in praise of sardines

And now for something completely different

We interrupt this 4-course Parisian meal for an English pudding.

No, this is not a joke.

And neither, might I add, is English food. English food is a force to be reckoned with. It's no mere trifle.

Unless of course you're talking about Trifle. English Trifle is indeed a trifle. I mean that in the sweet-custardy-dessert sense of the word, not the something-of-little-importance sense.

In fact, in recent years English Trifle has become more than a little important. Its charms have spread far and wide. Why, it has even managed to ooze through the Chunnel, down the gullet, and into the brain of none other than the great pastry chef Pierre Hermé.

It's true. Pierre Hermé and other Great Chefs of France have been having a Tryst with Trifle. I've seen it with my own eyes. I've tasted the francofied trifle with my own tongue. What? Has the unimaginable occurred? Have the Great Chefs of France begun looking towards the much maligned cooking of England for inspiration? Quel scandal!

"Please forgive us," the Chefs plead. "We cannot resist Ms. Trifle's creamy and voluptuous charms. She is like Nigella Lawson in a silk negligee and glass slippers."

"Non!" cried the proud French people upon learning of the Great Chefs' anything-but-trifling Tryst with Trifle. "We must enroll les docteurs du spin to defend our nation's gastronomic integrity. We won't allow anyone to trifle with our reputation." The docteurs du spin hatched a plan. "From this day forward, on our side of the Channel we will call Trifle la Verrine. Heh heh heh. We will convince the world the the Verrine is our invention! With a sexy name like Verrine, no one will realize that she is simply English Trifle in a little black Chanel dress."

The Great Chefs of France worked long hours, sometimes even exceeding 35 hours per week, to cover up their shameful Tryst with Trifle. First, they had Ms. Trifle slip into a size-2 glass (verre). Then they adorned her with tuiles and gelées, crème and caramel. They varied her temperature and texture, smeared croustillant on her lips, dabbed craquant behind her ears. They enrolled la bonne femme and even bloggers in their cause. Cook books were published. When they were done, they leaked the concept to the American media. "Let's start with LA. The Californians love us French. They will believe whatever we tell them."

And after my trip to Paris, I too have fallen prey to their deception. I have fallen head over heals for the charms of this repackaged Trifle, the voluptuous Verrine.

So what follows is the result of my own scandalous tryst with the francofied Trifle. I concocted a fashionable French verrine an old-fashioned English Trifle with a California sensibility. Imagine Joan Collins as Alexis Carrington. (If you haven't guessed by now, this Pythonesque tale is my fashionably late entry in Sam's Fish & Quips event. Happy St George's Day to all!).

Allow me to introduce you to my lovely sweet paramour...

Banoffi, banoffi bo anoffi,...

...banana fanna fo fanoffi, fee fie mo manoffi, Banoffi!

I have to admit that when I first saw the "What's for Pud?" post by Sam and Monkey Gland which asked bloggers to whip up an English pudding (aka "dessert" in American English) to celebrate St. George's Day, I was less than enthusiastic. The names of the puddings, though amusing, did not exactly titillate my taste buds. Spotted Dick, Eton Mess, Lardy Cake, Ginger Nuts were but a few of the examples Sam listed on her blog.

Then I spotted Banoffi (also spelled Banoffee) Pie. Banoffi Pie is a sweet pastry crust filled with dulce de leche and sliced bananas and topped with a cloud of whipped cream and a dusting of ground coffee or shaved chocolate.The name is a portmanteau, a blend of the words "banana" and "toffee." There were two reasons I decided to make this particular pudding. First of all, when, I reasoned, would I ever again get the opportunity to use the word portmanteau?

The other reason was that, unlike the other "puds" on the list, I had actually tasted this one before. Last summer, N and I tucked into a slice of this gooey pudding while perched on rickety stools at New York's Spotted Pig, as far as I know the only bona fide gastropub this side of the Pond. We liked chef April Bloomfield's rendition of Banoffi Pie (see her recipe here) so much that we licked our plate clean even though our bellies were overflowing with smoked haddock chowder, pumpkin and pecorino salad, enough chicken liver mousse to fill a derby hat, and pan-fried kidneys from what was surely a herd of calves.

