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).

Syrupy Sweet

fig. a: p'tit livre

It may be a little late for sugaring-off (after all, Canada Day is already upon us), but Anne Fortin's Cuisiner avec le Sirop D'Érable du Québec is hot off the presses.

It's a handsome book--well photographed and well designed--and recipes cover everything from sides & mains, to desserts & drinks. You get all kinds of down-home classics, like Baked Beans, Maple-Glazed Ham, and Pouding Chômeur, but Fortin has wisely decided to augment her own recipes, and the ones she's collected from friends, with recipes from a number of talented local chefs and food personalities. So not only do you get a recipe for Chicken with Spices and Maple Syrup from Tapeo's Marie-Fleur St-Pierre, but you also get a recipe for Crispy Sweetbreads with Maple and Absinthe Sweet & Sour Sauce from Ethné and Philippe de Vienne of Épices de Cru/Olives et Épices/La Dépense. Ever wondered how the good folks at Havre aux Glaces make their fantastic Maple Caramel Brûlé Ice Cream? That recipe is in here too.

And if all that wasn't enough, you get two recipes from Michelle (!). One for her positively sinful maple-caramel tartinade, and the other for her invigorating Gin Tonic.

fig. b: gros gin

The idea here was to humorously riff on both the legendary tonic properties of maple water and those New-Agey maple-lemon-cayenne pepper cleanses that people insist on inflicting on themselves, while simultaneously concocting a cocktail (a reasonably strong one) that's crisp and undeniably refreshing.

Michelle created her Gin Tonic as a spring cocktail that would complement Sugaring-Off Season and help with the transition from winter to summer. It also makes for a pretty fine summer cocktail, one that would be perfect for a Canada Day apéro, for instance.

Gin Tonic

1 1/2 oz gin
1 oz lemon juice
3/4 oz medium grade Quebec maple syrup*
ice cubes
seltzer water or club soda
2 small pinches espelette pepper
slice of lemon

Mix first three ingredients in a highball glass. Add ice cubes and tonic water to taste. Stir in espelette pepper. Garnish with a slice of lemon. Serve.

Anne Fortin's Cuisiner avec le Sirop D'Érable du Québec is available in French and English (as Cooking with Québec Maple Syrup) at fine bookstores and online book retailers everywhere. It's co-published by Jean-Talon Market's Librairie Gourmande, so if you're visiting the market, stop in and give it a gander.

aj

* Any high-quality maple syrup will do, of course, but Quebec's is pretty choice.

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.

Little Old Lady From Cozumel

fig. a: tortilla press: Hecho en Mexico

So it was just before Christmas and we were in the process of finalizing our holiday food shopping. Christmas Eve was accounted for, Christmas was accounted for--Boxing Day was the only remaining question mark before New Year's. Except that it wasn't that much of a question mark. We'd enjoyed our Boxing Day meal--a home version of the classic Puerco Asado a la Cubana--so religiously the year before that we knew we wanted to stick with some kind of Latin American-style, slow-roasted pork dish. But the question was, do we repeat last year's recipe, or do we try something brand-new? As much as we love testing out new recipes, there's also something to be said for the tried and true, for tradition, and we're definitely not the kind of people who feel the need to innovate at every turn. So we were leaning towards an encore performance of the Puerco Asado a la Cubana when, suddenly, things took an unexpected turn.

You see, we'd just picked up a lovely pork shoulder from Porc Meilleur at Jean-Talon Market, and I'd already made sure that we had plenty of sour orange juice (i.e. Seville orange juice) at home in the freezer. We didn't need all that much more in the way of ingredients in order to make that succulent Cuban-style pork--just some Mexican oregano and some banana leaves and we were good to go. But when we stopped in at Olives & Épices to pick up the Mexican oregano, our good friends Ethné and Philippe were there, and the next thing we knew we got wrapped up tighter than a pork shoulder in a banana-leaf envelope in a full-on roast pork referendum. It's not that Ethné and Philippe didn't like the sound of our menu--they did--it's just that their book having just come out recently, they had Latin American roast pork ideas of their own.

