I discovered banoffee pie when I was searching for a dessert to serve to one of my English friends. It’s a simple dish: pie shell filled with toffee, layered with sliced bananas (hence the hybrid name “banoffee”), and topped with whipped cream. As is typical with this kind of dessert – cheesecake is another classic example – cooks have a tendency to overengineer the final product, adding unnecessary flourishes. You want this:
not this:
The ideal pie should taste of four things: crust, toffee, banana, and whipped cream. If you insist, add a chocolate garnish.
I hadn’t thought of making banoffee pie ice cream until I learned that Toscanini’s had been working on it. I had a pretty good idea of how to proceed, but the success would all be in the execution. I would have to violate one of the basic tenets of the pie: a true banoffee has a pastry crust, not a biscuit crumb base. Every recipe I had seen, however, started with biscuits, so that’s where I began, with a box of McVitie’s Milk Chocolate HobNobs (the preferred “plain” or dark chocolate variety is no longer available in the US) that I bashed into crumbs.
I added the crumbs to whole milk and let them steep for a hour or so, just like making cereal milk.
I filtered out the sludge and assembled the rest of my ingredients: sugar, milk powder, salt, glucose syrup, two sheets of gelatin, and heavy cream.
I warmed up the cream, stirred in the gelatin until dissolved, then added the rest of the ingredients. Once the mixture cooled a bit I transferred it to a blender, added two very ripe bananas, and pureed until smooth. I passed the mix through a strainer and then let the base cool overnight.
Before I churned the base, I cooked the toffee. Traditional recipes call for immersing an entire can of condensed milk in a pot of boiling water and letting it cook for a few hours, making sure the can remans under water. Unfortunately, new condensed milk cans have pull-off tops, which would certainly burst after a prolonged immersion. I used the less convenient, messier, double boiler method, which required constant stirring.
I had to figure out how to incorporate the toffee into the ice cream. Simply pouring it in as the ice cream churned would guarantee that it would wrap around the dasher, so I tried to fold it into the partially frozen base, which almost worked. (I learned later that the preferred technique is to let the base set up in the freezer for a few hours before layering the toffee and ice cream into a new container.)
I served a scoop of the finished ice cream with some chocolate crumb, a chocolate/hazelnut tile, and a spoonful of whipped cream.
How did it taste? I think I struck the correct balance of biscuit and banana, with the thread of chewy toffee adding texture without overpowering the other flavors. I’d like a better distribution of toffee, but that’s why experiments have to be repeated. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. For science.
As a child raised in an Italian family in lower Westchester county, my experience with Chinese food was nonexistent until I went to college. Under the patient tutelage of friends and the staff of the Joyce Chen Small Eating Place I learned about Mandarin/Szechuan cuisine. I also developed an addition to shrimp chips (“prawn crackers” to my friends across the pond). They were little miracles of transformation, going from this:
to this after a dunk in hot oil:
The cooked product, best eaten while still hot, was more about the texture than any actual shrimp flavor. It’s not to often that one can enjoy consuming what is best described as “colored hot styrofoam.”
I was reminded of shrimp chips after receiving multiple emails from various readers about the recipe for “glass potato chips” that appeared earlier this summer. The technique looked simple enough, so I gave it a try.
I roasted some Yukon Gold potatoes and steeped them in near-boiling water to make potato stock.
I mixed in the potato starch to make a gel, which seemed thicker than expected.
I should have been able to pour the gel into  squeeze bottle, but that wasn’t happening. Instead I did my best to spread it evenly on a sheet of parchment.
I put two sheets of potato gel into my dehydrator and let it run overnight. This is when I discovered the second problem.
The parchment had absorbed some of the moisture from the gel, making it contract while drying. I was able to peel the paper away and break up the dried gel into irregular shards.
I tasted one of the fragments, which didn’t seem particularly potato-y. I gave the pieces a dunk in my deep fryer, drained them, and hit them with some salt while they were still hot.
The finished chips were oily and salty, but still not potato-y. A failure from start to finish. But I realized that the basic technique allowed for variations in stock, flavoring, even color. I decided to try again, starting with a more strongly flavored vegetable stock.
