New Ways to Boost Your Grain Power 3: Oats!

 fig. a toaster, oats

It's funny that this is the last recipe to appear in the New Ways to Boost Your Grain Power series, because in many ways this was the recipe that got me started on this train of thought.

It all started back in about the spring of 2010.  I'd been reading and re-reading issue #82 of The Art of Eating (Fall 2009) for a while, especially its cover story on new bistros and "the casualization of dining" in Paris ("New Ways to be a Restaurant in Paris," by Bénédict Beaugé and Edward Behr).  I was fascinated by its description of the new crop of bistros and micro-bistros in Paris, and the way these restaurants were redefining the dining scene there:  by making it less stuffy and more affordable, yes, but also by highlighting regional cuisines in a way that was helping to expand notions of bistro cuisine. And I studied the accompanying recipes closely.  Very closely, in fact, because there was one recipe that I just couldn't wrap my head around.

It was a recipe for Haferflockensuppe from Nicholas Scheidt of L'Office, and it was billed as an Alsatian specialty.  You see, I'd yet to Boost My Grain Power back then, and it literally took me weeks to decipher what I was reading.  I couldn't figure out why this wouldn't just result in an unusually savoury bowl of oatmeal.  Finally, after going back to that same recipe over and over and over again, it suddenly made sense to me.  I had something of a "Eureka!" moment.  It wasn't just an "oatmeal soup" (as a strict translation of the name would suggest), like every other recipe in this New Ways to Boost Your Grain Power series, the key had to do with the toasting of grains--in this case, the toasting of oats.  You see, it may very well be that mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey, and that's all fine and good, but, here, it's very important that you begin this recipe with toasted oats.

With its combination of butter, bacon, oats, cognac, sour cream, and chicken stock, this might seem like kind of a wintery soup, and it is, but it's actually pretty ideal as an early spring soup, too, especially around here, where the fluctuations in temperature can be a bit of a rollercoaster ride (a cruel one) in March and April.  You see, it's got some of the greens that you're craving, like chervil and spring onions, but it's also plenty hearty enough for an unseasonably brisk day.  (In fact, tomorrow would be an ideal day for Haferflockensuppe--it's predicted that we're going to get 10-15 cm of snow [?!!].)  And it's easy, too, once you have the necessary ingredients, including a good (homemade, preferably) chicken stock.  You just have to take the time to carefully brown your oats to toasty, golden perfection, and everything else pretty well takes care of itself.

I offer you the recipe as it originally appeared in The Art of Eating.  I've found that one can tone down the amount of butter and oil significantly, and still wind up with the desired richness of flavour.  Everything else I'd keep exactly as is, although if you happen to have pumpernickel croutons around, instead of plain old country bread croutons, all the better.

Haferflockensuppe 

75g oat flakes (3/8 cup)
100g butter (1/2 cup)
4 tsp veg oil
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 thick slice bacon, cut into lardons
2 bay leaves
2 tbsp cognac
1 litre chicken stock
salt and pepper
4 eggs
1 slice country bread, cut into croutons
chervil, 1 bunch, minced
spring onions, thinly sliced
4 tsp sour cream 

Brown the oat flakes in half the butter and half the oil, with the garlic, bacon and bay leaves. Deglaze with the cognac, add stock and simmer 20 min. Remove the bay leaves and season to taste. 

Pan fry the eggs (or poach them for a finer look and taste), season them, brown the croutons in the remaining oil and butter, and season. 

Slide one egg in the bottom of each soup bowl (shallow ones make for a more dramatic presentation), pour some soup around it so the yolk still emerges, sprinkle with chervil, croutons, and spring onions. Finish with a dollop of sour cream.

