Poor Man's Carbonara

I was too young and dumb to realize it at the time, but years ago something momentous happened in the kitchen of Freak Nation, a big, old Northern Virginia house I shared with three other twenty-year-olds like myself.   They say necessity is the mother of invention, but sometimes hunger can be, too.  You see, one evening after work, driven by a fierce appetite and an extreme economy of means, John quite spontaneously invented cucina povera right there in our test kitchen.

 fig. a:  J & R:  top chefs

I remember Rex and I walked into the kitchen and asked "what's cookin'?" and John rather proudly showed us his latest creation.  It didn't really smell like much, and it just looked like a gleamin', steamin' heap of plain pasta, so we asked him, "What do you call it?"  "Pepper Pasta," he told us--basically, spaghetti, butter, and black pepper, or "Butter Spaghetti with Black Pepper."  Rex and I literally couldn't stop laughing at the time--we still laugh about it just about every time we see each other--but, really, who's laughing now?  Because, you know, John may have just been in early-'90s-postgraduate-bachelor mode, cooking the cheapest, quickest thing he could think of, but he was onto something.

"Butter Spaghetti with Black Pepper" may not have been a thing (although, who knows, it probably is--cacio e pepe certainly is, and burro e pepe sounds like it could be a tasty dish), but cucina povera is as real as it gets.

What is cucina povera?  Well, it's pretty much what it sounds like:  it's Italian for "the cuisine of poverty," "poor food," or "peasants' food."  In other words, it's the term that's often used to describe Italy's most basic, honest, and elemental dishes.  And it's a good thing to know about, because most of the dishes that fall under this category are both simple and tasty, and they're also meat-free.  In fact, with Lent upon us, this is really a great time of year for such dishes.

Michelle and I have a bit of a thing for these kinds of recipes from around the world.  One of our favourite discoveries from a few years ago, back when the subprime mortgages market collapsed and the global economy teetered on the edge, was a recipe that we found in George Lang's The Cuisine of Hungary that seemed ideal for the times.  It was called Caraway Soup, and it basically consisted of water, salt, and toasted caraway seeds.*  Sounds ludicrous, but it was actually pretty satisfying, and if you bourg-ed it up a little with some chicken broth instead of water and some croutons, it was downright delicious.

Anyway, we're still firm believers in such recipes, and our favourite recent cucina povera recipe is a pasta dish that's really not that much more involved than John's Butter Spaghetti with Black Pepper.  This one comes from David Tanis's One Good Dish:  The Pleasures of a Simple Meal, it's called Spaghetti with Bread Crumbs and Pepper, and it's an unbelievably simple weekday stunner.  In fact, Tanis comes right out and states the following:  "For me, this frugal pasta dish ranks among the best things to eat.  It has the same appeal as pasta alla carbonara--and it satisfies even without the pancetta, cheese, and eggs."  And, you know, I think he's right--on both counts.

The secret, in my opinion, has to do with three things:  crushed red pepper flakes, fennel seeds, and using hand-torn bread crumbs whenever possible.  It's these three ingredients that really elevate this dish.

What are the details?

Well, let's just stay you have a day-old leftover baguette end kicking around one day...

 fig. b:  stale baguette

Spaghetti with Bread Crumbs and Pepper 

A 4-inch length of stale dry baguette or a few slices of dry old French bread
2 tbsp olive oil, plus extra for drizzling
3 to 4 garlic cloves, minced
1/4 tsp coarsely crushed fennel seeds
salt and freshly ground black pepper
crushed red pepper flakes
1/4 pound spaghetti
a chunk of Pecorino Romano cheese for grating (optional, but highly recommended) 

With a serrated knife, saw the baguette into thin slices.  Crumble the bread with your fingers, which will produce a nice mixture of coarse and fine crumbs. 

 fig. c:  hand-torn bread crumbs

Heat the 2 tablespoons olive oil in a wide skillet over medium heat.  Add the crumbs and let them fry gently and slowly take on color, stirring occasionally.  When they are golden and crisp, add the garlic and the fennel seeds and cook for a minute or so.  Season the crumbs generously with salt and pepper, and add a bold amount (up to your discretion) of crushed red pepper flakes as well.  Remove from the heat. 

