Skirting the name issue

What's in a name?

Silly question, Will. As a writer, surely you know that names, like all words, are things of power. The words we use set the expectations of our audience. I mean, really, roses renamed Gomer's smegma might still smell as sweet, but who'd want to get close enough to find out? Likewise, if your surname were Tugger, would you ever name your son Peter or Dick? What's in a name? Please. If you were eating at a restaurant, would you order a dish called Squishy Pustules? or Sir John Falstaff's Navel Lint Pie? or even...okay, I better stop before I say something that makes Princess V ill (doesn't pay to upset one's editor).

Names carry associations. In My "Little Brown Jug" I took my favorite local restaurant to task for disappointing me by applying a misleading name to a dish. How would you feel if you ordered a spaghetti dish and got something that contained no pasta? Even if the dish is exquisite, your foiled expectations would ill flavor the meal.

Living in Texas, in the heart of TexMex country, I am acutely aware of the naming problem. TexMex has created a number of naming problems for anyone interested in the history of Mexican cuisine. Some of these naming problems can become problems for restaurateurs and other cooks. Take the burrito, for example. Efforts to determine the origin of the burrito place it variously in the Sonora region of Mexico and various parts of southern and central Texas? You wouldn't think this much of an issue, but if you're trying to document the influence of Mexican foods on American cuisines and vice versa, it all gets pretty confusing.

Certainly the idea of putting food in tortillas originated in Mexico—likewise the idea of rolling or folding food into a tortilla. Or so you might think. In truth, members of a number of Native American tribes had similar practices. Navajo and Hopi flatbread were topped or filled with meats and herbs in much the same manner as in Mexican tacos and tostadas.

Generally, here's what I've been able to determine with any certainty:

Tacos

Tacos fall into three basic categories: Mexican, TexMex, and American Fast Food.

The Mexican taco consists of a soft corn tortilla folded over or rolled around ground meat and some kind of salsa (salsa fresca, pico de gallo, or both). Some areas traditionally add guacamole. In some regions a wheat flour tortilla is used in lieu of corn. One interesting variation that you rarely see in the US (but I'm seeing more and more Taco stands in Austin offering this, lately) is the taco al pastor. The taco al pastor consists of thin slices from a spiced, rotisserie cooked pork loaf (similar to the spitted meat used in gyros). The traditional garnish for a taco al pastor is slightly different from the taco norm: onion, cilantro, pineapple, and a bit of hot salsa.

TexMex tacos tend to mimic Mexican tacos but with a couple of distinctly non-Mexican additions: cheese and sour cream. I don't know who added these or why. Mexican food purists typically claim the dairy products were added by gringo wimps to mitigate the heat of the chillis used in the salsas. Increasingly, however, cheese has crept into the condiments in Mexican towns catering to Americans. In TexMex food, Monterey Jack is the most commonly used cheese, but you'll occasionally see various types of cheddar or some of that plasticky, blond crap the supermarkets sell as American cheese. In Mexico tourist towns, you're more likely to see queso fresca or queso cotija.

Fast food tacos use crisp taco shells. I guess this is because they're easier to load, assembly-line fashion. The fast food guys also add lettuce. I think this is to make it look like the taco contains more food than is actually present.

Burritos

So, starting with that beef filled taco, fold in the ends and roll up the tortilla so that the filling is completely hidden. Voila: burrito. Mexican or TexMex? Hard to decide. Though available in both countries, burritos appear to have originated in either northern Mexico or southern Texas. These days, you find burritoid food items in southern Mexico and throughout Central America, but they are more frequently called tacos de harinas (wheat flour tacos) where folks apparently don't see fully enclosing the contents in tortilla as a distinguishing characteristic. I've met folks from Quintana Roo who openly scoff at the term burrito, "A little burro? Who wants to eat a little burro?"

Chimichangas

I have always believed that chimichangas originated in Texas. I mean, a deep fried burrito? How Elvis can you get? My research, however, suggests otherwise. These crunchy little cholesterol bombs were apparently invented in Mexico.

Fajitas

When you mention Y2K, most people remember all the hype about the millennium bug. Computer systems were expected to implode in the visionary vacuum of their own numerological constraints.

What I usually remember about Y2K is the millenium irritation argument. To most people in the world, the first day of the year 2000 was the first day of the new millenium. To anyone who had done the math (or otherwise been impressed by someone who had done the math), January 1 2000 would not end the millenium. It would mark the beginning of the 2000th year, A.D. instead of the end. For this minority, the new millennium would not begin and therefore could not be properly celebrated until January 1, 2001. This latter idea did not catch on too broadly, but did become a source of endless annoyance at academic and techie parties. Everyone seemed to fall into one of two cliques: those who wanted to save the 1/1/2000 celebrants from their ignorance and those who wanted to save the 1/1/2001 adherants from their pedantry.

Fajitas are the Y2K of the Tex-Mex world. If you want to make a Tex-Mex pedant sneer, just start talking about chicken or shrimp fajitas.

Originally, the term fajita was coined by someone at Ninfa's restaurant in Houston. The coinage may have been accidental. Street vendors in Mexico City at the time were selling what they called tacos rajitas, rajitas being thin slices (in Spanish, raja = slice) of barbecued or grilled beef. The Ninfas fajitas were made from the beef skirt, called the faja in Mexican carnicerias (faja = girdle), so the name seemed reasonable.

Logically, lexically, fajitas can only be made from strips of beef skirt. Shrimp and chickens don't have a faja. Beef fajitas are usually made with grilled or seared, marinated skirt steak (skirt is tough as canvas and absolutely must be marinated over night in lime juice and salt). The beef is served with flour tortillas, pico de gallo, guacamole, and grilled or sautéed onions and chillis.

In practice and popular association, fajitas are the combination of a grilled meat item with the appropriate Tex-Mex condiments. Chicken, shrimp, and even portabello mushroom fajitas are common in Tex-Mex restaurants. Lexically, all of these non-beef items should probably be called rajitas, or tacos, or something asado.

Shrimp and crab tacos (fajitas?)

This is a meal for three. The following recipes are for pico de gallo, guacamole, and the shrimp and crab filling. The crab matches remarkably well with the quacamole, especially if served with warm, fresh corn tortillas.

dramatis personae

three firm cluster tomatoes, diced
two serrano chillis, seeded and minced
one small sweet onion, diced
one small garlic clove, minced
one large hass avocado
juice of two limes
one bunch of cilantro
sea salt to taste
one tablespoon peanut oil
one half pound 10-15 count shrimp tails
one quarter pound lump crab meat
one tablespoon minced epazote
two tablespoons mulatto chilli purée*

* This is the chilli purée I described in My Latest Beef. The recipe is simple, quick, and makes more than you need, even for the albacore steaks. It will keep in the refrigerator for a few weeks.

quality of ingredients

The chillis are difficult. Serranos are quite variable in their heat. I usually try to use one green serrano and one red or mostly red serrano (the redder they are, typically, the hotter they are). You can substitute jalapeños or green fingerhots, but those are also quite variable.

Garlic is not a standard addition to pico de gallo or guacamole, but I like a little in each. Garlic bulbs should have a bit of heft to them. The really light ones are dried out. Don't use garlic that is showing green. Green in garlic will make your guacamole bitter.

You want Hass or Fuerte avocados for guacamole. Florida or green skin avocados are too watery and too sweet. In all honesty, though, the dark skinned avocados are a pain in the ass to pick out at the supermarket. If they're soft enough for guacamole, they're frequently overripe and mottled with nasty-looking brown spots. I learned a long time ago that an avocado that feels like the flesh has separated from the skin is definitely overripe. Beyond that, I still can't figure out how you're supposed to know, before you get them home, whether these damned things will have spots or not.

As I've noted previously, I use peanut oil because it has a high smoke point and does not flavor the food. You can also use high quality olive oil (not extra-virgin). I know that many cooks prefer canola oil. I think canola oil lends a plasticky taste.

Several grocers in the Austin area sell good quality cooked crab, and live crabs are usually more expensive. I have tried lump crab, snow crab clusters, stone crab claws, and Dungeness crab clusters. The stone crab claws were the best. The meat is flavorful and shatters in the cooking and coats the shrimp. The stone crab claws have two drawbacks: they are hard to open and two pounds of claws yields only a quarter-pound of meat. The lump crab meat was the second best (flavorful, pleasantly toothsome) and required the least work (just a little sifting for stray bits of cartilage and shell). Shelling the snow crab and Dungeness clusters was a lot of work, but they yielded about twice as much meat as the stone crab claws. I love snow crab, but it is a bit too mild for this dish, and the Dungeness (despite rinsing) was too salty. I'll have to try the Dungeness again and remember to taste it before I cook it to be sure it's adequately rinsed.

Epazote—either you can find it in your area or you can't. If you can't, just forget it. There is no substitute. Cilantro, thyme, or Mexican oregano might be just fine with this dish, but it won't be anything like the epazote.

preparation notes

I recommend the following game plan:

1. Mise en scene—dice, mince, seed, and juice all the vegetable matter except the cilantro and the avocado. The avocado should not be opened until you are ready to mix the guacamole. Cilantro should never be minced until just before it's to be added (it takes on a soapy flavor).
2. Purée the chillis (if you don't have some puree on hand already).
3. Mix the pico de gallo.
4. Mix the guacamole.
5. Shell the crab (or just sift it if you're using lump crab).
6. Peel and devein the shrimp tails.
7. Roll the masa balls (if you're making fresh tortillas)
8. Fry the tortillas and sauté the shrimp and crab simultaneously.

This program gets everything out at the right temperatures.

Step one is pretty straightforward.

Step two I covered in My Latest Beef.

Step three is also pretty straightforward: in a non-reactive bowl combine the tomato, onion, serranos, and half of the garlic. Mix in the juice of one lime and sea salt to taste. Mince enough cilantro to make about a tablespoon and mix that into the pico. For the purists: garlic is a non-standard addition, but it adds a nice kick. Incidentally, the pico de gallo will stay fresh in the refrigerator for a few days, so you can prepare this well in advance, if you prefer. Refrigerate this until everything is ready to serve.

Step four: guacamole. Traditional guacamole in Mexico is whipped to the consistency of thick oatmeal. The girls and I prefer chunks (roughly half-inch cubes). After cubing the avocado, immediately mix in the juice of one lime. This will keep the guacamole from browning right away. Note: the guacamole will still brown after about an hour, so don't make it too far in advance. An interesting side effect of the lime is that it softens the avocado. Mix in the other half of the garlic. Mince enough cilantro to make about a tablespoon and mix that into the guac. Sprinkle in sea salt to taste. Refrigerate this until everything is ready to serve.

Steps five and six are fairly straightforward. If the shrimp is not as fresh as you'd like (if it has a fishy or sulphurous aroma), drop the tails into a bowl of cheap white wine to saok until you are ready to toss them into the sauté pan.

Step seven: the masa for tortillas. You have to have a tortilla press for this. I'll go into this in more detail later. I really need to get some photos to describe this process. One thing I will say: if you can get the premixed masa (it contains lard), you'll get much better results than with masa and water.

Step eight: the tortillas and the seafood. For the tortillas (which I am not going to talk about, mind) you will need a seasoned comal or cast iron skillet. Wipe the skillet with a dab of peanut oil on a paper towel. For the crab and shrimp, preheat a tablespoon of peanut oil in a non-stick skillet until the oil shimmers. Add the shrimp (pour off the wine first) and sauté until the shrimp tails are nearly opaque. Mix in the chilli purée and the crab meat and toss until the seafood is throughly coated and the shrimp are done.

The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 5

The Fishest Fish

As I mentioned in My Inner PETA, I just can't eat grouper...groupers. Aw, hell, I even have trouble thinking of them as grouper. They're individuals, not a substance. In fact, I can't understand how any diver can eat them. Groupers frequently follow us around the reef, and they appear genuinely inquisitive. Eating their flesh would be like barbecuing the cardinals who frequent the feeder outside my bedroom window.

Eating snapper, on the other hand, doesn't bother me. Snapper are a bit more skittish than groupers, less inquisitive, less intelligent, less expressive. Any curiosity from a snapper ends at the realization that I don't have any food for it. Not, mind you, that I've seen too many red snappers during dives. Red snappers prefer to stay in the 100 to 200 foot depth range, and they prefer to stay out of sight of humans. I've seen more than my share of cubera snappers, grey snappers, and dog snappers. They show up frequently on night dives, and they usually hang around hoping I'll point a light at something they can eat.

Since they don't pass my sapience test, I consider red snapper fair game. That and they're delicious. Red snapper is my number one generic food fish choice. When I think of fish for dinner, my usual thought process begins with red snapper. Though rarely falling prey to the pungent nastiness we call fishiness, snapper is the fishest fish I know: the quintessential non-fishy-tasting fish taste. Since I live in Texas, I usually think of red snapper, which I can usually get fresh. If I lived in Hawaii, my first choice would be ruby snapper, which is similar to red snapper but slightly more flavorful.

Like mahimahi, snapper is frequently and erroneously classed as a "white-fleshed fish." Anyone who's ever had red snapper sushi or sashimi knows that raw snapper is a glassy translucent pink. Snapper are active feeders. They may not spend their lives swimming through miles of pelagic currents like tuna and mackerel, but neither are they as sedentary as flatfish, cod, or other truly white-fleshed fish. Snapper decidedly does cook white, but so do sardines and anchovies.

Many cooks, I've noticed, complain that snapper is over-rated, that it's bland, that the meat tastes muddy, or that snapper cooked in any way outside of the oven is a waste of fish. Trust me; they're wrong.

To be more specific:

If you try to use snapper in a recipe that works well with salmon, tuna, mahimahi, or a strong fishy fish, you'll overwhelm the delicate flavor of the snapper. In that case, snapper will seem overrated.

If you overcook it or simply do nothing to enhance the inherent crustacean-like sweetness of snapper, the flesh will seem bland.

If the meat tastes muddy, you got one that was caught too close to shore. This seems to be a problem frequent to Florida and the east coast (which apparently gets most of its snapper from Florida). Restaurants in Florida prefer yellow-tailed snapper to red snapper, which always sounded screwy to me. Yellow-tailed snapper are garbage disposals. They feed near the surface like Bermuda chubs, and they'll eat just about anything that hits the water. In much of the Caribbean, anywhere a dive boat docks, the yellow-tailed snappers show up looking for handouts. If you get seasick, these are the fish who'll likely be doing the cleanup. As we've all been told since childhood: you are what you eat.

Red snappers, on the other hand, subsist primarily on live crustaceans and small fish. Apparently, this is not entirely true of the snapper population close to shore, where the red snappers have learned to eat scraps off the bottom. You can usually tell just by examining the fish with your eyes and nostrils. If the flesh is mostly a uniform translucent, pale pink and has no odor or smells faintly of shrimp, you can be fairly certain the fish was not eating garbage. If the flesh has a brownish tinge to it, is mottled, or smells faintly of bowel, don't buy it.

As for baked snapper, hey, baked whole snapper is a marvelous dish. I know several good recipes for taking advantage of all the various textures of the snapper carcass. I don't recommend this treatment, though, unless you're feeding a large party. Personally, I prefer sautéed red snapper filets to the baked whole fish.

For sautéing snapper I have just a few rules of thumb:

1. Scale the fish but always leave the skin on. It tastes great. In some treatments, it looks great. Even if you don't eat the skin, the savory gelatin from the skin will help flavor the fish.
2. Finish the fish in a poaching or braising (same thing, different depths) liquid. If I've browned the non-skin side, I braise rather than poach so that I can keep the browned portion dry.
3. Avoid vinaigrettes and escabeches. Vinegar overwhelms the delicate flavor of the snapper. Note, I said avoid. If you do use a vinaigrette or escabeche make sure it's a mild one.

I previously shared one of my favorite traditional recipes, Huachinango Veracruzano, in My Little Brown Jug. The following are a couple of my more recent red snapper successes.

Curried red snapper with Thai spice crab chowder

dramatis personae

These proportions will feed two.

chowder components:
one tablespoon peanut oil
one half medium onion
two cloves garlic
one tablespoon ginger, minced or grated
one thai pepper, minced
one medium russet potato, peeled and diced
one cup water
one can coconut milk
four snow crab claws
two or three keffir lime leaves, finely minced
cilantro leaves for garnish

haricots verts, snow peas, or snap peas (handful)

one red snapper filet
Madras curry powder

quality of ingredients

Again I tackle the topic of oil. I think all the chefs out there using canola oil are deluding themselves. Canola oil does not cook without imparting flavor. Canola oil tastes like plastic. If I want to minimize the flavor imparted to a dish, I prefer peanut oil. It's not flavorless, but it is mild and pleasant tasting. As for transfat and cis-fat concerns, I've yet to see any evidence that the relatively small quantities of cis-fats and transfats produced from cooking with peanut oil threaten my health. Besides, they've been using it in much of Asia for decades with no discernible increase in health problems.

To recap on the matter of snapper selection: the filets should be intact (no splits or gaps in the flesh), should appear uniformly translucent pale pink, and should have either no odor or a faint aroma of shrimp. For this dish, since the skin is an important element of presentation, the skin should be brightly colored, intact, and unblemished.

I know: haricots verts sounds just too too pretentious, but the green beans sold in the US under this label (which translates, ironically, "green beans") are thinner, sweeter, and less stringy than the ones sold as "snap beans." If you can't find haricot verts, either select the thinnest snap beans you can find, or substitute fresh snow peas or snap peas.

Yes, it has to be a russet potato. Well, okay, not really, but it has to be a high starch, low moisture potato. Why waste anything more complex (a white rose or Yukon gold, for example) when you just want something that will cook down to a starchy pulp as and provide a good chowder base? Besides, russets are cheap.

On a similar note, this treatment has you cooking the onion down to a soft component of a chowder, so sweet onions are wasted here. There's nothing wrong with a sweet onion in this recipe, but you'll usually pay more for it. Use the sweet onions if they're what you already have on hand. Otherwise, for the sake of your shopping list, get a basic white or yellow onion.

"Madras curry powder" is a phrase that will cause many foodies to turn up their noses in disgust. If you're making a curry, I agree that designing your own spice blend can be a rich, rewarding experience. Besides, different types of flesh require a different balance of flavors. In the case of seared fish or curried broils (rubbed meats), where the "curry" is just a small flavor element, I use curry powder. To be precise, I use Sun Brand Madras Curry Powder. I find most other curry powders too high in cumin, too high in chili, or too bland. Pick a curry powder you like. If you want to grind your own, knock yourself out.

Don't use prepared ginger or garlic. The preminced mashed stuff in the jars tastes nasty, and the dried stuff tastes altogether wrong. I also don't recommend pressing the garlic. For this dish, you want the garlic to mellow and soften like the onions. Crushing it will make your chowder taste too garlicky.

I use canned coconut milk. I've done the fresh coconut milk thing, and it really doesn't seem to make much difference. If you want to use fresh, you have to remove the flesh from the coconut (remove the liquid and put the segments on a cookie sheet in a 400 F oven for ten minutes or until the shells pull away from the meat), pulverize it in a food processor, and blend it with the fluid from the coconut. If you use fresh coconut milk, depending on the richness of the resultant milk, this recipe will require one to two cups. (If you're not sure how your coconut milk stacks up against the canned stuff, when the recipe calls for the milk, add one cup and then taste the chowder. Add as much more as you think it needs.)

I used snow crab claws, but Jonah, stone, or dungeness crab claws should work, if that's what you have.

In this particular recipe, the keffir lime leaves are not a requirement, but they add a bright finish. If you can't find the leaves, add a little lime juice just before serving. (Thai basil might also be a nice touch, but I haven't tried this yet.)

notes on preparation

Remove the pin bones and scales from the filet. Leave the skin on. Cut the filet into two serving-sized pieces, and sprinkle the flesh side of each with a fine dusting of curry powder. Set the filets aside while you prepare the chowder and beans.

In a stock pot, heat a teaspoon of the peanut oil to shimmering and add the onion, garlic, thai pepper, and ginger. Stirring frequently to avoid browning, cook the mixture until the onions begin to clarify. Add the potatoes and a half cup of water (the water is just to keep the vegetables from browning). Continue to cook the mixture, adding water as necessary to keep everything moist, until the potatoes are soft enough to mash (about fifteen minutes).

Once the potatoes are soft, add the coconut milk and blend the mixture thoroughly. I had intended to do this with a stick blender, but my stick blender seems to have wandered off. Pouring the concoction into the blender worked fine (be careful to cover the lid with a dish towel or something similar to keep the hot chowder from gushing out the top and scalding you).

Return the chowder to the burner over a low flame and add the crab claws (shells and all). Let the chowder simmer for twenty minutes, stirring occasionally.

While the chowder is simmering, blanch the beans (or peas) for two minutes in boiling water. Drain the beans in a strainer or colander; then, sauté them in a teaspoon of peanut oil over a medium high flame for another two minutes. Remove the beans from the pan and set them aside.

Heat the remaining teaspoon of peanut oil in a non-stick sauté pan over a high flame until the oil begins to smoke lightly. Place the filet portions in the sauté pan flesh side down. Leave them alone for two full minutes. Turn the flame down to medium and—being careful to keep them intact (this may take two turners)—flip the filets and let the skin side cook for three full minutes. Again taking care to keep the portions intact, remove the filets from the sauté pan to a plate to cool.

Once the chowder has simmered for twenty minutes, remove the crab claws and to allow them to cool (don't rinse them). Stir the keffir lime leaves into the chowder. Once the claws are cool enough to handle, remove the crab meat. Discard the shells and stir the crab meat into the chowder.

to serve

In two individual pasta bowls or similar flat-bottomed bowls, arrange a web or nest of beans (or peas). I put down five or six beans in parallel and top them with a layer of five or six beans perpendicular to the first set. Place a filet upon each nest, skin side up. Pour chowder all around the filet at least up to the level of the fish but not enough to reach the skin. Garnish the chowder with cilantro.

Red snapper and sea scallops in salsa verde

This started out as a scallop dish. I knew that tomatillos do a nice job of bringing out the inherent sweetness of scallops. I only threw in the snapper because I knew girlchild wouldn't eat the scallops. She has a remarkably broad palate, but she just doesn't seem to have the scallop-lover's gene. To my surprise, she has requested this dish again on more than one occasion.

dramatis personae

These proportions will feed three.

one pound tomatillos
one tablespoon olive oil
three green poblano peppers
one teaspoon lime juice
pinch of sea salt
one red snapper filet (about a pound)
three epazote leaves, minced

quality of ingredients

Tomatillos look a little like green tomatoes. Although they are in the same family as tomatoes, tomatillos are actually more closely related to ground cherries and cape gooseberries. Like those two odd fruits, tomatillos grow in papery husks. If you've never used them, you're in for quite a surprise. Tomatillos should be green (they ripen yellow, but ripe tomatillos have little flavor), firm, and free of blemishes. I'm sure this drives the produce guys nuts, but I always tear the husks (they're just going to be discarded anyway) to check the quality of the fruit. When you remove the husks at home, you'll find that the fruit is sticky with sap. That's normal. The sap rinses off readily.

