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