One-Two Punch

fig. a: one

fig. b: two

This has got to be one of the world's great combination punches: Sichuan chiles + Sichuan pepper. The first blow packing considerable amounts of heat, the second providing an odd numbing effect that allows one to somehow consume all that firepower. It's certainly one of our favorites, and last week when the two of us found ourselves feeling a bit under the weather, we knew that that lethal Sichuan kick was just what we needed. We also knew we wanted something brothy, something like Water-Boiled Beef, so we turned to our good friend Fuchsia Dunlop to see what she had to say.

If you're still unfamiliar with Dunlop's 2001 instant-classic Land of Plenty: Authentic Sichuan Recipes Personally Gathered in the Chinese Province of Sichuan (as we were until just a few months ago), and you love the searing heat and sophistication of real Sichuanese cuisine, you're in for a treat. Land of Plenty is a remarkably comprehensive cookbook that's honest, and forthright, and full of heart. Its opening section begins with a passionate and insightful introduction (our favorite part: the section on "Diffferent Food Traditions" that discusses homestyle cooking, street food, and banquet cooking [!]), continues with detailed and fascinating overviews on "basic cutting skills," "cooking methods," "equipment," and stocking "the Sichuanese pantry," and, really, the book never lets up. Seriously, just when you think Dunlop can't possibly have anything more to add, she drops in appendices on "the 23 flavors of Sichuan" (e.g. #4: hot and numbing flavor) and "the 56 cooking methods of Sichuan" (e.g. #6: bao: "explode frying").

With Dunlop as our guide, we'd been traveling through Land of Plenty for a number of months, but we'd yet to make her Water-boiled Beef, which she actually gives another name. If you've never experienced the full power of this benign-sounding dish, Dunlop's introduction sets the scene:

Sichuanese people joke that outsiders, wary of the fiery local flavors, order this dish in restaurants in the hope of eating something mild and soothing... In fact, it's sensationally hot... It's not for the faint-hearted, but if you have a taste for spicy food, it's fabulous, and perfect for a cold winter's day when you need firing up with energy and warmth. As they say in Sichuan, it'll make you pour with sweat, even on the coldest days of the year.

As a result, though Dunlop notes that the dish's name (shui zhu niu rou) simply means "beef boiled in water," she calls her version Boiled Beef Slices in a Fiery Sauce.*

Sound like fun? It is. You see, as if that Sichuan chile-Sichuan pepper one-two punch weren't enough, Water-boiled Beef's combo actually contains one last furnace blast: what Dunlop calls "lashings" of chili bean paste, a pungent, powerful chile and fava bean concoction.

fig. c: three

Don't settle for imitations. Look for the real thing. This brand's the best we've found here in Montreal.

fig. d: Imperial Sichuan pepper

Also, if you haven't tried Philippe de Vienne's "Imperial" Sichuan pepper, we highly recommend that too. No other Sichuan pepper we've encountered is as potent or as floral.

And just how does one go about making Water-boiled beef? We're glad you asked.

Water-boiled Beef

1 head of celery (about 1 lb), fibrous outer edges removed, chopped into 2" x 1/2" sticks
4 scallions, gently crushed and chopped into matching 2" x 1/2" sticks
a small handful of Sichuan chiles (roughly 8-10), snipped in half, seeds removed
1 lb lean beef (flank steak, for instance), sliced against the grain into 1" x 2" strips
salt
1 tbsp Shaoxing rice wine or medium-dry sherry
1/3 cup peanut oil
2 tsp Sichuan pepper
3 tbsp chili bean paste
3 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade
2 tsp dark soy sauce
6 tbsp cornstarch mixed with 6 tbsp cold water

Add 1/4 teaspoon of salt and the Shaoxing rice wine to the beef strips, mix well, and allow to marinate while you prepare the other ingredients.

Heat 3 tablespoons of oil in a wok until hot but not yet smoking. Add the chiles and the Sichuan pepper and stir-fry until fragrant and the chiles are just beginning to brown (taking care not to burn them, however). Immediately slide the spices into a bowl, leaving the oil in the wok. When they have cooled down a bit, transfer the spices to a cutting board and, using a cleaver, chop them finely, then set them aside.

Return the oily wok to the stove and heat over a high flame. When it begins to smoke, add the vegetables and stir-fry for a minute or two, adding 1/4-1/2 teaspoon salt to taste, until they are hot and just-cooked but still crunchy. Transfer the vegetables to the serving bowl.