Poblanos are somewhat variable. One will have no heat whatsoever and the next will have a burn like a jalapeño. As a result, the odds are you'll get a slight amount of chilli burn in this dish, but even with the hottest poblanos, it won't be much. If you want a hotter version of this dish, you're in the wrong set of recipes. Snapper, remember, has a delicate flavor. The poblanos should be dark green, smooth, and shiny. Check the base of the stem to be sure no mold has snuck into the chilli.

If you live anywhere outside of Mexico, Texas, California, and the American Southwest, you may not be able to find epazote. I've seen a number of recipes purporting to create a substitute for epazote. None of them work. Epazote has a unique flavor that includes minty notes, sasparilla notes, and something that smells faintly like a petroleum product. Epazote has an ellusive electric quality that will make your lips and tongue tingle. If you can't find epazote, a little cilantro will add a fresh something extra.

notes on preparation

This recipe is consists of six steps:

1. Roast, peel, and seed the poblanos.
2. Sauté the tomatillos and roasted poblanos.
3. Process the tomatillo/poblano salsa.
4. Sauté the scallops.
5. Sauté the snapper filets.
6. Braise the scallops and snapper filets briefly in the salsa.

Roasting the poblanos

I've tried several techniques for roasting chillis: barbecue, comal, broiler, butane torch, and stovetop. None worked nearly as well as cooking the chillis directly on the stovetop. If you have an electric stove, you'll have to try one of the other methods. Before you start roasting the chillis, whatever method you use, cut off the tip of the pepper to avoid exploding chillis. I roast the poblanos one at a time over a high flame, directly on the burner. Once one side is black, using a pair of dinner forks, turn the poblano over to blacken another side. Keep turning the chilli until all of the skin is black. Remove the chilli from the flame and immediately wrap it in a damp paper towel. Leave that chilli to cool while you roast the next one. When all the chillis are done roasting, the first should be ready to peel.

Roasted chillis peel easily. Just wipe all the black skin off with a damp paper towel. Pull out the stem and core of the poblano. Tear or cut the poblano open, and remove and discard the pith and seeds.

Sautéing the tomatillos and poblanos

Hull and quarter the tomatillos. In a sauté pan over a medium-high flame, heat a half-tablespoon of olive oil (I use a non-stick skillet. For a stainless steel skillet, you'll need two tablespoons of olive oil) to shimmering. Add the tomatillos, roasted poblanos, and a pinch of sea salt and sauté until the tomatillos begin to soften. Once the tomatillos are about half cooked through (you'll be able to tell by the color, which becomes pale as they cook), remove them from the flame and add the lime juice.

Processing the salsa

Pour the tomatillo/poblano mixture into a food processor and pulse it a few times to eliminate the large chunks (nothing in the salsa should be larger than a pea). You want salsa, not a puree.

Sauté the scallops

Rinse the scallops and (if your fishmonger hasn't done this already) remove the tough bit of muscle from the side. In a sauté pan over a high flame, heat a half tablespoon (again, I'm using a non-stick pan; two tablespoons of oil for stainless steel) of olive oil just to the point of smoking. Place the scallops in the oil, reduce the flame to medium high, and leave the scallops alone for two full minutes. After two minutes, turn the scallops. They should be golden brown on the cooked side. Again leave them alone for two minutes. Remove the scallops from the pan, but don't turn off the flame.

Sauté the snapper filets

Divide the filet into three portions. In the hot, scallop-flavored oil, place the filet portions flesh side down and leave them alone for two full minutes. We want these guys browned, too. Turn the flame down to medium. Being careful to keep them intact, turn the filets over and cook the skin side for two minutes. Remove the filets to a holding plate.

Braising the seafood

With a spatula, scrape the sauté pan to loosen any remaining bits of scallop and snapper fond. Pour the salsa into the pan and stir it to incorporate the fond into the salsa. Place the filets in the salsa skin-side down. You want to keep the browned portion mostly out of the salsa. Similarly, place the scallops in the salsa, keeping the best looking side of each scallop up. Allow the seafood to simmer in the salsa for three minutes.

Being careful to keep the salsa off the top side of each, remove the scallops and filets from the salsa. Stir the epazote into the salsa and turn off the flame.

to serve

Pour the salsa into a large serving platter arrange the scallops and fillet portions atop the salsa. This dish goes well with saffron rice, achiote rice, or fresh corn tortillas.

The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 4

Death of the Gilded Warrior

Back before the Internet and personal computers—hell, before my parents even acquiesced to putting a television in our home (black-and-white, UHF, ostensibly 13 channels but at least eight were unused), my primary source of infotainment was the Colliers and Americana Encyclopedias my father had bought with the U.S. savings bonds that were supposed to have been my college money. I particularly enjoyed the Colliers volumes that contained extensive sets of color plates. Volumes A (amphibians), B (birds), M (mammals), and R (reptiles), for example, were like comic books for a junior trivia geek like me. The real treasure trove, however, was the F volume: flags, flowers, and fish.

It was in the Colliers F that I first saw what the encyclopedia then called a dolphin (I later learned that ichthyologists call them dolphinfish to avoid confusion with Flipper and company). What a bizarre character. The blunted-tomahawk face of the dolphinfish looks completely at odds with the fish's acute sternward body taper, its Mohawk dorsal fin, and its scissor tail. The effect is something like putting a Rolls Royce grill on a Lotus Europa. As if the shape alone weren't enough to make them look like something out of a Ken Kesey/Hunter S. Thompson collaboration, dolphinfish sport glam rock scales of electric blues and neon greens awash with what looks like gold dust.

A few years after my first discovery of the dolphinfish, furor over the trapping of dolphins, porpoises, and small whales prompted a demand in the U.S. and Europe for dophin-free tuna. Restaurateurs and fishmongers deemed it prudent to avoid the terms dolphin and dolphinfish in reference to anything they were hoping to sell for human consumption. The Hawaiian and Latin American names mahimahi and dorado were quickly taken up.

Mahimahi, I'm sorry to report, is the name that stuck. Mahimahi translates as "strong strong," a verbal construction that sounds a bit goofy to anyone accustomed to a language with either a bit of variety or even a few decent intensifiers. The English equivalent would be something like very strong or powerful or potent or kick-ass. Understanding the source of the word has not helped me learn to like it, nor has it made buying the fish any easier. I still feel like a dork asking my fishmonger for a mahimahi filet. It sounds like I'm stuttering.

The term dorado literally means "golden one," a name that was given to the legendary South American warriors who supposedly dusted themselves with gold dust after bathing. I like this name. It's fanciful, and it describes a striking aspect of the fish. It doesn't sound silly.

Sadly, the term dorado is being swallowed up by the encroaching mahimahi. Even the restaurants in Cozumel sell it as mahimahi. I'm not sure why mahimahi managed to outpace dorado, but I think it has something to do with a popular recipe. Search for mahimahi recipes online and you'll find quite a few versions of Macadamia-crusted mahimahi in coconut milk. Frankly, this is an unimpressive combination. I love fish poached in coconut milk, and I like Macadamia nuts, but the combination is bland. If you want to coat fish with nutmeats, hazelnuts or almonds provide a good deal more flavor and character, but I wouldn't use even those coatings in coconut milk. The result would be, as Princess V is fond of saying, much of a muchness. I think the Macadamia-coconut treatment is popular simply because of its exotic-sounding combination of Hawaiian ingredients.

The Non-White White

I know that I said at the outset of the Secret Language of Fish that I was going to talk about white-fleshed fish, and I know that a lot of cookbooks claim that mahimahi is a white-fleshed fish. In truth, mahimahi is not a white-fleshed fish—not exactly. The raw flesh is generally pink with dark red along the lateral line. This fish is a powerful pelagic, after all. These guys spend their lives on the go, and they depend upon their speed for survival—think of the dolphinfish as something like a billfish after an overzealous rhinoplasty. Like all his fully shnozzed billfish cousins, the flesh of the dolphinfish has a dense, meaty texture. Mahimahi cooks up slightly firmer than tuna but not quite as firm as swordfish.

The majority of mahimahi flesh does cook white. Whitish. Perhaps we should call it off-white. The red strips turn dark brown but taste pretty much the same as the white portions. Many diners find the dark strip unappetizing, and since the stripe in forward portions of the filet contains sharp little bones, I usually trim off this lateral line strip.

Like tuna, mahimahi stands up well to grilling, broiling, and searing. Many diners seem to be put off by the pink-within-white look of seared mahimahi. I suppose it looks a bit like undercooked chicken. This is unfortunate; rare mahimahi is delicious and has a firm texture.

Grilled mahimahi, like grilled tuna or swordfish, can be served like a steak with little or no sauce. One of my favorite treatments is grilled mahimahi with mango salsa served over chimichurri rice. I'm sure you'll find this treatment colorful, complex in flavor, and obscenely simple to prepare. The following recipe feeds three.

Half-grilled mahimahi with mango salsa

dramatis personae

one mango, diced
juice of one small lime
one half of a small sweet onion, diced
one red serrano chilli, seeded and minced
a few drops of sesame oil
a pinch of sea salt
a tablespoon of chopped cilantro leaves

one pound mahimahi filet
one teaspoon peanut oil
one half cup basmati rice

two tablespoons chimichurri or tomatillo salsa

quality of ingredients

Mahimahi filets should be pink with red stripes. If they're tan with brown stripes, they've been out too long. Also, the flesh should smell sweet, with no hint of ammonia. Mahimahi skin is a flat, steely grey. Sadly, the fish lose their brilliant colors within minutes of dying.

The mango should be yielding but not mushy or bruised.

If you can't find red serrano chillis, substitute red jalapeños, red fresnos, or red fingerhots.

Chimichurri is available at some grocery stores; tomatillo salsa is even more readily available. I use the prepared stuff because I only want two tablespoons for the rice. If you want to make your own chimichurri, it's not too complicated: fresh parsley, oregano, garlic, jalapeño, salt, peanut oil, and a little lemon juice.

preparation notes

Make the salsa first. Combine the ingredients (mango, lime juice, onion, serrano, sesame oil,
salt, and cilantro) and put the salsa in the refrigerator while you prepare everything else. After half an hour, much of the mango will have softened or dissolved in the lime juice.

Prepare the rice as you normally would. Once the rice is done but before it cools, stir in the chimichurri (or green salsa).

Remove the red flesh and any bones from the mahimahi, but leave the skin on.

You can grill, barbecue, or sauté the filet. I prefer cooking the mahimahi in two steps. First, in a non-stick sauté pan with a teaspoon of peanut oil, cook the filets skin-side down over a medium-high flame, just enough to cook them halfway through (about three to five minutes, depending on the thickness of the filet). Then finish the other side of the filets on a grill or grill pan.

Serve the filets skin-side down on a bed of chimichurri rice with a generous topping of mango salsa.

Piña Colada Mahimahi

This is my own kitschy, faux-Hawaiian answer to the Macadamia/coconut dish.

Most white-fleshed fish goes well with coconut milk, but it takes the sturdiness of mahimahi, swordfish, or albacore to stand up to pineapple enzymes. Despite the name, this mahimahi dish contains no rum. White wine, yes, but no rum. The miso serves to thicken the sauce and also harmonizes well with pineapple.

I've tried this recipe only once. The flavors meshed nicely, but I created waaaaaaaay too much sauce. In other words, I'm just guessing on these quantities.

dramatis personae

one cup of diced pineapple
one half can (7 ounces) unsweetened coconut milk
two tablespoons white miso
one minced red fingerhot chilli
three keffir lime leaves
two tablespoons peanut oil
one pound mahimahi
one quarter cup pinot grigio

quality of ingredients

I used fresh pineapple. The canned stuff always tastes too sweet to me. Because this recipe requires only a cup of pineapple, you'll have fresh pineapple around for other uses for the next few days.

Fresh coconut milk would be great, but (1) it's a pain in the tuchus and (2) the canned stuff is just fine. Be sure you're using unsweetened coconut milk and not sweetened coconut cream.

If you can't get keffir lime leaves, I don't know what to tell you. Keffir lime zest is almost as good, but if you can get the limes, you can usually get the leaves. A little lime juice will give the sauce a bit of zing, but it can't compete with the complex aromatic tartness of keffir lime leaves.

If you can't find red fingerhot chillis, substitute red jalapeños, or red fresnos. If you want something with a serious burn, use a cayenne chilli instead of a fingerhot.

preparation notes

This dish is prepared in three parts: sauce, topping, and filets.

For the sauce combine the coconut milk, the miso, and half of the pineapple chunks in a blender. Blend this concoction to a smooth, creamy consistency.

For the topping: (1) Mince the keffir lime leaves very fine. (2) In half of the peanut oil, sauté the remaining pineapple and the chilli. The pineapple chunks will get a wee bit darker and slightly more translucent, and the chilli will brighten. (3) Stir in the keffir lime and remove the topping from the heat.

For the filets:
Heat a teaspoon of peanut oil in a non-stick skillet over a high flame until the oil begins to shimmer. Spread the oil over the bottom of the pan (it doesn't have to cover completely), and place the mahimahi filets in the pan, skin side up. Leave them alone for two full minutes. Turn the filets over. The cooked side should be golden brown. Taking care not to pour any wine onto the filets, pour the white wine into the pan (the steam from the wine will help finish the filets more evenly). Cover and allow the filets to cook for another three minutes on medium-high heat.

Serve the filets individually plated on rice, skin side down. Top each filet with a portion of the topping and pour on enough sauce to cover the filets.

Hot orange mahimahi teriyaki

I was tempted to call this an American teriyaki, just to avoid nettling the purists. You see, authentic teriyaki—Japanese teriyaki—is made with four ingredients: sake, mirin, sugar, and soy sauce. American and European teriyaki's are typically made with garlic, which is rare in Japanese dishes, and ginger, which is more common in Chinese and Korean cooking. In fact, some argue that most American teriyaki sauces are closer to bulgogi sauce (Korean barbecue).

But why quibble? The name teriyaki translates as "shiny grilled thing," which provides no guidance as to ingredients. I and my audience expect teriyaki to have sweet, sour, soy-salty, garlicky, and gingery notes. With that in mind, I try to find the right balance of ingredients for whatever dish I'm preparing. In my years of experimentation, I've concocted teriyakis for steak, spare ribs, chicken, duck, eel, mackerel, bluefish, shrimp, salmon, scallops, and mahimahi. I don't know how many of those I can say I've perfected (okay, the scallops were ghastly and the bluefish was so-so) but this mahimahi recipe is easily my most successful to date.

dramatis personae

(these proportions will feed three)

1 lb mahimahi
1/2 cup tamari
1/3 cup sake
1/3 cup cider vinegar
zest and juice (1/3 cup) of 1 medium navel orange
1 tbl grated ginger
1 tbl minced garlic
2 tbls honey
1 Thai chilli, seeded and finely diced
peanut oil

quality of ingredients

I don't usually talk about the process of creating something like this, so I guess I'm overdue. Part of what makes dishes like fun for me is the chance to experiment, tweaking a flavor here, a flavor there, while maintaining the overall balance of elements.

For teriyaki sauces, I generally try to match what I expect of the flavor of the base ingredient against the following balance of sauce component types:

• soy
• rice wine or some other light wine
• something sweet
• something tart
• some ginger
• some garlic
• some additional spice for character

Garlic and ginger are relatively stable elements, but most of these items offers a surprisingly wide range of possibilities.

Over the years, I've gone through a number of different soy sauces. I now use just two: Chinese dark soy and Japanese tamari. Tamari, a soy sauce made from pure soya, tends to be much lighter and more subtle than the Chinese dark soys. The Chinese dark soy is made with wheat and soya and thickened with sugar, making it viscous, rich, and toasty. I prefer tamari with fish (except salmon and fishy-tasting fish like mackerel) and shrimp. For most applications I find that I will use three times as much tamari as I would dark soy sauce.

I don't fully understand the traditional use of sake, mirin, and sugar. Mirin is sweet rice wine. Adding sugar makes it sweeter. Adding sake makes it drier. Using all three just seems silly to me. Because it's difficult to find good mirin for a reasonable price (and without going to a specialty wine shop) and because the "cooking" mirin sold in US grocery stores is corn-syrup-fortified crap, I typically forego this. I tend to substitute michiu (Chinese rice wine) for the sake because the results are about the same, and michiu is far cheaper. If you can't find sake or michiu, any cheap, dry white wine will do.

For the something sweet, the traditional Japanese solution is a combination of mirin and sugar. Many American and European recipes substitute sherry for the mirin, but I don't recommend it. I can always tell when a recipe uses sherry. I find the distinctive sherry aftertaste out of place in teriyaki—reminds me of moules à la marinière. Don't get me wrong. I like moules à la marinière, but I don't want my teriyaki to taste like them. But, hey, whatever floats your boat. If you like sherry in your teriyaki, use it. Of course, as I said already, I prefer not using mirin or sherry. I prefer teriyaki sweetened with honey, brown sugar, or fruit juice. I am particularly partial to orange or tangerine juice with fish teriyaki. Brown sugar adds a molasses-y depth to your sauce, and honey adds a similar rich something extra.

For the something tart, I typically use apple cider vinegar. Be sure to check that the label doesn't say "apple cider flavored," which means you've been sold some artificially flavored white vinegar. Nasty stuff. Feel free to experiment with other vinegars (sweetened rice wine vinegar is not bad). Be aware, though, that balsamic and sherry vinegars will add a strong fruity note that you might not want in your teriyaki. Chinese black vinegar is good in sparerib teriyaki.

In this mahimahi teriyaki, I've added orange zest (to augment the citrus flavor imparted by the juice) and a Thai chilli to add a little zing. A few items I've tried that worked well with some treatments include star anise, white pepper, cardamom, cinnamon, and coriander seed. Your mileage may vary.

preparation notes

As with most teriyaki, the first step is to mix the sauce. Combine the tamari, sake, cider vinegar, orange juice, garlic, ginger, honey, and minced chilli in a glass or ceramic bowl large enough to hold the sauce plus the filets. Do not add the zest at this point.

Remove the skin and red flesh (which may have turned brown by the time you get it home) from the filets. Assuming you have started with a single one-pound portion of filet, you should now have two skinless slices of fish, one about twice the size of the other. Divide each of these into thirds. Immerse the six pieces of mahimahi in the sauce and allow them to marinate for at least fifteen but not more than thirty minutes. If this marinates too long you'll have teriyaki ceviche. I use this time to rinse my rice and prep whatever vegetables I am serving as a side dish.

Remove the mahimahi from the sauce and set the pieces aside on a plate to dry.

Pour the sauce into a small sauce pan and, over a low flame, reduce it by half. This should take about twenty minutes (making this an ideal time to cook the rice).

When the sauce is nearly reduced (after about fifteen minutes), preheat the peanut oil in your grill pan over a medium-high flame. When the oil begins to shimmer, spread it over the grill with a pastry brush or paper towel.

Once the sauce is reduced, pour it through a strainer or sieve to remove the solids. Return the sauce to the sauce pan over the lowest flame your stove will maintain. Stir in the orange zest.

Grill the mahimahi pieces on one side for two minutes. Turn the pieces over and grill them for an additional two minutes.

Remove the mahimahi from the grill and pour a teaspoon of the teriyaki sauce over each piece of fish.

I serve teriyaki with accompanying bowls of white rice and smaller bowls of the warm teriyaki sauce. The fish might not need any more sauce, but the girls and I like to add a bit of the sauce to our rice.

The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 3

"Good Enough for Jehovah"

The line is from a Monty Python movie. If you recognize the reference, you already know that this entry is about halibut. The halibut in that particular Python joke was essential to the story line only in that it has a funny name and, in first-century A.D. Judea, was something of an anachronism.

If you're confused, consider that it could be worse: I could have titled this "Just for—" but let's not go there.

Halibut is the largest and sturdiest of the flat fishes. You probably don't care about the shape unless you are a fishmonger or you plan to go fishing off the coast of Canada. For most cooks, halibut is comes in two forms: thick filets (roughly 1 to 2.5 inches) and steaks. Both are usually sold with the skin on (dark grey if it's a topside fillet, white if it's from the bottom). The steaks contain stout bones.

Because it lives in more northerly climes than flounder, turbot, and sole, halibut contains a bit more fat than the others. Though the difference in fat might seem negligible (0.8 grams of fat per ounce of halibut vice 0.4 grams per ounce for flounder), it is enough to allow you to grill the halibut. That trick never works for flounder, sole, or turbot, which just sort of plate out on the hot metal.

Halibut is generally described as mild, flaky, sweet, and delicate. Some cooks claim it has little or no flavor of its own. Both of these claims are about half right. Halibut, like turkey and peanuts, is high in tryptophan. Pure L-tryptophan tastes something like quinine; pure D-tryptophan tastes sweet and a tiny bit like bananas. This balance of bitter and sweet is probably why halibut matches so well with mild sweet flavors. A tiny bit of fruity sweetness heightens the sweetness of D-tryptophan and masks the bitterness of the L-tryptophan.

As sashimi, sushi, or a tartare, I find the sweetness is best heightened with a bit of citrus. The Japanese apparently agree and traditionally match hirame sashami with yuzu-based sauces. I attempted a halibut tartare flavored with orange zest, but the zest proved too bitter. A second attempt sweetened with a splash of tangerine juice worked much better.

I prefer berries and pome fruits with cooked halibut, though. I have had some luck, for example, combining seared halibut with a blackberry-wasabi sauce and steamed halibut with strawberry butter.

A few nights ago, inspired by a local restaurant's offering that I thought I could "fix," I tried a savory halibut preparation. I made a bouillabaise-inspired sauce, fortified with roughly chopped rock shrimp, and I dusted the broiled fish with a hazelnut/green-peppercorn topping. I was not satisfied with the results. I was hoping the sweetness of the hazelnuts and of the rock shrimp would enhance that of the halibut. The components all came out fine, but they did not play well together. The hazelnuts worked well, but in every bite of halibut that contained a bite of rock shrimp, the flavor of the halibut disappeared. Also, the slightly piney taste of the green peppercorns proved a bit too assertive in places.

Fortunately, my fragile ego was saved by last night's efforts. I'd been thinking about combining a different set of sweet and fruity flavors in support of halibut, and it all came out exactly as I'd hoped it would. It even looked right. I'll have to do it again soon, just to get a photo of it.

