Reading at the Table

Dirt Candy: Roasted Carrot Buns

2016-05-20T20:09:00.000-04:00

Dirt Candy: A Cookbook. Flavor-forward Food from the Upstart New York City Vegetarian Restaurant

By Amanda Cohen and Ryan Dunley, with Grady Hendrix

Charlotte Potter Publishers, 2012, 224 pages

I don't normally review cookbooks here, but I made an exception for Amanda Cohen's Dirt Candy, because it is absolutely unique: part recipe book, part graphic novel, part vegetarian manifesto, it doesn't apologize for its hybridity, but instead embraces it. The result is both fun and invigorating.

I am not a vegetarian, and neither is anyone in my family. But, like many, I am trying to reduce the amount of meat we eat. I limit red meat, trying to feature chicken or fish when possible, which is easy enough. But doing without animal flesh altogether is more of a challenge. I personally like beans and pulses, but not everyone at home does. Once you eliminate those, it's hard for me to think of filling vegetarian dishes that aren't pizza, pasta, risotto, or some sort of root vegetable gratin. Which I guess isn't too bad, but it gets to be a lot of carbs and/or cheese.

Cohen correctly points out that the French tradition has conditioned us to think of vegetables as a side dish. Even great chefs can be guilty of this: she humorously recounts that most of the tasting menus she has been served consisted in a series of salads. Cohen also makes astute observations about how vegetarianism in the West has been mostly associated with those dreaded words, “healthy eating,” and has been framed around denying yourself things.

The recipes at her New York restaurant Dirt Candy (where I have not yet eaten, but am now desperate to) put vegetables front and center, and make unapologetic use of frying oil, strong sauces, and butter to keep things interesting (although it is worth noting that each recipe has a vegan version). Whereas most of us don't do much to our vegetables beyond boiling, roasting, or sautéing them, Cohen uses a variety of techniques on them. She smokes them, she dehydrates them, she fries them, she turns them into carpaccios, mousses, doughnuts, and more. There's even a recipe for broccoli ice cream.

One reason I want to eat at Dirt Candy in the near future is that many of these recipes require a lot more skill and patience than I have. Many of the dishes in this book, it has to be said, are quite fiddly. Techniques like smoking and dehydrating are perhaps more trouble than many home cooks would be willing to go through. A squash salad with four kinds of squash, an elaborate dressing (which, to me, means having to mince things), smoked squash slices that mimic bacon, and cheese croutons sounds delicious, and is something I would have tried making back maybe half-a-decade ago. Now, with two young kids, I simply don't have the drive or the time. Sure, I could use just one kind of squash, and skip the fake bacon and croutons, but then I'd just end up with a regular salad.

The recipe I chose to make, the roasted carrot buns, clearly illustrates the problem. I omitted only one component (the carrot halvah). Even so, it took a long time to make, between caramelizing the carrots in the oven, making the carrot juice-infused dough, shaping and assembling the buns, and steaming them. Not to mention making the carrot hoisin sauce and the accompanying salad.

Still, while this book has not entirely resolved my problem regarding highlighting vegetables in my cooking, it has given me some new ideas to try, as well as more reasons to try them. Also, in addition to cheerleading for veggies, the book entertainingly tells of Cohen's experiences in the restaurant business (aficionados of chef memoirs will recognize the gruelling reality of the job), with much humour and honesty.

I won't feature the carrot bun recipe, as I did not adapt it in any positive way, and certainly didn't do a great job. I do like the concept, and the filling, which is supposed to imitate the texture of char siu, was quite tasty. But, worried that the dough wouldn't rise (the yeast isn't awakened with warm water but by the friction of the food processor in which the dough is made), I overworked it and ended up with a tough, rubbery texture. Still, aren't they cute?

Skirt Steak - Fried Apple Pie

2016-02-18T21:02:00.000-05:00

Skirt Steak: Women Chefs on Standing the Heat and Staying in the Kitchen

By Charlotte Druckman

320 pages, Chronicle Books, 2012

It was necessary to write Skirt Steak. Reading it will make you realize just how necessary it was.

The book is as straightforward as its title suggests: food writer Charlotte Druckman interviewed 73 American women chefs on multiple aspects of their profession, and organized her findings by topic to paint a picture of the situation of women in the professional kitchen. While she does not quite manage to weave everything into a smooth narrative, Skirt Steak is a gold mine of information. The thoroughness and girth of the research accomplished by the author are commendable.

Perhaps inevitably, it sometimes feels a bit dry. There are sections where multiple direct quotes are dumped on us in succession. There are so many names dropped that, unless you are very familiar with the restaurant industry, you are likely to feel quite lost. Thankfully, there is a very useful index you can turn to, should you ever need to look up a specific chef. In this manner, this book can serve as a reference for future use.

Druckman attempts to lighten the content by inserting personal anecdotes, jokes, and pop culture references. This works up to a point, if you have a high tolerance for snark. The use of footnotes is, I felt, a bit over-the-top: the author often uses this space to explain her jokes (some of which are a little too insidey to be relevant), or to provide information that has very little to do with the topic. In a book already packed with information, this weighs things down more often than not.

But the heart of the matter, the stories of these women chefs, are very valuable.

If you are even a little bit interested in the restaurant industry, and have even the slightest feminist inclination, you will not find much to surprise you within these pages (which are, in passing, gorgeously packaged). Being a chef in a restaurant is excruciating work. And this is not an environment that is particularly welcoming to women. The irony that the home kitchen has traditionally been considered to be the woman’s domain, while the professional kitchen is positioned as out of her reach, is nothing new.

Ultimately, the struggles the women in this book tell will resonate with those of working women in many other fields, only exacerbated. Machismo and outright sexual harassment in the workplace. The difficulty of balancing femininity with competitiveness. Lack of professional recognition and exposure. Having children and a career. And, more specifically, holding one’s own in a very physically demanding profession.

These are stories we have heard and read many times before, in other contexts, or even in this very same one. But as long as they continue to be representative of a current reality, they need to continue being told. Even if it gets repetitive. Even if it gets depressing – which, in fact, this book is not. This is in large part thanks to the spirit of the women Druckman interviewed. That they are tough, and little prone to self-pity, is not surprising, but that does not make them any less admirable. Although they recognize the challenges they face, most of them roll up their sleeves and carry on cooking. What better way to tell off detractors?

This book is about women, but it is also about food. And a lot of it is raved over by Druckman. In particular, she lauds Christina Tosi’s fried apple pie. Tosi is a familiar name for New Yorkers, as the founder and owner of Momofuku Milk Bar. Druckman's style is often enthusiastic, but never more so when she is describing this dessert:

“It had the familiarity of the cheap-bastard standard, but the flavors were better defined, the pastry an appropriately thick blanket, the fry just right on the crispy and not at all greasy, and the apples had a caramelized intensity. [...] It wasn't just the pie. It was the sour scoop that came with it - like crème fraîche in ice cream form; lighter, somehow, and yet not icy. And then, too, there was the miso ganache. Salted caramel? Please. Next to this almost savory take on butterscotch, with its smooth-creamy, thicker-than-frosting texture, salted caramel might as well have been a dipping sauce on the McDonald's menu (if it isn't by now). Heaven. I was in heaven.

That was a Tosi creation.”

Druckman helpfully mentions in a footnote that the recipe is published in David Chang and Peeter Meehan's Momofuku cookbook, which I happen to own. I won't share it here, since I did not adapt it in any meaningful way, except to take shortcuts that did not benefit the recipe in anyway. I skipped the homemade sour cream ice cream and cinnamon dust. I loved charring the miso (something I'd been wanting to do every since I had incredible burnt miso ramen in Tokyo a few years ago), but couldn't get the ganache quite as smooth as the description suggests. I struggled with making and shaping the dough.

The result tasted fine, but undoubtedly nowhere near what it was supposed to be like. And highly unphotogenic. I offered the pies when my talented photographer friend Aurélie Jouan was visiting, and while she did wonders, considering the improvised conditions and the lacklustre subject, I doubt anyone could have made what I served up look mouth-watering. After this and the infamous pâté shoot, I really owe Aurélie a pretty, visually appealing dish for her to photograph.

Still, at the end of the day, it was fried apple pie, with a gritty but still pretty awesome miso sauce. Not to settle for less, but it was good enough for me!

Medium Raw - Chicken Laksa

2016-01-14T16:11:00.000-05:00

Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook

By Anthony Bourdain

281 pages, HarperCollins, 2010

It’s hard to not want to dislike Anthony Bourdain a lot of the time, but it’s harder to actually dislike him – and Medium Raw makes the latter even harder.

There were definitely things to dislike about Kitchen Confidential, the 2000 tell-all, no-holding-back, warts-and-all, *insert your own cliché* memoir/essay that made Bourdain a star. It was crude, it was arrogant, its tone often spiteful and vindictive. But it was also vigorous, playful and unapologetically, gleefully, loudly entertaining. It exposed the restaurant business as the rowdy, raucous, chaotic, macho environment we now all know it to be. Another of the book's saving graces was that, no matter how harsh Bourdain was about his peers and acquaintances in the business, he never set himself up to be any better. No matter what you think of his attitude and tone, the man is lucid about most things, including himself.

This trend continues in Medium Raw, a fairly disjointed series of essays about the world of food and Bourdain's journey through it. If anything, the tone is more measured, the author more humbled, more conciliatory. He explains the angry, frantic state of mind he was in when he wrote Kitchen Confidential. He addresses (and largely admits to) charges that he is no longer really a chef, and that he has been, overall, damn lucky in life. He nuances his much publicized hatred of the Food Network. He even finishes a biting chapter on Alice Waters, whom he clearly has no love for, with the concession that the lady is really probably right about most things that matter, and that she basically just annoys him. You want to know how much Bourdain has changed in ten years? There's an entire chapter devoted to how he is raising his two-year-old daughter.

Not that there aren't traces of the old, incendiary Bourdain. There is a chapter titled “Heroes and Villains,” where he separates those worthy of his praise from those who deserve only his scorn. There is a chapter titled “Alan Richman Is A Douchebag,” which really just speaks for itself. There are tirades against anti-foie gras activists and vegetarians. Many will probably find such posturing distasteful – I know I almost did at times.

But when Bourdain starts writing about the heart of the matter, which is food itself... then the magic happens. Bourdain writes about food in a manner that you somehow never get tired of. He makes the sensual experience come alive. And the wonderful thing is, instead of reveling in this talent and letting it work its spell, he exposes it for the manipulation that it is. In fact, he declares that this kind of literature is a guilty pleasure akin to porn.

And maybe that's what makes this book so compelling: it is, in itself, a guilty pleasure. Bourdain himself, I would venture, is a guilty pleasure. Perhaps his tirades against the people he dislikes are unjustified in some way – but God, are they fun to read. Yes, Alice Waters has revolutionized the food culture and continues to make relevant points - but I dare you to not smile while reading Bourdain's takedown of her. There is something about his swagger and bluntness that is addictive. Which makes me suspect that this man was born to write about glorious, addictive food. Guilty pleasures being together.

There are also more measured, thoughtful chapters in Medium Raw, such as the ones on the meat industry, gargantuan tasting menus, Top Chef, and the ever enigmatic David Chang. While not necessarily landmarks of food writing, these chapters give us valuable insight on modern food culture.

Numerous passages made me salivate and crave things, usually things that were unattainable, because I lacked either the ingredients or the technique to prepare them properly. One thing that seemed relatively accessible was laksa, a Southeast Asian curry coconut milk noodle soup, which I made a few times years ago. Bourdain describes it as the ultimate hangover killer:

“You're oblivious to the view of the river, and the sights and smells of morning, focusing only on the chipped white bowl of steaming laksa coming your way – the promise of relief. The smell hits you first as the waiter deposits it in front of you with a clunk you feel in your pineal gland: a rich, fiery, hearty, spicy steam of fish and coconut gravy. You dig in with chopsticks and spoon, slurp your first mouthful of noodles – a powerful hit of sambal grabbing hold of you, exorcising the Evil. Ensuing mouthfuls bring shrimp, cockles, and fish cake... more spicy-sweet gravy... more noodles. It burns. It burns so good. You're sweating now, the poison leaving your pores, brain kick-starting... something that might just be hope secreting from your shriveled, sun-dried, terribly abused cortex.” (Medium Raw, p.87).

Laksa is delicious even when you don't have a hangover. It's also easily adaptable. Not entirely seduced by my old recipe, I looked around online and ended up combining elements from Feasting at Home and Jamie Oliver. Unlike Bourdain's sampling, this version contains chicken and no seafood (other than dried shrimp), but I wouldn't hesitate to add fresh shrimp or shellfish. The curry paste I use is fairly hot, but I like it that way, so adjust your chilies accordingly.

