Lentils and Pork....A Tale of Fortunate Events

Everyone knows, that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But the way to a man’s soul is through his nostrils. And only the sweet, smoky scent of cured pork will properly allow the journey.

I can say, with great confidence that the heavenly aroma of crackling strips of swine can melt the heart of even the most hardened vegetarian! It is true I have seen it! Brothers and sister’s there is hope for all ye who enter the meatless world of Vegetaria.

One cool autumn weekend, I had the pleasure of cooking for some friends. Our meal was to consist a late afternoon soup. And the foundation of that soup was one glorious pound of apple-wood smoked pork belly upon which a French lentil soup was to be built. Shallots would shed their bitter ego, vintage port would invigorate the timid lentils. Finally Roma tomatoes stewed and bloated with a velvety saffron-butter reduction were crowned with shaved fennel tossed with lemon and olive oil. The soft, dulcet tones of Getz and Gilberto lulled us into a euphoric stupor as we prepared this soup together in the late afternoon warmth of September. And so, as I always do, I taste. And offer tastes to those who surround me. There we were, dancing to the music, pillaging the pot of its crackling bacon bits, and I offered one to a lovely young lass, with a smile and soft olive skin. I expected a joyous sigh, a declaration of my masterful talents, and the wonder of bacon. And as if the entire interaction was in slow motion, she gasped, then furrowed her brow as if the smell made her sick. She shook her head, “no, no, no!” Refusing the meat, she stood there aggravated, “I’m a vegetarian, I don’t eat bacon. Ew!”

Silence. My dear friends, silence. The kitchen quickly became a vacuum. A dark lifeless, voided space where no light could survive. Disappointed I turned my attention back to the soup. I tried to imagine a world without bacon, and it was impossible. So, I tried to imagine a world without vegetarians, which was much easier, and a smile crept its way back onto my face. Then I forgot all about the Vegetarian, as if she had never existed; as if she had run into my chef’s knife while I was cooking and bleed to death quietly in the corner. Then I imagined we hid the body down by the lake….and enjoyed every spoonful and bread soaked bite of our bacon filed soup.

Endive Right In!

Bitterness is something with which all New Yorkers are familiar. We brave the hurricane winds that whip through the streets and avenues mercilessly engulfing us in shells of angst and discomfort that form the foundation for New York’s winter mood. We scoff at tourists who move with trepidation against the storm, cursing their optimism, and cliché commentary. But a few times a year, the soils of the world open their breasts and give us bounty to fight bitter with bitter.

It was an especially swift breeze that greeted me as I stepped of the subway in Williamsburg, Brooklyn for dinner at friends. On cold nights like these, one needs to provide the appropriate ingredients to combat the chill. I provided Sunchokes, (pictured below), Anjou pears and of course, my kryptonite, Endive. Sunchokes always make everyone scratch their head a bit. These bulbous orbs of buttery goodness resemble a number of vegetables, but taste like nothing else. Their rough, dirt-colored exterior can be easily removed with a potato peeler to reveal a white flesh that is best immediately soaked and cooked in milk. Their earthy flavor is outweighed by a buttery undertone, that resembles turnips, but without the bitter aftertaste. After a splash or two of red wine, I was ready to start the preparation. First, we made the sage and lemon butter with which we would stuff the chicken. I found some Orange Pekoe tea in my friend’s cupboard, and brewed a pot which would serve as the basting liquid for the roast. As the chicken went into the oven, we took the sunchokes from their warm milk bath, and sautéed them in a large pan with some olive oil and brown butter. The chokes had began to release some of their starch, making a caramelization a lot easier, and providing a beautiful and rich dark exterior. As we caramelized the sunchokes, we continued to baste the chicken with our orange tea broth. Since winter is about finding the sweet in the bitterness, we had steeped some dried Turkish figs in the hot liquid to add some depth and increase the sugar content of the consommé making for a dark brown glaze on the roasting beast.