Seared halibut poached in perry served over lemon-pepper rice

These quantities serve two.

dramatis personae

24 ounces (two bottles) perry
one pound halibut fillet, skin on
one teaspoon peanut oil
two tablespoons tarragon chiffonade
two tablespoons butter
one tablespoon dijon mustard
one hosui or other asian pear

one half cup basmati rice
one cup water or chicken broth
a splash of sesame oil
zest of one medium lemon
a pinch of course ground black pepper
a pinch of sea salt

selection of ingredients

I've previously harped on the importance of fresh seafood, and I'm still right. Frozen fish sucks. You may as well use cotton batting as some of that crap they sell at the fish counters in most supermarkets. If you don't have a decent fishmonger in your area, do yourself a favor: have chicken for dinner tonight. The halibut should be solid, moist, and shiny. The flesh begins to gap and lose its sheen as it dries out. The skin (regardless whether it's grey or white) should be free of blemishes. If it smells fishy, you don't want it.

Perry is a cider-like fermentation of pear juice traditionally made with pears that are too bitter and sharp tasting to eat. Generally, dessert pears are said to result in an insipid perry. Although still produced by several commercial brewers in the UK, you won't find perry in most grocery or liquor stores in the US. I bought mine in an upscale grocery store (Central Market in Austin, Texas). You might find perry in stores specializing in fine beer and wine imports. I also know a few home brewers who make perry.

If you can't find perry, hard apple cider should work. In either case, you want the driest perry or cider you can find. My market had two perries; one with 18 grams of sugar per twelve-ounce bottle and one with 9 grams of sugar per twelve-ounce bottle. I chose the less sweet. You can always add fruit juice or sugar if you decide the cider is too bitter. If the stuff starts out too sugary, you're screwed (and not in a good way).

Use fresh tarragon. The dried stuff tastes like tobacco soaked in anisette—bleah.

I chose basmati rice in this case because its firm texture and a nutty flavor play well with fish.

preparation notes

In a small sauce pan over medium-high heat, reduce the perry by half. This takes about fifteen or twenty minutes.

The rice is pretty easy. Combine the rice, broth (or water), and sesame oil and prepare the rice however you normally prepare rice (stovetop, rice cooker, microwave). Blend the lemon zest, salt, and pepper using a mortar and pestle to crush them into a fairly uniform lemon-pepper paste. Once the rice is done, stir in the lemon-pepper.

Slice the fillet in half.

Once the perry is nearly reduced, heat the teaspoon of peanut oil in a non-stick skillet over a high flame until the oil begins to shimmer. Spread the oil over the bottom of the pan (it doesn't have to cover completely), and place the halibut fillets in the pan skin side up. Leave them alone for two full minutes.

Gently turn the fillets over. The cooked side should be golden brown. Allow the fillets to cook for another two minutes on high heat (this breaks down and frees up some of the gelatin in the skins, which you want for the sauce you're going to make).

Pour the hot perry over the fillets. Cover the fillets, and reduce the flame to medium high. Let the fillets poach for five minutes (or until done—remember, these instructions are for two-inch-thick fillets). When the fillets are done (if you're not certain, use a paring knife to separate the flakes at the center of one fillet; they should be opaque but not dried out) carefully remove them from the liquid to a covered dish. Gently. The seared surface will help keep them whole, but the fillets are fragile.

Continue to simmer the poaching liquid, stirring frequently, until it is nearly gone. Stir in the mustard to thicken the liquid. Reduce the heat to low and mount the sauce with the butter. Stir in the tarragon and remove the sauce from the heat.

Serve each fillet over a mound of lemon-pepper rice with just enough of the sauce to cover the fillet. Garnish with a few thin slices of asian pear. We enjoyed our halibut with a side of haricot verts sautéed in extra-virgin olive oil with cremini mushrooms, but any savory green vegetable should work.

My latest beef

(I'm taking a timeout from the Secret Language of Fish because I had another recipe or two—not related to the four white-flesh fishes—that I wanted to share. I'm still working out recipes for halibut, mahimahi, and snapper. This entry is fish-related, though.)

Cats, cavemen, and BSE

I vaguely remember ridiculing a cat food commercial (I know, easy target) in which the announcer touted the flavors of this particular variety of chow providing "...the flavors your cat naturally craves." I heard that and thought, "My cat naturally craves beef?" Somewhere in little Snowball's DNA is the genetic recollection of her ancestors stalking the steppes for wild bovines? Those little bastards must've had wicked claws.

Of course it was balderdash. Felis domesticus naturally craves things like rodents, songbirds, fat crickets, and small lizards. I'm guessing that the chow companies don't make the flavors cats truly crave simply because labels like Savory Sparrow, Rat Paté, and Crunchy Cricket would not play well with the target market's purchasing agents (people). Similarly, don't expect to find Rancid Antelope Haunch in the dog food section any time soon (although most canned dogfood certainly smells like something a wild dog would roll in).

Pet food flavors like "Marinated Beef Feast In Savory Juice" were designed with human buyers in mind. Why?

Because humans naturally crave beef. Our ancestors actually did stalk the steppes in search of wild bovines. They killed them. They ate them. They gorged themselves on bloody red meat and rejoiced. When they recovered from this orgy of ingestion, they sharpened their sticks and went looking for more.

(NB - If you're a vegetarian or a vegan, don't bother writing to tell me I'm wrong about craving beef or about genetic sense memories. You're the ones deluding yourselves into believing that soy burgers and eggplant satisfy your cravings.)

The USDA and the National Cattlemen's Beef Association want us to keep eating beef. After reading Richard Rhodes's Deadly Feasts, though, I'm having a hard time convincing myself that any beef sold in the US is truly safe. Bovine spongiform encephalopathy is some scary shit. It turns you into a drooling idiot and then kills you. It strikes without warning. No one has the foggiest notion how to treat it. What's more, no test has been developed to find BSE in muscle tissue.

The people who want us to eat beef keep saying things like, "such and such cow was tested and showed no signs of BSE" and "we quarantined and then destroyed the affected animals" and "the American beef supply is completely safe" and my favorite, "I'm a family man. Do you think I'd deliberately feed toxic meat to my kids? And I feed them beef three times a day."

The USDA admits, "On December 23, 2003, FSIS issued a Class II recall of approximately 10,410 pounds of raw beef that may have been exposed to tissues containing the infectious agent that causes BSE." They go on, however, to explain that this is not a high-priority recall. "According to scientific evidence, the tissues of highest infectivity are the brain, spinal cord, and distal ileum portion of the small intestine. All were removed from the rest of the carcass at slaughter. Therefore, the meat produced were cuts that would not be expected to be infected or have an adverse public health impact."

"Highest infectivity" is doublespeak. Scientific evidence suggests it only takes one prion—a crystalline structure sub-cellular structure—to cause BSE. Our immune systems take no notice of these infectious bodies and may even be culpable in their spread. There are no mild cases of BSE. You get it—you babble and drool—you die.

Every once in a while, I work up the nerve to prepare a beef dish. Genetic and sense memories are unwitting accomplices of the cattleman's association. Yes, the author naturally craves the beef.

Generally, though, I have been trying to avoid beef. One of my favorite substitutes for beef are what I like to think of as "beefy" fish: tuna, albacore, and billfish. All of these have a flavor and texture somewhat reminiscent of beef in some treatments. Here are a couple.

Grilled albacore steaks with thick enchilada sauce

These are steaks but they might not look the part to anyone used to buying salmon or halibut steaks. Here's why this is confusing: the term steak, when applied to fish means a slice perpendicular to the spine. Fillets of tuna, albacore, and billfish are too large to be sold intact and are typically sliced into steaks.

dramatis personnae

3/4" to 1" thick albacore steaks
four mulatto peppers
one half cup water
juice of one medium lime
one small can tomato paste
pinch of sea salt

preparation notes

Grill the steaks (grill pan, grill, barbecue). The steaks should be cooked through (rare albacore has a mushy texture, which I find unpleasant). This takes just two minutes on a side if you're using a grill pan.

I suppose you could use yellowfin, bluefin, or big eye tuna for this preparation; you could also use swordfish steaks.

The mulatto chilli purée is a variant on the one I described in My Little Brown Jug with the addition of tomato paste (after straining the purée) for a flavor reminiscent of enchilada sauce. After you've strained the purée, added the tomato paste, and salted the sauce, mix a little more water to thin the sauce just enough to pour (about the consistency of a thick pasta sauce).

To serve, on each plate pour a circle of sauce as wide as a single steak. Place the steak on the sauce. Serve with fresh corn tortillas and a green vegetable or salad.

Tuna carpaccio

I love carpaccio, and I use almost the same recipe for tuna that I use for beef. Three exceptions:

1. I do not include gruyere curls with tuna. The two tastes clash.
2. I use a different green complement (fresh mustard greens with beef; wilted watercress with tuna).
3. I do not pound or roll tuna carpaccio. The slices are strictly knife work.

dramatis personnae

one pound bluefin or yellowfin tuna
juice of two lemons
one quarter cup extra-virgin olive oil
a pinch of sea salt
cracked black pepper
one bunch watercress
one half teaspoon sesame oil
a splash of dark soy sauce
one half teaspoon sesame seeds
croutons

preparation notes

Yes, believe it or not, it is actually possible to enjoy raw tuna without the support of wasabi or the green horseradish that passes for wasabi in most American sushi bars.

You really have to have a good knife for this. I recommend a santoku or sashimi knife. Put the tuna in the freezer for about a half hour before slicing to firm it up.

You can drizzle the olive oil and lemon juice over the tuna separately (looks very artsy) or whisk them together first. In either case, do not dress the tuna until you are ready to serve it; the acid will begin pickling the fish immediately. (I like ceviche, too, but this is supposed to be a carpaccio.)

Remove most of the stems from the watercress. If you prefer, snow pea leaves and tendrils make a pleasant substitute for watercress. In either case, to blanch the greens bring a pot of water to a boil and drop in the greens. Immediately remove the pot from the flame and pour the greens into a colander or strainer. Rinse the greens in cold water to prevent any further cooking. Toss the greens with the sesame oil and soy. Sprinkle sesame seeds over the greens for serving.

For croutons, I slice a baguette into coins and toast them on one side in the broiler. These toast in just over a minute, so pay attention or you'll have charcoal.

The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 2

He was a bold man what first et a monkfish

Also called anglerfish by marine biologists and goosefish by some truly confused people and lotte by French chefs, this critter is so ugly you just know they breed in the dark. The name anglerfish makes the most sense from a morphological point of view, but fishmongers in the US usually sell it as monkfish. The creature is little more than a big toothy grin over which dangles a small fleshy lure. Picture a two-foot-wide gash of a mouth with dental work designed by H. P. Lovecraft. Add just enough skull to hold the mouth and a pair of bb's for eyes. Stick a narrow tail onto this critter, just slightly longer than the mouth is wide; clothe it in loose-fitting brown vinyl (not sharpei-loose, but loose enough to look like the fish hasn't had enough to eat). Now, at the very top center of the fish's head, attach a rubbery spine that droops down over the mouth, ending in a knob the size of a WD-40 oil droplet (this is the fish's lure). Give the fish the ability to twitch said rubbery spine. Just for kicks, make it slimy. This is a monkfish.

The monkfish spends its life lying on murky sea bottoms waiting for smaller fish to be attracted to his lure. When something tugs on the lure, the monkfish surges forward and snaps the little critter up. Then he settles back in the mud to wait for the next patsy.

Can you imagine the first fisherman who pulled one of these things up and thought, "I wonder if any of this is good to eat?" He must have been damned hungry.

Fishmongers the world over strip and discard the leathery skin. Even in Japan, where various types of fish skin are delicacies, no one has figured out a way to make this stuff palatable. In fact, most of the fish is discarded. In Europe and the United states, the only portion generally used are the two strips of bone-free flesh that run parallel to the monkfish spine. In Japan, gourmet chefs are as likely to throw out the flesh along with the bones. As far as they're concerned, the only important part of the monkfish is the liver, which they sometimes call the foie gras of the sea (I've also heard this claimed of stingray liver). I've only tasted monkfish liver once, and I found it extremely bitter, metallic and, well, liverish (in my lexicon that means nasty).

In all fairness, I should admit that I had cooked the liver before I tasted it. The preferred preparation in Japan is as sashimi (called ankimo), which I have not tried and probably never will. If you like that sort of thing, you'll have to either move to Japan or specifically request it from your fish monger because--in the US and Europe--they usually throw it out with the bones. Personally, I can't see the logic in eating the toxic waste filter of a bottom-dweller, especially raw.

Though lotte has been consumed in France for centuries, monkfish only became popular in the US back in the 1980s when stylish seafood establishments began touting it as "poorman's lobster." Monkfish tastes nothing like lobster ( I think the flavor is vaguely reminiscent of cashews), but the flesh does have a similar texture when it's cooked. Raw monkfish is somewhat gummy (not at all similar to lobster), making it unpleasant as sashimi or carpaccio.

I haven't done the necessary chemical analyses to verify this, but I would guess that monkfish is fairly high in gluconate and nearly devoid of TAME. I base these guesses on two aspects of the flesh: (1) a distinctly MSG-like taste and (2) no fishy smell (TMA from the breakdown of TMAO--see The Secret Language of Fish, Volume One). Whatever the cause of the flavor, monkfish flesh is delightfully rich and flavorful even though it is extremely low in fat. Despite these positive characteristics, I have found monkfish somewhat less forgiving than I expected in preparation.

A few points worth noting about monkfish preparation:

1. Ignore the references that tell you you can use monkfish as a substitute for lobster or scallops. No matter what you do, it will remain monkfish, and monkfish is not as sweet as lobster or scallops.
2. Remove the grey membrane from the fillets before you cook it. Remove all of the membrane. It not only shrinks like the silverskin on a pork tenderloin, it tastes foul
3. The thin layer of purplish-pink flesh surrounding the white fillet meat (and the thick red parallel vein therein) tastes pretty much the same as the white flesh when it cooks, but it turns grey and remains a bit gummy. Removing it will improve your presentation and will not significantly reduce the quantity of flesh.
4. Don't barbecue or grill this fish. Its low fat content guarantees it will stick to the grill.
5. Whether steaming, broiling, sautéing, poaching, or roasting, cook the fillets whole. If you want medallions, slice the fish after you cook it. If you slice the fillets into smaller pieces, they lose a lot of flavor with the juices.

I've already listed the range of cooking methods and noted that monkfish is crappy raw, but I haven't listed my favorite treatment: pickling. Monkfish makes a remarkable ceviche. About a year ago, while trying to convince a couple of coworkers to be a bit more courageous in their food choices, I brought some samples of ceviche mixto to work and passed out samples in ramekins. The ceviche included only three types of seafood: gulf shrimp, bay scallops, and monkfish. Everyone had their favorites. Princess V prefers the shrimp. A few others preferred the scallops. The majority, to my surprise, preferred the monkfish.

Ceviche Mixto With Monkfish

dramatis personae


one half pound 24-count shrimp, shelled and deveined
one half pound bay scallops
one three-quarter-pound monkfish fillet
a glass or ceramic bowl
one quart cold water
one quarter cup salt
juice from six large limes (or ten small or sixteen key limes)
zest of one lemon
one medium white onion
two roma tomatoes, 1/2 inch dice
one serrano pepper (two if you like it hot), seeded and minced
one garlic clove, minced
a handful of cilantro, torn
sea salt to taste

preparation notes

Yes, damnit, it has to be a glass or ceramic bowl. Metal bowls will make the ceviche taste like metal. Wood and plastics will be permanently flavored by the ceviche.

The shrimp, scallops, and fillet have to be as fresh as possible. Previously frozen bay scallops will taste bitter. The fillet is easy: it should look glossy and wet and should have no odor. If it looks the least bit dry, you don't want it. The shrimp present the greatest difficulty and the best chance to alienate your fish monger. The shrimp tails should be firm, the shells should feel solid, and the legs should be intact and solid--anything else is not fresh. Stale shrimp, like stale or previously frozen scallops, will taste bitter. They also have a muddy texture.

If you can't find decent bay scallops, good sea scallops are terrific (they're just more expensive and have to be cut up). In either case, remove the tough bit of foot from each scallop and discard it.

Remove the grey membrane and the purplish flesh from the fillet and cut it into half-inch cubes. Combine the fish, scallops, and shrimp in the glass bowl with the water and salt. Let the seafood brine for at least ten minutes while you do the rest of the prep.

Remove the lemon zest in toothpick-sized strips. Remove any pulp from the zest.

Peel the onion and slice it in half; then, slice two thin (2 or 3 millimeters) slices from each half. Four thin, round disks of onion. Set these aside. Dice the rest of the onion (1/4" dice).

Once everything is appropriately diced and minced and the brining is finished, pour the seafood into a strainer or colander and rinse it lightly. Rinse out the bowl.

Add the seafood, lime juice, zest, and vegetables (except for the onion slices) to the bowl and mix it thoroughly. Cover as much of the surface of the ceviche as possible with the four onion slices. Press down gently on the surface of the ceviche to be certain everything is soaking in the lime juice. Cover the bowl with cellophane and refrigerate for at least an hour and a half (overnight is better).

When you're ready to serve the ceviche, taste it to determine whether it needs any salt (the seafood may have absorbed enough in the brining). Pour off the majority of the juice before serving the ceviche.

I serve this with either cold flour tortillas, fresh corn tortillas, or slices of baguette. Guacamole is also an excellent complement.

Twice-Cooked Monkfish with Basil-Lime Hollandaise

I just tried this one out on Princess V the other night. We stuffed ourselves to groaning, polishing off the sauce. I considered this something of a no-brainer because Hollandaise/Bearnaise-type butter-and-egg-yolk sauces match well with monkfish, as do citrus and anise-like mints (basil, tarragon, fennel).

The quantities here should feed four.

dramatis personae

two one pound monkfish fillets
one teaspoon olive oil
one stick (8 tablespoons) butter
four egg yolks
juice of one large lime
dash sea salt
dash white pepper
one tablespoon fresh basil chiffonade

preparation notes

The twice-cooking in this case consists of sautéing the fillets to a medium rare point and broiling one side for three minutes to finish the fillets and give them a bit of crispy finish.

To double boil or not to double boil. This is a tough question for any would-be Hollandaise sauce maker, but I guess it depends on your level of control and the number of distractions in your kitchen. I use a double boiler. It's just too easy to burn the sauce otherwise. Be aware, however, that a double boiler will not prevent your sauce from overcooking or breaking. So, when you use a double boiler, have a dish towel on a nearby counter so that you can have a place to remove the upper pot to as it becomes necessary.

Here's my process; it produces a consistently velvety Hollandaise:

1. Put the lime juice, salt, and pepper in a ramekin in the double-boiler. Heat the double-boiler just to the boiling point and then turn down the heat slightly.
2. Remove the ramekin from the double-boiler. Whisk the egg yokes into the double-boiler.
3. Pour in the juice from the ramekin, and continue to whisk the yolks until they just begin to thicken (they should be slightly thicker than maple syrup). If you're used to making traditional Hollandaise (with lemon) or Bearnaise, don't be surprised if this sauce froths quite a bit; the lime juice is more acidic than most lemon juice or vinegars.
4. Remove the yolks from the heat (put the upper pot on the towel), continuing to whisk the yolks while you pour in one third of the butter.
5. Return the pot to the heat, whisking vigorously (from here on, anytime the sauce is over the heat, whisk vigorously).
6. Once the butter is completely incorporated, remove the sauce from the heat and whisk in another third of the butter.
7. Repeat step 5.
8. Repeat step 6 for the last of the butter.
9. Repeat step 5 again.
10. Once the butter is completely incorporated, remove the sauce from the heat. Whisk the sauce for a last vigorous minute or so while the pot cools a little.

Slice the fillets into medallions and arrange them however you like. Drizzle the sauce over the top. Serve this dish with rice, potatoes, or a crusty bread.

The Secret Language of Fish, Volume 1

Okay, so, I lied. As a diver and long-time dedicated fish nerd, I can assure you that fish--except in Dave Barry rants and Disney cartoons--do not have a secret language. They swim, eat, poop, and make more fish. They do not converse. What I'm really after here is the secret language of fish mongers and poissoniers, but that makes a less interesting title. So sue me.

I used to think I would be struck dumb if ever I saw a lucid explanation of how the flavors of various white fish meats compare. James Peterson, in the otherwise brilliant "Fish & Shellfish" describes most white-flesh fish as having a "delicate" flavor. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to think that red snapper, orange roughy, scrod, haddock, pacific halibut, and patagonian toughfish all taste exactly alike? Other, "fishier" tasting fish he describes as strong or moderately strong, which seems to reinforce this idea that all fish taste like degrees of the same thing.

Harold McGee's description (On Food and Cooking) of various fish flesh seems to bear this out. He describes the differences between freshwater and saltwater fish, the differences between dark and light fish meat, and the differences in a few special cases. That's about it. Generally, all white fish meats from the sea contain approximately the same set of chemical compounds. Some have a teeny bit more glutamine, making them richer. Some have more of an oceanic taste.

Is it not possible to differentiate these fish flavors beyond the simple question of how much fishiness they exude? Okay, in fairness to Peterson et al, there actually is a similarity in the flavor of many white-fleshed fish. Differentiating--on a verbal level--between perch, halibut, Patagonian toothfish, flounder, sole, cod, hake, and many others of those that Peterson labels "delicate" is a real bitch. The difference between flounder and cod, for example, is a distinction more of texture than of flavor.

I look back over that last sentence and think, "Well, that's a load of crap." Let's face it: you really can't segregate the chemical element of flavor from the tangible--not entirely. Texture is part of flavor. To that end, I can say that the cod and flounder differ in that the the flakes of cod are larger and have slightly more tooth than flounder. Many descriptions of the difference between various white-fleshed fish provide more detail on distinctions of texture and firmness than chemical differences in taste. This it true in part because the textural differences are easier to see and describe but also because they play a role in picking the proper fish for a particular preparation method. You would not, for example, grill dover sole. The sole would stick to the grill and disintegrate. Cod, on the other hand, can be cooked just about any way you like. Cod has a high enough fat content that you can do little to damage it. Cod, like most fish, dries as it cooks, and the flakes then tend to come apart more readily.

Considerations of delicacy and texture aside, though, is there any difference between various white fish of similar textures and sturdiness? Does it matter whether I use dover sole, lemon sole, gulf flounder, or turbot? They look approximately the same--the all have approximately the same chemical make-up. Don't they taste approximately the same?

And ,what the hell is fishiness, anyway? Anyone who has cooked even a few different types of fish has dealt at some point with this generally unpleasant and exasperatingly inconsistent feature. It's a nasty smell and taste that can have an ammonia component in muscular pelagic fish (tuna, mackerel, mahi-mahi) or elasmobranchs (sharks and rays).

