Adam D. Roberts's Blog, page 16

There Is No Such Thing As The Best Recipe

OK, I’m going to tell you a secret, and maybe it’s an obvious secret, one that you already know (especially since it’s the title of this post), but I also think it’s a secret most people don’t want to acknowledge: there is no such thing as the best recipe.

Now I say this as someone who, for years, titled my posts “The Best” this or “The Best” that. My most popular post of all time was called The Best Broccoli of Your Life. I still have people who come up to me on the street and say, “Your broccoli recipe really is the best.” First of all, it’s not my broccoli recipe, it’s Ina Garten’s. Second of all, it’s an excellent recipe, it yields wonderful results, but is it the best? Let me repeat my point: there’s no such thing as the best.

What am I getting at here? Well, let’s take the present moment: I’m making applesauce. I bought a dozen assorted apples at the farmer’s market on Sunday and now I’m turning them into applesauce to pair with the latkes I’m making for Hanukkah.

In searching for a recipe, I came across several that touted themselves as “the best” applesauce recipes. They seemed like very nice recipes. One featured a vanilla bean. The other involved roasting the apples in the oven first.

If I were a less experienced cook, I might read those recipe titles and figure, “Well that’s that, then. If this is the best recipe, then I guess this is the one that I’m supposed to make.”

That’s precisely what recipe writers want you to think. In fact, there’s an entire empire built on this very idea: Cook’s Illustrated. I watch their PBS show all the time and their attitude is basically, “We’ve performed dozens and dozens of tests and after careful, agonizing research, we’ve concluded that THIS is the best and only way to make (insert recipe name) here.”

What they’re preying on is the home cook’s insecurity. So many people are unsure of themselves in the kitchen, so when someone tells you that they’ve failed over and over again so that you don’t have to, that’s such welcome news. “If I follow these steps, I will get a good result.” That’s music to most people’s ears.

But, I’d argue, that also hobbles the home cook. It makes the process less creative, less individualistic. Let’s liken it to something simple, like movie theater candy. Everyone has a favorite movie theater candy. Mine’s Buncha Crunch. Imagine watching an episode of America’s Test Kitchen where they say, “We’ve tested thousands of movie theater candies and we’ve determined that the best movie theater candy is M&Ms.” Would you then give up your affection for Sour Patch Kids or Junior Mints because America’s Test Kitchen told you that M&Ms were the best? I hope not!

So why are we so willing to do that in the kitchen? Again, I think people are scared to go out on a limb. But that’s where you have to start to trust your own personal taste. Like my applesauce: the recipe I settled on (another Ina recipe, obviously) calls for the zest and juice from a lemon and an orange, cinnamon and allspice. I had Meyer lemons and tangerines, and I didn’t have allspice, but I did have fresh nutmeg, so I grated some of that in. (I love nutmeg.)

I can imagine a home cook reading those tweaks and crying out, “BUT THEN IT WON’T BE THE BEST.” Then I’d cry back, “THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS THE BEST.” There’s only what you want, what you like, what you think tastes good. The more you make it taste like what you, specifically YOU, want it to taste like, the better it will be. Speaking of which…

It smells so good in here right now. Did that tangerine juice make a difference? The nutmeg instead of the allspice? Not really sure, but I’d bet this tastes slightly different from the one Ina made and from the one you might make later today.

Next time, I might try the Judy Rodgers’ technique of roasting the apples first. Or maybe I’ll add some pomegranate seeds and persimmons, since I have those around too. Really, it’ll all depend on my mood, what I’m going for, what kind of sauce I’d like to make at that particular moment. Other people might hate it, but I know I’ll love it, and that, and only that, is what makes it the best.

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Cyber Monday at Trois Mec

I had a very good Cyber Monday, if I do say so myself. My KitchenAid mixer has been in decline every since that time, years ago, that I was using it to knead bread dough and heard a giant BOOM in the kitchen, only to discover it had toppled on to the floor, cracking a tile in the process. Now it looks like Darth Vader at the end of Return of the Jedi, its whole back exposed to reveal stray wires and coils (the cover won’t stay on). The other day I accidentally put my hand on one of those wires and it zapped me. The thing is ten years old and so when I saw Jason Kottke link to a KitchenAid mixer deal on Amazon yesterday, it was if the food gods were smiling down upon me. I got the six-quart, professional series in Aqua Sky for $220 less than the normal price. It arrives tomorrow.

I may have also purchased a new food processor, a fire extinguisher (you never know!), and two mid-century serving platters on Etsy that weren’t discounted for Cyber Monday, but I was on a roll, so I just went with it. And then, one of L.A.’s most celebrated restaurants, Trois Mec, posted this on its Twitter feed: “We’re celebrating cyber Monday with a deal of our own! Buy for 2 and eat for 4, or buy for 1 and eat for 2! Valid for today only! Email luis@troismec.com for more details!”

I texted the Tweet to my friend Ryan O’Connell, who’s always up for adventure, and sure enough he said he was into it. I e-mailed Luis to see if the deal was still going and he said he had a table for us at 8:45. Those food gods must really, really like me.

