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Monday, December 19th, 2011

A Poilâne Apple Turnover A Day…

Poilâne Chausson aux Pommes, or Apple Slipper

I never eat breakfast. Never ever. I’m allergic to eggs. I don’t love sweets…especially not first thing. What’s the point?

So, in my Saturday trip to Poilâne, I picked up what they’re most famous for: chausson aux pommes. Apple turnovers. Which really translates to slippers of apples. And I love that kind of charming anachronism that the French language lends to its foods. Apple slippers. How old fashioned and absolutely lovely.

There are no chunks of apples. There is no cinnamon. It’s not really an apple turnover in the American sense of the word. The middle is brimming and oozing with something like an apple sauce-turned-paste, honeyed in sweetness and color and flavor. And as you bite into the hand-crimped edge of the flaky, crusty, substantial dough, every so slightly burnt on the underside because someone actually made it, the appleness oozes out around the corners of your lips and you can’t help but kiss back.

I had it cold, and in a rush. A quickie before a seven-hour meeting at the office. Imagine what might have happened if I had it fresh from a warm oven, on a Saturday morning. Somethings are too magical to even bear thinking about.

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Categories: Finds, Restaurants

Monday, December 19th, 2011

The Secret Ingredient (Honey): Parsley-Crusted Salmon with the ULTIMATE Honey Mustard

RECIPE: Parsley-Crusted Salmon with the ULTIMATE Honey Mustard

Parsley Salmon with the ULTIMATE Honey Mustard

If you like effortless cooking, and you like seafood, you NEED the recipe to this sauce.

Growing up in Florida, you get very accustomed to having your seafood with mustard. When we go for stone crabs, which after lobster is just about the best thing that ever happened to the human mouth, you dive the claws down into this creamy mustard sauce, sometimes tanged up with key lime juice. It defines the experience of eating seafood in Florida.

The sauce in this post is the most versatile seafood sauce you could ever hope for. On a chilled seafood platter, it stays firm for dipping, and is cool and smooth and complex. Spooned over a hot piece of salmon straight from the grill, or over seared scallops, its melts into delicate rivulets that seep into the cracks in the fish. All you have to do is cook some seafood, and put this stuff on or near it, and the magic happens. For this photo, I paired it with a parsley-crusted roasted fillet of salmon, which you can serve, like the sauce, hot or cold.

I mix crème fraîche with Dijon and whole grain mustards, and a good amount of honey–enough so you can taste the sweetness, not just balance out the heat of the mustard. I find crème fraîche tastes less greasy than mayonnaise, especially when it melts, and it has the slight tang, which really works. That’s the sauce. The ultimate honey-mustard. You can add less honey, add key lime juice, add herbs, and citrus zest. Do anything to flavor it and shake things up, but the basic is the classic, and it’s just perfect the way it is.

Excerpted from my weekly column The Secret Ingredient on Serious Eats.

Parsley-Crusted Salmon with the ULTIMATE Honey Mustard

serves 4

INGREDIENTS

1/2 cup crème fraiche
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
2 teaspooons honey
1 teaspoon whole grain mustard
1 cup roughly chopped flat-leaf parsley
A drizzle olive oil
4 6-ounce salmon fillets

PROCEDURE

In a bowl, mix together the creme fraich, honey, and mustards. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Serve the sauce with poached shrimp instead of cocktail sauce, crab claws, poached lobster, fried oysters or clams. Or with hot grilled or seared or roasted fish. For this recipe, with the parsley salmon, preheat the oven to 475 degrees F. Toss the parsley with a drizzle of olive oil. Season the salmon with salt and pepper. Crust the tops of the salmon with parsley, and then place a layer of foil over the salmon, and weight it down with a heavy pot for 10 minutes. Drizzle a rimmed baking sheet with a touch of olive oil, and place the salmon, without the foil, in the oven for about 10 minutes. Pour the mustard sauce over the top and serve hot, or serve room temperature with the sauce on the side.

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Categories: 15 Minutes, Bread & Butter, Cheap, Dips, Spreads, Preserves, Easy, Eat, Fish, Main Courses, Recipes, Series, The Secret Ingredient

Sunday, December 18th, 2011

A Week of Poilâne

RECIPE: Crottin de Chèvre Salad

A Crottin de Chèvre Salad, on world famous Poilâne bread!