Cook the pasta in boiling well-salted water until just al dente.  Drain and toss with the bread crumb mixture.  Drizzle a little more oil.  Add grated cheese to taste, if you wish. 

Serves 1.

[recipe borrowed almost verbatim from David Tanis's One Good Dish] 

 fig. d:  one damn good dish

I'd made Spaghetti and Bread Crumbs recipes like this before, but this is the very best version I've ever encountered.  For me, the crushed fennel seeds are the genius touch.  Use sweet Italian fennel seeds, if you can get your hands on them, or, my favourite, Lucknow fennel, for a somewhat more exotic finish.

You might think Tanis is exaggerating about this dish, but he really isn't.  Few dishes are as dead easy, or as satisfying.

aj

* Okay, okay--I'm exaggerating a little.  The dish was actually called Caraway Soup with Garlic Croutons, and it involved a simple roux, an egg, and some butter, in addition to those garlicky croutons, but Lang noted:

In most Hungarian families, when the housewife has to make ends meet, the egg would be eliminated and lard would be used instead of butter.  This is a perfect example of the Hungarian talent for making a delicious dish out of meager ingredients.

Vienna Calling!, rev. ed.

fig. a: hallo?

By popular demand, we bring you more FoodLab-related news, and, this time, it's news that's sure to excite all those who attended and appreciated our various Kaffeeklatsch events of the last year. Get this:

Vienna Calling!
November 30 - December 3
FoodLab presents a multi-course menu inspired by the Jewel of the Danube, including mushroom strudel, spaetzle with cheese and lardons, Hungarian goulash, & the return of sachertorte!

Wintermarkt 2011
December 8 - December 11
FoodLab presents a Central & Eastern European Christmas Market at this year's Souk @ SAT. Yes, glühwein will be served, as will a wide assortment Czech and Viennese seasonal treats.

Need more convincing? Check out what the Gazette's Susan Schwartz had to say about the FoodLab in today's paper! You'll also find photographs, not to mention three honest-to-goodness FoodLab recipes.

FoodLab
1201 St. Laurent Blvd
Montréal, QC
(514) 844-2033

aj

Trans-Europe Express

fig. a: kugelhopf 1

It's been two days since the Kaffeeklatsch event at Laloux and we're still buzzing. We had a good feeling going into this--there seemed to be a lot of enthusiasm in the air leading up to Sunday. And with fresh snow on the ground, a bright sun in the sky, mild temperatures, and a star-studded lineup of Central European pastries ready to go, it really seemed like everything was falling into place. The Linzer cookies were finalized. The strudel dough was stretched, brushed with butter, gently folded over apples, rum-soaked raisins, and walnuts, and baked. Cookies and cakes were placed on display. Team Myriade fine-tuned their equipment and prepped their coffees. Team Laloux readied themselves for service. And by 1:45 (!), people started to show up--in numbers (!!). What was billed as a 2:00 - 5:00 affair turned into a 1:45 - 5:45 affair, but, more importantly, the atmosphere was positively electric. No one spontaneously burst into poetry the way Michelle had imagined, but she was treated to an impromptu poetry reading as she made the rounds (and she received another poem via email), and everywhere you looked people were klatsching it up and partaking in kaffee und kuchen as if they'd been doing it their entire lives.

fig. b: kugelhopf 2

I was maybe not the most objective observer, but the combination of Michelle's cookies and pastries + Team Myriade's amazing brews + the charm and ambiance of Laloux's dining room on a bright winter's day was something to behold. And a lot of people I talked to seemed to feel similarly.