Guarantees of fishiness: poor handling (dirt, water, hand oils), refreezing, too much time out of the freezer, slow freezing. Cooling can be a cause, too. I have found on various occasions that with salmon, mahi-mahi, halibut, and trout, leaving the dish to cool too long after cooking can result in the curse of fishiness. The same thing happens with squid.

The essential culprits in fishiness are amines. Ocean-going fish rely on amines to keep the salt out of their bodies. One of the predominant amines, glutamine, is responsible for the richer savory flavor of saltwater fish over freshwater fish. Snapper is rich in glutamine; walleye pike contains none. Unfortunately, the next most prominent amine, odorless trimethylamine oxide (TMAO) breaks down readily into the nasty, skunky trimethylamine (TMA) that causes the smell most people call fishy. Some fish, like mackerel and sardines, have enough enzymes in their tissue that the TMAO to TMA process begins as soon as air hits the flesh. Others like snapper and monkfish have far less enzymes in their flesh and tend to produce TMA far more slowly.

Sharks, rays, and a few random others like swordfish and mahi mahi rely on urea to control their salt content. Bacteria break down urea into ammonia almost as readily as TMAO becomes TMA.

Okay, but I'm heading off on a tangent. I didn't want to talk about fishy fish at the moment. I wanted to talk about white-meat fish that doesn't suffer much from the fishiness curse. I wanted to discuss four of my favorite fish: red snapper, monkfish, halibut, and mahi mahi. Of the four, halibut is the only truly white-flesh fish. Monkfish flesh has some pink streaks. Fresh red snapper flesh is actually a pale, crystalline pink. Mahi mahi flesh is off-white tending toward a dark rusty color. All four of these cook up (mostly) white. I have occasionally caught a whiff of fishiness from halibut, but generally these are forgiving meats in that you don't have to go out of your way to fight the fishiness (which you have to do in the case of, say, pompano, bonito, mackerel, sardines, and so on).

Me and my nearly invisible glasses

Posted by Hello

My "Little Brown Jug"

Invoking tradition

I don't want to sound like Tevye, here, but I think most of us have some sense of tradition. Even the iconoclasts tend to be Different Just Like Everyone Else. Goths, for instance, dye their hair shoe-polish black and wear gruesome tattoos and pierce body parts in ways that most of us consider shocking, painful, or just plain odd. Most importantly (to my point, that is), they all do these shocking things in a pretty standard, traditional way. If Goth kids wanted to be truly original in their outré fashion statements, they'd wear pale pink chenille, dye their hair strawberry blonde, eschew piercings and kohl, and get tattoos of Care Bears and fluffy bunnies. Of course, then no one would recognize them for the edgy rebels they believe themselves to be.

This same adherence to tradition seems to apply to cooks (including chefs) as well. Even the innovators and rebels tend to rebel within boundaries and with a concern for tradition in mind. Professional culinary curmudgeon Anthony Bourdain, in A Cook's Tour, expresses a certain reasonable disdain for such innovations as monkfish tagine--tagine, after all, is desert fare. Who ever heard of monkfish night at the oasis? On the other hand, Bourdain has nothing but praise for Thomas Keller's French Laundry creations like lobster navarin and the salmon chop. Seems those creations should be just as liable to ridicule; lobsters have nothing much in common with lamb, and salmon don't really have chops.

I don't mean to pick on Tony. I think most people have what appear contradictory reactions to such breaks with tradition. Besides, he seems to be right. Monkfish tagine would get nothing but sneers from connoisseurs of authentic Arab cuisine, but Keller's dishes are generally just considered playful and clever. (Caveat: somewhere, someone hates Thomas Keller for creating so many dishes that play on comfort food themes. No matter the subject of revision or how well it's executed, look hard enough and you'll find a curmudgeon who just can't stomach the revision in question.)

Besides, I know that I also tend to be of two minds about culinary traditions. I have been known to insist, for example, that Eggs Benedict consists of Hollandaise over a poached egg on Canadian bacon on an English muffin. Period. I know that many restaurants have created delightful variations on this theme--smoked salmon or dried chorizo in place of the Canadian bacon, crumpets or tortillas in place of the English muffin, Habañero or lime instead of lemon in the Hollandaise. Those creations are not Eggs Benedict. They may be delicious, fascinating, clever, and even nutritious, but they are not Eggs Benedict.

Sure, most restaurants offering such variations at least tell you in their menus that what you're ordering is a variation. Chez Zee in Austin offers several of these variations in their weekend brunch menu, and I have no objection to their offering a Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict. The name tells me that I'm not getting the traditional dish. On the other hand, it thoroughly irks me (and my wife even more so) that they label the traditional Eggs Benedict "Canadian" to keep the servers from confusing the orders. If there actually is such a thing as a Canadian Eggs Benedict, it probably contains maple syrup or some other ingredient that differentiates it from a traditional Eggs Benedict.

Oft repeated interchange at Chez Zee:

Mrs: "I'll have the Eggs Benedict."
Server: "Which Eggs Benedict?"
Mrs: "The original Eggs Benedict."
Server: "Would that be the Canadian Eggs Benedict?"
Mrs (sharply annunciating): "Eggs Benedict!"

On a similar note, one of my favorite Austin restaurants, the Castle Hill Café, recently gave me cause for irritation by misapplying a traditional name. Generally, five aspects of Castle Hill appeal to me:

1. the chef is a genius who does a remarkable job of balancing simple flavors (sweet, salty, spicy, tart, bitter), complex flavors (fruity, smoky, citrusy, piney, beefy), and textures f(crunchy, smooth--oh, you get the idea)
2. the menu fuses Mexican, European, Arabic, and Asian cuisines in exciting and innovative creations
3. except for a few standards in the appetizer and dessert offerings, the menu changes every two to four weeks
4. the service is outstanding
5. the prices are reasonable

On my last visit there--that second reason notwithstanding--I found myself leaving with a strangely dissatisfied feeling. The food was delicious, but it had thwarted my expectations. The item I ordered was listed thus:

Seared Gulf Red Snapper Filet with Sauce Veracruzano, Chipotle Puree,
Olive-Caper Relish, and Corn Pudding Tamale $21.95
A seared Gulf red snapper filet served in a sauce made from roasted tomatillos, charred poblanos, white wine, pepitas, garlic, and cilantro. With a chipotle puree, olive-caper relish, and corn pudding tamale.

I read the description, so I knew that the dish included a tomatillo sauce, a chipotle chilli purée, and a relish of olives and capers, but I was still surprised by the dish. The two things that really bugged me were something extra and something missing.

The something extra was that the relish contained sweet corn. Bad choice. Somebody at Castle Hill must have been watching Bobby Flay. News flash, Flayites: sweet corn does not make everything taste either more Mexican or more Southwestern. Sweet corn makes everything taste like sweet corn. Sweet corn was a poor choice for this particular relish because the sweetness overwhelmed the salty tartness of the olives and capers.

The something missing was a primary sauce component. Although the two sauces were tasty, they did not a traditional Veracruzano make. The missing item--the item I had subconsciously assumed would be there when I read "Sauce Veracruzano"--was tomatoes. (And, no, tomatillos are not tomatoes. They're a variety of gooseberry. Delicious in their own right but not tomatoes.) It would be easy to dismiss my objection as a misreading on my part--the menu did not, after all, claim that the dish included tomatoes. Au contraire, mes amis, the menu said Veracruzano.

Overall, then, the snapper dish was tasty, but because it was not what I expected, I did not enjoy the experience. When you label a dish, whether you are making a traditional dish or some wild, exotic variation, you have to consider the ramifications of the name. Sure, you can make curried beef, curried tuna, curried yams, curried rutabagas; but anything labeled "curry" had better contain enough of the spices generally associated with a curry to give it a curry-like flavor. Similarly, anything labeled sushi should probably contain vinegared rice (although you might be able to get away with some other starchy element as long as you also used raw fish and nori). Likewise, if you are willing to stand up to the scorn of the aficianados and want to try monkfish tagine, you'd better damned well be slow-cooking the monkfish in a covered pot with a proponderance of Moroccan ingredients. Anything else leaves your audience feeling cheated.

So, damnit, if you call it Veracruzano, it has to contain capers and tomatoes. Anything else is a just wrong.

I came home from Castle Hill that night and made up my shopping list for the next night's dinner, which you can bet included the makings for

Huachinango Veracruzano (Red Snapper, Veracruz-style)

dramatis personae

two tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
two red snapper filets (about a pound each)
one half cup chicken stock
one half cup white wine
four Roma tomatoes--cored, seeded, and diced
one chilli arbol--seeded and minced
two tablespoons non-pareil capers

preparation notes

Huachinango Veracruzano is obscenely simple to prepare, expecially if you let your fish monger do all the work for you. Be sure the snapper fillets are fresh and thoroughly scaled. When you get them home, run your hand over the skin from tail to head to be sure the monger has not left any scales (if you find any, you should be able to pluck these out with your fingers). Next, each fillet skin-side down and run your fingers down along the seam that runs from head to tail between the back and belly meat. If you find any bones, hold down the filet with one hand and pluck the bones with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. This is probably the hardest work you'll do for this dish.

When you are seeding the arbol, you might want to wear rubber gloves.

In a non-stick sauté pan over a medium flame, heat the olive oil to the point of shimmering, and put in the fillets, skin-side down. Allow the fillets to cook until they are opaque about halfway through (this time varies quite a bit with thickness--four minutes or more). Pour in the white wine and cook until most of the liquid is gone. Pour in the stock and continue to braise the fillets until they are done (the meat is opaque, and at the thickest point, shows no pink between flakes when separated with the tip of a knife).

Taking care not to damage the skin, gently remove the fillets from the cooking liquid to a serving platter. Add the tomatoes and dried pepper to the cooking liquid still in the pan and wilt the tomatoes (about a minute). Sprinkle capers over the fillets and pour the tomatoes and cooking liquid over all.

Rice (especially saffroned rice, Mexican fried rice, or rice with a little achiote) makes a good accompaniment.

What jug?

So, if you noticed the title of this article, you're probably wondering what the hell Huachinango Veracruzano has to do with a "Little Brown Jug." Nothing, really, but it does have a great deal to do with messing with traditions. In my particular case, it has a lot to do with Texas chili.

Lemme 'splain:

Big Band leader Glenn Miller supposedly hated the 19th century minstrel song "Little Brown Jug." Can't say I blame him. This odd little number, written in 1869 by J. E. Winner, often taught as a children's song, and revitalized in the thirties, is a peppy ditty that deals with the ruinous effects of alcoholism. What seems to have bugged Miller, however, was not the incongruity of didactic lyrics accompanying an upbeat number so much as the 1930s popularity of this melodically simple tune. He considered the tune purest musical pablum. So why did he arrange, perform, and record a song he hated? One theory says that it was a favorite of his wife's. No one knows, really. Miller left no written record explaining his reason for turning this insipid little song into a blaring, brassy, Big Band standard.

I think I know the truth, though. I think he did it precisely because he despised the song. In reworking the tune, Miller effectively killed the original. Go searching for a copy of Little Brown Jug today, sixty years after Miller's death, and you'll probably find a hundred variations on Miller's arrangement for every pre-Miller version. Miller remade "Little Brown Jug" into something he could stomach.

I understand the impulse. I have similar feelings about many songs, stories, movies, and culinary creations. If I had the time and the skill, I would re-make all of my pet annoyances in forms I find more palatable (think Return of the Jedi with no Ewoks).

That's what I had in mind a few weeks back when I decided to take on Texas chili. It's a sad thing for a Texan to have to admit, but I really never cared much for chili. I can stomach some of them, but--well, frankly, I'd rather not. Setting aside as irrelevant the execrable idea of adding beans to chili, and ignoring the ravings of some truly fanatical Texas chili purists who insist that no tomatoes be used, much about Texas chili just doesn't work for me. After pondering this matter for some time, I decided that the following aspects of this traditional Texas food were the primary offenders:

1. Too much cumin. I find cumin acceptable in minute quantities or when appropriately moderated by other spices (as in Garam Masala). Alone and in too large a quantity, it overwhelms every other note in the chili.
2. The crock pot thing--part one. Overcooked, stewed dishes always strike me as bland. All the flavor gets cooked out of both the meat and the vegetables. The meat tastes like yarn and the onions typically wind up with a texture like slimy old Jello.
3. The crock pot thing--part two. Prolonged cooking of all the elements together doesn't blend them so much as obliterate them. I might taste some onion, but I rarely taste any garlic. Individual chilli peppers lose all distinction, which is tragic.
4. Crappy meat. Okay, so tenderloin or prime rib would be silly in such a heavily spiced blend. On the other end of the spectrum, chuck and round are pretty nasty in this form.
5. One-note chillis and one-note tomatoes--also a tragic loss. I wanted the best qualities of both fresh and stewed tomatoes, and I wanted the best qualities of both fresh and dried chillis.

So, I knew right off that I would be doing a few things differently. When I began addressing these elements one-by-one, I came up with the meal event that I call Deconstructed Chili. I wanted a technique that would present the best elements of the chili--all of those elements--in their best possible light. When I served this dish the first time, I thought my friends and family might object. I figured I would at least get some pursed lips and quizzical eyebrow action. I was pleasantly surprised at how well this went over. Instead of suspicion, I got raves.

Deconstructed chili

The following fed three adults and two tween-aged children.

dramatis personae

two one-pound, one-and-a-half-inch-thick top sirloin steaks--trimmed
one bottle dark hoppy beer
juice of four medium limes
two teaspoons sea salt
two teaspoons achiote paste
one fresh poblano pepper--seeded and diced
four garlic cloves--peeled and sliced
one sweet onion
ten premium chipotle peppers
four mulatto peppers
peanut oil
one pound cherry tomatoes
one half cup beef stock
one teaspoon Mexican oregano (fresh or dried)
one half teaspoon fresh thyme
one half pound Monterey Jack cheese, sliced in wedges
two cups masa harina (dry or prepared)
water

blender
wire mesh strainer or sieve
grill, grill pan, or broiler
iron skillet or comal
tortilla press

preparation notes

This is more a meal than just a dish, so I have to note first off that this meal requires a good chunk of time, primarily because the steak needs to marinate overnight.

A few of the ingredients may be difficult to find, so let's talk about substitutes.

Chipotle and mulatto peppers are somewhat different from most dried chilli peppers. Most dried chillis (arbol, pasilla, guajillo, New Mexico, cascabel) are just that: dried. Those chillis all start out as fairly thin-skinned fresh fruit. Chipotles start as jalapenos. Mulattos start out as ripe poblanos (as opposed to anchos, which start as green poblanos). Jalapeno and poblano peppers are too fleshy to just dry in the sun (or in a drying kiln). They rot instead of drying. So to get a dried chilli from these fleshy fruits, the jalapenos and poblanos are smoked. The result is a richer, more complex flavor.

I consider the smoked chillis a key ingredient in Deconstructed Chili.

I start with dry chipotle chillis for my chipotle purée, but if you can't find them, I suppose you can use the canned ones (they're not as smoky tasting). On the bright side, if you use the canned chipotles, you won't need to soak and cook them prior to puréeing them.

I don't know of any reasonable substitute for the mulatto chillis. If you can't find mulattos, anchos are the closest and are more widely available. If you can't find anchos or mulattos, use the darkest, richest dry chillis you can find.

The achiote paste might also be difficult to find outside of Texas and Mexico. If you have to use a substitute, I would recommend a savory chilli-based steak rub (okay, I'm guessing).

I also ought to say something about the tortillas. I know my wife and daughter consider the homemade corn tortillas a key element in this presentation. Corn tortillas are not too difficult once you get the hang of them, but they're a pain in the tuchus the first few times. One important suggestion: use prepared masa harina. The prepared stuff contains a small quantity of lard and has thoroughly absorbed the necessary amounts of moisture and oil. I was surprised to find that most of the directions available on the Internet call for masa and water with no lard.

The easiest way to explain this meal is to start with an understanding of the final product. Deconstructed Chili on the table consists of the following components:

1. broiled, marinated, chilli-rubbed, thin sliced rare sirloin
2. onion, garlic, poblano sauté
3. tomatoes wilted in tomato-beef sauce
4. chipotle chilli purée
5. mulatto chilli purée
6. Monterey Jack wedges
7. fresh corn tortillas

Note for the heat-intolerant: the chipotle chilli purée is hot. Poblanos are variable, so the sauté might have a tiny bit of a bite. The rest should be fairly mild.

Timing all of these things to come out together is rough. I recommend the following order of preparation:

1. Marinate the steaks.
2. Prepare the chilli purées. You can do this up to a week in advance. This stuff keeps remarkably well in the refrigerator.
3. Rub the steaks and set them aside.
4. Make the onion sauté and set it aside in a covered bowl.
5. Make the tomato-beef sauce and seed the tomatoes (don't wilt them yet) and set them aside.
6. If you're making the tortillas, roll the masa balls and preheat your skillet (or comal if you're a purist).
7. Preheat your broiler, grill, or grilling pan for the steaks.
8. Cook the first half of the tortillas.
9. Start the steaks.
10. Cook the second half of the tortillas while the steaks are cooking.
11. Set the steak aside to cool for a minute, and wilt the tomatoes.
12. Slice the steaks.
13. Serve everything.

detailed construction instructions

1. Marinate the steaks:

Place the steaks in a wide bowl with three of the garlic cloves, the diced poblano, one half-teaspoon of the achiote paste and a teaspoon of the sea salt. Pour in the beer (I use Negro Modelo) and the juice from two of the limes. Cover this concoction and leave it in the fridge overnight.

2. Prepare the chilli purées:

The two chilli purées differ only in that I add a tablespoon of lime juice to the mulatto and a garlic clove to the chipotle. Be sure you keep the chillis and their resulting purées separate. Otherwise the steps are identical:

1. Remove the stems and seeds. Yes, I know, the seeds are a source of heat. Great. They're also bitter. The chipotles have plenty of heat in the ribs. Trust me on this: throw out the seeds.
2. Place the chillis in a small sauce pan with just enough water to cover them. Heat the chillis until they change color (the chipotles will go from brown to dark burnt orange; the mulattos will go from black to a tobaccoey reddish brown). Remove the chillis from the water but DON'T THROW OUT THE LIQUID.
3. Drop the chillis into a blender and add the lime juice (if you're puréeing the mulattos) or one sliced garlic clove (if you're puréeing the chipotles) and a pinch of sea salt (probably no more than a quarter teaspoon).
4. Blend the chillis, adding the reserved liquid from the sauce pan as necessary. Once the purée achieves a uniform consistency (a little thicker than prepared mustard), pour it into a mesh strainer (or onto a sieve) and strain the purée. This leaves behind the papery outer skin.

Cover the purées and refrigerate them until the other elements of the chili are ready to serve. The mulatto purée should be dark-brown-to-black, smoky, and a bit tart. The chipotle purée should be reddish-brown, smoky, and hot.

3. Rub the steaks

Not much to say about this. Remove the steaks from the marinade and leave them alone for a few minutes to dry them off. Rub the steaks with one teaspoon of achiote paste. Leave the last half teaspoon of achiote for the tomatoes. Brush the steaks with a tiny bit of peanut oil and set them aside for now.

4. Make the onion sauté

Hey, this is a snap. Preheat a little peanut oil in a sauté pan over a medium-high flame. Strain the onions, garlic, and poblanos from the marinade (reserve a half cup of the liquid and throw out the rest) and sauté them in the peanut oil until the onions begin to clarify. Add the reserved half cup of marinade and the Mexican oregano. Cook down the liquid. Pour the sauté into a bowl, cover it, and set it aside.

5. The first half of the tomato stuff

Seed the tomatoes. I found that the quickest wat to do this is to cut them in half perpendicular to the core and scoop out the innards. It goes pretty fast. Set aside half of the seeded tomatoes. Combine the other half with the beef stock and cook it over a medium heat until the tomatoes are thoroughly wilted. Strain this concoction through a wire mesh strainer or sieve to remove the skins and any stray bits of remaining fiber. Return the liquid to the sauce pan and add the thyme. Over a low flame, reduce the tomato-beef broth by half. Remove this from the flame until you are ready to wilt the remaining tomatoes (just before serving).

6. If you're making the tortillas, roll the masa balls and preheat your skillet (or comal if you're a purist). If you're not making tortillas, the rest of this is a snap.

7. Preheat your broiler, grill, or grilling pan for the steaks.

Hey, to each his own. I'm sure a back yard barbecue would turn out a fine version of this dish. I prefer a grill pan.

8. Cook the first half of the tortillas.

Here's the routine that works for me, using a dry skillet over a medium high flame:

1. thirty seconds on one side
2. thirty seconds on the other side
3. thirty seconds again on the first side, this time pressing down a bit with the spatula. When the tortilla puffs, I know it's going to turn out right.
4. Once more on the second side for thirty seconds.

9. Start the steaks.

Four minutes on each side produced some beautiful medium rare steaks.

10. Cook the second half of the tortillas while the steaks are cooking.

Second verse, same as the first.

11. Set the steaks aside to cool for a minute, and wilt the tomatoes.

You don't want the steaks to cool too much, so this should go pretty fast. Heat the tomato-beef sauce to bubbling. Add the remaining tomatoes. Stir them a couple times and remove them from the flame after thirty seconds. Pour them into a serving bowl. The residual heat will be sufficient to wilt the tomatoes.

12. Slice the steaks.

Thin. No more than a quarter inch thick.

13. Serve everything.

You can probably come up with a number of ways to do this. I fanned the steaks over a bed of the onion sauté and ran thin parallel stripes of the purées down the steak. The tomatoes, cheese, tortillas, and remaining purées, I served on the side. Guacamolé makes an excellent addition.

I didn't include instructions for making tortillas. The process is fairly simple in concept, but it takes practice. I also didn't say when to make the guacamolé or slice the cheese, but I'm sure you can work that out.

Not Quite a Phoenix

Iron Chef is Dead--Long Live the Iron Chef

'Twould be nice. I realize that expecting anyone to recreate so rich and complex an experience as Fuji Television's long-running Iron Chef series is asking quite a lot, but the Food Network folks are now on their third attempt. We have to either give them an A for effort or a D for slow learner. This latest version actually has some promise, but some of the production is just wrong. No, make that Just Wrong. Perhaps even Just Wrong-o-rama. I don't know how many other concerned viewers have written to tell them they're doing it wrong, but if you're one of the concerned and you would like to see the Iron Chef tradition live on in some palatable form other than reruns, please email the Iron Chef America producers at http://www.foodnetwork.com/food/show_ia/text/0,1976,FOOD_16696_19539,00.html

with your concerns. Maybe enough of us acting in concert can work a Star Trek number on these guys.

