs, in those days before the internet.

We all loved the beach, and as children, we could not wait to play in the water, fabricate games with our balls and frisbee, race each other on the shore and hold our breaths underwater for as long as we could, just because. But beach day to my parents, who were more mature, nurturing and capable of exercising delayed-gratification, meant that they would subject us children to a time-consuming Korean barbecue, and rigidly enforce the subsequent thirty-minute rule of abstinence from all water-related fun and hyperactivity while we properly digested. At least, back then, the ozone layer was intact and we didn't have to waste additional time applying sunblock.

I'm not sure how my mother was able to pack up all our clothing, towels, beach chairs and toys in addition to preparing the food with such short notice, but mothers are surprisingly equipped to do amazing things. We'd pile into the family car, listening to 1010 WINS, the New York metro-area news station whose motto was, "You give us 22 minutes, we'll give you the world." After the 22 minutes, the 8-track of Country Christmas music would come on; that was probably the only tape that could remain inside a car parked on the streets of New York with every guarantee that no one would break into the vehicle, and my father knew this.

When we finally arrived on the north shore of Long Island, we would park at the picnic area under the shade of trees. The routine was always the same, with my father starting the fire with charcoal briquettes, my mother unpacking and setting the picnic table and trying to cover the bird-stained benches with clean paper to sit on. The kids would disappear for about the hour it took for the fire to be usable, until we heard the maternal vocalizations signaling food was ready.

We ungrateful children thought it would be easier to eat hamburgers and hot dogs like everyone else at the picnic area. Hamburgers and hot dogs came in their own neat portable bun, unlike our plates of rice with grilled marinated beef and short ribs, mackerel, king trumpet mushrooms, several jars of different types of kimchi and pickled sprouts, condiments for the lettuce and wild-sesame leaves with which to wrap our meat and rice. We felt like we were on display, emitting foreign aromas and eating with chopsticks, and finishing our meal with a tofu hotpot in eighty-something degree heat.

I tried to draw parallels between our food with the American cookout to feel less alien--there was meat in one form or other, Americans had relish and pickles and Koreans had kimchi. We would finish our meal with slices of watermelon, juices running down our sticky fingers. That was both Korean and American, though a Korean watermelon was round, the size of a soccer ball, whereas the American one was oblong and weighed at least twice as much.

The rest of the afternoon, following our 30-minute period of forced inactivity, was spent, as promised, at the beach. We'd return to the City asleep like a pile of kittens in the back seat, Country's greatest talents crooning Christmas carols in the background, dreaming of the motion of the waves.

Making Haystacks while the Sun Shines

2010-06-29T20:31:00.004-04:00

Coconut Haystacks with Chocolate Chunks

We are excited about our upcoming trip to Hawaii, where we plan to spend the week eating and cooking locally, exploring farms, fish and produce markets and talking to chefs. And of course, swimming in the blue Pacific. Hawaii is the only place in the United States to grow cacao and coffee beans, and one of the wondrous places on this globe along the equatorial band to produce these commodities. Our itinerary will include a visit to a cacao farm, where I hope to acquire 100% Hawaiian chocolate, and learn about the farming and manufacturing process for Hawaiian chocolate. This recipe celebrates Hawaii, by mixing coconut and chocolate (I am looking forward to making it with Hawaiian chocolate!).

I developed this recipe by necessity, maybe even desperation, when I did not have all the ingredients to bake double-chocolate cookies last winter. I've always liked haystacks, coconut macaroons, for their texture and flavor, so my pantry is rarely without coconut flakes. Instead of the additional chocolate I needed for the double-chocolate cookies, I substituted coconut flakes, and adjusted the recipe to yield coconut haystacks that have a bit more body due to the brown sugar and flour, with morsels of semi-sweet chocolate chunks.

Ingredients:

3/4 cup light brown sugar, packed
1/4 cup butter, softened
2 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
4 oz. semi-sweet chocolate, broken into chunks
7 oz. unsweetened coconut flakes

Directions:

1) Preheat oven to 350°F.

2) In a medium sized bowl, stir together sugar, butter, eggs and vanilla extract.

3) In a separate bowl, stir together flour with baking powder.
4) Add the flour mixture to the wet ingredients, mixing well.

5) Fold in coconut flakes and chocolate chunks.

6) Drop 2 Tablespoons of batter onto 2 baking sheets lined with parchment paper or silicone liner. This recipe yields 18-20 haystacks.

7) Bake for 12 minutes, and cool on wire racks before serving.

Aloha!

Chocolate Pavlova with Mascarpone Mousse & Cherries

2010-06-27T21:38:00.002-04:00

The June 2010 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Dawn of Doable and Delicious. Dawn challenged the Daring Bakers to make Chocolate Pavlovas and Chocolate Mascarpone Mousse. The challenge recipe is based on a recipe from the book Chocolate Epiphany by François Payard.

The Pavlova is a meringue-based dessert invented and popularized in New Zealand and Australia following the 1920s performances by the Russian ballerina, Anna Pavlova, during her tour of those countries. I like to offer the Pavlova as a gluten-free and nut-free dessert option at the restaurant. As light and airy as the ballerina's tutu, it pairs well with most fruit or even lemon curd. The Payard version is certainly more decadent than the traditional Pavlova, with creamy mascarpone and rich dark chocolate.

Recipe 1: Chocolate Meringue (for the chocolate Pavlova):
3 large egg whites
½ cup plus 1 tbsp (110 grams) white granulated sugar
¼ cup (30 grams) confectioner’s (icing) sugar
1/3 cup (30 grams) cocoa powder

Directions:

Place a rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 200º F (95º C) degrees. Line two baking sheets with silpat or parchment and set aside.
Put the egg whites in a bowl and whip until soft peaks form. Increase speed to high and gradually add granulated sugar about 1 tbsp at a time until stiff peaks form. (The whites should be firm but moist.)
Sift the confectioner’s sugar and cocoa powder over the egg whites and fold the dry ingredients into the white. (This looks like it will not happen. Fold gently and it will eventually come together.)
Fill a pastry bag with the meringue. Pipe the meringue into whatever shapes you desire. Alternatively, you could just free form your shapes and level them a bit with the back of a spoon.
Bake for 2-3 hours until the meringues become dry and crisp. Cool and store in an airtight container for up to 3 days.

Recipe 2: Chocolate Mascarpone Mousse (for the top of the Pavlova base):
1 ½ cups (355 mls) heavy cream (cream with a milk fat content of between 36 and 40 percent)
grated zest of 1 average sized lemon
9 ounces (255 grams) 72% chocolate, chopped
1 2/3 cups (390 mls) mascarpone
pinch of nutmeg
2 tbsp (30 mls) Grand Marnier (or orange juice)

Directions:

Put ½ cup (120 mls) of the heavy cream and the lemon zest in a saucepan over medium high heat. Once warm, add the chocolate and whisk until melted and smooth. Transfer the mixture to a bowl and let sit at room temperature until cool.
Place the mascarpone, the remaining cup of cream and nutmeg in a bowl. Whip on low for a minute until the mascarpone is loose. Add the Grand Marnier and whip on medium speed until it holds soft peaks. (DO NOT OVERBEAT AS THE MASCARPONE WILL BREAK.)
Mix about ¼ of the mascarpone mixture into the chocolate to lighten. Fold in the remaining mascarpone until well incorporated. Fill a pastry bag with the mousse. Again, you could just free form mousse on top of the pavlova.

