Hedonia

Cooking with Chef Fernando

Just for fun, our friend Kathleen hooked us up with a cooking class at Cocina Cosmopolita. She's taken classes there before with the proprietor, Coty Villareal, as well as other instructors. Last night we had a class on cocktails and appetizers with Chef Fernando Goñi Zapìan, owner of Camaron Caramelo (Av. 35 Esq. Calle 34). Who looks like this.

So, we were off to a good start.

The class comprised three pairings of cocktails and appies:

Mojito Diablo

• 2 Tbsp turbinado sugar
• 12-14 fresh mint leaves
• 1/2 lime cut into quarters
• 1 oz. tequila reposado (or mescal)
• 1/2 oz. creme de cassis
• Ginger ale

1. Muddle the lime, mint leaves and sugar in the base of a Boston shaker.
2. Add the tequila, cassis and ice. Place the glass over and shake until well chilled.
3. Pour into a highball. Top with ginger ale.

Apricot jam with chipotle and goat cream cheese

• 80 g. Philadelphia cream cheese (yes, they have this in Mexico)
• 40 g. goat cheese
• 1/3 c. apricot jam
• 1-2 chipotles, finely chopped, or ~1 Tbsp adobo from the can
• 2 dried apricots, finely diced

1. Mix the jam and chipotle puree/adobo. Add more chipotle to taste. Mix in the apricot pieces.
2. In a separate container, mix the goat cheese and cream cheese.
3. On an oiled piece of aluminum foil, spread the cheese mixture into a 1/4" thick rectangle. Pour the jam mixture in a strip in the middle. Roll the foil over, as if you we're making sushi, to enclose the jam in the center of the roll.
4. Turn out onto a plate and garnish with mint leaves and chopped dried apricot. Serve with warm pita bread.

Here's the thing: It's hot in Mexico. So, our cream cheese was pretty loose and sticky, and didn't make neat, pretty rolls. For future iterations we would chill the cheese well before attempting to spread and roll it out. Or, better yet, line a narrow terrine with cling wrap, line on three sides with the cheese, fill with jam, and top with cheese. Chill the whole thing again before serving -- I think the combination of cool cheese and jam on the warm pita would be lovely.

Frozen Summer

• 1 large cucumber
• 2 oz. white rum
• Juice of 1 lime
• 1 1/2 oz. simple syrup
• 1 Tbsp cilantro
• Ice
• 1 tsp Miguelito (a sweet, red syrup kids use to dunk treats like Funyuns in)
• 1 tsp Tajìn (a mild spice mix used widely; Old Bay would be a reasonable substitute)

1. Cut the cucumber in half, and trim off 1/2" from the ends. Use a spoon or vegetable peeler to hollow out the cucumber to make a cut. Reserve the seeds.
2. Use a channel knife if desired to decorate the exterior of the cucumber cups. Dunk the rim of the cups in Miguelito, them rim with Tajìn.
3. Add the rum, lime juice, simple syrup, reserved cucumber seeds, cilantro and ice to a blender. Blend well.
4. Serve in the cucumber cups, garnished with a cilantro sprig.

Shrimp cocktail in a tamarind-orange sauce

• 150 g. shrimp, cooked
• 1/3 c. ketchup
• 3 Tbsp tamarind pulp, unsweetened
• 1/2 c. orange juice
• 1 tsp Tabasco
• 1 1/2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
• 1 mango, finely chopped
• 1/3 seedless cucumber, peeled and finely chopped
• 1 Tbsp garlic oil (see below)
• 1 Tbsp chopped cilantro
• Salt and pepper
• Avocado slices
• Tostadas or crackers

1. Make the garlic oil: Fry 3-4 cloves finely chopped garlic in olive oil until just golden. Strain and cool. Discard the fried garlic.
2. In a bowl, mix the ketchup, tamarind pulp, orange juice, Tabasco, Worcestershire, garlic oil, salt and pepper. Taste and adjust seasonings as desired.
3. Add the mango, cucumber, shrimp and cilantro.
4. Serve in a martini glass with avocado slices and tostadas.

We loved this combination. The Frozen Summer was cool and refreshing, and a nice foil to the sweet-tart sauce of the shrimp cocktail. Definitely a great summer pairing. Personally, I would amp up the spice in the sauce a bit.

Pear & rosemary martini

• 2 oz. vodka
• 2 stalks fresh rosemary
• 3/4 oz. simple syrup
• Juice of 1/2 lime
• 1/4 pear, skin and core intact

1. Chill the martini glass.
2. In the base of a Boston shaker, muddle the pear, simple syrup, lime juice and vodka into a puree.
3. Add the rosemary and muddle again, just enough until you can smell the rosemary.
4. Add the top of the shaker and shake until well chilled. Strain into the martini glass and serve, garnished with a sprig of rosemary.

