le sauce

weekend class: roasted beet and blood orange salad

weekend class = learning a thing or two about cooking and dining well. techniques, ingredients, recipes projects that definitely need to be tackled on the weekend. the result? weekend-class fare, of course.

There is a place for salads in winter. A particular kind of salad, and one that you are not likely to want or have in the summer. This type of salad in question is confident and outspoken.

It is sometimes late-Friday-night surly, all tangy and a touch bitter, and sometimes it is Sunday-dinner filling, with all kinds of carbs and proteins landing with a thud in your bowl. And when the salad involves roasting ingredients, you almost always restrict it's invitation to winter, don't you? This recipe I'm sharing is not my creation but one I was compelled to make this winter, and one I reserved for weekend cooking because while easy to make, there are several components. A couple of recipes within this recipe. The resulting salad is definitely as brazen as the winter salads I described. Powerful. Violent even--the dressing at least. 

Well look at it. That is violent pink if I ever saw it and wait until you taste it. It's not for the timid and in my opinion, it can't really share the table with anything other than a docile piece of bread. My appreciation of the sharp-as-a-scolding dressing was aqcuired over many bites. I teetered on not liking it, but the enthusiastic acceptance and praise by everyone else at the table (a diverse group, too) helped me see its finer points. It saved the salad from being that fine but all too common roasted beet and nut salad you still see on all too many menus. And though I'm not one of those people that thinks every star ingredient needs a foil, this vinaigrette which gets it's kick from raw shallots is a nice partner for those beets, if--and this is what I will do differently next time--you dress the salad as you go. The amount on the beets alone, and maybe a splash off a fork thrown from a distance, is all I'd need on my greens on a normal day. If you're feeling like you can go head to head with a stronger salad, get as surly as you want, I'll get right out of your way.

This salad is from that great cookbook that I was gifted recently, and the recipe is from that awesome restaurant in Brooklyn I raved about--the one where I had that killer other salad that spawned this recipe. I think it's worth checking making while you still feel like roasting vegetables. Oh--and do not waste that garlic that the recipe has you roast for the sole purpose of infusing the beets. Much less violent than anything above, you need to spread those cloves on hot, buttered baguette and sprinkle with sea salt and the roasted rosemary too for the garlic bread of your fantasies.

cauliflower in a leek cream sauce

 

I said cream right in the title or this "recipe", if you can call it that, so don't be shocked with how idulgent it is, please. To be even more straightforward, this is tender cream-coloured cauliflower, tossed in warmed cream flavoured with the pale parts of leeks softned in creamy butter. So we're clear. Decadent, if dangerous, and worth it.

(See how this recipe fits into an indulgent deep-winter dinner party menu.)

banana cream pie

 

The reason this recipe even made it into my dinner party is because you can make almost all of it the day before. Being someone who often forgets to think of dessert when planning a menu, and someone with a healthy fear of from-scratch dough, I wouldn't advise you to take this on if I thought it would be more trouble than it was worth or that it would cause too much stress. But the truth is, it's kind of perfect for when you have company coming over, since there's only 5 minutes of pre-serving work, which is nice since a finishing touch before serving seems to add an air of specialness, I think (a little fluffing and primping before showtime) and, honestly, I can't imagine going to the effort of making this pie, easy but time-consuming, unless it was a special occasion like a dinner party.  It's for when you're pulling out all the stops.

Oh and about the final result? It's the most banana-y banana cream pie ever, and the only thing I might change next time, is to try it without a chocolate crust, because I just wanted the banana flavour to sing even louder. I wished I had more. I wish I'd spent more time caramelizing the top with a torch, but I was too anxious to split this open, building as I had been, on and off for a whole day. Please make this when you invite me over. I'll bring very, very good port to serve with.

(See how this recipe fits into an indulgent deep-winter dinner party menu.)

Banana Cream Pie with Whole Grain Chocolate Crust
(Via Bon Appetit)

Filling
1/2 cup sugar
2 tablespoons unbleached all purpose flour
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 cups whole milk
4 large egg yolks
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, diced
1 tablespoon dark rum

Crust
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1/3 cup (2 ounces) bittersweet chocolate chips
1/4 cup unbleached bread flour
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
2 tablespoons sugar
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter, diced
2 tablespoons orange juice
1 tablespoon (or more) ice water
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
7 bananas (about), peeled
Additional sugar
Whipped cream (optional)
Chocolate sprinkles (optional)

Filling
Whisk first 4 ingredients in heavy medium saucepan until no lumps remain. Gradually whisk in milk. Add yolks; whisk to blend. Scrape in seeds from vanilla bean; add bean. Whisk over medium-high heat until pastry cream thickens and boils 1 minute, about 8 minutes total. Remove from heat; whisk in butter and rum. Remove vanilla bean. Transfer mixture to bowl; press plastic wrap onto surface. Chill until firm, at least 4 hours. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 day ahead. Keep chilled.

