Fiddling With Pho, Part 1: Stock.

It's still very much soup season, and for me the gentle complexity of a bowl of pho really hits the spot. On the surface it's simple. Noodles, meat, broth, vegetables, garnishes. But the complexity comes at every single step. The broth is the keystone, but you can't get a good broth without a good stock, and the best stock comes with a few tricks up its sleeve.

• Bones. If beef or pork, start them in cold water and bring to a boil for 5-10 minutes to blanch and release some gnarly, scummy detritus. Then fish out and reserve the bones, dump that water, clean the pot, put the bones back and start over.
• Charring and Toasting. Many specialized stocks use aromatics whose flavor is intensified by caramelization or other methods of blooming flavor. This will deepen both flavor and color, but raise the risk of a burnt or acrid flavor, so treat with caution.
• Minimal Knifework. The larger the pieces, the less likely the vegetables will break down, and the clearer the stock is likely to be.
• Aggressive Quantities. Your flavorful ingredients should only just barely be covered with water. Yes, it's expensive. You thought paying 15 bucks a bowl was too, I bet.

So while these are useful axioms and informative tidbits, they are deliberately bereft of precise quantities and proportions. This being due to the disparity in equipment availability between many home kitchens. Here's my personal starter for a batch of stock designed for pho. It's robust, aromatic, and full of potential flavor, but has no salt, and none of the real magic that comes from a complete, fortified broth. This is just the basic stock- the first step on the road to greatness.

Ingredients:

5# /2200g pork, beef, or chicken bones
3 onions / 900g halved, peeled, and charred under a broiler or other device
10 dried shitake mushrooms
8 oz /220g ginger, sliced to expose max surface area, and charred like the onion
(Alternatively, 6oz /165g galangal, treated identically)
3-5 stalks lemongrass, crushed
3 Tablespoons whole coriander seed, toasted
5 whole star anise, toasted
2 cinnamon sticks, toasted
5 whole cloves, toasted
1 bay leaf

Equipment:

Large pot, at least 12qt capacity
Coarse strainer
Cheesecloth (optional)
2 Large bowls (or other vessel), one that can fit inside another
Ice
Ladle and tongs

Process:

- Place bones in large pot and add enough cold water to cover the bones by 2 inches.

- Bring to a rolling boil and continue for 5-10 minutes. There will be a variety of scum that floats to the surface.

- Drain the bones and rinse them under cold water. Wash the pot, making sure all the unwanted leech is gone, then place the bones back in.

- Add the other ingredients, and fill the pot with cold water. 10 quarts or till level with the ingredients, whichever is lower.

- Bring to a simmer, and cook for at least 3 hours. If the liquid level drops, add more. To prevent excessive liquid loss, lid the pot.
(This isn't something you have to constantly monitor. A peek every half hour or so is fine)

- Carefully remove the bones and other large items and dispose of them to reduce the weight of the pot. The softer vegetables are left nearly whole to help prevent clouding of the broth through breakdown.

- Add ice to the larger of your two bowls, then a little water. This ice bath will speed the cooling process.

- Pour the liquid into the second bowl through a strainer (the cheesecloth is in case you don't have a fine enough strainer to prevent solids in the stock), and then place the finished bowl of stock in the ice bath.


And that's all there is to the first part of a fine bowl of pho. Nicely quick and easy, right?

...No? Really?

Maybe you weren't overpaying after all.

New Disability, Same Indifference... New Way of Life?

 

    Covid sucks. It's shifted from pandemic to endemic because some people weren't cautious enough and a lot more people actively enabled the spread through willful ignorance. Thanks, assholes. Your attitudes have killed several million people- and counting.

    But this isn't about the virus's body count. Nor is it about the ego driven political tribalism that enabled its rise to endemic-dom, or it being the one massive piece of leverage the general public could potentially have used to ensure lasting positive social and cultural change.

    This is about what it's done to food industry professionals. A smaller-stakes issue in some ways, but no less a global problem.