Recipe 3: Mascarpone Cream (for drizzling):
1 recipe crème anglaise
½ cup (120 mls) mascarpone
2 tbsp (30 mls) Sambucca (optional)
½ cup (120 mls) heavy cream

Directions:

Prepare the crème anglaise. Slowly whisk in the mascarpone and the Sambucca and let the mixture cool. Put the cream in a bowl and beat with electric mixer until very soft peaks are formed. Fold the cream into the mascarpone mixture.

Recipe 4: Crème Anglaise (a component of the Mascarpone Cream above):
1 cup (235 mls) whole milk
1 cup (235 mls) heavy cream
1 vanilla bean, split or 1 tsp pure vanilla extract
6 large egg yolks
6 tbsp (75 grams) sugar

Directions:

In a bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until the mixture turns pale yellow.
Combine the milk, cream and vanilla in a saucepan over medium high heat, bringing the mixture to a boil. Take off the heat.
Pour about ½ cup of the hot liquid into the yolk mixture, whisking constantly to keep from making scrambled eggs. Pour the yolk mixture into the pan with the remaining cream mixture and put the heat back on medium. Stir constantly with a wooden spoon until the mixture thickens enough to lightly coat the back of a wooden spoon. DO NOT OVERCOOK.
Remove the mixture from the heat and strain it through a fine mesh sieve into a bowl. Cover and refrigerate until the mixture is thoroughly chilled, about 2 hours or overnight.

Assembly:
Pipe the mousse onto the pavlovas and drizzle with the mascarpone cream over the top. Dust with confectioner’s sugar and fresh fruit if desired.

A Connecticut Yankee on Grandpa Arthur's Porch

2010-06-16T23:21:00.054-04:00

Recipe for Summer Fruit Cobbler

Peach-Strawberry Cobbler On My Lap

The day we visited Grandpa Arthur and Grandma Joan at their Connecticut home, I spent the fifteen-minute ride in the back seat of the car, balancing on my lap, a tray of warm peach and strawberry cobbler that had come out of the oven only a few minutes prior to our departure.

The cobbler was the result of a family conference: my mother-in-law's suggestion that we bake a "goodie" to bring with us, specifically that Andy's sister, Adrienne, and I ought to do it; Andy placing his request for a rhubarb pie or a fruit cobbler; Adrienne picking the fresh strawberries and peaches when the rhubarb we had planned on wasn't available at the market; and finally, me scrambling around an unfamiliar kitchen to make it in time for our visit.

Rhubarb Lattice Pie | Peach-Strawberry Cobbler on Plates

Once at our destination, we all sat around the breezy screened-in porch, sipping cold drinks and visiting for a while, and then Grandma Joan and I scooped out succulent spoonfuls of the cobbler onto dessert plates for everyone. I sensed some hesitation from her at first, and soon realized that she was unfamiliar with cobblers and never had one before. Only after the first bite, she asked, "So, is this like a Buckle or a Grunt?"

Mixed Berry Cobbler

Grandpa Arthur and Grandma Joan are Connecticut natives to the core, so for them the cobbler was a novelty. New Englanders have their own variation of the cobbler, only theirs are called grunts, slumps and pandowdy, and have dumpling-shaped dough toppings cooked on the stovetop in skillets or cast iron vessels rather than in the oven.

Mixed Berry Cobbler

Until I moved to Washington, DC two years ago, I myself had never had a cobbler. I learned how to make my first one because of the cobbler's popularity in this region, though I often forget that DC is south of the Mason-Dixon Line. The Southern fruit cobbler is a quick and easy way to eat summer fruit with a satisfyingly warm biscuit-like topping. The technique is embarrassingly simple, but the end-product is comforting and tasty.

Blueberry Cobbler

Growing up, my family meals always ended with fresh fruit, consumed just as they were in their perfect form. And my professional training encompassed French classics and international desserts, so cobblers and fruit pies are a relatively new addition to my repertoire. In the summer months when fruits are luscious and juicy, and the pace of the hot day is slow and lazy, I roll out my trusted pie dough or cobbler topping for the last course.

Bluberry, Peach & Cherry Pies

Cobbler Topping Recipe (for 9" diameter baking dish)
1/2 cup + 1/3 cup all purpose flour
2 Tablespoons + 3/4 teaspoon granulated sugar
2-1/4 teaspoons baking powder
pinch of salt
1-1/2 oz. cold butter, cut into 1/2" pieces
1/3 cup heavy cream + some to brush dough
turbinado sugar to finish

Mix together the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a bowl. Blend in pieces of cold butter. Add 1/3 cup of heavy cream and mix until the ingredients come together into a dough. Wrap in plastic, and chill for about 20 minutes before using.

Note: This versatile dough can be baked off like a biscuit to create a simple shortcake with whipped cream and fresh berries.

The Fruit Layer
The basic rule of thumb is to toss together 2 pints of fresh summer fruit (peaches, nectarines, berries, cherries, etc.) with 1/4 cup of sugar and 2 Tablespoons of cornstarch. For rhubarb, I quickly blanch the washed and cut rhubarb in a poaching liquid with vanilla bean, sugar and star anise, before using them in the cobbler. Taste your fruit first. I tend to enjoy the natural sweetness of fruit, but more or less sugar can be added to this recipe, to one's preference.

Assembling The Cobbler
Preheat the oven to 350F. Transfer the fruit into a baking dish. Then place pieces of the cobbler dough over the top, covering the surface of the fruit. Lightly brush the dough with heavy cream, and sprinkle turbinado sugar on top. Bake in the center of the oven until the biscuit topping is golden brown with juices bubbling around the edge (approximately 30-40 minutes). Let cool and set for at least 30 minutes before serving.

Cal-Med BLT

2010-06-11T20:13:00.014-04:00

BLT Sandwich with Avocado, Heirloom Tomato & Aioli

I encountered my first BLT on my first visit to Oahu during the summer of my sixteenth year. While my friends were celebrating their Sweet Sixteens at NYC clubs that year, I convinced my parents to send me to Hawaii instead. I spent a couple of weeks in Honolulu under the supervision of my college-age cousins, who took me to every beach on the island, and on one late night to a 24-hour restaurant called Anna Miller's.

Anna Miller's was something from a bygone era--servers dressed in red and white dresses with frilly aprons, famously addictive fresh strawberry pies and peach pies when the fruits were in season, and regulars who show up for breakfast with their housecoats and flip-flops for unlimited re-fills on their morning coffee. Moreover, it was distinctively Hawaiian, offering such items as two-scoops rice, loco-moco and macaroni salad.

After carefully studying the extensive menu, I ordered a BLT, because I had never heard of it before and thought it very adventurous and grown-up to try something new. There wasn't a descriptor; it was listed inconspicuously under "sandwiches." What the lady in the red and white dress set in front of me were three strips of bacon on top of tender lettuce and two slices of bright red tomato, all held in place by two pieces of toasted white bread with a hint of mayonnaise for the glue.

