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.

One Great Dish

A quarter of the way through David Tanis' new cookbook, One Good Dish:  The Pleasures of a Simple Meal, he features a dish that's somewhat deceivingly called "Radishes à la crème."  Recipes that include the phrase "...à la crème" tend to be on the rich side.  They also tend to be served warm.  This dish, however, is neither--instead, it's cool, fresh, and light, and yet perfect for late fall and early winter.

"Radishes à la crème" is a remarkable salad--one of those rare dishes that far exceeds the sum of its parts--but Tanis is awfully humble when it comes to introducing it.  He writes:  "Only four ingredients--radishes, salt, pepper, and crème fraîche--yet they make an extremely tasty raw vegetable first course."

He must have felt a little stronger about this recipe than he's letting on here.  He must have been aware of both its surprisingly wonderful flavours and its strong visual appeal.  He must have realized that, in many ways, this was a dish that summed up the vision (and the genius) behind One Good Dish.  He must have known that this is not just one good dish, it's one great dish.  After all, "Radishes à la crème" is granted pride of place on the cookbook's cover

 fig. a:  please judge this book by its cover

and it's also afforded a two-page photographic spread (as opposed to just a single photograph) on the inside.

 fig. b:  inside scoop

And he was right to do so.  It's a stunner.  No matter how much you might like radishes and crème fraîche, you can't possibly imagine that they could possibly taste this great together.  And if you're not really a fan of either, this recipe will make you a believer.

Now would be a perfect time to make "Radishes à la crème."  While so many other fall vegetables have already disappeared, you can still find nice radishes.  And with holiday meals often on the heavy side, this recipe provides a quick and easy way to lighten things up.  Plus, it looks so pretty.  And if you choose the right radishes, they even resemble snowflakes a little.

 fig. c:  perfect for the holidays

Use the freshest, tastiest, most beautiful radishes you can find.  Use a nice crème fraîche, too.  If you don't make your own, Liberté brand, here in Quebec, makes a very good commercial version.

Don't skimp on the salt or pepper, either.  This recipe only calls four ingredients, after all, and it costs virtually nothing to make.  Use a nice sea salt, like Maldon salt, and grind the best black pepper you can find over your salad right before serving.

Radishes à la crème 

1/2 pound radishes (red, black, white, watermelon, or even daikon)
sea salt
1/4 cup crème fraîche, or a little more, if you like
a few drops of milk (optional)
freshly ground black pepper 

Use a very sharp knife or, even better, a mandoline, to slice the radishes as thinly and uniformly as possible.  Lay them out on a large plate or in a bowl.  Sprinkle sea salt over top.  Garnish with a whole radish or two, if you like. 

If your crème fraîche is thick, stir it vigorously with a spoon for about a minute to lighten it up, or thin it with a few drops of milk.  Spoon it generously over the sliced radishes.  You can either dollop the crème fraîche in the center of the arrangement, or drizzle it all over the radishes.  Finish dressing the salad by grinding black pepper over top according to your taste. 

Serves 4. 

Optional embellishments: 

1 tbsp fruity olive oil, drizzled over top 

spicy radish sprouts 

chopped chives  

(We haven't tried any of these variations yet, but they all sound great.) 

This salad is quite simply our favourite dish right now.  We literally can't get enough of it.  We'll finish off a plate of "Radishes à la crème" and immediately start talking about the next batch we're going to make.

But there's much, much more to One Good Dish than just "Radishes à la crème."  In fact, when Tanis was in town to launch his book at Appetite for Books earlier this fall, he didn't even prepare this recipe.  Instead, with the help of Jonathan Cheung, the store's owner, he presented a classic warm lentil salad à la française, some simple cucumber pickles, and a pumpkin seed brittle, all straight out of the book.  I'm not sure he realized it at the time, but this trio was also ideal for a climate like Montreal's--all three were recipes that we could easily prepare even in deepest winter (given we can find some hydroponic cukes).

Finally, in addition to lovely salads, dips and spreads, soups and stews (meals you can eat with only a spoon), dishes that should ideally be made in a hot cast-iron pan, simple desserts, and so on, One Good Dish also comes with a glowing recommendation from none other than Yotam Ottolenghi.  Will this become the next Plenty?  I'm not sure, but One Good Dish is definitely one of our top picks of the year.

aj

p.s. For more on David Tanis and the WWDD lifestyle, check out this post on Tanis's pho bo, this one on his New Mexico-style green chile stew, or this early one on his Swiss chard gratin (a variation on which also appears in One Good Dish).

