Stroganoff is a dish that sits at the edge between two cuisines. The dish originated when Russian aristocrats requested a stew pe prepared for them by their in-house French chefs. The result was the dish we now call beef stroganoff, although variations with other proteins certainly do exist, most notably chicken. Because we eat a lot more chicken than we do beef in my family (probably 300:1, without exaggeration), this recipe, like so many others, will be presented with chicken as its main protein, with the understanding that you, the reader, can absolutely change out the chicken for beef if that’s what you have available or if that’s what you prefer.
Stroganoff has two kinds of tasks within it: some that are very hands-on, where seconds matter, and some that are very hands-off, where no work needs to be done for 40 minutes or more. This recipe is written so that the hands-off tasks can be set and left alone while all of the home cook’s attention goes to working on the immediate, hands-on tasks. The closer you are to the beginning of the process, the more hands-on it will be.
The 3 adults in my family can comfortably be fed by 1½ pounds of protein; feel free to scale this up or down as necessary given your family’s size. If you use chicken, like I almost always do, I recommend buying high-quality sustainable boneless and skinless chicken breast. If you opt for beef, then use an equivalent amount of the best sirloin steak you can find.
Stroganoff requires good resource management beyond just “having mise en place.” You need to have mise en place, but you need to get mise en place in the right order. This is doubly true if you, like me, have only one cutting surface (with dedicated “meat” and “not-meat” sides) but not two entirely separate surfaces. (This latter scenario is vastly preferable, and, even better would be to color-code your cutting boards: white or clear for non-meat and colored for meat, for instance).
Begin by dicing an onion, mincing 4 cloves of garlic, and washing and slicing 1 pound of baby bella or porcini mushrooms. Some people say not to wash mushrooms but instead to clean them just with a moist paper towel. I used to agree with that—to prevent saturation of the mushrooms—until I realized it was relatively quick to boil the water out of the mushrooms, so this didn’t need to be a concern. The mushrooms and the onion will first expel water contained in their cells. Then, they will begin to fry in the olive oil that should lightly coat the bottom of the pan, forming a thin film over the whole bottom surface, thus providing an interface between the food and the metal surface for more even heat distribution and thus better browning. It takes practice, but you’ll eventually learn to distinguish the sounds coming from your pan when the mushrooms are expelling water versus when they’re browning. Once the mushrooms are beginning to take on some color and have reduced in volume rather significantly, add balsamic vinegar to the mushrooms and the onions. Allow the vinegar to cook off its acidity for a minute or two, and then reserve the mushrooms, onions, and garlic.
Cut your protein of choice into slightly larger than bite-sized pieces. Quickly over high heat, allow your protein to get some good coloring as a result of the Maillard reaction. Do not cook your protein to its desired doneness (165 Fahrenheit for chicken; likely a lower temperature for other proteins unless you like your meat well-done) at this stage; all you want to do is to pick up some color.
Clean your board and utensils thoroughly, and cut 7 tomatoes, 1 bell pepper, and one onion into small enough pieces as to be manageable by a blender. You need a blender to make this sauce because it will ultimately be a cream sauce, and the particles of tomato and such need to be very small so that the fat from the cream can emulsify into them, thus eventually creating a smooth sauce that doesn’t split. Once the sauce has been blended, return the chicken, mushrooms, and onions to the pan, and cook on low heat, maintaining a simmer and stirring occasionally, until the chicken is cooked through, and the sauce has reduced. (If your protein of choice does not need to be cooked through all the way, sear it off, give the sauce a head-start, and then let the protein finish cooking in the sauce.) Season this sauce as you would any other tomato sauce, with salt, pepper, thyme, basil, oregano, and dill. Allow this sauce to cook just as gently, for just as long.
Simultaneously, according to the instructions on the package, prepare the starch of your choice (we choose either rice or pasta depending on what we have most easily available) so that the starch finishes at the same time as the sauce.
When the sauce and the starch have both finished cooking, turn the sauce burner off and move the pan off the heat. Place most of the contents of an 8-ounce tub of sour cream (per 24 ounces of protein) into the sauce, leaving some cream behind. Then, place some sauce back in the tub of cream, and mix the two in the tub. Introduce this mixture back into the sauce. Stir. This last step is called “tempering” the cream sauce, and, together with introducing the cream to the sauce off the heat, this minimizes the chances that the sauce will split. (A “split” sauce will have a film of fat clearly noticeable on the top surface. This isn’t technically harmful; it just isn’t the best presentation, so we try to avoid this whenever possible.) Using a blender to liquefy the sauce in the earlier steps makes the particles of the sauce much smaller than simply chopping them in a food processor, and it’s much easier for fat to wrap around the liquified sauce particles from the blender; doing all of this makes it virtually impossible that the sauce will ever split.
Serve.
Saturday, December 25, 2021
Friday, December 24, 2021
Christmas Eve Rolled Center-Cut Pork Loin with Pan Sauce
Done right, a pork loin can be a wonderful cut of meat. The general public, and especially inexperienced home cooks, get scared by pork and so they don’t cook it nearly as often as they should. Something about pork is much more intimidating than other animal proteins, and I aim to change that. When home cooks do cook pork, many times, it doesn’t fit their expectations. Sorry to burst your bubbles, home chefs, but that’s on you, not on the pork. Pork can certainly pose a challenge, but with a little bit of preparation and good technique, a pork loin roast can be as good or better than any other protein you’re more used to preparing.