    Remember how it started? People who caught Covid were frequently losing their sense of smell. The phenomenon became so noticeable that papers got written on what was sometimes called the Yankee Candle Review Index, wherein upswings in Covid infection rates were sufficiently correlated with negative reviews of scented candles and other similar products that the surges could be predicted to some degree.

    Industries like food and beverage are hard enough to begin with, on physical, mental, emotional, and financial levels. Professionals still continue to juggle plague-induced operational closings, safety of their staff, their own personal safety, and an endless pile of other problems just to survive. Not only is the pandemic killing more food workers than almost any other demographic, it's maimed a great many more. 

    The cooking school I was teaching in suspended operation in March of 2020, but I'm almost positive I picked up Covid right beforehand. The last event we did was for a passel of people fresh off that damn Disney Cruise. There was no reliable test yet (one of my housemates worked in biotech, and was part of a team developing one of them), and the lockdown was was about to begin. My senses of taste and smell have never failed me. (I do now have a never-ending cough a la General Grievous, but that's another problem.) As far as anosmia, I got lucky. But I know a good few people who didn't.

    Imagine going about your day as normal, and suddenly you're stricken blind. Everything that was familiar now feels as foreign as the moon. That's what it's like when someone whose livelihood is built around food loses their sense of taste or smell. So much of what they knew, expertise honed by constant practice over years, is not simply gone, but often worse- distorted. 

    The olfactory system's nerve pathways don't seem to recover from an attack like this at an even rate, and so all perceptions from it are rendered suspect as recovery slowly, unevenly, uncertainly tries to happen. To be unable to trust one's own senses when others are relying on them is a terrible state of being, and rapidly becoming regarded as another of what are often called "Invisible Disabilities". 

    You know how hard it is to get disability comp in America? Even when it's something physical and as obvious as can be, it's still a hardscrabble fight for every iota of aid and respite. Something like this, that's so much harder to quantify, that we can't even really treat yet? A seemingly futile struggle... and yet it's one that can't help but continue. Too many lives are at stake.

    There are plenty of people, mostly paycheck to paycheck, that are afflicted by the aftereffects of Covid-induced anosmia and parosmia. They're desperate for anything at all to keep them solvent. In lieu of proper disability provisioning or support, the crumbling F&B workforce is giving up their goals in-industry, and taking whatever it can wherever it can to survive. 

    To me, the future of food looks grim. It's always been a marginalized, derided industry, and now it's awash in a new danger full of unknowns. I know where it needs to go, and how to get it there... but I don't think it will get that chance.

Reel Life: Social Media In Food

    

    I don't have or use Instagram. 

    Weird, right? At a glance, it seems like pretty much everyone does, and has become a nexus for the food world's current approach to things.

    There are lots of reasons I personally don't- safety, accessibility, and data farming concerns, among others. But the most important one for me? Doing without it lets me maintain a more well-balanced perspective.

    Sure, it might be interesting to see what other professionals are up to. But the food world is very well connected, and it's not hard for me to just ask around and stay equally well informed.

    Most people really don't like showing off their mistakes in front of an audience, no matter how small, which means the internet typically only gets the good stuff. "The camera eats first", is what I often hear people say- screw that, I'm hungry.

    Relatably, given that much of the internet thrives on hateclicks, gossip, outright lies, and a constant State of Argumentative Discourse, even great successes can catch all sorts of hell if they're seen at the wrong time or by the wrong sort of people. No matter how small a person's online presence, it remains a distinct possibility, and something I'd really rather not deal with on the regular. Chefs and other food professionals have enough worries already- undue harassment from the unqualified is one I consider well worth avoiding.

    Remember this as well, trite as it might sound: Social media is a highlight reel. What you see is aggressively tailored, tweaked, isolated, and curated for a possible or probable audience. What you don't see is everything else. 

