in praise of sardines

Home sweet home

I know, I know. I said I would post a summary of my future restaurant's concept today. Mañana, amigos. The thump thump that was fun on the dance floor last night is now thump thumping my brain.

Since you were kind enough to drop by, I'd be remiss if I didn't at least offer you a snack: grilled sardines with escalivada on toast. Escalivada is a Catalan salad of grilled or roasted summer vegetables, usually including eggplant, peppers, onions, and sometimes tomatoes. I cooked every part of this appetizer for you in my newest favorite toy: my fireplace. I heart you, hearth.*

Warning. Cooking sardines in your fireplace is a risky undertaking. If done improperly, your house could be haunted by the smell of sardines for eternity. Contemplate that on Halloween. There are two keys to help you avoid this fate. First, you need an excellent fireplace. I can't overstate my enthusiasm for the one in my new home, which is about 80 years old. I love it so much I've cooked dinner in it the last three nights. By comparison, my attempts at hearth cooking in my last house, built in the early 1950's, failed. The aromas of firewood lingered for days afterwards. I never dared attempt sardines. I wish I knew what made one better than the other, but I don't. Apparently they don't build them like they used to.

The second key is maintaining a medium to large fire. In his book "The Magic of Fire: Hearth Cooking," William Rubel describes the ideal fire for grilling as "a mature fire with moderate to high flames and a substantial bed of embers." Don't actually grill the fish directly over the flames, however. Grill them over the radiant heat of the white hot embers that you spread in front of the flames. High flames are necessary because they pull the smoke and sardine-cooking odors up the chimney and out of your house. Again, I'm not sure why. Something to do with physics. Or perhaps magic. I'd look it up, but remember: thump thump.

Escalivada from the Fireplace (recipe)

By contrast, I roasted the eggplant, peppers, and onion (whole and unpeeled) for the escalivada in a bed of embers and ashes in front of the fireplace hearth. In fact, the root word for escalivada, escalivar, means to cook in ashes and this is the traditional method for cooking the dish. I also wrapped a few cloves of garlic in heavy duty aluminum foil and roasted them the same way. The smoke permeates the vegetables. (Now, if I had an editor, I'd be required to tell you that you can, of course, roast the vegetables in your oven or over a gas burner. The difference in the end results, however, is akin to the difference between soaking in the hot springs of Esalen overlooking the cliffs of Big Sur and taking a bath at home). To finish the escalivada, I allowed the veggies to cool, peeled off the blackened skin, and tore the eggplant and peppers into strips by hand. I sliced the roasted onion into eighths. Then I made a dressing by mashing the roasted garlic with a few splashes of aged sherry vinegar and a healthy dose of extra virgin olive oil. Finally, I tossed it all together, adjusted it for taste with sea salt and more vinegar, as needed, and a sprinkling of chopped parsley.

Hey, check it out! That's the closest I've come to publishing a recipe on this site in many, many months.

I actually assembled the escalivada the day before when I served it with grilled lamb spread with romesco. For the sardine dish, I chopped up the leftover escalivada, transforming it into a marmalade-like relish. Then I spread that on grilled bread and topped with the sardine fillets. How did I grill the sardines? Now you're getting greedy. Do you want a sardine recipe too? Fine.

Grilled Sardines

Gut the sardines. Season with sea salt. Place in grill basket or directly on the grill. Cook until done.

Heh. Are you satisfied now?

Well, one more thing. This is an open letter to all the restaurant cooks who have overcooked my sardines nearly every time that I have ordered them. The properly grilled sardine should maintain all the tenderness and juiciness that makes sardines such a delight to eat. Like all fish, sardines should be cooked delicately, just to the point where the flesh firms up. I implore you. Please, please, please do not overcook my sardines ever again.

Thank you. I feel better now.

Why did I title this post "Home sweet home?" Could I really consider my new place home before I cooked sardines in it?

* Hearth. About 10 years ago I thought of calling my restaurant Hearth. I liked that it had the word heart in it, because my personal cooking goal and motto is to "cook from my heart." I referred to my restaurant as Hearth in all my old "restaurant ideas" journals (note to aspiring restaurant owners: start a journal). I was sad when, several years ago, some big name restaurateurs opened Hearth in New York City. What really galls me is that, as far as I know, their restaurant lacks a wood-burning oven or grill or anything that remotely resembles a hearth. To add insult to injury, I discovered that I couldn't use that name in San Francisco even if I had wanted to, because there's already a bar that goes by that name. Harumph!

