Having successfully survived cooking Easter dinner for twenty five family members, Mom promoted me to chef for the family Xmas Eve dinner this year. Since I would be cooking for only eleven people the menu should have been easier to navigate, but she threw me a curve by choosing a menu that was particularly time sensitive: beef tenderloin, asparagus, and “some sort of starch that’s not potatoes.”

I planned out the timing on the beef and asparagus (broil-roast the asparagus during the resting period for the beef), knew I could make a sauce Bernaise for both that I could hold until service, but the starch had me stumped. I had no desire to finish a par-cooked risotto a la minute, but I couldn’t think of a do-ahead dish worthy of the occasion.

Then I remembered this Thomas Keller video in which he makes gnocchi à la Parisienne, and knew the dish was just what I needed.

He makes it look easy, and it is. I had already made pâte à choux before, so I knew the basic steps. I used the recipe from Keller’s Bouchon cookbook, and assembled my ingredients: six eggs, one and a half cups of water, two cups of flour, twelve tablespoons of unsalted butter, four teaspoons of kosher salt, one cup of shredded Emmenthaler cheese, a tablespoon each of chopped parsley, chives, and tarragon, and two tablespoons of Dijon mustard. The recipe calls for a tablespoon of chopped chervil — one of Keller’s favorite herbs — but I have never been able to find it anywhere.

I brought the water, butter, and a teaspoon of the salt to a simmer over medium-high heat.

I reduced the heat to medium and added the flour all at once, stirring rapidly with a wooden spoon until the dough pulled away from the sides and bottom of the pan.

I continued to stir for about five minutes, until a thin film formed on the pan and steam rose up from the dough. I transferred the dough to a stand mixer, added the mustard and herbs, and mixed briefly to combine before adding the cheese. I added three eggs, one at a time on low speed, waiting until each egg was incorporated until adding the next. I increased the speed to medium and added two more eggs, then checked the consistency of the dough. It was too thick, so I added one more egg for a total of six.

I put the dough in a gallon zip-top bag and let it rest at room temperature for thirty minutes.

While the dough rested, I set up a large pot of barely simmering water, and a second pot filled with ice water and a large strainer. I didn’t have a number eight pastry tip (do you?), so I simply cut off a corner of the bag and started squeezing out dough, which I cut into inch-long pieces with a knife (action shot by She Who Must Be Obeyed).

In the video, Keller casually knocks off a few dozen gnocchi, but I had some trouble. The dough stuck to the knife, making it almost impossible to cut cleanly. Once I abandoned the knife and used my kitchen shears, the process moved along at a rapid clip. (He also mentions that it’s a great task for children, but He Who Will Not Be Ignored was nowhere to be found.) I cut about two dozen gnocchi into the hot water, where they cooked until they floated to the top.

Using a spider, I transferred the cooked gnocchi to the pot of ice water to cool them.

I lifted them out of the ice water with the strainer and moved them to a towel-lined baking sheet to drain off the excess moisture. (All New England kitchen towels have either fish or lobsters on them.)

The drained gnocchi were moved to parchment-lined baking sheets.

I wound up with 165 gnocchi, about a third less than the 240 Keller says the recipe makes. I attribute the discrepancy to my cutting too large a hole in the plastic bag. The sheets went into the Belm Research Kitchen Cryonic Storage Facility for an overnight chill.

I placed the frozen gnocchi into a plastic bag and transported them on ice to Mom’s freezer, where they sat until just before dinnertime.

While the beef and asparagus rested, I heated olive oil and butter in two skillets over medium-high heat, then divided the frozen gnocchi into the pans. I sauteed them for about five minutes, tossing gently but frequently to get them brown and crisp. When they were crispy and heated through I garnished them with some chopped chives.

These were a big hit. They were crispy on the outside bit moist and soft on the inside. You could taste the mustard, cheese, and herbs, but no one flavor overpowered another.

I know I’ll be making another batch soon, just to have on hand for future meals.

