Les Radis

Both my heating bill and the new lines on my face are testament to the fact that it’s been a long, hard winter. But spring is beginning to make its annual appearance, as evidenced by the weather—which can shift from warm sun to cold rain to hail and back again several times a day—and the market, where spring greens, rhubarb and radishes have claimed places alongside the remaining root vegetables.

My favourite are the radishes, whose candy like colours bely their sharp, peppery bite. The French traditionally eat them on thin slices of buttered bread, sprinkled with a few grains of fleur de sel. Not being much of a butter eater myself, I prefer them plain, piled up in a bowl to munch alongside a pre-dinner sherry or white wine, occasionally with a bit of good mayonnaise.

I’ve only ever tried one way of cooking them—a quick braise with a bit of butter, sugar and water—but it’s good enough that I’ve felt no need to search further. The basic idea came from Molly Steven’s All About Braising, but variants—swapping white wine for water, throwing in some sorrel at the end, or adding bacon and balsamic vinegar for a sweet-savoury twist—seem to abound.

As they cook, the radishes leach out some colour and lose their aggressive edge, ending up a softer, gentler version of their raw selves. Just like, one can only hope, spring.

Butter-Braised Radishes with Mint

Serves 2

Total time 30 minutes; Active time 5 minutes

1 bunch small round or elongated radishes

1 tbsp unsalted butter

50 ml water or chicken stock

small pinch of sugar

salt and pepper

small handful mint

Top and tail the raishes, cutting any which are more than 1 cm in diameter in half. Place them in a skillet or lidded frying pan able to hold them in a single layer. Add the butter, water or stock, sugar, salt and pepper and bring to a simmer over a medium heat. Cover, reduce the heat and braise at a low simmer until a fork easily pierces the radish, between 20 and 25 minutes.

Remove the lid, shake the pan to coat the radishes in the liquid, and keep simmering until the liquid reduces to a slightly sticky glaze. Adjust seasoning, scatter with mint and serve.

Kefta Marocains (Moroccan Meatballs)

In a review of her Mediterranean Grains and Greens, Nicolas Lemann describes legendary cookbook author Paula Wolfert “as having mastered a technique that a few other food writers practice but which none equals: the fierce anthropological/reportorial quest for folkish recipes that are hiding in out-of-the-way, premodern places. In her cookbooks Wolfert is always traipsing up to some unelectrified mountain encampment and finding an old woman dressed all in black who has spent a lifetime perfecting one master dish whose ingredients she communicates to Wolfert using sign language.”

Years ago, when I was in the depths of my history doctorate and flirting with the idea of starting a blog, I expected that any food writing I might someday do would be at least a pale imitation of Wolfert’s trademark style, adapted to personal predilection and budget by its reliance on books and the internet rather than my physical presence in someone else’s kitchen. After all, my favourite cookbook to read—which I bought the day my first fellowship check arrived and which, in another lifetime, I’d like to believe I could have written—was Claudia Roden’s Book of Jewish Food, a meticulously researched yet compulsively engaging Jewish culinary history, complete with recipes.

But while I’ve enjoyed the scattershot research requirements posed by a generalist food blog, I’ve struggled to find a style which can integrate etymology, history and the odd bit of trivia with the lightness of touch which in some sense best suits the genre. Yet if I have not yet succeeded in this regard, at the very least I can pay some homage to Paula Wolfert, whose books are peerless, and who also, if the recipe below is any indication, makes a damn fine meatball.

And if someone should hear that Claudia Roden is looking for a (unilingual) research assistant for the re-release of her tome, please do pass on my details.

Kefta Marocains

I’m not sure I’ve ever had an ephemeral meatball, made practically weightless with the addition of copious quantities of cheese, breadcrumbs or milk. But these are certainty not of that school. Whether you choose to offset a loss in authenticity with a slightly lighter texture I leave up to you (options below). Wolfert’s original recipe also called for poaching eggs on the surface of the tomato sauce just before serving. While I imagine this would be delicious, I’ve always found that the meatballs, accompanied by nothing more than flatbread or rice and some equally rustic red wine, make for a very hearty meal.

Serves 4
Total time: 1 hour 15 minutes; Active time: 30 minutes

Meatballs
1 pound ground lamb, not extra-lean (you could also use beef)
1 onion, finely diced
2 tbsp finely chopped parsley
2 tbsp finely chopped coriander (cilantro)
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground coriander
½ cup-1 cup fine bread crumbs (optional)
Olive oil

Sauce
2 medium onions, chopped
2 cans tinned tomatoes (either pre-chopped or broken up as they go into the pan)
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground cinnamon
1 medium bunch parsley, chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped
Harissa to taste

Combine the ground meat, onion, herbs, spices and breadcrumbs (if using) in a bowl, mixing well. Add a good pinch of salt and several grinds of black pepper. Heat a very thin film of olive oil on a medium heat in a heavy, wide-bottomed skillet or casserole. Form the meat into 1-inch balls and fry until well-browned on all sides. Depending on the size of your pan, you may need to do this in batches to avoid overcrowding. Be sure to leave at least a few minutes each time before turning, to allow a crust to form, and try not to over-handle. When finished, remove to a plate.