So they started telling us about Yucatecan Cochonita Pibil and it's safe to say we liked what we heard. Like Puerco Asado a la Cubana, Cochonita Pibil is slow-cooked in a pit (or pib as it's known in the Mayan tongue), and it, too, is traditionally made with a suckling pig, as the Spanish term cochonita implies. As in the Cuban version, the pit barbecue appears primitive--a rectangular pit, 2 feet deep, is lined with stones that are then heated with a wood fire, the meat is then wrapped in banana leaves, placed in a metal container, covered, and slow-cooked for hours--but it requires a great deal of expertise to get optimum results and each community has its ackowledged master/s. Digging a pit in Montreal in December poses a bit of a problem to those aspiring to make a truly authentic Cochonita Pibil for the holidays, but, as with Puerco Asado a la Cubana, it's possible to make a convincing and utterly delicious home version. The primary difference between the two dishes has to do with marinades: while the Puerco Asado a la Cubana's consists primarily of simple blend of garlic, sour orange juice, and herbs, the Cochonita Pibil's is even more exotic, with the gorgeous color and haunting flavor of achiote seeds (bixa orellana, the outer layer of the hard seed of a tropical tree native to the Yucatan that's also known as anatto or annatto in English, rocou in French) playing a prominent role.

The Cochonita Pibil seemed like a perfect compromise--some degree of familiarity, some degree of innovation--and we were already sold on the idea, when Philippe sealed the deal: he took us to his freezer and told us about the Little Old Lady From Cozumel. Now, I'm not sure what kind of car, if any, the Little Old Lady From Cozumel drives, and I have no idea if she's a hot-rodder, but I do know that she makes her Recado Rojo--achiote paste--according to a time-honored recipe, and that the De Viennes have a contact in neighboring Cancun who ships her Recado Rojo to Montreal fresh on a regular basis. Of course, you could make your own Recado Rojo (and you'll find directions to do so below), but chances are you've never had a traditional Yucatecan Cochonita Pibil before--we certainly hadn't. That being the case, why wouldn't you want the Little Old Lady From Cozumel on your team, helping things along?

fig. b: Cochonita Pibil with fresh tortillas and refried black beans

Cochinita Pibil, a.k.a. Yucatecan "Pit-Barbecued" Pig

4-lb pork shoulder
banana leaves, thawed and wiped clean
4 tbsp recado colorado or recado rojo (recipe follows)
6 cloves garlic
1/2 cup Seville orange juice or mild white vinegar
2 tsp salt

Pierce the pork shoulder all over and rub in 2 teaspoons of the salt and 2 tablespoons of the juice.

Crush the garlic cloves and mix them with the recado colorado and the remaing Seville orange juice. Smear this mixture all over the pork shoulder making sure to cover it thoroughly.

Wrap the pork in the banana leaves and allow to season in the refrigerator for a minimum of 6 hours and preferably overnight.

Preheat the oven to 300º.

Place a rack at the bottom of a Dutch oven and set the wrapped meat on it. Add the water and cover the dish with a tightly fitting lid. Cook for 2 1/2 hours. Remove the Dutch oven from the oven. Turn the meat and baste it well with the juices at the bottom of the dish. Place the Dutch oven back in the oven and cook for another 2 1/2 hours, or until the meat quite literally falls off the bone and shreds with ease.

After you return the pork to the oven to finishing cooking, prepare the sauce.

sauce:
1/2 cup finely chopped red onion
3 habañero chiles, minced
1/2 tsp salt
2/3 cup seville orange juice or mild white vinegar

Mix all the ingredients together. Set aside to mellow for 2 hours.

To serve the pork, shred the meat roughly. Pour the fat and juices from the pan over it. Serve hot with tortillas and condiments and the sauce in a separate dish so that each person can make his or her own tacos.

