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- Daniel, on August 25th, 2010  Like most people, I get great ideas during bouts of insomnia, which, when my feverish jottings are reassessed in the cold, cold light of day, turn out not to be so much ‘great’ as ‘stupid.’ Like the idea I had the other night to cook every national dish and post about it on cookrookery.
Yeah, really, daylight? Every national dish? That’s like, a lot of cooking. Also, and more importantly, national dishes become national dishes for cultural reasons, and not necessarily for culinary ones. The national dish of Wales is the leek. No recipe or anything, just the leek. What am I going to do, throw a Welsh-themed dinner party and serve a raw leek on a plate? Not funny.
The opposite problem is many national dishes tend not to be very specific. The national dish of Italy is pasta. There are hundreds of different types of pasta alone, and that’s not counting the sauces. The national dish of Indonesia is satay. Yes, but satay what? Chicken, mutton, beef, pork, fish, goat, tofu?
And some national dishes are just plain wrong. Most Australians would confidently state that their national dish is pavlova, and when you asked them why, would scratch their heads and reply “gee, I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it before.” My New York Times International Cook Book lists pavlova as their sole entry under ‘Australia.’ Yet I doubt you would meet many Australians who have eaten pavlova in the last ten years, who know how to make it, or are able to accurately describe what it is. The reason it is the national dish, of course, is because it is the one recipe Australians are certain they invented (they’re wrong. It was invented in New Zealand). Australians need a new national dish. For what it’s worth, my vote is the dim sim.
And of course there is the problem of consensus. Both Peru and Ecuador lay claim to cerviche. Costa Rica and Nicaragua both want to own gallo pinto. The problem is that cuisine does not respect national boundaries, which is as it should be. And some countries are so vast and diverse (such as the USA) it would be ridiculous to propose any one dish to represent it. So for all these reasons my 3AM grand plan to cook my way around world patriotism turned out to be as clever as my 3AM novel idea which was ‘someone convinced they can see five seconds into the future.’
Hmm. Actually, that one has possibilities.
Anyway, I was reluctant to relinquish my idea entirely, because I have so few of them. So here is a recipe for the dish of just one nation: Uzbekistan! Make this recipe and you will have a delicious meal and a fun fact for parties all in one. I have adapted this recipe from the Swiss website fxcuisine.com. No, it’s not ‘fx’ as in ‘special effects’ – it’s a reference to the author’s name, Francois Xavier. Xavier’s food obsession makes mine look like a casual interest. His food photography is stunning, bordering on the forensic (in fact, some of it does resemble the title sequence from Dexter), and I highly recommend you check out his website:
http://fxcuisine.com/
As a rule, I am not interested in complete authenticity. As one music critic put it, “if we really wanted to listen to Mozart the way Mozart would have heard it, we’d have to make sure every instrument was slightly out of tune.” So my adaptation is geared toward practicality, and less towards pleasing any Uzbeks you might have around for dinner.
Plov, Pilaf, Polo, Pilau, Polao, Palov
(serves two)
1 head of garlic per diner
1 tsp peppercorns
1 Tb coriander seeds
1 Tb cumin seeds
1 cup long grain rice, parboiled for 5 minutes and drained
2 large carrots
1 onion
¾ lb lamb leg sirloin chops, cubed, fat trimmed and retained
Vegetable or lamb stock
Cut the top off each garlic head, just enough to expose the tips of the cloves, and dribble in a little olive oil. Wrap the heads in foil and roast in a 350ºF oven for an hour. Set aside.
Grind the spices in a mortar and pestle or an electric grinder. I suppose you could use pre-ground spices, but they lack zing. Coarsely grate the carrot and thinly slice the onion.
Heat up the lamb fat (from the chops) in a cast iron pot or Dutch oven. At a steady low heat they should render quite a bit of fat; fish out and discard the cracklings that remain. Jack up the heat and toss in the lamb. When it is nicely browned, take it out with a slotted spoon, and add the onions to the pot. Cook them until they are soft and brown, about 8 minutes.
Add all the ground spices and cook for a minute more. Add the grated carrots and cook for 3 more minutes.
Return the lamb to the pot, along with any juices that leaked out, and the rice which you thoughtfully parboiled ahead of time. You can then add your stock. The stock should be hot, so as not to quench the entire cooking process. About two cups should do it, but this is not a precise measurement, any more than it is in those annoying risotto recipes that always get it wrong. Just make sure that the rice is cooking, but not drowned, and add more stock as needed for the fifteen minutes or so it will take.
Add salt if needed. I didn’t list any in the ingredients because I don’t know if you are using salted stock or not. Just add enough to make it tasty.