I mixed the potato starch into a pan of hot vegetable broth (Whole Foods 365 brand), cooked until it thickened, and transferred the gel to a piping bag. I substituted quick release foil for the parchment, and sprinkled each flattened bit of gel with fennel-thyme salt.
These chips looked much better (and flatter) coming out of the dehydrator.
Imagine my surprise when I dunked these in hot oil:
They puffed up like shrimp chips. How did that happen? The starch/liquid ratio is identical to the potato version. There’s nothing in the vegetable broth apart from vegetables and water. My best guess is that the gel didn’t spend enough time to become fully dehydrated, and the trapped water that remained puffed the chips when exposed to high heat.
Clear or not, they were tasty, and worth another trial run. But I’m beginning to think that there are easier ways to make interesting chips.
I may have a prodigious memory, but when it comes to cooking for friends with various dietary restrictions I keep a database of likes, dislikes, and food allergies so I don’t make a potentially dangerous mistake when planning menus. I occasionally have to solve logic problems when I invite certain groups (“The vegan doesn’t eat broccoli. The person who keeps kosher is also a vegetarian. Of the two people who don’t eat shellfish, only one has a dairy allergy.”), but for the most part I manage to find meals to cook that aren’t salads, vegetarian lasagna, or the dreaded “enchanted broccoli forest.” (I still break out in hives when I see that cookbook.)
When the vegetarian variables align I get to make my go-to dish, the gâteau of crêpes from Julia Child & More Company. It’s two casseroles and mushroom duxelles separated and wrapped in savory crepes. The recipe is simple – with good time management you can make the gâteau in three hours.
I layered in the vegetables, starting with the carrots and some of the cheese.
I ladled in some of the custard, then covered the carrots with a crêpe. I added the mushrooms and another crêpe before adding the final layer of broccoli, cheese, and custard.
After an hour at 350 °F I increased the heat to 400 °F for another hour. After about 15 minutes of cooling I ran a thin spatula around the perimeter of the dish and inverted the contents onto a platter.
You can see a cross-section of the gâteau at the top of the post, it’s a very firm assembly. I served individual slices with some quick tomato sauce.
The method for this dish is more important than the contents, because you can generate endless variations of fillings, cheese, and crêpes. Add herbs to the crêpes, season the custard, change the sauce – you can create almost any flavor profile. You could even adapt the technique to make desserts with fruit fillings. I plan on trying some of the variations.
I just hope I don’t have to cook for gluten-free vegans any time soon. Salad, anyone?
When we weren’t eating or sleeping, the remainder of our Chicago trip was devoted to the science fiction convention that provided us with a convenient excuse to travel. During one of our visits to the dealers’ room we spent some time talking to David Malki !, creator of the Wondermark web comic, co-editor of the Machine of Death anthologies, and all-round bon vivant.
In addition the Wondermark line of quality goods, Malki ! was also creating sketches on the spot, based on his patented Roll-a-Sketch algorithm:
She Who Must Be Obeyed asked for a sketch, doubled up to $10, and insisted that one of the rolls be counted as a 1 so she could choose “shark” from column B. (She’s an attorney, she collects toy sharks.) The artist was happy to oblige, and provided running commentary as he sketched:
It took me a minute to realize that I was listening to a Stan Lee impression. I’m not alone in not catching on right away:
The dinners at Next and Alinea were the high points of our Chicago trip, but we dined well for the duration of our stay. In a week dominated by the closing of Charlie Trotter’s eponymous restaurant we managed to avoid the hype and focus our attention on good food.
Going to the Dogs
Our hotel (above) was far enough away from Hot Doug’s that we didn’t have the time to make a return trip, but, out of deference to He Who Will Not Be Ignored’s life mission to catalog good hot dog joints, we found a nearby establishment that would satisfy his need for chili cheese dogs and hand-cut fries. U.B. Dogs was packed full of regulars who informed us that we’d be in for a treat. They were right – He Who got his chili dog, She Who Must Be Obeyed sampled the canonical Chicago dog and found it good, and I tried the Joey dog:
These monsters were topped with fries, garlic-wasabi aioli, and tabasco sauce. The side order of fries was accompanied by three different sauces: more of the garlic-wasabi, sundried tomato, and mango habanero. A great lunch without the two-hour wait.