Lamb rosemary skewers with salsa borracha

For the lamb skewers:

• 150 g. lamb, cut into 3/4" cubes
• 1/2 zucchini, cut into 3/4" cubes
• 1/2 onion, cut into 3/4" squares
• 1 Tbsp finely minced garlic
• 1 Tbsp finely chopped rosemary
• 2 Tbsp olive oil
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Honey or agave syrup
• Several long sprigs rosemary

1. Strip most of the leaves off the sprigs of rosemary, leaving some at the end. Chop the stripped leaves.
2. In a bowl, mix the olive oil, garlic, rosemary, salt and pepper. Taste and adjust seasoning as desired.
3. Add the lamb, zucchini and garlic. Mix well, and let marinade for an hour.
4. Skewer the meat, zucchini, and onions on the rosemary sprigs, alternating as desired.
5. Heat a grill pan over medium heat. Drizzle the marinating oil onto the pan, and lay on the skewers. Drizzle or brush honey or agave over the skewers. Cook several minutes on each side, glazing each side, until the lamb is medium rare. Optional: look hot while doing this.

For the salsa borracha:

• 2 tomatillos
• 1 dried pasilla pepper
• 25 g. onion
• 1-2 cloves garlic
• 1/4 c. beer
• 1 Tbsp cilantro
• Salt and pepper

1. Boil the tomatillos, onion, garlic and pepper until the tomatillos turn olive green and the pepper softens, about 10 minutes.
2. Move the tomatillos, garlic, onion and pepper to a blender. Add the beer and cilantro. Blend well.
3. Add salt and pepper to taste.
4. Strain mixture through a fine mesh sieve into a saucepan. Place over medium low heat and simmer until thickened, about five minutes.
5. Spread a couple tablespoons of the salsa on a plate, and lay the skewers over. Serve immediately.

Okay, this was the winning pair of the evening. We loved the rosemary and pear cocktail (and not just because it was the third one of the evening). And we learned that all our lives we had been using too-large cubes of meat and veg on our skewers. The salsa borracha is a keeper as well, though again I might have used a spicier pepper. This one is definitely going into our repertoire.

 

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Chicken scallopine

In observation of Mother's Day, here's a little something from the archives. Perhaps it's time to bottle and sell my mother's magic seasoning? 

Emeril has his Essence™. Paul Prudhomme has his Magic™. My mother, too, has her own special seasoning. It's called Saltpeppergarlicsaltoregano™.

It's always the same four ingredients -- salt, pepper, garlic salt, oregano -- recited in the same run-on order, in more or less the same proportions, measured in the palm of the hand, and it works for everything. Sauce? Brown the meat, cook the garlic, add tomatoes and saltpeppergarlicsaltoregano. Salad dressing? Olive oil, red wine vinegar and saltpeppergarlicsaltoregano.

But here's the thing: Each of these things ends up tasting distinct and different. Perhaps there's a little Magic in my mother's seasoning after all.

A greater mystery, perhaps, is understanding why and how the dish called scallopine in my family in no way resembles scallopine as it is served in Italy or anywhere else on the globe. Traditional scallopine is a thin cutlet of meat, usually veal but sometimes chicken, dredged in flour, pan-fried and served with peperonata or some kind of sauce like piccata. In my family, it's cubes of meat, browned and then stewed in tomato puree with sautéed peppers and peas (and, of course, saltpeppergarlicsaltoregano).

What I do know is that it is good, and absolutely must be eaten with a piece or two of good, crusty Italian bread. I have yet to find a bread out here that resembles what was generically referred to as Italian bread in my hometown of Schenectady. It always had a flaky, crisp crust and a light, fluffy crumb. Out here on the west coast, there's a propensity for hardier, more rustic breads. A ciabatta or pugliese will do, but the fluffier the crumb, the better for sopping up all that good stew.

Lambchops with minted cucumber

Somewhat recently, we went in with two other couples and invested in a lamb from Stemple Creek in Marin County. It's a great way to get farm-direct protein from a sustainable, grass-fed facility. It's also economical; our third of the share cost $93, and I think we ended up with almost 30 lbs of meat. I dutifully vacusealed all the various cuts (some more familiar than others) and stashed them in the freezer for consumption at our convenience.

Then, on recommendation from one of the friends in the lamb share, we joined Godfrey Family Farms' meat CSA. It's more of a mixed bag, with chickens, eggs, beef and what have you, depending on what they're harvesting at the moment. Our first shipment was earlier this month. Guess what was in it? More lamb.

