Happy Thanksgiving!
I'm sitting here in my home office—so this is what it's like to not be at work!—with my cornbread for my savory bread pudding in the oven and my potato rolls on the rise and the kids watching the parade on TV, preparing to make Thanksgiving dinner for the three of us later this afternoon.
This year is very strange. In all the years before I opened the restaurant, our house was Thanksgiving central. We'd invite friends, family, and anybody we knew that didn't have anyone to celebrate with. The house would be full and the feast would be enormous.
Since I bought the restaurant, my aunt has taken up the challenge and we've gone to her house to celebrate. This year, circumstances have conspired against us and it's just me and my two daughters along with the faithful floor-cleaning beagle. The house is oddly quiet.
While our celebration is very small this year, we are together and celebrating. Which brings me to the point of this entire post. I spoke to another chef last evening about his book for today and in the course of that conversation, he said that he had reservations for nine singletons. Nine people dining by themselves on Thanksgiving. How pitiful! If I knew who they were, I'd invite them over to eat with us, like the old days.
Do me a favor. Next year, invite someone who has nobody else to your house for Thanksgiving.
Mmmm, I smell cornbread smells wafting up the stairs. Time to go check....
Happy Thanksgiving!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Pilau
Here's the next to last recipe from my recent Low Country cooking class. This recipe is for a classic rice dish called pilau. The word is quite obviously a variant of pilaf, but the Sandlappers have invented their own pronunciation that is more at "perloo" than anything.
It seems to me, but I'm no expert, that the pilaf originated in what is roughly Persia and dispersed throughout the world. The similarity among pilau, pilaf, pullao, polow, paella, risotto, jambalalya, biryani, and like dishes is amazing. The majority of these dishes, like pilau, call for adding rice to boiling liquid. Some, like risotto, are stirred until the end; others are finished in the oven; still others are steamed. Other dishes such as biryani are completed by mixing cooked rice with the sauce and garnishes. In any case, they're all delicious.
My pilau is started as for jambalaya and finished by stirring like risotto. This is not atypical of pilau, but there are as many variations and methods as there are cooks. I would say that more cooks cover their pilau and let it gently steam itself rather than stir it as I do. I love the texture of my version.
The key to pilau for me is the rice. I use Carolina Gold rice, an heirloom Low Country rice available from many outlets including Anson Mills.
Ed's Pilau
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large poblano chile, diced
1 medium yellow onion, diced
1 bunch green onions, diced
3 stalks celery, diced
4 Surry sausages, diced
2 cups Carolina Gold rice
1 cup diced tomatoes
4-6 cups stock
1 T minced garlic
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
fresh parsley
crushed red pepper flakes to taste
salt to taste
black pepper to taste
Heat a heavy bottomed pan over medium high flame and film it with the oil. Add the onions, peppers, celery, and sausage and cook until the yellow onions turn translucent. Add the rice and stir for a couple of minutes. Add the tomatoes and two cups of the stock. Let the rice come just to the boil and adjust the flame so that it simmers. Add the garlic, thyme, parsley, red pepper, and a little salt and pepper.
Continue to stir as necessary to keep the rice from sticking and to release the starch from the rice into the liquid. It is this starch that gives this pilau its silky texture, like risotto. As the stock evaporates, add small quantities of additional stock as needed until the rice is done to your liking, about 20-25 minutes. Season to taste.
It seems to me, but I'm no expert, that the pilaf originated in what is roughly Persia and dispersed throughout the world. The similarity among pilau, pilaf, pullao, polow, paella, risotto, jambalalya, biryani, and like dishes is amazing. The majority of these dishes, like pilau, call for adding rice to boiling liquid. Some, like risotto, are stirred until the end; others are finished in the oven; still others are steamed. Other dishes such as biryani are completed by mixing cooked rice with the sauce and garnishes. In any case, they're all delicious.