This is the second recipe I’ve made from what has turned out to be my favorite cookbook published this year, Momofuku by David Chang. The dish, shrimp and grits, was a milestone for Chang. As he describes it:

…it was with this dish that I decided — or accepted — that if we reached past “tradition” to create the truest and best version of a dish for our own palates, then what we were doing wasn’t bullshit. Momofuku was going pretty strong at this point, but this was the dish that allowed us — or me, certainly — to really look outward and onward.

Quite a bit of emotional weight for a bowlful of grits, but I plunged in. As with many of Chang’s recipes, there are simple but essential do-ahead steps — three for this recipe: soaking the grits, making slow-poached eggs, and preparing either ramen broth or bacon dashi. Given that the ramen broth is a substantial undertaking of its own, I opted for the dashi. But first, the grits. As the recipe states: “Assuming you have the foresight to do so, combine  the water (two cups) and grits (two cups) and let the grits soak overnight in the pot you’ll cook them in.” I soaked the grits overnight.

Dashi, a basic ingredent in many Japanese prepartions, is usually made with konbu — dried kelp — and katsuobushi — dried, smoked bonito flakes. Chang substitutes the katsuobushi with high-quality smoky bacon. I started with two three-by-six-inch pieces of konbu, and a half pound of bacon cut into quarters. (The bacon was sliced by my prep cook, He Who Will Not be Ignored.)

I rinsed the konbu and added it to eight cups of water. I brought the pot to a simmer over medium heat, then turned off the heat and let it steep for ten minutes. The konbu had completely rehydrated into large, floppy sheets.

I discarded the konbu, added the bacon, brought the pot to a boil, then reduced to a simmer for thirty minutes.

I strained and discarded the bacon (Discarded bacon? Is it possible to combine those words in common English usage?), chilled the broth, and reserved the solidified bacon fat. I kept two cups of the dashi in the fridge, and froze the remaining quart for future use.

While the dashi cooled, I set up my ghetto sous-vide rig again (first used here), and slow-poached six eggs at 145°F for 45 minutes.

I chilled the eggs in ice water until needed.

Turning my attention to the shrimp and grits, I assembled my ingredients:a half pound of bacon cut into batons,  two cups of bacon dashi, two cup of soaked and drained grits, two tablespoons of canola oil, two tablespoons of soy sauce, a stick of butter cut into pieces, a half cup of chopped scallions, and a pound of peeled and deveined U-20 shrimp.

I added the grits to the dashi, brought them to a simmer over medium-high heat, and stirred constantly for five minutes.

Here’s where I ran into a possible error in the recipe. If I hadn’t soaked the grits, I would have added them slowly to the dashi and two additional cups of water. The pre-soaked grits should have eliminated the need for the water, but they stiffened up too quickly. I may not know that much about cooking grits, but I do know my way around a polenta, so I gradually added two cups of water from my electric kettle to get the grits to the desired creamy consistency. I also added the soy sauce, a pinch of salt, and a few grinds of black pepper.

And this is where I encountered my second problem. The recipe specifically calls for usukuchi, or light say sauce. All I had was traditional dark soy. Although it had no bearing on the flavor of the grits, it did change the color from dark gold to beige, as you will see. With the grits at the proper consistency, I stired in the butter, and set the covered pot aside.

I cooked the bacon in a cast iron pan over medium heat until it was crispy.

While the bacon cooked, I added the oil and a pinch of salt to the shrimp and mixed to coat. I removed the bacon, reserved the fat, wiped the pan clean, and set it over high heat. I added the shrimp, pressing down with a spatula, and seared them for two minutes, then turned them and seared for an additional minute.

I set the shrimp aside, then took three of the eggs out of the fridge and warmed them under hot running tap water. I put a big helping of grits in each bowl, arranged the shrimp, bacon, and scallions in separate piles, then cracked an egg into the center of each.