As simple as it was, each ingredient belonged there with equal importance, and although I did not fully understand it then, the quality of the local produce from Hawaii's mineral-rich volcanic terrain contributed to the flavor of this perfect sandwich. I still cling to the idea of that Anna Miller's BLT as the classic model, though I probably conflate the wonder of seeing Hawaii for the first time and my fond memories of that trip with the experience of the sandwich itself.

While the BLT encourages creative variations on a theme and the possibilities are endless, using good quality ingredients will make all the difference. Embellish it with homemade garlic mayonnaise (aioli), a nod to Provence. And if your market showcases beautiful heirloom tomatoes and California-grown avocados this summer, dress up the BLT with delicious colors.

Components:

toasted multi-grain bread
crisped bacon strips
bibb lettuce
heirloom tomato
avocado
aioli (recipe below)

Aioli Recipe:
2 cloves of garlic, peeled
generous pinch of sea salt or kosher salt
1 egg yolk
1 Tablespoons sherry vinegar or fresh lemon juice
3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 Tablespoon water

The traditional Provençal method for making the aioli employs a mortar and pestle. However, it can also be achieved in the home kitchen with a hand blender or food processor, by adding the ingredients in the same sequence.

In a mortar, make a paste of garlic and salt, and then blend in one egg yolk. Add the vinegar or lemon juice and blend until creamy. In a thin, slow stream, pour in the olive oil while blending continuously with the pestle until completely emulsified. Add a tablespoon of water while blending, to thin out the mixture to a silky consistency.

Assembly:

Spread the aioli on two slices of toasted bread. On the "bottom" piece of bread, place the bacon strips, tomato, avocado and lettuce. Season with freshly ground black pepper. Top the sandwich with the other piece of toasted bread, aioli-side down.

First Time Gardener

2010-05-29T17:51:00.132-04:00

I grew up where the surfaces under my feet were made of cement and asphalt, so terms like "tilling" and "seedling" were foreign to my vocabulary--until last weekend. I've often romanticized the idea of reaping the fruits of my labor, of growing healthy organic vegetables, of being rewarded for self-sufficiency with food from my own backyard rather than from a supermarket. Yet, it was not feasible to do so in a city.

This year, Andy and I traveled to Connecticut in time to plant the summer vegetable garden that has been sown by three generations of his family.

We woke up to a still Sunday morning with only the early activity of yellow finch at the bird feeder outside the kitchen window.

Adrienne had already tilled the garden in the previous week, so she shoveled and Andy raked the garden to loosen the soil and level the planting surface.

Because the winters are long in New England, the vegetable seeds had been potted indoors first, and once they sprouted into small seedlings, they were ready to be transferred into the ground.

Adrienne, who creates tasty vegetable dishes, selected this year's crop list. The vegetable lineup included: eggplant, zucchini, yellow squash, beets, fennel, celery, rainbow chard, cucumbers, bell peppers and tomatoes. The herb garden comprised: basil, chives, rosemary, lemon-basil and dill.

We started by laying out the seedlings on the empty field, spacing them appropriately according to their anticipated size and relationship to each other.

Ma Cathy gave us our first planting lesson of the day (watch video below), and we all dug our hands into the rich earth. I had not played in dirt since the age of six or seven, so I was very surprised by the coolness and therapeutic experience of using my bare hands in the soil.

Watch how Ma Cathy plants a tomato seedling:

For the tomato plant, we dug a hole (using a trowel where the earth seemed firmly packed) and mixed Epsom salt into the soil around the base, to supplement it with sulfur and magnesium.

The roots of the rainbow chard seedlings (above) had begun to grow together into an entangled web, but were easily separated with the aid of a pair of scissors.

Once all of the seedlings found their home, we built a fence of chicken wire around the garden, and poured an organic "liquid fence" around the perimeter to keep the deer, rabbits and other critters safely away.

By the time Andy finished watering the garden, the sun was over our heads, and we were ready for some serious beach time! And I'm happy to report that I absolutely loved gardening.

We are looking forward to returning in July to cook and eat from our flourishing garden. . .

Rob, Andy & Anny with Pups by Adrienne

A Pièce Montée in May

2010-05-27T03:40:00.008-04:00

Strawberry & Vanilla Profiteroles with Dark Chocolate Glaze

The May 2010 Daring Bakers’ challenge was hosted by Cat of Little Miss Cupcake. Cat challenged everyone to make a pièce montée, or croquembouche, based on recipes from Peter Kump’s Baking School in Manhattan and Nick Malgieri.

Summer seems to have arrived already in Washington, DC. The daytime temperature hit 90 degrees Fahrenheit, ruling out the plan to decorate the pièce montée with ribbons of fine caramel strands or spun sugar. Strawberries were juicy and abundant at the market today, so I incorporated them into the project, and paired the fresh fruit with a homemade vanilla bean ice cream and a dark chocolate glaze for a cool dessert on this humid day.

A pièce montée is a "mounted piece" of multiple cream puffs (pâte à choux, so called because it resembles a cabbage, or choux in French) assembled into a tall sculptural tower. I followed the recipe provided by Cat, based on those from Peter Kump’s Baking School in Manhattan and by Pastry Chef Nick Malgieri. The recipe was straightforward and yielded sturdy pâte à choux. Though the choux pastry itself had very little flavor on its own, it provided a neutral background for the fillings, glaze and garnish used to embellish the pastry. I chose to make profiteroles, which are pâte à choux filled with ice cream instead of pastry cream.

Pâte à Choux (based on Cat's recipe)

¾ cup water
6 Tablespoons unsalted butter
¼ teaspoon salt
1 Tablespoon sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
4 large eggs
For Egg Wash: 1 egg and pinch of salt

Pre-heat oven to 425F degrees. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.

Combine water, butter, salt and sugar in a saucepan over medium heat.

Bring to a boil and stir occasionally.

When boiling, remove from heat and sift in the flour, stirring to combine completely.

Return to heat and cook, stirring constantly until the batter dries slightly and begins to pull away from the sides of the pan.

Transfer to a bowl and stir with a wooden spoon 1 minute to cool slightly.

Add 1 egg. The batter will appear loose and shiny.

As you stir, the batter will become dry-looking, like lightly buttered mashed potatoes.

It is at this point that you will add in the next egg. Repeat until you have incorporated all the eggs.

Transfer batter to a pastry bag fitted with a large open tip. Pipe the choux pastry about 1 inch apart on the baking sheets. The choux pastry should be about 1 inch high by about 1 inch wide. Brush tops with egg wash (1 egg lightly beaten with pinch of salt).

Bake the choux pastry at 425F until well-puffed and turning lightly golden in color, about 10 minutes. Lower the temperature to 350F and continue baking until well-colored and dry, about 20 minutes more. Remove to a rack and cool.

Summer Garden

2010-05-20T18:49:00.021-04:00

Having only lived in large cities throughout my life, my personal garden was at most a small window box of fresh herbs and some potted orchids or cacti. This weekend, however, we are heading up to plant the vegetable garden at Andy's family's house in Connecticut!