Something Fishy
On the evening of Trotter’s last meal, it seemed fitting that we would eat at a restaurant founded by one of his former sous chefs. GT Fish & Oyster is the newest addition to chef Guiseppe Tentori’s empire, a group that also includes Boka, where we had an amazing meal last year. I was too busy inhaling oysters and eating small plates to take photos, but we’ll be returning for more of the foie gras and shrimp terrine, oyster po’ boy sliders, lobster rolls, and cauliflower fritters. If you ever wanted to dine in a Bond villain’s mega-yacht, this is the place for you.
Dinner at Publican (Sleight Return)
Since he knew he wouldn’t be joining us at Next or Alinea, He Who demanded that we return to Publican. We invited a few more friends to make it a true family-style affair, including our London-native visitor Graham Sleight, who had been nominated for a Hugo Award (which he subsequently won). The menu had changed a bit, so we tried a few new items: grilled beef heart, grilled shishito peppers, pork belly, and the whole chicken with frites. Graham would later pronounce the chicken THE MOST AMAZING CHICKEN EVER and track down the recipe.
As we rolled down the street to find a cab home, I gazed longingly through the windows of Publican Quality Meats and Glazed and Infused, saddened that they were both closed for the day. The side of the building that housed both establishments provided this zero-sum advertisement:
Drinks with Royal(ty)
As we returned to the hotel I received a tweet from Scott the reservation wrangler. One of his local Facebook friends offered to get him and a guest into Aviary, the cocktail bar adjacent to Next. She Who begged off, but Scott and I rushed back (just two blocks down the street from Publican) to meet up with his friend. More tweets were pouring on on his phone: Chef Grant Achatz had just arrived with the chefs from Eleven Madison Park in advance of their restaurant swap experiment. We might not be able to get in. Wait, the chefs all headed into Next.
We walked up to the door and Scott said “We’re here with Royal.”
“Is that a password?” I asked.
“No, it’s the name of my friend.”
Password or not, dropping his name worked and we were escorted in to meet our benefactor. Royal is a regular at Aviary, so were were soon whisked to a banquette where we drank strange concoctions and nibbled on “small bites” from the kitchen. This was an infused punch prepared in an overengineered vacuum pot:
Royal’s drink was served out of a Porthole, which has become the iconic vessel at Aviary:
My simpler watermelon-based beverage paled by comparison, even if it did have ice spheres (made from a different liqueur) that changed the taste of the drink as they melted:
After about an hour, one of the servers asked us if we’d like to “go downstairs.” I was pretty sure that nothing was down there except the restrooms shared with Next, but I followed Royal’s lead and allowed myself to be ushered through a nondescript door into The Office, their “basement speakeasy,” available by invitation only. Where the upstairs was large and sleek with a high-tech drink prep area, The Office was a classic wood-paneled bar with big leather chairs and a massive menu of vintage scotch, bourbon, and other alcohols that people obsess over.
We allowed ourselves to be treated like royalty until the bar closed. but there was one more surprise waiting for us. While Scott and I waited for a cab, I turned around and saw chef Achatz standing outside the door to Next, taking in some air. His splattered apron led me to conclude that he had commandeered the Next kitchen after the last seating to cook for the Eleven Madison Park crew. I pointed him out to Scott, who thanked him profusely for or two recent meals. I, on the other had, tried to play it cool:
“Hi, we met at Harvard. We had a conversation about your revised method for making the dry caramel.”
“I remember that. Did you get it to work?”
“Yup. Thanks for the tip.”
And with that unexpected finish to the Next/Alinea/Aviary trifecta, we floated home.
ETA (9/18): Be sure to read Scott’s account of the same evening.