Serve with a whole roasted head of garlic on each plate. The guest peels the cloves and mixes them in, which is lots of fun. I also added a little cilantro garnish, and I hope the Uzbeks forgive me.
- Daniel, on August 10th, 2010  I sometimes get unreasonably upset when I cannot source ingredients. The other day I was trying to make a Paul Prudhomme recipe that sounded interesting. Paul Prudhomme is an American celebrity chef, I live in America, so there shouldn’t be any trouble finding the ingredients, right? Well, none of my local supermarkets stock burdock root, Jerusalem artichokes, or wood-ear mushrooms.
On reflection, though, it occurred to me how amazing it is that certain things aren’t rare. Such as cucumbers. You can’t get much more mundane than a cucumber, but isn’t it a miracle of a kind that this vegetable was first cultivated 3000 years ago in India, introduced to Europe by the Ancient Romans, made it to the New World in 1600 AD, and was finally commonly available due to the invention of coal-heated hothouses in the Edwardian era? That’s an awful lot of history for something I now take completely for granted.
Or bread, for that matter. Bread is available in one form or another all over the world, and often holds immense religious and spiritual significance, but it’s not like it occurs naturally or anything. In the first place, we had to cultivate wheat. The timeline is somewhat conjectural, but the process was probably something like this:
 From left to right: a food processor, a blender, and a vegetable peeler 11,000 BC: The last ice age ends, producing long dry spells over much of the Earth which favors the evolution of annual plants which die off and leave a hard seed remaining, such as the grasses. Meanwhile, humans are running around in animal skins and cutting up their food with chunks of stone (metalworking wasn’t due for a few more thousand years).
9000 BC: Einkorn wheat is domesticated at the Neolithic settlement Nevalı Çori in Turkey, becoming the first crop to be sown and harvested on a significant scale. Humans are still wearing animal skills and their kitchen implements are still sharpened rocks.
Or butter. Somewhere between the two above dates, sheep began to be kept in Mesopotamia. The first butter was probably made from sheep’s milk, at first inadvertently. Cattle weren’t domesticated until around 6000 BC, and were traded out of India, Africa, and the Middle East to China, Mongolia, and Korea by 5000 BC.
All this work, and we still had to wait a good few millennia for a pre-sliced loaf of bread with butter. So, to celebrate this astounding age of connections we live in, as well as the hot summer afternoons, here’s a recipe for cucumber sandwiches.
Cucumber Sandwiches
Several square slices of dense-textured white loaf
1 English cucumber
butter
lemon juice
salt
Remove the peel of the cucumber. Slice the cucumber thinly. Set the slices aside until the last minute.
Very thinly butter your slices of bread. The butter should be spread from edge to edge of the slices, primarily as an kind of laquer to prevent the cucumber slices from making the bread soggy.
When you are ready to serve, place a single layer of cucumber slices on a slice of buttered bread. Sprinkle the cucumbers with lemon juice and salt. Top with another slice of buttered bread.
Using a very sharp knife, carefully remove the crusts without tearing the bread in an unsightly fashion. You can then cut the bread diagonally and diagonally again, forming four small triangles, or in half, forming two rectangles.
Arrange the sandwiches artfully on a plate, and eat them all while you’re waiting for Lady Bracknell to arrive for tea.
- Daniel, on July 31st, 2010 
There are only two cuisines in the world: Italian and French. Yes, that’s what I said. All the multiple and manifold cuisines of this limitless world can be classified into two tidy categories: Italian and French. Italian food is built out of cheap ingredients, basic starches, poor cuts of meat, trash fish. The foods of most of Asia and the Americas (not counting New York), and Africa, are all Italian. They are basic, easy to make, and delicious. French cuisine is based on money: cream sauces, young veal, shaved truffles. Japanese cuisine is French. So is anything involving many side dishes, assistants, and laborious preparation. French cuisine is all brilliance, but I come down on the side of Italian. Remember the scene in “1900” where the family flavors their polenta by tapping it against a rotting fish? That’s Italian cuisine at its heart.
There are reasons for my preference. I’m lazy. I’m cheap. I don’t like cream and pastry. I think truffles and fois gras are just a wee bit overrated. I derive enormous satisfaction from turning basic groceries into delicacies. Also, I lived way below the poverty line for some time, and it shaped my food sensibilities.