Chicken Laksa

Adapted from recipes by Feasting at Home and Jamie Oliver

Serves 4

For the marinade:

2 tbsp canola oil

2 tbsp fish sauce

1 tsp dried chili flakes (or1 tsp sambal oelek)

juice of one lemon

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 tbsp fresh ginger, minced

450g (1 pound) boneless, skinless chicken thighs

For the soup:
2 tbsp canola oil

3 cloves garlic, minced

2 tbsp fresh ginger, minced

3 (or more) dried chilies, rehydrated and coarsely chopped

1 tbsp dried shrimp, rehydrated (optional)

1 tbsp red curry paste

400ml (1 can, or 1.7 cups) coconut milk

500ml (2 cups) water or chicken stock

1-2 tbsp fish sauce

4 handfuls of flat rice noodles

Combine the marinade ingredients (except for the chicken) in a large bowl. Pound the chicken thighs to flatten them and add them to the marinade, turning to coat. Cover with plastic wrap and leave in the refrigerator for a few hours.

Bring a large pot of water to a boil for your rice noodles.

In a wok, heat the oil over high heat. Add the garlic and ginger and stir-fry until fragrant, about 2 minutes. Add the chilies and shrimp (if using), and cook for another minute. Stir in the curry paste and cook for 30 seconds, then add a few tablespoonfuls of coconut milk and stir until curry paste is dissolved. Reduce heat to low and gradually stir in the rest of the coconut milk, then the water or stock and the fish sauce. Let simmer very gently (do not let it boil, or the coconut milk will separate) for about 10 minutes. Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary.

While your soup is simmering, heat a grill pan over high heat and grill the chicken thighs, about 4 minutes per side, until nicely browned (charred is even better) and cooked through. Remove from the grill, cut into bite-sized pieces and reserve.

When ready to serve, cook your rice noodles according to packaging instructions (in most cases, this involves turning off the heat from under your pot of boiling water, putting the noodles in and letting them soak a few minutes until tender, stirring early on to separate them).

Drain the noodles and divide them into bowls. Ladle the soup over the noodles. Garnish each bowl with pieces of grilled chicken and serve immediately.

Yes, Chef - Gravlax

2015-09-26T16:56:00.001-04:00

Yes, Chef: A Memoir

By Marcus Samuelsson and Veronica Chambers

336 pages, Random House, 2013

Chef memoirs can get repetitive after a while. The chef-to-be is initiated to the pleasures of cooking at a young age, either by an untrained yet gifted older relative, or through a multitude of influences. They go on to study in some culinary institution, where at some point they are yelled at, then do grunt work in a kitchen, where they get yelled at some more and learn to deal with the gruelling physical labour and surrounding machismo that come with the job. Then comes the reward, in some form or another, for all their hard work and daring.

I am, of course, exaggerating. Yet the chef’s journey, by this point, has become familiar to most readers interested in the genre. How, then, can one stand out? After all, not everyone has Gabrielle Hamilton’s insight and talent, or Anthony Bourdain’s bravado. Marcus Samuelsson’s memoir, Yes, Chef, stands out through the sheer uniqueness of its author’s personal journey, as well as the warmth and family love that pervades it.

It is of course unfair to reduce Marcus Samuelsson to his personal background – the man, after all, is an accomplished and recognized chef. Yet it is difficult to not focus on the more personal aspects of his journey. Born in Ethiopia and left stranded with his sister when their mother passed away from tuberculosis when he was three, Samuelsson was adopted by a Swedish couple. It was in Sweden that he basked in the kitchen of his own “untrained yet gifted older relative,” his grandmother. After losing out on a promising career in professional soccer, he turned to cooking and eventually climbed up the culinary ladder, passing through Austria and Switzerland and finally settling down in New York City. Samuelsson eventually went on to win the second season of Top Chef Masters, as well as a James Beard award, and overseeing President Barack Obama’s first state dinner. He also eventually tracked down his birth father in Ethiopia.

As someone who grew up on three continents, I couldn’t help but empathize with Samuelsson’s perspective. Growing up black in a small Swedish town was not easy at all times, despite his family’s obvious support. Neither, as most know by now, is being a black chef in Western regions, no matter what the context. Samuelsson makes clear that obstacles for black chefs are still very much present – and that even when people are open and accepting, being singled out as the “cultural exception” is not something to be necessarily grateful for. But Samuelsson has chosen to embrace the diverse culinary influences in his life, from his grandmother’s home cooking to the classic French recipes he learned in Switzerland to the Ethiopian berbere seasoning his mother must have used in her lifetime. He describes his constant desire for discovering new flavour combinations and blurring boundaries, something that most contemporary food lovers can only appreciate.

Although Samuelsson’s memoir does not stand out through a personal literary style (he appears to have enlisted the help of writer Veronica Chambers), it nevertheless shines with honesty. Samuelsson comes through as a confident, driven man, ambitious to a fault, who nevertheless does not shy away from his failings, nor from self-deprecation. He does not hesitate to narrate how he fathered a daughter at a young age and put off truly meeting her until he was an established chef, just like he confesses to missing his adoptive father’s funeral because circumstances prevented him from leaving the United States. Some may surely judge such decisions to be reprehensible, or at least unappealing, but Samuelsson does not attempt to gloss over them. Nor does he shy from telling us about his failure in launching one of his restaurants, thereby giving us a glimpse into the business. I for one appreciated the straightforwardness of this portrayal.

A part of me does feel guilty singling out Samuelsson’s personal journey as the main appeal of his book. After all, he makes clear throughout his memoir that he wishes to not be seen as the Swedish black chef. At the same time, highlighting such unique backgrounds is essential to making artificial boundaries appear as such. The cultural blending that Samuelsson has chosen to promote should not be smoothed away, but rather highlighted and celebrated as an opening to new possibilities. But his tale appeals to us also through its loving portrayal of the people he has met along the way, from his adoptive parents and birth father to his colleagues. While the language remains simple, the portraits ring true, and enable us to gain insight into these people’s hearts and what they mean to the author. To Samuelsson’s credit, he rarely indulges in nastiness towards the people with whom his dealings have been less than pleasant (although Gordon Ramsay gets a particularly harsh mention). What results is a warm depiction and a tale that is, in a lot of ways, inspiring.

Given Samuelsson’s multicultural approach, I had my pick of any number of recipes to illustrate this review. I chose gravlax, mostly because I had been wanting to make this Nordic dish for a very long time. Because this was my first attempt, I forewent the more whimsical recipes involving eccentric spices and booze (despite my profound love for both of them) and went for a classic combination of sugar, salt and dill. After consulting several recipes, I mostly followed an old Mark Bittman recipe from The New York Times, with some variations in technique and curing time. After four days in the fridge, the gravlax was on the saltier side, but with a lovely, silky yet firm texture.

Gravlax

Slightly adapted from The Minimalist

Serves four as a lunch or small plate

One pound salmon filet, skin on

125ml (1/2 cup) kosher salt

250ml (1 cup) brown sugar

One bunch dill, coarsely chopped

Cut the salmon in half, crosswise.

Combine the salt and sugar together. Rub the flesh side of the salmon with the mixture, making sure to use it all. Cover both pieces with chopped dill. Take one piece of salmon and place it on top of the other, so that both flesh sides are touching and the seasoning and herbs are sandwiched between the pieces of fish. Put any remaining dill on the skin sides of the salmon. Wrap tightly in plastic and place in a semi-deep dish (the fish will release a lot of liquid). Place a weight on top of the whole thing (I used two stacked plates). and put in the fridge.

Let rest in the fridge for three or four days. When ready to serve, rinse the curing ingredients off the fish and pat the fish dry. With a sharp knife, cut thin slices of fish, scraping the skin off as you work (cutting at an angle will give you larger slices). Serve immediately with a squeeze of lemon juice and a crack of black pepper, with lightly toasted bread.

The rinsed gravlax should keep in the fridge, wrapped in plastic, for a couple of days. If the fish has not been previously frozen, you can wrap it and freeze it for a future occasion, but the texture may be altered.

Delicious! - Gingerbread Cake

2015-07-09T14:25:00.000-04:00

Delicious! A Novel

By Ruth Reichl

400 pages, Random House, 2014

I have mentioned previously that I am a great fan of Ruth Reichl’s work. I was deeply moved by her first memoir, Tender at the Bone, and very much enjoyed Garlic and Sapphires, in which she reveals her backstage adventures as a food critic. I like her as an author and as a narrator, the way her voice strikes a balance between kindness and no-nonsense. I have tucked away her other two memoirs for a rainy day, and look forward to reading them.

So I was very excited about her first novel, Delicious!, which came out last year. I was prepared to love it. I wanted to love it.

As it turned out, however, Delicious! is a very different animal from Reichl’s previous works, and not just because it is fiction. I found Reichl’s voice to be missing, not just because she wasn’t technically telling the story (it is narrated in the first person by her 21-year-old protagonist), but because she was barely to be found in both the style and the content. I caught glimpses of her here and there, but overall, the things I loved about her memoirs were not there.

This probably says more about my expectations than the value of the book on its own, but in this case I find it difficult to separate the two. Nevertheless, I will try.

Delicious! follows a young woman named Billie, who moves to New York and lands a job at a prestigious, long-standing food magazine, the Delicious! of the title, the offices of which are located in a gorgeous mansion. Billie, it is soon revealed, has a palate capable of identifying even the most obscure ingredients; yet, for some reason, she now refuses to cook. She also has a serious inferiority complex vis-à-vis her beautiful, brilliant older sister. It is clear from the get-go that Billie sees herself as dull, frumpy, and generally uninteresting.

And yet, despite her lack of confidence, she thrives at her new job. Her slightly eccentric boss tests her in strange, cutesy ways, and she passes with flying colors. She wins over the kindly owner of Fontanari’s, a traditional Italian food shop, who practically takes her into his family. She makes friends at work and hangs out with star chefs and chocolatiers.

And one day, it all goes to hell, as Delicious! is shockingly and abruptly closed down, and everyone is fired (parallels have of course been made between these events and Reichl’s experience when Gourmet Magazine unexpectedly closed while she was its editor). Only Billie is kept on the payroll, tasked with answering complaints about recipes in past issues of the magazine. But she finds a new purpose when she uncovers a hidden room behind the mansion’s library. In this room, she finds letters dating from World War Two, written by a 12-year-old girl named Lulu to James Beard, who in this narrative universe wrote for Delicious! She becomes fascinated with the letters and sets out to search for the rest of the correspondence, and find out what happened to Lulu.

In the process, Billie deals with her personal demons involving her family, emerges from a makeover a stunning beauty, and finds romance. I don’t feel like I am spoiling anything by revealing this, because the chick-lit vibe of Delicious! makes it quite obvious that all these things will eventually happen.

My problem with Delicious! is not that it is predictable, nor that it is light. A book can be good in spite of these things. I didn’t even mind so much that food was presented in an uncomplicated manner, with none of the discourses and politics that we know are entrenched in the real food scene. Reichl chooses to focus on the comforting side of food, its ability to bring people together, and I accepted that because it is also a reality. I even accepted that New York was portrayed as a shiny wonderland, with little of its actual grit and roughness: sometimes, it does seem that way.

No, what really threw me off were the character interactions. This is all the more surprising that Reichl so beautifully brings people to life in her memoirs. But here, characters are, for the most part, one-dimensional, and difficult to really connect with. And then, there’s Billie herself. I’m usually game for a good makeover story: I root for the ugly duckling. The problem here is that, even as Billie deprecates herself and insists on how plain and talentless she is, she is quoting the way the characters around her compliment her. And boy, do they compliment her. So much so that, in the end, it feels like everyone’s purpose in the story is to prop Billie – and she winds up looking falsely modest.

The Lulu plotline is arguably the most interesting one. Here, Reichl is able to fully display her knowledge on food and history, and the letters are quite instructive. I won’t spoil the way this storyline is resolved, because it is perhaps the one part of the book that doesn’t fit into the chick-lit mould, and is all the more satisfying for it.

Reichl’s writing still shines in places, nowhere more than when she is writing about food and the experience of it. In those passages, her style soars, and allows the reader to just bask in the moment. Here’s hoping there will be more such moments in future books.

There is only one recipe in this book: a gingerbread cake Billie bakes in the opening chapter. It is very light in texture, the boozy soak and citrus glaze prevent it from being dry, and the blend of spices keep it interesting. The only adjustment I made was to bake it in a 10-inch springform pan rather than a Bundt pan, as I did not have the latter on hand.

Gingerbread Cake

from Delicious! by Ruth Reichl

Serves 10-12

For the cake:

1/4 tsp freshly ground black peppercorns

1/4 tsp freshly ground cloves

1 tsp freshly ground cardamom

280g (10 oz, 2 cups) flour

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

3 large eggs

1 large egg yolk

250 ml (1 cup) sour cream

150g (1 1/2 sticks) butter, room temperature

190g (6.7 oz, 1 cup) sugar

60 ml (1/4 cup) freshly grated ginger root

Zest from 3 oranges, freshly grated

For the soak:

125 ml (1/2 cup) bourbon

1 1/2 tbsp sugar

For the glaze:

105g (3.7 oz, 3/4 cup) powdered sugar, sifted

5 tsp orange juice

Make the cake:

Preheat oven to 180ºC (350ºF). Butter and flour a 10-inch springform pan.

In a small bowl, combine spices, flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In another small bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolk with the sour cream.

In a large bowl, beat the butter with the sugar until light, fluffy, and pale. Stir in the grated ginger and orange zest. Incorporate one third of the flour mixture into the butter mixture, then stir in one third of the egg mixture. Repeat this process until all the ingredients are combined, and the batter is very light, like a mousse.

