Articles in International
We all know the cliché that opposites attract and, in what could be called a fruitful marriage of opposites, two vastly different ingredients from opposite sides of the world are perfectly paired in Jamaica’s national dish, ackee and salt fish.
Ackee and salt fish is not just the national dish — it’s the favorite breakfast of every Jamaican across the globe. What makes this dish original and surprising is how well two distinct ingredients combine to create a dish that’s complex and simple, subtle and bold and, ultimately, delicious. The delicate nutty taste and soft texture of the fruit ackee tempers the sharp, saltiness and firm dry texture of salt fish.
With the addition of our standard “Jamaican seasonings” — Scotch bonnet pepper, garlic, thyme, green peppers, onions and scallion, and served with a side of avocado, fried ripe plantain, steamed calalloo and “Johnny Cakes” or fried dumplings – this extraordinary dish is a feast for the palate and a breakfast you won’t soon forget.
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Although the pairing of ackee and salt fish makes for a beautiful union, some unions are not meant to be monogamous. As well as ackee and salt fish work together, we also love to cook them separately, pairing them with unexpected ingredients and flavors. For instance, ackee loves bacon, gets along very well with curry, has great synergy with Parmesan and has a seamless connection with coconut. Salt fish, while less gregarious, complements yam, parties well with lime and forms a perfect bond with cilantro and flour dumplings of any kind.
From West Africa to Jamaica on a slave ship
Ackee, for the uninitiated, is a savory fruit with a thick red skin that forms a sealed pod when unripe. Once ripened, the skin opens to reveal a beautiful petal-like shape containing three or four yellow pegs topped with a single black seed. Native to West Africa, the fruit originally came to Jamaica on a slave ship — it is believed that many slaves would carry the ackee seed as a talisman for good luck.
Unfortunately, ackee has a bit of a bad rap as the bad boy of Caribbean cuisine because it can potentially be poisonous if incorrectly prepared. For many years, like another famous Jamaican export, its importation to the United States was banned. Be assured, however, that it is perfectly safe to eat, although Jamaica seems to be one of the few countries in the world that dared to try to figure out how to do so — leaving us as the only island in the Caribbean where it’s part of the daily diet.
To render ackee safe for consumption, the skin must be open before picking. The pegs, once removed from the pod, are then prepared by removing the seed and a red ‘thread’ embedded in the flesh of the peg. (This is the poisonous part.) The fruit is then boiled in salted water.
Outside of Jamaica, ackee is readily available in cans and can be found at online groceries and mainstream supermarkets throughout the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom. Freshly cooked ackee is creamy and buttery with a mild nutty taste that’s neutral enough to absorb the flavor of whatever it’s cooked with. When raw it has a waxy texture but canned ackee, which is already cooked, has a more mushy consistency. In any of its forms, ackee is a great ingredient to have fun with in the kitchen as it can be prepared in many interesting and unexpected ways. For instance — ackee tacos?
Salt cod preparation takes time
Salt cod, known as salt fish in the islands, is cod that has been preserved by drying after salting. It is a staple in the cuisine of almost all Caribbean islands and can be prepared in a variety of ways. Salt cod was a part of the Triangular Trade that developed between Europe, Africa and the Americas, tying its history to that of sugar, slavery and rum in the islands.
High-quality North American cod was always sold in Europe. But traders also sold a lower-end product of poorly cured salt fish called “West India cure” to plantation owners in the Caribbean. The West Indian planters had no desire to dedicate any land to the production of food for their slaves and instead relied on imported salt cod as a cheap form of nourishment.
In exchange, European traders received sugar, molasses, rum, cotton, tobacco and salt, which they took back to North America and Europe. Trade in salt cod from Nova Scotia was so high that, in 1832, the Bank of Nova Scotia opened in Halifax to facilitate the thriving trans-Atlantic trade. By 1889 the Bank of Nova Scotia had become the first bank to expand outside of the United States or United Kingdom when it opened a branch in Kingston, Jamaica, to support the lucrative trading of rum, sugar and fish.
To prepare salt fish it must be soaked in fresh water for at least an hour; it is then boiled till the flesh of the fish flakes easily. If still too salty, it is boiled some more, drained, scraped of its skin, flaked with your hands and, only then, does the laborious task of picking out the bones begin. Although deboned and de-skinned cod is certainly available in many markets, in the Caribbean we still like to do it the old way — because it’s so much more fun.
In honor of this beloved Jamaican breakfast dish, we share two breakfast/brunch recipes, that celebrate each ingredient on its own. We encourage you to expand your breakfast horizons and give these a try — any time day or night.
Credit: © 2014 by Ellen Silverman from "Caribbean Potluck," permission by Kyle Books
In this dish we combine a traditional quiche custard with pure Jamaican love by adding our national fruit (and popular breakfast item) ackee and crispy bacon. Throw in tons of flavor with the Scotch bonnet, scallion, tomato, garlic, thyme and Parmesan cheese, and you have a winning brunch. If you don’t have coconut milk on hand, use 1½ cups heavy cream instead of the cows and coconut milk mixture.