Crust
Combine first 7 ingredients in processor. Blend until finely ground. Transfer to large bowl. Using fork, cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Mix orange juice, 1 tablespoon ice water, and vanilla in small bowl. Sprinkle over chocolate mixture, tossing until dough comes together in clumps and adding more water by tablespoonfuls if dry. Using floured hands, gather dough into ball; flatten into disk. Wrap; chill dough at least 2 hours and up to 1 day.

Preheat oven to 375°F. Spray 9-inch-diameter glass pie dish (including rim) with nonstick spray. Roll out dough between 2 sheets of parchment paper to 12-inch round. Peel off top parchment. Using bottom parchment as aid, turn dough over into prepared dish. Peel off parchment. Fold overhang under and crimp crust edges decoratively. Pierce crust all over with fork; freeze 10 minutes.

Line crust with foil; fill with dried beans. Bake crust 20 minutes. Remove foil with beans. Continue to bake crust until dry and firm to touch, about 10 minutes longer. Cool crust completely on rack.

Spread 1 cup pastry cream over bottom of crust. Slice enough bananas into 1/4-inch-thick rounds to cover cream in overlapping circles. Cover bananas with remaining pastry cream. DO AHEAD Can be made 6 hours ahead. Cover and chill.

Slice 3 (or more) bananas on slight diagonal into 1/4-inch-thick ovals. Arrange in overlapping circles atop pie. Sprinkle with sugar. Caramelize, if desired, using handheld torch. Alternatively, cover bananas with whipped cream, sprinkle with chocolate sprinkles, and garnish with additional banana slices.

first taste: hot cocoa in the murry kitchen

Childhood picture books, stories and TV shows that depicted food and dining made a real impression on me. Illustrations of steaming bowls of pasta or a piece of toast smothered in purple jam gave me my first taste of foods I'd yet to try, and are sometimes still the archetypes I hold food up to today. Instead of simply reminisce, I'm going to bring those dishes to life the way I imagined they'd be.

On a dark, stormy night, on her journey to the kitchen from her cold attic room, Meg had time to get down on herself about everything from her mousy appearance, to her IQ level to her recent scrap with bullies at school. This girl needed a drink! She knew it, and decided on hot cocoa. That this was a romantic choice, for a young girl, chilled, a little scared and a lot bummed out, was only part of the appeal to me as I read those opening pages in A Wrinkle in Time. There was also the accepted adult-ness of the whole situation, because who should be heating up milk in anticipation of both Meg and her mother showing up in the kitchen in need of some, but the "baby brother" of the family, Charles Wallace, wise and weirdly intuitive beyond any human's years. He goes on to offer to make Mrs. Murray a liverwurst and cream cheese sandwich and Meg a tomato sandwich but they had me at hot cocoa. 

Don't get me wrong, I loved every page of the popular sci-fi novel and I still do. (I just downloaded the audio book read by the author, Madeline L'Engle herself. There were parts that still scared me when I listened before bed. "There is such a thing as a Tesseract!") But it was the first "scene" hooked me, no question. The idea that you could wake up in the night and have a luxurious snack--that you could dirty a pan at that hour to boil milk for cocoa (how much?? who had cocoa powder at the ready? I'd have to work for months to first explain to my parents that it was the opposite of Nestlé Quick, that no, microwaved chocolate milk would not cut it and then try to source it because there was no way their half-hearted wild goose chase would be successful. And God help me if it was expensive...), and that your family would join you instead of chasing you back to bed yelling about the hour and rising early for school/jobs in the morning--that was fantasy I ate up as much as any other part of the book.

I don't blame my parents for not knowing what hot cocoa really was, how to make it, or how it differed from hot chocolate which was a little more widely known (read: marketed). I had a chalky mug or two of cocoa that I tried to enjoy (read: use to transport me to the Murry's kitchen and their entire messed up, brilliant, multi-time+space-dimensioned adventures). But we can do better today. 