[recipe based on Diana Kennedy's Cochonita Pibil from The Essential Cuisines of Mexico and on Ethné and Philippe de Vienne's Cochonita Pibil from La Cuisine et le Goût des Épices]

If you don't happen to live in Montreal, and therefore don't have access to the Little Old Lady From Cozumel's magic via Olive et Épice's freezer, or if you absolutely insist on making your own Yucatecan recado, here are two different versions:

Recado Colorado

1/4 cup achiote seeds
1 tsp allspice
1/2 tsp clove
1/2 tsp cumin
2 tsp dried mexican oregano, Yucatecan if possible
1 tsp salt
1/8 tsp powdered chile seco Yucateco or hot paprika
Seville orange juice or mild white vinegar

In an electric spice grinder, grind the achiote seeds, cumin, oregano, peppercorns, and allspice together in a fine powder.

Add just enough Seville orange juice or vinegar to make a firm paste.

[recipe from Ethné and Philippe de Vienne's La Cuisine et le Goût des Épices]

Simple Recado Rojo

4 rounded tbsp achiote seed
1 tsp crushed dried Mexican oregano, preferably Yucatecan
1 tsp cumin seeds
1/2 tsp mild black peppercorns
12 whole allspice
3 tbsp water, approximately

Mix the spices and grind one third of the quantity at a time--or as much as your spice grinder can safely accomodate at a time. Make sure to grind them as finely as possible. Sift the ground spices through a fine strainer and grind the residue once again. Stir the water in gradually and mix well to a stiff paste.

If you are not going to use the paste immediately, form it into a round thick cake and divide into four pieces. Wrap well and store in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. This method makes it easier to use later.

To dilute for use, crush this amount with about 20 small garlic cloves and sea salt to taste, and dilute to a thin cream with bitter orange juice or its substitute, a mild vinegar.

[recipe from Diana Kennedy's The Essential Cuisines of Mexico]

Our default salsa is a blackened tomato salsa that I devised a number of years ago after a trip to California, but this meal was begging for a Yucatecan version, so that's exactly what we made. Two words of advice: 1) don't fear the habañeros and 2) use the best tomatoes you can get your hands on. If you don't yet have a salsa that you call your own, this Salsa Xi Ni Pek is pretty much a perfect fresh salsa and it's dead-simple to make. Win-win.

fig. c: Salsa Xi Ni Pek

Salsa Xi Ni Pek, a.k.a. Yucatecan fresh salsa

1/2 cup tomatoes, finely chopped
1/2 cup red onion, finely chopped
2 habañeros, finely chopped
1/4 cup Seville orange juice or mild white vinegar
1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp finely chopped cilantro

Mix all the ingredients and let stand 30 minutes to allow the flavors to mingle.

[recipe from Ethné and Philippe de Vienne's La Cuisine et le Goût des Épices]

We hadn't made corn tortillas in quite some time--Tortilleria Maya, nearby, has made us lazy--but Philippe insisted that if we were going to the lengths of making Cochonita Pibil that we absolutely had to make our own tortillas (hence the photo up-top). Who were we to argue?

Corn Tortillas

1 1/4 pounds tortilla masa
water if needed
2 1-litre plastic bags for pressing tortillas

If the tortilla masa has been freshly made [we wish!], it will probably be the right consistency for working immediately--a soft, smooth dough. If the masa has been sitting around and drying out a little, then add a very little water and knead until it's smooth and pliable, and not the slightest bit crumbly.

Divide the dough into 15 equal parts--each should weigh just over 1 ounce (30 g)--and roll them into smooth balls about 1 1/2 inches in diameter. Place all but one of the balls under plastic wrap so they do not dry out.

Heat an ungreased comal or griddle or cast-iron pan over medium heat. Open up the tortilla press and place a small plastic bag on the bottom plate. Place a ball of the dough on the bottom plastic bag, a little off center toward the hinge rather than the pressing lever, and press it out with your fingers to flatten it a little. Cover with the second platic bag and press down firmly but not too violently. Open the press, remove the top bag, lift the bottom bag up in one hand, place the dough onto the fingers of your other hand, and very carefully peel the bag off the flattened dough. Do not try to peel the dough off the bag.