Heat another 3 tablespoons of oil in the wok over a high flame, until just beginning to smoke. Turn the heat down to medium, add in the chili bean paste, and stir-fry for about 30 seconds, until the oil is red and fragrant. Add the stock and the dark soy sauce, season to taste with salt, and return to a boil over a high flame. Add the cornstarch mixture to the beef and stir well in one direction to coat all the pieces. When the sauce is boiling vigorously, carefully drop in the beef slices. Wait for the sauce to return to a boil and then use a pair of chopsticks to gently separate the slices. Simmer for a minute or so, until the beef is just cooked, and then spoon it onto the waiting vegetables. Pour the sauce over top.

Swiftly rinse out the wok and dry it well. Heat another 3-4 tablespoons of oil in the wok until smoking. Sprinkle the chopped chiles and the Sichuan pepper over the beef dish and then pour over the smoking oil, which should sizzle dramatically. If you move quickly, the dish should still be hissing and sizzling when you bring it to the table.

Serves two as a main dish, four with rice and two or three side dishes.

Did it work? You bet. That Water-boiled Beef was a knockout.

aj

* See? What did I tell you? Honest and forthright.

AEB Classics #61: Pad Thai, rev. ed.

fig. a: Pad Thai with chopsticks and lime wedge

Let's face it: Montreal's not without its quality Thai restaurants, but this ain't Frisco and it ain't Chicago neither. I still dream of this one no-nonsense Thai noodle joint in I had the pleasure of experiencing in Chicago some years back now. There were a few tables, but mostly there was just a lot of counter space, and behind the long, winding counter, an entire regiment of Thai stir-fry masters whipping up order after order of out-of-this-world stir-fried noodles and fried rice in just seconds flat. I've tried many a Pad Thai recipe over the years in an attempt (however vain) to recreate the magic of those stir-fry masters. This is the very best I've encountered. It's simple and to-the-point and it turns out beautifully. The toughest thing about it is rounding up the ingredients, but your finer Asian supermarkets and grocers will have the harder-to-find items. However, if you feel like you need an absolutely encyclopedic overview on Pad Thai and how to prepare it (and a remarkably similar recipe to the one you'll find below), by all means take a look a Chez Pim's authoritative "Pad Thai for Beginners" from earlier this year.

Pad Thai

1/2 package Thai rice noodles
1/4 cup canola or peanut oil
4 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 lb fresh shrimp, peeled
1/4 lb deep-fried tofu, diced
1/4 cup pickled radish
1 egg
salt
4 scallions, finely chopped
1 cup bean sprouts
1/4 cup roasted peanuts, crushed

sauce:
1/4 cup sugar

fig. b: high-quality fish sauce

1/4 cup high-quality fish sauce
1/4 cup tamarind pulp*
2 tbsp paprika
1 tsp crushed hot red peppers

garnish:
chives
bean sprouts
crushed peanuts
lime wedges

Soak the noodles in warm water for 30 minutes, then drain. Heat your oil over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and the shrimp and sauté for 3-5 seconds (yes, seconds--remember: you're a Thai stir-fry master now and you're totally in the zone). Add the noodles and sauté, stirring constantly, until the noodles soften (you'll reach a point where you become convinced that they'll remain stiff and inedible forever, and then, all of a sudden, they'll take on the characteristics of the Thai noodles you know and love), about 2-5 minutes (depending on the brand of rice noodles, as I've discovered). Add the sauce, mix well, and cook for 30 seconds, stirring constantly. Add the egg and cook 30 seconds, stirring constantly. Add the scallions, bean sprouts, peanuts and radish, stir well, then remove from heat. Serve with garnishes and allow your guests to garnish their Pad Thai according to their wishes.

[recipe courtesy of Philippe de Vienne and La Dépense (Jean-Talon Market, 273-1118), which also happens to be a very good place to get those harder-to-find items listed above]

aj

* For AEB's instructions on making your own tamarind pulp, look here.

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."

"Merci beaucoup!"

Okay, one last word on Philippe de Vienne for the time being.

A couple of months ago we had the pleasure of attending one of the De Viennes' fantastic workshops/seminars on spices. Philippe de Vienne has an absolutely dynamic personality, he loves talking about food, and he's an excellent teacher. If you get a chance to take one of his workshops or classes (you can sign up for them at Olives et Épices or La Dépense) you really should, but you have to be on the ball because they get booked up very quickly. Anyway, one of the many charming things about De Vienne (and you can see this in his appearances on À la Di Stasio, too) is that his enthusiasm is so great for his topic--honest, quality cuisine with bold flavors--that he has a tendency to rattle off one recipe idea after another recipe idea after another, all of them tempting. In the language of the street, he just freestyles them. His passion for food is so great, and he's so full of ideas that it's as if they just come spilling out. When he's riffing like this, from time to time he'll talk about more involved recipes that require real patience and attention, but for the most part he leans towards recipes that are relatively simple, that feature the pronounced flavors he loves, and that pay off big on the satisfaction scale. The ones that fall under this latter category--the real showstoppers--De Vienne frequently brings to a close with a crisp, resounding "Merci beaucoup!"--a "Merci beaucoup!" that simultaneously means "that's all there is to it," "satisfaction guaranteed," and "you can invite me over for this anytime." Over the course of the three hours that we were at his studio for that workshop De Vienne fired off recipes for everything from Mexican shrimp with Pasilla de Oaxaca to Paté Chinois à la Ethné to Bengali grilled fish. The one that probably got us the most immediately excited, though, was De Vienne's shorthand recipe for Chicken Berbère: garlic, Berbère spices, butter, lemon juice, salt, mix together and rub into the skin of a roasting chicken, place the chicken in a roasting pan on a bed of onions, bake it in the oven for an hour... Merci beaucoup!