First, some anatomy. The pig’s loin muscle tapers at both ends. Therefore, the biggest, fattiest, best, and most expensive part of the loin is the center. A center-cut loin roast that weighs 3-3.5 pounds can comfortably feed 5-7 people. (The center-cut loin roast can get as wide as a desktop keyboard, and the whole loin roast can get to nearly twice that.) Be sure not to confuse a loin roast with a tenderloin roast. The “loin” roast lies on either side of the pig’s spine. Pork chops come from here, and the biggest, best ones come from the center as mentioned above. This is completely different from the “tenderloin” roast—the “pig’s chateaubriand” (you get filet mignon from real chateaubriand from cattle; the tenderloin is essentially that, but on a pig). The “tenderloin” roast rarely exceeds a pound or a pound and a half, so it only barely feeds two. To clear this up, for now, this recipe is covering the “loin” roast. The “tenderloin” recipe will come out in a few months, and when it does, I’ll hyperlink it here.
This loin recipe will require butterflying. This procedure is one of the reasons this particular cut of pork can be intimidating to anyone except those who have years of experience with it. But, taken step-by-step, butterflying is actually quite simple. The idea behind butterflying is simple: cut down 1/3 of the loin almost to the point of detaching it, but not quite. This makes a flap that then opens. One side is 1/3 the original thickness, and the other side is 2/3. Make another cut that opens up the 2/3 so there’s now one flat sheet of pork that opens up like a book. Each time, cut almost all the way through, but never actually all the way through. Use the flat side of a meat mallet to pound out this opened pork loin to roughly even thickness.
Lay the roast flat and open, fat-cap-side down. (If you roll it back up into its previous log-like shape before your butterflying cuts unraveled it, you’ll notice one side has a layer of fat. That’s the fat cap.) Make a few long, shallow cuts in each direction, creating a checkered pattern on the flesh side of the open, butterflied roast. Season it with salt and freshly cracked black pepper. Soften 1 stick of unsalted butter. Into that, mix the chopped leaves of one bunch each of sage, thyme, rosemary, and tarragon, and 4 minced cloves of garlic. Apply this compound butter all over the inside of roast. Roll it up so it looks like it did before you cut into it again and tie it together at regular intervals. Depending on the size and shape of your roast, you might use between four and six knots and equivalently many lengths of kitchen twine. Apply the rest of the butter to the outside of the roast. Once tied and buttered, place the roast in a baking dish fat-cap-side-up, and place that baking dish in a preheated 450-degree oven for 20 minutes. Drop the heat to 350 after 20 minutes and let the roast come up to 140 Fahrenheit in that oven. Remove the roast from the oven at 140, and it will come up at least to 150, maybe even higher, if you let it rest for 10 or 15 minutes. This “cooking after the cooking” is called “carryover” and is an essential part of the process for cooking large steaks or roasts like this one. If you do not allow the proteins to relax and the moisture to redistribute, you’ll end up with a bunch of dry, tense protein—the opposite of the desired moist, tender protein.
There seems to be a generational divide regarding the proper doneness for pork. I’m a part of Gen Z. The prevailing guidance for most of our generation’s experience (and that of Millennials before us) has been that slightly pink pork pulled at 145 is perfectly safe. Our parents and earlier (Gen X, Boomers, and the Silent Generation) were always taught by the USDA that the only way to make pork safe was to cook it all the way well-done. Now, the USDA says medium and medium-well are also perfectly safe. But depending on who you cook for, you may have to adjust to your parents’, grandparents’, etc., preferences. This preference for a higher degree of doneness isn’t irrational. Up until a few decades ago, when Millennials and Gen Zers were growing up, the prevailing wisdom was that trichinosis infection could result from undercooked pork. While still technically true that pork can carry trichinosis, studies have shown that not only is trichinosis exceedingly rare in the American pork yield, but also that 145 is a sufficiently high temperature to mitigate its effects. However, if other pathogens are common where your pork comes from elsewhere in the world, then please, by all means, cook it to 160 to be safe.
Some fond will certainly accumulate on the bottom surface of your roasting tray. Do not let this go to waste! A piece of pork the size of a whole center-cut loin should rest at least 15 minutes (no, it won’t go cold in that time)—the perfect amount of time to make a pan sauce. Into the pan go 2 Tablespoons each of flour and butter, over medium-low heat. Whisk together until a light paste forms, being careful not to burn either the paste (called a “roux”) or the pork fond. Gradually add 1 ½ cups of chicken, beef, or pork stock. Whisk constantly to make sure there are no lumps created in the stock by the thickening power of the roux. This deglazes the pan, i.e., it lifts off those sticky caramelized bits of porky goodness left on the bottom of the pan and dissolves them into the sauce, thereby seasoning it. When the sauce reduces by half, cut off the heat and whisk in another 3 tablespoons of cold butter. Serve alongside the pork loin.