If you couldn't make it out on Sunday and you're having a hard time imagining what Kaffeeklatsch looked like, this should give you an idea:

fig. c: petit fours*

fig. d: kugelhopf plate**

fig. e: strudel**

fig. f: sachertorte mit schlag

fig. g: Michelle & co.**

And even if you did get a chance to attend, you might be curious to see what was going on behind the scenes. If you've never made a strudel, this is what the process looks like as the dough is stretched to the point of translucency, stuffed with the apple/raisin/nut filling, and folded.



figs. h, i, j: strudel 101

If all this sounds/looks like fun and you weren't able to make it, I can say with some degree of certainty that there will be repeat performances of Kaffeeklatsch in the future. We had too much fun for it to be otherwise--it would be a shame not to throw another one. Plus, we've got all kinds of ideas for future ones: readings, live music, films, etc. So stay tuned to "...an endless banquet" for news of future Kaffeeklatsch events (or, if you can prefer, you can join our new Kaffeeklatsch Mtl page on Facebook). We just need to figure out a schedule (monthly? bi-monthly? quarterly?).

I can also say that if you're interested in trying Michelle's sachertorte, she'll be offering this chocolate-apricot delicacy as the dessert du jour at Laloux all this week.

Lastly, thanks to Laloux for hosting, Team Myriade for kicking out the jams, and extra-special thanks to all of you who graced Kaffeeklatsch #1 with your presence and made the event a smash hit.

aj

P.S. After all that coffee, after all the excitement, after listening to DJ Der Kommisar's Kaffeeklatsch Klub Mix for hours on end, we were jonesing for a classic Central European meal of some kind. Thing is, we were also exhausted, so when we got an invitation to a Super Bowl tacos night with some friends, we jumped at the opportunity, and it was just what the doctor ordered: overstuffed tacos, ice-cold beers, chips, football, Glee, and good times.

The next day that hankering hadn't subsided, though, and we still had a few pieces of Michelle's kugelhopf left over, so we did the only sensible thing: we baked some sourdough rye, whipped up some goulash, and invited some people over for a collaborative Hungarian feast, complete with cucumber salad, körözött júhtúró (an enchantingly umami-rich cheese spread), Hungarian freak-folk (Félix Lajkó!), Hungarian folk-metal (Vágtázó Halottkémek!), some simultaneous translation, and a trio of impressive Hungarian wines: a dry 2007 Tokaji Furmint, a 2007 Hunyadi Kéthely, made with the pinot noir-like kékfrankos (blaufrankish) grape, and 1996 Tokaji Aszú 5 Puttonyos dessert wine.

fig. k: après le déluge

Want to make your own goulash? You can find our AEB recipe here.

Curious about that cheese spread? Here's a recipe:

Körözött Júhtúró, a.k.a. Liptó Cheese Spread

1/2 pound Liptó sheep's milk cheese [this cheese is known as Liptauer in Austria, and Romanian/Slovak Brindza is an acceptable substitute--in Montreal, you can find it at select Central- and Eastern-Europe specialty food stores, like Slovenia (6424, rue Clark)]
1/4 pound lightly salted butter, softened
1 tsp Hungarian paprika [you can use either sweet or hot paprika--we opted for hot]
1/2 tsp prepared mustard [think Central European/German mustard]
1/2 tsp pounded caraway seeds
1 small onion, grated
1/2 tsp anchovy paste [we made our own using salt-packed anchovies]

garnishes: radish slices, green chiles, scallions

Sieve the cheese and mix it with softened butter and all other ingredients until the spread is light red in color and evenly mixed. Refrigerate.

Serve with slices of good, crusty bread, such as freshly baked sourdough rye, accompanied with garnishes.

Mystified by the anchovies? I was. Especially when our friend A. described this dish as something you might get served in the Hungarian countryside. When I asked him about the anchovies he had one word in reply: "Trieste." Of course.

Never tried a Hungarian wine? You can find all three of the wines mentioned above at the SAQ.

