New Ways to Boost Your Grain Power 1: Barley!

 fig. a:  icy

Some days, all you really want for dinner is a bowl of soup--preferably, with a loaf of freshly baked bread, and some butter.  Soup lovers get this feeling throughout the year, of course--even in summer--but during the winter, the pursuit of soup can take on added urgency.  You know the days:  the ones with the snow squalls, the arctic blasts of wind, the temperatures that drop like an anvil in a matter of just a few short hours, possibly even a freak thunderstorm (!).  On days like these (because that's exactly the kind of day we're having here today in Montreal), there are few things as life-affirming as the first spoonful of that steaming bowl of hearty soup.  Sample the right soup, and you'll immediately feel its restorative powers begin to kick in--the very same powers that gave the first modern restaurants their allure (and the name by which these establishments became known).

Obviously, there are many, many soups that can produce this effect, but some of the most satisfying winter soups are those that make ample use of grains, like rice, barley, or oats.  These grains provide flavour, they provide substance, and they also provide comfort.  (Think about it:  why do most variations on the proverbial chicken soup come with noodles or rice, or something similar?)  Serve them with that freshly baked bread and you'll find that your grain power will be amplified.  Serve them with that freshly baked bread and a tasty beer and your grain power will be boosted even more.

Barley soup is one of the classics of the genre, but I'd more or less given up on it until I found a recipe for Grauensuppe, a German barley soup, in an issue of Saveur way back in 2011.  The recipe showed up in a fantastic article on the soup-making traditions of Central Europe, aptly titled "The Art of Soup." This was not the stodgy beef & barley soup found throughout the Anglo-American and Anglo-Canadian worlds.  Here, the barley in question was pearl barley, which keeps its form and its texture better than other varieties; the meat was German-style sausage; the vegetables included one of the staple trios of the German soup-making tradition: carrot, celeriac, and leek; and the barley was sautéed first to toast the grains and give the soup additional flavour.  The results were fantastic--one of my favourite soups of the last couple of years.  Even better:  this soup is quick and easy to make.

 fig. b:  ja, voll!

Grauensuppe 

4 tbsp unsalted butter
1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped
1 cup pearl barley
8 cups vegetable stock, preferably homemade
1/2 cup finely chopped peeled russet potato
1/2 cup finely chopped carrot
1/2 cup finely chopped celeriac
1/2 cup finely chopped leek
1 tsp dried marjoram, preferably wild
2 German sausages, like bockwurst or bratwurst
1 2-oz piece of smoky bacon
freshly grated nutmeg
kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/3 cup thinly sliced flat-leaf parsley leaves 

Heat the butter in large saucepan over medium heat.  Add the bacon, and sauté for about 1 minute.  Add the onion and cook, stirring, until soft, about 5-10 minutes.  Add the stock, potato, carrot, celery root, leek, marjoram, and sausages and cook, stirring occasionally, until the sausages are tender, about 35 minutes.   

Remove the sausages and bacon from the saucepan.  Thinly slice the sausages and discard the poor hunk of bacon.  Season the soup with nutmeg, salt and pepper, being careful not to overdue it with the nutmeg.   

Ladle the soup into 8 serving bowls, and garnish with parsley and sliced sausage.  Serve hot, with plenty of good, freshly baked bread, and butter.

 fig. c:  pumpkin seed sourdough

Serves 8. 

[based very, very closely on a recipe that appeared in Beth Kracklauer's "The Art of Soup" in the November 2011 issue of Saveur]

To your health (and your warmth)!

Note:  while the health benefits of this soup might prove to be lasting, its warming properties will likely prove to be fleeting.  Please remember to snuggle up afterwards.

 fig. d:  the art of snuggling

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).

more soul for the chicken soup

As you may remember, January saw us heroically trying to stave off the common cold with a particularly tasty preemptive strike: soto ayam. What we didn't tell you, and what I now realize was largely unapparent from January's posts, was that at the time we were in the midst of a full-blown Asian kick prompted by a handful of recent acquisitions:

a) a copy of Andrea Nguyen's Into the Vietnamese Kitchen: Treasured Foodways, Modern Flavors
b) a copy of Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid's Mangoes and Curry Leaves: Culinary Travels Through the Great Subcontinent
c) a copy of Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid's Seductions of Rice
and
d) a rice cooker*