So sure enough, at 8:45 last night (Cyber Monday night), we sat down for dinner at Trois Mec.

Spoiler alert: this was one of the best meals I’ve had in a long, long time. Maybe my favorite meal of 2017.

It started sweetly enough with two savory madeleines, tandoori and lemon thyme.

Then came the only dish that hadn’t changed since my last visit, and rightly so: the crispy tapioca, parmesan, passionfruit square is the perfect emblem of this restaurant. Expertly made, enigmatic, you’re not quite sure what you’re eating, but you’re loving every bite.

But where I really started to swoon was when the bread came out: there was brioche, there was grilled bread, and then there were three butters. One was a brown butter emulsion, one a butter infused with Mezcal, and the third–my favorite–an imported butter from France infused with espelette.

There were diver scallops with apple gelée, seaweed, and buckwheat popcorn.

The scallops were perfect: they tasted like they’d just been fished out of the water, shucked on the spot (do you shuck a scallop?), and then paired with ingredients that made them taste even better.

And then there was my favorite course of the night: wood grilled endive, pain d’epices, citrus, grilled herb mayo, radicchio.

This dish was genius, specifically in the pairing of a sweet, Christmasy bread with the bitter endive and bright citrus. I couldn’t stop raving about it, and it paired really well with the wine Ryan picked out (pretty sure it was a Bourgogne, but Ryan’s the wine guy).

We splurged on the supplement of potato pulp, onion soubise, frozen foie gras, cantal cheese, and brown butter.

Imagine the dust that makes a Dorito so good, then imagine a dust made with all of the things listed above and sprinkled over a pile of potato pulp, and you’ll understand what’s so dazzling about this. If you’ve been watching the latest season of Mind of a Chef starring Ludo Lefebvre, the chef of Trois Mec, on Netflix, you’ll learn the roots of this dish and see the process of how it’s made. So of course we had to have it.

Then came the entrees: steamed bass, curry sauce, cabbage, yogurt, and fennel pollen.

And grilled beef belly, cactus, grilled lettuce puree, and seaweed.

Ryan wasn’t sure about this dish and I wasn’t sure about it either, but the more that I think about it, the more that I think I liked it. Instead of a rich, heavily-sauced beef dish, this was light… almost like a cactus pho, if you can imagine such a thing.

Transitioning us into dessert world was crispy bread ice cream with Comte cheese.

I had such a big reaction to my first bite of this. Ryan and I were engrossed in conversation, so I just sort of popped this into my mouth and my eyes nearly bugged out of my head. It was CRISPY BREAD ICE CREAM with GRATED CHEESE ALL OVER IT. The all caps should help emphasize what a surprising taste sensation this was. I told Ryan that I hated it and loved it all at once and he felt the same way. I think eliciting a huge reaction like this is a huge accomplishment; it’s the Pink Flamingos of cheese courses.

And then there was the main dessert, featured in the lead picture of this post: Crème fraiche panna cotta, salted caramel cooked in the fireplace, caviar, and barbecue salt. I’ll show it to you again…

This was stunning. So weird, and yet it made so much sense. Pastry chefs sprinkle salt over their desserts all the time–it’s all the rage, these days–so why not caviar? But caviar wouldn’t make sense if the other ingredients didn’t sort of make sense with it. But crème fraiche makes sense with caviar, and salted caramel makes sense with panna cotta, so it all added up to a huge wow moment. This was my second favorite thing I ate at Trois Mec, after the salad.

As a final gesture, there was a sunchoke macaroon which was, of course, super tasty.

What a fun night at Trois Mec. And what a great Cyber Monday. It’s my new favorite holiday.

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Whole Date Oatmeal

I’ve been making the same oatmeal almost every day for the past few weeks and the time has come for me to share it with you.

There’s a good thing and a bad thing about this oatmeal recipe. The good thing is that it only has three ingredients, unless you also add butter (as the title above the title on this post says). The bad thing about this oatmeal recipe is that it features the single ugliest picture I have ever taken of food in my life. You’re about to see that picture, but I don’t want it to scare you. Just imagine it like those pods in the movie Cocoon, sitting at the bottom of the pool, waiting to hatch into aliens who will guarantee you everlasting life. At least I think that’s what happens in Cocoon? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it.

Told you: it’s a deeply disturbing picture.

But the idea behind the picture isn’t disturbing! It’s actually something that I’m very proud of.

See, I’m aware of a few things in the health department. 1. Oatmeal is good for you in the morning because it’s full of fiber, especially steel-cut oats.

2. Eating whole fruits is better for you than drinking fruit juices, which deny you all of the fibers and pulps that make fruit so healthy.

So this recipe combines whole fruit with steel-cut oatmeal. As someone who prefers things on the sweeter side, it’s a great move because the dates naturally sweeten the oatmeal. Which brings us to our third ingredient: salt. I use Maldon sea salt, which is what April Bloomfield uses in her English porridge, and that helps balance the sweetness of the dates. In fact, you’ll find the more salt you add, the more exciting the oatmeal becomes.