* l-r: rum balls, Linzer cookies, vanilla spritz cookies, hazelnut crescents

** very special thanks to EM for the additional photographs

Three Bazaar Pileup

It's a little too late to be telling you that the Hungarian United Church's annual Hungarian Bazaar has the best all-around food (sweets, savory treats, selection) that we've encountered in all our years of prowling Montreal's bazaars.  (Hopefully, you noticed our "heads-up" from a couple of weeks back and took up the recommendation.)  But it's not too late to remind you to get out there and take in the city's full array of seasonal fairs, bazaars, salons, souks, and other festive occasions.  You never know what you might find.

In that very spirit, we crisscrossed the city in the AEBmobile last Saturday, hitting three bazaars (and one Expozine!) in the space of half a day.  Not all bazaars are created equal, of course, and some are more festive than others.  We were sorry to have missed the Bottle Raffle (a.k.a., the Booze Raffle) at one Westmount bazaar (although they did have some pretty cool books about drinking),

  fig. a: yeah, sure it is

but at another bazaar we found an impressive display of wooden chairs for sale.

fig. b: bazaar activity

They looked like they were trying to clamber toward the windows to make a break for it, so we helped liberate a few of them.

When we got to the Hungarian United Church, there were sure signs that this was going to be another good year.

fig. c: sign of hope

This year we didn't find the Sausage Man--the master sausage-maker who used to hold court at the back of the auditorium with hundreds upon hundreds of freshly smoked Hungarian sausages--but the kitchen was busy pumping out the hot lunches, and if you didn't want the authentic goulash with galuska, you had the option of the tasty debreceni sausage plate with sauerkraut and paprika potatoes.  They also had the loveliest sweet palacsinta crêpes on offer.  It's a good thing the palacsinta were so unbelievably delicate, though, because this year's baked goods and desserts table was mighty impressive.

Michelle went straight for the doughnuts, and good thing, too, because not only were they astoundingly tasty--in the same major league as my grandmother's--but they were selling fast.  Two cups of coffee and a few of those sugar-dusted delicacies later, we were in a state of grace.  We found ourselves gazing around absent-mindedly, taking in the scene, giddy with satisfaction.  "Like my grandma's.  Just like my grandma's," I found myself muttering.

And it was then, and only then, that we really noticed the layer cake that was holding court on the desserts table from the lofty perch of its cake stand.  C. noted that it looked like the real thing, like a homemade Hungarian nut torte (not as many layers, perhaps, but just as much technique).  She went over to purchase a piece, and thank the Lord that she did.  That slice of walnut cake, was the moistest, most luxurious cake any of us had had in a long time.  And all of a sudden, C. found herself having a Proustian moment of her own:  "Tastes just like my grandmother's," she said.

When we woke up out of our second paprika- & sugar-induced stupor, I decided I had to tell the Pastry Ladies just how much we'd enjoyed their treats.  I went up and talked to one of the women at the desserts table, and it turned out the walnut cake was her family recipe.  I must have really been waxing poetic, because she took me for one of her own.  "Are you Hungarian?," the Cake Lady asked.  "No, Slovak," I replied.  "But my grandmother's family was originally from Hungary."  She just nodded knowingly.

When I told her the doughnuts tasted like my Baba's, she told me that I should go and tell the woman who'd made them.  So I did.  Turns out the Doughnut Lady was working a table near the back of the auditorium.  When I told her I that I'd loved her doughnuts, she was thrilled.  "Oh, thank you, thank you..."  When I told her that they'd reminded me of my grandmother's, she touched my cheek and nearly started crying.  Let me tell you, that's an experience you won't get at Tim's.

What's the point of all this?  What's the point of torturing you with all these delicious and highly sentimental details after the fact?  Well, if you're the kind of Montrealer who misses the good, old days when top-notch Eastern European pastries were easy to come by, there's hope.  Many of these delicacies are still around, you just have to know where to find them.  You may not be able to find quite the selection you once found along the Main, but you just might find exactly what you're looking for at your local bazaar.  And if the sound of authentic Hungarian walnut cakes and doughnuts appeals to you, well, the ladies at the Hungarian United Church have been known to take special orders (!).

