Check out my recent post over at Serious Eats, a rundown of what's appearing now in New York farmers' markets. I visited both my local market in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, as well as the largest, most popular market in New York in Union Square (above).
In addition to the ubiquitous ramps, I also spotted asparagus, nettles, rhubarb, young garlic, spinach, and other hardy greens like chard and collards. Plus, some farmers were showing off greenhouse tomatoes and hydroponic lettuces. And I picked up some green eggs, which ended up as huevos rancheros! Check out the post for lots more pictures.
In the coming weeks look for this recurring feature, where Nick will also be covering markets in the Midwest. Or, if you live on the west coast, stay tuned to Serious Eats or check out last week's jealousy-inducing report from San Francisco.
-Blake
By Blake Royer
This weekend for brunch we made some huevos rancheros from start to finish.
The day before, we cooked a pound of the inimitable Rancho Gordo midnight black bean according to the instructions given by Rick Bayless: in a dutch oven, cook them with about 8 cups of water, two tablespoons of lard (or bacon drippings, or vegetable oil) and a chopped onion--bring to a boil, then simmer as low as possible until tender, salting in the last fifteen minutes only. To refrito them, we cooked onions in a skillet until golden, added garlic until softened, then mashed the beans into a rough paste.
The tortillas were corn, fried briefly in a little vegetable oil until pliant and just beginning to crisp.
The eggs came from the Fort Greene farmer's market and were from Araucana chickens, who lay eggs with shells ranging from blueish gray to greenish olive that, some say, have a superior flavor. We fried them without flipping in a non-stick skillet, covered to build up enough heat to barely set the whites on top.
The sauce was a jalapeño and 4 cloves of garlic minced in a food processor, followed by 8 husked, rinsed, and quartered tomatillos and a large handful of cilantro. It was moved to a saucepan to thicken over medium heat, then combined with a cup of chicken stock and reduced until sweet and flavorful.
A package of heirloom cherry tomatoes was chopped roughly, spiced with half a minced jalapeño, then glossed with a glug of olive oil.
An avocado needed only to be halved, pitted, and sliced into rough chunks.
Monterey Jack cheese was sprinkled on everything.
And of course, the whole affair was showered in juice from the incomparable lime.
If you're in the mood for Mexican, here are a few favorite posts from our archives.
Baja Fish Tacos
Refried Bean Tacos with Chorizo
Mexican Grilled Chicken
By Nick Kindelsperger
“What is the recipe for a perfectly cooked egg?”
- Hervé This, Molecular Gastronomy: Exploring the Science of Flavor
I am more confused now than when I began. But, in a completely odd and mind-boggling way, isn’t that kind of exciting? Before this weekend I never gave an ounce of thought to hard-boiled eggs or how to cook them. I now have spent the better part of a weekend slow boiling them. The previous method took under 15 minutes. And I did all for a dish that I didn’t and probably won’t eat that often.
It was all because I picked up Molecular Gastronomy by Hervé This (It’s a French name, and I don’t have any idea how to pronounce it). The cover looked interesting and text was lively and inviting. It approaches food scientifically, much like Harold McGee’s On Food and Cooking. But while the latter volume is encyclopedic in nature, this slender volume only covers a few topics and is conversational and completely engaging. That’s where I found this incredible--and completely infuriating--chapter on hard-boiled eggs.
Why is it infuriating? After three pages spent exploring the intricacies of cooking the eggs, he basically comes to the conclusion that hard-boiled eggs need to be cooked at a low temperature, around 154 degrees Fahrenheit, because that’s the point when the yolk will set (the white sets at 144). He concludes, “Obviously this would mean longer cooking times, but the result is a perfectly cooked egg.”
Great. I’m all about exploring ridiculous recipes in search of perfection. Who knew that a hard boiled egg could reach anything close to perfection? We’re talking about the humble hard-boiled egg here. But there’s one little problem with Monsieur This’s chapter: He never gave the recipe.
I’m left dangling at the end of this beautifully written chapter with the knowledge that hard-boiled eggs should be cooked slowly at 154 degrees F, but am given no indication on how long it will take. He hints at the traditional method Hamine eggs being cooked for “several hours,” but what exactly does that mean? Are we talking about 3 hours or 10? I scoured the net for some kind of reasoning. I searched “hamine eggs” and got gobbledegook responses and some random site that wanted to cook the eggs for 10 hours. A few other sites just linked back to that site. I needed some proof.