Spoon the batter into the prepared cake pan and bake until golden for 40-50 minutes, until a skewer inserted into the cake comes out clean.

Cool on a rack, still in the pan, for 10 minutes.

Make the soak:

While the cake is cooling, combine the bourbon and sugar in a saucepan and simmer until reduced to 80 ml (1/3 cup).

Unmold the cake and brush its top and sides with the bourbon mixture, letting it absorb all the liquid.

Make the glaze:

After the cake has cooled, combine the powdered sugar and orange juice until sugar is dissolved. Drizzle the resulting glaze over the top of the cake.

The Sharper Your Knife, The Less You Cry- Fish in Fragrant Coconut Sauce

2015-04-27T00:51:00.000-04:00

The Sharper Your Knife, The Less You Cry: Love, Laughter and Tears at the World’s Most Famous Cooking School in Paris

By Kathleen Flinn

304 pages, Penguin Books, 2007

I have always known I could never cook professionally. I lack the drive and the discipline, not to mention the palate. More importantly, I have no wish to turn yet another hobby into a job, because jobs can turn into chores, and I have enough chores in my life.

And yet… Who, among those of us who love to cook, hasn’t daydreamed about going to a culinary academy, of learning how to really do things properly, and eventually earning one’s living brightening people’s day thanks to bold flavours and luscious textures? Even though we’ve read Kitchen Confidential and know how tough cooking professionally is, we still hold on to that vision of the radiant, fulfilled culinary student, happily whisking meringue in her luminous kitchen.

Kathleen Flinn turned her daydreams into reality in 2005, when she lost her job and made the spontaneous decision to attend Le Cordon Bleu culinary school. Predictably enough, reality turned out to be much harsher, but The Sharper Your Knife is ultimately more fond reminiscence than cautionary tale.

Flinn’s memoir focuses on this particularly tumultuous time in her life. The heart of the book centers around her experience at the school, but she also devotes ample space to her life in Paris and her budding relationship with the man who would become her husband. While these personal considerations might be of lesser interest to those who picked up the book in order to learn more about Le Cordon Bleu, they help set the tone for the memoir, which is not that of someone with professional culinary ambitions, but someone who loves to cook and is out to fulfill a personal dream.

As it turns out, Flinn is not alone. I was struck by the variety of students she encounters, from dilettantes merely looking to pass the time to ambitious future pros. With a few exceptions, the ambiance is described as remarkably convivial, with surprisingly few of the cutthroat characters we’ve come to expect from tales set in the professional kitchen. And while some of the chef instructors dole out some very tough criticism, no one gets plates thrown at their heads. A Gordon Ramsay show this is not.

Despite the book’s personal perspective, Flinn’s style can most accurately be described as journalistic. She is methodical in her narration, and inserts a lot of historical and culinary information into her writing. She is also adept at humorously highlighting her own misadventures, both in and out of the kitchen. What is perhaps most visibly absent from this book is the sensual aspect of the food Flinn learns to cook, any descriptions of flavour nuances and textures. While this may seem surprising for a book written by a food lover, it establishes The Sharper Your Knife as a cultural reflection, rather than a luxurious exploration of the senses.

Every chapter includes a recipe, many inspired from Flinn’s classes, others lifted from her friends and family. The fish recipe I chose was given to Flinn by a Brazilian classmate of hers. The combination of flavours is classic in its way, but complex and satisfying.

Fish in fragrant coconut sauce

Slightly adapted from The Sharper Your Knife, The Less You Cry

Serves 4

1 tbsp neutral vegetable oil

1 small shallot, minced

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 tbsp minced ginger root

1 small red chili pepper, minced (seeded if necessary)

1 tsp curry powder

1/4 tsp ground cumin

1/4 tsp ground cardamom

1/8 tsp salt

350 ml (1 1/2 cup) diced tomatoes

400 ml (approx. 1.6 cups) coconut milk

4 fillets white fish (sea bass, cod, halibut)

Salt and pepper

Juice of one lemon

2 tbsp vegetable oil

250 ml (1 cup) diced pineapple

3 tbsp fresh cilantro, coarsely shredded

60 ml (1/4 cup) roasted peanuts

Heat the oil over medium heat in a saucepan. Sauté the shallot, garlic and ginger until tender, then throw in the chili pepper and cook for another minute. Add the curry, cumin, cardamom, and salt, and cook for another minute, until fragrant. Add the tomatoes and coconut milk, bring to a gentle simmer and cook until thickened. Taste and adjust seasoning.

Season one side of the fish fillets with salt, pepper and lemon juice. Heat the oil in a skillet over medium high heat and sear fish on one side for a minute. Flip the fillets and cook for another minute. Pour the sauce over the fish, cover and cook over low heat, until fish is cooked through. Add pineapple and heat through. Plate fish, spoon sauce over the fillets, and garnish with cilantro and roasted peanuts.

Serve with cooked basmati rice.

Toast: The Story of a Boy's Hunger - Jam Tarts

2015-02-13T00:10:00.000-05:00

Toast: The Story of a Boy’s Hunger

By Nigel Slater

247 pages, Fourth Estate, 2003

If there is one thing Nigel Slater’s memoir makes clear from the beginning, it is that we do not necessarily love the foods of our childhood because they tasted good objectively, or were well prepared. Case in point: his mother, described as “not much of a cook,” served him burnt toast every morning. Despite that, Slater writes:

“It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you. People’s failings, even major ones […], fall into insignificance as your teeth break through the rough, toasted crust and sink into the doughy cushion of white bread underneath. Once the warm, salty butter has reached your tongue, you are smitten. Putty in their hands.”

This opening page sets the tone for the remainder of this beautiful memoir. Slater, a British food writer and journalist, recounts his childhood in 1960s England through the prism of food. The book is organized into vignettes, most of which revolve around a specific item of food, from tinned ham to prawn cocktail. But food, however central it is to the book, also works as both a backdrop to Slater’s mostly unhappy childhood and as a path into the most intimate nooks of his memories.

I remember reading, here and there, that some of the cultural references might put off non-British readers, particularly the names of specific sweets and ready-made staples. Most of us have had Cadbury chocolate in some form or another, but I certainly did not know what a Walnut Whip, an Artic Roll, or a Sherbet Fountain was. In fact, I’m still not entirely sure. But ultimately, what does it matter? I also did not know that grilled grapefruit was considered fancy, nor did I realize just how “foreign” spaghetti Bolognese could be to a middle-class English family in the 1960s, but I was nonetheless delighted to read all about it.

But beyond the cultural trivia, not knowing what things like Fairy Drops are is not all that important here, because what matters is not what they taste like, but what they represent, the memories associated to them. We all have a catalogue of food items like this, food that we know wasn’t particularly good, but that we remember fondly because they are familiar, because they return us to a specific context (cue Proust reference).

One such food for me is Milky Way Dark. I remember my mother leaving me in our building lobby with the doorman (the nice one, with a moustache) while she went out for an errand. He stepped out to the newspaper shop next door and returned with a chocolate candy bar which he gave to me. I remember the visual contrast of the white nougat filling against the dark chocolate coating, the excruciating sweetness of the whole thing, the chewiness that actually hurt my jaw. It was glorious. I also remember that my mother returned before I could eat the entire thing, and that the candy bar (along with all subsequent candy bars the doorman gave me thereafter) was stored away in the fridge. I was allowed one small square per day, which was more than enough.

I haven’t had a Milky Way Dark in over a decade, possibly two. I know it is filled with too much sugar, saturated fat, and a host of other ingredients anyone is better off without. But I would enjoy one today for reasons beyond its objective gustatory properties, because its sickly sweetness reminds me of moments of happiness. I’m not even sure those chocolate bars tasted that good to me even back then, but they were a treat, something given to me as a kindness and a rarity, and so I came to love their cloyingness. That is why I understand perfectly when Slater writes that he liked Cadbury’s Flakes “because no matter how fresh they were, I always thought they tasted ever so slightly stale.” Staleness is not usually a good thing in a food; yet, like cloyingness, it can become a positive trait, when it is expected and associated with something. (The reverse is also true.)

I have a similar relationship with bread in this regard. Like many, I grew up with white, soft supermarket sandwich bread. And I loved it. When we visited my grandmother in Belgium, where they bought moderately crusty loaves from the village baker, I would sneakily try to cut off the crust, which she would then divide into bite-size pieces, individually slather them with jam, and make me choke down anyway. Those were miserable moments. Since then, I have learnt to appreciate artisan loaves with caramelized crusts that hurt your gums when you chew them. And yet… Every now and then, I would not turn down a ham sandwich made with tasteless, mushy white bread that disintegrates in your mouth and sticks to your palate. With bland mayonnaise from a jar.

It is thanks to this relation between food and memory that we are able to comfortably settle into Slater’s world – despite the fact that it is often not all that comfortable. Slater’s mother, whom he adored despite her failings as a cook (adding further proof that you can be fond of bad food when it comes from someone you love), passed away from asthma when he nine, leaving him alone with his emotionally distant father. The latter eventually remarried with their cleaning lady, Joan Potter (not her real name), whom Slater describes as a coarse, vulgar, often mean-spirited gold-digger – albeit one heck of a cook. There has been some controversy regarding Slater’s portrayal of his stepmother, particularly when a film based on the memoir was released in 2011: the real Mrs Potter’s family has protested that she was unfairly and untruthfully represented. That is, of course, not for the likes of me to know. But Slater’s version of his new family is rarely anything but unpleasant and miserable. To be fair, he never claims that his portrayal is objective: we only get his side of the story because he is the one telling it.

One might argue that food is what makes this memoir bearable, infuses it with luminosity. No matter how nasty things get, young Nigel often finds pockets of comfort in food. This brings to my mind a completely unrelated book, a fantasy book that is not at all a food book, and yet features some of the best food scenes I read last year: Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane. Where Slater’s book explores the angst of childhood very realistically, Gaiman populates his narrator’s childhood with terrifying monsters and nurturing goddesses. Yet it is arguably food that provides the greatest solace in the story. The seven-year-old narrator finds himself repeatedly taken in by his neighbours, a cross-generational trio of mystical women, who feed him delicious meals, from porridge with honeycomb and lemon pancakes to roast beef and caramelized carrots. During most of these meals, danger continues to lurk outside, but the kitchen provides both warmth and safety. The book features some incredibly terrifying scenes, alongside these truly soothing ones.

What both Toast and The Ocean at the End of the Lane illustrate is the child’s capacity to bracket unpleasantness and find solace, even joy, in the present, particularly when the present involves food. Adults are of course not insensitive to the comforts of a good meal, but there is a flexibility combined with resiliency in children (at least, how they are represented in these books) that just enables them to take full advantage of the respite offered by food. Of course, I may be biased in my interpretation, as I continue to this day to view mealtimes as cherished moments of relaxation. No matter how frugal lunch can be, often a sandwich, I always savour it, using it as an opportunity to unwind and recharge.

And this is ultimately what Toast offers as well. It is not a happy memoir, as it reminds us of how tender and fragile the world of childhood can be, a world where the most apparently stable happiness can be shattered in an instant. For Nigel Slater, the death of his mother is undoubtedly the most painful of such breaks, but it is constantly repeated on a smaller scale, forever alternating between well-being and loss. But despite this tension and the overall unhappiness of the narrative, there are nuggets of beauty and warmth that we find ourselves wanting to keep returning to.

Of course, food can be a source of discomfort too, particularly when Joan pettily tries to stifle Nigel’s budding culinary talents, fearing that he might overshadow her. Yet even in these painful moments, the food manages to shine through:

“Joan’s lemon meringue pie was one of the most glorious things I had ever put in my mouth: warm, painfully sharp lemon filling, the most airy pastry imaginable (she used cold lard in place of some of the butter) and a billowing hat of thick, teeth-judderingly sweet meringue.”

The vignette ends on a sad note, as Joan never allows Nigel to try making the pie himself. This is food as source of both desire and jealousy, of both pleasure and frustration. But more than anything, food as an intrinsic part of our lives.

Circumstances prevented me from making lemon meringue pie as I had originally planned, so I made jam tarts instead, which are also featured in a vignette. They are very easy to make: a batch of pastry crust, a jar of jam, and you’re set. For this version, I used clementine jam with a few sprigs of rosemary, a combination I picked up from my father-in-law. I like to do as Slater himself suggests and replace some of the butter in the crust with lard or schmaltz to add some flakiness, but I stuck with all butter here as I intended to share this batch with vegetarians.

Jam Tarts

Yields fourteen 5 cm (2 inch) tartlets

420 g (3 cups) all-purpose flour

Pinch of salt

2 tbsp sugar

100 g (1 cup) butter, cut into pieces

60 ml (1/4 cup) cold water

500 ml (2 cups) clementine jam, or marmalade

2 tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped

In a food processor, combine the flour, salt and sugar. Add the butter and pulse until it is reduced to pea-sized pieces. Gradually add the water, still pulsing, until the dough comes together (necessary quantity of water will vary). Transfer the dough onto a floured work surface and knead a few times until smooth. If possible, wrap it plastic and let it rest in the fridge for an hour or more.