You can order Hungarian cakes and pastries from Carol Pisimisi ("the Cake Lady") at (514) 683-5978, or you can call the Hungarian United Church directly at (514) 737-8457 to inquire about cakes, pastries, and doughnuts, or upcoming food-related church events.

fig. d: Hungarian doughnut

I mean, just look at that beauty.  Don't you owe it to yourself?

aj

Hungarian Kick

fig. a: Hungarian sweet and hot peppers

Did the idea to make Hungarian goulash this past week come from a recent re-viewing of R.W. Fassbinder's The Marriage of Maria Braun? Yes, the film integrates the utter hysteria that surrounded Germany's 3-2 victory over Hungary in the 1954 World Cup final seamlessly into its explosive finale, and, yes, I have been on a real Hungarian kick suddenly, making three Hungarian meals since watching Fassbinder's masterpiece of melodrama, but, c'mon... Truth is, the inspiration behind that goulash had a lot more to do with the current availability of peppers--fresh sweet and hot peppers from Jean-Talon Market, and dried peppers from Olives et Épices, also at the market. The dried peppers--whole Hungarian smoked hot peppers--we'd gotten a while back, and as soon as we gave them a whiff, we turned to each other, gave each other a couple of knowing looks, and uttered the word "goulash" in unison. The fresh peppers in question were Hungarian banana peppers and Hungarian sweet peppers from Birri. As soon as they came into season, I started thinking about all those pepper-heavy Eastern European dishes that I love, like Paprika Chicken, Slovak eggs, Bab Leves, and, yes, Hungarian goulash.

I turned to a recipe for gulyás from Saveur, where, unlike the dish that's come to be known as "Hungarian goulash" in North America, the consistency is more along the lines of a "soup that eats like a meal." The recipe seemed authentic and all--though it does include tomatoes, which some gulyás devotees strictly avoid--so I used it as a blueprint, but I made a few significant changes. First off, I was more in the mood for a stew than a soup (even one "that eats like a meal"), so I cut back on the broth and aimed for a thicker, more stew-like consistency, a somewhat authentic take on the bastardized North American version I grew up with (the kind that tends to get served in the presence of strolling violins). Secondly, inspired by the idea of those Hungarian cowpokes making their gulyás over an open fire, I decided to make an iittala casserole-bound version that could be cooked over an open fire, if you're the kind of ranch hand who takes Finnish designer cookware out on the range, or in our fireplace, if only we had one. Lastly, I left the potatoes out. And then I put them back in (you'll see what I'm talking about momentarily). But mostly I balked when it came to the potatoes. And I'm not 100% sure why. I told myself it was because I knew there was going to be enough to freeze, and sometimes potatoes don't freeze so well, but I never really found that line all that convincing.

So, this particular goulash might not win prizes for authenticity, but, as we all know, authenticity has its limits. The bottom line was that it was delicious--the cubed beef had turned to candy, and it had a deep, rich broth that was utterly irresistible (you know: the kind of dish that you just can't stop yourself from having one more bowl of, even when you're officially "full"). I was downright enthusiastic about my bowl. "This might just be the best goulash I've ever had," I remember thinking.* Then I went back and had three or four more helpings just to be sure. Michelle didn't have her bowl of goulash until she got off from work later that night and I assembled her late-night snack. Now, granted, she hadn't eaten in 12 hours, she'd just come back from a tough shift, and she was maybe just a little delirious, but she wasn't two or three heaping spoonfuls in before she turned to me, earnestly, and exclaimed, "This is my favorite meal ever." Like I said: she was a little delirious. But I knew what she was talking about. That pseudo-Hungarian goulash absolutely hit the spot. It's certainly well worth tracking down smoked hot Hungarian peppers and fresh Hungarian sweet and hot peppers for.