Keeping your hand as horizontal as possible, lay the tortilla flat onto the comal/griddle/cast-iron pan. There should be a slight sizzle as the dough touches the surface of the comal. Leave for about 15 seconds; the underside will have opaque patches and be slightly speckled with brown. Flip the tortilla over onto the second side and cook for another 30 seconds; the underside should now be opaque and speckled. Flip back onto the first side again and cook for 15 seconds more.

If you have done everything correctly and the comal is the right heat, the tortilla should puff up, showing that the extra moisture has dried out of the dough.

As the tortillas are made, they should be placed one on top of the other in a basket lined with a cloth to preserve the heat and keep them moist and supple.

Tortillas can be made ahead and reheated and they can also be frozen.

[recipe from Diana Kennedy's The Essential Cuisines of Mexico]

Was the Cochonita Pibil good? Do you even have to ask? It was phenomenal. I mean, just look at that photo above. Now, I'm not sure that that picture is worth a thousand words, but it is worth a least a few and all of them are making me hungry.

Oh, and if you're worried about taking the plunge with achiote paste, worried that you're not ready to commit to making Yucatecan Barbecued Pork more than once over the next several months, or if you're just not that into pork in the first place, fret not. Achiote paste makes for an outstanding and substantially less involved Yucatecan "Barbecued" Chicken too, as we found out just a few days later.

Pollo Pibil, a.k.a. Yucatecan "Barbecued" Chicken

1 chicken, cut into pieces
4 tbsp achiote paste
4 tbsp water
salt to taste
1 large banana leaf, torn into two pieces and cleaned with a wet paper towel
2 tbsp lard or vegetable oil
1 white onion, sliced thinly
2 tomatoes, sliced
1 tsp achiote paste

Prick the chicken pieces all over with a fork. Dilute the achiote paste with water and set 1 tsp aside. Thoroughly rub the remainder, along with the salt, into the chicken.

Wrap the banana leaf around the chicken to make an envelope. Set it aside to season, refrigerated, for several hours or overnight.

Preheat the oven to 375º F.

Heat the oil or lard in a skillet and fry the onion until translucent. Add the tomatoes and the extra teaspoon achiote paste and fry the slices gently on both sides.

Unwrap the chicken. Put half the onion and tomato under the chicken and the other half on top. Wrap it up again to make a tight envelope.

Place the envelope into a Dutch oven and cover it tightly. Cook for 20 minutes. Turn it over, baste with the juices, and cook for another 20 minutes, or until just tender and cooked through. Do not overcook.

Turn the oven up to 450º F, remove the cover, open up the leaf, and let the chicken brown on top.

Serve, still wrapped in the banana leaf, with fresh tortillas and condiments of your choosing.

[recipe adapted from Diana Kennedy's The Essential Cuisines of Mexico

This chicken was another huge coup. One particularly enthusiastic guest declared that it was the best Mexican-style chicken he'd ever had, anywhere: California, Mexico, whatever.

How's that for a flurry of recipes?

aj

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."

Mexicali Madness I

By the time of my birthday, in the first week of April, all signs of spring had vanished and the temperature had plummeted to a high of 1º C. We decided to soldier on regardless, turning South of the Border for strength (actually, south of a couple of borders), to Mexico. Our menu and our approach to Mexican this time around was going to have some California flavor to it, though, so when we came up with the name for our night, we called it "Mexicali Madness." We got so inspired it really didn't take long to draw up our menu/shopping list



and then we designed our invitations, with a little help from J.G. Posada.



I knew I wanted a roast pork dish that'd be falling off the bone and just begging to get scooped up in a fresh, hot tortilla as the centerpiece. I also knew I wanted fish tacos. More than anything, though, I wanted the table to be a tribute to those extraordinary condiments trays you find in Baja when you go to a fish taco joint and place your order, the ones with a dizzying array of toppings, from freshly prepared guacamole and salsa, to pickled onions, carrots, and jalapeños, to crema and those ubiquitous bottles of Tapatío, each of these assortments unique to that particular establishment. The idea here was to have a celebration of bounty, one not unlike this vision of cornucopia, but spicier, hotter, more savory (if you can believe that).