 Chopper cut his own ears off. Smith Street will do that to you. This was the time I lived in a notorious armpit of Melbourne known simply as ‘Smith Street.’ There was never any shortage of interesting things to see on Smith Street: pub brawls, overdosed gentlemen being taken away on stretchers, folks sitting on doorsteps swigging from bottles in paper bags. The notorious criminal Mark “Chopper” Read lived just up the road from me. Smith Street was also a hive of multicultural food and culture, as armpit areas of large cities often are. I remember being able to buy chicken carcasses at Safeway for a dollar, with which I made delicious soup. A few blocks away, in a classier neighborhood, another Safeway stocked no such thing. There were long strips of baccala (salt cod), freshly made pasta, and other evidence of Italian influence. My time in this neighborhood helped formulate my interest in creating food from nothing, cuisine from poverty, strength from adversity. So I’ve always liked the Italian food ethic.
That being said, I’ve become something of a fan of Paula Wolfert recently, and Paula is not one to stint on ingredients simply because they are expensive or rare. Now that I have the wherewithal, she has inspired me to give French cuisine another chance (I confess it is mostly because of the bewitching names she gives her recipes, such as this one, “Monastery Chicken”). This recipe is simply delicious, and it is adapted from her book “Mediterranean Clay Pot Cooking.”
I encourage you to try it despite the requisite linden, which I had never heard of before either. Linden is not staggeringly rare. I found linden at the herb store just around the corner from my house, the kind of place that sells incense and essential oils and tiny soapstone carvings of the Goddess. Linden flower is usually used as a medicinal tea, but it tastes and smells floral and sweet and entrancing. It’s worth it.
Monastery Chicken with Linden Tea Sauce
Serves two.
2 large chicken thighs
salt, pepper
1 garlic clove, crushed
1/3 oz linden flowers and leaves, dried
¼ cup white wine
¼ cup heavy cream
½ tsp lemon juice
Prick the skin of the chicken with a fork. Season all over with salt and pepper and rub the meat with the crushed garlic.
Bring two cups of water to boil in a small saucepan, and add all the linden leaves. Remove from the heat and let infuse for 15 minutes. Strain the tea, return it to the pan, and boil until it is reduce to 1/3 of a cup. Add the white wine and set aside.
Place the chicken thighs, skin side down, in a skillet, turn the heat to medium low, and heat slowly, allowing the fat to run out and fry the chicken until it’s just golden. Remove most of the fat from the pan with a bulb baster or a spoon, add the linden-wine mixture, partially cover and simmer for 15 more minutes, turning the chicken once.
Take out the chicken and put it on a serving plate in the oven to keep warm. Reduce the cooking liquid to about 1/3 cup, add the cream and boil until the sauce thickens slightly. Add the lemon juice and season with salt and pepper. Spoon it over the chicken.
 Chicken cooked in flowers is just good.
- Daniel, on July 23rd, 2010  I’ve written elsewhere about the difficulties I have with breakfast. Simply put, food before 11am makes me nauseous. There have been exceptions to this. The buffet at the International Garden Hotel in Narita, Japan, was so exciting I grazed for two whole hours. Miso soup is just good at any time of day. And I am fond of cold pizza, or, when in Thailand or China, congee with the works. Roald Dahl recommends half a papaya melon with a whole lime squeezed over it, and so do I.
Perhaps I do like breakfast. I just don’t like normal things for breakfast.
Today, I remembered a non-normal thing for breakfast I first made six years ago and then forgot about: lablabi, a kind of chicken soup with chickpeas and spices, which I read about in The Age (Australia’s only serious newspaper). The author described people lining up to consume bowls of this dish first thing in the morning at Moroccan markets. I duly made it, and it was indeed fine. I even used real homemade chicken stock, which improves anything.
The problem is, upon consulting that oracle of all truth, wikipedia, I learned that lablabi is not Moroccan. It’s not even from an adjacent country. It’s Tunisian, and it isn’t served for breakfast, but for dinner. There are two possible explanations for this. Either Moroccans like to eat Tunisian dinner dishes for breakfast, or the author was bullshitting, as food writers do. Can someone who has actually visited either of these two countries give me a ruling on this?
In the meantime, this is a kickass breakfast.
Lablabi
(for two)
3 cups chicken stock (homemade is ideal)
1 can of chickpeas
1 Tb harissa (a Tunisian chili paste, available as a powder in the West)
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp salt
Two large slices of sourdough bread
1/3 cup freshly chopped parsley
1/3 cup freshly chopped cilantro
1 Tb chopped capers (absolutely essential)
2 soft-boiled eggs
Olive oil (fine and interesting quality, please)
Simmer stock, chickpeas, harissa, cumin, and salt for 15 minutes. Tear up the bread into chunks. Place the bread, the herbs, and the capers into two soup bowls.
 So hungry already.
Scoop an egg from its shell into each bowl, then ladle soup over and drizzle with olive oil.
It occurs to me that if you substituted vegetable stock, you would have my first vegetarian recipe! Unless you consider eggs to be meat, that is. Hmm.