fig. b: Goulash à la AEB

Goulash à la AEB

2 strips of thick-cut bacon
1-2 tbsp vegetable oil
2 yellow onions, peeled and chopped
2 1/2 lbs beef chuck, cut into 1" cubes
1 carrot, peeled, and coarsely chopped
1/2 tsp caraway seeds
3 cloves garlic
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp sweet high-quality Hungarian paprika
1 rounded teaspoon ground smoked Hungarian hot peppers (optional, although you could use a high-quality smoked Mexican chile in its place if those are more readily available--either way, this touch really gives the goulash depth, it also gives it an unexpected, well, kick)
4 cups beef stock, warm
1 medium tomato, peeled, seeded, and coarsely chopped (optional if you're one of those that believes that tomatoes have about as much place in a gulyás as they do in a chili)
3-4 fresh Hungarian sweet peppers
1-2 fresh Hungarian hot peppers

2 strips thick-cut bacon
1 tbsp vegetable oil (if necessary)
1 lb. boiling potatoes, peeled and cubed
4 scallions, chopped
1 generous pinch paprika
1 small pinch smoked Hungarian hot pepper
salt and freshly ground black pepper

In a large pot, fry the bacon strips, rendering their fat. Remove the bacon, and dice the strips. Reserve. Add 1-2 tbsp vegetable oil, bringing your total amount of fat in your pot to 2 tbsp (or just over), and heat over low heat. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft, about 20 minutes. Add the cubed beef, the carrots, the fresh peppers (both sweet and hot), and the reserved bacon, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until beef is no longer pink, 10-15 minutes.

Preheat your oven to 300º F.

Meanwhile, toast the caraway seeds in a small skillet over low heat until fragrant, about 1 minute. Crush the toasted caraway seeds in a mortar, add the garlic and the salt and crush some more until you have a paste [everyone knows about goulash and paprika, but this combination of garlic, caraway, and salt is just as essential]. Remove the pot from the heat, add the garlic/caraway paste, the paprika, and the smoked Hungarian hot pepper to the beef mixture and mix well.

Add the stock to the beef mixture, stir, and transfer to an oven-ready casserole. Add the tomatoes, stir, and cover. Put the casserole in the oven. Bake for 1/2 hour at 300º F, then lower the heat to 250º and bake for another 2-3 hours.**

While the goulash is simmering to perfection in the oven, giving off the most other-worldly aroma, make the potatoes. Boil your cubed potatoes in salted water until just tender. Meanwhile, fry the bacon until just crispy in a good-size skillet, remove them from the heat, and chop them into thin strips. If necessary, add 1 tbsp of oil to the bacon fat and bring to temperature over medium heat. Add the potatoes and fry until they begin to turn golden on all sides, about 5-10 minutes. Add the paprika and the hot pepper and stir for another 2 minutes. Add the scallions and stir for another minute. Add salt and pepper to taste and set them aside, leaving them at room temperature. The potatoes should have "character," but be careful not to over-season them, because you're going to be adding them to your perfectly seasoned goulash momentarily.

When the goulash has finished simmering to perfection, season to even greater perfection with the salt and freshly ground black pepper. Place a spoonful of the potatoes in each of your bowls and ladle the goulash overtop. Serve with crusty bread (real rye makes for a particularly good combo). This is a no-no in some camps, but I like my goulash with a small dollop of sour cream.

Serves 6-8 hungry souls.

NOTE: Goulash often tastes even better on Day 2. I wouldn't necessarily recommend making it a day in advance, because, personally, I wouldn't be able to restrain myself, but, if at all possible, try and keep some as leftovers for lunch or dinner the next day. You'll be happy you did.

[adapted from a recipe in Saveur's "Food for the Holidays" Winter 2004 special issue]

If you have anything you'd like to add (or subtract) or if you've got a family recipe for goulash you'd like to pass along, please drop us a line, either via the comments function or via the miracle of electronic mail.

aj

* I spent a good week in Budapest, Eger, and northern Hungary more generally many years ago now, but I was a vegetarian at the time, so the only goulash I experienced was served to me by Hungarian hippies, not the mustachioed gents you see tending their cauldrons in this photo.

