Tuesday 25 August 2009

Inaugurating the Mortar and Pestle



May the gods of flat letting be praised: I have a place to live. With the end of my cushy student housing contract looming, these past days have been rather hair-raising.

The exciting thing is that the new pad is not far from one of Oxford's Asian markets, and there, tucked away in a dusty corner of racks of plastic wash bins, woks, and wire baskets it called to me:

a Thai granite mortar and pestle, not unlike this one.

Try to imagine, as hard as it may be, life without a food processor. Difficult, I know. Yet now, dear reader, you realise how joyous a day it was when my hand mixer came into my life. And now, to add to the pantheon of gadgets, a mortar and pestle!

This new acquisition and subsequent christening meant one thing: curry.

I trotted over to the market and picked up lemongrass, baby Thai aubergines (if you haven't tried these yet, do!), shallots, chilis, nam pla (fish sauce), sambal oelec (chili paste), fresh turmeric (you'll never go back to powdered), galangal, and peanuts.

I had diligently watched Rick Stein travel his way through Asia on his 'Rick Stein's Far Eastern Odyssey', and I was hungry. The pastes used as the bases for the dishes explored and explained in Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, Malaysia, Bali, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka had such striking colours, interesting textures, and left me yearning for the mingling aromas of lemongrass, fresh turmeric, and chilis.

The only disappointment I feel obliged to express here is a certain Eurocentrism that coloured his commentary. Perhaps Oxford's post-colonial contingent of the English Faculty was as small then as it is now, but I really did expect a more enlightened, less complacent tone from the OBE. Whether the writer(s) was Stein himself or a group of BBC producers, either way, Stein's reluctance to walk along a Phuket beach because--he states more than once--it would be too cliche does not jive with observations of rural Bangladesh like, 'It looked to me like scenes from ancient Egypt along the flood planes along the Nile', and 'thanks to a massive population, everything is done by hand'.

Somehow, I have to believe that the back-breaking labour of brick makers and rice paddy workers has far less to do with mere population numbers and much more to do with global trade and the exploitation of a product and a people (particularly the rural populations) by Western consumers who aren't willing to pay the true price of their imported goods.

Another line pulled me up short: 'I feel slightly proud of being British because we introduced tea to Assam. And here it is, it came from China in the first place'. This sense of (misplaced?) pride and awe is a constant throughout the series, with Stein focusing far less on the realities currently facing the people of these countries than on romantic asides that smack of nostalgia for the days of Conrad. While it certainly must have been exciting times in Assam in 1838 when that first dispatch of 160 Kg of tea was sent to be sold at London's India House, not one word was mentioned of the tea crisis in India of the past decade. The British did not 'introduce tea to Assam', but certain multinational corporations who shall remain nameless have succeeded in fostering a growing preference for soft drinks, which, along with the global financial crisis, continues to threaten the tea industry in India, Kenya, and Sri Lanka.

I truly do enjoy listening to Stein talk about food. It's clear that his awe and affinity for Asia comes from a place of respect and good intentions; I just wish the travelogue commentary could have stuck to food, or, better yet, acknowledged the hardships faced by those in the food production industry of these countries.

OK, now that that is off my chest, back to this recipe. I freely admit that this concoction is in no way an 'authentic' version of any one national dish. It is, rather, what I found to be a combination of flavours that are largely Thai, but one that certainly does not strictly adhere to what a Thai curry should entail.

Annie's 'Thai' Curry:
(yields approximately 4 portions)

4 garlic cloves
7 shallots (substitution: 2 small red onions)
2 1-cm cubes fresh turmeric
1 stalk lemongrass
1 1-cm cube galangal
2 handfuls of plain (not roasted) peanuts
3 red Thai chilis (bird's eye), 3 green Thai chilis (to taste)
4-5 Tbs. sambal oelek (to taste)
1 tsp. lime zest
Juice of 2-3 limes (to taste--I like lots of chili and lots of lime)
4 Tbs. nam pla
1 Tbs. ground corriander
1 Tbs. ground cumin
1 Tbs. garam masala
Fresh corriander
Salt

4 chicken breasts
4 baby Thai aubergines
4 tomatoes (with or without skin)
2 Tbs. palm sugar
1 can coconut milk

Jasmine rice

1. Toast the peanuts in a skillet, and get to chopping!

2. Chop as finely as possible and add to the mortar: shallots, garlic (use a garlic press), lime zest, tumeric, galangal, and chilis.