The menu that we settled on included queso fundido, asado de puerco a la Veracruzana, tacos de pescado a la A.J., guacamole, salsa ranchero a la A.J., frijoles negros, and a whole whack of fixin's, and mostly we turned to our friends Diana Kennedy, Philippe de Vienne and John Thorne for assistance.

Queso fundido

Mexican queso, Monterey Jack, or medium cheddar

Preheat your oven to 325º F. Grate the cheese and place it in an ovenproof dish. Add sliced mushrooms, chorizo sausage slices, or strips of grilled peppers, if you like. Bake in the oven for 5 minutes, or until the cheese has fully melted. Serve hot accompanied with hot corn tortillas.

[from Philippe de Vienne]

Simple, elemental, gooey, delicious.

Asado de Puerco a la Veracruzana

5 lb pork roast on the bone, preferably pork butt
6 garlic cloves
1 tbsp salt
5 tbsp fresh lime juice
6 ancho chiles, seeds and veins removed
4 morita chiles, or 1 chipotle or mora
1/2 cup water, approximately
4 whole allspice, crushed
frozen banana leaves sufficient to wrap the roast in a double layer, thawed and wiped clean

Pierce the meat all over with the point of a sharp knife. Mash the garlic with the salt and moisten with the lime juice. Rub this mixture thoroughly into the roast and set aside to season while you prepare the chile mixture.

Lightly toast the ancho chiles on a hot griddle. Cover them with hot water, add the whole, untoasted morita chiles, and simmer for 5 minutes. Turn off the heat and let the chiles soak another 5 minutes.

Transfer the chiles to a blender with the water. Add the allspice and blend until smooth. Add a little more water only if the paste remains too thick and doesn't blend properly.

Coat the pork liberally with the chile paste. Hold the banana leaf over a hot heat until it softens and wrap it around the meat. Let the meat season overnight in the refrigerator.

The next day, preheat the oven to 325º F.

Place the banana-leaf-wrapped meat in a Dutch oven or casserole with a tightly fitting lid (or seal it tightly in a large roasting pan with aluminum foil, like we did) and bake for 2 hours, by the end of which time there should be plenty of juices at the bottom of the casserole. Remove the lid, discard the banana leaves, and continue cooking the meat uncovered, basting it from time to time, for about 2 hours longer, or until the meat is soft and falls away from the bone with ease.

Serve hot, with fresh corn tortillas.

[from The Essential Cuisines of Mexico by Diana Kennedy]

As soon as I saw this recipe I knew it was The One for this occasion. As soon as I saw that marinade, that chile paste, and those banana leaves I could visualize the end result. I'd love to do a slow-cooked version of this sometime, but this time around we followed Kennedy's specifications to a tee, and, believe me, it didn't disappoint. Kennedy mentions that this dish is much better the day of than it is the day after, but we threw all caution into the wind and did a double recipe anyway, because we knew we were going to have a hungry crowd. We were pretty pleased when it turned out we had some leftover pork at the end of the evening, and we managed to revive those leftovers just fine the next day when we recreated our pork taco feast all over again.

Tacos de pescado a la A.J.

In Baja, the chunks of fish that you get with our fish tacos are always batter-fried--they're batter-fried with finesse, but they're still batter-fried. Sometimes I prefer to just sauté my fish for my home version. I get a couple generous hunks of a fish that's got some body to it, but that won't break the bank, something like Opah (or Moonfish). Then I cut them up into 1-1 1/2 inch cubes and I marinate them in a combination of lime juice and tequila in the refrigerator for about 30 minutes. When they're ready to go, I heat a few tablespoons of flavorless oil (like Canola or grapeseed) in a skillet or wok until it's smoking. I take the fish out of the marinade with a slotted spoon, place them in the hot pan, and stir-fry them until they're just done, no more than 3 minutes or so. Serve with hot corn tortillas.