Our last meal in Chicago was brunch at Three Aces in University Village with our friend Maggie. After a brunch of sweet corn waffles with tasso ham, and cheddar biscuits with sausage gravy, Maggie presented us with a cake, a chocolate “intensement”:
As she described it, the cake, from top to bottom, was
chocolate macaron, chocolate/Cointreau ganache, chocolate sponge, chocolate imbibage and dark Valrhona chocolate mousse enrobed in a shiny chocolate glaze. Yup. There’s a little chocolate in this.
I don’t believe in “too much chocolate,” so I helped myself to a large slice, which was delicious. We were heartbroken that we couldn’t take it home with us, but I was convinced a TSA stooge would find reason to confiscate it.
We’re already talking about when we’ll return to Chicago; there are so many places we still haven’t tried (including that elusive Moto reservation). And it looks very pretty at night.
Although I swore I would eat at Alinea after dining at Boka last summer, my hopes were dashed when I learned that the restaurant would be switching to the same ticketing system used by Next, and that the transition would occur dangerously close to my Chicago departure date. However, due to the relentless efforts of Scott, the same fine fellow who secured our Next tickets, we learned that we would dine at Alinea the following night.
We were met outside and informed that the evening’s meal was summer themed, and that it began with our trip through the entry hall. We were invited to take a glass of lemonade as we entered and enjoy the short walk. When the door opened, we were greeted with the familiar Alinea entrance foyer rendered unfamiliar with a carpet of real grass (being watered in this photo):
To the left of the main entrance was an aluminum washtub half full of cold water, on which floated a collection of spherical glasses filled with a small splash of lemonade. We sipped, wandered down the hallway, and deposited our empties in a small basket waiting beside the entry to the dining room. We were ushered into the upstairs room and seated at a table for six by the front window, and the meal officially began.
I don’t have photos of each dish. Some are meant to be consumed quickly before they either melt or cool off, so out of respect for the chef’s wishes – and my desire to experience each dish as it was intended – I refrained from photographing everything. If you’re curious, you can find photos of the missing dishes online.
Steelhead roe: peach, St. Germain, kinome
Gimmonet Brut with Lilet Blanc and Pineau des Charentes
These blocks of ice, with a small, liquid-filled well in the center, were set before each of us. We were then given a glass tube packed with roe and herbs and instructed to set the tube into the well and slurp up the contents. The effect was like a quick shot of champagne and caviar: salty, sweet, and cold.
These four shellfish courses were presented together on a seaweed-draped piece of driftwood (the king crab is not in the photo). Each was a perfect bit or two of rarefied beach food. The combination of white chocolate foam and sea urchin roe was the standout.
Wooly pig: fennel orange, squid
No photo here, this is the single bite course served at the end of a long wire. It was a slice of cured mangalitsa ham topped with a spray of tiny squid tentacles.
Summer means tomatoes and tomato salads. This version included sliced red chile peppers, watermelon, and the same nasturtium garnish we had on the zucchini at Next. Simple, refreshing, and beautiful to look at.
I had opted for the complete wine pairing to accompany my meal. I had dutifully taken note of the brut and Riesling when they were poured, but paid particular attention to the sake served with the salad. I’m trying to learn more about sake, so when I asked the sommelier about what I was being served he was all too happy to educate me. It was then that I realized how subservient the Alinea wine program was to the food. During our conversation about drop-fermented sake, I realized that I had made a friend for the rest of the evening. I should mention that not one bottle that was served was something I had heard of before.
If summer tomatoes are served, can corn be far behind? This impressionist presentation combined sweet corn purée, huitlacoche (both pureéd and freeze-dried), sour cherry syrup, and fried corn silk.
Essence of the ocean in a bowl. Buried beneath the lime foam were little cubes of fatty tuna belly.
Chanterelle: ramps, asparagus, smoked date
Descendientes de J. Palacios “Petalos” Bierzo, Spain 2009
It’s difficult to make out in the photo, but this dish was served on a charred oak plank supporting heated river stones, on top of which the mushrooms rested. Although the dish wasn’t smoked, the smell of the smoke alone added depth to the taste of the grilled mushrooms.