- ½ pound (2 sticks) chilled butter, cut into pieces
- 1 pound all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling pinch of sea salt
- Up to ¼ cup ice water
- 1 cup whole milk
- ½ cup canned coconut milk
- 3 large eggs
- 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
- Dash of freshly grated nutmeg
- Sea salt
- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 2 tablespoons chopped yellow onion
- ½ Habanero pepper (Scotch bonnet), seeded and minced
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 1 (8-ounce) package bacon, finely chopped
- 2 tablespoons sliced scallion
- 1 bunch fresh thyme, chopped
- ¼ cup finely chopped tomato
- 2 tablespoons finely chopped bell pepper
- 1 (18-ounce) can ackee
- Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
- 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
- Preheat the oven to 350 F.
- To make the quiche crust, combine the butter, flour and salt in a bowl with your hands until crumbly. Add just enough ice water to form a dough and knead until it comes together. Form into a ball, then, on a floured surface, roll the dough into a round about 14 inches in diameter. Transfer to an 8-inch quiche pan and press the dough gently into the bottom and sides. Weigh down the dough with raw rice on a piece of waxed paper and prebake for 20 minutes. Set on wire rack to cool until ready to fill.
- Meanwhile, to make the custard, in a medium bowl combine the milk, coconut milk, eggs, mustard and nutmeg and whisk together thoroughly. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside until ready to bake.
- To make the filling, heat the oil in a frying pan over medium heat. Toss in the onion, Scotch bonnet and garlic and cook for about 5 minutes, until softened. Add the bacon and sauté for about 5 minutes. Spoon off the excess fat and stir in the scallion, thyme, tomato and bell pepper; cook another 5 minutes or until the vegetables are tender. Add the ackee,season with salt and pepper, and mix in the Parmesan. Let cool.
- To assemble the quiche, place the ackee and bacon filling in the pastry shell and smooth the top. Pour the custard over the filling, distributing it evenly with a fork. Return the quiches to the oven and bake for 45 minutes or until the custard has set. Cool slightly before serving.
Trini-Style Salt Fish and ‘Bake’
Prep Time: 1 hour, 15 minutes
Cook Time: 10 minutes
Total Time: 1 hour, 25 minutes
Yield: 6 to 8 servings
All our islands cook salt fish (salt cod) in one way another for breakfast, lunch and even dinner. As our childhood years were spent in Trinidad we favor this Trini version known as “buljol.” Salt fish is often served alongside some kind of fried dumpling, some fluffy and large others smaller and more dense. In Jamaica we serve salt fish with Johnny Cakes, small round fried dumplings. Other countries such as Trinidad and Guyana call them bake. Here we pair this traditional Trini saltfish with our version of a bake — a hybrid recipe inspired by the bakes served in Trinidad, Guyana and Belize. If you have any left over, these little breads can be great topped with cheddar cheese and Guava jam or even just butter and jam.
For Trini-style salt fish (Buljol):
2 cups salt fish, boiled, picked and cleaned
½ cup chopped tomato
¼ cup chopped onion
1 Habanero pepper (Scotch bonnet), minced without seeds
1/4 cup cilantro
Salt and black pepper
For our version of bake:
2 cups flour
1½ teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1½ teaspoons butter, cut into pieces
¼ cup water
¼ cup milk + 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon
2 cups vegetable oil
1. Combine salt fish with tomato, onion and the Habanero pepper (Scotch bonnet) in a small bowl. Heat olive oil in a small pan. When very hot, pour it over the salt fish mixture. Add cilantro and season with salt and black pepper as required. Allow to rest at room temperature for about one hour.
2. Sieve together flour, baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. Rub butter into flour until combined. Gradually add water and milk and mix well with hands until a dough or mass is formed. Knead for about five minutes until smooth.
3. Roll the dough into pieces the size of golf balls (should get about eight pieces of dough), and allow them to rest for about half an hour. Roll it out with a rolling pin or bottle to a 4-inch disk and slice a line in the middle so that it will cook more quickly. Fry in oil, turning over once. When it floats, it is ready.
4. Drain and serve with salt fish. These are also great paired with cheddar cheese and guava jam, or even just butter and jam.
Main photo: The ackee fruit’s nutty taste combines with sharp salt cod to create Jamaica’s national dish. Credit: © 2014 by Ellen Silverman from “Caribbean Potluck,” courtesy Kyle Books
We first discovered the food of Myanmar as armchair cooks intrigued by a cuisine, described by Mi Mi Khaing in “Cook and Entertain the Burmese Way” as “the best of Chinese and Indian cooking, but with a distinctive flair all its own.” After repeated trips to Myanmar, however, we would explain Burmese food differently: Indian lacking spice, Thai without fiery chili, similar to Chinese only via its stir fries, or perhaps a shared Yunnan influence with skewered and grilled pub fare. In other words, it’s unlike any other and deliciously unique.
For 20 years we traveled throughout Myanmar, later hosting food tours there, and eventually made a home in Asia. And we’ve never looked back.