Guacamole

1 serrano pepper, minced
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 onion, minced
1 medium-size ripe tomato, diced
2 avocados, just ripe
minced cilantro to taste
juice of 1/2 lime (optional)

Whether you add lime juice or not is going to have a lot to do with how good and ripe your avocados are. I'm kind of partial to lime juice, but that's mainly because I can't get the kind of avocados up here that I became accustomed to in Orange County, CA one summer. Frankly, I feel the same way about the tomato. If you can't find a really nice, ripe one, it might pay to just leave it out. Nothing ruins a guacamole faster than a mealy, previously frozen supermarket tomato.

[This recipe's mostly Kennedy's classic version with a little de Vienne thrown in for good measure.]

Fast Frijoles Negros

1 onion, chopped
1 head of garlic, broken into cloves, peeled, and minced
1/4 cup olive oil
4 19-oz cans black beans, drained
1 tablespoon chipotle purée
juice of 1 lime
salt and pepper to taste
minced cilantro (optional)

In a medium-size pot, heat the oil and sauté the onion and garlic until the onion is soft. Add the beans, stir, fill up one of the empty cans of beans with water and add that, too. Bring to a boil, then simmer on low for 20-30 minutes, making sure to stir from time to time to make sure the beans aren't getting scorched, and adding additional water if necessary. Add the chipotle purée, the lime juice, and adjust the seasonings. Garnish with cilantro if you like.

[Adapted from a Cuban black beans recipe in John Thorne's Serious Pig]

What's getting left out in all of this is Michelle's fantastic dessert. She asked me what I wanted and I was honest: cookies and ice cream. Not some big cake (as much as I love big cakes), something simple and somewhat lighter, something befitting a Mexican fiesta. So she made Mexican vanilla ice cream with dark caramel brittle and Mexican chocolate cookies to go with it.

Documenting the evening's festivities with his impressionistic photographic eye was none other than Mr. S., but somehow he managed to miss the piñata, the Mexican hat dance, and the all-human, cruelty-free bullfight that we organized as entertainment. He did manage to capture the following photographs, though. L-R: Michelle, LPs, Julie, Alina, Seth, A.J., Nick, Mexican chocolate cookies, Susan.



Thanks to T., A., A., C., V., H., M., S., J., N., J., C., S. and M.

By popular demand (top L-R: Seth, Camilla, Susan, Nick; middle L-R: Seth, Juliet, A.J., Tim; bottom L-R: Hermine, Python, Adam, Nick):



aj

In A Pickle

This week I have been caught off guard thinking it was still summer. Which, of course, it is and will be for another three weeks or so, but around here you can't take these things for granted. Doing so can be a dangerous mistake, since in the blink of an eye, depending on the year, the cucumbers can disappear. Same with the tomatoes. "But I'm not ready yet," does nothing to change the inevitable, Sweetie.

In my mind, summer's not summer without making some dill pickles. They're so satisfying, and so much tastier than your supermarket-issue brands, and they're really very easy to prepare. So go ahead and whip up a batch of dill pickles before it's too late. You can deal with the sweet pickles tomorrow, tomatoes on the weekend.

I bought my cucumbers in a moment of panic last weekend at the market ("It's already the end of August?") and was ready to pickle them when I realised I was missing a key ingredient: pickling spice. I thought about running to the store and buying some but then it occurred to me I could whip up my own batch using Phillipe de Vienne's amazing spices. What I concocted was leagues better than the usual bland pickling spice which has been sitting on the shelf for God knows how long, but boy, was it strong. I will let you know how it turns out in a few weeks.

The following is the basic dill pickles recipe I've been using for the last few years. I give it my personal touch by making some extra spicy, with the addition of some hot chiles, some extra garlicky.

Dill Pickles

pickling cucumbers *
head of dill, divided into small bunches
garlic cloves, peeled
pickling spice
pickling salt
5 % vinegar mixed with an equal part water
1 liter canning jars with lids

* I washed my cucumbers and placed them on ice for a few hours, having heard that this produces crunchier pickles.