My pilau is started as for jambalaya and finished by stirring like risotto. This is not atypical of pilau, but there are as many variations and methods as there are cooks. I would say that more cooks cover their pilau and let it gently steam itself rather than stir it as I do. I love the texture of my version.
The key to pilau for me is the rice. I use Carolina Gold rice, an heirloom Low Country rice available from many outlets including Anson Mills.
Ed's Pilau
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large poblano chile, diced
1 medium yellow onion, diced
1 bunch green onions, diced
3 stalks celery, diced
4 Surry sausages, diced
2 cups Carolina Gold rice
1 cup diced tomatoes
4-6 cups stock
1 T minced garlic
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
fresh parsley
crushed red pepper flakes to taste
salt to taste
black pepper to taste
Heat a heavy bottomed pan over medium high flame and film it with the oil. Add the onions, peppers, celery, and sausage and cook until the yellow onions turn translucent. Add the rice and stir for a couple of minutes. Add the tomatoes and two cups of the stock. Let the rice come just to the boil and adjust the flame so that it simmers. Add the garlic, thyme, parsley, red pepper, and a little salt and pepper.
Continue to stir as necessary to keep the rice from sticking and to release the starch from the rice into the liquid. It is this starch that gives this pilau its silky texture, like risotto. As the stock evaporates, add small quantities of additional stock as needed until the rice is done to your liking, about 20-25 minutes. Season to taste.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Red Hat Ladies
Does the mere mention of Red Hat Ladies drive you into a frenzy? If so, you must be a server at a restaurant. War stories of serving these purple- and red-clad women are legion in the restaurant business.
We've hosted our share of luncheons for Red Hat Ladies over the years, the most recent was last week. And like our compatriots everywhere, we've had a few experiences that have been less than positive.
From my conversations with a lot of servers, here's the general knock on Red Hat Ladies:
Surely, we've witnessed all this behavior from Red Hat Ladies at our restaurant in the past, but we've also seen this behavior and worse from other large groups. My guess is that the Red Hat Ladies by virtue of being instantly recognizable are unfairly taking a lot of heat for large groups everywhere.
Last week, our group of ladies was charming; they ordered well; they tipped well; and they were neither rude nor pushy. In fact, many of them came up to me after their lunch and thanked me for a good time. Ladies, thank you for your business. Now if we could just clone you as an example for how large groups should behave in restaurants....
We've hosted our share of luncheons for Red Hat Ladies over the years, the most recent was last week. And like our compatriots everywhere, we've had a few experiences that have been less than positive.
From my conversations with a lot of servers, here's the general knock on Red Hat Ladies:
- There's a group dynamic that takes over at times that causes them to be rude, pushy, and highly demanding of servers.
- Some groups seem to make great sport of running the server: sending the server running for something, then when she gets back to the table, sending her for something else, all afternoon, effectively preventing her from serving other tables.
- The check averages are reputedly very low: no alcohol, just water to drink, appetizers instead of entrées, no desserts, split entrées, and lots and lots of free bread.
- They are reknowned for miserly tips on top of weak checks.
- They want separate checks: the server's nightmare.
- They're never in a hurry to leave until they've just sent the server to process 20 separate checks, which at a minute apiece takes at least 20 minutes.
Surely, we've witnessed all this behavior from Red Hat Ladies at our restaurant in the past, but we've also seen this behavior and worse from other large groups. My guess is that the Red Hat Ladies by virtue of being instantly recognizable are unfairly taking a lot of heat for large groups everywhere.
Last week, our group of ladies was charming; they ordered well; they tipped well; and they were neither rude nor pushy. In fact, many of them came up to me after their lunch and thanked me for a good time. Ladies, thank you for your business. Now if we could just clone you as an example for how large groups should behave in restaurants....
Sunday, November 23, 2008
First, You Make Some Roux...
I've mentioned a roux ("roo") several times in recent posts and a reader asked me if I could give a little more how to information. Here is a series of photos that I took Saturday.
The thing to note is that nothing much happens in the first ten or twelve minutes of cooking and then all hell breaks loose in the last five minutes. Your strict attention during the last few minutes is critical.