The Green Chile Variations, pt. 1

 fig. a:  garden-fresh chiles

If I'm totally honest, it all started sometime in the early '90s (!?!), when I took a road trip from Washington, D.C. to the Southwest and back.  Albuquerque was a primary destination, and I spent about a week in New Mexico with good friends, checking out the town, exploring the region, and sampling the local specialties.  That was when I first experienced Green Chile Madness.  Green chile sauces and stews were everywhere, and they were generally very good, and sometimes even phenomenal.  I was particularly enamoured of those green chile salsas and sauces and the way they adorned everything from nachos, to cheese fries, to egg dishes, home fries, and cheeseburgers, taking everything they touched to a higher level.  I quite literally couldn't get enough.

I've thought about New Mexico a lot ever since, and told many a soul about Green Chile Madness, but I've never been back.  And while I'm usually pretty adept at figuring out the recipes for prized dishes and replicating them in my home kitchen, for some reason, when it came to Chile Verde, I let it slip into what Calvin Trillin calls the Register of Frustration and Deprivation, a catalogue of favourite dishes that "rarely seem to be served outside their territory of origin."

About two years ago, however, I set about ushering Green Chile back into my life.  It started with a recipe for Green Chile Stew that appeared in David Tanis' A Platter of Figs And Other Recipes.  Tanis lived in New Mexico for a spell, so he knows his stuff, and he describes Green Chile Madness thusly:

In northern New Mexico, green chile stew is legendary.  Everybody makes it, everybody eats it, and everybody loves it, even if everybody makes a different version--with or without potatoes, or tomatoes, or cumin, or tomatillos, or cilantro, but never without a healthy amount of green chile.

Evidently he caught the bug bad--he claims to have traveled "with a handful of fresh chiles in [his] pocket" ever since, as a form of "culinary insurance" (for perking up bland dishes in chile-deprived regions of the world).

These days, you can find green chile stews and sauces across New Mexico at any time of year--it was April when I experienced my Green Chile Revelation.  But the chile harvest, as Tanis explains, is in the fall.  It's at this time of year that you find, people buying big bags of them, then lining up "to have them roasted by entrepreneurial chile roasters who set up in supermarket parking lots or at roadside stands."  It's the grilling of the green chiles that really makes the difference--it's that smokiness and that caramelization that you get from roasting them over an open fire that takes things to a higher level.

Anyway, Tanis' Green Chile Stew was probably the very first thing I made out of A Platter of Figs--I had very high hopes and I wasn't disappointed.

 fig. b:  green chile stew 1

Green Chile Stew 

5 pounds well-marbled boneless pork butt, cut into 2-inch cubes
salt and pepper
2 tbsp vegetable oil or lard
2 large onions, finely diced
4 to 6 garlic cloves, chopped
2 tsp cumin seeds, toasted and finely ground
1/2 cup chopped tomatoes, fresh or canned
6 large carrots, peeled and chunked
1 cup chopped roasted green chiles*
2 tbsp all-purpose flour
8 cups water or chicken broth
3 lbs russet potatoes, peeled and cut into large dice
chopped cilantro
hot corn or flour tortillas 

Season the pork with salt and pepper.  Heat the oil or lard in a large Dutch oven or other heavy-bottomed pot.  Add the meat, in several batches, without crowding, and brown it lightly.  Transfer to a platter or tray. 

Add the onions to the pot and brown them.  Add the garlic, cumin, tomatoes, carrots, and green chiles, then sprinkle the flour over and stir.  Salt the mixture, then return the browned meat to the pot and stir well.  Cover with the water or broth and bring to a boil. 

Cover the pot, turn the heat to low, and simmer gently for an hour. 

Taste the broth and adjust it, adding salt or more green chile as necessary.  The broth should be well seasoned and fairly spicy.  Add the potatoes and continue cooking for 30 minutes, or until the potatoes are soft and the meat is quite tender.  Skim any fat from the surface of the broth. 

Let the stew rest for an hour or more.  Refrigerate overnight if desired (this allows the flavours to meld even more). 

To serve, reheat the stew and ladle into warmed bowls.  Sprinkle with chopped cilantro and accompany with hot tortillas. 

Serves 8 to 10. 

* Tanis notes that it takes about 12 large fresh chiles to produce 1 cup of chopped roasted chiles.  It's preferable to grill them over an open fire, but you can also blacken them under the broiler or directly over a gas burner, in a pinch.