Mr. English led me on a walk through my still-new neighborhood yesterday, and lo and behold, I looked up to see…Poilâne. If you don’t know Poilâne, it’s the superman of French bakeries, located on the rue de Cherche-Midi. The selection is sparse: huge pains au levain, with the characteristic “P” swirled into the top of the crust, the irresistible chaussons aux pommes (which means apple turnovers, even though the phrase actually translates quaintly to apple slippers), and the little crisp butter cookies. And, of course, the giant chandelier, made of bread. Of course.

Well, look out London! Poilâne is here. There’s no bread chandelier, but there were gorgeous bread birds sitting in bread nests. Charming…very English quaint. I walked into the rustic little wooden shop, much like its Parisian sister, and asked for a quarter loaf of bread. Mr. English isn’t going to be home for dinners this week, and I wanted to treat myself without expending any effort. Because frankly, after the kind of days I’ve been working, the only chance I have of staying awake for dinner is if the dinner is basically already on the plate when I get home. And when the cat’s away, the mice do play. For some people, that might mean some naughty flirting. For me, it means eating goat cheese. Mr. English hates it, so tonight, I made myself one of my favorite salads, crottin de chèvre, inspired by the famous café de la mairie in Place St. Sulpice in Paris (made famous by the fantastic modernist novel Nightwood–check it out!). Mixed greens, with a light mustard dressing, topped with a tartine of toasted Poilâne bread with slices of melted, bubbling, oozing crottin de chèvre burstin on top of them. Effortless, and so worth any effort that effortless might have left out. Here’s to eating single. Bon app!

I have a bunch more bread and a chausson aux pommes to get me through the week. I’m definitely thinking about a croque monsieur tartine…and I think I’ve got breakfast taken care of. I’ll keep you posted!

What a find!

That's what you're looking for...

Look at those air holes. Is there anything more attractive? No.

My loaf, on my latest Paris find--a slotted, crumb-catching cutting board, replete with Laguiole bread knife. Lucky me! And that's the Poilâne P on top.

Crottin de Chèvre Salad

serves 1

INGREDIENTS

1/2 teaspoon good French mayonnaise
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon white wine vinegar
Pinch of salt and pepper
3 teaspoons walnut oil
2 slices of Poilâne bread, or good country bread
A drizzle of olive oil
Good sea salt
A few huge handful of mixed greens
A handful of walnuts

(and may I recommend a pear for dessert?)

PROCEDURE

Preheat the broiler. In a small bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar, salt, pepper, and olive oil until emulsified. Set aside.

Lightly toast the bread in the toaster. Slice the crottin de chèvre into 4 slices. Place 2 slices in a single layer on each piece of bread. Drizzle very lightly with olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt. Put the bread and cheese on a baking tray, and place the bread in the middle of the oven. Broil from afar until the cheese is melting and bubbling. Leave to cool for 3 or 4 minutes.

Toss the greens and walnuts lightly with the vinaigrette. Top with the cheesy toasts. Eat!!!!!

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Categories: 15 Minutes, Easy, Eat, Recipes, Salad, Soup & Salad, Vegetarian

Friday, December 16th, 2011

French in a Flash: Fall-Apart Lamb with Prunes

RECIPE: Fall-Apart Lamb with Prunes

Braised Lamb with Prunes

When I was in Paris for my birthday a few weeks ago, I heard about the Bistrot d’Henri, a local-type bistro good enough to draw crowds from all over Paris, and well beyond, with homestyle French food at reasonable prices. It sounded too good to be true. Mr. English and I walked over from our hotel, and when we saw the place was half empty, my heart started beating wildly against my ribs. Could I really get a table at a place like this, unannounced, on a Saturday night? All over the tables were little crocks of braised stews, crispy round whole potatoes, bottles of wine. It was dark and small and cozy. I wanted it so badly.

“No!” the owner told us–all the empty tables were reserved. “But!” he chimed, calling his friend at another bistro down the street. He walked us over to his friend’s bistro, dropped us at the last empty table in Paris that night (or so it seemed) and said his “adieus”. It was a small menu, so we both ordered the lamb with prunes.