What follows is the text of my letter to the producers of Iron Chef America.

A letter to Iron Chef America

Like the majority of your audience, I'm a long-standing fan of the original Fuji Television Iron Chef series. As with most adherents, I was saddened by Fuji's decision to end the series. The original Iron Chef fulfilled several needs for me in that it provided education and inspiration in an entertaining package. I see that much work has gone into the task of reproducing that experience in the latest iteration of Iron Chef America, and--while I realize that you do not want to simply ape the original, I would hate to see this grand effort die for missing some of the key elements that made the original series such a powerful, long-lived staple of culinary programming. If I'm lucky, you've already received quite a few letters expressing the same set of concerns that I'm about to outline.

Let me begin by saying that I think the stadium, costumes, logos, chefs, and announcer are all outstanding choices. I have no qualms with these elements of the program. (Okay, I'm gilding the lily a bit. I find one of the Iron Chefs a bit grating and the Vogue food critic seems needlessly contrary, but I think those are matters of personal preference unrelated to the overall reception of the show.) Thus, I believe the foundation of the Iron Chef America to be sound. I should note that several of my friends do not share my optimism. They are more disheartened by the differences than heartened by the similarities and innovations.

I wish I could be as positive about your host. Mark Dacascos may be a fine actor, but his chairman persona is simply annoying. Who cares if he can do backflips or has "a martial arts black belt" (a statement that most of us read as "a wannabe who never got his black belt")? The martial arts and acrobatics footage have nothing to do with cooking, nothing to do with Iron Chef, nothing to do with the show. Likewise, that stupid karate chop gesture and Dacascos's bellicose delivery of the command, "Allez cuisine" is completely out of place. It looks silly. It looks like someone needs to translate the French for Mr. Dacascos. One more persona glitch, why do the chairman and Alton Brown keep referring to Kaga of the Fuji series as the new chairman's uncle? Without frequent reiteration of a backstory, the claim sounds hollow and pretentious. In any case, the nephew backstory is convoluted, contrived, and heavy-handed. It doesn't explain the new chairman's motivation. It doesn't add anything to the story. Do yourselves a big favor and drop this.

As I noted, I think Alton Brown is a fine choice for expert announcer. Through his Good Eats program, Alton has developed a kind of Food Network credibility as well as a degree of familiarity. I do not, however, believe that anyone should be required to do the job of three announcers. The original Fuji Iron Chef used three announcers in emulation of sports programs like Monday Night Football because they knew that the kind of banter helps fuel the audience's interest in the "game." Those programs use one play-by-play announcer (Fuji Iron Chef's Kenji Fukui), one expert commentator (Fuji Iron Chef's Yukio Hattori) and one color announcer (one or two guest judges). Alton can speculate on the dishes, but he can't argue with himself (well, not convincingly).

Nor should Alton be bringing floor commentator Kevin Brauch into his discussions. Brauch is having enough trouble just keeping up with the goings on down in the stadium. He seems to be doing a little better this season at keeping track of all the ingredients, but that's not saying much. Brauch should continue to improve with time. If not, you might want to consider replacing him with someone who can pronounce the names of the ingredients and of their chefs.

Getting away from personalities for a moment, I find several parts of the competition aspect of Iron Chef America unsatisfying. For example, why is the chairman choosing the Iron Chef to battle the challenger? This looks wrong. I'm sure you have several logistic reasons for pre-selecting the Iron Chef, but if you don't let the challengers make their own selections, the game looks rigged. Besides, you've made quite a big deal in your advertising of the challenge presented by the secret ingredient. Maintaining the surprise-defender tactic from the Fuji series makes the whole spectacle even more suspenseful--who will compete tonight?

Also, unlike the original show, you opted to spell out the point breakdown. I think this a fine idea, but the point categories and your presentation of the results just don't work. One quarter of the points for plating and appearance--that's fine. One half for taste--okay, but what do you mean? Good taste? That's entirely subjective. Establish and describe a reasonable rubric. How about something a bit more specific and slightly less subjective? For instance, the judges in the Fuji Iron Chef series frequently commented that they expected to see dishes presented in Battle Random Ingredient to focus on and exemplify Random Ingredient, not just make it taste good. Anything can be made to taste good with enough tasty stuff piled onto it. I would be more impressed by someone making flavorful use of the bitterness, say, of a Random Ingredient than by someone making a flavorful dish that masks that same bitterness or simply smothers it in truffles. The best dishes in Fuji Iron Chef shows were often said to lend depth to the selected ingredient, and the sets of dishes on a theme were often praised for demonstrating different attributes of that same ingredient.

My problem with the presentation of points is that, while you do break down the points according to category, you do not break down the points by judge. This looks like a poor attempt at hiding the subjectivity of the judging. I, for one, want to know how much of the difference in judging is due to one rogue judge. When Morimoto presents a set of seafood dishes and one of the judges says, "I don't like raw fish," I figure I have pretty good reason to believe the anti-sushi judge is unduly influencing the outcome. If the judges know that their scores will be presented with their names attached, they might be a bit more careful to push some of their biases aside.

Oh, one other complaint about the judging: that Tubular-Bells-Lite noise you play during the tasting sequences has to go. What is that, the sound track from one of Tinkerbell's wet dreams? Ick. Please eliminate it before you send someone up a tower with a high-powered rifle.

One last item that I find discomfiting in the competition is the competitors plating only one of each item. I understand that this gives them a little more time to perfect each dish, but think about this: the old Fuji Iron Chefs always plated one item for each judge and an extra for the chairman (except for the occasional group or family style presentation of a soup, stew, roast, or casserole item). The switch to one of each dish may have been meant to look clever and innovative, but it fails. It looks wimpy. It looks like an admission that, "Well, we can't do what the old Iron Chefs did, but we can almost do it."

Ultimately, I think that's the one stance you want to avoid in all aspects of Iron Chef America. In no way should your presentation read like a second-rate Iron Chef. Overall, I don't think it does, but these few persnickety details are clouding the overall appearance. Correct these items, and I think Iron Chef America can easily be a popular, successful, and entertaining redux of Fuji Television's Iron Chef.

Thank you for your time.

My Inner PETA

Shrimp and Chicken Piccatas

I know I'd never survive as a vegetarian. It's not that I simply can't live without meat (although, with my history of weight loss, I'd make one emaciated vegetarian), nor am I of the Tony Bourdain philosophy that they can have my steaks when they pry them from my cold dead arthrosclerotic fingers. My problem with going vegetarian is that I'm pretty sure the gas would kill me. It would at least force me into a celibate lifestyle.

Frankly, if dietary choice were simply a question of ethics, I'd have a rough time. I love animals. Sincerely. This is not a setup for a W.C. Fields joke.

Don't get me wrong. I won't be throwing away my leather boots and running out to join PETA. Although I admire the sentiment and the conviction of animal rights activists, PETA members always strike me as a bit off kilter. Maybe it was that incident a few years ago when PETA members demonstrated that life, at times, is just one big recycled WKRP Cincinnati rerun. Just before Thanksgiving, on a major freeway overpass, a group of PETAzoids freed a bunch of domestic turkeys. Turkeys are none too bright, though, and the birds just stood there in the open cages. No doubt the gobblers just thought it was feeding time. The PETA members, wanting their gesture to look more dramatic for the captive audience of rush hour traffic streaming past below them, grabbed the birds and threw them into the air. Wouldn't you expect at least one of that crowd of animal lovers to know that domestic turkeys are flightless? Well, the lucky birds just landed on the bridge with a thud. Sadly, several of the birds fell into the oblivious stream of traffic below.

So, I do apologize if this comment ruffles any PETA members' feathers, but on the whole you guys are about as sharp as a sack of wet mice. Perhaps you should eat more fish; some nutritionists consider it brain food.

As I suggested, however, I do understand the whole concept of guilt over eating animals. Like many modern omnivores, I am conflicted in my quests for a fine cut of meat or the correct fish for dinner. I see this effect at work all the time. Some people just can't bear the thought of ordering the death of a lobster. They're perfectly willing to eat a lobster tail, they just don't want to be directly involved in its death. An even more common effect is the Vein That Ruins Dinner. One person at the table cuts into his steak and diagonally opens a vein, allowing a few drops of fluid to bleed onto the plate. I've actually seen people lose a meal over such an incident.

Also, of course, many of us learn to think of some animals in ways that make it difficult to see them as food. My foster daughter, the champion horsewoman, becomes incensed at the mention of horsemeat. Similarly, most Americans are disgusted at the thought of cooked dog. One of my most recently developed quirks is a refusal to eat grouper. I've been diving for a few years, now, and I can't help thinking of grouper as friendly, inquisitive critters.

And then there's veal. What can I safely say about veal? I Googled the term and immediately found the usual complaints about veal calves being raised in slatted paddocks designed to restrict their movement (thereby limiting muscle development) and about the iron-poor, antibiotic-rich milk substitutes fed the calves to get that wan "milk-fed" look you see in the supermarkets. Back in the eighties, many markets simply stopped carrying veal, citing either the unhealthiness of the meat or animal cruelty. I know a quite a few non-vegetarians who won't eat it, and I'm still not comfortable cooking or eating it either. I don't mind killing my food. I'm not even squeamish about cooking with fresh, wriggling lobsters or eels. Torturing my food is another matter. As far as I can see, the intent to kill an animal does not justify torturing it.

Even if not produced by torture and antibiotics, veal is an odd meat. Oh, sure, it's beef--young, but still beef. The flavor (as I recall from a few decades back) is far milder than adult beef, and the color attests to that mildness. Because it lacks much in the way of fat, many preparation methods require either the addition of fat from other sources (wrapping in a fat net for roasting, for instance) or inclusion of a healthy quantity of marrow rich bones (thus the necessary shoulder in osso bucco). Frankly, veal is so mild that many of the traditional recipes seem to be designed to give the meat some sort of flavor. I recall that I enjoyed the my first several veal piccata, but even as a teenager I recognized that the flavor in the dish was the result of the butter, lemon, artichokes, and capers. The veal and stock provided nothing more than a canvas. The veal components provided the protein base and none of the flavor. This proved true for every veal cutlet dish I ever tried.

[On a side note, I am toying with the idea of making veal stock. Hey, I said I was conflicted. I believe veal bones make more sense than beef bones as a source for stock because of the lower ossified bone content. More on this later, if I'm lucky.]

I guess it's no surprise, then, that so many Italian restaurants in the US offer chicken scallopini and piccata in lieu of (or as an alternative to) the veal versions. It really makes very little difference to most diners. Chicken breasts, unless browned and boosted with the proper flavor enhancers (for chicken, the best amplifiers I know are mushrooms and olives), offer vary little in the way of distinct flavor. The same is true for breaded veal cutlets. Oh, sure, veal and chicken breast scallopini or cutlets or Milanese will provide some teeeeny bit of flavor to a dish. Don't write to tell me that I'm wrong because you can taste the chicken even if my allergy-addled taste buds no longer can. I can taste it, too. Likewise, probably, the veal. But let's be honest: it's not a principal component in the flavor.

So, piccata is really not an ideal treatment for an Iron Chef-style enhancement of veal or chicken. If you want to enhance the chicken or veal flavor, make something else. That said, I like piccata. If the chicken provides nothing more than a base upon which to enjoy the other ingredients, I can accept that. I like the other ingredients.

Still, I began to wonder, could anything else work as a base in which the piccata treatment would actually enhance the base ingredient? Lemon, capers, butter, and artichokes.

Well, duh. Shrimp.

I thought about fish, but most fish would be overwhelmed by the capers. I might consider a really strong fishy fish like mackerel or bonito, but I wanted to give the treatment a bit more thought. I'd probably have to grill to subdue the fishiness, and I'd rather keep my piccata in the sauté pan, if possible.

I tried the shrimp piccata dish with two different homemade pastas: once with Italian parsley spaghetti, once with tarragon spaghetti. I expected the parsley to be the better of the two (I was concerned that the tarragon would be just one flavor element too many). I was wrong. Both were good, but the tarragon was better.

Initially, I tried this shrimp dish with my chicken piccata recipe, substituting only shrimp for chicken. After making this once, I realized that the mushrooms (which I initially began using to enhance the chicken) were an unnecessary complication, and I eliminated them.

Shrimp Piccata

dramatis personae

1 package frozen artichoke hearts
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 pound enormous shrimp tails
1 cup white wine
1 half cup chicken stock
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 quarter teaspoon lemon oil or the zest of one medium lemon
2 tablespoons capers, non-pareils

preparation notes

Yes, I said frozen. Feel free to use fresh artichoke hearts, if you like, but that will add a good forty minutes to your prep. I start with Bird's Eye brand artichoke hearts: thaw them in warm water, drain them in a colander, slice each artichoke half into fourths, discarding any tough leaves. Heat the olive oil over a medium flame, and sauté the hearts until they're just beginning to brown. Remove the hearts from the pan, but leave the oil and fond behind--chopsticks work well for this task.

Get the biggest shrimp you can find. The ones I used were six tails to a pound. Shell, devein, and halve the shrimp longitudinally. To get a more cutlet-like effect, I ran a bamboo skewer down the length of each tail half to keep it from curling during sautéing. You can forego this step if you don't want the shrimp tails flat.

In the oil and fond from the artichokes, cook the shrimp tails until all the translucent bits are opaque (a couple three minutes--who times this stuff?). If you do this, you'll want to remove the skewers immediately upon removing the tails from the pan to keep the skewers from becoming an integral component of the shrimp. The best technique I've found is to hold each tail firmly with a paper towel, and twist the skewer while pulling it out.

Turn up the flame a bit and deglaze the white wine. When the majority of the liquid is gone, add the stock and the lemon oil or zest (both work about equally well, but some folks don't like the grainy texture of lemon zest in their sauces). Simmer until the majority of the liquid is gone. Toss in the artichoke hearts and immediately mount the sauce with the butter. Toss in the capers and remove the piccata sauce from the flame.

For each serving, arrange two or three shrimp tail halves on or aside a cup of cooked spaghetti (see below) and pour on a portion of the piccata sauce.

Chicken Picatta

dramatis personae

Same as the shrimp, but substitute four boneless chicken breast halves for the shrimp

You'll also need

- four cremini mushrooms (roughly golfball size)
- two tablespoons all-purpose flour

preparation notes

I prefer to remove all the fat and and the ropy wing muscle from the breasts and then pound them flat--roughly 3/8 inch thick cutlets. Pat the flattened cutlets dry; slice them in half or thirds, whatever size you prefer (it's mostly a matter of aesthetics); and dredge them in the flour. Shake off the excess.

Slice the mushrooms about 1/8th inch thick and, before cooking anything else, sauté them in a non-stick pan without oil until they are beginning to turn golden brown on the edges. Remove the mushrooms (don't clean or wipe the pan, though), and pour in the oil. Prepare the artichokes as for shrimp piccata.

Once you've removed the artichokes, sauté the chicken breasts in the fond and oil from the veggies. How long? I don't know. They should be golden brown and done through. Remove the breasts from the pan.

Turn up the flame a bit and deglaze the pan with white wine. When the majority of the liquid is gone, add the stock and the lemon oil or zest (both work about equally well, but some folks don't like the grainy texture of lemon zest in their sauces). Simmer until the majority of the liquid is gone. Toss in the artichoke hearts and immediately mount the sauce with the butter. Toss in the capers and remove the piccata sauce from the flame. For each serving, arrange two or three shrimp tail halves on or aside a cup of cooked spaghetti and pour on a portion of the piccata sauce.

Tarragon pasta

dramatis personnae

a dozen spinach leaves
2 tablespoons water
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup semolina flour
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
2 extra large eggs
1/4 cup tarragon leaves (chiffonade)

preparation notes

You do not have to use a fancy mixer to mix and knead the dough. It is my considered opinion, however, that you do need a pasta roller. I have attempted hand rolling pasta, and it hurts like hell. If you hand roll pasta, you actually like hand rolling pasta, you think the sun rises and sets on hand rolled pasta, you think those of us who rely on pasta machines are wimps--hey, knock yourself out. Personally, I make the dough, turn it over to my wife, and she rolls out fresh spaghetti on the Atlas (this one: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B0000CFNCP/qid=1098303893/sr=8-9/ref=sr_8_xs_ap_i9_xgl79/002-3201007-8799252?v=glance&s=kitchen&n=507846 ) while I'm preparing dinner. She usually has the pasta drying on the rack well before the water boils.

Note: make the dough at least a half hour before you plan to begin rolling the pasta. The dough has to rest to relax a bit. Otherwise, it will be like trying to roll tire rubber.

Puree the spinach leaves in a food processor in the two tablespoons of water. Strain out all the solid bits in a mesh strainer. All you want is the green liquid.

Before you begin mixing everything, set aside the eggs to warm to room temperature. If you don't want to wait, run hot tap water over them for a few minutes to take off the refrigerator chill.

Oh, and about that chiffonade: these herbs are going into a pasta dough. That means they have to be minced into excruciatingly tiny bits. If the bits are too big, they won't stay in the dough.

If you're not using a mixer, wash and dry your hands, and remove any rings, watches, and bracelets. Clear some counter space and dust it with flour.

Mix the flours in a large bowl. Make a crater in the center and pour all the other ingredients in there. If you are not using a mixer, blend everything from the inside out with a fork. Once the dough becomes too thick to mix with the fork, use your hand. When the whole mass becomes one bolus of green dough, transfer it to the floured counter top to knead. Knead until the dough is uniform, pliable, moist, but not sticky--about five minutes of steady kneading should suffice.

Flour a small plate. Plop the dough ball in the middle of the plate. Wet one hand and wipe the wet hand over the surface of the dough. Cover this with a piece of plastic wrap and let it set for a half hour. If you have made the dough more than a half-hour in advance, put it in the refrigerator, but take it out and let it warm up a half-hour before rolling the pasta.

Professional (ish) Dessert Construction

Birth of the Topple

The key word here is construction. You can build some pretty impressive desserts from simple materials. No, I don't mean you should make your desserts from baling wire and toothpicks, but the ingredients don't have to be outlandish or even take much work. I'm not sure when I hit upon the realization, but I know it was during a Texas summer. Normally, I tend to think of desserts as something having a baked or poached-fruit component, but 100-degree days put the kibosh on that sort of preparation. I know, in moments of utmost laziness, you can always opt for store cookies (I prefer Pepperidge Farms Milanos or Brussels) and sorbet, but where's the fun in that? I want to put stuff together and have my family ooh and ah before falling on their dessert like ravenous hyenas (having learned quickly what gets repeat performances from the kitchen, my wife and kids are great oohers and ahers, by the way).

Generally, for constructed desserts, I find that the key elements are pretty much the same as the keys to any successful meal: balance and sensory appeal. Desserts are most pleasing when they are sweet but not too sweet, colorful but not gaudy. Tart flavors should balance against buttery and creamy flavors. Smooth textures should be highlighted with crisp fruit or a crunchy component. Vanilla, cardamom, nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, herbs, and citrus can add aroma as well as texture, but too much of a good thing is just bad.

Inspiration counts for a lot, too, and the calendar always plays a role in inspiration. If a fruit catches your eye in the grocery store--something looks particularly fresh, sweet, ripe, juicy, colorful--well, that just might be nature's way of telling you to start planning tonight's dessert. This was my experience early this summer with Texas blueberries. The local markets were packed with fresh bulging blueberries. I bout a pint and immediately began scouring my taste memory for things that would go well with blueberries.

Balance is also important in the workload. I think every cook agonizes over the question of what to buy ready-made and what to make from scratch. I don't want to oversimplify the answer to this question, but sometimes it's just a matter of advantages. Will I gain anything by making my own Caesar dressing over buying Cardini's? Well, that depends what else I'm serving. If the Caesar salad is the principal player in a meal, I might want to make my own with whole anchovy strips and shaved Parmesan and fresh lemon juice. If the salad is just a minor player, I'll opt for the bottled stuff. Other considerations include

1. Can I make something markedly better than the store-bought stuff?
2. Do I have time to make whatever it is from scratch?
3. Does this effort require tools that I do not possess?
4. If the effort is expensive in either funds or time, will it make much difference?

For instance, no matter the situation I'd sooner brush my teeth with a nail file than use store-bought Hollandaise or Bearnaise sauces. On the other hand, I'd never think of making my own hoisin sauce or Dijon mustard.

But we were talking about desserts. What all this listing and justification and juggling of nuances is leading up to is my excuse for buying a cake. The nearly-100-degree weather convinced me that I should buy an angel food cake to use as the base for my dessert. I was not baking a cake that night. Besides, frankly, I've never cared much for baking cakes, I don't have a bundt pan, the cake was destined for a supporting role, it was hot, and it was a Thursday night (I never can seem to get my shit together on Thursday nights). Anyway, I call this dessert a topple, because

--uh--

because it looks like one.

dramatis personae

• one angelfood cake (well, probably not a whole cake)
• zest of one small orange (or tangerine or Meyer's lemon)
• one cup heavy whipping cream
• two tablespoons confectioner's sugar
• one quarter teaspoon cream of tartar
• a dash of cardamom powder
• one quarter cup marscapone cheese
• one quarter cup pear butter
• one half pint of berries (blue, black, rasp)
• two tablespoons hulled pistachios

quality of ingredients

The cake should be uniform in shape and texture, moist but not sticky, sweet but not too sweet. I realize it's difficult to determine all of this if you've never tasted this particular bakery's cake, but you won't need the entire cake, so taste a bit. If the cake is too sweet, halve or forego the sugar in the whipped cream.

The berries have to be fresh and should not be mushy. Freshness can be tricky with some berries. Blueberries can be especially tricky; I think green blueberries deliberately masquerade as fresh berries to confound me. As with the cake, you'll need to taste the berries before you use them. If they're a bit on the tart side, cut each berry in half and use half as many on each topple.

When selecting the orange remember that you are going to use only the zest. Well, okay, you can use the rest of the orange in something else or eat the damned thing while you're whipping the cream, for all I care. But the zest is where your attention should be when you purchase the orange because that's the part you're using in this dessert. For this application, the color of the zest is unimportant. The aroma and overall health of the zest are the only important aspects. You want an orange (or tangerine) with no blemishes in the zest. Test the aroma by nicking it with a fingernail. It should have a strong, sweet, pleasant citrus aroma. If it smells too acrid or if it has little aroma, pick a different variety. If you can't find a decent orange or tangerine, a lemon (preferably a Meyer's lemon) will work.

preparation

Remember I said this is a construction. Since you've purchased the only cooked components of this dessert (the cake and the pear butter). Begin by preparing the filling and the whipped cream.