Using the original recipe created in 1972 by the owners of the Hungry Monk, a pub in East Sussex, England, the Banoffie Pie I made was a sticky mess of deliciousness. As you can see from the picture above, my pie was rather impressive looking before I sliced it. Unfortunately, I hadn't chilled it enough by the time my friends arrived for our impromptu "tea party," so the dulce de leche flowed over our plates like primordial ooze. My pudding became a puddle! What the dessert lacked in appearance (hence no pictures of the final slice!), though, it made up for in sticky sweetness. Mary Poppins herself would surely have declared my Banoffi Pie scrum-dilly-icious!

One note on making dulce de leche. The most common way to make this caramel custard is to heat unopened cans of sweetened condensed milk in a pot full of boiling water for 4-5 hours. Be careful to keep the cans covered with an inch or two of water.

The nanny of my friend S (S, by the way, just returned to San Francisco from a few months hiatus at her home in Madrid) once did the unthinkable. She accidentally let the water covering the cans boil away. The pressure built up inside the cans and then, S recalls, she heard a loud boom! boom! boom! She and her gaggle of brothers and sisters dashed to the kitchen and found dulce de leche dripping off the ceiling, down the walls, even inside light fixtures. They spent the next several hours happily licking everything in sight. So, unless you have a house full of children, make sure you keep the cans covered with water at all times! (Or simply avoid the whole issue by following the instructions on the can for making dulce de leche in the oven).

Happy St. George's Day, Sam, MG, and any other English readers out there!

What's For Pud?|St George's Day

Whipping chocolate through Molecular Gastronomy

My brother and I are complete opposites. I'm the artist, he's the math geek. I don't own a TV, he has one in every room - even the bathroom. In my free time, I read up on how to improve my paella. My brother plays computer games based on Dungeons and Dragons.

The family mythology says that my brother, who dashed from house to house pushing door bells while I was in a stroller, has known since he was 4 years old that he wanted to be a computer engineer. I, on the other hand, still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

Given my lack of interest in science, it may come as a surprise that I snapped up Hervé This' book Molecular Gastronomy: Exploring the Science of Flavor the second it was translated into English. Professor This (pronounced "Teess") has collaborated with many chefs, including 3-star Michelin chef Pierre Gagnaire, to help propel the movement that has become known as Molecular Gastronomy.

The most famous innovators of the Molecular Gastronomy movement reside not in the Professor's France, but across the border in Spain in the kitchens of El Bulli, Arzak, El Celler de Can Roca, and elsewhere. As a fan of all Spanish cooking, traditional and modern, I figured it is time that I loosen up some of my Luddite prejudices and learn about and perhaps even *gasp* play around with some of the new techniques.

I enjoyed the premise and promise of the Professor's book more than the reality. Perhaps I am not the best person to review such a book, as my interest in science falls even below my interest in the Olympic sport of curling. I rushed through high school chemistry in one summer, never took physics, and only got as far as trigonometry in math (although, as I never fail to gleefully remind my brother, I still managed to score 20 points higher than Mr. AP Calculus on the math portion of the SAT). There are lots of fun tidbits to chew on, but for the most part I found the book too focused on molecular theory and lacking in practical application. Then again, what did I expect from a chemist?

I ought to disclose one other bit of information. Truthfully, I only bought the book because one chapter, entitled "Chantilly Chocolate: How to make a chocolate mousse without the eggs," tantalized me with its possibilities. Unfortunately, like all the chapters in the book, this one turned out to be just 2 or 3 pages long. If you are more used to the in-depth discussions of Harold McGee's tome, On Food and Cooking, you will be disappointed with the brevity of the explanations in Molecular Gastronomy.

Sugar (not) High Friday #15: Oranges and Dates

This juicy Orange and Date Salad is my minimalist entry for the fifteenth edition of  Sugar (not) High Friday hosted by Sam of Becks & Posh. Our goal in this event was to showcase desserts that used little or no refined sugar.