On diamonds and olive oil

My question was met with silence, so I repeated myself in broken Spanish.

“Do you know where the diamonds dwell?”

My question, which made perfect sense to me, caused the man's eyebrows to rise in perplexed bemusement. I’d seen that look often in my travels through Spain. It’s a facial expression familiar to anyone who has ever ventured outside her home country and made an attempt to speak with the locals using the local language. You know the look. The one that perfectly conveys that the person you’re speaking to thinks you have the IQ of a parrot.

My wife, who speaks Spanish much better than I, came to my aid. “Los Diamantes. It’s a tapas bar.”

After the man regained control of his giggles, he encouraged us to keep walking further down the street, Calle Navas, to number 28.

The sun shone hot as a pizza oven on that day a few summers ago. We were in Granada, a city in Andalucía famous as the home of the Alhambra, the fourteenth century Moorish palace. The city is not renowned, however, for its food. After two days tolerating mediocre chow, we decided to venture outside the romantic yet touristy Albaicín area in search of a decent lunch. On a tip from a friend, we headed to the nearby business district. The streets were nearly empty and all the shops were closed.

When we finally arrived at Los Diamantes, we were stunned. It seemed that every single worker on lunch break had descended upon this tiny bar the size of a shot glass. Customers spilled out of the bar onto the streets. In appearance, the bar is unremarkable, similar to any working class tapas bar anywhere in Spain. On warm summer days, the owners take advantage of the bar’s corner location by opening up both the front and side of the building to the street so that it effectively has just two walls. Along one wall is a long bar, which is standing room only. As far as I can recall, there were not even tables or chairs on that day. Along the shorter wall in the back is the diminutive kitchen.

My first attempt to penetrate the rugby scrum of a crowd proved useless. I generally don’t fare well in crowded bars. Much to my mother’s consternation, I take after my calm and quiet New England grandparents more than my mother, who was raised in New York City. I just don’t have it in me to elbow my way to the front of the line to place a drink order. Cocktails don’t provide adequate incentive for me.

Tapas bars, however, are another story. If there’s fried fish as a reward, I’ll happily toss elbows with a roomful of Arnold Schwarzeneggers (as a liberal San Franciscan, that’s an especially terrifying vision). Fortunately, I didn’t have to, because N noticed there was a gap in the crowd at the far end of the bar by the kitchen.

There was virtually nothing separating the bar from its kitchen. Just a wide open window. From the perspective of a local, the spot next to the heat of the kitchen was the least desirable place to stand. As a hungry traveler hoping to learn about Spanish cuisine, that was exactly where I wanted to be.

As is typical in Andalucía, the kitchen at Los Diamantes is dominated by the fryer. Andalusian cooks are masters in the art of frying. A friend who spent a year as an exchange student in Sevilla told me that he knew lunch or dinner was approaching whenever he heard the sound of oil beginning to bubble in his host family’s kitchen.

With the fryer about 12 inches from me, I could see that the frying cauldron was filled with olive oil. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise, as the landscape on our train trip between Sevilla and Granada seemed to be populated by nothing but olive trees. However, cookbooks and food authorities had always warned me to avoid frying in olive oil, because its smoking point is relatively low, between 375 and 410 degrees Fahrenheit (190-205 degrees Celsius). The food that emerged from the fryer at Los Diamantes (and many other tapas bars throughout Andalucía and Madrid) reminded me, once again, not to trust those who anoint themselves as authorities.

The two fried dishes we had at Los Diamantes were amongst the best fried food I have ever eaten anywhere. Everything was perfectly greaseless and nicely crispy, despite the relatively pale blonde color of the final product. If N hadn’t stopped me, I could have eaten 10 platefuls of the berenjenas fritas, lightly battered paper-thin slices of eggplant. The coating reminded me of tempura batter. Each bite shattered like the top of a crème brûlée. We followed that with the surtido de pescados fritos, a plate of anchovies, hake, and tiny squid that had been dusted in flour before their quick dip in the olive oil jacuzzi. Bliss.