Now, this makes for an excellent stew, and, like I said, I wasn't disappointed in the least.  But as Tanis mentioned above, one of the things about Green Chile Madness is that "everybody makes a different version."  Over the last couple of years, I've continued to follow the guidelines of Tanis' recipe, but I've come up with my own take on Green Chile Stew.

• For one thing, we're hard pressed to find New Mexico green chiles here in the Montreal region, so I've had to improvise with the chiles.  I tend to use a mix of green chiles, one that includes everything from Poblanos, Anaheims, and Padróns, to Serranos, Jalapeños, and Cubanelles.  The larger, milder ones (the Poblanos, Anaheims, and Cubanelles) I grill over an open fire.  The hotter ones I sauté with the onions, after they've been browned
• I've taken to replacing the tomatoes with tomatillos, especially around this time of year, when you can actually find lovely, local tomatillos here in Montreal (try the Birri Brothers stand at Jean-Talon Market).  I also use quite a bit more than half a cup.  The tomatillos give the stew tartness, additional sweetness, and a wonderful mouthfeel.
• I always use chicken broth and not water.
• I've taken to omitting the potatoes, which I find distract from the green chiles.
• And I always replace the all-purpose flour with masa harina, which adds to the warmth of the dish.

Tanis prefers his Green Chile Stew "in a bowl, with warm, thick corn tortillas on the side," but it's also pretty great with good tortilla chips (see below), and it's great in a burrito.

 fig. c:  green chile stew 2

END OF PART ONE

aj

WTP, or DIY Pho

fig. a: 1/2 photo

Those of us who've never been might find this hard to imagine, but, as David Tanis points out in Heart of the Artichoke (Artisan, 2010), "In Vietnam, pho is street food, basic, hearty, and filling, sold from a cart with a few little stools in front."* In the United States, on the other hand, pho is generally available from "little bare-bones sit-down restaurants," Tanis continues, places where you can grab a quick but satisfying lunch or dinner. Many of us have never had the pleasure of having pho as street food, but we're well-acquainted with the kind of no-frills pho joints he describes, because you can find them in many places around the world these days.** Montreal, for one. Paris, for another. And, in fact, that's exactly where Tanis first became fully enamored of Vietnamese cuisine--not in the United States, not in Vietnam, even, but in Paris.

He writes:

Though I'd often eaten Vietnamese food in California, oddly, it took a bowl of soup in Paris to hook me. After shopping the early morning market at the Place Maubert, we discovered a noodle shop nearby. It happened to be one of those damp, chill spring days the French specialize in, so we sat outside on the sidewalk terrace across from the busy market to seek warmth in a big, brothy bowl of pho.

Tanis doesn't elaborate, but there was something about that bowl of soup on that particular day that really clicked with him. So much so, that, years later, he'd devote an entire menu to Vietnamese cuisine in one of his cookbooks. And, sure enough, the central attraction in Tanis' homage to Vietnam in Heart of the Artichoke is his take on pho bo, the classic Vietnamese beef and noodle soup.

Now, the funny thing is, we first became enamored of David Tanis back in 2005, when he was featured in an article in Saveur ("An American Cooks in Paris" by Dorothy Kalins, #88). The concept was simple. Tanis was introduced as one of the chefs at Berkeley's legendary Chez Panisse (which he was and continues to be), albeit one who spent six months of the year in Paris, during which time he and his partner ran an underground restaurant, Aux Chiens Lunatiques. Who better to give Saveur's readers a tour of Paris's markets and a crash-course in how to make use of the bounty? The resultant spread was beautiful (photos by Christopher Hirsheimer!), highly informative, and utterly seductive (foie gras pâté! sautéed wild mushrooms! roast pork with fennel, garlic, and herbs!), and one of his dishes, his wonderful swiss chard gratin, became an AEB standard. But one of the things we liked best about Tanis, was that he began his Parisian shopping excursion by taking the author out for a "restorative bowl of beef pho at his favorite neighborhood Vietnamese place." This was a man we could totally relate to, a man after our own hearts. But the important thing here is that Tanis didn't make his bowl of beef pho, he went out to his favorite pho joint and bought it, and the article focused on French recipes made with French ingredients.

It took us a while to get around to making our own bowl of homemade pho. It took Tanis's Heart of the Artichoke + a trip to visit our friends S & T in Upstate New York. It's not that it had never occurred to us. We love Vietnamese food, and we've made our fair share of Vietnamese food at home, including a few soups. But we live in a city where pho joints abound, and many of them are quite good, so when we cooked Vietnamese, we often made things that were less readily available. Plus, we, like Tanis, really like going to pho joints, especially when we're out on one of our shopping excursions. Hell, that's exactly how "...an endless banquet" got started, way back when.