The filling's pretty quick. Combine the pear butter with the marscapone in a small bowl and whip them together with a fork. I like a uniform consistency, but you might prefer the filling to have a slightly striated appearance. Either way works. You might also be wondering, why the hell is he using pear butter? Apple butter is far easier to find, and it tastes good with berries, too. I suppose you could substitute apple butter for pear, but apple butter has a more assertive flavor than pear, so you'll probably want to use less.

I've never understood why anyone would use ready-made whipped cream. It's simple to make, takes less than 10 minutes, keeps for a couple of days, and tastes many times better than the ready-made. The topple uses orange-cardamom whipped cream, which sounds fancy but is damned simple. Combine the zest (if you don't own a microplane zester, get one) sugar, cream of tartar, cardamom, and cream in a large mixing bowl and whip it good. This is not rocket science. Whip it until it peaks. Use a silicon spatula to scrape the sides every minutes or so to ensure even distribution of the ingredients.

Break up the pistachios a bit. They needn't be chopped or ground. You want pieces that are in the neighborhood of a third pistachio size.

Slice the cake radially, like you slice a pie. You need two half-inch thick slices per serving. Use a large, extremely sharp knife and slice down slowly to avoid crushing the cake. On each plate, place one slice of angelfood cake, spread on a tablespoon of filling, place a second slice atop the filling offset slightly, so that it looks like it's sliding off the first. Top this with a large spoonful (a quarter cup? hell, I never measured) of orange-cardamom whipped cream. Sprinkle eight or ten berries and a teaspoon of pistachio chunks on each topple.

What Italians Really Want

I want to talk a little about the virtues of marscapone. Naturally, this relates to sex. Everything relates to sex.

There is an old (old as in, having Medieval origins--even Chaucer takes a stab at a variation on this via the Wife of Bath) sexist joke that goes something like this:

A young knight rapes a beautiful young lady. The king, for the reason du jour (low ratings with the female population--big-hearted sense of justice--desire to see the matter swept under the rug without any authentic adjudication--brain tumor), decides to let the queen and her ladies try this matter in the Court of Love. The ladies, using some arcane or arbitrary system of judgement decide that, rather doing anything so rational as tying this Y-chromosomatic over-achiever to the nearest pole and allowing a rabid polecat to search in his codpiece for mice, send him on an educational quest. If he can return with the correct answer to the council's Question in a year-and-a-day, they'll set him free. If not, it's the pole and ferret treatment for Our Hero. From this point onward, the young man's life (or at least that of his genitals) hinges on his discovering the answer to a fairly straightforward-sounding Question: "What does every woman really want?"

So, our Medieval Mike Tyson goes a-questing. Wherever he wends, he requests an interview with whatever woman the locals have deemed the wisest in the area. Because each maternal sage gives him an answer decidedly different from the previous answers, it quickly begins to look like this scumbag will get his just desserts. By various sources, he is told that all women really want:

1. Financial security


2. Frequent rogerings by accomplished young studs


3. To be young and pretty


4. Jewelry


5. To be told that they are young and pretty


6. A nice house


7. True love


8. A room of her own


9. Exquisite desserts


10. To be left alone

The requisite year-and-a-day passes, and Our Hero finds himself once more before the council of ladies. They put the Question to him and, having heard the same contradictory evidence as he, we are fairly certain this young fellow will soon be singing soprano.

"What every woman really wants," he says, "is"--

pause for dramatic effect--

"her way."

And they set the slimy bastard free.

I'd like to use this old joke to make two points. First, before you start getting steeped in the irony of progressive elitism, remember: the Clarence Thomas hearings weren't that long ago. Yeah, I know, that was a non-sequitur.

Second, that old sexist joke really demonstrates the dual nature of stereotypes. We tend to believe them even as we deny them. The stereotype of women from the men's perspective is that we never truly know what women want. The subtext of the joke, however, is that men actually know exactly what women want, but we also consider it an unreasonable desire.

In light of that stereotype, I'm sure you can see that we shouldn't be too quick to assume we know exactly what someone wants based on stereotypes. My wife, for example, is half-Italian. It's amazing how many people in this country think they know exactly what an Italian wants to eat based on nothing more substantial than a vague sense of ethnic origin. Italians are all supposed to love pasta, garlic, tomato sauce, Italian sausage, roasted peppers, langostino, and white truffles. Bollocks. Princess Valiant doesn't care, for example, for Parmesan cheese (she's also none too fond of roasted peppers or sausage of any description, but I'll address those matters another time). She's none too keen on Romano or any other stinky cheese, for that matter. Peccorino, Reggiano, Asiago, it makes no difference. She just doesn't like it. Her multa italiana Aunt Mary shares this sentiment; she says parmesan smells like a sweaty sock and won't allow it in her kitchen, much less near her pasta.

This puts me in a rather delicate position when I attempt to make risotto for the family. Authentic risotto is made with arborio rice, stock, white wine, cream, and parmeggiano, and I adore a good traditional risotto. Oh, I admit, I skimp on the parmesan for seafood risottos: shrimp, squid, lobster, and scallops just don't need the competition. Note I said "skimp." Seafood-based risotto still needs a little cheese for body. For most risottos, though, without sufficient parmesan, the results are rather bodiless and bland.

In most American households, this doesn't seem to be a problem. These days, folks in the US seem to be sold on the value of Reggiano Parmigiano as a flavoring agent. The Food Network and the boys at Queer Eye praise it to the heavens. Italian restaurants dole the stuff out like most places pass out cracked black pepper. This is unfortunate. It's rather like bathing your sushi in wasabi and soy sauce. Sure, it tastes good that way, but all you're going to taste is wasabi and soy sauce. At sushi prices, that's a waste of money. Likewise, if all you want is the taste of garlic and parmesan cheese, sprinkle 'em on a burger. What's the point of spending good money on a lasagna, risotto, or manicotti if all you're going to taste are the parmesan and garlic?

Recently, I discovered the answer to both of my risotto needs. First, I needed a the body of cheese for the seafood risottos, but I needed to eliminate the aged-cheese-stench. Second, for other risottos, I needed both the body and a certain extra flavor agent that would not provide too much grease (tried butter, threw away the results) nor too strongly cheesy. The answer I happened upon is marscapone.

Most folks are familiar with marscapone from a rather different source: marscapone provides the body and a degree of piquancy to tiramisu and cannolis (if you are not Italian and weren't an adult in the 1980s, you may have to look up this term--trust me, it's a dessert). Marcaspone is young mozarella. It has nearly the consistency of whipped cream cheese but with a slightly tarter flavor. What I found truly amazing is that marscapone not only makes an outstanding substitute for parmesan in risotto, not only works with (vice against) the flavor of seafood, but also makes the cream superfluous and allows the risotto to mount much faster than with cream. It's so easy to use, it almost feels like cheating.

Flaaaaaaaavor

A friend of mine and fellow diver—we'll call him Ivan—positively drowns his food in butter. Ivan's also a bit of a gourmand and quite the fan of French cuisine, and I don't mean that Americanized nouvelle légere crap either. No no. Ivan delights in high concentrations of cream, butter, lobster, cheese, foie gras: all the jolly crew. Said friend explained his preference to me quite concisely over croissants at dinner one evening: he pointed to a croissant (a scrap of bread that, by definition, is already at least on third butter by weight) upon which he had lavished a soft butterknife-load of butter and, leaning closer to me, intoned the mantra, "Flaaaaaaavor."

Said friend also has—despite much cycling and swimming to combat it—the average American male physique: ovate. I don't know that I want to accept any age- or socio-economic-status-related correspondence there, however. I myself am 45 years old and rarely above 8% body fat. I spent several years religiously following the Zone® diet, but I have become increasingly lax in that respect over the past three years. I still follow the general Zone principle of keeping my protein intake to approximately thirty percent of my diet, but I eat a lot more high glycemic carbohydrate and a good deal more "unhealthy" fat than during my evangelistic phase. My reason? Well, I think Ivan nailed it:

Flaaaaaaavor.

My ex-wife (wife, at the time) and I were dining at a steak house with a couple of acquaintances in Idaho some years ago, a young couple who had been teenagers during the eighties. When the server brought the obligatory bread and butter, they asked for a substitute for the butter. Neither of them, they claimed, could stomach the stuff--the real stuff--butter. They preferred margarine. They said butter tastes too milky. In fact, they launched into lengthy discussion of the merits of various margarine brands and oil types: corn, safflower, sunflower. I can't reproduce what they said here. I was too busy being disgusted at the thought of anyone wanting margarine for any purpose at any time on any food item to recall the details. In any case, I know that I, for one, will never develop a taste for margarine.

Oddly, I also grew up in a household stocked with margarine in stead of butter. Butter was considered unhealthy (saturated fat instead of polyunsaturates). I can still recall my family's joy at the introduction of whipped margarines, which meant they would never again have to shred a slice of toast while attempting to make it palatable by spreading fat on it. Mom and Dad both considered restaurant bread with real honest-to-God butter a serious treat. Both would sigh and lean back in their seats and wax nostalgic on recently-churned butter and ice boxes. Still, my parents never for a moment considered keeping butter in the house. Butter could spoil, was more expensive than margarine, and was supposed to be the unhealthy alternative to the wonders of polyunsaturated fats.

At the time, I really didn't care much one way or the other. Fat and I have long enjoyed a weird love/hate relationship. When I was a child, butter and margarine were all just gelatinous slime to me. I hated fat, grease, and fatty foods. I absolutely detest lard and tallow and shortening. I've always gone out of my way to strip the excess fat from meat and poultry. I like sausage, but a little too much nauseates me and gives me a headache. Pasteurized processed cheese-food (whatever the hell that is) has the same effect on me as sausage, but I consider this no loss as I would rather have holes drilled in my teeth than eat imitation cheese.

Still, even as a child I understood that there was something strangely enticing about butter. Though not a big fan of buttered bread (or bread in general—I tend to think of bread and pasta as bases upon which to serve actual food), I have long preferred the taste of butter to that of margarine. Likewise, on vegetables I can always tell butter (which adds a distinct richness) to margarine (which just makes everything oily).

The problem of flavor, you see, is multifaceted. Butter alone is about as flavorful as recycled plastic grocery bags. Slightly milky-tasting coagulated oil--de gustibus and all, but my doesn't that sound flavorful? Well, no, of course not. Can you imagine a restaurant offering butter, in any form, as a main dish? Or even as a side dish? Grilled salmon with a side slab of butter on field greens--Cobb salad with chunks of Danish whole-milk butter, ribeye with a side of whipped butter and garlic. Bleah.

On the other hand, can you imagine a restaurant charging for the butter they bring out with the bread? I tend to avoid the places that offer me oleo with my bread, and I'm not a big bread eater. All the nutritional experts agree, however, that fat accounts for a good deal of what we experience as flavor. The richer, saturated fats seem to hold a certain preeminence in that department. Olive oil, sesame oil, peanut oil, and almond oil all have stronger, more readily identifiable flavors than butter, but it's the butter-based dishes (Hollandaise and Bearnaise sauces, Sole Meuniere, beurre blanc) that get labelled luxuriant.

So, butter improves (for most tastes) the flavor of food, but butter by itself is not something most of us want to eat. Thus, it should come as no surprise that a dish can be too buttery. I've made this mistake in preparation. Any fish prepared meuniere (fried in clarified butter) must be cooked quickly or the fish (and the thin coating of flour) soaks up too much butter. Not to make this too simple, too high a temperature tends to over cook the thinner parts of the fish while undercooking the rest. C'est la vie.

A week without cooking

Okay, I don't think it's possible for me to go a week without cooking. Not really. Unless I'm on vacation, at a resort, in a room with no kitchen. This week came close, though, and I think it's added to my overall jitteriness.

I'm going into culinary withdrawal. I need a fix. [Fade to tattered, unshaven Prince Valiant, crawling across the Mojave, reaching toward the shadow of circling vultures, and croaking out, "Oil. Oil. Extra virgin olive oil."]

This has been a preparation week. We're going on a dive excursion this weekend—Cozumel for four days—and we're taking Girlchild on her first dive trip. What a fiasco. Never enough time to do everything.

My life as anime

Girlchild loves sushi.

I consider this noteworthy for three reasons: (1) she's ten years old, (2) like Princess V and I, she's gaijin, and (3) I believe this gustatory love was only made possible by Girlchild's enduring courage. Girlchild is tiny, not a big exercise buff, and to the best of my knowledge has no martial skills (if you discount surreptitious studies in world conquest and domination), and Girlchild is decidedly a Little Girl. She likes frilly and colorful clothes, plays with dolls, buries herself in stuffed animals every night, and has been known on occasion to pout (under extreme duress, she can produce tears the size of concord grapes).

To provide a little contrast, consider Firstchild. Firstchild (who is twenty-three years old and attending college in Washington state) considers herself a Japanophile of the first order. She reads Japanese, absorbs manga and anime, and at times appears to be on the verge of anime-dom. She recently won a costume competition at a gaming convention, dressed as a Pokemon villain. Her dream career, I believe, would be designing and modifying a series of virtually reality games based on Pokemon or YuGiOh or Sailor Moon—that or discovering a magical orb from another planet and using the super powers conferred by said amulet to rid the universe of an Unknown Evil with the reach of the Yakuza and table manners of Yog-Sothoth. Firstchild also loves Iron Chef (well, we have that much in common, at least). Firstchild will not eat sushi. At the very mention of sushi, she makes The Face.

For an experimental cook, a courageous audience is a must. It's particularly convenient to have them living with you. You can see, then, why (aside from the obvious proud step-papa thang) I might find Girlchild's culinary daring laudable.

Of course, life with a courageous ten-year-old has its drawbacks. Oh, I don't mean the run of the mill foolhardy daredevilism. We get enough tree-scaling, traffic dodging, equilibrist-cum-human-fly thrills of that particular "Hey, Dad! Watch this!" variety from Boychild. Girlchild's bravery is both tempered and sharpened, you see, by her intellect.

Girlchild, you see, reads like a Harvard law student. Oh, sure, lots of Harry Potter and Madeleine l'Engle and Brian Jacques and Roald Dahl and all the jolly-pree-teen pap, but also all of Dahl's adult works and Douglas Adams and J. R. R. Tolkein and Edgar Rice Burroughs and Lewis Carroll and Edgar Allan Poe. During any quiet moment, if she's not on the computer, Girlchild is burrowing through another book. Sometimes, she's retilling familiar ground. She read the Lord of the Rings saga a half dozen times last year, and her Harry Potter tomes have begun shedding their binding glue. Girlchild's reading has unearthed a wealth of vocabulary, and she spends that wealth unabashedly, gilding her conversations with sesquipedalian terms the way most ten-year-olds layer on the cools and dudes and all the latest slang. Girlchild's speech bears, as Princess V points out, the autodidact's stamp. The very words she incorporates into her discourse with such syntactic, semantic, and phonetic aplomb are, often as not, misprounounced. I know that quirk intimately. Just this past week, I made my first attempt (since learning it over a quarter-century ago) to use the word syzygy aloud and botched the whole affair (no animals were harmed in the botching of this conversation, my ego suffering only minor contusions in the fall).

Girlchild takes her intelligence in stride. She's proud of her verbal facility without being overbearing (most of the time), but she exudes a T. S. Eliot attitude about her erudition: anyone worth her time will understand the words and allusions she chooses to use. I think she has every reason to be proud: she works hard for her vocabulary, and I hope no one ever manages to shame her out of that pride.

Where then, you might wonder, are the drawbacks? The tempering effect of intelligence, as I've already suggested, eliminates most foolhardiness. Sure, bright kids can do stupid things—they're still kids. I expect that. I may not be prepared for it every time, may not anticipate it as often as I'd like, but I do expect it.

The problem is the whole Disney Evil Genius scenario. Ever notice that, in Disney cartoons and anime, the villain is always the intelligent brother? I've always considered this the most counterproductive possible prejudice. Why study hard if you don't intend to become an Evil Overlord? I've also long believed this idea to be fomented by former whiz kids and the parents of whiz kids. We've all known obnoxious brilliant children; the ones who assume we're all morons and expend much breath explaining their own genius to us. Honestly, though, even the non-obnoxious genius child is always up to something: dreaming, planning, searching.

When Princess V and I were kids, we found clever ways to provide light under the blankets for after-hours' readings. Our parents eventually found and confiscated our flashlights or spotted the light leaking around the coverlets and confiscated our flashlights or simply refused to buy more D-cell batteries, so we moved on to cleverer means: indicator lights on battery-powered toys, phosphorescence, bioluminescence. You don't need much if you're willing to read a word or two at a time. We knew, despite warnings about lost sleep and eyestrain, despite appeals to authority, that the benefits or our clandestine readings outweighed the possible detriments. What did our parents know, anyway? If they were so smart, why weren't they catching us?

Just think of the havoc we would have wrought if we'd had access to the Internet.

Girlchild has access to the Internet.

A month ago, she lost a week's access to the Web when we caught her maintaining secret email accounts. (Her excuse: "I just wanted to see what BrandX's email was like." Yes, even brilliant children spew forth a protective ink-cloud of lame excuses at unexpected confrontations).

A few days ago, she lost access again for registering in an online rôle playing game. Her previously–spelled-out access rules had included no signing up for anything online without permission. We're not unreasonable. She plays on the Neopets site; she's registered with Disney; she has AOL IM buddies; she publishes fan fiction. Registering to play the part of an itinerant vampire in an online RPG, one that automatically includes an email address, was not on her approved list. Neither was coercing or exhorting her little friends to join.

Frankly, the Goth influence does not concern me. Vampirism, with all its anti-Christian, sub-societal, moribund, and carnal subtexts will likely have no longterm negative effects on Girlchild. I've raised teenagers before. I realize that, when the hormones hit, whether we specifically allowed or forbade her pre-teen self access to Internet Goth culture will neither accelerate nor prevent her adolescent tumble into darkness. Angst comes or it does not. It comes to some in a shy awkwardness and to others in a dark wave of Goth. One day, she'll wake up and decide to don black leather and fishnets, to shave part of her hair and dye the rest with black shoe polish, to limn her eyelids with kohl, and to insist that her soulname is Death Petal; or she won't.

In this case, the more serious problem was Girlchild's aforementioned recruitment of a friend into the vampire RPG. Friend's dad called us, shocked to have discovered that his daughter was receiving email from a young gentleman she'd met in the online city. Dad was not pleased to see letters to his innocent ten-year-old darling coming from an adult who styles himself Blood Sucker.

So, once again, we had the Terrible-Web-Perverts-Who-Prey-Upon-Children Talk™ with Girlchild and suspended her Internet privileges for another couple weeks. She was devastated. She immediately started reading another series of books.

This week, Girlchild is learning to scuba dive so that she can join Princess V and I on occasional undersea excursions. Lucky kid and lucky us getting to take her along, but of course this is one more thing to terrify my parental side. In just a couple weeks, we'll be flying along in the current with our little neoprened Power Puff Girl floating alongside us. The thrill with which I anticipate this experience is, frankly, flavored with just a dash of trepidation. She'll be okay: she's smart and she's brave. She'll also bear constant watching because she's smart and she's brave. Smart and brave and capable of scuba diving: sounds like an anime villain just waiting to take over the world.

Anyway, it was Girlchild's suggestion, this past weekend, that caused my second foray into the realm of sushi. I don't think it's what she had in mind, however. When I asked what she wanted for dinner and she replied, "Sushi," I think she expected to go out to Koreana Grill or get takeout nori-maki from Central Market. Then again, who knows into what fiendishly clever plan of hers I may have stumbled when I went to the cupboard and opened that seemingly innocuous box of sushi rice.

My first efforts with sushi didn't exactly whet my appetite for that particular activity. It did, however, annoy hell out of me, which, perversely, did whet my appetite. It's not that I'm masochistic (much). I hate giving in to any kind of cooking (okay, I avoid baking breads and cakes, but I find that activity boring). Moderate success (you know: the dish is adequate and relatively easy to prepare but nothing to write home about) is more likely to keep me away from a dish or technique than outright failure. In all fairness to myself, my first nigiri-zushi efforts were not failures; they did lack elegance, though.

You can find lots of information on sushi online, so I won't go into detail about different types of sushi, history, or table manners. I have noticed a certain lack of detail, however, concerning what can go wrong in sushi preparation. Much of the available advice on sushi preparation sounds like passed on lore with little or no meat. What follows, then, are some tyro observations on sushi preparations.

Sushi rice

Sushi rice is frequently, colloquially referred to as "sticky rice." This is a misnomer and can cause you shopping problems. Sticky rice is a Thai dessert dish. You want sushi rice: matured California or Japanese short-grain rice. If it doesn't say "sushi rice" on the package, it's probably the wrong rice.

The drill goes something like this:

• Rinse the bejesus out of the rice.


• Cook the rice (1 cup of rice to 1¼ cup water) in a rice cooker or on the stovetop.


• Cool the rice (a far more complex procedure than you might imagine) and add seasoned rice wine vinegar.

The rinsing is to clean off the dry preservative. Once upon a time, sushi rice was packed in talc to dissuade thrips. Nowadays, it's packed in starch dust. Either way, you want the rinse water to run clear. This usually takes a dozen or more rinsings. Rinse with cold water only. The starch will stick to the rice if you use warm water. I don't know what difference this makes in the cooking, but I'm sure it would be very bad.

Sushi rice is, as anyone who has ever eaten sushi knows, quite tacky. It's also slightly sweet and slightly tart. If you've never eaten any of the milder nigiri-zushi (such as tamago [omelet]) or if you always drown your sushi in soy sauce and wasabi, you might not have noticed the vinegar. That stickiness is important. Too sticky and it adheres to everything: the plate, your fingers, your chopsticks, your clothing, your facial hair, your car keys. Not sticky enough and the sushi rice pad falls apart.

The real trick here is the cooling process. Oh, sure, the rice has to be cooked to the right consistency, and you have to add the correct amount of seasoned vinegar, and you don't want to scrape any overcooked (browned) rice from the pot or cooker into the cooling bowl, but none of these factors is quite as limiting as the cooling process. If you do not cool the rice enough, it will be too tacky and almost impossible to work. If you allow the rice too cool on its own, it will cool unevenly and be crusty on one side and damp on the other. If you stir the rice too hard or add the vinegar too early, it will break up and turn into a gunky mass with the consistency of partly dried white school glue.

Most sushi-preparation guides follow the lore: use a cedar, ceramic, or glass cooling bowl. Cool the rice by fanning it while carefully separating and polishing it with a bamboo paddle (shamoji). Do not add the vinegar until the rice is cooled. Do not handle the rice until it is cooled. Do not use a metal bowl or metal spoon to cool the rice.

All of this sushi cooling lore turns out to be rational to some degree.