In a bowl, combine the jam and rosemary. Preheat the oven to 190ºC (375ºF).

Roll out your dough on a floured surface to around 5 mm (1/8 inch) thickness. Cut out circles to fit your tartlet moulds and press the dough into the moulds. Divide the jam among the tart shells, about one heaped tablespoon per tart (do not overfill the shells, as the jam will rise).

Divide the moulds across two baking sheets and bake for around 40 minutes, or until the edges of the crusts turn a light golden brown. Let cool completely before unmolding and serving.

Oishinbo: À la Carte - Quickie Ramen

2014-12-23T11:14:00.000-05:00

Oishinbo: À la Carte

by Kariya Testu and Hanasaki Akira

2009, VIZ Media LLC

To say that I am a fan of Japanese comics is an understatement. I wrote my thesis on them. The walls of our son’s room are lined with over two thousand manga, because we had nowhere else to put them. So it is difficult to exaggerate the pure joy that comes over me when I lose myself in a very good food-themed manga series.

Of the several culinary manga available in English, none is as long-running as Kariya Tetsu and Hanasaki Akira’s Oishinbo. The series is, in fact, exactly as old as I am, and has only recently been put on hold, in the midst of a Fukushima-related controversy. As far as food manga goes, this is a classic.

Only a handful of anthologies of Oishinbo have been translated and published in English, under the label Oishinbo: À la Carte, collecting stories revolving around themes such as sake, rice, fish, or ramen. I would honestly be hard-pressed to choose a favourite, and was very sorry when new volumes stopped coming out.

The main character of the series, Yamaoka, is a food journalist, who is tasked by his newspaper to put together a collection of dishes that best represent Japan’s “Ultimate Menu.” While his profession alone gives him plenty of excuses to go on food-related adventures, the premise is spiced up by the frequent appearance of his estranged father, an artist and world-renowned gourmet, with whom Yamaoka has an antagonistic relationship, and who eventually goes on to collaborate with a rival newspaper.

While there are multiple variations, a typical story arc will revolve around an arranged food match between both newspapers, or will have Yamaoka working on an assignment, only to run into his father and inevitably fall into an argument over something, such as the best way to cook rice. A food duel ensues, filled with surprise twists and revelations, until one or the other comes out the winner, while the other stews and awaits the next opportunity to shine.

Oishinbo: À la Carte: Fish, Sushi & Sashimi, p. 68-69

(read right-to-left)

If it all sounds a bit silly, it is. But manga, or good manga at any rate, often has an absence of cynicism, an open enthusiasm that makes it completely irresistible if the reader agrees to play along. In other words, if you can just get over the weirdness of having grown men constantly pontificating and growing indignant over gyoza, and if you can accept that this is a universe where couples break up and make up over an asparagus dish and amnesia can be cured by shellfish, you will have a very, very good time. Just let the story and the dynamic page layouts carry you, enjoy the ride, and then go treat yourself to some sashimi – you’ll be craving it by then.

It’s not a perfect series, of course. There is a very strong tendency to equate Japanese food with Japanese culture and its people, which is neither fair nor exact. But, to the series’ credit, this does not result solely in nationalistic pride (although there is plenty of that): author Kariya pulls no punches when he decides to criticize his compatriots’ habits, policies, or attitudes – this is particularly striking in the volume about sake, in which Yamaoka bitterly berates the Japanese for enabling the deplorable state of the sake industry (a situation which has reportedly improved since the original publication).

This type of indignation regularly lapses into preachiness. While most food-conscious readers will find little fault with the content of most of Yamaoka’s diatribes, such as his criticism of the overuse of pesticides in vegetable farming and his insistence on using the best ingredients, the prolonged sermons may make even the most ardent Michael Pollan fans roll their eyes.

Oishinbo: À la Carte: Japanese Cuisine, p. 134-135

Characters mostly verge on the caricatural, and the character humour can be rather sitcomy, often featuring puns that stubbornly resist translation. But the English language editors made the very wise choice of capitalizing on the inter-cultural gap, rather than attempting to camouflage it. Pages and pages of detailed endnotes explain not only the various food-related intricacies, but also the jokes and nuances that the translators were unable to transpose accurately. As such, these books are a goldmine of information for anyone with an interest in both Japanese cuisine and culture.

Oishinbo: À la Carte: Ramen and Gyoza, p. 50-51

There are a few recipes at the beginning of each book. The one I chose to feature today is one I often turn to when I need comfort food. It’s an easier take on miso ramen, substituting ground pork for roast, and katsuobushi dashi for broth. This dish plays a key role in one of the stories included in the “Ramen and Gyoza” volume, where Yamaoka and friends attempt to figure out a food-centric way to reconcile two villages (yes, food can do that, too, in this world). While I am not entirely convinced of its political powers, I am absolutely convinced by its flavour. I have adapted the proportions to make it a bit more substantial than the original. Yamaoka would probably insist that you make your own dashi (and shave your own bonito flakes while you’re at it)… but I’d be lying if I told you I’ve never used instant dashi with this.

Oishinbo-style Quickie Ramen

Adapted from OishinboÀ la Carte: Ramen and Gyoza

Serves 3-4

4 tbsp white miso

4 tbsp sake

2 tbsp peanut or canola oil

4 cloves garlic, minced

1 large shallot, minced

4-5 scallions, thinly sliced
450g (1 pound) ground pork

6 shiitake mushrooms, sliced (optional)

1.5 litre (6 cups) dashi (see below for homemade instructions)

For homemade dashi:

1.5 litre (6 cups) water

500 ml (2 cups) tightly katsuobushi (dried bonito flakes)

3 tbsp soy sauce

Around 150g (5 oz) fresh noodles, or 3-4 portions dried noodles

Bring a large pot of salted water to a mild boil.

In a small bowl, combine the miso and the sake and stir until miso is dissolved. Reserve.

In a wok, heat the oil over high heat. Add the garlic, shallot and half the scallions and stir-fry for a minute. Add the pork and mushrooms, if using, and continue sautéing, stirring constantly, until cooked. Add the miso-sake mixture and continuing cooking until the liquid is mostly evaporated, but the mixture is still moist. Reserve and keep warm over low heat.

If making homemade dashi, bring your 6 cups of water to a boil, throw in the katsuobushi and immediately turn off the heat. Let stand for two minutes and strain through a sieve lined with cheesecloth or paper towels. Discard the katsuobushi.

If using instant dashi, prepare it according to instructions on the packaging. Heat dashi until it is steaming, but not boiling.

Stir the soy sauce into the dashi. Keep warm over low heat.

If using fresh noodles, cook them in the boiling water for approximately five minutes. If using dried noodles, cook them in the boiling water according to instructions on the packaging.

Divide the noodles into bowls, top with the pork mixture and the rest of the scallions and ladle the dashi into the bowls. Serve immediately.

The Telling Room - Salted Almonds

2014-11-22T18:06:00.001-05:00

The Telling Room: A Tale of Love, Betrayal, Revenge, and the World’s Greatest Piece of Cheese

By Michael Paterniti

368 pages, Random House, 2013

An entire book, and a rather longish one at that, revolving entirely around a single cheese? How could I resist?

The Telling Room’s author, Michael Paterniti, may have started off writing this book as an outside observer, but the resulting book is a deeply personal one – and good thing, too, because I believe that is what ultimately saves the book.

Paterniti first reads about Pàramo de Guzmàn, the fabled Spanish cheese in the title, as a college student in the early nineties. Although he cannot afford to taste this wonder himself at the time, he is struck by the description of the cheese’s fabrication, a painstaking process filled with care and patience, led by a single old-fashioned cheesemaker in a tiny village in the Spanish region of Castile. The projected purity of the finished product makes a lasting impression on the author.

Decades later, Paterniti finds himself tracking down this cheesemaker, Ambrosio Molinos, travelling all the way to Guzmàn (the village the cheese is named for) to meet with him and hear his story. Ambrosio, who is by then no longer involved in the cheesemaking business, reveals himself to be a boisterous, theatrical character, a born storyteller who so impresses Paterniti that the latter returns to Castile several times over the following decade, even moving to Guzmàn for a year with his young family.

Ambrosio is described as a force of nature, strong in both body and spirit. He could also act as spokesperson for the slow food movement. He continually advocates eating real, local food, food that has been prepared with care by people who have a personal investment in its quality. He is part of a vanishing culture that is a large part of the reason the author falls in love with Castile and Guzmàn: a culture of tradition, of simplicity, of taking one’s time.

Had The Telling Room been solely an ode to Ambrosio and his cheese, I really believe I would have disliked it. But perhaps that has more to do with my character than with the book itself. I am, no matter how you look at it, an irretrievable urbanite. I can appreciate the beauty of the mountains and the calm of the desert – but I don’t necessarily want to live there. I am, overall, an introvert who stays in a lot, but I do like the options the city offers, the buzzing activity of the crowd outside my window. So an entire book praising the simple life should not be my cup of tea. I’m also, frankly, pretty uptight. Constant theatrics and expansive diatribes such as those attributed to Ambrosio would wear me out in less than a day.

As a result, when Paterniti’s account of Ambrosio’s story, of how he started manufacturing Pàramo de Guzmàn as a homage to his father, how he nurtured the enterprise into a flourishing success, and how it all fell apart, appeared to be complete less than halfway through the book, I was both intrigued and afraid. How would the author fill the second half? What was the rest of the book going to be like? Was it all going to be pages and pages of the author gushing about the lost world of Guzmàn and mooning over Ambrosio’s lessons in the throes of his self-avowed man-crush?

Thankfully, no. Instead, the rest of the book explores the evolution of Paterniti’s friendship with Ambrosio, and his gradual realization that perhaps he has been blinded (or, as his wife puts it, emasculated) by his admiration of the former cheesemaker and the vision of Castile he represents. When he starts asking the right questions to the right people, Ambrosio’s tale of his cheese’s downfall, brought about, so he claims, by the betrayal of someone close to him, begins to appear, at the very least, exaggerated. Almost in parallel, the author realizes that his romanticized vision of Guzmàn is for him a welcome escape from his own reality. And so it is that The Telling Room, a book named after the room above the cellar where Castilians traditionally tell stories, unexpectedly becomes a complex reflection about myth, truth, culture, and storytelling. What is touching and quite admirable is that Paterniti manages to get through this reflection without losing any of his affection or admiration for Ambrosio.

Another reason this book manages to reach a surprising length given its extremely specific topic is that the author transmits cartloads of information about Castile, and other tidbits and anecdotes, in large part through massive footnotes. The footnotes can become a little exasperating, especially since I would have been more than happy to read most of this information woven into the narrative itself; but having to constantly jump from one section to another (I cannot leave a footnote unread) left me feeling scattered and ragged. Paterniti unabashedly pushes this tactic to the max in one infamous instance where he puts multiple footnotes into a footnote, then proceeds to adding other footnotes into those latter footnotes. At that point, you can either close the book, or, as I did, laugh at the absurdity and clear self-derision and just accept that this is the way the writer has decided to tell this story: rather like Ambrosio spins his tales, with multiple digressions and insertions.

In the end, I enjoyed my time in Guzmàn, as well as Paterniti’s sensitivity and research. The Telling Room is clearly a labour of love, and it presents itself as such. The love, it turns out, is contagious.

I hesitated as to what kind of food to prepare for this review. Something Spanish? Chorizo is often mentioned in the book, but it is, of course, homemade chorizo, which was not something I felt equipped to make. I seriously considered making my own cheese, as friends of mine have successfully done, but chickened out in the end, daunted by an irrational fear of rennet and the lack of space in my kitchen.

In the end, I singled out this passage in the book:

[Ambrosio] pointed to the almonds on the table before us. “These are almonds that are from the field here,” he said. “My father took the time with a hammer to deshell them, and later my mother preserved them by submerging them in salt water. Then, in an old pot, she heated a few drops of olive oil, added the almonds, and stirred with a spoon for a couple of hours – and this is the result.”

He handed me one. I slid it between my teeth, salt sprinkling my lip, the hard hull poised, then cracked by molars. Its flesh – the nut itself – was soft and gave, and the wood and mineral was instantly transformed into something very sweet, spreading to the far reaches of my mouth. “Mmmm,” I mumbled.

[…]

“But for me, it’s not special or unusual,” said Ambrosio. “The biggest satisfaction is to offer a wine from these fields or a little piece of cheese or some of these almonds from my mother. It’s another concept of life. It’s another way to plant your existence on this earth.” He pointed to the jar of almonds on the table. “That’s about six hours of work right there.”

“Six hours in that jar,” I said.

“Six hours by our hands,” said Ambrosio. “It sounds like a lot if you’re rushing, but in the context of life here, it’s nothing.”

Did I spend six hours preparing almonds? Hell, no. For one thing, finding almonds with the shell still on was impossible. But the idea that it is sometimes worth taking the time to do things slowly and properly is one I can, and do, get behind. Many of my favourite foods are slow in the making, like homemade bread and stews. I don’t have time to make them as often as I used to, but when I do, I do them right. So I tried to do these almonds right.

In the absence of a recipe, I had to do some guesswork. For instance, I was unclear as to whether the almonds described in the passage were peeled or not. I tried with both, and skinless blanched almonds were definitely better, as the salt infused them more thoroughly. I cooked them in a crock pot, over very low heat, for about an hour and a half, at which point they began to colour and I thought it best to stop.