But there are times when you're not in Montreal or Paris, or anyone of a number of other places where Vietnamese restaurants are plentiful (Berkeley, New York, Chicago, Arlington, Toronto--take your pick).

fig. b: time for pho

There are times when you're in the countryside--in Upstate New York, perhaps--hundreds of miles from the nearest pho joint, and you've been traipsing around in the snow all day, and a restorative bowl of pho sure would taste good.*** There are times when your curiosity gets the best of you ("How do they make that broth?"). And there are times when you want a lot of pho--enough for leftovers, enough to stock your freezer, enough that you might actually be able to try it for breakfast (like you're supposed to) sometime. For all those times, it's nice to have a pho bo recipe you can really trust. Plus, as Andrea Nguyen puts it in Into the Vietnamese Kitchen, "Despite the fun and convenience of eating pho at a local noodle soup spot, nothing beats a homemade bowl." Why? Because it's all about the broth, and at home you can put all the care and attention you want into making your pho especially rich and tasty.

fig. c: photo #2

So that's exactly what we did. We broke out Tanis's Heart of the Artichoke, flipped it to his "Feeling Vietnamese" menu, and got to work. S & T had taken care of getting all the ingredients ahead of time, back in the Big City, so we were good to go.

There's nothing particularly challenging about making your own pho, you just need to give the beef broth the love it deserves, which means taking your time and not cutting corners. Doing so "[makes] the difference between a pho that sings and one that just sits there," according to Tanis.

So there aren't really any tricks, but there are a few secrets, things that might not be obvious when you taste the finished product, but give a true pho bo its depth. Like using leg bones in your broth to get an extra-rich flavor.**** And lightly charring an onion and some ginger root at the outset. And getting the mix of spices just right.***** And fish sauce--don't forget the fish sauce.

Tanis isn't particularly prescriptive--he encourages his readers to become "pho fanatics" (pho-natics?), if they aren't already, and develop their own "house pho"--but he offers a very handy blueprint, one that's quite a bit more subtle than Nguyen's version (fewer bones, less star anise), but one that's got all the grace of a true homemade pho.

fig. d: spring rolls

We took our time, followed all the steps in Tanis's recipe, made some spring rolls to tide us over, and relaxed. Three hours later, our big bowls of steaming homemade pho bo before us, we dug in and let that magical Vietnamese elixir do its work.



figs. e & f: straight-up & all-dressed

Pho Bo

the soup:

1 1/2 lbs short ribs
1 1/2 lbs oxtails or beef shank
1 large onion, halved
1 3-inch piece unpeeled ginger, thickly sliced
6 quarts water
1 star anise
1 small piece cinnamon stick
1/2 tsp coriander seeds
1/2 tsp fennel seeds
1/4 tsp whole cloves
6 cardamom pods
2 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp fish sauce
2 tsp sugar
salt and pepper
1 lb dried rice noodles
1/2 lb fresh bean sprouts
1 sweet red onion, thinly sliced

fig. g: garnishes

the garnishes:

mint sprigs
cilantro sprigs
basil sprigs
6 scallions, slivered
2 serrano or 6 small Asian chiles, finely slivered
lime wedges

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the short ribs and oxtails and boil for 10 minutes, then drain, rinse the meat, and discard the water. This step rids the meat and bones of impurities and results in a cleaner-tasting broth. It's a step that's common in many Asian cuisines, including Chinese.

Set a large heavy-bottomed soup pot over medium-high heat, add the onion, cut side down, and ginger, and lightly char for about 10 minutes, until the halves are charred but not quite burnt. Add the short ribs, oxtails, and the 6 quarts of water and bring to a hard boil, then turn down to a simmer. Add the spices. Then add the soy sauce, fish sauce, sugar, and salt and pepper and let simmer, uncovered. Skim off any rising foam, fat, and debris from time to time.

Check the tenderness of the meat after about an hour. It will probably take an hour and a half for the meat to get really fork-tender, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

When the meat is done, remove it from the pot, take the meat off the bones, and reserve. Put the bones bak in the pot to simmer in the broth for another hour and a half.

When the broth is done, taste it for salt and add more if necessary. Strain it through a fine-mesh strainer. Chop the cooked meat and add it to the broth. At this point, you can either cool and refrigerate the broth for later use, or proceed.