The cooling bowl and shamoji must not be metal because you add vinegar at the end of the process. If you mix separate and cool the rice in a metal bowl and with a metal spoon, you may (after you add the vinegar) impart a metallic taste to the rice. I have not attempted this, but I have tasted the seasoned rice wine vinegar after letting it stand in a metal spoon for a minute or two, and it does impart a metal oxide to the mixture. (Side note: you can make your own sushi-zu, but it's just rice wine vinegar, salt, and sugar. The prepared seasoned rice vinegars are inexpensive, easy to find, and taste just fine. Even though you wait until the rice is cooled to add the vinegar, because you still have to continue separating and polishing the rice after you add the vinegar, it's going to be in the cooling bowl for several minutes. I agree with the lore on this one: non-metal bowl and shamoji to avoid the metallic taste. This stuff is just too much trouble to blow it all over something so simple to control.

Getting just the right touch with the shamoji, separating the rice for cooling and stirring it around to polish it without mashing it to pabulum: this take practice. I found that I had to stop ever few minute and rinse the shamoji in cold water. Keeping the shamoji cool, clean, and slightly damp helps keep the rice from clumping on it. Throw away any rice that mashes onto the shamoji (a good reason for making more rice than you think you'll need). Keep separating and fanning the rice (yeah, you really need four hands to do this properly) until it is at or nearly at room temperature.

Nigiri-zushi

My first effort at sushi was ebi nigiri-zushi (not ama ebi—raw crustaceans are dangerous treats, and I would suggest only using farm-raised shrimp, which is expensive and difficult to find). It certainly looked simple enough at first glance: a boiled shrimp tail on a pad of rice. I will kill any possible suspense by admitting that my result was too big, too uneven in size, and sitting atop rice that is just too damned sticky.

First-glance simple is usually a wrong impression. Think Zen gardens: how hard can it be to rake lines into a patch of sand? Heh. Notice the simple appearance of most ebi in sushi bars: uniform, lying flat on the rice, rounded at the edges. The flat appearance is achieved by peeling the shrimp, cleaning them backwards (opening up the abdomen instead of along the notochord), and skewering them for cooking. I got lucky, but I opening the shrimp from the abdomen is an ideal way to slide open your hand. What worked best for me was peeling the shrimp (except fot the tails) and skewering the shrimp next. Use the thinnest bamboo skewers you can find, and insert the skewer right down the notochord channel. Run the skewer point all the way into the fleshy tail piece directly above the center of the tail fins. Then, split the shrimp on its abdominal side, taking care not to cut all the way through to the bamboo. Set a large pot of water to boil. When it reaches a full boil, drop in the shrimp for forty-five seconds. A full minute will be too much and may make the skewers impossible to remove without tearing the shrimp. Remove the shrimp from the boiling water directly into an ice water bath to stop the cooking process. Remove the skewers immediately and trim the ends of the ebi to echo the shape of the sushi rice.

I find the trimming difficult, philosophically, because it means throwing away perfectly good bits of cooked shrimp. One possible solution is keeping the leavings to add to temaki (hand rolls). I had intended to try this last time, but I ran out of rice and had too much sushi for the three of us, anyway.

The sushi rice rolls are fairly easy to make if the consistency of the rice is already correct and if you rinse your hands in cold water just before you handle the rice. You will probably need to wash your hands after forming each rice pad. By now, you are probably beginning to see why sushi chefs in Japan spend their first five years just handling rice. For each rice pad, scoop up a quantity about the size of a ping pong ball and form it into a flat-sided oval.

If, every time you try to form a sushi rice pad, the rice sticks to your fingers or refuses to form, you did not cool it properly. I recommend that you curse, stamp your foot, and try further drying and polishing the rice with the shamoji. If that doesn't work, give up on the nigiri and prepare sashimi. If the rice tastes okay, you can mix in a handful of halved grape tomatoes and blanched snowpeas for a colorful, tasty side dish. Or you can chuck the rice and go out for sushi.

On my second foray into the world of sushi, in addition to the ebi I also used halibut (hirame) and salmon (sake), two of my favorites. Once you've tried to cut clean, rectangular, uniform slices of prime fish for either nigiri-zushi or sashimi, you will see the real reason for the high cost of sushi in most restaurants. This is a wasteful process. You cannot use most of the flesh close to the skin or close to the bones; you cannot use bruised, separated, or otherwise discolored flesh; you cannot use flesh containing too much stringy fat. Your knife has to be extremely sharp and clean. I have managed the best results by following the same ground rules I use in preparing carpaccios:

• Use a high-quality, razor-sharp knife.


• Use only fresh fish.


• I know this sounds like it contradicts that last point, but: put the fish in the freezer about an hour before you attempt to slice it.


• Keep your cutting board clean.


• Rinse the knife in cold water frequently while slicing the fish.


• Handle the fish gingerly: bruises make it bitter as well as ugly.


• Save edible scraps and crooked cuttings for nori-maki or temaki.


• Remember, this is a visual art: style counts.

Place a tiny dollop of wasabi (about the size of a quarter of a pea) atop each rice pad and the place the fish or rice atop the pad.

I was far more pleased with my nigiri-zushi—better appearance, consistency, and quality of rice—the second time than the first.

Nori-maki

Nori-maki is the Lego™ of Japanese haute-cuisine: hardcore playing with food. I got lucky. My first try actually produced tasty, attractive nori-maki. I used sockey salmon (the strips leftover from the nigiri-zushi. I'm probably overdue for burning an offering at a shrine somewhere.

Once upon a time, finding the ingredients and tools for sushi-roll construction meant a foray into the nearest available Japanese or pan-Asian specialty market. Lately, nori-maki has become so popular that most major grocery chains in the US now carry nori sheets and makisu (the little bamboo mat you use to form the rolls).

In addition to the instructions I found in many popular cookbooks and on a vast array of Web sites, here are a few key lessons I learned while making nori-maki:

These rolls use a lot of rice—much more than I expected. A quarter-inch layer of sushi rice per roll (covering all but the last one-inch strip of the nori sheet) means that one cup of (dry, precooked measure) sushi rice will make two full-sheet rolls or four half sheet rolls. A half-sheet roll will be like the typical California roll: one full wrap of nori around rice and whatever else you've included. A full sheet produces a slightly fatter roll (about an inch and a half in diameter) with a spiral over lap of nori half-way through the rice. The cut nori-maki discs each look something like a colorful @ symbol.

Spread the rice with your fingers (don't forget to wash and dampen your hands with cold water before handling the rice). Tools will just make a mess of the job.

Nori is fairly stout material, but it does not handle sheer forces well. When you cut it, use a large chef's knife and cut by pressing down and rocking the blade. Slicing will tear the nori.

As in sexual matters, wetness is a crucial concern in nori-maki production.

Avoid getting the nori wet: it weakens and separates. Dry your hands before you handle the sheets and dry the knife you will use for cutting the nori sheets.

The knife you use to cut the roll has to be sharp, clean, cold, and damp for every cut. Repeat: every cut. Be sure the hand you use to hold the nori-maki is dry, however, or the nori is liable to stick to your fingers and separate from the roll. Keep a dishcloth or a wad of paper towels on hand as well as a bowl of ice water. After you slice the roll, your knife will be gummed up by the sushi rice. If you don't clean and chill the knife, your next cut will pinch or flatten the roll on one side.

Stormy weekends

Here comes the weekend and, O look, there come the thunderclouds. Good-bye weekend dive opportunity. It probably sounds silly to a lot of people that we don't want to dive in a rainstorm. Hell, we're going to get wet anyway, right?

Of course, it's not the rain. It's the lightning. Would you be willing to stand on a shoreline in a thunderstorm wearing a bundle of dynamite on your back, a bundle with a built-in lightning rod? You might. You'd probably change your mind if you ever felt the concussion from a lightning stroke hitting the lake less than a hundred feet away, just as you were trudging out of the water. That's what happened to Princess V last time we dived Lake Travis in an electrical storm.

You can understand, then, why—with stormclouds hanging over us—Princess V and I decided to forego our dive last weekend. Just our luck, the lake saw nary a drop of rain. So, here I sit, reviewing weather.com and intellicast.com, hoping to find a hiatus in the next few days' predictions of Isol. T-storms and Scat. T-storms. No such luck.

Fate should establish an 800 number for complaints—at least a website with contact information. They shouldn't be able to deprive me like this on Father's Day. I'd write a letter to my Congressman, but he's a Democrat, so he wouldn't be able to do anything.

Of course, with my former wives, I frequently said the same thing about sexual deprivation on Fathers Day, on Christmas, on my birthday, Veterans Day, Flag Day, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and so forth.

Guess I should count my blessings.

Sometimes, I guess I expect too much. I saw an Iron Chef episode last night—one I'd seen before. Morimoto battles a young chef of the Ohta faction (a group of Japanese traditionalists who consider Morimoto's neo-Japanese cuisine something of an abomination). This particular challenger was an expert in the use of salt, something you are unlikely to find in restaurants outside of Japan and a throwback, of sorts, to ancient times when the Japanese had no seasonings but salt and responded with creative applications.

The moment that made the greatest impression on me was when one of the judges complained that one of the challenger's dishes was too salty. Of all the possible complaints I might hear from a judge about a chef's preparations, I thought, this was the one he should have been above. Salinity is the one quality that he, more than anyone present, should have fully under control. That moment, striking as it did at the very heart of his expertise, had to be a far greater embarrassment than losing the competition. She may as well have said, "You call yourself a chef? You call yourself a salt expert?"

By comparison, I feel hardly any chagrin over the fact that my shrimp risotto, last night, turned out just a bit too salty. Hardly any.

Really.

Otherwise, I was quite pleased with the risotto. I don't know whether I've just been lucky or risotto is very forgiving. Still, this was shrimp risotto, and shrimp is not as forgiving as risotto. I'm pretty sure that the timing on the shrimp was mostly just a matter of luck.

Anyway, here's the dish I prepared for Princess V, the girlchild, and my own self (i.e., serves 3½—I'm a big eater):

Shrimp risotto

Dramatis personae

• two tablespoons olive oil


• one medium shallot, thinly sliced


• one small clove garlic, small dice


• ½ cup arborio rice


• ½ cup white wine


• three cups chicken stock or bouillon, or a fumet


• ½ teaspoon minced cayenne pepper


• ½ pound medium shrimp


• lemon zest


• ¼ cup whipping cream


• 2 tablespoons grated parmesan cheese

Quality of ingredients

See my comments of June 10th, regarding olive oil.

I prefer the richness that a shallot imparts to risotto, but most risotto recipes call for a medium onion. Try it both ways if you like. I usually don't add garlic to this recipe, but I like the way it helps peak the piquancy of the cayenne. When I say a small clove, I mean enough to produce about a half teaspoon when diced. Slice the shallot to about twice the thickness of a rice kernel—roughly that thickness. I don't mean to be anal about this, but the kernels will approximately double in thickness as they cook, and you want the thickness of the cooked shallot strands (the slices will separate into ribbons) about the same size as the cooked rice. Similarly, you want the garlic bits about the size of the cooked rice kernels.

Cooks following recipe instructions tend to be overscrupulous in trying to apply adverbial directions. I once asked a friend, who wanted to prep for me, to prepare the shallot by slicing it in half along the axis and then thin slicing the halves across the axis. She got the orientations right, but she sliced the shallot thin enough to read through. Slicing a shallot that thin actually creates two possible problems (usually both):

• Cooked directly against the pan, it dries to a crispy, onion skin texture and consistency.


• Cooked in oil, it dissolves leaving thin filaments that get caught in your teeth.

Yes, it has to be arborio rice. Forgetting for a moment that my wife's Italian ancestors will haunt your dreams with off-color Tarantellas if you try to use long-grain rice, only arborio provides sufficient surface area to dissolve the requisite quantity of wine and stock. I have devised a technique for faux risotto, but it doesn't have the blended quality of flavor that you achieve with risotto. Faux risotto is essentially just rice in a creamy sauce. To avoid the lengthy digression it would entail, I'll append a recipe for shrimp faux risotto at the end of this one. For arborio rice, check the grocery stores near you that deal in bulk foods. For reasons that escape me, prepackaging arborio rice makes it worth nearly three times as much money.

This may sound inconsistent with my assault on red cooking (so-called–)wine, but white cooking wine works just fine. If you use real white wine, use a dry white, and use half as much.

I know, every cook book tells you to use stock. I hate to echo every other cookbook, but stock is decidedly superior to bouillon. Stock will impart more flavor and result in a meatier texture. The texture is good, but in this case—shrimp—the flavor from stock might be a bit overpowering. If you are making this risotto as part of larger spread of seafoods, a fumet will make the best possible stock for this (or any seafood-based) risotto. I recommend avoiding fish stocks or bouillons sold in stores; they tend to impart a nasty odor to everything in the kitchen. If you use stock or fumet, you may need to add a little salt to your recipe.

If (like me, the other night) you happen to be out of stock (I haven't roasted a chicken in about two months, and I always make my stock from the birds I've roasted), bouillon works just fine (call it four and a half stars instead of five). For a recipe this size, use only one bouillon cube (I used two, which adds too much salt for this size recipe) in three cups of water.

I love cayenne pepper, but like all peppers, the damned things are highly variable. This dish is well served by a little red hot pepper both for tiny bit of bite and for the color it adds. The question of how much to use is a tough one, though. Sure, you can generalize about which pepper belongs in which range of the Scoville scale. Big deal. So, you know that cayenne peppers are roughly ten times as hot as jalapeños and only one sixth as hot as habañero. What does this mean in terms of the meal? I used a cayenne pepper from my garden, and that was one hot little bastard. I ended up using only a quarter of a three-inch pepper. This one little item is probably the most subjective, make-or-break item in this menu. My risotto was just hot enough to leave a hint of burn on our lips but mild enough that girlchild didn't wince. No matter what your personal preference in peppers, you have to taste them before you use them. This will help you decide how much to use and how late to add them to the dish. The earlier they go onto the fire, the softer they'll be and the milder they'll be—within reason. Don't expect a scotch bonnet to mellow down to the level of an ancho.

With seafood, all the experts say to use only fresh—to eschew frozen. Makes you wonder how the grocery stores sell all that frozen crap. I live in Austin, damned close to the Gulf, and fresh shrimp isn't always available, even here. Sometimes, you just have to decide between doing without and making do with the frozen stuff. In the case of fish, I do without. With shrimp, however, I've found that frozen doesn't necessarily mean bad. If the shrimp is supposed to be pink but looks brown, don't buy it. If it says "tiger shrimp" but looks black in spots, don't buy it. Otherwise, frozen will likely be indistinguishable from fresh.

I like Reggiano parmesan cheese, but I will not tell you that you have to use it in your recipes. Asiago cheese or romano both work fine. That stuff Kraft™ sells in a cylinder is not cheese—it's cheese food. That's the stuff they feed to real cheese. It also tastes a good deal like shredding cardboard with just the subtlest innuendo of motor oil. (Disclaimer: Kraft sells some decent cheeses. This stuff isn't one of 'em.)


Preparation notes

This is a pretty attention-intensive process, so have everything prepped before you begin sautéing. Have your mise squared-away—everything appropriately diced, slided, zested, grated, and readily at hand—or you'll be scrambling to avoid burning the rice. The stock, fumet, or bouillon should be simmering in a pot next to where you plan to make the risotto.

Preheat the olive oil in a large, non-stick skillet over a medium flame. Add the shallot and the garlic and sauté until the shallot just begins to clarify. Pour in the rice and continue to sauté until the rice is uniformly tan.

Pour in the wine and continue to sauté the risotto until the liquid is all either absorbed or evaporated. Ladle in about a quarter cup of broth and sauté as needed to keep the risotto from sticking. Once the broth is fully absorbed, ladle in a bit more. You're going to continue this process until the risotto is al dente, but just before the risotto reaches that ideal doneness (yes, I realize how horribly subjective that sounds) stir in the cayenne. After a minute or so, stir in the shrimp and lemon zest.

It is just barely possible that you will run out of broth before your risotto is quite done (this can happen if the flame is too high, causing the fluid to evaporate faster than the rice can absorb it). If this happens, turn down the flame and continue the ladling process with tap water. Don't worry. You're more likely to have stock left over. If, however, you end up cooking the risotto longer than you expect, do not overcook the shrimp. If the shrimp are done but the rice is not, remove the shrimp (chopsticks work well for this) to a separate bowl until the rice is done.

Once the rice is just al dente, stir in the cream and cheese. Gently stir the risotto until the mixture is creamy, consistent, and steamy. If you had to remove the shrimp, stir them back in now.

Because of the cheese, the risotto will cool slowly, giving a little time to prepare other portions of your meal. I wouldn't wait more than a half hour, though.

Faux risotto

I know I'm just discouraging real cooking with this, but I guess not everyone loves to cook.


dramatis personae

• two tablespoons olive oil


• one medium shallot, thinly sliced


• one small clove garlic, small dice


• ½ teaspoon minced cayenne pepper


• ½ pound medium shrimp


• lemon zest


• ¼ cup whipping cream


• 2 tablespoons grated parmesan cheese


• one cup cooked rice

Quality of ingredients

Everything I said before applies except the rice. For this version, the rice should be long-grain, short-grain, or basmati rice. Princess V and I prefer the rich, nutty taste of basmati (most American long-grain rice tastes like spitwads). Prepare the rice as you usually do (stovetop, microwave, or rice cooker all come out about the same) but substitute chicken broth or stock for the water. Do not use sticky rice preparations like sushi rice.


Preparation

In a non-stick pan, preheat the olive oil and sauté in the cayenne, shallot, and garlic. Once the shallot is translucent, toss in the shrimp and the zest. Sauté the mixture until the shrimp are done.

Mix in the rice and then the cream and cheese. Stir the mixture to blend it and warm the ingredients.

Serve.

The "real" risotto will have a more integrated quality and a richness lacking in this dish, but the faux risotto is a little easier to prepare if you're pressed for time. As for the complexity of the dish, I don't think the difference really makes the faux version worth the lost quality.

Spontaneity: a predictable response

Isn't spontaneity a Wonderful Thing™? Touchstone of creativity, litmus of excitement, spark-plug of desire, and the only possible deterrent to Dullness, according to a former spouse of mine. For the sake of anonymity and in order to prevent litigation and to avoid such clumsy phrases as "my ex-wife" and "that ball-busting bitch," I'll just call the woman in question Ms Take.

So frequently did Ms Take praise spontaneity in creative efforts and denounce predictability in any effort, that I eventually came to realize that she believes spontaneity is creativity. Even logic, in her universe, suffers equation with dullness beside the preferable spontaneity of epiphany, intuition, and revelation. Genius itself, to hear her expound, is unbidden thought. If history books were written according to Ms Take's dicta, Einstein's Theory of Relativity would not be deemed genius—too much calculation—nor would Mozart's Requiem—too many explicit instructions in the commission.

Any time Ms Take wanted to put me down with a quick verbal stroke (i.e., whenever she was losing an argument) she would accuse me of predictability, usually with a shake of her head and a little dismissive chuckle: "Oh, you're so predictable." Boring repetition of meals was deemed predictable (somehow, her favorite ice cream appears to be immune to such categorization). Movies she did not wish to watch for a second time or activities she did not wish to repeat were likewise denounced for their lack of spontaneity. Life with Ms Take meant she could, at any time, decide that any planned activity was not worth her while, simply by virtue of having been planned. This meant any claim such as "We've been preparing for this for months" could be trumped with some Kahlil-Gibran-level dogmatic folderol like "Life is too precious to be thrown away on prepackaged experiences." Wouldn't it be nice if we could call American Airlines at the last minute and argue, "I'm sorry, you have to refund the cost of those tickets in full. The flight plan lacks spontaneity."

The worst aspect of Ms Take's worship at the altar of spontaneity was not, however, her use of predictable, nor was it her use of spontaneity as an appeal to illogic. The worst was its effect on my sex life.

I discovered early in our relationship that maintaining any sex life at all with Ms Take took a bit of concentrated seduction. She was always slow to arouse. For a while, I thought I could handle that. I tried getting the kids out of the house and preparing special meals for her. I tried seducing her in semi-public places. I tried dinner and dancing. I tried sexy clothes. I tried a night out followed by a stay in a nice hotel. I tried blue movies and sex toys.

Lucky me. Nearly every variation I tried worked.

Unlucky me. They only worked once.

If I tried the dinner for two more often than once a month, it bored her. If I tried the hotel stay more than once a year—hadn't we just done that? If I tried the movies or toys too often, I was relying on artificial accoutrements to do the work for me, thereby doubly damning myself as predictable and lazy.

If you think this spontaneity gambit is easy, try coming up with a different seduction every night for—oh, say a month. It saps your strength, dampens your resolve, and probably causes stress-induced halitosis. After a couple of weeks, I would get fed up with trying, beaten down by rejection, my head pounding at the prospect of coming up with yet another brilliant and original ploy for getting Ms Take's juices flowing.

When you're married to Ms Take, you masturbate.

A lot.

[Note to self: some day, when I'm feeling truly pissy toward Ms Take, I must remember to tell her that being married to her made me feel like a teenager.]

Princess V and I never seem to have problems with this matter of repetition. Oh, sure, repetition of even the sweatiest wild-animal sex acts could get old after a while—if it were the only act we entertained. The point is moot, however, since that's never been the case in any of my relationships. I like variety. During sex, I usually want to do everything, all at once. We shift, change places, swap rôles, romp around (assuming no one's tied down), and generally have a great time. Sometimes, we do run through the same set of variants over and over again for several nights running. Does this constitute a lack of spontaneity? I would argue that it actually does not (if for no other reason than the simple finite range of human sexual experience). Okay, on a grand scale it might: no spontaneity in relying on the same set of maneuvers. On a granular scale, though, we're not relying on a script. Nothing says which act goes when or how many times each is repeated.

When you're married to Ms Take, you also learn to let her fix most of her own meals. I put up with the sexual dysfunction a lot longer than the gustatory demands. All it took was hearing, "Didn't we just have this?" about one of my meals to quell any pride I'd previously held in preparing her dinners.

Princess V and the kids have favorite meals. The girlchild is always happy to get oyster beef with broccoli. The boychild loves carne guisada. Every Thursday, when boychild goes off to spend the night with his mom, we have shrimp (or scallops or lobster—boychild won't eat these), which always makes Princess V smile. Nobody wants the same meal every night, nor do they want the same dessert every time.

Still, I must admit, I've never heard anyone whine, "Chocolate soufflé again?" Somehow, I don't expect to.