First, some anatomy. The pig’s loin muscle tapers at both ends. Therefore, the biggest, fattiest, best, and most expensive part of the loin is the center. A center-cut loin roast that weighs 3-3.5 pounds can comfortably feed 5-7 people. (The center-cut loin roast can get as wide as a desktop keyboard, and the whole loin roast can get to nearly twice that.) Be sure not to confuse a loin roast with a tenderloin roast. The “loin” roast lies on either side of the pig’s spine. Pork chops come from here, and the biggest, best ones come from the center as mentioned above. This is completely different from the “tenderloin” roast—the “pig’s chateaubriand” (you get filet mignon from real chateaubriand from cattle; the tenderloin is essentially that, but on a pig). The “tenderloin” roast rarely exceeds a pound or a pound and a half, so it only barely feeds two. To clear this up, for now, this recipe is covering the “loin” roast. The “tenderloin” recipe will come out in a few months, and when it does, I’ll hyperlink it here.
This loin recipe will require butterflying. This procedure is one of the reasons this particular cut of pork can be intimidating to anyone except those who have years of experience with it. But, taken step-by-step, butterflying is actually quite simple. The idea behind butterflying is simple: cut down 1/3 of the loin almost to the point of detaching it, but not quite. This makes a flap that then opens. One side is 1/3 the original thickness, and the other side is 2/3. Make another cut that opens up the 2/3 so there’s now one flat sheet of pork that opens up like a book. Each time, cut almost all the way through, but never actually all the way through. Use the flat side of a meat mallet to pound out this opened pork loin to roughly even thickness.
Lay the roast flat and open, fat-cap-side down. (If you roll it back up into its previous log-like shape before your butterflying cuts unraveled it, you’ll notice one side has a layer of fat. That’s the fat cap.) Make a few long, shallow cuts in each direction, creating a checkered pattern on the flesh side of the open, butterflied roast. Season it with salt and freshly cracked black pepper. Soften 1 stick of unsalted butter. Into that, mix the chopped leaves of one bunch each of sage, thyme, rosemary, and tarragon, and 4 minced cloves of garlic. Apply this compound butter all over the inside of roast. Roll it up so it looks like it did before you cut into it again and tie it together at regular intervals. Depending on the size and shape of your roast, you might use between four and six knots and equivalently many lengths of kitchen twine. Apply the rest of the butter to the outside of the roast. Once tied and buttered, place the roast in a baking dish fat-cap-side-up, and place that baking dish in a preheated 450-degree oven for 20 minutes. Drop the heat to 350 after 20 minutes and let the roast come up to 140 Fahrenheit in that oven. Remove the roast from the oven at 140, and it will come up at least to 150, maybe even higher, if you let it rest for 10 or 15 minutes. This “cooking after the cooking” is called “carryover” and is an essential part of the process for cooking large steaks or roasts like this one. If you do not allow the proteins to relax and the moisture to redistribute, you’ll end up with a bunch of dry, tense protein—the opposite of the desired moist, tender protein.
There seems to be a generational divide regarding the proper doneness for pork. I’m a part of Gen Z. The prevailing guidance for most of our generation’s experience (and that of Millennials before us) has been that slightly pink pork pulled at 145 is perfectly safe. Our parents and earlier (Gen X, Boomers, and the Silent Generation) were always taught by the USDA that the only way to make pork safe was to cook it all the way well-done. Now, the USDA says medium and medium-well are also perfectly safe. But depending on who you cook for, you may have to adjust to your parents’, grandparents’, etc., preferences. This preference for a higher degree of doneness isn’t irrational. Up until a few decades ago, when Millennials and Gen Zers were growing up, the prevailing wisdom was that trichinosis infection could result from undercooked pork. While still technically true that pork can carry trichinosis, studies have shown that not only is trichinosis exceedingly rare in the American pork yield, but also that 145 is a sufficiently high temperature to mitigate its effects. However, if other pathogens are common where your pork comes from elsewhere in the world, then please, by all means, cook it to 160 to be safe.
Some fond will certainly accumulate on the bottom surface of your roasting tray. Do not let this go to waste! A piece of pork the size of a whole center-cut loin should rest at least 15 minutes (no, it won’t go cold in that time)—the perfect amount of time to make a pan sauce. Into the pan go 2 Tablespoons each of flour and butter, over medium-low heat. Whisk together until a light paste forms, being careful not to burn either the paste (called a “roux”) or the pork fond. Gradually add 1 ½ cups of chicken, beef, or pork stock. Whisk constantly to make sure there are no lumps created in the stock by the thickening power of the roux. This deglazes the pan, i.e., it lifts off those sticky caramelized bits of porky goodness left on the bottom of the pan and dissolves them into the sauce, thereby seasoning it. When the sauce reduces by half, cut off the heat and whisk in another 3 tablespoons of cold butter. Serve alongside the pork loin.
Wednesday, December 22, 2021
Pickling 101
Pickling is an easy, quick, cheap, and versatile method for flavoring and preserving a wide variety of otherwise-quickly-perishable foods. Of course, in the American culinary lexicon, the pickle most familiar to us—to the extent that “pickle” with no further context refers to this—is the pickled cucumber. But there are so many more possibilities for pickling beyond just cucumbers. Most home cooks don’t know how to do this either because they haven’t taken the time to learn or because they’re intimidated by the process. Either way, that’s truly a shame since the process is neither hard to learn nor complex. In fact, pickling is probably the most hands-free way to elevate components of almost any dish.