If you have time while the meatballs are frying, chop the onions, garlic and parsley for the sauce. Add them into the pan, along with a bit more oil if the meat was particularly lean. Pour in the tinned tomato, measure in the spices and add a small spoonful of harissa, along with salt and pepper. Cover the pan and turn down the heat to a light simmer. Cook the sauce until it is well thickened, between 20 and 30 minutes.

Add the meatballs back to the sauce and simmer for 10-15 minutes, checking after the shorter amount of time whether the meat is cooked through. Check the seasoning.

The meatballs can be served immediately, though their flavor becomes more complex if they sit for a few hours or overnight.

Les Meilleures Addresses de Budapest et une recette pour poulet aux paprikas

It took several visits before Budapest began to turn my head. Elements of it are undeniably striking—the Castle Bridge lit up at night, the opulent Turkish baths, the immense Dohany Synagogue. And the cobbled streets and pastel-painted buildings of Buda’s Old Town give it an almost village-like quality. But the overwhelming impression can be of old Communist-era greyness bumping up against generic, sometimes gaudy, new wealth.

My first impressions of the food were equally mixed. While I adored the atmosphere of high-ceilinged, plush cafes like the Central, and the coffee served on little silver trays, the cakes didn’t match the lofty setting. It took a few mediocre goulashes before I hit pay dirt in a nightcap of Tokay. As I took in the (surprisingly unsung) splendour of the Callas Cafe, tiny glass in hand, I realized that I had been trying a bit too hard to tick boxes. And I had foolishly neglected to make use of the local knowledge of my Hungarian colleagues.

On a tip from the founder-owner of Siraly, a charmingly tumbledown café and Jewish arts space, I went for dinner the next night at M, where the walls were covered with whimsical line drawings, the roast goose and cabbage more than satisfied and the waitress’ obvious pride in the desserts made it seem churlish to refuse. I returned the next night too and passed the evening talking to a Dutch teacher, the sister of another staff member, relishing both the surprisingly spicy Hungarian red and the (undeserved) feeling of being a regular.

The next trip was less scripted than its predecessors and either because or despite this, provided the most satisfying eating experiences. Ducking into Gerbaud late on a sub-zero afternoon, I couldn’t remember why I had snubbed it in favour of supposedly more authentic cafes. The hot chocolate was perfectly unctuous and semi-sweet, the clientele a lively mix of dowagers, young couples and tourists, and the atmosphere delightfully rococo. For dinner, one of the survey researchers directed me to a restaurant whose seemingly pedestrian online menu had led me to dismiss it. But the chicken paprikas with homemade noodles was even better than she promised, and the goose crackling starter astounding if somewhat terrifying, and explained only by the favourable forint-euro exchange rate, or, more likely, a bit too much time in the hotel sauna.

Another trip to Budapest is likely sometime this spring. But while the city's grand cafe culture can’t really be matched in Paris, at least some of the food can. I’ve tracked down an authentic paprikas recipe from a colleague’s mother, bought Hungarian-style dumplings from the supermarket (actually German spaetzle) and started to perfect my cucumber salad. Now if only I could overcome a lifetime’s fear of sour cream.

Poulet aux Paprikas (adapted from Ildiko Barna’s mother)

Serves 2
Total time: 1 hour; Active time: 20 minutes

2 chicken legs (can joint if desired)
1 medium onion
2 cloves garlic (optional)
vegetable or olive oil
1/4-1/3 small can whole tomatoes, drained
2 tbsp sweet Hungarian paprika*
Vegetable or chicken stock (I used chicken stock)
Creme fraiche or sour cream to taste

Heat a teaspoon of oil in a cast-iron casserole pot or other heavy pan. When oil is hot but not smoking, add the chicken legs, one at a time if necessary to avoid overcrowding. Season with salt and pepper. Brown well on all sides, being careful not to turn the chicken until it releases naturally. While the chicken browns, chop the onion finely.Remove the chicken from the pot and add the onion, turning to coat with the chicken fat. Turn down the heat to medium-low and cook the onions until soft and translucent. If using garlic, chop and add 1-2 minutes before the onions are finished.

When the onions are finished, take the pan off the heat to add the paprika. Stir it through and add 2 tomatoes from the can; the liquid and remaining tomatoes can be used for another recipe. Put back on a medium-low heat, add just enough enough liquid to cover, and simmer gently for 10 minutes to form a sauce. Put the chicken pieces back in, adding a few more tablespoons of liquid if necessary, cover, and turn to the lowest heat. (Use a flame reducer if your gas burner is too high.) Check the chicken after 30-35 minutes by cutting to the bone; depending on the size of the legs and whether they were jointed, they could take another 10-15 minutes.

When the chicken is cooked through, remove it from the pan and turn off the heat. Add anywhere from 2 tablespoons to ½ cup of creme fraiche or sour cream to the pot; using the larger amount will not only generate a creamier sauce but mute the heat of the paprika. Stir though, replace the chicken and bring to serving temperature.

Serve over spaetzle, dilled egg noodles or, in a pinch, gnocchi. While Hungarian wine—with the exception of Tokay—isn’t exported in large quantities, you could try this with either a zesty, aromatic white (perhaps an Alsace-style Pinot Gris), a medium-bodied red (my local wine merchant sold me an inexpensive Bordeaux), or, for something entirely different, a Zinfandel.

* My Austrian friend has made the unorthodox but quite clever suggestion of augmenting this with a good pinch of Spanish smoked paprika.