Chocolate soufflé

dramatis personae

• special equipment: double boiler, mixer, dessert ramekins


• some granulated sugar


• some unsalted butter


• 6 ounces semi-sweet chocolate


• 3 tablespoons amaretto


• ¼ cup heavy whipping cream


• five extra-large egg whites


• four extra-large egg yolks


• ½ teaspoon cream of tartar

quality of ingredients

Which chocolate? Hell, you got me. Real chocolate, certainly. Molding chocolate tastes like candle wax. I buy the baking chocolate squares, but I've also used Nestle's™ chips. It's easier to measure the squares (one square equals one ounce), but the measurement isn't really critical. I know that six ounces works. I also know that a couple hands full of chips works. Semi-sweet seems about the best level of sugar for most of us. I've used bittersweet chocolate for mousses, but I want a little more sweetness in my soufflés.

I don't know much about amaretto, but I have used DiSaronno and the cheaper stuff. The cheaper stuff disappears, leaving nary a hint of almond. The DiSaronno adds a rich, warm flavor.

Most cookbooks assume that an egg is a large egg. I use extra-large eggs. If you want to use large eggs, you'll probably want five yolks and six whites.

When separating yolks and white, I recommend you do so with your (clean) bare hands: just let the white slips through your fingers. You're less likely to break the yolks in your hands than while juggling back and forth between jagged eggshells.


notes on preparation

Prep six individual ramekins (I think mine hold about a half cup of liquid, but I honestly haven't measured—personal dessert size) as follows:

1. Coat the inside of each ramekin with butter.


2. Pour some sugar (roughly two tablespoons—you know: some) into one ramekin and swirl it around to coat the bottom.


3. Slowly pour the sugar out of the first ramekin into a second ramekin while turning the first ramekin to coat the sides completely with sugar.


4. Repeat this swirl and pour-while-turning method until all six ramekins are coated with sugar-frosted butter.


5. Put the ramekins in the top shelf of your fridge.

This ritual is not to make the ramekins easier to clean. Without this coating, the soufflés will stick at the sides and collapse.

Melt the chocolate in a double boiler. Add the amaretto while the chocolate is melting. Once the chocolate is more or less liquefied (with the amaretto, it will tend to glaze over) stir in the cream. Keep stirring until you have a thick but uniformly syrupy consistency. Keep it over a low simmer while you prepare the egg whites.

Preheat the oven to 350F.

Add the cream of tartar to the egg whites and beat them until they're stiff.

Pour the chocolate mixture into the egg yokes and, with a fork, beat the mixture to a uniform consistency and color. Fold in the egg whites approximately a third at a time. The trick here, as with any recipe that calls for folding, is to avoid crushing all the air out of the whites while mixing the concoction as thoroughly as possible.

Decision point: one aspect of chocolate soufflés that I find truly astonishing is that the recipe is identical to my recipe for mousse. If you'd prefer chocolate mousse, turn off the oven, put the concoction in the fridge for about an hour to let it thicken slightly, and then take it out and fold it thoroughly, again, to even out the consistency (it will be thinner at the center). Pour the chocolate mousse mixture into separate goblets. Put the goblets in the refrigerator and allow them to chill for another two or three hours.

Meanwhile, back at the soufflé

Once the oven is ready, remove the ramekins from the fridge, arrange them evenly on a cookie sheet, and fill each with a portion of the soufflé mixture. Put the cookie sheet on a rack above the center of the oven and let them bake for about 16 minutes. At this time, the soufflés will have risen a good inch or more above the rim of the ramekins.

Sweet soufflés collapse faster than savory soufflés, so you'll want to serve these immediately. I place each individual ramekin inside another bowl so the kids won't burn their fingers.

Rave reviews

(Here's a real leap: Howard Dean to halibut. Keep your eyes open for the subtle segue.)

Last night I did not prepare dinner. Instead, we went to hear Howard Dean speak at the Saltillo Plaza in East Austin. I had been impressed the first time I heard him (on a teeeeeny little mpeg screen playing a portion of a California Democratic rally), and I hoped that my first impression was more than just a fluke. I was not disappointed. What a firebrand. Princess V also seemed to enjoy Governor Dean's speech.

I was impressed first by the fact that Howard Dean manages to make a complex problem (the need to repeal an outlandish tax cut in the face of an equally outlandish federal deficit) fairly simple to understand on a personal level. Even many of the pro-Bush halfwits understand that creating a huge federal deficit is a bad thing, but few voters of any political stamp seem to perceive deficit growth as an immediate (hey, interest rates are the lowest they've ever been) or personal (my salary isn't going down and inflation is nil) problem. They seem to buy the NeoCon argument that any portion of the deficit not overcome by the financial gains made possible by extra expendible income will be eliminated by the eventual, concomitant, and (they are certain) necessary reduction in social support programs. If you want to sell the country on the need to repeal a tax cut (which the Republican's will spin as "raising everyone's taxes"), you have to point out how the individual will gain from the repeal. I think Governor Dean struck the right chord last night in explaining that the Bush tax cut for the wealthy will mean higher property taxes (to say nothing of higher sales taxes and state taxes for everyone). The federal deficit has already reared its ugly head in 9 of 10 of the United States in the form of lost federal aid resulting in growing state budgetary deficits. The states have to make up this money somewhere.

Governor Dean's position is simple: you might see $500 dollars back in the form of a tax cut, but you'll lose that and more in other places.

I was further impressed to see that Howard Dean does not shy away from convictions that the NeoCon hacks have so frequently turned to slurs in the past: pacifist, liberal, social reformer. Dean unabashedly supports a woman's right to choose, argues for gay rights, and preaches a national health-care program. He projects a forceful, almost belligerent energy that almost dares any potential opponent to call him a liberal or socialist. His arguments are compelling and concise. His pronouncements are lucid and fiery.

Governor Dean stumbled a bit at the outset, trying to find something pleasant to say about the young state representative's admittedly unimpressive introduction. He recovered quickly, however, and had the crowd with him in short order. He also made good use of well-placed references to Truman, whom Governor Dean resembles in size, temperment, and politics.

I was surprised that Governor Dean managed, in Texas, to compare Texas—unfavorably— to Vermont without losing any of his audience. Texans tend to be a universally proud, self-righteous bunch (see also Statewide Inferiority Complex). Of course, considering recent disillusionment with Texas state legislation and administration, especially among Democrats, and considering this was an audience of Democrats hungry for solutions, I guess it shouldn't surprise me that this comparison worked. Instead of "Why should we give a rat's ass what a bunch of New Englanders do?" Dean managed to stir up a "Why don't we have what they have?" fervor.

He had the audience by the wrists. That audience.

Of course, there is that matter of audience.

We all—all the Democrats present at last night's rally—went to hear Howard Dean because we feel disenfranchised, trapped in a quasi-religious, quasi-police state of quasi-American ideals. We've watched in horror as our President declared war on another country based on something he thought we should fear that they might do—if they could. We have heard a justice of the Supreme Court of the United States shrug off civil and human rights violations as expedient. This is fast becoming a scary place to live. The NeoCons are on the verge of demolishing Roe vs. Wade, have begun pounding nails into the coffin of Affirmative Action, and are bankrupting the states in order to make rich scum richer. We went to the rally, last night, because we want a solid, reliable option for this next presidential election, and we hope that Governor Dean is that option.

We also went because, to some degree, we've all heard the pipes already. Most of the attendees already know of Howard Dean, primarily via the Internet. Our attendance was not motivated by a desire to hear yet another candidate speak; we did not go seeking options. We went to confirm our collective choice. We went to demonstrate to ourselves that we had made a good choice. Most of the attendees last night signed the petition to put Howard Dean on the Democratic ballot. Most. I don't know the numbers, but it was obvious that the majority were heading straight for the petition tables when they arrived.

Thus, most of us cheered when we heard Governor Dean championing the causes we expected to hear him champion. We laughed at his jokes at the expense of the Not-So-Loyal Opposition because we agree with the sentiment. We let his fire spark our own. We left in jubilance and walked off with a hopeful swing, smug in the knowledge of the rightness of our decision to support the man from Vermont.

I distrust smugness. Even my own.

Especially my own.

I don't want to become complacent and start praising this candidate simply because I chose to follow him. I don't want to blind myself to the possibility that he is not the right man for the job. Am I deluding myself? Is it simply impossible for anyone so liberal that he would sign the Civil Unions Act into law—is it impossible for so liberal a man to be elected to the highest office in this land? Is it possible, no matter how you word it, to win that election telling the American public up front that you want to repeal a huge tax cut? Am I hearing what I think I'm hearing or what I want to hear?

I see a Howard Dean who is forceful and persuasive, but he has openly—some would say ferociously—attacked the other politicians running against him for the Democratic nomination. Has he made too many enemies to make an effective run for President if he gets the nomination? If he defeats them, will the Kerrys and Grahams and Gephardts support him? Will that support be more than lukewarm? Am I seeing a junkyard dog and calling him a noble guardian?

As with smugness, I tend to distrust praise. Spin colors it, even unintentional, incidental, and habitual spin.

Especially unintentional, incidental, and habitual spin.

I am fortunate in having, for my cooking, a captive audience. Princess V does not care for cooking, and the Little Darlings are too young to fend for themselves. They're pretty much stuck with whatever Dad serves. For this reason, I tend to examine carefully the praise I receive— especially from loved ones.

I don't want anyone (especially my family) to think I don't appreciate the praise. I like my strokes as much as anyone else, and I have a big enough ego to nurture a fantasy that I deserve at least some of it. I also know that my family's praise for my cooking is not simply a matter of them being stuck with it and having to make the best of it. I know that I'm a better than average cook. Frankly, I'm damned proud of some of my culinary skills (tsk, there's that creeping smugness, again). I also know that I'm my own worst critic. Princess V still shakes her head and smiles when I start the nightly postprandial debriefing cum deconstruction.

Still, I think it's important to be able to tell the difference between light praise from the family ("That was good.") and effusive praise ("Wow! Can we have this all the time?"). I welcome the light praise, but I really strive for the other. A fine example is the main dishes from Saturday and Sunday of this weekend. Saturday, as I previously reported, I served twice-seared prime rib in red bean paste. Everyone said it was good. I was thoroughly unimpressed. I also didn't hear any requests to repeat the effort.

Sunday night's offering was seared halibut with blackberry-wasabi wine reduction. The thick halibut filet provided a fresh and beautiful beginning, and the sauce was nearly a home run hit. I served the halibut atop sautéed slices of 1015 onions (translation for non-Texans: 1015s are a seasonal Texas treasure, similar to Vidalia sweet onions), which was a minor mistake (only the girlchild and I ate the onion slices—nice flavor but the wrong texture—haricots verts would have made a better bed). I could also have improved the sauce slightly by straining out the blackberry seeds, but they were a minor inconvenience.

In addition to the flavor and the praise, I enjoy meals like this because they are both sumptuous and simple. Here, then, minus the bed, is my latest effusive-praiseworthy dinnertime creation:

Seared halibut with blackberry wasabi wine reduction

dramatis personae

• 1 lb halibut fillet


• 2 tablespoons olive oil


• 1 cup cabernet sauvignon


• two tablespoons blackberry jelly


• pinch of kosher salt


• two tablespoons butter


• one tablespoon wasabi paste

quality of ingredients

I discussed freshness of fish a few days ago (Friday, June 6). To my comments about salmon I will add two points about halibut: (1) the flesh should be nearly snow white (not quite as white as Chilean sea bass, but whiter than most cod) and (2) for searing or grilling, you want the fillets to be as thick as possible, at least an inch thick. An inch and a half is better.

For general purpose cooking, I use extra virgin olive oil. I prefer Colavita, but you should experiment with different olive oils and pick one that suits your taste. Olive oils vary widely in flavor and some do not hold up well to cooking. I have known cooks who stocked two olive oils: one for cooking, one for salads. Whatever olive oil you choose, be sure it is consistent from bottle to bottle. The trend of late among Food Network cooks has been to tout canola oil for cooking, based on the claim that it does not flavor the food. I have not found this to be correct. Canola oil, to me, imparts a plasticky taste to delicate foods. If I want something lighter in flavor than olive oil (or with a higher smoke point) I use peanut oil. Yes, I am aware that Andrew Weil thinks we should all live in terror of transfatty and cisfatty acids, but I've yet to see any research finding any actual danger from either substance. More to the point, I do not take dietary advice from fat guys.

The red wine is for cooking. It doesn't have to be expensive. On the other hand, if it's too sour or too thin, it will make a shitty sauce. So-called "cooking wine" is far too watered down. You'd have to reduce two bottles of that trash to get a decent sauce. Get a nice table-quality cabernet. Should cost less than seven bucks a bottle.

Blackberry jelly. Well, if you want to be hardcore about this, you could reduce a half pint of fresh berries and then separate the pulp from the seeds by pressing it through a strainer. I do this for blackberry soufflés. The process will add an hour to your cooking time, leave you with sore hands, and not make a noticeable difference in your sauce. Blackberry jelly works fine. Just be sure the jelly has a good, stout berry flavor and is not overly sweet.

I love real wasabi, but it's about as plentiful in the US as hens' teeth. The paste from powder works fine. Yeah, I know, it's actually just horseradish and spirulina, but it works. If you can find the real thing—I hate you.

I probably shouldn't have to say this, but butter means butter. There is no such thing as a butter-substitute or butter lite. This sauce, for flavor and consistency, requires two tablespoons of real, unapologetic, honest-to-arteriosclerotic-plaque butter.


notes on preparation

Nothing to it. Leaving the skin on and intact, carefully slice the filet into four approximately equal portions. Check to be sure the flesh is devoid of bones and scales.

Pour the wine and blackberry jelly into a small or sauce pan. Bring this concoction to a high simmer and reduce it, stirring occasionally, to a syrupy consistency (ten minutes? maybe twenty?).

When the sauce is nearly reduced, in a separate non-stick saucepan, preheat the olive oil. Place the fillet quarters in the hot oil, skin side down. Cook the fish on medium heat until the fish is done about a third of the way through. Turn one piece of the fish over very carefully (you want the pieces intact, and cooked halibut becomes increasingly flaky). Remove the skin by slipping a sharp knife between the skin and the flesh and working it gently from side to side. I suppose you can lift the skin with the knife or a pair of chopsticks or tongs. I use my fingers (yes, you can burn the hell out of yourself doing this, especially if you touch a particularly oily spot). Do this quickly. You want to cook the fleshy side a little but you don't want to brown it. Turn the piece back over to brown the skin side (the side that used to have skin). Repeat this step for the other three pieces. Once the skin side is nice and brown and just a tiny bit crunchy, remove the fish to a bowl and cover it. The fish will continue to cook a bit in the bowl, but you don't want it to cool (cooled fish oils taste and smell unpleasant).

Add the butter in to the reduced blackberry and wine concoction to mount the sauce. Once the butter is all mixed in, turn off the fire and stir in the wasabi.

Plate the fish pieces individually (as I said, next time, I plan to plate these guys on a bed of haricots verts) and pour a tablespoon or so of sauce over each slice. The sauce provides a good balance of sweet, tart, winy, and piquant, and the balance of browned and medium rare halibut is flavorful enough to assert itself through the sauce.

This dish gets rave reviews (yeah, I know, too easy).

Nitrogen deprivation

This weekend started badly for the Prince. My ex-wife, ever the Ball-Busting Bitch Queen, chewed me out via email for changing our son's camp schedule this week without first obtaining her approval. When I proved to her (by returning copies of her own earlier messages) that we had not changed his schedule, that she had agreed to the schedule, she admitted she was wrong and blamed her lapse on lingering grief problems (her mother died a few months back). I tried to be polite in my response and attempted to commiserate; she and her fiancé have recently moved into a huge, largely unfinished spread east of the city, they've been attempting to push their vision of some sort of planned community out there, their Big Wedding is coming up at the end of this month, and she has a lot of family coming—all, in my opinion, potential sources of stress.

Her reply? I had failed in my lame attempt to empathize (I hate that word—a sure sign that the speaker has been in counseling far too long. I, being a rational human being, was attempting to sympathize. Empathy is only possible in science fiction novels.) by failing to recite the litany that would reify her belief that she is suffering from grief-induced stupidity. Such a repetition, according to this month's edition of the Rules That Only She Knows, qualifies as validation; failure to reiterate qualifies as devaluation. I keep forgetting that I am such an unfeeling bastard.

What's more, by telling her that we expected her to stick to the usual schedule last week (they pick up our son on Thursday from school or camp and keep him until late Saturday, a schedule she created to avoid becoming just a weekend parent), we had "dropped the 'regular school schedule' pick up plans" on her just a week earlier. Okay, I can see that Princess V and I were assuming that the schedule was not going to change, and I understand that some people immediately see any assumption as erroneous. In this case, though, since the schedule has remained essentially the same for over a year— through school changes, camps, vacations, and address changes—why should we expect this instance to be different?

All of this post-marital-trauma is incidental, however. The real tragedy was the heavy rains late in the week, which made diving the lake a pretty bad idea. Visibility in Lake Travis frequently goes up (a Good Thing™) immediately following a rain storm, but after a couple of days of heavy rain, it always goes down. After the previous Saturday's dive—in which we found the visibility to be rather pea-soupish above 70 feet and clear but too damned cold below 70 feet—I didn't see any point in renting tanks and humping our gear up to the lake just to spend an hour wallowing in the mud.

Perhaps I should have gone anyway. Now, despite a weekend of much joyous wild-animal sex with Princess V, I sense a distinct hiatus in this weekend's recuperative activities. I miss the weekly nitrogen narcosis fix. A year ago, I would have argued that even a cold, murky dive is better than none. Any more, I'm not so sure. I'm sure part of the problem is just that our wetsuits are getting old and compressed, and I've always had a low tolerance to the cold (low body fat content looks good in trunks but doesn't offer much insulation), but I'm finding that I have a lessening tolerance for consistently low visibility and low fish population density (that's low population density of fish, not population density of low fish).

I enjoy following channel cats and carp around, suddenly coming upon a black bass as long as my forearm or a saucer-eyed crappie (they always appear suspended between attitudes of baddest-dog-on-the-block machismo and chihuahua terror). I enjoy toying with the tiny minds of the bream, who so ferociously attack stray locks of hair and ear lobes and dropped bits of streamer, and will belligerently shove their tiny pug noses right up against the tempered glass of my mask. I particularly like special surprises like the rare sightings of schooling striped bass hybrids or shoals of catfish fry or yard-long opelousas catfish who lie on the bottom under ledges looking like beady-eyed death and decay. When the water is warm enough at depth, I love the feeling of swimming along a wall at 80 feet with a black abyss below and the croak of the freshwater drum thrumming through the murk. It looks and feels like hovering through a canyon at night, like a constant, wordless reiteration of, "Ah, so this is flight."

Lately, though, the lake just isn't enough. I'm jaded. I want deep, warm, blue water. I want Caribbean reefs, sharks, rays, and the abyss of purest blue tumbling off into ultraviolet. I want the salt burning my lips as I soar past scarlet soldier fish and gaping green morays. I want to play hide-and-seek with the scorpion fish and peacock flounders and—who knows—maybe finally spot a frogfish. I want the deep and the blue and the sea.

At least I have Princess V to console me, my love and support, my balm and favorite toy. No matter what upsets me, I always come back around to asking myself, "What right have you to complain? You married a woman who meets and exceeds all of your sexual fantasies. How many other men your age—men of any age—get laid every night?"

Ah, the consolation of riotous, slippery sexual frenzy. Blogger rules pretty well prevent my providing any details of this weekend's sexual diversions. I can't tell you about all the interesting positions we tried, who spanked whom, who got tied to the bed, who nibbled what body parts, who penetrated whom with what appendages and sex toys, or to what sensitive spots vibrating electrical appliances were applied. Then again, if you consider that no animals, spectators, or extraneous players were employed, I guess I've about covered the bases.

As always, I attempted to fill the blank spaces of this weekend with meals. Saturday evening was a bit of a bust. I was craving steak and attempted a seared rib-eye with red bean paste. It came out a bit too sweet for my taste. Everybody ate it, but I would not call the response a rave review. For side dishes, I served seared potato slabs with sautéed shallots and Aspiration with trumpet mushrooms. The potatoes were successful. For the other vegetable dish, I screwed up just about everything.

I like Aspiration, but it really needs to be sautéed. I steamed it. It was cooked but still too crisp and, though sweet, it needed something extra. I had sprinkled it with ginger oil, but that just made it less palatable to the kids. The mushrooms I sliced top to bottom. That cut works great for maitaake or porcini mushrooms—even for white button or cremini—for trumpets this is a huge mistake. Trumpet mushrooms are too fibrous; they need to be sliced across the stems. I had originally intended to dry-sear the mushroom slices in a non-stick pan, but I was afraid they would taste too dry that way, so I sautéed them in butter. Big mistake. This treatment left them with a texture like soggy linen thread.

The potatoes, on the other hand, were a big hit. This is the second variation I've tried on what I call seared potato slabs.

Seared potato slabs

dramatis personae

• one golfball sized shallot (or two 12-in diameter scallions)


• tablespoon of parsley, frisséed


• 3 or 4 size C Yukon Gold potatoes


• two cups of water


• two tablespoons olive oil


• teaspoon kosher salt


• dash of fresh-ground pepper

instructions

This is so easy, I would not be surprised to hear a chorus of, "Oh, yeah, I do that."

1. Prepare the shallot or scallions:
   
   
   
   1. slice the shallot (or the pair of scallions) across the axis of the bulb, about an eighth of an inch thick
   
   
   2. preheat a teaspoon or two of olive oil
   
   
   3. sauté the shallot (or whatever it is) until just clarified
   
   
   4. set these aside in a small bowl or cup for later
   
   
   5. mix in the parsley
   
   
   
   


2. slice the potatoes into ½ in. thick slabs, skin on, and discard the rounded ends


3. fill a non-stick frying pan (I use an omelet pan) half-full of water (yes, you anal-retentive pessimists may fill it half-empty)


4. place the potato slabs in the pan of water so that all are covered with water and none are stacked


5. heat the water to boiling and then turn it down just a bit (vigorous boiling might damage the skins)


6. parboil the potatoes until just tender (test with a toothpick to avoid damaging the slabs)—about ten minutes, I guess


7. carefully remove the slabs from the water with a nylon spatula


8. dump out the water and replace it with the remaining olive oil


9. heat the olive oil (medium heat) just to the point of smoking and then gingerly return the slabs to the pan


10. fry the slabs, turning them frequently (but carefully—they're still a bit delicate) until they're golden brown (okay, actually, I prefer golden with a uniform smattering of golden brown for character)


11. season the slabs with kosher salt and pepper while they're frying


12. plate the slabs with a sprinkling of the prepared shallots or scallions (or, okay, cipollini or leeks or red boiler onions or whatever fires your jets)

These things are kid-friendly, but my experience suggests the scallions are more kid-friendly than the shallot. I prefer the shallot, but the Little Darlings™ scraped it off and left it on the sides of their plates. I've served the potato slabs to the girlchild once with the scallions. Those she ate.