Three Generations

Back in the 1940s when Andy's grandparents started the garden, it covered almost an acre, and blended in with much of the surrounding fields. Over the years, as suburban development encroached and family members dispersed, the garden has become scaled down to a more manageable size, but its fertile soil continues to produce an abundant supply for the entire summer and early fall.

Mid-May is the traditional planting time for the climate in Connecticut. This year, Andy's sister Adrienne, a talented artist who cooks creatively with vegetables, has selected the list of items to plant.

Adrienne in the garden

During our visit last July, we enjoyed the squash blossoms, cucumber and basil from the garden. There's nothing better than a meal from the garden and the outdoor grill after a day at the beach.

Now that we are back on the east coast, it is especially meaningful for us to be able to participate in the family tradition of tending to the summer garden. The forecast calls for good weather, and this urban egg hopes to learn a thing or two about gardening this weekend! I will provide a full report when we return.

Stay tuned. . .

Baby Alice's Insalata Caprese

2010-05-16T18:03:00.007-04:00

The other day, Baby Alice came upon a strange looking heirloom tomato, asymmetrical with more pleats than one can count at a glance, and said it reminded her of a Miu Miu purse. It became part of the prelude to our dinner that evening.

Alice introduced me to Insalata Caprese the summer she returned from studying in Bologna, and since then, it heralds the first signs of summer in our household.

Insalata Caprese, or salad in the style of Capri, from the Italian region of Campania, is one of the simplest ways to enjoy a good tomato and summer's first basil.

It requires the best quality ingredients, however: ripe red tomatoes, young basil, and moist buffalo mozzarella. After layering slices of tomato and cheese, season with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Finish with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and an aged balsamic vinegar from Modena.

Sunday Mornings Chez Moi

2010-05-16T12:42:00.002-04:00

Rösti with Wild Sockeye Salmon & Scallion Scrambled Eggs

I cherish my Sunday mornings at home. We start the day with a solid breakfast, in contrast to the hurried, out-the-door, sip-of-juice routine of a work day. Andy shops for the ingredients even before I get out of bed, then enlists my help in setting the table with fresh juice and grinding the beans for the French press. Our latest breakfast menu was rösti with wild Sockeye salmon and scallion scrambled eggs.

Andy started making rösti a couple of years ago because, believe it or not, I do not like breakfast potatoes or french fries. The rösti, a Swiss potato "pancake," makes the perfect base for the salmon, and is a satisfying way to incorporate potatoes into the breakfast menu.

Rösti with Wild Sockeye Salmon & Non-Fat Sour Cream

1) Grate a large russet potato using a box grater, and rinse the grated potato with cold water.

2) Drain the potatoes, squeezing gently to remove excess water.

3) In a pan, heat some canola oil until hot, and begin to lay down the potatoes in the pan. Press the potatoes into the shape of the pan, spreading them in an even layer.

4) When the edges are crispy and golden brown, flip the potato cake swiftly in one motion to cook the other side.

5) Cook the other side until crispy and golden brown. Then remove from the pan and lay out on paper towels to dab any excess oil.

6) Season the potato with a pinch of sea salt. Spread non-fat sour cream on top of the rösti.

7) Lay down the salmon and sprinkle with chopped fresh scallions. Finish with freshly ground black pepper.

8) Cut into six pieces using a sharp knife and serve.

Scrambled Eggs with Scallion

1) Crack 6 large eggs into a bowl and add a 1/4 cup of milk. Season the eggs with a pinch of salt and fresh ground pepper. Beat the mixture with a fork.

2) Heat a pan with some butter, and begin to cook the scallions. Pour the egg mixture over the scallions.

3) Let the eggs cook for a few seconds, then gently push the cooked areas with a spatula to allow the runny eggs to cook.

4) Pull the pan off the heat just before the eggs have fully cooked and set aside. This is crucial, as the latent heat will carry over and continue to cook the eggs. If you cook the eggs to the end, it will be overdone.

The Last One Standing

2010-05-13T18:50:00.141-04:00

Gone are the original structures from 1805, but the Maine Avenue Fish Market still stands with clues of its 1960s intervention still visible. The market operates 364 days of the year beneath Interstate 395 along Washington, DC's southwest waterfront, and is one of the last surviving open air seafood markets on the east coast. It even precedes New York's Fulton Street Market by seventeen years as the country's oldest continuously operating fish market.

What is most unique about this market is that the seafood stalls are in fact floating barges lining the street level Municipal Pier along Water Street. These barges mimic the old system of fishing boats which would travel and pull up to sell their catch along the waterfront. By the 1960s, refrigerator trucks became more the norm in transporting the fish, and thus, these boats permanently docked along the pier, eventually evolving into the steel barges seen today.

There are plenty of vendors to choose from, and the variety of fresh fish, shellfish and cooked seafood rivals any great seafood market. At its entrance is a cleaning house, where fishmongers gut and scale fish for patrons.

Across the way, another man spends his day steaming fresh crabs and shrimp purchased at the market.

The market is a feast for the eyes as much as it is a sumptuous place to select and sample seafood.

While it is located only a few blocks south of the National Mall and other monuments, the Fish Market is disconnected from the rest of the city by what is considered an urban planning failure in the 1950s when the the massive elevated highway cut through this part of the city, thereby exacerbating the segregation of the impoverished neighborhoods from the rest of DC and creating further blight.

The existing market area is the result of 1960s urban renewal, when vendors protested the closing of the market and instead moved the market a few blocks away from the original nineteenth century structure which the City razed during the process.

In recent years, there has been slow but ongoing progress in redeveloping the southwest waterfront neighborhood. Whether the Fish Market will continue to prosper is unclear, but it is paramount that the heritage of this institution be preserved.

Mojito del Medio

2010-05-07T01:22:00.004-04:00

I stumbled upon La Bodeguita del Medio on one of my two graduate school trips to Cuba in spring 2000, and would not have noticed it had it not been for the layers of graffiti scrawled and etched onto the walls of the small screened opening in the middle of an unremarkable block. A classmate observed that it was THE Bodeguita--Hemingway's Bodeguita, which made it the site of an obligatory (and welcome) recess during our day of research for our urban design project.

"Mi mojito en la Bodeguita. . ." (My mojito at the Bodeguita) in Hemingway's own handwriting still adorns the wall of La Bodeguita del Medio in Old Havana. The name translates to "little bar/store in the middle [of the street]," and was once the watering hole to such literary heavyweights as Pablo Neruda and Gabriel Garcia Marquez in Cuba's heyday, and the birthplace of the mojito cocktail in 1942.

A rum-based cocktail made with fresh spearmint, lime, sugar and club soda, the mojito is a standard drink found everywhere in Cuba, and has gained popularity in the US in the past decade. Whether there is veracity in the claim that the Bodeguita was Earnest Hemingway's favorite bar or merely a myth surrounding his legendary status, the small gathering place and the city beyond lend insight into the backdrop to his literary past and the two decades during which he called Cuba home.