And that’s it, those three ingredients. I know you want a recipe at the end, but I’m giving it to you here. (I put that in bold so you don’t miss it.) Put two cups of water into a pot. Drop in three or four Medjool dates that you’ve pitted. Turn up the heat, bring to a boil, add a big, fat pinch of Maldon sea salt (let’s say 1/2 a teaspoon to start), and then add 1/2 cup of steel-cut oats.

Lower the heat and continue to simmer for 20 minutes or so. If the pan dries up before the 20 minutes are over, add another 1/2 cup of water, and continue to stir periodically. Here’s the cool thing that’ll happen: the dates will break apart. Towards the end, you’ll want to beat everything vigorously and really work those dates into the oatmeal. And then, if you’re feeling naughty, you can add a fourth ingredient: a little nub of good butter (I’ve been using Beurre de Baratte lately).

Whip that in too, pour into a bowl, and there you have the coziest, most comforting, relatively healthy (butter’s OK in small doses!) oatmeal in the world.

Almost worth having to endure that picture of the dates floating in water.

Almost.

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My Favorite Restaurant in L.A. Right Now Is Botanica

There’s this notion that there’s an objective answer to the question, “Where’s the best place to eat in (insert city name) right now?”

Let me be the first to say that I don’t think it’s possible to be objective about such a thing. In fact, I’m planning a trip to Paris right now and listening to all kinds of advice. Many people are telling me about their favorite restaurants and I’m entering them into Google and though the menus look excellent, sometimes I just look at pictures of the restaurants on Google images and don’t get a great vibe. That’s enough for me to set that place aside, even if the food’s spectacular. Atmosphere matters just as much to me as the food (Craig too). That’s not true for everyone, but that’s true for us.

Which brings us to Botanica.

Botanica’s my favorite place to eat in L.A. right now. I was there last week for dinner with my friends Harry and Cris; I’m going there again this weekend with my friends Jimmy and Raef. When Craig came back from New York recently, we went there for brunch.

Why do I like it so much? I love how it feels when you walk through the door. There’s a cute little shop in the foyer with natural wines and farmer’s market produce and beautiful loaves of bread. You’re greeted right away, and if your table isn’t ready, they’re really gracious about it. Last week, our table wasn’t ready and the hostess brought out a cocktail menu and when I asked if we could drink cocktails on the street, she said: “I’m not sure, but I don’t care… I’d go to jail for you!”

Another thing I love about Botanica is that it was created by two food writers: Heather Sperling, who was an editor at Tasting Table, and Emily Fiffer, who was an editor at Daily Candy before interning at Ottolenghi’s Nopi in London. Not only did they open this restaurant together, they also launched a magazine to coincide with and complement the restaurant. And despite taking so much on, I’ve met Heather and Emily several times now and they make the whole thing seem easy… feeding into my own fantasy of opening my own Amateur Gourmet restaurant someday. (Actually, I’d call it Fruma Sara and it would have a Fiddler on the Roof theme with a butcher shop called Laser Wolf next door… don’t steal that. The waiters would balance wine bottles on their heads.)

All of this wouldn’t matter, though, if the food at Botanica wasn’t great. But the food at Botanica is great; not only do I think it’s great, I think it’s the best example of what California cuisine means in 2017. Everything that Alice Waters was doing in Berkeley thirty years ago is happening here, only X100. If California cuisine meant sprinkling some local herbs on top of the fish, Botanica piles the herbs on. Literally, when I ordered the lamb once I had to dig through a garden to get to the meat. I loved it.

The flavors are bright and refreshing and bold. There’s lots of acid (especially in the extraordinary vegetarian cassoulet), lots of chiles, lots of fruit and vegetables. My friends Harry and Cris went nuts for this roasted squash with burrata.

It wasn’t even a little bit sweet. It was savory and earthy and such a surprising but inevitable flavor combination.

And this spice-braised chicken with chickpeas and fall fruit was everything.

I never leave Botanica feeling too full or sabotaged by undisclosed infusions of butter and cream. In fact, I always leave Botanica feeling better than I felt when I arrived. If that’s not the mark of a great restaurant, I don’t know what is.

So, to bring this post full circle, do I objectively think that Botanica is the best place to eat in L.A. right now? I have absolutely no idea. But if you want to know where I’ll be eating this weekend, now you know.

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The Tomato Test

Why is it that there are things in this life that we KNOW are good for us and yet we don’t do them? Even if they’re easy? Even if the minimal amount of work that they require will yield enormous results, ones that’ll absolutely transform our day-to-day experiences for the better?

In case you couldn’t tell from the picture, or the title of this post, I’m talking about sharpening your knife. Raise your hand if you’ve had your knife sharpened lately. OK, very good, you can leave the classroom. Everyone else: listen up! Go to your kitchen right now and grab a tomato. Then get your main knife, your chef’s knife, the one that you use to chop everything. Drag it across the tomato without applying any pressure. Did it make a slice or did it barely make a dent? If it made a slice, very good, you too can leave the classroom. If not, it’s time we had a talk.

Look, I’m just like you, I don’t get my knives sharpened that often. But this past weekend I went to the Atwater Village Farmer’s Market, where there’s a knife sharpener, and I brought my two main knives with me.