Luckily, as you may already know, I love lamb and for that matter most nubile mammals. So it's no hardship for us to find ways to enjoy it.

But a recent addition to our lamb repertoire comes courtesy of our dear friend Kathleen. On our last visit with her, she pan-grilled up some lovely little chops and slathered over a salad of marinaded cucumber. It was a revelation. This condiment, simply a mix of thinly sliced cucumbers, finely chopped mint and seasoned rice vinegar, is a perfect foil. It contrasts the meat in every way: Cold versus hot; bright versus earthy; crisp versus chewy; herbal versus gamy.

Recipe? Um, sure, I guess. Just take a cuke or two of your choice (I used kirby, but Persians or English would work just fine), peeled or not, seeded if too seedy, and slice thinly with a mandoline (or by hand if you're Iron Chef material). Chop the heck out of a good fistful of mint -- more is more here. Mix in a bowl with several good shakes of seasoned rice vinegar. Adjust salt or sugar to taste, but it shouldn't need much. Let rest in the fridge until your succulent little chops are grilled and rested. Summerlicious!

Wanna know what else is summerlicious? A buncha my favorite food bloggers are having a little event called Summer Fest 2010. Each week, they'll take on one of the season's most bountiful ingredients; this week it's cukes and zukes. So here's my tip of the hat to them. Be sure to check out Caron's roundup post to see what everyone else is up to; there's some darn delicious food going on out there -- not least her own recipes for cucumber and radish confetti soup and zucchini pancakes. Yes, please.

Lágrimas, snap pea salad

Last week I took a brief trip to New York. One of my mother's cards had been nominated for a Louie Award at the Greeting Card Association's annual event, and since the whole raison d'être of her business stems from having a gay son, she wanted me with her at the ceremony. Sadly, she didn't win (frankly, the sentiment in the card she lost to is of questionable taste), but she still found value in attending the Stationery Show and connecting with peers in the industry.

While she was doing so, I used that time to do some connecting of my own. I shopped and sushied with my dear old friend Christine and brunched with my friend Ramona at the fabulous new B.E.S. I got to see the lovely Shuna, who opened her arms to me as a fledgling blogger four years nigh, and whom I've missed dearly since she relocated to London and New York. I enjoyed coffee and conversation with Lisa, who I met only fleetingly at BlogHer Food last year. And I finally met the inimitable and affable David Leite over quiche (him) and chocolate bouchons (me). All this in two days, including the awards ceremony.

It was definitely a whirlwind, and I often found myself hustling to get from one rendez-vous to another, but I did deliberately leave myself one opening. My flight arrived on Saturday at 4 pm, and I had nothing planned for the remainder of the afternoon until my mother arrived that evening. 

New York was balmy and gently breezy, and I reveled in the summerlike weather as I meandered the streets of Chelsea. After a couple hours of aimless wandering, I began to set my sights on dinner. When the occasion warrants, I rather like dining out alone, and a tapas bar is optimal for that. Sitting alone at a two-top is sad, like dining with an imaginary friend. But sidling up to a bar, ordering a glass of spicy red and eyeing the sardines and cheeses? That's liberating.

So it was that I ended up at Boquería. First up I had a crisp duck croqueta and some lovely piquant sardine toasts, then followed up with pork belly pintxos and a salad called lágrimas -- "tears." The pork belly was cubed, dusted with paprika, wrapped in a wilted green, skewered and grilled until succulent. The salad, bright and fresh and crisp, made a flawless foil to the richness of those fatty blocks. It immediately became my New Favorite Salad, and I vowed to make it as soon as I got home. I did, and quite a few times since then already.

As for the name, I can only assume it's because the sliced pea pods look like eyes, and the peas themselves seem to tumble out like tears. But there is nothing sad about this salad. They must be tears of joy and gratitude for the bounty of spring that is finally upon us.

Green Goddess dressing

I've had something of a fascination lately with the idea of San Francisco food. I mean, everyone knows our fair city to be a major foodie destination, and most people can rattle off a list of restaurant names of varying degrees of prestige in the current-day food scene. But what of the classics, the dishes that emerged from restaurants past and present that have made it into the American culinary vernacular?

Many of these dishes have appeared on menus for so long, they've been fallen out of fashion and are now associated with lunching matrons in chi-chi hotel restaurants: Crab Louie, Celery Victor and the grandmother of all creamy salad dressings, Green Goddess.

It's small wonder these dishes have become culinary dinosaurs. In the monotony of preparing them on so many menus over so many years, they've surely slid into mediocrity or worse at the hands of indifferent chefs. Just recently, I dined locally at an otherwise perfectly good establishment (that shall remain nameless). I was actually excited to see a salad with Green Goddess on the menu, and ordered it with glee. Sadly, I was presented a lackluster pile of greens thickly coated with what as far as I could tell was just straight-up mayonnaise. No green, and far from godly.