When you're ready to serve the pho, put the rice noodles in a large bowl and pour boiling water over them. Let them sit for about 15 minutes (possibly longer) to soften, then drain.

Heat the soup until it's piping hot. Prepare a large platter of the garnishes. We're especially fond of mint, cilantro, scallions, and lime wedges, but here's your opportunity to customize.

Line up the soup bowls (Tanis recommends "deep, giant Chinatown-style bowls"). Put a handful of noodles in each soup bowl and scatter some bean sprouts on top. Add a few raw onion slices. Ladle the broth and a bit of boiled meat into each bowl. Pass the platter of garnishes and let everyone add their own herbs, scallions, chiles, squeezes of lime, etc., as they see fit.

Oh, yeah: and don't forget the Sriracha.

Serves 4 to 6 generously.

[based very, very closely on David Tanis's "Pho (Vietnamese Beef Soup)" recipe in Heart of the Artichoke]

That pho--and the whole process that went into it--really left an impression on us. So much so, that a few days later, back in Montreal, Michelle and I made it again. The whole thing. Start to finish.

fig. h: photo #3

And it was just good as ever. Basic, hearty, and filling, and available in our very own kitchen. Not street food, not diner food, but true homemade comfort food.

aj

* For a truly magnificent account of the ins and outs of eating in Vietnam, check out "Saigon Seductions" @ The Traveler's Lunchbox.

** The Vietnamese food explosion of the last 35 years has been nothing if not phenomenal.

*** If pho hits the spot on "one of those damp, chill spring days in Paris," imagine just how soothing it must be on a bone-cold winter day in Upstate.

**** Meat + bones + marrow = extra-rich flavor.

***** You're basically replicating the contents of this bag,

fig. i: "chinese special spice"

but with fresher, better-quality spices (hopefully). We highly recommend getting your fennel, in particular, from our good friends the De Viennes at Épices de Cru.

p.s. Extra-special thanks to S & T (and V too).

WWDD

He might very well grill halibut, that's what.

I was leafing my way through David Tanis's A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes the other day once again, reading up on what he has to say about grilling, when I came across his recipe for Grilled Halibut With Indian Spices.

fig. a: leafing through

I'd admired the recipe before, but this time it really clicked. I was in the mood to fire up the barbecue (once again), I was craving seafood, and, hell, I'm always in the mood for "Indian spices." Plus, I'd invited my Mom over for a barbecued meal, and I thought this one might keep her on her toes. Michelle had to work (again), but I asked her if she thought she might like a grilled halibut fillet when she came back home from work that night, and she said, "Uh, yeah, sure." Little did she know what was in store for her.

Grilled Halibut with Indian Spices

1 tsp cumin seeds
1 tsp coriander seeds
1 tsp fennel seeds
3 cloves
1/2 tbsp ground turmeric
1/4 tsp cayenne
4 halibut fillets, about 6-8 ounces each
salt and pepper
1 tbsp olive oil
15-20 cherry tomatoes, halved
yogurt sauce (recipe follows)
a small handful of mint leaves

Toast the cumin, coriander, fennel, and cloves in a dry cast-iron pan over medium heat until fragrant, about 2 minutes. Transfer to a spice grinder or mortar and grind until fine. Put the ground spices in a small bowl, add the turmeric and cayenne, and mix until well blended.

Lay the halibut fillets on a baking sheet and season liberally with salt and pepper. Drizzle with olive oil. Sprinkle the spice mixture over the fish, and, using your hands, massage it in. Cover and refrigerate the fillets for up to several hours (although 2 hours worked just fine). Bring the fish to room temperature before cooking, about half an hour.

Prepare a fire in a charcoal barbecue. Grill the halibut over medium coals 3-4 minutes per side, until just opaque throughout.

Arrange the halibut on a large platter and surround with the cherry tomatoes. Sprinkle the tomatoes lightly with salt. Spoon a little yogurt sauce onto each portion and pass the rest at the table. Sliver the mint leaves with a sharp knife and scatter over the plate.

serves 4

Raita is a natural with these grilled halibut fillets. Tanis's raita is a little on the new-fangled side (e.g. olive oil), but don't knock it till you try it. The grated ginger is a particularly inspired touch.

David's Raita

1 1/2 cups whole-milk yogurt
1/2 tbsp olive oil
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 tsp cumin seeds
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 tsp finely grated ginger
1/2 serrano pepper, finely chopped
salt and pepper

Put the yogurt in a bowl. In a small frying pan, heat the olive oil over a medium flame. Add the mustard and cumin seeds. When the seeds begin to pop, add the garlic and let it sizzle briefly, making sure it doesn't brown, about 10 seconds or so.