MOJITO RECIPE courtesy of La Bodeguita del Medio:
the original cocktail since 1942, as prepared by the barmen at La Bodeguita del Medio

NOTE: Habana Club is the most prevalent Cuban rum label, and resembles Bacardi rum since the Barcardi family owned and operated the key original rum factories in Cuba in the past. The classic mojito is made with light and dry (ligero y seco) rum.

1) Combine 1/2 teaspoon of granulated sugar and the juice of 1/2 lime in a highball glass.
2) Add to the glass a sprig of spearmint, crushing the stalk to release the mint's oil and juice.
3) Add 2 ice cubes and 1.5 oz. of light dry rum.
4) Fill with club soda (sparkling water) and stir.

Salud!

A Perfect Bite

2010-04-26T21:38:00.004-04:00

Baby Alice and I have certain patterns when it comes to eating together, and one of them is to get coffee and a sweet at Bouchon Bakery in the Time Warner Building, during our mid-afternoon respite from romping around the City all day. It is a sentimental reminder of our former day trips to Napa Valley, now that home is no longer in San Francisco.

After all this time, we finally tried their famous bouchon, a small chocolate cork-shaped cake with pockets of chocolate chunks. Just one of these simple two-ounce cakes packs in huge flavor and satisfaction in a small volume. We've been crazy about these little treats, and finally tried making them at home to much success.

Although I haven't tested it myself, I've read that the recipe in Thomas Keller's Bouchon cookbook does not yield the same texture as the bouchons sold in the bakery. And while the recipe from Williams-Sonoma produced nicely shaped bouchons, it was more like a brownie, and did not have the same mouthfeel as the experience of the ones consumed at Bouchon Bakery.

After some experimentation, we've come up with the following recipe, which results in a perfect bite of chocolate cake, and best encapsulates our warm memories of San Francisco days. Even Andy can't keep his hands off them!

CHOCOLATE BITES

Note: The end product is only as good as the quality of the ingredients. Use a good quality chocolate and cocoa powder for best results.

(Makes 2 dozen small cakes; use 2oz. cylindrical molds or straight-edge mini-muffin molds)

Ingredients:
8 oz. European-style unsalted butter
2 large eggs
7 -1/2 oz. granulated sugar
1 t Bourbon vanilla extract
1-7/8 oz. all purpose flour
2-1/2 oz. unsweetened cocoa powder
3/4 t kosher salt
4-1/4 oz. semi-sweet chocolate chips, or chocolate chopped into small chunks
Confectioners’ sugar for dusting

Instructions:

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F, without convection.
2) Prepare the molds by very lightly brushing them with clarified butter or flavorless vegetable oil, and set it on a baking pan.
3) Melt the butter and let it cool down so that it is still soft but not hot to the touch.
4) Sift together the flour, cocoa powder and salt, and set aside.
5) Place the eggs in a mixer with a paddle attachment, and begin stirring on medium speed. Then, add the sugar and beat until the mixture is pale and fluffy, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Add the vanilla extract.
6) Switch to low speed, and add a third of the dry ingredients, followed by a third of the melted butter, alternating between the two until all of the ingredients are combined, scraping down the sided of the bowl as needed. Increase the speed to medium and beat for about 10 seconds.
7) Fold in the chocolate pieces by hand.
8) Spoon out or use a piping bag to fill the wells of the molds almost to the top, leaving about 1/8" space at the top.
9) Place the molds with the baking pan underneath, into the pre-heated oven, and bake for 19-20 minutes until the tops look dry.
10) Transfer the molds to a wire rack and let the cakes cool for about 15 minutes before turning them out.
11) Dust with confectioners' sugar to serve.

A Lemon by Any Other Name

2010-04-09T21:35:00.004-04:00

Meyer Lemon Meringue Tart with Almond Shortbread Crust

One of my favorite things to make and eat is lemon curd. In San Francisco, chefs liberally used Meyer lemons as they were commonplace. Here, in DC, it seems still a bit of a novelty and more expensive to come by. So, whenever we have Meyer lemons in the kitchen, I try to make it last by making curd with the fresh fruit.

The Meyer lemon, named after the agricultural explorer Frank N. Meyer who introduced it to the United States from China in 1908, is a cross between a true lemon and a mandarin orange. Because of its naturally sweeter, less acidic flavor, it is perfect for making lemon desserts with reduced sugar. It has a slightly rounder shape and a deeper yellow-orange hued skin than the common lemon.

LEMON CURD

12 oz. freshly squeezed Meyer lemon juice
6 oz. sugar
8 oz. butter
16 egg yolks (reserve the egg whites for meringue or save for egg white omelets!)

1) Place the juice, sugar and butter in a saucepan and cook until the butter is melted and sugar dissolved.
2) Temper the yolks with the hot liquid, and pour everything back into the saucepan over medium heat, constantly whisking.
3) Let the mixture come up to a boil, while whisking constantly, and then turn off the heat. Immediately strain the curd into a clean bowl, and place a piece of plastic wrap on the surface to prevent a skin from forming.
Then, place the bowl in an ice bath to chill before using.

ALMOND SHORTBREAD CRUST

1/4 cup almond flour (or finely ground almonds)
1T sugar
8 oz. butter
1/3 cup confectioner's sugar
zest of 1 lemon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1-1/4 cup all purpose flour

1) Mix the first 4 ingredients together in a Kitchenaid bowl with paddle attachment until the butter is softened.
2) Add the remaining ingredients, and mix together until the dough resembles the texture of cornmeal, and starts to come together.
3) Pat into a disk and chill in the refrigerator for 30 minutes, wrapped in plastic wrap.
4) Roll out onto a floured surface and place it in a buttered 9" or 10" tart pan.
5) Blind bake the tart shell (lined with parchment, weighed down with beans or pie weights) at 350 degrees F for approximately 30 minutes, depending on your oven. It should be a deep golden brown. Remove the pie weights and bake for an additional 5-10 minutes until the interior of the shell is also done. The shell should not be soggy.

ASSEMBLING THE TART

1) After completely cooling the tart shell, spread the chilled lemon curd evenly inside the shell.
2) At this point, the entire tart can go into a 400 degree F oven for 5 minutes to set the curd.
3) Cool down the tart in its pan at room temperature. Then store in the refrigerator until ready to cut and serve.

NOTE: If decorating with meringue, I prefer to use a Swiss meringue for the texture it yields when baked. The meringue can be piped onto the lemon curd after Step #1 above. Then, continue to follow Steps #2 and #3. The meringue will bake and take on an evenly brûléed look without having to use a torch.

Pizza Wars

2010-04-07T19:12:00.197-04:00

Any native New Yorker will tell you that they firmly stand by two things: the City's tap water and pizza.

Pizza was the after school snack of choice, birthday party food, the portable slice to tide you over until the next meal when you were on the move. As children, we took for granted that there was a pizzeria on every other block, and never bothered to learn their proper names. We developed homing devices, instead, referencing them by visual landmarks or cross streets, often merely following the smell of pizza clinging to the air.

New Yorkers also have a terribly insular sense of geography; we refer to anything above the Bronx as "Upstate," and our map of the country is somewhat fuzzy between the northeast and California. So, to my surprise, when Andy told me that the best pizza in the country was in New Haven, I was skeptical. He had a chef's palate, so I couldn't dismiss the notion completely, but it was a challenge, an affront to the way I understood my reality.