Time Zero. I put one part flour and one part fat (in this case, canola oil; often, duck fat) into the pan over high heat. Here, it's not even mixed yet.
3 Minutes. I took a photo at this point because I want you to look at it. See all the foam and bubbles? That's the water boiling off from the flour. This is why you never want to dump flour into really hot oil. If all this water flashed to steam suddenly, you could end up in the hospital with terrible burns all over your face. Despite what the macho chefs tell you, don't do it. Start with cold oil and flour.
8 Minutes. You can see fewer bubbles and the tiniest hint of color, indicating that the water is finally boiling away.
11 Minutes. Here we are eleven minutes in and things are just getting started. I have been stirring nonchalantly to this point. But things are about to change, quickly.
12 Minutes. Another shade darker in just a minute.
13 Minutes. Now, you see the texture change. Once this happens, you know things are cooking quickly and you'd better ignore all external influences, save the house burning down around you.
14 Minutes. In all the previous photos, the spatula is sitting against the pan. In this photo and all subsequent ones, though you cannot see it, I'm stirring. There's been a significant color change in the last few seconds.
15 Minutes. This is as light brown as I would use for a gumbo. If I were making a general purpose roux to store in the cooler for some future use, I'd be stopping right about here. But, today, I'm making alligator and shrimp gumbo, so I want a dark roux.
16 Minutes. This is a good red brown roux. I'd stop here for duck.
17 Minutes. Look at the smoke coming off of this! It's not black yet in this photo, but it was about 30 seconds after I snapped the photo. I was too busy working with it at the last second to take a final picture. To stop it from cooking, I threw a couple of pounds of trinity (onions, peppers, and celery) into it, then hit it with a gallon of stock.
Here's the final product. I wasn't kidding about it going black in a hurry, was I?
The thing to note is that nothing much happens in the first ten or twelve minutes of cooking and then all hell breaks loose in the last five minutes. Your strict attention during the last few minutes is critical.
Time Zero. I put one part flour and one part fat (in this case, canola oil; often, duck fat) into the pan over high heat. Here, it's not even mixed yet.
3 Minutes. I took a photo at this point because I want you to look at it. See all the foam and bubbles? That's the water boiling off from the flour. This is why you never want to dump flour into really hot oil. If all this water flashed to steam suddenly, you could end up in the hospital with terrible burns all over your face. Despite what the macho chefs tell you, don't do it. Start with cold oil and flour.
8 Minutes. You can see fewer bubbles and the tiniest hint of color, indicating that the water is finally boiling away.
11 Minutes. Here we are eleven minutes in and things are just getting started. I have been stirring nonchalantly to this point. But things are about to change, quickly.
12 Minutes. Another shade darker in just a minute.
13 Minutes. Now, you see the texture change. Once this happens, you know things are cooking quickly and you'd better ignore all external influences, save the house burning down around you.
14 Minutes. In all the previous photos, the spatula is sitting against the pan. In this photo and all subsequent ones, though you cannot see it, I'm stirring. There's been a significant color change in the last few seconds.
15 Minutes. This is as light brown as I would use for a gumbo. If I were making a general purpose roux to store in the cooler for some future use, I'd be stopping right about here. But, today, I'm making alligator and shrimp gumbo, so I want a dark roux.
16 Minutes. This is a good red brown roux. I'd stop here for duck.
17 Minutes. Look at the smoke coming off of this! It's not black yet in this photo, but it was about 30 seconds after I snapped the photo. I was too busy working with it at the last second to take a final picture. To stop it from cooking, I threw a couple of pounds of trinity (onions, peppers, and celery) into it, then hit it with a gallon of stock.
Here's the final product. I wasn't kidding about it going black in a hurry, was I?
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Shrimp and Grits
If ever there were a dish that screamed "Charleston!", Shrimp and Grits would be it. The following recipe records what I made in my latest cooking class on Low Country cuisine.