The other two dishes we ate, chopitos a la plancha (baby cuttlefish cooked on a griddle) and the house ensalada, also dwell high on my culinary pantheon. The salad, a version of which will be found on the menu of my future restaurant, Olallie, simply consisted of little gem lettuces cut into quarters and dressed with fantastic local extra virgin olive oil, white wine vinegar, fried slivers of garlic, and lots of salt. So much more refreshing than the ubiquitous mesclun salad!

In the end, at least from a gastronomic point of view, I guess I did discover where the diamonds dwell.

[Recipe after the jump]

Recipe: gravlax of wild king salmon

There are only about 6 more weeks remaining for the local king (chinook) salmon season in the Bay Area, so I wanted to take the opportunity to share my favorite method for making gravlax, the Scandinavian cured salmon. My version, which results in rich, velvety slices of salmon (albeit saltier than your typical smoked salmon) is based on the recipe I learned years ago when I interned at the Chez Panisse Café in Berkeley (their version is in one of my all-time favorite cookbooks, the Chez Panisse Café Cookbook).

I diverge from the classical gravlax in one major way. I substitute lemongrass or lemon verbena or, well virtually anything, for dill.

Before I go on, I have to confess, I don't like dill. My friends and I were discussing over the weekend what, if any, flavors we dislike and the only one I could think of was dill. It's funny, because my Indian wife despises saffron and my Filipino friend shudders at the mere mention of ginger. And here I am with a hefty dose of Swedish in my mongrel American gene pool, and I disdain of the herb commonly associated with Scandinavian cuisine.

It's really my mother's fault. When I was growing up, she used to dump hefty amounts of green stuff from a dusty old jar marked, appropriately, "dried dill weed" into our buttered peas. Some herbs just do not fare well in the dried form. In the case of "dill weed," the result is a disastrous exponential expansion of the weedy aspect of the herb. Now whenever I so much as get a whiff of the stuff, even if it is fresh, that gag reflex resurfaces from when I was six years old and forced to eat my veggies.

But, as usual, I digress.

First you need about a 1 pound piece of extremely fresh king salmon fillet, skin on. I buy my local salmon exclusively from Larry Miyamura of Shogun Fish Company who catches, cleans and sells his salmon direct at our local farmers market. I prefer to use a tail piece or the next cut up from the tail, because it's easier to slice the final product. It's also thinner, so it cures faster. Pull out any pin bones with needle-nosed pliers.

Lightly toast 1/2 teaspoon coriander seeds in a pan over medium heat, and then allow to cool. In a mortar, coarsely crush coriander with 1/2 teaspoon black peppercorns. Transfer to a bowl and stir in 1/3 cup each kosher* salt and sugar.

Coarsely chop 1/4 cup lemon verbena leaves or thinly slice 1 stalk lemongrass.

Place fillet in a glass or stainless steel dish lined with a piece of cheesecloth, skin side down, and thoroughly coat first the bottom and then the top with the salt-sugar mixture and the herbs, leaving no flesh exposed. Wrap tightly with the cheesecloth, cover, and refrigerate for a total of 48 hours. After the first 24 hours, turn the salmon skin side up.

After 48 hours, your now cured salmon will look similar to the photo at the right. Before serving, scrape of the herbs and the undissolved salt and sugar. Slice at an angle with a very sharp, thin-bladed knife into paper-thin slices.

I usually serve it for breakfast on buttered toast or a bagel, sometimes adding a few thin slices of avocado to cut the saltiness of the salmon.

I've made several versions of gravlax over the years, not all with lemony herbs. I've also had good results with fennel seeds and wild fennel fronds, ajwain (an Indian spice often used in fish curries), and a combination of coriander and cumin. Let your creativity guide you.

* For the amounts specified, I use Diamond Crystal® kosher salt. If you substitute any other brand of kosher or any other type of salt, reduce quatity of salt to about 1/4 cup.

Recipe (IMBB 18): Pan-fried Petrale Sole with Succotash of Summer Squash and Corn

For most American cooks, summer is the season to go into their backyards and fire up the grill. For me, that's never been the case. I don't even own a grill. Nor, as a matter of fact, do I have much of a backyard. Hell, living in San Francisco, I often don't have a summer.