Is it starting to make sense?  It will when you taste it.

aj

Our Own Private Vermont

fig. a: Michelle, Shelburne Farms

Our own private Vermont is an awfully nice place. It's made up of many of the sites we've visited over the last ten years, as well as many of the tastes we've tasted. It consists of numerous trips and countless memories. 2010 had its fair share, so when we tried to figure out what we'd be serving at this year's AEB holiday bash, we ended up settling on a Vermont theme. Which, of course, meant we had to pay yet another visit to the Green Mountain state to stock up on Green Mountain goodies. And although we made sure to hit a few old favorites--like Al's for lunch, Shelburne Farms for aged cheddar, and Dakin Farm for ham and bacon--we also got a chance to visit a few new places and further expand our Vermont.



figs. b & c: Jericho sunset, Jericho shadow

We arrived at Jericho Settlers Farm in Jericho Center just as the sun was setting, and consequently the light was as gold as it gets and the shadows were as long as can be.

fig. d: Settlers' farmstand

We'd read some great things about Jericho Settlers Farm's pastured meat, and especially their pastured heirloom pork. We'd also read that you could get their meat in Burlington, but we were curious to see what the farm looked. And with that sun setting, and fresh snow on the ground, it looked pretty heavenly.

There was no one around, but Jericho Settlers Farm has a farmstand that's open to the public 365 days a year, and it runs on the honor system (!).

fig. e: Settlers' birds

We stepped inside, took a look around,

fig. f: Settlers' freezer

and made some selections. We were pretty focused on their pork, beef, and chicken,

fig. g: Settlers' sweet carrots

but we were happy to see that they had some root vegetables for sale too, so we added some beautiful multicolored carrots and some fingerling potatoes to our bag and logged our purchases. We noticed that we were the first farmstand customers of the day, which is hardly surprising, I guess, because Jericho Settlers Farm operates primarily as a CSA.

fig. h: Jericho Center Country Store

Just down the road, in the very center of Jericho Center, we found the Jericho Center Country Store, one of the oldest continuously operating country stores in all of Vermont (since 1807!). The interior is a true treasure trove--it's filled to the rafters with antiques and memorabilia from its 203-year history--and in addition to all the usual country store staples, they also carry meat from Jericho Settlers Farm, in case the farmstand happens to be closed.

In the village square, directly across the street from the country store, Michelle noticed a historical marker that told the story of Wilson Alwyn "Snowflake" Bentley. I had no idea who she was talking about, so she filled me in (scientist, photographer, snowflake specialist) on the ride out of town.

fig. i: Moonlight on Vermont

A few minutes later, in Jericho (not to be confused with Jericho Center), we spotted an old red mill and decided to take a closer look.

fig. j: snow crystals by "Snowflake"

And inside the Old Red Mill (a.k.a., the Jericho Historical Society), not only did we find reproductions of the work of "Snowflake" Bentley for sale, but we also found a small museum display on his life and work. It included quite a number of Bentley's original photographs and slides of (what else?) snowflakes,

fig. k: 19th-century Op Art

but it also included this magnificent quilt made by old mother Bentley.

On the way back home to Montreal, we listened to some episodes of This American Life that we'd collected on our mp3 player. One of the segments was a story of fate, faith, and destiny, chance and coincidence, and much of the segment focused on events that occurred in and around the town of Snowflake, AZ--a town that had been founded by two men, one named Snow and the other named Flake. Apparently, still to this day, half the town is named Snow and half is named Flake. Presumably there are a few Snow-Flakes there too.

When we got back to our neighborhood, I dropped Michelle off at home and then set off again to find a parking spot. When I returned our dining room table looked like this:

fig. l: L is for loot

And a few days later we threw our Our Own Private Vermont party, featuring a smoked country ham from Vermont glazed with a mustard-maple syrup concoction, a selection of Vermont cheeses (Shelburne Farms' nutty, crumbly 2-year cheddar and Jasper Hill impossibly creamy Moses Sleeper and Bayley Hazen blue, Lazy Lady's lovely ashed Trillium, and Von Trapp Farmstead's [yes, those Von Trapps] washed-rind Oma), and some baked beans made all the more succulent with 100% pure maple syrup and a smoked ham hock from Jericho Settlers Farm. Completing the scene was a white birch.

Martha's Maple-Mustard Glazed Ham

1 whole (18-lb) bone-in, fully cooked, smoked ham, room temperature
1/2 cup champagne vinegar
1 cup 100% pure maple syrup
2/3 cup Dijon mustard
2 tbsp apricot jam
pinch of kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 350º F. Line a roasting pan with heavy-duty aluminum foil.

Rinse ham under cool running water. Pat dry and wrap with parchment paper-lined aluminum foil; place in prepared roasting pan. Transfer to oven for 4 1/2 hours.

Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, heat vinegar over medium-high heat until reduced to 2 tablespoons, about 6 minutes. Add maple syrup, mustard, jam, and salt; season with pepper. Cook, whisking, until well combined, about 2 minutes. Set glaze aside.

Remove ham from oven and uncover. When cool enough to handle, cut off rind using a sharp knife. Slice off most of the fat, leaving a 1/4-inch-thick layer. Score fat on top of ham in a pattern of 1- to 2-inch diamonds.

Brush ham evenly with one-third of the glaze and return to oven. After 20 minutes, brush ham again with half the remaining glaze. Cook for 15 minutes and brush with remaining glaze. Continue baking ham until an instant-read thermometer inserted into thickest part of ham reaches 145 to 150 degrees, about 15 minutes more.

Transfer to a cutting board. Let ham cool 30 minutes before carving.

Serves a whole lot of people.

Note: We used half a ham (9 lbs) and adjusted the recipe accordingly. We fed 30+ guests.

[Martha Stewart ain't from Vermont, but she makes an awfully good maple-mustard glazed ham. This is pretty much exactly her recipe]

Jericho Settlers Farm, 22 Barber Farm Road, Jericho Center, VT, (802) 899-4000

Jericho Center Country Store, 25 Jericho Center Circle, Jericho Center, VT, (802) 899-3313

The Old Red Mill, Route 15, Jericho Village, VT, (802) 899-3225

If you're intrigued by the sound of Jericho Settlers Farm's pastured meat, but you can't make it out to Jericho Center, you can also find their meat at a massive health food store in South Burlington called Healthy Living (which lies in close proximity to Al's French Frys and South Burlington's Dakin Farm outlet, conveniently enough). They've got an outstanding meat counter with a wide range of organic, pastured, and artisanal meats on offer, and a talented butcher who offers workshops on everything from butchering to sausage-making.

Healthy Living, 222 Dorset St., South Burlington, VT, (802) 863-2569

For more on Jericho Settlers Farm's heirloom pork, as well as the state of sustainable, humanely raised pork production in America, please consult Edward Behr's in-depth report in The Art of Eating #84.

aj

Real Italian Pizza, pt. 3

fig. a: videoblogging in action

Isabella's Oven

We paused outside of Isabella's to squeeze in a little video food-blogging, but after our disappointing experience at Adrienne's we were eager to get our mojo back, so we marched in the door to find Isabella's empty, its entire staff taking a break. It was mid-afternoon at that point, so although it did make for a stark juxtaposition with Adrienne's, that fact alone wasn't exactly cause for panic. What was cause for panic, however, was that Ed and Adam instantly noticed that "their pieman"--Luigi, the fantastically talented, Naples-trained pizzaiolo who'd made each of the exceptional pies they'd enjoyed at Isabella's since Ed first got tipped off to Isabella's last summer--wasn't in the house. Ed and Adam had heard from other pizza enthusiasts that they'd had less than exemplary pizza experiences at Isabella's, that, in fact, the pizza at Isabella's wasn't "all that," but every time the Serious Eats boys had visited Luigi had been there to greet them with an expert Neapolitan pie. This time, however, they found real cause for concern. Maybe there was some kind of Jekyll and Hyde thing going on at Isabella's, depending on whether Luigi was around. Ed tried to get the skinny on Luigi's whereabouts and was informed that he'd had to return to Italy on personal business and that he'd be back there for an indefinite amount of time. In his absence the daytime pieman had become Isabella's principal pieman. It was clear that this was bad news.

We ordered a Margherita D.O.C. pizza (with D.O.C. bufala mozzarella) and tried to keep things upbeat, but Ed and Adam were clearly worried that they might have to relegate Isabella's to a lower division. And that's exactly what happened. The 16" pie that arrived was perfectly fine, respectable even, but far from transcendent, far from being the pie that had Ed had deemed potential national-top-ten material back in July. I mean, you can tell by just looking at it. See that crust?

fig. b: Margherita D.O.C. from Isabella's Oven

Now compare that with the crusts we got at Di Fara and Franny's. And compare it with the crusts you're going to see below.

Remember that "myth of the pizzaiolo" jazz I went on about in "Real Italian Pizza, pt. 2"? Well, here was an abject lesson in how a single, solitary pizzaiolo can make all the difference in the high-stakes pizza game that is New York City pizza.