De Vienne mentioned that the same basic formula could also be used to make other dishes, including some pretty mean shrimp, so a couple of weeks later I tried it. I shelled a pound of shrimp, deveined them and butterflied them. I put 1/3 cup of extra virgin olive oil in a mixing bowl. I added three cloves of minced garlic. I added the juice from 1/2 a lemon, 1 generous tablespoon of Berbère spice mix, and salt and pepper to taste. I then marinated my shrimp in the mixture for 1/2 hour. Then I heated my grill and when the shrimp had finished marinating I grilled them over a medium-hot fire.



They were medium-sized shrimp so the grilling time was real quick. No more than 2 minutes on one side, 1 minute on the other. Don't overcook them, but blackening them just a bit really adds to the flavor.



When I served my "shrimp Berbère" everyone went crazy. The cats, my parents, Michelle, everyone. In short, we're talking beaucoup "Merci beaucoup." The only complaint was that I hadn't bought 3 pounds of shrimp instead of the measly 1 pound I did buy. Oh, well, next time.

aj

P.S. Since some of you have asked...

The "...an endless banquet" top 6 favorite Philippe de Vienne spice mixes (in no particular order):

1. 8-pepper blend
2. Berbère spice mix
3. Panch Phoran
4. Ras el Hanout
5. Garam Masala
6. Dukkha spice blend

Other "musts" from the Philippe de Vienne épices de cru collection (again, in no particular order)

1. Tellicherry Extra Bold black pepper
2. Pasilla de Oaxaca
3. Lucknow fennel
4. Cubeb pepper
5. true cinnamon
6. Grenada nutmeg

Philippe de Vienne: the "...an endless banquet" interview, Pts. 1 & 2, rev. ed.

Pt. 1: "Oh, Canada?"

fig. A: signs of an obsession: our personal collection

Those of you who’ve been reading “…an endless banquet” for some time will know that we started championing Philippe de Vienne’s line of épices de cru over a year ago now, not long after Philippe and his wife Ethné opened Olives & Épices in the new pavilion of the Jean-Talon Market. Those of you who’ve been in our kitchen know that we developed a full-blown épices de cru obsession soon after discovering their store.

Inspired by a series of conversations we’d had with De Vienne where he showed himself to be unbelievably generous with his vast knowledge on the topic of spices and the history of the spice trade we decided to conduct an interview with De Vienne to find out more about him, how he got involved in the spice trade, and how his philosophy towards the spice trade differs from that of his mainstream competitors. This interview took place late last year.

• How did you come to be a chef/traiteur by profession?

I was born into it. My mother was in the hotel business. She worked for a chain of hotels that stretched in those days from Montreal all the way to the Caribbean. They were large 500-600 room hotels, classic hotellerie.

This company had pretty high-end hotels. We were at several, and they all had their characters. I was very lucky to have lived in Boston at the time that I did because that’s where Lydia Shire* got started. She started in my parents’ hotel. So I was really exposed to fabulous stuff 30 years ago, the avant-garde of cuisine at the time. Shire wasn’t copying the Europeans but was working with local ingredients, developing a cuisine with its own character. So I was really raised on fabulous food as a child. That was the environment I grew up in and, like other family businesses, I learned without realizing I was learning. I was like Obélix [of Astérix et Obélix fame]—I just fell in the kettle when I was a kid.

• Did you go to cooking school?

No, I would say that’s why my approach to cuisine differs from that of others. I didn’t have a formal training.

• So how did you develop your passion for spices? Was it because of your time in the Caribbean?

My passion for spices came early. When I was a kid I loved curries, I loved flavor, I loved bold tastes. I would taste a dish and say, “What’s that flavor I’m appreciating right now?” I was attracted to things that were clear. It’s like a clearly written speech—you understand it, it’s not muddled. I like bold tastes, I like clear statements, I like emotions. And I always loved food that had those qualities. It wasn’t necessarily about spices. If something is sweet and sour, I like it to be sweet and sour. If it’s canard à l’orange it’s made with bitter oranges not concentrated orange juice. I always appreciated a balance of good flavors, and the love of spices is just a part of that. Good cooking is always about using good ingredients, and spices are just a part of that repertoire of quality ingredients that make for a good cook, either professional or at home.

