New in the Kitchen

Cooking, marketing—even eating—have all been a bit quotidian of late. The market is in a state of transition. Tomatoes, figs and courgettes have been relegated to the cheaper vendors of non-French produce, while at the upmarket stands, the mushrooms have curiously disappeared, the (Spanish) citrus still has a greenish tinge and little besides pumpkin seems at its prime. At home, along with the citrouille and potimaron (two squash varietals), there has been lots of bowl food: ragout, rice pudding, endless soup and applesauce. Though comforting on these longer, chillier nights, it’s a bit too reminiscent of invalid fare. More than that, though, my palate and I both seem to be suffering from ennui. Certain things which should be great—the marron glacé ice cream from Berthillon, Cambodian curry from perhaps the best South Asian place in town—have merely been very good, and no amount of salt, pepper or ras al hanout has succeeded in giving the food coming out of my kitchen a real savour.

In the meantime, though, I’ve indulged in a bit of retail therapy. The expeditions have spanned food halls at two major department stores (Gallerie Lafayette and Le Bon Marche), a vast, two-story Chinese supermarket and a restaurant-supply store hidden near Les Halles. Takings have been modest—my frugal genes generally kick in when faced with luxurious condiments or shiny cookware—but nonetheless included a bottle of walnut oil from Huilerie Artisanale LeBlanc and a small, non-stick DeBuyer frying pan. The most exciting purchase cost only 10 euros but probably weighs half as many kilos: a green-grey stone mortier et pilon (mortar and pestle) carried home with great care from Chinatown on a wet, blustery Sunday afternoon.

The oil has already enlivened a simple bowl of haricot verts and toasted walnuts, while the pan has enabled the most component omelette ever to grace my stovetop. In less time than it took to cook the pasta, the mortar and pestle beat the ingredients for a sage pesto into submission.

I first tried this pesto a few years ago, using my then-roommate’s enormous mortar and pestle. The taste was intense and almost spicy, though the memory is marred by the knowledge that I spoiled it by the (recommended!) addition of water. This time, I chose it over the more traditional basil variety simply because I had a surplus of walnuts in the freezer. Though perhaps less versatile, it could provide a tasty topping for roasted root vegetables. In a recent article for The Times , Gordon Ramsay also puts a dollop of a similar paste atop his vegetable soup.

Sage Walnut Pesto (adapted from Epicurious)
Total time: 15 minutes
Active time: 15 minutes
Serves 4-6, although extra portions can be frozen sans fromage

1/3 cup (1 small handful) fresh parsley
3-4 tablespoons fresh sage leaves
1/2 garlic clove
large pinch salt
1 cup walnuts
ample 1/3 cup olive oil
the same quantity of freshly-grated Parmesan or Pecorino

Lightly toast the walnuts in a dry pan or warm oven until they begin to change colour, about 5 minutes. In a mortar and pestle or small food processor bowl, combine the herbs, garlic and salt, mixing until they form an even-textured paste. (In the mortar and pestle, the salt should be added first, to help "grip" the other ingredients.) Once the walnuts are slightly cooled, add them, in batches if necessary, to the herb paste, blending until the nuts have fully broken down. Add olive oil until the mixture is thick but flowing, then grate in the cheese and taste seasoning.

Seeing things through orange-hued glasses

The new year has brought a lovely new addition to Les Petit Pois' modest kitchen. In order to mark a recent milestone, a dear friend found me a set a set of little-used, volcano-orange Le Creuset pots--5 in total, complete with a clever hanging/storage rack. Though I did swear a bit when lugging them back home that night, I am completely besotted. Now, it may be the perfectly-seasoned, heavy-as-all-get-out cast iron which has led to a noticeable improvement in cooking outcomes this week. It's not difficult to imagine that the carrot-fennel soup I wizzed up, or, for that matter, the braised lentils I wrote about previously, would benefit from being cooked in a heavy-bottomed pot. And yet, the effect seems to be psychological as well, as if owning the pots of a serious chef has helped me to throw off some of the self-doubt that often stymies my cooking. Or maybe this is just a gift with good karma.

As I write, the two largest pots in the ensemble are being pressed into service. The 20cm is full to the brim with an ever so slowly simmering carbonnade (beef and beer stew a la Flanders), the largest has just gone back into the oven housing the now-legendary (at least in my cooking and blog-obsessed world) no-knead bread. With chilly, if not cold, weather on the horizon for the foreseeable future, I'm thinking that this stew-bread double act, supported by an able cast of soups and slow-cooked legumes (accompanied by lots of spicy red poured into those Bordeaux glasses...) has a profitable run ahead of it.