I asked the knife sharpener there (the person, not the machine) how often I should get my knives sharpened? It was as if I’d asked someone at Marie’s Crisis to talk about their favorite musical. (Sorry, Marie’s Crisis is my favorite show tune bar in New York, in case you didn’t know that.)

Anyway, he launched into a rant that made a lot of sense to me. He used his ruler for reference and said, “Imagine that this ruler is measuring time.” OK, done. “This first inch is the amount of time that your knife will stay razor sharp after a sharpening.” This is the kind of sharp that slices a tomato without any pressure. “It’s about two weeks.”

“Then,” he indicated the next few inches, “you have very sharp, which’ll last a month or so.” Then he indicated the next few inches. “Then there’s just sharp.”

Basically, he said, if you cook a lot and use your knives a lot, you should ideally get your knives sharpened every two weeks. (NOTE: I realize that this is his business and it would make sense for him to lie to me to get me to pay for knife sharpening as often as possible, but he didn’t seem like the lying type.) (Oh, SECOND NOTE: I know some of you will chime in and say, “Getting your knife sharpened that often will ruin your knife!” But these aren’t precious knives to me, they’re just the knives I use right now.)

Anyway, this is all leads to me coming home and using the just-sharpened knife.

Man, what a dream! Not only did it slice through a tomato without any pressure, chopping an onion was an entirely different experience.

Whereas, just a few days earlier, chopping an onion was a chore that made my eyes water and involved flecks of onion strips flying all over the board, the just-sharpened knife made it so much easier. It just glided through that onion and, more importantly, it felt a million times safer. There wasn’t that chance that’s always present that the knife would slip and slice my finger off. It immediately went right through the onion.

Which brings us back to my first sentence: Why is it that there are things in this life that we KNOW are good for us and yet we don’t do them? Well this is me yelling at you to go take the tomato test and, if your knife doesn’t pass, to get thee to a knife sharpener to get your knives sharpened. I promise, you won’t believe the difference. Your fingers and tear ducts will write you “thank you” notes and your chopped onions will never look better.

OK, class dismissed.

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Lots of Seafood Cooked in a Big Pot with White Wine, Tomatoes, and Chiles de Arbol (Plus: Tahini Halva Brownies)

Cooking seafood for a crowd has never been my forté. The first time that I did it, over ten years ago!, I futzed around with a River Cafe Cookbook recipe involving potatoes cooked along with mussels, shrimp, and fish in a tomatoey broth. It was not a hit. The next time, about seven years later, I hosted an indoor clambake and though that was tons of fun, the sausage didn’t really cook along with the fish so I ended up dumping raw sausage on the table along with all of the clams and corn. I had to have everyone help me pick out all the sausage so I could pop it on to a cookie sheet and finish it in the oven. Again, not a triumph.

But last night I cooked seafood for a few friends and it was my best go at it yet. The key? Simplicity!

Riffing off a recipe in Alison Roman’s terrific new cookbook Dining In, I decided to do everything in a big pot. Not just a big pot, my biggest pot. That’s right: I brought out my stock pot.

Into the pot I poured a huge glug of olive oil (coating the bottom), turned on the heat, and added a few sliced shallots and garlic cloves.

Just as those were starting to brown, I threw in some chiles de Arbol (about three), a few sprigs of thyme, and then poured in an entire bottle of white wine. I let that cook down for a bit and then I chopped up two beautiful heirloom tomatoes from the farmer’s market (yes, there are still great tomatoes at the farmer’s market in L.A. in November) and let that all cook down until I had a beautiful, flavorful broth.

I turned off the heat, set that aside, and then made an aioli in my blender using a whole egg, Dijon mustard, lemon juice, three cloves of garlic, and a healthy amount of olive oil poured in as the machine was whirring. (Confession: I forgot to take pictures of this part of the process, though you can see it happening in my Instagram stories.)

Finally, I prepped the ingredients for a salad and sliced up a big baguette for dunking into the seafood soup.

When everyone got to my place, I told them to hang out in the living room with the Marcona almonds while I made the fish stew. But they wouldn’t have it… they wanted to watch. What did they think this was, Benihana? But being the gracious host that I am, I permitted it.

So what did they watch me do?

Well I cranked the heat back up on the tomato/wine mixture until it was bubbling, then added in whole, unpeeled shrimp (making your guests peel shrimp is fun and interactive and one less step for you in the kitchen), a bunch of clams and mussels (that I shocked in ice water on the recommendation of the fishmonger at McCall’s), and finally two filets of halibut which I cut in half and then had my friend Justin season.

You put the lid on the pot for a minute then lift it off and study what’s happening. Any clams and mussels that’ve opened up? Pluck ’em out with tongs, they’re done. When the shrimp are bright red and firm, they come out. And finally, when the halibut is no longer translucent and starting to flake apart but still tender, out that comes too.

Everything goes into bowls and then you ladle on lots of that broth, drizzle olive oil on top, and then sprinkle on chopped up herbs (I used parlsey, dill, and tarragon). C’mon, who wouldn’t want to eat this at a dinner party?

The best part about serving something like this is how animated the dinner table becomes: everyone’s pulling their mussels apart, dunking shrimp into the aioli, dishing out salad, dunking bread into the broth, etc.