Later, when I was in my twenties, I went to Mexico. I decided to stay, so I found myself a job in a kitchen in a hotel. Because of my background in the hotel business, I was hired as a cook and a week later I was named chef, and six months later I was the executive chef, and a year later I was the food & beverage manager of the whole hotel. And then Club Med asked me to oversee food & beverage management for a group of six hotels and finally I said, “Nah, I think I’ll go back to the stove.”

• What part of Mexico was that?

I was in the Yucatan, in a place called Cobá. In those days it was a small 50-60 room hotel situated in one of the biggest archaeological zones of all of Mexico. The closest phone at the time was in Cancún, all my staff was Mayan, and we were living in a Mayan village. I discovered real Mayan village cuisine and I traveled , and as I did I discovered that the Mexican cuisine we knew at that time elsewhere in North America was a pale imitation of the bold, wonderful flavors of the regional foods of the local people.

Going to a restaurant in Mexico is okay, but the best food is made by the signora on the corner who’s making her stuffed chilies or the Mayan lady who’s making her salbutes**. And when you go to people’s homes and you taste these dishes you say to yourself, “Wow! That’s where the flavor is.” Nice, bold, wonderful flavors that when I got back I realized I couldn’t reproduce. And that’s because the spices, even if you could get them, were so—I mean, “second rate” would be polite. Canada is known worldwide as a dumping ground for the worst spices.

• [laughs]

We discovered this ten years ago. We went to the SIAL [Salon International de l'Alimentation] in Paris and we told ourselves, once and for all, we’re going to solve our spice problem because we never get good spices in Canada. So we went to the SIAL looking to see if there was anyone who had all of the world’s best spices, the top quality. If so, we’d order from them. So we went and anytime someone learned we were from Canada they’d say, “Oh, Canada? We’ve got really good prices for you!” Whether they were from Sri Lanka or Mexico, the first thing that always came up was price. And Canada was instantly associated with that $1.19 bag of ground spices that’s mixed with flour, rice, salt, citric acid—not to mention the illegal things that might be in there. I would say Canada generally gets the worst spices.

• But why is that? Does Canada have a reputation for having a bland palate? (Haven’t they heard about official multiculturalism?)

Part of it is that our ethos towards food has changed. Now some of us don’t mind spending $100 on a bottle of vinegar or $30 on a good bottle of olive oil. But traditionally we did mind spending that kind of money for food in general and especially ingredients. But spices haven’t caught up with that. Getting back to the SIAL, though, we realized that nobody was doing this. You could get the best of this spice from this dealer and the best of that spice from that dealer, but nobody had the mandate to gather all the world’s best spices and sell them. So we decided to do it.

• And when you say nobody, do you mean within Canada or North America, or are you talking worldwide?

Worldwide. Certainly nobody at the SIAL was doing it, and that’s the biggest wholesale food show in the world, so if there was somebody, without question they’d show up to SIAL. There are a few people now who do it, but ten years ago there was nobody. Now there’s a French company that does pretty good work, an American company that does pretty good work, but there’s still no one who seeks out the Château Margaux of peppers or the Grand Cuvée of vanillas. That’s the difference when you have a chef looking for his own spices.

So, for instance, on a trip to Oaxaca [early on] we came across an amazing batch of peppers*** and we found out which village they’d come from so we went and bought the whole crop. We bought 50-60 pounds of these peppers and had them shipped back to Montreal, but we also established a contact with these people and we retained this contact with these people. So they’re very often small farmers or a lady with a stall in a market or a local person who deals in spices—these are the people we deal with, this is where we’re getting a lot of our spices.

* The award-winning Massachusetts-born chef famed for her string of Boston restaurants and, most recently, her stint at the venerable Locke-Ober, an establishment that had previously been famous for its 97-year-old policy of forbidding entrance to women (!).

** A Yucatecan dish similar to sopes.

*** In all likelihood a batch of Pasilla de Oaxaca, perhaps De Vienne's favorite chili.



Pt. 2: terroir, travel, networking à la De Vienne, and “the roof of the store”

fig. B: little shop of wonders: behind the scenes at Olive et Épices

• So my next two questions follow up on this material: what exactly does the designation épices de cru mean? And just how different is your approach to the spice trade than that of most in the field?