Pickling is, simply put, preserving food in a salty, acidic liquid. Almost anything can be pickled, with a few exceptions: I would stay away from Brassicas (broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce, cabbage, spinach, and kale) because their flavors overpower the pickling process and because their textures don’t work as well with pickling. For us, that comes in the following form (this scales up very well, so scale up as much as you want, as long as you have a big enough container). This liquid is as follows: 1 cup of water plus one cup of a good vinegar that isn’t balsamic (white distilled or apple cider are the best ones that fit those criteria that I have at home) brought to a boil with 1 teaspoon of salt per cup of liquid (here, 2 teaspoons). Feel free to infuse any whole spices into this liquid now. Bring this to a boil to dissolve the salt and infuse whatever spices you want. Thinly slice your vegetables, place them in an airtight-sealable container, and then pour the still-hot pickling liquid over them and close the lid of that container, forming the airtight seal. Once this has cooled to room temperature, place in the fridge. Leave it there for anywhere between 3 days and a week before using for the first time. These pickles will stay good—and get better over time—for anywhere between 3 months and 1 year. If you ever see mold growing in your pickling liquid, throw everything away, wash out the jar, and start over.
Homemade pickles are a great way to enjoy the flavors of pickled food while knowing exactly what went into them. They involve fermentation, so they’re a great scientific demonstration for young kids just getting started in chemistry and/or in the kitchen. And, gastronomically, they’re a great way to bring both texture and flavor to any dish where the non-pickled ingredients would be called for—as toppings for burgers and salads or eaten on their own just to name a few uses.
Pickling is, simply put, preserving food in a salty, acidic liquid. Almost anything can be pickled, with a few exceptions: I would stay away from Brassicas (broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce, cabbage, spinach, and kale) because their flavors overpower the pickling process and because their textures don’t work as well with pickling. For us, that comes in the following form (this scales up very well, so scale up as much as you want, as long as you have a big enough container). This liquid is as follows: 1 cup of water plus one cup of a good vinegar that isn’t balsamic (white distilled or apple cider are the best ones that fit those criteria that I have at home) brought to a boil with 1 teaspoon of salt per cup of liquid (here, 2 teaspoons). Feel free to infuse any whole spices into this liquid now. Bring this to a boil to dissolve the salt and infuse whatever spices you want. Thinly slice your vegetables, place them in an airtight-sealable container, and then pour the still-hot pickling liquid over them and close the lid of that container, forming the airtight seal. Once this has cooled to room temperature, place in the fridge. Leave it there for anywhere between 3 days and a week before using for the first time. These pickles will stay good—and get better over time—for anywhere between 3 months and 1 year. If you ever see mold growing in your pickling liquid, throw everything away, wash out the jar, and start over.
Homemade pickles are a great way to enjoy the flavors of pickled food while knowing exactly what went into them. They involve fermentation, so they’re a great scientific demonstration for young kids just getting started in chemistry and/or in the kitchen. And, gastronomically, they’re a great way to bring both texture and flavor to any dish where the non-pickled ingredients would be called for—as toppings for burgers and salads or eaten on their own just to name a few uses.
(Credit to Southern Bite)
Sunday, December 19, 2021
Frittata
Frittatas, like quiches or omelets, are simple egg dishes that should be in every home cook's repertoire. They don't require much active preparation, and the technique is very versatile, so it could be applied to any set of ingredients you might have. In general, though, frittata ingredient lists follow a simple pattern: eggs, milk, cheese, proteins, and vegetables.
Crack 2 eggs per portion into a large bowl. This dish is quite rustic; don't get fancy trying to separate yolks and whites. That's entirely unnecessary. Beat the eggs until homogenous-- that is, until no streaks of white remain in the yolk. To these beaten eggs, add 4-6 ounces of milk, depending on how much volume the eggs have.
Ideally, hand-grate 5 ounces of cheese (for a 6-egg frittata). I use sharp white cheddar because I like its creamy texture and because it melts well, thus helping maintain the frittata's structure. If you don't have a box grater, buying pre-shredded cheese will work. (But be warned that pre-grated or pre-shredded cheeses usually contain anti-clumping/anti-caking agents that slightly alter the flavor profile of the cheese.) Slice 2 bratwurst links into coins about a quarter-inch thick. Dice 1 onion and one bell pepper, and mince 4 cloves of garlic. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
In an oven-safe saute pan, cook the onions, garlic, and sausage until they take on some color and become fragrant. Reserve. Clean out the pan with a paper towel.
Place 2-3 tablespoons of oil or melted butter (melted as needed, not ahead of time) back in the pan. Carefully pour the egg mixture into the pan, over medium heat. Retrieve the accouterments and place them into the eggs. Place the cheese into the eggs.
Take this pan and place it into the oven, leaving it undisturbed (no flipping, no rotating, etc.) for 15-20 minutes or until the eggs are cooked through and the frittata appears golden brown.
Allow the frittata to rest for 2 minutes after it comes out of the oven. Frittatas are protein-heavy dishes not unlike steaks--when you sear off a steak, you let it rest to allow its protein structures to relax, and you should do the same for the frittata. A well-rested frittata is less likely to disintegrate when cut. Don't worry, resting for such a short period will not make it go cold.