Hot potato: cold potato, black truffle, butter
No photo here, but this dish is one of Chef Grant Achatz’s greatest hits. We were each presented with a small paraffin bowl containing soup, over which a cooked potato, a piece of truffle, and a cube of butter were suspended by a metal skewer. We had to withdraw the skewer, dropping the garnishes into the soup, which we slurped down in one gulp.
Lamb: ……?????………!!!!!!!!!
Domaine Leon Barral, Faugéres 2009
Each of us were served a plate of lamb cooked three ways, finished with lamb jus. Glass plates full of garnishes were set in the center of the table, and we were encouraged to try as many flavor combinations as we pleased. I had been looking forward to this dish ever since I saw the video of its preparation:
By the time we were done, the plates of garnishes were empty.
Black truffle: explosion, romaine, parmesan
Another greatest hit, this was a single raviolo filled with spherified black truffle juice. Eaten in one bite, it “exploded” in my mouth.
Anjou pear: onion, brie, smoking cinnamon
The Rare Wine Co. “Boston Bual – Special Reserve” Madiera
This was tempura-batteed brie with onion, served at the end of a smoldering cinnamon stick. The serving piece is called “the squid,” and is used for a similar dish in the fall that substitutes pheasant, apple, and an oak branch.
When this dish was served, the opening in the center pedestal was sealed with a glass stopper. When we removed the stopper, the drink was poured in, generating “smoke” from the dry ice at the bottom. We ate the blueberries and cake, and sipped from the drink with supplied glass straws.
Balloon: helium, green apple
Yup, apple taffy balloons filled with helium. We all took the opportunity to offer serious literary criticism with squeaky helium-chipmunk voices (“A Song of Ice and Fire is both grossly over- and underwritten.”). Pictured here are She Who Must Be Obeyed and Scott, Wrangler of Reservations and Wearer of Snazzy Boating Blazer.
White chocolate: strawberry, English pea, lemon
Boroli Barolo Chinato
The meal ended with some dinner theatre: The table was covered with a silicone mat, and small dishes full of colored stuff were set at either end. Two chefs came out and set three large hollow white chocolate shells in the center of the table. They then proceeded to scatter the contents of the dishes across the mat, announcing each ingredient: freeze-dried english pea pellets, strawberry powder, sherry powder, and buttermilk cream. When they were done, they lifted up the shells and let them drop down and shatter, revealing their contents: meringues, lemon cotton candy, more of the powders, and miniature olive oil filled jelly donuts. We were invited to eat off the table, so we attacked the mess like little kids, trying different flavor combinations with each spoonful. It was a spectacular end to a spectacular evening.
Before leaving, we were each given a copy of the menu (full photo here) and the key to deciphering it: the size of the circle indicates the relative size of each course, and the position indicates its placement on the savory (left) to sweet (right) spectrum.
It’s difficult to describe the experience of eating at Alinea, although a few have tried. I’ve had brilliant, technically perfect meals at Per Se and Jean Georges, but neither of them were as much fun as Alinea. It wasn’t that the others didn’t incorporate playful elements, it was more about how much thought and care had gone into incorporating all of the senses throughout the Alinea experience.
We left dazed and happy, but as soon as we returned to the hotel, She Who looked at me and said “We have to do that again.” And who am I to argue with my attorney?
ETA (9/18): Be sure to read Scott’s account of the same meal.
We made the decision to attend Chicon 7, the annual World Science Fiction Convention, for two reasons: we would get to spend time with friends we don’t see very often, and we would get to eat in Chicago again. I hadn’t expected to return to Next, but, due to the tireless efforts of our writer friend Scott, we had a table waiting mere hours after our arrival.
We were seated at the same table as our previous dinner, and were handed this card to start the meal:
I’m from a Neapolitan family, so seeing Sicily was pretty low on our list when we honeymooned in Italy. I am, however, familiar with the differences in the two cuisines, and was looking forward to what would be served.