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By Blake Royer
Polenta is only water, salt, and cornmeal, unless a cook chooses, in
the style of risotto, to finish with a knob of butter or a hill
of Parmesan cheese. It is one those dishes so simple, its execution
can be lackluster or transcendent, depending on who makes it. What happens when these three things are combined is anyone's
guess. The result can be like cornbread blended with water, a soupy,
leaden porridge--or it can be silky, the essence of cornness, "each
grain swollen from the slow simmering and yet still rough, even
gravelly, against the roof of the mouth." That was Bill Buford
describing his first experience of true polenta at a restaurant in
Italy, which sent him headlong into an obsessive quest to learn to
cook it properly, in his book Heat. Good polenta can be a revelation.
While
I was reading Saveur's excellent article about the history and
arguments over proper Bolognese sauce in Italy (not online), I came across some
passages about how Bolognese is sometimes served not over freshly-made
pasta, but on a bed of wet polenta instead. I was doing the reading of this article on the way home from work
on the subway, which also coincides with the general timeframe when my
lunch has finished digesting. Usually this happens just after the
doors ding shut--the hunger pangs--and I know that I have 40 more
minutes of standing around dizzily in a jolting, delayed, packed train
before I'll have a chance to eat anything again.
There I was reading about giant bowls of creamy polenta topped with
deep, rich, meaty bolognese sauce, when I remembered, A-HA!, buried in
the back of the freezer, was a big plastic tub of deep, rich, meaty
bolognese sauce that we cooked a few months ago for a lasagne. I also
took inventory and remembered a bag of organic stone-ground coarse
cornmeal that we picked up at the Sheep and Wool Festival last year (not that that's a particularly obvious connection, wool + cornmeal, but nevertheless). I
decided immediately what would we eaten for dinner, and this thought carried me all the way home, into the kitchen, and in front of a
simmering pot of future polenta.
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By Nick Kindelsperger
“American cheese (processed cheese)”
-Wylie Dufresne, describing the type of cheese he likes on his burger
I haven’t exactly made my peace with American cheese. I still don’t like it cubed, melted in grilled cheese, or laid across a deli sandwich. I’m not that into reliving my childhood and, really, actual cheese always tastes better. I thought that was the end of it. When I was young I enjoyed the non-offensive creamy taste of processed cheese, but when I grew up I put the individually wrapped slices behind me for more flavorful fare.
And that’s mostly a complete and accurate statement. But there is one enormous exception that I’ve found (though there may be more): the cheeseburger. There really is some magic combination. I took me years and a world renowned chef to beat this into my head: American cheese tastes really good on a burger. It was Wylie Dufresne chef of WD-50, one of the most prestigious restaurants in New York, who finally made me see the truth. For his absolute last meal on earth he wanted a burger with American cheese. Could he really be serious? Then I thought back. What cheese does the Shake Shack use? Corner Bistro? In-N-Out Burger? The truth was actually all around me. American Cheese was okay.
Sure, other cheese can work, but not nearly as many as I had originally thought. Sparing some intense Harold McGee quoting, not all cheese melts well, and in many cases the fat separates, pools on top, and results are pretty disappointing. Not American cheese. Because of it’s processed nature, it melts neatly every time.
Not all American cheese is equal, though. My mind went immediately to Kraft singles, but there are other options. After some intense Chowhound and Cook’s Illustrated searching, I kept hearing good things about Land O’Lakes. This kind really does taste different. While not exactly a complete revelation of cheese ecstasy, it does have a more pronounced "cheese" flavor and that makes for a better cheeseburger.
That’s what I was going for. If this was the burger Mr. Dufresne wanted for his absolute last meal, then that’s what I would have. Luckily for me, he calls himself a “traditionalist” when it comes to burgers. He doesn’t load the bun with fancy ingredients that distract from the flavor of the meat, though he does get rid of the bun. His only indulgence to the sanctity of meat and cheese is a fried egg. The runny yolk slowly drips all over the fatty meat, creating one of the most luscious, incredibly fattening meals I’ve ever had. I think I’ve made this thing three times in the past month. I love this recipe.
I do eat all of my Wylie Dufresne burgers alone. It’s the perfect indulgence when I’m home alone. It’s kind of disgusting in an insanely satisfying way. No one should have to watch me attack this thing with a fork and moan in delight.