Ideally, make slightly more than I've indicated here of each of the filling components: the sausage, the peppers, and the onions. Check that the outer edge of the frittata is not stuck to the perimeter of the pan. After the frittata has rested and comes out of the oven, cover the pan with a plate large enough to cover the whole area of the opening of the pan. Carefully flip the pan onto the plate (so the opening of the pan, where the lid would go, now faces the floor). Garnish with the extra toppings. Serve, either as a main dish or as an accompaniment.
Ideally, hand-grate 5 ounces of cheese (for a 6-egg frittata). I use sharp white cheddar because I like its creamy texture and because it melts well, thus helping maintain the frittata's structure. If you don't have a box grater, buying pre-shredded cheese will work. (But be warned that pre-grated or pre-shredded cheeses usually contain anti-clumping/anti-caking agents that slightly alter the flavor profile of the cheese.) Slice 2 bratwurst links into coins about a quarter-inch thick. Dice 1 onion and one bell pepper, and mince 4 cloves of garlic. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
In an oven-safe saute pan, cook the onions, garlic, and sausage until they take on some color and become fragrant. Reserve. Clean out the pan with a paper towel.
Place 2-3 tablespoons of oil or melted butter (melted as needed, not ahead of time) back in the pan. Carefully pour the egg mixture into the pan, over medium heat. Retrieve the accouterments and place them into the eggs. Place the cheese into the eggs.
Take this pan and place it into the oven, leaving it undisturbed (no flipping, no rotating, etc.) for 15-20 minutes or until the eggs are cooked through and the frittata appears golden brown.
Allow the frittata to rest for 2 minutes after it comes out of the oven. Frittatas are protein-heavy dishes not unlike steaks--when you sear off a steak, you let it rest to allow its protein structures to relax, and you should do the same for the frittata. A well-rested frittata is less likely to disintegrate when cut. Don't worry, resting for such a short period will not make it go cold.
Ideally, make slightly more than I've indicated here of each of the filling components: the sausage, the peppers, and the onions. Check that the outer edge of the frittata is not stuck to the perimeter of the pan. After the frittata has rested and comes out of the oven, cover the pan with a plate large enough to cover the whole area of the opening of the pan. Carefully flip the pan onto the plate (so the opening of the pan, where the lid would go, now faces the floor). Garnish with the extra toppings. Serve, either as a main dish or as an accompaniment.
Saturday, December 18, 2021
Classic Caesar Salad
Caesar salads are some of my favorites, and whenever I have open access to a salad bar (like here at my university, where this access is dependent on sanitizing my hands before and after, and wearing a mask at all times), they’re one of my favorites to build. The story behind this salad goes back about 100 years and has a number of twists and turns I didn’t know about until very recently—just a few weeks ago.
I had assumed that such a classic dish by that name would have been brought to the United States in the 1800s through one of the waves of mass migration to America from Europe around that time. But it turns out that the salad actually originates much later (in the 1920s or 1930s) and much further southwest (in Mexico) than I had imagined. Apparently, this dish originated around the time of the Great Depression when an Italian-American chef working in Mexico wanted to prepare a salad to feed American expats in Mexico. Until I found this out, I had expected the Caesar salad to have been an old Roman classic, what, with that name and all.
This classic salad, original geography aside, has 3 main components: good Romaine lettuce, croutons, and a dressing. I am notorious in these recipes for doing as much as possible myself, but there has to be a line somewhere. Luckily for you, dear reader, that line is somewhere around “I’m not going to make you grow your own lettuce.” (But on the off-chance that this makes it to Chef Frank Proto—we Epicurious fans would love to see your take on a Level-3 Caesar, Chef!)
Romaine is a head lettuce, and that means it needs to be cleaned a certain way. Chop the lettuce first, and then clean it. Lettuces anatomically similar to Romaine are held together at a single point, so unless you free each leaf from its connection to that central point on the core, dirt and other residues can still accumulate and remain hidden.
As for the dressing, there are two ways of making it—entirely from scratch or by combining a number of premade ingredients. This binary option comes from the fact that Caesar dressing is a mayonnaise-based dressing. You can either make your own mayonnaise according to the method I laid out in the Mother Sauces series, or, if you aren’t comfortable with raw eggs, you can use a high-quality store-bought mayonnaise. Mince or press 3 garlic cloves into ¾ cup mayonnaise (store-bought or homemade) and 1½ tablespoons of Dijon or whole-grain mustard. Juice and zest one lemon into the mayonnaise and mustard. Grate in parmesan to your liking. Season to taste with salt and fresh-cracked black pepper. This is a completed Caesar dressing.
Finally, we have the croutons. Mince 6 cloves of garlic into 6 tablespoons of softened butter. Cut one loaf of sourdough into slices 1½ inches thick. Cover each slice with some of this butter. Then, cut each slice into cubes. Place these buttered cubes in a 300-degree Fahrenheit oven until golden brown, but not burned. Allow the croutons to cool once they come out of the oven. Hot croutons will change the chemistry of the dressing (especially if you made it fresh) and wilt the lettuce. To avoid these problems, only toss the dressing, croutons, and lettuce when everything has cooled to room temperature.