Scrape the contents of the pan into the yogurt. Stir in the ginger and chile. Season the sauce with salt and pepper. The sauce will keep in the fridge for a day or two, but it tastes best freshly made, and once you've tasted it, you'll have a hard time keeping it around for a day or two.

fig. b: yellow medley

These recipes come from a menu Tanis calls "yellow hunger," and, as this name suggests, it's meant to be a composition in shades of yellow, with the halibut a vibrant yellow-orange. Sweet yellow tomatoes (cherry or not) haven't appeared on the scene here in Montreal yet (at least not local ones), so we recommend going the sweetest red cherry tomatoes you can find. Tanis accompanies his halibut with a gorgeous salad of shaved summer squashes and squash blossoms, but they too have not yet arrived. So I broke up the yellow theme a bit by grilling some fennel, and roasting some potatoes using the Zuni Cafe method (I did use Yukon golds as my potatoes, though). The medley of yellow idea is a nice one, but Tanis encourages his readers not to be slavish:

This is a book of recipes and menus, but I hope what it is, too, is a book about cooking by instinct--improvisational, the sort of cooking that doesn't need a recipe.

Free your mind and your food will follow, or something to that effect.

All I know is that halibut has rarely tasted this good and that the meal was a huge hit. You should have seen the look on Michelle's face when she sat down to the spread before her.

aj

Food that warms the hearth

Swiss chard gratin
Originally uploaded by michelle1975.

Alongside soups and stews, gratins are a must for fall and winter. The rain has yet to turn to snow, but there's already a bit of chill in the air, prompting us to raid our cookbooks for seasonal recipes to warm up the kitchen with.

For some reason, gratins were a mystery to me when I was younger. I remember trying to make one by pouring milk over sliced potatoes and baking it for what seemed like an eternity. The potatoes weren't cut thin enough, or weren't parboiled, or something, and what resulted was a disaster. Crunchy milk-soaked potatoes was simply not what I was hoping for. It wasn't even worth eating. And let's not talk about my vegan years, with Vitasoy and, uh, nutritional yeast. Never could understand why somebody didn't at least try to devise a more appetizing name for that stuff.

As with most soups and stews, gratins are not a quick meal to be whipped up and set down on the table after 10 minutes. The crust needs to be properly golden and well-formed, the flavours underneath need to melt together, creating a cohesive whole. Every bite should flow into the next, with no jarring textures or flavours.

We used David Tanis's recipe from the latest Saveur magazine (no. 88). It was phenomenal. His instructions for Béchamel sauce were the best we've ever come across, clear and precise. We made it exactly as he recommended, with lots of nutmeg (freshly grated), and it turned out perfectly, the most delicious Béchamel ever. We were also mightily impressed by the effects of blanching the chard stalks. When all was said and done, the leaves and the stalks were each so distinctive that it tasted as though we had two vegetables mingling with the cheese and sauce, not one. Try it with Swiss chard, like we did, or experiment with fennel, kale, rapini, Belgian endive, or Brussels sprouts. I have a feeling nearly any winter green would work well with this recipe.

Swiss Chard Gratin

1 bunch Swiss chard
1 bay leaf
olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
salt
pepper
red pepper flakes
1/4 cup flour
1 stick butter, melted
2 cups milk
nutmeg
3/4 cup grated parmigiano-reggiano

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Wash the chard and separate the stalks from the leaves. Slice the stalks into 1/4" by 3" pieces. Parboil in salted water with a bay leaf for 5 minutes, drain and set aside.

Slice the greens into thin ribbons. Wilt the greens in olive oil and garlic, working in batches if necessary. Add salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes to taste. Set aside.

In a saucepan, stir the flour into the melted butter and place over medium heat. Stir constantly for 3 minutes. Increase the heat to medium-high and whisk in the milk, a few tablespoons at a time. When it has turned into a smooth paste, add the salt, pepper and nutmeg to taste. Cook, whisking constantly, until it has the consistency of a thick milk shake. Strain into a bowl.

Butter a baking dish and spread the greens over the bottom. Add the stalks, then the sauce. Add a bit more nutmeg, then the parmagiano-reggiano. Add a few pats of butter on top of the cheese and bake for 25 minutes, until a nice golden crust has formed.

Serve the gratin hot with wine and a nice salad. You won't believe just how good this dish is. Throw in some fish (trout, say) and rice, like we did, and you'll be in heaven.

m