I've tasted many dozens of versions of this dish and they're all good. I guarantee that my version, informed by my sensibilities and the ingredients available to me in my locale, is different from what your ancestors might have made, but it suits me to a T. That is to say that I am treading on some sacred ground here: I'm not a native Sandlapper and I know already that your grandmother makes the world's best version of Shrimp and Grits. People have started small land wars over the "correct" version of Shrimp and Grits, for goodness sake.
I don't want any part of your little wars. Just remember that while this isn't grandma's shrimp and grits, you might actually find you like it, if you can bring yourself to make it.
The first thing to talk about is grits. I have told you all I need to tell you in my recent posted entitled Grits 101. In that post, I introduce a couple of new tricks that you old dogs should probably read. If your grits suck and you didn't read my post, don't blame me. And, if you did read my post and your grits still suck, don't blame me either: I didn't cook them!
The next thing to talk about is shrimp. What you want is very fresh, small, head on shrimp right out of your own net. But, if you're like me, that's not happening in your neighborhood until Hell freezes over. If you've got some, by all means, bring them down to the restaurant and I will personally make the Shrimp and Grits for you. All the fat in the head of the shrimp will make this dish mind-blowingly good. Sadly, I'm using 16-20 count peeled and deveined Gulf brown shrimp, available at a supermarket near you.
My version of Shrimp and Grits has a lemony butter sauce redolent of thyme and smoky from Surry sausage. The following recipe serves four.
Shrimp and Grits
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
4 shallots, thinly sliced vertically
4 Surry sausages, diced
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 teaspoon minced garlic
1 bunch green onions, bias cut into 3/4-inch segments
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
1 tablespoon minced fresh Italian parsley
pinch of crushed red pepper flakes
2 lemons
1/4 cup dry white wine
3 tablespoons cold sweet butter, diced
salt and pepper to taste
In a sauté pan, heat the vegetable oil on medium high heat. Add the shallots and Surry sausages and cook until the shallots start to brown. Then add the shrimp and cook about half way. Add the garlic, green onions, thyme, parsley, and red pepper flakes. Stir well and add the juice of two lemons and the white wine to the pan. Let the liquid reduce by three fourths as the shrimp finish cooking. Off the heat, swirl in the butter to thicken the sauce and season to taste. Serve immediately.
I've tasted many dozens of versions of this dish and they're all good. I guarantee that my version, informed by my sensibilities and the ingredients available to me in my locale, is different from what your ancestors might have made, but it suits me to a T. That is to say that I am treading on some sacred ground here: I'm not a native Sandlapper and I know already that your grandmother makes the world's best version of Shrimp and Grits. People have started small land wars over the "correct" version of Shrimp and Grits, for goodness sake.
I don't want any part of your little wars. Just remember that while this isn't grandma's shrimp and grits, you might actually find you like it, if you can bring yourself to make it.
The first thing to talk about is grits. I have told you all I need to tell you in my recent posted entitled Grits 101. In that post, I introduce a couple of new tricks that you old dogs should probably read. If your grits suck and you didn't read my post, don't blame me. And, if you did read my post and your grits still suck, don't blame me either: I didn't cook them!
The next thing to talk about is shrimp. What you want is very fresh, small, head on shrimp right out of your own net. But, if you're like me, that's not happening in your neighborhood until Hell freezes over. If you've got some, by all means, bring them down to the restaurant and I will personally make the Shrimp and Grits for you. All the fat in the head of the shrimp will make this dish mind-blowingly good. Sadly, I'm using 16-20 count peeled and deveined Gulf brown shrimp, available at a supermarket near you.
My version of Shrimp and Grits has a lemony butter sauce redolent of thyme and smoky from Surry sausage. The following recipe serves four.