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By Robert Carmack and Morrison Polkinghorne
We’ve tasted and tested almost every Burmese dish imaginable, supping with regional and capital cooks and learning in the most humble kitchens and 5-star sculleries alike.
Myanmar’s cuisine is a perfect fit for Americans. Granted, chili aficionados here will claim that hot flavors are passionately loved by all, but the general American palate seems drawn to the comforting, non-assertive tastes of Burmese dishes. There, the chili is long and mild, closer to a paprika, akin to the capsicums used in neighboring Yunnan province. Curcumin-rich Alleppey turmeric is a principal spice, while masala is the exception rather than the rule. And simple ground star anise acts as the “curry” seasoning for pork. Even salads — with the notable exception of Burmese Lemon Salad and renowned Pickled Tea Leaf La Phet — are infinitely less forceful than in neighboring Thailand. Vegetables and salads are commonly bound and melded with either besan (chickpea) flour or ground peanuts — depending on the regional crop.
The flavor of Burmese recipes are easy to recreate by merely — and gently — slow-frying onion, garlic and ginger in oil, then using the resulting emollient as a ubiquitous flavoring essence — both in curries and salads. Better yet, ingredients are easy to find in the United States, more so if there’s an Indian grocery in your neighborhood.
From armchair to actual traveler, our quest for authentic Burmese cookery continues. We find it as exciting as exploring the country’s awe-inspiring sites — from ancient Bagan to imperial Mandalay, to the temples and caves and floating islands of Inle Lake. The image of awakening to the golden rock, Kyeik Hti Yoe, sitting above the clouds will always linger in our minds, as will the vision of the volcanic plug, Mount Popa, with its golden temples crowning the top like a fairyland. But we equally savor memories of the simple peppery stocks of the country’s Rakhine seafood stew.
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Why Myanmar? Why Burmese?
Although Burma is the name commonly used by Anglo-Westerners, Myanmar is the term used by locals. “Burma” and “Burman” reflects the Bamar ethnic majority, not its other cultural groups. However, our recently released The Burma Cookbook celebrates all this nation’s diversity — historic and ethnic. We chose the title not as a political statement, but because our cookbook includes dishes of colonial Burma, as well as contemporary Myanmar. So you’ll find a recipe for Lobster Thermidor served at The Strand hotel for more than a century, but also a biryani rice that reflects the country’s Indian heritage, along with a “bachelor” chicken curry that can be traced back to larrikin lads absconding with a farmyard chicken and herbs grasped from a neighbor’s garden.
Main photo: Myanmar’s salads are infinitely less forceful than in neighboring Thailand. Credit: © Morrison Polkinghorne
Florence’s favorite street food is the panino and, with so much to do in Tuscany’s capital city, it’s the perfect meal while sightseeing. There are many good sandwich shops throughout the city with crunchy bread and local ingredients. Francine Segan, Italian food expert and author of two books on Italian cuisine, shares three of her Florence favorites.
Via de’ Neri, 65R
Near the Uffici and Ponte Vecchio
Tourist spots typically don’t interest me. But I happily join the queue at All’Antico Vinaio — Florence’s famed panino spot — every time I visit town. The hype is well-deserved. Daniele Mazzanti and his son, Tomasso, take great pride in making astonishing sandwich ingredients: spicy eggplant, artichoke cream, porcini puree, ricotta with truffles and luscious spreadable pecorino cheese. They have many tantalizing cheeses and a staggering assortment of top quality salami. As Florentines, they favor Tuscan ingredients but also seek out the best from other regions too, serving Umbrian black truffle spreads and salumi from Norcia, that region’s renowned center for all-things pork.
All’Antico Vinaio maintains a mind-bogglingly high level of quality despite a well-established tourist following from around the world. The place has been written about in hundreds of publications.
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The bread alone is worth the visit. Its schiacciata is another thing that distinguishes All’Antico Vinaio from all the other panini shops. Marvelously chewy, with that special aroma that only comes from “madre lieveto,” or mother leavening, the bread is left to rise five hours. It’s made exclusively for All’Antico Vinaio by a nearby family-owned bakery that par-bakes the bread in a wood-burning oven with the final baking done on site so that it comes piping hot every 30 to 45 minutes throughout the day. It’s so fragrant, you’re almost tempted to skip the sandwich fixings.
When I asked Tommaso how many loaves they use in a day, he looked surprised by the question, saying, “We’re never had time to count them!”
With so many ingredients, the panini combos are endless. There are suggested sandwiches such as Mondiale, a fan favorite made with creamy scamorza cheese infused with truffles, truffle spread, prosciutto Toscano, arugula, tomatoes and a drizzle of oil. If you can go only once during your stay in Florence, be sure to try the award-winning Favolosa, with artichoke puree, pecorino cheese, spicy homemade eggplant, and sbriciolona, a Tuscan fennel-studded salami.
The friendly, patient staff is willing to make sandwiches with whatever fillings you’d like, but I highly recommend you just say, “fai te” or “surprise me,” which lets the panino maker create a fantasy sandwich for you.