** If you would rather make a stovetop version, keep the proto-goulash in your large pot and simmer it as gently as possible for a good 2-3 hours. This slow, gentle simmering is what turns lowly chuck to "candy."

The Hungarian New Wave Starts at Home

Just as Montreal was once a respectable city for rye bread, it was also once an important hub for Canada’s Hungarian immigrant population and, as a result, a city with its fair share of Hungarian restaurants, delis, and bakeries. It goes without saying that the virtual disappearance of these two aspects of Montreal’s former food culture is no mere coincidence. Again, it’s not that you can’t find Hungarian food in Montreal—one of the city’s best boucheries/charcuteries is the venerable Charcuterie Hongroise, which has been selling their exceptional sausages, smoked bacon, and other specialties on the Main for some 50 years now. When it comes to actual sit-down restaurants, the metro area has a few, but it’s safe to say that there isn’t a whole lot of competition in this department anymore. Gone are the days when Hungarian establishments were clustered along a good portion of St. Laurent Blvd., gone are the days when Hungarian-continental restaurants like Pam Pam (my parents’ favorite) graced the city’s downtown dining scene. When it comes to Hungarian restaurants and their dwindling numbers, though, it strikes me that Montreal isn’t alone among North American cities. It might just be my imagination, but it seems to me that Hungarian restaurants were much more of a fixture 20-30 years ago (maybe it’s just because I was spending so much more time in the Goulash Belt back then). What happened? Did tastes just shift away from Hungarian, and, if so, why? Did the clichéd trappings of your average Hungarian restaurant—the mandatory ersatz beef goulash, the strolling gypsy violins, etc.—finally suffocate the cuisine? One would have thought that the fall of the Iron Curtain might have triggered a new wave of Hungarian restaurants across North America. Maybe it has elsewhere, but if it has I haven’t read anything about it. It certainly hasn’t in Montreal. If ever there was a cuisine just begging to be revisited and revitalized it was Hungarian cuisine. We’re constantly being told how young and brash and exciting a city Budapest is (and those of us who’ve been there know that it is). I say, bring on the Hungarian New Wave!

In the meantime, you’ll have to take matters into your own hands as we did the other night. Disappointed by the last “chicken paprikash” I had in a restaurant, and having been eager to experiment with some of the Hungarian recipes we had at home, I went out to the store to get a fresh tin of hot Hungarian paprika, Pride of Szeged brand, and we rolled up our sleeves and got to work.

Now the recipe I chose came from Saveur’s special issue of Food for the Holidays (Winter 2004), and it came under the unpretentious and somewhat vague title Paprika Chicken. The write-up mentioned only that it was a “home-style version of an iconic Hungarian dish,” but it didn’t specify which dish in particular. You see, things get a bit complicated when it comes to those dishes that have become know as the classics of Hungarian cuisine. First off, the Hungarian equivalent to the Anglicism “goulash” has nothing to do with stew, it’s the word for cattle driver (gulyás). This word, in turn, is associated with a soup (not a stew) called gulyás leves, meaning “soup of the cattle driver” or “soup of the cowboy,” a soup that bears little resemblance to “Hungarian goulash.” What is known internationally as “Hungarian goulash” is known in the motherland as either pïrkïlt or paprikás. Now, Hungarian cattlemen, shepherds, and pig herders had been making dishes involving cubes of meat, onions and spices (like “Hungarian goulash”) for at least 150-300 years before the arrival of paprika, and one common version involved roasting the meat over an open fire until it reached the point just prior to burning, acquiring a slightly burned surface (the quality of which became known as pïrkïl). According to Alan Davidson, although paprika was mentioned in a Hungarian dictionary as early as 1604—not too long after its ancestor pepper (Capsicum Annuum) was brought to Europe from the New World—it was not until the early 19th century that paprika took hold in Hungary (by way of Turkey and Bulgaria) and that the Hungarian people reinvented their cuisine, practically eliminating the use of ginger and black pepper in the process. When they experimented with this new spice, Hungarians discovered they could use it to reach the point of pïrkïl, flavor-wise, without actually burning the meat, and that, in fact, they preferred this variation to most ways of cooking meat that had preceded it. This new dish became known as pïrkïlt, paprikás if sour cream had been added to it, it was used to cook beef along with veal, pork, rabbit, and poultry, and it quickly became the national dish, the dish that vaulted paprika to the status of “national condiment.” What does this all mean? Well, I guess it means that the dish we made was in actuality a pïrkïlt because although sour cream is listed, it only appears in the form of a dollop alongside the dish. That being the case, you can understand why Saveur might have fudged the name a bit (in fact, some of you out there might be wishing that I had, too).