Appetizers: Panelle, Caponata, Arancini, Carciofi Alle Brace
Honey, chamomile, saffron
The panelle were fried crackers dusted with grated cheese. They were crispy and salty, but greatly improved by the addition of the caponata:
I’m used to caponata being primarily olive-based, but this version included celery, zucchini, pine nuts, and a bit of bittersweet chocolate in the sauce.
The arancine were made from saffron risotto and filled with lamb’s tongue confit. The simple tomato sauce provided necessary acidity.
The carciofi alle brace – grilled artichokes – are traditionally cooked over a wood fire. We were informed that this version was prepared “on a Weber kettle in the back.” After scooping out the tender heart, I had to remember how to eat the leaves, which is where the smoky flavor was concentrated (before being transferred to my oily fingers).
The reservation had been set up with the non-alcoholic beverage pairing, which, for this course, was a blend of chamomile tea, honey, and saffron.
Bucatini con Bottarga
Zucchini and Mount Olympus flower
Fresh pasta in a light butter sauce, garnished with two versions of bottarga (dried grey mullet roe): the traditional dried form was grated into the sauce, while a cured form (preserved in beeswax and allowed to age like cheese) was grated over the top. I’d never tried the cured version, it was fishier and creamier than the saltier grated variety.
The drink pairing, a zucchini juice blended with a flower extract, was my least favorite, probably because I couldn’t get past the notion of drinking zucchini “juice.”
Gemelli con le Sarde
Gemelli pasta and fish is a classic combination; the Sicilian variation uses a grilled sardine filet in place of flaked tuna. The dish was finished with a light tomato sauce and and a drizzle of olive oil.
Pesce Spada con di Ceci
Green tomato, garlic, white pepper
Another fish course, in which the pesce was a thick slab of perfectly cooked swordfish. It was served with a mint pesto and garnished with a head of roasted garlic and a clutch of broiled mint leaves. I’ll have to try that fish/mint paring myself, it was a surprising match.
The swordfish was accompanied by a cooked chickpea salad:
The browned garnish was broiled romanesco broccoli florets.
The tomato in this course was provided by the beverage pairing, in this case green tomato juice spiced with garlic and white pepper, assertive enough not to be overpowered by the strong fish and chickpea flavors.
Spalla di Maiale Brasato
Fennel verjus rouge, orange
I’ve had a few pork shoulders, but none quite as good as this 6-hour braised slab of spalla. The accompanying tomato sauce incorporated the braising liquid, turning this dish onto the Sicilian equivalent of barbecued pulled pork. The grilled Meyer lemon, when drizzled over the meat, brightened every bite. A few of us had seconds, but there was still pork left over to take home.
The pork was accompanied by grilled zucchini and cherry tomatoes, shaved asparagus, and nasturtium blossoms and leaves.
The drink pairing, in this case a mixture of blood orange and fennel juice, was the best beverage of the dinner, another combination I’ll have to try myself.
Granita di Arance Rosse
Continuing the blood orange theme, we were served a simple granita as a palate cleanser.
Cassata
Watermelon, white balsamic, pinot nior juice
The stunt cake was presented, a dessert I recognized from Easter dinners:
Fortunately, we only had a slice, garnished with candied watermelon, candied walnut, and noci (walnut liquer)-infused ricotta cream.
The watermelon accent was continued in the drink, a sweet, almost punch-like concoction of watermelon juice and white balsamic vinegar.
Cannoli, Ravioli Fritti, Cubbaita di Giugiulena
No Italian dinner is complete without pastry miniatures; this was no exception. The fried ravioli encased a sour cherry filling, the cubbaita were little honey-sesame seed cakes. And, of course, some fresh fruit.
I was struck by the similarities in structure of this meal and last year’s Thailand menu. Both began with “street food,” progressed through a fish course, and culminated with a rich braised meat. Both were also intensely family-oriented meals, dishes you would find in any local home. The only global difference between the two meals for me was the absence of a novelty factor with the Sicilian menu.
I’m getting used to these perfect family dinners; I may have to return again, possibly for the Kyoto menu or the proposed India menu. All I need is another excuse to visit Chicago.
ETA (9/18): Be sure to read Scott’s account of the same meal.