To serve, toss everything together and optionally garnish with extra parmesan.
I had assumed that such a classic dish by that name would have been brought to the United States in the 1800s through one of the waves of mass migration to America from Europe around that time. But it turns out that the salad actually originates much later (in the 1920s or 1930s) and much further southwest (in Mexico) than I had imagined. Apparently, this dish originated around the time of the Great Depression when an Italian-American chef working in Mexico wanted to prepare a salad to feed American expats in Mexico. Until I found this out, I had expected the Caesar salad to have been an old Roman classic, what, with that name and all.
This classic salad, original geography aside, has 3 main components: good Romaine lettuce, croutons, and a dressing. I am notorious in these recipes for doing as much as possible myself, but there has to be a line somewhere. Luckily for you, dear reader, that line is somewhere around “I’m not going to make you grow your own lettuce.” (But on the off-chance that this makes it to Chef Frank Proto—we Epicurious fans would love to see your take on a Level-3 Caesar, Chef!)
Romaine is a head lettuce, and that means it needs to be cleaned a certain way. Chop the lettuce first, and then clean it. Lettuces anatomically similar to Romaine are held together at a single point, so unless you free each leaf from its connection to that central point on the core, dirt and other residues can still accumulate and remain hidden.
As for the dressing, there are two ways of making it—entirely from scratch or by combining a number of premade ingredients. This binary option comes from the fact that Caesar dressing is a mayonnaise-based dressing. You can either make your own mayonnaise according to the method I laid out in the Mother Sauces series, or, if you aren’t comfortable with raw eggs, you can use a high-quality store-bought mayonnaise. Mince or press 3 garlic cloves into ¾ cup mayonnaise (store-bought or homemade) and 1½ tablespoons of Dijon or whole-grain mustard. Juice and zest one lemon into the mayonnaise and mustard. Grate in parmesan to your liking. Season to taste with salt and fresh-cracked black pepper. This is a completed Caesar dressing.
Finally, we have the croutons. Mince 6 cloves of garlic into 6 tablespoons of softened butter. Cut one loaf of sourdough into slices 1½ inches thick. Cover each slice with some of this butter. Then, cut each slice into cubes. Place these buttered cubes in a 300-degree Fahrenheit oven until golden brown, but not burned. Allow the croutons to cool once they come out of the oven. Hot croutons will change the chemistry of the dressing (especially if you made it fresh) and wilt the lettuce. To avoid these problems, only toss the dressing, croutons, and lettuce when everything has cooled to room temperature.
To serve, toss everything together and optionally garnish with extra parmesan.
Friday, December 17, 2021
Bucatini all'Amatriciana
Amatriciana is a classic Roman sauce named after the nearby town of Amatrice. (Sadly, a few years ago, most of the town was destroyed by a very strong earthquake, and the area is still in recovery after all this time.) This is always properly served as a sauce with bucatini pasta, a close cousin of spaghetti. For a long time, given its base, it has been thought of as a close cousin of carbonara. (That recipe will be coming in four weeks.) Even given this close association with carbonara, it is nowhere near as well-known as its relative. If everyone who knew how good carbonara was tried amatriciana, I am sure a significant majority would also become fans of this tomato sauce. This sauce, though a relative of carbonara, is far less technical than it—much closer to the skill level of my sauce tomate from my French Mother Sauces series than to the skill level required for proper carbonara.
Cut 6 ounces of your pork product into strips and then cut across those strips to make lardons. Bear in mind that the lardons will contract significantly (by about half) as the fat renders out while the lardons are cooking, so cut them larger than you want them to end up in the final dish. Place the pork product (ideally guanciale) into a cold sauté pan. When the guanciale has been placed into the pan, turn the heat to medium (but no higher) and allow the fat to gradually render out of the guanciale. You don’t need any extra fat for this process. The fact that you are starting at a low temperature means the guanciale will be able to cook solely in its own fat since the low temperature gives the fat a head-start at melting relative to the cooking of the protein in the guanciale.
Cook 1 pound of bucatini as directed. 2 minutes before draining, reserve ¾ cup of the pasta cooking water. Drain the remaining water when a timer set according to the manufacturer’s instructions beeps. Place the pasta in the sauce. Toss to combine. If the sauce is too thick, use some of the reserved pasta cooking water to adjust the consistency and build an emulsified sauce.
One thing stands in the way of the average home cook being able to make this sauce regularly: confusion about one of the ingredients and its substitutability or lack thereof. Amatriciana (and its relatives like gricia or carbonara) call for a protein called guanciale. Guanciale is a salt-and-spice-cured cut of meat that comes in a slab cut from the cheek of the pig. Guanciale has a very distinct flavor not only because of the muscle it comes from but also because of the spices that are used to cure it and the fact that it remains unsmoked. Try to find good guanciale, but if you can’t then get pancetta. If you can’t find either, go for good prosciutto. Only if guanciale, pancetta, and prosciutto (in that order) are nowhere to be found, look for slab bacon.