The result didn’t really resemble the author’s description. There was no crunchy exterior, no hidden soft sweetness – just really good almonds, their woodsy flavour enhanced by the heat, salty throughout, with a hint of olive oil. Dead simple, and completely worth the time.

Salted almonds

Yields 2 cups

2 1/2 cups (625 ml) water

2 tbsp salt

2 cups (500 ml) blanched unsalted almonds

1 tbsp olive oil

In a medium glass or ceramic bowl, combine the water and salt, and stir to dissolve. Add the almonds (if necessary, add water to cover). Soak at room temperature for at least 24 hours.

Drain the almonds and pat dry. Heat a heavy-bottomed pot over very low heat and add the olive oil. Cook the almonds, stirring occasionally, until they are golden brown. Store almonds in an airtight container at room temperature.

Tender at the Bone - Chicken Liver Pâté

2014-09-19T15:28:00.004-04:00

Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table

By Ruth Reichl

289 pages, Random House, 1998

Photo by Aurélie Jouan

Ruth Reichl’s memoir Tender at the Bone ranks among my very favourite food memoirs, and among my favourite books. For many reasons. For one thing, it’s beautifully written in the kind of voice that makes me wish I were friends with the author. For another, it superbly describes the way food can shape the everyday lives and relationships of those who open themselves to it. There are many objective reasons to like this book (inasmuch as there is such a thing as objectivity in the reading experience). But many of the reasons I loved it are actually intensely personal.

Before I continue, you may notice that the photos in this post look much, much better than usual. This is because a friend of mine, the very talented Aurélie Jouan, was kind enough to come over for a photo shoot. I’m so grateful to her, especially since I made her shoot pâté, which is perhaps the least photogenic dish ever. And she still managed to make it look good! You can check out her work at www.aureliejouan.com.

I have not always been interested in food. Far from it. When I was in my early twenties and living alone, I was buying premade quiches, microwaveable dinners and Chinese takeout with the rest of my peers. My interest in food came later, when I discovered the pleasures of cooking for my roommate and friends, and later for my family. Even today, I can’t claim to be really up-to-date on food culture: I don’t rush to buy the latest Saveur or Lucky Peach, I forget chefs’ names as soon as I learn them, and I haven’t been to a trendy restaurant in years. And yet, strangely enough, Ruth Reichl has practically always been in my life. Most of you know her as the former editor-in-chief of the now defunct Gourmet Magazine, or as the former restaurant critic for the New York Times. To me, she is a voice from my childhood.

When we lived in New York the first time around, my Dad would drive me to school in the morning. He always had the radio on, and we regularly heard Ruth Reichl giving her restaurant review. This was strange, when I think back on it, because my Dad is the polar opposite of a gourmet; most likely he just left the radio on while waiting for the news to come on. Discovering that there was such a profession as a food critic must have made a striking impression on me, or maybe it was just that my Dad liked to say “Ah, here’s Ruth Reichl” in a fake New York accent (even now, I have trouble calling her solely by her last name – that’s how deeply engraved her alliterative name is in my memory). Whatever the reason, she stuck with us. To this day, my Dad still remembers the time she concluded her review by saying that, having gone to a restaurant for lunch, she returned that very same day for dinner. And she was no doubt the reason I wrote my very first (and, for a long time, only) restaurant review at the tender age of eight.

Photo by Aurélie Jouan

That was as far as it went, but it was enough to prompt me to buy Tender at the Bone. It’s a partial memoir, where Reichl traces the path that led her along her discovery of food, and the people and places that shaped her outlook. It’s gorgeously written, bravely intimate, and perfectly balanced. A must read for food lovers.

I knew I was in for a treat when Reichl opens with anecdotes about her mother, whom she describes as “taste-blind and unafraid of rot.” This particular combination of traits led Mrs. Reichl to serve spoiled food to many guests over the years, as young Ruth took it upon herself to “keep Mom from killing anyone who came to dinner.” It also resulted in some interesting culinary improvisations:

She liked to brag about “Everything Stew,” a dish invented while she was concocting a casserole out of a two-week-old turkey carcass. […] She put the turkey and a half can of mushroom soup into the pot. Then she began rummaging around in the refrigerator. She found some leftover broccoli and added that. A few carrots went in, and then a half carton of sour cream. In a hurry, as usual, she added green beans and cranberry sauce. And then, somehow, half an apple pie slipped into the dish. Mom looked momentarily horrified. Then she shrugged and said, “Who knows? Maybe it will be good.” And she began throwing everything in the refrigerator in along with it – leftover pâté, some cheese ends, a few squishy tomatoes.

This passage had me laughing, because my grandmother used to do the same thing (she is thankfully still alive, but is now in a retirement home and no longer cooks). Except she didn’t make “Everything Stew,” she made “Everything Soup.” My father used to deplore the fact that she would ruin perfectly good canned soups by adding whatever was in her refrigerator at the time. “But that’s what makes my soups special,” she would reply, to which my Dad would roll his eyes. Some people are geniuses at recycling old food: my father-in-law, for example, can turn old veggies, stale bread and insipid cheese into a delicious gratin. My grandmother… is a better gardener than cook, let’s leave it at that. A product of her time, she also refused to throw any food out, letting leftovers rot in her fridge until she found the time to make a soup to use them in. Whenever my Dad and his siblings came to visit, they would raid the fridge and throw out anything suspicious, much to her dismay.

Reading on, I discovered that Ruth Reichl and I had more in common than a culinarily dangerous relative. At one point, she recounts the time she spent in Montreal, where I lived for many years, and I kept my eyes open for any places I might recognize. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that she attended the same French high school I graduated from. Reading her description of the school as it stood fifty years ago was an uncanny experience.

Photo by Aurélie Jouan

Beyond these coincidences which appealed to me personally, Tender at the Bone is not just a good food book. It’s a riveting memoir by someone who has led a very interesting life so far - this despite the fact that she barely touches upon her life as a food critic (which she does in another memoir, Garlic and Sapphires). Or rather, she manages to make her life interesting to the reader. Whether she’s working as a social worker in 1960’s New York, travelling to North Africa, or living on a commune in California, Ruth Reichl tells her story in a way that makes the characters around her sparkle with life, and brings out the beauty, humour, and heartache of her relationships with them. Food is always present, but sometimes it slips away into the background, and resurfaces in time to help make sense of everything. It’s the kind of book I was sincerely sorry to finish.

In the end, though, it all comes back to Ruth Reichl’s relationship with her mother, who struggled with manic depression. And this is probably where this book hit me hardest. There were scenes that made me truly cringe, and at the same time I couldn’t stop reading, propelled by a kind of morbid fascination. By the end, I just wanted to give Ruth Reichl a cookie and a hug, and tell her it was all right – or maybe I wanted her to tell me that, I’m not sure. It feels strange to write this about the food critic I used to listen to on the radio, but I felt as if I had met a kindred spirit. That’s the kind of book this is.

Photo by Aurélie Jouan

There are all kinds of recipes included in the book. There are brownies, and devil’s food cake, and fried chicken, and other delicious, popular food. And what did I go and choose to make? Pâté. (Again, apologies to my photographer, Aurélie.)

What can I say, I love pâté. I always have. Strangely enough, I’m not a huge fan of liver in itself: I’ll eat it, but I won’t order it. But mash it up with some other stuff and spread it on toast, and I’ll scarf it down and ask for seconds.

This is a very simple pâté recipe that requires nothing more than a skillet and a wooden spoon (and a knife to chop things up, of course). The texture is coarse, rather than creamy, but the strong taste of the chicken livers is tempered by the anchovies and lemon. It makes for a lunch with character.

I had to double the recipe because I had too many chicken livers, but the result was quite good nevertheless. Make sure to chop up your ingredients very finely

Photo by Aurélie Jouan

Milton’s Pâté

Adapted from Ruth Reichl’s Tender at the Bone

Serves 6 as an appetizer or light lunch

3 tbsp olive oil

One small onion, minced

One clove garlic, minced

6 anchovies, cut into pieces

One pound (500g) chicken livers, cleaned

1/2 cup (120 ml) white wine

4 sprigs flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

Zest of one lemon, grated

2 tbsp capers in vinegar, minced

Salt

Pepper

2 tsp lemon juice

Heat oil over low-medium heat and cook the onion and garlic until tender. Add anchovies and stir, mashing them. Add chicken livers and continue cooking until they lose their reddish hue, mashing with a fork or a wooden spoon as they cook. Add wine, lemon zest and parsley and cook until liquid has evaporated, mashing to obtain the texture of a coarse pâté. Stir in capers and cook for one more minute. Stir in lemon juice and adjust seasoning.

Serve on toast, brushed with olive oil and garlic if you wish.

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake - Lemon Pound Cake

2014-09-05T12:30:00.000-04:00

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

By Aimee Bender

292 pages, Doubleday, 2010

Originally posted on The Chocolate Bunny on August 22^nd, 2011 and edited for style and content.

The ParticularSadness of Lemon Cake was one of those books that I came upon accidentally at the store. The greenish-blue cover, quirky title font, and, of course, the title and the striking slice of triple-layer cake caught my eye as I was skimming the shelves, looking for Kate Atkinson’s latest novel. I had never heard of Aimee Bender, but after reading her book’s synopsis, I was too intrigued to leave it behind. And I’m very glad I took it home.

The novel’s narrator, Rose, is a happy, carefree nine-year-old girl at the beginning of the novel. The first scene is the kind of childhood memory everyone either cherishes or would like to have: she comes home from school to her smiling mother, who is just about to start baking her a birthday cake. But after one bite, Rose realizes something is very wrong: although the cake is objectively delicious and made from quality ingredients, she can taste something else in it, too. Hollowness, emptiness. Her mother’s mal-de-vivre.

Rose soon discovers, much to her despair, that, no matter what she eats, she can now taste the emotions of the person who prepared the food – even in something as basic as a sandwich. Imagine eating a bakery cookie and tasting the boredom and frustration of the person who made it. Or, even worse, discovering your mother’s deep, dark secrets by way of her roast beef.

The novel follows Rose through the years, as she deals with this gift/curse. The focus is also on her family, who appears fairly average, in that dysfunctional way that is so frequent in contemporary novels: her father, a pragmatic lawyer who seems to have achieved most of his personal ambitions, and who remains a distant figure most of the time; her mother, who struggles to discover what she wants in life and hides her inner void as best as she can; and her older brother, Joseph, a reclusive teen genius who grows up to be an even more reclusive young adult, with, as it turns out, a gift of his own.

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, despite its title and premise, is much less about food than it is about human relations. Descriptions of food revolve more around feelings than flavours, which may disappoint foodies looking for mouth-watering depictions, but which can also lead the imagination to wander towards interesting places: what would depression, joy, infatuation, or excitement taste like?

Ultimately, the novel is about how people navigate around and with each other – a fairly common theme, but a seemingly infinite one. Rose’s problem is that, no matter how much she would like to shut the world out, she can’t: she has to eat, and although she relies as much as possible on anonymous vending machine snacks and factory-made food, she can’t forever avoid tasting other people’s feelings and having to deal with them. Her circumstances are unique, but she remains a relatable protagonist in that way: most people can understand how it feels to be thrust against the world against your will. It also helps that, although her chipper personality takes a sarcastic turn after she discovers her gift, she never resorts to whining about her condition, and remains stoic, almost wise at times. I also very much liked Rose’s father, despite his complacency: he too, in his own way, is at heart someone trying to find his place. The character of Joseph was harder for me to enjoy (although you’d think I would relate to an antisocial nerd who insists on reading at the dinner table), in part because his gift, which I won’t spoil here, seemed to come out of nowhere – although it does make sense as a metaphor.

Despite the book’s many qualities, or perhaps because of them, I closed it with a feeling of emptiness – perhaps like the one Rose tasted in that fateful birthday cake. It left me wanting more. Or rather, more accurately, it left me in need of guidance, as though I had rediscovered loss within myself. In short, it left me wanting answers. But this may very well have been Bender’s intention: some questions can only be answered by oneself. Ultimately, this remains a charming and original novel which I still remember fondly to this day.

Although the title lemon cake is explicitly a round cake, iced with chocolate, I took this as an opportunity to revisit an old favourite: lemon pound cake. My father-in-law gave me this recipe, and, although it is a classic, it’s still delectable.

The syrup at the end is all-important, as it gives the cake its lovely moisture and terrific lemon flavour. I’m told the recipe works best with margarine, but I can’t bring myself to try baking with anything other than butter, because I simply prefer the taste. Also, over the many times I’ve made this cake, I discovered the importance of using fresh baking soda, as I’ve ended up with a syrupy brick at least once. I also have no idea why it came out brown the last time – it was definitely not overbaked, nor burnt. But you can put those variations on my shaky skills as a baker, not the recipe.