I’m not always the biggest fan of fruit in my meat, even if I am half Moroccan. But this was not a heavily spiced dish, oh no. It was simple, seared lamb shanks, stewed in a delicate wine and broth mixture with sweet onions and garlic, and of course, prunes. The meat, as a must, was falling off the bone. The prunes added a delicate sweetness, just enough to enhance the sweetness of the onions and garlic, and lend a counterbalancing flavor to the lamb and its broth. The onion is so sweet and soft it dissolves in your mouth, and the garlic so mellow that it pops out of its paper like gooey savory paste. It was gorgeous, poured over a brick of potatoes Daupinoise, and followed by a chocolate mousse. Paris! Will I ever stop being amazed? I sincerely hope not.

Here is my version, which I serve with a light herb-and-orange laced couscous, far less labor-intensive than Dauphinoise. This dish is so simple and so easy, yet so complex and interesting.

Excerpted from my weekly column French in a Flash on Serious Eats.

Fall-Apart Lamb with Prunes

serves 4

INGREDIENTS

4 lamb shanks
Kosher salt
Freshly cracked black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 yellow onions, thinly sliced
1 cup dry white wine, such as Sauvignon Blanc
2 cups low-sodium organic chicken broth
12 large cloves of garlic, unpeeled
20 pitted prunes
Fresh mint and parsley to serve

PROCEDURE

Season the lamb liberally with salt and pepper. Heat the olive oil in a high-sided sauté pan until it shimmers. Brown the meat on all sides.

Set the meat aside, and lower the heat to low. Carefully add the sliced onions, and sauté on very low heat for 20 minutes, until soft and lightly caramelized. Season the onions with salt and pepper. Raise the heat to high. Deglaze the pan with the white wine, and cook off for 2 minutes. Add the stock, garlic, prunes, and lamb to the pan. Bring the broth to a boil, then lower the heat to low, and cook, covered, on the lowest heat for 2 hours. Serve piping hot, with torn fresh leaves of parsley and mint over the top, with Dauphinoise or couscous on the side.

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Categories: Cheap, Eat, French in a Flash, Main Courses, Meat, Recipes, Series

Monday, December 12th, 2011

The Secret Ingredient (Honey): Honey-Thyme Roasted Pork Loin

RECIPE: Honey-Thyme Roasted Pork Loin

Honey Thyme Roasted Pork Loin

I hated honey growing up. My mom used to make me eat it off a teaspoon as a kind of cloying cough syrup when I was sick. But I’ll admit that I’ve acquired the taste, very strongly, for honey. Whether I lick it off a spoon, or cook with it as a full fledge ingredient, I think it is incomparable in terms of that sticky texture. And it has the fantastic protean ability to take on whatever sweetness you need it to have. When you taste it on its own, it’s natural to think, ‘this is too sweet to put on meat,’ or on anything savory for that matter. But it just mellows out and works. It balances the acids in vinaigrettes, it cuts the gaminess in meats, it enhances and brightens vegetables. It does what lemon does, only on the sweet side of the spectrum.

This recipe is one of my favorites. It’s seamless, easy, and it just works. I sear a salted and peppered pork tenderloin in olive oil until it’s nicely dark and golden brown. Then, I deglaze the pan with some stock. Meanwhile, I mash together tons of fresh thyme, lavender or thyme honey, and a bit of softened sweet butter. I rub the meat with the honey-thyme glaze, and roast it along with the pan sauce. The pork cook to a blushing pink, while the glaze bubbles up and caramelizes to the outside of the meat. The honey cooks into the pan juices, and creates a naturally thick and flavorful jus. You would think the pork would be very sweet, but it’s not. The salt and thyme and stock and the meat itself completely balances the sweetness of the honey. Instead, the honey helps to add to that glorious brown crust on the outside of the meat, adhering all the earthy time straight onto the pork like Krazy Glue. I can’t wait to make this one again. Such pedestrian ingredients, such a great dish.

Excerpted from my weekly column The Secret Ingredient on Serious Eats.

Honey-Thyme Roasted Pork Loin

serves 2 to 3

INGREDIENTS

1 1 1/4-pound pork tenderloin
Kosher salt
Freshly cracked black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons fresh thyme
1/4 cup thyme or lavender honey
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, room temperature
1/4 low-sodium organic chicken stock

PROCEDURE

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Take the pork out of the fridge 15 minutes before you want to use it. Pat it dry with a paper towel, and season the pork liberally on all sides with salt and pepper. Heat the olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. When the oil shimmers, sear the pork until golden brown on all sides, about 3 minutes per sides, or 12 minutes total. Take the pork out of the pan, and add the chicken stock. Scrape up all the brown bits from the bottom of the pan, and reserve the sauce.