First, on hot cocoa, CHOW notes the same, that while "...hot cocoa is sublime. At its worst, it’s chalky, watery, and too sweet. This version, provided by François Payard, of François Payard Bakery in New York, is definitely in the former category: so creamy, rich, and chocolaty that it’s a suitable stand-in for dessert.

2 tablespoons cocoa powder (such as Weiss)
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup whole milk
Granulated sugar, to taste

Bring chocolate powder, fresh cream, and milk to a boil; stir; and pour in a cup. Add sugar if desired.

Note: For a lighter version, use 1/3 cup fresh cream and 2/3 cup skim milk."

And An Enlightened Palate adds: "Hot cocoa lacks the creaminess and luscious mouthfeel of  a cup of hot chocolate, but it is more concentrated and has a more chocolaty taste...there is less vegetable fat (natural cocoa butter) in the cocoa than there is in shaved chocolate...fat coats the palate and minimizes flavor."

And offers a different method (note the technique):

2 teaspoons dutched cocoa powder ( we prefer dutched process cocoa because we feel that these cocoa powders have a deeper flavor, darker color and a smoother texture that blends flawlessly in hot beverages.)
2 teaspoons sugar
2 tablespoons cream, not heated
6 ounces boiling water

Optional: whipped cream or mini marshmallows for garnish

Place the cocoa powder and sugar into a mug and mix well. Add the cream and stir into a smooth paste. Add the boiling water and stir until the mixture is smooth and well blended. Ladle the hot cocoa into a mug and garnish if desired.

And, though this wasn't a contest, there is a winning technique in my mind. An Enlightened Pallette's method resulted in the best cup of cocoa I've ever had--the blend and pour method made for a deliciously creamy cocoa and it came together in seconds with water from a kettle and no pot to stand over. It was perfection with just one tweak that I would add to either recipe...

...a tiny sprinkle of salt.

Charles Wallace probably saw that coming.

...

I thought of Katherine, whose illustrations you've seen here in the past, as soon as I wrote this post. I hoped she would agree to bring Meg and the Murry kitchen to life and I hope you love her illustrations in this piece as much as I do. For more of her delicious illustrations, check out Drawn and Devoured.

...

re-baking: custards (& flans)

People say that mistakes made in the kitchen lead to great recipes. Don't they? I feel like they say that. That hasn't often been true for me, however. Mistakes lead to burns on my arms. But this time, my procrastination and faulty memory combined to make a successful(?) mistake. I forgot to get light rum for this custard recipe and was left with no choice but to use some Sauternes that remained from a previous recipe I'd tested. I've made the custard here twice now with rum once, then Sauternes and while both were enjoyable, I'd say Sauternes is deinitely the way to go. The sweetness is beautiful but more than that, the flavour of the Sauternes is postively made to be paired with vanilla beans--I will remember this every time I think of one or the other from now on.

Every time I've tried my hand at custards and flans for the le sauce baking academy, I see that the rewards are quite worth the effort. No dough to roll out, little more to do than mix and pour, and you end up with a lovely texture (silky throughout or, depending on the custard, a covetable pudding "skin" as seen above). I still don't know if I'm sure on the difference between custards and flans but you still have time to help me figure it out. As usual, with these baking academy posts, please leave and learning, tips and other comments here and help me figure all of this out--thank you!

La Tarte (Vanilla Custard)*

YS note: This recipe first appeared in Saveur magazine (though I can no longer find it on their site) as Vanilla-Rum Custard. It originally called for rum and a much shorter cooking time. I've made it twice, in different ovens each time and with both liquers. I find Sauternes is lovely in place of rum, and that this definitely needs the longer cooking time that's noted below.

3/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
4 eggs, beaten
1 vanilla bean, seeds scraped and reserved
4 cups heavy cream
5 tbsp. Sauternes

Heat oven to 300°. In a bowl, whisk together sugar, salt, eggs, and vanilla. Whisk in cream and Sauternes. Transfer mixture to a 3-qt. baking dish; set inside a roasting pan. Put pan on oven rack; pour boiling water into pan to come halfway up sides of dish. Bake until slightly loose in center, 60-70 minutes. Remove dish from pan; chill until set.