But I maintain that when prepared with love and integrity, these foods must be excellent in their own right. How else could they have become such culinary icons?

And the goddess is an icon indeed. It was created at the Palace Hotel in 1923 by Executive Chef Phillip Roemer at an event to honor actor George Arliss, who was then the lead in the play "The Green Goddess" by William Archer. Cool, creamy and fresh with herbs, it must have struck quite a chord with the diners that evening, for it went on to become one of the most popular dressings in the West for decades, eventually dethroned by ranch dressing (with which it has a more than passing resemblance.)

Its fame peaked in the 1970s when Seven Seas sold a bottled version of it, and today Annie's Naturals produces a version as well, but for the last three decades or so, the goddess has largely lost her followers. 

Well, consider me a member of the Cult of the Green Goddess, then. And I aim to convert you, too.

You see, Green Goddess is much more than a dressing. Since I've started making it, it's made its way into a variety of applications. It makes a fantastic dip for just about anything on its own, but toss it into a blender with some white beans and you've got something rather special indeed. Our friend Jim's mother used to use it as a dressing for cold pasta, and served with grilled jumbo shrimp; I think scallops would be at least as delightful.

In researching the dressing, I came across a lot of different recipes with a surprising amount of variation: Different proportions of mayonnaise, sour cream and vinegar; with or without anchovy; and while nearly all call for parsley and chives, others called for basil, tarragon and even chervil. Despite Martha's greatest efforts to market it, however, chervil remains an elusive ingredient for most of us.

The Palace Hotel thoughtfully has published the original, and that is what I used. Well, sort of. While they call for parsley and chives, the original evidently did not include tarragon; this will not stand. For reasons I cannot justify, in my mind Green Goddess must have tarragon. Must. So I added it. And I stand by that decision. Fact is, you could tweak this recipe ten times till Tuesday, and you'd still end up with a delicious, refreshing dressing, so have at it. 

What other San Francisco classics do you love? And what current dishes do you think will stand the test of time?

Stuffed artichokes, revisited

Whoever first looked at a spiny orb at the end of a fibrous stem protruding from a large plant with pronged leaves as sharp as sabers and thought, "Yum, I'm gonna have me some of that" must have been very hungry indeed. By now, we of course have conquered the artichoke, learned how to tame its talons and soften its hard flesh. 

Last weekend, I had the opportunity to go to the Pebble Beach Food & Wine event for the afternoon. At the Grand Tasting, I nibbled on offerings from a variety of high-profile chefs. Not everything was great, but highlights included Hosea Rosenberg's seared beef tenderloin with ancho sauce on some delicious cheesy grits; a delightfully balanced canapé of pate, foie, crisp-fried lotus root and some kind of sweet relish from Hudson Valley Foie Gras; and a too-small but still memorable bite of crispy lamb's tongue from Seattle's Tom Douglas.

On the drive home, I passed through Castroville, the artichoke capital of the world, where 75% of the US supply of artichokes are grown. Driving alongside fields with rows and rows of shaggy thickets with green globes popping up, the siren song was too strong, and I pulled over at The Thistle Hut to buy some. There, for a mere dollar, I picked up three mighty, head-sized round buds with a good two inches of stalk still attached.

A few years ago, I wrote about my mother's stuffed artichokes, which is pretty much the only way I had ever had them until I moved to California in my 20s. When it comes to big globes like these, it's still my preferred way to eat them. However, the recipe is no longer in step with the way we stock our pantry. We don't have store-bought bread crumbs, for example, nor garlic salt, nor parm in a can. But these are all convenience ingredients, and the inconvenience in recreating them from fresh ingredients is, in my opinion, negligible. And hence today I present my updated version.

I made one other adaptation. My mother always makes these for special occasions, and therefore in large quantities. I had just three chokes, so instead of using a big roasting pan, I used my largest enamelized Dutch oven. Making them in smaller quantity and in a better-sealed cooking vessel had two effects: It shortened the overall cooking time, and created more of a steam oven. The leaves were less wizened, but the bread crumbs still crisped nicely on top.

When the chokes are in and plentiful, there's no reason to save this for a special occasion. We normally ate them after the main meal on a holiday, just before or sometimes alongside dessert. I enjoyed these three as three consecutive days of lunch; I also think they'd make a pleasant surprise as a brunch entrée. They're fine warm or room temperature, but I like them best cold, right from the fridge, especially when you finally reach the ultimate quarry, the cool, creamy heart.