-A beautiful plate of food? Taking the time to get that perfect picture might have let it go cold.
-A gorgeous vista? A hundred attempts for the perfect gleam, time wasted that could have been spent enjoying the view.
-Friends and fellows all together in fun? A car got a ticket, a wallet went missing, and some of those smiling ended up heaving in an alleyway an hour later. 

    You can't really know the real costs of those perfect pictures. The face behind the camera could be feeling like Hide the Pain Harold looks... but they'll never tell.

    The most important part of a meal is the experience. It's not just the look, the flavor, or even the company. It's all of those things and more, unable to be distilled and shared by such a tepid medium in anything close to its entirety. Worse still, in the attempt to do so, the essential and ephemeral essence of that experience is tainted and lost.

    Why throw that feeling away? The effort of the artisan who created a singular experience only seems sabotaged by trying to preserve perfection.

Enjoy.

On the Nonsense of NOMA

    There have been entirely too many recent pieces in food media from people being very loud about "Oh, NOMA's closing and I tooootally don't care because I'd never have gotten to go anyway". Well, yes. But do we care about you? No. Does the world of food? With an approach like that, it certainly shouldn't. Sheesh.

    I'd never have gotten to go either, of course. Factually speaking, I'm dirt-poor, speak about five words of Danish, and am utterly bereft of any connections that might open the appropriate doors, so the notion was essentially impossible. NOMA, to the world at large, has always been more of a nebulous notion than a physical place, and it's no different to me in that respect. Professionally speaking, my perspective is different. Should I ever decide I want to taste NOMA for myself, replicating its food is certainly not beyond my level of skill. But that's neither here nor there.

    Look. NOMA was a restaurant that combined a handful of interesting ideas to create a painstakingly fabricated bit of performance art, where food is conceptually rustic, but buttressed by factually elegant, uncompromising simplicity. It's very French in the level of detail, and extremely Chinese in its execution. The former in reducing things to their fundamental essence, and the latter in concocting or amplifying an ingredient's natural flavor via things that aren't actually that ingredient. It made a lot of solid PR for the world of haute cuisine, and the many people behind it have left their mark all over the world in the manner of Adria, Bocuse, or Escoffier. 

    But really, the rationale behind its closing is more important than anything else: The world of fine dining requires logistics and precision at every level, from planetwide to personal, and it's far too much of an unsustainable resource hog when the rest of the world is even more visibly steeped in staggering inequality. 

    I say 'visibly' because unpaid labor is the backbone of essentially every famous or expensive restaurant, and fixing that requires pervasive operational and philosophical change. Said change isn't complicated, exactly, but it must be looked at from both ends of the spectrum. Ideally, the high end would stop isolating itself, removing its often severe and expensive requirements of product, labor, and methodology, while the low end would stop entirely so the supply chains can catch a break long enough to restructure around not having to constantly produce and move superfluous product of inferior quality.

    NOMA and its ilk are concepts that have expensive uses; they yield tangible long-term benefits to the knowledge bases of food science, agriculture, horticulture, history, even art and design.  But to ameliorate the damage done to the public's psyche vis-a-vis the disparity of quality in industry, said disparity must first be aggressively narrowed from the bottom up and the top down alike.

    The food world at large will always be far better served by serving better. But like many before it, NOMA never quite served enough. 

They will be remembered and referenced. But they will not be missed.

Perhaps that should mean more.

Comfort Food for the Cold and Wet

 Topical, because sweet merciful crap is it raining here.

    There are four inches of standing water in my backyard. I walked to the closest supermarket yesterday- less than half a mile. My hat was soaked, my jacket drenched, my pants wet up past the knees, and my subconscious very grateful that I hadn't bought flour.

    Tiger is also extremely pupset that he has to go out in all this, and I do not blame him one little bit. Can you imagine spending your entire life in a place where it hasn't rained (the drought is older than he is!), and now in your old age you have to go get absolutely sodden every time you want to pee? Poor doggydog. Washed a lot of towels this past week keeping him clean, dry, and happy. But he's worth the trouble.