There’s always a line, so go early. All’Antico Vinaio opens at 10 a.m., and you’ll beat the crowd and get more of their time and attention. I’d even recommend this place for breakfast AND lunch. The staff is so jovial that it creates a really fun environment, making this a great spot to meet other travelers.
Be sure to order a glass of serve-yourself wine, a bargain at just 2 euros. The generous panini cost 5 euros and can easily feed two. All’Antico Vinaio also offers snack rolls filled with porchetta or other meats for 1.5 euros that are called “fermino,” or little stoppers, because they stop hunger..
Piazza Lorenzo Shiberti 44/r
Near the Sant’Ambrogio food market
A favorite with locals, this tiny shop is named after a type of crunchy Florentine roll, semelino. The standout feature here are the interesting, unusual sandwich ingredients like octopus, codfish, duck, rabbit, deer, wild boar or slow-simmered donkey. The creative panino combinations are exquisitely balanced and a true gourmet delight: pecorino cheese with pears and walnut puree, salami with fig and balsamic vinegar, and anchovies with slices of oranges and puntarelle, Tuscan greens. My favorite the day I visited was “gnudi,” small ricotta and spinach dumplings simmered in duck ragù.
The owner, Marco Paparozzi, and his nephew always wear shirts and ties, even on the hottest days, and serve delicious local wines. But don’t hesitate to ask for a glass of free water, which the owner whimsically calls “the mayor’s water.” An average panino costs 4 euros.
Open only from 11:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., the menu changes frequently, so be sure to visit often! You could be 10 feet away and not spot this tiny locale, so be sure to ask a local where it is.
At the corner of Via de’Macci & Borgo la Croce
Panini filled with tripe, or more specifically “lampredotto” — the cow’s fourth stomach — can be found on virtually every street in Florence.
The lampredotto is slow-simmered in celery, carrots and onions, then sliced onto a roll that is dipped into the tripe-cooking pot. Traditionally, the only seasonings are salt and pepper, but nowadays most street carts offer “salsa verde,” a green sauce of minced celery, parsley, garlic and oil, and even hot chili seasonings.
Over the course of two days, I tried six carts. My favorite was Trippa Pollini, run by Sergio Pollini and his son, Pier Paolo Pollini.
Main photo: At All’Antico Vinaio, you can get grated zucchini on your panino. Credit: Francine Segan
The idea that foods have aphrodisiac properties is quite old and found in all cultures, but this notion has waned with the rise of modern science.
Arab Muslim culture has had its aphrodisiacal foods, a phenomenon surprising to many people who think of Islam as a prudish religion that bans alcohol and frowns upon the sexual explicit.
However, a millennium ago, the elite in Europe began to change their attitudes toward eating, stimulated by the place of food in Muslim theology as represented in depictions of the Garden of Delights. The sensual pleasures of eating as portrayed in the Garden intrigued Europeans who began to associate luxurious dining with the food of the Arabs. Muslim sensuousness must have appeared attractive as a counterpoint to the ascetic life demanded of Christians. Already by the 12th century the Arabs had a rich poetry concerning wine and sexually explicit literature.
In the Arabic tradition there are “the two good things,” the translation of the Arabic al-atyabān. I always found it interesting that there isn’t a single mention of this idea in Arabic gastronomical thinking in any book on Arab cuisine or, for that matter, in any Mediterranean cookbook. But I alluded to these good things in my book “A Mediterranean Feast.” The two good things are food and sex.
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Food and sex are two of the three “fleshly delights” of this world in a saying attributed to the seventh-century Arab poet Ta’abbata Sharrān. “I have never enjoyed anything as much as these three things: eating flesh, riding on flesh, and rubbing flesh against flesh.” The Arabic literary interactions of food and sex are manifold. Some stories find the women berating their husbands for eating and drinking too much but neglecting them in bed.
A good appetite for food and for love was seen as perfectly compatible. There’s the story of Aishah bint Talha, a granddaughter of the Prophet Muhammad’s father-in-law, who says to her husband the morning after the wedding night, “I have never seen anyone like you; you have eaten as much as seven men, prayed as much as seven men, and [had sex] as much as seven men.”
Food and sex inspire writers
Many of these stories, such as the bawdy tale of “The Porter and the Three Ladies of Baghdad” in “The Thousand and One Nights,” have a narrative formula that can almost be described as eating, drinking and having sex.
The stories get randier as in the “Slaughterhouse-cleaner and the Noble Lady,” also in “The Thousand and One Nights.” The lady wants revenge on her unfaithful husband and gets it by having an affair with the filthiest man she can find, the guy who cleans the latrines. He says, after their coitus, that he’d like to kiss the lady’s left hand (used for wiping) rather than her right hand (used for eating). This mixture of kitchen humor with scatological humor reflects the fact that the lady first looked for her husband in the outhouse but had found him instead in flagrante delicto in the kitchen, rogering a cook.
But the battle between love and food in Arabic poetry doesn’t always end in a truce. A Hispano-Arab poet, Ibn Mascūd, renounces love for food:
“If you ask me with whom I am in love and why my eyes
Pour forth tears,
I say: a sikbāj*, dishes of jamalī
Bruised white flour is sweeter to me than the saliva of the beloved who is embraced.”