While the pork is searing, whisk together the thyme, honey, and butter until completely incorporated. Season the mixture with salt and pepper. Carefully rub the mixture all over the outside of the seared pork.

Place the honey-ed pork on a foil-lined rimmed baking sheet that has been lightly oiled. Use a spoon to pour any of the honey mixture that runs off the meat back on top of the pork loin. Pour the chicken stock from the searing pan into the baking sheet. Roast the pork in the oven until the pork reaches an internal temperature of 145 degrees F, about 10 to 12 minutes. Take the pork out of the oven, tent with foil, and allow to rest for 10 minutes. Slice into medallions, and serve with the pan sauce and a few extra sprigs of fresh thyme.

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Categories: 30 Minutes, Cheap, Easy, Eat, Main Courses, Meat, Recipes, Series, The Secret Ingredient

Friday, December 9th, 2011

French in a Flash: Spaghetti with Pistachio Pistou

RECIPE: Spaghetti with Pistachio Pistou

Spaghetti with Pistachio Pistou

This recipe is the brain child resulting from the marriage of a meal I had at Da Silvano (a seriously yummy meal I had about three years ago that I’m STILL salivating over) and the sheer volume of pistachio items that I consumed this summer in the south of France. (I can’t get into it now for risk of publicly offending peanut, cashew, and walnut, but a LOT of pistachios were consumed). Pistachios all over the world are trembling in fear at the thought of it. It’s super simple: spaghetti, tossed with pistachio butter fresh from the Whole Foods grinder, some olive oil and butter, Parmesan, and maybe some garlic. It makes the perfect, gorgeous green side dish. The green for the holidays is naturally festive, and I love, as I write in this week’s column, serving pasta as a side. So often I just sit down to a big bowl of spaghetti, that I’ve forgotten how well it works as a creative side. I served this with roasted pork loin with honey, and it was so much more expressive than plain ol’ roast potatoes or rice. Bon app!

Excerpted from my weekly column French in a Flash on Serious Eats.

Try saying pistachio pistou three times fast. This recipe is actually a little bit sly. You see, what separates a French pistou from an Italian pesto is that a pesto has nuts, usually pine nuts, while a pistou has only basil, garlic, olive oil, and sometimes a good hunk of Parmesan. But in this pistou, the nuts don’t act as the binder, as they would in a pesto. Instead, they replace the basil altogether as the prime flavor and ingredient. The result is a sauce that creamy, rich, nutty, and vibrantly green. Hence, a pistachio pistou.

I love this recipe for how unusual it is, and how decadent. And, now that I think about it, how uncommonly easy it is as well. It is a simple no-cook sauce made by whisking together garlic, olive oil, butter, pasta water, and the secret ingredient, pistachio butter, which has a phenomenal mixture of textures, from creamy and buttery to finely granular, so you get a pistachio cling to each strand of spaghetti, but also little crunchy shards of nut throughout. The result is a pasta dish that is green, and rich, and perfect for the holidays. The garlic makes it a pistou, but it is a strong flavor, and can be omitted for just a rich, buttery nut sauce. I like it equally both ways. I served it with roast pork loin, and I just think it makes the most beautiful holiday lunch.

I love the idea of serving pasta as the side dish, instead of mashed potatoes, or rice, or some other starch. A really special nest of pasta next to some roast meat or charred fish can have a much more interesting profile than the same old olive oil roast potatoes–and I think in our love of big pasta plates we forget how well it works not as the center of attention. This dish works perfectly as that kind of side. Try it either way!

Spaghetti with Pistachio Pistou

serves 4

INGREDIENTS

1 pound spaghetti
Salt
1/2 cup pistachio butter
Freshly cracked black pepper
1 clove garlic, grated (optional)
2 tablespoons finely sliced basil, plus extra for garnish
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons room temperature unsalted butter
Good Parmesan cheese for serving

PROCEDURE

Cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the pistachio butter, garlic (if using), salt, pepper, basil, olive oil, and butter, until smooth and completely incorporated.

When the pasta is al dente, reserve 2 cups of the cooking liquid, and drain the pasta. Add 1 cup of the reserved pasta water and the pistachio mixture to the empty pasta pot, on low heat. Whisk the pasta cooking water into the pistachio mixture, and when smooth, toss the pasta gently with the sauce with a pair of tongs. Add additional pasta water if the sauce is too tight. Pour the pasta into a large serving bowl, and use a vegetable peeler to scrape strips of Parmesan cheese over the top. Garnish with some whole basil leaves, and serve right away, especially next to roast pork.

