November 20, 2009

[Edible Idiom] Ne pas mâcher ses mots

Chewing giraffe provided by Wildlife 2008.

This is part of a series on French idiomatic expressions that relate to food. Browse the list of idioms featured so far.

This week's idiom is, "Ne pas mâcher ses mots."

Literally translated as, "Not chewing one's words," it means expressing one's opinion plainly and bluntly, with no concern for how it's going to be received. It is equivalent to the (similarly food-oriented) English expression, "Not mincing words."

Example: "Les journalistes adorent l'interviewer parce qu'il ne mâche pas ses mots." "Journalists love to interview him because he doesn't chew his words."

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

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November 15, 2009

Simple Tahini Sauce

Ever since I received an electric steamer for my birthday last summer, I have been steaming vegetables with abandon.

Before that, I used a set of those bamboo baskets that you nest in a wok if you have one (I don't) or place on a saucepan that's never quite the correct size for optimal steam circulation. That thing sputtered and leaked and drove me a little crazier every time I used it, so this new appliance was a considerable upgrade. It is also beautiful and roomy and easy to clean, and I am pleased as punch with it.

So I have been steaming a lot of vegetables lately, often with a stalk of rosemary and a clove of garlic in their midst, and I have therefore been facing the only challenge that this cooking method entails: finding worthy dressings to bolster the vegetables' flavor.

A drizzle of good olive oil, a quick yogurt sauce with a squirt of lemon, a thin coating of pesto -- these are all lovely ways to do just that, but my current favorite is this: a simple tahini sauce with a few herbs thrown in.

Most of you are probably familiar with tahini (or tahina), a paste made of sesame seeds, hulled and ground. It is a ubiquitous ingredient in Middle Eastern cuisines, including those of Lebanon and Israel, and it is particularly well known as a key component of hummus or halva.

It can also be thinned into a quick and easy sauce that is traditionally served with falafel, fish, or meat, and goes superbly well with steamed vegetables.

The flavor of this sauce is rich but bright, and I find its subtle nuttiness enhances the other elements on the plate like magic. I'm especially fond of the effect it has on carrots, broccoli, and winter squash.

I like to prepare a batch of it and keep it on hand, drizzling it on whatever I happen to be making or serving over the next few days. I sometimes skip the lemon juice (if I don't have any) and the garlic (if I can't be bothered to peel and crush it) but I seldom do without the herbs.

Tahini can be found at Middle Eastern markets and natural food stores; all tahinis are not created equal, though, so it may be worth trying different brands until you find the one you like best. In Janna Gur's gorgeous Book of New Israeli Food (previously mentioned here), she recommends "tast[ing] it straight from the jar. It should be nutty and slightly sweet, without a trace of bitterness." And don't be tempted, as I once was, to get "whole" sesame paste made from unhulled seeds: it is more nutritious, no doubt, but also significantly more bitter.

Would you like to share your favorite way of dressing steamed vegetables, or your favorite uses of tahini?

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Permalink | Posted by clotilde in Jams & Dips - Recipe Inside! - Vegetables

November 10, 2009

Chocolate Marble Cake

[Cake marbré au chocolat]

I grew up eating a store-bought chocolate marble cake called Savane. Created in the sixties by a French manufacturer that was acquired by an American company shortly thereafter, it came as a whole loaf cake in an ocher and brown box. The bottom of the loaf was wrapped in a paper liner that you peeled off as you sliced your way through the cake, the crumb was fluffy as only factory-made cakes can be, and I loved it.

My parents did not buy it for us -- I don't remember why, since they did get various types of supermarket cookies on our request -- so I only indulged when I was at my friend Emilie's house, or when we raided the grocery store for sweet and/or salty things after an afternoon spent splashing about at the pool.

I hadn't had it for years when I tried it again as an adult, and of course it was a letdown. Not only was the flavor a weak shadow of my recollection -- the chocolate dull, the vanilla fake -- but the list of ingredients had me shaking my head. (And this is marketed as a simple and healthful snack for your kids, you know, so you can make sure they get their daily recommended intake of hydrogenated palm oil.)

The good news is that, unlike other store-bought treats from my younger days, like, say, ghost-shaped puffed potato chips, or strawberry-flavored shoestrings, this one is designed to emulate the kind of gâteau marbré you might bake from scratch, so it is fairly simple to recapture that particular taste memory.

And it is even simpler if a trusty friend of yours has included a recipe for it in one of her books*.

The basic idea behind the marble cake is that you pour alternating layers of contrasting batters in a cake pan, so that you get a nice visual effect in each cut slice (I must warn you it is possible to take the concept too far). Some recipes have you stir each layer delicately into the previous one, to create marble-like swirls, but the original Savane is striped a bit like a zebra (savanna, zebra, get it?) so it's fine to leave the layers as is.

The chocolate and vanilla batters in this recipe are, in essence, identical, so you could make a single batter that you'd divide at the end before adding the vanilla or chocolate flavoring, but I think Pascale's method is neater: she has you prepare the two batters side by side in separate bowls, a process that is especially easy if you're using a digital scale and those handy, easy-to-divide weight measurements (hint hint).