(Look at the poor beastie. "You want me to do what out there?")

    So the big trick when wet weather has you worn? Make it warm again. 

Soups are the way to go, and the simpler the better. Notable names can sometimes feel a little complicated- menudo, ramen, beef barley, pho, yukgaejang, minestrone, caldo verde, even chicken noodle... but that might be just the sort of distraction you need to forget about the outside! Post holiday season, there may also be cause (or a bone in the freezer) for split pea soup with ham. 

    Perhaps my favorite technique is even simpler- simmer everything you want till tender, then give it a minute with a blender for a smooth puree. Best with things like potato or butternut squash- delightful mild flavors that also make fantastic mediums for a little something extra to brighten a wet and dreary day.

    My personal favorite potato soup is something crafted many years ago by a fellow named Walter while we were working at a place called Tuscarora Mill, in Leesburg VA. We often had mashed potatoes left over from dinner service, and they frequently saw use as a thickener for other soups, or just made into one on their own- some stock, some salt, and suddenly, soup!

    The trick with Walter's was surprisingly simple. Having extra roasted poblano chiles on hand, he peeled them and into the soup they went, pureed with some roasted garlic and a good bit of our house-smoked cheddar cheese. The subtle heat and robust vegetal flavor of the roasted chile added a great deal of depth to a simple potato soup, and the smoked cheddar worked beautifully to round it out. Starch and fat aplenty, infused with flavors strong enough to be obvious, but not enough to be intrusive or overwhelming.

    This works beautifully with most soups centering around a puree of starch. Butternut squash, pumpkin, or sweet potato? Try adding chipotle or curry powder for a big burst of flavor and essentially no effort. Celeriac, turnip, or rutabaga? Maybe some rosemary, a little crumble of some strong cheese, bacon, perhaps some caramelized onion? Pick your favorite herb or spice combination and have at!

Appliance Review: "MÄNNKITCHEN PEPPER CANNON"

    As a general rule, pepper grinders tend to be some combination of clumsy, imprecise, or flimsy. I've owned a dozen, replacing them when they broke or deteriorated over time, or if I just decided they weren't good enough. 

    While working in restaurant kitchens, most of our pepper grinding was done in a Vitamix, a coffee grinder, or some sort of other violently vigorous mechanical beast, but I've never really found one that did the job right for at-home use and really only made do with what was available and affordable. Key being 'affordable'- I'm poor. So are most of you. The notion of spending a lot of money on producing something like ground pepper feels strange, almost wasteful.

    As I've discovered, though, it's not. At least not in the case of the Pepper Cannon. I vaguely followed its development essentially from the beginning, since it was on IndieGoGo, Kickstarter, and the other fundraiser sites out of professional curiosity. It had (and still has) a 200 USD price tag, which places it in the Very/Too Expensive category in my head. 

    I didn't want to like it- calling one's brand 'MÄNNKITCHEN' smacks of indiscretion and a brashness that has always set my teeth on edge. 

    But a name is only that. Now that I own a Pepper Cannon, and have put it through its paces over time, the craftsmanship has proved to meet and far exceed any expectations I might have had for its quality, durability, and utility. 

    In the interest of disclosure, I didn't actually buy the thing. It was an unexpected gift. One I was, am, and will continue to be extremely grateful for.

The engraving was unexpected too- the kind and generous soul who gifted it to me used the artwork I have on my business cards.

    So first off, the quality. It's stellar. Since it's largely aluminum and stainless steel, the durability is not in question at all. However it does weigh enough that if you knock it over it's going to make a pretty good bang. Ergo, don't put it on glass-topped anything- tables, stovetops, etc. 

    The catch-cap shown in the pictures above is quite snugly attached with a deep-set rubber gasket of sorts, so that's not falling out without a fight. It also holds a good two tablespoons of grind, so you can get it prepped ahead and hold it if you're seasoning a big pile of meat, or anything else where you won't want to touch the grinder once you start.