We were living in San Francisco when we met, where pizza was more like a beautiful salad neatly composed atop a gourmet flat bread crust. It was something to be embraced as fresh and healthful, with the natural flavors of the ingredients speaking for themselves. As good as it was, I classified the distinction between California pizza vs. New York's as just another East Coast - West Coast rivalry; I figured it was about what one grew up eating. At the other end of the spectrum, perhaps too far off the charts for matter of comparison, there's the "big & tall" Chicago pizza, which embodies the spirit and aesthetic of a city sprouting up taller than ever from its ashes after the Great Fire of 1871, using all new American construction technology and style.

When Andy went to Connecticut to visit his family, he would drop not so subtle hints, sending me post cards from Pepe's Pizzeria, quite the institution in the old Wooster Square section of New Haven, where many Italian-Americans of Neapolitan origin settled. He would describe in detail the signature white clam pizza--pronounced a-BEETS, in the local dialect--whole littleneck clams pulled fresh from the shell, chunks of sweet garlic, a generous drizzle of olive oil, and a scattering of grated pecorino romano and flakes of oregano.

It was tantalizing, and only a matter of time before I flew out to Connecticut to meet his family, and the legendary pizza. There's always a line at Pepe's, but once inside, you sit at one of the numbered booths, order as fast as possible, and ravenously await the pie from the large white brick coal-burning oven. New Haven-style pizza owes its delicately thin crust to brick oven cooking, which makes the crust very crispy and chewy throughout.

The pies (on this occasion, we ordered a white clam pie and a mushroom and Italian sausage studded with fennel seed) arrive on large sheet pans lined with parchment paper, utensils and paper napkins included. Everyone dives in and fends for himself. The dough is noticeably more delicate than New York style pizza, which is equally thin, but higher in gluten due to its hand-tossed technique and bread flour.

There's nothing more satisfying than a slice of New York pizza, a thin chewy crust that is crisp enough to fold in half, with a slight droop towards the tip. Its tomato sauce has a hint of oregano, and strings of melted mozzarella form as you bite and pull it away. I'm rarely tempted to mess with the perfection in the ratio of cheese to sauce to crust, and a plain slice is really all I need.

So, where does this leave me in the pizza wars? I have to concede that the New Haven pizza surpasses its reputation, and I dare say it is like New York pizza all dressed up. It's hard to believe I had lived without it for as long as I have, and I am grateful to have experienced it. On the other hand, urban lore says that the flavor of New York's crust is attributed to the minerals present in the City's tap water used to make the dough. Marriage is about sharing and exchanging ideas, sometimes requiring compromise. I have to say I'm on the verge of converting to my husband's pizza--but I, still firmly, stand by New York's tap water.

Borough Market Morning

2010-03-12T22:00:00.559-05:00

Morning person, I am not. While I can stay alert plating the last dessert past midnight, and have endured four years of overnight charrettes in architecture studio without a single sip of caffeine, I seem to be hard-wired to snooze through sunrise and rush hour traffic. The one exception to this disposition, the surest way to coax me out of bed without fail, however, is the promise of a great market.

I can count off a list of my favorite markets from Havana to Honolulu, but each time I am in London, neither jet lag nor the five hour difference in time can keep me from starting my Saturday mornings at Borough Market, one of my favorite places in the world. It is truly a dynamic market, with a mix of international offerings, regional personality, high quality products, and a great diversity of languages heard and spoken.

We always approach Borough Market from the Southwark Cathedral side from the London Bridge tube station, solely for the advantage of arriving directly at the Kappacasein Toasted Cheese Sandwich and Raclette stall.

The sight of the warming cheese is mesmerizing, but we invariably choose toasted cheese over the raclette.

The first five minutes at the market are spent huddling over the quickly disappearing sandwich of melted cheese with red and green onions, followed by slurps of fresh Mersea Island oysters--cold and briny--consumed standing up, in the neck-pulled-forward-and-butt-pushed-back position.

Then, there's a choice of any number of savory pies.

With the breakfast situation resolved, we then navigate through the densely packed maze of cheeses,

olives, the largest paella pan I've ever seen up close, and Iberian meat products, to pick up my favorite finishing olive oil from Puglia.

We marvel at the case of all things truffle: truffle butter, truffle cheeses, terrines of pigeon, speck and truffles.

Then, we scope out the market for produce and flowers to inform us of what is in peak season.

And we know we are in the UK when we see peat, and

wild game hunted that morning in plain view.

But it isn't a complete trip to the market without a stop in at

Neal's Yard Dairy.

The floor to ceiling, wall to wall display of cheeses from the British Isles is a heavenly sight to behold, and I can't resist picking up a few of my favorites, the unpasteurized goat's milk St. Tola or Dorstone from Ireland or the Stichelton blue.

This inevitably means that we need a loaf of bread from Flour Power to go with the cheese, and while we are on the topic of baked goods, we must try the Australian jam filled sponge cake with chocolate ganache and coconut flakes, since the nice vendor assures us it is a specialty on that continent.

At this point, we've worked up an appetite for lunch, and we usually pop into have tapas at Brindisa or to have traditional British fare above the market at Roast.

From Roast, we have the vantage point of looking down to monitor the long lines at Monmouth Coffee Co., which will be our last stop. We end our Borough Market morning with cups of coffee in hand, strolling out the other end of the market from where we started, and passing through a narrow alley onto the Thames.

Twenty - Eight Hours in London

2010-01-25T20:10:00.028-05:00

with my Truffle Hound, a.k.a. my sister, who calls it home

Saturday 12:24pm Dim Sum at Royal China, Bayswater

jasmine tea for two

4 shrimp dumplings

4 pork and shrimp shumai

4 shrimp and chive dumplings

3 scallop dumplings

3 beef cheung fun

2 lotus leaf-wrapped sticky rice

Saturday 2:32pm Books for Cooks, Notting Hill
2 dozen cookbooks browsed
4 minutes in queue
3 cookbooks purchased

Saturday 4:20pm Daylesford Organic, Notting Hill

1 cappuccino
1 mixed berry and melon smoothie
1 almond bakewell tart shared

Saturday 9:42pm J. Sheekey Oyster Bar, St. Martin's Court

2 West Mersea pearls
2 West Mersea natives
2 fines de claires from Brittany

3 buttered toast for oysters

1 gem heart salad with blue cheese

1 pint of Atlantic shrimp

1 creamy salt cod with poached egg

1 Sheekey fish pie

2 happy diners

Saturday 11:53pm Oddono's Gelati Italiani, South Kensington
7 minutes before closing
our selection: cioccolato/caffe, caffe/nocciola
their motto: "Life's too short to eat bad ice cream."
2 mouths in complete agreement

Sunday 12:26pm Villandry, Marylebone

ritual morning cappuccino after noon
Welsh rarebit with pear and bleu d'Auvergne on watercress and rocket
Scottish salmon with scrambled eggs on toast

Sunday 2:30pm British Museum
admit two to Moctezuma special exhibition

Sunday 4:14pm Fortnum & Mason, Piccadilly
1 slice chocolate truffle torte
1 wedge black forest cake
in one pot, earl grey classic
in another, royal blend assam with a touch of ceylon

Look, Ma! A Roast!