When I learned that Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn, the authors of Charcuterie, were planning a follow-up book, I knew I’d be buying a copy for two reasons:
I wanted to see which subset of charcuterie they would be treating in more depth.
I had to make sure that they provided more information about safe handling and storage temperatures for cured meats.
The first point would apply to any fan of the first book, but the second was a particular axe I had to grind with the authors. My second attempt at making salami, part of last year’s Charcutepalooza competition, resulted in an end product that was unsafe for consumption. I had taken the book’s recommended incubation temperature  – “ideally 65 degrees” – literally, assuming that I could make something at a less than ideal temperature.
When my copy of Salumi: The Craft of Italian Dry Curing arrived, I immediately turned to the Dry Curing: The Basics chapter and found this passage in The Environment: Creating a Place to Dry Cure Meat:
You need to create conditions that will allow the meat and sausage to dry properly, but there is no set way to do this. The ambient humidity should be between 60 and 70 percent; the temperature should remain between 55 and 65 degrees F./12 and 18 degrees C; and the air must circulate. f you create these conditions, you should be able to dry cure successfully.
I had already solved my environmental problems, but I was happy to see the necessary conditions expressed concretely.
With that pressing issue out of the way, I turned my attention to the rest of the book, which, unsurprisingly, is devoted to Italian dry curing. Ruhlman and Polcyn divide the world of salumi into “the big eight:” guanciale (jowl), coppa (neck), spalla (shoulder), lardo (back fat), lonza (loin), pancetta (bely), prosciutto (back leg), and salami (ground or cut pork). I’ve made more than a few of those, but the book provides clear explanations and methods for some of the more advanced cuts.
I have two hind legs from a piglet that I will salt and cure as a test for a larger prosciutto, but many of the remaining cuts require a hog that has been butchered in the Italian style, which yields different muscles and different proportions of more familiar cuts. Emboldened by my recent experience with hog butchering, I have already consulted with a local farm about the possibility of acquiring an entire half hog that I can portion myself. If all goes well, I’ll have more to report on here, but I’m confident that Salumi will be an excellent guide.
Wednesday would have been Julia Child’s 100th birthday. For this year’s St. Julia’s Day dinner (previous efforts here, here, and here), I wanted to pay tribute to what I used to call “god’s pantry”: her seemingly infinite supply of ingredients that were always on hand in her fridge, freezer, or cabinets. (If you’ve watched more than a few of her shows, you know she stockpiles toasted french bread rounds, egg whites, cheese rinds – anything that could be used as a building block for another dish.) This dinner would have to be assembled from ingredients already at hand – with the exception of fresh vegetables – and would have to be prepared from a Mastering the Art of French Cooking recipe.
I had just completed an inventory of the Belm Utility Research Kitchen Deep Storage Facility (archived online to assist with meal planning and shopping) which helped me locate a vacuum-sealed bag of confited goose legs, a Charcutepalooza leftover. I also found a chunk of slab bacon, some whole roasted potatoes (from a recently completed project that will be a future post), and a small container of duck fat.
Since we were having a dinner guest, I assembled a quick appetizer: a “caprese salad” made with diced tomatoes, a scoop each of basil and mozzarella ice cream, and a dusting of olive oil powder (photo above).
Much to my surprise, my post about prosciutto ice cream was featured in a Huffington Post article and slideshow about “weird” ice cream flavors. I am, of course, thrilled to be mentioned, but I’m having a hard time classifying any of the flavors featured as weird. The tomato-basil isn’t that different from my tomato sorbet, the candied bacon is a staple at Lola, and the olive oil is now old hat.
As for the avocado, there’s a story: We made avocado at Toscanini’s decades ago, but customers had a hard time believing it was real. We probably gave away more ice cream as tastes than we actually sold, but people eventually caught on. I did get tired of repeating “Yes, it’s really avocado,” so I started suggesting that it went well with our bean sprout sorbet and vinaigrette topping. The owner couldn’t figure out why people were asking when there would be more bean sprout sorbet, a flavor he never even considered making, but he soon realized the source of the information. For some reason he let me keep my job.