Well, épices de cru is inspired by the wine trade. A lot of the language that’s used when it to comes to spices comes from the wine business. There are three main factors which determine the quality of spices. There’s the soil and the climate, the terroir. There’s the issue of varieties. When it comes to vanilla, there are many varieties of vanilla, and some are better than others. There are many varieties of peppers, there are many varieties of chilies, and you can have one kind of chipotle and another type of chipotle and they can be very different. It’s like apples. Or grapes. Grapes are grapes, but then there’s Cabernet Sauvignon and then there’s Merlot. Or there’s Cabernet Franc and then there’s Malbec. There are varieties of spices that produce great volume but have no flavor, and there are other varieties that produce less but have a greater fragrance. So there are the varieties, there’s the climate and the soil, and then there are the people who grow the spices. There’s something to be said for people who grow apples or grapes and who learned it from their grandfather who learned it from his grandfather who learned it from his grandfather. These people, the knowledge is inborn, they don’t even realize how much they know. So those are the same main factors, and it’s very similar to wine. You know, you go to Burgundy and you see here’s the Chambertin [vineyard] and here’s the Gevrey-Chambertin [vineyard]. And there’s literally a border and they’re ten feet apart. And it’s not the same wine. Because if you look at the soil closely, or if you see how the wind comes during winter from that nook at the top of the hill, you can see that that cold wind will come down that gully, and you know that therefore this wine will suffer from the cold a little bit more than the one that’s produced with the grapes from 50 feet away.

• It’s all about microclimates.

That’s right. And it’s true for spices too. You go to places like Grenada and you find that the best nutmeg grows in a central valley that is shielded and receives the most favorable breezes, so that the soil is nourished in a way that produces the very best nutmeg. The nutmeg that grows on the other side of the mountain is still excellent, but is not quite as good as the nutmeg that grows above 400 meters in that one valley.

• Coffee would be another example of a food that is subject to similar kinds of factors and discussed in a similar way. Or tea, or chocolate.

That’s where the épices de cru idea came from. All those factors are implied by that French phrase. And there’s no equivalent in English. The closest phrase in English is “first growth,” which begins to describe things but without fully getting it, so that’s why we chose stuck with the French phrase.

• So just how grim is the realm of mainstream spices? How long has that turmeric been kicking around before it shows up in a 99¢ sachet at your supermarket?

It all depends. Sometimes you can find good product even in the supermarkets. And in the little ethnic markets sometimes you can find fabulous spices, maybe even first growth spices, but the next week the next batch might be atrocious. You’ll find amazing cardamom one week, and then the next week when he runs out of cardamom he’ll just pick up the phone and say, “Send me cardamom!” So what we did with our label is that we made it a guarantee of what we think is the best. And our approach is not that of a typical spice trade person, it’s that of a chef, someone who takes great pleasure in cooking and in actually using these spices, someone who’s interested in going out and actually choosing our spices. It’s all about me and my wife and my kids and we travel and we sniff and we’re inspired and we say, “Oh, yeah, this is really an amazing lot.” And so we’ll buy it and then we’ll try and stay in contact with those people over the years. That’s our approach to spices.

• How far have you traveled in search of spices and how complex are your networks for getting the best spices?

Well, we travel wherever we feel like traveling. We love to travel. Sometimes you go someplace hoping to find a particular spice and you find something else instead. The furthest we’ve been so far is Sulawesi. Which is essentially as far as you can get from here. It’s basically between Borneo and New Guinea. It’s definitely off the beaten track. So we go wherever, but there are still a lot of places we haven’t been yet. But over the years you build up networks, and, of course, the word gets around, so people send you samples. So, for instance, there’s an island in the West Indies, and we developed a contact there after my sister-in-law talked to her hairdresser, and the hairdresser said, “Oh, well, my cousin grows spices on this island.” So we phoned and the next thing you know this cousin had become a regular supplier for us. And she lives in a little village someplace and she goes to the market, and when she sees something nice she’ll buy it for us and she’ll just send it. And we’ve never met this person before. The network that’s developed over the last 15 years is one that involves true people.

• So it’s safe to say that many of these contacts were made informally. Which must be the preferred way of handling this kind of business.

Yeah, I mean, our main contact in Indonesia was our taxi driver the first time we went. We started talking with him about spices and what we were looking for and it turned out he knew people. So went to all these places with him, he knows where they are, and now he goes and buys our stuff for us. It’s not a formal network.

• How much time do you set aside for traveling so that you can maintain and further develop these networks?

As much as I can. In practice it’s not as much as we’d like, but we try. We usually go away for six weeks every year, a few weeks at a time. We mix business with pleasure, so out of those six weeks maybe three weeks are devoted to working.

• I have to say, it sounds like an ideal mandate for travel. Plus, it sounds like you’re going to some of the most beautiful, most exotic places on the face of the earth.