2009-10-31T19:43:00.007-04:00

EYE OF ROUND ROAST WITH FALL VEGETABLES IN PAN JUICES AND WARM SPINACH SALAD WITH PANCETTA AND CREMINI MUSHROOMS

1) Preheat oven to 500 F.

2) Rub a mixture of butter, minced garlic, chopped fresh rosemary, kosher salt and ground black pepper all over the surface of the meat. Let the meat sit out at room temperature for one hour.

3) At this point, peel and cut into 1/4" slices, carrots, turnips and parsnips and place in a shallow baking dish. Add chopped shallots, salt and pepper, a fresh rosemary sprig, and some olive oil to coat the vegetables. Set aside.

4) Put the meat in a baking pan fat side down, uncovered, in the center of the oven. Close the door and turn the heat down to 475 degrees. After cooking 7 minutes per pound of meat, remove and baste the meat with the pan juices.

5) Place a lid on the pan, or cover tightly with foil, and put the roast in the oven. Turn down the temperature to 275 degrees, and cook for 2-1/2 hours at 275 degrees.

6) Cover the baking dish of vegetables with foil and place in the oven.

7) When the roast is finished, baste with pan juices, and then let the roast sit at room temperature for about 20 minutes before slicing very thinly. Meanwhile, place the vegetables in the broiler, uncovered, until brown and caramelized, then toss vegetables in the pan juices.

WARM SPINACH SALAD WITH PANCETTA AND CREMINI MUSHROOMS

1) Have a large bowl with washed and dried fresh spinach ready on the side.

2) Cook cubed pancetta in a pan with a little olive oil. When the pancetta begins to brown, add slices of cremini mushroom and cook until tender, about 2 minutes.

3) Carefully add a splash of red wine vinegar directly into the hot pan, and very quickly pour the entire mixture over the spinach and toss to coat all of the leaves. The heat will slightly wilt the spinach.

To serve, make a horseradish sauce for the roast by simply mixing sour cream with grated horseradish root to taste. Enjoy with roasted fall vegetables and warm spinach salad!

Blue Sky Blueberry Pancakes

2009-10-28T21:52:00.009-04:00

There are skies, and then there are skies. There's the silver specked dawn at Haleakala crater and the coral creases above pigeon-filled Piazza San Marco on an April evening. But, there's something about the October sky to inspire the poet in all of us.

Living in California for half a decade, I took for granted or forgot what autumn on the east coast meant. In the past, there'd been escapes from the City through the Hudson River Valley with my family, excursions to Walden Pond with school friends, and most recently a drive along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I find it impossible to resist stopping in my tracks for some moments to look upward at the bluest azure sky and autumn palette. And whether it's the poetry of the cycle of life or a reminder that another year is passing by, I feel like slowing down for a bit, to forgo the quick breakfasts to linger over my favorite pancakes.

BLUEBERRY COTTAGE CHEESE PANCAKES

(serves 6)
Note: The cottage cheese gives the pancakes their extra fluffiness and moisture.

1 cup small curd cottage cheese, drained
2 cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 large eggs
1-1/2 cups buttermilk
1-1/2 tablespoons butter, melted
2 cups large blueberries

1) Drain any excess liquid from the cottage cheese.

2) Whisk together the dry ingredients and set aside.

3) Mix together the eggs, buttermilk and melted butter.

4) Add the cottage cheese curds and fold in the dry ingredients until just combined.

5) Add the blueberries and gently mix into the batter.

6) Brush a griddle or large pan with butter or vegetable oil, and heat over medium heat. Place a generous spoonful of batter onto the griddle, and cook until golden brown. Then, flip over and cook the other side for about 2 more minutes.

Serve with New England maple syrup!

A Good Day for Moussaka

2009-09-27T19:29:00.032-04:00

I’ve been hooked on Greek food since I was eight, when Stavroula hopped into my life. I mean that very literally. For Stavroula, it was all about making an entrance, and it was no different on the first day of school. We were already well into our second lesson of the day when she arrived, hopping on one foot. After her mother and Mrs. Fabian, our teacher, exchanged hushed whispers by the doorway, she turned around and hopped away. Then, Mrs. Fabian muttered, “Her mother should carry that poor thing!”

On the second day of class, Stavroula hopped back to class, this time on her own. And by chance, or fate, or because the class was seated in alphabetical order by last name and I happened to be a “W,” there was a vacant seat next to me at the end of the alphabet road. The first thing she said to me was that she had broken her ankle, very defensively, as though she was conscious of people thinking there may be something terribly wrong with her. She was a ballerina for the New York City Children’s Ballet, and had been in show biz already for half of her short lifetime.

We learned that we were both born in the same month, just eight days apart, and she squealed that February’s color was purple, and purple became our favorite—purple clothes, purple hair ribbons, purple ink pens, even grape soda. And after a few weeks, she turned to me during recess one day, and very seriously probed into my eyes and asked, “Are you my best friend?” Until then, I didn’t really understand the concept of a best friend, as I was sandwiched between two siblings, and there seemed to be a bountiful and continuous supply of children to play with between the three of us and our respective band of cronies. But whatever that meant, I was intrigued, and definitely on board.

Soon after that, her mother called to ask my mother permission to play over at their house. Since she was an only child, that meant she had her own bedroom, and she was queen of her domain. She didn’t have to share or take turns playing with her toys. Her room was unlike any eight-year-old’s—the walls were covered in ballerina wallpaper and she had a huge vanity with bright balls of light around the borders. She had glossy autographed headshots of her favorite All My Children soap stars tucked into the edges of the mirror.

She showed me how to perfume stationery with spray bottles of glass and feathery tops, and to seal letters with berry red lipstick kisses. She was wonderfully flamboyant, and would get excused from school and homework to dance the Nutcraker in the winter. We would lounge on squishy leather beanbags and play Space Invaders—something I rarely got to do at home since my brother would dominate the Atari with his friends. She would do her impersonation of Brooke in her Calvins, only she was wearing Jordache or Sergio Valente—much more cool, we agreed, especially with the purple shirt.

Then, her mother would call us into the kitchen to give us our lunch. Stavroula’s father owned a Greek restaurant in lower Manhattan near the old Stuyvesant High School, and my best friend status meant instant access to sampling the food of her heritage. Though our friendship lasted only through puberty when purple was no longer so cool, and she discovered boys, I still think of her when I eat Greek food. On days like this, when the crispness of autumn greets me outside, I crave the taste of nutmeg and allspice, and something warm and hearty.

ZUCCHINI MOUSSAKA

Serves 4, or 2, if you eat the way Andy and I do.

I stray from the traditional eggplants and potatoes, and lighten it with zucchini. I’ve also made this with Welsh lamb instead of beef when I was visiting Alice in London. It can be made vegetarian by omitting the meat all together.