3. Cut the root tip off of the lemongrass and pummel the length of the shoot with a rolling pin to soften the inner flesh and chop finely. Add to the mortar and, using the pestle, work into a paste. One small handful at a time, add the toasted peanuts, alternating with lime juice, and sambal oelec. Then add the dry spices to taste.

4. Cut the rinsed aubergines with tops removed into quarters, lightly salt, and sauté in a deep pan until just brown in a few tablespoons of oil. Remove and set aside.

5. Cut the chicken breasts into small, bite-sized pieces, salt and pepper, and brown in the same pan, adding a small amount of oil, as needed. While the chicken browns, add about 10 shakes of nam pla. Remove browned chicken and set aside.

6. Add enough oil to barely cover the bottom of the pan, bring to medium-high heat, and add the paste from the mortar. Stir-fry the paste for about two minutes, then add the chicken, aubergines, tomatoes, and a few shakes more of nam pla. Let cook, stirring often for about 4 minutes. Then, add a palmful of palm sugar and as much coconut milk as you'd like (I used about 3/4 can to make a lot of creamy sauce). Lower the heat to medium-low and let the curry simmer for at least 20 minutes. For a rich curry, add the entire can of coconut milk and let the curry reduce further.

Serve with jasmine rice, fresh coriander, and chopped peanuts.




Saturday 22 August 2009

A Day of Two Markets

I love markets. There is something about the sensory overload and the gamut of sights, smells, and tastes therein that has centripetal force, calling me away from named streets and that morning's agenda into labyrinthine alleys and aisles from which I will inevitably emerge hours later, arms laden with original finds enough to feed an army.














A couple of weeks ago, fellow course mate L.--a self-professed foodie and art lover--and I set out for a visit to Borough Market before catching the 'Futurism' show at the TATE Modern. Before leaving Oxford, however, one stop was necessary...

You see, it happened to be Thursday, and on this particular third Thursday of the month it was 'doughnut day'. Pippin Doughnuts should have had a mention in my dissertation, a special word of acknowledgment for getting me through the tough weeks and giving me something to truly look forward to every first and third Thursday. The intellectual breakthroughs attributable to simultaneous sugar and caffeine rushes from a large coffee from Combibos coffee shop and a package of two...or three...Pippin Doughnuts cannot be underestimated.

The doughnuts are fried at dawn and brought to the Gloucester Green market brimming with homemade fillings that include vanilla bean custard, lemon curd, rhubarb, raspberry jam, and chocolate cream.

These fillings may sound ordinary, but in this case it is a question of getting one or two ingredients so perfectly right in texture and unadulterated flavour that one comes away convinced that no lemon curd will ever taste as good as that particular, unctuous blob nestled in a feather-light fried dough.

The recent debut of an apricot preserve filling was a revelation. Not since my weekly croissant aux amandes et abricot from La Fougasse had I tasted such apricot-y bliss. Feeling more iced than filled that morning, I snapped up an iced ginger (candied ginger, ginger glaze, cinnamon dough) and a cinnamon/brown sugar bear claw and we were off to London.

Our first stop was Brindisa, the Spanish provisions shop and jamoneria. Chorizo sizzled awaiting white rolls for take-away sandwiches, and we sampled jamon from acorn-fed pigs.










Next, we were off to the vendors along Stoney Street, where we tasted cheeses, pastries, and drooled over meringues.






By the time we'd made our way through half of the market, we were not exactly in want of food for lunch--the generosity of the vendors combined with our loquacious curiosity meant that we'd consumed our fair share of tasty bits.


But then we spotted La Tua Pasta.

L. had spent a semester in Italy recently, where she picked up irregular Italian verbs with their objects, pronouns, and prepositions with the same sort of ease that one might collect dust. We sauntered over, and as L. got to chatting up the owners of the stall, I was busy eyeing prepared portions of squid ink tagliolini, ravioli with cheese, mushroom, and meat fillings, and tortelloni stuffed with artichoke hearts.















Needless to say, our stomachs found it in them to grumble just enough to not let us walk away without a portion of fresh pasta, which they quickly boiled in small colanders and served with a choice of red sauce or pesto. The pesto was the real deal, made with imported Genovese basil.