To keep our savory roasting chicken company, we stuffed the endives with thinly sliced Anjou pears. Make no mistake, pears are not officially in season in January. However, leftover autumn pears lingered in the supermarket quickly found their way onto my cutting board that night. Keeping with our theme of bittersweet, we seasoned with Chinese 5-spice, some nutmeg and salt and white pepper. Then in a pan, I heated up some honey with olive oil and butter and started sautéing the endives off two at a time so as not to over-cool the pan. Once they began to loosen their bitter grip, sugars leapt from the pears coaxing the endive to part with its stubborn ways, caressing its temperament down into a subdued comatose state of acceptance.

We dined like medieval kings picking every last scrap of succulent flesh from those tea soaked bones.

After which, I whipped up some crème fraise adding some vanilla extract and chopped pistachios. And with a warm pan lightly toasted some whole walnuts to which I added some honey. Once the honey melted, it was all I could do to stop it from lovingly embracing each toasted nut in a sugar blanket of sweetness. A plate was littered with walnuts and crowned with the crème and raspberries.

I remember sitting down staring at a cleaned chicken carcass and 4 of my friends sucking every last bit of honey from their sticky fingers, and smiling, knowing that food had once again become a journey of taste and sensuality. As I finished my 3 fingers of scotch, I drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the arms of a worn, leather chair, and the smell of scotch on my breath.

I’ll keep writing and cooking,

Ciao

Dinner in a Box

I pride myself on being able to adapt to my surroundings. But last night my skills were put to the test. I have never lived on a submarine, nor been forced to prepare a dinner from the confined innards of a bomb shelter. I do, however live in New York City, the city where grown men and women will pay for an apartment with a mini-fridge and a hot plate as their kitchen as long as the rent is low. My friend Josh, G-d bless him, is a great man, yet the kitchen in his apartment looks more like a doorless janitor’s closet complete with fridge and stove. It is, to understate, small. Yet even the smallest plants can bear fruit, so into the closet I went to prepare dinner. Josh took his turn in the kitchen first, mixing two huge martinis. Then with a proper slug of vodka, I was ready to cook.

I opened Josh’s fridge and managed to conjure up 2 frozen Chilean sea bass fillets, three orange baby bell peppers and three organic eggs. Hiding there was also some honey, soy sauce, chicken stock and butter. Because size can be the crux in a tiny kitchen, utilizing the oven as much as possible, is always best. So I preheated to 350F. A non-stick sauté pan was heated to medium heat, and lightly doused with Italian olive oil, butter, and a dimple of honey. As the honey began to bloom, I sliced the peppers in half and put them in another pan to sauté with some oil, salt and pepper. Our first pan was now at temperature and in went the fish to the pan, then into the oven with the both of them. The ease of a small kitchen begins to show its self as you begin to need ingredients, you’re never more than a few inches away. Yet getting overwhelmed can be an issue. So before you start cooking a single thing, make sure you take everything you need and lay it out on your coffee table, or somewhere else there’s room.


We added some stock and butter to the pan with the peppers and the same to the fish, plus the fish got a splash of soy sauce. I found some asparagus in the veggie bin and a small hunk of Manchengo in the door of the fridge. With a vegetable peeler, we peeled the asparagus into stringy slices and the cheese to match, then tossed with salt, pepper and olive oil. Raw vegetables are always a great complement to a rich dish. They can offer a crisp texture without compromising the integrity of the main ingredient. As a final element to the dish, I used some scrambled eggs loosely scrambled. Loose eggs always get a bad rap, but nothing quite compares to their supple sweetness that always broadens the depth of the dish it accompanies. The perfectly crusted fish held its ground amongst the embrace of the soft peppers and shaved asparagus salad, which finished the presentation.

Elation and jubilee cannot fully describe the picture, the taste nor the pride we both felt from creating such a remarkable concoction. Needless to say, the savory softness of the eggs contrasted the sweet saltiness of the milky, flaked fish fillet. Then the peppers harmonized with the sharp bitterness of the snappy asparagus.

It was a meal to remember, and luckily cleaning was a snap. Small kitchens always make that final step easy. Josh and I finished our second round of martini’s, and together we sat on the balcony sharing our third martini, and the sound the city.

I’ll keep cooking and writing, enjoy your holiday’s everyone!

Ciao