Well… Let me put it this way. You know, you’re not going to the most touristy places. So a class 2 or 3 business hotel in some of these out of the way places is not exactly an exciting place to be. [laughs] It’s somewhere between going to Cancún and Indiana Jones. It’s sort of half way in between.

• But then I’m sure there’s that sense of adventure that a lot of others don’t find anymore when they travel.

Sure, but some of those adventures, you’re happy when they’re over. [laughs] There’s some where you say, “Okay, I won’t be doing that again because that was thoroughly unpleasant, exhausting, and physically dangerous.” Or you go somewhere and you’re completely disappointed. The information you had was just wrong, or you never connected with the right people because of the language barriers between you and them, so you’ve got to work with interpreter upon interpreter, and then things get a little hairy. But it’s all part of the experience, and it’s worthwhile when we bring wonderful things back. And especially when you come back and find that people are in tune with what you’re offering to them. We were shocked at the response we’ve had since we opened our store.

• Yeah, the response seems like it’s been overwhelmingly positive.

Our problem is supply, it’s not selling the things we have. We’re in the position of having to worry about running out before our next shipment comes in.

• A few months ago, we stopped by Olives et Épices and we got you started on the topic of Ras el Hanout and it was clear that you were warming up to a favorite topic and that you were proud of the Ras el Hanout blend that you’ve put together for the store. What is it about Ras el Hanout that’s so special to you?

Well, there’s a couple of things. The name itself means “the roof of the store,” and that’s an expression for your sign, for your signature as a spice store. It’s the signature mixture of any good spice merchant and it indicates how good your spices in general are. So you go to a spice merchant and if he’s got a good Ras el Hanout, well, that’s the benchmark by which he’s judged. And then the blends vary from about 8 or 9 ingredients in a simple blend, to about 30 ingredients for a complex one. And we’ve done our research. I’ve had Moroccan cooks work with me, and we’ve had Moroccan friends who’ve gone to Morocco to do some research for us. And eventually we wound up with seven different Ras el Hanout blends that were brought back for us from all over Morocco, from different spice traders. And with everything I learned, I created my own Ras el Hanout, which was truly and deeply inspired by the tradition, but to which I’d given my own personal twist like any good spice merchant back in Morocco. We are quite proud, and especially because we have Moroccan clients who come in and buy it on a regular basis. And they’ll go as far as to say, “It’s as good as the one I get back in my hometown in Morocco,” which is a great compliment. It is really the “roof of the house,” “the roof” of our house. We follow that tradition of there being one blend that shines above the others. The way we work is that if we get a small batch of one spice or another that is particularly special, I’ll reserve it for our top blends. So our best cubebs [cubeb peppers] will always go into our blends. This is very different from the way most spice blends today are created, where usually only the dregs get thrown in. They’re not cheap, but we feel that we’re giving people the very best that we have to offer in our blends.

Our latest blend is our 8-pepper blend, which was created because everyone kept asking us for a 4-pepper blend. You know, white, black, green, and red. Our clerks kept telling us we need a pepper blend because they were turning down at least 3 or 4 people per day. So I put my mind to it, and it took me 6 months to come up with a blend I was happy with. And it all paid off because it took off immediately. People have become almost addicted to it, and there are some that come for more of the 8-pepper blend every month or every six weeks. So this approach—doing what I think is right—is what has really made a difference. It’s not about taking the easy route, it’s about going about things the right way.

My final question had to do with what kind of influence De Vienne thinks that he and his family had had on the culinary culture of Montreal. Understandably, De Vienne was a little embarrassed by the question, reticent to assess “the De Vienne effect” himself. As he put it, “I take what I do very seriously, but I don’t take myself very seriously.” However, it’s safe to say that the De Viennes have left a rather significant imprint on the food culture of Montreal over the last few years through their catering company, through De Vienne’s regular appearances on local television and radio, and through the excellent cooking classes they offer, but especially because of their groundbreaking approach to spice importation. Their retail spice shop, Olives et Épices, has been a massive success and has forever changed the way many home cooks here in Montreal approach and use spices (including ourselves), but the other thing to keep in mind here is that De Vienne has been making his spices and spice blends available to the city’s chefs for a number of years now and many of the best kitchens now depend on them. If Montreal’s food culture at present is worthy of note, if something extraordinary actually is happening here at the moment, as Gourmet and others have been reporting lately, Philippe De Vienne and the incomparable quality and variety of his épices de cru are a good part of the reason why.