The West has its own aphrodisiacal food traditions, although the dishes might be different.
Lovers turn to chiles, because of their active ingredient capsaicin; bananas, because of their phallus shape; asparagus (same reason); oysters, for their zinc content and their tactile resemblances; vanilla, because it’s a stimulant for the nerves; salmon and walnuts, because of their omega-3 content, which keeps sex-hormone production humming; red wine, because it relaxes and reduces inhibitions; pomegranates, because they increase genital sensitivity; and chocolate.
There, now you should have a good idea of and guide to what you’ll prepare your sweetheart on Valentine’s Day.
* Sikbāj dishes, a kind of stew made with vinegar, were of Persian origin and very popular in the 10th century; jamalī is a kind of stew with innards.
Every now and then a new cookbook comes along that stands above the rest. Oretta Zanini De Vita and Maureen Fant’s “Sauces & Shapes: Pasta the Italian Way” is such a book. There’s nothing really new about it, and this is its strength. In an age of obsession for novelty, here comes a cookbook without gimmicks, a handbook for amateurs and adepts alike, a holy writ of Italian pasta cookery that I wish could, once and for all, put to rest the deplorable mistreatment of Italian pasta recipes at the hands of American cooks.
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By Oretta Zanini De Vita and Maureen B. Fant
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Brought to you by the authors of the “Encyclopedia of Pasta” and “Popes, Peasants, and Lore from Rome and Lazio,” this valuable work contains a vast body of culinary knowledge that can only be gained from an intimate attachment to the Italian way of life.
No meddling editor’s hand has constrained the writers to Americanize ingredients, simplify techniques or modernize recipes to suit the foreigner. The legendary editor of this title, Maria Guarnaschelli, has shaped other important cookbooks, famously, Rose Levy Berenbaum’s “The Cake Bible” and Diane Kennedy’s “The Art of Mexican Cooking,” and this one is the jewel in her crown.
The best cookbook writers can paint you pictures with their words and draw you into their world of food in a way television celebrities cannot. Cuisine is, after all, not only about recipes, but also about culture, people and where they live, what they eat, and why.
One author is a native Italian with roots in Bologna (coined “the belly of Italy”) who learned pasta-making as a child at the elbows of the sisters in a convent school. The other is an American scholar of classical archaeology who was transplanted to Rome more three decades ago. They take you, forks in hand, through the marvels of a corner of Italy’s cookery that is at once timeless and timely.
A guide to pasta technique
Besides its erudition and charm, this book is a manual for proper cooking technique and the whys and wherefores of matching of pasta shapes to sauces. If the recipes are true to Italian tradition, they are not stale. Most, such as spaghetti with clam sauce, are classics. Some are strictly orthodox, like Bolognese meat sauce, which stipulates no tomatoes and no garlic. The authors tell us that the Bolognese, who are fixated on preserving their glorious cuisine’s authenticity, have gone so far as to register the genuine recipe with a notary.
Others, including chestnut and wild fennel soup, have rarely been tasted outside the Italian kitchen. A few will show you tricks you probably never knew before, like a way of cooking eggplant that reduces oil absorption, learned from the revered, still living, Italian chef, Gualtiero Marchesi.
What makes this holy text fresh is writer-translator Fant’s lively voice and careful research. About the emblematic Sicilian pasta alla norma, she tells us that it was not named for the opera, as every other source will tell you, but after the word for “marvel” in Catanese dialect.
Further, Fant writes, when the original dish was invented by Marietta Martoglio, it was topped with “a snowfall of grated ricotta salata.” With a mere phrase, we are there, gingerly walking across a bridge of nimble words into that early 1900s kitchen, inhaling the aromas of the steaming spaghetti lapped in glittering fried dark-purple eggplant slices and veiled in flakes of cheese.
There are countless other bites of history. We learn that the Pythagoreans, who subscribed to reincarnation, eschewed the primordial staple of Mediterranean peoples, fava beans, because they were thought to nestle human souls.
I have read this captivating book from cover to cover, digesting every phrase, savoring every recipe, relishing all the fine points, ancient wisdom and new visions that make it utterly seductive.
I’ve written five titles about Italian pasta cooking of my own, and for me reading it has been like puttering in the kitchen with two old friends who can all but finish each other’s sentences, yet have so much that is new to tell one another. With its sensitive and rich photography, it makes for a book that is both useful and beautiful, and bound to be treasured, even by the reader with a groaning shelf of other Italian classics.
Amatriciana Guanciale, Tomato and Pecorino Romano
From “Pasta the Italian Way: Sauces & Shapes” by Oretta Zanini De Vita and Maureen B. Fant
The reader ought to go to the recipe in the book for the savory and local history of this popular topping for pasta from Lazio’s northeastern province; it is “one of the dishes self-appointed purists (read fanatics) will fight over to the death, or at least death by boredom,” the authors write. Rarely do recipes for its preparation tell you, as the locals would and which the authors do, that one of the secrets to its success is to toss the piping hot pasta after draining, first with the grated pecorino, then with the sauce; this method gives the sauce a voluptuous consistency.