    Now for utility. The grinding action is standard and obvious, and the adjustment of grind coarseness is a simple twist readily found on the bottom where it dispenses. Because it runs through peppercorns so much faster than the average home cook is likely used to, the reloading mechanism is also very important. Fortunately it's quick and easy- just press the button at the top center, lift the top piece off, and pour more peppercorns inside. Afterward, put the top back on and gently press down till it clicks. The cavity holds about a half-cup dry measure worth of peppercorns, so that'll last you a little while between refills. My personal preference for peppercorns is Tellicherry- a common variety grown a lot in India, but it works just fine with any.

    However. It's not recommended for use with anything but peppercorns or similar alternatives. I have most commonly heard tale of people using grinders for salt, (which I find absurd) which will deteriorate the mechanisms over time, and this is a pricy piece of machinery. Why take a needless risk?

    Overall, it's a fantastic piece of equipment, near or at the pinnacle of what one might expect for a pepper mill's design. It's easy to use, maintain, and store, it's durable enough to offer multi-generational longevity, and it's honestly got a pretty slick look to it too.

    If you have a family to feed, a love of food and cooking, or even just a grudge against pre-ground pepper, this is absolutely worth the admittedly substantial investment. You'll be happily grinding with it for years, probably decades to come.

Sushi 101 @ KOF- Afterthoughts

    I was offered an opportunity to do one of my personally designed classes at a cooking school called Kitchen On Fire in Berkeley- they were in need of people who can do Asia, and that's kind of my thing.

    Strangely enough, starting with them came via a charming retro cold-call. Or cold-email, as the case may be. I gave them my name, my pedigree as an instructor, and gave the name of one of their most reputable guest instructors as a reference, a delightful woman named Maria, of Maria Teresa's Kitchen. Not at all a stretch to do so either- she'd been a guest instructor at my previous cooking school many times, and we always worked quite smoothly together. Ten minutes after I sent the email, I got a phone call with an eager offer. Pleasant!

    Fast forward several months and my shadowing a class or two, to last night's sushi seminar. Fourteen people is a bit more than ideal for this particular class, which led to it feeling rather jumbled to me. I was apparently the only one that thought so, though. Everyone had naught but good things to say, even my assistant and the dishwasher!

    I did spend a fair bit of time talking at first, which is inevitable. The goal of the class was not just to get everyone to practice what I was showing, but to ensure that they understood the principles behind the techniques. Mimicry only gets a person so far, after all.

    First comes the briefest of sushi history lessons, and the slow evolution of the concept into what we know it as today. After which I hit them with the essential terminology, some interesting trivia, and then we take a break to get into some technique. Knife skills practice yielded a rustic but classic side dish, Kinpira Gobo, as well as some delicately julienned cucumber for the evening's kappa-maki. Some other vegetarian sushi options included crispy roasted sweet potatoes, green onions, and my specialty shiitake braised in shoyu and mirin with ginger.

    Next, the fish. Tuna and salmon were the easy choices, since I'd been sandbagged with an attendee possessed of a shellfish allergy. A quick lesson on butchery, brine-freezing, and a few other tidbits kept them interested while I cut the fish. Regrettably I hadn't brought my knives, trusting the in-house tools. Mistake. I have not shanked a piece of fish quite that badly in several years. I had to skin the salmon with the heel of my hand- a tricky technique I learned in New England from one of the other cooks at a restaurant I worked in during my Johnson & Wales years.

Last, demos. Chumaki, Hosomaki, Temaki, and Nigiri. And then I turned them loose to practice and eat their fill.

    While perhaps a little rough getting going, everyone was pleasant to one another, lots of useful tidbits were exchanged, lots of different ingredient combinations showed up, and everyone came away with smiles, full stomachs, and better understanding. 

Ultimately, that's worth the price of admission and then some.