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Categories: 15 Minutes, Easy, Eat, French in a Flash, Main Courses, Recipes, Series, Sides, Starches, Vegetarian, Vegetarian

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011

The Joys of Canned Cassoulet

Cassoulet in a Can, with Pork Confit and Duck Fat, from Castelnaudary. 4 Euros, 2 big servings.

Mr. English took me to Paris for my birthday, which, definitely, took the edge off of turning twenty-nine. Next year, at this time, I’ll be thirty. Pretty reductive concept from the outside I’m sure, but to me, it is nothing short of astonishing. We did our usual circuit of St. Germain gems: Le Comptoir, Le Bistrot de l’Alycastre, Les Deux Magots. I had gorgeous Breton razor clams broiled with herb butter and pain au levain for my birthday lunch at Le Comptoir, followed by their gorgeous “Salade Niçoise à ma façon,” which has the most delicious tuna, whole white anchovies, caper berries, potatoes, oil-cured black olives, deliciously limp haricots verts…it’s the best Niçoise in the world. For dinner, at Bistrot de l’Alycastre, Mr. English and I both had Moroccan spiced rare-seared tuna and vegetables, and then I had calamari charred with cêpes in a light cream sauce. And then, a little lemon tart with flickering birthday candles from Carlton bakery, as Mr. English sang me a happy birthday serenade in harmony with Maman over Skype. A clarinetist played downstairs. It was breathless.

Despite all the walking and shopping and eating on the Ritzier side of normal, I still found myself in the trenches: the basement of the 6th arrondissement Monoprix. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. Mr. English and I went down there to buy a little padlock, to etch our initials in the metal and snap it onto the Pont des Arts, along with all the other couples whose locks dangle from the bridge over the Seine, into which we ardently threw the keys. But while I was there, despite Mr. English’s tugging on my coat sleeve, I couldn’t help but snatch up a few key pantry items: Maille cornichons, caviar d’aubergines, and after this summer in Toulouse, a can of cassoulet from Castelnaudary.

If you read this blog with any frequency you will have read my over the top emotional diatribes on the cassoulets of Castelnaudary–there are no words. I can call myself a writer, but in reality, I’m an eater, and at times, with my mouth full, words fail me. In Paris, we were a long way from Castelnaudary and Toulouse and the Pyrenees from this summer. So, when I saw the gorgeous hand-drawn label, informing me that I could buy real Castelnaudary cassoulet with either pork, duck, or goose confit, for 4 Euros, rest assured that I had all three cans in the basket before Mr. English pried away the duck and goose from my scraping, scrabbling grasp.

Saturday lunch was the perfect moment. I opened the can, and heated it gently in a small covered pot over low heat. I squeezed in half a head of roasted garlic, to emphasize that garlicky Castelnaudary punch that haunted me way past dinnertime all summer, and added in some fresh leaves of thyme. The haricots blancs were creamy, the sausage and pork confit falling apart and perfect. When the cassoulet was bubbling, I poured it into a shallow baking dish, and covered it with fresh breadcrumbs (3/4 cup to be exact) and a small handful of chopped parsley, salt and pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil. I baked it at 400 degrees until the crumbs were crispy golden brown, and then I covered it in foil and lowered the heat to 325 to let it get good and hotter. I tore up some bread, and tossed a salad (you must always have salad with cassoulet!). I brought it to the table, straight from the can, with a couple of added embellishments. It was gorgeous. I had had cassoulet two weeks earlier at a fancy London French establishment, and it didn’t touch Castelnaudary in a can. The sausage was porky and garlicky, like Toulouse sausage should be. The pork confit was lean, and firm, but falling apart with the nudge of a fork. The beans were creamy, and so flavorful that Mr. English, carnivore that he is, told me he wished they sold cassoulet beans without any of the fixings. Because wouldn’t that be healthier?

Sigh. If only he understood about the duck fat.

How is it that French food can still be this good–from a can? Canned food, to me, is hurricane emergency preparedness–eating baby corn from salty canned water with my fingers in a shuttered, August-hot powerless room. But this, it was real food. It was no wonder they named a whole dance the can-can. Makes perfect and absolute sense.