What’s important here is that the dish is a stunner. Simmer down that sauce and it turns into a thing of beauty even though it doesn’t involve a roux in any way, shape, or form (I was a bit surprised). The mix of paprika powders gives the dish an impressive depth, of course, and feel free to play around with the ratio a bit if you prefer your dishes a little spicier, but the real surprise was the effect of the green pepper, which gave the sauce a subtle flavor that I’d never been able to place before. It’s traditional to serve this dish with spätzle-like dumplings (what my Baba used to call by the Slovak word halusky), but almost as classic is the combo with egg noodles, and that’s the path we followed this time around. Lastly, that sour cream/milk mixture might seem a bit arbitrary, but it was worth doing—it improved the consistency and mellowed it out considerably.

Without any further ado:

Paprika Chicken

1/4 cup vegetable oil
3 medium yellow onions, peeled and finely chopped
3 cloves of garlic, crushed then peeled
2 tsp sweet Hungarian paprika
1/2 tsp hot Hungarian paprika
3 fresh or canned plum tomatoes (given the season, I used canned tomatoes)
2 green bell peppers, cored, seeded, and diced finely, or, preferably, some other tastier green peppers (like Cubanelles or Italian fryers), treated in the same way
2 tsp salt
1 cup water
2 3.5-lb chickens, rinsed and cut into 4 pieces each
1/2 cup sour cream
2 tbsp milk

Heat the oil in large pot over medium heat. Add onions and cook until golden, about 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium-low, add garlic, the sweet and hot paprika, tomatoes, bell pepper, salt, and 1 cup of water and stir well. Add the chicken, cover, and simmer until tender, about 45 minutes, turning chicken once about halfway through (and possibly rearranging the pieces to ensure that they get evenly cooked, as I did). Remove the chicken pieces from the pot and set them aside.

Strain the sauce through a fine strainer into a bowl, making sure to press down on the vegetables to squeeze every last drop of liquid out of them. Discard the vegetable solids. Return the sauce to the pot, increase the heat to medium, and simmer until the sauce has thickened, about 20-30 minutes. Meanwhile, when the chicken is cool enough to handle, remove and discard the skin and bones, keeping the breasts and thighs intact (to be honest, we weren’t that methodical about this step—we didn’t care if it resulted in a somewhat messier meal, we were all friends and family). Return chicken to the pot, reduce heat to low, and keep warm, tossing the chicken in the sauce so that it gets coated evenly.

Mix the sour cream and the milk together in a small bowl and set aside.

Serve the chicken pieces with egg noodles, a ladle full of that amazing sauce, and a dollop of the sour cream/milk mixture. Bread and salad is all you need to make a meal of this.

Serves 4 to 6.

By the way, we’re compiling variations on traditional Hungarian pïrkïlt and paprikás dishes. We’d be ecstatic if any you out there would send us your home recipes.

aj

Andrew Dalby, Dangerous Tastes: The Story of Spices
Alan Davidson, The Penguin Companion to Food