FIN

You can find Philippe de Vienne's entire line of épices de cru at Olives et Épices (7070 Henri-Julien, (514) 271-0001, Jean-Talon Market)

And you can reach Ethné and Philippe de Vienne at:
5235 rue de la Savane
Montreal, QC
H4P 1V4
(514) 739-7071

aj

Chuletas de Puerco Adobados

So, Michelle came home late yesterday afternoon and it was so nice out that we decided we had to grill. I had picked up some basic Mexican fixings from Tortilleria Maya earlier in the day, so we pulled out Diana Kennedy's The Essential Cuisines of Mexico and took a gander. Michelle didn't really see anything on her first read-through, but I had a particular meat and a particular cut in mind (the pork chop), so I went right to that section of the book and quickly found Kennedy's recipe for Chuletas de Puercos Adobados (Pork Chops Seasoned with Adobo Paste), which we then altered for the grill.

Adobo sauce is one of the classic marinades of Mexican cuisine, but I'd never made it before. Kennedy recommends marinating the pork overnight if possible--like most other marinades, this is a sauce that's meant to tenderize a tougher cut of meat, after all--but we made it early yesterday evening and marinated the meat for about two hours and the results were fantastic. You need to have access to a Latin American specialty store, so that you can pick up some dried ancho chiles, but otherwise this is a very simple recipe. The only other specialty ingredient that the recipe calls for is dried Mexican oregano, but we didn't have any in stock, so we made do with Italian oregano. Philippe de Vienne has at least two different types of Mexican oregano for sale, one of which is hand-picked by an associate of his in the Yucatan (!). Next time we'll make this recipe with the real thing, and, believe me, there will be a next time.

Last night we served a chop each with rice, refried black beans, sour cream, hot corn tortillas, salsa, and chips.

4 large dried ancho chiles, seeds and stems removed
1/8 tsp cumin seeds, roasted then freshly ground
1/8 tsp dried Mexican oregano
3 sprigs fresh thyme or 1/8 teaspoon dried
1 tbsp salt
2 garlic cloves
1/2 cup mild white vinegar

6 pork chops

Put the chiles in a bowl and cover them with freshly boiled water. Put a lid on the bowl and allow them to steep until tender, about 10 minutes. Remove them with a slotted spoon and place them in a blender. Add the rest of the seasoning ingredients and blend into a smooth paste. Pour into a large mixing bowl.

Rinse and pat your pork chops dry. Place them in the mixing bowl with the adobo paste and toss them until they are well-coated with the marinade. Cover the bowl and place it in the refrigerator. Marinade the pork overnight, if possible. If you're short on time, 1-2 hours will do just fine.

Heat your grill. Place the pork chops on the grill and grill them about 5-6 minutes per side, depending on the size and thickness of the pork chops.

aj

Philippe de Vienne's Ras el Hanout

Philippe de Vienne's Ras el Hanout
Originally uploaded by ajkinik.

Saturday, Michelle and I wound up back at Olives et Épices (see “Plus ça change…”) and who should be there presiding, but Philippe de Vienne himself. We got to talking and found M. de Vienne to both unbelievably friendly and unbelievably generous with his encyclopedic knowledge of herbs and spices. We learned about everything from Kemiri Nuts (a staple of Indonesian cuisine) to Colombo Spices (a blend developed by Indian emigrants who were brought to the Caribbean). But what was perhaps the most fascinating topic of discussion of the day, not to mention the most fascinating culinary discovery of the day, was Ras-el-Hanout. Actually, it was Ras-el-Hanout that got us talking in the first place. Michelle had come across this spice blend while at Les Chèvres and was eager to learn more about it. She brought it up with M. de Vienne and it immediately seemed as though he was warming up to a favorite subject—he’s clearly an amateur of Moroccan cuisine, not to mention a bit of a scholar on Moorish culture in general.

Ras-el-Hanout is a spice blend that was developed by the Moors some time ago. The name means something along the lines of “top of the shop” and it is used by each spice merchant and spice shop in Morocco to refer to the finest spice blend they offer. As M. de Vienne informed us, even the most mediocre versions of this blend bring together some 13 or 14 different spices and herbs, but the best blends can consist of upwards of 27 or 28 different ingredients. The standard ingredients include things like cumin, coriander, turmeric, cinnamon, cardamom, and ginger, but better varieties can also include things like dried rose blossoms and lavender, and there was a time when the blends might also include hallucinogens and aphrodisiacs such as hashish, belladonna, and Spanish fly. The best versions of Ras-el-Hanout bring together both quantity and quality, and M. de Viennes’ blend includes between 23 and 24 ingredients (depending on what’s available at the time that he puts his batch together) all of which are of the best quality and are blended at peak freshness, and all of which are left whole. Ras-el-Hanout isn’t meant to be used as a base for any dishes, the way garam masala is used in Indian cuisine, for instance, it’s meant to be thrown in during the last stages of the preparation of a dish like a couscous or at tajine, where it serves as a kind of magical ‘secret ingredient’ that enlivens a dish, perks it up, puts a finishing touch on it. For those with imagination it can be used to add something mysterious to everything from a cheese hors d’oeuvre to ice cream.