So after starting off with a bang, we were on a bit of a losing streak. First, an undercooked grandma pie at Nick Angelis's Adrienne's Pizzabar, and now this? We needed a little help, and that's exactly what we got.

Verdict: pinch-hit single.

fig. c: Una Pizza Napoletana

Una Pizza Napoletana

Minutes later, we'd relocated from the Lower East Side to the East Village, and we were standing in front of a place we'd heard a lot about over the course of the day and a place that Ed devotes a considerable amount of ink to in the pages of Pizza: A Slice of Heaven: Una Pizza Napoletana. Just three years old, the aura that surrounds Una Pizza Napoletana is already enormous.

The story goes something like this: a few years ago, Ed was contacted by a friend of his in New Jersey who proceeded to tell him she'd just recently eaten the single best thing she'd ever eaten in New Jersey (which, considering she was the long-time food critic at the Asbury Park Press, was saying something)--and that thing wasn't some high-falutin' dish from some high-falutin' restaurant, it was pizza from a little strip mall pizzeria in Point Pleasant, on the North Jersey Shore. Ed hustled his way down to Point Pleasant and there he encountered the talent of Anthony Mangieri for the first time. Mangieri had started off as a bread baker and he'd taken that very seriously too--opening his first bakery before he was 21. A few years later he switched over to pizza exclusively. He'd grown up in a family with strong ties to Naples, so he'd visited often, eaten a lot of pizza, taken a lot of mental notes. Pizza became Mangieri's thing, his raison d'être. Ed could see he had that gleam in his eye--the one that distinguishes the merely professional from the certifiably obsessed. Better yet, he could taste it in Mangieri's pies.

Not long after Ed's momentous visit, Mangieri moved the operation to the East Village, barely changing a thing. He's only open four days a week, and on those days he's only open until the dough lasts. He still offers only four pizze--Marinara, Margherita, Bianca, Filetti--and these are essentially the only items on the menu. No salads, no appetizers, and no desserts, with the exception of the Italian chocolates that come with the bill. He uses only the purest of ingredients, including mozzarella di bufala (the only cheese Mangieri uses), Sicilian salt, Italian extra-virgin olive oil, and D.O.P. San Marzano tomatoes, and his dough is a homemade sourdough that takes a minimum of 36 hours to produce. Mangieri started off with a locally made wood-fired brick oven, but this summer he upgraded to a handsome white Neapolitan model, and, it's safe to say, he knows how to use it. Neither Michelle or I had ever seen anyone tend an oven like Mangieri does. It was mesmerizing.

We showed up at Una Pizza Napoletana just before opening time that Saturday. We were a little early and we were just about to take a walk around the block to kill some time and check out the latest restaurant in the Momofuku family when we ran into Mangieri outside. Perfect timing. We got a chance to talk to him about pizza, about Italian food more generally, about Montreal (and about the shortcomings of Montreal pizza), and we got a chance to see that gleam too. A few minutes later he invited us in to grab a seat. The oven was ready, therefore he was ready.

While Mangieri was preparing our pizzas, Ed asked him a hypothetical question. Let's say you go into a reputable pizza place, you order your pizza, and then they bring it out to you. It looks great from the outside--nicely colored, apparently well cooked--but then you bite in and it's all gummy and undercooked. What gives? Is that a dough problem? Is it an oven problem? Mangieri walked us through the possible scenarios, but the probable cause was an overly hot oven. Then he explained the trials and tribulations of a wood-burning pizza oven: its intense heat, its temperamentality, and the fact that your optimum cooking time might only last an hour or so, which means that the rest of the evening you might be dealing with an oven that's just too damn hot, quickly scorching the dough on the outside, while leaving the interior insufficiently cooked. This means that every night the pizzaiolo working a wood-burning oven struggles to make the adjustments necessary to guarantee the best possible pizza given the conditions of the moment, that the best pizzaiolo is the one who's most capable when it comes to making these countless adjustments. This gave a further wrinkle to the "myth of the pizzaiolo."