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By Blake Royer
A few months ago I was wandering the poultry aisle at my food coop looking at the bewildering number of options for a roasting chicken. As the words free-range and humane--proclaimed on every package--began to lose their meaning, I came across a pile of frozen, gangly-looking birds with their long necks still intact. The label, announcing this new product, read “Amish stewing hens.” “Great for stock!” it advised.
The name "stewing hens" is a name both euphemistic and instructive: they are birds that are done laying eggs, and are no longer useful in that role; since they're old they're also tough, and the only way to cook them is over low heat with lots of liquid—to stew them. This name convention, perhaps, is to make sure no unsuspecting person tries to roast one in an oven. A hen’s meat is stringy and tough; both breasts are compact and scrawny, together hardly enough for a single portion. The legs are long and muscular. You can't roast a hen. Well, you could--but the result would be close to inedible.
Why bother? A hen has rich flavor to offer if you know how to extract it. As muscles get older, they develop lots of connective tissue, and a long, slow cooking time is needed to break that tissue down--which in turn flavors the broth around it tremendously. This is the same principle behind all braised dishes which make use of cheaper tough cuts--while they're not suited to fast preparations like grilling, they are the more flavorful parts of meat. I used some of my lessons learned from braising short ribs when considering this dish.
The first time I encountered a stewing hen was at Blue Hill at Stone Barns, an amazing place north of New York City near Tarrytown, which is both a farm and a restaurant. Everything they cook is not only seasonal, but local--to within acres. It comes from the farm itself. The food is so fresh, they’re able to serve you young carrots dusted with salt on a stick, and that's all they have to do, because it was pulled from the ground hours before, still sweet and fresh, the natural sugars in the carrot not yet converting to starch. It was the best carrot I've ever eaten, in fact, the Platonic ideal of the vegetable.
Elin and I were eating there last year, and one of the intermezzo courses was a clear shot glass with a tiny orange-yellow orb in the bottom, filled the rest of the way with a golden-reddish liquid. Our waitress explained that the yellow sphere on the bottom was what Blue Hill calls an "immature egg." They are also termed “unborn,” “unlaid,” or “embryonic”: a still-forming egg still inside the hen when it was slaughtered. In varying stages upon harvest, most immature eggs have only begun to form a shell. The ones served to use hadn't hardened, and the future shell was only a trembling, translucent barrier holding the white and yolk together. The liquid was a hen stock, reduced from gallons down to cups. Tipping that shot back was a moment I'll never forget; it remains one of the best mouthfuls I've ever experienced. The egg was more intense and sweeter than a normal egg; the stock was chickeny and richly flavorful. I vowed to buy a hen the next time I saw one.
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By Nick Kindelsperger
In the midst of deep frying chicken last week I dreamt of Loretta Lynn. This happens only occasionally, and usually is musical in nature, but this time I had an image of her pan frying chicken in a large iron skillet. Sure enough, I found some rather hilarious commercials of her pawning Crisco on YouTube. How wonderful, I thought, that the amazing country singer never had to worry about dealing with large quantities of scorching hot oil. She pan fried her chicken in a large iron skillet. This method would have to be cheaper, and might produce more authentic results. Well, not the Crisco, but the method.
I got even more excited by the comments left on my fried chicken post. Not only did I get some wonderful, thoughtful responses, but many pointed me towards the same recipe that pan fried the chicken. For some reason, they kept talking about this lady named Edna Lewis. I wrote: “That's it. I'm trying the Edna Lewis recipe. I'll report back shortly.” So, here I am.
Who is Edna Lewis? I didn’t realize it at the time, but the she was one of the most respected Southern cookbook authors of her time. She is a beacon of fried chicken perfection. That might explain why I didn’t think twice about the insanely long method and all that fat. She advocates a soak in a brine and then then another soak in buttermilk. Then she fries it all in a pound of lard and a stick of butter. I’ll return to that last bit later.
First, the good bits. The combination of the brine and buttermilk soak produces inspired and insanely delicious meat. I really can’t compare this to the previous recipe. This was by far the most intensely flavored chicken I’ve ever had and that includes every single roast chicken I’ve ever made in my entire life. But I will probably never make this recipe again.
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By Blake Royer
Recently I was talking to a friend about food magazines, who figured I would know of some good ones. I offered the obvious choices—Gourmet, Saveur, Bon Appetit—but she quickly stopped me. “I’ve read those,” she said. “They don’t really do much for me.”