Serves 8-10

LS baking academy: biscuits & scones

(sun-dried tomato, comté and tarragon scones, to be specific)

You know I welcome the chance to turn a sweet recipe savoury, but with the recipes I make for the le sauce baking academy, it's not always that easy. When I chose to focus on biscuits and scones, I knew I had my chance. I came across a scone recipe on Chocolate and Zucchini, and though that version with cheese and dried pears sounded lovely, I opted to tweak it to one that I'd find even more satisfying. It may not be a scone you eat at breakfast, but then again, why not? I have, twice this week. It's not overly complex--the sun-dried tomatoes are minced so you never trip over a chewy piece, and the tarragon adds an essence more than a strong flavour. Comté is, well, comté, it is bold. But that's what you want in a cheesy scone. 

 

And though this was my first time making scones, I can already see why everyone regards them as easy. No machinery, no real kneading, you sort of just coax the dough together. In the end, you have that familiar biscuit/scone texture: dense yet layered with an outside only slightly crisp. The fact that I felt I could play around with the recipe my first time out is indicative of how un-intimidating this is. But that doesn't mean that I don't want to hear from those of you who make scones every weekend!

This is, after all, the le sauce baking academy where those of us who can't, rely on those of you who do. Please leave tips about and links to your scone or biscuit pursuits in the comments on this post, and I'll be back on October 5 with a follow-up post and recipe based on that learning and more scone exploration. Thanks! 

Sun-dried Tomato, Comté and Tarragon Scones 
(Adapted from More from ACE Bakery via Chocolate and Zucchini)

180 g (1 1/3 c) all-purpose flour
3/4 tsp baking powder
Pinch of ground cayenne pepper (or better yet, piment d'Espelette)
3/4 tsp kosher salt
75 g (6 tbs) unsalted butter, diced
85 g (1 c) coarsely grated comté (or another aged firm cheese like gouda or Parmesan)
20 g (2 tbs) minced, dry sun-dried tomatoes, or if packed in oil, drained, squeezed of any oil and blotted until dry
1 tbs finely chopped fresh tarragon (or basil, chives or dill)
100 ml (7 tbs) light (15%) cream
1 egg yolk, beaten with 1 tbs fresh water

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

In a medium mixing bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, cayenne pepper and salt. Add the butter and rub it into the dry ingredients with the tips of your fingers or a wire pastry blender, until the mixture forms coarse crumbs. Add the cheese, sun-dried tomatoes and tarragon, and blend with a fork.

Add the cream and mix it in gently with the fork until the dough comes together -- add a tad more cream or ice-cold water if the dough is too dry. Turn the dough out on a lightly floured work surface, gather into a ball, and roll out into a 2-cm-thick (3/4-inch) circle. Cut out circles of dough using a 6-cm (2 1/2-inch) cookie cutter or juice glass and transfer onto the prepared baking sheet, leaving about an inch of space between each. Gather the rest of the dough into a ball and repeat the rolling and cutting steps until you've used up all the dough.

Use a pastry brush or the back of a teaspoon to brush the top of the rounds with the egg yolk mixture. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until puffy and golden, rotating the baking sheet halfway through the baking. Let cool on a rack for a few minutes and serve. The scones will keep for a few days at room temperature, wrapped tightly in foil. Reheat for five minutes in a warm oven before serving.

Makes 9 pieces.

greek-style yogurt as crème fraiche

It turns out that a dollop of Greek (style) yogurt on a mushroom pizza will taste about as amazing, and, surprisingly, as similar as a dollop of crème fraiche. At first I was scared that I was eating yogurt that had turned, but sadly, I know what that tastes like and this wasn't it. This was just a creamy, ever-so-slightly acidic contrast to the richness of gruyere, leek and mushroom pizza.

If you don't have Greek/Balkan/Mediterranean-style yogurt, you can get the same effect by straining regular yogurt through cheese cloth for 30-45 minutes in the fridge. Just set the cheese cloth in a strainer that's sitting over a bowl, and use full fat yogurt. 

I imagine this tastes just as good on soup or other pizzas but we went through most of a container putting way too much of it on this one pizza, not the elegant amount you see in the picture above. I had to shoot it this way because if I showed you how much I actually slathered my slice...you would have a picture of yogurt. 

blue-grey semifreddo

I've been shut out of the homemade ice cream party for too long, and I've been a little bitter about it. There are some great artisan ice cream shops nearby, but someone will tweet about their homemade black sesame ice cream and my toes will curl in excitement and then in jealousy. For one thing, I'm desperate for some black sesame ice cream, plus think of all the flavour possibilities. I want to play too, damnit. I didn't think I could, since I don't want to buy (or find room in my kitchen for) an ice cream maker, until I remembered the ice cream that doesn't require one. The semifreddo.