Shrimp and Grits
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
4 shallots, thinly sliced vertically
4 Surry sausages, diced
1 pound shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 teaspoon minced garlic
1 bunch green onions, bias cut into 3/4-inch segments
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
1 tablespoon minced fresh Italian parsley
pinch of crushed red pepper flakes
2 lemons
1/4 cup dry white wine
3 tablespoons cold sweet butter, diced
salt and pepper to taste
In a sauté pan, heat the vegetable oil on medium high heat. Add the shallots and Surry sausages and cook until the shallots start to brown. Then add the shrimp and cook about half way. Add the garlic, green onions, thyme, parsley, and red pepper flakes. Stir well and add the juice of two lemons and the white wine to the pan. Let the liquid reduce by three fourths as the shrimp finish cooking. Off the heat, swirl in the butter to thicken the sauce and season to taste. Serve immediately.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Smothered Quail, et al.
This is the next in the series of recipes from my Low Country Cooking Class last week. Smothered Quail is really just quail that has been browned on all sides and then cooked in a gravy; my family would call this Fried Quail (for whatever reason). This method of cooking is technically a quick braise (though without a lid on the pan) and is my favorite way of cooking rabbit and pork chops.
You might recognize this as the country cousin to an étouffée, from the French verb to smother. A Cajun étouffée is very similar in technique, but the roux is going to be darker and the dish will contain trinity (onions, peppers, and celery) and a lot more seasoning. Once you get comfortable with the technique, try an étouffée.
The method could not be simpler. Season a cup of flour with salt and pepper (sure, add cayenne and dried thyme if you like; you're the cook). Dredge the quail in the flour and then brown on all sides in a large skillet over moderate heat. Be careful not to let the brown bits in the pan burn.
Remove the quail from the pan and add 1/2 cup of the seasoned flour to the pan. You might need to add a little more oil at this point to make a good roux. Once the roux is mixed up well, this would be a good point to add any other flavorings that you might want. For my class, I added a couple of diced Surry sausages. I generally would have added sliced onions too, but for some reason I didn't last Sunday. No matter. Cook the roux until it is light brown, then add as much water as you need to make a nice gravy. Start with a couple of cups and add more as necessary.
Add the quail (rabbit, pork chops, Salisbury steaks, beef paleron steaks, chicken, whatever) to the pan and cook gently until it's tender enough to pierce easily with a fork. When done, season to taste with salt (remember, your roux flour was already seasoned) and pepper. I threw in a good portion of crushed red pepper and a couple teaspoons of fresh thyme too.
I can't eat anything cooked in gravy like this without rice and a big pile of greens.
You might recognize this as the country cousin to an étouffée, from the French verb to smother. A Cajun étouffée is very similar in technique, but the roux is going to be darker and the dish will contain trinity (onions, peppers, and celery) and a lot more seasoning. Once you get comfortable with the technique, try an étouffée.
The method could not be simpler. Season a cup of flour with salt and pepper (sure, add cayenne and dried thyme if you like; you're the cook). Dredge the quail in the flour and then brown on all sides in a large skillet over moderate heat. Be careful not to let the brown bits in the pan burn.
Remove the quail from the pan and add 1/2 cup of the seasoned flour to the pan. You might need to add a little more oil at this point to make a good roux. Once the roux is mixed up well, this would be a good point to add any other flavorings that you might want. For my class, I added a couple of diced Surry sausages. I generally would have added sliced onions too, but for some reason I didn't last Sunday. No matter. Cook the roux until it is light brown, then add as much water as you need to make a nice gravy. Start with a couple of cups and add more as necessary.
Add the quail (rabbit, pork chops, Salisbury steaks, beef paleron steaks, chicken, whatever) to the pan and cook gently until it's tender enough to pierce easily with a fork. When done, season to taste with salt (remember, your roux flour was already seasoned) and pepper. I threw in a good portion of crushed red pepper and a couple teaspoons of fresh thyme too.
I can't eat anything cooked in gravy like this without rice and a big pile of greens.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Grits 101
The grits that we made during my Low Country cooking class were without a doubt the hit of the class. Before I can get into the recipe that I promised for Shrimp and Grits, we must first talk grits. And I'm not talking about that pablum that Quaker tries to pawn off on the world.