The red sauce just looked too good at that moment, though, so I opted for that atop ravioli with ricotta and spinach. Mmmm.



















I couldn't help but think how different the market experience would have been for the Londoner of the 17th and 18th century, when congestion on the London Bridge leading to Borough High Street left pedestrians clinging to parapets or falling in the river to avoid being run over by overburdened carts passing in and out of the Borough of Southwark.

In a letter addressed to the members of Parliament, Nicholas Hawksmoor (1661-1736) outlined the shortcomings of London Bridge to be considered in the planning of what would become Westminster Bridge:

'That the Bredth of it was formerly sufficient for all Manner of Carriages and Passengers, appears from hence, that a Tilt and Tournament were held on it in the year 1395; which plainly shews, it was free from Houses for upwards of 200 Years; and how it came at last to be embarrassed, or by what means that Nusance of Building upon it has been conniv'd at, is surprising; for to erect a Bridge for a safe and open Passage, and afterwards to streighten and incommode that Passage with Houses, so as to make it difficult for two Carriages to pass by one another, without endangering the Lives of Foot-passengers, or driving them into those very Houses for their Security, must be very absurd, in that it perverts and destroys the principal Benefits that can accrue from a Bridge: And, indeed, it is wonderful how those Buildings do subsist; for the Houses standing upon the extream Parts of the Pier-heads, the one half on the Bridge, and the other half hanging over in the Air, must certainly make the Backs of the Piers suffer much by that unequal Pressure; and as for the Appearance of those Houses on either side of the Bridge, it is so disagreeable, that it exposes the Skill of the Projectors, and sinks their Taste down to the lowest Barbarity'.*



*(Nicholas Hawksmoor, A short historical account of London-bridge; with a proposition for a new stone-bridge at Westminster. In a letter to the...members of Parliament for the city and liberty of Westminster. London, 1736. The Making of the Modern World. Gale 2009. Gale, Cengage Learning. University of Oxford. 23 Aug 2009. Gale Document Number: U3600725967)




Sunday 16 August 2009

THE GREAT BRITISH MENU

Oliver Peyton, Prue Leith & Matthew Fort
(photo: guardian.co.uk; BBC/Optomen Television)


This post has been a long time in the making, and there are at least three sets of eyes that, I know, have been roving this URL for the promise of photos. At long last, here it is: The Great British Menu post!

As a graduate student, when one is not deep in the depths of trying to understand molecular activity of HIV cells (Chef P), of assessing and proposing improvements for teacher training methods in the UK (Chef E), or of designing nuclear submarines (Chef N), one often finds one's self either plopped down in front of a laptop or television soaking up media of a less demanding nature, or eating.

As foodies, Chef E. and myself naturally found ourselves hooked on BBC's Great British Menu series. So, when the show came to an end and the winning dishes were announced, we both insisted on trying our hand at:

Kenny Atkinson's
Salad of Aberdeen Angus beef, carrots, horseradish and Shetland Black potato crisps

Glynn Purnell's
Masala-spiced monkfish with red lentils, pickled carrots, and coconut

Nigel Haworth's
Lancashire hotpot, pickled red cabbage, baby carrots and leeks

AND
Shaun Rankin's
Treacle tart with Jersey clotted cream ice cream and raspberry coulis

Confident enough to handle one or two courses alone, but certainly not the entire menu, Chef E. and I called in food-loving reinforcements--Chefs P. and N.

The concept was simple enough, though we all knew that the mantra of the day was going to be 'interpretation'. It's amazing how the absence of implements and gadgetry tends to announce itself when one gets just the slightest bit ambitious in a university communal kitchen, and this was with the knowledge that we lacked a) A FOOD PROCESSOR b) a professional vacuum sealer c) a mandolin (Japanese, culinary, musical, or otherwise) d) a deep-fat fryer e) a hotpot...and, finally, we didn't think it wise to risk setting off the fire alarm to build an indoor smoker...'So sorry, [insert name of disgruntled Porter here], I was just finishing off my marrowbone beignets!'

Thus, not unlike neanderthals attempting Boeuf en Daube, we each tackled our respective dishes with a determined sense of optimism using the instincts and implements available.

And, we all agreed, were highly successful!