Cut 6 ounces of your pork product into strips and then cut across those strips to make lardons. Bear in mind that the lardons will contract significantly (by about half) as the fat renders out while the lardons are cooking, so cut them larger than you want them to end up in the final dish. Place the pork product (ideally guanciale) into a cold sauté pan. When the guanciale has been placed into the pan, turn the heat to medium (but no higher) and allow the fat to gradually render out of the guanciale. You don’t need any extra fat for this process. The fact that you are starting at a low temperature means the guanciale will be able to cook solely in its own fat since the low temperature gives the fat a head-start at melting relative to the cooking of the protein in the guanciale.
After about 10 minutes or however long it takes the guanciale to get to your desired state of crispiness, place 1 28-ounce can of San Marzano tomatoes into the saucepan where the guanciale is. Be careful since the tomatoes have plenty of water in them and there is plenty of fat in the pan from the guanciale. Because of this, there may be some splattering. Be careful to avoid burning yourself at this stage. Stir to prevent anything from catching and burning on the bottom or sides. Allow the sauce to simmer uncovered on low heat for 20-30 minutes.
Cook 1 pound of bucatini as directed. 2 minutes before draining, reserve ¾ cup of the pasta cooking water. Drain the remaining water when a timer set according to the manufacturer’s instructions beeps. Place the pasta in the sauce. Toss to combine. If the sauce is too thick, use some of the reserved pasta cooking water to adjust the consistency and build an emulsified sauce.
Garnish with fresh-grated Pecorino Romano. If you make this, be sure to leave a comment down below letting me know!
Saturday, December 11, 2021
Garlic-Red Wine-Dijon Vinaigrette
Building an emulsion is one of the most fundamental skills in the kitchen, and yet it’s the one the average home cook is the least proficient with. Most home cooks don’t know how to make an emulsion, let alone define or classify one. My mission with this post will be to completely demystify emulsion sauces and make them accessible to any home cook with good ingredients, a lot of patience, and a willingness to fail and try again. Believe me, you will fail. But that’s okay. You’re cooking at home, not at a 3-starred restaurant. Failure will come, and you will learn from it. And when you learn from your failures, in that, you will find your success. Once you find what works, repeat it over and over, and your days of failure will be behind you.
There are certain substances, like oil and water, that, for a number of reasons, don’t mix. They have different densities, different polarities, and so on. Mixing them by physical agitation will keep them stable, but only for a few seconds. “Stable” or “unstable” in this context is the answer to the following question: after you apply physical force to the two substances to combine them, do they stay together (they’re stable) or do they eventually come apart again (they’re unstable). Let’s look at the easy case first: the stable world. Apple juice and water. Pour one into a glass and then the other, and they’ll immediately mix and stay there in that mixed state forever. Change the first substance to oil, and you have a phenomenon most of us probably first observed in third or fourth grade: apply all the physical force you want, but the oil and water won’t stay together. Creating an emulsion is fundamentally about answering the following question: what third substance can I add to two unstable substances that will interact with those two substances in a way that makes all three substances together stable?
Answering this question is as much art as it is science. Science because you have to pick the right kind of substance to be the mediator between the other two. Art because, from that class of substances you found, you now have to know what each one tastes like in isolation and when combined with your other substances, and so which of the possible candidates is best.
This recipe, to demonstrate proper emulsion, will teach you how to make a garlic-red wine-Dijon vinaigrette. This vinaigrette has four components: minced garlic, vinegar, mustard, and oil. Vinegar and oil don’t mix. It will ultimately be the job of the Dijon mustard to do what I’ll say suffices to call “chemical magic” to keep those two unfriendly substances together.
Begin by mincing 1 large clove of garlic, or two smaller cloves of garlic. Place the minced garlic in a wide bowl together with a tablespoon each of Dijon and red wine vinegar. Using a whisk, combine those ingredients. At this point, we’ve only combined ingredients that “like” each other—that is, those that don’t resist each other.
That was the simple stage. The complex stage begins now. Pick an oil. I would use extra virgin olive oil. If you can get one of those squeeze bottles where dressings and condiments come in at restaurants or when you’re getting your condiments at a place that makes sandwiches from scratch, that would be amazing. They have really narrow openings that are much easier to control than the average opening in an oil bottle. Without this equipment, the process is still doable, but it requires a lot more attention and control.
Begin streaming in the oil on the side of the bowl, literally drop by drop. As I said in some of my Mother Sauce explanations, DO NOT STOP WHISKING. Getting the first few drops of oil to incorporate is the hardest part of this process. After starting out drop by drop, you can increase your flow to a light, constant stream. As you do this and throughout this phase, DO NOT STOP WHISKING. You should notice that, paradoxically, as more (liquid) oil is added to your (liquid) vinaigrette, it will thicken ever more and behave more and more like a solid as its viscosity increases. After a few seconds at a thin flow, you can increase your flow even more—the more oil is incorporated, the faster the next measure of oil can be incorporated. Stop doing this when you have enough vinaigrette, but until then, NEVER STOP WHISKING. Once you have enough vinaigrette, add salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Use this in a variety of applications: as a salad dressing; as a marinade for beef, pork, or poultry; or in any other context where a vinaigrette is called for.
This recipe, to demonstrate proper emulsion, will teach you how to make a garlic-red wine-Dijon vinaigrette. This vinaigrette has four components: minced garlic, vinegar, mustard, and oil. Vinegar and oil don’t mix. It will ultimately be the job of the Dijon mustard to do what I’ll say suffices to call “chemical magic” to keep those two unfriendly substances together.