Lemon Pound Cake

From my father-in-law’s kitchen (possibly taken from somewhere else)

Yields one 22 by 11 cm (8.5 by 4.5 inch) cake

250g (2 1/2 sticks, 9 oz) unsalted butter or margarine, softened

250g (1 1/3 cup, 9 oz) granulated sugar

5 whole eggs, beaten

The zest of two lemons, grated

250g (1 3/4 cup, 9 oz) flour

2 tsp baking soda

Pinch of salt

For the syrup:

The juice of 4 lemons

100g (3/4 cup, 3.5 oz) confectioner’s sugar

Preheat oven to 180ºC (350ºF).

In a large mixing bowl, cream the soft butter with the sugar, until pale yellow in colour. Gradually beat in the eggs and lemon zest. Combine the flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl, and gradually stir the dry ingredients into the butter and egg mixture.

Butter a 22 by 11 cm (8.5 by 4.5 inch) cake mould. Pour the batter into the mould, place it on a baking sheet, and bake for 60 to 65 minutes. The cake is ready when a knife inserted into the center comes out clean.

Meanwhile, make the syrup: gradually stir the confectioner’s sugar into the lemon juice, until all the sugar is dissolved.

When the cake is baked, unmold it and prick its top and sides with a fork while it is still very warm, and brush with syrup, until most or all of the syrup is absorbed. Let cool on a rack. Store at room temperature, wrapped in plastic wrap.

Steal the Menu - Sole meunière

2014-08-15T22:56:00.002-04:00

Steal the Menu: A Memoir of Forty Years in Food

By Raymond Sokolov

242 pages, Knopf, 2013

Instantly drawn to this book because of its title, I knew nothing about its author. Turning to the cover flap for enlightenment, I saw that he had been food editor of The New York Times in the seventies, and therefore I expected a behind-the-scenes look at food journalism and restaurant reviewing in one of the world’s greatest newspapers.

My expectations were all wrong. But Steal the Menu was still an instructive, interesting read, written by an extremely erudite man who has spent most of his life involved with food in one way or another.

The reason the book was not what I expected is that Sokolov only stayed at The New York Times for a couple of years, and from what he writes did not particularly enjoy his time there. So while we do get to sneak a peek at how executive editor A.M. Rosenthal ran his paper, and how Sokolov tried to navigate and modify the Times’ restaurant review format and editorial line (most entertainingly when he demonstrated that the wedding cake recipe for Nixon's daughter's wedding was littered with mistakes), we don’t get to hang around very long.

But Sokolov wasn’t done with food, and went on to work as a freelance food specialist for several newspapers and magazines, most notably Natural History, and eventually reviewed restaurants for The Wall Street Journal. Even so, in this memoir he is much more concerned with tracking and explaining global food movements than with his specific gustatory experiences.

What is interesting, and rather paradoxical about Sokolov is that, for a restaurant critic, he seems remarkably uninterested in the actual sensory experience of eating food. He readily acknowledges this:

“I tasted every one of those dishes with gusto and could still give you a vivid account of the flavors and textures in many of them. But those sensations – the ugly technical term for them is organoleptic – were not the important ones. For me, they have never been of primary importance, except at the time I was experiencing them. What mattered most was the dish, in all its aspects.”

In other words, this is not a memoir that indulges in describing the tart sweetness of raspberries on the tongue, or the pillowy texture of a soufflé. In this manner, this is probably the most abstract food memoir I have ever read. Sokolov is an intellectual in the most traditional sense: he was on his way to obtaining a Harvard PhD in ancient Greek poetry before getting sidetracked into journalism (he finally returned to school and finished his PhD 38 years later). He views food through the same intellectual lens through which he examines languages and literature. His work for Natural History, while still food-centered, dipped into anthropology and botany. And his reflections on food are most concerned with how food cultures form systems that were previously believed to be unchanging, but evolved drastically during his lifetime.

Some people may be turned off by this approach, and find Sokolov’s style dry, devoid of the sensual joy that defines so much of food writing. But this book is important precisely because it offers a different outlook on food, while still conveying what it was like to live through several crucial changes in culinary history, such as the advent of nouvelle cuisine.

We all think we know what nouvelle cuisine is about: an emphasis on good ingredients, lighter sauces, deconstructed plates… But in one of the most interesting passages in the book, Sokolov debunks several early assumptions about nouvelle cuisine, namely that it is diet-friendly, and instead defines it as a playful, almost cerebral deconstruction of past food culture. He also pinpoints a crucial change in restaurant practices: the passage from Russian-style dining, where platters were brought tableside and dishes cut up and served onto individual plates at that moment, to the style that is now the norm in most high-end Western restaurants, where individual plates are assembled in the kitchen. It is something we take for granted today, but which has had huge repercussions on restaurant cooking and organization.

So while you may miss the proliferation of adjectives and the evocations of swirls of cream and pungent spices, you may nevertheless find yourself enjoying and benefiting from Sokolov’s unique perspective on the changes food culture underwent in his lifetime. You probably won’t come out with that happy, sated feeling you get when you finish a really lush, feast-laden food book, but you will come out feeling that you learned something in a pleasant way.

There are many dishes mentioned in this book, from French classics to molecular innovations. I happened to be travelling to Belgium right after taking notes on Steal the Menu, so I decided to make a traditional dish I make it a point to eat every time we go there, because its main ingredient is not available in North America: sole meunière.

You can technically prepare any white fish à la meunière (“in the manner of the miller’s wife”), dredged in seasoned flour and sautéed in butter, then served with lemon. But the soles found on this side of the Atlantic are really not ideal for it: they fall apart the second they are cooked. So whenever I need a quick fish dinner fix, I opt for haddock or tilapia (although the latter is just as easily served Hanoi-style, with turmeric, dill and fish sauce). But nothing quite beats Dover sole for this recipe, especially if you cook it whole, bones and all.

Sokolov writes that sole meunière can be prepared with boned filets, but I have always been served whole cooked fish that I had to debone myself, even in restaurants. It was part of the ritual of the dish; I remember how proud I was the year I was finally old enough to debone the fish myself without making a mess of things or having to ask my parents to do it for me. First you scraped away the tiny little bones at the edges of the fish. Then you carved down the middle of the fish lengthwise, until you met bone, and you carefully lifted first one filet, then another. If you were my father, you then flipped the entire fish over and lifted the other two filets and discarded the bones before eating. If you were like me, you ate each filet before lifting the next. Either way, it was delicious, the nuttiness of the browned butter perfectly complementing the taste of the fish, the lemon balancing out the richness. If you are perplexed at how such a simple dish has remained a popular classic throughout the decades, it means you haven’t had it done right.

Sole meunière

Serves 2

2 whole Dover soles

Salt and pepper for seasoning

Flour for dredging

4 tbsp butter

Lemon wedges

Season the soles on each side with salt and pepper. Dredge them in flour.

Melt the butter in a skillet over medium-high heat, until it is foaming. Quickly sear the soles until they are nicely browned on each side, flipping them over once.

Serve immediately with lemon wedges. To debone, first scrape away the little bones at the edges, then cut down lengthwise until you meet bone and lift one filet, then another. Flip the fish over and repeat this last step.

The Lost Art of Feeding Kids - Minestrone

2014-07-28T07:47:00.000-04:00

The Lost Art of Feeding Kids: What Italy Taught Me About Why Kids Need Real Food

By Jeannie Marshall

240 pages, Beacon Press, 2014

When I spotted Jeannie Marshall’s The Lost Artof Feeding Kids, I felt that not only did I need to read it, I needed to go against my usual pattern of letting a new book gather dust on my bookshelf for months or even years before getting around to it. Because I have a kid I need to feed, and although I believed I was doing a decent job at it, it couldn’t hurt to get more information, or at least validation. I’ve said it before: I detest parenting books. The idea of a manual for raising your child irks me. But I have seen so many picky toddlers, so many little (and not so little) ones who seem to subsist on junk food and empty calories, that I made an exception for this one. It’s not really a parenting book anyway, more like a manifesto.

So, what did I learn? I am indeed doing a decent job at feeding my toddler. But according to this book, I could be doing better.

Marshall’s main insight in her well-written, generally engaging book, is that food cultures are essential to people’s health. Food cultures are generated in much the same way as cultures in general: from prolonged habitation of geographical areas. Food cultures, Marshall writes, are inherently local, because for the longest time people could not travel much or import much food, and thus had to make do with what was close at hand. Over time, through observation, trial and error, people discovered which combinations of ingredients, or which way of growing and preparing certain foods kept them in good health. People knew nothing about nutrients or calories, but they knew from experience what worked, and passed this knowledge along to the following generations. Marshall demonstrates that whenever a food culture is disrupted, either through a forced change in agriculture or the forced importation of non-local or (especially) processed food, its people’s health suffers in unpredictable ways.

Marshall spends many pages lamenting the power of the processed food industry, in particular the manner in which it targets young children and influences them into craving their products. This, of course, is not new information, and neither are the alarming numbers she gives on childhood obesity and all its corollary illnesses. What is original about this book is how it consistently ties these problems back to the disappearance of food cultures and the knowledge they contain.

Marshall correctly points out that the realization of the obesity problem, particularly in North America, has enhanced the scientific discourse surrounding the way we eat: we no longer eat food, we consume calories and nutriments. When we look at a peach, we no longer see a delicious, sweet, juicy treat, we see fibre and vitamins. This outlook is better than complete ignorance about nutrition, but it secures us in the false knowledge that a diet of vitamin-enhanced processed foods can keep us healthy. In reality, Marshall writes, nothing can replace eating real, whole foods: they contain nutrients that combine in ways we haven’t figured out yet, but which add up to a level of well-being that a processed food diet cannot reproduce. In other words, Marshall is most likely horrified by Soylent.

While I agree with most of Marshall’s points, and find the concept of food cultures very interesting, the book does not give all the solutions to the problems it so well outlines (nor should we expect it to). To return to my own personal perspective, I thought my family was eating quite well, and didn’t expect to feel personally concerned by some of these problems. We cook for ourselves practically every night, which according to Marshall’s bleak portrayal of North American kitchens is an accomplishment in itself. But here is what a typical weekly menu at our place looks like:

Monday: veal Milanese, salad

Tuesday: mackerel filets in a butter and mustard sauce, zucchini

Wednesday: black-bean quesadillas

Thursday: Vietnamese lemongrass chicken, snap peas

Friday: homemade burgers, salad

Saturday: Thai shrimp curry, rice

Sunday: gazpacho, cheese tartines

It’s not too bad, I think. We try to have vegetarian meals two or three times a week, we try to limit the red meat and the fried stuff, and when we do have something crispy, we fry it ourselves. But you’ll notice that there is absolutely no regional coherence to our menu: our recipes are Italian, French, Mexican, Thai, Vietnamese, Spanish, and others not featured here. I used to think that was an unequivocally good thing. I want my son to be able to appreciate different cuisines, and this ethnic diversity in our kitchen means that we don’t have to eat the same thing over and over. In fact, I have often wondered what it must have been like for housewives before “ethnic” cuisines broke through their regional borders: I would have a hard time sticking to just French or Italian recipes for even a week.

Yet this culinary diversity that I love so much is, if Marshall is right, a factor in the destruction of wholesome food cultures: by not following local culinary traditions, I am taking part in making them forgotten. I’m tempted to argue that food cultures have never been static, and can recover from change. Think of the tomato that we so associate with Italian cooking: it only started growing in Europe in the sixteenth century, after it was brought back from South America. But then, it was well-suited to the Italian climate and could be cultivated there, which enabled it to become a part of the Italian food culture. Today, rather than attempt to grow non-native plants and fruit, we are more likely to fly them in from across the world, to the detriment of local food cultures.

All the same, I think the benefits of immigration and culinary cross-pollination are not to be belittled: discovering new people, traditions and cuisines can turn us into better, more open-minded people – not to mention more content, because eating a variety of delicious things generally makes people happier. And I believe that learning new ways to combine flavours can ultimately improve our relationship with food. I also don’t think our use of fish sauce and cumin is primarily responsible in the decline of food cultures. As mentioned, Marshall correctly points out the two main culprits: the processed food industry and the breakdown in cross-generational passing down of culinary information. Of course, both are related.

The problem is evident even where infants are concerned. When I had my son, my mother was adamant that I should give him sugar water to help him thrive, because that was what was recommended by doctors when I was born. My reaction was: Why would I give sugar to a perfectly healthy baby? Similarly, my mother-in-law kept insisting that I give my son a bottle every now and then, instead of breastfeeding, arguing that her doctor had advised it when she had given birth. I, for my part, had been reading up on breastfeeding, and knew that even the occasional bottle can screw up the process in the early days. Both of these women’s hearts were in the right place: they wanted to help. But the scientific discourse they had absorbed had trumped common sense and what generations before them knew from experience: that a healthy infant really doesn’t need anything other than breastmilk.

As it turned out, however, breastfeeding was complicated in our case. I ended up having to give my son formula supplements after all, to help him gain weight, and had to see a lactation consultant, who gave me many tips and recommendations over several weeks. One day, as I left her office, I asked her why breastfeeding seemed so complicated, even though it had kept infants alive for millennia before formula was invented. Her answer was that, because women were told for a few decades that formula was not only convenient, but better for babies, some knowledge about breastfeeding was lost between generations, and we were only beginning to get it back.

