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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October 20, 2009

Apple Slices with Frozen Sheep's Milk Yogurt

Maxence and I like to spend a weekend in Amsterdam every once in a while: we love the atmosphere of the city in any season, and we usually stay in a neighborhood called Nieuwmarkt that is both lively (plenty of shops and restaurants) and residential (real people live there), the ideal mix if you want to pretend you're an Amsterdammer (only with terrible language skills) for a few days.

It doesn't hurt that it is also the neighborhood where Pâtisserie Kuyt is located. This award-winning pastry shop and tea room is home to an irresistible apple confection called appelschnitte: sold in rectangular servings, this "apple slice" starts with a layer of dough that is halfway between a cake, moist and tender, and a cookie crust, sturdy enough to be handheld. Gently spiced chunks of apple sit atop that crust, with raisins and sliced almonds in their lap, and the whole thing is dusted -- or rather, sandstormed -- with confectioner's sugar.

I've never had anything quite like it, and if you visit Amsterdam you should absolutely have a taste and send me a piece as my commission. Until then, here is my humble attempt to recreate it, on a slightly leavened pâte sablée made with ground almonds, and using cooking apples that soften when baked, for a tender mouth feel. It is very easy to make and the result is close enough, to my recollection at least, though I suspect the original involves a more substantial amount of butter and, without a doubt, a lot more icing sugar.

I served this autumnal dessert with a scoop of the easiest ice cream you can possibly make: it is simply sweetened sheep's milk yogurt, to which I've added the egg white and liquor leftover from the apple slices, because it seemed like a clever thing to do. Chill, churn, and there you have it: a whiter than white, subtly tangy frozen yogurt to accessorize the still warm, apple-topped squares.

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October 16, 2009

[Edible Idiom] Long comme un jour sans pain

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, "Long comme un jour sans pain."

A literal translation would be, "as long as a day without bread," and it is used to express that something is very long -- in reference to physical length (a long road, a long list) or, more frequently, to the duration of an event (a long speech, a long wait) -- and dreary.

I have found a couple of sources suggesting that an English equivalent was, "like a month of Sundays," but I've never heard or seen it used myself -- perhaps one of you can confirm?

Example: "Tu as bien fait de ne pas venir à la conférence, c'était long comme un jour sans pain." "You did well not to attend the conference, it was as long as a day without bread."

Listen to the idiom and example read aloud:

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October 12, 2009

Fregola Sarda with Zucchini and Parmesan

The funny thing about a food blog, especially one that has been around for a long time, is that it doesn't really reflect the frequency with which each featured dish is cooked: if you look at an archived post from years ago, how do you know whether it was just a one-time experiment, or if it has made weekly appearances at the author's table since then?

After a recipe has been given the spotlight once, most bloggers are reluctant to write about it again, lest their readers think -- assuming they keep track, which is fairly unlikely in these overstimulated times -- they are rehashing old ideas. But then, aren't you most interested in those ideas special enough to sustain the cook's appetite time and time again? I certainly am.

I find that a microblogging tool such as twitter helps with that conundrum, allowing me to note, for those who care, that I am making very ginger cookies again, or gratin dauphinois or poppy seed cake.

But then, every once in a while, I make a personal classic that gets me excited as much as it did the first time, and I think, "This is just too good not to remind the world about it."

This explains today's post, which is another take on this one, first published five years and eight days ago. In the intervening time, I have gone through innumerable packages of fregola sarda, that toasted Sardinian pasta that is considerably tastier than its humble looks might suggest, is impossible to find in Paris (it would be too easy), and therefore requires trips abroad and favors from friends for me to replenish my stash.

I have tried eating fregola sarda in other ways than this, and though I must say it works splendidly with fresh peas, nothing quite compares to the chemistry between the teeny, lightly chewy pasta, soft wedges of zucchini, and coarsely grated parmesan.

I make it a bit differently now, blanching the zucchini quickly in the pasta water instead of sautéing it separately, and I frequently omit the pine nuts, to skip the toasting step. But if there are cherry tomatoes in the red star-shaped bowl on the counter I'll add them in, and if I have little bits of meat scraped from a roast chicken carcass, as I did the day I took the above picture, they round out the dish nicely, too.

All in all, it is a one-pot dish that takes no longer to prepare than the time needed to boil the pasta -- though fregola sarda is a little longer to cook than most, I'll grant you that -- and it is still, after all these years, my go-to meal when I'm having dinner on my own. It is just as good hot, barely warm, or cold, which means I can prepare a double serving, eat half on the spot, and have the leftovers for lunch the next day.

On the subject of pasta, I have just struck a good deal on a pasta-making apparatus, and I am anxious to it try soon, probably using the ratio laid out by Michael Ruhlman in his book (three parts flour to two parts egg). Any handmade pasta advice to share, or favorite recipes of your own?

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Previously on Chocolate & Zucchini