Pascale's recipe produces a delectable and very moist loaf, and I think the secret lies in the syrup that you brush on the cake as it comes out of the oven. I've made it multiple times now, and it is a real crowd-pleaser: French friends never miss the Savane reference, and I like that it feels homey but just a little elaborate, prompting at least one person to ask about the marbled technique, always.

I sometimes use whipping cream in the batter, as Pascale suggests, but most often yogurt or buttermilk: the substitution means the cake dries out a hair faster, but if you think it will be consumed within a couple of days in your house, that's what I recommend.

Over time, I've also incorporated two other modifications: I like to add a sprinkle of cacao nibs between layers of batter, and spike the syrup with cacao liqueur**, which you can't taste as such in the cake, but serves to deepen the overall chocolate flavor.

* The title of the book, Slunch, is a contraction of supper and lunch and, by symmetry with the brunch, it is an informal meal that you host for your friends (and optional kids) in late afternoon on a Sunday.

** This cacao liqueur is made by artisanal distillery Bertrand in Alsace, and I bought a bottle at Stéphane Gross' chocolate shop in Paris, Déclinaison Chocolat.

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Permalink | Posted by clotilde in Cakes & Desserts - Recipe Inside!

November 4, 2009

Sourdough Bagels

When Maxence and I were in San Francisco late last summer, we had bagels for breakfast every single day. There were a couple of bagel shops not far from where we were staying, so we alternated between the two, and on those mornings that we went for a run through the Golden Gate Park, bagels awaited at a busy coffee shop by the ocean.

I like mine dotted with poppy seeds or sesame seeds, and spread with cream cheese and a juicy slice of tomato. And thanks to a reader who recently suggested the pairing, I've also taken to topping my bagels with peanut butter and a juicy slice of tomato. (I know, I was skeptical too, but try it: I think you'll be surprised.)

On our last day, sad that our vacation was coming to an end and sad to be leaving the city, I saw this one way of making myself feel better: I promised myself I'd bake bagels for us back in Paris. It would at least alleviate the withdrawal symptoms on that particular front.

Oh, sure, I've found bagels in Paris in the past, and you can even buy them from the ubiquitous chain of frozen foods stores (they come with a bunch of emulsifiers and preservatives, if you're into that sort of thing), but it's never been quite the same.

So I turned to Peter Reinhart* and his Bread Baker's Apprentice book for guidance, compulsively reviewed the posts of every single BBA challenger who had followed his bagel recipe, and, on an afternoon when it seemed I could not sit at the computer for a minute longer, I fled to the kitchen and started up a batch. (Evidently, procrastination is a rich soil for baking projects.)

If you're unfamiliar with the way bagels are made, the most characteristic thing you should know is that they are cooked in two steps: first you poach them in a pot of water, then you bake them in the oven. And for some reason, the poaching step had always seemed daunting to me: what if I dropped them in and they fell apart, or dissolved, or sank to the bottom of the pot and never floated back up? Would I have to hire divers and send them on a recovery mission to salvage the sunken bagels? Reinhart didn't seem to suggest that this might happen, so I forged ahead.

Before I got to that point, though, I'd had to overcome two procurement hurdles. First, bagels must be made with flour that has a high rate of gluten: in the US, you would make them with high-gluten flour or bread flour. Unfortunately, French flour is significantly lower in gluten than American flours -- it has to do with the different types of wheat that we grow and mill -- and as Jane had warned me from her past experience, it would not work. So, my mission was to find powdered wheat gluten that I could add to my flour to boost its gluten content.

Second, part of what gives bagels their distinctive flavor is that the dough is lightly sweetened with barley malt, in powder or syrup form. In France, this goes by the names of sirop d'orge, malt d'orge or sirop d'orge malté. I had to try a few organic food stores, but I ended up finding both of these ingredients at the same one*; I almost hugged the cashier.

I mostly stuck to Peter Reinhart's method, except for a few things: I modified the recipe to use some of my sourdough starter in the sponge (enough to produce a final 1-to-3 ratio between starter and flour) and reduced the amount of commercial yeast. I also halved the recipe (his produces 12 large bagels; I made 8 medium).

I took some liberty with the order of the steps, too: Peter Reinhart's recipe has you make the dough, shape the bagels, lay them out on baking sheets, and then leave them overnight in the refrigerator (a step called retarding), before you poach and bake them the next day. The thing is, I have a Paris-sized fridge that is stuffed to the gills with, well, food, and the notion that I should just free up two (of the four) shelves to place baking sheets for the night is heroic fantasy.

So, instead of shaping the bagels pre-retarding, I simply placed the ball of dough in the fridge (it was a challenge just to make room for the bowl) and shaped it the next day. I was not struck by the wrath of the bagel gods during the night, so I assume it wasn't too big of a commandment to break.

The whole process was a lot of fun, and much less involved than I thought: the dough is rather stiff, which makes it easy to handle once kneaded (though I hear it's quite a workout to knead it by hand), and the poaching step went surprisingly smoothly.