For dessert, once again I turned to Ottolenghi’s new cookbook Sweet, and made his tahini halva brownies (the recipe’s on his website here, though weirdly the one in the cookbook doesn’t have walnuts).

It’s a very strange recipe when you’re doing it. Well not strange at first, you start with the same technique that I use for my flourless chocolate cake, where you melt chocolate and butter in a double boiler. Then you whip up four eggs in your mixer until they leave a trail and you fold the cooled chocolate mixture in with the eggs.

In goes flour, cocoa powder, and salt, and then you fold in lots of chopped halva (I thought that would be hard to find, but it was in the refrigerated section at Gelson’s).

You pour that into a prepared pan, then add dollops of tahini which you swirl around with a skewer. I wish I’d been neater in that step, keeping the dollops further apart but what can you do.

Here’s where things get strange: he has you cook the brownies in a 400 degree oven for 23 minutes. He emphasizes in the headnote: “In order to achieve the perfect balance of cakey and gooey–that sweet spot that all brownies should hit–the cooking time is crucial.”

So when I took mine out at 23 minutes, they were so, so undercooked-seeming. Wildly wobbly, not just “a slight wobble” as the recipe says. I put them back in for a few more minutes and still, when they came out, they were super wet and barely, but not really, set.

I decided to trust the recipe so I let them rest and then put them into a Tupperware overnight and the next day, when I went to cut them, they were perfect.

So I guess the moral of the story is: always trust Ottolenghi.

And these were most excellent. Sweet and salty and almost savory, in a way. The perfect end to my first-ever triumphant fish feast.

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Teaching My Friend Jonathan How To Cook

The idea of me teaching someone how to cook a few years ago would’ve been pretty laughable. I am, after all, The Amateur Gourmet, not The Gourmet Who Knows Enough About Cooking To Teach Others How To Do It (try loading that into your browser).

But, lately, I have to say, I’ve kind of hit my stride as a cook. I’ve been doing this now for over a decade and I cook meals at home about ten times a week (including breakfasts, lunches, and dinners), and after spending so much time in the kitchen, I guess you do get to a point where you’re more of an authority than not-an-authority. Which is why, when my friend Jonathan talked about wanting to learn how to cook, I said I’d be happy to teach him. I didn’t think he’d actually take me up on it. But then he did take me up on it and, this past Sunday, he was coming over at five PM to learn how to make some stuff. Suddenly I was cast in the role of cooking teacher. This was a lot of pressure!

I calmed myself by choosing a menu I was super comfortable with, in fact it’s very close to the same menu I served Jonathan’s boyfriend Ryan for his birthday a few weeks earlier: Caesar Salad, Fusilli Alla Vodka (instead of the Spaghetti and Meatballs, too hard plus Jonathan’s a vegetarian), and Flourless Chocolate Cake.

I set up three work stations. The salad station:

The pasta station:

And the cake station:

When Jonathan arrived, I immediately led him into the kitchen and told him the first step was to make the space his own so he should probably choose the music. He said Lady Gaga was fine (I was playing Joanne, which I very much enjoy these days). I told him the second step was to pour a glass of wine which he was happy to do.

That’s actually an important step for anyone who hasn’t cooked before: you have to make it fun. If it feels like a chore, it will be a chore, and you’ll never want to do it again.

Once he took a sip, I cracked the whip: “Ok, time to start with the cake!”

I chose this flourless chocolate cake (recipe here) because it’s a great beginner’s cake, with lots of bang for your buck. Plus there are lots of nifty techniques involved. The first of which involves lining the bottom of the pan with parchment paper. To do so, you fold a square of parchment in half on the diagonal, then do so again and again, until it’s pointy. Then you hover the point over the center of the pan, cut along the perimeter, and voila: a perfect circle.

Then it’s just a matter of melting the chocolate and butter in a double boiler, whisking in sugar and eggs, and finishing with some cocoa powder. I told Jonathan, if he wanted to, he could make the cake his own in any number of ways. “We could add whiskey,” I offered. “Or,” seeing an orange in my fruit bowl, “we could add orange zest and do an orange chocolate kind of thing.”

“Let’s do that!” said Jonathan eagerly.

So in went the orange zest…

…and also a splash of Cointreau, to reinforce the orange flavor.

Once the dishes were done (Jonathan cued up the next album, Whitney Houston Live), we moved on to the Caesar salad. One of my favorite tricks for a dinner party comes from The Barefoot Contessa. It involves putting really good Parmesan into the food processor. First, you cut the rinds off the Parmesan and then cut the Parmesan into cubes.

Drop the cubes into the food processor…

…and then process until you have a relatively fine powder.

Why is this such a good technique? Because (1) You wind up with way more Parmesan than you’d wind up with if you grated the cheese by hand; which (2) encourages you to use more in your cooking, making your food taste better. Plus, the residual Parmesan in the food processor helps thicken your Caesar dressing. Which is what we got to next.

I had Jonathan peel several cloves of garlic by cutting off their ends and smashing them on the board. That went into the food processor along with an egg yolk (Jonathan wasn’t squeamish), anchovies (Jonathan was squeamish), mustard, lemon juice, and a pinch of salt.