When the weather turns hot, I crave fried food. My first truly hot summer came when I moved to Washington, D.C., for college. While most college students would return home for summer vacation, I always made sure I had some excuse--summer school, internships, jobs-- to stay in D.C. during the hot summer. It turns out I actually thrived in the heat. And so did my stomach. Summer meant crab cakes, fried chicken, french fries, fried green tomatoes, hush puppies.

It wasn't until my trip to Andalucía last summer, though, that I finally found people who truly shared my unabashed enthusiasm for frying. The Andalucían cooks have mastered the art of frying in olive oil like nowhere else. It didn't matter that the thermometer often climbed above 104˚F/40˚C that summer. Nothing dampened their, nor my, desire for our daily dose of perfectly fried fish.

So, in the spirit of Andalucía and for my contribution to this month's theme of Is My Blog Burning, "Summer's Flying, Let's Get Frying," I present one of my favorite summertime recipes for simply pan-fried, local Petrale sole on top of a "succotash" of stir-fried summer corn and squash (press "continue" for recipe).

Recipe: Caponata di Melanzane

Since I shopped this week at the farmers market, we have lots of wonderful local summer vegetables on hand.  Yellow and red peppers and rosa bianca eggplants from Mariquita Farm , tomatoes and basil from Dirty Girl Farm...for me that spells caponata di melanzane, the Sicilian summer vegetable stew.  Caponata is in the same family of Mediterranean vegetable ragoûts as the Provençal ratatouille or the Spanish pisto, although unlike either of those it does not usually include zucchini.   I say usually, because every family in Sicily has their own recipe for caponata.  They all feature eggplant in the staring role, but the supporting cast changes, with raisins and pine nuts in some versions, capers and olives in others.  My version leans in the latter direction, featuring capers, olives, anchovies and roasted peppers.  It can be used as an accompaniment to lamb or fish, to sauce pasta, or on its own on top of polenta.  Tonight, I served it topped with a slow-roasted fillet of local halibut (see here for tips on slow-roasting fish) and basil oil.

3 T extra virgin olive oil
1/2 onion, sliced
2 garlic cloves, sliced
2 peppers (red or yellow), roasted, peeled and sliced thickly
1 eggplant (approx. 12 oz.), cubed (1 inch)
3 tomatoes, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 t dried oregano or 1 T fresh oregano, marjoram or basil
1 T salt-packed capers, soaked in several changes of water
1/4 c olives, pitted (your favorite--I used arbequinas I brought back from Spain)
3 anchovy fillets, chopped (optional)

Sweat onions over low heat in 2 T of the oil, adding garlic halfway through, until they're meltingly soft.  Add tomatoes and your choice of herbs and cook 10-15 min. longer, until saucy.  In a seperate pan, sauté eggplant over high heat in the remaining 1 T oil until caramelized and starting to soften, about 5-10 min.  Add eggplant and peppers to tomato mixture and cook until eggplants are tender, but not mushy.  Add capers, olives and optional anchovies at last minute.

Recipe: Tangy Green Olive Relish

Throughout the summer, I often make some version of olive relish to accompany our excellent local wild salmon.  Because it is both salty and tangy, it balances and flatters the salmon's rich flavor.  To maintain king salmon's natural succulence, I recommend "slow-roasting" (a popular menu description for what is more accurately called "baking") the individual salmon fillets in a 325° oven for 10-15 minutes, depending on the thickness.  To do this, first season the fillets liberally with sea salt (I usually do this about a half hour before cooking), then place the fish (without crowding) in their cooking pan and drizzle each fillet with about a teaspoon of olive oil and a splash of white wine.  It's also best to let the fish sit at room temperature for up to a half hour before cooking it.

Yield:  about a half cup, enough for 4 servings

1/2 c green olives, such as picholine or Spanish Gordal olives (my current fave)
1/4 preserved lemon , skin only, or 1/2 t lemon zest, finely chopped
2 T almonds, blanched, toasted and coarsely chopped or marcona almonds
1 T parsley, chopped
1-3 t lemon juice, to taste
3 T extra virgin olive oil

Pit and coarsely chop the olives.  Combine in a small bowl with the rest of the ingredients.  You will need more lemon juice if you use the lemon zest instead of the preserved lemons.  For convenience, use already toasted or fried marcona almonds, available at Trader Joe's or through the Spanish Table.  Also, if you want to make your own preserved lemons, there's an easy recipe in Chez Panisse Fruit.