This sauce is used on flour-and-water shapes. This includes spaghetti or bucatini, of course, but also rigatoni, casarecce or some of the handmade flour-and-water shapes, such as strozzapretti/pici.
For the condimento (sauce):
2½ ounces (70 grams) guanciale [salt-cured pork cheek], cut into thin strips
2 to 3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 small onion (any kind), chopped (optional but recommended)
1 pound (450 grams) red, ripe sauce tomatoes, broken into pieces, or canned Italian peeled tomatoes, drained
1 small piece dried chile
For the pasta:
1 pound (450 grams) pasta (see suggestions above)
7 rounded tablespoons (70 grams) grated pecorino
1. Put the guanciale and oil in a saucepan. Turn the heat to medium and heat gently so the guanciale renders some fat and starts to brown. Take a piece to assess how salty it is.
2. When the meat just begins to become crisp, add the chopped onion (if using) and sauté gently until transparent.
3. Add the tomatoes and chile, then taste for salt (how much you need will depend on the guanciale).
4. Finish cooking the sauce, covered, over low heat. You’ll know it’s done when the liquid has thickened somewhat and the fat shows on the surface, about 20 minutes.
This much can be done earlier in the day, but the sauce is not customarily made in advance or kept, except casually as leftovers for the next day.
5. Bring 5 quarts (5 liters) of water to a boil in an 8-quart (8 liter) pot over high heat. Add 3 tablespoons kosher salt, then add the pasta and cook, stirring occasionally, until al dente.
6. Warm a serving bowl in a low oven. If the oven is not practical, warm the bowl just before use with hot water, even a ladleful of the pasta cooking water.
7. Drain the pasta and put it in the warmed serving bowl. Toss it first with the grated cheese, then with the sauce. Serve immediately.
Top composite photo:
Co-author and translator, Maureen B. Fant and the book’s editor, Maria Guarnaschelli at the book’s launch in New York City. Credit: Julia della Croce.
“Sauces & Shapes: Pasta the Italian Way,” by Oretta Zanini De Vita and Maureen B. Fant. Credit: Courtesy of W.W. Norton & Co., Inc.
It’s rare these days to pick up a cookbook and peek into an entirely different world. A new language; new colors and shapes; sensations with which we aren’t familiar; and, of course, new tastes. “D.O.M.: Rediscovering Brazilian Ingredients” (Phaidon, September 2013) by acclaimed Chef Alex Atala of São Paulo, Brazil, is an exception, an exciting — and, if I may, an exotic — exception.
Atala, chef/owner of D.O.M. in São Paulo, Brazil, has consistently been rated as one of the world’s best chefs in recent years. He grew up in Brazil, then moved to Europe, where he worked in construction and as a DJ. The next chapter of his story seems almost predictable these days — like so many chefs, he “fell” into cooking. He became deeply interested in the modern experimentation emerging from Spain’s elite restaurants, but also built a skill base in classic French technique. And then, at last, he returned home.
By Alex Atala
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Since beginning his life as a chef back in Brazil, Atala has been tirelessly interested in excavating indigenous Brazilian ingredients and bringing them into view in the world of fine dining. Though he has published a number of gorgeous volumes in Brazil, this is his first book in English and released by a non-Brazilian publisher. In addition to acting as an entry point to the emerging scene of contemporary Brazilian cuisine, the book acts as a political statement, a flag staked in the ground of place and identity that asserts Brazilian cuisine as a distinct entity. The title, “D.O.M. Rediscovering Brazilian Ingredients,” is a pointed one — these ingredients have been used for thousands of years by indigenous peoples, but have long been ignored in the realm of haute cuisine. The book is historical tribute, but devoid of nostalgia; Atala’s cooking is decidedly modern.
Before I go any further, let it be known: “D.O.M.” is not destined to become the workhorse of the adventurous home cook. Indeed, it may not even be a book intended for chefs. Like so many of Phaidon’s books, it is a thing to read and see. Many of the recipes give incomplete instructions for how to prepare recipes or their various components. And, truth be told, having observed Atala in his kitchen on a cookbook research trip last summer, I wouldn’t want to attempt what he and his staff do in my Brooklyn kitchen. For one, I’m not that skilled a cook. Second, and more important, the ingredients that make Atala’s cooking so exceptional simply aren’t available here in the U.S., even in my home city of New York.