Part I: Meat Sauce

1 large yellow onion, peeled and diced
2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 sprig fresh thyme
1 pound lean ground beef
2 cups peeled whole tomatoes (I prefer Cento or San Marzano in a can)
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1/2 cup red wine
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons kosher salt (or to taste)
black pepper, freshly ground
extra virgin olive oil for cooking

Soften the onion, garlic, oregano and thyme in a large saucepan over medium heat with olive oil for about 5 minutes. Set contents aside, heat a little more olive oil in the saucepan and brown the ground beef, stirring constantly. Return the onion-garlic mixture to the saucepan with the beef, and add the rest of the above ingredients to the saucepan. With a wooden spoon, break down the whole tomatoes into smaller chunks, and simmer to reduce the liquid for about 10 minutes.

Part II: Zucchini
Wash, trim and slice lengthwise 4 large zucchini. Heat some olive oil in a pan and saute the zucchini on both sides until golden brown, seasoning them lightly with salt and pepper. In a glass baking dish, lay down half of the zucchini slices and cover with half of the meat sauce. Place the remaining zucchini slices on top of the meat, and cover them with the rest of the meat sauce. Set aside, and at this point pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Part III: Bechamel

This is the fluffy creamy topping that makes moussaka so delicious. It requires a little bit of technique, but I am providing some detailed instructions and photo illustrations below.

4 cups whole milk
2 bay leaves
6 allspice berries
8 tablespoons of unsalted butter
1 cup all purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 cup grated parmigiano reggiano

In a saucepan over low heat, combine the milk, bay leaves and allspice berries.

While the milk heats up, melt the butter in another saucepan, and add the flour. Whisk vigorously until combined. At this point, the milk will be hot and ready.

Discard the bay leaves and allspice berries from the milk, and using a ladle, slowly transfer the hot milk into the saucepan containing the butter-flour mixture. Whisk constantly until the mixture thickens and the initial lumps dissolve into a smooth texture.

Remove from heat, and grate fresh nutmeg and cheese into the bechamel. Stir well, and immediately pour over the top of the moussaka filling. Spread evenly to cover the filling, and bake for 45 minutes.

Let rest for about 15 minutes to set and cool before cutting and serving.

When the Chef is Your Husband

2009-09-24T22:01:00.038-04:00

(or your husband happens to be a chef)

I eat. Often, a lot, and well.

Anyone who’s been around me at meal time can attest to that. I wasn’t always this way. As a toddler, I was so finicky that my mother would say I was breaking her heart and causing her great pain. The very image in my mind of my mother withering away scared me enough to force down my dinner between blinking away the tears and swallowing silent sobs.

It’s hard to believe now, but the smell of food repulsed me then. In my college psychology course (which seems to be where you self-diagnose the root of your problems and discover that you are afflicted with a rare textbook-case illness), I learned that rats had an enlarged olfactory bulb, and thus, have an extraordinary sense of smell. I always imagined that if someone were to scan my brain, they would find an overdeveloped olfactory bulb, the source of my childhood woes. Thankfully, I outgrew that picky stage as I learned to navigate the world and all of its splendid aromas. I began to memorize various associations of flavors and situations, and this has been a great asset in my culinary career.

There’s something about the way a mother cooks. Beyond love, it is an act of nurturing, of providing sustenance and nutrition for her offspring’s survival. When a husband cooks, you are the muse and inspiration, and hunger is secondary to shared time. In the early days of our courtship, Andy would cook for me in my kitchen on his days off from work. I was working the dinner shift at Aqua then, so our meals would have to be carefully timed for me to clock in on time.

He would spend his morning shopping at several markets for the right ingredients, contemplating the menu, wondering whether the fog would burn off by lunchtime—if so, then nothing too hot for the 65 degree San Francisco “heat wave”—and then like a true chef, doing his mise en place, before transporting bags of peeled, washed, cut, prepped items on the bus to my flat.

There would be a succulent piperade topped with a poached egg, paper-thin ribbons of preserved Meyer lemon and prosciutto on grilled country bread; or summer's best basil with creamy polenta made by milking fresh corn kernels off the cob; gingerly assembled in my kitchen and taken to the roof deck to be consumed with views of the Bay from Telegraph Hill. There were small explosions, too, such as his ambitious attempt at Pot au Poulet, a whole chicken slowly cooked in a pot with parsnips, turnips, organic baby carrots, chestnuts, celery root, and wild rice. I had mentioned I might be coming down with a cold, and his immediate response was “chicken soup and plenty of rest.” I never expected that he would seal the pot with a puff pastry crust and place the entire thing in the too-small oven!

Since our wedding and move to DC, we eat dinner together every night, and at least five days of the week, dinner happens around 11pm-midnight, when we are done with work. It never ceases to amaze me that he has the desire to cook for me after being at the restaurant all day. But it is our time to cook together for ourselves and not for the public, to hear about each other's day, and to take pleasure in eating. My mother doesn’t like the idea of us eating so late at night—not good for our health, she says. I wonder if she remembers how difficult I used to be.

A Food Fair to Remember

2009-09-23T18:16:00.009-04:00

It was the party of that year. Everyone was there, and in a scrapbook somewhere are pictures of children posing proudly with their parents over a dish of something, their younger siblings on the sidelines anticipating great things to come in the third grade. I even have an artifact to verify my attendance, yet there is no record of my mom’s cooking from that evening.

When my third grade class hosted an International Food Festival, all the students brought in a traditional dish representing their national heritage, and we compiled those recipes into our very own class cookbook. Parents, grandparents, siblings arrived at our public school cafeteria, exhibiting delicious fare from all parts of the globe: Mrs. Gupta’s Burfi, Mrs. Hallissy’s Irish Soda Bread, Mrs. Skandalides’ Tyropitta, Mrs. Reishcher’s Kasha Varnishkas. So the cookbook reads. But there is no mention of Mrs. Wohn’s Gim Bop.

My mother was a journalist, a prolific writer who could spin poetry on ten-cent postcards while vacationing, yet she did not write a recipe for the food festival’s cookbook. My mom has hundreds of recipes—though all in her head. It isn’t that she’s guarding the family’s secret formula or exercising the Socratic method. She just cooks from memory, by the way things look, smell and taste, not guided by grams or liters. She does not own a single cookbook, though I vaguely recall a set of thick encyclopedic manuals she’d received as a wedding gift, which mysteriously disappeared somewhere between Seoul and New York City back in the seventies.

The International Food Festival showcased the diversity of cultures and family traditions, and impressed upon my mind that there was a world of food for me to navigate. However, what I remember from the Festival isn’t the food, though I recall that there was. I remember the cafeteria’s recently-mopped bleach smell, as I would an old friend by the smell of his hair; and I remember the oversized State flag with its motto, “Excelsior,” next to the great seal that read, “E Pluribus Unum” (Out of many, one), which provided the backdrop to Stavroula’s belly dancing performance during the live entertainment portion of the evening.

The next day my friends and I were back to playing handball in the alley in our Jordache jeans, yet we had learned something new about each other. Revisiting the class cookbook today, I see that we were not ambassadors from our countries of origin, but rather representing our own family traditions. In my attempt at replicating my mom’s Gim Bop now, I finally understand my mother’s method—she does not translate ingredients into units of measure, but just cooks until the food evokes the memory of her home.