This full-blown Asian kick only lasted a few weeks before we started to drift back into more familiar terrain--like Italian, Hungarian, French, and Mexican--but it did result in a number of outstanding meals. So earlier this month, when we suddenly realized how far we'd strayed, we took a pledge: all Asian, all month. You can expect to hear about all the highlights of our own culinary travels in the very near future, but in the meantime, here's a recipe that's a great follow-up to the soto ayam, one that doesn't pack the same spicy punch, but is also an ideal late-winter cure-all.

It's a rice soup with chicken, seafood, and mushrooms, and it's based closely on a recipe (Cháo Bôi) in Andrea Nguyen's truly inspiring Into the Vietnamese Kitchen. Nguyen's original calls for dried wood ear mushrooms, but we didn't have any of those, so we replaced them with fresh shiitakes, which have become readily available here in Montreal in recent years, so much so that we can get them at our local supermarket for the same price as your standard white mushrooms. The recipe also calls for crab. We recommend using fresh Quebec snow crab, whose short but sweet season has just begun. Half a snow crab will provide you with more than enough crab for the soup--any extra you can use to treat your cats.

Michelle still loves the soto ayam the best because of its sensory overload, but, if you ask me, this delicate little gem is easily its equal.

fig. a: before

Rice Soup with Chicken, Seafood, and Mushrooms

1 boneless, skinless chicken breast, about 1/4 lb
1 cup long-grain white rice
3 quarts homemade chicken stock**
8-10 fresh shiitake mushrooms, stemmed and sliced
2 tbsp canola oil
1 small onion, thinly sliced
1/4 cup Chinese cooking wine or dry sherry
1/2 pound medium shrimp, peeled and halved horizontally
1/3 cup freshly picked crabmeat
1/4 cup small tapioca pearls
salt
1/3 cup chopped scallion, both white and green parts
1/3 cup coarsely chopped fresh cilantro

Fill a 5-quart saucepan half full with water. Bring the water to a rolling boil over high heat and add the chicken breast. Remove the pot from the heat and cover tightly, letting the pot stand for 20 minutes in order to gently poach the chicken. After 20 minutes, the chicken should be firm to the touch yet still yield a bit. Remove the chicken from the pan, leaving the water in. When the chicken is cool enough to handle, shred it by hand and set aside.

Return the water to a boil and add the rice. Parboil the rice for 8 minutes. Drain in a colander and rinse with cold water. Set aside.

In the same pan, bring the stock to a boil over high heat. Add the rice and chicken, lower the heat to a gentle simmer, and cook for 10 minutes, or until the rice expands.

Meanwhile, in a skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook gently, stirring from time to time, for about 4 minutes, or until fragrant and soft. Add the shiitake mushrooms and sauté for another 2 minutes. Add the Chinese cooking wine or sherry and cook until it evaporates. Add the shrimp and sauté for about 3-4 minutes, until they curl into corkscrews. Add the crabmeat and stir to distribute. Remove from the heat and set aside.

To prevent the tapioca pearls from clumping on contact with the hot soup, put them in a sieve and rinse briefly under cold water. When the rice has expanded in the soup, add the tapioca pearls and cook for another 10 minutes. The tapioca pearls will expand and become translucent. At that point, add the seafood and mushroom mixture, heat through, and adjust with salt, if necessary.

Ladle into individual bowls and top with scallions and cilantro. Serve immediately.

Serves 4 to 6 as a highly nutritious one-bowl meal.

fig. b: after

Good to the last drop!

aj

* We realize that getting a rice cooker and a copy of Seductions of Rice back-to-back is a bit odd, given Alford and Duguid's insistence on time-honored ways. We still love making rice the traditional way for ourselves, but we also like our rice cooker, especially for dinner parties.

** We made ours with a couple of leftover chicken carcasses, two onions, four cloves of garlic, a couple of hunks of ginger, half a daikon, five stalks of celery, four carrots, the shiitake mushroom stems (see above), salt, pepper, and a teaspoon of five spice. It only took about 45 minutes to make and it made a huge difference.