This easy dessert is a refreshing assortment of medjool dates and sliced organic citrus (blood oranges, cara cara navel oranges, clementines and tangelos) topped with toasted pistachios, dusted with powdered sugar, and baptized with a spoonful of sweet muscat wine and a few drops of rose water. It was inspired by a recipe in one of my favorite cookbooks, Casa Moro, from the chefs/owners of the London restaurant Moro.

Together with a glass of mint tea, this Orange and Date Salad would make a simple yet elegant conclusion to a rich winter meal, especially one with a Moorish or Indian theme. Use the sweetest citrus fruits available and vary the flavorings to suit your taste. You could substitute orange flower water and perhaps add some orange blossom honey if your citrus fruits are not so sweet. Or you could make it more savory by drizzling the plate with extra virgin olive oil and a few flakes of sea salt. Remember to keep it simple, so that the tartness of the citrus fruits can dance with the sweetness of the dates without too much distraction.

Food|and Drink|Recipes|Desserts|Sugar High Friday #15

Hazelnut Brown Butter Cake

Thank you for all your patience while I've been busy with many activities, including beautifying my little blog!

As a reward, I'm going to share something sweet with you.

"What's that?" you scoff. "A dessert from Brett? What will he be soaking in his cup of tea today? Will he add anchovies?" Shamefully, your misgivings are warranted. Upon a quick perusal of my "categories" archives (note the fancy new drop-down menus while you're there), you may wonder whether I ever eat desserts.

I'll let you in on a dirty little secret: I have a ferocious sweet tooth.

As you may know, I've spent most of the past decade working in restaurant kitchens. We cooks tend to fall into one of two camps: sweet or savory, rarely crossing lines. My ten years in professional kitchens never saw me stepping away from the savory side of the fence, though many a pastry chef have told me that my calm demeanor would be most welcome in their world.

For reasons that defy explanation and, truthfully, vex my wife, the Sirens of the "hot line" continuously beckon me to their rocky cliffs, where they hypnotize me into standing for countless hours in front of an inferno while orders fly at me like daggers. Though oil burns my arms, my legs cramp, and knives slip (ouch!), I find a sense of serenity in the vortex of the dinner-rush tornado that eludes me anywhere else.

You need a dozen entrées plated right away? No problem. You need a simple pie crust? Ask someone else.

You see, by my own admission, I'm rather clumsy in the pastry kitchen. My least favorite task is one of the easiest, separating egg yolks from whites. I always seem to pollute the whites with a dribble of yolk. I tear delicate doughs, scorch sugar, and cause chocolate to seize.

Fortunately, though, over the years my sweet tooth encouraged me to keep one eye on the pastry chef at all times (and not only so I could nick that handful of chocolate whenever s/he turned away). I incessantly asked questions. There's nothing I dislike more than not knowing how - or why - to do something.

A couple of weeks ago, the Sweet Muse mysteriously chose to whisper into my unworthy ear. She spoke through the pages of my new favorite cook book, Suzanne Goin's Sunday Suppers at Lucques. A couple of weeks ago (yes, I have fallen that far behind in my culinary tales), Pim invited local bloggers to her house to help her organize the raffle drawings for Menu for Hope II. She lured us with promises of her justly famous Thai cooking. How could I pass up such an enticing invitation, especially as it afforded me the chance to finally meet some of my fellow bloggers. I was so enthusiastic that I even convinced N to join me.

Whenever I go to a friend's house, I feel awkward if I don't bring something along. As Pim was providing the main course, I was left with only one option. Dessert.

A lime or mango tart would probably have been ideal after Pim's spicy curried Thai noodles (khao soi - read her recipe here), but my crust phobias prevented me from going down that path. I spied a large jar of Catalonian hazelnuts twiddling their thumbs on my kitchen counter and then remembered drooling over Ms. Goin's recipe for Hazelnut Brown Butter Cake. The recipe was nearly identical to an almond cake that one of my mentor chefs used as a base for her Prune Plum Upside Down Cake, perhaps my favorite dessert in the world.