This dish invites you to play with all of the possible flavor combinations: shrimp and bacon, shrimp and egg, bacon and egg, bacon and grits, etc., but a mouthful of all five components just knocks you flat with tastes and textures. You can just make out the vegetal note from the dashi, which is what instantly differentiates this dish from its Southern version. As He Who Will Not Be Ignored noted – taking pride in what he helped cook: “This is awesome! From now on I always want bacon with my shrimp!”

Sources:

Bacon: North Country Smokehouse

Konbu, scallions: Reliable Market

Grits: Whole Foods

Eggs: Stillman’s

For you non-Italians, it’s pureed chickpea soup, a recipe from Anne Burrell’s Food Network show, Secrets of a Restaurant Chef.

I started by soaking a pound of dried chickpeas (ceci) in cold water overnight in the fridge. I drained and rinsed them when it was time to cook. In addition to the ceci I assembled a quarter pound of diced pancetta, one large onion, two celery ribs, one large carrot (all three veggies cut into half-inch dice), three crushed garlic cloves, three bay leaves, a thyme bundle, two quarts of homemade chicken stock, some crushed red pepper, and a parmesan cheese rind. The recipe doesn’t cal for the rind, but I have a whole bag of them in the Deep Storage Facility freezer and figured one would add a complimentary nutty flavor to the soup.

I filmed a soup pot with oil and rendered the pancetta over medium heat.

When the pancetta was crispy, I added the veggies and let them sweat until softened, about six minutes.

I added the chickpeas, thyme, bay leaves, cheese rind, stock, and a quart of water, bringing the mixture to a boil before returning it to a simmer.

After an hour and a half, I checked to see if the ceci were soft, able to be crushed by pinching with my fingers. They were, so I reseasoned with salt and let the soup rest for twenty minutes, during which time I prepared the croutons. (I also removed the bay leaves and rind, which would not have been a pleasant textural contribution to the final dish.)

I filled a skillet with a half inch of olive oil, three sprigs of finely chopped rosemary, three more crushed garlic cloves, and a pinch of red pepper flakes. After a few minutes over medium heat I removed the garlic cloves, which had infused the oil. I added half-inch chunks of bread I cut from five slices of ciabatta.

When the croutons were crispy I salted them and removed them to a bowl. The remaining oil was added to the soup, which I pureed with an immersion blender until it was smooth.

I ladled the soup into bowls, added a generous handful of croutons, and drizzled some high-quality olive oil over the top.

I was expecting this soup to be bean-y, but I was surprised at how subtly flavored it turned out to taste. It was hearty without being heavy, the smooth texture was complimented by the crunchy, oil-soaked croutons.

I’ll be making this one again; it’s dead simple to prepare, and, with a side salad makes a complete meal. I served it as a first course for a pork dinner, about which you can read in the next post.

Once a week He Who Will Not Be Ignored gets to choose the dinner menu. We usually have to steer him away from the hot dogs, pizza, buffalo wings, and sushi that are the staples of his ideal diet, but every now and then he varies his choice without our prompting. Last week he asked for fried chicken, which I was all to happy to make. I’ve had success with Jasper White’s recipe from the Summer Shack Cookbook, but I was swayed by reports of the delicious fried chicken at Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc restaurant. So out came the cookbook, and my two-day chicken adventure began.

The key to Keller’s fried chicken is the lemon-based brine, which has to be prepared a day in advance. It’s a sub-recipe (of course) at the back of the book, enough for 10 pounds of poultry. I halved it to one gallon for the six pounds I’d be cooking.

Three halved lemons, one cup of kosher salt, two tablespoons of black peppercorns, twelve bay leaves, two ounces of flat-leaf parsley, half an ounce of thyme, a halved head of garlic, and a quarter cup of clover honey all went into a pot with three quarts of water. Why not a full gallon? Alton Brown had a tip for me (as well as his picture on the plunger cup). I brought the mixture to a boil, then boiled for an additional minute, stirring to dissolve the salt.