I think what we went through is quite representative, on a smaller scale, of what Marshall analyses regarding food cultures. The advent of processed baby formula and its “scientifically proven” advantages, coupled with its convenience, led to the breakdown in transgenerational communication. Similarly, the convenience of processed, so-called “healthy” food led to less cooking, and thereby less teaching of how to cook.

But how do we get out of this mess? Can we rebuild lost food cultures? Sadly, I don’t think this is possible at this point, at least not in North America, and the book seems to agree with me (although the author believes European food cultures are still salvageable). Although Marshall deplores the scientific discourse surrounding food today, I think it is, for now at least, one of the most viable ways for us to recreate healthy eating patterns in adults (children are a different matter). Marshall is correct when she underlines how the processed food industry plays on health trends by promoting packaged snacks as healthy and nutritious, even though these snacks are often filled with sugar and additives that our bodies do not need. But in the absence of coherent culinary traditions and elders to pass them down, I think we have to turn to science to regain our understanding of how we should eat. I am not talking about taking multi-vitamins or following the gluten-free trend; but I think many of us need to be reminded of what a reasonable caloric intake is, how much sodium is too much, and how to avoid hidden sugars. Food guides are not perfect, but they can still provide a frame of reference.

Just as I had to get my breastfeeding knowledge from a professional lactation consultant, many of us can benefit from the advice and recommendations of nutritionists – because there is often no one else around to pass older wisdom on. Marshall reminds us of the guidelines provided by the likes of Michael Pollan: eat food (meaning: real food), not too much, mostly plants. But as shows like Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution have sadly demonstrated, even that can be overwhelming for someone who has been eating processed food their whole lives.

But even though we cannot rebuild food cultures as they were, we can give our children a fresh start. We can do this by cooking for them, giving them real food from the start, teaching them that food doesn’t come from a jar, but is prepared from ingredients. We can do this by not giving them “kid food” or preparing separate meals for them for fear that they won’t like it, but by sharing our meals with them, so they can grow up to appreciate a variety of real food. This can help them grow up not necessarily with a food culture, but at least with a knowledge of what a good, balanced diet is. As Marshall writes, we need to make cooking a habit again, something we do for the same reasons we brush our teeth and do our laundry: because it improves our quality of life and our well-being.

This book brought to my mind an excerpt I read in the Best Food Writing 2012 anthology. Entitled “How To Live Well,” it was taken from Tamar Adler’s An Everlasting Meal, which I have not read. It was basically an ode to the bean, and I remember being struck by how beautifully written it was. There was a recipe for minestrone, and the assertion that if you have all the necessary ingredients for minestrone, it means you are cooking steadily and well - in other words, you’re on the right track according to Marshall.

Vegetable soups are a favourite of mine in general, but the hearty chunkiness of minestrone makes it extra comforting. I flipped through the chapter in Il Cucchiaio d’Argento devoted to this Italian soup, only to find endless variations, none of which conformed exactly to what I wanted to make. In the end, I loosely followed Adler’s recipe (which is pretty loose to begin with), making adjustments for whatever was in my fridge. So here is my improvised, completely inauthentic, but still healthy and Michael Pollan-worthy version of minestrone. I will probably never be able to settle for a single food culture, but I will continue to eat real food – and so will my son.

Minestrone

Inspired from Tamar Adler’s An Everlasting Meal

Serves 6

2 cups dried cannellini beans

Salt

4 tbsp olive oil

One large onion, diced

3 garlic cloves, minced

3 celery ribs, diced

3 medium carrots, sliced

3 small tomatoes, chopped

One handful flat-leaf parsley, chopped

One cup (240 ml) raw cabbage, chopped

One large zucchini, quartered and sliced

One cup (240 ml) green beans, trimmed and cut into 1-inch (2,5 cm) pieces

One parmesan rind

8 cups (2 litres) bean water (if insufficient, supplement with vegetable or chicken stock, or water)

Freshly ground pepper

short pasta (orechiette, cavatelli, ditali, etc.)

Soak the beans in cold water overnight. In a large pot, cover the beans with water (they should be submerged by about an inch), bring to a boil and gently simmer until beans are tender, about one hour. Salt halfway through the cooking process. Reserve the bean water.

In a large pot, heat olive oil over low-medium heat and cook the onion, garlic, celery and carrot until half-tender. Throw in the tomatoes, parsley, cabbage, zucchini and parmesan rind. Pour in the bean water and any other liquids, and stir to combine.

Bring to a simmer and cook until everything is tender and the flavours have blended (Adler’s lovely phrasing: “until everything has agreed to become minestrone”), about 45 minutes. Adjust seasoning and remove the parmesan rind. Just before eating, cook an appropriate quantity of pasta for the number of servings in salted water (you don’t want soggy pasta in your leftovers). Add the pasta to the soup you are serving, and serve immediately.

Cooking for Gracie - Spaghetti with anchovies, walnuts, mint and breadcrumbs

2014-07-09T16:04:00.003-04:00

Cooking for Gracie: The Making of a Parent From Scratch

By Keith Dixon

224 pages, Crown, 2011

Originally posted on The Chocolate Bunny on May 4^th, 2013 and edited for context and style.

Keith Dixon’s Cooking for Gracie is surprising reading choice for me. Allow me to explain why before getting to the book itself.

As soon as we announced my pregnancy in early 2012, people started giving us stuff. A lot of stuff. Most of the gifts were predictable, but very welcome: clothes, toys, gift certificates, more clothes. Others were pleasant surprises: a baby food maker, a soothing noise-making machine (which never really put the baby to sleep, but is still really cool – it projects waves of light and everything!). I was grateful for it all. But there is one type of gift which I specifically asked people not to give me (and fortunately, most of them complied): parenting books.

My dislike of parenting books (and most self-help books, really) stems from way before I ever became a parent myself: it started during my teen years. I was a fairly typical teenager, undergoing all the angst, drama, and emotional rollercoaster those years often entail. But around that time, my mother started developing the annoying habit of attributing anything I did that rubbed her the wrong way to my age. “I know teenagers are unkempt / rude to their parents / selfish, but I will not have you wear your hair like that / speak to me that way / behave like that.” It was as if I had been labelled practically overnight, and anything I did would inevitably be traced back to that label. Granted, not all her criticisms were undeserved: my hair was indeed a mess most of the time, and I wasn’t always the most thoughtful daughter. I was also moody and weird. But I could have been the best-groomed, most polite, most altruistic, most well-adjusted teen, and my mother probably would have found something else to blame on teenagehood. Looking back, I think she simply didn’t want her only child to grow up.

And one day, while browsing through one of our many bookshelves, I found The Book.

I forget what it was called, probably Raising Your Teenaged Daughter, or something along those lines. As I flipped through it, I became horrified. The book mostly consisted of case studies, meant to represent the different problems teenaged girls could pose or run into. But these girls were all extreme cases: they were bulimic, or had substance abuse problems, or dabbled in delinquency, or slept around. At the time, I had top grades in most of my classes, I didn’t date, and I hung out with other goody-two-shoes who didn’t drink or smoke. Granted, I was socially awkward (still am), and I had body image issues and a messed up relationship with food (which wasn’t entirely my fault). But in no way did this put me in the same category as the girls in that book. Did I eventually grow up to do things my parents wouldn’t have approved of had they known about them? You bet. But never anything close to stupid or dangerous. Well, not dangerous, anyway. I never lived up to my mother’s fears.

It really bothered me to know that this was how my mother saw me as a teenager: an impending disaster. Never mind that I had given her no reason to view me in this way: the book told her all she wanted to know. And that’s when I decided that parenting books were poison. And I decided I was never going to label my child, or treat him or her according to some textbook, some manual telling me what my child should or could be doing. I would refuse to interact with my child according to a strategy, I would not think: “I need to do this with him now, so that he’ll do that. And if he does this, then I’ll do that. And then he’ll develop properly.” As methodical as I am in the kitchen, a child is not a soufflé: I don’t believe in a recipe for parenting. And if there is one, I’m not interested in living any part of my life according to a recipe.

This doesn’t mean I don’t give my son a structured environment, or don’t do what I can to help his development. And it doesn’t mean I don’t set rules and boundaries within his understanding. But I’m doing all those things according to what feels right to me, following plain common sense – not because some book told me to. I ask for advice when I feel I need it in a specific area, and I look things up when I have to. But I don’t believe a book will suddenly revolutionize my outlook on what kind of parent I want to be.

So, after that long rant, why did I decide to read a book called Cooking for Gracie: The Making of a Parent from Scratch? Because, despite what its title might suggest, it’s not a parenting book, nor does it aspire to be one. It’s the personal story of one man’s discovery of parenthood, and what he realized along the way. It’s not preachy, quite the opposite in fact: the author is humble and consistently self-deprecating throughout the book. The only recipes in this book are about actual food.

It’s hard for me to judge whether this book would be enjoyed by anyone who hasn’t had a baby. Probably not. I know much of the pleasure I derived from it stemmed from identifying with the author’s situation: the sleeplessness of the early days, the worrying when something doesn’t go exactly according to plan, the realization that babies require you to make lifestyle changes – something you knew before, of course, but don’t actually grasp until a crisis sneaks up and kicks you in the ass while you’re trying to make dinner or write an article. The book is well written, in a sincere voice that I enjoyed following, and features some truly touching moments. It’s a little thin at times, and there are some digressions which feel a tad out of place, but I found the book as a whole very enjoyable.

Dixon’s look at parenting is honest and expresses what I think a lot of new parents feel. On the one hand, we do sometimes feel as if we’ve lost something in the process: sleep, intimacy, the freedom to be spontaneous or downright irresponsible, the ability to live life according to our own schedule, and, in the case of mothers, control over our own bodies. And at the same time, we know we’ve gained something: a barrier against loneliness, the unconditional (for now, at least) love of our child, the wonder of seeing our baby discover the world, and the myriad pleasures of being with him or her. One of Dixon’s key insights is that cooking encapsulates this paradoxical relationship with his daughter, where she is both the problem and the solution (his words): because of her, he can no longer afford to cook the way he used to, but thanks to her, he now knows the joy of cooking for his child – because, even when she is still breastfeeding, he is the one cooking for her mother, and thus, indirectly, for baby Grace. His happiness when he is able to give his daughter her first real morsel of food truly made me look forward to the time when my son would be ready for that milestone. And now that it has happened, I never get tired of watching him happily swallow the food I have lovingly cooked for him.

There are many, many recipes in this book, and their quality surprised me, given that Dixon is not a professional cook. He is, however, a very able home cook, despite the humorous description he gives of himself as a klutz who is constantly injuring himself in the kitchen. The recipes are meant to be realistic, aimed at new parents who are pressed for time. I personally question any new parent’s ability to make fresh pasta from scratch (something I rarely had the time or patience to make even before my son came along), but the majority of the recipes strike a good balance between quality and simplicity. They are meant for the foodie parent who is resigned to the fact that the days of macarons and homemade sushi are over, at least for now, but doesn’t want to eat tuna salad every night.

I tried the recipe below because of the sheer weirdness of the ingredients. Walnuts and anchovies, really? But I love both, so I figured there was a chance I would like it. And I did. The anchovies really don’t attack the palate as much as you would expect, they just kind of dissolve and take a back seat, even when I ended up putting more than the recipe originally called for. The homemade fried breadcrumbs are a must.

Note: This isn’t one of the recipes meant to be later puréed and served to baby. It’s much too salty for a little one, and nuts should be avoided before they are a year old.

Spaghetti with anchovies, walnuts, mint and breadcrumbs

Slightly adapted from Keith Dixon’s Cooking for Gracie

Serves two

60 ml (1/4) cup walnuts

2-3 slices of bread, preferably several days old and left out to dry

6 tbsp olive oil

Salt

2 cloves garlic, minced

6 anchovy filets, preserved in oil (less if you are worried about tasting too much anchovy)

1 tsp dried crushed red pepper flakes, or more to taste

120 ml (1/2 cup) dry white wine

A big handful of fresh mint, finely chopped

Freshly ground black pepper

250g (1/2 pound) dried spaghetti

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil.

Put the walnuts in a plastic bag and crush them coarsely with a meat mallet or rolling pin. You want fairly large pieces, not crumbs.

Make the breadcrumbs: If your bread is not dry enough, toast it lightly. Rip the slices into pieces and put them into a food processor. Pulse until reduced to thick crumbs. Pass the crumbs through a thin sieve, so as to keep only the thicker ones (keep the smaller crumbs and use them in another recipe that requires breading). If you do not have a food processor, use a mortar and pestle, which will actually allow you to better control the texture of your crumbs.

Heat two tablespoons of olive oil in a large, deep skillet over medium-high heat and add in the breadcrumbs. Cook until they are lightly golden and crispy. Put the crumbs in a bowl lined with absorbent paper towel and reserve.

In the same skillet, heat your remaining four tablespoons of olive oil over medium-low heat. Add the garlic and anchovies and sauté, stirring and crushing the anchovies with a wooden spoon until they have dissolved. Add the walnuts and toast a few minutes, until browned and fragrant. Add the pepper flakes and cook for another minute, then deglaze with the white wine. Cook until the alcohol has mostly evaporated and sprinkle in the mint. Season with pepper and reserve over low heat.