I baked the cake early in the morning. The aroma of toasted hazelnuts and caramelized butter drove me nearly mad with anticipation. When it emerged from the oven, the cake looked respectable enough, belying its simple collection of ingredients.

Upon arrival at Pim's, though, my bubble of pride quickly deflated. It suddenly dawned on me that I - the savory cook - had brought one of just 2 desserts to a fête that included several well-known, excellent bakers (including Shuna and Heidi!) and, of course, a certain four-star chef. What the hell was I thinking bringing a dessert, especially one I had previously neither made nor tasted?

Thankfully, Chef Goin did not let me down! Her cake - really more of a torte - is divine. It is that rare pastry that manages to be both rich (with butter and hazelnuts), yet light (with lots of beaten egg whites). I plan to make it often, especially during the autumn and winter months. I'm sure if one of you more expert bakers attempt her recipe, it will come out even lighter and more spectacular than my version.*

Maybe it's just luck, but I tend to have a pretty good nose for sniffing out which recipes will work and which ones will flop (and be too much for me to handle). Besides, how could I resist a recipe that Ms. Goin tells us she had chosen as her own wedding cake?

Maybe, just maybe, I'll try my hand at more desserts over this next 6 months and share my successes (and failures) with you. That's a New Year's resolution I can live with!

________________________________
* Feb. 6. Update: I couldn't have been more accurate when I wrote that self-assessment last month. For expert advice on how to make this luscious cake come out far lighter and even more scrumptious than mine did, follow veteran pastry chef Shuna Lydon's detailed instructions in her "dacquoise & meringue" post on KQED's food blog Bay Area Bites!

Unexpected food discoveries lead to a tasty Halloween and Diwali

There are few things that get me more excited than discovering something new to eat. In the name of unearthing an unusual and original taste, I will scour local markets, steal tastes at farm stands, pilfer fruit from neighbor's trees or wild bushes. I will endure excruciating heat, verbal abuse, gastrointestinal discomfort, endless hours of searching, even potential jail time.

Of course, the joy multiplies tenfold when new products practically jump into my undeserving hands, which is exactly what happened not once but twice over the weekend at our local farmers market.

Making my usual rounds, my blood hound mind was distracted by every aroma and shiny object. I paused here to sample a glistening pear, there to sniff the rose geraniums. I was as insatiable as Condoleeza Rice at Ferragamo.

The sight of a giant bee out of the corner of my eye momentarily yanked me out of my reverie. Once my reptilian brain relaxed, I realized the over five-foot tall bee was actually Helene Marshall of Marshall's Farm Natural Honey dressed as a bee, a la John Belushi.

Having my foot swell to the size of a basketball after stepping on a bee when I was a toddler didn't dampen my enthusiasm for honey. Neither did the discovery that the liquid amber is essentially bee vomit. I adore the sweet nectar.

In the Bay Area, the folks at Marshall's are the ambassadors of the bee kingdom. Their selection of dozens of varieties range in color from pale gold to dark chocolate and in flavor from floral to bittersweet. I decided to veer from my usual favorite "star thistle" and sample their seasonally changing collection of sticky wares.

After licking enough samples to send a dozen diabetics into shock, my clear favorite was endearingly named "Haunted Honey." Made from the pollen of pumpkin blossoms, this bright orange syrup has distinct undertones of roasted butternut squash and butterscotch.

Haunted Honey for Halloween. How appropriate. Unbelievably, I next stumbled upon a product worthy of Diwali, the Indian festival of lights which takes place today.

This time, I spied a product that stopped me in my tracks - a local version of an Italian cheese that some readers know I am inordinately fond of. While I paused to take a picture of the sheep's milk cheese, another cheese grabbed my attention.

Apparently a month or two ago, the local cheesemakers at Cowgirl Creamery teamed up with noted Indian food expert Niloufer Ichaporia King (whose cookbook I am excitedly awaiting) to create a creamy "Parsi style" version of panir (also spelled paneer). The Cowgirl version of this cow's milk farmer's cheese tastes like a smoother, saltier version of fresh ricotta, remarkably similar to a fresh cheese I often enjoyed in Catalonia called mató.