Carbonnade (primarily adapted from Larousse and Nigella Lawson's recipe for beef braised in beer from How to Eat)

1 tbsp flour
1 1/2 pounds lean stewing meat
1-2 tbsp olive oil
3 medium onions
2 garlic gloves
1 cup prunes
16 oz beer*
several branches fresh thyme
2 heaping teaspoons dijon mustard
salt and pepper to taste

serves 4-5
total time: 2-3 hours
active time: 30-40 minutes

Lightly coat chunks of stewing meat in flour. Add 1 tbsp oil to a large frying pan and heat to medium-high. Add meat, in batches if necessary to avoid overcrowding, and brown well on all sides. Don't try to turn the meat too quickly; it will probably take a few minutes per side. In the meantime, slice the onions thinly. After the meat is done, remove to a plate and add onions to the frying pan. Lower heat slightly. Using a bit more oil if necessary, cook slowly until golden brown, 15-20 minutes.
Transfer both meat and onions to a lidded casserole or pot, preferably one that fits the items somewhat tightly. Add a splash of beer to the frying pan, turn up the heat and gently scrape up any browned bits. Pour this and the rest of the beer over the meat, topping up with water if the meat is not mostly covered. Add prunes, sliced in half if desired, whole garlic cloves, and the thyme, stripped from its branches.
Cover well and place on low simmer. (If you cannot keep the surface at a mere shudder, consider using a ring reducer or placing the stew in a low oven.) Check periodically, topping up with water if it looks like it's drying out. Add mustard with about an hour to go. The beef will be tender after about 2 hours, but could happily cook for at least an hour more.
Season, adding more mustard if necessary, and serve over mashed potatoes, wide noodles or with lots of bread.

* I've used both IPA-style ales and wheat beers with success. If using a porter or stout, you might consider adding a teaspoon or so of brown sugar, although I've found that the carmelised onions and prunes offset any bitterness from the beer.

Life is too short...

...to drink good wine out of bad glasses. (Georg Riedel, owner of the renowned Austrian glassmakers)

Unlike Paul Giamatti's character in Sideways, I have never drunk a stupendous wine out of styrofoam cup. I'd like to think that if, by some strange turn of fate, a rare and valuable bottle came into my possession, I'd have the presence of mind to pour it lovingly into delicate, hand-blown crystal. (I'd also like to think that I would never drink any wine out polystyrene, but I've leaving options open in the event of an otherwise perfect picnic.)

While possessing some basic standards, I had never been that particular about my wine glasses. Relatively recently, I become the joint user of some quite decent entry-level ones. And I accepted, at least in principle, the idea that good glasses could improve the experience of drinking even modest wines. Yet given the type of wine I tended to purchase, and the fact that my palate is--to put it kindly--late-blooming, the acquisition of serious crystal was not a high priority.

My boyfriend thought otherwise, however, and the last night of Hanukkah, the Jewish Festival of Lights, was thus marked with the unveiling of two Riedel Bordeaux glasses, constructed (partially by hand) out of lead crystal. Poured into the capacious bowl of the new glasses, its aromas coaxed to the specially-designed rim with a twist of the wrist, our simple little wine (a £6.50 costiere du nimes purchased at middle England's favourite retailer, Marks & Spencers) practically exploded with new and more powerful scents. On the nose, there were dark berries and hints of spice and wood, alchemising into something almost three-dimensional. The effect on the tongue was likewise; tastes were bolder, the finish longer, new backnotes (including a previously undistinguishable hint of eucalyptus) identified. To be fair, I didn't pick up on that last element myself. But it was clear even to me--as a comparison between old and new glasses soon confirmed--that something about the design of these glasses pushed our just a bit nicer than everyday bottle well in the direction of "serious" wine.

A brief investigation into what I might label as the Riedel effect (not all drinking, mind) broadly buttressed our anecdotal findings. According to the experts, there are several justifications for matching a wine or grape style to a particular shape of glass. Most importantly, it would seem, the design of the bowl can be calibrated to maximise the bouquet, or aromas, of the wines. In a study conducted by Kari Russell, a student of food science at the University of Tennessee, merlot developed particularly desirable concentrations of a particular phenol, gallic acid, when poured into a broad bowled glass which narrowed towards the rim. (It should be noted that the comparison was made with martini and champagne glasses, not those designed for white wine or another red variety.) More generally, it would seem, a large bowl allows for adequate aeration (particularly important with tannic or well-aged red wines), while a tapering tip (such as that used in the narrow sauvignon blanc glass) pushes aromas towards the nose, often balancing out high levels of acidity.

A further factor in glass design is the attempt to control how and where the wine is tasted. The shape of the glass, combined with that of the rim (a cut rim is considered preferable to a rolled one), can help ensure that each sip is directed to a ideal point on the tongue, balancing receptors for acidity, sweetness, saltiness and bitterness.

* * *

Perhaps it's too soon for presents, but if you were thinking of sending some Pomerol, be assured that it would be drunk out of the proper glasses. And wherever you are, and whatever you will be drinking tomorrow night, I wish you a Happy New Year and look forward to more posts (and indeed more readers) in 2007.