Of course there were alterations to recipes, some elements were chucked out all together, and more than one treacle tart crust met the lining of the rubbish bin, but by 8pm that evening, each Chef and invited guest had something delicious to show for much labour, love, and errrr creativity. The wine was uncorked and the four of us, along with our three invited guests, feasted quite well, indeed!

Chef N.'s Starter:

Photo courtesy Chef E.

Chef A.'s Fish Course:


Chef P.'s Main:


Chef E.'s Dessert:


As you can probably discern, no, we did not make the Shetland Black potato chips, nor the smoked marrowbone beignets; the carrots were picked and roasted instead of the suggested 24-hour maceration period; finally, we did not make our own ice cream with Jersey cream (G & D's does a very good vanilla!).

Tasting these dishes as they appeared on the show would no doubt be a splendid experience, but in this case I speak for all in saying that we did not miss any of the omitted ingredients. This round was far more about the journey than the destination, the process of improvisation and imagination despite limited tools, and the result was delicious!


Thursday 6 August 2009

Cheese & Chermoula


A recent dinner with D. was inspired by equal parts curiosity and the British cooking series called 'Come Dine With Me'--which, to be fair, is itself equal parts food and social anthropology.

The opening to the show states, 'Take five foodies who've never met; ask them each to throw a dinner party for the others; each night the guests mark their hosts in secret, then watch the fall-out before the top-scorer wins the 1000 GBP prize'.

An episode that aired in mid-July featured a gardener, Greg, Thoby, a 'food writer' who calls himself 'Mr Tarty'...because of his fondness for cooking tarts...an absolute terror of a PR professional who, according to the effervescent Hugo, 'dresses like a streetwalker', and, finally, the lovely Sabrina, whose turn it was to host.

The show's voice-over introduced the motley crew: 'On Tuesday, confident boy about town, Hugo Priestly, impressed himself and no one else. Tonight's host is Iranian-born events organizer Sabrina Ghayour, who's determined to win the 1000 GBP prize...And tomorrow's host, PR princess Amii Van Amerongen is very happy to trade blows...Last to cook will be eccentric food writer, Thoby Young--no not the famous one, another one'.

Both Sabrina and Greg had been taking verbal blows throughout the week, but whereas the charges leveled at Greg were stated largely to his face (which he defended, for the most part), Hugo and Amy took great pleasure rattling off cheap jabs behind Sabrina's back ; one of Amii's more venomous comments included, 'I'm finding it difficult not to say what i really think about her in public because she is hideous'. Ahhh, enough corpo(-)real 'disciplinary power' to make even Foucault blush at table. Exhibit A: when discussing which member of the group each would take along to a deserted island, the suggestion that Sabrina would prove a wise choice because she would render the most meat was heedlessly digested into the flow of banter; Amii, of course, maintained throughout the week that she would be perfectly content with her own company, leading Greg to divulge to the camera, 'I am close to sticking hot pins in my eyes and doing a runner'.

Anyway, this detailed, laboured aside that I have subjected you to is all to say that it was sweet, SWEET VICTORY for Sabrina when her meal was voted supreme, and she took home the cash prize. Among her 'Arabian Mezes' was a chermoula (che-MOO-lah), and I was eager to give it a try. In fact, her entire menu sounded delicious, and I'd very much like to attempt it eventually in its entirety.

So, a word about chermoula. From what I have gathered through some hasty research, chermoula is typically used in Moroccan cooking as a marinade and/or accompaniment to meat and fish. Its killer combination of fresh herbs, olive oil, fragrant spices, citrus and garlic both tenderizes and compliments whatever protein it touches. Inspired by Sabrina's choice of aubergine, I began chucking things in the pot. Channel4 has not provided Sabrina's recipe, but, from what I've found, it seems to function much like a garam masala, where, apart from a few essential elements, which spices and in what quantities they are used is largely a matter of preference; no one combination will be identical to another.