Begin by mincing 1 large clove of garlic, or two smaller cloves of garlic. Place the minced garlic in a wide bowl together with a tablespoon each of Dijon and red wine vinegar. Using a whisk, combine those ingredients. At this point, we’ve only combined ingredients that “like” each other—that is, those that don’t resist each other.
That was the simple stage. The complex stage begins now. Pick an oil. I would use extra virgin olive oil. If you can get one of those squeeze bottles where dressings and condiments come in at restaurants or when you’re getting your condiments at a place that makes sandwiches from scratch, that would be amazing. They have really narrow openings that are much easier to control than the average opening in an oil bottle. Without this equipment, the process is still doable, but it requires a lot more attention and control.
Begin streaming in the oil on the side of the bowl, literally drop by drop. As I said in some of my Mother Sauce explanations, DO NOT STOP WHISKING. Getting the first few drops of oil to incorporate is the hardest part of this process. After starting out drop by drop, you can increase your flow to a light, constant stream. As you do this and throughout this phase, DO NOT STOP WHISKING. You should notice that, paradoxically, as more (liquid) oil is added to your (liquid) vinaigrette, it will thicken ever more and behave more and more like a solid as its viscosity increases. After a few seconds at a thin flow, you can increase your flow even more—the more oil is incorporated, the faster the next measure of oil can be incorporated. Stop doing this when you have enough vinaigrette, but until then, NEVER STOP WHISKING. Once you have enough vinaigrette, add salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Use this in a variety of applications: as a salad dressing; as a marinade for beef, pork, or poultry; or in any other context where a vinaigrette is called for.
Friday, December 3, 2021
Spaghetti Aglio e Olio
Today, we’re going back to basics with spaghetti aglio e olio, a Neapolitan pasta with a family twist. Everyone should have this simplest of pasta dishes in their repertoire. It tastes great, it’s cheap, and its ridiculously easy, so even a beginner cook (even a kid, with proper supervision!) can make this without much of a fuss.
Aglio e olio is so simple, and yet so flavorful. This will, quite possibly, be the shortest recipe I’ve ever written. Bring a gallon of water to a boil in a large, lidded pot. When the water comes to a boil, put in a pound of high-quality spaghetti or another long pasta. Cook that according to the package’s instructions, reserving a cup of the cooking water into a heat-proof container at the halfway mark.
Finely chop 3 large cloves of garlic. Coat a sauté pan with about 4 tablespoons of olive oil—enough to generously cover the whole surface of the pan. Be more generous than you think you should be since this oil will form the bulk of your sauce. Fry the garlic until aromatic. Zest and juice one lemon into the oil, being sure to catch any seeds. Lightly season the oil with salt and pepper, bearing in mind that more salt (from parmesan) will be coming later.
Once the pasta has cooked according to the manufacturer’s instructions and drained into a colander, place the pasta into the lemon-garlic-oil sauce, and start stirring. Keep stirring, and slowly stream in your pasta water. Go slowly to avoid splattering. (This step and the draining of the pasta—getting rid of a gallon of boiling water—are steps that require not just supervision but hands-on help from an experienced adult if a kid is making this.) Use as much or as little as you need to form a glossy, emulsified sauce.
Aglio e olio is so simple, and yet so flavorful. This will, quite possibly, be the shortest recipe I’ve ever written. Bring a gallon of water to a boil in a large, lidded pot. When the water comes to a boil, put in a pound of high-quality spaghetti or another long pasta. Cook that according to the package’s instructions, reserving a cup of the cooking water into a heat-proof container at the halfway mark.
Finely chop 3 large cloves of garlic. Coat a sauté pan with about 4 tablespoons of olive oil—enough to generously cover the whole surface of the pan. Be more generous than you think you should be since this oil will form the bulk of your sauce. Fry the garlic until aromatic. Zest and juice one lemon into the oil, being sure to catch any seeds. Lightly season the oil with salt and pepper, bearing in mind that more salt (from parmesan) will be coming later.
Once the pasta has cooked according to the manufacturer’s instructions and drained into a colander, place the pasta into the lemon-garlic-oil sauce, and start stirring. Keep stirring, and slowly stream in your pasta water. Go slowly to avoid splattering. (This step and the draining of the pasta—getting rid of a gallon of boiling water—are steps that require not just supervision but hands-on help from an experienced adult if a kid is making this.) Use as much or as little as you need to form a glossy, emulsified sauce.
Garnish the pasta with parmesan. Serve.
Our family twist is that we serve this alongside sauteed broccoli; the fact that we sauté the broccoli in garlic-infused oil (separately from the sauce, but with the same intentions of infusing the garlic into the oil) brings a nice unity to the dish, and the cooked-through-but-still-somewhat-crunchy broccoli provides not only a good color contrast (yellow/green) but also a nice texture contrast against the pasta.
This pasta truly is a work of genius. Don’t embellish it too much; let it speak for itself. That something so simple can be so good truly is one of the marvels of proper authentic Italian cuisine.
This pasta truly is a work of genius. Don’t embellish it too much; let it speak for itself. That something so simple can be so good truly is one of the marvels of proper authentic Italian cuisine.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