As for the bagels themselves, they were fantastic, and just what I was hoping for: great flavor and just the right density and chewiness, the perfect carriers for the all-natural, chunky peanut butter I brought back from California. Now, if only I could persuade my neighborhood grocery store to carry cream cheese, I'd be all set.

* I just stumbled upon this video of a talk Peter Reinhart gave on bread, via Nicole's blog. I can't imagine anyone watching it and not wanting to bake bread right this minute.

** I found malt syrup and wheat gluten at the Biocoop store at 73 rue du Faubourg Poissonnière in the 9th (map it!), 01 44 79 06 44, open Mon-Sat 9:30am-8pm.

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November 2, 2009

November 2009 Desktop Calendar

At the beginning of every month in 2009, I am offering C&Z readers a new desktop calendar, i.e. a wallpaper to apply on the desktop of your computer, with a food-related picture and a calendar of the current month.

Our desktop calendar for November is a picture of what I think of as a Parisian tartine, an open-face sandwich made on naturally leavened bread (here, a slice of pain des amis from the bakery Du Pain et des Idées), lightly spread with semi-salted butter then topped with artisanal ham, thick shavings of aged Comté cheese, and slivers of cornichons. Add a side salad or a fat, late-harvest tomato -- we are still feasting on those -- and that's lunch taken care of.

Instructions to get your calendar are below.

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October 27, 2009

Jerusalem Artichoke Soup with Bacon

[Velouté de topinambours au bacon]

It has been a while -- five years, to be exact -- since we last discussed Jerusalem artichokes around here, but they do belong to my regular winter vegetable rotation so I thought I'd bring them up again.

The tubers have just started to appear and will stick around until March or April, so you can start looking for them now; you should have better luck finding them at a farmers' market of some sort, as they are not exactly a mainstream lot. The variety that's available in France is pink-skinned (see picture below), but you may see them wearing a beige outfit in your part of the world, and no one could blame you for being a bit envious then.

As I mentioned last time, the topinambour is a typical example of what the French call légumes oubliés, or forgotten vegetables. It's an umbrella term that includes heirloom varieties that have gone by the wayside in favor of hardier/more productive/glossier ones, but also those vegetables our grandparents resorted to eating during World War II, despite their cattle fodder status, because the more palatable options were commandeered and rationed (see post on my grandmother's war ration stamps). Among those, our friend the Jerusalem artichoke and its little buddy the rutabaga (a.k.a. Swede), on which our grandparents swiftly turned their back after the war, because of the memories they conjured.

But the topinambour is now back in style (that gum you like, too) and it's a good thing, for it is a truly delicious vegetable with a distinctive artichoke-like flavor, and a creamy texture similar to that of baking potatoes.

This means they're perfect soup material: they'll turn to velvet when cooked in stock and blitzed with a blender, making the French word velouté a fitting descriptor for the resulting dish. I sometimes pair Jerusalem artichokes with mushrooms or apples in soups, but here I've decided to cook them with bacon, adding a smoky umami dimension that tickles the delicate sweetness of the tubers. A sprinkle of snipped chives for clarity, and you've got yourself a rustic, yet subtle soup that you can serve with long fingers of day-old, toasted baguette.

Aside from using Jerusalem artichokes in soup, I like to braise or roast them; I also mash them like potatoes and garnish the purée with chopped hazelnuts to serve with rabbit or game; I add them along with parsnips to gratin dauphinois; I use them in risotti or frittate with mushrooms and leafy greens; I add them warm to salads of mâche and walnuts... I have yet to try them raw (carpaccio-style) or fried (in chips), but I hear that works well, too.

Because it seems disingenuous to talk about Jerusalem artichokes and not broach the delicate subject of digestion, here we go: Jerusalem artichokes can be, um, difficult to process. The blame is generally placed on inulin, a type of fiber that these tubers contain, and to which most (though not all) people are sensitive, as Tamara Duker explains in more detail. This helps explain why our grandparents were so eager to banish them.

But we've established that Jerusalem artichokes are otherwise excellent for your taste buds and your health (see Tamara's post again), so I've done a little reading and I've identified three tips that seem to help significantly. I readily admit that, short of conducting a comparative chemical and physiological study, they are merely suggestions of what has worked in my kitchen, but I trust that someone with more lab time on his hands will one day get to the bottom of it (sorry, a bad pun was bound to be made at some point).

The first tip, and the most important one I think, is to get the freshest Jerusalem artichokes you can -- they should feel firm and tight-skinned -- and to cook them within a day or two. It is counterintuitive, since they're root vegetables and we tend to think of those as fit for long storage, but the molecular structure in all vegetables continues to evolve after they're picked, and it seems to be the case here. So, buy them fresh, and use them fast.

Secondly, their effect is alleviated if they're parboiled first: start them in cold water, add baking soda for good luck, bring to a simmer, then drain and toss the cooking water, before you go on with the rest of the recipe. Lastly, they seem to fare much better in combination with potatoes -- something about an enzyme in the potatoes that would help break down the infamous inulin -- and because the universe is cleverly designed, they happen to be a fine flavor match, too.

Do you have favorite Jerusalem artichoke recipes, or tricks of your own, to share?

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Previously on Chocolate & Zucchini