With a semifreddo (literally, "semi-cold") you simply pour your mixture into a container, cover and freeze. It's as delicious as ice cream and just as rich--even richer. You whip heavy cream and add it to your flavour and egg mixture (a sabayon) and freeze it. It creates a very mousse-like texture that doesn't totally freeze. It's somewhere between a mousse and softened ice cream, and its extreme richness will be the only thing saving you from eating a whole batch at once. 

But on to the flavour: blue-grey. Blueberry and Earl Grey tea flavour, that is, just like a killer smoothie I ordered from tea shop near by. They customize fruit smoothies with any of their teas and that's the combination I picked. I loved it, but even more fragrant than Earl Grey, which is a black tea with bergamot (a type of orange) oil, are the spin-offs that also add Seville orange rind and various flower petals. My favourite is Russian Earl Grey which adds both orange and lemon rind, lavender petals or sometimes cornflower and lemongrass. The flavours compliment the blueberries so well in this semifreddo--subtle but present in every mouthful.

Traditionally semifreddos are served as a terrine, and I did pour half of my batter into a rectangle mold to do the same. The rest I poured into a glass container with a lid to be scooped out just as you would ice cream. If you choose to do the same, you can serve this semifreddo in a cone, bowl, or, fittingly for this recipe, a teacup. Cute, huh? Too cute??

lime and harissa yogurt marinade

A while ago I was singing the praises of yogurt marinades, especially for the grill. They stay put better than oil marinades and of course they add a creamy element. Not that I grill chicken or meats that might dry out on the grill, but if you do, I bet this would be the marinade for you too. I like it on mushrooms, zucchini and other juicy vegetables that I cut into thick slices to be skewered or grilled in a wire basket.

Greek yogurt is thicker than most but you can strain regular yogurt for an hour or two in the fridge to get the same consistency. Simply spoon a little more than a cup of regular yogurt into a cheesecloth-lined strainer set over a bowl and then refrigerate. And while just a little harissa adds the heat here and tons of flavour, a good substitute would be chili paste or sauce with a pinch of smoked paprika. You can take other liberties too, swapping lime juice for vinegar, honey for the marmalade. Just taste to find the balance of tart, sweet and spicy that you'd like. The marinade mellows a little on the grill so don't be afraid to make it a tad punchy.  

hungarian mushroom paprikash toasts

The first night that James and I arrived in Budapest, on our trip there a few years ago, we realized just how amazing the little street we were staying on was. It was charming, handy to several train stations, and walking distance to some of the best restaurants on the Pest side. For our first, jet-lagged dinner, we stumbled down to Liszt Ferenc tér (square), lined with restaurants, bars and cafés, each with outdoor patios that faced each other and the small strip of trees and benches in the centre. Closed to traffic, it was a little utopia. And probably the spot that most tourists discovered on the first night in the city, too tired to try to find the oldest, hidden gems.

But the snack we ate on that first night was very similar to food that we ate at what was indeed one of the oldest cafés in the city. It was simple, Hungarian home food, really, mushrooms sautées and mixed into a in a thick sauce of sour cream and paprika, served on warm, toasted bread. It was exactly the uncomplicated food we wanted as we slumped in our seats and took in the warm night, twinkly lights and many beautiful, happy, young people with a lot more energy than we had at that moment. Comfort food in a complicated, newly cosmopolitan city square.

All that sour cream and paprika--that was a theme that repeated itself throughout the food on that trip, of course, and I don't think I ever tired of it. I came home with more paprika and saffron than I thought I could go through and now I'm almost out. Hungarian paprika is not smoky, and it's not as bright red as the paprika I've bought here. There are spicy and mild, sweet versions and I find using a mix of both in my approximation of that mushroom toast recipe allows you to really taste its flavour and still get a little of that nice heat from the hot version. Of course, if you can't get your hands on Hungarian paprika, use a non-smoked variety, and ideally sweet or mild over solely the hot kind. This will be the only time I tell you not to use more chilies that you think is wise. But I will tell you to pile more on that you think you need. The toast is just a vehicle here. This is just a messy, open-face sandwich, Budapest-style.