Europe, West Africa influences in Brazilian cuisine
Brazilian food today is an amalgam of influences. Portugal and West Africa have played major roles since colonial contact and are still seen prominently. The fluffy white breads and taste for custardy sweets have lasted from the Portuguese, and stews and many ingredients from West Africa — okra, yams and collards, to name a few — have deeply embedded themselves into the Brazilian culinary identity. Spain’s influence is seen both in the spices that traveled along the old Moorish trade routes and the intermingling of Brazil’s own foods with those of other Central and South American countries formerly under the crown’s control. In the 20th century, Italian, Japanese, Arabic and German influences have come to play prominent roles as well. But indigenous ingredients still reign. Brazil’s diversity of fruits — coconut, papaya, jackfruit, guava and a whole host of drippy sweet tropical fruits — have always been abundant. Hearts of palm are a Brazilian specialty — often served fresh, rarely canned. There are fish — both freshwater specimens from the Amazon region and oceanic varieties from Brazil’s vast stretch of coastline — wild game and tree nuts, too. Perhaps most important is manioc (otherwise known as yuca or cassava), a starchy tuber indigenous to the Amazon basin that serves as the basis for all manner of dishes, acting as a thickener in stews, ground into flour for baking, meal for pone and toasted into a sandy condiment called farofa.
A cook’s manual it may not be. But “D.O.M. Rediscovering Brazilian Ingredients” is many things, among them an artist’s statement, and a business card; a beautiful volume, filled with full-page photos from across Brazil — urban and rural, arid and lushly forested — and a love letter to Atala’s native land. It serves an encyclopedia of sorts, introducing American readers to the ingredients for which Atala has become famous — foods indigenous to Brazil known barely, if at all, outside of Brazil.
It is, too, a testament to a cultural moment. With tourism booming, the 2014 World Cup and 2016 Olympics fast approaching, and its national economy steadily on the rise, Brazil is, at last, emerging on the world stage on its own terms. Since the first colonial ship docked in Brazil’s ports in the 1500s, cultural sophistication has been code for European. Especially when it comes to food. Until very recently, fine dining in Brazil meant French and Portuguese fare would be on the menu. But Atala’s restaurant — along with those belonging to a handful of other trailblazing Brazilian chefs — is helping to change that. D.O.M., the restaurant, and “D.O.M.,” the book, are meant to help introduce some of the foods unique to Brazil to a wider audience. It is also a book of sensual enticements. I, for one, even after years of traveling to and eating in Brazil, still swoon at the sound of words like coxinha, jambu, tucupi and jabuticaba – all foods that I first encountered in Brazil and which now, to me, taste as distinctly of the place as they sound — rolling off the tongue.
As far as I know, cooking that represents Brazil’s singular gifts has yet to appear in restaurants in New York, or elsewhere outside of Brazil for that matter. We live in an age of seemingly endless culinary curiosity, ready global appetites, and demand for food attached to place. Why Brazil hasn’t yet had its Andy Ricker, its Sean Brock or its Madhur Jaffrey is a mystery to me, but perhaps Brazil’s moment has finally arrived. Until Brazilian food can come to us, Atala’s new book is just the armchair passport we need to dream, to imagine, to learn and — almost — to taste.
Top photo: D.O.M. Chef Alex Atala with fellow Brazilian chef Teresa Corção of O Navegador in Rio de Janeiro. Credit: Sara Franklin
It used to be that Asian foods served in American restaurants had to be Anglicized into submission, leading to such hybrid creations as fried chicken coated in lollipop-sweet lemon sauce or California rolls stuffed with avocado, crab and mayo. But nowadays sophisticated diners enjoy the real stuff with a passion, tweeting news of the best Uyghur barbecue or the freshest pho in town.
Even fervent fans of Asian food rarely get to know the comfort food made in the homes of Asians whose families have been in the U.S. for a couple of generations. Other than in ethnically diverse places such as Hawaii, this subject has been strangely overlooked — until this book came along.
“The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook” is a compilation of recipes by home cooks whose bloodlines lead back to Korea, Japan, China, Southeast Asia and India. What they cook in the U.S. has often morphed into something new and exciting, dishes that take advantage of American ingredients and kitchens while satisfying the palates of their children and grandchildren. First released as a hardback in October 2009, “Asian Grandmothers” was recently issued in paperback just as the hardback edition was about to sell out.
By Patricia Tanumihardja
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Author Patricia Tanumihardja was born to Indonesian parents and grew up in multicultural Singapore before settling in the States. She has worked as a food journalist and created an iPhone app glossary, “Asian Ingredients 101.” The book, her first, had its origins in a blog, where she recorded interviews with and recipes from grandmothers as well as aunts, mothers, fathers and “anyone who had a family recipe to share,” she explained in a note. “Several recipes were also from my mom and her mom, and a few were mine.” In addition, she found a few of the recipes in old cookbooks.
And so, with this book, Tanumihardja has cracked open the door to some of those mysterious kitchens, allowing non-Asians to finally enjoy all sorts of dishes that rarely appear in restaurants and which — at least up until now — could only be tasted when a friend’s popo or lola or ba ngoai would carry something insanely aromatic to a table surrounded by family and the occasional hungry friend.
That has happened to me over the years. I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and then attended the University of Hawaii. An invite home for dinner or a party meant that I soon would be happily munching on chewy fried chicken coated in rice powder, siphoning down slithery japchae noodles, or weeping tears of joy and pain over the insanely hot sausages my Lao friends brought to college parties. (Recipes for all those delights are included in this cookbook, although as might be expected with food designed to feed one’s offspring, this book’s Lao grandma considerably toned down the heat of her sausages.) For someone who was raised on tuna fish casserole and meatloaf, these were revelations of a whole new sensory spectrum.