The first of our pizzas to arrive from Mangieri's oven was our Marinara--"San Marzano tomatoes, extra-virgin olive oil, oregano, fresh garlic, fresh basil, sea salt," according to Una Pizza Napoletana's menu--a pizza that Ed described as being "a minimalist masterpiece" after his first encounter. I wanted to know how Mangieri worked a cheeseless pie, so I'd lobbied for a Marinara, and I was glad I had. I mean, just look at that thing.

fig. d: Una Pizza Napoletana's marinara

Simple perfection incarnate. Mangieri's sourdough crust was enough to make you cry. So much flavor, so masterfully handled.

It's hard to believe, I know, but the next pie, the Filetti, was even better. Topped with cherry tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, fresh garlic, extra-virgin olive oil, fresh basil, and that Sicilian sea salt, this pizza was deluxe. We'd been having buffalo mozzarella all day--at Di Fara, at Franny's, at Isabella's, and now at Una Pizza Napoletana--but this was by far and away the tastiest, most satisfying buffalo mozzarella we'd encountered. And its marriage with the garlic, the cherry tomatoes, the salt, the basil, and that sourdough crust was astounding. Looked great too:

fig. e: Una Pizza Napoletana's filetti

On some level, eating at Una Pizza Napoletana is an austere experience. As mentioned above, there are no salads or other kinds of appetizers. There are only four pizzas on the menu to choose from and subsitutions or any other special requests are not allowed. There are no desserts, aside from those chocolates mentioned above, although they do offer Neapolitan-style espressos--very good ones, in fact. The restaurant is small and simply appointed. The menu reads part history lesson, part manifesto, part throwdown. The overall aesthetic is nothing if not spartan. That said, Mangieri is capable of taking the most basic and ingredients and transforming them into a pizza so extraordinary that one bite makes you feel like you're sitting on top of the world. His pizzas don't come cheap--"We have no quarrel with the man who sells cheaper pizza", the menu exclaims, "he knows how much his is worth!"--but, at the same time, pizza's inherently democratic appeal is still very much intact. "Nothing... purer or [more] honestly wholesome can be bought at any price," Mangieri's menu reads, and he means it.

Pizza fanatics talk about the five-minute rule or the third-slice rule: the first slice or two, fresh out of the oven, can be a little misleading. The third slice, when the pizza has had some time to cool down a bit, is the true test of a pizza. The problem with Mangieri's pizzas was that they were so good, they didn't last that long, The four of us had been at it for 6-7 hours already, but we tore into those pies as though they were our first.

Verdict: grand slam.

How do you continue after you've been to the mountain? Not wanting to risk another difficult comedown, we decided to call it a Pizza Tour after Una Pizza Napoletana. That would mean leaving Joe's and Bleecker Street Pizza for another occasion. But there was something almost operatic about it. A 5-act, seven-and-a-half-hour opera, with some true highs and lows, some tears, some triumphs, a couple of Italian heroes, and a few important lessons. We thanked our hosts profusely

fig. f: the Serious Eats boys

and headed back to Brooklyn to try to make sense of it all. Days later, back in Montreal, we were still reeling.

Didn't catch Parts One and Two?  Well, here they are.

411:

Di Fara, 1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn, NY, (718) 258-1367

Franny's, 295 Flatbush Ave., Brooklyn, NY, (718) 230-0221, www.frannysbrooklyn.com

Adrienne's Pizzabar, 54 Stone St., New York, NY, (212) 248-3838, www.adriennespizzabar.com

Isabella's Oven, 365 Grand St., New York, NY, (212) 529-5206, www.isabellasoven.com

Una Pizza Napoletana, 349 E. 12th St., New York, NY, (212) 477-9950, www.unapizza.com

Don't ask us to provide you with directions so that you can replicate this pizza tour exactly. Adam made sure to throw in plenty of dekes and diversions so that this pizza tour would remain absolutely one-of-a-kind. You will find plenty of handy-dandy interactive pizza maps at slice, though. You'll also find Adam's own personal play-by-play account of NY Pizza Tour 2007.

Sources:

Ed Levine, Pizza: A Slice of Heaven

John Thorne, "Existential Pizza," Pot on the Fire: Further Exploits of a Renegade Cook

Alan Davidson, The Penguin Companion to Food

Ed Behr, "Pizza in Naples," The Art of Eating (spring 1992)

aj

ps--apologies to any and all members of our New York posse (you know who you are) that we weren't able to see during our whirlwind visit.