Off the heat, I added 2 pounds of ice to the pot to jump start its cooling down. That’s Alton’s tip: “a pint’s a pound the world around”  —  adding the ice by weight instead of volume guaranteed that I’d wind up with exactly a gallon of brine.

While the brine cooled, I cut up two three-pound chickens into ten pieces each.

I stored the pieces in bags overnight in the fridge, along with the pot of brine.

The next morning I got up early and dumped the pieces into the brine, where they would sit for the next ten hours. (Keller advises against brining for more than 12 hours.)

I should mention here that the entire house still had a wonderful lemon-herb smell from the brine cooking the night before. It had the side effect of cranking up our expectations for dinner. Now the pressure was on.

After ten hours in the brine, I removed the chicken pieces, rinsed them, and set them on a rack to dry at room temperature for an hour and a half. During that time I filled a seven-quart dutch oven with two inches of peanut oil and slowly brought it up to 320°F. While the oil heated I prepared the coating mix.

I combined six cups of flour with a quarter cup each of garlic powder and onion powder, and four teaspoons each of paprika, cayenne, and kosher salt, and one teaspoon of freshly ground black pepper. I divided the mixture int two bowls, and added a quart of buttermilk to a third bowl. I set these up as a dipping station with a rack over a sheet pan to receive the coated pieces.

Here’s where Keller’s legendary precision/fussiness took over. Rather than dip and coat all of the pieces before frying — which would result in the later pieces being wetter than the earlier pieces — he recommends coating the next batch only after the first batch hits the oil. In addition, the pieces had to be fried at different temperatures and times. I started with the four thighs, frying them for 12 minutes.

Once the frying started I had to constantly adjust the heat to keep the temperature from dropping to precipitously. For a solid hour I played this game: thighs for twelve minutes while I coated the leg, legs for twelve minutes, then increase the temperature to 340°F, coat the breasts, fry the breasts for seven minutes, coat the wings, fry the wings for six minutes. All of the fried pieces were drained on another rack and sprinkled with salt. After an hour, I had the rack full of chicken seen at the top of this post.

While I was prepping for the frying step, She Who Must Be Obeyed decided to whip up a batch of the Ad Hoc buttermilk biscuits. She somehow managed to do this without getting in my way, baking while I fried, but before I would need the oven to keep the chicken hot. So we had this unexpected accompaniment to our diner:

ALL BOW DOWN TO THE AWESOMENESS THAT IS SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED! BOW, I TELL YOU!

Fried chicken with biscuits begged for gravy, so I retrieved some from the freezer (you have gravy in the freezer, don’t you?) and thawed while the biscuits baked. Finally, it was time to eat.

I have friends who tell me that the best fried chicken in the US is either at Dookie Chase’s in New Orleans, or at whatever restaurant Dookie’s former cook is working. I’ve not had the pleasure of sampling Leah Chase’s fried yardbird, so I’ll go out on a limb and say this is the best fired chicken I’ve ever eaten, let alone made. Not only does the brine infuse the chicken with succulent lemony herby goodness, it also prevents the meat from drying out. This is chicken you have to eat with a napkin; you can’t help but have juice dripping down your chin. The crust was perfectly crackling crisp but didn’t slide off after the first bite.

We had to force ourselves to stop eating. He Who Will Not Be Ignored ate a record three pieces, and demanded that this was the way I had to make fried chicken from now on. I’ll probably comply, but I’ll set up a second pot of oil for the frying – I don’t think we’ll want to wait too long now that we know how this chicken tastes.

She Who etc.’s biscuits were perfectly flaky and buttery, but I’m thinking a savory waffle would work well with that gravy.

I’m two recipes from Ad Hoc At Home down (the first is here), and I haven’t even made it past page 22. I suspect I’ll be coking a loot more recipes from this one.

Sources:

Chicken, lemons, herbs: Trader Joe’s

Kate’s Real Buttermilk: Market Basket

Chicken gravy: Belm Research Kitchen Deep Storage Facility