By the end of our conversation with M. de Vienne, we could barely contain ourselves. We picked up a can and rushed it home to experiment with. He recommended that we grind the whole batch immediately, then keep it in its air-tight can in the freezer, and that’s exactly what we did. It looked a lot prettier when the spices were still whole (as they are in the photo above), but the aroma after we ground the blend was hard to describe and worth every penny. Later that evening I added just the tiniest touch to a “Moroccan” carrot soup I’ve been making recently, and, together with the crème fraîche we swirled into the soup at the last moment, it turned a very good soup into something rather phenomenal. I also added about 1/2 a teaspoon into my most recent batch of oignons confits and—it’s official—they’re now à point.

aj

Plus ça change...

Part of the selection of spices at Olives & Epices
Originally uploaded by ajkinik.

When I got back from Germany early last fall, it didn’t take long before Michelle and I went up to Jean-Talon Market in order to take advantage of its typically abundant/overwhelming harvest offerings. Michelle had warned me that change was underfoot at the market, and when we arrived I noticed that there was indeed a large building being constructed on its eastern edge. There’s been a lot of discussion about the fate of Jean-Talon Market over the last few years, and much of it has revolved around building a multi-tiered parking garage, further “beautifying” the market (i.e., putting up more of those awful garish painted wood signs that are meant to convey “good taste” across so many of Quebec’s most affluent districts, from Magog to Mont Tremblant), and trying to attract even more customers. As much as I love Atwater Market, and especially the beautiful honey-colored market hall that houses it, I find the prices there to be a bit over-the-top, and in my mind it ceased to be a true farmer’s market and developed into something more precious a while ago. Talk of renovation has had me worried that a similar transformation would happen to Jean-Talon Market, and this new building, which I just assumed would be that dreaded parking garage, seemed to confirm my worst fears. Well, it turned out I was wrong: this building isn’t a garage, it’s a new pavilion, one that provides less makeshift quarters for some of the vendors that occupy their stalls all year round, and one that has also introduced a number of new businesses to the market. Now, among other additions, you’ll find an ice cream and sorbet specialist, a new fish market, and a couple of new butchers’ shops. You’ll also find a pretentiously named kitchen supplies shop (“Cuizin”), a cookbook retailer named Librairie Gourmande, which doesn’t quite live up to the breadth and character of its Parisian namesake (4, rue Dante, 5e; www.librairie-gourmande.fr), and a cheese and dairy specialist that definitely has nice products on offer, but also features absurdly high prices and an absurdly bad name (“Qui Lait Cru?”—contributing another terrible pun to Montreal’s ever-expanding collection).

All of these additions indicate a desire to transform Jean-Talon Market into something along the lines of Vancouver’s s touristy Granville Island Market, or maybe even San Francisco’s Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market—some kind of self-conscious “foodie haven,” with all the inflated attitude and prices that come with such territory. The difference here is that both the Granville Island and the Ferry Plaza were in states of relative disuse prior to their respective face-lifts, whereas Jean Talon Market has been a fully functioning farmers’ market for decades now, one that has served as an anchor for the neighboring Italian community since its beginnings, and one that has proven to be a magnet for subsequent ethnic groups, including North Africans, West Indians, and Southeast Asians. Now, I don’t want to make too much out of this new building, because I don’t think it’ll change things at the market all that radically from the way things already were before its appearance, but I still worry about the track the market is on.

Nonetheless, Wawel Patisserie Polonaise, with its phenomenal plum and apricot-filled doughnuts, and Patisserie Khaima, with its North African delicacies, have also moved into this new pavilion, and I’m happy that both of these businesses will receive more attention because they both deserve it. Perhaps the best news, though, has to do with a business called Olives & Épices. At first, the two of us wrote it off as part of that growing legion of olive oil specialists that have invaded the city in recent years, and we didn’t really give it a second glance. However, we later learned that O & É—as its name suggests—also carries a phenomenal range of spices including the entire line of chef-traiteur Philippe de Vienne’s “épices de cru.” Jean Talon Market has been the #1 place for hard-to-find fruits, vegetables, and herbs for quite some time—now, with the addition of O & É, you can also find two different types of Mexican oregano (including one harvested by an associate from a backyard garden in the Yucatan), Trinidadian cocoa, epazote, Tonka beans, and true cinnamon. The selection here is incredible, but what really sets O & É apart is the quality and the freshness of their herbs and spices. Stale spices can really deaden the taste of a dish, instead of enlivening it. With Olives & Épices' line of "épices de cru" your spice rack will never be the same again, and your tastebuds will thank you for it. Check it!

aj