This is what I came up with:

2 aubergines
1 roasted red bell pepper, chopped
1 small red onion, sliced paper-thin
3 cloves of garlic, smashed and minced
4 med. tomatoes, chopped
1 large bunch Italian parsley, chopped
1 large bunch cilantro, chopped

1 Tbs fresh lemon juice
3 Tbs chili or jalapeno jam
Pomegranate molasses (to taste)
Sultanas (optional)
Olive oil

(spices are approximate)
1 tsp sugar
2 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp sweet paprika
2 tsp harissa

I first peeled, cubed, salted, and drained the aubergine, patting it dry with kitchen roll before frying it in plenty of olive oil. Next in the pan was the onion, followed by the garlic, pepper, tomatoes, sultanas, spices, herbs, and the wet ingredients. Really, it's hard to go wrong. This dish is about striking a balance of savoury, sweet, smoky, spicy, while inundating the palette with herbs and spices. The aubergine is the perfect conduit to deliver these flavours, imparting its own meaty, fibrous texture.

Certainly, the fact that the majority of the produce was sourced from Gluttons in Jericho (110 Walton Street, Oxford; tel. 01865553748), where only local fruit and veg are on offer, helped to make the final product delicious. So, with a quaffable vin-de-table, a Brie de Meaux, some toasted bread, and a fresh goat cheese from Gloucester, a meal was made.

Tuesday 4 August 2009

The Last Supper


For as many times as I’ve had to leave home to cross the Atlantic, back to Europe for an extended period of time, one might think that it would get easier with each departure. While the packing of suitcases has certainly been elevated to a timely and almost artistically executed process, I still dread goodbyes and the first two minutes of take-off, which, after twenty-plus years of international travel is still anxiety-ridden. I’ve been known to make friends with many a stranger on international flights, usually the result of my seat partner noticing my white knuckles gripping the arm rests while I unconvincingly attempt to ‘close my eyes and breathe deeply’.

On a recent ascent from London’s Heathrow Airport on board a Delta (I’m still struggling to let go of that trusty Northwest logo) plane, we seemed to lose thrust for a moment, and I found myself grabbing the forearm of the kindly, patient man sitting next to me. He, his wife, and son were returning from a cruise, and I don’t know that his wife appreciated my panicked clutch for human contact, but it turned out he was a rather nervous traveler as well, so the whole thing ended far less awkward than it could have…at least far less awkward than the second year University of Reading student who started sucking her thumb half-way through the flight.

But I digress. For my last night in Minnesota the ceremonial question of ‘what would you like to eat on your last night?’ had to be answered, and I must say that it was one of the best meals I’ve had recently. We decided on:


Bruschetta with grilled ciabatta

Asparagus with sweet soy and garlic

Grilled Porter House steaks with Roquefort

Fresh peach pie

…all washed down with some Perrier Jouët


I love adding sundried tomatoes or roasted peppers to fresh tomatoes for bruschetta. I think the alternately sweet, earthy, smoky, and charred flavour of these tomatoes and peppers compliment the clean punch of balsamic, garlic and olive oil. This is especially a good trick when the fresh tomatoes in question aren’t at their best. Another variation I’ve taken to is pan roasting garlic cloves in a sauté pan in a couple tablespoons of olive oil until brown, soft, and nutty. Crush and mince the roasted garlic; add to the tomatoes; reserve the garlic oil to brush on the bread before it goes on the grill, adding whatever remains to the bruschetta topping itself.


For the asparagus, we added a couple of teaspoons of sugar to about 3 tablespoons of soy sauce and let it dissolve. The asparagus is simply stir-fried with toasted sesame oil, slivered garlic, and the soy.


The Roquefort topping for the Porter House steaks was a last-minute addition. I love the combination of any cheese in the blue/Stilton/Roquefort family atop grilled meat, but the addition of the cheese here was by no means necessary. The steak was perfection, and would have stood alone brilliantly. However, if, like me, you have a gluttonous side, just mix together a few tablespoons of Roquefort with a knob of butter and enough buttermilk to make a thick sauce and add pepper to taste.


Finally, this jaunt to the States was not going to be complete without a slice of fresh peach pie. This, and certain members of the family refused to let me get back on the plane without making a pie; ripped, sodden pie crusts have caused much frustration in our house, and I appear to be the chosen one in this instance. Armed with grandma’s pie crust recipe and a pile of peaches, I went to it, adding sugar, flour, cinnamon, orange zest, and a few drops of vanilla and almond extract to the peaches.


If you think I’m about to divulge grandma’s pie crust secrets you are sorely mistaken.















And so it was with a happy heart, full stomach, and many pounds gained that I was rolled to Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport and on to Blighty.