- Matthew, on July 15th, 2010 
Love your ginger? You’ll need a lot of it–that’s 2 1/2 lbs. pictured above, to make this uber-strong ginger beer. I found it necessary to have plenty of soda water and ice on hand, and I especially liked it with a shot or two of Canadian whiskey added . . . perfect for the hot weather that’s finally arrived here in Seattle.
I’m traditionally not much of soda drinker. I only buy two kinds. My apartment is impossible to cool down even with all the fans going, so I always have a case of Fresca on hand (fun fact: Lyndon B. Johnson, 36th President of the U.S., loved Fresca so much he had a button installed on the desk in the Oval Office which would summon his military aide to bring him the drink), and the occasional 4-bottle case of Reed’s Ginger Brew, a spicy, honeyish gingerbready soda I love, even though it’s a bit pricey. Home-brewing ginger beer was made popular by the British in the mid 1700s, and so I figured if the Brits can do it, then so can I. After nearly killing my blender to make this, the potent result is such that if I make it again, I’ll have a party in the works to share it around, since it doesn’t work for me as a daily soft drink…well, and like I mentioned, I’m not much of a soda drinker. But I do love ginger, and if you do, too . . . then you’ll find this delicious. Let the cocktail hour begin!
Jamaican Ginger Beer (from jam it, pickle it, cure it by Karen Solomon)
- 2 1/2 pounds fresh ginger, roughly peeled
- 4 cups water, divided
- 1 cup freshly squeezed lime juice (from 8 to 10 limes)
- 2 1/2 to 3 cups of sugar
In a blender or food processor, liquefy the ginger and 2 cups of the water for 3 minutes, then strain the juice into a large bowl or pitcher. Transfer the ginger pulp back to to the blender or food processor, add another cup of the water, and liquefy again. Strain again, adding the liquid to the first batch. Again transfer the pulp along with another cup of water, liquefy again, and add to the liquid. Press on the solids as much as possible to squeeze out as much of the juice as you can.
Once the ginger has given up all that it’s got, discard the mashed solids. Add the lime juice and 2 1/2 cups of the sugar. Mix well and taste. Add more sugar, a little at a time, until it reaches your preferred sweetness.
Refrigerate up to 3 weeks. Shake before serving.
Makes about 8 cups.
p.s. Happy Anniversary, Cookrookery!
A year ago, Chris, Daniel, and I embarked on our separate culinary journeys and brought them together here. While our predilections and processes may differ, I’d say our appetites and passion for food complement each others’ well. I hope all of you, our loyal readers, have picked up some memorable flavors along the way. I raise my glass of ginger beer in toast to another year of great taste! -Matt
- Christopher, on July 10th, 2010  I love making bread by hand, but Beth and I go through a couple loaves a week, and these days I simply don’t have the time to do all that kneading and rising.
Fortunately, we have a bread maker, which is what this recipe calls for. If you do NOT have one, I’m afraid I cannot tell you how this recipe finishes by hand, and have no advice. If I’m inspired, that blog will be in my future.
For the last nine or so months I’ve been working (with Beth’s guidance) on making a bread recipe that she and I both love, and that’s good for ANYTHING: dipping in hummus, for covering in mayo tomato and onion, for toast, for PB&J. This is about the 7th version of the recipe, and I am very pleased with it (and have been for the last dozen loaves).
There’s a few add ins: oat bran, poppy seeds, and sunflower seeds. These (especially the seeds) can be altered if you have other seeds on hand or that you prefer. Also, other flours can be used, but I really like this blend.
The base of it is white whole wheat, which is different from organic white. Whole wheat is less processed and is healthier (and I find I don’t crash as hard from it). And “white whole wheat” IS whole wheat, it’s just kinda albino.
Now….. the recipe.
In one container (I use a 2 cup glass measuring cup), mix the wet:
- 1 1/2 cup + 2 tbsp water
- 2 tbsp canola oil
- 1 tbsp molasses
in a separate bowl, mix the dry:
- 2 cups white whole wheat flour
- 3/4 + 1/3 cups regular whole wheat flour
- 1/3 cup spelt flour
- 1/3 cup kamut flour
- 2 tbsp dry milk powder
- 3 tsp salt
- 2 tbsp brown sugar
Mix the liquid well, and pour it into the bread machine.
Mix the dry ingredients well and pour them on top, but don’t mix them into the wet.
On top of the dry put (trying not to get them wet)
- 4 tbsp gluten
- 4 tsp yeast
Set the machine to the “basic” setting, with “light” crust.
And with the miracles of science and industry, in 3 hours or so, you have awesome bread. Now you just need a jar of nutella.
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