I'm talking about real deal grits, fresh, extremely coarse, long cooking grits. With something as simple as grits, the devil is in the details, so you better buy the best grits you can. I know none finer than the Antebellum Coarse Grits from Anson Mills in Columbia, SC. and I speak from over 40 years of experience. Grits are one of my favorite foods.
These coarse grits take a minimum of 90 minutes to cook and two hours is better. But, you don't have to stand at the stove and stir all day. Here are two grits tips that will help you a lot; just don't tell your grandmother or she will have a fit, because it's surely not the way she did it.
First you're going to preheat your oven to 250F. That's right folks, the oven. And, you're going to find a very heavy ovenproof pan with a tight fitting lid. I use my large cast iron Le Creuset oval cocotte.
Next you're not going to sprinkle your grits slowly into boiling water following the conventional wisdom. You are going to put your grits and an equivalent volume of cold water into the pan and you're going to stir to form a lumpless slurry, adding a little more water if necessary. See how easy that is? Then you're going to add two more volumes of water and one of heavy cream to the pan and put it on the stove on a high flame.
Then while stirring often enough to keep the grits off the bottom of the pan, you're going to let the grits come to almost a boil and thicken, which usually happens just about the same time. At this point, add a bit of salt, cover and place in the oven. Stir every 20-30 minutes. If the grits are too thick, thin with heavy cream. (Who are we kidding? This recipe is about awesome grits, not diet grits!) You don't really want the grits to boil, so adjust the oven temperature accordingly.
Continue cooking in this manner until the grits are done to your liking, then stir in some sweet butter and salt to taste.
To recap, most grits take about four parts liquid to one part solids by volume. For my recipe, I start with one part grits, three parts water, and one part cream. Over the course of the two-hour cooking period, I probably add another part of cream. If you soak the grits overnight (a really good idea, but if you plan ahead like I do, it will never happen), you'll need significantly less liquid, probably only 3 parts in total.
I'm talking about real deal grits, fresh, extremely coarse, long cooking grits. With something as simple as grits, the devil is in the details, so you better buy the best grits you can. I know none finer than the Antebellum Coarse Grits from Anson Mills in Columbia, SC. and I speak from over 40 years of experience. Grits are one of my favorite foods.
These coarse grits take a minimum of 90 minutes to cook and two hours is better. But, you don't have to stand at the stove and stir all day. Here are two grits tips that will help you a lot; just don't tell your grandmother or she will have a fit, because it's surely not the way she did it.
First you're going to preheat your oven to 250F. That's right folks, the oven. And, you're going to find a very heavy ovenproof pan with a tight fitting lid. I use my large cast iron Le Creuset oval cocotte.
Next you're not going to sprinkle your grits slowly into boiling water following the conventional wisdom. You are going to put your grits and an equivalent volume of cold water into the pan and you're going to stir to form a lumpless slurry, adding a little more water if necessary. See how easy that is? Then you're going to add two more volumes of water and one of heavy cream to the pan and put it on the stove on a high flame.
Then while stirring often enough to keep the grits off the bottom of the pan, you're going to let the grits come to almost a boil and thicken, which usually happens just about the same time. At this point, add a bit of salt, cover and place in the oven. Stir every 20-30 minutes. If the grits are too thick, thin with heavy cream. (Who are we kidding? This recipe is about awesome grits, not diet grits!) You don't really want the grits to boil, so adjust the oven temperature accordingly.
Continue cooking in this manner until the grits are done to your liking, then stir in some sweet butter and salt to taste.
To recap, most grits take about four parts liquid to one part solids by volume. For my recipe, I start with one part grits, three parts water, and one part cream. Over the course of the two-hour cooking period, I probably add another part of cream. If you soak the grits overnight (a really good idea, but if you plan ahead like I do, it will never happen), you'll need significantly less liquid, probably only 3 parts in total.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