Cook your spaghetti according to the directions on the package. When they are done, drain them or fish them out of the pan, making sure to reserve part of the cooking water. Put the pasta in with the sauce and mix thoroughly to coat. Add a ladleful of cooking water to help keep everything warm.

Divide into plates and garnish generously with breadcrumbs. Serve immediately.

The Year of Eating Dangerously - Soft-shell crabs

2014-07-03T15:44:00.001-04:00

The Year of Eating Dangerously: A Global Adventure in Search of Culinary Extremes

By Tom Parker Bowles

374 pages, St. Martin’s Press, 2007 (Ebury, 2006)

The year was 2008. I was just starting to be more seriously interested in food. While browsing in a bookstore, I glimpsed this book on the discount table (sorry, Mr. Parker Bowles) and bought it, as I often do, on impulse. I emerged from reading it a more erudite person; but would that still be the case today?

British food writer Tom Parker Bowles’ The Year of Eating Dangerously chronicles his adventures as he travels the world with a twofold goal: to see how local food cultures are standing up to globalization, and to try dishes that, while commonplace in some regions, strike the Western imagination as strange or repulsive.

Flipping through the book now, five years my first reading, I found myself wondering which has changed more in that time: food culture, or me?

I’ve certainly changed since those days, at least as far as my knowledge of food is concerned. Back then, like Socrates (and Jon Snow), I knew nothing. I hadn’t read much on the topic, and we didn’t have cable, so The Food Network was not a procrastination option (quite fortunately, because I doubt I would ever have finished my dissertation otherwise). Today, I still don’t know much, but I know a bit more. I read whatever I have time for, including current articles. We still don’t have cable, but I read from people who do, and who keep me informed. While I’m still usually late to the party, I get there eventually.

But food culture has changed a lot, too. It strikes me that Parker Bowles was part of a global movement that denoted a growing Western fascination with so-called exotic cuisines. Right around the time his book came out, the Travel Channel was beginning to air shows like Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations and Andrew Zimmerns’ Bizarre Foods, shows that took us to parts and meals unknown. There were also shows like Man v. Food, a symptom of our budding interest in extreme food and how much of it we could handle – another trait of this feast-filled book.

What I am trying to get at is that The Year of Eating Dangerously was a product of its time, and I am not sure such a book would be as relevant today as it was then. Five years later, few of us doubt that local food cultures are thriving when you bother to seek them out. Yes, bad fusion and fast food are rampant, and authenticity is often lost where tourists abound, but tradition is also fiercely preserved in smaller bastions. We know this thanks to shows like No Reservations, and books like this one, which demonstrate that good, authentic cuisines are still to be found. We’ve also come around to the idea that offal and bugs are perfectly acceptable meals in themselves, and it is only our perception of them that makes us reluctant to eat them.

Similarly, I wondered whether I would get as much out of The Year of Eating Dangerously if I were to discover it today. But that may be precisely because it taught me quite a bit five years ago. As things were, with me being a relative novice, this book and I found each other at just the right time.

Because Parker Bowles’ twofold mandate is so wide in scope, it gives him reasons to travel pretty much anywhere – and he does. Among other things, he chokes down chicken feet and stinky tofu in Shanghai, acts as a judge in a barbecue competition in Nashville, feasts on fugu in Tokyo, explores a chilli festival in Albuquerque, tastes dog meat in Korea and eats live shrimp in Laos. Most of it makes for very entertaining reading, as Parker Bowles reveals himself to be an engaging narrator. His self-deprecating humour erases any fear you might have that he could be trying to emulate Anthony Bourdain: rather than position himself as an intrepid explorer, he dwells on his various misadventures, such as being forced to eat tripe in Sicily with a hangover, or foolishly choosing to consume chilli extract in New Mexico. He embraces his lack of cool, which endears him to us.

Ultimately, even though food culture and knowledge have evolved considerably in recent years, Parker Bowles still manages to convey information from which even accomplished foodies can benefit. I might not give this book to a foodie friend today, but I find myself still quoting bits of it in conversations. We learn about the history of fugu, the many nuances of chili and barbecue, the dangers of fishing for percebes (barnacles) in Spain, and much more. Its erudition makes this book still relevant today. At the same time, it never feels like you’re plodding your way through pages of information that have been dumped on you; instead, the information feels like a part of the narrative. Which ultimately makes this book a good gift for non-foodie friends who want to share your interests.

For today’s recipe, rather than simply make one of the more accessible dishes mentioned in the book, such as chili, I thought I would tackle one of my own food phobias. Not offal, because to be honest I’ve never really been afraid of offal. Not chicken feet, because… well, baby steps. So instead I tried out this recipe for soft-shell crab that was published in The New York Times a couple of weeks ago. This may not seem like much of a taboo-breaker, especially since I’ve eaten crab and lobster often. However, I had never prepared whole crabs before, and I tend to get squeamish about creatures that have more than four legs, so eating an entire soft-shell crab, legs and all, seemed like a sufficient challenge.

The crabs were simply broiled and served on toast, with a lemon-parsley sauce (I skipped the jalapeno because I wanted to season my toddler’s pasta with the sauce). In the end, the legs weren’t so much of a problem, but something about the flavour bothered me. There was an acrid aftertaste that my husband noticed as well. It’s likely that I overcooked the crab. And for some reason, the toddler, who is the least picky child I have ever seen and normally loves sour things, absolutely refused to eat his pasta. So the meal wasn’t a big hit with anyone. Still, they look pretty, don’t they?

Blood, Bones & Butter - Marrow bones

2014-06-26T13:30:00.000-04:00

Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef

By Gabrielle Hamilton

320 pages, Random House, 2012

Originally posted on The Chocolate Bunny on February 8^th, 2012 and edited for context.

This may seem strange for someone who writes about food, but I am not very up-to-date on chef culture. I know who most of the culinary stars are, but I'm usually very late in finding out about them. As a result, I had barely heard of Ms. Hamilton when I purchased her memoir, Blood, Bones & Butter (although, having read her book and eaten her food, I’m extremely glad I know who she is now). So I delved into the book with no particular expectations, apart from cautious optimism due to the glowing reviews the book has received.

The first chapter describes an almost idyllic childhood memory, with Gabrielle's parents having their annual lamb roast party at their rural home, with the entire neighbourhood invited. I allowed myself to dream a little, having never really known that type of universe: our family parties took place in restaurants (sometimes small manors when the occasion was really big) and we certainly never had whole lambs roasting over pit fires. But the nostalgia doesn’t last long, as Hamilton quickly jumps into the dissolution of her family, and having to survive on her own at a young age.

When the book began to delve into cooking, drugs, and rock 'n roll (not so much sex), I worried a little. I have nothing against bad boy or bad girl narrators, but if it's overdone, the author can end up looking like a poseur, especially in this type of profession-based memoir. For example, while I thoroughly enjoyed Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential, I sometimes rolled my eyes at some of his over-the-top descriptions of how badass chefs are, and a few passages which were clearly meant to provoke (admittedly, the whole book was meant to provoke, but some pages were heavier-handed than others). Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of admiration for Anthony Bourdain, who comes across as a very genuine person who tells it like it is; but surely there are ways of telling it like it is without purposefully drawing attention to the fact that you are telling it like it is?

Gabrielle Hamilton accomplishes just that. Although segments of her life were definitely tough, and she had to be equally tough in order to get through it and come out on top, she doesn't flaunt her “cred.” There is a humility, and even a vulnerability which pervades this book. Sure, sometimes she gets a little nasty, as in this passage where she rags on farmer’s market hipsters:

“There’s always the girl with the bicycle, wandering along from stall to stall with two apples, a bouquet of lavender, and one bell pepper in the basket of her bicycle. A teeming throng of New Yorkers tries to push past her to get to the vegetables for sale, but she shifts her ass from side to side, admiring the way her purchases are artfully arranged for all to see in the basket of her bike, and she holds up the whole process. And I struggle, as well, with the self-referential new kind of farmer, aglow with his own righteousness, setting up his cute booth at the market each morning, with a bouquet of wildflowers and a few artfully stacked boxes of honeycomb and a fifteen-dollar jar of bee pollen. And from what I’ve seen, that guy behind the table, with his checkered tablecloth and his boutique line of pickled artichoke hearts in their jar with their prissy label packed just so, he wants to talk to Miss Bicycle, to Miss I’ve-spent-four-hours-here-this-morning-to-buy-these-three-cucumbers. He gets off on it. I stopped going to the farmer’s market years ago when some hipster chick in sparkly barrettes and perfectly styled ‘farmer’ clothes came screeching at me ‘DON’T TOUCH THE PEAS!’”

Harsh, yes. But also hilarious, spot-on and oh so vividly written – besides, not everyone can be as sunny as Julia Child. Somehow, Hamilton’s criticisms always seem justified, whether she’s ranting about her clueless landlord, or wishing bear-related death on a group of stoned camp counselors who accidentally let thirty lobsters drown. Similarly, she makes you long to meet the people she admires – and they are numerous (albeit less effectively entertaining, which is why they don’t get a quote in this post. Hey, I never said I couldn’t pander to the masses.).

There are many striking passages, such as her scary account of the food catering business (which I unfortunately read while we were making wedding preparations), and her enthusiastic description of her travels in Europe, particularly

Italy

. And while food, glorious, unpretentious food, is a huge part of the story, it shares the limelight with a plethora of other topics, as Hamilton explores her inexplicably strained relationship with her mother, her fertile marriage to a man despite the fact that she identifies as a lesbian, and her stint in a university writing program. There is a lot of insight in this book, and a lot of soul, more than I could do justice to in a single post. It is not just a great chef memoir, it is a great book.

The book doesn’t contain any recipes, but it did inspire me to make something. Hamilton’s highest praises are usually reserved for well-made dishes using simple ingredients – nothing high concept or fussy. This is clearly reflected in the food she serves at her restaurant. Among other things, she mentions that her mother, an excellent but frugal cook, used to make her and her siblings eat marrow bones, and that she grew up to love them.

I, for my part, have always loved marrow bones. When I was a child, it was always a treat when my mother made osso bucco. The meat by itself was succulent, but somehow my mother succeeded in getting me to consider the marrow not as something vile, which I suppose would be most children’s first reaction (and a significant number of North American adults, from what I saw when I googled “marrow bones NYC”), but as a luxury. I would scoop up the soft, rich, glistening matter and savour it with relish. Then I would eye my parents’ plates, hoping that love for their only child would move them to give me their bones – and it often did.

But you don’t have to splurge on veal shanks to enjoy marrow. Despite marrow’s luxurious aura, meatless veal bones are cheap (or at least they were in Montreal), and easy to prepare. Also, a little marrow goes a long way, so you will soon find yourself sated and happy.

Roasted Marrow Bones

from Mark Bitterman’s Salted

Serves 3-4 as a substantial appetizer

12 veal marrow bones

Four handfuls of flat leaf parsley, chopped

Coarse salt, preferably sel gris (from l’Île de Noirmoutier if possible)

Plain white bread, thinly sliced and lightly toasted on one side

Preheat oven to 230ºC (450ºF).

Place the bones, marrow side up, on a baking sheet. Roast until the there is a visible film of melted marrow on the baking sheet, and the marrow begins to sink in the center of the bones and feels quite tender when you poke it with a knife, about 30 minutes depending on the size of the bones. Keep an eye on them toward the end of the process, as you don’t want the marrow to completely melt.

To serve, arrange the bones on a plate, with parsley and salt on the side. To eat, scoop the marrow from the bones, spread it over slices of bread, and sprinkle with parsley and salt.

About

2014-06-24T11:20:00.000-04:00

I’m a recent PhD and scholar on Japanese popular visual culture, who also happens to have a strong interest in food. For several years, I ran the cooking blog The Chocolate Bunny, until I had my son (adorable, perfect, time-consuming little black hole that he is) and found myself with no time to test blog-worthy recipes (although I assure you, we still eat quite well).

Reading at the Table is a project I’d been mulling for a while: a blog strictly about food literature. Not cookbooks, because I have no room to store enough cookbooks to keep a blog alive, nor do I have the time to adequately test them. But essays, novels, manifestos, memoirs, comics – those are books I’ve been buying by the barrowful anyway. Reading at the Table is a space for me to keep track of these books, and reflect on them.

I don’t position myself as a critic, because I don’t take myself that seriously, nor do I consider myself an authority. But I love writing about books and food, and am just looking to pass on information and impressions. I also believe in keeping quiet if you can't say anything nice (unless something is so offensive you can't decently keep quiet). So, as entertaining as scathing reviews are, you won't find any here.

I’m not very good at keeping up with the very latest publications: I tend to buy books, then let them linger on my bookshelf (or e-reader) for a few weeks or months. Also, I became interested in food fairly late in the game. So some of the books reviewed here are in fact relatively old – which doesn’t mean they aren’t worth reading or writing about. My goal here is not to stay on top of breaking news, but rather to gradually build a portrait of food literature to this day.

I try to include a recipe and photos to go along with each review. My policy is to include full recipes written by others only if I’ve tweaked or modified them in any way; otherwise, I just give the reference. However, I make exceptions for recipes included in books that are not cookbooks, such as novels or memoirs. My rationale behind this is that people do not typically buy these books for the recipes.

Thank you for visiting!