Sterilise the canning jars and place the snap lids in a small pot of hot water. Bring the vinegar mixture to a boil and keep it simmering while you load up the jars. Take the jars, one at a time, and add the following to each: 1 bunch dill, 1 clove garlic, 1 tsp. pickling spice, 1 Tbsp. pickling salt, enough cucumbers to fill the jar, and vinegar mixture to cover cucumbers. Close the jars and either hot water process them 15 min. or let them sit on the counter overnight. Check the seals and store any unsealed jars in the fridge. Keep at least 3 weeks before opening or the pickles will be too vinegary.

Pickling Spice

mustard seeds
coriander seeds
cinnamon stick
cloves
mace
allspice
juniper berries
dill seeds
black peppercorns
bay leaves
dried chiles

It goes without saying that there are countless variations: more garlic and/or hot peppers, as mentioned above, different spices, ginger, half-sour... If anyone out there has a prize-winning dill pickle recipe that they wouldn't mind sharing, please let me know.

m

"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

Easter Monday

Yesterday we had dinner with my parents, and quite the meal it was. I wasn't 100% sure why we'd opted for an Easter Monday dinner instead of an Easter dinner proper, but later I pieced together that at least part of the reason had to do with the fact that I was born 30-some-odd years ago on Easter Monday (I've never actually gone back to verify this story, but that's what I'm told), although not on the 17th of April. Fittingly, I suppose, our Easter Monday meal had three parts to it.



1. By now some of you out there are probably rolling your eyes at yet another mention of artichokes, but what can we say? The artichokes have been beautiful and plentiful this year, and they've rarely tasted better to us. So good, in fact, that we had them three times last week and I could have easily had them again tonight. As promised, I went looking for some more purple Sicilian artichokes just as soon as I could last week, but I came up empty. I'm not sure if some of you "...an endless banquet" readers out there beat me to the punch, or if they just didn't come in this week, but when I couldn't mind those lovely purple artichokes I sure was happy to see that both Chez Nino and Chez Louis had plenty of baby artichokes. We had some on Sunday and on Monday, and both times we simmered them for 20-30 minutes, then served them with my homemade mayonnaise.

2. I've mentioned this before, but for years I was convinced that Montreal just wasn't a crab town. Having grown up in not one but two of North America's premier crab-harvesting and crab-eating regions--the San Francisco Bay Area and the Chesapeake Bay region--this has always been a source of concern to me. Life without the occasional crab feast is a life that I'm not sure I'm willing to live. Few meals generate the sense of communion that a crab feast does. It's got something with the time it takes, the way the meal rewards those with patience, the simplicity and, frankly, the indelicate nature of the whole affair, and the way good crab inspires states of near-ecstasy. When you live with cats and have the added feature of seeing them circle the table wildly in search of any scraps that might fall to the floor, the experience is compounded. Michelle had never had fresh, quality crab until our trip to San Francisco last summer. Having Dungeness crab (even if it had been brought in from Washington) was just one of the revelations Michelle experienced on that trip, but it was hardly an insignificant one. Not being the season for local Dungeness crab, however, we didn't have the luxury of buying quantities of crab, so Michelle was none the wiser when it came to the joys of the crab feast. Of course, we could have had a crab feast right here in Montreal last year, but we'd squandered a golden opportunity. You see, one of the bonuses that came with the grand opening of Jean-Talon Market's new pavilion last year (as you may remember, we definitely had mixed feelings about this new addition at the time, although, in retrospect, there's no question that the pluses have far outweighed the minuses since) was that all of a sudden we found out that Quebec had an indigenous crab--the Snow Crab--that came from the Gaspé region, and that nothing was stopping Montreal from becoming a crab town. Unfortunately, we were so unprepared for this discovery and the Snow Crab season was so short (2 months) that, before we knew it, the moment had passed.