On went the machine and then I had Jonathan drizzle in lots of olive oil. After a good minute of this we stopped the engine and tasted. “Wow, this is so good!” said Jonathan. “You’re a natural,” I said, adjusting the dressing with some Parmesan. Then I told Jonathan he could play with the flavor if he wanted, we could add Worcestershire sauce or Tabasco. “Let’s do Tabasco,” said Jonathan. He added five dashes, mixed that in, tasted, and added a few more until he was happy.

After spinning gem lettuce from the farmer’s market in a salad spinner, we set all of the salad stuff aside in the fridge, and got to work (after doing the dishes, new music: a radio station based on Etta James) on the pasta.

First step, making the sauce. I was going to do a whole choose-your-own-adventure thing with the sauce, letting Jonathan choose the fat (olive oil? butter?) and the flavor profile (garlic? anchovies? red pepper flakes?) but then realized that playing with a vodka sauce would yield more exciting results, while still allowing Jonathan to make choices along the way.

So, first up, the fat: we started with a mixture of butter and olive oil.

Then, the hardest thing of all: teaching Jonathan how to chop an onion.

Chopping an onion is kind of THE essential cooking skill. It’s what Meryl Streep spent all that time doing playing Julia Child in Julie & Julia. It’s something that you’re going to have to do a lot in the kitchen if you plan to become a cook.

I was lucky enough to learn how to chop properly when I cooked with Chef Amanda Cohen at Dirt Candy for my cookbook. I remember she said to me, “Do you like your thumb?” I said, “Yes.” She said, “Then you’ll want to tuck it under.”

To chop properly, you’ve got to build a wall with your fingers. This is difficult to explain over the internet, but I’m sure there are videos on YouTube. Anyway, this is what I attempted to teach Jonathan how to do and I have to say, he was a natural student:

You can see him curling his fingers in the right way in that picture!

So into the pot with the olive oil and butter the onion went, along with some sliced garlic, red pepper flakes, and tomato paste. Those all toasted, then we added two cans of tomatoes, and let them all cook together (along with a leftover Parmesan rind) while Ryan and Craig arrived and were ready for the first course.

On to chilled plates went our Caesar salad, dressed in Jonathan’s Tabasco-laced dressing, and Jonathan proudly presented it at the table.

Guess what? It was a hit. That Tabasco really added some zip. Plus, Jonathan had the idea to add some cherry tomatoes from the farmer’s market, which gave the salad some necessary color.

Then back to the kitchen we went where, after tasting the sauce, we decided it needed more salt. I also realized we forgot to add the vodka (this was vodka sauce, after all). Then I thought that the texture was too chunky, so we blended everything up with a hand blender.

To that, we added a healthy dose of cream, let it all cook down, and meanwhile cooked two boxes of fusilli in a giant pot of salted water. (I said to Jonathan it’s always better to make too much food at a dinner party than too little food; in the first case, the worst you wind up with is leftovers. In the latter case, you wind up with hungry guests.)

When the moment came, and the pasta was two minutes under the suggested cooking time, we added it to the pot with the sauce.

We stirred that all together and I may have added some butter because, at this point, why not? Jonathan had the idea to add some basil, which was a nice touch. We also added a ton of that processor-grated Parmesan because we had so much of it (that’s the point!).

Look how pretty when plated:

Everyone agreed this was just as good as the spicy fusilli at Jon & Vinny’s which is high praise, indeed.

Finally, back to the kitchen we went, where Jonathan sifted powdered sugar over the cake.

Then he sliced it up and served it with ice cream.

I believe it was Oscar Hammerstein who said, “By your pupils, you will be taught.” Well now I know to add orange zest the next time I make chocolate cake and to listen to Whitney Houston the next time I do the dishes.

This was a super fun night and I hope Jonathan’s encouraged to keep cooking now that he’s been taught by an Amateur Pretending To Be A Pro. I told him a lentil soup would be a good next step so he can practice his knife-skills, seasoning skills, etc. Let’s just hope he doesn’t salt the lentils too early. Or too late. Come to think of it, I should probably be there….

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My Roast Chicken Secrets Revealed

A year or two ago, I got rid of my roasting pan. Not because I’m anti-roasting pan, or because I needed the space, but because I realized that my roasting pan had a non-stick surface and that I’d been scratching it up with a metal spatula over the years and that there was a teensy, tiny chance I’d been exposing myself and my loved ones to carcinogens whenever I roasted a chicken and that we’re all going to die and it’s all my fault.

So these days, when I roast a chicken, I rely on my largest cast iron skillet. Frankly, I think it works better. And I riff on the beloved Thomas Keller roast chicken recipe, the one I’ve been making for the past eight years, combining assorted root vegetables and potatoes and garlic in the bottom of the pan with a splash of vegetable oil, salt, and pepper, and then topping it with a chicken that I stuff with thyme and garlic, also rub with vegetable oil, before sprinkling with lots of salt and pepper. Only, I’ve been much bolder with a certain ingredient to really make my roast chicken shine. Can you guess what it is?