The author makes the reader feel as if these Asian grandmothers were in the kitchen too, happy to offer the little asides, like “don’t worry if the custard falls a little” or “cilantro changes its flavor when it comes into contact with steel, so pick the leaves off the stems,” that make you feel part of an extended family. And it perhaps is this intimacy that makes me feel as if I finally have a permanent seat at those old friends’ family tables.
The recipes are a smorgasbord of some familiar and not-so-familiar foods, with some wonderful takes on old classics. For example, there’s the perfect recipe for chicken adobo, one that tasted rich and tart as it should, but also mellow and tropical thanks to the suggested addition of coconut milk. We devoured it along with bowls of the garlic fried rice that — as promised — were the perfect accompaniment.
“Asian Grandmothers” is a book to treasure, and all the recipes I tried worked perfectly. On a warm spring evening, following that chicken adobo dinner, I treated some friends to tall glasses of the Vietnamese classic parfait called che ba mau, which layers sweet beans with tapioca, crushed ice and fragrant homemade pandan syrup. We dug down into the colorful layers as we watched the sun set, sucking up the sweet liquid through thick straws. Hot Pakistani chai (the best spiced tea I’ve ever had, by the way) followed, and it would be difficult for anyone not to feel absolute contentment — and for some of us, nostalgia — after a meal like that.
Top photo composite:
“The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook.” Courtesy of Sasquatch Books
Author Patricia Tanumihardja. Credit: Mars Tanumihardja
British food writer Fuchsia Dunlop focused tightly on single regions of China in her first two cookbooks, “Land of Plenty” (Sichuan) and “The Revolutionary Chinese Cookbook” (Hunan). But in her latest endeavor, “Every Grain of Rice,” she expands her scope to easy comfort foods from a wide swath of China.
“Every Grain of Rice” is the perfect introduction to cooking the way Chinese people do at home, with simple, clear instructions opposite lovely full-color photographs of almost every dish. For those who are just beginning to admire Chinese food, this book could nudge them over the edge into hopeless devotion.
By Fuchsia Dunlop
W.W. Norton & Co., 2013, 352 pages
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The beautiful photography is enticing, helpful and very welcome, for the lack of ample illustrations was one of the few quibbles I had with Dunlop’s first book, “Land of Plenty.” Drawing on her experience as the first foreign student at the acclaimed Sichuan Institute of Higher Cuisine, her debut became an instant classic, enticing readers to succumb to the spell of central China’s chili-laden foods.
Dunlop is a wonderful guide to the cuisines of China. Rather than shy away from unusual vegetables or distinctly Chinese sauces, she educates her readers while spreading the gospel of good food by introducing exotica that become delicious once you get to know them. Dried shrimp, fava beans, fermented tofu, garlic stems, silk gourd, yellow chives, sesame paste, winter melon … these all get their moment in the sun here.
She gives bean curd, for example, a chance to shake off its tiresome reputation as bland hippie food. Although we in the West “still seem to think of tofu as some sackcloth-and-ashes sustenance for vegans and a sad substitute for meat,” Dunlop notes that in China, bean curd “is one of the most ubiquitous foodstuffs and wonderful when you acquire a taste for it. In its most basic form it may be plain, but then so is ricotta cheese.”
Simple as the dishes are — and with few exceptions they are so basic that even neophyte cooks should be able to attack these recipes with ease — they remain authentic. Most of these are stir-fries; the remainder encompasses meats, vegetables, soups, rice dishes and pastas, and every one of them is a familiar feature on Chinese tables. (She mainly covers recipes from southern China, with a few northern dishes thrown in for good measure.) Clear, reliable recipes are a hallmark of Dunlop’s cookbooks, and this one is no exception. Desserts, beverages and sweets rarely appear in ordinary Chinese family meals, and so they are not covered in this book.
Treasuring distinctions in Chinese food
A few of the recipes were recycled from Dunlop’s previous cookbooks, but that fits with her approach of introducing everyday Chinese dishes to the West. The ones from Sichuan and Hunan that have appeared before benefit from the additional attention paid to them here.
Sichuanese wontons in chili oil sauce, for example — a Chengdu classic — were relegated to a single paragraph in “Land of Plenty”; here they get a full page and a photograph that is sure to cause intense hunger pangs.
To my mind, Dunlop’s attention to the roots of each dish is one of the most refreshing things about this book. She doesn’t speak generically about “Chinese food” — she tells you that a particular beef soup comes from Chongqing in Sichuan. Moreover, you get to experience her delight as she brings you along on a trip through her memories of Chinese dishes past and present, taking the time to explain why she loves them and how you should enjoy them as the Chinese do: with great enthusiasm.
It’s been close to five years since Dunlop’s last cookbook, and I’m happy to report that “Every Grain of Rice” is well worth the wait.
Top photo composite:
Fuchsia Dunlop by Colin Bell. Book cover courtesy of W. W. Norton.