And guess what! Mató is almost always paired with honey* as a light and refreshing end to a Catalan meal. So I married my Halloween honey with my Diwali panir, added a few toasted California walnuts, and ended up miraculously with the best version of mel i mató I have had outside of Spain. Kismet.

Happy (belated) Halloween! Happy Diwali! And, most of all, happy tummy!

*Thanks also to the brilliant NS of San Francisco Gourmet San Francisco Gourmet who just a month ago reminded us all what a simple yet wonderful combination fresh ricotta-style cheese is when drizzled with a flavorful honey.

Food|and Drink|Recipes|Cheese|Desserts

PBT#1: Masala Chai Poached Prunes

The average tourist travels to Granada for one reason, to see the famed Alhambra, the fourteenth century Moorish palace. Unfortunately for the gastro-tourist, the food in Granada is definitely not, as the British like to say, more-ish.

For that reason alone, N and I planned to make our stay in Granada in the summer of 2004 brief. Most of our dining experiences met our abysmally low expectations. Happily however, we experienced two memorable exceptions. The first was lunch at a rollicking working class tapas bar called Los Diamantes (Calle Navas, 28), where we tucked into some of the most perfectly fried baby cuttlefish, anchovies and eggplants of our trip.

The second exception was breakfast at our hotel, a fabulously romantic, exquisitely renovated fifteenth century Moorish house, by far the best hotel of our trip. N, in particular, is a breakfast lover. She had grown weary with the traditional Spanish breakfast of a croissant or a suizo (sugar topped roll) and a cup of coffee. She craved a more substantial breakfast, one that includes a bit of protein, some warm bread and perhaps a bowl of fruit.

The first morning at our hotel, we trundled down the stairwell from our room, bleary-eyed, into the cozy, barrel-vaulted former wine cellar (pictured left) where the breakfast buffet was served. We blinked several times when we saw the breakfast buffet spread out before us: jamón ibérico, manchego cheese, hard-boiled eggs, tortilla, the fixins to make our own pan con tomate (including freshly grated tomato pulp in a bowl mixed with excellent local olive oil), a do-it-yourself toaster, marmalade, fresh fruit, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and the usual rolls, suizos, and croissants. We were having such a good time, we nearly missed our scheduled entrance time to view the Alhambra!

There was one other item on the breakfast buffet: prunes. And, though it sounds ridiculous to say, they were a revelation. They were double the size of their emaciated cousins in California, although they are both the same variety as the French pruneaux d'Agen. Nearly as soft as a ripe fig, these prunes even managed to be moist and succulent, an unexpected trait for a dried fruit. My guess is that these prunes were picked when they were riper and sweeter, and then dried to a lesser degree than their Californian counterparts.

Our last stop on our gastronomic tour of Spain was Barcelona. We visited Casa Gispert, a wonderfully aromatic spice shop founded in 1851 where the owners still roast almonds and hazelnuts over a wood fire every morning. Tucked away in one of the bins, we noticed our prized plump prunes (pictured right, from the Casa Gispert website), which the shopkeeper told me were grown in northern Catalonia across the border from where the famous French prunes are grown. Although we bought several pounds of roasted Marcona almonds, we decided against buying the prunes, figuring we could find respectable ones in San Francisco.

After a year of fruitless* searching, one of the few things N requested (or more aptly, demanded) from my return visit to Barcelona this past July was, yes, a bagful of those humble, yet succulent prunes.

Since California prunes aren't as juicy as those I had in Spain or the pruneaux d'Agen, I riffed off of one of Judy Rodgers' recipes from The Zuni Cafe Cookbook to create "Masala Chai Poached Prunes" to have with our breakfast tomorrow, perhaps with a bowl of steel-cut oatmeal (pictured below).

Why tomorrow? Because pastry chef/blogger extraordinaire David Lebovitz has declared tomorrow the first (and only) Prune Blogging Thursday! (I personally think this should be a more regular occurrence myself).

If you'd like to see what other delicacies you can make with the lowly prune, David has linked to all the recipes from other prune lovers here.