Hint: it starts with the letter “b” and it rhymes with shmutter.

That’s right, butter.

You know, in addition to PBS, one of my biggest sources for cooking inspiration is Instagram. I follow lots of chefs and food people on there and not too long ago, I was looking at Ludo Lefebvre’s feed and he positively slathered a chicken in butter. Ludo’s food at Trois Mec and Petit Trois is some of the best French food in L.A., so when I saw that, I made a mental note: the next time I roast a chicken, I’m going to use more butter than usual.

And you know what? It makes a big difference.

Not only does it keep your roast chicken moist, it also helps it brown up beautifully. I mean just look at last night’s bird.

The other big step I’ve been taking has to do with cooking time. In the past, I used to worry about overcooking the chicken; now I worry about undercooking it. Through my various roast chicken experiments, I’ve discovered that the longer I let it sit in the hot oven, the better it gets. Very rarely does the breast dry out (probably because of all of that butter) and the legs and dark meat get properly done, they become almost fall-off-the-bone tender. My new procedure: start at 475 for 20 to 30 minutes, until the outside is really brown, lower to 425 and then cook for an hour more. So 90 minutes total.

The other thing I do? Once the pan’s out of the oven, I lift the chicken off, put it on a plate or platter to rest, and, after tossing the vegetables around a bit with a metal spatula, I stick the pan back in the oven to get the vegetables even more caramelized.

The dirty secret about this roast chicken recipe is that it’s not about the chicken at all, it’s about the vegetables. They get infused with all of that chicken fat and butter and salt and then get super brown and sweet and I’ve had many a friend nod happily when they try my chicken, but then swoon when they try the vegetables. (See: my friend Ryan proving this point.) (Actually, it looks more like he’s finished his vegetables and he’s recoiling from Craig.)

Finally, last night, I figured out the perfect way to serve my roast chicken. Scoop all of the vegetables on to a platter, then cut the bird up with a big knife and place the pieces on top, sprinkling everything with parsley.

Who wouldn’t want to see that on their dining room table, especially as it starts to get chillier outside? Serve with Dijon mustard, a bottle of Pinot Noir, and that’s pretty much the perfect roast chicken dinner, as far as I’m concerned. You could add a salad, but after all of that butter? You’d only be kidding yourself.

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Grapefruit, Blood Orange, Campari Sorbet

I once wrote a post on here called Ten Things You Should Never Serve At A Dinner Party that was mildly controversial. Craig’s sister Kristin was offended that I included “boneless, skinless chicken breasts,” so on my next visit to Washington State, she cooked up a Chicken Piccata that really put in me in place.

And now I’m about to put myself in my own place by refuting number ten on that list: sorbet. Here’s what I wrote then: “This is a dinner party, not a cleanse. If you’re feeling lazy, that’s fine, but at the very least, have the decency to serve us ice cream. But sorbet? SORBET? That’s it…I’m leaving.” Wow, I don’t even recognize the person who wrote that… especially now that I’ve made the sorbet that I’m about to tell you about. But first, the context.

It was my friend Marcos’s birthday and I’d sussed out that he’d really enjoy a Bolognese for his birthday dinner. I’d also sussed out that he was up for going out on the town after dinner. So, in my mind, after serving a rich, heavy Bolognese, it didn’t make sense to serve a rich, heavy cake. Which is what led me to sorbet, specifically the Campari and grapefruit sorbet in Ottolenghi’s wonderful new dessert cookbook, Sweet.

That’s Marcos with his friend Katherine Spiers, the food editor at L.A. Weekly, who I was excited to meet and cook for on this lovely Friday evening. First, I served them a salad of endive and fennel dressed with a Medjool date/anchovy dressing from that Nancy Silverton cookbook I was raving about in the Frito Pie post.

And here’s my Rigatoni Bolognese up close, Marcella’s recipe of course.

So you can see why, after such a heavy, rib-sticking entree, I’d want to go for sorbet. And what a sorbet this is! The key ingredient is my favorite cocktail ingredient (I’m a Negroni man): Campari.

The qualities that I love about Campari are the same qualities that I love in most people: it’s very bitter and very sweet. Here, it does two major things: (1) it gives the sorbet a sharp, bitter edge that makes it a zillion times more sophisticated and complex than any sorbet you’ve had before; (2) the alcohol keeps the sorbet soft and scoopable.

My only twist here to Ottolenghi’s recipe is that I used blood oranges instead of regular oranges. The supermarket had them and I figured the bright red color and the unique blood orange flavor would contribute something unique; but if you can only find regular oranges, that’s fine too. Make sure to use ruby red grapefruits, though, that’s important.

This whole thing is really easy, as long as you have an ice cream maker. I’m even going to give you the recipe, so listen up. Combine 2 cups freshly squeezed ruby red grapefruit juice, 1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice, and 1/2 cup of freshly squeezed orange juice in a bowl. Pour one cup of that into a small saucepan with one cup of granulated sugar.

Heat over low heat, stirring, until the sugar is dissolved. Set it all aside for ten minutes and then pour in the remaining juice, 1/3 cup of Campari, stir, cover, and chill for at least an hour in the fridge.