We were not about to make the same mistake this year. To date we've already been to the LIVE CRAB stand twice this year. Once, just to run a quality assurance test and make sure these Quebecois Snow Crabs were up to snuff--they were, and I used the meat to make a very fetching pasta with crab, asparagus, and peas dish [recipe soon to follow]--and a second time, yesterday, to have a full-on crab feast. If you've yet to try them, these Snow Crabs are a true delicacy. They have long, spidery legs, not unlike an Alaskan King crab, but because they're so much smaller than their Alaskan brethren, they require a fair bit more work, a fair bit more patience in order to get at every last delicious morsel. The flesh is remarkably sweet, with a delicate brininess to it, and really it requires no accompaniment at all. No butter, no nothing. Inspired by a shrimp appetizer that was prepared for us by Philippe de Vienne a couple of months ago, I made a New Orleans-style remoulade, and used it with every 4th or 5th bite of crab. The combination was fantastic, and if I were to make some Crab Rolls for a party or something, I think I'd definitely enlist the services of that remoulade, but, like I said, that Snow Crab meat was just fine on its own. More than fine, actually. Heavenly.*

Michelle looked like a kid in a candy store. The crab feast was definitely her kind of meal: leisurely, a bit finicky even, the kind of meal that rewards those with an attention to detail with an enormous payoff. Little did she know that the fun was far from over.



3. The third and final part of our Easter Monday meal was a definitive Caesar. You may remember that we ran a feature on Caesar Salad, including its lore and its place within my personal history, last year. There, we printed the Caesar Salad recipe that's been the standard in my family for some 35 years or so: Salade Caesar à la Terry. As I mentioned at the time, this was a classic recipe, a recipe true to that Ur-Caesar created in Tijuana some 80+ years ago. Maybe not exactly Cesare "Caesar" Cardini's original, but something that was at the very least faithful. Turns out I was right. A couple of weeks ago we watched an old episode of local food celebrity Josée Di Stasio's TV show from the "à la Di Stasio" DVD box set. The topic of that particular episode was real Mexican cuisine and the featured guest was none other than Philippe de Vienne. Somewhat cheekily, De Vienne included a recipe for Caesar Salad on his Mexican menu for that day, and he claimed that this Caesar Salad was in fact the recipe for Caesar Salad, Caesar Cardini's original. You'll notice that it's very close to Salade Caesar à la Terry, with one crucial difference. De Vienne claims that lime juice, not lemon juice, was the touch that gave Cardini's salad a little taste of Tijuana and his claim makes perfect sense. Better yet, the lime juice truly elevates the Caesar Salad, making it taste lighter, fresher, more spritely. Looking for the perfect Caesar? The key = lime.

Caesar Salad à la Caesar Cardini

4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
3 cloves of garlic, finely minced or pressed
6 anchovy filets
1 tbsp lime juice
1 dash Worcestershire sauce
1 egg, beaten
Romaine heart
1/4 cup Parmesan, freshly grated
freshly ground black pepper
8 slices of day-old baguette rubbed with garlic
capers

Crush the garlic and the anchovy filets in the base of a wooden bowl with a wooden spoon. Add the lime juice, Worcestershire sauce, and egg and mix well. Add the olive oil in a steady stream stirring all the while. Wash and gently dry your Romaine lettuce leaves, then coarsely chop them. Toss them in the dressing, making sure the dressing coats the lettuce leaves relatively evenly. Add the Parmesan and toss once more. Season with black pepper to taste. Toss in a tablespoon or so of capers. Serve each portion with 2 slices of baguette.

Serves 4.

Everyone was ecstatic about this recipe. Michelle was particularly impressed. She promptly announced that this was the very best Caesar she'd ever had. Hands down. I'm still devoted to Salade Caesar à la Terry, but I'm sure I'll be making my Caesars with lime juice from now on more often than not.


You can find live crab at the Atkins Frères LIVE CRAB stand at Jean-Talon Market Friday, Saturday, and Sunday until mid- to late-May.

aj

*"No picture of the crab?," you say. That's how good that crab was. It would have been a travesty to try to represent it photographically.