I asked her why, and the conversation ended up being about how bored this person was by the big, storied food magazines that we're all familiar with--apparently, they just aren’t edgy enough for her. Sure, occasionally they publish something interesting, and they're entertaining to flip through, but they lack a certain inquisitive charm.
Gourmet and Saveur are excellent magazines in my opinion, and I subscribe to both (I haven't read much Bon Appetit, and I'd like to spend some time with Food & Wine) I read Gourmet for its recipes, which often turn out well, and usually are relatively interesting and creative. I learn a lot from reading it about cooking, and walk away with lots of new ideas. Once in awhile an issue really sings, like their recent award-winning issue on Latino cuisine, which was filled with well-informed, interesting articles (including a piece by the fiction writer Junot Diaz on Dominican food in Upper Manhattan. Sidenote: if you live in New York, eat at El Malecon at Broadway and 175th st. sometime soon; I think it’s transcendent). It was even bandied about as the best Gourmet issue ever.
Saveur I like even better that Gourmet. I find the articles a little more substantive and informed. Their recent piece about the difficulty in describing the taste of fish was wonderful, and this month’s story by Nancy Harmon Jenkins about true Bolognese was so thorough and intriguing, I felt like flying to Italy immediately. I read Saveur for its articles--yet strangely, I find that I often don't cook many of their recipes.
So I like both of those magazines. But they are all still the big outfits. Sometimes I'm in the mood for something a little less well-known, more local, more quirky. The smaller more idiosyncratic ones, which are, at their best, more humble and interesting that what you get in the polished heavy-hitters. They're may not all be as consistent a product, but that's sometimes even preferable: rough-around-the-edges can be charming. Too much consistency and it feels like a brand rather than a passionate collection of writing which stimulates and inspires.
After the jump, I'll talk about the stack of food magazines which I gave to my friend to peruse. I should say that I'm not going to mention Cook's Illustrated--I like them, and though I don't always agree with the results of their testing and tasting, they are unflaggingly inquisitive and passionate about food. But I found I never really took their advice on much, and hardly ever cooked a recipe.
What obscure food-related magazines do you read? Or would you make a case for one of the larger outfits? Leave a comment!
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By Nick Kindelsperger
I am not sure where these urges come from, but last week I just had to have fried chicken. For no obvious reason, I dreamt of perfectly crunchy batter and moist meat. This was all quite odd. I’ve got enough roast chickens stuck in my head around to keep me occupied for months. But fried chicken? I can't even remember the last piece of fried chicken I'd ever had.
Instead of heading over to the local fast food joint for a quick fix, I bought a whole bunch of oil and decided to do it myself. This might sound rather unremarkable. Fried chicken seems like the easiest thing in the world: bread the chicken and fry it in oil. But there are numerous techniques, as far reaching and complex as many of the roast chicken recipes we regularly indulge in. Nearly every fried chicken recipe I looked at had the chicken soaking in some liquid before it ever hit the oil. But they differed on whether that was buttermilk, or a simple brine. Should I use corn meal or flour? Should I double dredge the chicken?
And then there was the question of health. I can’t even remember the last time I had fried chicken, because, whether it is true or not, I consider it unhealthy. I probably eat a multitude of different meals that are worse for me, and I have no problem eating duck confit, which fries the meat in large amounts of duck fat.
I began to realize I was wrong a few months ago when I was watching TV (I think it was CSPAN. Yes, CSPAN.). Michael Pollan was the featured speaker talking about his In Defense of Food. During the Q&A session someone asked him how something deep-fried could be part of a traditional healthy diet - I think he was talking about french fries. He answered that most traditional fried food is difficult to prepare at home and would only be eaten on occasion. If eaten only rarely, then eating deep-fried, batter-bound dishes were okay, especially if they were tasty.
I still had concerns. There are the obvious hazards and safety concerns, but what gets me is the waste. It takes a lot of oil to fry something, and though there may be ingenious ways of reusing oil, I just don’t usually take the time to do them. Also, it’s expensive. Especially if I use peanut oil, which nearly every fried chicken recipe writer believes. It costs way more than Canola, and you need a lot of it.
But the urge was still there. So I just needed a place to start.
That’s when I remembered Tyler Florence’s fried chicken recipe in My Last Supper. The book asks some of the best chefs around one simple question: If you could have one last meal before you died what would it be? Tyler Florence picked fried chicken, and in the back was the full recipe. This was the one meal he would (theoretically) want before he facing the firing squad. I figured it would be a great place to start.
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