When the liquid is cold to the touch, get out your ice cream maker and pour in the Campari mixture and start churning. It takes about twenty minutes… Ottolenghi says you’ll know it’s done when “soft waves form.”

Then you just transfer that to a container, cover with plastic wrap, and pop into the freezer until it’s time to serve.

I froze little cocktail coupes to serve the sorbet in, which was extra cute, if I do say so myself.

Ottolenghi says you can pour extra Campari on top, but this really doesn’t need it (especially if you’ve already had a bunch of wine). But I absolutely loved this sorbet and so did everyone else. Not only is it refreshing, it’s explosively flavorful.

So if I could go back in time and change history, I’d print out this post and hand it to my older self moments before writing “Ten Things You Should Never Serve At A Dinner Party.” Imagine what kind of world we’d be living in today if only such a thing were possible.

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Introvert’s Rigatoni with Sausage and Broccolini

People who meet me are often surprised when I describe myself as an introvert. On the surface, I come across as outgoing, exuberant even, but secretly I find human interaction to be very exhausting. Craig, on the other hand, finds human interaction to be incredibly stimulating. Not a surprise, then, that he describes himself as an extrovert. (We once read an article that said that introverts lose energy when they’re around people and that extroverts gain energy when they’re around people, and that made total sense to us.)

And yet, nothing is ever so completely black and white. Despite being mostly introverted, I still enjoy going out (especially to restaurants, surprise surprise) and despite being mostly extroverted, Craig can really enjoy a night in. Which is why, last Saturday when he flew back from New York, we had to have a discussion about our evening. A group of friends were going out and we were invited. I bought ingredients to make a delicious dinner. Craig’s ideal evening was for me to make the dinner and then for us to go out with these friends. My ideal evening was to make the dinner and to lay on the couch watching Project Runway. Ultimately, I gave Craig a choice: (1) we could go out and meet these friends, but if we did that, I’d want to go out to dinner first so I wouldn’t be smelly and also so I’d be motivated to go out; or (2) I could make this delicious dinner, but then we’d have to stay in. Craig puzzled it over for a second and then chose the only acceptable option considering that I’d gone shopping and that I’m his husband and really he’d been away for a week so of course he’d want to stay in, Option 2.

I mean, just look at these beautiful ingredients, acquired from Cookbook in Echo Park:

Even an extrovert would have to be excited to stay in and eat what those ingredients had to offer.

The idea for this recipe came, once again, from PBS… this time Nick Stellino’s show. I watched him make orecchiette with sausage and broccoli rabe on Saturday morning and by Saturday night, I was making it too. Only: I couldn’t find orecchiette at Cookbook, so I went with mini-rigatoni.

To make this, bring a big pot of water to a boil and salt it just enough to it tastes like tasty broth (not sea water, as I learned once; that’s too much). Meanwhile, in a skillet, pour in some olive oil, start heating it, and add three or four Italian sausages out of the casing and start breaking them up with a spoon.

The trick here is to really get this sausage nicely broken up but also really browned and caramelized. (Wait, is that redundant?) So let it go for a while. You may even want to walk away… but not too far. Like into the living room, not around the block.

When the sausage is golden brown and there are brown bits on the bottom of the pan, push all of the sausage to one side and add 3 to 4 cloves of garlic that you’ve thinly sliced and some red pepper flakes to another splash of olive oil in the pan (Lidia Bastianich calls this a “hot spot”; my kind of Saturday night hot spot).

Meanwhile, while this is happening, drop your broccolini (at least I think this was broccolini) into the boiling, salted water. This recipe is all about timing so you want your garlic just to toast, not to burn, while the broccolini (let’s just say it was broccolini) gets blanched.

I’d say the more important thing here is that your garlic doesn’t burn, so if it’s darkening and your broccolini doesn’t look soft yet, just lift it anyway into the pan with the sausage and the garlic. It’ll keep cooking in there anyway.

Drop your pasta, now, into the boiling, salted, broccolini water and add a ladleful of that pasta water into the pan with the sausage and broccolini. Let them cook together, stirring all the while, until the broccolini and sausage are sort of married. Wonder which one’s the introvert and which one’s the extrovert?

If the pan gets dry, continue adding the pasta water to it. This is really your sauce. If it’s evaporating too fast, lower the heat.

Finally, when the pasta is just al dente (about a minute or two less than it says to cook it on the package), add it to the pan with the sausage and broccolini.

Add another ladleful of pasta water and cook on high heat, stirring all the while, until the liquid is almost gone and the pasta has taken on the sausage flavor. (I mean you won’t know that by looking, but that’s what’s happening… it’s sucking in all that sausage/garlic/broccolini liquid).

Off the heat, add a big handful of Parmesan cheese (see lead photo). Then scoop into bowls, drizzle on some good olive oil, sprinkle on some more red pepper flakes, and top with even more Parmesan.

You may have read this post and thought to yourself, “What a manipulative introvert.” But, if that’s true, at least I’m a manipulative introvert who makes really good pasta. And, I’m sorry, but I’d rather be here at this table than at the coolest bar anywhere on earth. Eat that, extroverts!

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