* Excuse the fruitless pun. The closest resemblance to the Spanish prunes we have found are the prunes sold by Bella Viva Orchards at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market in San Francisco and online.

The fruit that blushes when you cook it

Quince are a difficult fruit to get to know. Every autumn, I buy one or two with the best intentions.

I tell myself I'll poach them or make a lovely marmalade or perhaps a batch of membrillo (Spanish quince paste). They generously perfume our kitchen with their floral honeysuckle aroma for a week. Then the scent fades, and N starts asking when I'm going to do something with those hard fruits. "Soon," I reply, "I have some great ideas." Then another week passes, and the guilt builds. Then a third week of neglect. I start to regret ever having bought those damned, overly demanding fruit. Then a fourth, and I can barely stand to look at them. Their very presence seems to expose my every shortcoming and weakness. Eventually, they rot and I happily throw them away.

So it was with some apprehension that I brought home my usual two quince this year. N saw them and muttered, "hmmm, quince." Not usually one to hide her opinions, she uncharacteristically bit her tongue, while I averted my eyes and changed the subject.

There they sat. Waiting. I snapped a picture for my blog. Then a week, maybe two passed. The aroma started to fade....

Happily, this year is different! I followed Paula Wolfert's unusual Turkish-style recipe in The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen which calls for slow-roasting the quince for 5 hours. The transformation was unbelievable! My homely, hard quince turned into a pair of ruby red slippers. The powerful aroma transformed into the most exotic flavor, tasting as if an entire garden of red roses had been distilled into a single bite. A reminder that cooking can be magical!

A little bit of research in Harold McGee's book demystified the process and put a damper on my romantic notions. I'll attempt to summarize the Professor's explanation. Quince are inedibly tannic in their raw state. When they are cooked, the same chemicals that cause this astringency on our tongues break down and bond with oxygen chemicals to form anthocyanins, the plant pigments that cause fruit and vegetable to appear red.

[Long pause]

As I was saying, the quince turn red through some inexplicable, mysterious, magical process. Perhaps they are blushing, knowing that the one who tastes them is about to fall in love.

When I served the roasted quince for dessert the other night, falling in love is exactly what happened to N. She was astonished and entranced by the beguiling taste. She was convinced I had added some secret ingredient like rose water or cardamom or vanilla. Believe me, folks, she is a tough critic and she was enraptured.

Or perhaps she was just stunned that I actually cooked the quince this year.

Fruit Porn (recipe inside!)

Here's a peek at some of the sexy local fruit from our Saturday farmers market.

These beauties, the best of our local figs, are the mostly widely anticipated fruit at my house. They come from Rick Knoll's Tairwa' Farm (a phoneticization of the French terroir, which loosely translates as "a sense of place") in Brentwood. The large purplish ones are Brown Turkey figs (N's favorite) and the small green ones are Adriatic figs (my favorite, mainly because I love the colorful contrast between the chartreuse skin and the red flesh, but they both taste similar). Both are scarlet on the inside and absolutely bursting with juice.

These lovelies with the color of a tequila sunrise (when was the last time you had one of those?) are called pluots. They're a cross between, as you may have guessed, a plum and an apricot. Steven Kashiwase, my favorite stone fruit farmer (peaches, nectarines, plums and pluots), grows them in Winton. This variety, which I find the most satisfying of all the pluots, is aptly called Flavor King. When eaten raw, the succulent fruit more closely resembles a sweet-tart plum. Its apricotness pushes to the forefront when it is cooked into a gorgeous galette or preserves (click "continue" below for an easy recipe for pluot preserves).

Our final bombshell is also of mixed parentage. This bunch of Bronx grapes, from Lagier Ranches in Escalon, is a cross between the flavorful purple Concord grape and the rather dull Thompson seedless variety. What you end up with is better than the sum of the parts. The Concord lends a tinge of its amethyst color, its floral perfume and its quintessential grapey flavor (I can't think of any better way to describe its almost artificial tasting flavor, the taste of the Welch's Concord grape jelly you had smeared on your peanut butter sandwich when you were a kid). The Thompson was clearly chosen to result in a seedless progeny, but it also adds its characteristic shade of jade green.